CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dr. Goebbels’s gala party for two thousand was held at Berlin’s Schloss Charlottenburg, an imposing ancient fortress situated between Spandauerdamm and a wide sweeping curve of the Spree River. The occasion was the first screening of Leni Riefenstahl’s breathtaking motion picture rendering of that year’s historic Nuremberg Rally, Triumph des Willens, subtitled for the English diplomatic guests at the gathering as The Triumph of Will. It was easily the most awesomely powerful propaganda film that had ever been made or ever would be, surpassing her own Nazi apologia Reichsparteitag released a few months earlier and making Goebbels’s own efforts at cinema look like newsreels or home movies.

A film crew of more than one hundred had worked on the Nuremburg project, including thirty-two cameramen and camera assistants operating thirty-six different cameras and employing hundreds of enormous spotlights. It was a massive work that used heroic Teutonic imagery to subordinate the individual into the mass and glorify the authority such a mass represented. She had borrowed from both the stark, dramatic techniques of the German film pioneers of the 1920s and the grand stagecraft of Wagnerian opera. Though few in Berlin had seen it, Triumph des Willens was considered certain to win a gold medal at the next Venice Film Festival.

Without any doubt, it would establish Fräulein Riefenstahl as the Reich’s preeminent film maker. Hitler had appointed her the film chief of the party shortly after coming to power in 1933, but the hierarchy had accorded her only that respect due a useful creative talent and minor party functionary. After Triumph, she would enjoy a prominence, prestige, and inviolability on a level with that of the Führer and his chief lieutenants.

Goebbels was proud rather than envious. He was too smart to be otherwise. She had made it clear publicly and privately that she remained his protégée and had evidenced no other interest than in serving Hitler and the Reich. Certainly she made Goebbels’s work enormously easier.

Fräulein Riefenstahl, after the Führer, was the guest of honor. Neither, of course, had yet arrived. Both electrifying entrances would wait until the rest of the two thousand were in place.

A continuous parade of automobiles and motorcycles roared and rumbled into the long driveway leading to the Schloss, the debarkation process much less efficient than should otherwise have been the case because so many of the arriving personages traveled in huge motorcades. Goering had deliberately planned on arriving late and was pleased to encounter further delay at the entrance. When at last he and Emmy pulled up before the great castle gate, he emerged from his limousine dressed in his grandest uniform ever. Though his promotion to colonel general of the Luftwaffe had not yet been proclaimed officially, he had decked himself out in appropriate plumage. His blue-green Luftwaffe tunic was adorned with Prussian blue, gold, and crimson facings, and his breeches were striped along the sides with the same colors. In addition to the standard general’s oak-leaf collar and gold cap insignia, he was draped with so much gold cord he seemed encased in ship’s rigging. At his throat he wore his World War I Pour le Mérite medal, and over his shoulders a long, flowing cape lined in white. All he needed to complete the ensemble was a marshal’s baton, and he supposed that would come soon enough.

With the statuesque Emmy following like an ocean liner under tow, he ascended the steps as grandly as his bulk would allow, carrying himself almost as if he and not the drab Führer were the master of the Reich. That would never be unless the Führer were to perish, but in that unhappy event Goering would make certain the crown would go to no lesser personage than himself. He had been wounded at Munich, after all. Not even Hess could boast that.

They swept inside, greeted effusively as they made their interior progress by swarming sycophants, subordinates, bootlicks, and influence seekers. Goering left Emmy among them, admonishing her to ignore any chance remarks or overheard jokes, and sought a waiter and refreshment. To his disgust, he discovered that Himmler had not yet made his appearance. The chicken farmer had likely arranged to arrive just before Hitler.

Admiral Canaris was there, however. He had noticed Goering’s triumphal progress into the castle hall and now discreetly made his way toward him. His admiral’s uniform was nearly as grand as Goering’s, though strictly regulation.

“I have news,” he said, suavely lifting a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

“You always have news, Wilhelm. That is why you are such a cherished servant of the Reich.”

Canaris stood sipping his wine, watching a tall blond woman sweep by on the arm of an S.S. colonel.

“Wilhelm! What is it?”

