Stained Glass (22 page)

For the end of that man is peace.

But the transgressions shall be destroyed together:

The end of the wicked will be cut off.

Erika's face was white, her lips tight. She slipped her hand under the cloth, fingered one card, thought better of it, groped for another. This one she withdrew, her eyes closed. Without looking at it herself, she turned it so that Blackford, sitting opposite, would see it. It was the ten of clubs. There was silence.

Blackford reached under the cloth and yanked out a card. He returned the courtesy to Erika, whose face brightened; and Blackford knew the worst as he slammed down the two of clubs on the table, stood up, and walked to the door.

Outside, on the porch, looking out over Gstaad, he breathed deeply. He was not interrupted. A few moments later Erika came out and spoke to him softly.

“I am going to ski,” she said.

“Ski where? It's five-thirty.”

“There is a flambeau tonight at the Hornberg.”

“What's a flambeau?”

“We go up the funicular between six and seven, eat at the restaurant, and ski down in the moonlight. There are guides. Even ‘bloodwagons,' as the English call them, to bring down anyone who has had an accident … Will you join me?”

Blackford did not hesitate. “I will join you.”

They arrived at Saanenmoser and boarded the funicular sled along with three dozen other revelers. Two school-girls, one with golden braids and a golden face, began to yodel as they waited for the funi to fill up. Their voices were high and Alpine clear, and the chattering crowd stopped to listen. Halfway up the mountain the ski guides began a husky counterpoint, alternating with the girls' bel canto, and by the time they reached the top of the mountain all the Swiss were singing, the foreigners shouting bravo after every song—they could not applaud because both hands were needed to maintain balance on the steep, bumpy ride. At the top they dismounted, collected their skis from the stack at the back of the sled, and set out to walk the kilometer grading up to the Hornberg Inn, which was warm and smoky from the huge fireplace and the pipe-smoking of the half-dozen hardy skiers who resided there, interring themselves for the night from the moment the funi began its last regularly scheduled ascent at four-thirty. The flambeaux were scheduled monthly when the moon was right, if the snow also was right.

There were no tables for two, so Erika and Blackford sat opposite each other at a table for eight comprising a Swiss guide and five German skiers. They ordered white wine, a regional Fendant, and in due course the cheese fondue was brought out and, from two chafing dishes filled with Gruyère cheese kept hot by high-intensity alcohol flames underneath, they served themselves, dunking their bread morsels, skewered by the long pronged forks, in the cheese, washing down the food with wine. An accordion player hacked away jovially with rollicking Swiss music and after the fondue was served rallied everyone to sing together the “
Vo Luzern, gegen Wäggis zue
,” at the closing chorus of which, arms about the shoulders of the two people at either side, in rhythm with the music, the skiers rolled from side to side, “
Going from Lucerne to Waggis/You need neither stockings nor shoes/You just swing to the yodel.
” The music and the singing got louder and now the waitresses took orders for kirsch, coffee, and chocolate. Erika and Blackford ordered
filtre
, kirsch, and Toblerone. Blackford quaffed the kirsch voluptuously, and Erika was not far behind. The huge German on Erika's right asked whether she and her companion would care to bet: He would undertake to whirl a five-franc piece within a cereal bowl and keep it going round and round without collapsing, like the motorcyclists at the country fairs who in the huge open barrels zoom about at high speeds sustained by centrifugal force. Erika and Blackford had agreed that they would not divulge their knowledge of German the better to protect themselves against a cooptive Gemütlichkeit; and so, affecting difficulty in understanding him, Erika finally came up with a one-franc piece to match the German's proffered coin. He persevered around the table, collecting from the happily gamey company.

