Ice Reich, page 21
"It looks like the Germany I remember," Hart said, glancing about. "Tidy."
"Caretakers come. But not for a few days. Here, help me push this plane into the barn." They rolled it forward, the wings sliding over empty stalls. Another vehicle was already inside under a tarp and Hart peeked. A Mercedes.
"No petrol," Kohl explained. "And a vehicle invites inspection. We'll bicycle. It's several hours into the city."
Hart nodded. "I didn't know you were so athletic, Otto."
"I'm not. Merely cautious. We're in the heart of Nazi Germany."
* * *
There were only occasional signs of the war at Berlin's edge. A bomber's burned-out husk had skidded to the edge of a school yard. Silvery strings of chaff dropped by Allied planes to confuse radar were draped on autumn trees like Christmas tinsel. A line of water-filled bomb craters marched across a field to record an Allied miss. As they pedaled into the suburbs they found a checkerboard of normalcy and destruction: here a street retained an aura of prewar order, there a stick of bombs had fallen to splinter four houses and a park. At Berlin's core the ruin became more complete. They passed whole neighborhoods that had been reduced to ridges of shattered masonry, blocks and streets undulating like a series of sand dunes. Rising above this manmade talus were the ghostly ruins of gutted buildings that had not yet completely collapsed, empty window openings lighting apartments that no longer existed.
Kohl wobbled his bicycle around a litter of broken glass and stopped to pant.
"Are you all right, Otto?"
"Not my tailbone. I may never walk again."
The pause made Hart nervous. Passing Germans barely glanced at them but half the men he saw were in uniform. A word from Kohl and he was betrayed. What reassured him was the devastation. Kohl wouldn't wish to stay here, and Owen Hart was his only exit.
"Is she nearby?"
"She was." Grimacing, he hoisted himself back onto the seat. "Pray that your airplanes haven't gotten to her neighborhood." They pedaled on.
Jürgen and Greta had been lucky. The town houses on their tree-lined avenue stood ranked and redoubtable with prewar confidence. A milk wagon trundled reassuringly down the pavement. Normalcy. Kohl pointed. "That one."
It was four stories, as fashionable as a New York brownstone. Jürgen Drexler had done well, it seemed. Confronted by the man's intact home, Hart suddenly felt doubt. It was the kind of house he'd never had and perhaps never would have: strong, secure, stylish. The kind of home a woman would like.
"I can't visit her in his house."
"No, of course not," Kohl said. "That would be dangerous. They have servants and maybe even a security guard, who knows? Jürgen is a Standartenführer now, a colonel, in the civilian branch of the SS. He moves in the highest circles, which means his telephone is probably tapped. But I'll approach briefly. Any staff present should take only casual note even if I'm recognized: they may assume I escaped France and am on routine travels. I'll explain the situation and then leave to do some business, I have some money to assemble in Berlin before we go. Now, as for you. There's a statue of Frederick the Great opposite the Bebelplatz, not far from the Hotel Adlon where you once stayed. Do you remember it? About a mile east of here?"
Hart nodded uncertainly.
"Meet her there in an hour. Understood?"
"Yes, but what if she doesn't— "
Kohl held his hand up, looking back at the imposing town house. Hart noticed now that its windows were blank, covered with blackout coverings. It would be dim inside.
"She'll come."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
King Frederick was another casualty of war. His tricornered hat had been chipped by shrapnel and one of his eyes had become an empty socket. Some of the buildings surrounding the Bebelplatz remained intact but others had folded in on themselves, debris spilling from their pulverized interiors like an avalanche chute. Hart arrived early and, too anxious to sit, paced around the plaza, stepping around fragments of masonry and keeping an eye on Frederick's mounted figure. Passing Germans ignored him, hurrying by on missions of their own. No one had checked his forged papers— the robotic bureaucracy of the Third Reich was beginning to corrode from the prospect of defeat— but his anxiety at meeting Greta had grown. Almost six years! She'd been twenty-eight and unmarried then. He braced himself for a betrayal of memory.
