At the Wolf's Table

by Rosella Postorino

  * * *

  IN NOVEMBER I was taken to the former principal’s office, this time without any ploy. The guard had summoned me so discreetly that the other women thought I was going to the washroom. I wondered what Ziegler wanted now—we hadn’t spoken to each other in three months—and I clenched my fists in anger.

  Of course, I had seen him after the night when I had refused to take the slip of paper from him. I had seen him in the hallways and lunchroom, but today he looked different to me. His hairline had slightly receded, his face tough, the skin glistening on the sides of his nose and his chin.

  I gripped the doorknob, prepared to walk out.

  “You need to save yourself.”

  Who did I need to save myself from, if I hadn’t saved myself from him?

  He got up from the desk, stopped two meters away from me, almost as if out of caution, and folded his arms. He said the Soviets were coming, would pillage everything, destroy the houses, it was necessary to leave. Up until the very end the Führer had been opposed to the idea, didn’t want to go too far from the Eastern Front—his presence there, he said, was a beacon for the soldiers, but airplanes continued to fly across the skies over the Wolfsschanze, and staying would be madness. In a matter of days Hitler was departing for Berlin with his secretaries, top kitchen staff, and various collaborators, and gradually all the others would be evacuated, though not before blowing up the bunkers and barracks.

  “What do you suggest, then? Shall I ask Hitler to give me a ride?”

  “Rosa, please, that’s enough. Don’t you understand? This means total defeat.”

  The end had come. I had lost a father, mother, brother, husband, Maria, Elfriede, even Mr. Wortmann. I was the only one still unharmed, though the end was right around the corner.

  “Hitler is leaving on the twentieth with the Wehrmacht Supreme Command. As for all the others, the civilians who work in the headquarters, before they leave they’ll have to take care of the logistical issues: documents, military supplies.… They’re going to board a train a few days later. You’re going with them.”

  “Why should they let me?”

  “I’ll find a way to hide you.”

  “What tells you I’m willing to hide? What will they do if they discover me?”

  “It’s the only solution. People will start leaving once they realize they have no choice. You have the chance to leave now, and on a train.”

  “I’m not getting on any train. Where do you mean to send me, anyway?”

  “I told you, to Berlin.”

  “Why should I trust you? And why should I be saved while the other women stay here? Just because I went to bed with you?”

  “Because you’re you.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “Not everything in life is fair. But that isn’t my decision, at least not that.”

  Not everything is fair, not even love. Some people loved Hitler, loved him unreservedly—a mother, a sister, his niece Geli, Eva Braun. He told her, You, Eva, are the one who taught me how to kiss.

  I drew in a shallow breath, felt my lips part.

  Ziegler moved closer, touched my hand. I jerked it away.

  “What about my in-laws?”

  “Be reasonable. I can’t hide just anyone.”

  “I’m not leaving without them.”

  “Stop being so stubborn. Listen to me, for once.”

  “I’ve already listened to you once and it didn’t end well.”

  “I just want to help you.”

  “I can’t bear surviving any longer, Albert. Sooner or later I want to live.”

  “Then go.”

  I sighed, “Are you leaving too?”

  “Yes.”

  Someone was waiting for him back in Bavaria. In Berlin no one was waiting for me. I would be all alone, without a bed, surrounded by bombs. The pointlessness of that existence offended me. Why so much effort to preserve it? As though it were a responsibility—but to whom did I still owe any responsibility?

  It’s a biological instinct, no one can avoid it, Gregor would have objected with his typical common sense. Don’t think you’re any different from the rest of the species.

  I didn’t know whether the rest of the species would rather live a life of misery just to avoid dying, whether they would rather live in deprivation, in solitude, just to avoid jumping into Moy Lake with a stone tied around their neck. Whether they considered war a natural instinct. It’s deranged, the human species; its instincts shouldn’t be heeded.

  * * *

  JOSEPH AND HERTA didn’t ask me who the person powerful enough to sneak me onto a Nazi train was. Maybe they had always known. I wished they would keep me from leaving, You’re staying here, it’s time to atone. Instead Herta stroked my cheek and said, “Be careful, my daughter.”

