Into Crosswinds: A Novel

By Monique De Jong

Members of an Alsatian family are swept into the crosswinds of World War II, some loyal to Germany, some to France, and some so desperate to survive they betray both countries. For one couple it means an evacuation from the city of Strasbourg to a village in Southwestern France where they live a substandard existence that becomes increasingly lethal as enemy troops occupy Free France, and the husband, a Jew, joins the Resistance. The wifes cousin, an SS, married to an American girl employed at IBM-Berlin, is involved in the Final Solution. Later dispatched to southwestern France, he leads raids in pursuit of Resistance fighters and Jews as part of a vast German suppression program. Will his path cross his cousins?

A suspense-driven story based on personal experience, family accounts, several live interviews in situ with surviving members of the French Resistance in the Dordogne, on location research and interviews with war survivors, as well as research in French, English and German WWII history books, literature, and museums.

"Into Crosswinds" received the second prize award in the Historical Fiction category at the 22nd annual CIPA EVVY (Colorado Independent Publishers Association) 2016 Awards. Entries are worldwide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514410424

Monique De Jong

Monique de Jong Ph.D. was born in Strasbourg France. She studied American literature at the University in that city. A Fulbright scholarship brought her to the United States. For many years she was an Assistant Professor at American University, Department of Languages and Linguistics, Washington D.C. She received her Ph.D. from the George Washington University. After spending many years in that city she and her husband now enjoy life in Arizona.

Book preview

Into Crosswinds

A NOVEL

Monique de Jong

Copyright © 2015 by Monique de Jong.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2015915759

ISBN:      Hardcover       978-1-5144-1044-8

                Softcover         978-1-5144-1043-1

                eBook              978-1-5144-1042-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Author’s note: This historical novel is woven against the background of WWII real events.

Rev. date: 12/30/2015

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Contents

Acknowledgments

1938−39

1

1934

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

1940

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

1941

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

1942

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

1943

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

1944

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

1945

66

67

68

Acknowledgments

Into Crosswinds started with a need to retrace my family’s experience during World War II, and my father’s involvement in the French Resistance.

My heartfelt thanks to the following individuals in Dordogne, France:

My friend Christiane Sauvage of Saint-Raphaël for setting up live interviews with a number of former members of the Resistance and keeping me supplied with the latest publications involving World War II events in that region.

Philippe Tenant de la Tour of Saint-Yrieix, lieutenant and liaison officer in the famous Rac Brigade of Dordogne North, for being successful in locating my father in Colonel Roger’s Tenth Battalion of the Dordogne Center Maquis. This information allowed me to retrace my father’s entire involvement in the Resistance.

Robert Cubertefond of St Martin for lending me books on the Resistance in the region.

And in the United States:

My friend Karen Monaco of Tucson, Arizona, who was so generous with her time and helped me solve many technical problems related to the production of this novel.

To my parents who suffered these war years.

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1938−39

1

Strasbourg, France, Christmas 1938

I t has lost none of its strength, none of its viciousness, none of its all-invasive power. From the distant mournful steppes of Russia, over legend-pregnant forests in Prussia, unstoppable and unbridled across the vast German plains, it muscles its way into eastern France—a fierce, icy wind that storms mercilessly into the capital of Alsace. It yowls and chases its tail around the single-steeple cathedral, whips in and out of narrow, cobble stoned streets where Roman legions once marched, rattles and bangs the thick wooden shutters of rows upon rows of crooked half-timbered houses, and forces an entry into dark corridors, up corkscrew-shaped staircases, hissing viciously along the eaves of steeply slanted roofs.

