Volk

by Piers Anthony

  Then he recovered his overcoat. He made a gesture of eating: he had to go out to purchase food. He brought out his key and gestured as of locking the door: he would lock her in. She nodded. She understood that she could not go out alone.

  He went to a store he knew, and bought bread, cheese, milk, lettuce and as an afterthought, chocolate. The proprietor lifted an eyebrow but did not comment. An SS man could indulge himself if he chose.

  He also bought a newspaper—and discovered that Germany had declared war on the United States of America the day before. He had gotten Quality out of the camp just in time.

  Ernst brought the food to his room. Quality had dressed, then wrapped herself again in a blanket. Her eyes were big under the impromptu hood the blanket formed. He showed her the chocolate. “Eat,” he murmured. “It will make you warm.” He ate only sparingly himself, saving the food for her, because he could eat elsewhere.

  Then he left for the Abwehr, locking her in again. This was the way it would have to be. This set the pattern for the following days. He found books printed in French and English and brought them to her. Several were by Nietzsche; he doubted that she wanted more of that, but there was no great assortment cheaply available in those languages. She welcomed each new book, and evidently read it. She had little else to do during the days he was at work.

  The first evening when he returned he found her sitting by the window, gazing out. He set down his groceries and books and came to stand close behind her. “That is Tiergarten,” he said in a low voice, in Spanish. “The ‘Animal Garden.’ A popular park. I chose this room because of that view.”

  “Tiergarten,” she repeated. “I thank thee, Ernst, for that view. It cheers me.”

  “Eat,” he said gruffly in German. “I must go out again.”

  In an hour he returned with assorted items of clothing for her. He knew the fit would be imperfect, but he couldn’t leave her in her inadequate original garments. One of the items was a nightgown, so that she would not have to sleep naked again, and would have what slight additional warmth it provided. She made a pleased exclamation when she saw it, and that night she wore it. Now she seemed ethereal rather than thin, and angelically attractive. He did not dare compliment her appearance, for fear his sincerity would betray his feeling.

  The days passed, and she began to recover her flesh, but Ernst knew it would be months before she was restored to full health. In the interim, there were other problems. Once a week the hotel’s cleaning woman came through; she had a passkey, and he could not keep her out. So he dealt with the potential problem forthrightly: he went to the manager.

  “I have a woman in my room. I rescued her from a camp. She does not speak German. I want her left alone, and I do not want word of her presence spread. There may be additional expense to the hotel because of her occupancy. I hope this will cover it.” He proffered a suitable amount.

  “There will be no problem,” the man said, pocketing the money.

  “And I would like to have a second key. Here is the deposit on it.”

  He got the key. Then he gave it to Quality. She was no longer a prisoner, physically, though without papers this made little difference.

  Another problem was Krista. The Christmas season was coming up, and though the official Nazi line frowned on the religious aspect, the celebration was allowed. Krista would have time off, and so would he, and she expected to share it with him. She hoped to come to his room, if not for a night, at least for a few hours. That would be extremely awkward.

  “Who is Krista?” Quality inquired when he tried to explain why he would be absent much of the time.

  “My female friend. She would like to marry me.”

  “I wish you well.”

  He found himself uncertain. She had not said “thee.” Then he realized that she meant the plural. “She is a fine young woman. Any man should be well satisfied to marry her.”

  “Surely so.” She seemed almost amused.

  It remained awkward. “But to explain your presence here—I do not think she would understand.”

  “Thee must bring her here, Ernst, and I will explain.”

  “She might feel obliged to report you. She is I fear a better Nazi than I am.” He looked around the room. “She would also note that we use one bed.”

  She smiled. “This, too, I will explain. I do not wish to interfere in thy life, Ernst.”

