She had met no one in the peaceful suburb,
although she had heard the deep guttural voices of elderly men still
lingering at the tables in the beer gardens.
She had sent orders to leave the door of the church unlocked, and she
entered the barren room, guiding herself with her electric torch to the
stair that led down to the vault. Fear of any sort had long since been
crowded out of her, but it was a lonely pilgrimage she hardly would have
undertaken ten days ago.
She descended the short flight of steps and flashed her light about the
vault. It was a small room, oppressively musty and humid. All Schwabing
is damp but the Isar itself might have washed the walls of this dripping
sepulcher. The coffin stood on a rough trestle in the center of the
chamber, and it was covered with the military cloak that, with his sword
and helmet, she had ordered sent from his hotel.
She stood beside the coffin, trying to visualize the man who lay within,
wondering if the orders still bulged above the hilt of the dagger she
had driven in with so firm a hand ... or if they had taken the time to
remove it ... or if that symbol of Germany's freedom would be found ages
hence in a handful of dust when the man who had taught her all she would
ever know of love or living was long forgotten...
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