door,” she said. “Like this.”
“I would have liked that,” he said. He went and sat beside her, bent over and kissed her briefly, then stood and began to undress. “Next time, my love, leave a note on the door, or a garter, or something.”
She laughed. “Forgive me.” She propped her head on her hand and watched as he took off his clothes. Then she put a hand out, he took it in his, and she said, “I am so happy you’re here, Carlo.” He kissed her hand, then went back to unbuttoning his shirt.
“I did wonder,” he said. “I thought I was going to a party.”
“But my dear, you are.”
Done with his clothes, he lay down on the bed and stroked her side. “I thought you might call, last night.”
“Better for me now not to go to a hotel,” she said. “That’s why all of this, your friend Wolf, and dear Alma. But, no matter.” She put her arm around his shoulders and embraced him, her breasts against his chest. “I have what I want,” she said, her voice softening.
“The front door is ajar,” he said.
“Don’t worry, you can close it later. Nobody comes here, it’s a building of ghosts.”
The skin of her legs was cool, and smooth to the touch. His hand moved slowly, up and back, he was in no hurry, took such pleasure in anticipation that what came next seemed somewhere in a distant future.
Finally, she said, “Perhaps you’d better close the door, after all.”
“Allright.” Reluctantly, he stood and headed for the door.
“Ghosts might hear things,” she said as he left the room. “We wouldn’t want that.”
He was back in a moment. “Poor Carlo,” she said. “Now we’ll have to begin all over again.”
“I guess I must,” he said, his voice elated. After a time, she moved her legs apart, and guided his hand. “God,” she said, “how I love this.”
He could tell that she did.
Sliding down the bed, so that her head was level with his waist, she said, “Just stay where you are, there is something I have wanted to do for a long time.”
“May I have one of those?” she said.
He took a cigarette from his pack of Gitanes, handed it to her, then lit it with his steel lighter. “I don’t recall you smoking.”
“I’ve taken it up. I used to, in my twenties, then I stopped.”
She found an ashtray on the night table and put it between them on the bed. “Everybody smokes now, in Berlin. It helps.”
“Christa?”
“Yes?”
“Why can’t you go to the Adlon?”
“Too public. Somebody would tell the police.”
“Are they after you?”
“They’re interested, in me. They suspect I might be a bad girl, I have a few of the wrong friends. So, I asked Alma for a favor. She was very enthusiastic.” After a moment, she said, “I wanted to make it exciting. Answer the door, all bare-assed and perfumed.”
“You can do it tomorrow. Can we come here tomorrow?”
“Oh yes, we shall. How long can you stay?”
“Two days more, I’ll find a reason.”
“Yes, find some Nazi bastard and interview him.”
“That’s what I do.”
“I know, you’re strong.”
“I never thought of it like that.”
She inhaled her cigarette, letting the smoke come out with her words. “You are, though. One reason I like you.”
He put his cigarette out and said, “There are more?”
“I love to fuck you, that’s another.” In her husky, aristocratic voice, the vulgarity was no more than casual.
He leaned over and put his lips on her breast. Surprised, she drew in her breath. Then she stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, reached down, and held him in her hand. Which was slightly cold, at first, but, not long after, warmed. “I have one nice thing to tell you,” she said.
“What’s that?” His voice wavered.
“We can stay here tonight. The official version is ‘at Alma’s.’ So we can go to a charity breakfast, before work.”
“Mm,” he said. “Probably I’ll wake you up, at some point.”
“You better,” she said.
It was nearly dawn, when that happened. He’d almost forgotten how much he liked to sleep beside her, spoon fashion, her legs drawn up. After they made love, they heard clinking bottles out in the corridor. The milkman.
“Apparently, the ghosts drink milk,” Weisz said. “Why do you call them ghosts?”
“The rich used to live here. According to Alma, some of them were Jews, and some of the others find it opportune, lately, to be in Switzerland.”
“Where is Alma?”
“She lives in a big house in Charlottenburg. She used to live here, now it’s her place in town.”
“What do we do about the sheets?”
“Her maid will change the bed.”
“Is she dependable, the maid?”
“God knows,” Christa said. “You can’t think of everything, you have to trust in fate, sometimes.”
22 May. The signing of the Pact of Steel took place at eleven in the morning, at the sumptuous Ambassadors Hall of the Reich Chancellery. In the press gallery, Weisz sat next to Eric Wolf. On his other side, Mary McGrath of the
The journalists had been given handouts, with highlights of the treaty. “Look at the last paragraph,” Mary McGrath said. “‘Finally, in case of war involving one partner, no matter how started, full mutual support with all military forces, by land, sea, and air.’”
“That’s the deadly phrase,” Wolf said, “‘no matter how started.’ It means if Hitler attacks, Italy has to follow. Four little words, but enough.”
The footmen walked the doors open, and the parade began. In the most splendid uniforms, set off by ranks of medals, a steady stream of generals and foreign ministers entered the hall, walking slowly, stately and dignified. Only one stood out, in the simplicity of his plain brown uniform, Adolf Hitler. There followed an endless procession of speeches, and, ultimately, the signing itself. Two groups, of four officials from the foreign department, carried large books, bound in red leather, to the table, where Count Ciano and von Ribbentrop awaited them. The officials set the books down and, with great ceremony, opened them, to reveal the treaties, then handed each man a gold pen. When the treaties were signed, they picked up the books and set them down for countersignature. Two powerful states were now joined together, and an elated Hitler, with a huge grin, took Count Ciano’s hand in both of his and shook it so violently that he nearly lifted him off the floor. Then, Hitler presented Ciano with the Grand Cross of the German Eagle, the Reich’s highest honor. In the handout, the press was informed that, later in the day, Ciano would bestow on von Ribbentrop the Collar of the Annunciata, Italy’s supreme decoration.
Amid the applause, Mary McGrath said, “Is it over?”
“I think that’s it,” Weisz said. “The banquets are tonight.”
