Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (7 page)

The grand piano in Chatswell Hall's former drawing room was out of tune.

The north London weather had had its way with the instrument. Still, even an out-of-tune piano couldn't ruin the power of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1. A man—dark and lean, a black eye patch over his left eye that gave him the air of a pirate—sat at the keyboard, graceful, long-fingered hands flying over the black and ivory keys. He wore flannel trousers, a shirt and tie, and a blue cardigan—nothing military about him except his perfect posture. His good eye was closed as he lost himself in the beauty of the music.

There was the thud of boots approaching on the parquet floor. “Heil Hitler!” Then, “You can't play that!” The newcomer was tall and broad, with sleek, graying white-blond hair and thighs like tree trunks. He was dressed in full Nazi uniform. Medals of all shapes and sizes adorned his barrel-shaped chest, while the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaf Cluster was pinned at his throat.

The man playing the piano didn't stop or even open his good eye. “I don't see why not,” he answered in a reasonable tone.

The blond man scowled. “You must not play Tchaikovsky. It is
forbidden
.”

The man at the piano opened his eye. “Forbidden by whom? I must remind you, we're not in Germany anymore, General Kemp. No damn Nazis sniffing around. Well, except for you, that is.”

The hulking blond rubbed at the back of his neck as he sat on a moth-eaten velvet sofa opposite. “It is unseemly, General von Bayer.”

Von Bayer played to the end of the movement and then stilled, listening to the last chords fade away into the twilight.

“It doesn't matter where we are,” Kemp persisted. “As German officers we must conduct ourselves with dignity and decorum, even if we're being held prisoner in Britain. The Führer would be appalled at your playing the music of a Russian, no matter where we're imprisoned—
especially
now.”

“Unlike you,” von Bayer retorted, “I am a German, but not a Nazi. I'm a Bavarian, not a Prussian. And besides, I like Tchaikovsky—he was an aristocrat, not a Bolshevik.”

“He was a homosexual!”

Von Bayer shrugged. “Nobody's perfect.”

“We are both German generals—” Kemp began.

Von Bayer sighed. “We're both
captured
German generals, imprisoned in England. A gilded cage, though, you must admit. Certainly much better accommodations than any currently imprisoned British generals are enjoying.”

“True, true,” Kemp agreed. “I've just written a letter to my wife, with the following advertisement for Chatswell Hall.” He took a piece of paper from his uniform's breast pocket and unfolded it. “How does this sound?
Park Sanatorium: First-class accommodation, running hot and cold water at all hours of the day, also baths on the premises. Four generous meals daily, first-class English cuisine. Regular walks under expert guidance. Large library of carefully chosen literature of all countries. Table-tennis tournaments, billiards, chess, and bridge circles. Instruction in art and handicrafts. Alcoholism cured without extra charge. Moderate terms, varying according to social position. Best society assured at all times!
”

Von Bayer's lips twisted into a grim smile. When he had arrived at Chatswell Hall, the only other “guest” was Kemp, who'd been captured five months previously. Both men were the same age, both highly decorated generals. Each had commanded a panzer division in the Middle East.

And their accommodations
were
luxurious, if chilly. At present, they were in the canary-yellow drawing room, just one of the many large rooms at Chatswell Hall that smelled of must and rooms too long closed without fresh air, leaving molds and mildew to thrive. The Hall itself was a Tudor brick mansion with half-timbers, set on extensive grounds with gardens, located in the ancient woods near Cockfosters, on the edge of London.

Of course, Chatswell Hall had been taken over by the British government since the war and given over to the long-term internment of captured high-ranking Germans, so it was now bordered by barbed wire and patrolled by Coldstream Guards. The rooms where the prisoners were allowed had bars on the windows.

Still, it had undeniable charm: superb Tudor architecture with turrets, depressed arches, and curved gables, as well as a tennis court, pond, and maze. The prisoners had regular meals, hot running water, a library of leather-bound books, a wireless, current newspapers, a study for painting and music, and a dining room. On the third floor, as Kemp had noted, was a room with both table tennis and billiards. Laundry and sartorial issues were attended to by a London tailor who visited every few days. Lord Abernathy was the camp's overseer, but he called himself their “entertainment director” with a sly wink, as if they were all passengers on the
Titanic
.

