The Folks at Fifty-Eight (17 page)

“I know I’ve had just about enough of this crap.”

He stormed away and up the stairs to his room, feeling flustered and embarrassed, and not entirely understanding why. Minutes later, she was tapping on the door.

“What is it?”

She peeped demurely around the door and offered him his coffee.

“I’m sorry. I was only playing a silly game. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never hurt you. I owe you everything: my freedom, my life, everything. Please don’t hate me.”

Hammond suddenly felt churlish.

“I don’t hate you. Why would you think that?”

“Because men either want to have me and use me, or they hate me. They never just like me for who I am. It’s always been the same.”

She sat down beside him and passed him his coffee, pressing firmly against him, with her eyes downcast. Hammond drew back. Suddenly he knew why he had felt flustered and embarrassed. He steadied his coffee with two hands and mumbled his answer.

“Well I don’t hate you, I like you. But now, I think I should drink this downstairs.”

“You don’t have to go.”

“Yes I do.”

He bolted from the room and charged downstairs, but on reaching the hallway took a deep breath before strolling nonchalantly into the kitchen.

“She apologized.”

“Oh did she?”

The old woman didn’t disguise the smile. He maintained the façade of nonchalance.

“Yes. Poor kid, she can’t have had much of a life.”

“I suppose not.”

“Having a father like that, mixed up with all those lunatics; growing up in such a place at such a time. It’s a wonder she survived with any sanity at all.”

“If you say so.”

“Maybe I’ve been too hard on her. Perhaps I should try to be a bit more understanding.”

“Oh, I’m sure she would appreciate that.”

He tried and failed to ignore the twinkle in her eyes and the half-smile playing on her lips.

“All right, what’s so amusing? Come on, out with it.”

The old woman answered from behind the same half-smile.

“You know it’s funny, but I’d forgotten how gullible men can be. It’s refreshing to see how an attractive young woman can still so easily manipulate the strongest of men.”

Hammond bristled.

“What do you mean? She’s not manipulating me.”

“Oh, isn’t she now?”

“Of course not; that’s ridiculous. I just think we should be more understanding of everything she’s been through. She’s still only a child, you know.”

“Did you just say, we?”

“Yes, I think we should both make more of an effort. I know she’s. . .”

A sudden sound from outside had distracted him: the sound of footsteps, approaching the house. The footsteps stopped. Someone tapped lightly on the door. The old woman rose from her chair. She waved him into the hallway. He grabbed the automatic, headed out of the kitchen and silently closed the door behind him. Then he listened from the hallway.

“What is it? is there somebody. . . ?”

Catherine Schmidt stood at the top of the stairs. He shook his head and put a finger to his lips in a noiseless instruction. For once the reaction was instantaneous. She sat dutifully and quietly on the top step, while he checked the automatic and prepared for the worst.

He could hear the sounds of the old woman talking to someone, a man, he thought. The words were indistinct, and the voices low. The muffled conversation continued for almost five minutes. Then the voices stopped and he heard the back door close.

“It’s all right. You can come back now.”

He returned to the kitchen, with the girl in tow. They found the old woman sitting in her rocking-chair and looking thoughtful.

“It seems we were asking the wrong questions, about Beria and Paslov and why they wanted young Catherine so badly. All this time, we’ve been asking the wrong questions.”

“What do you mean? What wrong questions? Who was that?”

“We shouldn’t be asking why the Russians want her so badly. We should be asking ourselves why the Americans sent you to get her. So why did they send you?”

“Who was at the door?”

“Answer the question. Why did the Americans send you?”

Hammond shrugged. He had no answer that would sound in any way credible. He couldn’t tell her that he’d taken the job in desperation, and hadn’t cared who he was supposed to rescue, or why. He answered matter-of-factly, feeling more than a little foolish.

“I don’t know. They just said who I had to get, and that it was important I got her out and back to Frankfurt.”

“And you didn’t think to ask these people who she was, or why she was so important to them? You didn’t think of asking them for a reason before you risked your life?”

