Winds of War (38 page)

The opera was
La Traviata
, and they enjoyed discovering that they both had always loved it. Afterward, he proposed a glimpse of the notorious Berlin night life. It was nothing he’d ever do by himself, he said; still, Berlin night life was the talk of the world and if it wouldn’t offend Mrs. Henry, she might enjoy a peek at it.

Rhoda goggled at the notion. “Well, this seems to be my night to howl, doesn’t it? Thank you very much for a disreputable suggestion, which I hasten to accept. Let’s hope we don’t run into any of my friends.”

So it happened that when the telephone rang in the Henrys’ home at two in the morning - the long distance call from New York, via the U.S.S. Marblehead in Lisbon - there was nobody to answer. Rhoda was sipping champagne, watching a hefty blonde German girl fling her naked breasts about in blue smoky gloom, and glancing every now and then at Dr. Palmer Kirby’s long solemn face in thick-rimmed glasses, as he smoked a long pipe and observed the hard-working sweaty dancer with faint distaste. Rhoda was aroused and deliciously shocked. She had never before seen a nude dancing woman, except in paintings.

After that, until her husband returned, she spent a lot of time with Kirby. They went to the less frequented restaurants. In her own vocabulary, she never “did anything.” When Pug returned, the adventure stopped.

* * *

A farewell lunch at Wannsee for Palmer Kirby was Rhoda’s idea, but she got Sally Forrest to give the lunch, saying she had already sufficiently entertained this civilian visitor. If Sally Forrest detected an oddity in this she said nothing. With the end of the Polish war at hand – only Warsaw was still holding out - the two attachés felt able to take off some midday hours. Berlin wore a peacetime air, and there was even talk that rationing would soon be over. Byron drove them all out to the resort in an embassy car. Along the broad sandy beach on the Havel River people strolled in the sun or sat under broad gaily colored umbrellas, and a number of gymnasts braved the fall breezes to exercise in skimpy costumes.

In the luncheon the Forrests ordered, rationing was not much in evidence. The pasty margarine tasted as usual like axle grease, but they ate excellent turbot and good leg of lamb. Midway during the lunch a loudspeaker crackled and whined, and a voice spoke in firm clear German: “
Attention! In the next few minutes you will hear a report of the highest importance to the fatherland
.”

The identical words boomed all over the river resort. People stopped on the promenade to listen. On the beach the small figures of the gymnasts halted briefly in their tumbling or running. An excited murmur rose all through the elegant Kaiserpavillon restaurant.

“What do you suppose?” Sally Forrest said, as the music resumed, thin gentle Schubert on strings.

“Warsaw, I’d guess,” said her husband. “It must be over.”

Dr. Kirby said, “You don’t suppose there’s an armistice coming up? I’ve been hearing armistice talk all week.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be marvellous,” Rhoda said, “and put an end to this stupid war before it really gets going.”

Byron said, “It’s been going.”

“Oh, of course,” said Rhoda with an apologetic smile, “they’d have to make some decent settlement of that hideous Polish business.”

“There’ll be no armistice,” said Pug.

The buzz of talk rose higher on the crowded terrace and in the dining room. The Germans, eyes bright and gestures animated, argued with each other, laughed, struck the table, and called from all sides for champagne. When the loudspeaker played the few bars of Liszt’s music that preceded the news, the noise began to die.

“
Sondermeldung
!” (Special bulletin!) At this announcement, an immediate total stillness blanketed the restaurant, except for a clink here and there. The loudspeaker randomly crackled; then a baritone voice spoke solemn brief words. “
From Supreme Headquarters of the Führer. Warsaw has fallen
.”

The whole restaurant rang with applause and cheers. Women jumped to their feet and danced. Men shook hands and hugged and kissed each other. Brass band music - first “Deutschland Uber Alles,” then the “Horst Wessel Lied” – came pouring out of the loudspeakers. To a man the diners in the Kaiserpavillon rose, all except the American party. On the beach, on the promenade, wherever the eye turned, the Germans stood still, most of them with arms thrust forward in the Nazi salute. In the dining room, about half were saluting and singing, a discordant swell of voices in the vulgar beery National Socialist anthem. Victor Henry’s skin prickled is he looked around, and he felt at this moment that the Germans under Adolf Hitler would take some beating. He then noticed something he had not seen for many, many years. His son sat still, face frozen, lips pressed in a line, white-knuckled hands clasped on the table. Byron had almost always taken pain and punishment dry-eyed since the age of five, but now he was crying.

