Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [297]
“Sorry, Captain Davidson, operations are closed down.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Go to sleep, I think, sir. We’ve arranged quarters for you and your copilot at the Columbia Club and your engineer at Transit Airmen’s Quarters. We trust you will be comfortable.”
“Dammit, I’m supposed to start my leave tomorrow.”
“It is ceiling zero. And please bear in mind that Berlin is blockaded by land and sea. I suggest that you do not try those routes.”
“All right, wise ass, I want to phone Wiesbaden.”
“Sorry, Captain, you need a priority to get a phone line out of Berlin.”
As he left in utter defeat he turned at the door at the harassed young officer. “I don’t like you,” Scott said.
Chapter Thirty-four
HHDEGAARD FALKENSTEIN HAD a lightness of heart and a happiness she had never known before Scott picked her up.
Things are on the way, he thought, as they drove into the countryside.
She had not been into the villages and forests for longer than she cared to remember. She had never traveled with this feeling of wonderment. How lovely it was. How lovely Scott Davidson was. Hilde’s eyes glowed with the discoveries that came from her daring to open locked doors.
At the end of the first day’s drive they decided to stop for the night at Rombaden, about halfway to the Bavarian Alps.
Over the Landau River from the city, the Four Seasons Hotel had rooms available to American officers. Hilde remembered being in Rombaden once with her father in the early days of Hitler. It was a big Nazi city then.
The Four Seasons was a bit seedy from the lack of upkeep and new replacements and the uniforms were threadbare, but there was still a touch of the old elegance.
Scott was warm. Scott was understanding. He brushed away all awkwardness by taking separate rooms on different floors.
Dinner was only adequate, but the aristocratic service made her feel like a queen.
They drove across the bridge to Rombaden and for the next hours engaged in pub-crawling along the wild and reputed Princess Allee filled with the bawdy, the singing, the risqué.
They were happy crossing back over the Landau to the hotel. Off the lobby a great fire roared in the seventeenth-century fireplace and they sipped cognac, which Scott knew the bar could find if they really wanted to.
It was cozy and dreamy. Hilde cuddled close to Scott and lay her head on his shoulder.
For Scott Davidson, the long-awaited, long-denied sign was being given. World flyer and past master of the moment of woman’s surrender; triumph was close at hand. He allowed Hilde to loll in her joy, let her approach the delicate moment. He must do nothing to deter her own train of thought. He became deliberately passive.
Hilde’s inner conflict began the moment she decided to go away with Scott. She began to realize that she deliberately invited temptation in the hopes of having him. She remembered so many things now. The voices, the sounds, the smells. Scott was American. He was a big man and he smelled good. He was clean, like they were.
“Honey, we’d better turn in,” he whispered. “We have a long drive tomorrow. I’ll see you to your door,” he said in pure Virginian.
He turned her lock.
“Good night, Scott. It has been a most beautiful day.”
“Good night, honey,” he said boyishly.
Hilde took his hand and brought him into her room. Scott, like a little child, allowed himself to be led. Hildegaard’s embrace had none of the calculation or sophistication of a trained lover. She was crazy with desire.
Scott knew her eruption had to come from the liberation of long-imprisoned emotions. Careful, he said to himself, careful, Scott. He handled her with deliberate slowness ... and then they were at the bedside.
Even in this mad moment Hilde longed to cry out, “I love you, Scott,” but she could not do it. She writhed with passion, fearing that her declaration would be a sign of weakness.
She almost cried in desperation, begging him to assure her that he loved her. But Scott gave no word. They lay, side by side, like a pair of animals unable