“I can’t understand why it’s so important to you. There’s nothing to see there, in that place where the sun never shines.”
“Why does the sun never shine there?”
An irritated sigh. “Because there are nets strung between the trees, with piles of leaves covering them. And trees and bushes are growing on the roofs of the bunkers. Whoever looks down from overhead sees only forest. They can’t find us.”
“How brilliant,” I joked yet again. Why was I doing it? Maybe I was unsettled by the fact that so much energy had been expended to barricade them, to entomb them.
“You’re getting on my nerves.”
“I just want to know where you spend your time. Are there women in there too?”
He faked a scowl.
“Well?”
“Unfortunately,” he said, grinning, “not enough of them.”
I pinched him on the arm. He grabbed hold of my breast, squeezed it.
“At least bring me a strand of the Führer’s hair. I’ll frame it.”
“You’ll what?” He rolled over and straddled me.
It was almost morning. The first light was filtering in between the slats in the walls. I stroked the faint tattoo on his left underarm. AB Rh NEGATIVE, it read, beside his identification number. He flinched because it tickled. I persisted until he defended himself by trapping my wrists.
“Why do you want one?”
“I’ll hang it over my bed.… But if you can’t pull out a strand of his hair for me, I’ll settle for a hair from Blondi.” I laughed as Albert nipped at my collarbones, my funny bones.
“Would you really want a relic of a man who’s always doing this?” He curled the corner of his lips upward repeatedly.
His imitation of the Führer’s tic made me burst out laughing. I cupped my hands over my mouth to muffle the sound. Albert laughed reflexively—a low, rolling chuckle.
“First you defend him and then you disparage him?”
“He really does that. It’s not my fault.”
“I think you’re making it all up. You’ve believed the stories put out by his detractors. You’re playing right into his enemies’ hands!”
He twisted my wrists until they cracked. “Say that again!” he dared me.
It was almost dawn. We should have parted, but I couldn’t stop staring at him now that I could see his face. There was something in the lines in his forehead, in the curve of his chin, something that frightened me. I stared at him and couldn’t grasp the synthesis of his face, only the rigidity of his protruding jaw, the deep groove in his brow—surviving beams in scaffolding that had collapsed. Hardness is vulgar precisely because it lacks cohesion. Like a number of vulgar things, however, it can be exciting.
“You should have become an actor, not an SS officer.”
“That’s enough. You’ve gone too far!” He squeezed my throat with one hand while keeping my wrists trapped with the other. He squeezed for a few seconds, I don’t know how many, and the pain spread to my temples. I opened my eyes wide and only then did he relax his grip.
He stroked my breastbone and then began to torture me with tickles using his fingers, his nose, his hair. Laughing, I continued to be frightened.
* * *
ALBERT TOLD ME a few stories about the Führer. It seems he was the one who really enjoyed doing impressions. Over meals, Hitler would often tell an anecdote involving one of his men. He must have had an excellent memory, because he never left out a single detail. The man in question would willingly allow himself to become the subject of derision—would be honored by it.
Hitler was wild about Blondi, his German shepherd. He would take her for a walk and to run every morning, though Eva Braun couldn’t stand her. Maybe the woman was jealous, given that the dog had access to her lover’s bedroom, while she had never even been invited to the Rastenburg headquarters. Then again, she wasn’t an official girlfriend. She told him Blondi was a calf, not a dog, while Hitler detested smaller breeds, which he deemed unsuitable for a great statesman, and referred to Eva’s Scottish terriers, Negus and Stasi, as dusting brushes.
“She sings better than you, you know,” Albert told me.
“Braun?”
“No, Blondi. I swear it. He asks her to sing and she starts barking, louder and louder. The more he encourages and praises her, the more she barks, almost howling. Then he tells her: ‘Not like that, Blondi! You should sing with a lower voice, like Zarah Leander.’ And the dog, I swear to you, the dog obeys.”
“Did you see this for yourself or did you only hear about it?”
