by Steven Uhly
It seemed to Margarita that her body was a stranger doing things to her she had not expected, in her eyes the light in the kitchen had dimmed, and yet she perceived objects with greater clarity, It’s like dying, Margarita thought, extending her arm past her head in the direction of the window, as if she could stretch herself further and make something happen. Looking about her she saw the misshapen wooden stool she had been sitting on, the crude but pretty table made from heavy oak, which told the story that its wood had not been worked with particular care, for on its stout, angular legs Margarita spotted many areas that had been patched rather cursorily with sawdust paste, fading over time to leave dirty, dark stains.
In her sing-song voice Frau Kramer talked and talked about one thing and another, about births she had been present at, all of which looked and felt a good deal worse than they actually were. My child, she said, perspiring and with a red face, taking hold of Margarita’s pelvis on both sides to lift it briefly, you’ve never given birth to a child before, your body doesn’t know what’s happening. It’s like a stubborn donkey that won’t understand it has to do something new. But it will do it, it will do it, she added, now feeling Margarita’s belly.
“Your little boy’s not turning, my child. He’s not going to be a moon-gazer, is he?”
“I’m going to have a boy?” Margarita asked naïvely.
“Oh, I don’t know, my child, I meant nothing by it,” Frau Kramer said, somewhat lost in thought as she felt Margarita’s belly again, recalling how difficult her own first birth had been, when she brought her boy into the world, the boy that the world had long forgotten, she had no idea where his body lay, nor if he had been buried at all. Now she was bringing another child into the world, a child that her dead son would have been obliged to detain, and who knows what else her dead son would have done with it. Her eyes slowly welled up, Margarita noticed, and all of a sudden she had tears in her eyes that rolled down the sides of her face, to the left and right, without her knowing exactly why.
“But who’s crying now, child?” Frau Kramer exclaimed, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.
Another especially intense contraction made Margarita scream. The baby had not made its final turn, but it wanted for all it was worth to leave its narrow world, its tiny nose pressed perilously close to its mother’s pubic bone, but its head was not that big, and now it was Frau Kramer’s turn to scream, too, for she could already see its black hair and she bellowed above Margarita’s uncontrolled screaming, so that the mother would push and not stop, and she told her that the child was on its way, that she could see its black hair, but Margarita had sent the stool crashing into a corner with her right arm and was now screaming blue murder, as the black hair slowly, far too slowly, made its way right through the middle of her, while beneath the black hair the oxygen was gradually running out, and while Frau Kramer, pulling herself together, began to employ all the tricks she had used so often with other women. But she had never helped a moon-gazer into the world, and the moon-gazer had now come to a standstill, halfway, because its mother believed she had no more strength left, But you do have strength, Frau Kramer yelled, shaking Margarita by the shoulders to make her open her eyes, Open your eyes, you silly fool! Open your eyes and give birth to your baby!
Outside, Herr Kramer was standing again by the low wooden door to the parlor, past which he had walked countless times already that night, and he heard the two women fighting each other in the kitchen, heard that the baby had black hair, heard screams that sounded like death cries, knew that the sun would rise at his back, it would happen any moment now.
The wind had died, snow was no longer falling and the white landscape glowed coolly from within, in an unreal light that now, as dawn broke, slowly changed, heralding a resplendent winter’s day. In the east, louder than before the storm, echoed the dull rumbling of front-line combat.
When both women had stopped screaming and instead a new voice could be heard, a tiny voice that sounded displeased at having been brought into the world, Herr Kramer saw something moving in the east, on the track that led to his farm. He could not make out the object, but it was advancing quickly and getting bigger and it was an S.S. lorry, followed by a utility vehicle. Behind Herr Kramer the first tip of light burst into the landscape, bathing everything with a new visibility, and by the time Herr Kramer overcame his paralysis and ran to the wooden door, he was certain that it really would be a resplendent day.
Herr Kramer pushed open the heavy door. He was able to think clearly again.