“They felt it was safer for everyone if I didn’t know. I decided they were right.”

“And chivalrous, gum-chewing Sir Galahad flew straight here on his white charger, to rescue a damsel in distress from the fire-breathing Russian ogre?”

Hammond looked guiltily back at her.

“It wasn’t exactly like that. They had me in a wringer.”

“I just bet they did.”

The old woman sat quietly. Hammond’s mind was racing. A clearly impatient Catherine Schmidt looked from one to the other.

“Will somebody tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

The old woman smiled without humour.

“That’s something we’d all like to know, young lady. Perhaps you’d like to tell me who Martin Kube is?”

Catherine’s face suddenly fell. For a few moments she said nothing. When she finally answered, her voice trembled with uncertainty.

“Martin Kube is dead.”

The old woman shook her head.

“No, he isn’t. He’s working for the Americans.”

“But that can’t be.”

“Our man in Paslov’s office overheard Beria and Paslov talking about this man Kube, working for the Americans.”

Hammond had no idea who Kube was, but Catherine obviously did. Her face had drained of colour and she was shaking. He reached out and took her hand.

“So, who is he?”

She seemed not to hear the question. She looked lost in thought, her eyes glazed and unfocused, but then she nodded quietly and began to talk.

“Martin Kube was a Kriminaldirektor with the Gestapo. He worked for my father, in Berlin. My father sometimes invited him for dinner. My mother hated him. At first she put up with him, because he worked with my father, but then he started coming over to the house all the time, and in the end she said something. I heard my parents arguing about it, one night. My mother said it wasn’t enough that he was fat, and short, and bald, and ugly; he also smelled. My father laughed. He said it wasn’t Kube’s fault, but then she said there was something else about him, something that made her feel uncomfortable. He asked her what, but she wouldn’t say.”

Hammond cut in.

“Did you know what she meant?”

“Not at that time. At that time I didn’t understand any of it. I was only eleven. I thought he was nice, because he always brought presents for me, and took me to the park. I used to love going to the park. We used to play French tennis.”

Catherine sat quietly. Hammond could see her fighting back the tears.

“He was the only one who ever took any notice of me. My father used to spend so much time at work, and my mother used to spend a lot of time down at Lake Como. We had a villa there. She never took us. She and my father argued about it; they were arguing a lot at that time. He said she must have a lover there. He never did trust the Italians. She said he couldn’t have blamed her if she had. They hardly spoke to each other after that.”

“Us?”

Hammond had picked up on something she’d said. It seemed to disrupt her train of thought, because she looked blankly back and said,

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You said: she never took us to Lake Como. Who did you mean?”

“Oh, yes. I have an older brother; I haven’t seen him for years. In fact I have two brothers; well, one brother and one half-brother, from my father’s first wife. I’ve never met him.”

“Where are they now?”

She shrugged and shook her head.

“My father never talked about his first wife. My mother told me about my half-brother, but my other brother, Thomas, was at university in England. He was very clever. He used to come home sometimes, but when my mother and father started fighting, he stopped coming. Thomas hated the Nazis. He said they would destroy Germany. He never did understand. In the end my father refused to mention his name, but I loved him, and I missed him.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“No. I haven’t seen or heard from him in years.”

Hammond was working through the detail in his mind. Perhaps one of the brothers had somehow organized her rescue. Perhaps this was the link between a beautiful and disturbed young woman, and the covert intervention of the mighty U.S. State Department. Then she started talking about Kube, and he realised just how naive his thought process had been.

She said it had been on her twelfth birthday. Kube brought her a new dress. She was so happy. She said it was pink, with little blue flowers. When she put it on, Kube said she looked so grown-up. He suggested they go to the park, but said she should leave the racquet and ball; they could play hide-and-seek instead.

“It was my turn to hide, and so I hid in some bushes. Martin found me easily, because I was giggling. At first he laughed, too, and began tickling me. Then he stopped laughing.

“He pinned me to the grass and lifted my dress. He pulled down my knickers, and said he was going to teach me a new game. I didn’t understand. I thought he was going to spank me.