Caught in its icy breath and plowing upstream, a young woman struggles along the narrow city streets, holding her fur hat with one hand and the raised collar of her coat with the other. At every corner the wind lies in ambush, snakes around her legs, and sends daggers up her sleeves and down her neck. Damn Hermann! she mutters, just like him to wait till two days before Christmas to announce his visit! I’ll catch my death running around in that wind! She finds temporary relief under the Arcades, but a furious blast streaming down Mercière Street whips her again as she starts climbing it toward the cathedral. Should have worn my boots! Damn it! Shouldn’t have left the house at all! To hell with tradition! Liqueur-filled chocolates, I swear! I should have my head examined! Across the street, she watches a couple of bundled-up men enter a Weinstube and wishes she could join them and warm up with a mug of hot spiced wine, and maybe a throat-scorching, cheese-crusted onion soup. But disappointing her relative is not an acceptable possibility, and she will spare no effort to make this reunion, a reconciliation reunion, a success. So she trudges on and buries her face deeper into her coat collar. When she reaches the top of the street she stops for a moment in front of a toyshop to catch her breath. Her heart is beating fast. Not too fast, she hopes, as it does sometimes, taking off like an unbridled racing horse. Suddenly very weak, she has to lie down and wait until the crazy arrhythmia stops galloping up into her throat, a scary experience every time. In the shop window, dolls in traditional Alsatian costumes stare back at her, insistent and meaningless. She takes a few deep breaths and walks away. The confectionary is only another block to the left, in one of the many narrow medieval streets replete with old bookstores and antique dealers. Usually, Emilie Dekker likes to explore them in search of that rare piece of Limoges or the leather-bound book her husband favors. But this morning, she disregards their display windows. Moments later, with what little remains of her strength, she pushes the heavy etched glass door of the confectionary. A luscious scent of chocolate and vanilla welcomes her, giving her immediate comfort and warmth, just as she expected. And she is not quite sure that giving immediate warmth and comfort is not the principal function of the store, as its throng of customers seems in no hurry to leave and face the wind again. A ring of shopping bags encircles it like fortifications out of which only jabbering and craning heads emerge, which makes it quite impossible for Emilie to reach the display counter and choose, at leisure, among three shelves of boxed chocolates, the ones that would satisfy her finicky taste as well as her uncle Hermann’s craving. When her time comes to order, still undecided between four different kinds of liqueur-filled chocolates, she buys all four. I’ll decide later, she tells herself with assurance and not the slightest twinge of guilt.

Emilie is Alsatian, and Alsatians love to celebrate Christmas, mostly by regaling their stomachs, although some spiritual activities will occur, but not immediately. Rather late, actually, around midnight, at the cathedral, and after bellies have been copiously filled so as to ensure a spirit of gratitude for the good living they enjoyed all year long. And the midnight mass, with all its pomp and circumstance, amplified by the magnificence and majesty of the Gothic building, reassures them in their belief that life must be lived full and fully day in, day out. And so they do.

Emilie boards the number 13 streetcar home. She settles down in a window seat and stares at the fleeting cityscape outside. But her eyes do not see the wind-blown people, the barren trees along the avenues, the leaden sky and its promise of snow. What they see is a boy’s luminous face, laughing blue eyes shaded by wisps of stiff wheat-colored hair, and the miracle of a dimple in his left cheek when he smiles—uncle Hermann’s son, her German cousin, Kurt.

During their young years they saw each other frequently. School breaks were spent with either family. He was the older brother she always wanted to feel protected, to find out about boys, to discover why they are so fearless, to be taught games. And she was hurt when Kurt would, at times, dismiss her, unable or unwilling to play the tutor, laughing instead at her probing curiosity and sending her back to her dolls. But she, in turn, was his little sister. He often told her so. He too was an only child and enjoyed taking her under his wing.

In winter, there were outings in snow-covered mountains, the Black Forest or the Vosges, and days whooshed away on sled rides. She would sit behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Keep your eyes open! he would order. But she couldn’t and squealed all the way to the bottom of the slope. What did you see coming down? he would question severely. She would shake her head and smile. You closed your eyes! You’re scared! Shame on you! he would scold. Next time, you’ll sit in front and keep your eyes open! But she didn’t and squealed even louder, and when they reached the bottom of the slope, they would fall over on their backs in the snow, laughing. He would straddle her and shake his snow-filled hair over her face to punish her for being such a sissy. At the end of the day, exhausted and disheveled, she would let him smooth down her waist-long hair and thread it back into a thick braid.

Your hair is so black and so thick, he would tease. It’s like a horse’s tail. I’ve never seen anything like it!

And yours is like dirty barn straw, she would retort, petulant and crushed.

In summer, they waded in mountain brooks and trapped crayfish to cook over fires he built. She watched him peel the bark off branches and carve walking sticks to help them climb through dense pine forests. They would emerge at the summit to gasp in wonder at one of the many medieval castles crowning the mountaintops. Kurt was very knowledgeable about plants and animals and never got lost. She admired him and wished they would be together more often, no, always. Theirs was a simple contentment in a time of peace, and that contentment was reflected in everything around them—the picturesque villages with their white timbered houses, pitched roofs and windows half buried in flowers; the storks in their nests on top of chimney stacks; the tinkle of church bells deep down in the valleys; and people working in vineyards and hops fields. Emilie smiles at these memories. But it ended much too soon, this idyllic time, as the situation in Germany deteriorated into the Great Depression, and Hitler came to power. Uncle Hermann kept his distance, and Kurt was no longer master of his time and, to some degree, his life. At first, Emilie missed her cousin terribly. Then she forgot him. Hermann wrote about bringing a surprise. Could it be cousin Kurt? It would be fun to find out what he looks like now, and what he is up to. Suddenly, Emilie knits her well-groomed eyebrows into a frown. But what if he is one of those miscreants, one of those SS soldiers people are talking about with indignation and fear. What if—?

