Blood Ties (23 page)

"Perhaps she is already here," he said, the sense
of panic in him rising. They entered the room, but there was no sign of Karla.

"She is not here," his father whispered.

"I'll find her," Albert murmured. "She has
probably taken a little walk and forgot the time."

"It is not like her."

He moved past the sumptuous buffet and deposited his father
in a chair at the head of the table. A waiter hovered nearby, pouring wine. By
then, Mimi had moved swiftly to her father-in-law's side. Rudi watched her
approvingly.

"I'll fix your plate, Father," she said loudly,
in her Spanish-accented German, rushing to the buffet table, moving rudely
ahead of the diminutive Wilhelm and his tiny wife.

It was certainly not like Karla. She would never leave him
to fend for himself. They were inseparable, an arrangement that led many to see
incestuous implications. But he had long ceased to speculate on that score.

In the lobby Albert had the operator ring his father's
suite. Then he walked to both ends of the corridor, retracing his steps through
the forest of armor, peering into the rectory again to see if she had arrived.

Suddenly, Hans, the manager, came into the lobby from the
outside. His face was flushed. He was obviously in a state of anguish, and as
he got closer Albert saw little beads of sweat on his upper lip. Seeing him,
the manager hesitated, began to move backwards, turned, then moved toward him
again, like a trapped animal.

"What is it Hans?" Albert asked. Again he saw the
hesitation, a quiver of the chin, a sudden attempt to dissimulate.

"Nothing really, Baron." But the manager's
defenses were obviously crumbling, and he appeared to be on the verge of
fainting. Reaching out, Albert grabbed the man's arm.

"Something terrible has happened," the man
gasped. The color had drained from his face.

Growing impatient, Helga huddled in her coat to protect
herself from the chill. Although the sun was high now, the breeze had
heightened and the banner of the Old Order snapped with increasing energy.
Telling her oldest son the truth had taxed her resources. For a moment, too,
she had seen the child in the man. But the reality of the adult could not
sustain the old love. Absence had taken its toll.

"You have done well," her sister-in-law had said
when she visited her after the birth. Later the Baron had arrived, kissing her
appreciatively on the forehead.

"May it be the first of many," he had said
proudly, filling her with dread. If he knew, he would murder the child, she
thought.

She suspected that Siegfried would doubt her story, that
her proof might seem inconclusive, at least at first. Sooner or later it must
sink in, she decided, although she dared not speculate on anything beyond the
revelation. She had learned to live with no other future beyond this. The
future was now.

She had long fantasized how the words would be discharged,
and the unraveling of scenarios in her mind had provided endless hours of
speculation. "There are no von Kassels here," she had cried within
herself for years, confronting the Baron in imagination. Would that be the way
in which she would tell him? How desperately she needed Konrad now.

The wind whipped her face as it swept along the mountain
ridge to the castle parapet on which she stood. It swirled her hair and forced
her eyes to close against it. Only then, with the dislodged aroma of the deep
forests along the ridge line, the decay of winter's natural death, brushing her
nostrils, could she resummon Konrad fully in her mind. Toward the end he had
smelled like that, a gardener's perfume of earth.

He was suddenly there, in her field of vision, the sound of
his movements perpetually audible as he turned the ground or clipped the errant
bud. Observing people had been her only form of amusement. She did not read or
sew. The Baron's absences from the household were frequent. She was thankful
for that. Karla, whose somber presence provided little company for a young
girl, increasingly found other pursuits to keep her busy.

The garden, with its magnificent view of the Rhine and its neatly manicured paths and carefully nurtured flowers, became a frequent
environment. Hadn't she once been the little girl twirling on top of the
wedding cake here?

Although she observed the gardener at his work, she kept
the appropriate emotional distance between servant and master. Whatever
fantasies he might have engendered remained outside the orbit of her
consciousness. She was, after all, despite the pain of very private tortures,
the Baroness von Kassel. At that point she could still take refuge in pride.

"For you." He handed her a bouquet of flowers.

She had seen him coming up the walk, but had not expected
the proffered gift.

"How lovely," she said.

"Not as lovely as you." His long fluttering
lashes masked what his deep-set eyes might reveal. It did seem a bit more than
an obsequious flattery. She remembered she had looked toward the house, perhaps
fearful of being observed in a lack of propriety. Although new to the role, she
had quickly developed a sense of appearances for a woman of her new station.

