Eagles at War (6 page)

Puzzled, Josten watched them leave, then turned to his duties as a host. "I don't know what this is all about, Henry. I hope it's nothing serious."

Caldwell picked another snifter of brandy from a passing tray, thinking how much Elsie would enjoy a party like this—and how little Shirley would have. As much as he had loved his wife, her death had turned out to be a surprising deliverance for him. Since meeting Elsie, he'd grown far beyond his old world of work and family. He'd become far less inhibited and had come to relish a sense of danger in his new freedom. To his surprise late in life he discovered that he was a born gambler at heart, eager to calculate odds and take chances.

Two floors above, Lyra was locking herself in a tiny foul-smelling bathroom used by the servants; the larger facilities downstairs were crowded with laughing women, and she was no longer in a laughing mood. Turning off the light, she leaned back against the door, her stomach contracting, her throat tight, suffocating in apprehension.

It was happening at last; the Nazis were dropping all pretenses and taking direct action. The day's papers had been full of indignation about the assassination of a minor official at the German embassy in Paris by a seventeen-year-old Jewish boy. She had just learned that a pogrom was under way. Jews were being beaten, a synagogue was burning in the Fasanenstrasse and shop windows of Jewish stores were being broken. It was horrible in the abstract, and a personal catastrophe for her. She was so stupid to have become involved with a German Luftwaffe captain, to let her physical desires overcome her common sense. Twenty years of wandering about Europe had taught her nothing! She wondered what her father would say if he knew she was involved with a Nazi.

It had begun innocently enough. She'd been introduced to him at a party, and they had hit it off immediately, dancing close, holding hands, laughing at everything. He was a gorgeous, healthy animal, with a sense of humor rare among German men. At first she had shrugged off the fact that he was a Party member by reasoning that the romance would die aborning. Then, when it was evident that they both felt strongly about each other, she had asked him about his political beliefs. It was evident that Helmut had a complex psychological adaptation to a Germany controlled by the Nazis. He regarded the Nazis as just a primitive first step in Germany's political rehabilitation. He was using the Party as he believed Hitler to be using it, as a means to an end. His voice had been passionate with conviction when he told her, "You don't think a man as brilliant as Hitler can be taken in by the likes of Goebbels or Streicher, do you? He's just appealing to the dark side of the German soul until he can get the economic situation straightened out. When that time comes, he'll jettison the whole crew!"

He was ingenuously convinced that the only way he himself could effect any changes when that time came was to rise to a leadership position in the Luftwaffe. He was not ashamed that his beliefs coincided with his overwhelming desire to fly.

Josten tried to pass his philosophy off as pure pragmatism—she knew that it was a submerged idealism. He told her, "Lyra, as a civilian, I'd never have a voice in anything. As a senior officer, I'll be listened to—I'll be able to make a difference. But I'll never get to be a senior officer if I fight the system now."

"But what if you're wrong—what if Hitler doesn't 'jettison' the others? What if he keeps on demanding new territories?"

His reply had been brusque. "If Hitler doesn't stop after the Sudetenland, the
Wehrmacht
will stop
him."

She had heard that before. Many of the career diplomats in the Foreign Ministry were predicting a coup, with a return to free elections, and perhaps even a restoration of the monarchy.

Lyra had questioned Helmut closely about his admiration of the Fuehrer. There was no doubt that he identified Hitler with his own father, who had served in the Imperial Navy—he had even slipped once and said
"der Water"
instead of
"der Fuehrer."

Helmut argued that even Hitler could only do so much in just five years—tearing up the treaty of Versailles and bringing Germany out of the depths of the Depression. Threatened militarily by France and even by weak states like Poland, Hitler had transformed Germany into a powerful force. He felt it was too much to expect that Hitler could cure all the social evils at the same time, even the ones within his own party.

Yet Lyra knew from her work at the Ministry that Helmut was terribly wrong. Her father had called Hitler the Antichrist early on. He was right.

In the last few weeks, Lyra had sensed that her counter-arguments were having some effect, and that Helmut was beginning to have some doubts. It was enough to let her rationalize the situation and allow their romance to go on. But even now in her anxiety the familiar burning feeling overcame her and she was ashamed of her insistent, overriding physical need for him. It was an addiction! Just the thought of his hands touching her body filled her with longing, a reaction impossible to ignore. There was certainly more to it than sex—he was completely charming, a man she'd have been proud to bring to her parents as her husband—if he were not a German officer.

But she was a realist, and she knew they had only a brief, precarious time to love—a life together was clearly impossible. It was so unfair. In the few months that she had known him, Helmut had proved himself to be as truly good as any man she had ever met—kind, courageous, forthright. Her opinion was not just based on observation. She had checked on him with her new network of friends and talked to his comrades. He was known to be honest to a fault, a hard worker, fiercely proud of family, and totally reliable. But with that went the inescapable fact that he was a loyal German, ready to fight for Hitler.

She let the tears flow. Circumstances had entrapped her in a web of lies, at the Ministry, with Helmut, with her parents. Even tonight, when General Caldwell had inquired about her work, she had not been able to tell the whole truth—that she owed her job to a powerful political connection.

The week she had arrived in Germany, she had been invited to a charity ball sponsored by Magda Goebbels, the wife of the Propaganda Minister. As powerful as Madame Goebbels was in Nazi social circles, she tried to ingratiate herself with the patrician families of the old regime by surrounding herself with members of the German nobility.

Lyra's father was distantly related to the ancient Field Marshall von Mackesen. Dressed as always in the Imperial uniform of his beloved Second Death's Head Hussars, the skeletal old man had presented her to Magda Goebbels formally, as if they had been at court. Magda had taken an instant liking to Lyra, inviting her to yet another benefit the following night. Lyra, anxious to eat well and to meet people who might help her, gladly agreed to come. Within days she had a job and had joined the circle of German and foreign aristocrats Magda cultivated.