And then he began whirling the bowl. At first the five-franc piece wobbled, but as he increased by subtle movement of the palm the circular velocity of the bowl, concentrating feverishly on the motion of his right hand, the five-franc piece began to spin about in the bowl's perimeter, just beneath the rim. Everyone at the table applauded lustily, whereon, carried away, the German now rose cautiously to his feet, the coin in the bowl still rotating. Now the skiers at surrounding tables joined in applause. Egged on, the German stepped potvaliantly up onto the bench, and the crowd went wild. Then he lifted shakily one leg, like a waterskier shucking off a ski, so that now he was supported by a single leg; and in a final reach for perfection he lifted the bowl high into the air, his right hand maintaining the motion, and stood there like the Statue of Liberty, as everyone cheered and howled. He brought the demonstration to an end by outstretching his left hand and, like a triumphant matador, turning slowly on the balls of his feet to receive the plaudits of the crowd. Then he sat, a huge deposit of self-satisfaction, collected his bets and challenged Blackford to try it. Blackford did, but the coin fell flat after only a second, bringing great happiness and hilarity to the German. Nothing would do but that everyone should try in turn. Happily, everyone else failed, and the German, elated, ordered an extra kirsch for everyone at the table.

The chief guide now stood and said that every sixth person would be handed a flambeau and that the skiers must be careful to keep in line. So, with the air of pioneers, they trudged out into the night. The temperature was exhilarating—cold but not icy. Blackford bent down to help Erika bind her skis. It fell to neither of them to carry a lighted torch. After ten minutes of confusion and merriment the procession was ready and the accordion player, without ski poles, and making music all the way, began the three-mile ski down the mountain. They slid down the ghostly snow, down the wide slopes bordered by pine forests, through one forest down a winding trail. They looked like a centipedal firefly as they made their sinuous way down the mountain, reaching speeds as fast as thirty miles per hour. Halfway down there was a check to give the skiers a chance to rest their ankles. Blackford was grateful that his seemed in good condition, though he had not skied in eighteen months. Erika clearly was a veteran. In the flickering light of the nearby flambeau he saw her face in a new cast. Any latent dullness was gone. She was girlishly spirited, flushed with pleasure and relief. They reached the bottom and cursed the inflexible refusal of the guides to summon the funi to take them back up again: The funi operators had long since gone home. So they walked to Blackford's car, attaching the skis to the harness, and he said, “Where does one go from here?” She suggested the bar at Schönreid, the Alpenrose, and there they found late diners ordering rich meats and the tiny fried potatoes, and went off to a corner table and told the waiter they would merely take a bottle of white wine. They drank this, and talked about everything except what was creeping back into Blackford's mind after the surcease at the Hornberg. He forced it back out, ordering another bottle of wine. On impulse he turned to her.

“To take out?”

She hesitated. But then whispered huskily, “To take out.”

In the car he said, “Where are you staying?”

“The Bahnhof at Saanen.”

“Sounds to me like my place is better.”

“Your place? With that man Rufus across the hall?”

Blackford explained he had a private apartment on the ground floor.

They drove there and went in. He took her to the second, empty bedroom, and pointed out the bath in between, and returned discreetly to his own room. When he heard the shower turn off, he waited a moment or two, opened his door and stepped into the shower, though he hesitated, fearing to lose the tang of the snow. Then, naked, he opened her door, and gasped. The lights were off. But the moon made her body lambent, crisscrossing it through the narrow frame windows.

He approached her and whispered, “I'd rather do this with you than play cards.” Suddenly he felt again the pain of that afternoon. And, moments later, his mind turned on the legend of the little boy in Holland sticking his finger in the dike to hold back the floodwaters. He wasn't using his finger, he reflected but however temporarily, the substitute was working: holding back the floodwaters in his mind. She was Erika, beautiful, warm Erika born to love and be loved, not to attend to the devil's housekeeping. He? He was what? He was simply the little Dutch boy, holding back the floodwaters. “Look, Ma!” he allowed himself to think. “No hands!”

Erika woke with a start at six-thirty and nudged Blackford. “I must go quickly.”

He went to his room and dressed. She was ready, and silently they went to the car. She indicated the way. At the Bahnhof she kissed him lightly on the cheek and, without a word, left the car, retrieving her skis. He drove back to Haltehüs and, as he walked into his apartment he looked up at the porch. Singer Callaway was standing there in his bathrobe.

“What do you think this house is, Oakes, a bordello?”

Blackford paused. A grim ditty came to his lips.