The American party, sitting in a restaurant full of people on their feet, was getting hostile glares.

“Do they expect us to stand?” Sally Forrest said.

“
I’m
not standing,” Rhoda said.

Their waiter, a roly-poly man in black with very long straight blond hair, hitherto all genial expert service, stood bellowing with arm outstretched, visibly sneering at the Americans.

Byron saw none of this. Byron was seeing dead swollen horses in the gutter, yellow plywood patches on rows of broken buildings, a stone goose bordered with red flowers in a schoolyard, a little girl wearing a lilac dress taking a pen from him, orange starshells bursting in the night over church domes.

The song ended. The Germans applauded and cheered some more, and began toasted each other. The string orchestra switched to drinking songs, and the whole Kaiserpavillon went into a gay roar of

Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen,

Du, du, liegst mir im Sinn -

Byron cringed to hear it, and to recall that a full belly and a glass of beer had brought him to join German soldiers in this song, not six hours after he had escaped burning Warsaw.

Ja, ja,

Ja, ja!

Weisst nicht wie gut ich dir bin . . .

At the Americans’ table the waiter started removing plates with a jerky clatter, spilling gravy and wine and jostling them with his elbows.

“Watch what you’re doing, please,” Colonel Forrest said. The waiter went on with his brusque sloppy clearing. Sally Forrest gave a little yelp as he struck her head with a plate.

Pug said to him, “Look. Call your headwaiter, please.

“Headwaiter? I am the headwaiter. I am
your
head.” The man laughed and walked off. Dirty dishes remained scattered on the table. Wet purple and brown messes stained the cloth.

Forrest said to Henry, “It might be smart to leave.”

“Oh, by all means,” Sally Forrest said. “Just pay, Bill, and we’ll go.” She picked up her purse.

“We haven’t had our dessert,” Pug Henry said.

“It might be an idea to knock that waiter on his backside,” Dr. Kirby said, his face disagreeably contorted.

“I volunteer,” said Bryon, and he started to get up.

“For God’s sake, boy!” Colonel Forrest pulled him back. “An incident is just what he wants, and what we can’t have.”

The waiter was striding past them to another table. Henry called, “I asked you to bring your headwaiter.”

“You’re in a hurry, honorable sir?” the waiter jeered. “Then you’d better leave. We’re very busy in this restaurant.” He turned a stout back on Henry and walked away.

“
Stop! Turn around
.”

Pug did not shout or bark. He used a dry sharp tone of command that cut through the restaurant gabble. The waiter stopped and turned. “
Go call your headwaiter. Do it immediately
.” He looked straight into the waiter’s eyes, his face serious and hard. The waiter’s glance shifted, and he walked off in another direction. The nearby diners were staring and muttering.

“I think we should go,” Sally Forrest said. “This isn’t worth the trouble.”

The waiter soon approached, followed by a tall, bald, long-faced man in a frock coat, who said with a busy, unfriendly air, “Yes? You have a complaint?”

“We’re a party of Americans, military attachés,” Pug said. “We didn’t rise for your anthem. We’re neutrals. This waiter chose to take offense.” He gestured at the table. “He’s been deliberately clumsy and dirty. He’s talked rudely. He’s jostled the ladies. His conduct has been swinish. Tell him to behave himself, and be good enough to let us have a clean cloth for our dessert.”

The expression of the headwaiter kept changing as Victor Henry rapped the sentences out. He hesitated under Henry’s direct gaze, looked around at the other diners, and all at once burst out in a howl of abuse at the waiter, flinging both arms in the air, his face purpling. After a short fierce tantrum, he turned to Pug Henry, bowed from the waist, and said coldly. “You will be properly served. My apologies.” And he bustled off.

Now a peculiar thing happened. The waiter reverted to his former manner without turning a hair, without a trace of surliness, resentment, or regret. The episode was obliterated; it had never happened. He cleared the dishes and spread a new cloth with deft speed. He smiled, he bowed, he made little jokes and considerate little noises. His face was blood red, otherwise he was in every respect the same charming,
gemültich
German waiter who had first greeted them. He took their dessert orders with chuckles and nods, with arch jests about calories, with solicitous suggestions of wine and liqueurs. He backed away smiling and bowing, and hastened out of sight.