The admiral turned back toward Goering with a clever smile. “Why, it’s good news, Hermann. The Dutch liner Wilhelmina did not go down. She is proceeding to New York under her own power with nearly the full complement of passengers, officers, and crew aboard.”

“The word ‘nearly’ means what, Admiral?”

“Unfortunately, there were some fatalities, two of them German.”

“The von Kresses?”

“One of them a von Kresse. Your beautiful protégée, the countess. She has apparently drowned.”

“And the other?”

“I believe it was the mysterious, or not so mysterious, Herr Braun. He was burned to death in the fire. They found him in one of the cabins.”

“How do you know this?”

“Wireless messages. Some intercepted, some received directly, others received indirectly. That fool Cunard woman sent one to Ribbentrop in London. It was virtually in the clear: ‘I am safe. Edward is safe.’ Remind me never to employ her as a spy. Or anyone who knows her.”

“Including Ribbentrop.”

“Especially Ribbentrop.”

Emmy was looking furtively about the crowded room for her husband, her expression anxious. What had she heard that upset her now?

“What about Mrs. Simpson?” Goering asked curtly.

“Apparently alive and well. Were it otherwise, I’m sure Lady Cunard would have messaged Franklin Roosevelt, the King of England, and the Führer, too.”

“Hmmm,” said Goering. “Then all is as we would wish, nicht wahr?”

“Viellicht. Vielleicht nicht. Your friend the Count von Kresse is presumed to be alive. Whether all is well depends much on what you told him to do.”

“I told him merely to serve the interests of the Reich.”

“Well then, Hermann,” said the admiral, his eyes quite twinkly now. “All must be well indeed.”

There was a sudden demonic flourish of what sounded like several hundred trumpets being played at once. Uniformed servants began to urge and usher the guests out of the hall, deeper into the castle. Despite the cool of the evening, they were being made to go outside again, out onto the castle grounds to the rear that overlooked the river. Goering reached Emmy and put his arm around her waist, nodding angrily to two of his following aides to help make a path for them. He was not going to mush along with the crowd like some railroad passenger.

“I thought this was going to be an evening of cinema,” Emmy said.

“It’s going to be an evening of Dr. Goebbels.”

Beautiful young girls dressed in theatrical costumes and suffering from it in the chill greeted them as they stepped out onto the vast lawn, the lights of the city shimmering in the river beyond. Tables had been set up in great number, laden with drink and food. Goering and Emmy hurried toward one, but barely had they bit into their roast peafowl when Goebbels’s sound and light show commenced. Cannon set atop the castle battlements and along the river were set off in furious fusillades, firing blank but rattlingly fearsome charges. Joining the cacaphonous din were more aerial pyrotechnics than had been seen and heard in the bombardment of Fort Douamant at Verdun, and the effect of the immensity of light and sound was mind-numbing. People stood about motionless, unable to speak or hear and having to blink rapidly to be able to see. This was kept up for an interminable half hour.

“Mein Gott,” said Emmy, when silence abruptly came upon them in the wake of rolling echoes.

“Nicht Gott,” said Goering. “Gotterdammerung.”

There were more trumpets, and then spotlights flashed from below and above to the small balcony on a battlement above the rear gate to the castle keep.

“Emmy,” Goering said. “Hitler will be there and we will be here. Come. We must hurry. See, Hess and Himmler are already there, just below. Speer also.”

The crowd was pressing toward the battlement but a way was made for Goering and his wife. The Reichscommissioner pushed himself into a place between Hess and Speer, studiously ignoring Himmler.

Goebbels came forth to only moderate applause, though it sounded noisy enough given the huge size of the assemblage. The doctor gave one of his shorter speeches, ending with his always effective “Ein Volk! Ein Reich! Ein Führer!” blasting from the loudspeakers set up throughout the grounds. The applause then became thunderous, and louder still when more spotlights began to play amid more cannon firing from the ramparts.

Hitler stepped forth from darkness into incandescence, wearing his huge bulletproof military hat, familiar brown tunic and black breeches. He raised his right hand, bent backward at the wrist, in familiar salute, as Goebbels led the crowd in a dozen “Sieg Heils!” The thought passed Goering’s mind that this sort of thing presented a wonderful opportunity for an assassin. All eyes were on the Führer, and a sniper’s rifle shot would never be heard in all the noise.

