The Other Side of Love (71 page)

“The MPs are looking for you,”

she said.

“If they didn’t find me in civvies, they certainly won’t find me m this.”

He glanced down with distaste at the American uniform.

“What rotten intelligence the Yanks have. But that’s them all over. No organization, no discipline.”

“Unlike us in the Third Reich. Still, they won.”

Don’t antagonize him. It’s as big a mistake as showing fear, isn’t it?

“Say what you will, Kathe, the Fuhrer worked a miracle. In six short years he gave us back all we lost in the Versailles Treaty. Bloodlessly. And after the war started he led us in conquering the largest empire the world has ever known.”

Kathe wasn’t listening. She was staring at the goosedown quilt at

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the foot of the bed, where she had dropped the handbag. During her months at Ober Tappenburg and her time in the Ronigstrasse Prison every detail of the bag had become as familiar as her own palm, yet she gazed at the scuffed brown English leather with the deep pale scar gouged up the side as though the shabby utilitarian object had just been magically delivered by a genie. Inside lay Wyatt’s service revolver.

Groener had followed her gaze to the bed.

“You don’t have a worry in the world,”

he said with a smirk.

“I’m not half so ardent with my son in the next room.”

She hastily turned away.

Tilting his head towards the distant battering voices, he said:

“Soon they’ll all pack up and go home. You’re right. They won the war, but we’ll win the peace.”

“In the mean time, you’ll have been hanged.”

The words burst out.

To her surprise, he chuckled.

“Spirit! I’ve always admired that in you, Rathe. It’s the proof of Aryan blood. Even that so-called cousin of yours, Leventhal, or whatever he calls himself, seems to respect that. He didn’t let you visit him at the hospital, did he? But what were you doing with him today?”

A barrage of voices raised in

“The Wiffenpoof Song’. Baa, baa, baa.

Her mouth was yet more parched and sour, as though the liquid in her body had been evaporated by her terror. Groener could acquire a uniform that fitted him perfectly. Groener had access to the hospital. Didn’t that mean his SS cronies had infiltrated everywhere in occupied Germany? There was no escape.

“So it was you in the Messe grounds,”

she said.

“Erich didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

Groener smiled.

“That clever little rascal! My son has inherited the true Aryan spirit. Yes, I was there. You know me, always a bit mushy and sentimental. I was picking up a few souvenirs for when we’re in Zurich.”

“We?”

“I’m taking Erich with me to Switzerland. There’s a tidy fortune in my account at the Credit Suisse. We’ll be very comfortable.”

“No!”

she cried, protesting at his taking Erich anywhere.

Groener, however, heard her denial from the depths of his own disappointed vision of himself.

“You’re right,”

he said dejectedly.

“I deserve all the rotten names you’re thinking. I believed in the Fiihrer, Rathe, I completely believed in him. For years I was scrupulous. While the go-getters feathered their nests, I refused. But you have to remember that in 1943 I had a wife and my little Otto and

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Adolf to consider. I knew by then that the generals weren’t loyal to the Fiihrer and that even those close to him were hoodwinking him.”

Groener’s voice took on an automatic note, as if he had often mentally covered this ground.

“The evening at Eberhardt’s Berlin flat, the night we had our little quarrel? Later I discovered that Eberhardt had arranged the festivities for one reason. To have a chance for a private talk with me. I was in charge of labour for the rockets, and he was high up in the Special Office of Labour Allocation. He offered me a deal. I’d pay government funds for Auschwitz yids, but he wouldn’t get them from the camp. Instead, he’d send me shipments he’d ferreted out of hiding. We’d split the profit. I went in with him. Often we’d pick up a little bonus one of the Stilcke would try to bargain with a concealed diamond or two. We both put fortunes in those numbered Swiss accounts. Nobody really lost on the arrangement. Still, you’re right. I sold the Fiihrer out.”

One man’s idealist is another man’s monster, she thought. can’t risk Erich taking a step alone with him. I must stay with my baby.

“Should you be telling me this? Nowadays it’s dangerous to say anything about the Untermenschen … Otto.”

His dejection faded, and he took two steps towards her.

“Kathe, I meant every word I said the other night. Have you thought about it?”

She nodded.

“But what you just learned has put you off?”

“I have to be honest, yes. But … well, it also does prove you’re a man who considers his family first.”

Something she wasn’t sure what - reverberated against the window, and she turned. In the samdfcistant Groener strode to her, his hand clenching her arm, a inger rubbing her sweater sleeve, half a caress, half a warning to remain still. At his touch she flinched and knew that he must feel her involuntary reflex.

“Probably a bit of falling stucco,”

he said after a few seconds.

“Well. How do you feel about Switzerland?”

“I … it’s my only real choice.”

“Then, you’ll come?”

“Yes.”

“Because of the boy?”

“He means everything to both of us.”

Groener’s hand dropped.

“I prefer honesty to sweet talk,”

he said.

“Get him ready.”

“Shall I pack his clothes?”

“We’ll buy new in Switzerland. Just get him dressed.”

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Erich complained sleepily as she sat him up.

He saw Groener standing in the connecting doorway.

“Uncle Kurt,”

he mumbled.

“An Ami uniform?”

“It’s the right thing to wear at the Excelsior. The three of us are taking a drive.”

“Rathe never goes out in the dark.”

“Tonight she is. Now, get dressed.”

Erich nudged closer to her.

Impossible to guess what was going on in his child’s mind, but she sensed he was afraid. Afraid of Groener? But

“Uncle Kurt”

was his much quoted pundit. Afraid of leaving her? Wishful thinking. Still, the last few days he had watched for her approval while puffing out tunes on the corporal’s harmonica, and when anything fazed him he had moved near enough to touch her.

