Tempting Fate (69 page)

Gudrun was on her feet at once. “That is quite enough!” She reached automatically for her napkin, but it, too, was soaked. She gave a quiet scream and dropped it on the floor. “Maximillian!”

He sat hunched over his plate, his face set. “You angered me.”

As she pulled the bell rope, Gudrun brought her rage under control. “Go to the kitchen, Maximillian. Frau Bürste will feed you there.” She wiped her face, ready now to attack her brother with knives and whips.

“While you, lady of the house, dine here in solitary state?” He had not risen, and now he reached calmly for the tureen.

“No,” she said through clenched teeth, “while I try to salvage this dress you have so wantonly ruined.”

“Don’t bother about that,” he said, then he gave her a sheepish smile. “I was vexed with you, Rudi—”

“Don’t call me that!”

“It was silly to throw the soup, I admit it,” he continued as if he had not heard her. “But there isn’t much harm done. A little hot broth is easily cleaned up.”

“This dress is silk,” she informed him as her fury renewed itself. “It is ruined.”

“Well, then get another one. That’s three years out of fashion, anyway, It’s time you got yourself something a little better.” He lifted the ladle and tasted the soup, giving an appreciative nod. “She’s a good cook for all that she’s an old busybody.”

For well over a minute Gudrun could not speak, so consumed was she with anger and helplessness. She did not recognize herself when she brought herself to address her brother. “I cannot get another dress, Maximillian. I don’t have enough money to buy one. Why won’t you accept it? This isn’t 1912 anymore. Our money is
gone!
” She had not moved, but Maximillian shrank back from her, dropping the ladle into the soup and staring at her with the guilty smile of a six-year-old.

“But Rudi … Gudrun … you’re not…” He picked up his napkin and began to mop at the spilled soup, wanting to make amends.

“Get out of this house, Maximillian. I don’t want you here anymore. You can stay at the gamekeeper’s cottage and I’ll see that you are fed. But you’re not to enter this house again until I invite you.” She turned abruptly and hurried out of the dining room. She was aghast at her fuming temper. For the first time she had wanted to attack her brother, pounding him, wounding him, making him recognize in his flesh, in his bones, that he had abused her, and this was her repayment. As she climbed the main stairs, she looked down at the greasy dampness that spread over the black silk. She wanted to cry. One thoughtless, spoiled act and her best dinner dress was ruined, and she was supposed to be appeased by the thought of buying another because the dress she wore was no longer in fashion. She put her hand to her eyes, reaching to steady herself on the banister as a short, passionate tempest of weeping swept over her. Then she made herself stand up and walk the rest of the way to her room with the dignity she had been taught to demonstrate.

Like a sleepwalker she got out of her dress, thinking that her life had come apart again this day. First it was Rauch, and now Maximillian. Her dress lay at her feet in an untidy pile: she could not bring herself to touch it again. She patted her hair and discovered that it had soup in it, as well. She would have to bathe again, and choose something else to wear at table. Gudrun sat on the side of her bed, fingering her now stained chiffon slip, thinking that she would not return to the dining room now. Without being quite aware of it, she drifted into a half-sleep, her thoughts fading so that pleasant, long-ago images could take their place, soothing her so that she did not have to grapple with all the problems confronting her. In an hour, she told herself, in an hour I will bathe and dress. In an hour.

Frau Bürste, unaware of what had taken place in the dining room, gave a last check to the tray she was preparing to take to the dining room. Otto had told her not more than five minutes ago that Maximillian was home at last, so she had hastily added two more Schheebällen to the dish with the Kalbsvögerl. There was also a plate of Geschmälzte Maultaschen. The hearty food gave off richly fragrant steam, and Frau Bürste smiled to herself. Despite the necessary economies she practiced, she flattered herself that she served a better meal than was to be had in many places where there was more than enough money for elaborate cooking. Carrying the tray with the ease of long practice, she left the kitchen and crossed the hall toward the dining room, her mind already thinking ahead to her own dinner, which she could begin as soon as she served Frau Ostneige and her brother.