“Shall we have a drink then? It's after six.” Kemp rubbed his hands together for warmth, then moved to the bar trolley, which boasted an assortment of bottles. He mixed two Martinis, noting, “I'd make some for our other ‘guests,' but I'm never sure if or when they'll appear.” There were no cocktail glasses, but they did have mismatched teacups, mostly intact.

There were five prisoners at Chatswell Hall. Von Bayer and Kemp, of course. Then there was General Holzer, who had all his meals taken to him on trays, never left his room, and sketched only pastel nudes. And General Janz, who also never mingled with the other prisoners, preferring to devote all his time to translating
Faust
from German into ancient Greek. And now there was a new prisoner, a former high-ranking Abwehr spy chief, who had yet to appear in any of Chatswell's public spaces.

“This ‘prison' is insanity,” von Bayer declared, lifting his hands from the ivory keys and coming around to accept his cup. “Here, there is peace, beauty, and tranquillity. But out there”—he gestured to the window and the world beyond and sank down on one of the wing chairs, covered in a faded print of blowsy roses—“there is only war, devastation, and death.”

“You're in a melancholy mood, General von Bayer.” Kemp drained his red willow teacup. “Never fear—all will be well. The nation that produced Luther, Kant, Goethe, and Beethoven will never die. Love for the Fatherland is the religion of our time. Use my example—love Hitler's Germany with all your heart, so that the struggle continues to a victorious end. And never allow yourself to be alienated from this love of country by pacifism and weak talk.”

Although the blackout curtains had been drawn over the mullioned windows, fringed silk lamps were lit, their light throwing dark shadows up onto the walls like those of Plato's cave. A large tapestry of the hunt softened one of the wood-paneled walls. A small fire struggled behind brass andirons.

Von Bayer cocked his head. “National Socialism is based on contempt for the individual, scorn for freedom, and disdain for free speech. At this point, Nazi Germany's victory would become a defeat for all people.” He took a sip of his drink. “I can't predict when the war will end, but I believe one thing: now that the United States is fighting alongside Britain, and our troops are still fighting in Russia with winter closing in—the year 1942 will bring us a good way back along the road to Berlin, Rome, and Tokyo.”

Kemp frowned. “You're negative. Negativity is traitorous. It's un-German.”

“It's realistic.”

The fair-haired general replenished his teacup. “Do you remember that awful propaganda film they made us watch back in the day—
Warriors Behind Barbed Wire
?”

Von Bayer picked lint off his trousers. “I used to nap during the films. They were dreadful.”

“I think about it sometimes. It was all warnings not to talk, if captured. ‘The enemy is always listening,' et cetera, et cetera…”

“First of all”—von Bayer gestured around him at the drawing room—“there's no barbed wire here. At least, you can barely see it from the windows.”

“True, true,” Kemp admitted. “The British are—while misguided and backwards—a civilized people. They know how to treat high-ranking Germans. And, really, that film was utter stupidity. We're officers, for God's sake. Not children, after all. We have every right to talk about political affairs.”

“No, you're right. We're officers—with experience of life, with differing points of view—this is not the same as gossiping young lieutenants,” von Bayer agreed. “Besides, the British have such good intelligence they don't need to listen to us old chatterboxes.”

There was the staccato beat of high heels on the oak parquet floor in the hall, and then a woman's husky voice at the door said, “Old chatterboxes? Speak for yourself, darling.”

Clara Hess draped herself in the doorframe. She was bright-eyed and platinum-haired, with a long, lean figure like Marlene Dietrich's that made even her simple wool dress look as if it had been designed especially for her by Coco Chanel. The only flaw in her exceptional beauty was her eyes, one of which aimed higher than the other.

The two men stood as she sauntered in. “Heil Hitler!” said Kemp and saluted.

“Heil Hitler,” she replied in her husky voice.