  She had already done so, if she but knew. At night, when he held her for warmth, feeling her flannel nightgown against him, and her slender body, he imagined that she was his fiancée, and he felt guilty. Yet that fancy brought him delight, and he could not abolish it. If Krista saw Quality, she would immediately divine the truth in his heart, regardless of Quality’s innocent explanation. But he could not say that without betraying the trust he had assumed for Lane. “I think it best that we not chance it.”

  She looked down. “Thee knows best, Ernst.”

  It was no easier with Krista. “This is the holiday season,” she pointed out as they sat at a table in a restaurant. “The time for joy and license, yet you remain withdrawn. Let me take you somewhere where I can make you truly relax.”

  “I fear that is beyond your power.”

  “But you must give me a trial. Perhaps I will surprise you.” She moved her leg so that her knee touched his. When he glanced down, he saw that she had hiked up her skirt so that he alone could see her leg above the knee. It was a fine leg, and the shadow into which it rose was indeed alluring. Her body had lost none of its appeal for him. But until he came to terms with his illicit feeling for Quality, he could not afford to take any part of what Krista offered.

  Ernst wished he could get out of this. “It is not that you are in any way inadequate. It is that I know of nothing that can ease my situation.”

  “If only you would tell me!” she exclaimed, frustrated.

  “If only I could.”

  “Last year we went home together. Why not—”

  “This year I can not.”

  She gazed at him in a calculated manner. He feared her next question. But she did not ask it. “You must tell me when you can, Ernst.” She did not broach the subject again. But he was not reassured.

  Then in January he had a surprising and unwelcome visit at his room. It was Dohnanyi, the civilian associate of General Oster, who was notoriously anti-Hitler. Ernst had traveled with him, and found the man compatible and useful, but the last thing he needed now was the political complication that further association with him would bring. Worse, he could not hide Quality’s presence.

  Quality sat in a corner, facing the man without speaking. She was in one of the dresses Ernst had bought for her, and already it hung less loosely on her as she regained weight. She had done some sewing on it, and fashioned a kind of sash that helped conceal her slenderness, and her bosom was filling out again. She could have been taken for German.

  “So you are keeping a woman now,” Dohnanyi remarked, eyeing Quality in a manner Ernst did not like.

  “That has no relevance to my work,” Ernst said shortly in German.

  “But I understood that you had a regular girl.”

  “I prefer not to discuss the matter.”

  Dohnanyi laughed. “You are a more ambitious man than I took you for! A girlfriend and a mistress both.”

  “What is your business with me?” Ernst asked evenly.

  Dohnanyi got serious. “Surely it is apparent to you that Hitler is a madman. First Poland, then France—had he stopped there, perhaps it would have been all right. But then Russia, and now America. These are not pygmies! They will overwhelm us, unless we renounce this folly while we yet can. While we still have our strength.”

  “Our troops are at the verge of Moscow, and America is far away,” Ernst retorted, noting how Quality picked up on the word “America.” But privately he feared exactly what the man suggested: that Germany had assumed too great a burden, and was extended on too many fronts.

  “If we depose Hitler and make p
eace now, we can spare ourselves much agony,” Dohnanyi said. “But we need internal support before we can challenge Hitler.”

  “You won’t get it here!” Ernst retorted angrily. “Hitler is a great man. He has made Germany great.” He brought out his silver swastika on its chain. “I value this symbol of what he has made of Germany. Now go away, and we shall pretend you never came here.”

  Dohnanyi departed without further argument. Ernst locked the door behind him. What had possessed the man to come here like this, spouting treason? Ernst had never given him any encouragement.

  “What was it about?” Quality asked quietly.

  He changed to English, lowering his voice. “He wants to overthrow the Führer! He seeks to convert me to his cause. But I am loyal. He knows that. I don’t know why he came here.”

  “Perhaps to verify my presence,” she suggested.

  Ernst nodded. “And now he has a hold against me. If I report him for treason, he will report you. I must be silent.”

  She shook her head sadly. “I did not wish to complicate thy life, Ernst.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders. “I would not have it otherwise.” Then, realizing what he had done, he withdrew. “I meant that I must do what I must do, and you are not to blame.”

