“The one thing wrong with a Horche is that they are as unmanageable on ice as a cow,” Peter said, returning the salute with a smile. He reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and extended both his identity card and the teletype from the Oberkommando der Luftwaffe (General Headquarters, Air Force), which ordered Hauptmann von Wachtstein to present himself as soon as the press of his duties permitted, but no longer than forty-eight hours from the time the message had been sent, to the office of the Chief of Protocol.
“A magnificent vehicle, Herr Hauptmann,” the Feldwebel said. “Is it yours?”
“My father’s,” Peter said.
“And your father is?”
“Generalmajor Graf von Wachtstein.”
That wasn’t exactly true. The car had been Karl’s. Peter had been using it ever since word came that the eldest of the three von Wachtstein sons had laid down his life for the Führer and the Fatherland in some unknown Russian village. But Karl, his father’s namesake, had been only an Oberstleutnant (a lieutenant colonel); and Feldgendarmerie Feldwebels could be counted upon to be far more impressed with a Generalmajor than an Oberstleutnant.
“Thank you, Herr Hauptmann,” the Feldwebel said, returning Peter’s identity card and the yellowish sheet of teletype paper. He turned and blew a small brass whistle. Peter had seen and heard them before; they reminded him of children’s whistles.
“Pass the Herr Hauptmann,” the Feldwebel called loudly, then turned back to Peter and saluted. “Drive carefully,” he said. “All Berlin is a sheet of ice.”
“Thank you for your courtesy,” Peter said, and stepped back into the Horche.
The encounter made him feel a little better. Among people like the Feldwebel, there was still something left of their old attitude toward their betters, a certain respect.
Driving reasonably carefully, it took him fifteen minutes to reach Sven Hedin Strasse in Zehlendorf, where he stopped the car and looked across the small park there—its grass had been raped to build a bomb shelter—toward the house, actually a small mansion, at 35 Beerenstrasse.
Now that he was in Berlin, it was clearly his duty to t
urn off Sven Hedin Strasse onto Onkel Tom Allee and drive the three or four kilometers to Luftwaffe Headquarters and present himself to the Chief of Protocol for whatever nonsense that idiot had in mind.
On the other hand, the teletype had said “no later than forty-eight hours” from the date-time seal on the message, and that gave him until 10:05 tomorrow morning. He’d been a soldier long enough to learn that one never reported in more than five minutes before the specified time.
Furthermore, the house at 35 Beerenstrasse was occupied by a lady he’d recently met. The lady was a film actress at the UFA studios. She and some other women, a small band, and a juggler, of all things, visited the small field in the country where Jagdstaffel 232 was based in order to entertain the troops. Afterward, Hauptmann von Wachtstein considered it his duty to ask the troupe to dinner in the officers’ mess. The lady’s husband, who identified himself as a member of Propaganda Minister Goebbels’s staff in the Propaganda Ministry, sat on one side of him, and the lady on the other.
The lady’s husband was an overfed, pompous little man, obviously some fifteen or twenty years older than his wife, who would probably have been still selling stamps in some rural post office had he not had the wisdom to join the National Socialist Party before the Austrian Corporal came to power.
The moment he saw the lady, a tall, graceful blonde with a splendid bosom, Peter sensed that she found him attractive. Proof came at dinner, when her knee, then her shoe, and ultimately her shoeless foot came looking for him under the table.
He of course asked her for the privilege of the first dance after dinner. Though the dance was brief, it gave her opportunity to rub her bosom against him and to suggest that he come see her the next time he came to Berlin.
“Alois is very often out of town on Propaganda Ministry business,” she told him.
Of course, it was possible that she may have had more to drink than she should have (she liked his cognac very much). Or, for that matter, she might simply have been teasing him. So Peter approached her invitation with understandable caution.
One of the great shocks of his life occurred a year before, when he learned that what appeared to be an unquestioned invitation in the eyes and attitude of a stunning redhead was really nothing more than a desire for him to betray interest in her. That way she could complain to her husband and remind him that she was still attractive.
He put the Horche in gear, turned toward Onkel Tom Allee, and then made two left turns back toward Beerenstrasse.
The door was opened by a gray-haired woman. She was not in uniform, but she was clearly a servant.
“I am Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein,” Peter announced. “Is Frau Nussl at home?”
Nussl was her husband’s name. Professionally, the lady was known as Lillian Hart.
“I will see,” the gray-haired woman announced, and closed the door in his face.
Frau Nussl appeared three minutes later.
“God, I was afraid you’d do this,” she greeted him.
Peter was prepared. He’d learned from the painful mistake with the redhead.
“I’m visiting Berlin on official business, Frau Nussl,” he announced formally, and thrust a paper-wrapped parcel at her. “I hope you will accept this as a small token of the gratitude of the officers and men of Jagdstaffel 232 for your kindness in visiting us.”