That was all he said, "Not as lovely as you." She
had actually blushed and turned away and when she had looked back he was gone.
Thinking about it later, she wondered perhaps if such gestures might have
actually been one of the duties of gardeners. What, after all, were flowers
for?

When it happened again a few days later, she felt more
courage in her acceptance.

"They're quite beautiful, Konrad."

"Thank you, Miss."

For a moment their eyes had engaged and she was the first
to turn away, much to her own annoyance. How dare he, she thought, petulantly.

She was not able to articulate her loneliness in those
days. Or her unhappiness. These were merely conditions of her arrangement, the
lot of her life. It was the first lesson of her marriage. A high station in
life did not necessarily mean happiness. One must do one's duty, she told
herself. Submit. Yet something about Konrad suggested that life could offer
more.

She found herself spending more and more time in the
garden. It was the only place where she wasn't plagued by ennui and boredom.
She could take walks, look at the flowers, and, it came to that, exhibit
herself to Konrad. It did not take her long to notice that he watched her
continuously. Even if he didn't seem to do so. She felt his eyes on her and it
gave her pleasure.

When it rained, she was disappointed and became
increasingly edgy, sometimes refusing to come down for dinner.

"What is it, Helga?" Karla would ask.

"I don't feel very well." There was little she
cared to share with her sister-in-law. Or with the Baron. Only in the garden
did she feel a sense of freedom, a bird out of the cage.

The stone house where Konrad lived was not visible from the
high windows of the house, lost in a thicket of trees. Sometimes she would
linger near it wondering what it looked like inside. Konrad, like herself,
spent most of his time alone. Once, while contemplating the house, he had come
up behind her and she had been startled.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Helga said gently when she had
recovered herself. Actually, she was happy to see him. He was naked to the
waist and his muscles rippled under his tight skin. There was a film of
perspiration on his chest, making the forest of hairs glisten.

"I was looking at your house."

His deep eyes watched her and she did not turn hers away.

"It's not much." In his eyes she saw an
intelligence she did not expect. He was their gardener, but he did not have the
aspect of a gardener. "Would you like to see it?"

The invitation was blatant and her first reaction was a
sense of insult. How dare he? Not knowing how to react, she assumed, she hoped,
a look of disdain.

"Not today," she said, hoping she had masked her
intent. She knew she was engaged now. She could not deny that to herself. Did
he suspect her vulnerability?

The Baron's return to the household always increased the
tension. He always came laden with gifts, but they never seemed offerings of
affection, more like sacrifices, as if she were expected to barter something in
return. She offered her body in the same spirit as the gifts.

"Not yet?" he would ask. The question was
repelling. Once, she had sneaked off to a doctor in another town and he had
pronounced her physically able to bear children.

"Let me see your husband," the doctor had urged.
But she dared not tell the Baron. Besides, she had begun to hate him. Yet her
hate could not cure her loneliness or her diminishing sense of self-worth. Nor
was there anyone to confide in. Even her mother, now that her duty was done,
became distant, partly because the war had made her work much harder in the
bakery and because of the inherent class wall that her son-in-law's wealth had
created.

"You look downcast," Konrad said to her one day
as she passed him on the garden path. He had, she realized, become less subtle,
more obvious in his interest. As her vulnerability increased, he seemed to be
more aggressive.

"How can you tell?" she asked with sarcasm,
although she knew she welcomed the inquiry.

"I know flowers." The flattery was like a match
to dry tinsel.

"People are different."

"Not at all." He smiled, his teeth showing white
against his burnished face. She was shallow and inexperienced, and disturbed by
her instincts, but she had come to enjoy the idea of his now obvious intent.

"Well I'm not downcast," she said, more gentle a
rebuke than she had wished.

"Maybe just lonely," he said, coming closer.
Furtively, she had looked toward the house. The drapes were drawn, but she
proceeded to move out of sight anyway. He had, of course, struck the perfect
chord. There was something compelling in the way he said it, exciting her.

"I don't know why you said that," she said,
flushing.

"Because I know the condition." He was dropping
the mask, revealing his intelligence.

"You're being rather forward." Her haughtiness
seemed especially hollow. "I can get you fired."

"I know."

"Then why are you risking it?"

The smile had faded and his eyelashes fluttered with a
sudden uncertainty. "Sometimes you do things..." The muscles in his
arms had tightened. "We're all trapped one way or another."