“Sometimes I end up at the nighttime tea. He doesn’t always invite me. But then again, I prefer not to go. They always last forever and no one ever gets to bed before five in the morning.”
“As though you slept more than that anyway.…”
He touched the tip of my nose.
“So you can go back to the Wolfsschanze whenever you like, with curfew and lights-out?”
“I don’t go back,” he said. “I sleep in Krausendorf, in the barracks, on the sofa.”
“You’re mad.”
“You think my mattress is any more comfortable? Besides, my room is little more than a cubbyhole. It’s hot out now but I can’t turn on the ceiling fan, the sound drives me insane.”
“Poor Lieutenant Ziegler, the light sleeper.”
“And when do you make up for the sleep you lose with me?”
“Since I moved to this place I’ve had insomnia.”
“We all have insomnia. Even him.”
Once, he told me, the Führer’s men used gasoline to exterminate the insects infesting the area and in the process inadvertently killed off all the frogs too. Hitler couldn’t fall asleep without their strident lullaby, so he sent a party of men out to search the entire forest for frogs.
I imagined the SS men in the dark of night, their feet sinking into muddy swamps where mosquitoes and gnats—which hadn’t been exterminated and were breeding peacefully—would be amazed at having so much young blood on which to feast, so many robust German men on which to leave their marks. The German men were terrified at the thought of returning without a prize. I imagined one of them pointing his flashlight around, chasing after the leaping frogs but being unable to catch them. He calls to them sweetly, like he would call to my Zart, a soft smacking of his lips, as though wanting to kiss them, to liberate Prince Charming to wed. At last, beaming, he manages to scoop up a frog in his hands, but a second later it slips away and in his attempts to catch it again he falls, his face ending up smeared with slime.
Everything considered, it turns out to be their lucky night. Hitler has granted them the opportunity to go back to being children, something that will never happen again. The frogs are put back in their place around his lodgings. I imagined the SS men encouraging them: Croak, oh, please croak, little frog. The Führer once again shows clemency. Then he goes to bed.
Albert had also fallen asleep, his cheek flattened against my belly. I lay awake, listening carefully for the slightest noise. The barn was our lair. Every criminal has one.
28
Tonight the Wolf can’t sleep. He can talk nonstop until dawn. One after the other, the SS men nod off, their heads drooping and then sinking into their palms, their elbows propped on the table, wobbling though still supporting the weight. The important thing is that someone, even just one of them, stays awake. Tonight the Wolf doesn’t want to fall asleep, not at all, doesn’t want to let himself go, sleep can be deceptive. How many people have closed their eyes convinced they would open them again in a moment, but instead were swallowed up by sleep? It’s too similar to death for it to be trusted. Sleep, his mother would tell him, and she would wink at him with her good eye. She had earned herself a beating that evening, her husband preferring her with purple cheekbones—even more when he was drinking. Shhh, his mother would say, sleep now, my little Wolfie. But the Wolf already knew you needed to be constantly alert, that you couldn’t let down your guard; traitors were everywhere, everywh
ere an enemy ready to annihilate you. Hold my hand, his mother would hold it, stay here with me, the SS officer nods. He waits for the powder to take effect, for the Führer to drift off to sleep, waits until he succumbs, watches over his breathing—mouth open, sleeping like an infant. Now the SS officer can leave, can let him rest.
The Führer has been left alone and death lies in wait, a phenomenon beyond all control, an enemy that can never be defeated. I’m afraid. Of what, little Wolfie? Of the fat Dutchwoman who tried to kiss me in front of everyone at the Berlin Olympics. How silly you are. I’m afraid of traitors, of the Gestapo, of stomach cancer. Come here, sweetheart, I’ll rub your belly, the tummy ache will pass, you’ll see, you ate too much chocolate. Poison, I’m afraid of poison. But I’m here, you can’t be afraid. I taste your food like Mother drips milk from the bottle onto her wrist, like Mother tests the baby food in her own mouth, it’s too hot, she blows on it, feels it on her palate again before spoon-feeding it to you. I’m here, little Wolfie. It’s my devotion that makes you feel immortal.
