Free Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante by Susan Elia MacNeal Page B

going to bed alone.

Chapter Four
    The grand piano in Chatswell Hall’s former drawing room was out of tune.
    The north London weather had had its way with the instrument. Still, even an out-of-tune piano couldn’t ruin the power of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1. A man—dark and lean, a black eye patch over his left eye that gave him the air of a pirate—sat at the keyboard, graceful, long-fingered hands flying over the black and ivory keys. He wore flannel trousers, a shirt and tie, and a blue cardigan—nothing military about him except his perfect posture. His good eye was closed as he lost himself in the beauty of the music.
    There was the thud of boots approaching on the parquet floor. “Heil Hitler!” Then, “You can’t play that!” The newcomer was tall and broad, with sleek, graying white-blond hair and thighs like tree trunks. He was dressed in full Nazi uniform. Medals of all shapes and sizes adorned his barrel-shaped chest, while the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaf Cluster was pinned at his throat.
    The man playing the piano didn’t stop or even open his good eye. “I don’t see why not,” he answered in a reasonable tone.
    The blond man scowled. “You must not play Tchaikovsky. It is
forbidden
.”
    The man at the piano opened his eye. “Forbidden by whom? I must remind you, we’re not in Germany anymore, General Kemp. No damn Nazis sniffing around. Well, except for you, that is.”
    The hulking blond rubbed at the back of his neck as he sat on a moth-eaten velvet sofa opposite. “It is unseemly, General von Bayer.”
    Von Bayer played to the end of the movement and then stilled, listening to the last chords fade away into the twilight.
    “It doesn’t matter where we are,” Kemp persisted. “As German officers we must conduct ourselves with dignity and decorum, even if we’re being held prisoner in Britain. The Führer would be appalled at your playing the music of a Russian, no matter where we’re imprisoned—
especially
now.”
    “Unlike you,” von Bayer retorted, “I am a German, but not a Nazi. I’m a Bavarian, not a Prussian. And besides, I like Tchaikovsky—he was an aristocrat, not a Bolshevik.”
    “He was a homosexual!”
    Von Bayer shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”
    “We are both German generals—” Kemp began.
    Von Bayer sighed. “We’re both
captured
German generals, imprisoned in England. A gilded cage, though, you must admit. Certainly much better accommodations than any currently imprisoned British generals are enjoying.”
    “True, true,” Kemp agreed. “I’ve just written a letter to my wife, with the following advertisement for Chatswell Hall.” He took a piece of paper from his uniform’s breast pocket and unfolded it. “How does this sound?
Park Sanatorium: First-class accommodation, running hot and cold water at all hours of the day, also baths on the premises. Four generous meals daily, first-class English cuisine. Regular walks under expert guidance. Large library of carefully chosen literature of all countries. Table-tennis tournaments, billiards, chess, and bridge circles. Instruction in art and handicrafts. Alcoholism cured without extra charge. Moderate terms, varying according to social position. Best society assured at all times!
”
    Von Bayer’s lips twisted into a grim smile. When he had arrived at Chatswell Hall, the only other “guest” was Kemp, who’d been captured five months previously. Both men were the same age, both highly decorated generals. Each had commanded a panzer division in the Middle East.
    And their accommodations
were
luxurious, if chilly. At present, they were in the canary-yellow drawing room, just one of the many large rooms at Chatswell Hall that smelled of must and rooms too long closed without fresh air, leaving molds and mildew to thrive. The Hall itself was a Tudor brick mansion with half-timbers, set on extensive grounds with gardens, located in the ancient woods near Cockfosters, on the edge of