Volk (33 page)

“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.

Indeed, it was a time of relief for them both. Ernst continued with his work, which sometimes took him to Spain and elsewhere, but the pass Heydrich had given Quality remained magical in its authority, and she was now able to go out and shop on her own. The hotel personnel knew her and accepted her. She was learning German, and developing facility in conversing with others.

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.

For Kaltenbrunner did not like Heydrich. In fact, he had nothing but contempt and hatred for rear echelon intellectuals, and despised anyone associated with them. He could not do anything to the dead man, but he could still make the living ones suffer. Ernst was one of these.

“He is transferring me to an assignment guaranteed to get me dirty,” Ernst said morosely. “He doesn't need any more reports on the Admiral. I am to work with the Einsatzgruppen—the SS forces charged with racial operations.”

Quality felt a chill as of death. She had heard about that organization, the worst of the SS. There was even a battalion composed entirely of convicted criminals. “Oh, Ernst!”

“I am to leave the Abwehr tomorrow. They are not revealing my true mission there, because they do not want to admit that they have been spying on their own organizations. So there is another pretext. Lieutenant Osterecht will disappear from those records, and I will revert to my true identity. But I will not be in Berlin.”

“I will wait for thy return,” she said, with grim humor. She could do nothing else. “Perhaps I should give thee back thy charmed swastika.”

“No. You must be protected more than me.”

She did not argue. She valued the swastika as the token of his love, and it did indeed seem to be protecting her. Heydrich had noticed it immediately, and thereafter treated her with courtesy and kindness.

They made hasty arrangements. Ernst used the rest of his money to pay for the room ahead and to provide her with enough for groceries. “I will come back whenever I can,” he promised.

“I know thee will.” Neither spoke of the horror lurking behind the assignment: he might be killed on that ugly front.

•  •  •

Quality pretended to herself that Ernst's absence was temporary, and that in another day or two she would hear his familiar step in the hall. She did not like deception, even of herself, but it was necessary for her emotional survival.

Then there was an unfamiliar knock. Quality's presence here was no longer secret; the hotel staff and the members of Abwehr knew of her. But none of them had told the SS authorities, being loyal to a friend though they had guessed the reason for his departure. Who, then, could this be?

She opened the door. There stood a robustly attractive young woman. “So it is true!” the woman exclaimed angrily in German. “A kept woman!”

Was this a moralistic neighbor? “Who are you?” Quality asked in German.

“I am Krista.”

Astonished, Quality backed away, tacitly inviting her in. Krista was the girlfriend Ernst had broken with a year ago. Actually, it had been incomplete; he had tried to, but reported that Krista had refused to disengage completely without better reason. So they had maintained a “just friends” relationship, with no promise of marriage, and Ernst had had meals with her every month or so. Krista had seemed to accept this change, and she was good company, he had said. He hoped she was in the process of finding another boyfriend.

Now it was clear that Krista had by no means given up on Ernst. She had merely bided her time, waiting for whatever problem he had to pass. Now he was gone, and she was checking out his room—and verifying her suspicion.

“I am sorry,” Quality said carefully in German. “I did not mean to hurt your life.”

Krista studied her closely. Her eyes fixed on Quality's bosom. “Ach, the game is lost,” she murmured.

Quality glanced down. There lay Ernst's swastika. Krista evidently understood its significance. “He gave it to me in lieu of a ring,” she explained.

Krista shook her head. “I came prepared to hate you. But I see he loves you, and I cannot hate what he loves. How did it come about?”

“We met in America. I was the fiancée of his friend there. I went to work in Spain, but was—” Here she did not know the German word, so had to say it in English. “Arrested.”

“
Verhaften
,” Krista said. Then, in English: “I know some English, if you speak slow.”

Quality elected to piece it out in German. “Arrested in Vichy France. He tried to help me, for the sake of his friend, but when America joined the war, he had to take me out of the camp. We were together, here, and it happened.”

“You must be a remarkable woman, to win his love. He has such discipline he cannot be tempted unless he wills it.”

“He slept embracing me naked, to keep me warm, and did not touch me,” Quality agreed.

“Ja, that is Ernst!” Krista shook her head. “I will keep your secret. I would not hurt Ernst in any way, though I have lost him.” She turned to go.

“Krista—must we be enemies? I am without him too, now, for I fear he will not—not return.” She felt the sudden tears in her eyes.

“How can we be otherwise?” Krista asked. She walked to the door.

Quality followed her. “Please, I have injured you without ever wanting to. If there is any possible way for me to make amends—”

“Where is there another man like Ernst?” Krista asked sharply. There were tears in her eyes too.

Quality was unable to answer. She watched Krista depart, then locked the door after her. Then she went to the bed, flung herself down on it, and wept.

•  •  •

But two days later Krista returned. Her eyes were somewhat swollen despite a careful job of makeup. Quality knew her own were the same. “I accept what must be,” Krista said. “I fear it was destined; your gray eyes match his. I am a practical woman. But it is not easy to give up a dream.”