The German Heiress

by Anika Scott

  He packed up his things and, after sweeping his flashlight beam across the factory floor one final time, he went to join his men. Clara crouched in the wall until she was sure they had gone, long minutes when the cold wind drifted into the factory and numbed her bones. Later, as she huddled by the miserable fire she had coaxed out of the debris, she remembered the poor falcon, that proud creature her father had blinded to protect it from the world it couldn’t bear to see.

  15

  Clara arrived at the South Sea Club limping, her face a mask of cold, a dull ache behind her eyes. The blue neon sign flashed over the door, and the faint sound of music felt like an echo from long ago. The doorman, a wide fellow in earmuffs and mittens, glared down at her, daring her not to laugh, she supposed. She wasn’t in the mood to poke fun, or be detained. The club glowed behind him, and a delicious heat seeped out of the doorway.

  “I don’t know you, sweetheart,” he said.

  “Do you know Jakob Relling?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  She let out a long breath into the scarf knotted at her chin. It seemed the doorman had been instructed not to let in the riffraff, the common folk looking for a little warmth and light. All he saw was her dirty coat and her chapped lips, the result of a week sleeping rough, like half the rest of the city. The shelter she had built in an office of the factory was not much different from a cellar or a bomb-damaged flat.

  “Jakob Relling,” she repeated. “I have an appointment.”

  “I’m not his secretary.”

  She understood then. The bruiser wanted a bribe. She felt around in her pockets for something he might want. She’d scoured the Works for useful items to trade on the black market, and came up with a coil of electrical cord. “Well?” she asked as he stuffed it into his coat.

  “What’s Relling want with you?”

  “Let’s go and ask him.”

  He shrugged, held open the door, and, as she passed, swatted her backside with his mittened paw. There was no hallway and no curtain. She was there in the bar with its smoke and noise and moist warmth. Suddenly she wanted to make an entrance, to let the world know she was alive. A woman, not a rat in hiding, not a timid thing who allowed herself to be insulted.

  She rounded on the doorman and slapped him so hard, his earmuffs popped off his head. He roared at her, more surprised than angry. He rubbed his cheek and looked confused. The room had gone quiet, mostly men around little tables and lining up for drinks, who then burst out laughing.

  They let Clara through. She draped her coat over her arm and pretended to ignore the stares and the greetings. Hello, sweetheart. Got a temper on you, don’t you? Not seen you around before. She made her way to the bar and while she waited for her drink, she took in the place, its scuffed floor and cracked ceiling hidden by a mad mix of tropical and Christmas decorations. Girls in grass skirts served drinks at tables decorated with coconuts and sprigs of fir. Tinsel glittered on the paper palm trees flanking the bar. She loved it. Loved the unapologetic campiness, the poverty it wouldn’t succumb to. This club worked hard to be cheerful, and she wanted—needed—to be cheered.

  She raised her glass to the men and drank the schnapps without a cough. That got her some admiring comments and offers to pay, which was her object to begin with. She couldn’t afford black-market prices. “Is Jakob Relling here tonight?”

  The man who paid for her drink had the bland face of a crooked bureaucrat. “You can do better than a cripple, fräulein.”

  “Oh, but I love cripples.” She took her drink into the next room.

  Someone had tried to bring a cosmopolitan flair to the second bar, with its worn leather armchairs and the prints of skyscrapers framed on the wall, apparently cut out of magazines. She loved this place too, quiet, less garish, the men doing their old boys act, pushing cigarettes across cocktail tables or counting wads of money. She saw Jakob at a table by the wall and withdrew to a quiet corner to observe him.

  He’d polished himself for tonight, she saw that right away. The slick hair, the perfect tie, the trim suit coat. Sitting there, he looked like any other man, his crutch nowhere to be seen. He talked and joked, his cigarette bobbing in his mouth. He called to everyone who walked by, knew their names, shook hands, shared a laugh. It was a revelation to see what he could do with a smile and a handshake. Everybody played along, but she sensed the wariness behind the smiles. Nobody in that room trusted anyone else.

