students gone off to war he had been able to enroll in university a year ahead of schedule. But it soon became clear to Reinhard that Kurt had been left to his own devices for too long. He had developed an unfortunate appreciation for literature and music, plus a certain dreaminess that meshed poorly with the no-nonsense mentality of high commerce. It was making for a rocky transition.
Kurt, then, had walked to the party with an air of resignation, and when a Stuckart servant held open the leather blackout curtain in the foyer and took his overcoat, he braced himself for a trying night.
At least Erich would be there. Erich Stuckart, son of the party’s host, was an entertaining schoolmate always good for a few laughs. Kurt immediately spotted the long, horsey face, just like his dad’s. Erich, too, wore a suit- boring pinstripes in midnight blue. It might have made him resemble the Gestapo wraiths if not for a bright red necktie, which Kurt saw now was pinned with a tiny gold swastika. His father’s doing, no doubt, because Erich’s first order of business was always devilment and drinking, an agenda that already showed in the high flush of his cheeks.
“You’ve escaped your father. Well done!” Erich said. “I’ve run my own gauntlet of government types. Dad’s idea, of course. But hopefully I’m through for the duration.”
“I got lucky,” Kurt said. “The minute we walked in he was cornered by some state secretary for economics having a wet dream about the subject of Reichsbahn rolling stock.”
“There’s the only rolling stock I’m interested in. Check out the caboose on that one.”
Erich tipped his glass toward a passing woman whose dress was several sizes too tight.
“This clothes-rationing business is simply the best,” he said. “My mother’s seamstress tells her that most women now are rehemming their skirts instead of buying new ones when the edges start to fray. A few more years of war and everything will be mid-thigh. So here’s to the plucky Red Army. Long may they hold out in their rat- infested dachas.”
Kurt snatched a dripping champagne glass from a passing tray.
“Nice spread you’ve got, speaking of rationing.”
“Shellfish aren’t covered, you know, so the oysters were a breeze. The ham and champagne are straight from Paris. The only problem was that everything was sitting in some warehouse west of town, with no trucks and no gasoline. Dad had to find three droopy Poles to lug it here on handcarts. They covered everything with blankets the whole way or they never would have made it through Spandau. People took one look at the sad sacks pulling the load and probably figured it was a mound of horse manure. So drink up. This could be your last bubbly for months. Or at least until your sister Traudl’s wedding.”
“He hasn’t even asked her yet.”
“Oh, he will. All the SS men are getting hitched. It’s all the rage before going to the front. You better brace yourself for a lot of stupid background checks. They go back six generations, you know. All very silly.”
Kurt had overheard his parents expressing worries about this very prospect. But before he could muster up any anxiety of his own, he saw the girl. She was across the room, laughing at something a woman next to her had just said. The candlelight lent her face the radiance of a flower that has just opened its petals. Eyes full of promise. Delicate features. He instinctively wanted to provide her with special care and handling and shepherd her away from this bruising hubbub. Yet the more he watched her talk, the more her movements revealed an underlying fierceness. An emphatic passion punctuated every word.
He couldn’t hear a word of what she was saying. It might have been as frivolous as hemlines, or as grim as a casualty list. But did that really matter? She could probably make any topic seem vitally important. He was so riveted that he didn’t notice that his father had tracked him down.
“Ah, there you are, Kurt. There is someone you need to meet, right over here. This way, then.
Erich offered a sympathetic shrug, and Kurt spent the next several minutes nodding dutifully at the remarks of a crusty old Prussian named Helmut who was supposedly doing great things with aircraft components over at the Argus Works in Reinickendorf. He exclaimed in earnest approval for the next five minutes while wishing he could tear his eyes away for another glance at the girl. Finally both men were spirited away once again by the man from Economics, who was still gushing about rolling stock.
Kurt turned to search the room. She was still there. He made a bee-line back to Erich, hoping for useful intelligence. But Erich spoke first.
“Have you seen that hot little number who just arrived? My God, how perfect.”
Oh, no. Had he, too, been struck by the same bolt of lightning?
“Which one?” Kurt asked apprehensively.
“The one in pink. Over there.”
Erich pointed to a young woman whom Kurt’s mother would have charitably described as a floozy. She had large breasts, amply displayed, and deeply rouged cheeks. She was showing far too much leg-another victim of rationing, perhaps-and was waving a cigarette as if it were a conductor’s baton. Her orchestra was three attentive men in uniform, who by all appearances were just as impressed as Erich.
“Very nice. But who’s that one, over there by the tree?”
Erich grudgingly shifted his gaze.
“Oh, you mean Liesl?” He smiled. “Now there’s an odd one. Pretty. But an odd duck for sure.”
“Odd how?” Kurt’s tone was defensive.
“Give her a chat, you’ll see. Just don’t let your father hear what you’re talking about. Or mine, either. That kind of odd.”
Erich, like his dad, had cultivated the ability of damning by implication without offering any specifics that he might have to account for later.
“The good news is that if you happen to like her, she’s one of our fellow students at the university. A year ahead of us, but still…”
That was all the encouragement Kurt needed to take up the chase. And now there he was, talking to her at last, and finding to his relief that along with her other powers, she also had the ability to put him immediately at ease, which was rarely the case with Kurt and pretty girls.
“Bauer, you said? Is your father the bomb maker?”
He laughed.
“I suppose he wouldn’t mind that description, as long as you don’t call him the bomb
“Sounds important. Where is he?”
“That man at the buffet table. By the oysters.”
“The one who’s looking around like he lost something?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Good guess.”
“Turn around, then, and move behind me. Next to the tree. I’ll block his view.”
So she was playful, too, not exactly common currency among German girls these days, except the silly ones who giggled at everything. A natural-born conspirator as well, which seemed like another mark in her favor despite its obvious risks-or maybe because of them. For too many days now Kurt had been walking the straight and narrow, taking care to say all the right things. It was a relief to engage in a little rebellion, especially with such an appealing comrade in arms.
“How come he’s not wearing a uniform?”
“Well, he is, sort of.” This had just occurred to Kurt.
“The gray suit, you mean. Captain of commerce?”
“Yes.”
“Then what does that make you?”
She reached out and, thrillingly, ran her fingertips down his lapel. He was again glad he hadn’t worn the pin.
“A corporal in training, I suppose.”
“Ah. But groomed for promotion.”