  “Come with me, both of you!” Somehow I would convince Ziegler, he would find a way to sneak them aboard too.

  “I’m too old,” Herta replied.

  “If you’re not coming, then I’m staying. I’m not leaving you alone,” I said. I thought of Franz, of when I used to wake up, terrified, after the Abduction. I would take his hands in mine, and the warmth would calm me. I would slip into his bed, cling to his back. “No, I’m not leaving you alone.” Herta and Joseph’s house was warm, like my brother.

  “You’re leaving the first chance you get,” Joseph declared with an authoritarian tone I had never heard him use. “It’s your duty to save yourself.” He was speaking like his son.

  “When Gregor comes back,” said Herta, “he’ll need you.”

  “He’s never coming back!” The words had escaped me, shrilly.

  Herta grimaced. She pulled away from me, sank into a chair. Joseph clenched his jaw and went out the back door despite the temperature.

  I didn’t rush after him, didn’t get up to console Herta. I could feel that we were separated from each other, that we were already alone, each in our own way.

  When he reappeared at the door, though, I apologized to them both. Herta didn’t look up.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. “I’ve been living here with you for a year, and you’re the only family left to me. I’m afraid of losing you. Without you, I’m afraid.”

  Joseph threw a log onto the fire to feed the flames, then sat down too.

  We were still together, all three of us, our faces warmed by the fire, like when we had daydreamed about Gregor’s return and planned Christmas dinner.

  “You’ll come back to visit us, you and my son,” said Herta. “Promise me.”

  I could only nod my head.

  Zart leapt onto my lap, arched his back, and stretched his legs. Then, once curled up on my knees, he began purring, as though he were saying goodbye.

  * * *

  THREE MORNINGS LATER the bus didn’t show up. Hitler had left. The other women didn’t know he was never to return. I didn’t say goodbye to Leni or the others. I couldn’t have. Over the previous week in Gross-Partsch, using the cold weather as an excuse, I had rarely left the house.

  One night, the sound of fingernails on the windowpane awakened me. I lit the oil lamp and went to the window. Ziegler was standing there, very close up. Through a trick of light, in the reflection of the glass I saw my face superimposed on his. I slipped my coat on, went outside. He explained where and when the next day I was to meet a certain Dr. Schweighofer, who knew the whole plan and was a reliable fellow. When he was sure everything was clear to me, he quickly wished me good night, shrugging his shoulders like he used to.

  “See you tomorrow, then,” I said. “At the station.”

  He nodded.

  The next afternoon, by the front door, Herta squeezed me tight as Joseph shyly stepped forward, rested his hands on our shoulders, and wrapped his arms around both of us. When we let go, my in-laws watched me disappear for the last time around the bend of Gross-Partsch, on foot.

  It was late November and I was about to set off for Berlin on Goebbels’s train. Goebbels wasn’t there, an
d Albert Ziegler wouldn’t be coming.

  42

  I imagined Goebbels’s train like the Amerika—that is, the Brandenburg—which Krümel had told me about. Would Krümel also be leaving that night? Would I run into him on the platform? No, he must have gone with Hitler. Otherwise, who would prepare semolina for him? The Führer has a stomachache, he always does, and traveling makes him nervous, especially now that he’s losing the war … but semolina is a cure-all, you’ll see, Crumbs will take care of you.

  I showed up for the appointment with Dr. Schweighofer in an anonymous café in Gross-Partsch at six o’clock on the dot, as Ziegler had told me to. There was no one in the café. With one hand the owner was brushing scattered granules of sugar off the bar and collecting them in his other hand. Only when he was finished did he serve me a cup of tea, which I didn’t even touch. Ziegler had told me I could recognize the doctor by his mustache, which he wore identical to Hitler’s. Once, in the barn, he had told me that they often advised the Führer to shave off his mustache, but he objected, saying he couldn’t, that his nose was too big. Schweighofer’s nose, on the other hand, was slender, and his mustache light-colored, slightly yellowed, perhaps by cigarette smoke. When he walked in he quickly scanned the empty tables and spotted me. He came over, said my name, I said his, held out my hand, he shook it hurriedly, Let’s go.

