The Other Side of Love (44 page)

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Kathe and Clothilda made their dinner of the bread with some carrot jam, eating in the larger of the two garage rooms. (Trudi, who had returned that morning, had scrubbed and rearranged the chauffeur’s quarters, and then Clothilde had led her to an acquaintance’s servantless mansion, where she was hired on the spot.)

Clothilde was making entries in her diary, and Kathe was at the yellowed corner washbowl rinsing Afc thick pottery donated by Trudi’s grateful new employer, whffi cars rumbled into the driveway. The dish slipped in Kathe’s hand. Her first thought was of Aubrey. He’s been captured and tortured into confessing. They’ve come for me. They’ll take Mother; it won’t matter to them that she knows nothing.

A car door opened and slammed, footsteps crunched on the gravel drive. Groener’s voice called out:

“It’s me. Otto. I’ve brought a few things to tide you over.”

Kathe’s jaw hardened. It was Clothilde who turned off the light and opened the door.

Groener planted his gleaming black boots proprietorially inside the threshold, flicking a gold cigarette-lighter to provide minimal illumination in the blackout, bawling commands to a pair of SS men as they lugged in a small stove, a pair of deep easy chairs upholstered in brocade, a luxurious floor-model radio, a round electric fire. After the duo had brought in several large topless crates, Groener closed the door on them. Pulling the light-chain, he took a lumpy object from the smaller crate, peeling away newspaper

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to reveal a delicate blue-flowered cup.

“Herend from Hungary, the finest china available,”

he said. A second crate contained bedding.

“Genuine goosedown.”

Beneath the coverlets were saucepans that gleamed like new - but there had been no new cooking utensils in the Third Reich since 1939.

“Prewar aluminium.”

His ultimate gifts were cans - Danish ham, sardines and pineapple.

“Sigi once told me his family liked pineapple.”

“Imagine remembering all these years,”

Clothilde said, thanking him with the same gracious smile she had bestowed on the ragamuffin he once had been.

After the car and small truck had driven away, Clothilde picked up a cup, staring at it.

“Even as a little boy Siegfried was goodnatured, but how could he have been friendly with such a coarse braggart?”

“Every bit must be stolen. Mother, we can’t use it.”

“Stop being ridiculous, Kathe. Our things are gone. And it’s not as if we can return these.”

Clothilde plugged in the fire and the radio. Warmth and a Mozart piano concerto.

Kathe sat on one of the brocade chairs. Her mother was right. In wartime one used what came along. Groener would ask her out, she knew he would, so why not make the most of the invitation? Despite Aubrey’s misgivings, she would try to discover the nature of the new miracle weapon. More important, she would find out about Erich. Those fine, fine Nazis, his adoptive parents, had driven a car with a Frankfurt am Main licence-plate. Was her baby still in Frankfurt? What was his last name? Squeezing out information wouldn’t be easy: Groener hadn’t climbed the black peaks of Nazidom by swapping pillow-talk. But one thing she had learned. Opportunities arose.

As Kathe and Clothilde were preparing for bed, a downy-faced Hitler Youth delivered a message for Kathe.

Would you join me at a party tomorrow evening?

OTTO

II

The party, like the Yule festivities at GarmischPartenkirchen, was hosted by Dietrich Eberhardt. Another lavish display of unobtainable foods and drink, more Turkish cigar smoke hazing the rooms, similar anxiously docile foreign servants. The male guests were interchangeable, wearing black uniforms or dinner-jackets adorned with gold party badges. At tonight’s gathering there was one vital difference. The women were universally young and shapely. The bald host was nowhere in sight.

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‘Eberhardt must have wandered off with his little cream cake. He can’t get enough of her,”

Groener said.

“Kathe, you won’t mention this evening to his daughter?”

“Of course I’d never say a word.”

