The Sin of Knowledge

THE SIN OF KNOWLEDGE

They’ll never hear, Beth thought as she rang the bell a second time. She tapped her feet in the dead leaves on the stoop, and pulled her fur collar tighter around her neck. Never.

The old-fashioned brass bell pull was mounted in the center of the oak door. It was usually loud, except now. It was muffled by the crowd of people inside. Julian, Beth thought. She knew she should never have left him alone with mother, Not tonight.

Beth gave it a third yank.

She turned to where the cab had dropped her off in the drive. Too late, it was gone.

“Okay, okay, I’m—” Glass broke on the other side of the door. “Damn.”

The door opened a crack. Light and noise flooded the yard in a sharp wedge.
“Come in.”

Beth was caught, confused, but she recognized Anne’s voice, the party.

“Beth? Come in. I’ve had a small accident, just step over.”

Inside, Anne pulled at Beth’s gray suede coat with one hand while pushing the heavy door closed with the other. “Let me take your coat. I’ll put it upstairs in our bedroom. Make yourself at home.”

Beth looked around for a minute, trying to fight down her vertigo. Most of the people she knew—they were a friendly crowd—but a few were new. One of them, from Scribner’s, she thought, one of Anne’s writers, Beth smiled, they were usually more interesting than Beth’s regular friends.

“Drink?” Donald Lerner yelled from across the living room. “I’m bartender, first round only though.”

Beth walked to the corner where Donald stood next to a table full of bottles.
“The red coat makes you look the part,” Beth said.

“Anne’s idea. She said if I never wore it she would throw it out. So, what can I get you?”

“I don’t know. There’s too much.”

“Sherry? A gentle start. Anne bought a good Spanish bottle.”

“Thanks.” Beth took the small glass. She held it to her lips, hiding behind its edge. “Who is everyone?”

“Anne will be pissed, but since you’ve asked, the guy in the chair by the bookcase, that’s Nigel Beniton. Anne’s newest. She says his book will go into at least three printings.”

“Giving away my surprise?” Anne asked, startling her husband and Beth. “Come on Beth, you’ve got to meet him.”

For five years, since Beth’s husband had walked out, Anne had made it her crusade to find a replacement.

She grabbed Beth’s arm and pulled her away from the safety of the corner and marched her across the room. “You’ll just love him . . . Nigel, this is Beth.” Anne had to raise her voice to be heard. Beth rocked back and forth, embarrassed by Anne’s enthusiasm. “Beth this is the love of your life, Nigel Beniton.”

With that, Anne turned and strode away, knowing, as she always did, that she successfully had made the match.

Beth watched as Nigel looked for a place to set his glass down on the small, magazine covered, table. A red flush crept from behind his white shirt collar. He fumbled with his glass, unable to put it down, and started to stand. “Please don’t get up. That’s so old—”

“Sssorry,” Nigel stuttered. “Itsss habit. I wwwas tttaught well.”

He slid a chair away from the wall for Beth. “Ppppplease.”

His face and ears burned crimson. “The ssstutter gggoes away when I’m nnnot nnnervous.”

“Don’t be, not on my account,” she put her hand on his, “you’re the famous author.” She hadn’t wanted to like him, another one of Anne’s special men, but Nigel was different, different from Anne’s usually glib, party-types. His embarrassment made her want to laugh. Her face twitched as she tried to restrain herself. She covered her face, pretending to smother a cough.

Nigel laughed too. “Th,” he took a breath. “Thank you.” And another. “Maybe I wwwill get through this.”

She pulled her hand away. Get through this? She felt her throat tighten. She shook her head back and forth. No no, no. I knew this wouldn’t work, she thought. “Am I annoying you? I—”

“Nnno. Sss . . . sorry. It’s Anne. She . . . tttold . . . mme—”

“Anne? . . . It’s Anne’s idea!” Beth interrupted. “I understand. She told me too that there was someone I had to meet.” Beth flushed. “It’s my turn. I’m sorry. Let’s start over.”

“Yes . . . let’s. You know . . . my work?”

“Right now, I wish I could say yes, but no. Donald said you were Anne’s latest. What do you write?”

“Histories. Twentieth century European.”

“Histories?” She had read a lot of history, it was her secret passion. She had wanted to understand her father, a German soldier, an officer, in the Second World War. “Beniton! I didn’t connect your name. I’m sorry, I do know your work. You’ve something new?”

“‘The Wardens.’ It’s dddue out in a week. I can get you a copy. Signed, if you’d . . . like.”

They talked for an hour. By the makeshift bar Anne nudged her husband, “See, I told you.”

“You’ve said that every time.”

“Yes, but have you ever seen Beth sit in one place so long? No? This time I’m right.”

Nigel had brought over the bottle of sherry, and had kept filling her glass, although never more than a third at a time. Beth’s mind wandered. She wondered if Nigel’s stutter had completely gone away, or if she were so used to it, she didn’t hear it. He was talking about the German effort in the mid-thirties to legalize their villainy. She had gotten lost in the argument and in the data. Drowned in the noise of the party, the phone rang. Then Anne was shaking Beth’s shoulder.

“Beth . . . Beth. It’s Gerta. It’s your mother, she—”

“Julian!”

“No, your father, she said he’s dying,” Anne dropped her voice, “again.”

“I’ve got to go. Can you call a cab?”

“I’ll drive you.” Nigel said, holding her hand. “This time of night, it could take a while.”

“No!”

“Nigel’s right. It’s better if he takes you.”

“Oh God, no,” Beth said in resignation.

“I’ll get your coats.”