And yet betrayal didn't come. As she approached through the square he recognized her instantly: the walk, the plume of glorious red hair, even the upright bearing of her head when so many faces seemed cast downward. He sucked in his breath. She was as lovely as he remembered and much more stylishly dressed; her erect carriage reflected the assurance of high station. She strode past the ruins in a long wool coat trimmed in fur and in fashionable boots, her heels clicking on the paving stones. A string of pearls was at her neck. Drexler, Hart admitted, was a good provider.
Yet when she slowed and then stopped several feet short of him, looking without expression, Hart noticed something more: a new gravity in her face. A tautness from emotions held in check. Her gaze was so objective— so analytical— he feared for a moment that whatever hold he'd once had on her was gone, erased by time.
She blinked in wonder. "So. It is really you." Her tone revealed nothing.
"Hello, Greta," he said, swallowing. "I told you I'd come back."
Her eyes roamed his face, taking it in. "I thought you dead. And yet here you stand, in the middle of Berlin." She judged him clinically. "You've hardly changed."
"You're prettier, I think."
She gave no reaction to the compliment, looking at him as if he was a phantom. Her detachment disturbed him.
He swallowed and reached into his coat pocket. "I had this made in London in 1939. I've been waiting a long time to give it to you." He put out his hand. Draped on his fingers was a gold chain with a locket. "Please, take it."
After a moment's hesitation she did so. Their fingers touched and she gave a little jerk as if she'd been shocked. Then she held the jewelry, looking at it as if in a trance.
"Open it."
The locket was gold and shaped like a penguin. She clicked it open. There was a word engraved inside: hope. And a dull pebble.
"The pebble is from the cave. I found it in my boot. It's a gift. Like the penguins give."
She looked at the pebble for a long time as if she'd never seen a stone before. He waited, watching her sway slightly in a rush of memory. Then she began to tremble, lifting eyes that were misting with tears. She'd allowed herself, finally, to believe. Her mouth opened. "Oh, Owen." Her voice caught. "It's really you…" And then the space between them seemed to dissolve of its own accord and he was holding her, clutching her through the rich wool of her coat, his face buried in her hair and inhaling her wonderful scent.
"I thought you were dead!" she exclaimed. "I thought I'd killed you, that I'd failed you…"
She wore perfume, he marveled. She dressed up, for me.
And then her cry was stifled as he kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears— kissed her heedless of who was watching, kissed her with the urgent longing of six missing years.
She kissed back with desperate need, aching, and then pushed him away. "Owen, my God. Do you know how many times I've dreamed of such a moment? But not here. Not now. Please."
He glanced around, grinning in triumph. An old woman with a string bag scowled but a younger one smiled in passing, wistfully.
He held Greta by the shoulders, unwilling to let go. "I tried to write," he explained, "tried to reach you, but nothing seemed to get through…"
The tears were running freely down her cheeks. "I thought you'd died!" she repeated. "All these years, not a word, not a whisper! And yet here you are, come back to life, come back to this earthly hell of Berlin." She was taking deep gulping breaths, her breasts rising against his chest, her eyes still wide with wonder. "Come back to me." And then she threw back her head and gave a shout of laughter, suddenly, shockingly, gaily. "And now, at last, for just this one instant I am so happy! My whole life, and all its pain, made worthwhile by this single moment!" She smiled, her face glistening.
Hart tenderly stroked her wet cheek. "Whoa, whoa," he said with a grin. "It's just a pebble. No wonder the male penguins find it so effective."
She shook her head. "Such a different world, such an age ago. Antarctica has seemed like a dream. And a nightmare. And yet here you are, resurrected. How? Why? My God, the questions…"
"Your organism worked, Greta. It worked on me, it even worked on Fritz, but then… We captured your father, and flew… It's a long story."
She nodded uncertainly, bewildered but excited. "It worked?"
"It cured Fritz. I know it did. Then he was killed in the cave. The entrance collapsed."
