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 Jurgen: 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. Jurgen 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 Jurgen'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 Jurgen 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 Fuhrer would say a German wife doesn't keep secrets," she commented disapprovingly.
"I think the Fuhrer 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 Jurgen, 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 Jurgen. 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.
She went to the tub, shut off the taps, and carefully stepped in. The water was hot, her feet tingling after the chill of the tile floor. She stood a moment in pleasure as steam rose to dew on her hair, the down of the soft delta between her thighs curling slightly. Then she lowered herself, gasping gratefully, and lay back, floating in the heat. She felt herself calm as the warmth crept inside her. She looked down. Her breasts floated like twin icebergs, the penguin swimming between them, and the image brought a smile. Meeting Owen already seemed like a dream except that here was tangible evidence, smooth and hard. For nearly six years he'd carried this jewelry! It was an amazing thought.
She soaped a sponge and squeezed. A glacier of suds slid down from her neck to melt into the Southern Ocean. Greta, the white continent! She let her knees break clear of the water. Atropos Island! Her lap was the volcanic caldera and the cave, well, she knew where that was… She felt herself there. It was as if her body was awakening from a long slumber. Faintly embarrassed, she pulled her fingers away.
Her mind had hibernated as well, she realized. Owen's reported death had destroyed her interest in Antarctica. She'd published no papers and written no reports from the voyage, which was veiled in official secrecy anyway. It was beginning to come back to her now: the whales, the krill, her microscope, the hideous petri dishes and their spawn…
She hugged herself. Think of Owen, she told herself. Think of his strong hands, his mouth on your throat.
The whales! The war had severely curtailed research of the natural world. Her university supervisors remained condescending and opportunities to collect new specimens had been shut off. It had become impossible even to keep up with developments in biology. And after the inevitable German defeat, what then? It would not be easy for the country's scientists. In America, however, science would explode. Could she reconstruct a career? The possibility intrigued her.
She was going to leave with Owen, she realized. The decision had been made. She was planning a future, something she hadn't done in a long time.
Then the lights went out.
Startled, she sat upright. It wasn't unusual to have the power fail during the raids. And yes, there it was, the mournful wail of an air raid siren prodding at the sleeping city in the night. Damn. She'd never been caught in the bath before, and it was disorienting. She stood, water streaming off her. Doors were slamming as Arnold and Ingrid and Jurgen hurried downstairs.
She was so tired of retreating to the cellar in the night. But then that was the point of the raids, wasn't it? To make Jerry tired.
She lifted one foot out of the tub, put her weight on it, and slipped, coming down with a crash. Water sloshed out with her, spilling across the floor. "Clumsy, Greta." She fumbled in the dark for towels. It felt comical to be mopping naked on her hands and knees in the dark. The siren droned on.
She stood finally, sore, and felt her way to the bathroom door. Her bedroom was just as dark. She groped toward the end table with her arms outstretched, scolding herself, planning to find the oil lamp and matches so she could have light to get dressed.
Then the door burst open.
"Greta!"
It was Jurgen. He was dressed in hastily pulled on trousers and a sleeveless undershirt, holding a lamp. Instinctively she used her hands to cover what she could of herself and they both froze a moment in surprise.
He hadn't seen her nude in years. He stared, his intended statement choked off.
"What are you doing here?" she managed. "You should be in the cellar."
"So should you." He closed the door behind him and stepped forward, emboldened by their words. "I was worried when you didn't come. I thought perhaps you hadn't awakened with the sirens." His voice was hoarse. His eyes roamed her.
She didn't like it. She turned and briskly lifted her bed's comforter, heedlessly spilling her bag and clothes on the floor. She pulled it around her, standing straighter. "This is my room. You never come to my room."
He set the lamp on a table, aroused now, irked at her covering. "Our room. We're married, remember?"
"My room. You know you keep to your own, that was your decision as much as mine. My goodness, you frightened me, storming in like that. The bombers caught me in the bath. I nearly broke a leg."
He was looking at her hungrily, sadly. She looked away. It made her uncomfortable. Guilty. "We'd better get to the cellar." She limped to a dresser and pulled out a nightgown. "Please don't watch." Surprisingly, he obeyed. She dropped the comforter and swiftly pulled the bedclothes over herself while his eyes cast impatiently about the room. They came to the heap by the bed. A look of doubt appeared. When she tried to move past him he caught her arm.
"Wait." He pointed to the clothes and bag. "What's that? Are you going somewhere?"
She looked at the heap as if surprised it was there. "I'm simply sorting clothes."
