‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’
‘Did you not?’ Wolf said, darkly.
‘Please, Wolf.’ As if she couldn’t but move closer to him, a moth to his banished flame. Whispering in his ear, ‘I will fuck you the way you like it.’
He pushed her away, roughly this time. ‘Whore,’ he said.
‘I will be your whore, if you’d only let me!’
People were looking at them now. ‘Lower your voice,’ Wolf said, and his own voice was distant and cold.
The woman was close to tears, he saw. Wolf touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. ‘
Auf wiedersehen
, Valkyrie.’
‘Wolf, no!’
But already he was going, walking away, and the English people parted before him, as though they could sense the lethal mood he was in. Unity didn’t follow. She remained standing there, alone, with people staring and then looking away and murmuring amongst themselves. ‘Damn you, Wolf!’ she shouted. ‘And damn you too, you nosy bastards—’ pointing a finger at the assembled guests, who studiously avoided eye contact.
‘Come on, pet.’ It was that young broker, Fleming.
‘Oh, Ian,’ Unity said. She let him lead her away. She leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘It’s all so very
beastly
,’ she said, miserably.
Wolf’s Diary, 3rd November 1939 –
contd.
That stupid bitch Valkyrie had made a miserable ending to a miserable day and I suspected it was not yet over. I did not like women trying to assert an authority over me. The Mitford girl was too unpredictable, too
independent
. I liked my women the way I liked my dogs, obedient and devoted, like Catholics suddenly confronted with their maker.
I did not make a good Catholic. My father hated the clerics and I had hated both the clerics and my father. My mother was devout, and I remembered as a boy going to church and waiting on my knees, as God in the form of a priest stuck his flesh and dribbled his blood in my mouth. My mother had so much love to give, to her Lord and to me. Even to my father. And I remember, too, as a young boy, hearing the sounds coming from their bedroom, at night, my father’s grunting, my mother’s soft sobs and sighs. Perhaps it was as early as that that my dislike of my father began, with the sounds of his nightly assault.
But though I loved them, women always betrayed me. First and worst, Geli, of course. How dare she escape me, and using my own gun as the key to her freedom! But she was only the first of them.
I met Eva when I came to visit Herr Hoffmann’s studio in Munich. It was a place I frequented regularly. The first time I saw her she was climbing a ladder in the shop and I saw her pretty ankles and the rising hemline of her dress and I was smitten, I will admit that I was smitten. She was a model of Aryan womanhood and at seventeen she glowed with good health, her eyes were innocent and clear and yet unspoiled. Whenever I came in to see Hoffmann I would take her hand and kiss it with decorum and call her my lovely siren from Hoffmann’s. I would make her blush. She knew me as Herr Wolf, which was the nom de guerre I was using at the time. No doubt she thought of me as that politician what was in prison. Her language was plain. There was no guile about her. Later I would take her on holiday to Berchtesgaden where she would sun herself in the clear air, as naked as the day she was born. She was Eve before the fall. We would go rowing on the lake together. Such a simple, delightful creature she was.
In Munich I would take her out to the opera or to my favourite restaurant, the Osteria Bavaria. I would buy her presents – the first thing I ever gave her was a yellow orchid. It was the first flower a man had ever given her. I had given the whore everything! And yet she, too, tried to escape me.
I had found her diary, the pages of which I had not destroyed but kept, as proof of her guilt. She was a silly girl! All she could speak of was of my taking her away from the shop, of perhaps giving her a little house of her own. At
‘Did you not?’ Wolf said, darkly.
‘Please, Wolf.’ As if she couldn’t but move closer to him, a moth to his banished flame. Whispering in his ear, ‘I will fuck you the way you like it.’
He pushed her away, roughly this time. ‘Whore,’ he said.
‘I will be your whore, if you’d only let me!’
People were looking at them now. ‘Lower your voice,’ Wolf said, and his own voice was distant and cold.
The woman was close to tears, he saw. Wolf touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. ‘
Auf wiedersehen
, Valkyrie.’
‘Wolf, no!’
But already he was going, walking away, and the English people parted before him, as though they could sense the lethal mood he was in. Unity didn’t follow. She remained standing there, alone, with people staring and then looking away and murmuring amongst themselves. ‘Damn you, Wolf!’ she shouted. ‘And damn you too, you nosy bastards—’ pointing a finger at the assembled guests, who studiously avoided eye contact.
‘Come on, pet.’ It was that young broker, Fleming.
‘Oh, Ian,’ Unity said. She let him lead her away. She leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘It’s all so very
beastly
,’ she said, miserably.
Wolf’s Diary, 3rd November 1939 –
contd.
That stupid bitch Valkyrie had made a miserable ending to a miserable day and I suspected it was not yet over. I did not like women trying to assert an authority over me. The Mitford girl was too unpredictable, too
independent
. I liked my women the way I liked my dogs, obedient and devoted, like Catholics suddenly confronted with their maker.
I did not make a good Catholic. My father hated the clerics and I had hated both the clerics and my father. My mother was devout, and I remembered as a boy going to church and waiting on my knees, as God in the form of a priest stuck his flesh and dribbled his blood in my mouth. My mother had so much love to give, to her Lord and to me. Even to my father. And I remember, too, as a young boy, hearing the sounds coming from their bedroom, at night, my father’s grunting, my mother’s soft sobs and sighs. Perhaps it was as early as that that my dislike of my father began, with the sounds of his nightly assault.
But though I loved them, women always betrayed me. First and worst, Geli, of course. How dare she escape me, and using my own gun as the key to her freedom! But she was only the first of them.
I met Eva when I came to visit Herr Hoffmann’s studio in Munich. It was a place I frequented regularly. The first time I saw her she was climbing a ladder in the shop and I saw her pretty ankles and the rising hemline of her dress and I was smitten, I will admit that I was smitten. She was a model of Aryan womanhood and at seventeen she glowed with good health, her eyes were innocent and clear and yet unspoiled. Whenever I came in to see Hoffmann I would take her hand and kiss it with decorum and call her my lovely siren from Hoffmann’s. I would make her blush. She knew me as Herr Wolf, which was the nom de guerre I was using at the time. No doubt she thought of me as that politician what was in prison. Her language was plain. There was no guile about her. Later I would take her on holiday to Berchtesgaden where she would sun herself in the clear air, as naked as the day she was born. She was Eve before the fall. We would go rowing on the lake together. Such a simple, delightful creature she was.
In Munich I would take her out to the opera or to my favourite restaurant, the Osteria Bavaria. I would buy her presents – the first thing I ever gave her was a yellow orchid. It was the first flower a man had ever given her. I had given the whore everything! And yet she, too, tried to escape me.
I had found her diary, the pages of which I had not destroyed but kept, as proof of her guilt. She was a silly girl! All she could speak of was of my taking her away from the shop, of perhaps giving her a little house of her own. At
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