“What does a Libra Moon need?”
Krafft became overwhelmed and embraced her, then began kissing her neck She not only wanted to know where his Moon was, but what his moon needed.
“What all signs of the zodiac need…” he said softly gazing into her eyes, “…love.”
Simultaneously both realized they reached a point in their relationship where words did not matter. Yet both instinctively knew this next step would only bring trouble – and danger.
Even though the ship was designed for cargo, the passenger’s cabins were just as opulent as any cabin found in the first class section of any luxury liner. The Baron took the same cabin he had when he was a boy one his first trip to America. Ludwig von Wohl, who now had a paper to show he was a Hungarian by the name of Louis DeWohl, was next door.
There were eighteen other passengers on the ship, originally christened Der Stählerne Adler (The Iron Eagle) but changed to The Madame Joulliard when the Count switched the German registry to Swedish. The ship was due to depart Lisbon at 19:30, but was delayed waiting for her most important passenger – and owner – Count von Hoogerwoerd. Both the Count and Countess were taking longer at the Argentinean Embassy than the Counselor General there had anticipated. They finally arrived on board at 20:45 and two minutes later their ship was underway.
Captain Ned Swanson could not help but notice the Countess upset. The Count went straight to his cabin while she remained on deck. Was something wrong? Ned waited a moment before approaching her. She had been his passenger on seven other trips, three of which produced intense sexual liaisons. Her mood towards the Count on each of these trips usually decided whether or not she paid any attention to the free wheeling American captain. Since the game appeared to be in his favor on this voyage, he wanted to play his cards right.
“Shall I get you something hot to drink?” The Captain said as he slowly approached her. “It will be getting a lot more chilly as soon as we hit the open sea.”
“No thank-you, Ned, I just want to enjoy the view now. I’ll be going down soon.”
“Certainly, ma’am.” From her tone, Ned was able to read between the lines. She could have just as easily said, “I want to be alone.” Ned turned around and headed towards the Captain’s quarters. Before entering he took a longing glance at the Countess, then at the first mate as he stepped through the door.
“Anything on radio?”
“No, Captain, just a British patrol plane about 300 kilometers to the northwest.”
“Good, if we can see him, so can the Germans. Maybe they will stay out of our way so we won’t be bothered.” Captain Swanson had run into German U-Boats twice, both times before the war broke out. The first simply signaled a message for the neutral yacht to identify itself. The second actually boarded with a request of trading supplies. Meat, fruit, barley and hash were exchanged since the Germans had their destination change mid-voyage from Mar del Plata to somewhere in Antarctica. Ned sensed the German captain was extremely upset – and afraid.
Now that the war had started, Ned knew there was a good chance they might not be contacted before they were boarded – or sunk. Word spread fast among merchant ship captains some German subs were not only sinking British merchant ships without any warning, but ones flying neutral flags as well.
“Even if they do see us, Captain, they should be able to see we are empty.”
“Aye, let’s hope they won’t want to waste a torpedo on a ship carrying nothing.”
“Where is the safe zone?” The first mate questioned, hoping to have a goal to shoot for.
“I don’t think there is one anymore, but I’ll feel a lot better once we get fifty degrees north.” Ned took the cup of coffee out of the wheelman’s hand and took a sip, then returned it.
“Gents, I’ll be below deck if you need me.”
“Aye, Aye, Captain.” The first mate and wheelman chimed together with respect. The Count’s private international crew loved their American captain, unlike the German and English ones they sailed under previously. Somehow this American captain was able to relay his orders and authority without appearing to be ‘above’ anyone else.
Below decks, Louis DeWohl woke up to the hum of engines. After a few moments of collecting his thoughts in the comfortable bed, he finally climbed out. Throwing on a heavy wool coat and wheeling out of his cabin door, he made his way to the open deck. Noticing the Countess on the aft deck, he waited until she looked up so his presence wouldn’t surprise her. She finally looked up, and he waited still until she acknowledged him.
“Good morning, my lady. Or is it afternoon?”
“We are well into the afternoon, Mr. Day Wohl.”
“Please,” DeWohl said laughing at her mispronouncing his new name, “…in Hungarian, the De is pronounced as ‘duh’. Duh-Wohl.” The expression on the Countess did not change. DeWohl could see her wall of heavy concern was acting like a metal shield against humor – and him. “Aw, my dear Countess, we are all sad to leave all our houses and friends on the continent. It seems the Europe we know for so long does not exist anymore.”
“Yes, and it appears the Ludwig von Wohl I knew for so long doesn’t exist, either.”
For a moment DeWohl was taken aback. He then realized that in spite of her not changing the near frowned expression on her fact, this statement was fact a joke. The realization had DeWohl break out into a laugh. “Oh! Ha. You are the clever one!” Enjoying the laugh, DeWohl realized the Countess had not made him laugh in a long, long, time. Had it been years?
Goebbels had been acting nice, almost too nice, over the past few days. Bettina felt relieved and suspicious – wondering what caused the changes, but welcomed it. Did he finally realize he actually needed her expertise, such as now?
Today, helping her boss translate among his Italian counterparts, General Edwardo Tonetteli, Goebbels relied on her. Bettina’s Italian was known throughout the Ministry to be excellent, and this was not the first time she played an important part in the Hitler-Mussolini alliance. Yet, while she loved the Italian language – and the food – she abhorred Italian men. The man she was now translating, a somewhat pudgy Tonetteli, represented all she disliked about the Latin “macho” attitude – one who acted as if he were an international sex symbol with all women adoring him. He even ordered around every woman near him, even the female German staff not under him, much to the dissatisfaction of the German men in the room.
Such an ego. Bettina though while listening to him speak to Goebbels. To think he only got this position by trading a few mistresses and being Mussolini’s nephew.
Bettina turned to Goebbels and translated the General’s statements.
“General Tonetteli said he would love to follow your advice, but such a technique would not work on the Italian public – since Italians are more temperamental than us Germans.”
“Oh, does he?” Goebbels answered tersely. “Then why did he want to come here for advice, and then not accept anything I have to offer?”
Bettina began to open her mouth to speak, but Goebbels quickly interrupted.
“No! Don’t tell him that! I was just saying that for… us.” Goebbels said quickly. Then after collecting himself, continued, “Ask the General just exactly what does he do to appease this Italian temperament.” There was a condescending tone when Goebbels said the word ‘Italian’.