'Would you like scrambled eggs or fried?'
'Scrambled, please. And a buttered roll.'
'The coffee's ready. Eggs coming in a minute. I'll just fetch the papers in.' All was well with the world today. The property beside the water, the pretty, roomy house, breakfast with her husband — it was sunny pictures like these that made her think there could be such a thing as good fortune and happiness.
The newspapers were sticking out of the letterbox on the garden fence: the Volkischer Beobachter, the official and thus unreadable organ of the Party, and the Morgenpost, which so far had retained its comfortable everyday character, apart from a few dutiful political pieces.
Fredie was on the phone. 'Yes, Obersturmbannfiihrer. The Hotel Bristol, room 221. I can guarantee that the operation will be conducted swiftly and smoothly. I'll report back to you personally. Over.'
'Would you like to have breakfast in the garden?'
'My uniform. Come along, get a move on.' He flung off his jacket, tore the tie from his neck, took off his trousers. She helped him into the black breeches made by Benedict, and put the hooks into the tongues of the smart riding boots from Mahlmeister's so that he could pull them on over his calves. Fredie hated uniform, but as it couldn't always be avoided it might at least be tailor-made.
'Fredie, what's up?'
He put on his belt and shoulder strap, took the 7.65 Mauser out of the desk drawer and put it in its holster. 'Get that black dress and white apron on,' he ordered. 'Don't forget the lace cap. And hurry.' She had last worn that costume for a guest who liked to have a housemaid tickle him with a feather duster. Was Fredie taking her to a client with similar tastes? But why the uniform and the pistols? Anxiety took hold of her.
As she straightened the seams of her stockings, he was getting the Ford out of the garage. The car had belonged to a Communist Reichstag deputy who had been beaten to death while in 'protective custody'.
They entered the Bristol through a side door. Fredie raced to the back stairs. He knew every corner of this building from his days as a hotel pageboy. A room-service waiter was wheeling his trolley past on the second floor. Fredie stopped him. 'I'll take that.'
'It's the breakfast for Room 230.'
'It's the breakfast for Room 221 now.'
'But you can't just…'
Fredie took out his pistol and loaded it. 'Give me your key to Room 221.' White as a sheet, the man took the key off his bunch. And now get out.' The waiter rushed away, panic-stricken.
Fredie wheeled the trolley over to Marlene. He lowered his voice. 'Knock on the door of 221, open it and say: "Chambermaid with your breakfast, sir."' He gave her the key. 'Then you push the trolley in and get over to one side straight away. Go on.' She obeyed, although she guessed that something terrible was going to happen.
'Chambermaid with your breakfast, sir.' She heard her own voice as if from far away. She pushed the trolley into the room. Brown uniform garments lay strewn around the floor. There were two men in the bed, a pretty, fair boy and an older, dark-haired man. The older man put on his glasses. 'You haven't forgotten the orange juice, I hope?'
Suddenly Fredie was standing at the foot of the bed. 'Get out of there!' he snarled at the boy, who obeyed, trembling. Fredie raised the pistol. He saw the terrified face of the man in the bed. To him, it was the smooth, self-satisfied countenance of Trevelyan the pederast. The shots echoed agonizingly in Marlene's ears. The man jerked this way and that, as Fredie emptied the magazine into him in cold blood. The bed was drenched and red.
The naked boy stood in a corner, weeping. 'Put your clothes on and get out,' said Fredie, in a gentle voice. 'Come on, Lene.'
'SA Chief of Staff Rohm personally arrested by the Fiihrer. Seven more treacherous SA leaders arrested at perverted orgies in Bad Wiesensee and Berlin and summarily shot,' announced the evening edition of the paper. Fredie let it fall to the floor and reached for the cognac bottle, in high good humour. 'They'll promote Noack, and he'll be grateful.'
Standartenfiihrer Dr Noack took his time to demonstrate his gratitude. He had many new jobs to be done. When summoned, Fredie would put his 7.65 Mauser in his toilet bag, often staying away for days. Marlene asked no questions, because she didn't want to hear the answers.
Instead she took refuge in her dream. She was floating weightlessly through a truly beautiful cinema, showing members of the audience to their seats. She wore a scarlet uniform with gold braid. Ahead of her she carried a tray of vanilla ices on sticks, and she could lick as many as she wanted. All the people around her were really nice.
She would wake to find herself back in the cold light of reality. Reality meant strangers, to whom Fredie handed her over for his and his boss's purposes whenever it suited. Reality meant Fredie's sexual attacks on her. Her body was greedy for them, while her mind despised them.
The only bright spots were her carefree hours with Frank Saunders. But even he would remind her of reality by unthinkingly handing her the fee in public instead of discreetly putting it in her bag.
Frank Saunders lived in Tiergartenstrasse. On her way to him this Tuesday Marlene went through the park as usual. She heard shouting and laughing behind the bushes. A boy of about ten was tied to a tree, weeping, with a crowd of adolescents prancing around him. They had pulled his trousers and underpants down. 'Jew-boy, Jew-boy!' they sang in time to their prancing, and spat on his circumcised penis.
At the Neuer See she had passed a policeman on his beat, and now she ran back to fetch him. He didn't seem to be in a hurry. 'Do something!' she cried, with the terrible scene fresh in her mind.
'But he wouldn't lift a finger,' Marlene told Saunders indignantly. 'Luckily a young park keeper came along. He grabbed the ringleader and gave him a good shaking. And what do you think the young lout shouted? "We'll get all you Jew-lovers!" I untied the little boy and comforted him as best I could. You ought to write about that sort of thing in your American newspaper. No one's allowed to in ours.'
Saunders was not much impressed. 'No one at home would be interested. And we don't want to harm good relations with our German hosts by writing up some story about silly boys.'
'How bad does it have to get before you all wake up out there?'
`The world is wide awake, sweetheart. It admires your wonderful economic upturn. There is anti-Semitism everywhere, always has been. At least the Nazis admit it.' He drew her close. And right now I can think of something much nicer to occupy our minds.'
'That's what you're paying for,' she said dryly.
'Ton francais nest pas mal,' Fredie remarked one evening. He had come home late from a meeting at the office.
'Remember how you drummed it into me? I could polish it up a bit, don't you think?'
'You'll soon have an opportunity to do just that. The opportunity is called Andre Favarel and he speaks hardly any German. He's taking up his post as French military attache next month. Dr Noack thinks we ought to get him on our side in good time.'
'You want me to go to bed with him.'
'Not exactly. You'll meet Favarel at the Five O'Clock in Eden. He fancies young blonde women with a certain touch.'
'What kind of certain touch?'
According to our information, Colonel Favarel has a liking for stern treatment. We've hired the Blue Salon at Kitty's. It's wired for hidden cameras. Think something up.'
'You want to blackmail him with photographs.'
'Reichsfiihrer Himmler would like us to stay just ahead of the Wehrmacht's intelligence service.'
'So I'm to play the dominatrix in Kitty Schmidt's whorehouse.'
'You said it.'