  During the drive there he told me that at that hour the person standing guard was someone he trusted, someone who would let me into the Wolfsschanze station without asking for documents. “Once inside, follow me. Don’t look around. Walk at a brisk pace, but without looking nervous.”

  “What if someone stops us?”

  “It’s dark out and there will be a great deal of confusion. With a bit of luck they won’t notice us. If they do, I’ll pretend you’re one of my nurses.”

  So that was why Albert wasn’t taking me there in person. I had mistaken it for another sign of his cowardice—despite the power provided him by his rank, he was too craven to take his own lover to catch Goebbels’s train, too cowardly to demand that she too be allowed to depart with the Wolfsschanze’s direct employees, even though she neither lived nor worked there. Speaking with the doctor, though, I realized Ziegler had entrusted me to the man’s care because he had a plan: I would pass myself off as part of the medical staff. It might work.

  * * *

  SHIVERING INSIDE HIS post, the guard let us through after only a summary glance. I found myself in the middle of a bustle of men loading wooden crates of various sizes onto the train cars while the SS and soldiers kept watch over them, barking out orders and guarding the goods. The train was ready on the tracks, its snout already pointed elsewhere, as though it had turned its back on the Wolfsschanze. The swastikas on its side were a ridiculous frill, as relics of the losing side always are. It was anxious to go—that’s how it seemed to me. Goebbels wasn’t there, and the train no longer answered to him, only to its own instinct for self-preservation.

  Schweighofer trudged along without looking back to check whether I had fallen behind.

  “Where are we going now?” I asked.

  “Do you at least have a blanket in that bag?”

  In my suitcase I had packed only some sweaters—in a few months I would come back for the rest, I thought, would persuade my in-laws to come with me to Berlin—and a blanket, as Albert had suggested. Herta had also made me some sandwiches, since the journey would last several hours.

  “Yes, I have one. Listen, I was wondering, without documents, can I still claim I’m your nurse? What if they ask me for them?”

  He didn’t reply. He walked quickly. I had a hard time keeping up.

  “Where are we going, Doctor? We’ve reached the end of the cars.”

  “The passenger cars, yes.”

  I didn’t understand what was going on until he had me climb into a freight car at the end of the train, far from the crowd scrambling around on the platform. He shoved my back with his palms, making me tumble inside, and climbed in behind me. Unconcerned about my bewilderment, he pushed a few crates aside, chose my spot, and pointed at it: a niche behind a stack of trunks.

  “They’ll shelter you from the cold.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  A fine plan indeed. Hours, days traveling in a freight car, sealed up in the darkness with the risk of freezing to death. I continued to be Ziegler’s pawn.

  “Doctor, I can’t stay in here.”

  “Do as you please. I’ve fulfilled my obligation—my agreement with the lieutenant was to take you to safety, and this is all I can possibly offer you. I’m sorry. I can’t add you to the list of civilians, the cars are already chock-full. People will travel standing or sitting on the floor. It’s not like we can take the whole town with us.”

  He hopped onto the platform, slapped his hands on his trousers, and was holding them out to me to help me down when a male voice called out to him.

  “Hide, quickly,” he told me, then turned to the person who had called to him.

  “Good evening, Sturmführer. I was here making sure my precious equipment was properly arranged, that nothing’s been broken.”

  “How can you check that? Weren’t the crates sealed tight?” The voice was getting clearer and clearer.

  “Yes, I know. It was a foolish notion, I admit. However, I couldn’t help but come,” Schweighofer said. “Knowing they’re here, safe and sound, is a comfort.” He tried to laugh.

  The Sturmführer replied with a short, polite chuckle. I stayed hidden behind the crates as he came closer. What might he do to me if he discovered me there? Whatever it was, I had nothing left to lose. Ziegler had been the one to insist. I didn’t want to leave, was tired of trying to save myself. And yet the SS still struck as much fear in me as they had on my first day.