"My God." Her gaze turned serious, brooding. "We should have tested it more thoroughly. Have you heard that the Allies finally succeeded with penicillin? How many Germans could we have saved in this war?" She shook her head. "Always regret! So many regrets. Well." She looked at the locket she was still holding, deciding, and then looked at him shyly. "Will you put this on me?"
He glanced around with amusement. "Do you dare? Would it raise questions?"
She looked out at the ruined buildings, immensely sad for a moment. "Yes. Of course it would raise questions. But right now I want to feel its weight on my neck. I'll wear it inside my dress and take it off later."
He took the chain and locket and she turned, pulling her hair up to reveal the ivory of her neck. He fastened it. She fingered the penguin a moment, smiling shyly now, and then slipped it down the front of her dress. She shivered. "It makes my heart beat faster."
He smiled. "Greta, I've come to get you out. From Germany and the war."
She was sober. "That's impossible."
"No it isn't. I have a plane. Your father has money and papers."
"Owen, things have changed so much…"
"Otto told me about the marriage. He also said you still loved me. That's why I came, Greta."
Her head lowered. "It's a marriage in name more than practice," she admitted. "I thought I could change him, teach him happiness. He thought he could win me, give me purpose. But… too much had happened in Antarctica."
"So you don't love him?"
"I do… in a way." Her voice was very small. "He was there for me, Owen, when you weren't. Just not in the same way."
He touched her cheek. "I've never stopped loving you, Greta. Never for a moment. I thought I'd have to wait to search for you after the war but then Otto appeared like a miracle and I came in an instant. I've left my unit. I've thrown my old life away. And now I want you to come away with me. You know Germany is finished. The Nazis have made a mess of the world. Your father and I want to fly you to Switzerland. To a new life."
She shook her head, trembling. "Owen, it isn't that simple. There are vows. Duty. Country."
"Greta, if you stay here with Jürgen you'll be killed. Berlin is going to become a battlefield. We can have happiness if we have the courage to grasp it."
She closed her eyes. "I married Jürgen, Owen. Married him. If you'd come back with us, it might have been different, but you didn't. Did you know he even went ashore in the rough seas at the end of the storm to look for you? He said there was no sign— "
"My airplane was there, I was in the cave, there was a collapse…"
Greta shook her head. "I don't know about all that. It was a painful subject for both of us. I didn't want to remember." She glanced around. "My God, leave everything? My work, my home, my husband— "
"For happiness, Greta. You owe yourself that."
She looked torn. "All this is so sudden, so… bewildering. Papa appearing at my door, you back from the dead. I feel dazed." She shivered, collecting herself, then looked at him with fierce hope. "I want to start over, Owen. You must know that. I want to start over far from Germany and far from Antarctica."
"As far as we can get."
She nodded. "But I don't want to hurt Jürgen. I accepted his comfort. I must think about all this."
"Greta, you're all I've ever wanted. I couldn't bear to lose you again."
She sighed, torn. "When would we leave?"
"Now. We'll walk to your house for your things. Then we disappear before Jürgen even knows I'm alive." He put his hand out, fingered the chain of her locket.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "I must think." She held him away. "Think for myself instead of for the men in my life: you and Jürgen and Papa." She took a deep breath. "I'll give you my answer tomorrow, Owen. Here, at noon. I'll bring what I need to escape if I've decided to come with you. But you have to wait until then. Hide in the ruins and speak to no one."
"Greta, please! Life doesn't give many chances. We have to go now, before it's too late!"
She seemed to waver, then clenched her fists in resolve. "Are you going to meet my father?"
"Later." It was a groan.
"Tell him noon tomorrow." She put her finger to his lips. "Give me time, Owen. Time to listen to my head and to my heart."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Greta wandered the city's battered streets alone for a while, trying to reassert control over her emotions. She didn't expect happiness anymore. Not after losing her first husband, and then Owen, and then in a different way Jürgen: a man who'd taken her back and then come to regard their soulless union as his own fitting self-punishment, refusing to give her up and taking some kind of perverse strength from the pain of their proximity. She'd traded happiness for the surface accomplishments of home and career, traded hope for resignation, and dully moved through a succession of days. She waited, she supposed, for a bomb to take her.
