Then she realized that she wasn’t going to be able to make it to the stables, much less mount a horse, without help.
She went to the bedside table and poured two inches of Rémy Martin cognac (about the last cognac here; and she had not remembered to bring any from the house in Vienna) into a glass and drank it straight down. She held her breath as she felt the brandy burn her throat and stomach, and then exhaled as the warmth spread through her body.
After that she left the apartment, which was like stepping from the present into the past. A few years ago, she had hired a Berlin architect to do it over. The Bauhaus School was now frowned upon by the Bohemian corporal and his sycophants, but the architect had studied there, and that was obvious in what he’d done to this wing of the Schloss.
Outside the door she was back in the Dark Ages. The Cold Ages would have been a better term, she thought. The walls were stone, the floors wide oaken planks. There had been no way to install electricity except by bolting conduits to the walls. Crossed lances and crossed swords, ancient battle flags, and dark portraits of the Barons von Steighofen and their women hung on the walls above the conduits. A narrow carpet ran down the center of the corridor, but it did nothing to take the chill from the place, either physically or aesthetically.
There was no grand staircase, either. One moved from floor to floor in the Schloss via one of five semicircular sandstone staircases. A handrail fixed to the wall was a recent—say, around 1820—improvement.
She descended three floors to the level of the courtyard, entered it, and walked across the cobblestones to the stable door. The stables, too, were a recent improvement to the Schloss. Sometime in the early 1800s, these had been constructed outside the Schloss wall, and a hole forced through for access to them.
The smell of the horses was pleasant and reassuring. A groom was working on a saddle, which he had put onto a dummy. What he was doing, Beatrice realized, was working on Manfried’s saddle. She remembered Captain Whatshisname telling her about that. Manfried’s“caparisoned stallion”would be part of the memorial ceremony, standing there with Manfried’s cavalryman’s boots reversed in the stirrups, while they did whatever they were going to do to mark Manfried’s passage into Valhalla.
The groom got to his feet and bobbed his head to her, obviously surprised to see her dressed as she was.
“Bring the Arabian for me, will you? What’s his name, Voltan?”
“Voltan, Baroness?” the groom asked disapprovingly.
“I’ll get him,” she said. “You go find me a saddle and a blanket.”
“Yes, of course, Baroness.”
She decided not to correct him about her rank. So far as he was concerned, she was and would forever be the wife of the Baron, and thus the Baroness. It would be of little interest to him that, because she was his widow, she was no longer the wife of the Baron or that, in those circumstances, the title would pass to Manfried’s nearest surviving male relative. Which meant that she was the “Baroness” only by courtesy. He would be even less interested to know that in the circumstances, she had reverted to being in her own right what she had been before she married Manfried, the Countess Batthyany.
She pulled open the heavy wooden door to Voltan’s stall, pulled him out of it, and led him to the stable yard. The groom came out a moment later carrying a saddle and a blanket. She took the blanket from him and threw it on Voltan, and then, after the groom had put the saddle in place and tightened the girth, she mounted the horse and directed the adjustment of the stirrups.
Satisfied, she rode out of the stable yard, walking Voltan long enough to start his blood flowing. Then, touching her heels to his sides, she put him into a canter. He would like to have been given his head, put into a gallop, she sensed, but she didn’t think that was wise. There might be ice under the layer of snow.
She allowed herself to think of nothing but the chill wind in her face, the drumbeat of hooves, and the animal beneath her until his heartbeat against her inner thighs told her that he had had enough. She turned his head then and started to walk him back toward the Schloss.
It was only then that she could begin to face the day ahead of her. She would much rather not have come to the Schloss at all. She had wept when they told her in Budapest that Manfried had been killed. Manny had been a good man, and he had died too young. He was—had been—thirty. She was twenty-nine. They had been married not quite seven years and she had come to like, even admire him. And he had loved her, which had been very sweet indeed. She mourned him in her own way, and that should have been enough.
But, of course, it was not. Manny had been Oberstleutnant Baron von Steighofen, and there would have to be a public memorial for the people on his lands, for the soldiers of his regiment, and for what Der Führer called “Das Volk” of the “Thousand-Year Reich.”
And she was the Countess Batthyany and realized the obligations of her birth. In public, she would be the grieved aristocrat whose husband had made the supreme sacrifice for his country, his Führer, et cetera, et cetera.
An assortment of Manfried’s relatives (none of hers; she had no living close relatives) headed by his cousin the Baron von Fulmar would be at the Schloss. Plus an assortment of dignitaries, local and from Berlin. They included Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz, representing the Foreign Ministry, and two Standartenführers of the SS-SD. One of these, Kramer, was the SS-SD man for Hesse, and the other, representing the Reichsführer-SS, was a peasant named Müller.
Müller had arrived with von Heurten-Mitnitz, which the Countess had thought a little odd, until Kramer had announced at cocktails that the two of them had been together in Morocco and had barely managed to escape when the Americans had invaded North Africa.