  The floor of the train car swayed beneath me when the Sturmführer leapt up into it, and the crates resounded as he slapped them. I held my breath.

  “They seem to have done a fine job, Doctor. It’s unkind of you to have doubted them.”

  “What? Why, no, it was just a precaution.…”

  “Don’t worry, everyone knows doctors are unusual people.” Another chuckle. “Go get some rest, now. We have a long journey ahead of us. We’ll be leaving in just a few hours.”

  The floor swayed again and the SS officer’s soles landed on the platform. I kept my head between my knees, both arms wrapped around them tightly.

  All at once a metallic rumble blackened the train car until everything went dark. I shot to my feet, groped around for the exit, searched for a crack through which a trace of light might seep in, staggered, with nothing to cling to, as voiceless as though gripped by an Abduction, then tripped over the crates, fell.

  I could have gotten back up, banged into the crated supplies until I found the door, pounded on it with my fists, pounded and shouted, sooner or later someone would hear me, someone would open the door for me, what they would do to me I didn’t care, I wanted to die, had wanted to die for months. Instead I lay there, sprawled on the floor. It was apprehension, fear, or only the survival instinct—it never left me. I never had enough of living.

  43

  The commotion awakened me. Someone was opening the freight car door. On all fours, I dragged myself into my nook behind the crates, drew my knees up to my chest. A faint light entered, and one after the other a number of people—I couldn’t say how many—climbed into the car, thanked whoever had taken them there, and settled down amid the trunks, murmuring something I couldn’t make out. Wondering if they noticed my presence, to summon my courage I clutched the handle of my suitcase. The rumble of the door slamming shut silenced everyone. Who knew what time it was or when the train would set off again? I was hungry, exhaustion had glued my eyes shut. Surrounded by darkness, I had lost all sense of time and space. The cold nipped the base of my neck and lower back, and my bladder was full. I heard the other people whispering but couldn’t see them. I drifted in a colorless dream, a reversible c
oma, bleary isolation. It wasn’t solitude, it was as if no one in the world had ever existed, not even me.

  I relaxed my bladder and peed on myself. The hot rivulet consoled me. Maybe the urine would trickle across the floor until it touched the feet of the other passengers.… No, the crates would block its way. Maybe the smell would drift over to my travel companions, who would think it was from the contents of the trunks, Who knows what’s inside them, it might be the smell of disinfectant.

  My thighs wet, I fell asleep again.

  * * *

  THE CRY WAS desperate. I opened my eyes to the darkness. It was a baby’s cry. It mingled with the clatter of the moving train, its sobs muffled by the bosom of its mother, who was probably cuddling it against her—I couldn’t see—as the father whispered, What’s wrong, that’s enough, don’t cry, are you hungry? It sounded like the mother had been trying to feed the baby but it had been no use. In the din, jostled by the rocking of the train, I took out my blanket, threw it over my shoulders. Where were we, how long had I slept, my stomach was empty, I was hungry yet had no will to eat. My body was protecting itself by sleeping. The baby’s distress scratched at that viscous drowsiness without piercing it, it was but an indecipherable echo, a mirage. And so, when I began to sing I didn’t recognize my own voice. It was like drifting off to sleep or wetting yourself or feeling hunger without the will to eat, a state prior to life, it had neither beginning nor end.

  I sang the nursery rhyme I had sung for Ursula at Heike’s house, and later for Albert in the barn. In the darkness, amid the child’s wails and the groans of the freight car, I spoke to the fox who had stolen the goose, warned it that the hunter would make him pay, and didn’t think about the stunned faces of the other passengers, Who on earth is that? the father must have said, but I didn’t hear him, the mother clasping her child’s face to her breast and stroking its tiny head, Dear little fox, no goose for you, I sang, with a little mouse why not make do? and the baby stopped crying and I repeated the nursery rhyme all over again, Sing with me, Ursula, by now you know the words. I repeated it from beneath my blanket and the baby dozed off, or stayed awake but stopped wailing—it had been a vitalistic act, its crying, like every rebellion. Then it too had desisted, had given in.