It was Joseph Goebbels himself—"Mahatma Propaganda" as the wits called him—who had arranged for her instant employment. After Magda introduced them, he had stood in the doorway, his piercing dark eyes probing the room like searchlights, sifting through the crowd of women the way a miner sifts the gold from the sand. Under his gaze she had felt a sudden chill. He nodded curtly, turned, and left. The next day, there was a call from the Foreign Ministry, and she suddenly had work. Goebbels had not called since, but she knew that she had incurred an obligation.

Lyra flicked on the switch, squinting in the dim light to check her wristwatch. Twenty minutes had passed. It was time to go back and tell Helmut the truth, to end this comedy of errors.

Josten was waiting patiently with champagne and plates of food, quite accustomed to the idea that someone as beautiful as Lyra might sometimes be capricious. They walked silently to the French doors, which led to a covered balcony overlooking the garden.

As they moved toward a corner ledge where they could rest their plates, Josten sensed the dramatic shift in Lyra's mood. Josten knew that she constantly fought some inner battle; it was part of her charm for him, a man who had no doubts about himself.

"Helmut, we've got to talk. I haven't been honest with you."

Josten wondered if she was bothered that she had not been a virgin. He had never said anything, never asked. And what did it matter in Germany, in 1938?

"My mother is a Jewess. Under your stupid racial laws, I am
mischlinge,
half-Jewish. If I am found out—and I will be, of course, with all the gossiping informants that crowd your country—it will ruin your career."

He stepped back involuntarily, for once speechless.

She went on, her tone changing swiftly from anger to sadness. "I'm sorry. I had no idea that we would become so involved, or that I would love you so much. With this pogrom going on, I realized that tonight I had to tell you. I'll have to leave Germany."

"It's not a pogrom, there are just some disturb ..."

"It
is
a pogrom. But I don't blame you for being angry. I should have told you at once, before we made love." Then she snarled, furious again, "Before you defiled your precious Aryan blood."

Josten was stunned. His life had been one of orderly progression, from
Gymnasium,
to learning to fly with the Gelsenkirchen flying club, then joining the new Luftwaffe. Each successive challenge had been something predictable, to overcome with effort, eye-hand coordination, and training. Lyra's announcement was devastating, forcing him to make a decision that meant not progress but regression. To keep her he would have to give up all that he had worked for.

Her voice broke as she continued. "I didn't expect us to fall in love."

"Please be still for a moment." Josten's voice was harsh, betraying not anger but stress. "First, before I say anything, let me tell you that I love you, and we will find a way to do what we have to do."

She had a far prettier picture of him than he could have imagined. The deep physical love she felt for him was overwhelmed by her admiration for him. They shared so many passions—reading, music, walking in the mountains. He was the brightest man she'd ever known, able to talk convincingly and at length on any subject. He would have been unique anywhere; in Nazi Germany he was an anomaly, a biological phenomenon.

He took her by the hand. "Lyra, you've given me a surprise. Let me give you one. I am going to marry you, and no one, not the Party, not the Luftwaffe, no one, will stop me."

"I might have something to say about that."

"You might, but you don't. Enough of this nonsense. I'll resign my commission. We can go to Argentina or China. We'll be married within the month!"

Lyra stood with her hand to her mouth; the years of flight and survival had taught her that wanting anything too much was dangerous.

"I'm sorry, but I can't believe you."

"That really offends me, Lyra! What do you think I've been doing, using you as if you were some sort of whore? Did you think we were just having an affair, a few quick romps in the meadow?"

She was standing close to him, drowning in the physical sensations he called forth, suddenly quite passionate, anxious to kiss him here, then take him home to bed.

"What would they do to you if they knew your lover was a Jewess?"

"Nothing—and my lover won't be a Jewess, my wife will. What do you think about marrying a horrid Nazi?"

His arms were around her, the heat of his body pressing against her. She buried her face in his neck, her tongue greedily licking his perspiration, desire rushing through her.

She moved back and took his face in her hands. "It doesn't matter what I think. It doesn't even matter what you think tomorrow, in the cold light of day. Right now I just want you to hold me."

They were kissing deeply when a hand tapped Helmut on the shoulder.

"Captain Josten, I'm sorry, but you have been recalled to base. Apparently the disorders are spreading."

Lyra watched in amazement as the cloak of military responsiveness fell over Helmut. He glanced at her apologetically and said, "I'm sorry. I'll ask General Caldwell to see you home."

Stunned at his abrupt reversion to form, she could only say, "Go ahead, Helmut, call me in the morning. I'll walk home—it's only a few blocks, and there surely won't be any problems here, near the embassies."

As they reentered the ballroom through the French doors, Josten nodded to Caldwell, who hurried over and offered to see Lyra home. She refused curtly. Caldwell followed her out, watching her stride like a proud young lioness. He turned in the opposite direction toward his car.

Lyra walked swiftly, oblivious to the chill or the unevenness of the pavement beneath her high heels, her mouth dry with fury that she had believed even for a moment that Helmut would actually give up everything for her. The events of the past few moments had driven the truth home to her, enabling her to make a clear-cut decision. Marriage was out of the question—she realized that she had always known it would be. But she would be his lover as long as time and circumstance permitted. The future had always been uncertain, and now with the increasing talk of war, there was no assurance that either one of them would even be alive in a year.

The decision was an immense relief. Lyra knew that there was no reconciliation possible in their political differences. He was simply as incapable of giving up flying, or of betraying his father and his fatherland by leaving with her, as she was of changing her own heredity.

They would just have to take what they could from life, enjoying the moment. The time was coming soon when she would have to end the affair, with regret, but without compunction.