War, like politics, makes strange bedfellows, the Countess thought wryly. She rather liked von Heurten-Mitnitz, the little she’d seen of him. There were two kinds of Pomeranians, the ugly kind and the other kind—lean, lithe, leopard-like. This one was the other kind. It was a shame that under current circumstances there would be no opportunity to get to know him better.
On the other hand, if he could procure an assignment in Budapest, as now seemed likely—
When there had been hints in Berlin that such an assignment might be available, he had made it as clear as he could that he was prepared to make whatever sacrifice asked of him.
“I was rather afraid, my dear Countess, that if I suggested in any way how pleased I would be to return to Budapest, they would send me to Helsinki. Or Tokyo.”
She’d laughed, not because she was expected to, but because she liked his humor. She hoped he would be assigned to Budapest.
“If the Gods smile on me,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said,“might I call?”
“I would be pleased to receive you,” she said.
She had a strange feeling: Did his desire to call upon her have anything to do with her? Or was there something official in his interest?
When she returned to the Schloss—tired, sweaty, and in desperate need of a drink and a bath—she saw von Heurten-Mitnitz having a conversation in the formal drawing room with Baron von Fulmar. The Baron was visibly uncomfortable, which made the Countess wonder again if there was more to Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz’s friendship with Standartenführer Müller than their escape from North Africa.
Two days before, Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz had telephoned Baron Karl von Fulmar in his offices at Hoescht am Main, an industrial suburb of Frankfurt am Main.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz expressed his condolences then over the death of Oberstleutnant Baron von Steighofen and announced that the press of other duties made it impossible for the Foreign Minister to personally attend the Baron’s memorial service. Thus he had been delegated as the Foreign Minister’s personal representative.
“The family will be honored, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz,” Baron Fulmar had replied.
“I deeply regret intruding on your grief, Herr Baron,” von Heurten-Mitnitz went on,“but do you think that while I am in Hesse, you might spare me, say,
an hour of your time?”
The Baron von Fulmar hesitated.
“Either at your office, Herr Baron,” von Heurten-Mitnitz went on, “or at the Schloss. Whichever would be most convenient.”
“I gather this is of an official nature?” the Baron asked.
“Let us say I would like to discuss something with you personally,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “Certainly not over the telephone.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz,” the Baron said. “And I think it would be most convenient to do so at Schloss Steighofen.”
“Then I look forward to meeting you, Herr Baron, at the Schloss,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said,“and once again, my most sincere condolences.”
The Baron von Fulmar was apprehensive that a highly placed official of the Foreign Ministry wanted to talk to him privately. His concern took a quantum jump when von Heurten-Mitnitz arrived at Schloss Steighofen accompanied by a Standartenführer SS-SD.
And the next morning he actually broke into a sweat when a servant delivered von Heurten-Mitnitz’s card:
HELMUT VON HEURTEN-MITNITZ BRIGADEFÜHRER SS-SD
The Foreign Ministry Berlin
On the back of the card was written:“May I suggest the drawing room at 9:30? von Heurten-Mitnitz.”
The Baron, a large-boned, florid-faced man, whose thinning hair was cut so short that the veins in the skin over his skull were visible, was kept waiting until 9:40 before von Heurten-Mitnitz showed up.
The formal drawing room was not a pleasant place. The furniture was old (but not good), heavy, and comfortless. There was one well-worn and colorless Persian carpet. And dark portraits of barons past adorned the walls. The Baron elected to stand rather than torture himself on any of the chairs or couches.
“How good of you to find the time for me, Herr Baron,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said, offering his hand.
“How may I be of service, Herr Brigadeführer?” the Baron asked, laying the card von Heurten-Mitnitz had sent him on a table. The act was meant to look casual.
“Oh, God, did I send you one of those?” von Heurten-Mitnitz said, chagrined. “I didn’t mean to. I usually send them to people who are impressed with that sort of thing. I would much prefer, if you don’t mind, that you forget that Brigadeführer title. My association with the SS-SD is hardly more than an official fiction.”
“As you wish, of course,” the Baron said. “What should I call you?”
“If it would not be presumptuous, my Christian name is Helmut. And let me emphasize this is by no means an official interview.”
“What, may I ask, is on your mind, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz?”
The moment he laid eyes on the Baron, von Heurten-Mitnitz decided that arrogance lay at the core of von Fulmar’s personality (he was, in other words, a scarecrow in fine clothes). The only way to handle such arrogance was to “wear” greater arrogance. If he tried to fence delicately, von Fulmar would perceive it as weakness: He had to knock him off balance straight off. And there was one good way to do that:“I wondered if by chance you have been in touch with your son,” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
The Baron’s face tightened. “I have not,” he said firmly.
“I was referring, Herr Baron, to your eldest son,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said, as if he wanted to be absolutely sure they were talking about the same person.
“I presumed you were,” the Baron said.
“He’s been a bit of a problem for you, hasn’t he?” von Heurten-Mitnitz said, making it more of a challenge than an expression of sympathy.
