The Last Innocent Hour Page 6

  “Maybe,” Sally murmured, thinking about that closed door. Who had been behind it? Recalling the response of the man in the Wehrmacht coat, she decided that if anyone had been there, he—or she—had probably been too wary of her. Maybe, next time she went hunting, she shouldn’t wear her uniform.

  “I hate seeing kids like that,” she said sadly. A line of women in shabby coats and kerchiefs were clearing a site of bricks across the street.

  “Yeah,” said Doug, “but at least they’re alive.” He glanced at her. “The place must have looked real different to you.” Sally was silent, then shook her head.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  Annaliese, in a pale-yellow dress the same color as her hair, white lace ruffles at her neck and down the front, leaned over the balustrade and cried, “Congratulations!”

  Colored confetti fluttered down, catching the light from the wall sconces, twinkling in the sound of laughter, landing on the upturned faces of Sally and her new husband, as they climbed the stairs to the party.

  It had been a long time ago.

  SALLY HAD ALWAYS been a loner, so it was a new experience to be part of a team. She liked it and she also liked the men she worked with. Still, she spent most of her time alone and she began to go for walks, going farther and farther as the damp spring turned into a dry summer. The Mayr apartment was the first of the sites she visited from her past. Next, she found the house, or what was left of it, where she had lived with her father. Another day she stood staring at the hole in the ground where the apartment building Sydney and Brian Stokes had lived in had once been. But she was more distressed than she would have imagined to see the Adlon Hotel, her first home in Berlin, a ruin.

  It was a fine June evening as she stood across the street and studied the broken facade of the grand old hotel, remembering all those happy times with David Wohl after her fencing lessons. Now weeds grew over the ruins.

  She turned away and walked quickly down the Friedrichstrasse into the American sector, wishing she could find some company. And she realized that she missed Denise, her friend back at Mrs. Wallace’s boardinghouse. She was about to go back to her room, when she remembered that Doug Finkelstein had mentioned a restaurant set up by an American of German descent that was supposed to be decent. She paused to take her bearings. It wouldn’t be a long walk, and the evening was still pleasant, the light still good.

  Having found the restaurant easily, Sally stood in the doorway for a moment. It was busy, Occupation officers only. Heading toward the tiny bar through the door to her right, she ran her fingers through her hair, hoping she didn’t look too disheveled. The men glanced up at her, but turned away. There were other uniformed women present, so she felt comfortable enough to take a seat at one of the round tables. A waiter came over at once, to take her order.

  “A martini?” she asked hopefully, pleased when he nodded. Sally looked around the little room and a memory stirred. She had been here before, also with David Wohl. Turning in her seat, she recognized the distinctive window moldings, strange-feathered designs, covered in white paint. The bar had been a place frequented by the newspaper crowd. Sally sat back in her chair and felt, for the first time since she returned, that she had found someplace familiar. She took her cigarettes from her bag and lit one.

  “So this is what you do with your weekends.” Tim Hastings stood in front of her, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a beer stein in one hand.

  “Hi,” she said, pleased to see him. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” Tim sat down. “You here alone?”

  “I was out walking.”

  “Walking?”

  “Yeah. Don’t they walk in Wichita?”

  “Not if they can help it. Where’ve you been walking to?”

  “A sentimental journey. I’ve been seeing how many places I remember are still standing.”

  “And?”

  “This is about it.” Sally looked up at the waiter as he placed her martini on the table. “Thank you,” she said in German. She told Tim how David Wohl and the others used to fall silent when one of the waiters came near.

  “And now we talk about anything in front of them.”

  “Do we?”

  “I hope not,” Tim said, swallowing some beer. “So, you were here before the war?”

  “I was,” she answered, looking at his intelligent face for a sign of censure. “My dad was the ambassador here in the early thirties. Didn’t you know that?”

  “The ambassador? Nope, I didn’t. Where’d you think I’d hear that? That’s fascinating.”

  “The colonel said you all knew.”

  “Probably before I arrived. Is it classified?”

  Sally shrugged. “I don’t think it matters. It was one reason they hired me.”

  “So, tell me about it. Who’d you meet? How long were you here for?”

  “Three years. From ’33 to ’36. Hitler. William Shirer. Maestro Joaquim von Hohenberg.”

  Tim whistled. “I’m impressed, even with the last guy, who I’ve never heard of.”

  “He was one of the last of the great fencing instructors of the Italian school, which was taught to the officers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.” She raised her glass to him and drank.

  “Fencing? You fenced?”

  “I did. I was pretty good.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “You play any sports, Captain? Basketball, maybe? Lacrosse?”

  He laughed at that and shook his head. “Naw. Baseball. Left field. The king of the pop-ups. Foul-Ball Hastings, they called me. Really. You laugh, but it’s the gospel. You know how all ball players used to have nicknames. That was mine. But I liked the left field. All because of Mary Anna Caswell.”

  “And what did she have to do with it?” For some reason Sally felt obscurely jealous of Mary Anna Caswell.

  “She used to sit in the grass beyond the fence, and when things were slow, which seemed to be most of the time, I’d wander over and we’d, you know, talk. Sometimes, she’d bring me a hot dog.”

  “Baseball and hot dogs and a pretty girl. I assume she was pretty.”

  “As a picture. Snub nose and blond curls.” He shook his head and took a long drink of beer. “What a gal. Now you, you’re amazing. How’d you get into fencing? That’s interesting. It’s such a weird thing for a girl to do.”

  “In school,” she said shortly and fell silent. Then, embarrassed at her brusqueness: “I had forgotten about this place. I liked it.” Sally looked around at the tables and the handsome little bar, the newly glazed windows. “I was afraid there would be so many ghosts.”

  “Are there?”

  “A few.” She sipped her martini.

  “Do you have any friends left?” Tim asked.

  Sally laughed. “None. Not a one in the world.”

  “I meant here,” he said, laughing with her.

  “I don’t think so—most were foreigners and they’re gone, of course. And as for the few Germans, I haven’t been able to find anyone. Not that there were that many to find . . . I mean, that I’d want to find.”

  “Maybe they’ve left too,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Sally, looking away from his green eyes. She took a sip of her martini. “Wow, this is good.” And she took another sip. Tim laughed. “What?” she said.

  “Oh, nothing, I just like to see you enjoying yourself.”

  And Sally, realizing that she was, grinned at him.

  “So, tell me, Doctor, sir, what’s a pop-up?” she said, then twisted in her seat, looking for the waiter. “And what does a person have to do to get another drink?”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE KNOCKING BROUGHT Sally out of a deep sleep, and she found herself halfway around her bed before she was entirely awake. She stood near the foot of her bed, confused, her heart beating wildly. It was late on a Saturday afternoon and she had lain down for a short nap. She looked at her watch, staring at it until her sleepy eyes focused: it was nearly six.

  �
��Sally? Are you there?” the voice outside called.

  “What is it?” she replied, opening the door.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said the woman, whose name Sally couldn’t remember. She was a nurse and lived across the hall. “You were asleep.”

  “It’s okay.” Sally pulled her shirt down over her bare legs. “I slept too long.”

  “You’ve got a visitor.”

  “A woman, a German,” Margie said. That was her name, Margie Allen. She’d raised her eyebrows when she said the visitor was German.

  “Oh,” said Sally, “well, I better comb my hair.”

  “And put on a skirt,” Margie said, walking away.

  Dressed in a short-sleeved blouse and slacks, her hair brushed, Sally walked down the stairs to the small reception area on the first floor. The door to the parlor was slightly open, and pushing it open, she entered.

  Across from her in the long, sparsely furnished room stood Annaliese Mayr, Christian’s younger sister. Astounded, Sally gasped as Annaliese took a step toward her, then stopped.

  “Hello, Sally,” Annaliese said, “do you remember me?” She spoke German, reminding Sally that Annaliese had never learned any English.

  “Of course I do.” Sally couldn’t stop staring. “I don’t believe it.”

  Annaliese shrugged. “It’s only me.”

  “You look—” Sally broke off when she saw Annaliese’s questioning look. “Great. This is such a surprise. I’ve been looking for you.” She smiled at Annaliese, unsure of how to proceed. “Please, why don’t you sit down?”

  “I got your message two days ago.” Annaliese said, following Sally to the sofa.

  “From the children?”

  “The children?”

  “The kids at your old building—number twenty-three?”

  “Oh, Sally,” laughed Annaliese, “we haven’t lived there in years.”

  “Then how did they find you? Who found you?”

  “You know how it is,” said Annaliese vaguely. She touched Sally’s arm. “You look well. I like your hair.”

  Sally’s hand floated to her hair at the back of her neck. “I just got it cut. Too short, I think. But, how are you? And what about your mother? I’ve been so worried about all of you.”

  “Have you, Sally? How sweet of you. May I smoke?” Annaliese opened her handbag, a well worn, but good-quality, brown leather envelope.

  “Oh, certainly.” Sally took her cigarettes out of her trouser pocket. “Have one of these if you like. I’ll go see if I can find us some coffee.” She started toward the door, then stopped. “Or would you rather have something else?”

  “Coffee would be fine.”

  When Sally returned, Annaliese stood at the window at the far end of the room, her slim figure silhouetted against the fading evening light. She turned as Sally entered carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee, a pot of powdered milk, and a saucer of sugar cubes. Annaliese was dressed in a dark-red suit with a round collar on which she had pinned a small bunch of white-and-black fake flowers. She wore a black straw hat that looked fresh and stylish.

  She bore a striking resemblance to her brother. Sally had never seen it before, but it must have always been there. Annaliese’s hair and eyes, the line of her jaw, even her nose, everything was a softer, feminine version of Christian’s features. Sally couldn’t stop looking at her.

  “Don’t you love summer evenings like this?” Annaliese said, walking purposefully down the room toward Sally. All of a sudden, Sally knew Christian’s sister had come to get something. Or—and her heart beat quicker when she thought of it—to tell her something.

  “They remind me of childhood summers,” said Sally. “Look, why don’t we go upstairs? My room’s not much better, but it is a little more comfortable.”

  Annaliese smiled and picked up Sally’s cigarettes. “I’ll bring these, shall I?”

  In Sally’s room, they made themselves comfortable, one on each of the twin beds, their coffee mugs on the small nightstand between them.

  “How long have you been here?” Annaliese asked.

  “Since late April,” Sally replied. “Do you want milk in that?” She indicated the mug of coffee.

  “Is it real?” asked her visitor. Sally shook her head.

  “Then this is fine,” said Annaliese, taking a sip. “And how long will you be here?”

  “I don’t know. As long as it takes.”

  “As what takes?”

  Sally looked at the coffee in her mug, then said abruptly, “My job.” She didn’t want to talk about it with Annaliese. “What about you? Are you working?”

  “No,” said Annaliese, “I am in a—a situation that requires me to be at home. I do not mind. It works out to be easier and cheaper all the way around. What is your job?”

  “Research,” said Sally, then she grinned. “You know I am in the army?”

  “No! This I can’t imagine. Must I salute you?” Annaliese giggled, sounding more the girl Sally remembered.

  “Please,” Sally said. They smiled at each other, relaxing at the little joke.

  Annaliese made herself more comfortable against the headboard, kicking off her shoes and folding her legs to one side, looking neat and self-contained. “Did you ever marry again?”

  “No, did you marry?”

  “Yes.” Annaliese took a long drag on her cigarette, then, picking up the ashtray from the nightstand, snubbed the Camel out. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry . . .”

  “It’s over now,” said Annaliese, interrupting. “He died a long time ago. In Africa. I can barely remember back that far.”