When Emilie exits the streetcar, the wind is still raging. Now she faces a fifteen-minute walk to her apartment. It towers over all other dwellings scattered along a sinuous street, the second of three adjacent apartment buildings, all three massive structures of pink granite. Bastions of bourgeoisie, with their mullion-festooned windows and grand main entrances, their elaborate wrought iron balconies and spiked iron gates, they are meant to impress and guard their residents from intruders. Emilie climbs up the three flights of stairs to her third-floor apartment. She stops on each landing to catch her breath and look at the gardens below through the panoramic windows and beyond at the cultivated fields that stretch all the way to an embankment erected to prevent the Rhine from overflowing into the fields. It often happens when the river crests in spring, swollen into a torrent by the melting snows of the Alps. On the opposite bank is Germany. That’s where they will be coming from! It is a realization she experiences every time she looks out of those windows and every time with increased anxiety. "They. Everybody in Alsace knows who they" are. They have done it before, back in 1870 under Frederick the Great and more recently during Kaiser Wilhelm’s reign. They occupied the province. They instituted their laws, imposed their language and their way of life. They were resented by most, but not all. The French way had to simmer underground, still loved but hidden. Her parents experienced that earlier occupation, and their resentment still sizzles in their blood. That’s when uncle Hermann moved to Offenburg on the other side of the Rhine. He claimed he was comfortable with the German culture and did not want to face getting used to another one. Katrina, his sister, resented him for what she deemed an act of treason. Is Hermann coming to mend their relationship?

Emilie does not have to ring the bell. Louise, the maid, is already at the door and grabs the packages to carry them into the kitchen. Your daughter is at her grandma’s, and the baby is asleep, she informs her.

Emilie steps into the living room where the lacquered art deco furniture softly glistens. In front of the window, a fir tree waits to be transformed into a Christmas wonder. She inhales deeply its bracing fragrance and begins to trim it. It is the kind of work she enjoys doing, decorating creating beautiful things, clothes, table arrangements, even an occasional hat.

Sylvie, age six, is not exactly happy to be upstairs at her grandma Katrina’s. She knows too well the old lady’s daily war against the smallest speck of dirt. It means: sit still, don’t mess up, no crayons, and no rummaging in closets. So the girl usually resorts to leafing through three picture books she knows inside out. But on this day, she is surprised to find her grandma sitting at the kitchen table with a photo album in front of her. Her chin rests in her folded hands, and she is looking at a photograph, smiling.

Doll! Come here and have a look at this! she orders, excited.

In the picture, Sylvie discovers, sitting in a carved high back chair, a stately lady in a floor-length gown and tightly laced velvet bodice. Close-fitting sleeves flare up into mushroom puffs above her elbows, making her wasp-like waist look ridiculously small. Her dark hair is pulled up into a chignon to crown a handsome but severe face. This is your grandmother when she was a young woman, like your mother now, Katrina informs the child. Beside the chair, with one arm resting on its carved back, stands a pretty girl. For the first time, Sylvie looks at her own mother as a child. She is wearing the most exquisite lacy dress, and her dark hair is very long, the loose curls gathered at the neck with a large bow. Sylvie is filled with wonder. She wants to know more but cannot think of any questions to ask. These people dwell in the same imaginary world as the fairies and goblins populating her storybooks, perhaps even more so. She feels as if she were intruding into a forbidden world full of secrets she is not supposed to pry open. At the same time she vaguely resents both their earlier lives for having had no part in them.

Grandma Katrina pulls out another picture from its casing, a larger one. She stares at it for a moment, and this was your grandpa as a soldier, she explains, her voice dimmed in reverence. The grandfather Sylvie knows is a hefty older man with a comfortable potbelly due to all the good Alsatian beer he guzzles down daily. He sports a tiny Charlie Chaplin mustache and must go to bed with his lug cap screwed on his head because she never saw him without it. The grandfather in the picture is a thin tall man with a big handlebar mustache and pitch black too. It is almost the only thing you can see under the shiny spiked helmet perched on his head. His uniform has fancy fringed epaulettes and shiny buttons. He is holding the pommel of a large sword with white-gloved hands—quite a dashing figure.

