“The price of disobedience is death. Is that clear?”
“It’s clear,” the prisoner murmured.
Exasperated, the psychiatrist exclaimed, “You will always refer to your betters with the appropriate degree of respect! Now, have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, Herr Doktor, you’ve made yourself clear.”
“That’s better. You are being given a second chance, and you will be appropriately thankful.”
“Of course, Herr Doktor, I am truly grateful,” the prisoner responded in a voice that was a study of pious gratitude. Richard coughed into a handkerchief to hide his smile.
“Good, I see that you can learn fast,” the doctor congratulated himself. “You’ll begin within the hour. You will join a group of other recruits then. You are never to speak to any of them, nor are you to speak to anyone else unless required to do so.”
Despite this last command, the prisoner asked, “Could you just tell me one thing?”
He asked it in such a conversational tone that the doctor was taken off guard and responded without thinking, “What?”
Richard and Lederman had begun to leave, but upon hearing the prisoner’s question, Richard turned back to listen. Lederman, noticing that his guest hesitated, waited respectfully.
“I’m now an Untermensch, right?” the prisoner asked, then without waiting for an answer continued, “However, if I understand your”—he hesitated as if searching for a polite word—“ideology correctly, that’s a matter of genes rather than jurisprudence.”
The psychiatrist nodded reluctantly
“So how is it that I can go from being a non-Germanic Aryan, id est, inferior, but not an Untermensch, to being an Untermensch?”
“Your actions have shown your true blood.”
Richard had to smile at that logic. Lederman came forward and whispered in his ear, “This one will truly need special attention.” Richard nodded without taking his eyes off the scene below.
“So, I have been an Untermensch all along?” the prisoner persisted.
“Yes, clearly. You were an orphan, were you not?”
“Yes.”
“There you have it. You must have some Jewish or other foul blood in you, as do so many of you English.”
“But what about my hair? It was blond, sort of,” the prisoner explained. “And look, I have blue eyes.” He pointed at them in a gesture of helpfulness that once again, and rather fortunately, the psychiatrist did not recognize as sarcastic.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s in the blood.”
“I see. But why wasn’t it obvious before?”
The psychiatrist hesitated. “I shan’t debate with you, that would be folly. Nevertheless, I am intrigued by your question. You see, I believe your entire race is corrupt, so you had no trouble hiding your true nature among your own kind—it was just so much filth among garbage.”
“But the English are part of the Volk. That’s what I learned in school. One people, one master race, born to rule, reunited after a tragic separation, reaffirming their common bonds of brotherhood and natural right to—”
“Stop your blathering!” the psychiatrist snapped angrily.
“Just quoting doctrine,” the prisoner apologized innocently, “about the English.”
“Traitors, all of them.”
“Nevertheless, still a part of the Volk.”
“Some are, others are trash—mixed race, like you. Loathsome, vile, filthy!” The psychiatrist became incensed and began to yell. “You may arrogantly try to mimic us and use our language with your educated vocabulary, but you’re still inferior and your efforts are repugnant: like watching a monkey use fine china. You think you’re clever enough to know our ways and hide among us, but sooner or later we always ferret you rats out! You’re polluted and your very existence defiles our culture. You were born a subhuman and you will always be a lesser being; your endeavors to pass for a true Aryan have been fruitless. We will now teach you to behave in a manner appropriate to your status.”
The prisoner looked unimpressed. “So, it’s all in the blood, eh?”
“All in the blood,” the psychiatrist solemnly echoed.
“Heavens, isn’t it about time you guys developed a blood test for this? Wouldn’t it make your lives so much simpler?” the prisoner asked.
Richard turned his laugh into a cough. Lederman blinked slowly as he considered the suggestion.
“Yes, it would,” the psychiatrist agreed all too seriously, “and I’m sure one day we will.”