“The S.S. are coming! Margarita’s got to get back into the cellar with the baby!” But he found the two women moving in a trance from which he was excluded. Margarita was still lying on the floor, the umbilical cord between her legs like a large tapeworm with its head bitten off. His wife was holding a small, bloody piece of human being whose thin voice was barely audible, she was getting ready to bathe it with warm water in a wooden tub held together by three rusty iron rings. They had brought the tub with them from their old home, and Herr Kramer wondered if his children had ever been bathed in it, his son and daughter, Close the door, his wife said, and he obeyed automatically, it would take the S.S. at least five minutes to get here, he estimated, knowing full well that he would have no influence on what happened after that.
He also knew why the S.S. had chosen to come to his house. Turning round, he went to the narrow, steep staircase which climbed the right-hand wall, paused on the bottom step and said calmly, “I’m going to pack my things.” Then he went up, the stairs creaked.
11
It was not raining when death once more visited the small sloping alley that led away from the long street and up to the church. It was cold and bodies froze on this early morning in late autumn somewhere in the Wartheland, which once had been called Poland. It was remembered that Wartheland had been Poland. Remembered thirty-seven times. In Polish and in German. Or perhaps not. Perhaps nothing was remembered, except life in general and in particular. Thirty-seven times in particular. That would be about right. That might have happened, before death visited that cold, late-autumn morning in the Wartheland, thirty-seven times. Bodies stood, tightly packed, it was too cold for embarrassment at feeling one’s skin rub against someone else’s. And bodies shivered, oh, how they shivered, the spectators could not say whether this was due to cold or fear. But that was unimportant. Causes were not important. Only results counted. And results were wanted. The war, this peculiar thing, was a courageous, intense search for results, unalterable, irrevocable. History was being made, it was always progressing for someone. Each Jew that perished was progress, for the Jew was irrevocably dead. A dead Jew was proof that the Führer wanted progress and was deploying everything to attain it. And, deep down, was not every Pole a Jew? Was not their tertium comparationis their subhumanity, which they shared like stray mutts share a filthy nook in the street into which they slink to evade the clutches of the dog-catcher?
Bodies froze, froze treacherously, froze treacherously and maliciously thirty-seven times. The spectators had a good view, they wore warm leather coats and large, round helmets, some had neat peaked caps sporting an ancient Indian symbol, which could tell of the rising sun, of the day and of life.
But death had to visit, and it was irrelevant whether the sun would soon rise (it would soon rise) or whether it would soon set (it would soon set). The war would soon be over, soon Poland would exist again, shifted somewhat to the left on the map, but still Poland. And soon, very soon, Germany would be reunified, and soon, very soon the sun would no longer rise and no longer set. All this was irrelevant, for now, before these imminent events, these definitive events, before these seventy-seven audience members, death would visit, death for all eternity, thirty-seven times. The audience stopped being mere spectators standing there. They had already removed their black pistols from their black leather holsters by their warm hips, had taken off the safety catches and now were standing there, arms by their sides, as if about to fire the st
arting shot for a race into the next world. Then they became mere spectators again, standing there, their warm breath exhaling small clouds of vapor into the cold air, which higher up in the atmosphere, maybe even by the first story, mingled with the thirty-seven small clouds of vapor that for now was still rising from freezing mouths, on the other side of the alley, right next to a low wooden door, from whose chinks and cracks the tang of fresh bread now escaped.
There were many thoughts too. Above slim legs, a smooth mons pubis, young breasts, and behind pretty eyes which could not cease to be pretty even now, this was thought: Lord, O my judge! Unto you I deliver myself!