Your grandpa was a German soldier during the last world war. Wasn’t he handsome? Grandma asks with a sparkle in her eyes. Sylvie giggles but agrees. The spiked helmet is so disconcerting! But what the girl wants to know is why he is no longer a soldier. It seems, to her, a much worthier occupation than laying bricks, which is what he is doing currently, as he would still be wearing this nice spiffy uniform that made him look like a prince.

Katrina explains that they are not at war now, at least not yet, and that besides, Grandpa didn’t like war, no, not at all!

Why not? Sylvie inquires.

Because war is a bad thing.

Why is it a bad thing?

Oh, hush now, child, ask him to show you his wound sometime, on his left shoulder.

It is all very puzzling. Grandpa, a German soldier? Why German? Perhaps because he cannot speak French like her father? Both grandparents speak Alsatian, the local dialect used by the first occupants of the province, the Alamans, many centuries ago. The locals still use it in their daily activities even though French is the official language.

Grandma turns a page and points at another picture. Sylvie does not know what to make of it. It shows a strange man, stark naked to the waist, his trousers held up by a thick rope and his chest and arms bulging as if they had been pumped up with air. Sylvie thinks he looks like Popeye minus the pipe in his mouth. And that’s your great-uncle Hermann, my brother, Grandma Katrina explains. He lives in Germany now, and as you know he is coming to visit us. Sylvie wants to know if, perhaps, the man is very poor, as he certainly does not look happy.

No, child what makes you think so? The girl explains that he does not wear a shirt and does not smile. Grandma laughs. Well, he isn’t poor. He is showing off his big chest and his biceps, his big arm muscles, you know, because he is, or rather was, an athlete. That’s also why he looks so severe. He wants people to be scared of his strength. And I’ll tell you a secret: he could hang from the ceiling by his teeth! Well, enough for now, child! Go pester your grandfather. He is expecting you!

If Sylvie were older, she would realize that the possibility of yet another war so soon after the last terrible one that killed millions in trenches is already on her grandmother’s mind, anchored there into inevitability by a prediction she must have believed in wholeheartedly, being a Catholic. The patron of Alsace, Saint Odile, made it a long time ago. One day, she proclaimed then, Germania will be named the most bellicose nation on earth. A terrible war will unleash an even more frightful one incited by a man born on the banks of the Danube River and who will be called the Antichrist.

Sylvie loves her grandfather Willy even though he no longer looks like a prince. On Sunday afternoons she can be sure to find him in his workshop in the attic, whittling away at some piece of furniture or toy. The place smells of freshly cut wood and Ripolin paint. He will always surprise her with some little toy or animal he carved especially for her, and her room is full of such treasures, all tokens of his love. So being ordered to pay him a visit is no punishment at all. The workshop door is left ajar and when she pushes it open, she is greeted by the clatter of a dangling puppet, a Pinocchio almost as big as herself with wildly gesticulating arms and legs, sticking out a crimson tongue, and rolling a pair of bulbous eyes. Grandpa who heard her clamber up the steep stairs to the attic, is waiting behind the door to be sure not to miss a single moment of her surprise and delight at the sight of the puppet. Sylvie rushes into his arms. I made it for you. It’s my Christmas present! He explains, you called me your Giuseppe, so I had to give you this little companion, right? He must have found the comparison rather flattering. Sylvie is overjoyed and declares that she will name the puppet Coco, which is easier to say than Pinocchio.

Down a flight of stairs, Emilie is contemplating her decorated Christmas tree. It’s perfect! She decides while straightening the silver cloth surrounding the trunk. On it she places a life-size celluloid Baby for her daughter, a very large hardcover book with a picture of Napoleon on its sleeve, an anthology of nineteenth century French poetry, and various wrapped boxes of all shapes and sizes including the chocolates. Satisfied she leaves the room and locks it.

1934

2

Munich, Germany, 1934

I n his palatial villa, Roehm is throwing one of his famed parties. The corpulent chief of the Sturmabteilung made his entrance into the ballroom surrounded by a select group of men, all young and exceptionally handsome. Among a crowd of distinguished guests—officials of the Reich and their wives, an occasional general of the Reichswehr who does not consider Roehm and his Browshirts a pack of hoodlums, and a covey of foreign diplomats—Kurt Ritter, Emilie’s cousin, notices a young woman surrounded by a handful of attentive men. He cannot immediately decide what makes her so different and fascinating. Is it her attire? Contrary to most women guests who predictably turned out in lace and lavish frills, she wears a sleek black full-length evening gown with a plunging back revealing a perfect pale skin. A pair of neck-long earrings adds a flash of light to her bouncy blond hair every time she moves her head. She is holding a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Watch out, Kurt! You’re going to make our boss very jealous, staring at a pretty woman as you do! his friend Peter warns.