With a curt wave of his arm, Goebbels brought both the crowd and cannon to swift and obedient silence. The Führer then stepped to the microphone. It was really quite cold and Goering feared his master was going to treat them to another of his hour-long speeches. But apparently he was cold, too. He spoke briefly about the destiny of the German people and the Reich and of how magnificently its unrivaled spirit had been captured by Fräulein Riefenstahl’s cameras. He spoke of greater glories to come, starting with the victories of German athletes in the Berlin Olympics the next year and followed by the march of Deutschland to fulfill its divine mission in Europe.

Another dozen or so “Sieg Heils!” followed and, as he almost never did, the Führer stepped deferentially aside in courtly fashion. Fräulein Riefenstahl then made her appearance—to more ear-splitting applause and cheering—pausing for a moment like a leading lady taking a curtain call. Then she turned to Hitler, gave the Nazi salute, curtsied low, and straightened to hand him a rose. The two thousand below greeted this moment with the hysteria due a religious happening.

Goering and Speer looked at each other, amazed. By the time they returned their attention to the balcony, the Führer and his co-star for the evening had gone back into the warmth inside.

“Come, Emmy,” Goering said, returning to his wife. “That’s where we belong, as well.”

Movie screens had been set up throughout the great castle hall and in many of the wide passageways. Guests gathered in groups before them as waiters passed throughout serving more champagne. At a cue, the lights were dimmed, and then went out. At another, the projectors were started. It was supposed to be a simultaneous commencement, but the timing varied enough for the images and soundtracks throughout the great chamber to be a second or more ahead or behind one another. After a while it began to sound like a madhouse.

There was a presence at his elbow and Goering didn’t need to look to know it was the chicken farmer. Who else would wait for the dark for a conversation?

“Good evening, Heinrich.”

“Good evening, Hermann. The Führer looks well.”

“Sicher. A heart-warming sight.”

“I have had a full report, Hermann.”

“On the Führer’s health?”

“On the occurrences aboard the Dutch ship Wilhelmina.”

“A report from whom, Heinrich?”

“From my own organization. From Ribbentrop. From the S.D. And from Admiral Canaris.”

“Everyone’s faithful servant, the admiral,” Goering said. He glanced around circumspectly, to make certain they were not being overheard, though that seemed unlikely in the grinding insanity of the competing film projectors.

“The man I put aboard has been killed,” Himmler said sharply. “He was one of the best agents I had in France.”

“The ship caught fire,” Goering said. “A number of passengers were killed, among them the beautiful Countess von Kresse. It’s all so sad, nicht wahr?”

“The Count von Kresse did not perish.”

“No, Heinrich, but neither did the Prince of Wales.”

They stood close together without speaking for a moment as the screen showed the gigantic swastika that was the centerpiece of the Nuremburg rally, so bathed in light it seemed afire. It was a masterstroke, that swastika of Speer’s. No wonder he stood so close to Hitler.

“I warn you, Hermann,” Himmler said finally. “The instant that Prussian traitor of yours steps foot on German soil I will have him arrested. If you object or try to interfere I will go to the Führer.”

“Don’t be so hasty, Heinrich. You are always so hasty.”

“Why didn’t you come to see me yesterday?” the ship’s doctor asked. He was a friendly, sentimental man with kind eyes and a florid face, and he asked the question out of a genuine deep concern.

Kees was staring down at the long ugly wound drawn in a straight line across the side of his thigh. It had gone purple and yellow at the edges. There was obvious infection.

“Is it bad?” Kees asked.

“Not too bad. Not yet,” the doctor said. “But you can’t fool with these things.”

“It doesn’t hurt that much.”

“It will in a moment. I’m going to clean it out thoroughly and apply some antiseptic.”

Kees shrugged. He had been treating his wound as irrelevant. The doctor knew his business. By turning any and all worries about his condition over to the doctor’s judgment, he could continue to ignore the injury.