29
We had spread our blankets out on the grass. The lake was slightly rippled but the temperature was perfect for swimming. Ursula and Mathias didn’t want to get out of the water. Heike was lying on her side, asleep. Ulla was sitting in a rowboat on the shore, legs crossed, and from time to time would adjust the straps on her swimsuit. Leni, on the other hand, had immediately dived into the water and had been swimming ever since, as though to cross a finish line. I was reading a novel Maria had lent me and between one page and the next kept an eye on Heike’s children.
Not far from our blankets, something caught my attention. Two large branches, one driven into the earth, the other nailed to the first one, forming a cross. On one side of the cross hung a military helmet.
When had the soldier fallen, in what war? And more important, had he died right there? Or had a parent, a wife, a sister decided to commemorate him with a cross beside the lake because it was a sweet, restful place? Because it was a place where the son, the husband, the brother had held diving contests with his friends as a child?
Sooner or later Gregor would also deserve a cross in a place he had loved, but I had no right to commemorate him.
Ursula’s voice made me turn around.
“Mother!” Heike awoke with a start. “Mother, Mathias swam far from shore and now he’s drowning!” Ursula screamed.
I ran to the water’s edge. Heike followed me. “I can’t swim,” she said. “Go get him, please.”
I dove in. I tried calling out to Leni, but she was a tiny speck in the distance and didn’t hear. She was the best swimmer of us all. I wasn’t trained myself, I moved slowly and grew tired quickly. Where was Ulla?
I advanced one arm stroke after the other. “Don’t worry,” Heike shouted to her son, and Ursula did the same. I swam as quickly as I could. I saw Mathias’s head sinking and reemerging. He was thrashing and swallowing water. I didn’t want to assume such a huge responsibility all on my own. Why wouldn’t that fool Leni come back? And Ulla, who had she gone off to flirt with, for her not to have noticed? I was already out of breath and Mathias’s head was still far away. I rested for a moment, Just for a moment, now I’ll start swimming again, but Mathias sank once more and didn’t come back up. With all my strength I shot forward and as I did I saw a man swim over swiftly, dive underwater, and a moment later reappear with the boy on his back. Within minutes he had pulled him back to shore.
When I had caught my breath, I swam over to them.
Mathias, lying on the water’s edge, had already regained his color.
“Why did you go so far out?” Heike was shouting. “I told you not to!”
“I wanted to reach Leni.”
“You’re so thoughtless!”
“Come on, calm down. He’s fine,” Ulla said.
Two young men stood beside them, arms crossed, watching the scene. One of them must have been the man who had pulled Mathias out of the water.
“Thank you for beating me to it,” I said. “I was already exhausted.”
The taller of the two replied, “Don’t mention it.” Then he turned to the boy. “If you like, I’ll teach you to swim properly. But only on condition that you won’t go so far out into the water until you’ve learned how.”
Mathias nodded and stood up, suddenly reinvigorated.
“I’m Heiner,” the young man said, holding out his hand to him.
The boy introduced himself in turn.
“And I’m Ernst,” the other one said. Then he punched Heiner on the shoulder. “Well done, Sergeant.”
They were two young soldiers from the Heer. Heiner was a film enthusiast, and at the front he had spent most of his time behind a movie camera, but he had also been made projectionist. “These days, true cinematographic art is the documentary,” he explained to us a while later, sitting on Heike’s towel. We had all huddled together, even Leni, who had returned from her long swim, during which she hadn’t realized what was going on behind her. “When the war is over,” Heiner said, “I’m going to become a movie director.”
Ernst, on the other hand, had always dreamed of fighting in the Luftwaffe—he had been designing and building model airplanes since elementary school—but he had a congenital eye defect, so he had had to settle for joining the ground forces.
They had set up a movie hall not far from the Wolfsschanze. A tent where they showed whatever was allowed—which wasn’t much. Among the films, though, were some real jewels, Ernst explained, and, staring at the pale, glowing skin revealed by Leni’s black swimsuit, he said, “It would be nice if you could all come watch a movie with us now and then.”