She felt the intimacy and he must have felt it as well.
Moving toward her, he touched her arm. She did not move away, surprised at her
acquiescence. Then he gripped her arm and moved toward the stone house.

As the heavy door sprang shut, he gathered her,
unresisting, into his arms, the comfort of his closeness palpable, the smell of
his sweat commanding in its manliness. His tongue burst into her mouth and it
was like setting a match to a short fuse.

It was, she knew, inevitable that they would be discovered.
Yet, clinging to each other dispelled the sense of doom, even though he was a
mystery. The sense of it heightened whenever she heard the steady pounding of
his heartbeat. Why was a man like him a country gardener?

"Don't be too curious," he warned when she could
not resist asking questions. It was finally enough that he was there, alive and
loving. Considering the danger, having him to love was enough.

Standing in the chill on the castle turret, Helga felt the
loss of him with more intensity than ever. That, and the gnawing perpetual
guilt that had always plagued her; that she was the instrument of his death.

The discovery of her first conception was a kind of testing
ground. She had prevailed. The tension of the house could subside. The Baron
had what he wanted.

"It is yours," she told Konrad when the conception
was confirmed. He nodded almost as if he had prior knowledge of the event. She
remembered her disappointment, expecting another reaction. Perhaps joy.

"He will never know," she promised.
"Never."

The Baron, of course, was ecstatic and the birth of
Siegfried was an event to be celebrated. The Baden-Baden house was filled with
the good burghers of the town rushing to pay their respects and for weeks the
Baron paraded around like a bantam rooster.

After the birth, Konrad seemed nervous, restless.

"Are you tired of me?" she would nag. They had
resumed their affair, although their couplings were more frantic and less
frequent. But when the Baron returned to his travels, Konrad relaxed.

"See. It will be exactly as before."

With the birth of Rudi, then Albert, her fecundity seemed
to have evolved into a regular pattern. And the children began to demand more
of her time, interfering with the logistics of their affair.

Occasionally there were bouts of despair, and sometimes the
stress would spill over and she would vent her anger on Konrad.

"Doesn't it bother you to have another man claim your
children?"

He would look at her and shrug. "It is only
temporary."

"I don't understand."

"After the war. When Hitler is gone."

"Would that really make a difference to us?"

He would sink into a brooding silence, from which he would
not emerge for days. Yet she feared to press him further. It had become
instinctive with them to maintain a surface calm, to avoid any emotional
conflagrations that might create suspicions.

"I love you, Konrad. If anything happened to you I
would die."

"Then you mustn't love me so much." Perhaps he
was right.

It was a miracle that they had not been discovered. They
had, of course, been careful. Clever they thought. Then suddenly the miracle
was over. Nor was there the slightest hope of denial. The moment had been well
timed. It was twilight. She could never quite forget the color of the setting
sun on their flesh, reddening, blood red. They had deliberately waited for the
coupling, until the tell-tale sounds began, the movement of the bed. The Baron
was supposed to have been away, but there he was standing over them, the covers
removed, and beside him the two bullnecked uniformed men. She had not screamed
and Konrad had, therefore, continued to hold her, conjoined. When he finally
realized what was happening the bullnecked men kicked him there, in his still
distended phallus. Then they beat him with a truncheon until his face turned
purple. He had cried at first, but they quickly had stuck a gag in his mouth.
She clung to the blanket, eyes wide with disbelief and terror.

"Jew bastard," one of the men screamed as they
beat him.

Jew. Even in her terror the idea of it was tangible. She
had no illusions about his fate now.

"Take him outside," the Baron had ordered. They
dragged him out the door.

She remembered, too, the white face of her husband which
even the redness of the twilight could not tinge. He stood over her, watching
her, the humiliation so palpable that she almost felt pity for him.

"Please. Don't harm him," she had cried. "It
is not his fault. Let him live."

She had wanted to tell the truth then, but even in her
highly charged state she knew that it would mean their death. All of them.

"I'll do anything, Charles. Don't hurt him please. It
is my fault as well."

The Baron had come toward her, his eyes blazing with hatred
and humiliation. His white knuckled fists seemed like giant claws as he swung
back and struck her. The pain exploded in her head and she felt the salt taste
of warm blood. But she did not cry out. Perhaps it was the absence of this
acknowledgment of her pain that made him stop before she lost consciousness.
Despite the beating, she was surprisingly lucid.

"You have disgraced the children."