  She did not look at him. “Thee sleeps embracing me, but thee will not touch me by day?”

  He laughed, without force. “At night there is reason. By day, it is a presumption.”

  “A presumption of what?”

  “A presumption that what others think is true.”

  “And is it false?”

  She had questioned him in a similarly oblique manner during their drive to Berlin, a month before. Again, it made him nervous, because his attraction to her had not abated. It was essential that he reassure her, so that she would not come to fear his intent. “If I ever touch you in a way you do not wish, there will surely be compelling reason for it,” he said carefully. “I deeply regret holding you prisoner here, and would free you if I could.”

  “I am perhaps prisoner,” she agreed. “But I would not care to take my freedom from thee.”

  “Not in the middle of Berlin!” he agreed. “But I hope the time will come when it is possible.” Then he would marry Krista, and try to forget.

  • • •

  The next week the trouble was abruptly worse. There was another peremptory knock on the door, and when Ernst opened it, there

  was Major Stummel of the Central section, the legal department. He was young and friendly, but deadly. His report could destroy Ernst’s standing in the Abwehr, or exonerate him from suspicion. “I was in the area, and thought I would pay a call,” Stummel said politely. “Have you time?”

  Ernst could hardly decline, knowing the significance of such a seemingly coincidental visit. “By all means, come in.”

  The man entered. “Freulein,” he said, spying Quality.

  She nodded, not knowing what to expect.

  They sat down. “I see you have a view of the Tiergarten,” he remarked. “That is nice.”

  Ernst agreed. They exchanged other pleasantries. Then Stummel began to zero in on his business. “It is such a pleasure to work with the able officers of the Abwehr. Colonel Lahousen is a fine soldier, though his loyalty may be primarily military rather than political.”

  “I have worked closely with Lahousen,” Ernst countered. “I regard him as a fine and loyal soldier in every sense.”

  “And of course Admiral Canaris is a brilliant espionage officer, but perhaps not as fine an administrator or manager. Perhaps he allows himself to be unduly swayed by underlings of dubious quality.”

  “Such as General Oster,” Ernst agreed. Now he was on safe ground. “A strutting peacock, a man so consumed with his own opinions that he questions the decisions of the Führer and speaks treason carelessly. The only reason he has not been court-martialed is that his incompetence safeguards his rashness. And his friends: Dohnanyi, that sly lawyer who knows nothing of discipline and cares nothing for the Volk, a scheming weasel who embodies everything that national socialism stands against.”

  “Yes, there are rumors of Jewish ancestry and black market activities.” Then Stummel remarked with seeming innocence: “I noticed that you talked to Dohnanyi. I believe you have worked with the man before—or do I misremember?”

  Of course his memory was perfect. “I did travel with him last year. He was a pleasant conversationalist, but I did not take him seriously.”

  “I believe he visited here recently. To review old times?”

  “I do not wish to speak ill of an associate,” Ernst said tightly.

  “Ill? In what manner?”

  “He remains extreme in his politics. I had to ask him to leave.”

  “Ah, you do not subscribe to his notions?”

  “I thought I had made that clear,” Ernst said wryly.

  Stummel smiled. “Ah, you did; I apologize for forgetting.” But Ernst knew that the man had not forgotten; he had phrased his question again, verifying that Ernst’s answer remained constant. His gaze flicked about the room, touching as if coincidentally again on Quality. “Forgive me if I am once more forgetful, but I had understood you are not married, Captain Osterecht.”

  “I am not,” Ernst agreed.

  “But I see here with you a most attractive young woman. Is she your cousin, perhaps, come for a visit?”

  Treacherous water! “I do have her with me. She is not my cousin. I do not care to discuss her situation.”

  “Of course not,” Stummel said with deceptive ease. “I understand that more than one officer prefers, shall we say, the comforts of home to those of the street.” He was implying that Quality was a prostitute.

