“It is again Frau von Richthofen who speaks.”
“Changed your mind, Annalise?”
“You know me too well.”
“Nineteen hundred on Tuesday evening at the Kepinski.”
“Ja, Herr Ridgewood. Farewell.”
I resolved as I hung up, my fingers nervous, my stomach uneasy, my mouth dry, that I would proceed cautiously, very cautiously. I didn’t know who she was. I would respect her virtue as I had in the past.
But this time I would not lose her.
The Kepinski was an elegant nineteenth-century hotel just off the Kudamm shopping district, which kept its charm by pretending that Bismarck was still alive and Germany still ruled by a kaiser. I paused at the entrance of the dining room and looked for Annalise.
My heart stopped beating when I saw her. Dressed in stylish black, her blond hair partly obscured by a black veil, she was beautiful beyond my dreams. No, I would not let her get away this time.
She looked up as I walked towards her table and smiled. My heart skipped several more beats. For a smile like that men would go to the end of the world and back.
She stood up.
“Herr Ambassador.”
“Annalise.” I bowed and kissed her hand.
Her smile turned into the wicked grin I had known so long ago.
“You are not changing,” she said cautiously.
“And you are far more lovely.”
She blushed and turned her face away.
“I possess news about Herr Oberstleutnant Stauffenberg. They evacuated him from Tunis, one of very few. He is too important to the General Staff to leave behind. He and Marshal Rommel and a few others. He is now in a hospital in Munich. I do not say it is good news. God has his ways. I’m sure that Frau Nina thinks it is good news.”
“I must visit him.”
“Perhaps one should wait till he is home. They have returned to the Schloss in Jettingen. He is very fortunate that he still lives.”
We turned to German when the waiter came to our table.
“My English is now very poor and your German is now excellent.”
I ordered a white wine. She nodded in approval.
On closer inspection and despite skillful makeup, Annalise showed the strain of the war years. Her habitual expression, one into which she returned after a smile or a quick grin, was melancholy, the light in her eyes died quickly, her fingers grew tense as we talked, then relaxed. She was, I thought, trying to recover the mask of the sixteen-year-old that I had rowed across Stauffenbergersee. I found that effort both hopeful and sad, hopeful for my cause and sad because of her suffering.
“May I talk to you about my husband, Herr Ridgewood? You met him once, I believe, and he said that you and he liked one another He was proud of that.”
“He knew I was a rival?”
“I don’t believe that he could think in those terms. Perhaps he did, sometimes he was quite surprising. He would, I think, have been flattered. He truly thought you were wonderful. He spoke of your dancing green eyes that took in and understood everything. I observe that they still do.”
She lowered her own eyes and blushed.
“I have written about my husband. I wanted to record it properly. May I read it to you?”
“If you wish.”
“Paul was not what one could call a sensitive man. Neither was he ever harsh, much less cruel. To me he was always respectful. I did not love him, but I did not dislike him. He did not love me either, but he did worship me. Is that possible?”
“Surely.”
If pressed at the moment to say how it was possible, I would not have been able to do so.
“His life for him were his planes and his pilots and his memories of the first war. Baron Manfred was his patron saint and the Flying Circus was his Church. I do not ridicule this. On the contrary I found it understandable and acceptable. He was proud of his lovely and gracious wife, as he was proud of his Iron Cross and his Stuka. I did not expect more of him. With him I was safe and, I will not say respected, but venerated.
“He was very proud of his triumphs in France and Poland. To me his Stuka was an ungainly, old-fashioned thing, when compared to the sleek, modern and deadly Messerschmitt fighter. Naturally, I did not say this to him. It seemed from his words that the plane was useful for killing retreating troops and terrorizing refugees. From what one hears at the Luft Ministry that is what other pilots say.”
Our white wine arrived. We ordered fish and beef tenderloin.
She continued.
“He was eagerly waiting for the attack on England. His Stuka wing would destroy the Royal Air Force in a couple of days, then eliminate the English airplane industry, and then fly above the Panzers as they consumed England. Then the war would be over and we could retire to his Schloss in Bavaria and begin our family. He went off to war with a swagger which might have embarrassed his cousin Manfred, who was a shy and modest man and, I thought, a man who took much less delight in killing other men than my brave husband did.”
The pulse in her delectable throat was throbbing as she read and her fingers shaking.
“Then he came home briefly after the Battle of Britain began. He was not the same person. Rather, he was an anxious broken man. As he lay in my arms, he told me his story.
“‘We are losing, Anna. The English are beating us. My planes are crashing, my pilots are dying. They have better planes, better pilots, better technology, better tactics, better leaders. My poor Stukas are no match for their damnable Spitfires. The Fuhrer and Goering have lied to us. We have Blitzkrieg on the ground, but we are obsolete in the air. If this continues for long, there will be no Stukas in the air. We could kill defenseless soldiers with them, but not destroy Royal Air Force Fighter Command stations. We were cowards and murderers and God is now punishing us.’
“My Flying Circus hero was weeping in my arms.
“‘But what about the Messerschmitts?’