Never mind that, Peter. Do you know her?

You are looking at Ms. Tracey Moran, the daughter of the American marketing VP for International Business Machines, a company located in New York. Fascinating, isn’t she? Come, I’ll introduce you.

No, wait! Kurt exclaims. I don’t speak a word of English. Does she speak German?

Oh yes! She and her father spend quite a lot of time here. She is his interpreter.

I see. All right then. I’d like to meet her.

For the first time since his days in the Hitler Jugend, Kurt Ritter is not sure of being self-confident enough to face the young woman. As he approaches the group, plowing his way through the crowd, she suddenly turns her head and looks directly at him, locks eyes with him for a split second, and resumes her conversation with her friends, dismissing him completely. Kurt feels a pang in the pit of his stomach. Is it fear? He cannot believe how confident she looks. She seems to lead the conversation with her friends, speaks with the velocity of a sports announcer, and her laughter—she laughs frequently—is so loud, provocative, and carefree it borders on indecency. German women seldom laugh that way. They cackle discreetly and often cover their mouths with a hand. And her smile, a flash of perfect teeth, exudes confidence and fearlessness. She seems to hold the world in her hands far more than he, Kurt Ritter, a lord of the New World Order, ever will. He senses this, and it makes him resentful and uncomfortable. But Peter is already interrupting the group.

"Fraülein Moran, excuse me for butting in. May I present Oberscharfuerhrer, Sgt. Maj. Kurt Ritter, one of our best military specimen—and something of a spy?" He smiles broadly to minimize the impact of the last words. She does not offer her hand, and Kurt cannot greet her in the German fashion, clicking his heels and grazing her hand with a gallant kiss.

"Es freut mir sehr, Fraülein," Pleased to meet you, miss, he manages to blurt out with a brisk nod.

"Delighted, I’m sure Oberscharfuerher," she replies, insisting on his rank with a drawl of each syllable as if she enjoys showing off her command of the language and its guttural sounds.

Kurt is not quite sure she does not mock him.

The orchestra starts playing a waltz, the Blue Danube, inevitably.

Will you do me the honor to grant me this dance? he asks in haste. He realizes the request is a trifle hurried, but, at this very moment, he feels he can only trump her sassiness by pulling her away from the group.

I’ll be delighted, she replies, taking his outstretched hand and casting a quick mischievous wink over her shoulder to her friends. Kurt drags her rather impatiently to the dance floor.

Good old Strauss, she said, commenting on the music as he firmly pulls her close to him. He cannot tell whether the remark is complimentary or dismissive.

Ms. Moran, I am very relieved you speak German so well. I don’t speak a word of English. Do you like Strauss?

Best composer for a waltz, she says, uncommitted.

Germans are good musicians, aren’t they?

Some, says Tracey, laconic.

Which one do you like best? Kurt pries.

Beethoven, of course.

Ah! Too romantic! I like Bach. Do you know of Wagner, Fraülein Moran?

Tracey. My name is Tracey. Yes, I know his operas, and I find his music grand but rather pompous.

Perhaps, but it speaks of our roots, says Kurt, smiling, sure that this explanation will set things straight.

How so? asks Tracey obviously unconvinced that pomposity could be excused by this argument.

Well, as you know, it’s based on German mythology.

You mean Nordic mythology. But mythology is not reality. One should not believe in it as if it were the truth, for if those are the roots of the German people, they are on rather shaky grounds, don’t you agree? She laughs. "All myths are fantasies full of heroic deeds that defy reason, but people will kill to defend them. They are dangerous—and boring! I almost fell asleep during Lohengrin! My father drags me to these operas every time we come here—says it’s necessary for my education. Quite frankly, I don’t see how anything that happens in these long compositions will have any impact whatsoever on my life in the future. The young woman breaks into a pearly laughter. That reminds me, do you know what Rossini said about Wagner’s music? He said it had wonderful moments and dreadful quarters of an hour! More like three-quarters of an hour if you ask me!"

Kurt could tell her that she just negated all that he learned as a Jungman—the cult and veneration of the Germanic race, of the land, its history and customs, all things the Führer believes in and encourages. Instead he gratifies the remark with a strained smile and moves on. So you come to Germany very often, Ms. Moran? Excuse me, Tracey? You see, I am not used to calling a lady by her first name so soon after we met.