“I’ll be damned,” said Colonel Forrest.

“We hadn’t had our dessert,” Pug said.

“Well done,” Kirby said to Pug Henry, with an odd glance at Rhoda. “Beautifully done.”

“Oh, Pug has a way about him,” Rhoda said, smiling brightly.

“Okay, Dad,” Byron said. Victor Henry shot him a quick look. It was the one remark that gratified him.

The Americans rushed uneasily through their desserts: all but Victor Henry, who was very deliberate about eating his tart and drinking his coffee. He unwrapped a cigar. The waiter jumped to light it for him. “Well, I guess we can shove off,” he said, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “Time’s a’wasting and the colonel and I are cheating the U.S. Government.”

* * *

That night after a late dinner, as they were having coffee on the terrace, Rhoda said, “I see you’ve brought home a pile of work. I thought we might see that new Emil Jannings movie. But I can get one of the girls to come along.”

“Go ahead. I’m no fan of Emil Jannings.”

Rhoda drank up her coffee and left the father and son sitting in the gloom.

“Briny, what about that report? How’s it coming?”

“The report? Oh, yes, the report.” Byron leaned forward in his chair, legs apart, elbows on knees, hands clasped. “Dad, I’d like to ask you something. What would you think of my joining the British navy? Or the RAF?”

Victor Henry blinked, and took a while to answer. “You want to fight the Germans, I take it?”

“I enjoyed myself in Warsaw. I felt useful.”

“Well, this is one hell of a change, coming from you. I thought a military career was o-u-t out.”

“This isn’t a career.”

Pug sat smoking and looking at his hands, crouching forward in his chair. Byron usually slouched back and extended his long legs, but now he was imitating his father. Their attitude looked comically alike. “Briny, I don’t think the Allies are going to make a deal with Hitler, but what if they do? A peace offensive’s coming up, that’s for sure. Suppose you join the British, possibly lose your citizenship – certainly create a peck of problems - and then the war’s off? There you’ll be, up to your neck in futile red tape. Why not hang on a while and see how the cat jumps?”

“I guess so.” Byron sighed, and slouched back in his chair.

Pug said, “I don’t like to discourage an admirable impulse. What might be a good idea right now is to ask for active duty in our Navy, and -”

“No, thanks.”

“Now hear me out, dammit. You’ve got your commission. The reserves who go out to sea now will draw the best duty if and when the action starts. You’ll have the jump on ninety-nine percent of the others. In wartime you’ll be the equal of any Academy man.”

“Meantime I’d be in for years. And
then
suppose the war ends?”

“You’re not doing anything else.”

“I wrote to Dr. Jastrow in Siena. I’m waiting to hear from him.”

The father dropped the subject.

Rhoda went to see the Emil Jannings movie, but first she did something else. She picked up Dr. Palmer Kirby at his hotel and drove him to Tempelhof airport. This was not necessary; cabs were available in Berlin. But she had offered to do this and Kirby had accepted. Perhaps there would have been no harm in telling her husband that she was giving the visitor this last courtesy; but she didn’t.

They hardly spoke in the car. She parked and went to the café lounge while he checked in. Had she encountered a friend, she would have needed an explanation on the spot and a story for her husband. But she had no such worry; she felt only a bittersweet excitement. What she was doing gave her not the slightest guilty feeling. She had no wrong intent. She liked Palmer Kirby. It was a long, long time since a man had seemed so attractive to her. He liked her, too. In fact, this was a genuine little wartime romance, so decorous as to be almost laughable; an unexpected flash of melancholy magic, which, would soon be over forever. It was not in the least like her aborted drunken peccadillo with Kip Tollever.

Well, I guess this is it,” Kirby said, falling in the chair opposite her in the gangling way which always struck her as boyish, for all his grizzled head and sharply lined face. They sat looking at each other until the drinks came.

“Your happiness,” he said.

“Oh, that. I’ve had that. It’s all in the past.” She sipped. “Did they give you the connection to Lisbon that you wanted?”

“Yes, but the Pan Am Clippers are jammed. I may be hung up in Lisbon for days.”