Maximillian looked up as the door opened. He had a full bowl of soup before him and was seated at the far end of the table, away from the spills that spread over more than half the table. “If what you’ve got there is half as good as your Bohnensuppe, I’m delighted I got back in time to enjoy it.”

“What…?” Frau Bürste muttered, baffled at what she saw. “How did the soup get spilled? Look at it!” she went on, dismayed, as she put the tray on the table. “Why, it’s all over. Look at the carpet!”

“There was a bit of an accident,” Maximillian said blithely. “My sister dropped the bowl she was filling and … well, you can probably tell what happened. She’s gone upstairs to change.” He resumed his meal, smiling widely at Frau Bürste.

“Spilled? This does not appear … What has happened here?” she demanded, her hands planted on her hips. “What have you done to your sister?”

Maximillian’s features darkened. He was a little less handsome now than he had been two years ago, or three. His pale hair was thinning and there were heavy lines under his eyes, which were emphasized by the first few broken capillaries in his cheeks. “What’s wrong with you, Frau Bürste? Why must I have done something to my sister because the soup is spilled?”

She did not give him an answer. “I must get water,” she muttered, starting from the dining room.

“Oh, Frau Bürste, before you go,” Maximillian called after her, “I’m having some friends here next week, for a day or so. They’ll stay with me at my cabin, but I want to have one good dinner here, with your fine cooking. There should be about six of them, so you’ll have to buy another barrel of beer; we get dry and thirsty on these winter days.”

She had closed the door on him while he was still talking. She had to do something about the carpet at once, clean it with soap and water before the soup soaked in too deeply. Yet she could not bring herself to do this chore until she had talked to her employer. As she climbed the stairs, her head swam with worries, so vague and faceless that she could think of no way to express them, even to herself. As she reached Gudrun’s door, she heard a groan and then a prolonged crack as the eaves on the one side of the roof that had not been cleaned by Miroslav at last gave way under their burden of ice and snow.

Text of a letter from David Bündnis to Hermann Göring.

Baiersbronn

April 14, 1926

Braunkaserne, SA

München

My dear Herr Göring:

It is indeed an honor to answer your questions regarding the man calling himself Franchot Ragoczy of Schloss Saint-Germain. As you mentioned in your letter of the second of this month, he claims the title Graf, and this is upheld by those of the old order. I have no reason to doubt his right to call himself Graf, or to question his lineage. The Ragoczys may no longer be Princes of Transylvania, but they are still a most powerful and respected family. I doubt that any man would take that name on himself unless he was legitimately entitled to it.

It has been some time since I was employed by him. How he found out my association with the Army I do not know, or my dealings with Röhm, but find them out he most certainly did. On the day I left, he laid out to me precisely what my activities had been and to whom I had been reporting since I first undertook to serve as his ward’s tutor. He was generous in his severance monies, and did provide me with a fair recommendation, but he made it abundantly apparent that if I made any effort to continue my activities concerning him, he would do everything he could to have me exposed and disgraced, and I most sincerely believed him. To this day, I would be reluctant to act contrary to his instructions. This letter, should he ever learn of it, is enough to bring his ire down upon me. While I doubt you would endanger me through thoughtlessness, there are those who are not as reliable, and I hope that you will regard with utmost confidence the information I provide you now.

From what you have said, you are aware that Ragoczy has been working with Professor Isidore Riemen on a project of some importance. From what I learned of their work at the beginning, it is involved in the manufacture of synthetic fuels. How far this has advanced, I have no way of guessing, but if it is true and Ragoczy is planning to leave Deutschland for England, then they have either succeeded or they have met with enough difficulty or failure to convince both men that it is not worthwhile to pursue the matter further. From what I learned of the man, it was apparent to me that he does not leave a task incomplete. If you have not already discussed the matter with Professor Riemen, then it might be best if you inquire of him where their research stands at present. I have heard that the Professor is not averse to our cause and might be willing to give you more data than I have. I surmise that it is possible that their discoveries, if any, will be offered to those who support us before they are presented to those belonging to the opposition.