Groener snapped his fingers, calling an order in Polish. Two maids rushed over, one with champagne and glasses, the other carrying a silver tray with black caviare and its accessories. He barked another order. Caviare and chopped egg were mounded on toast, the servant curtsying as she handed the triangle to Kathe.

“Thank you,”

Kathe said. She forced herself to nibble, sipping the Mumm’s.

“Hannalore mentioned that you and Herr Eberhardt do business together. Is everyone here involved in the same project?”

“Yes. And it’s highly sensitive.”

Kathe pouted prettily.

“As if anything could be more sensitive than my job. Otto, stop acting as if we met at some street-corner.”

A reminder that she, too, had been a guest at Eagle’s Nest, Hitler’s ultimate retreat.

Groener’s brows drew together thoughtfully.

“Let’s just say that the project will destroy the enemies of the Reich without shedding a drop of German blood.”

“Exactly what Hannalore said.”

Kathe gripped her glass, nerving herself to whisper:

“She told me it’s the Vergeltungswaffe.”

“Hannalore should keep her mouth shut. And so should her father.”

Tm interested in what you do.”

Groener thoughtfully passed a hand over his slick-combed hair. A flash of lightning penetrated the blackout blinds, thunder rumbled again, and the women sitting near by chwtered yet louder.

“Christ, what a racket,”

he said finally.

“Come on m the other room.”

He led her to a small sitting-room.

“When I sent the invitation,”

he said,

“I wasn’t sure you’d accept.”

“After your generosity?”

Her laughter trilled.

“How silly men are.”

“You never answered my letters. Sometimes you look at me with eyes like the winter sea.”

Tm still angry with you, Otto.”

“Why won’t you believe that day in my office was an accident? If anyone was at fault, it was you.”

“Me?”

He assumed that boyishly pleading expression so at odds with his personality.

“How could I not lose control? My ideal woman, honoured by our Fuhrer, a pure Nordic image, the most beautiful girl ever, stretched out on my couch.”

“And now there’s Erich,”

she said.

“Can’t you understand? When the planes come over, I panic for him.”

“He’s not in Berlin.”

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‘That’s cold comfort. There’re rumours that other cities Essen, Dresden, Cologne - are getting the worst of it.”

“He and his mother have left town.”

“Which town?”

“I swear to you he’s completely out of danger”

“I don’t even know his full name! Every time I hear about children being killed or hurt, I go crazy!”

Tears, honest tears, sprang into her eyes.

Groener clucked sympathetically. How odd, this tender little sound.

“Kathe, when I found out about your condition, nothing would have delighted me more than to have married you.”

“You’re evading telling me where he is, that’s all.”

“It’s God’s truth. You’ve cast a spell on me, Kathe. I want you and the clever little rascal with me always.”

He sighed.

“It’s impossible, though. Deserting little Otto and baby Adolf would be bad enough. But there’s my work. The Fiihrer’s opposed to divorce. If I left my wife, I’d be shunted into backwater jobs. And what’s the use of false modesty? Very few men have my energy, my intelligence, my dedication. The New Order needs me. How can I sacrifice the greater good for my personal happiness?”

Conviction shook the rasping voice.

“You have your sons, but I don’t even know where mine is.”

Her voice also shook.

“He’s mine, too.”

“At every air-raid siren, I’m in hell.”

“The bombers never come near him.”

“Nowhere’s safe.”

A wild expression distorted Groener’s face.

“He and the mother live in a fine large camouflaged farmhouse thirty kilometres away from Frankfurt am Main.”

When they returned to the living-room, Herr Eberhardt was there. Laying a pudgy manicured hand on Groener’s sleeve, he said:

“Excuse us a moment, Fraulein. A little business.”

The two men moved into a corner, and Eberhardt leaned his bald lumpy head close to Groener’s.

Kathe ordered a fresh glass of champagne, inching in their direction.

She heard Groener say:

“The important thing is how many Stucke can we contract for.”

Stucke. Units. Pieces.