"In the middle of the night?"
"Jurgen, I fell asleep!" They could begin to hear the stuttering pop of antiaircraft guns. "Hurry, we must go." She pulled but his grip tightened.
"A bath too, in the middle of the night?"
"To help me get back to sleep! Stop holding me!"
He seized her then by both shoulders, yanking her close. "I'll hold you all I wish. I'm your husband, dammit!"
"Jurgen!" She twisted in his grasp. She couldn't stand this intimacy, not now, not this night. "If you don't let us get down to the cellar we're both going to be killed!"
He bent then to kiss her, roughly, angrily, and she turned her face away. "Stop it!" Pulling one arm free, she slapped him, the impact stinging her palm. "Get control of yourself!"
For a fraction of a second he looked shocked. Then he instinctively shoved. She went flying backward, slamming down on her bed with a whoof.
They glared at each other, panting. Somewhere they heard the dull concussion of falling bombs. Finally he nodded, sneering. "Fine. Find your own way to the cellar. Live alone, frigid. Like an ice queen." He picked up the lamp and moved toward the door, stopping to contemplate her. "You know, I've given you everything, Greta. In return for nothing."
"No," she said without thinking. "I lost everything."
"Bitch." He seized the handle to go out. Then he stopped, hesitated and swung about again. "What did you say?"
She was silent.
"What do you mean you lost everything? When? What are you referring to?"
"Jurgen, just go."
He was suspicious now. He raised the lamp, peering at her. "What's that?"
Her heart began to accelerate. "What's what?"
"That thing. On your neck." He walked into the room again, striding toward the bed.
Instinctively her hand went up to her throat. She'd forgotten she was still wearing the locket. "Just some jewelry." She grasped it in protection. "Leave it alone."
His hand fastened over hers, the powerful fingers prying hers open. Then he grabbed the locket and yanked, the chain snapping. He held it up. The golden penguin swung rhythmically in the dim light.
She stared at it dumbly.
"A penguin." He said this flatly, considering. "Shades of Antarctica. An odd choice, given our history. I don't recall giving you this."
She was flushed, her skin prickling. She hoped he couldn't notice in the lamplight. "I found it myself. In a shop two Christmases ago, when we went to Bavaria."
"Really?" He snapped it open. "Hope," he read. "Now there's an appropriate sentiment for this stage of the war." He turned the locket over and the small pebble fell into his palm. "And a piece of grit left inside! Sloppy, no?" He tossed it onto the carpet where it was lost in the dark, watching the frantic flicker of her eyes. "Yet I don't remember this piece. And I remember everything."
The thud of bombs was growing in volume. She closed her eyes. "Jurgen, please, let's go to the cellar where it's safe."
"This wouldn't have caught my attention except for the visitor you had today. Some mysterious older man. And then you put on your outdoor coat and disappear in a hurry, not returning until dark. Why was that, Greta?"
"I think you're mistaken."
"Not according to Ingrid." He smiled thinly. "Ingrid, who knows better than to keep secrets from me."
"Ingrid is a silly gossip who exaggerates."
He laughed. "I think it's called telling the truth, my dear."
"If she is talking behind my back I want her fired!"
"When you have no power, Greta, everyone betrays you. Everyone." He dangled the penguin in front of her face. "A mysterious visitor, a new bauble, the disorder of packing. My darling wife, what is going on?"
Another bomb, closer this time. The window rattled.
"How dare you pry into my private business!"
"How dare you keep things from me." He swung the penguin again from his fingers, studying her carefully. She watched as if hypnotized, thinking desperately. She dared not betray Owen.
"It… it's from my father," she finally stammered. "He came today. A quick visit as he passes through." Ingrid, she knew, might have passed on a description that Jurgen would recognize as fitting Kohl.
"Ah." He flipped the piece up and bunched it in his fist, then looked hard at her. "Otto in Berlin? How surprising. I thought he'd disappeared in France."
"He just showed up. I was startled. He gave the locket to me. He said he got it in… Paris. That it reminded him of me, of the expedition. He's worried about the bombing and invited me to… to accompany him on a trip. A business trip. I was going to ask you about it at breakfast."
Drexler's face was impassive. "I see."
"There's no secret, Jurgen…"
"Ingrid thought there was."
"You know how she jumps to conclusions- "
"Silence!" He probed. "And were you going to come back from this trip?"
She looked at him then a long time, summoning her courage. This was the point of no return, wasn't it? This was the time to finally tell the truth, to him and to herself. "No. I'm leaving you, Jurgen." She tried to keep her voice steady, but it caught. He still thinks Owen is dead, she reminded herself.