The doctor began his work. The wound was no longer irrelevant. The pain was such Kees almost kicked and cried out. Gripping the sides of the examining table tightly, the flesh of his hands turning white, he somehow kept himself from doing either thing.

“How did you say you got this?” the doctor asked.

“On the steel motorboat. I fell backward during the storm. Caught it on a sharp piece of metal.”

“Fell backward? This laceration begins at the front, Kees. The tissue was plowed through like a furrow.”

“I must have turned when I fell. I can’t quite remember. It was very confusing. I was very busy. I had just one seaman with me and we had forty-foot waves.”

The doctor peered closely at the deep cut as he continued his cleaning.

“Kees,” he said, “this is a bullet wound.”

“Doctor. How could it be a bullet wound? We were at sea in a small rescue boat.”

“I am telling you what I see medically. I treated enough of them in Belgium during the war. This is a bullet wound.”

“I fell on the boat,” Kees said. “Everything is in the written report I made out for the captain. Or rather, for Mr. van Groot.”

“Get ready,” the doctor said, reaching for a swab and a small brown bottle. “I’m going to apply the antiseptic.”

Kees once more gripped the table, but when the doctor touched liquid to tissue, it didn’t help. Kees swore loudly against the agony.

“What in hell is that? Lavatory cleaner?”

“It’s even stronger,” said the doctor. “We want to avoid amputation, don’t we?”

“I’m not sure this is better.”

The doctor smiled. “There are no peg-legged captains on the Lage Lander Line.”

“Is there really some danger of that?”

“I was joking. But it won’t be a joke if you don’t tend to this. That means changing the dressing every day and going through this nasty routine.”

“For how long?”

“I’ll know better by the time we reach port.”

He began to wrap Kees’s leg in a dressing.

“I’ll do as you say. I can take it.”

“I’ve no doubt. You’d already gone a day with it festering. I wonder you didn’t fall down.”

“It feels better already,” Kees said as he began to pull on his pants.

The doctor had gone over to a wall cabinet. He took out a bottle of brandy and two glasses.

“Here,” he said, pouring some out for both. “Pain killer.”

They drank in silence.

“How bad off is the captain?” Kees said, at last.

The doctor smiled again, but sadly.

“He’ll survive. The burns on his hands aren’t as serious as they first looked. But I suspect this is his last voyage. I think Mr. van Groot will see to it.”

Kees set down his glass, testing his leg as if it were a new shoe.

“Our conversation about your wound,” the doctor said. “That’s just between you and me. Whatever happened, well, I’m sure you’ve dealt with it in your report.”

“Every word of it the truth.”

“Come by again tomorrow. Tell van Groot I want you to rest in your cabin today. And get some sleep. You can’t fight infection banging around the bridge.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re a good officer, Kees. I’m glad you weren’t hurt any worse.”

Olga sat in the only chair in Kees’s small cabin, looking at the sky through the porthole and thinking hard about her chances while Kees slept. She hadn’t counted on his presence for the day. It was worse than an inconvenience. Kees had said they had improved their speed and were making nineteen knots. She had little time left in which to strike. If Kees spent the afternoon asleep, he’d be wide awake all night, making sexual demands of her and preventing her from leaving the cabin. Perhaps she could persuade him to go back to the bridge.

He was snoring gently, lying on his back, his injured leg propped on a pillow. He was a handsome, gentle boy, with a too-small nose but cheerful Dutch blue eyes. She liked him. She hoped she would not have to kill him.

Their stateroom telephone jangled them from their sleep. Nora murmured but did not stir, though the phone was on her side of the bed. Spencer reached across her, his arm lightly touching the flesh of one of her breasts, causing her to murmur again.

He was in no way aroused. Their endless lovemaking had filled her with love and contentment but had drained him of sex. He was tired and sore and not a little hung over. The clock said it was just past nine in the evening. It had been morning such a short time before.

Spencer picked up the insistent telephone clumsily, dropping the receiver and leaning heavily over Nora’s chest and stomach to retrieve it. She groaned. Sitting up with the receiver secure in his hand, he put his fingers to his lips and then touched them to hers by way of apology.