The five minute drive went in slow motion. Hauptmann Rooling, Beth stared out the window watching the night lights, cold and impersonal. The lights spoke to her. They beckoned her to join them, to hide in their white oblivion. She knew they’d accept her. She had always known they were waiting for her. Hauptmann Rooling.

“We’re there.” Nigel gentle voice pulled her back. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Beth slowly looked around, prepared as if she had awaken from a bad dream. But the night was quiet, the houses dark, and there was no ambulance. “Thanks. I can see myself in.”

Nigel ran around to her side of the car and helped her out. “I won’t hear it. I’ll see you in.”

“No, please? No.”

A yellow light burst from the porch. “Beth? Kindchen, is that you?”

“Yes mama,” Beth yelled. “Thank you,” she said to Nigel, freeing herself from his helpful arm. “That’s mama. I’ll be fine.”

“Let me—”

“No.” Beth looked at Nigel’s worried face. “I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . this isn’t a good time.”

“Could I . . . see you again?”

Beth found it hard to swallow. What about Julian? And Hauptmann Rooling? she thought.

“And a friend,” Gerta yelled back from the porch. “That is good. Please, come, I would like it to meet him.”

“Mama is Julian asleep?” Beth asked, hugging her mother. “And Papa?”

Gerta placed her arm around Beth. “Like Christ on the Cross your papa suffers. . . . Who is it your friend?”

“Mama, please?”

“What better time is for with friends?”

“Mama this is Nigel, he’s a . . . writer. Anne introduced us. Nigel this is Gerta, my mom.”

The lines on Nigel’s face had disappeared with Gerta’s intercession.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs.—”

“Rooling. A friend of my Beth’s is always welcome. Please.”

Gerta led them into the dark house. “Beth, you make it him comfortable.” She kept her hands in the pockets of her white pinafore, churning pieces of Kleenex. “I must see to Papa.”

The house had been converted from American colonial to Austrian traditional. The woodwork was painted, brown and grained, and wainscoting surrounded the living room. A large Persian rug covered the floor with indiscernible maroon and blue patterns that had been scuffed down to inky puddles. A brooding painting of Christ before Pilate hung above the fireplace. Nigel tried to blink away the invisible disinfectant mist.

“Sit. I’ve got to check on Julian. Then . . . would you like a drink? Coffee?”

“If it’s no trouble, I’d like coffee. Julian?”

“My son.”

“You’re . . . married?”

“I was. He walked on me.” The day I told him I was pregnant. He didn’t even take his things. He just left. “That was almost six years ago. . . . I’ll get your coffee.”

Nigel went to the shelves next to the fireplace, rows of worn books, their spines were creased and broken from too much familiarity. Book marks, like multi-colored flags, almost fluttered along their tops. He stooped to examine a row. They were all in German, and they were all theological. The Bible, the lives of saints, most of whom Nigel couldn’t place, treatises on Christian morality, and dozens of obscure German philosophers.

Nigel ran his fingers along the books, mindlessly humming the jingle for a local furniture chain. He noticed that behind the tightly packed lines of books were more, a second row facing out. What he could get to, without having to remove all the books in front, were novels. “Guilty pleasures,” he mumbled, and smiled at his discovery.

“Do you want cream or sugar?” Beth interrupted.

“Sorry, it’s an old habit. Books, they’re my life.” He sat down. “I didn’t . . . mean . . . to be . . . snoopy.”

“Papa has always been religious. It’s his life, that and painting. That’s his,” Beth said, pointing to the mantle. “Did you say if you wanted cream?”

“No, black is fine. How’s your father?”

“He’s really sick, but I don’t think he’s going to die, not tonight.”

“You have a doctor?”

“Papa’s got cancer in his bones, and some sort of dementia, the doctor had a long name for it. There’s nothing they can do for him. And he wanted to be here to die. He hates hospitals and doctors anyway.”

“Maybe I . . . should leave?”

“No, Mama would be mad. And,” Beth stared into the coffee mug still in her hand, “I’m glad you’re here.” Without allowing herself to see his reaction, she put the mug down on the end table. “I want to see Papa a minute.”

The coffee was hot, dark, and bad. It was like his mother’s, coffee grounds boiled with egg shell, a little egg yolk, and a pinch of salt. But it felt good to wrap his hands around the mug and smell it.

A book, hidden in the second row, caught his eye. It looked to have a dozen slips of paper marking it—odd for a novel, he thought. He put the coffee down and knelt next to the shelf.

The books in front were solid, and most of the row started to come away with the three books he was prying out. He sneezed, and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief from his pants pocket. Now one-handed, he fought hard not to let the books get away from him.

Through the toothless gap in the shelf he worked his prize out from the back. It had a dark, red leather cover, with gold edged pages. The title on the spine was worn away, but on the front cover, debossed, with flecks of gold leaf still stuck in the crevices, it said “Mein Kampf.”

Nigel thumbed through it. The markers were old photographs, mostly of children playing, all pre-war. A clump of photos fell out onto the floor. Across the back of the top picture, in round, blue letters, it said “Kadett Reuling.” He turned it over. Staring at him was a young man. Haughty—the select—wearing the uniform of the Ordensschule.

Nigel reassembled the photos, and replaced the books. He sat back in the over stuffed, dark, blue-green chair, and he fought the vertigo. The sherry? The closeness of the room? No, Rooling. His discovery tore at him as he icily sipped the hot coffee.

He knew Hauptmann Reuling, Oberinspekktor in the SS. He had lived with him for twenty-three pages in his newest book.

“Nigel, Mama wants you to meet Papa,” Beth whispered from the doorway to the kitchen. “Mama . . . wants . . . you . . .” Her voice fell away.

“I dddon’t thhhink I . . . shhhould.”