Hedi Kaddour - Waltenberg

It is thought she even ran across Lilstein in about 1937, nothing definite, spring of ’37, could be coincidence, Berlin, music shop, a man she can’t quite place at first, except the voice, and also his large build, the light-coloured eyes, close-cropped hair, small moustache, a good-looking young man of about twenty-five, a splendid advert for Aryan propaganda, instinctively both behaved as if they did not know each other, the man came up to her talking about the recital she’d given the previous evening, Beethoven, arias from Fidelio, she autographed a score for him, a fan encountered by chance.

Obviously an army officer in civvies, the mark left on the back of his neck by an officer’s cap, tall, hair short, arrogant manner, pure chance, although meeting a fan in a shop which sold romantic sheet music wasn’t really that much of a coincidence, he told her he played the piano, she answered I hope you always keep a fire burning at home because it’s going to get very cold soon, and that’s not very good for pianos.

She held out her hand to him, great lady, aloof, I was happy to sign a score for you, exchange a few words, now that’s an end to it, a smile like a Greek statue, the smile of the omniscient blind seer, she knew many things, maybe a dignitary in the Gestapo had just asked her to postpone a private recital, maybe on the same day another dignitary had just had her informed that he couldn’t make it this week, perhaps a sign, or even other indications no one will ever know about, something big was brewing, the tall man left.

Two cops had walked into the shop behind Lena, with faces blank and big feet, one of them was about to follow the tall man, she thrust her parcels into his hands, since you’ve now taken to following me into shops, you can take these and put them in my car, the men probably hadn’t dared report the incident, though it was interesting, the lady had spoken to a man she didn’t seem to know, in a specialist music shop, they exchanged a few words about falling temperatures and then she’d said goodbye, the men with blank faces and big feet couldn’t have filed a report, didn’t want to explain why they hadn’t followed the man with the slow movements, arrogant manner and light-coloured eyes.

If this is true, it gave the big man a breathing space, and if the man really is Lilstein the Gestapo won’t pick him up until the end of 1937.

Two weeks after the business in the music shop, Lena spoke to Goebbels, an excellent evening, he had just listened to her singing, they were in a window recess, covert looks directed at them, respectful of their privacy, they spoke about Goethe, Goebbels was paying attention, he was just realising that she knew Goethe better than he did, yes, I also acted in Schiller, The Brigands, while I was still at school, Minister, and in German, I learned German when I was very young, it’s very easy for us northern peoples, Lena was almost one metre eighty tall, just by standing next to him she was saying to him I at least am a true Aryan, he asked if she would come on a visit to a new motor-car factory.

He was then in the process of organising a grand occasion, present would be the Prince of Wales, Herr Neuville, Herr Lindberg, the aristocratic old guard, capitalist success, airborne audacity, the German people, its leaders, a vehicle for the people, the participation of Fraülein Hellström would impress on the day the seal of art, surely you’re not short of fine singers in the Reich, Minister, women whom I think of as examples, in the end she accepted, they’d started discussing what she’d sing, something by Wolf, a setting to a poem by Goethe, and something by Wagner, she was very keen to do the song of Mignon, as to the Wagner, she left the Minister free to choose, she hummed a few arias, Goebbels in seventh heaven.

In the middle of an aria she broke off, which would you rather, Minister, a friend of Germany whom one does not have followed by morons, or a singer who returns suddenly to New York saying Berlin is becoming intolerable? I can also have the question put to the Führer by one of my friends, or ask him myself next week.

Goebbels knew full well why she wanted to be rid of her guardian angels, mature woman, the bourgeois women of the Third Reich do not like her, imagine, she has lovers but no husband.

The greedy forties, the age for large-scale consumption of airmen, classically handsome lieutenants not eager to continue consorting with a woman watched by the Gestapo, nor attracted by the idea of having one fine morning to write a report which would include everything they’d done with the lady.

Also hint of a smoke-screen. You know how diplomats hate this kind of complication, de Vèze. Well, to relieve the pressure, she resumed her routine activities, boldness, cool head, professionalism, Washington recognises that she is doing great work and she makes the most of the situation to idolise aviators, a passion for airborne encounters, the new production models, sometimes she disappears for two days with an airman, in the country, once I was in Berlin, she’d just returned from one such fling, I said to her these are the days of your youth, she understood and said I had a mind like a sewer, we laughed a lot.

Until one night when it all goes very wrong, she’s at the wheel of her big Mercedes, road between Stuttgart and Tübingen, late ’37, on the back seat a man, asleep, smelling of whisky, actually it wasn’t a Mercedes, those big Mercedes had Nazi written all over them, she had a more unusual car, more aristocratic, superb wire wheels, the man on the back seat is wearing a dinner jacket, but next to him is the cap and tunic of a Luftwaffe officer, Lena is driving fast, too fast, her passion, night-driving, headlights of approaching vehicles visible from afar, sporty driving style, double-declutch, avoid braking, she can throw a twelve-cylinder beast into a bend, a controlled skid.

Star-filled night, she hums a tune and has to stop at a large security road-block, not road police but a mixture of gendarmes and SS, papers please, American passport, the voices of the men as metallic as ever but less brutal, they’re not going to bother her, smell of whisky, torch shining on the back seat, the sleeper is in an ethylic stupor, silence all round, the soldiers tense up, an NCO has gone to get an officer, who sends for another officer, Lena caught something like Oberst or Oberstleutnant, she never understood about ranks, must be a commanding officer.

When he comes the soldiers stand to attention, he walks with a limp, more torch waving, the tunic on the back seat, commanding officer’s voice, a soft fashionable drawl, may I ask the identity of your passenger, Madame? she gets out of the car, opens the back door, pushing a soldier out of her way: his name’s Ulrich, he’s my lover.

She lights a cigarette to calm her rising fury, throws it down after the second drag on it, my lover is drunk as a skunk, a session with his colleagues, he’s not in the mood for love, I can’t stand it, I leave him to you, write a report and take him back to his field-marshal, he should have been back on duty by this time, let this be a lesson to him.

Around her half a dozen SS have suddenly replaced the gendarmes, one of the SS men is holding a lantern, the commanding officer has burn scars over all his face, he has recognised Lena, he is sinister, he too peers into the back of the car, the triage at the gates of hell, deliberate movements, the deliberation of the sadist, eyes boring into Lena’s eyes, anything but a fool, a man in this state at your side Madame is, to say the least, surprising, at this hour, on this road? Will you allow me another question? another glance inside the car, at the cap and the tunic, you said Ulrich, is that Flugleutnant Ulrich? And the conclusion comes: by your side, in this state, is he not sufficiently punished? He is a warrior, flying is an extremely dangerous occupation, he is already sufficiently punished, you may go, Madame, solid drinking with comrades is a tradition of the German people and her warriors, sometimes we have to drink to forget and to be the better man the next day, a man is a man, forgive him on this occasion, in this state, by your side, sufficiently punished, dangerous occupation.