“After that he came to the house every weekend, and always took me to the park. We would go in the evening, when it was quiet. He used to give me chocolate and tell me not to say anything. He said if I ever spoke of it we would both get into trouble.”

Hammond felt numb. He was thinking back to the time she had spoken about her mother’s death. For one so young to have seen so much and suffered so much was shocking. This wasn’t the femme fatale who had earlier teased and embarrassed him. This was a frightened child. At that moment he just wanted to put his arms around her and comfort her; hold her, ease her pain, tell her everything was all right now, and help her to forget all those terrible memories.

When he asked why nobody had confronted Kube or tried to stop him, she said nobody knew. When the family moved to Warsaw, Martin Kube was posted there, too. When her father was transferred to Prague, Kube followed. She couldn’t get away from him. In Prague, Kube became bolder, and began taking her back to his rooms at Petschek Palace.

She said, as time passed, her mother began to suspect the truth, but she spent most of her time in Berlin or down at Como. On the few occasions her mother did visit she didn’t dare say anything to Kube, and Catherine’s father had always been too busy to notice.

Hammond asked what happened when her father was killed. She sat for a moment, staring into space as she gathered more memories. When she started to tell the story, he saw her pain, and cursed himself for asking.

“I remember that day so clearly. My father came home at lunchtime. It was unusual; he normally only ever came home late at night. I remember he looked so sad. He said that some cowards had tried to kill Uncle Reinhard.”

“Uncle Reinhard?”

“Reinhard Heydrich. He wasn’t my real uncle, of course, but I liked him very much. He was always so nice to me. He and my father were good friends. My father didn’t believe Uncle Reinhard would die. He said he was indestructible, and that it would take more than a cowardly ambush to kill him. Then my father gave me a kiss and went back to work.

“I only found out that they’d killed him, too, when Martin came to the house that night.

“It was very late. He woke me. He looked upset. I thought he was going to tell me that Uncle Reinhard had died. Then he said the same cowards who had tried to kill Uncle Reinhard had killed my father. I couldn’t believe it.”

As Catherine recounted those events, the tears finally began to flow. Hammond tried to imagine how she must have felt. So much death and suffering; it was no wonder she had felt the need to strike back.

“That was the worst moment of my life; even worse than that moment in the park. My mother wanted to take me back to Berlin, but Martin said he had promised my father that he would look after me. There was nothing she could do.”

“But she was your mother. She had the right to take you with her.”

She smiled another weak smile, and shook her head.

“You don’t understand. Martin personally knew the Fűhrer, and he was Himmler’s favourite. I hated Himmler; he looked so creepy, but he controlled everything. My father and Uncle Reinhard didn’t like him either. They always laughed at him. My father once called him a barbarian chicken herder. Uncle Reinhard smiled, but he didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t think of it at the time, but I always felt so safe when they were with me. Nobody dared disobey them, not Frank, not Martin Kube, even Himmler was wary. But suddenly they were both gone, and I felt so frightened and so alone.”

Catherine went on to talk more about Prague. She said, after her father’s death, life wasn’t too bad. Kube allowed her to run wild, providing she returned to his bed each night, and she began mixing with some of the many unsavoury characters in occupied Prague. She learnt many of their skills in survival and scavenging. They were skills she would come to rely on in those dangerous months following Germany’s surrender. She said she learnt something else, too. She learnt about men. She learnt about their lust and their weaknesses. She learnt how to manipulate them by using her body, and then, one day, she learnt about their fears.

“By that time we lived mostly at Petschek Palace. One morning someone came up to the room. He said a patrol had captured one of the people who had helped the cowards kill Uncle Reinhard and my father. Martin went downstairs to see the man. He took me with him. He told me the man was very stubborn, and wouldn’t say who else had helped them. He said maybe the man would tell me.

“I went into the room and saw the man. He was naked and strapped to a chair. He was bleeding and he was bruised and in a bad way, but he wouldn’t say anything. When Martin told him who I was, he looked at me, but still said nothing. When I asked him about my father, he looked straight through me.