When Aphrodite returned to the mournful palace, she was told the Baron was waiting for her on the second-floor veranda. There she found that a table for two had been prepared, the white china and silverware that bore Ludwig von Berg’s monogram gleaming in the sun. A few feet away, next to a bust of one of the nine Muses, stood Ludwig, looking out over the hills and ocean.
He was out of uniform and thus seemed less lethal and more relaxed, dressed as he was in a white linen suit. When he turned, his blue eyes brightened.
“The best view in all of Corfu,” he said as he crossed the terrace and embraced her. “My little Nausicaa.”
Nausicaa was his pet name for her; it was the name of the princess who’d found Odysseus shipwrecked on her island. Ludwig fondly drew the parallel to her finding him in a hospital bed and nursing him back to health. That they ended up here on Corfu—the very same island, possibly, from Homer’s myth—only made their relationship that much more romantic. Or so Ludwig maintained, conveniently forgetting that she hadn’t come to Corfu of her own free will.
“Did you miss me?” he asked. “I’ve missed you. You know, I almost didn’t make it back here alive.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “That’s what I like about you, Aphrodite. No flattery. Complete honesty. An independent opinion. That’s rare in the New Order.”
“Then maybe we should go back to the old order, Ludwig. You and your countrymen can pack your bags and leave my land. Then my family and I can get on with our lives.”
“And leave you to a future without me?” he said, taking her arm and escorting her to the table. “The thought is too much for me to bear.”
An SS waiter she did not recognize held her chair for her as they sat down. He proceeded to pour some Mavrodaphne wine into two glasses. It was the first sign that something was wrong: Karl usually poured Ludwig’s wine after tasting it. When she looked at Ludwig, he raised his glass to toast her. “To my little Nausicaa.”
“Where’s Karl?”
Ludwig paused, swallowed some of the sweet red wine, and set the glass down. “Karl is ill,” he replied. “A bad bottle of wine. Fortunately for us, we do not have to drink from the same cup, do we? Come, now, you aren’t even touching your food.”
She looked down at her plate, where some lamb was already cut up for her. There was no knife in her place setting because Ludwig had ordered the staff to keep sharp objects out of her reach when they were close to each other. “I’m not hungry,” she informed him. “I’m too worried to eat.”
“Worried?” His penetrating eyes looked intently at her above his cruel smile, a look that always made her fear for her life. “Whatever about?”
“About Kostas,” she said. “Did you inquire about Kostas?”
He frowned. “Yes, he’s doing as well as can be expected at a place like Larissa. I made sure he received your letter. As for any release, right now that’s impossible. But I’m working on it.”
It was always I’m working on it. Aphrodite bit her tongue. She knew she couldn’t press him too hard about Kostas’s case; she was fortunate to get the news she did about him, and fortunate that Ludwig’s SS bodyguard detail “protected” her family in Athens. Fortunate to be alive, even, and so well cared for. Still, somehow, she didn’t feel alive.
“It’s just as well,” Ludwig went on. “If your brother were released, he’d probably turn right around and do something foolish again, maybe even come after a German like me. All he’d manage to do is get himself killed. No, my sweet, I think your brother is safer at Larissa.”
Knowing her stubborn brother, Aphrodite realized that Ludwig was probably right. But Ludwig failed to understand that a Greek would rather enjoy one day of freedom and die than live a thousand years in slavery. Indeed, if Kostas ever found out the means by which he was being kept alive, he would hang himself in his cell. Or, if he ever got free, he would probably show his appreciation for her efforts by calling her a traitor and a slut before killing her with his own hands.
“There’s a furrow in that lovely brow of yours,” Ludwig observed. “What are you thinking about?”
She decided to take advantage of her private audience with the Baron to advance her agenda. “I’d like to get back to Athens to see my family,” she told him.
What she really wanted to do was secretly help Archbishop Damaskinos distribute food and clothing to the families of the Resistance. Then she could feel useful again.
“Yes,” Ludwig said knowingly, “I’m sure you would. But I’d like to relax here for a few days and regain my strength.”
That meant sleeping with her. The thought revolted her.
“Which reminds me,” he said as he finished eating and tapped the corners of his mouth with his napkin, “tonight I thought we’d enjoy a walk along the beach. But for now let’s get out of the heat of the day and enjoy our siesta. I have something to show you in my bedroom.”
“Can’t we stay outside just a little while longer?”
“You’ve been out long enough, my little Nausicaa. Indeed, I understand you eluded Hans and Peter during your swim.”
She said nothing. Whenever she resisted him, Ludwig would punish not her but somebody else. He knew that while she was more than willing to make herself a martyr, she couldn’t bear to see the pain of innocents. Finally, she said, “Please, Ludwig, it was my fault. Don’t blame them.”
