“Thee must tell me, Ernst, if it concerns me.”
He closed his eyes in pain. “It is my love for you. I must obey him absolutely, because if I do not, he will destroy you, and therefore me.”
“Oh, my,” she said, horrified.
“I think he knew all along. He was the one who sent me to Barcelona to investigate the Quaker relief effort there. He knew of you from my personnel record. He has an uncanny memory for key details. He must have known I would try to protect you, once I knew you were in Spain. I invoked his name when I took you from Gurs. I thought they did not check, but now I suspect they did, and he gave you clearance to go with me. It is the way he works.”
“But he could not know we would fall in love!” she protested.
“It is exactly the kind of thing he does know. He is a genius in the manipulation of people and power. He wanted this hold on me, and now he has it.”
“Oh, Ernst!” she cried, chagrined. “What have I done to thee!”
“No, my love, no, I would not have it otherwise! I wish only that he had not known.”
“There must be truth,” she said, pained. “If it is to thy commander I owe my rescue from Gurs, and my stay with thee, and the love we share, then I must thank him, though his motive be unkind. I owe him my life and love.”
“Can good come of an ill motive?” Ernst inquired bleakly.
“It can, and ill can come of a good motive. We do not comprehend the ways of God.”
“Certainly I do not!”
She smiled, cheering him, understanding his confusion. He had never professed the kind of faith she had, yet he was as good a man as any who had faith.
Still she was sorry that her presence placed him in this peril. She knew that there was intrigue among German officers, with each striving to get ahead at the expense of others, and she was chagrined to be the mechanism by which Ernst had become vulnerable.
A few days later there was a peremptory knock on the door. It was during the day, while Ernst was at work. She did not answer, as was her policy; Ernst had stressed that no one who lacked a key should be admitted during his absence.
“Liebling! It is Reinhard.”
Quality suffered a siege of panic. That was Heydrich, Ernst’s terrible superior! What could have brought him here?
“Do not fear,” Heydrich called. “I have brought you something. Open the door.”
She could not deny this man, for his anger could cost Ernst terribly. With dread, she unlocked the door.
The Nazi officer stood there holding a box. He was in civilian clothing, as he had been before, which meant he was not advertising his presence here. He stepped into the room. He carried the box to the table and set it down. “Lock the door again, Liebling,” he said without looking at her.
Quality’s hands were shaking as she did so. It was obvious that the man had timed his appearance for Ernst’s absence. What dreadful thing did he have in mind? She knew she was helpless to prevent it, because he could readily arrange to have her killed.
Heydrich brought out a knife as he turned to face her. Quality felt a thrill of horror. He was going to kill her right here, if she even screamed!
“Fräulein, what do you expect of me?” Heydrich asked, looking surprised.
Pleading would be useless; this was a completely cynical man. She could save only her dignity, for what little it was worth. So she gave him a direct answer. “I expect you to rape me, and to kill me if I protest.”
He laughed. “You misjudge me, Liebling. I am merely opening the box.” He proceeded to use the knife to cut the string and cardboard. “While it is true that I like women, I do not impose on those committed to other men, and I am distressed that you suppose I would deplore your being hit by Ernst while intending violence on you myself. I assure you that this is not my way. Certainly not when a lovely woman is protected by her swastika.”
She was not completely reassured. “Then what is your intent?”
“Only to charm you.” He had the box open, and put away the knife.
“I am not to be charmed into what I do not wish to do.”
He glanced at her again, smiling. “Then you have nothing to fear from me.”
“But Ernst has!” she said boldly.
“Ah, he has told you of my way.”
“It’s a terrible way!”
“It is a practical way. It obviates deceit. In my profession this is necessary. Now I can truly trust Ernst, and so there will never be any problem. As Nietzsche says, what is good is all that heightens the feeling of power.”
“And what is bad is all the proceeds from weakness,” she agreed. “Therefore I am bad.”
He laughed again. “I am not so sure of that, Liebling. You have the power of your faith. It shines through you, making you the envy of all women. I am a connoisseur in such matters. Now take away the box as I lift it out.”
Hesitantly she took hold of the box, and pulled it free of what he held. She set it down, then looked at the thing on the table. “A Victrola!” she exclaimed, surprised.
“And a record,” he agreed. “Wagner. Power is good, and music is power, and Richard Wagner is the true prince of music. You appreciate Wagner, therefore you are also good.”
“This is for me?” she asked, stunned.
“And for Ernst, while the two of you are here. Have no fear: Adolf Hitler endorses Wagner. You may listen with impunity.” He brought out a record. “Only his shorter pieces are here, I regret. The Ring is too much for a mere machine.”
“But why?” Quality asked.
“I do not wish you to know me only by hearsay, which is not kind. I prefer you to know me for what I am.”
“But what do you care about my opinion? I am nothing.”
“Ernst has good taste. He has given up a remarkably beautiful, obliging, and well pedigreed woman, for you. I suspect you are a woman among women, when you show your nature. I shall fathom that nature.”
She focused on one part of what he said. “He gave up Krista?” Somehow she had not thought of this, of the insistent girlfriend she had displaced.