8
ZOSIA SIPPED HER TEA nervously in the little tearoom across the street from where Stefi stood in the chill dawn air. She looked at her sixteen-year-old apprentice in her provocative clothing with her overmade face and her sultry stance and nodded her head approvingly. A man approached Stefi, a farmer to judge from his clothes, but she said something that caused him to walk away shaking his head. As the night gave way to morning, Zosia became frustrated at their lack of success. She tapped her teacup nervously. Another twenty minutes, she thought, then they’d give it up for today as well. Their target was known to frequent this corner, and they had bribed the usual denizens away so that Stefi would be the natural choice, but now the third morning was upon them without success. Zosia was just beginning to mutter an imprecation under her breath when she spotted the uniform that she wanted. Black from head to toe with a nifty cap and nice death-head insignia. She squinted her eyes and studied the face. Success at last!
Zosia paid for her tea and left the shop in time to follow Stefi and her client down the street. She ducked into a seedy alley and from there watched the twodisappear into the entrance of the inn. She strolled down the dark, narrow passage, ducked behind a pile of crates and garbage, and slipped into a door that took her up a back stairway so that she would be in the bedroom when Stefi and her client arrived. She settled herself into the only chair in the room and, picking up the yarn that she had left in a basket, waited patiently, crocheting a blanket for her baby.
The man opened the door and started when he saw Zosia. He drew his gun, but she waved her hand impatiently and said in a thickly accented German, “There is no need for that.”
“What’s this about?” the man demanded, turning toward Stefi as if ready to hit her.
“I am her sister,” Zosia explained. “This is her first time. If you let me stay, I give you her for half the agreed price.”
Stefi looked appropriately terrified. Zosia wondered how much of it was an act.
The man studied Zosia, wondering if he might work a better deal with two for one. “Stand up,” he ordered.
Zosia obeyed as if it were second nature, standing with her back swayed and her stomach pushed out. The man sneered at her large belly and shook his head. More little Slavic trash running around, fouling the streets and committing crimes. Why didn’t they just round up these pregnant cows and abort their monstrosities? It wasn’t like they could hide their condition!
“She’ll do it for free,” he suggested. “And you’ll be grateful for that.”
“One quarter price,” Zosia countered. “We need to eat.”
“You both look fat enough,” the man sneered.
“Please, mein Herr,” Zosia begged.
“Take off your coat,” the man told Stefi. She did so, and he looked her up and down and grudgingly agreed. “All right. Thirty marks. That’s a loaf of bread for you, isn’t it?”
One-tenth her street worth. “Yes, mein Herr. Thank you for your kind generosity,” Zosia replied grovelingly.
He put his gun in the holster and removed it with his coat, uniform jacket, and tie. “Now come here, little princess,” he called to Stefi, beckoning with his finger. Stefi approached timidly. He began undoing her buttons and reached inside her blouse. Zosia had placed herself back into the chair so she could see Stefi’s face and was behind the man’s back. She saw her apprentice cringe as the man’s hands caressed her, and she gave her a smile and an encouraging nod. He would have been long dead in her hands, but
she let Stefi find her own technique, in her own time. Stefi attempted to hug him, her hands dancing nervously around the man’s back as she tried to ascertain his size and physique. Her fingers wandered up to his neck and teased at the bristly hair at the base of his skull.
One of his hands tore at the button and zipper on the back of her skirt and eventually managed to open it. Helpfully Stefi reached down to push the tightskirt over her hips. She then discreetly reached behind her neck and undid the necklace she wore—Zosia’s necklace. Her fingers curled around the necklace and held it in a tight little fist. She reached up to embrace her lover, but he disconcertingly stepped back to survey his treasure.
Zosia saw Stefi’s panicked look as her plan fell apart and nodded knowingly to her apprentice to reassure her. She did not pause in her crocheting as she commented quietly, “Turn around for your man, dearie. He wants to see you.”
