Arriving in the garden, still thinking of the buffet, Hans scanned the yard for signs of it. A rather large makeshift platform had been set up about fifty meters beyond the French doors that led into the house. On top of this deck, a small orchestra of musicians were tuning their instruments and practicing snatches of the music set before them on iron stands. Successive arcs of chairs for the audience curved around the platform, and on its far side, closer to the lake than to the house, stood a gazebo draped in the Nazi flag and sheltering three more chairs, which were larger and significantly more upholstered than all the others. From the red velvet cushion on the centermost of these seats, Hans guessed that was be where the Führer would be sitting.
Guests were scattered, some already seated and perusing the printed program, others standing within protective distance of chairs they had claimed with jackets or sweaters. Hans recognized very few of the attendees—just Regina and Gisela Mecklen and their husbands. He had imagined this event to be a kind of town gathering, somewhat like the summer musical events in the marketplace before the war, an occasion for the Blumental men to polish their shoes and the Blumental ladies to curl their hair. But such thoughts failed to take into account the misanthropy of this host. Not only would Klaus Weber not recognize most of his neighbors, he would probably deliberately avoid them if he passed them on the street. Most of the guests for this concert would be guests of the Führer, Berlin cultural luminaries chosen from his social secretary’s address book, members of Berlin’s high society who had fled to their summer homes when bombs began falling on the capital. Gowns and long gloves, parasols and hats dusty with disuse paraded across the lawn. Hans could only hope that none of the women balancing a wide-brimmed hat decided to sit in front of him. To his great disappointment, no one appeared to be holding a beverage or nibbling on a snack. For a moment, Hans had a flicker of panic that there might be no food at all, but he quickly dismissed it as preposterous. The food portion of the event, he reassured himself, must be taking place postconcert. A pity. Well, perhaps it would be best, then, to take care of a quick need of nature before settling down. Hans stepped through the French doors in search of the bathroom.
A series of elegantly calligraphed signs led Hans to a closed door near the kitchen. He tried the brass knob. It was locked. He stood against the wall opposite the bathroom, contentedly inhaling the air and congratulating himself for having made this short journey, for in this small spot, heavenly aromas emanated from the kitchen. His nose detected roast meat, tarragon, and a pungent sautéed onion, or possibly shallots. Béarnaise sauce, he hoped.
Propped against the hallway wall deep in olfactory reverie, Hans did not hear the bathroom door open. A deep voice recalled him: “Herr Bürgermeister, the bathroom is all yours.” Hans’s eyes opened upon a man in uniform, and from the gold arabesque stitched onto the gentleman’s scarlet collar patch, Hans realized that he was staring at a general. A tall general with wavy dark hair who looked vaguely familiar, but Hans could not place him. Yet the general was extending his hand in greeting. Did they already know each other, or was this an introductory gesture? Hans canvassed his memory for some clue, but it was blank. He used to pride himself on not forgetting a face, but the events of the past two days had shaken that faith. That moment of betrayal by his bladder, for example, with everyone watching. Shameful. Was his brain now also beginning to fail him?
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the general said. So they did not know each other! What a relief. Hans eagerly shook the proffered hand. “General Erich Wolf. I was at Birnau the other day when Captain Rodemann—” The general cut himself off as Hans colored. Of course. That was why the man looked familiar. Overcome with embarrassment, Hans quickly released the general’s hand. But the man’s authoritative throat-clearing commanded Hans to look up into a pair of probing and serious brown eyes. “I commend you on your courage the other day. In an extraordinarily fearful situation, you demonstrated great dignity.” General Wolf put a large hand on Hans’s shoulder. “You are a great role model for the people of Blumental.” In an instant, Hans’s self-respect was restored. Here was a decorated soldier of the highest order congratulating him for his bearing. Perhaps the general was right. The situation had been difficult, quite fearful. And perhaps, if the general had not noticed the small impertinence of Hans’s bladder, no one else had either. Buoyed by this hope, Hans straightened his shoulders a bit.
