The Other Side of Love (72 page)

He wheeled about. As he took the first step down, she squeezed the trigger. She was aiming at his back just below his left shoulder. There was no hesitation in the movement. She didn’t order him to halt.

The blast reverberated through every molecule of her body. The recoil thrust her backwards.

She kept her arm straight, firing again - the insurance shot, Sigi had called it. In this fraction of time, she thought of her brother, tortured to death in a cell below the PrinzAlbrechtstrasse Gestapo building, she thought of their mother’s cMfcaying corpse. She thought of Heinrich Leventhal, bone-thin and

“iding outside the door of the garage room, she thought of the smudged photographs of skeletal corpses stacked as neatly as cords of wood. She thought the word Stucke. Breathing in the acrid odour, she peered through the smoke.

Groener had somehow rotated so that he sprawled with his thick torso on the steps above his head. Still holding the service pistol, she edged down the steps to him. Mouth agape, eyes wide, he stared up at her in astonished horror.

There was no movement except the spreading redness on his uniform blouse.

Dead, she thought.

She had killed him.

For the first time she had killed.

A hot pleasure filled her, an atavistic elation that actually tasted

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like sweet liquid in her mouth. You shadows and ghosts, all of you out there, know that at least SS Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Groener suffered a little at the end.

“Holy fucking Christ!”

An American voice behind her.

Her arm was twisted, the pistol taken from her limp hand. She wanted to explain, but she sagged against her captor, abruptly too weak to talk.

IV

The ensuing tumult on the staircase disrupted the party. Men in various stages of inebriation jostled through the folded-back doors. The still-smoking pistol, the dead American major with his blood dripping on to the step below told the story.

“Jesus, it’s the frowline who’s under guard.”

“Isn’t she somehow connected to that Legal Department guy?”

“Kingsmith. Didn’t she shoot him, too?”

“Is he still in the hospital?”

barked the lieutenant from Special Service who had an unnecessary hammerlock hold on her.

“If he’s ambulatory, get him over here!”

Kathe was shunted into the manager’s windowless office. Erich huddled outside the locked door, his head bent into his upraised, scabbed knees. Festivities having come to an abrupt halt, the suddenly sober guests hung around the lobby describing their thoughts and emotions when they’d heard the two shots. Nobody could identify the corpse. So what? This was a hotel.

But the slain major had no papers. No dogtags. Further examination showed the lightning SS insignia tatooed on the underside of the left bicep.

Wyatt arrived just as Kathe was about to be interrogated. He identified the corpse as Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Groener. No, this wasn’t the man who had wounded him, but he was responsible for the shooting. A black-marketeer. A war criminal.

The manager’s office was unlocked. Erich rushed at Kathe. Lifting the child, she swayed then sank into a tapestry-covered chair.

Erich buried his face against her shoulder, locking his legs around her waist.

“Kathe, why did Uncle Kurt want to hurt us?”

His voice was shrill.

“Did the Amis hurt you?”

Wyatt answered:

“We’re proud of her. She’s very, very brave.”

Erich didn’t hear. He had burst into wild sobs. He sobbed while Kathe carried him upstairs, he sobbed while she helped him back on with his pyjamas. At last managing to stifle his sobs, he gripped her hand. She lay down, curving around him and stroking his moist forehead until he slept. Wyatt, who had waited in the other room, came to stand over the bed. Staring through the dim slant of light at the boy, he touched a knuckle lightly on the soft cheek.

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Til let Aubrey know,”

he whispered.

He demanded his call to Hamburg be put through immediately.

“Until I get them to England, they’ll be safest in our zone,”

Aubrey said.

Two Military Government translators were bumped, and just after dawn Kathe and Erich, rambunctious and nervously excited about his first time aloft, were airborne in adjoining wooden seats of a converted Sterling bomber. Aubrey installed them in the Hotel Atlantic, and then, according to direct orders from Major Downes, flew to London.

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Kathe descended from the train at Victoria Station turning to help Erich: he had already scrambled down the high steps. Aubrey had arranged their transport from the RAF airbase where they had landed, promising to meet their train - they were to stay at Porteous’s house. Looking around for Aubrey, Kathe rested one hand lightly but reassuringly on her son’s shoulder. She could feel the rapid rise and fall of his breath. In the crowded first-class compartment the little boy had been silent, gazing through the drizzle-streaked window at the wintry countryside, and she had known that the thought Enemy territory filled his consciousness because the train wheels were rumbling the same words to her. She also had kept mute.

Standing on tiptoe, she again scanned the crowed. A tall, slight British army officer stood at the far end of the platform. He turned, and she saw he didn’t in the least resemble Aubrey.

“Aubrey must have been delayed somewhere,”

she said after the platform had cleared.

“We’ll take a taxi-cab.”

Hearing the German, a man in a bowler gave her a sharp hostile glance, and the porter pointedly wheeled his cart by her. She picked up the light battered suitcase that held their earthly possessions, transferring her handbag to under that arm, extending her free hand to Erich.

He clutched her tightly. It wasn’t only being in England. He had been subdued - for him anyway - since the shooting. Kathe, still depleted and tense, had often reassured him that he’d acted like a

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hero, that Groener had been a bad man and wasn’t really his uncle. The child invariably had turned away.

In the taxi queue he stood docile at her side, and after she gave her grandfather’s address he shifted close to her on the black leather seat.

