“I understand what you mean,” Michael said.
“I knew you would. And I knew, the moment you approached me at Herr Rittenkrett’s party, that you were different. I looked at you and took you in, and I thought… Franziska, you must be with this man. You must not only go to bed with him, but you must be with him. Why? Because I’m a selfish slut dressed up in silks and furs, and I want my pleasure. But also…because to you I want to give pleasure, and I haven’t felt that way…since I was a girl,” she finished.
Michael said, “I’m honored,” and he meant it.
Her hand slid down between his thighs.
“Now,” she said, “I’m going to get up and go fetch from a drawer a paper pistol target and a floorstand to mount it on. I’m going to set the target up within an interesting distance. Then I’m going to give you the cocksucking of your life, and even though you think you might be tired, I’m going to use your gun to hit a bull’s-eye. Do you understand that?”
An expert marksman, Mallory had said.
Michael would have to judge for himself.
“Yes,” he told her, and heard in his own voice the nearly giddy excitement of…a boy? “I very much understand.”
There would be no shooting of blanks in this contest.
Sometime when the evening had closed in and they had showered together, she remarked on how fast his beard seemed to grow, and what kind of razor did he use? He said he owned a French Thiers-Izzard, and she gave him an expression of horror and said the beauty of his face should only be trusted to German steel.
He wound up shaving with her razor, and afterward he watched as she sat on the edge of the tub and shaved her magnificent legs.
“Do you like my bush?” she asked, with a dimpled half-smile he found devastating. “It’s getting a little full, I think.”
He just had to look down at the floor tiles and shake his head at her earthiness, and when Franziska laughed at this unbelievable and until now unknown moment of shyness in the life of Michael Gallatin he thought he would pick this woman up in his arms and press her so close that Eve would return the rib.
“Dinner?” he asked her, when he’d recovered himself. “Someplace with music?”
A frown surfaced. “Oh… I have an appointment tonight. Something I can’t put off. As a matter of fact, I was supposed to call Herr Rittenkrett by now. He’ll be waiting to hear from me.” Without the need for a towel, she walked in her glorious lithesome nakedness to the telephone in the other room.
Michael hated to play his next card, but it was time to show the East Front Jack Of Hearts. He sighed as she picked up the receiver. “I’m sorry we can’t spend all our time together. The time left, I mean.”
She put the receiver to her ear and started dialing.
“If I get my orders tomorrow,” he continued, “I might not have a chance to see you again.” Careful, he thought. She mustn’t smell the lie.
“Franziska Luxe for Herr Rittenkrett,” she said to whomever answered on the other side.
“Well,” he said, “do you have a suggestion for where I should eat?”
She gave him a look over her shoulder that of itself was worthy of more target practice.
“Hello, Axel,” she said into the mouthpiece. “I wanted you to know…” She paused, still staring fixedly at Michael. “I’m not feeling very well tonight,” she went on. “We’ll need to postpone our plans. What? My condition? My throat is a little sore. Yes, I think I’ll feel better tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow. I’ll swallow something for it. Yes, I do know.” She paused, listening to the Gestapo’s ‘Ice Man’. “That’s right, Major Jaeger is here. I’ve been taking his pictures this afternoon. Yes, I’m aware it’s evening, thank you.” She gave a quick nod as if standing in Rittenkrett’s presence. “I’m also aware of that,” she replied. Then, after a silence, “I’ll give him your regards, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Franziska returned the receiver to its cradle.
Her eyes had gone a little chilly. “He knows I’m lying, of course. It wouldn’t do to lie a second time, about your not being here.” She examined her fingernails for a moment, and then when she lifted her gaze to his again her eyes had warmed. “I am free for dinner, after all. And I do know a place with music.”
“And dancing?” he prodded.
“I’ll dance you into the ground,” she promised.
“We’ll see about that.” He hoped he wouldn’t be dancing on a grave; either his own, or hers. The Ice Man might look coldly upon this interference in the Gestapo’s plans, even if from a major who ought to be a colonel. Michael decided from here on out he should take care to pay attention to anyone coming up behind him.
But, for the moment, there was life to be lived.
Eight
This Particular Wolftrap
Over the next few days—as the air raid sirens shrieked at night, bombs fell on Berlin, troop trains passed through carrying more meat to feed the Russians and yet the parties went on at a pace meant to satisfy all human appetites and destroy all remaining inhibitions—the major with wary green eyes and the female photojournalist with an interesting reputation were seen in several restaurants, the cinema, and a few nightclubs that still had glass in the windows and not boards.
Michael thought that for a person who felt she was known by no one, Franziska had an army of acquaintances. At lunch or dinner their table was bound to be approached by at least two or three people. Of course Franziska would introduce him and—most of these visitors being civilians—Michael would listen politely to their comments about the war being won soon, and Berlin getting back to normal and the world paying its heavy debt to Germany. Even Franziska, who could herself go on at length about the future of the Thousand-Year-Reich, was bored within one minute of the proclamations of some of these overstuffed blowhards. Michael didn’t fail to notice that several of the married men, their mummified wives in tow, gazed upon Franziska with the eyes of those who have for a short space of time seen what lay beneath the gown and the manners, and their nervous movements from side-to-side showed they hoped someday to repeat that viewing. She dashed their hopes and broke their hearts with a quick sidelong smile and a turning away of the face that said Your day is done.
Of more concern to Michael were the officers who occasionally ambled up, their pathetic attempts at charm not quite up to the hard reality of a missing limb, and above the fixed smiles the glazed expressions of actors no longer sure they remember their lines. They steered clear of actual war talk, movements of troops and tanks and so forth, which suited Michael fine, but what made him dodge a bit were the questions of did he know Colonel der von Glockenspiel or Major Hamminibus or some such name thrown at him like a fat piece of oily pork. He always said the name was familiar but, no, he had never met the man. He knew the name of his own supposed divisional commander, Burmeister, so he couldn’t be tripped up for that mistake.