Ulla rattled off a series of films Zarah Leander had starred in. “And To New Shores? Do you have that? Or Heimat? It’s my favorite!”
We became friends, most of all because of Leni, who had welcomed Ernst’s interest unquestioningly, without wondering if she wanted him. She had subscribed to his desire almost as if responding to an assignment she couldn’t refuse. She was an exemplary victim, Leni. If she hadn’t been so afraid, out of all of us she would have been the perfect food taster.
* * *
WITH ZIEGLER, I hadn’t behaved any differently than Leni.
In the morning, Herta’s eyes seemed to follow me and Joseph’s silence to conceal disappointment. In Krausendorf, the SS guard searched me too eagerly, as though he could sense that my body was profane. In the lunchroom, Elfriede studied me like the day I had worn my checkered dress—I hadn’t taken it out of the wardrobe in ages—until she guessed what I had kept so well hidden. Or maybe I simply couldn’t believe I was getting away with it.
In the afternoons I would often search for some trace of Albert in the barn. I had no reason to go in there and hoped I wouldn’t be noticed by Herta, busy baking bread despite the heat. Joseph was at the castle, tending the garden where Maria played with Michael and Jörg if the governess wasn’t looking after them.
I opened the old door and the dry smell inside the barn tickled my nostrils. In the future I would forever associate that smell with Ziegler, and every time I would feel my hips crumble. Hips that yield, that shatter. I no longer know how to describe it, to describe love, any other way.
No trace of Albert, of us. The tools, the discarded furniture, nothing was out of place. Everything was just as it always had been, our encounters left behind no mark in the world. They happened in suspended time, a scandalous blessing.
30
“Albert, did you hear that?” He had fallen asleep. I shook him.
His mouth pasty, he swallowed before whispering, “No, what is it?”
“Noises. Like someone’s pushing on the door.”
“Maybe it’s the wind.”
“What wind? Not even a leaf is stirring.”
It’s Joseph, I thought. He knows, he’s known for weeks, he’s tired of pretending. It was Herta, she incited him, I dared to offend her in her own home: In my own home, Joseph, can you believe it?
I pulled on my nightgown, stood up.
“What are you doing?” Albert asked.
“Get dressed!” I nudged him with my bare foot. I couldn’t stand the thought of my in-laws opening the door and bursting in on such an indecent sight.
When Albert stood up, on instinct I sought a way to hide him, to hide us. But where? The door continued to creak. Why weren’t they opening it?
They had gone to the door, driven by anger, but then just outside the barn they had frozen. They didn’t want to witness the scene. Maybe they would go back to bed. I was the person most like a child to them, they could forgive me, or harbor toward me constant resentment without making a fuss, without openly confronting the situation—the silent resentment in every family.
The noises continued. “Do you hear it now?”
Albert said, “Yes,” and his voice sounded tinged with anxiety.
I wanted to get it over with, so I rushed to the door, opened it.
When he saw me, Zart let out a muffled meow. He had caught a mouse, was gripping it between his sharp teeth. Its head was falling off. I backed up in disgust. Herta and Joseph weren’t there.
“An unexpected gift?” Albert whispered. Realizing I was out of my wits, he was trying to calm me.
“The cat knew I was here.”
Finally someone had noticed. No, we couldn’t get away with it. Zart knew our secret. He had killed a mouse and brought it to us here. More than a gift, it seemed like a warning.
Albert pulled me back inside, shut the door, held me in his arms gently, then tightly. He had been scared. Not for himself—what did he have to be afraid of?—but for me. He didn’t want me to suffer because of our relationship, didn’t want me to suffer at all. I held him close, wanted to take care of him, prove it to him. In that moment, I thought that ours was a worthy love, one worth no less than any other, no less than any other emotion that had refuge on earth, that there was nothing wrong, reprehensible, if when I embraced him I began to breathe again—slowly, like Pauline in the bed with me in Berlin.
At the Wolf's Table Page 17