  She waited until his table was full and then sauntered up. “Gentlemen.” She settled down on the arm of Jakob’s chair and raised her drink to him. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “There you are, liebling.” He insisted on standing like a gentleman, a struggle on his crutch but one she wouldn’t dream of helping him with. He was glowing at her, gleaming. An old feeling flooded her then, ancient, something like the early days with Max. It made her want to unpin her hair and kick off her shoes.

  The men excused themselves in a way she recognized, giving Jakob space as if she was his conquest and they wouldn’t interfere. She stayed where she sat, her arm draped over the back of his chair and her drink on her thigh. She was wearing a green dress she had taken from her mother, saved all week for the occasion. She was going to look decent at a club, her hair up, a dab of lipstick, good stockings. Her footwear didn’t match the dress, and the only thing to do about that was to flaunt it, her legs crossed, her clunky winter shoes bobbing as if they were the finest heels.

  “Do you have good news for me, Herr Relling?”

  “I most certainly do, fräulein.” His hand hovered near her knee—in her head, she dared him to touch her, not knowing what she would do in response—but instead he reached for his drink. “I contacted an ex-cop who knows a thing or two about your friend. He’ll be here later tonight.”

  A knot tightened in her chest. “I haven’t found her yet. Maybe he can tell me something useful.”

  A thoughtful look on his face quickly transformed into another smile. “You look good, liebling. All healed up.”

  “You too. Almost.”

  He touched the fading bruise on his jaw. “I put on my best suit for you. Paid 1,190 marks for it.”

  She made impressed noises and stroked the fabric at his shoulder. “You’re not spending my ring already, are you?”

  He covered her hand, his warm and clammy. “No need to flash that around.”

  She slid off the arm of his chair. The drinks made her feel dangerously reckless. “Could you show me the rest of the club? Is there a dance floor?”

  “We got a nice little ballroom. But maybe we should keep it quiet, you know? I got a room reserved just for us. You hungry?”

  She handed him his crutch. “Show me the dance floor first.”

  To get there, they had to go through the first bar. The doorman wasn’t there, perhaps nursing his wounded pride outdoors. Men called after her, telling Jakob to be careful, that she was fast with the flat of her hand.

  “You slapped Günther? You nuts?” Jakob asked as they made their way down the hall.

  “He should’ve kept his hands to himself.”

  “You can’t go around slapping fellows in here. People remember that. You got to be more careful.”

  She thought of Fenshaw gazing at her photograph in the factory, how close he’d been, how close she’d been to giving herself up. “I’m tired of being careful, Herr Relling.”

  Guests were scattered around the tables in the ballroom—another attempt at a tropical scene, palm trees and birds-of-paradise painted on the walls. Silver tinsel fluttered over the edge of the bar. A three-piece band played a light jazz number, and a few couples danced to it, halfheartedly. Clara recognized the professional dancers, paid to keep the floor occupied, as Max had done before figuring out he could maximize his income as a gigolo.

  “Watch my coat,” she said to Jakob as she kicked off her shoes and padded onto the dance floor. Her presence confused the professionals. They swirled to a stop, and then one of the men—ver
y much like Max, painfully polished, self-consciously so—asked her to dance. For the next few minutes, the world was light and music and cold parquet under the soles of her feet. The dancer was nowhere near as good as Max, but better than she was now, and he tried out increasingly intricate moves that took most of her concentration. Now and then she looked to see if Jakob was watching her, what effect she was having on him. Seated at the bar, he was taking nervous puffs of his cigarette, his gaze roaming the room. His mind seemed far away and it irritated her. She wanted him to look at her just as he had when he first saw her tonight.

  She returned to him, breathless. “Would you like to dance?”

  “Don’t think I’ve done that since 1942. For obvious reasons.” He adjusted his crutch leaning against the bar.