“Are you coming?”

he asked.

“Yes.”

She hugged his sleep-warm body, inhaling the milky smell on his cheek and the American shampoo on his hair. Kissing his brow, she murmured against his ear:

“Do exactly what I say. Don’t listen to anybody else. Don’t listen to Uncle Kurt. Understand?”

“Like a game?”

he whispered.

“Nothing that babyish. This is real.”

He insisted on dressing himself.

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II

The singing had stopped as they emerged into the corridor. Picking up Erich, Groener gave her a significant look to inform her that, should she be considering any monkey business, forget it. Erich squirmed.

“Keep still!”

Groener snapped, jerking the boy on to his shoulders.

The sleep-rosiness faded from Erich’s cheeks, and he allowed himself to be jounced along piggy-back.

“Stay here next to me,”

Groener commanded Kathe.

She hurried down the hall at his side, grasping the worn bagstrap with both hands so that the weight of the Colt didn’t bang against her body.

Laughter boomed as if somebody had told a dirty joke.

“Lots of liquor flowing,”

Groener said. Now that she and Erich knew he was boss, he was again affable.

“Reminds me of the old days. Those victory brawls of ours! We drank until dawn.”

That Groener, striding along in his purloined uniform, was so sure of himself that he could feel a camaraderie with the boozed-up American officers made her physically ill. Well-fed, smoothly shaven, comb-marks showing in the brilliantined hair, no rags tied around his bare feet, no stinking uniform, no sleeping with his family crammed into one icy room with only the Frankfurter Rundschau to cover them, no fears about Death Card rations, not for Groener. He was headed for a country with warm intact houses, new clothing in the well-stocked shops, fat steaks, fat chocolate bars and fat secret bank accounts. She loathed him not only on behalf of the slaves he had worked to death, but also on beMfcf of her weary defeated countrymen.

They had reached the staircase.

As she took the first step down, her fear and her outrage dwindled away. Her mind was spewing out decisions rapidly, fluidly. She would get behind Groener. How? It didn’t matter: she must be behind him so he couldn’t see her take Wyatt’s pistol from her bag. Then she would order him to put Erich down. What if he refused? She would shoot him in the leg. What if she hit Erich? It had been twelve years since she practised with Sigi’s pistol. Could she risk it? She must. Did Wyatt’s Colt work the same as the Luger?

She had forgotten the worn strip of carpeting on the staircase. Her heel caught. With a cry, she flung out her hand to grab the banister.

“Steady there,”

Groener said, not slowing.

Her chance had come by accident.

She unsnapped her bag. The sound of the clasp opening seemed to soar like an artillery volley above the background roar of voices. The

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weapon dragged down her wrist. She let her bag fall. Taking three rapid steps downwards, she raised the pistol, left hand supporting the right wrist, as Sigi had taught her.

“Stop!”

she shouted.

Groener had reached the floor with the private diningroom. For a moment she was positive he hadn’t heard her. Then he turned.

Seeing the Colt in her hands, his eyes narrowed and he cautiously shifted Erich from his shoulders to the front of his body. A shield. So much for paternal love, she thought humourlessly. Erich was facing her and the muzzle of the pistol. His blue-green eyes were wide, but there was no dullness of fear; rather, an odd glint as if he had somehow anticipated this adult melodrama. Maybe he saw it as a replaying of his kidnap, but more likely he had witnessed soldiers on both sides aiming at their captives.

Arms outstretched, moving cautiously down the stairs, she passed the landing, stopping so close to Groener that she could see his sweat beading like a moustache.

Tut Erich down,”

she ordered.

“Kathe, stop acting the American gangster’s moll.”

Groener bared his uneven teeth in a parody of an indulgent smile.

“You’re not going to fire that; you don’t know how.”

Her feet were slightly apart, her knees flexed. Her finger moved. She heard the small click. Independent of her physical activity, thoughts were enquiring how she could release the safety mechanism while aiming at her son. And another part of her mind responded: Your von Graetz ancestors were warriors.

“Lower him slowly,”

she said.

There was a loud burst of laughter and applause from the diningroom. She blocked out the sounds. Groener slowly set the child on his feet.

“Erich, get downstairs,”

she said calmly.

Groener roared:

“Stay!”

“Tell the manager to bring the MPs.”

As Erich moved a step away, Groener shouted:

“Erich! A true German stands by his comrade!”

Kathe kept her gaze on Groener’s eyes, but in the fringes of her vision she could see the child hesitate.

“Go!”

she said.

The low intensity of her voice, the blazing whiteness of her face galvanized the child. Turning, he skidded down to the hotel lobby.

Groener moved backwards a step.

“You’re not going to shoot the boy’s father.”

A gavel pounded. During the lull in the roar, Kathe was clearly audible.

“You’re not his father,”

she said.

“You have no son.”

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‘I know what you’re up to. It’s a trick. Reminding me of my boys. But it makes no difference to me whether Or not Erich’s a bastard. He’s a son of the Black Order. His naming ceremony as clear as yesterday to me.”

“To me, too,”

she said coldly.

“April the eleventh. The day after he was born. Do you remember the date you raped me?”

“He came early.”

“Wyatt is Erich’s father.”

“You lying bitch! You were a virgin. I saw the blood.”

“Your fingernails were long. I struggled. You were rough.”

Her throat felt bruised, her mouth aridly sour, So how was it possible that these precise and impartial intonations could come from her?

“But this can’t honestly surprise you. You knew I’d seen Wyatt in London.”

Groener’s shoulders hunched, and his head thrust forward.

“The boy’s mine!”

he bellowed.

“Wyatt is Erich’s father.”

The small clever eyes glittered.

“Then, by God I’ll beat his little Jew brains out against a wall!”