"I understand. We are not as formal in America, but whatever makes you comfortable. The answer to your question is, yes, I come quite often. Tell me, Oberscharführer Ritter, what kind of military feats do you perform currently?"

Kurt smiles. Are you a spy, Tracey?

No, just curious. You are the spy, according to your friend. Is that true?

I belong to the SA spy section, yes, says Kurt, intent on saying as little as possible on the subject.

Hum, how intriguing. You do your spying in Germany or abroad?

Only in Germany, so you have nothing to fear from me, Tracey. He smiles.

How reassuring! she says.

The music stops. They separate, and while they wait for the orchestra to resume, she looks him over with deliberate audacity.

"Tell me, Oberscharfuerher Ritter, this brown jacket you’re wearing is so different from other German uniforms, is this your formal outfit?"

Kurt laughs. I’m afraid so. Normally, we just wear the shirt.

And that’s why your detachments are called the Brownshirts?

Correct.

They tell me you’re doing a lot of street fighting, she continues, tell me, whom do you fight against?

Please call me Kurt. We fight against enemies of the NSDAP, the National Socialist German Party, the Nazi Party, in short. Hitler is our leader. We are his personal stormtroopers.

I thought you were Roehm’s, says Tracey.

"Roehm is chief of staff. He created the SA, the Sturmabteilung, and does the recruiting." Kurt explains.

And who are those enemies?

Kurt is not about to broach on that tricky subject. Ah! The music stops again. Shall we have a breath of fresh air? There is a large terrace overlooking the gardens, he suggests quickly, moving away from the dance floor and leading her by grabbing her elbow.

That would be lovely, yes, says Tracey.

They walk away from the lights into the warm night. Leaning over the railing and peering into the darkness, Tracey wonders, What is this wonderful scent?

Lilacs, I think, says Kurt. When they are in bloom, you know spring is here at last.

No lilacs in Washington. She sighs.

I thought you lived in New York.

No, Washington, D.C. at the moment.

Ah! So, how do you know it’s springtime in Washington? says Kurt, trying to be amusing.

Cherry blossoms. We wait for them to bloom all around the Tidal Basin. But they cheat. More often than not, they bring another frost.

They remain silent for a while.

Are you married, Kurt? Tracey asks suddenly.

Kurt is startled by the question. How direct she is! It borders on incivility! He thinks.

No, I’m not, he admits reluctantly.

Why not? She smiles mischievously. You’re quite a good-looking man. Why not?

You’re so inquisitive, Tracey! I haven’t had time, he offers, embarrassed and dismissive.

No time! she cries out. Then you are giving too much of yourself to the Reich. Seems you don’t have your priorities in the right place, Kurt! She laughs a girlish playful giggle, which makes him laugh too.

Yes, she adds, a good-looking man, especially when you laugh, or at least smile! That dimple!

Thank you for the compliment, and may I return it? You, on the other hand, are simply adorable when you smile.

"Careful, Kurt Ritter. We may be going down a slippery slope.

Kurt wants to tell her he does not mind. Instead, he asks how long she will be staying in Munich.

Depends on my father’s business. Probably a month, maybe longer.

I hope longer. May I see you again? asks Kurt with some urgency.

She pauses for a few seconds. Oh, I don’t go out with military types, as a rule, she says, demure.

Oh? Why not?

Too unreliable. At the drop of a hat, they are sent off somewhere, and abracadabra, you never see them again. She purses her lips into a girlish pout. Too hard to keep a relationship going.

Kurt decides to be blunt. Have you had such a relationship before?

Now look who is being inquisitive! Tracey exclaims, pointing a finger at his chest playfully.

Forgive me, please. I do apologize, Kurt blurts out.

She laughs. I’ve had many relationships, Kurt.

He pauses, trying to digest this piece of information.

Many? Any serious one?

Yes, Tracey admits with a little air of secrecy.

May I ask what happened?

She hesitates. Why, nothing! It’s still going on!

Ah! Kurt punches a fist into his chest. You just destroyed me! he says with a smile. Is he here?

No, he has to complete his graduate program at Harvard. But I must return to my friends now. Thank you for the waltz, Kurt. You’re a very good dancer too! She winks at him and sashays away gracefully.