“Until just now, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz,” the Baron said, “I was under the impression that his case had been considered at the highest levels, and that it had been decided I could not fairly be held accountable for my son’s actions.”
Von Fulmar was challenging von Heurten-Mitnitz’s right to ask questions. But the Baron’s bluster was hollow. A well-connected Party member can get away with reminding a Foreign Ministry functionary that he has access to the “highest levels,” but that is as far as he would dare challenge a Brigadeführer SS-SD.
“The subject, regrettably, has come up again,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said coldly. He gave that a moment to sink in, then added, more kindly: “And I have been asked to look into it. Confidentially and unofficially, as I said.”
“God, now what has he done?” the Baron asked. “I presume you know the basic facts?”
The bluster was more than a little diminished.
“I think it would be best if you repeated them to me in your own words,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
“You didn’t respond when I asked what he’s done now,” the Baron said.
“That’s not really germane,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“My father sent me to America,” he said,“to study electrical engineering at the University of Southern California, in Los Angeles.”
"Why do you think he did that?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
“In my day, a son went to school where his father sent him. I was first at Marburg for four years. And then my father sent me to Los Angeles. He felt that would be best for me, and I did not question it.”
“I was sent to Harvard, actually,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said with compassion in his voice. “I found it quite difficult to adjust to.”
The Baron responded to that with a nod, then went on.
“And while I was there, I made a genuine ass of myself,” the Baron said. “I became infatuated with a young woman.”
“That would be ‘Mary Elizabeth Chernick’?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
“She had adopted the stage name ‘Monica Sinclair,’” the Baron said. “She wished to become an actress.”
“This is the same Monica Sinclair we used to see in American films? Forgive me, Baron, but wasn’t she a bit young for you?”
“My former wife is six months younger than I am,” the Baron said icily.
“I see. And may I ask why you married her?”
“I was a damned fool,” the Baron said. “We had . . . been together . . . and she was in the family way.”
“I see,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “And you did the gentlemanly thing.”
“I never had the intention of staying married to her,” the Baron said. “Obviously, it would have been impossible to bring her to Germany.”
“Obviously,” von Heurten-Mitnitz agreed.
“Under American law, a child born to a woman within ten months of her divorce is presumed to be the legal offspring of her former husband. When my former wife was six months pregnant—You follow the arithmetic?”
Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz nodded.
“—I obtained an initial decree of divorce. My father at the time advanced me a sum of money sufficient to satisfy her and to support the child until he was eighteen. I immediately returned to Germany, and was in Germany three months later when the divorce became final and the child was born. I never saw him in the United States, in other words, and for years—”
"When did you in fact see him?” von Heurten-Mitnitz interrupted.
“I saw him for the first time in 1934,” the Baron said,“when he was sent to Switzerland.”
“Tell me about that,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“My former wife’s career, such as it is,” the Baron said, “has been based on the same role, which she plays over and over. She projects an image of unsullied innocence, incredibly enough, and that image is inconsistent with either divorce or progeny. She sells virginity the way whores sell the opposite. It was proposed to Miss Sinclair by Max Liebermann of Continental Studios—and she did not object—that the boy be sent to Iowa and raised by her mother.”
“She gave up her child that willingly?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
“I daresay the grandmother could not have been a worse mother than my former wife,” the Baron said. “The reports from our legal counsel in America said she was a simple, decent woman.”
“I see,” von Heurten-
Mitnitz said.
"And then she died, and other arrangements were necessary,” the Baron said.
“Other arrangements?”
“I was approached, not directly, you understand, but through our lawyers in America, by a representative of Continental Studios, who led me to believe that now that her mother was no longer around, my former wife was willing to give me uncontested custody of the child. I am more than a little ashamed to admit that I turned down the offer. I had recently remarried, my son Fritz had just been born. I did not want the intrusion in my home. . . .”
“I understand,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said, his tone suggesting that he both understood and disapproved.
“Our legal counsel reported to me that it was my wife’s intention to place the boy in a private school, St. Paul’s, run by the Episcopal Church, in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. They paid the school high compliments, and I was able to convince myself that he would be better off there than he would have been either with his mother—which in any case was out of the question— or with me here.”
“I’m sure you were right, Herr Baron,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz was more than a little bored with this recitation of von Fulmar’s. But the Bad Ems postcard had mentioned the Baron, and there was certainly a reason for that. He could only hope he’d be able to pull that from what von Fulmar was telling him.
“I was wrong, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz,” the Baron said. “Quite wrong. I should have brought the boy to Germany, no matter the difficulty, and raised him and seen to his education. If I had done that, we would not be standing here having this embarrassing conversation.”
“I regret that you find it embarrassing, Herr Baron,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “That is not my intention.”
"Obviously, he has been up to something shameful, or you would not be here,” the Baron said.
“You were explaining to me how he came to Switzerland,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“The school in Iowa was only a primary school,” the Baron said. “But my son became friendly with a classmate, the son of the headmaster, in fact. When it was learned that this classmate was to attend a school for gymnasium-aged boys in Massachusetts, we decided my son should go with him.”
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