“‘After ten minutes over England they have to leave because they run out of fuel. Can you imagine that Goering did not know that!’
“‘What will they do?’
“‘Some generals, like Kesserling, wish to remove the Stukas from the battle and save them for other wars. That means we have lost the Battle of Britain. I will tell them that as long as the English have Spitfires in the sky, Stuka pilots are doomed, but I will not request that they be withdrawn.’
“‘What will happen?’
“‘They will wait a few more days and then they will take us out, if there are any of us left. Can God forgive me for what I have done? I have betrayed my men.’
“I then realized that he was confessing his sins to me and seeking absolution. I was not a priest. I had no power. But nonetheless I gave him absolution. He fell asleep in my arms. I knew when he kissed me the next morning that I would never see him again.”
I interrupted her reading to say that Thomas Aquinas argued that laypeople could give absolution.
She smiled and went on.
“I realized then for the first time that I had come to love him the night before.
“I was not surprised when Goering called to tell me that Paul had died destroying the Biggin Hill RAF station and that he would be a German hero for centuries. Later I learned at the Luft Ministry that a wing had fallen off his plane and that the crash destroyed one Spitfire and damaged another.”
She folded the paper and returned it to her purse.
“So I grieve for him and for all those good men who have died because of bad equipment and poor leadership in an evil cause.”
I had heard much of the same story from Canaris. It was much more moving in the mouth of a Luftwaffe widow. The war was not over yet. It would go on for perhaps two more years, perhaps less if Claus could do away with the Antichrist.
“I wanted you to understand,” she concluded.
“I do understand, Annalise, as best as someone who has never known such a loss can.”
“So now”—she dabbed at he
r face with her makeup—“I am part of the Widerstand. There are three young Catholic women in my apartment building in Charlottenburg who are working with the Kreuzer Circle. We type for them, deliver messages, help them organize their meetings. It is not much, but we must do something to fight the Antichrist.”
The fish dishes were delivered with great ceremony.
Annalise consumed her food like she was ravenously hungry.
“Forgive my bad manners, Herr Ridgewood. I do not eat much these days.”
“it is said that the Kreuzer Circle is very theoretical,” I said tentatively.
“Very theoretical—priests and pastors and some politicians and aristocrats. They want to design a post-Hitler Germany before Hitler is gone. However, they are now in touch with some important members of the General Staff. They now need a leader and an organizer.”
“I wondered who that might be.”
“Who else? Either he will free us or we all will die.”
I didn’t like that.
“I’m not planning on dying,” I said, “and I don’t think you ought to either.”
She considered me very carefully, almost clinically.
“Perhaps not, Herr Ridgewood. Perhaps not.”
I suspected that my Gothic princess had a strong impulse for sacrificial self-destruction. I would not tolerate it.
The rest of our dinner was pleasant and amusing, the happy sixteen-year-old returned to tell amusing stories about her colleagues at the Luft Ministry. Gradually she relaxed and enjoyed herself. How many dates had she experienced during her life?
“May I take your picture?” I said, removing my Leica from my jacket pocket. “I have often wished I had one.”
She shrugged her shoulders indifferently.
“If it amuses you, Herr Ridgewood.”
“It does.”
There was not much natural light, but, with a small flash, probably enough for a picture that would look persuasive on a passport. She smiled politely for me.
When we finished our custard—how I hate custard—we walked out on the street. Berlin was blacked out now, but you could still sense your way down the street.
“I will escort you back to Charlottenburg,” I said.
“That will be unnecessary,” she snapped. “I can ride the U-Bahn by myself.”
“I want to establish one factual matter, Annalise. It is not my intent to seduce you, not for the present at any rate. Should it ever be my intent I will give you due warning. Nor do I intend to force my way into your apartment tonight or any night. I think you should know me well enough to understand that.”
Silence for a long moment.
“My apologies to you, Herr Ridgewood. Ja, I do know you well enough to understand that. Certainly you may escort me to my apartment.”
At the door of the stately and ugly building I brushed my lips against hers.
“It was a lovely evening, Annalise.”
“Thank you very much, Herr Ridgewood. I quite enjoyed it. Perhaps when Claus has returned to jettingen we could visit him there.”
“That would be very nice,” I agreed, and took my leave.
The air raid sirens sounded as I went down the stairs to the U-Bahn. I ignored the siren, rode to the Potsdamer Platz, climbed over the sleeping people in the station and then went above ground to walk along the Friedrichstrasse to the embassy. I had promised that I would never let the RAF chase me underground. I hesitated about that promise, now that I had a clear goal in my life. What if I were caught in a firestorm?
Then I would be caught in a firestorm. Someone else would have to protect my Gothic princess. It was all in God’s hands.
Back in my apartment, I entered the small darkroom I had created in a closet and developed the film in the Leica. There were two excellent pictures of Annalise. I printed small copies of both, just enough for a passport photo. When they were dry I would put them in the safe with Claus’s letter. Then I said my Rosary and examined my conscience. I was still playing the role of the gentleman with Annalise. I looked forward eagerly to the day when I would not have to. Those were not appropriate thoughts when one was saying the Rosary.