The following days, Kurt Ritter’s life takes an unforeseen turn. The American girl has given him something to think about besides how to organize another raid into the streets of Munich. Actually, he finds himself both unable and unwilling to shake the vision of this creature of light and merriment, of both insouciance and self-assuredness. His feelings have no rhyme or reason; he is under a spell. The young woman is both alluring and exasperating. He decides that if he could enter her world, he could leave all the resentment and gripes he has accumulated over the years behind and be reborn. It would be a new life, perhaps in a new world, and that would be all right by him. But would she be enough to satisfy his ambition too? Where else but in the current Germany could he fulfill it so completely? One thing he is sure of: he has to see her again. He requests her phone number from Peter and decides to call her. She lives in a private residence, and a maid answers the phone. Ms. Moran is out shopping, she says. No, she didn’t say when she would be back. Kurt does not leave a message and, a couple of hours later, calls again. She is having lunch with friends, the maid informs him. Later in the day, he calls one more time. Ms. Moran is not available, the maid says once more.

Would you please tell Ms. Moran that Kurt Ritter called? He leaves his number.

The waiting starts. She does not call that night nor the following day. Kurt feels like a fool and begins to hurt, not understanding this unexpected pain. Suddenly, he finds himself utterly powerless, which has never happened to him before. It is stupid, unacceptable. He wonders whether he has had any effect on her at all. Could it be possible that, to her, he is just another man whose name she may not even remember? Where is she? The maid said with friends. Were they men or other girls? This world she lives in, how different it must be from his, a life of luxury, no doubt, of parties with friends, of dinners in classy restaurants, of soirees with important and charming people. And suddenly, Kurt is on the rack as he imagines her talking to them about their dancing together and how gauche he has been, and about his clumsy attempts at contacting her. He should stop being persistent. That would be the sensible thing to do, but sensible be damned. He knows he cannot stay away from her. He calls his friend Peter and arranges to meet him at a pub. That too turns out to be humiliating.

Drop it! is Peter’s brutal advice. She’s only here for a short time, and you say she has a suitor. What are you, suicidal?

I can’t, says Kurt, hanging his head down like a flayed horse.

Of course you can. You met her just a couple of days ago. You can’t be hooked already!

Well, I wish I hadn’t. It’s you fault!

Peter laughs. My friend, you behave like an adolescent. Snap out of it!

I can’t, I tell you. I have to see her even if it’s only one more time.

Peter looks at him and shakes his head.

I can’t believe you’re such a milksop, but all right, I’ll see what I can do.

The following day, Tracey calls early in the morning and accepts his invitation to lunch.

I have to be in a parade in the morning, he tells her. Would you like to come and watch? We could go to lunch afterward. I’ll be free for a couple of hours.

Oh! A parade! How exciting! she exclaims. If there is any mockery in the statement, Kurt does not notice."

Meet me at the P. restaurant at twelve thirty, all right? he says.

The Brownshirts are to march with a contingent from the Reichswehr in a Flaggenparade, a parade of flags. Kurt is elated. He will be able to show himself off in the best light and is sure he can make her appreciate him more favorably than at the party. As usual and as expected, the march is executed with perfection, as if each individual were obeying one central brain. The thin crowd lining the street on both sides cheers with fervor. Tracey watches the men marching to the tune of the Horst Wessel Song blared out with the full force of their most earnest convictions. Kurt marches in front of his group carrying the Blood Flag, the red flag with a white circle in the middle of which the black swastika sends its message from ancient Germanic lore. Behind him, the Brownshirts goose-step as one—mechanical, anonymous, terrifying, their stare glued to the necks in front of them, their jaws caught in the black leather straps of their caps, slashing their immutable faces. Millions, full of hope, look up at the swastika, they blare out ferociously.

Kurt Ritter marches with great seriousness, looking neither to the right nor to the left but dead ahead. So he does not see Tracey in the crowd of onlookers. When he finds her later, seated at a table in a corner of the restaurant, he almost fails to recognize her. She is hatless and wears a black sweater over a gray pleated skirt. She looks like a schoolgirl and greets him in English with a simple Hi! He takes off his cap and sits down facing her.

The parade was great fun. Thank you for inviting me, she says, sweet as an ingénue.

Good! Did you see me? I led my group and carried a flag, says Kurt, his eyes gleaming with pride.

"Yes, I saw you, Oberscharfuerher Ritter. You looked, well, stern and formidable. She laughs. But tell me, were those real guns some of the men were carrying? They looked like clunkers to me."

How observant you are, Tracey, says Kurt, surprised at the question. As a matter of fact, they are only facsimiles made of wood.

How strange. Why? Is the Reich so poor it can’t afford real guns? she mocks.

He chuckles. No. The reason is that Germany is not supposed to have an army or manufacture weapons—stipulations of the treaty of Versailles, you see.

But I thought you, I mean the Brownshirts—that’s what you are, aren’t you? Well, they have a reputation for street fights that can be very bloody. Isn’t that true?