  Ernst knew that he should let that implication stand. Keeping a woman was an indiscretion, but an understandable one, and there was a general policy of silence in such matters. But he was unable to allow this particular lie about Quality to stand. Dohnanyi’s assumption that she was his mistress had been bad enough, and probably should have been countered so as to avoid any chance of blackmail. “No. She is not that kind of woman.”

  “No? I would not for a moment imply that such an attractive person could be an agent of the treasonable faction, sent to corrupt a good man. Yet such things have been known.”

  Ernst felt a terrible chill. Stummel was springing his trap, suggesting that Quality was evidence of corruption. “I have no such relationship with her!”

  “She is nothing to you? Then perhaps we could take her off your hands, so that she will not remain a burden.”

  There was the threat. How was he to abate it? He could claim neither prostitution nor indifference, yet to suggest that she was important to him was a worse trap. They would use her mercilessly to bend him to their will, and he would have no independence.

  “She does not speak German,” he said carefully. “I took her from a camp, not wishing to let such an attractive creature go to waste. What she may be to me in the future is a private matter. I prefer to have no publicity.”

  Stummel stood and approached Quality. “I must say that she does not look like a Jew; were she such, it would be unfortunate.”

  “She is no Jew,” Ernst said. Would Stummel never give over?

  “Then surely you will have no objection if I check for a tattoo,” Stummel said. His hand shot out, catching Quality’s arm.

  Quality mistook the nature of Stummel’s intention. She thought he had rape or removal in mind, and Ernst could not clarify it for her without revealing the closeness of their association. “No!” she cried, jerking away.

  Now Stummel showed his nature. “So she is willful. This is no fit companion for an officer.” He stepped toward her again, determined to break her to his will—or to make Ernst betray his true feeling for her. It was a two-edged trap, skillfully set up. Either Quality would become worthless, subject to being taken and thrown in prison or perhaps turned over to other officers for their use. Or she would be revealed as Ernst’s
lover, a perfect hold against him, with the implication that he was being corrupted.

  Ernst acted instantly. “Silence, woman!” he shouted, striding across the room. He caught her by the shoulder himself and spun her around. Her sleeve tore, baring her arm, showing that there was no guilty tattoo. Then he struck her with his open hand across the face. He felt her nose give way under the force of his blow. He winced, inwardly; he had intended to strike her on the side of the face, relatively harmlessly.

  She made a stifled scream and stumbled back, the blood flowing from her nose. She fell to the floor, sobbing. But Ernst paid no overt heed. “Never talk back to an SS officer!” he shouted. He took another step toward her, lifting his foot. She cringed away from him, whimpering, her blood dripping on the floor.

  Making an exclamation of disgust, he spun about to face Stummel. “My apologies for this scene,” he said curtly. “The woman has not yet quite learned her place. That will be corrected, I assure you.”

  “So I see,” Stummel said, stepping back. He was evidently satisfied: the woman was not a Jew or other condemned person, and obviously was here for Ernst’s convenience, not his love. “I shall leave you to it.” He turned away with distaste, and departed.

  Ernst listened until he was sure the man was not only away from the room but out of the building. Only then did he dare to look at Quality.

  She, too, had remained where she was, holding her nose to stop the bleeding. Her hair was disheveled, and a bruise was forming around her left eye. There were tears on her cheeks, and blood and tears on her chin.

  “Oh my love,” he murmured, the horror welling up. He had exonerated Quality and himself from suspicion, but at what price? “What have I done!”

  Afraid to approach her, he hurried to the bathroom and got a towel. He soaked an end in water and brought it out to her. “I am so sorry,” he said. “How can I explain?”

  She took the towel and dabbed at her face. There was less blood than there had seemed to be, and her nose had stopped bleeding. Her face was quickly clean, but her eye was starting to swell. “There is no need to explain, Ernst.”