Cold Victory

“I still can’t quite grasp what you’re saying. Charlotte shot Bredow? Intentionally?”

“The preliminary police investigation, which they shared with Christian, suggested that her first shot grazed Bredow’s arm, the second found his neck and the third bullet penetrated his skull between the eyes. It blew off the back of his head. Christian was allowed to see the corpse. There is no question about how he died, and there can be no doubt it was intentional. Accidental shots aren’t that accurate.” Emily was right, David admitted to himself, as she concluded with the words, “Charlotte aimed to kill.”

Still, David was stunned. He could not picture Charlotte with a gun in her hand — much less aiming it at someone with the intent to kill. The Charlotte of his memories and dreams was timid and gentle and in need of protection, not a cold-blooded murderer. First, he’d discovered that her apparent affection for him had been an illusion. Now, it appeared, her entire personality had been a façade.

“David,” Emily was still on the other end of the line. “Sperl warned us she’ll need a first-rate lawyer.”

“I can imagine,” he paused and then asked cynically, “Do you want me to pay for one?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Emily assured him. “Christian’s sister-in-law has spent the last three years working for the prosecution at the Nuremberg War Crimes trials—

“Charlotte needs a first-rate defence attorney, not a prosecutor,” David pointed out dryly.

“Freifrau von Feldburg’s name has been put forward as a judge in the German judiciary, which will be established after a new German constitution has been approved. We can assume she is an outstanding legal expert.”

That wasn’t the same thing as being an effective barrister for the defence, David thought. He inherently mistrusted appointments made because of family connections rather than objective qualifications, but before he could argue Emily continued, “She agreed to help immediately, and she is not asking for any compensation. She’s getting herself to the airfield at Bielefield next Monday, and I’ll fly her to Berlin in Moby Dick. She did have one request, however, and that is the reason I’m calling.”

David tensed. What could a woman he’d never met want from him?

“She doesn’t want to live in the apartment house on Maybach Ufer because it’s where her husband killed himself — and where Charlotte has now also killed her fiancé. Christian wondered if you’d mind her moving into your house on Schwanenwerder.”

“Of course not.” That was such an insignificant request in the face of this crisis, that David hardly thought it needed to be raised. “Christian has the keys. Tell him she is welcome to use whatever rooms she likes. According to Christian, half the furniture belongs to her anyway.”

“Thank you, David. Then, I suppose, that’s all.”

Except it wasn’t. David knew it and Emily knew it too. “Emily?”

“Yes?” She sounded hopeful but did not press him.

“I need a little time to think. I’ll call you back.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

They hung up, and David stood in the hall trying to collect his thoughts. A light went on in the hallway behind him. “David? We’re ready to sit down,” George told him respectfully, worried about interrupting something important.

David made his way to the kitchen. The table was laid for three, and George sat down while Mrs Holden wrestled with removing a large pie from the oven. David washed his hands hastily at the sink and then joined them at the table.

“Not bad news, I hope?” Mrs Holden asked as she set a steaming crock filled with perfectly browned shepherd’s pie in front of him.

David shook his head, in his imagination, he told her: ‘Oh, nothing serious. Only the woman I was desperately in love with has just shot a man between the eyes.” But he didn’t say that out loud, so George and Mrs Holden continued looking at him expectantly. He drew a breath and decided on, “One of my former employees…is in trouble. I may have to return to Berlin.”

“Oh, that’s a pity,” Mrs Holden exclaimed with apparent sincerity. “We’ve enjoyed having you — and Sammy —” she tossed the dog a smile.

George, however, was frowning slightly with concentration and nodded more earnestly as he said, “Yes, I think you need to get back to work, David. Young men have to have a purpose in life.” Their eyes met, and David felt a wave of affection for this simple, barely literate man who nevertheless understood him so well — and loved him just the way he was.

After dinner, he said he needed to be alone for a bit and went up to his bedroom. This had been the boyhood room of his dead friend Ginger. With the door closed and the light off, he sat on the narrow bed and looked out of the dormer. The moors were smothered in fresh snow, but the clouds were already tearing apart and here and there sharp, intense stars blinked at him knowingly. David drew the chilly air into his lungs and waited for his thoughts to sort themselves out.

Charlotte had killed Fritz von Bredow with a remarkably accurate shot. That was not the act of a hysterical or frightened woman. It was a deliberate and rational act performed by a steady hand and unwavering will. In short, Charlotte had killed Fritz von Bredow because she wanted to. That fact proved that — at least at the moment when she killed him — she had not loved him. The question was: had she ever loved him? As a young girl in a different Germany, probably. But what about last year, when he had been falling in love with her? And what about last November when Fritz returned? And what about the day she had told him they could not have a future together?

David reviewed his memories again, searching once more for clues to her feelings. What if he had been wrong and Christian and Emily had been right? What if Charlotte had not rejected him because she did not love him or because she loved Fritz more but for some other reason? What might have induced her to choose Fritz, if she did not love him? Could it have been a warped sense of duty, perhaps? Or pity? Or had it been a feeling of worthlessness and shame, as Christian had suggested?

David returned mentally to the discussion he had had with Christian. Christian had told him Charlotte had been raped by six Russian soldiers, and he had not been able to believe it. No, he corrected himself. He had refused to believe it because he couldn’t bear to picture it. Not Charlotte! Not his delicate, fragile, sensitive Charlotte brutally humiliated and abused!

But she wasn’t as delicate or fragile as he’d thought. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been able to survive the rapes, start a new life — and put a bullet between Fritz von Bredow’s eyes.

And that was the crux of the matter. He had misjudged her.

Charlotte was not made of sugar. She was the daughter of a Prussian junker. She might have been battered and bent, but deep inside there was steel. And she had found it again.

David stood up so suddenly that he set the paper aeroplanes of the mobile over the bed in motion. “I have to go to her, Ginger,” he said into the darkness.

Just as he slipped out the door, he heard Ginger speak for the first time in years. His friend called out after him in a cheerful, youthful voice, “Good luck!”