Now she'd been shocked back into life. Shocked back to longing, to desire, and, yes, to betrayal. The impact of seeing Owen again was enough for her to consider leaving her husband, her home, her country, and the dry possessions of an empty existence. She could almost taste the promised freedom.
Her finger traced the golden chain around her neck, the penguin locket warmed by the skin of her breast. Jürgen had given her gift after gift and become frustrated that his presents didn't help but rather hurt, seeming to add to her self-imposed burden of sin at having let Owen die. She'd hated herself for hating Jürgen's effort. Now everything was turned upside down, her husband again a victim of her romantic confusion. She dreaded going back to their home to face him, dreaded having to decide whether to betray him once again. But autumn dusk was falling on an increasingly dangerous city and her town house beckoned as the only sensible destination. At its steps, she unfastened the locket and slipped it into a pocket of her dress.
"Frau Drexler! It's late, we were worried. Are you all right?"
"Yes, Ingrid." Greta pulled off her coat and handed it to the maid, who slung it over her arm. "I had to walk and think and lost track of time. Is Jürgen home?"
"No, not yet." Of course not yet. As the war deepened Drexler's days had grown longer. He often missed dinner, pleading work. Greta suspected a mistress, or at least the periodic whore, and was secretly relieved at not feeling guilt over that aspect of their estrangement as well. While polite and companionable in public, they slept in separate bedrooms in the too-large, echoing town house, rattling about while tens of thousands remained homeless from the bombing. The house's size allowed them to avoid their marriage.
"I won't be requiring a formal dinner tonight, Ingrid. I'm feeling a bit under the weather, and will just take a bite in my room. Tell Herr Drexler I retired early."
"As you wish. Today's caller, he— "
"Disturbed me, Ingrid. A face from the past. Please don't mention the visitor to my husband."
"As you wish." She bit her lip.
Ingrid confided that instruction to Arnold, the cook, as she collected a light dinner. "I think the Führer would say a German wife doesn't keep secrets," she commented disapprovingly.
"I think the Führer would say the German servant does what she is told," he responded.
Greta distractedly paced her suite, struggling with her emotions. Why hadn't she just run away with Owen? Why come back here to torture herself? Because she did retain some feelings for Jürgen, she told herself. For his loyalty, and for the pain of his disappointment when he realized she'd never love him as he loved her.
She sat on her bed and stared numbly at her open wardrobes. What would she take if she left? Practical clothes. Some money, but not all of it: she couldn't do that to Jürgen. Not much more than a shoulder bag to keep from arousing suspicion. The resulting narrow choice was daunting and yet it was odd how little the clothes meant to her now that she contemplated giving them up. They seemed like an anchor she could finally cut loose from. The problem was deciding to take anything of this past. She lay back on the bed, thinking of Owen, wishing she'd kissed him longer, wishing he were beside her now, wishing they'd never met and she didn't have this monstrous choice…
She awoke with a start. She'd fallen asleep. It was dark, the house quiet. Groggily she sat up and turned on a light. After midnight. There was a tray of untouched food that Ingrid had left on the night stand. Her bag and clothes were strewn next to her on the bed. She got up, went to the door, and opened it quietly. Downstairs was dark, the house filled with shadow. Everyone must be asleep. She closed the door again, restless, her mind churning. Perhaps she should draw a bath to relax.
She shed her clothes on the cold tile and waited impatiently for the tub to fill. Idly, she stooped to retrieve the locket from her dress pocket. The penguin would go in her shoulder bag until she and Owen were safely away. She opened the piece again and looked at the pebble, smiling to herself in remembrance: her fear of the cave, the frightening and strange lake, their lovemaking on the rough woolen blankets. Impulsively she closed the locket and slipped it on, looking at herself in the bathroom mirror. It hung just above her breasts as if nesting between two hills, its glow fueled by her own warmth. She studied herself critically, turning to look at her back, the swell of her hips. Would Owen still think her attractive? He'd told her she was pretty. She'd liked that. No one had told her that in a long time.