Yes, it is, says Kurt with a smirk.

So what do you fight with? she asks, smiling.

Kurt reaches down under the table and draws a knife from a sheath attached to his belt.

With that! Theatrically, he produces a very long knife and lays it down on the table.

Oh my! How perfectly dreadful! Tracey exclaims with feigned terror. Is that why they call you ‘the Long Knives’?

He laughs. Yes, that’s why!

May I look at it? She makes to reach for it.

Of course!

Tracey admires the ornate handle.

It’s my parade knife. The one we use normally is plain and larger, Kurt explains.

Tracey notices an inscription on the blade. "‘Alles für Deutschland,’ she reads aloud. Everything for Germany. I hate to think what that ‘everything’ represents. Tell me, Oberscharführer, have you killed many men?"

Some, he admits with sham modesty.

And this slash on your face, did that happen during a fight?

Not exactly, Tracey. It happened during an initiation rite at a dueling club. It’s a Mensur slash, he explains with a good measure of pride but a downright lie. He suffered it during a beer hall brawl. His social status would have been unacceptable to a dueling club, but he is proud of this scar because it looks like a Mensur scar.

Does it hurt? asks Tracey.

Not anymore. He smiles. But it hurt like hell when the sutures were put in, and I couldn’t even twitch or grimace or utter a sound. That’s how we proved we are real men, real fighters. The young Nazi punctuates his explanation with a clenched fist, looking like a bragging teenager.

Tracey scrutinizes him and wonders, what kind of a man can believe that, just because he did not cry during a knife cut he is a real man? And yet she is attracted to Kurt’s rough masculinity and the strange flame in his eyes, the flame of a believer when he speaks of the Aryan race and the SA.

But enough about me! he says at last. Tell me more about you, Tracey.

What do you want to know? she asks demurely.

How is it you speak German so perfectly? You don’t even have an accent. I bet you speak German better than I do, says Kurt, eager to return a compliment.

Tracey told him about her maternal grandmother who was German and who insisted she learn the language almost from the cradle up. She had been a schoolteacher in Frankfurt before immigrating to America.

Now I understand, says Kurt. It’s wonderful, you having German ancestors! Let’s order, shall we? Have you had sauerbraten before? They make a pretty decent one here.

Of course! It was my granny’s signature dish!

They order and, for a while, give the food their full attention. When they polish it off, Kurt wants a pronouncement from Tracey.

Delicious! It was delicious, she says in English. I was really hungry!

Kurt looks at her intently. Say that again, Tracey, please! he says.

Say what?

Say ‘delicious.’

De-li-cious! Tracey twirls the syllables in her mouth like candy.

I bet your mouth is delicious too! says Kurt dreamingly, his eyes riveted on her lips.

Now, now, Kurt Ritter, she wags a finger at him, "that is verboten."

Suddenly, she puts her fork down and rests her chin on her crossed hands.

What are you staring at, Kurt?

You. I thought your eyes were blue, but they are brown. How unusual with blond hair. Very pretty!

But not pure Aryan, right? Tell me, do you really believe in all that racial mumbo jumbo?

Kurt pauses for a minute, suddenly faced with a dilemma. If he tells her he believes in it with all his heart and soul, it could hurt her feelings since she does not quite make the grade. And if not, he will be lying, and he does not want to lie to her about something so important to him. Finally, he produces an explanation. The party has very strict criteria about race when it recruits members, but one does not have to go along 100 percent, he admits.

And how much of it do you believe in, Kurt? The whole world knows now that you Germans believe you are a superior race. Just how do you figure this out?

What do you mean?

Well, how do you come up with this affirmation? Based on what criteria? Tracey explains.

Kurt feels put on the spot and cannot gather his thoughts in a coherent way.

Well, our bloodline is pure. We are the direct descendants of the Aryans.

And the Jews have a straight line back to Moses and Abraham. So what’s the difference?

Kurt finds himself squirming in his chair with embarrassment.

Well, let’s not discuss these things. Let’s talk about us.

I thought that’s what we were doing. Our beliefs are us, right? says Tracey earnestly.

Yes but …

But what, Kurt Ritter? She looks him straight in the eyes, expectancy written all over her face.

You don’t understand, Tracey. It’s—complicated.

Try me! she says, defiant.

No one, for a very long time, tried to defy him without getting a knife into his stomach. The way she did it just now makes him want to take her into his arms and crush her till she asks for mercy. Instead, he waves a hand in dismissal. It’s not important, he says, barely audible.

Yes, it is—to me!

He sighs. But why?

Because—because I may be attracted to you, damn you! she