“You went to visit your friend the priest on Mouse Island, didn’t you?”
Not Father John, she thought. Dear God, no. She had to be careful about what she said, because it might cost somebody his life. “You have your retreat, Ludwig,” she answered simply. “I have mine.”
“I hope you’re not betraying any confidences to the old man.”
“What confidences do I have to betray? You never tell me anything. Besides, he’s under a vow before God. The confession is inviolate. He’d never repeat anything I’ve told him, even under torture.”
“I can always find out.”
“Please, Ludwig,” she begged him. “He’s an old man who lives there all alone. He hasn’t hurt anybody. Let him be.”
“Perhaps you have a point.” He slid back his chair and rose to his feet. “Let’s sleep on it.”
Defeated, she slowly stood up and let him take her hand. As he did, she caught him checking her nails to make sure Helga had filed them down. That was so she couldn’t scratch his eyes out. Ludwig took no chances with his personal safety, especially during lovemaking, when he was most vulnerable. He could never let his guard down. He was always on top of her and never closed his eyes. As a result, she saw, he couldn’t enjoy it fully. But then, he didn’t make love to her for his own pleasure. It was to dominate her completely. To tell her that, her little rebellions aside, he was in control and she was his slave. What he enjoyed was dominating her, and it began long before they entered the bedroom.
They passed between the columns of the Ionic peristyle into the palace. She could hear the faint strains of Wagner’s “Death March” coming from the hidden speakers of Ludwig’s phonograph. He always had it playing when they made love. So conditioned was she to that morbid music that already the terror of what was to come overwhelmed her. Every time she slept with him, it felt like dying, and when it was all over, it was like waking up from a nightmare only to find life worse.
She trembled as they approached the open doorway to the master suite, Hans and Peter posted as guards on either side. She frantically searched their eyes for acknowledgment, some sort of contact, to let her feel she was not alone, but their gaze was fixed on some distant point, their faces stone cold as she and Ludwig walked by. The doors closed behind them, and the music swelled. They were alone.
“Now close your eyes,” Ludwig told her.
She reluctantly obeyed and let him lead her to the foot of the bed.
“Open them.”
She opened her eyes and saw the great portrait of Empress Elizabeth of Austria that hung over the bed. It had always been there. Then she looked down and saw the black nightgown on the bed.
“Paris,” Ludwig explained. “I don’t know why I bought it, because I knew once you wore it, I’d want to tear it off in seconds! But it is a great find, and I thought it should fit you well. Try it on.”
She looked at the fine prewar detail and ran the smooth fabric between her fingers. It reminded her of another nightgown she had seen in New York, one she never got to wear.
“You seem so sad, my love. You don’t find it attractive?”
“It’s lovely, Ludwig. It’s just…”
“You don’t find me attractive?” He said it in a playful tone, but she didn’t laugh.
“Christos bought me something like this in advance of our wedding night.”
Ludwig’s eyes darkened. “You know, I’m beginning to wonder if your Chris Andros is even a real person, or some imaginary figure you’ve dreamed up to distance yourself from me.”
Aphrodite was beginning to wonder, too. She said nothing. She didn’t have to say anything. The mention of Chris always aroused Ludwig’s jealousy. Her fiancé’s unseen yet always-felt presence had proved a useful weapon against Ludwig. Unless Ludwig was ready to fly to Boston, he’d never get within a thousand miles of Chris. These were the moments when she appreciated that Chris was an ocean away, outside the reach of the Third Reich. For now. Ludwig often joked about where she’d like to live in New York when the Nazis won the war.
“My little Nausicaa, at least see how it looks in the mirror.”
She walked over to the wardrobe with the full-length mirror inside the door. When she opened it, she held the gown before her in front of the glass. She could see him behind her, sitting on the foot of the bed, admiring her, his eyes shining.
Out of the corner of her eye, however, she saw something in the shadow of the wardrobe. The sleeve of Ludwig’s uniform, she thought, until she saw the hand and looked up to see Karl hanging by his neck with one of Ludwig’s black ties, his bulging white eyes staring at her.
It took several seconds for her to find her voice and scream, scream above the blare of the Death March, scream so loud that Hans and Peter and the whole world could hear her.
But nobody came through the door. Nobody ever came. And after her voice became nothing more than wisps of air pushed out by her tired lungs, she felt an arm wrap around her waist and draw her to the bed.
“There, there, my love,” said Ludwig. “Don’t worry. Nobody else will ever touch you.”
His soothing voice was as tender as his embrace, and when he began to undress her, she didn’t protest. She simply cried in his arms, cried because of him and yet to him, because there was nobody else to comfort her. Not her brother, who was locked up in some dank prison cell, nor her fiancé, who was somewhere in America, half a world away.