For whatever reason—Erich’s laughter, perhaps, which may have showed Liesl the folly of arguing further with a buffoon—she lowered the volume of her next remark, which Kurt recognized as one of Bonhoeffer’s statements from the previous Sunday.
“The Apostles were all Jews, you know. And if they had all just decided to ‘lay low,’ as you put it, then none of us in Germany would ever have become Christians.”
Erich smiled again.
“My father’s bosses wouldn’t necessarily see Christianity as a good thing, you know. I’m not even sure my father would, sorry to say.” Then, after the briefest of pauses, “So what are your plans for later, you two? Because I’ve been thinking, maybe it would be easier for everyone if you both just stayed for dinner. As long as Liesl didn’t hound my father too much about the Jews, of course.”
That was Erich all over, careening from glib to serious and back again in the blink of an eye, as recklessly as he piloted the boat. Nothing seemed to matter very much to him apart from girls, a stiff drink or two, and a roaring good time.
Kurt should have said no right away. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of his father, who would have dearly wanted him to say yes. Currying favor in the Stuckart household was high on the Bauer agenda, mostly because Erich wasn’t the only person who thought so little of the current Interior Minister, Wilhelm Frick. Stuckart was the real power behind that throne.
So Kurt paused, and the lapse proved fatal.
“We’d love to,” Liesl said. “As long as I can phone my parents from your villa to let them know I’ll be late. It will be interesting to hear what your father has to say.”
Her answer seemed to surprise both young men, although Erich recovered quickly.
“Splendid,” he said. “And my mother will be thrilled. She hasn’t seen Kurt in ages. As for my father, well, if he can endure four hours of Heydrich, then he can damn well put up with whatever any of us has to say.”
Erich pulled out his flask for another quick swallow, and roared with laughter into the icy breeze. Kurt’s stomach began tying itself into knots.
THE WANNSEE WATERFRONT had become quite the enclave for Nazi bigwigs over the past several years. Goebbels had a place there. So did his undersecretary, Hermann Esser. Economics Minister Walther Funk was another neighbor, as was Hitler’s physician, Dr. Theodor Morell. The Reich Bride School had set up shop nearby. And it was only fitting that Stuckart had a villa, too, since his Nuremberg laws had helped free up some of the properties from previous owners at such reasonable prices.
The size and scale of the Stuckart place was fairly modest, but inside the decor was that of a Bavarian hunting lodge. Just as Erich had said, the heads of trophy animals stared down from the walls of the vaulted main room—elk and boar mostly, a procession of antlers and tusks that seemed fearsome and predatory, especially when you were already worried sick that your girlfriend would wander heedlessly into a field of fire.
Erich’s mother answered the door and took their coats while Erich introduced Liesl and announced that they were all staying for dinner.
“My apologies that none of our servants are here,” she said. “I’m afraid that we only brought a cook, and even at that I must apologize in advance for what will be a very simple dinner.”
She hustled down a hallway with their things. Erich’s father must have already returned—Kurt spotted a brochure on a side table promoting the villa where the meeting had been held. The cover featured a handsome black-and-white photo of a grand room with polished wood floors and a splendid view of the lake. The sales pitch referred to its “completely refurbished guest rooms, a music room and billiards room, a large meeting room and conservatory, a terrace looking onto the Wannsee, central heating, hot and cold running water, and all comforts.”
Not exactly a terrible place to have to spend a morning, he thought, no matter what Erich said.
They gathered by the fire along with Erich’s two older sisters and an elderly uncle. The flames were roaring by then. Liesl warmed her hands, her expression unreadable. She had been very quiet since they arrived. Soon afterward Erich’s father joined them. Presumably he had changed out of his work clothes. He wore a tweed hunting jacket and heavy wool pants, and he smelled of pipe smoke.
“Good to see you, Kurt,” he said heartily. “I could have used your father with me today. Lots of questions about railway logistics and hauling capacities. All quite baffling to me, really. I’m afraid none of us was quite up to the challenge.”
“I can ask him to phone you, if you’d like.”
“Please do. I’d like to tap his expertise on some of these matters.”
Liesl gave him a cold look, which only went to show how little she understood about the business world, he supposed.
Stuckart offered everyone a drink, and to Kurt’s relief Liesl accepted. Maybe things would be all right after all. He wondered idly where Erich had put the flask of cognac.
The “simple” dinner was anything but. There was venison roast and cold duckling, served on Dresden china with the finest silver. Somehow the Stuckarts had even found green beans, perhaps from the larder, along with shredded winter greens and mounds of potatoes dripping with fresh dairy butter. For dessert, a red berry compote, Rote Grütze, served the traditional way, with vanilla sauce. Each course came with a different bottle of wine fetched from the villa’s cellar. Conversation was cordial and blessedly dull, and by the time everyone had moved on to coffee Kurt was feeling unguarded enough to believe the worst of the danger had passed.
Liesl, in fact, was looking quite healthy and inviting after their strenuous day in all that fresh air. She seemed refreshed, too, as she sipped from the china cup.
“Thank you for the lovely dinner,” she told Erich’s mother. “I can’t tell you how luxurious it is to taste real coffee again.”
“Yes,” Stuckart’s father chimed in from the head of the table. “I simply can’t stomach any more of that fake stuff. Roasted barley mostly, but I’m told some brands even have ground-up acorns! Like we’ve been reduced to boars, rooting through the forest. What is it I heard you calling it the other day, Erich? ‘Nigger sweat’ or something?” He chuckled. “That sums it up pretty well, I’d say.”
Liesl set her cup down with an unnerving rattle, although only Kurt seemed to notice. When Mrs. Stuckart offered a refill, she shook her head.
Talk then turned to the war, as it always did. As was also customary, the women mostly stayed out of the conversation, speaking in asides to each other about other matters. Except for Liesl, who leaned forward and followed closely as the elder Stuckart led the way.
“Field Marshal Leeb has been removed from command of Army Group North,” he said. “The word just came down today.”
“Isn’t he the third one to lose his job?” Erich asked.
“All since the first of December. But Kuchler has taken his place. A good commander. He’ll buck them up for sure. It may take some doing, maybe even a little more juggling of commanders, but the Führer will have us back on the right track in the east. By the time the spring thaw is here, we’ll be ready to go back on the offensive. Winter in wartime is always about waiting things out, anyway.”
“Did you hear about that poor man, von Reichenau?” Mrs. Stuckart asked, in a rare interjection.
“Old news, dear,” Stuckart said, indulging her with a smile. “He was appointed weeks ago. The new commander of Army Group South.”
“Yes, I know. But he just dropped dead of a heart attack. Right there at his headquarters.”
That wiped the smile off her husband’s face.
“You’re certain of this?”