“Dear God,” I concluded. “I love her. Help me to take care of her.”
I considered that and decided that I should amend it a bit. “Help me to be the man she needs.”
In July, while the biggest tank battle in history was happening in Kruz in Russia—another German mistake approved reluctantly by Hitler—t received another phone call.
“Ridgewood.”
“Annalise, Herr Ridgewood.”
“Good morning, Annalise.”
“Gräfin von Stauffenberg says that her husband is now well enough to receive guests and would like to see both of us. However, I do not think it proper that we ride the train together.”
“As you wish, Annalise.”
“I will take the night train on Friday and return on Sunday night.”
“That will make Saturday night the only test of my virtue.”
She said nothing for a moment and then laughed.
“Your virtue is not in question at the present, Herr Ridgewood. Nor is mine.”
“Point taken. For the present. I will ride down Friday morning and return Monday morning.”
“Ja, ja, all is good.”
“I trust you will instruct Nina to put us as far apart as possible.”
“Good-bye, Herr Ridgewood.”
We were flirting. Again. How long could I wait? The Americans, I supposed would land somewhere in Europe next year. Claus’s Putsch would have to happen in the summer, June or July. After that?
It was all in the hands of God.
Claus was waiting at the station with three of his children, attractive, chattering, grinning little blonds (like their mother) with mischievous eyes and great affection for their father.
Despite the black patch over his eye and the empty right sleeve and the two fingers in his left hand with which he shook mine, Claus did not look like a wounded veteran. If anything, he seemed stronger, more radiant than ever, as if fatherhood had canceled out the unfortunate encounter with the American P-40 in Tunisia.
“Let me carry your bag,” he said, gripping the handle firmly. “I need some practice.”
With practiced ease, he took my bag with his left hand and hoisted it up against his thigh.
The children applauded.
“They take great credit for my recovery,” he said. “Not without some considerable reason.”
“You will be returning to war?”
“The Wehrmacht’s manpower resources are so limited that any soldier capable of walking,” he said grimly, “is on active duty. For me it will be a staff assignment at the Bendlerblock in Berlin.”
“Not far from the Irish embassy.”
“I will be the chief of staff to General Fromm, commander of the Home Army, which is mostly replacements for those who have died in any of our three wars. Ja, Ja, you will call me Herr Oberst, please Herr Ambassador. Moreover in that role, I will have access to the Fuhrer himself in the Wolf s Lair in East Prussia, where all his brilliant strategies are devised.”
A colonel already. He still had powerful friends.
Access to Hitler! What he had always wanted!
I shivered despite the hot summer day. So many things could go wrong and indeed had gone wrong. The Antichrist takes care of his own, as Claus often said.
Yet he was in high good humour, reveling in his recovered life and the love of his family!
“Is it proper to call you, Herr Ambassador, Herr Ambassador?” young Berthold, save for the blond hair a replica of his father, asked.
(I interrupt this text to note that Berthold Graf von Stauffenberg was the first general in the Federal Republic’s Bundeswehr.)
“My name is Timothy, Bert, or Tim. Would Uncle Tim be acceptable?”
Claus laughed joyously.
“Ja, ja! Wunderbar!”
As we entered the Schloss, he whispered to me that
there might be some embarrassment tomorrow because Aunt Hannah would be present.
“Who?” I demanded.
“The Kinder call her that.”
“I won’t be the first one to blush.”
“You are friends now?”
We had remained outside the Schloss absorbing the warm sunlight as the kids rushed in to tell their mother and grandmother that Uncle Tim was here.
“And alas for me, no more than that. I took her to dinner once and we talk on the phone occasionally, yet we keep our distance because, I suspect, she is very conscious of her role as the widow of a great hero of the war.”
“Ja, ja, doubtless that is true. She is also afraid of you, Timmy. You are too attractive, too powerful.”
“I don’t see myself that way at all, Claus.”
“She does and that is part of the attraction … You love her still?”
“More than ever.”
“And though she doesn’t say it around us, she loves you more than ever.”
My heart began to pound at that confirmation of what I dared not dream to hope, but which I knew to be true.
“I fear that once again I will have to wait.”
“Why, Timmy? Life is short.”
“She is deeply involved in your resistance movement.”
“Nonetheless, if you courted her, she would not reject you.”
“I think that is true, yet it is not time.”
“Perhaps, you are right, Timmy. It should all be finished in a year … But we will talk about that after supper. Nina knows, of course. I can hide nothing from her.”
“I would hardly think you could.”
“You remember your promise to take care of Annalise if my plans go wrong?”
“Naturally.”
“You have not read my letter to her?”
“Claus …”
“Forgive me, I should not have asked.”
“It is in my safe next to a photo which will look quite striking on an Irish passport.”
He laughed.
“I should have known you’d be planning. I don’t want to know any more … Come, the good Karoline and my good Nina will wonder why we are tarrying.”
Claus’s mother had aged in the years, but she was as vital and vivid as she always was. She wondered if I had made any progress in reading Thomas Mann, he was essential if I wanted to understand the Nazis, all of whom, she averred, were homosexuals even if they deny it.
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