Von Bayer made a weak attempt at the Hitler Gruss, and Clara laughed. “Let's just assume the salute while we're all in here, shall we? Otherwise, we may pull shoulder muscles.” Aware of the men's eyes on her, she continued. “Did you know that three hundred years ago, a prisoner condemned to the Tower of London carved on the wall of his cell
‘It is not adversity that kills, but the impatience with which we bear adversity'
?”

Clara sat on a cracked leather sofa and stretched like a cat. Von Bayer resumed his seat, while Kemp went to the bar cart. From above the fireplace, the vitreous black eyes of a mounted stag's head stared down. “That's an apocryphal story, Frau Hess,” Kemp scolded, mixing her a Martini in a teacup festooned with clematis and yellow carnations.

“No, I was there, in the Tower of London. I saw it myself.”

Von Bayer whistled. “I didn't know that. What else have you been hiding from us?”

Clara fixed her gaze on him. “Well, we only met a few weeks ago, General. I do have a few secrets left.”

“Three weeks for you. But some of us have been here since nineteen forty. Almost two years for me,” said Kemp. “And nearly that for von Bayer.”

“You poor darlings,” Clara purred. “This,” she said with a gesture that encompassed the room, the house, the surrounding land, “is vastly superior to the Tower of London.”

“Prost.”
The three clinked teacups.

Von Bayer sighed. “Every day this war continues is a crime. Hitler belongs in a padded cell.”

Kemp stamped one gleaming boot in exasperation. “I always say, no matter how many faults this system has, no matter how wrong it is, I served under this system. I fought under this system. My soldiers fell under this system. So I cannot, the moment things go wrong, say to hell with it. No. I remain loyal and true—to Hitler.”

“There we disagree.” The alcohol had warmed von Bayer's blood. “I regret every bomb, every scrap of material, every human life that's being wasted in this senseless war. The only gain it will bring us is an added ten years of gangster rule.” He looked to Clara, whose hair shimmered in the firelight. “And what do you think, Frau Hess?” She had been cagey about her politics since arriving.

“Oh la—the same argument.” She picked up a deck of monogrammed cards with gilt edges, the owner's name lost to time. “Bezique?”

“It's a game only for two people,” von Bayer pointed out.

She shuffled. “Euchre, then?”

“A game for four.”

“Well, the three of us must be able to figure out
something,
” Clara said. “Who'd like to hear me sing? General von Bayer, would you accompany me?”

“It would be an honor.” And for him it was. Before her career with the Abwehr, Clara Hess had been a renowned soprano, specializing in the works of Wagner and famed for her portrayal of Kundry in
Parsifal
. It was well known that she had been one of Hitler's favorite singers. It had also been rumored she'd had an affair with Joseph Goebbels.

Clara walked to the piano and draped herself in the crook. With a long, red-painted fingernail, she beckoned to von Bayer. “Play for me, darling. ‘Lili Marlene.' ”

Von Bayer obeyed. He went back to the piano and spread his fingers over the keys.

She took a deep breath, and began. Her voice—once silvery soprano, now a burnished bronze mezzo—lingered on the melody, caressing the doleful lyrics.

When the last notes had faded away, both men had tears glittering in their eyes.

Clara reclaimed her seat. “And who's
your
Lili Marlene, General von Bayer?” she asked her pianist. “Who's waiting back home for you?”

“My mother, God willing.”

“Oh, a bachelor!” She turned to the other man. “And you, General Kemp?”

Although his medals glinted, the blond looked uncomfortable. “I have a wife back in Berlin, but she and I—well, we were living separate lives long before we were separated by war.”

“I see.”

“And you, Frau Hess? Of course we all know of your marriage to the great conductor Miles Hess.”

She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “My marriage to Herr Hess was a grand publicity stunt, dreamed up by our managers.”

“What?” The generals knew the man she'd married. Both had attended concerts and operas Hess conducted before the war.

“He'd been caught in a hotel room with a young boy. Goebbels wanted the story to disappear. A huge wedding reassured everyone that Germany's foremost conductor of Wagner liked beautiful blond Aryan girls.”

There was a stunned silence.

“Oh, don't you dare feel sorry for me. We had a wonderful life, both together, as friends, with our various lovers on the side. It was ideal, really.”