He heard the voice on the other end with disbelief. Spencer sat there dumbly, while the other party waited for him to respond. When he finally did, it was as if he still had not comprehended who had called him. It was the other party who should have been halting and incoherent, Spencer the one who should be calm and in control.

The strange, brief conversation stumbled along. At the end Spencer agreed to the other’s request. He couldn’t think of a way not to.

Spencer walked around the bed to hang up the phone, not wanting to discomfit Nora further, then stood a moment in the center of the room, naked, his hands behind his back.

“That,” he said, “was the Count von Kresse.”

Nora sat up and yawned.

“That poor man,” she said. “I feel so sorry for him, and yet he scares me. Any man who could do that to his own sister.”

“She’d just killed a man. She was trying to shoot Mrs. Simpson. She’d gone stark, raving mad.”

“He still frightens me.”

“Well, he wants to see me.”

“See you? When?”

“Tonight. At ten o’clock. He’s invited me to join him for brandy.”

“He drowns his sister and now he wants to celebrate? He really scares me.”

“He sounded very serious.”

“What does he want with you? Share old war stories or something?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to see him.”

Nora yawned again and stretched, the movement causing her breasts to thrust forward. Now Spencer did feel at least some small arousal, but kept his mind from it. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took Nora’s hand.

“Do you mind?”

“No. I’m a big girl. I can manage by myself for an hour, if you can promise me the ship won’t sink or someone won’t start shooting.”

He kissed her hand. “I promise you. Are you tired?”

Her smile was dreamy. “Happily tired. I can use some sleep.”

He started to rise, then sat back.

“The count may want to ask me whether we’re going to turn him in,” Spencer said. “What shall I say?”

“I don’t want to stir up any trouble, Jimmy. We’ve all had enough trouble. What happened was awful, horrible, but it did end with some kind of justice, didn’t it? It was like that Madeleine Carroll film about the Russian civil war, when the countess got shot. I just want to forget it, get to New York, and start rehearsing my play. But you’re going to write a news story, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to write about the prince and Mrs. Simpson, and the fire, and the rescue. I haven’t decided what else to put in, or whether to say who all was on that boat.”

“Are you going to lie?”

“Of course not. I don’t work for a New York tabloid. But there are things I could leave out. There’s never room for everything. There are some things I should leave out, that wouldn’t stand up in a libel or slander trial, even though they happened.”

“Are you going to leave me out?”

He kissed her. “I’ll simply remark on the good fortune that the ship’s most beautiful and glamorous passenger was among the rescued. I’ll note that she gave this correspondent an exclusive interview.”

Nora blushed. “You bet, exclusive.” She rubbed his back softly. “You go off now and see this strange German man. I’m going back to sleep. Sometime tonight, wake me again.”

The count had returned to civilian dress and was wearing black tie, signifying that he had dined in one of the first-class public rooms rather than remain in his stateroom in a manifestation of grief or mourning. As arranged, he was on the promenade deck, standing at the rail opposite the entranceway that led to the main ballroom.

He greeted Spencer with a solemn nod, then returned to looking out over the dark sea. He had seemed so natural, so soldierly, in his gray uniform that it was something of a shock to see him out of it.

His eyes appeared old and weary. At least he was not getting any sleep.

“Thank you for joining me,” he said, his voice as sad as he looked. “I appreciate your company tonight.”

“What happened to Edwina?”

“Lady Mountbatten is very tired,” he said.

Spencer wondered if this was euphemism, if Edwina had by now found yet someone else—a traveling businessman, a Javanese porter, another in the prince’s party.

“She constantly pushes herself to the edge in life,” the count continued. “An experience such as we just survived can be very damaging. I fear she’ll not live a normal lifespan.”

Dagne von Kresse had lived no normal lifespan. Neither man spoke. The vibration of the turbines could be felt beneath their feet. The ship was driving very hard.

“I think also she is tired of me,” the count said. “Since our rescue I have talked to her only of my sister, and this I think disturbs Edwina. She seems now in a mood for different company.”

“What did you want to see me about?” Spencer asked. “To talk about your sister?”

“No. I talk now only to God about my sister. And to myself.” The count smoked. “You are going to write a newspaper story about this voyage,” he said. It was not a question, merely a statement of fact.