“Thank you, General Wolf, I—” He was interrupted by the call of a solo trumpet outside. That could mean only one thing in the Führer’s world of annexed emblems of royalty: the great man was arriving with his entourage. The footsteps of other guests who had been idling in the house, investigating Herr Weber’s decorations and displays, now clattered hurriedly over the marble floors. Suddenly the general looked uncomfortable, and he gripped the briefcase he was holding in his left hand more tightly.
“I’m sorry, Herr Munter, I must attend the Führer,” General Wolf said curtly.
“Of course, of course,” Hans said as the officer quickly strode down the hallway toward the French doors. Hans took one final inhalation of the blissful aromatic cloud from the kitchen and went into the bathroom to contemplate the delicacies that awaited.
* * *
Johann could hear the orchestra tuning up as he was trying to extricate his arm from Sabine Mecklen’s viselike grasp. The moment they had left her house for a “sunset perambulation,” as she called it, she had wrapped her right upper arm around his left biceps and aligned her lower arm with his so that she could grab onto his wrist. If he was going to get away from her, which he knew he had to do at some point very soon, it would take a prodigious effort. The walk was her idea. Having successfully enticed Johann Wiessmeyer to her home, Sabine was not about to release him without first maximizing their chance of being seen together publicly. Using the leverage she had over his one limb, she steered him expertly toward the Blumental promenade. Uncomfortable though he was, Johann did not object. He needed to see what was going on outside.
He was also grateful to breathe the fresh open air, for he desperately needed to clear his head. The atmosphere in Sabine’s parlor had been suffocating. There was a smell of rosewater that permeated everything: pillows, upholstery, and curtains too. The scent assaulted him every time a breeze blew through the open window. When Sabine went to the kitchen shortly after bidding him to take a seat, Johann had taken a quick sniff of the china and silverware and could have sworn that these too had been washed in eau de cologne. And the baked goods she brought back with her were so thoroughly suffused with the scent that it did not matter whether he was biting into an apple dumpling or a chocolate macaroon: everything tasted like decaying rose petals that had been liquefied, mixed with corn syrup, and left to ferment in a closet full of mothballs.
Equally suffocating was Sabine herself, trying far too hard to be deferential. She asked him questions in a tone two pitches higher than her normal speaking voice, then leaned in toward him on the sofa, head tilted to one side, eyes bright and bulging, neck tendons and cheeks taut with the strain of holding her tongue. He could never answer quickly enough. Sabine’s natural proclivity to chatter led her to fill any silence that lasted longer than half a second, and once she got started, it was impossible to interrupt her. She prattled on and on, her body bent close to his, a steady and uncomfortable encroachment on his physical space. He found himself sliding farther and farther toward the end of the sofa. Very belatedly, he’d realized what a terrible mistake it had been to accept Sabine’s invitation. But he needed an alibi. And he had naively hoped that this social encounter would distract him from events transpiring elsewhere that evening. Instead, he was now on the edge of panic, wondering about the Polish girls and Marina and whether they had been safely concealed, whether Fritz had remembered to fill the truck with gas, and whether he would be able to get out of town before roadblocks were set up.
At least the briefcase no longer bothered him. The telegram he’d received in the chap
el yesterday from his cousin Gottfried had directed him to deposit the case next to the fountain in the marketplace by two o’clock today. When Johann arrived, the plaza had been empty. He had walked over to the stone basin, found a dry spot beyond the splashing range of the fountain, and placed the briefcase on the ground. Afterward, he stood under an elm, staring at the fountain from a distance. He searched his mind for some remnant of the doubt he had felt for weeks, expecting to reengage in the silent debate he knew so well: the propriety of taking one evil life to save innocent thousands. With great relief, he found neither hesitation nor misgiving. His conscience was entirely clear. Was this an indication that he had done God’s will? Or that at least he hadn’t contradicted it? Or was it a kind of shock, a short-term absence of emotion after a pivotal undertaking? As these thoughts clamored for audience in his head, Johann consciously tried to quiet them, reluctant to dissect his peace of mind lest it slip away from him.