How battered the British capital was! Despite the gloating newsreels of the Blitz, she had never fully expected that she would see the same yellow weeds growing inside the facades of buildings, the same craters as in the Reich. The pedestrians, too, bore a striking resemblance to their German counterparts. Though none of the men and women slanting their umbrellas against the drizzle wore rags, the English coats were shabby, the children’s clothes showed patches, the faces of the elderly had the greyish cast that comes from a overly starchy diet. Victor and vanquished alike had suffered. What madness inside the human heart could bring about such misery? The devastation couldn’t all be laid at Hitler’s feet; he was, after all, only one man. Was there a lemming-like recessive gene that made the human race susceptible to being led over the precipice to war? Did all of us await that martial beat? Yes, even her own tongue had tasted the sweetness of blood vengeance.

She realized that Erich was looking up at her, his expression oddly tragic for a child.

Stroking his hair, she said:

“It’s a funny feeling being here in England, isn’t it?”

“I’m not worried.”

His voice wavered.

“You’re braver than I am,”

Rathe said,

“‘s hard being in the middle of all the Tommis. But I don’t feel so bad

“hen I remember my father was English.”

“Is that true?”

“Absolutely true. He was born here in London.”

She added softly:

“He’s dead now, but he’s still part of me.”

“I wish you were my mother.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she hugged him closer to her side. But I am, darling. I am your mother.”

He wrenched away.

“My mother was from Diisseldorf.”

“She wasn’t your real mother. She took care of you during the war, when I couldn’t. But as soon as the fighting stopped I looked t°r you and looked for you. I looked everywhere until I found

you.”

He wiggled across the seat to press his nose against the taxi wmdow. As they curved around Hyde Park he attempted to make sense of this new information. Turning, he asked hopefully:

“So I’m part Tommi, too?”

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‘Yes, you’re a quarter English. And in a minute you’ll meet a very old Englishman who’s your great-grandfather.”

The taxi pulled up in the Bayswater Road. The tall house was far shabbier than in her memory. The handsome ironwork railing was -gone, the attic windows were boarded, cream-coloured paint flaked on the entry pillars. Mrs Plum, greyer and more shapeless, opened the door. As she surveyed Rathe and Erich her mouth drew into a thin line. Without a word, the housekeeper flung open the doors to the drawingroom. Here at least all was as Kathe remembered. The smell of beeswax and metal, the pampas grass feathering from tall China Export vases, the Victorian balled fringe on the pulled-back velvet curtains, the predatory flocks of silver birds.

Porteous stood in front of the fireplace. The last time she had seen him, that crises-racked summer of 1939, he had been an erect old man. Now he crouched over a gold-topped cane, his feet encased in matted sheepskin bedroom slippers but otherwise formally clad. The wing-collar stood out from his wrinkled throat, his frock-coat appeared a hand-me-down from a giant. The pink skull showed clearly beneath his brushed silver hair. The skin of his face and jaw sagged in translucent folds, like the smocking of a very fine white christening gown.

Kathe trembled with the effort of holding back her tears.

The sightless eyes were fixed on her.

“Welcome home, my Kate,”

he said. Even his voice had withered and shrunk.

“Oh, Grandpa.”

She ran across the room to hug him. His body seemed nothing more than a collection of loose bones encased in camphor-odoured cloth.

“Grandpa, how I’ve missed you.”

Lifting a hand, he felt her face.

“No, none of that nonsense, my girl. No tears. Ah, how sweet it is to have you here with me.”

They stood hugging each other, then Porteous pulled away.

“But where’s Wyatt?”

“Wyatt? You mean Aubrey.”

Tm not in my dotage yet,”

he said, smiling.

“I know my grandsons apart. But, if he’s not with you, where is that young American rascal? He left two hours ago to pick you up.”

“Kathe?”

Porteous’s head turned towards the child’s voice.

“Eh? What’s all this?”

She had briefly forgotten her son.

“Grandpa, this is Erich.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve been hearing about Erich. Come over here, lad.”

Erich, feet lagging, came towards them. Porteous rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Most children, Kathe thought, would shrink

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from so ancient a man. Erich stood straight and unflinching.

“Can you speak English?”

“Ein - a bit,”

retorted Erich. Then blurted out,

“Kathe’s my Mutter.”

“Yes, Aubrey said something to that effect.”

“So you is mein Grossvater.”

“Great-grandfather,”

Kathe corrected softly.

“My eyes are a bit on the bad side, so I touch faces.”

The thin, veined hand touched Erich’s features.

“A Kingsmith,”

he pronounced.

“A bit like you and a bit like poor Alfred, but there’s someone else …” The fingers caressed the child’s shoulder.

“So it seems I have two great-grandsons.”

Erich couldn’t have fully understood, yet he scowled.

“You have a cousin, a boy,”

Kathe said in German.

“But he’s younger.”

“How old?”

“About three.”

“Ha! A baby.”

“There’s Wyatt,”

Porteous said before Kathe heard the sound of a car pulling up.

“In weather like this Mrs Plum’s rheumatism acts up and she can’t rush about. Answer the door, Kate, will you? Erich, do you understand present?”

“Ein Geschenk a gift?”

“Exactly. Come along with me. I shouldn’t be surprised if we find something or other for my older great-grandson.”

IV

As she opened the door, Wyatt was locking the car. Good heavens, it was Uncle Euan’s treasured Daimler! Bulitvhy not? Wyatt was Uncle Euan’s son-in-law. w

Looking up, Wyatt gazed at her, raising a hand as if the wintry greyness dazzled him. Clearing his throat, he said in a husky voice:

“Sorry I missed you.”

“I was looking for Aubrey.”

“They announced the wrong platform. Did Erich meet Grandfather?”

“It went better than I hoped. He’s feeling very swank about being an older cousin.”

Wyatt came up the steps to stand next to her. A gust of wet wind tore around them yet he stood at the open front door scrutinizing her.

“There ought to be some brilliant way to put this, Kathe,”

he said.

“Ut, if there is, it escapes me. Aubrey told me about Erich.”