Behind a furrowed brow, beneath a shorn head, above sunken cheeks, counted ribs, hirsute genitals, this was thought: Social forces work in precisely the same way as the forces of nature—blindly, violently, destructively, so long as we do not recognize or expect them. Social forces work in precisely the same way as the forces of nature—blindly, violently, destructively, so long as we do not recognize or expect them. Social forces work in precisely the same way as the forces of nature—blindly, violently, destructively, so long as we do not recognize or expect them. Social forces work in precisely the same way, and this was thought: You, to Helios consecrated, You, with bright day’s blessing freighted, Greetings to this hour when Luna’s high worship rules again!
And this was thought: Heaven is so damned close, I could touch it. My heart leaps forth. One. Two. Three. Four. I cannot. I don’t wish to. I’m suffocating here. It must be light outside. I want to go outside, I will go outside. I’m not a rat. And thought followed thought followed thought, in Polish and in German and even secretly in Yiddish (It’s hard to be a Jew)—how could that have happened? So there were still Jews amongst the Poles, Jews that had not been ferreted out because they were hiding very publicly, but that no longer made any difference. Nothing was thought, too, nothing at all. Eyes were wrenched open distressingly wide, the spectators would have been terrified without their trusty pistols, and if the Poles hadn’t been so naked, so preposterously, hideously naked. Bodies stank, bodies pissed, pissed at least twenty times, vomited four times, shit three times, fell unconscious five times. The unconscious were pulled back up to their feet at the behest of the onlookers, they had stopped shivering. Stopped? Where were the unconscious at the moment they stopped shivering? Maybe (the thought briefly occurs) in a better place. But consciousness had to be regained so that the shivering could start all over again, a merciless shivering, with eyes wrenched open distressingly wide, thin, crossed arms, bent bodies, hanging breasts, frozen genitals—the spectators were very keen to put an end to this wretched show.
And one spectator, a young, blond hulk in a smart black uniform with an Indian symbol, who had never witnessed such wretchedness, thought, The fundamental point is that we must not educate this race. The fundamental point is that we must not educate this race. The fundamental point is that we must not educate this race. The fundamental point is, and another, even younger man, stood there with desire in his eyes, the heavy pistol in his hand like an oracle, thinking, De dood te geven en de dood te nemen, de dood te geven en de dood te nemen, de dood te geven en de dood te nemen, and many spectators were thinking nothing, nothing at all, just gawking as people do at a market when the market women lock horns because they wish to buy a cow they cannot afford. One spectator thought of Anna’s buttocks, how their outline showed when she was on her knees cleaning the floor, and thought, What a horrible mess, when all this is over, already feeling disgust at the filthy bodies and stench of iron, and decided, Enough is enough, and at that moment the sun rose, casting light on the Indian symbol that told of the rising sun, of the day and of life.
Then death visited the alley, thirty-seven times. And when the spectators-turned-directors had stopped being directors, letting their puppets dance to the rhythm of their own melodies, and the smoke was drifting up into the cold air from their black pistols, and the shots had faded away or were still chasing through distant streets, like crazed animals in flight, past narrow houses with listening windows; when the spectators became spectators once more and had staged the last act of the play and all the principal actors were dead—it must have been a tragedy—they replaced their pistols in their black holsters and yelled over to a few Poles, who were hitched up to carts like oxen, to take away the principal actors, away from the town, and many a Pole would themselves fall into the pit they had dug for others.
12
How did Obersturmbannführer Ranzner come to overstep the line? In retrospect, even he could not say. Early that morning he had stood on the terrace of the town hall, his black boots up to the calves in fresh snow, and looked across the square. He had positioned himself there, his right hand clasping the meerschaum pipe that he only took out on special occasions, his left hand set on his hip, so that Anna would see him from the office if she came in. He had allowed his gaze to roam over the old, snow-laden houses like an army commander, all the while regarding himself through Anna’s eyes. What he saw filled him with awe and, though he could barely acknowledge it, with love.