One final idea presented itself, just as the young Thiessen girls skipped their way into his line of sight near the fountain. Faith. Perhaps all of his doubts were being reconciled by faith. Perhaps the serenity he was feeling was a confirmation of the message he had received yesterday. That God could forgive the action Johann was taking, that in fact He might forgive Johann as He had forgiven Jesus. The guilt that Johann bore for leaving the briefcase would be a very light burden. And the appearance of the girls was a sign that he could now leave.
An hour and a half later, Johann could not resist the temptation to check whether the briefcase was still there. It was not. Thus had he done his part. He had taken the step that he had struggled with for so long: he had actively assisted in a murder. A murder that was necessary to prevent other murders. Johann felt an overwhelming desire to retreat into prayer and contemplation. But he had not yet been able to return to his church. Late in the afternoon, he had run over to check on Fritz Nagel’s truck. And now the rendezvous with Sabine. Silence was not something he was going to find with her. “Oh, dear me,” Sabine chattered. “I completely forgot to ask you earlier, dear Johann—did the boys ever find you today?”
Sabine was leaning into his left side as they walked, and Johann felt himself being thrown off balance. “The boys?” he asked, trying to push back against her.
“Max and Willie,” Sabine said. Her large hips bumped him over to the right, and he shifted his gait to accommodate her. “They came to the house looking for you, because Max remembered that you might be here. They were looking for you at the rectory, it seems.”
“Ah.” Johann breathed out, trying to anticipate her next bodily advance. “No, I didn’t see them. But I wasn’t at the rectory this afternoon.” He briefly wondered why the boys might have sought him, but his thoughts were interrupted by their arrival at the east end of the promenade. Many of Blumental’s citizens were already gathered at the steamboat pier to listen to the Weber concert. The orchestra’s tuning sounds were just now being transmitted over the water by a light breeze. Sabine was pushing Johann in the direction of the crowd. He didn’t try to resist. The crowd would be a blessing. If it happened while they were among other people, he might be able to slip away. Not unnoticed, not by Sabine, but all he needed was a minute or two of commotion to disengage himself from her grasp. Perhaps, too, something to prime her confusion, something he could initiate now.
When they reached the perimeter of the crowd, Johann stopped and grabbed Sabine’s left hand. Not expecting this move, she loosened her grip on his arm. This was just what he had hoped for. “My dear Fräulein Mecklen.” Johann had decided to address her formally, as it might limit any subsequent interpretations of intimacy, and to keep his declaration simple. “I would like to thank you for a lovely evening.” Then, before she could wonder what he meant, he leaned forward and kissed her lightly, as lightly as he could, on her open, startled lips. Thankfully, the concert then began. “Shall we go listen?” Johann asked. Sabine stood before him in a daze, completely immobilized by shock. He put his arm around her waist and moved her toward the pier.
* * *
Lara had spent most of the afternoon languishing in her own loveliness. She had made herself as attractive and desirable as she knew how, in anticipation of the Führer’s arrival, and felt thwarted by the inattention of his entourage. So many dreamy-looking men, and not a single one cast her a second glance. When the tea came to an end and they all marched off, she assuaged her disappointment with sugar, which turned out to be an ineffective consolation. But Lara was not one to give up easily. By the time her mother came upstairs to put Rosie and Sofia to bed, Lara had resolved that her beauty should not go to waste.
Sneaking out of the house while Marina and Edith tended to her sisters was remarkably easy. As Marina was pulling Rosie’s nightgown over her head and Edith was helping Sofia choose a storybook, Lara headed down the stairs and through the living room, softly closing the French doors behind her. She ran down the hill to the lake. She would go to the Weber estate, she decided. She would get as close as she could, and at some point, she would be stopped by a soldier. She hoped he would be young and handsome. Just as she was smoothing the skirt of her dress, checking for jam stains, Lara heard a familiar voice. “Lara Thiessen.” She turned around but could see no one following her, nor was anyone ahead of her on the path. Confused, she stopped, and in that moment, Max Fuchs dropped down in front of her from the hazelnut limb that he had been perched on.
“Max!” Lara gave a tiny shriek of surprise. “You scared me!”