“Yes, yes,” the man agreed amiably as Stefi stepped out of her skirt and turned around in front of him. This one was really quite good-looking. She looked vibrant and healthy and her curves were full. He was used to weak muscles and pallid flesh draped over bony hips. Of course, she was too poor to afford stockings, so all she had on was a worn slip and underwear, but perhaps if he made an investment, took her on as a mistress, he could outfit her appropriately. He reached forward and pushed her blouse off so that he could survey her just in her slip. He motioned with his finger that she should turn around again. Black stockings, high heels, and lace—yes, he should cover her in lace. And wash her hair, too.
He reached forward and grasped her hands in his. Stefi’s eyes widened with fear as his fist closed around hers. Surely he must have noticed the necklace she was holding. She looked at Zosia to leap up and save her but Zosia continued to crochet calmly.
“You know,” he propositioned, “I could make something out of you.” He was oblivious to the way she held her hand in a fist—far too many other things were on his mind. He let her hands drop, and he reached toward her breasts and began fondling them roughly. Then his hands moved to the straps of her slip and pulled each off her shoulder. His hands returned to her breasts as they began to emerge from beneath the material. Stefi realized with a surge of horror that her arms were pinned down by the straps of her slip. She either had to move the straps back up—a move that was sure to ignite his anger, or she had to pull the slip off her arms—a move that would expose her completely to his lecherous gaze.
She glanced again at Zosia, gathered her courage, and shook her shoulder so that the slip slid farther down, off her breasts. Without further hesitation, she extricated her arms from the straps, and as the slip slid onto her hips and hung there precariously, she threw her arms enthusiastically about the man’s shoulders and dove into his embrace. She could feel how hard he was, could feel her nipples pressed against the fabric of his shirt. She felt the strength of his muscles and understood intuitively how easily he could crush her in his arms. Her fingers uncurled enough to find the catch hidden in the filigree of Zosia’s pendant, and the blade leapt out. His left hand closed around her breast in a possessive hold while his other hand moved downward. With one movement, she brought her hand up and into his neck even as his hand was clumsily probing into her underwear and finding its way between her legs.
Perhaps because he was reaching down to thrust his fingers into her, perhaps because she was nervous—whatever the reason, she placed the blade badly. His head jerked back and he glared at her angrily, the hand on her breast digging convulsively into her. Blood spurted from the wound, soaking her hand and his shirt. Zosia continued to crochet, unperturbed. Stefi pulled the knife out, and even as he reached up to strangle her, she plunged it into his skull again. He gurgled at her, his eyes wide with the realization that he was no longer controlling the situation. Zosia glanced up to ascertain the effectiveness of Stefi’s second blow, nodded approvingly, then turned her attention back to the blanket before she lost count on the number of single crochets she had made. The man dropped down, twitching and jerking at Stefi’s feet. Zosia reached a natural break point in the pattern, tucked the blanket into the basket, and stood up.
“Well done,” she congratulated a stunned Stefi. “Very good for a first try.”
Stefi stared down at the man who had collapsed at her feet. She held her bloody hand out and away from herself, but the knife remained in the man’s neck.
“Always remove the knife immediately,” Zosia advised. “You don’t want them grabbing it.” She waited to see if Stefi understood, hoping that the girl was not too traumatized. Stefi shuddered as if waking up and then mechanically stooped down and removed the knife from her victim’s neck.
As Stefi stood again, still holding her hand out and away from herself, Zosia put her arm around her and whispered, “Good girl,” kissing her gently on the cheek. She looked at the spasming man and decided he was probably not going to die soon enough. What a mess!
She waited a moment until Stefi’s breathing had eased, and then said softly, “I’m afraid he’s not quite dead yet. Do you want me to finish him for you?”
“No.” Stefi’s voice came from a distance.“No, I’ll do it. Just tell me how.”
“Anyway you want to, dear. He’s already made a mess.”
“But how should I have done it?” Stefi asked plaintively.
Zosia placed her hand around Stefi’s so they were holding the knife together. “Here,” she said as she guided her apprentice down to the body, “I’ll show you.” Together the two women brought the knife to the base of his skull. Zosia corrected the angle, then, when she was sure it was right, she said, “Now,” and together they shoved the blade up and into their victim’s brain.