Spencer confirmed it. “I thought that’s what was on your mind. Yes, I’m going to write a story. Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I am very interested in this story, in what you are going to put into it.”

“You’re afraid I’m going to write about you and what happened to your sister.”

The count had frowned at the word “afraid.” It was one never used in association with him—except by himself, in his darkest, late-night thoughts.

“I am going to return to Germany, Mr. Spencer. Sooner or later, but eventually. What appears in American newspapers is of no consequence in the Reich. What appears in German newspapers is of no consequence. They are not believed anymore. In Germany I will be beyond the jurisdiction of Dutch maritime authorities. The Reich is beyond the jurisdiction of all authority, save its own. So I’m not afraid that you will expose my desperate act. In a way, as a matter of fact, it might help.”

“How?”

“Help me to understand. To see what happened through your eyes. I would be grateful.”

“You saved lives. You killed your sister. You wouldn’t let us rescue her. You let her drown.”

The count’s expression did not change. It disturbed Spencer to look at the man’s eyes, to imagine all that they had seen.

“Actually,” Spencer said, softening his tone, “no one really tried to rescue her. We’re all as guilty as you.”

“I didn’t mean for her to die,” the count said. “I hit her with great violence, but I wanted only to stop her. Yet once she was in the water, well, suddenly there was a simple answer to what for me has been vexing and very complicated problem.”

“I can’t tell if you’re sad.”

“Sad? You’ve no idea the depths of my despair, Mr. Spencer. I am as sad as you are cynical and Miss Gwynne is beautiful. As Edwina is promiscuous. I have more grief than blood in my veins, and it has been that way for years. Especially since Dagne joined the party. It was so easy for her. She returned from a social engagement one evening and announced she had become a Nazi. I could not imagine anything more horrible, more unlike her. The most profound sadness came when I realized that, after all, it was quite like her.”

“Are they really as bad as all that?”

“They are worse. Surely you know that.”

“Yes. I do. I suppose I was posing a rhetorical question. You’re the first German I’ve met in three years who’s spoken against them.”

“You will meet more, Mr. Spencer. Those who aren’t dragged away in the middle of the night.”

Spencer glanced back along the deck. They were alone. He could hear dance music coming from the ballroom.

“I don’t know what I’m going to put in the story until I sit down to write it. All I know for sure is that Prince Edward and his girlfriend will figure prominently.”

They watched the small dark waves parading by. Finally von Kresse stood erect.

“I believe I said brandy, Mr. Spencer. There is a small, pleasant bar a deck above, adjacent to the gallery overlooking the ballroom. Let’s go to it, if you don’t mind walking slowly.”

They appeared to be the only customers the Oriental barman had had that evening. He was very generous with his pouring. The count was also very generous with the tip he added to the total when he signed the bill. At his suggestion, they declined stools at the bar or a table and instead went out onto the gallery above the ballroom, leaning over the railing as they had out on the deck.

There were only a few couples on the dance floor, moving in a slow fox trot to the band’s halfhearted “The Very Thought of You.” An earnest attempt was being made by everyone aboard to return to normal, but it wasn’t quite succeeding. Passengers had been going back to the second-class promenade all day to examine the grotesque damage, until van Groot had finally had the area roped off.

“Hell, there’s Mrs. Parker,” said Spencer.

She was dancing with one of the younger ship’s officers. Not gaily; there was no merriment about her. She was somber and dignified, and danced with much formality. But she was fully participating in the evening. She wore a long crimson gown that set off her fair complexion and dark hair. Red and black. Colors of death. Also, as Spencer recalled, the colors of Prussia.

“No one believes in mourning anymore,” he said.

“She is in mourning,” said the count. “You may be certain of that. Her sadness is serene, but it is genuine. I think she also feels guilt.”

“He wasn’t much of a man, though, was he? What would we have done with such a boy in the air war in France?”

“He would have died as quickly as he did out in the boat,” said von Kresse. “He wouldn’t have lasted a single patrol.”

“I don’t think she loved him.”

“She was fond of him. She is also very loyal. One of her many qualities. I think she is quite beautiful, though not so beautiful as Miss Gwynne.”

“Yes.” Fact was fact.