Max’s beaming smile disappeared in an instant. “I’m so sorry! I really didn’t mean to.”
“No, it’s okay, it was just unexpected.” Lara put her hand on her chest to slow her heart. “Having you appear like that from above.”
Cautiously, Max’s grin reasserted itself. “Well, I couldn’t let you pass by without saying something.” He took a step forward. “You are a vision of . . . of . . . of dazzlingness.”
“Dazzlingness?” Lara knew that Max was not the smartest boy in town, but she didn’t care. She was thrilled by the way he looked at her. “Is that a word?”
“It may not be,” Max said defensively, though he appeared unabashed. “But ‘beauty’ is not powerful enough to describe you.”
Lara’s smile widened. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” Max stepped toward her again. “It’s so.” Thinking she should appear shy, even if she didn’t really feel it, Lara looked down, and Max moved to her side. “Where are you going?”
“The Weber concert. I wanted to listen.”
“Me too!” Max said. “I was trying to find Pastor Johann, but he’s disappeared somewhere. So instead I decided to climb the hazelnut to get a good view, but there are too many other trees in the way. Could I maybe . . . Could I walk with you for a bit?”
Lara looked at him. Max Fuchs was actually quite handsome, if you could see past the layers of dirt. He had nice thick brownish-blond hair that would probably be very soft if it were washed and combed, she thought, and his eyes were very friendly. The best part of his eyes was the way they were looking at her now. “Of course you may. You can even . . .” Lara pretended to falter, trying again to feign a modesty she didn’t feel. “You can even hold my hand. If you want.”
“Oh, yes!” Max grabbed Lara’s hand immediately. It was a mildly sweaty grip, but Lara didn’t mind. They began walking toward the music, which had just started playing. For a few minutes, they said nothing, each of them caught up in this unexpected development. All thoughts of encounters with soldiers had vanished completely from Lara’s mind, erased by the warmth of physical contact with this boy who so clearly adored her.
They were about halfway to the Weber estate when the music they had been listening to ended. Lara had heard enough classical music to know that it would begin again soon, but Max took the interlude to pull her around to face him.
“Lara Thiessen.” He said her name in such a dreamy way, as if she were some fantastical, magical creature. In that moment, she f
elt that she was. “Lara, I have a present for you, a present that I’ve been making for a while, because . . . Because I have admired you for so long.”
“A present?”
“Yes, a piece of jewelry. Kind of. But I don’t have it with me, it’s at home. I can go get it.”
“No, don’t go.” Lara surprised herself by grabbing his hand tightly. She did love jewelry, but right now, the only thing she wanted was for Max not to leave. “Don’t go.”
“Okay,” Max said, staring at her. “I won’t.”
* * *
Erich Wolf returned to his position at the southwest pillar of the gazebo. One of his colleagues saluted him from the northwest corner. They had worked out their stations earlier that afternoon, and Erich had willingly ceded the northwest spot to the other man, who, as a Weber fanatic, wanted an unobstructed view of the composer as he conducted the debut of his piece. Erich placed the briefcase on the edge of the platform a few meters away from the wooden support column. There was nothing now to impede its explosive force except, God forgive him, the bodyguard seated at the left hand of the Führer. Erich positioned himself next to the case to deflect attention from it until absolutely necessary.
He had waited in the bathroom as long as possible before breaking the vial of acid in the pencil detonator. Once the acid was released, he knew, it would begin dissolving the wire that held back the striker-loaded spring. The moment the spring released the striker, it would fly against the percussion cap in the detonator, setting off the plastic explosives that surrounded it. Gottfried Schrumm had estimated that Erich would have no more than thirty minutes after starting the reaction to get out of its way.
Erich looked at his watch. It had taken the Führer a full fifteen minutes to make his entrance and sit down in his red velvet chair, but he was now finally settled. Erich had timed the first movement this afternoon when the orchestra practiced, and knew that it was approximately eight minutes long. He was hoping to leave between the first and second movements, so it might look as if he were taking another bathroom break. If that was going to happen, the music would have to begin soon.
The Good at Heart Page 26