“I just shipped you five hundred in October,”

the host rejoined with the same business-like roughness.

“Some feeble lot. And we were behind schedule, so sometimes I had to work them in thirty-six-hour shifts.”

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Distant thunder growled.

“How many of the shipment are left?”

Eberhardt asked.

“Less than a quarter. Having them drop like flies is bad for the German workers”

morale. To hear some of them, you’d think we ought to put the Stiicke up in hotel suites and feed them butter and

eggs.”

“You’re taking that crap? Groener, it’s not like you.”

“How right you are.”

Groener chuckled.

“I made an example of a few of the bleeding hearts, packed

“em off to BergenBelsen. Since then there’s been a damn sight less soft-heartedness. If only I could do the same to those fucking rocket scientists! What prima donnas! To hear them, we’re obligated to provide any machinery they ask for, and produce top-notch, technically skilled yids. Which brings me to the next point. Eberhardt, I’m counting on you. Please, this time no weaklings and idiots.”

“Now who’s talking like a prima donna? What sort of specimens do you think we get at Auschwitz?”

“Krupp gets healthy ones.”

“Krupp pays well.”

Groener smiled cynically. Til see to it that you’re paid top mark.”

“Let’s go in the study and work out the numbers,”

Eberhardt said, ignoring his other guests as he ushered Groener from the room.

A tall weedy Obersturmfuhrer in the Liebstandarte-SS came over and began asking her if it was true that she had won the twohundred-metre race at the Olympics. Kathe stared blankly at him. With an apology, he backed away. Her exultation at learning Erich’s whereabouts had shattered into horror. Pieces of labour … work them in thirty-six hour shifts … drop like flies. V& Heinrich Leventhal one of the desperately weary, starving workeR? Was he still alive?

She stood holding the stem of her glass while voices and laughter rose and fell amid the rumble of thunder.

“Sorry about the interruption.”

Groener had returned.

“The party seems to be breaking up. There’s some hundred-year-old French brandy at my flat.”

“Sounds marvellous, but I have to get to work tomorrow.”

It was difficult to speak, much less manage courtesy.

“I need to get home.”

IV

As the driver started the car, Groener reached for her.

Until now Kathe had intended playing him along for more information. Her will proved far less powerful than her loathing. As he drew her to his heavily muscled body, nausea rose in her chest. She pulled away.

Little Kathe, it’s not the first time for you. I so back to duty tomorrow. Take pity on me.”

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The car swerved around the corner, and she shifted on the leather, her thigh inadvertently touching his.

“I understand,”

he said gently.

“Seeing me has reminded you too much of our boy. And then there’s being bombed out. No wonder you’re all nerves.”

He put his arm around her firmly.

She pushed at the chest of his leather coat.

“No!”

“You said I was generous.”

She was going out of control and could do nothing about it.

“Where did you steal those things?”

He released her.

“I’m no thief. I’m proud of my war record.”

“Murder record, you mean!”

“So you heard me and Eberhardt?”

he said coldly.

“I’ve killed enemies of the Reich. Like any other soldier.”

“Soldier? You should see the letters I’ve filed protesting at the SS slaughters, the concentrationcamps.”

“That’s the OKW for you. Riddled with hypocrites. They pretend the Fiihrer is beneath them, but they support his ideology. Your army friends are delighted that the yids’re gone, but they refuse to dirty their lily-white hands on the job. And you, Kathe. You seemed fuhrertreu, filled with faith in the leader. But you’re like the other aristocrats. No understanding of the New Order, no stamina, no moral fibre. Well, I’m honest enough and strong enough to put the Untermenschen to some useful purpose.”

“No wonder you had a medal pinned on you by our great Leader himself!”

she burst out.

“For that I should see you hauled into the People’s Court. But you’re the mother of my son.”

Groener’s voice was a low rumble in the darkness. Leaning forward, he tapped on the glass, calling: