Blood Ties (19 page)

"I was thinking of Emma," he whispered.

"Emma?" She seemed startled at the idea. He did
not pursue the subject. He had never discussed the method of her disposal with
Karla. Between them, there was never any need to explore the obvious.

"I was thinking of her," he repeated. Perhaps
now, he wanted to confess it. Why? It is ancient history, he thought. Was remorse
pursuing him over the years? He had done what had to be done.

"Rest. I will wake you for the luncheon."

Her familiar footsteps departed. Memory intruded often now,
diluting the sense of present reality.

A telephone rang in the distance. He heard Karla's voice.
Age had not diminished the power of it. Her voice rose, oddly, but he was
sliding again into a crater of sleep. Helga! Had he heard her name? More
memories. Then he slipped deeper into the crater, exhausted.

Helga emerged from a deep stupor. She felt the stiffness in
her joints, knowing that her first movements would be painful. Days began
differently now, uncertain. With Martin, time was anchored. Days had begun with
the abrasive ringing of the alarm of the old fashioned round tick clock.

Rising then, she would slip into the tattered flannel robe,
a relic from still another life, and, in floppy slippers, shuffle into the
kitchen for the inevitable flapjacks and bacon with steaming coffee and grits.
Distance romanticized the vision. Years of habit induced longing now, although
she had not thought of Martin or her life with him for the full six months she
had traveled aimlessly after Midge had flung her out of the house with the
admonition that she was a "selfish bitch."

But none of them, neither Midge, whom Martin had
unknowingly legitimized, nor Martin himself had any inkling of Helga's history,
only that she had been a refugee from Hitler's Germany, which accounted for the
accent and that she had a small inheritance from a war claim reparation. They
had bought her off for $5,000 yearly, payable monthly, which had seemed like a
fortune to her at the time. They let her take her jewels and the Baron had
given her a check for $10,000, but that had disappeared swiftly in Zurich where she had waited out the war, brooding over the lost Konrad and their three
sons, sustained by alcohol, men, and her hatred of the Baron and his beast of a
sister.

She had consented to save Konrad's life, a wild, stupid,
romantic notion, from which the Baron had extracted a legal consent to remove
her from her children. Then, when the sense of martyrdom paled, she could only
rationalize. The boys were better off with the Baron. What could she provide?
Her life had become rudderless, disjointed, dissipated. Besides, there was the
ultimate satisfaction in the knowledge that the Baron was raising another man's
children. There was revenge for you, knowing all along that she had in her
hands the weapon of destruction. When the time was ripe, she would hurl the
bomb.

Helga had actually believed then that her martyrdom would
save her lover. Considering what she had traded for his life, she found it
inconceivable that the other end of the bargain would not be kept.

Loneliness did little for her self-esteem and she was quick
to grasp at any straw that might promise hope. Takers were everywhere. She paid
large sums of money for futile attempts to locate Konrad. Hitler's Germany had spawned a massive subculture which dealt in such currency.

To have given up one's children for an uncertain promise
filled her with a growing sense of despair. By then, too, she had begun to
welcome men to her bed. At first they were merely instruments to be used to
find pleasure in an otherwise empty and futile existence. That, like the rest
of her naive notions, simply underlined her stupidity and she began to barter
her emotional needs for physical companionship, another disaster since once men
sensed her desperate need, she was fair game for further abuse.

Still, she clung to the idea of one day being reunited with
Konrad. What else was there to sustain her now? Even war's end brought little
optimism as the stories of Hitler's horror emerged. By then she was using her
monthly stipend to support a series of lovers.

When she was with Konrad again, life would change. They
would find a way to be together, with the children. Such thoughts became
fantasies as she moved from lover to lover with regularity, passed around like
a skin of wine.

One such lover had exploited her shamelessly, but in her
condition, she had not been able to build any defenses.

He was vain, petulant and manipulative, using his good
looks and sexual proclivities to force her dependence. She lived in a constant
state of jealous uncertainty. Lavishing expensive gifts on him kept him reasonably
content. Soon all her jewelry had been sold and most of her stipend went to
support her infatuation. As her funds diminished, arguments increased. He would
break into rages, threaten to leave her, infuriate and abuse her.

Finally she had, in a jealous rage, confessed her
motherhood, censoring her story to protect their legitimacy.

"So he is paying for the right to keep them?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

She told him. The revelation had, after all, made him
loving. He brooded over the story for days.

"And he is wealthy?"

"Enormously."

"Then you could have gotten more," he taunted.

"Perhaps."

"Then why didn't you?"

She would never adequately answer the question to his
complete satisfaction, prompting a continuous barrage of recrimination.

"He gave you a pittance. You must get more."

She would ignore him and he would attack again.

"You are a fool. You should go and see him for
more."

"Never."

"Then you will have to do without me."

He had by then reduced her to a whimpering animal and every
threat of his leaving filled her with such a compelling anguish that she
finally relented. Her judgment and confidence were gone.

Her humiliation had estranged her from her mother and the
war had forced her uncle out of business. They had moved to Stuttgart where an
air raid had killed them. She had felt remorse at the news, feeling somehow
responsible. It was an emotion that slowly dissipated as her life progressed.
What was remorse against guilt? She had sacrificed too much to save Konrad. Her
lover was right. She had been a fool. Survival was all. She had sold her
children too cheap.

Helga had returned to Baden-Baden in the summer of 1945.
The war had not touched it and she went immediately from the train station to
the von Berghoff house. But she had not the courage to go in and stood for a
long time leaning against a tree at the entrance gate weeping uncontrollably
and cursing the state of her life. Was now the time to use her weapon?

When after an hour she found the courage to proceed, she
was shown to the reception room by a strange servant. Sitting in the familiar
room, she had listened for the sounds of her children. None came. She wanted to
leave. Why was she here? The house was deathly silent except for the ticking of
the big clock in the hall. She had, with the help of her young lover, carefully
rehearsed the scenario. She would demand her children, threaten legal action,
surrendering only after an agreement was reached raising her stipend. The
lover, she knew, was interested more in immediate results than in long-term actions.

"Push him to the wall," he had demanded.

But when the Baron arrived, stiff and forbidding in his
formal manner, the face cruel and unbending, her will disappeared. Nor was she
prepared for the Baron's opening gambit.

"They are gone. The children are gone."

"Gone?" She was thoroughly confused.

"I have sent them away."

"Where?"

"You will never know. You have no right to know."

"I have every right," she stammered, but the
anger was muted. "Are they safe?"

"Of course," he said with disdain, quickly
changing the subject. "Why have you come?" the Baron demanded,
coldly.

Helga hesitated, gathering her malice.

"They are my children," she said meekly.

"And mine. Von Kassels." He had stiffened, his
chin jutting, absorbed in his pride. In his implacable face, she saw her
defeat.

So he thinks they are von Kassels, she thought, the irony
giving her courage. She had come for money, not for vengeance. Not yet. Now
now.

"I need more money," she stammered, her throat
constricting. She watched a thin smile form on his lips. He shook his head.

"How much?"

She shrugged. Was it money she was really after? She was
confused.

"How much?" he repeated as if he were haggling
with a tradesman.

"More." She had not set a figure in her mind.

Threaten him, her lover had insisted. Make him pay. She
felt helpless with self-loathing.

"And Konrad?" she whispered. Had he kept his
bargain?

"The Jew." He did not disguise his contempt.

"You had agreed..." she began.

"And you had agreed never to return."

"Did you save him?"

For the first time, he seemed to waver. His eyes darted
from her face.

"He was released," he said finally. "I gave
you that assurance. I kept our agreement."

His sarcasm was heavy. But where did he go? Why hadn't he
tried to find her? Her legs began to tremble. Maybe he was caught. Many had
died. Perhaps he had tried to find her and was disgusted by her life. She
resummoned the face of her present lover. Let it lie, she urged herself. What
good would it do?

"And the children?" The sense of her guilt in the
abandonment overpowered her.

"To them you are dead."

"Dead?"

If there was ever a time to threaten, it was now. But he
had anticipated that as well.

"It would only do them harm," he said. "I
would have to tell them how you betrayed their father."

"So you would."

"Nothing must interfere with their future.
Nothing." His tone was ominous. Once, she had sacrificed herself for her
lover. Perhaps now she might redeem herself by thinking only of her children.

"You needn't worry," she said. "I only came
for money."

Did she sense a brief flicker of pity in his eyes? If only
he knew. She was finding her strength again.

"I will give you another lump sum and agree to
continue the monthly sum as long as you are alive."

"How generous," she said with contempt, relieved.

"But you must never come back. Never. The children are
von Kassels, Barons." The implication was clear. She must learn to forget
them, forget everything.

He went to a desk and wrote out a check. A quick glance
showed it was generous. Was he expecting her to be grateful? She put the check
in her pocketbook.

"As long as you are alive," the Baron repeated.

"I died when I left them with you," Helga said,
hiding her face. Tears had begun. She walked toward the door and without
looking back, opened it and walked into the street. So they are von Kassels,
she mocked, smiling now, the tears drying in the sun.

She walked swiftly to the train station, a long way, but it
gave her time to think. It was time to begin a new life. She never went back to
Zurich.

Remembering brought little pain now. The water of her life
had long ago shaped the stone irrevocably. She had gone from the arms of one
man to another.

Had she been searching for Konrad, seeking replication of
her one true and tragic love?

"Before you, I loved only one man." It was the
litany she always repeated. Konrad, like the von Kassel legend, had become
mythology, reshaped by constant almost nightly tellings to anyone who would
listen, usually a male in afterplay, when the body cooled and the mind needed
to expunge itself. Sometimes the response was eager, curious, questioning,
punctuated by odd intersections which she ignored. Sometimes the listener
merely snored, drifted away, or disappeared. It did not matter. The telling was
the only importance.

"I was living in this cage and every night this
monster would come into the cage and abuse me. There was simply no place to
run. He would arrive, prepare himself, then plunge this tiny dagger into my
heart, hoping that I would be the instrument of his multiplication. Do you
understand what I am saying? No. Of course not. Only a woman could possibly
understand. He wanted me to die or make some replication of himself for his
trouble. Still confusing? Well then. Here is the heart of a woman." She
would place the male hand over the center of her, feeling the stir again.
"It is the entrance to the palace of the Hohenzollerns, but the brave
Knight could not ever span the moat. He could not even feel the cold stones of
the wall. There was no escape from the river of his slime, which filled me with
its endless torrent of emptiness. Am I confusing you? Pretty little princesses
are not allowed to be more explicit.... "Her voice lowered by octaves.
"But inside the princess another something stirred, watching the monster,
using up all that energy for nothing. For nothing. There was not a single iota
of humanity in it." She reached over and felt the flaccid organ, moving
toward it, her tongue flickering. "I never forgave him for not having a
sword like this. He must have known it. I began to hate him with a passion more
intense than anything I have ever felt, more durable. Even more durable than
Konrad, who brought me out of the cage. You should learn to hate. It has the
power to prolong life. Hate is marvelous. Without hate, I might not have known
Konrad. I understood nothing of it, only that he had a fine gentle face,
deepset brooding eyes, with heavy lashes that fluttered. I can still feel them
fluttering against my face. Do you have heavy fluttering lashes?" She
moved upward, her hand still on his balls, while she tested his lashes.
"And lips that trembled. Trembling lips. Because he was frightened, you
see. I longed to kiss them. Like this.

And put my tongue against his. Like this. Nor did I know
that he was a Jew. Not until it was too late. Count von Berghoff knew how to
handle the Jews. He was the first on the line with the dagger and the whip. Can
you envision coming to this man, seeing him almost daily, after those nightly
stabbings? Before Konrad, I would hear them whispering. 'Nothing yet. She is
like Emma.' Emma. You know the story of Emma. She was the Baron's first victim.
They said she drowned, a terrible tragedy. Drowned?" She would laugh, a
long low chuckle. "Now there is a fairy tale. Not yet. Like Emma. Even a
shallow, stupid adolescent fool of a princess could sense the meaning of all
this. Did they think I was beyond intelligence? That I knew nothing of
self-preservation?" Her hand jiggled the male organs. "The tiny bags
were empty. Now there's poetic justice, the great progenitor with his empty balls."
She bent down to kiss them. "Not like these. I can hear them bubbling with
life, the juices stirring to make life happen. Then I found Konrad. We were
together in his little stone house, our oasis. Our refuge. 'And how was your
day, Helga?' Karla would ask. 'Wonderful,' I said. And it was. We needed each
other. I could not believe what had happened to me. Again only a woman could
understand. I did love. But I hated more. Imagine. Betraying the great Teutonic
survivors. It was delicious. We hungered for each other. But for different
reasons. I think he knew mine. I did love him. I want you to understand that.
He loved me. Although he never quite said it in the way I would understand
then. I understand now." Her tongue would flicker up the shaft of the listener's
hard organ, fingers caressing the balls, feeling the veins under the tight skin
pulse with urgency. "How wonderful, how marvelous. To a woman this is a
miracle, a miracle. I told Konrad that and he was so proud of his exhibit.