"So." His face betrayed the hollowness that Antarctica had left in their relationship. "You're leaving me. Here, now, at a time when Germany is in such crisis."
"I don't love you anymore." Her voice was a whisper but she realized suddenly that the statement was true. "I never learned to love you as a wife should and I want to get out from under the threat of the bombs. There's nothing in our marriage to hold me here. Papa knows that. He's known for a long time."
Drexler looked as if he was in physical pain. "When? When will you leave?"
"Tomorrow, I think."
"My God. How long have you been planning this?"
"I haven't planned it. It… just… happened. I'm sorry, Jurgen. You should leave Berlin too. But not with me."
"I can't abandon the Reich." His tone was still stunned. "I'll never abandon the Reich. You know that."
She nodded. "I know. And I won't sacrifice my life for it. Not anymore. I want my life back, Jurgen. I want me back. We each thought we could change the other and we failed."
His eyes roamed the room as if looking for a clue. "But I still love you." It was plaintive. There was another boom and the window rattled nervously. The bombs were getting closer.
"I'm sorry, Jurgen. Please, let's go to the cellar. If that window shatters we could be hurt."
He nodded but didn't move. "Is this why Otto sneaked back? To get you?"
She shrugged.
He was thinking aloud. "Yet why would a coward like Otto Kohl risk coming back to Berlin? To fetch a daughter he's ignored his whole life? Somehow I doubt it. To fetch some ill-gotten money? His war profiteering? That, I could understand."
"Jurgen, the bombs…" There was another explosion, nearer, and the window rattled again.
"And how did he get here?"
"Jurgen, I don't know. Please…"
"And he buys you jewelry…?" He looked at the penguin, puzzled. Then he slipped it in his pocket. "Well. Would you have informed me at all if we hadn't had this little confrontation? I doubt it. Left even a note? Probably not."
She cast her eyes downward.
"I might have followed, you know."
"Jurgen, please. This is hard. I don't want to hurt you. Just let me go."
"Ah, of course. Just say goodbye to six years of marriage. Poof! Well. It's charming, this little reunion of yours with Papa, but I feel left out- as I'm sure you can see. Otto Kohl magically materializes? Very odd. I think I want Otto to come for dinner tomorrow night. My curiosity has been aroused. We'll discuss the future then, yes?"
Greta swallowed and nodded. She'd be gone by then.
"And you'll let me go?"
Another bomb went off, and he stood. "I've never wanted a woman who doesn't want me." His voice was strained as he said it. "Hurry then! Let's go to the cellar."
The next morning there was a stranger in Greta's kitchen. He wore a black SS uniform and was reading the newspaper as if he owned the place. His chair was positioned near the rear door.
"Who's this?" Greta demanded.
The security policeman gave no answer. Ingrid, making an elaborate show of polishing the teapot, glanced at the man as if noticing him for the first time. "Your husband invited him here for your security," she said. She avoided Greta's eye.
"I need no special security."
"Herr Drexler said you do." Now the maid looked at her smugly, as if this had been just what she expected. Greta could have strangled her.
"Oh really? And where is Herr Drexler?"
"He's gone out."
"Then I'm going out too." She marched to the front foyer to fetch her coat. There was a second SS man there, his chair by the door. He watched her impassively as she put the coat on, saying nothing. When she moved toward the door he stood politely, braced.
"I'm sorry, Frau Drexler. Your husband has deemed it unsafe to go outside today. We've been asked to ensure your protection in this house."
"Nonsense. I have an appointment. Get out of the way."
"I'm sorry, Frau Drexler."
She hesitated. "Am I a prisoner in my own home?"
"I'm sorry, Frau Drexler. May I take your coat?"
She stood in the foyer, frightened and furious. The night had been dreadful and she was tired. Jurgen had said nothing more during the air raid but appeared to be brooding. Instead of going to his bed after the bombing he'd gone to his study and began working the telephone, searching for intact lines. She'd been furious with him for keeping her locket but feared that an argument over the jewelry might betray Owen. So she'd gone to her own room but couldn't sleep, worrying how much he'd guessed. Their own telephone had rung early in the morning and Jurgen answered immediately. Now he was gone.
If she missed the noon rendezvous, Papa and Owen might dare come here…
Did Jurgen really think her so hapless?
She surrendered her coat to the sentry. "Well. In that case." Greta retreated to the dining room and ate breakfast alone. What did Jurgen know? What would Jurgen do? She went to the study to check the cache of Reichsmarks and gold coin they'd stored for an emergency. It was gone, of course.