  “Move your stool around. Like this.” She turned him herself, grasping his arms, good thick arms. He took her hand and her waist, a light yet confident touch, just as she liked it.

  “That was the easy part,” he said, his face close to hers. He was sweating a little at his hairline. “What’s next? The Lindy Hop?”

  The best they could manage was swaying, him on the stool side to side to the music. The longer they did it, the wider they smiled at each other, and then the giggles came, contagious, until they were both laughing at how ridiculous they looked.

  The dancers cleared the floor and a singer in red velvet began to croon “Irgendwo auf der Welt” into her microphone. Jakob’s mood instantly changed. He listened with a sad vacancy on his face, as if he too was waiting for happiness somewhere in the world.

  Clara leaned close. “May I ask who you’re thinking about?”

  “Nothing, really. Nobody.”

  “This song reminds you of someone, I can tell. Wife?” She was being bold and maybe even rude. It was the drink he kept motioning the bartender to refill at her elbow.

  “Never been married.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “You’ll laugh. Or you’ll think I’m—I don’t know—strange.”

  She held up her hand as if taking an oath. “I will not laugh or think you strange.”

  “All right.” He took a drink—didn’t seem to realize it was out of her glass. “My mother died in September. She loved this song. If it was on the radio and she was ironing or something, she’d stop and listen. I think it reminded her of my father.”

  She didn’t have to ask to know his father was gone too. “I’m sorry.”

  He brightened, but it was a struggle in his eyes. “Enough of this old stuff, liebling. It’s a beautiful night.”

  But she didn’t want to let the moment go. She had almost reached something beneath the surface of him, something real and warm and deep. “Do you think about the past a lot?”

  “Not often. What good would that do? We can’t change any of it.”

  “I think about it more now than I did a year ago. A month ago, even.”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Maybe it does.”

  “It’s over. Look at us. We got a roof over our heads, enough to drink and the company is nice. What more could we want?”

  “It’s not like we were born in 1945. I was . . . different back then.” She hated that she had to be vague with him. “Or maybe I wasn’t. That’s the issue. I was her, and I’m me now, and what I did or thought or felt back then still matters. I can’t pretend it doesn’t.”

  “You’re making things hard on yourself. In the war I had some bad luck and now I use a crutch. Who cares? We got out alive. Hell, do you remember what it felt like when you heard it was over and you realized you’d made it?”

  She couldn’t remember a single moment when that had dawned on her. Maybe somewhere on her trek to Hamelin, or in a cinema with Dr. Blum, but she couldn’t recall.

  “You made it,” Jakob said. “If you messed up in the past, do better from now on. If you didn’t kiss your man enough back then, you can make up for it now.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “I am.”

  For a few exquisite moments she imagined the room empty except for the two of them and the song. She picked up his cigarette to have something to do with her fingers, tapping the ash into the tray for him. “I think I’d like to eat something now, Herr Relling.”

  The private room was full of mirrors and fake gold carvings, gaudy as a girl’s jewelry box. Clara circled the room, her image fractured, light sparkling all around her. She rustled the organza curtains on a window that was painted onto the wall, no real view to the outside world. Plush chairs and a rose-patterned sofa formed a half-circle that gave at least a partial view of the door. This was a room for people who wanted to keep an eye on the escape route. Perfect.

  “What’s that panel on the wall?” Clara asked, sitting down on the sofa.

  Jakob pressed a button. Music and conversation from the dance floor hummed out of the speakers. “What do you want to eat? I can get you anything you’d like. Lobster? You want oysters? I can get you caviar.”

  “I really have a taste for pork. Potatoes. A butter parsley sauce. White wine. I like it dry as a bone.”

  “Anything you want.” He pressed another button on the panel, a buzzer sounded, and a few moments later, a woman came in to take their order. There was some argument about how he’d pay for the meal, and he glanced at Clara with a smile of embarrassment as he argued about a tab that didn’t seem to exist. She liked the front he was putting up for her, the nice suit, the drinks, the food, this dollhouse of a room. It was costing him, and she showed her appreciation by assuming he could pay.