They stood together and Zosia waited patiently, holding Stefi’s shoulders as she recovered herself.
“Phew, what’s that smell?” Stefi asked suddenly.
“He’s defecated. His hard-on probably prevented him from urinating, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s come as well.”
“Yuck!” Stefi commented, sounding not unlike the teenager she was.
Zosia was all business. “Wipe off the knife with your slip and throw the slip into the fireplace.” She went over to her basket and removed some kerosene. Sheglanced up the chimney, and then when Stefi had placed her bloody slip in the fireplace, Zosia sprayed it with the fuel.
“What about the rug?” Stefi asked as Zosia lit the fire.
“We’ll need it. They’re used to messes here—hence all the throw rugs.”
Stefi nodded noncommittally.
As the fire burned, Zosia picked up the victim’s jacket and holster, checked to see his documents were in the jacket, and grabbing the cap as well, she shoved it all into her basket. She removed his watch and frisked the body, taking anything of value, however remote, and placed it all in her basket. “Wash yourself,” she told Stefi, pointing at the sink, “then put your clothes back on. We don’t have all day.”
“Sorry.” Stefi stepped gingerly past the dead man on the floor and carefully washed and inspected herself for blood. When she was finished, she pulled on her skirt and blouse and inspected them as well.
When Stefi was ready and the fire had died out, Zosia tucked away her necklace, gave the room a quick inspection, and then together they wrapped the throw rug around the body and hauled it to the door. The floor underneath was unmarked: the rug had been thick enough.
They put on their coats, then Zosia tied a rope around the rug and the man’s ankles and showed Stefi how she could haul the body down the steps on her own if necessary using the rug as a sledge. “We don’t usually need to do such things,” Zosia added, “but in this case, a cover-up has been ordered.”
“I understand.” Stefi nodded. Funny, it had all been explained to her in advance, but her mind had gone completely blank after she had stuck the knife in the man’s neck.
They pulled the body down the stairs and out the door into a lightly falling rain. There behind the crates and the garbage they wer
e well hidden from the street. Zosia locked the door, and then, after glancing past the stack of debris to check that the alley was empty, she returned to the body.
Together they unrolled the rug and Zosia carefully folded it into a small square. She unpacked a sack from her basket and shoved the rug into it. Then, rolling the body over, she said,“Now we’ll make sure it looks like he was attacked here. By robbers. Or perhaps by a rival.” She glanced up at Stefi and, making a quick decision, said, “Watch the street. I’ll do it.”
“No. I’ll do it,” Stefi insisted. “I can handle it.”
“Okay.” Zosia handed her apprentice a nasty-looking knife. “Make a mess of it—we don’t want them to notice those pretty little neck wounds.”
Stefi nodded. For a moment she hesitated, then she felt his hands pulling at her breast, felt his fingers groping between her legs, and with a sudden resolve she raised the knife and brought it down with a brutal strength into his back. She repeated the motion over and over, in a frenzied surge of anger.
Suddenly Zosia reached out and grasped her wrist. “That’s enough, dear,” she said quietly. “Just get the neck now.”
Stefi brushed the rain from her face, then carefully placed the knife on hervictim’s neck. She plunged the blade in and dragged downward, cutting across his shoulder, tearing the skin and obscuring the tiny punctures.
“Well done,” Zosia congratulated her. She gently removed the knife from Stefi’s shaking hands, dropped the blade into its scabbard, and buried the thing in her basket. “Let’s go. You carry the potatoes, and I’ll haul the basket of cabbages.”
Stefi nodded mechanically.
Zosia smiled at her apprentice and said sympathetically, “Relax, sweetie. You’ve done really well. Two or three more times and your technique will be perfect.”
“I feel sick,” Stefi said, her body beginning to tremble violently.
“See if you can’t hold it until we get home,” Zosia advised as she surveyed the sky. “This rain is only going to get worse.”
The Children's War Page 6