She had to act before he did.
"If I am to be a prisoner in my own house," she announced loudly in the kitchen, "then I'm going to take a nap. I barely slept last night." Ingrid and Arnold avoided her defiant gaze. They knew something was seriously wrong. "You two," she said, pointing at them, "had better dust and polish thoroughly for once. My father is coming tonight." Arnold shot Ingrid a sour look. "I'll check on your progress at noon."
She packed hurriedly, her mind set and her indecision gone. Underwear, a pair of trousers, a sweater. She wore a wool dress and the boots from yesterday, plus her strand of pearls. Maybe they could be hocked if the couple needed money. She found the pebble on her bedroom carpet, wrapped it in a fragment of ribbon, and slipped it inside her bra. "Hope," she whispered to herself, touching the bump.
She glanced about her room but felt no nostalgia. It had been a cell long before this morning. Shouldering her bag, she slipped out of the bedroom and locked the door behind her. Then she climbed to the fourth-floor servants' quarters and went to the attic hatchway, reaching up to pull. A ladder descended. "Goodbye, Jurgen," she whispered. She climbed and closed the hatchway behind her.
The attic was dark, illuminated only by the small portholes of round dormer windows on the slanting slate roof. Unlike the rest of the house they weren't covered with blackout coverings because there were no electric lights. The floorboards were thick with dust and littered by mouse droppings. She'd seen workmen use the attic to reach the roof for repairs.
She went to the small dormer windows. The front one appeared to be painted shut but the rear had a latch, she saw. She moved the lock open and pushed. The window didn't budge. She shoved harder. Did she need some kind of a tool? She felt foolish in her ignorance; what if she'd had to escape this way someday because of a fire? She considered, then put her shoulder bag to her shoulder and ran against the window. It popped open with a bang.
She waited a moment. No sound from below.
She looked out. The overcast was breaking up, the air cold. The slate roofing tiles looked steep and slick. She was on the rear side of the town house and beyond the lead gutter was a dizzying drop of three and a half stories to the small garden below. Pulling herself out a bit, she looked up. The peak of the roof was about a body's length away and led to the flatter roof of the Haupsteds' next door.
She could hear the faint sound of the telephone shrilling. What if it was for her?
There really was no alternative.
Using her arms she boosted herself out through the window and balanced awkwardly on the sill, facing the roof. Leaning against the slate without looking down, she stepped precariously up onto the top of the small dormer roof. Slowly she stretched upright, her hands sliding up the tiles of the main roof, the pebble between her breast and the slippery slate. Not quite far enough. She pushed up on the balls of her feet, feeling her toes begin to slip as she stretched frantically. Finally her fingers closed over the ridge. Yes! She pulled, scrabbling with her knees, and got her torso and then a leg over the ridge. Then she was straddling the roof, breathing hard.
She looked down at the street. The tree branches were a lacy net. A municipal worker was sawing one off, his obscuring hat like a saucer. He would black market the wood as fuel, she suspected.
She hiked herself along the roof peak until she reached the Haupsteds', where she could shakily walk on the flat crown of their mansard roof. There were four roofs to the corner, two ridged like her own. One by one she mastered them, moving as quickly as she could, remembering her climbing in the cave. At the end of her block was an iron ladder leading to a balcony below. She waited until the residential street was empty of traffic, climbed down, and then dropped from the balcony, hitting the street cobbles and slightly twisting an ankle. She glanced about. No one seemed to be peering through the curtains of the surrounding houses. At the corner she looked again. There was only the wood thief on her own street. She would have confronted him if she had time. Instead, she took a deep breath. Freedom! Limping slightly, she headed for the Frederick statue. Just once did she look back at her home.
She smiled at the thought of the SS sentries sitting arrogantly in her entry.
As she walked away the tree trimmer straightened to watch her disappearing form, then dropped his saw, climbed down, and ran lightly up to her front door, giving a quick knock. It swung open and an SS sentry looked out.
"You can tell Colonel Drexler she's on her way," he said. "Gunther will pick up the tail on the avenue."
The man nodded. "He's already arrested his father-in-law and found an airplane with American markings. Amazing what one learns about one's relatives, no? Kohl is beginning to talk."
The SS agent threw off his hat and began peeling the coat and baggy pants that concealed his uniform. "Foolish woman."
"She doesn't appreciate how lucky she is, married to a powerful Standartenfuhrer."
"Yes. And if she's married to Colonel Drexler, she should know there's no escape from the Reich."