Armageddon - Leon Uris

Wiesbaden is consumed with the Air Bridge and you know how flyers behave away from their airplanes. I rarely leave the house except once a week to see the cinema or to visit the Brueckners. The Americans have brought many new films over. Actually, they are old ones, but we could not see them during the Nazi days.

I close now. Be careful with your heart, Erna.

Your loving sister,

Hilde

The first months after her escape from Berlin, Hildegaard Falkenstein lived in an ennui. The Brueckners, an elderly couple who were dear friends of Uncle Ulrich, took her in with open arms; they had lost two sons in the war and their house was empty.

For a time they existed well. This was fortunate, for Hildegaard needed much care until she mended and was able to walk again in the sun. When she came to her senses she behaved like ages of harlots before her. Redemption became a fanatical cause. Her brush with near doom left a lasting mark.

Hildegaard became like a daughter to the Brueckners, changing her past ways to an unselfish giving of which she had never before been capable.

After a while the Amis requisitioned the Brueckner house, forcing her and the old couple to move up into the hills into cramped quarters with the rest of the Germans. Then Herr Brueckner became ill. Hildegaard realized that both Ernestine and her Uncle Ulrich had been contributing to her support beyond their means. For the first time she wanted to find work, but there was little she was trained to do.

She found a job as a shopgirl, but it was meager compensation. Later she became a waitress in a cafe on the Wilhelmstrasse where the Ami airmen were generous with their tips. Hilde was still beautiful and flyers were still flyers and they wanted to have the one they could not get.

When Herr Brueckner’s need for medical attention grew greater, she swallowed her pride and applied for work as a domestic for an American family. At first she feared her past in Berlin might have followed her to Wiesbaden, but that proved unfounded.

She had on her side the fact that she spoke creditable English, made a lovely appearance, and carried the respected name of Falkenstein. She made application, answered the Fragebogen, took the necessary medical examination, and passed all clearances.

Colonel Carter Smith and his wife hired her as a housekeeper and governess for their three small children. At last there was a chance to eat decently and earn a few extra packs of cigarettes a week. With tobacco a medium of exchange, she could buy Herr Brueckner the services of a good doctor and bring them precious ounces of meat and butter.

In the home of Colonel Carter Smith, Hildegaard had her first true love affair. She fell in love with the children, and they with her.

Tony and Lynn Loveless jumped on Daddy as he turned into the gate and showered him with a bath of new German words. He played in the yard with them until the weariness of the day overcame him.

“Martini. I’m bushed,” he said, bussing his wife.

“Here, lover,” Judy said, pouring it from the tall mixer. She stood behind his chair, rubbed the back of his neck. He groaned.

“We knocked them over today,” Clint said. “Six hundred ground-controlled approach landings in Berlin. Crusty was so pleased he forget to chew us out at the staff meeting.”

“How many tons?”

“Over five thousand.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Clint sipped, purred his deep content as her fingers massaged magic spots.

“Clint, I found a German maid, pending your approval.”

“Speaks English?”

“Fluently.”

“Where’d you dig her up?”

“She belonged to a Colonel Carter Smith, Army people. They are being shipped out to Japan. She has an A-l recommendation. Mrs. Smith says the children are beside themselves with grief to be separated from her. She taught them German. Anyhow, she has a famous name to boot. I hear her uncle is practically the political leader of Berlin.”

Clint smiled inwardly. That would be like Judy. She still had a little of New York in her. She’d have a name to drop.

“Honey, that’s your department,” he said.

“Well, you must interview her. Everyone says it is important to establish that the man is the head of the house to a German.”

“Okay, okay, let’s see it”

“Fraulein Falkenstein, would you come in, please?”

Clint knocked over his martini. He cleared his throat authoritatively and asked a few questions ... to make it official.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Clint commented when she left the room.

“Lover,” Judy said, “be an angel and don’t try it or Momma will slit your throat.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” he repeated.

Ernestine opened the envelope, which, in addition to regular postage, had affixed a special “Berlin Tax” stamp issued to support the city.

My Dearest Sister Ernestine:

I must be the lucky cat who always lands on her feet. I adore my new home with the Loveless family. It has taken much of the pain away by the departure of the Smiths. My room is quite decent and comfortable. The boy is Tony, nine years old and the girl, Lynn, who is ten. They are very affectionate and well behaved, for American children.

At the end of my first week, Mrs. Loveless gave me a carton of cigarettes upon learning my responsibility to the Brueckners and she promises a bonus of a carton a week. Erna! Do you know what that means? They passed off the kindness by saying they were both trying to cut down on smoking. They are a typical American family with extreme generosity. She is the true master of the family as was Mrs. Smith, but is clever enough not to let him know it.

The Americans are strange people, but they fool you. Just when I am beginning to think Colonel Loveless is shallow-minded, he shows his genius in other ways.

I remember how Father used to treat our maids and I suppose that was what bothered me the most when I began working. Yet, I am never treated as a maid. Not the way we treated them.

I am glad to hear that Colonel O’Sullivan has found a room away from his own quarters. It will save you embarrassment. How does Uncle Ulrich look upon all of this?

I must run. Each night I read to my babies in German and I look forward to it so much. I hear them calling “Hilde” so I rush this letter to you with love.

Hilde

In downtown Wiesbaden, Die Valkyrie Club, a traditional old beer hall, had been converted into a garish, stadium-sized nightclub—Winkelmann, proprietor.

Sturdy old cement pillars were painted off-pink; sequined drums and trumpets revolved from the ceiling; purple drapes encased the band stand and special up-chuck bowls had been bought from a Luftwaffe barracks and installed in the men’s room.

Winkelmann was a decent sort of chap. No airman was cheated or mistreated within his walls. The prostitutes working out of the place had to guarantee fair play, correct prices, and no clipping or rolling.

The semiprofessionals and just plain nice kids who wanted a place to have a glass of beer and dance lent an air of respectability.

Drunks were always sent home at Winkelmann’s expense by taxi, after checking in their wallets for safekeeping.

The American authorities realized that in any military town Die Valkyrie Clubs had to exist. Actually, Winkelmann was doing them a good turn by running a trouble-free operation. All of this gave Winkelmann a great deal of pride. He took particularly good care of choice friends with his personal inner-circle stock.

Before the war he had been a poor boy who had spent his life in servitude of the arrogant Wiesbaden aristocracy, and he hated them. His coming into a position of importance paled the old Wiesbaden gentry. When Wiesbaden was Wiesbaden, bawdy houses like Die Valkyrie could never have existed! Winkelmann was a good soldier, but never a Nazi. He felt that the sponsors of the city, particularly the Rhineland industrialists, were Nazi to the core.