But then he had taken a proper look, observing the pristine layer of snow covering the square and the roofs, which softened all hard edges into smooth curves, and felt as if he were in a fairy tale, as if witches and other mythical creatures must inhabit the squat, medieval houses, rather than just Poles and German settlers, and perhaps the odd Jew who had slipped through the net. The houses appeared enchanted, as if everything must end happily ever after. And the fact that in less than an hour the square would change beyond all recognition, because it would be filled with lorries, utility vehicles, tank destroyers, motorcycles and howitzers, was part of this happy ending. Then it would be his, Obersturmbannführer Ranzner’s, duty to avoid feeling any sadness at his and his people’s having to leave this little town, because the Russians were coming, because the Reichsführer S.S. had given the order: Every man to Posen! For Posen was to become a fortress, to be defended until the last drop of blood was shed. So, would the final battle they were all waiting for be the happy ending, irrespective of how it finished?
And the feminine emotions, especially sentimentality, with which he gazed at the familiar houses, with which he yearned for a different ending—must he cast them off for good, here and now, let them freeze in the snow so they could never again impede the execution of his sacred duties? Yes, that is how it must be.
If Anna came in now, he would make her wait so she could see him like this and understand that he could no longer make allowances for her, so she would realize that more was at stake than his compassion for a little Jewish girl who had earned a reprieve so long as she was useful. In his mind’s eye he saw himself standing before her, a judge deciding between life and death, who harbored no personal feelings because he knew that personal feelings diluted everything, turning all that was clear into a murky broth in which nobody could find their bearings anymore. As he, Ranzner, was utterly convinced of this, the Jewish girl would also understand that he did not mean it personally, but was merely being pragmatic. His demeanor would say to her, As much as I should like to keep you alive, I must think of the German people. His eyes would say to her, What would I have achieved, had I combed every nook and cranny for Jews without keeping my own house in order? Out of gratitude for her loyal service he would grant her a swift death, a bullet, and she would be released from her existence. With this his work would be complete and he could leave this town without a hint of sentimentality.
At that moment Ranzner heard the door to his office open. He did not stir, he followed his plan, now he was actually observing himself through Anna’s eyes, which must be looking at him from the office. It was a quite peculiar feeling of gratification. It made him nervous.
As usual, Anna had prepared herself for this meeting with Ranzner, she was both wholly present and wholly absent, and now she stood in the middle of his office, watching the Obersturmbannführer’s twitching right knee through the glass of the terrace door. How
strange that Ranzner’s body had become ever more familiar to her over time, as if there were a complicity between them of which Ranzner himself knew nothing. Now Ranzner’s jiggling knee, his rigid back, his tense neck muscles told her that he was more fraught than usual, and that he had called for her at this time because something extraordinary was about to happen. That she must be careful.
When his pipe went out Ranzner turned from the square and went back into his office. Without any word of greeting he looked at Anna standing before him. She was so slim, and as ever so beautiful to behold; he took note of this with the necessary detachment. She stood with her head bowed and eyes lowered, which obliged him to move closer, as he needed her to look him in the eye. With his index finger he lifted her chin, and when her head rose, when she opened her eyes and looked at him directly, both of them paused. It was very brief, scarcely noticeable, and Ranzner immediately broke the deadlock. He struck the attitude he wanted to strike, he spoke to her without being guilty of a single word, he moved a touch closer and his gaze fell on her quivering mouth; he thought of the pistol, for now everything had been said, now he had to take the pistol and put an end to it all, without melancholy . . . but at that moment he kissed the full lips of the woman, at that moment his hands grabbed the woman’s shoulders and pulled her to him, close, until the two bodies were touching, at that moment his plan was on the tip of his tongue, like a lapsed word, and in the next moment this feeling, too, was washed away.
Anna offered no struggle when Ranzner pulled her toward him. She did not shut her mouth tight when he kissed her with his hard, thin lips. She was taken by surprise, and discovered that the whore inside her had been waiting for ages to assume her role. It was if she had been rehearsing long for this performance and here was the premiere. She saw the little girl from the Brandenburg meadow spring up and look over with her mouth open wide. She saw the woman with the secret name come closer, very close.