I am afraid that I have no more information than you do about the identity of Ragoczy’s ward. In the years I was her tutor, I learned very little about her. The accent she has in Russian suggests that she was part of a noble household, but at what level and in what capacity, I do not know. I made several attempts to speak with the child, but there I must admit that I failed. It was not a question of lack of trust, but a genuine loss of memory. I am convinced that the girl does not know who her family are, and that she has not deliberately deceived anyone about her birth. She is an intelligent child with a quick mind. She has also learned a few of her guardian’s haughty airs, and this makes for a self-possession that is alarming in such a young person. If Ragoczy has decided to go to London, it is natural to assume that his ward will go with him. You say in your letter that they have already traveled to Italy and France. More traveling should not be all that strange for the girl. She has a lively curiosity and Might enjoy the experience of living in another country for a time. If you wish to dissuade Ragoczy, I doubt it would be possible to enlist his ward in your cause. Also, as she is privately tutored by a Swiss and a Danish woman, it is not easy to approach her in any case.

The chauffeur, Nikolai Rozoh, I do not know well. He came into the household after I was part of it. From what I could piece together, he was in the Army at the time of the Revolution and was either a bodyguard or fulfilled some other similar function for Ragoczy, which is why when the Revolution became more disruptive, he was forced to leave the country or face death for aiding one of the “oppressors.” Rozoh keeps very much to himself, tending to the automobiles and horses as well as doing many of the odd tasks around the estate. He works very hard and is said to be a pious man. I doubt very much he would be willing to involve himself in politics again.

The servant Roger is something of an enigma, and very loyal to his employer. He has been known to joke that he has been with Ragoczy since the Flavians ruled Rome, by which I gather that his family has long been servants to the Ragoczys. He claims to be Spanish, but I see little of Spain in his countenance. I doubt Roger would be any use to you.

Enzo, the chef, may be another matter. He is expert at his fob, but I believe he is chronically in need of money. That may not be the best footing for the work you require, but there may be no other cause open to you. I would suggest that he be approached away from Schloss Saint-Germain, and handled with great tact.

It may be wisest to allow him to leave the country without interference. From what I learned of him, he is not working with anyone opposed to us. He is not a politically motivated man. While I agree that his wealth might be put to excellent use by the NSDAP and the SA, it might be more trouble than anyone would like to get the funds into our hands. I do not speak out of any thought for the man himself, for foreigners are as much a problem to us as our inner enemies, but it might not serve our purposes to have the people learn where our funds are gained. I believe that Ragoczy would not hesitate for a moment to tell the newspapers about any harassment he might experience. If he departs for London, it is always possible to confiscate his estate for our own uses, which would benefit us all in the end.

As you have Herr Rauch’s evaluation of Ragoczy’s dealings with his various neighbors, you will not need my response, but I give it nonetheless. To say that he was generally respected would appear to me to be the best way of stating it. Rauch is correct in his judgment that most of the hochgebornen in the Schliersee area are willing to receive him as a guest but not as an intimate friend. Apparently this suits all parties quite well, for I never saw any indication of rancor on anyone’s part.

With Rauch, I agree that Ragoczy is not Jewish, although he has been known to have Jewish friends, such as the Schnaubels. I assume that his primary interest there was the children, who provided playmates for his ward. I was not encouraged to discuss the matter with him, and on those occasions when I attempted to sound him out, he turned the conversation to other subjects. It is known that the Ragoczy family has, in the past, made use of Jewish traders to move messages and funds for them, and for that reason he may not be wholly aware of the danger in which all the world stands, but it would be better to provide him an example of these manipulations we recognize so readily rather than to try to convince him by argument alone.