Kill a few?

Breed a few!

But it died in his throat and, to Singer, he returned only the required schoolboy fico.

CHAPTER 16

Wintergrin called the meeting for 8 p.m. Saturday at the castle. His enterprise was endangered; the three preceding days had been the most damaging of his career. He elected to eat alone before going into the conference room to meet with his associates. Dinner was served in his study: soup, sausage, roast potatoes, salad. A glass was filled with red wine which he did not taste, though he drank the mineral water. Two letters had been placed on top of the mound of clippings from papers from all over Europe. One was sealed, the other opened; two letters Himmelfarb had evidently thought it important to pass along directly.

The first was from the widow of an admiral hanged at Nuremberg. She had a special place in the affection of the German people because it was known she had frequently interceded, at substantial risk to herself and to her husband's position, in behalf of numerous victims-elect of the Fuehrer. Axel had known her since he was a child. Hers was a plea to throw his strength to Adenauer. “Don't you see, Axel, that if you go through with your own plan, you
must
fail? Either you will be killed singly or—just as probably—what is left of freedom here in West Germany will be killed by Soviet troops reacting to your challenge.” He did not need to read more (though he did, dutifully), because he had read a thousand such letters in the past months. He wondered, even, whether Adenauer might have been inspiring some of them. But this letter went on to stress an unconventional point: his campaign would be rated by history a brilliant success in any event, as he would have emboldened Adenauer's party to take a far more aggressive line against the Soviets, perhaps even to force, if less dramatically, the issue of reunification.

He put the letter in a basket reserved for correspondence he would himself reply to.

The second letter was still sealed. Unusual because Roland Himmelfarb did not hesitate to open Axel's mail. On looking closely he recognized the seal. And written on the face of the envelope was: “For Count Wintergrin personally.” He knew the handwriting of the Queen of England.

“Dear Axel: You can never have doubted that my personal sympathies are with you and your movement. It is clear now, as I reflect on our many conversations during the summer of 1946, that the plans you have crystallized grew out of an analysis we once ventilated together—perhaps I presume to believe I might have had a part in contributing to that analysis. But after listening extensively to the Prime Minister, to our military advisers, to men you know and trust, I must advise you that in our solemn judgment the risks you run are inordinate.

“Could you not, at the last moment, endorse Adenauer, and transform his own party into something very much like your own, but—dare I say it, dear Axel?—just a little more flexible, to avoid the awful possibility that the precarious peace we have won will be shattered? No one is fonder of you, believe me, than I, and I am therefore personally concerned for your personal safety: but I am prepared to risk pomposity to advise you that I am imploring you not as your friend and cousin, but as the Queen of England, to heed our counsel. My prayers will be with you. Affectionately, Caroline.”

He left his half-eaten sausage and reached for a sheet of writing paper on which he scrawled: “HM, The Queen. Dear Caroline: If I happen to be killed at an opportune moment, then by your reasoning the threat to the peace would have been eliminated. Does it follow that you desire me, for reasons of state alone of course, to
be
killed? You must think through the logic of your position. Now: I tell you, the Russians
will give in to my ultimatum
. My victory will
strengthen
, not weaken, Europe. The men who have been counseling you were in positions of power when East Germany was lost. And Poland. And Czechoslovakia. And Bulgaria. And Rumania. I spent
five years
dwelling on little else than the arguments you raise now, on the eve of the election. There is nothing new in what you say, not even, I am reassured to note, in the reiteration of expressions of your personal affection, which I return, Ever gratefully, Axel.”

He picked up the clippings and walked into the conference room. He scarcely noticed that, for the first time, his intimates rose when he entered. Sitting down at the head of the table he addressed Himmelfarb, his chief of staff; Heinrich Stiller, his communications chief; Kurt Grossmann, his press chief; and Jürgen Wagner, his security chief.

“Well, gentlemen”—Wintergrin's voice was calm, resolute, instantly galvanizing. “It has been a heavy week. The Communists and the Americans would appear to be working as a single team. Would you agree”—he addressed Kurt Grossmann—“that the attacks are coordinated?”