  Sally was silent, unsure of what to say. Annaliese’s expression was grave, her pale-blue eyes remote. “You have to go forward and not look back, in such times as these.” Swinging around, she put her bare feet flat on the floor, stood up and smoothed her straight skirt.

  She walked around the room looking at Sally’s things. Her blond hair was carefully waved, so that it formed a halo around her thin face. Her makeup was tastefully applied, and she wore small gold earrings. She was a very attractive woman.

  “Where do you live now?” Sally asked.

  “In the Russian sector. Off Neue Konigstrasse, beyond Alexanderplatz.” Annaliese stopped in front of the small, unused fireplace in the corner where Sally had arranged her books on the mantel. “Did you always read so much?” Then, before Sally could answer: “I have a child.”

  Annaliese walked back to the bed and sat down facing Sally. “Her name is Klara and she is four years old.” Her face relaxed as she spoke of her little girl. “She’s a wonderful child. Oh, I know all mothers think that of their children. But Klara and I have gotten to know each other well because of the hardships we have faced together, so I can say this about her.”

  “You’re very lucky,” Sally said.

  “Yes, but it has been, at times, very difficult.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Can you?” Annaliese studied Sally with her chill blue eyes. “Where were you during the war?”

  “I didn’t mean. . .”

  “Where were you? I’m interested,” Annaliese said, reaching for another cigarette, then stopping. “May I?”

  “Of course,” said Sally. “I spent the war in Washington, at a desk.”

  “Ah,” said Annaliese ironically. “And you can imagine how it has been for us.”

  “Annaliese, I didn’t mean to insult you or condescend.”

  “What do you want?” said Annaliese harshly.

  “Nothing.”

  Annaliese looked at Sally through the smoke from her cigarette. She drew on it deeply, more intensely. “Nothing? Don’t be silly. Everyone wants something. Well, if I have it, I will give it to you, but for a price. You understand.”

  “I don’t want anything from you. Honesty, I don’t,” said Sally, dismayed.

  “We weren’t such good friends, Sally. I wonder that you would think of me at all.”

  “I know, but.
. .

  “When I heard you were in Berlin, I tried to remember us together, but the only thing that came to mind was that party Mother gave you, remember?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “That was all. We weren’t friends. Not then. Not later. But of course, it’s not me you want, is it?” Annaliese smiled a mirthless smile at Sally, and Sally, unable to help herself, looked away. “You don’t care about me or my mother.”

  “Of course I do,” Sally protested.

  “You want to know about my brother, don’t you?” Still Annaliese smiled. “Maybe you came all the way back here just to find him. I think you did, but the question is why?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Perhaps you came back for revenge. No? You couldn’t still love him, not after all these years and all the things he’s done.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Sally suddenly felt cold, afraid, as though a ghost had entered the room.

  “You know.” Annaliese’s eyes caught and held Sally’s. “What he did to you. I know all about it.”

  “How?” whispered Sally.

  “He told me. I remember the morning after you’d been attacked. I found him crying on the stairs at my mother’s, leaning against the wall, like a child. It was terrible, what happened to you, but I thought you both were fools, stupid fools. Not to see. Not to understand how impossible it was for you.

  “He was such a romantic—so many young men were then. And he needed a girl who was practical. You just weren’t the right sort for him. You weren’t what he needed then. You knew that, didn’t you? You both knew that. But you fools, you thought you could ignore everything.”

  Annaliese reached across the space between the beds and took Sally’s hands. “I did not know you well but I loved my brother then and I wished you both well. I am very sorry for the terrible thing that happened to you, and I wish you had never met each other.”

  “We were young,” said Sally, wanting to free her hands, but not wanting Annaliese to know how uncomfortable she was.

  “Yes, but you destroyed him. If he hadn’t been with you, he wouldn’t have . . .” Her voice trailed off. She let go of Sally’s hands and leaned back. “Here I am, talking about what can’t be changed. And I said we had to look forward. You can see how useless it is to look back.”