Circles of Time (44 page)

“Yes, they exist.” Werner stood up and began a slow pacing of the room. “It's not difficult to understand their emotions. They are men who fought in the war. Spilled their blood from Tannenberg to the Marne. The army was not beaten. It never surrendered. And yet the war was lost. So many men feel it was lost because while they were at the front fighting nobly for Germany and the Kaiser, others—Bolsheviks and politicians—were stabbing them in the back. And so all the sacrifice came to nothing. Two million dead and the fatherland turned into a living grave. A Germany looted of its wealth—castrated by its enemies.

“Yes, Martin, such little groups of angry men do indeed exist. But it would be a mistake to lump them all in one basket. They are not all Freikorps rowdies and street toughs. Many of them are sincere men motivated by the highest ideals of patriotism. Their sole intent is to see that justice comes to the traitors among us.”

Martin's mouth felt dry. “Do you place Erich Lieventhal in that category?”

Werner paced in silence for a moment, then stopped and fixed Martin with his intense and troubled gaze. “Erich is motivated by his own ideals and sense of patriotism. A traitor? Hardly that, but his policies are being proved terribly wrong and Germany suffers for it. He's too weak and
diplomatic
with the West. All of the ministers in this pathetic Republic act the same way. They are like men trying to keep a dog happy by offering their own hands for the beast to chew on.”

“The funny name aside, what you're really saying is that an assassination plot against Lieventhal is not, to use your own words, so ‘fantastic' after all.”

“I must admit,” Werner said, almost in a whisper, “it is not.”

“That's more like it. I'll be blunt, Werner, and I hope you won't take offense. There's a group of young men somewhere in this city. Men with the highest of ideals and the ugliest of pistols. I believe you have the sort of contacts who could reach those men. I think you could not only find them but talk them out of this insanity.”

Werner stiffened as though slapped in the face. “I'm afraid I do take offense, Martin. I have no such contacts. None at all.”

“I find that very hard to believe.”

“I am not a liar.”

“I'm not saying you are. Maybe you honestly don't recognize the type of men to whom you give money. Herr Hitler's storm troopers are not so very different from the Black Knights!”

Werner turned his back on Martin and looked toward the windows at the flickering green linden trees. “You have no right to criticize who I back or do not back. Hitler is not an assassin. He wishes only to heal. You can't understand that, Martin, because you are one of the victors. I regret deeply having to say this, but I must ask you to leave my house.”

T
HE PAGES HANDED
to him on the bus were now worn and limp, the cheap paper beginning to deteriorate, the writing barely legible. Martin knew each word by heart. The pages lay on top of the dresser where he could see them as he struggled to turn his black tie into an acceptable bow. Was he the victim of a confidence trick? He wished to God he were. It would have been fifty pounds well spent. But the tattered paper sent a chill through his body. What they contained was as real, and as deadly, as a coiled snake.

He took a taxi to the Adlon Hotel and picked up Jacob, who was standing in front of the awning.

“You're a bit late, old boy,” Jacob said as he got into the cab. “Have trouble with your shirt studs?”

“Tie. I might just buy one of those ready-made ones attached to an elastic band.”

“I'm afraid you'll never be a social success, Martin.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back in the seat. “Any luck at all today?”

“No. One blank wall after the other.”

“I'd stop worrying about it if I were you. No one else seems overly concerned. Just a sign of the times, as it were. Men of Lieventhal's stature learn to take it all in stride. They develop a strong sense of fatalism—a German characteristic to begin with. Being threatened with death nearly every day merely strengthens it. You have to admire the old boy. He doesn't deviate from his established routines. Never drives to the chancellery by different routes or leaves at different times. Regular as clockwork, there and back. It makes it easy for the Berlin police to keep an eye on him.”

“Who told you all that?”

“Amelia. I took her to lunch today.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” He sounded vaguely defensive. “She's a delightful girl.”

“Woman, Jacob—woman.”

“Is she? I hadn't noticed. Certainly a very
young
woman. I felt downright avuncular.”

“That must have been a novel experience for you.”

“As a matter of fact it was. It made me feel protective. I told her about your cloak-and-dagger incident on the bus—and the letter. She was very appreciative of your concern—and mine, of course.”

“Of course.”

“To cut the story of a long and pleasant afternoon short, Amelia is as fatalistic as her father. Concern, but not a shred of panic. She told me that the police know his routines. They can set their watches by him. Six days a week at seven-fifteen every morning he leaves the house, drives along Charlottenburger past the gate, then down Wilhelmstrasse to the chancellery. The police watch his progress—wary but unobtrusive. They do the same when he leaves his office at precisely six-thirty in the evening. His addiction to routine keeps him relatively safe. Any assassination group worth its salt must know that his car is always being tailed and that the two beefy guys puttering along in the Opel behind the limousine aren't out for an airing. They'd be taking a hell of a chance if they tried to get to him. The local bobbies may be hopeless at nipping conspiracies in the bud, but they know how to follow a car. Does that make you feel better?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Well, it certainly made
me
feel better. Your informant may have been correct, but in all probability it's no more than one of scores of half-baked ideas hatched over brimming mugs of beer and quite forgotten in the morning. Still, you got your money's worth. Amelia's terribly grateful.”