“He is an honorable man. When he loved you, he broke with her. She was most annoyed.”
“He said nothing to me about this!” Yet of course Ernst would have done it.
“And he said nothing to her about you. He merely told her that he felt it was better that they no longer associate. She remains suspicious of his motive.”
“I never intended this!” Quality cried, though another part of her recognized it as inevitable. How could she have married Ernst, even symbolically, and expected him to continue dating another woman? Such deceit might be required for appearances, but not when that woman loved him.
Heydrich was watching her, as if he could read her thoughts in the manner of ripples across her surface. “You love him, of course.”
“Yes. But—”
“As Nietzsche clarifies, love is a disguised desire for possession. The will to power.”
“But I would not think of—”
“And humility is protective coloration for the will to power.”
“No! I do not want to harm anyone.”
“The strong woman defines her own morality.”
Everything he said was quoted from Nietzsche. She gave him a direct stare. “Distrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful,” she said, quoting another maxim of Nietzsche.
He laughed. “Ah! She fights back at last! She is not quite the pacifist she pretends.”
“There is no virtue in silence; all unuttered truths become poisonous.” That was more Nietzsche. “Punishment tames man, but does not make him better.” But Heydrich was right; he had made her oppose him, to fight fire with fire. She was indeed not truly pacifist, in words, and had never been so. She realized that now.
“Now listen to your music. I will see you again, if you are amenable.” Heydrich walked to the door and waited until she came to use her key to let him out. He departed without ceremony.
Sh
e locked the door behind him, feeling weak. She had never anticipated such a visit! Yet the man seemed sincere. He did have her in his power, and knew it, yet he had chosen to bring her a gift instead of shame.
She told Ernst of the visit, when he came back. “He is an educated and sensitive man,” he said. “But also a will like steel. He is letting us know how completely we are in his power.”
“But the music is nice,” she said. There were several records, and the pieces were indeed pretty, with the power to move the heart and spirit.
In February came disaster for Ernst’s nominal superior, Admiral Canaris. Ernst tersely explained to her what had happened: Himmler had received the word that Ernst had relayed to Heydrich about the Jew Canaris employed in Tangier. Himmler had gone to Hitler and accused Canaris of favoring Jews. Hitler, outraged, had summoned Keitel, who was the Chief-of-Staff of the German armed Forces, and ordered him to dismiss Canaris. Keitel had done so. Canaris was replaced by a Vice-Admiral within Abwehr. Thus had Ernst effectively served Heydrich, to the Admiral’s cost. But he was saddened and disgusted. “It is true, there is a Jew—but he is an effective operative, working loyally for Germany. Canaris is merely trying to do the best job he can, using the best people. He is not disloyal or incompetent, and he does not deserve to be so callously cast aside.”
In the following days Canaris fought back. He went to Keitel, who refused to intercede on his behalf. Finally he went directly to Hitler, and in that interview was able to get himself reinstated. But the experience nearly destroyed him.
“He is despondent and morose,” Ernst reported as the situation unfolded. “He no longer pays attention to detail. He seeks solace in Roman Catholic mysticism. He visits Spanish churches. He speaks of retiring and buying a coffee shop in some little Spanish town.”
“But that is a nice dream,” Quality said. “Spain is a nice country, when it isn’t torn by war.”
“Unfortunately a dream isn’t enough, right now. Heydrich is using the Admiral’s weakness to coerce concessions from him. If only I had not served Heydrich so well!”
Quality was silent, knowing that Ernst had no choice. She was the price of his loyalty to Heydrich, whatever else he might wish politically.
However, the other officers of Abwehr acted quickly to repair the damage done to their power base. Ernst had no part in it, to their frustration, but they drafted a counterproposal which retracted nearly all of the Admiral’s concessions.
Late in February Heydrich appeared once more at the room. Quality let him in, concerned about what might be on his mind. “Have no fear, Liebling,” he said as he entered. “I admit I am furious because of the Admiral’s bad faith, and I refuse to associate with him. But no fault attaches to Ernst, or to you. Let us relax.” He opened what Quality had taken to be a small suitcase and brought out a violin. “I will play Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries,’ and we shall forget the sordid things of this bleak world.”
Amazed, Quality watched and listened as Heydrich did just that. He played his violin with exquisite skill, producing the most moving rendition of “Ride” Quality could remember hearing. This despite having only his single instrument for a piece intended for an orchestra. Quality saw with further surprise that his eyes were closed, and that tears flowed from them. He was truly feeling the music.
He finished the brief piece, and took down the violin. “Oh, please play more!” Quality begged. “It is so lovely.”
“How can I refuse?” he inquired, smiling sadly. “There is such greatness in Wagner, it is an honor merely to echo it in whatever way we can.”
He played for an hour, and Quality was entranced. “You said you would charm me,” she said as he finally put away the instrument. “You have succeeded.”
He nodded, then departed, leaving her bemused. This savagely practical man, who held her hostage against Ernst’s possible independence, who schemed to topple competing officers, yet had such a wonderful side. How could she assimilate this?