  “When is the policeman coming?” she asked.

  “He’ll be here soon.” Jakob sat beside her, an awkward fall into the cushions. “Are you in a hurry?”

  “No, actually, I suppose I’m not.” She slid closer on the sofa, not close enough to touch him, but close enough to feel his heat. “So, Jakob Relling, who are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who are you really? I know the unimportant things. You’re a black marketeer, one of those scoundrels who takes advantage of normal people by funneling goods out of the shops and driving up prices. People talk about hanging men in your profession.”

  “I could be an unemployed cripple with my hat on the pavement, if you prefer.”

  She shook her head. “I know you loved your mother. That’s important.”

  “You know a lot about me already, liebling. Tell me about yourself.”

  “Your story first.”

  A sly smile. “All right, then you.”

  She paid attention to how he began, a technique she had learned from her father when she sat in on interviews of potential employees at the Works. Jakob began where people usually did, said he was born in Essen, had never been anywhere else until he was drafted and went off to war. His father had worked in mine rescue. With a trace of pride, he told her he had died rescuing other miners in a collapse. Jakob spoke at length about this, longer than he talked about himself. She was instantly more comfortable with him. He was a grown man who thought his father a hero. She envied him that.

  “It was his idea to leave me in school,” he said, “instead of sending me down into the mines. Thought I had some talent up here.” Jakob tapped his head. “With numbers mostly. He said I was too clever to hammer rock all day. We didn’t have a lot of money—there were five of us kids by then—so Papa hit on the notion of getting me sponsored to stay on. You know, pay for my shoes and books and things so I could pass some exams and become something that didn’t get my shirt dirty.” He paused as a girl brought the food and wine and then vanished with a rustle of her grass skirt. “So one day, my papa gave me a good spit and polish and took me up to the Falkenberg Iron Works for an interview with Herr Falkenberg himself. He was known for his charity, you know.”

  Clara’s fork, loaded with pork, stopped midway to her mouth. “Oh? When was this?”

  “Spring of ’33. I was thirteen.”

  She tried to remember if she’d ever
seen him at the Works. At the time, she was enamored of Max and unlikely to notice a miner’s son five years younger than herself. She could imagine what Jakob had been like back then. One of those cocky golden boys she thought she would dislike but who always charmed her in the end.

  “We presented ourselves to Herr Falkenberg,” he said. “Me, I was struck dumb. You know, awed. My father twisted his cap in his hands. Our priest looked like he’d raise the dead if Herr Falkenberg ordered him to. Herr Falkenberg asked me questions. My favorite subjects at school, if I got into fights, that kind of thing. Then he turned to my papa and asked, ‘What are your hopes for your son?’ Now Papa didn’t have a big mouth like I do. He thought about it for a while and he said—and I’ll never forget this—he said, ‘This boy has a future, sir. He shouldn’t live his life down in the dark. He deserves to live in the light.’”

  “Your father sounds like a good man.”

  “He was.”

  She waited for Jakob to say if her father had granted the sponsorship he’d given to dozens of boys and girls over the years. “Well? Did you stay in school?”

  “Sure did. Every year I had to write a grateful letter to Herr Falkenberg. He even wrote back to me once. In his own hand and everything. Said I was going to be a credit to my family one day.” Jakob’s voice trailed off. He seemed to have forgotten his cigarette. The ashes dusted the sofa cushion, and he quickly brushed them away. “Now it’s your turn, liebling. Who are you?”

  She shoved a forkful of potato into her mouth, chewing slowly. Her father had taken pride in his generosity, his charity, his hospital and library, his support of needy children. Considering what her mother had told her about the ease with which he put his conscience aside in the war, she wondered if all this generosity had been just as calculated, improving the family image, making him feel noble. Maybe he hadn’t cared about the children he helped, only the advantages he could get from helping them. Her father, a carefully constructed mirage.