Martin glared at him in irritation. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Jacob leaned forward and stabbed his cigarette into an ashtray. “I honestly couldn't say, dear fellow. A question of semantics—my
girl
vis-à-vis your
woman.
”

E
RICH
L
IEVENTHAL LOVED
the city of Berlin, and had been, before the war—and for a time during it—very much a part of its night life, a familiar figure at the opera, the theaters, and nightclubs. Such places still existed, of course, but he would not go to them. The vision of men in top hats and women in furs alighting from gleaming limousines in front of the Winter Garden or the opera house and strolling inside past hordes of restless poor was too painful for him. So was the thought of having a fine dinner in the comforting
Gemütlichkeit
of an elegant restaurant while, perhaps only a few doors away, long, patient lines of ragged gray blobs lined up for a tin bowl of turnip soup at a Salvation Army kitchen. His entertaining was done at home. It was, at times, lavish—but beyond view of the hungry and the dispossessed.

A servant took their coats and another servant escorted them upstairs to the ballroom, from which came the melodic strains of a small orchestra playing “April Showers.” Beautifully dressed couples were dancing under the shimmering glow of a crystal chandelier while others lined the great room enjoying cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.

“Is my tie straight?” Martin asked before entering.

“Reasonably,” Jacob said. “There's Amelia, dancing with a chap who looks like Siegfried.”

Martin saw her, slender and lovely in a dress of the latest style, dancing with a tall blond man of her own age. He looked away and walked toward the long table where servants in white mess jackets were pouring champagne.

The orchestra swung into “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody” and Martin felt a touch on his shoulder. He turned, glass in hand, to face a smiling Amelia.

“Is it proper for a lady to ask a man to dance?”

“I'm not sure,” he said. “You could ask and see what happens.”

“Very well, I shall. May I have this dance, Herr Rilke?”

“Only if you call me Martin.”

“Very well,
Martin.
”

He set his glass on the table and took her hand. “It will be a pleasure—at least for me. I have to warn you, I'm not as good a dancer as your last partner.”

“Kurt? Oh, he's not very good. His lips move when he dances. He counts the cadence—one-two-three, one-two-three. I don't like to dance with Kurt at all—although all the girls are mad about him. He's very handsome, but he knows it. He's very conceited. Don't you hate conceited people, Herr—Martin?”

“Yes.” He held her stiffly, unwilling to press her body against his own. She was aware of his reluctance.

“You can hold me closer. It's allowed these days.”

“Sorry. I'm not used to dancing.”

“You're doing very nicely. You simply need to relax more.”

He found that difficult to do. He was thinking of the first time he had danced with Ivy—in London—Ivy in her nurse's uniform of blue and red. The music had been a tango and he had held her tightly, her body fitting so neatly against him. He had thought it miraculous at the time, as though God had made them for each other. Two pieces of the same entity.

“That's better,” she said. “And you lied. You're very good.”

“I think you're just being polite. How old are you, Amelia? Eighteen?”

“I'll be nineteen in a short while.”

“Going to school?”

“I was at a finishing school in Zürich, but I hated it. All of the girls were snobs. What I really want to do is go to Heidelberg or the Sorbonne and study chemistry, but Father refuses to send me. He's terribly old-fashioned. To Father, a good education for a girl consists of learning to play the piano—but not
too
well—and learning to sew and embroider—
very
well.”

The music ended and then swung into a fast two-step. Martin smiled at her in apology. “That's a bit more than I can manage.”

“Then we shall sit this one out. I wanted the chance to talk to you anyway. Would you get me a glass of punch? We can talk on the balcony.”

She was waiting on the balcony, leaning against the stone balustrade and gazing into the garden below. He handed her the glass of punch.

“Thank you very much.” She looked at him somberly. “I was deeply touched by your concern for Father's safety. How brave of you to go on that adventure.”

“It was hardly an adventure, Amelia. Merely a bus ride at high noon.”

“I disagree. Anything could happen in Berlin these days.”

“That's really my point, but your father doesn't see it quite the same way.”

“But he's so used to threats. If he reacted strongly to every one of them, he would spend his days hiding in his room behind armed guards and machine guns.”

“He could at least have bodyguards.”

“How many of them? One or a hundred? Besides, he feels that bodyguards would only give satisfaction to his enemies by offering visible proof that he's afraid of them. He's not afraid. He has only contempt for those who consider him a traitor to the
Volk.
But neither is he foolish. Leon, Father's driver, was a soldier and keeps a revolver under the front seat—and the police follow Papa in Berlin and Weimar at a discreet distance. What more can be done? There has been violence in the past and no doubt there will be more violence in the future, but one simply cannot wilt under it in fear.”

He smiled gently and touched the side of her cheek—the skin soft as down. “Spoken very bravely.”

“I'm my father's daughter, that is why.” She looked away from him, at the moon-drenched garden below. “How long will you be staying in Berlin?”

“I'm not sure. I have no specific plans at the moment, although I would like to get down to Essen.”

“I understand that would be difficult. And Father said it was dangerous. The French and Belgian soldiers are quick to start shooting.”

“I know, but that's my job.”

“It must be exciting to be a journalist. I might consider it as a profession. Much grander than being a chemist. Perhaps I could talk Papa into letting me go to Oxford. Do you think he would approve?”

“You'd have to ask him.”

“He would only say no.” She sighed. “We have nightingales in the garden. I love hearing them sing. Do you like birds?”

“Very much.”

“Are you married?”

He laughed. “Your thoughts skip around like a dervish. No, I'm not married. I was. My wife was killed during the war.”

“I'm very sorry.”

“She was a nurse with the British Army. She died at Passchendaele.”