“The most beautiful women on this ship are American,” said the count, shifting his weight off his bad leg. “It makes the British ladies very envious.”

“Mrs. Simpson isn’t very beautiful.”

“She makes the British ladies envious for another reason, yes? But I think Mrs. Simpson must be a little envious of Mrs. Parker. She is young, and so beautiful, and of such high social standing. And now she will be quite rich.”

“She won’t be Queen of England.”

“Neither will Mrs. Simpson. But even if she were to be, I think that would be another reason for her to envy Mrs. Parker.”

The music faded away and, apparently at her request, the young officer escorted her off the dance floor. The table he took her to was presided over by Mr. van Hoorn of the shipping line. His attentions were very fatherly. The company was extending Mrs. Parker every kindness and courtesy.

“She is fluent in Greek and Italian, in addition to French,” the count said. “She fences, writes poetry, knows calculus, and has read Aristotle and Nietzsche. She said she wants to learn how to fly an airplane.”

“Mrs. Simpson?”

“No. Of course not. I mean Mrs. Parker.”

“How do you know so much about her?”

“She came to visit me today. To console me, about my sister Dagne. She was very—what is the American word? Ah yes, sweet. She was very sweet. I felt very sad for her.”

“And how did Edwina feel?”

“Mr. Spencer, you are not being a gentleman.”

“No, I’m not.”

The band had struck up “A Room With A View,” a Noel Coward song. The young officer leaned toward her, but Mrs. Parker shook her head and remained seated, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She stared down at them.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer said to the count. “I’ve been stupid with you about Edwina. Edwina is … Edwina.”

“She’s fond of you, if it matters. But then, she’s fond of all of us.”

Mrs. Parker had lifted her head. She saw them up on the balcony and, after a moment, nodded in recognition, though Spencer could not tell whether it was to him or von Kresse.

The count shifted his weight again, wincing. He sipped his brandy, glancing back through the doorway to the tables and chairs in the little bar, but made no hint of movement in that direction.

“Mr. Spencer,” von Kresse said, looking back to Mrs. Parker, who was talking with van Hoorn. “When I talked with you about what you are going to put in your newspaper story …”

“I told you, Herr Rittmeister. I don’t know what I’m going to put in it.”

“You said you were going to write about Charles Lindbergh.”

“Yes. I saw him. I haven’t found him again yet, but he’s aboard this ship. If I don’t catch him here, I’ll get him when he gets off the boat.”

“Why?”

“Look, I feel sorry about what he and his wife have gone through. About their son. I don’t feel that good about what I’m doing. But whatever Lindbergh does is big news. Edward and Mrs. Simpson are news, or they certainly will be when I get through with them. After Hitler and Roosevelt, I can’t think of anyone who’s bigger news than Charles A. Lindbergh and the prince and his doxy.”

“Why do you do this? Are you bitter, resentful? Your father lost his fortune, and now you will have your revenge?”

“I’ll do it for the same reason I crawled from my cot every morning and climbed up into the cold at ten thousand feet to shoot down you Huns. I’ll do it because it’s my job. It’s what I do.”

The count was looking at him now full in the face, his haunted, hunter’s eyes seeking some truth, some fact about Spencer.

“I don’t know that we were special,” von Kresse said, “we who flew. I think probably the men in the trenches who endured the gas and the slime and the shelling, I think they were probably much more special. But we are different, aren’t we? There is a bond between us who climbed every morning to ten thousand feet in the cold air, who drank brandy to freeze our intestines so the castor oil fumes from the engine wouldn’t make us shit in our pants. We are brothers, aren’t we, even though we tried to kill each other?”

“Why don’t you want me to write about Lindbergh?”

“Are we brothers?”

“Yes, we are brothers. Les frères de la guerre. Kampfbruderen.”

“Don’t you feel this same bond with all airmen, with the brave ones? Don’t you feel you owe them some honor for what they are? For what we all are?”

Spencer gave von Kresse a grim look. He stood up, taking a large sip of brandy. He set down the snifter.

“Herr Rittmeister, Count von Kresse, your excellency Colonel sir,” he said. “Charles A. Lindbergh never fought in the fucking war.”