Of course she told Ernst, later. “Heydrich is a remarkable man,” he agreed. “He was a champion athlete, and proficient in fencing and horsemanship. But he is also a power-hungry cynic, and I wish we were far from him.”
Quality agreed, yet she could not forget the beauty of the man’s violin playing. Surely such a man could not be wholly evil.
In March Heydrich came again. “Come, Liebling, it is a nice day out,” he said. “Walk with me in the park. In happier days I rode horseback there with Admiral Canaris.”
“But I can’t go outside!” she protested. “I have no papers!” For Ernst had been unable to arrange this.
“I think you can, Liebling. Here is a pass for you.” He handed her a bit of paper.
Amazed, she accepted it. It was indeed an identification for Frau Smith that would probably give her freedom of the streets. “But why?” she asked.
“A bird is better free than in the cage. Ernst trusts you; can I do less?”
So it was that she left the room and the hotel for the first time in three months. They walked through the Tiergarten in the brisk but pleasant air, and they discussed Nietzsche. She had read and reread all the books Ernst had been able to bring her, in the long hours of her confinement, and struggled with the concepts, and her familiarity enabled her to hold her own in this dialogue.
“But do you not agree that mankind is led by the nose with morality?” he asked. “That this is merely the arrogance of the elect, posing as modesty? That Christianity is a fateful kind of megalomania, laying claim to the concepts of God, Truth, Light, Spirit, Love, Wisdom and Life itself?”
“I am a Christian, a Quaker Christian,” she replied. “I lay claim to no such things, only my wish to be guided by my inner light. However imperfect I may be, the end is noble.”
“You have read Nietzsche, yet you still believe in religion, in God?”
“Reading Nietzsche is like walking barefoot through the pitfalls of Hell,” she confessed. “But with care and humility they can be navigated. One must at least try.”
“And what of the Übermensch, the Overman? Is he not Godlike? Are we not right to cultivate him?”
“You interpret the Overman as a racially pure Nordic,” she retorted. “That is not what Nietzsche said. It is hardness of the will, not of the flesh, that distinguishes the ideal man. By Nietzsche’s definition, a strong-willed and consistent Jew is as much an Overman as any Nazi.”
“Ach, the Führer must not hear you!” But he did not seem upset by the comparison. Rather, he was delighting in the discussion.
Heydrich returned her safely to her room, and departed, once more having been a perfect gentleman.
Ernst shook his head when she told him. “It seems that he wants your respect, nothing else. But that pass—I don’t know how that was possible, but he has given you your freedom. If there were a way to take you out of Germany—”
“I would not go without thee, Ernst.”
• • •
In May Admiral Canaris joined Heydrich at his new base in Prague. All of the intelligence operations were being gathered together under that umbrella. Heydrich’s power was still increasing. Then early in June he was assassinated.
Quality received the news with shock. “But how could he be dead? He was too clever for that!”
“He was a top target,” Ernst said. “The allies wanted very much to be rid of him.”
“Perhaps he had his evil side, but I shall grieve for him,” she said Indeed, she felt the tears. “He was always kind to me.”
“Yet his death has freed you as a hostage. No other man has that hold on me. Indeed, now I can forget that aspect of my career, and work truly for Admiral Canaris.”
“I am pleased for thee.” Yet she knew that every time she listened to a record on the Victrola she would think of Heydrich, and whenever she went outside, protected by the papers he had arranged. Whatever the man’s motive, he had done her incalculable good. Whatever his evil, he deserved that measure of her respect.
When Ernst was home, they made love often. They listened to records on the Victrola; Ernst bought more when he found them, including other pieces by Richard Wagner. There was an emotional intensity to Wagner’s music that made it an excellent background for sexual expression.
When Ernst was away, for a day or for several days, Quality read. She was no longer restricted to English or French books; a few were in Spanish, and she was practicing on German ones too, with the help of a dictionary. She was alone much of the time, but she did not feel lonely; rather she felt that she was in a period of learning, as she prepared to be a part of German society. For she knew that her future lay with Ernst, and therefore Germany, whatever the outcome of the war.
The war itself now seemed far away. They shut it out, not speaking of it. Their world was the room, and the park, and the few stores in range. They did not read the newspaper. In this they seemed to be like other Berliners, who for their own reasons preferred to ignore the world beyond Germany.
They celebrated the Christmas season together, quietly. Ernst brought her a gift of a pretty wool sweater, the best he could afford. They spoke of their dreams for “after”: a nice cottage in some mountain glade, with a forest nearby, where wild animals could be seen. They drew outlines of floor plans for such a structure, and looked at a map to find a suitable location. Perhaps by a mountain lake, where they could watch the water birds. It was idyllic. If it was unrealistic, they did not care; it was their shared fantasy.
In January came the new year, 1943, and disaster. A man with an ironically similar given name, Dr. Ernst Kaltenbrunner, replaced Heydrich as head of the broad network of intelligence services known as RHSA. Quality never met this man, but she felt his impact immediately. Kaltenbrunner was heir to Heydrich’s most private information, including the fact that Ernst Best was an SS operative who had infiltrated the Abwehr. He did not know about Quality, so did not have that special hold on Ernst, but what he did know was enough.
Volk Page 25