But when Blaz approached her she had given him the same annoyed look she gave the other boys. He had hovered until, exasperated, she slammed the book shut and demanded he tell her what he wanted or leave her alone.
“I just saved you. Don’t I even get a thank you?” He asked.
“Saved me? I would hardly call that little interlude heroic. Fine. Thank you for getting rid of those boys. Now you may go.”
“Well, you see that’s a bit of a problem for me. If I go now, I’ll never hear the end of it from my father.”
“Well, whatever your father told you about meeting girls is wrong. Besides, I’ve recently been told that my own father has already found me someone. Apparently, I’m little more than chattel to him.”
“Would it make you feel any better if I told you I was chattel, too?”
“What do you mean?” Giselle asked curiously.
“I think my father talked to your father. And while I do believe we ought to honor our parents, I’m not terribly keen on being tied to a girl I don’t like.”
Blaz watched the Giselle’s confusion turn to surprise quickly followed by disgust.
“You’re the boy?” She asked incredulously.
“I’m afraid so. Well, clearly, we can’t stand each other. So, I’ll be off then.”
“Hang on. What do you mean tied to a girl you don’t like?”
Grey had imparted wisdom about the softer sex after all. Blaz had seen him play this little game so effectively, he practically bought it himself.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “You’re nice enough to look at. But you obviously don’t like boys. The way you ignored those Hitler Youth lads made that pretty clear.”
“Of course I like boys. I just don’t like those boys. And, yes, if you must know, I’m not seeking any special attention right now. My father should have told your father that. I’m going to university. Girls should, you know.”
Blaz wasn’t sure if she was hoping he’d argue so she could tell him more. But he thought it was a good thing for her to want an education.
“Alright. I’ll leave you alone, then. But I can’t leave without my book.”
“It’s the library’s book,” Giselle corrected.
“The library’s physically, yes. But mine in spirit.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Of course,” Blaz grinned. “Every good German ought to.”
“Then we have a problem.” Now it was Giselle who was grinning. “Because it’s my book in spirit, too.”
“How are we to decide who gets to read it, then?” Blaz asked.
“Considering that you saved me I suppose I should let you take it.”
“How about this?” He took a hopeful breath. “We share it? That’s an awfully big chair. Suppose we read it together?”
Giselle didn’t answer, but when she moved over and made room for him, he knew she was definitely the girl for him. They read as late as the library would allow. Giselle would turn the pages while Blaz stole glances at her. It was late by the time he went home and Grey had all but disappeared from his mind.
CHAPTER 6
January 1944
Blaz
He had been getting ready for bed and was already half undressed when Dieter knocked on his door with the mail. Everyone knew by now that a letter addressed to Blaz from home was considered urgent. Dieter cared little for Blaz or his family, but he never turned down the chance for an undeserved pat on the back. Not that he would ever get it.
Blaz had taken the letter, barely acknowledging Dieter before closing the door on him. Giselle had said at Christmas that she thought she might be pregnant but the doctor had been away for the holiday and after the miscarriages in the past, they had decided to wait a while before being certain. Blaz would have been happy to know right away, but it broke Giselle’s heart every time something went wrong. If Blaz were honest with himself, it broke his heart, too. But he still found himself clinging to hope every time they thought it was possible and while control was of the utmost importance to him, the very idea of a having a son made him impatient, almost giddy.
He began reading immediately, but the enthusiasm drained quickly as he did so. The blood in his legs vanished as he lowered himself onto the bed, the letter shaking in his trembling fingers. His chest heaved as he tried to gulp the suddenly stiff and heavy air. He didn’t know he was gasping until he automatically reached to loosen his collar and realized that he had already unbuttoned his shirt. Staring at the letter he saw paper and ink, but no words. Not again. Not again.
My Darling,
Doktor Vogel has confirmed that I was indeed expecting. But this morning I woke very early to find myself bleeding. When he came he said that I had been nearly four months and that it was a boy. I cried all day and poor Cora could not understand why. She keeps trying to soothe me, and I fear I have abandoned her in my grief. I have dried my tears and will pray for grace in this dark hour. I’m so sorry my love, with all my heart.
Giselle
All he could think, plainly and without any grace to dilute it was, ‘I’m in hell.’ It threatened to explode him. He could feel the pressure building, forcing cracks in his hands where he gripped the letter and then up his arms to his shoulders as it climbed trying to reach his brain. He couldn’t stay sitting on the edge of his bed in this little room, in this little house on the edge of the world. He leapt up and went out into the night without coat, boots or feeling to warm him.
He didn’t even feel that it was winter. The whiteness of the yard, the steam coming from his clenched teeth and rolling off the exposed skin from his unbuttoned shirt; it was all a haze as he stalked the empty grounds. He wanted to bellow, to shriek, curse every name, word and sound he could imagine. On the edge of absolute and infinite anger, feeling combustion threatening he almost collapsed in the snow. But just as he faltered he heard it, the smallest whisper of sound; a creak from the latrine. He turned and there he spied the unluckiest inmate, stumbling down the ramp in his haste to return to the semi warmth of the barracks.
Blaz blinked, a blinded man brought into sunlight after being in darkness. In that instant he felt nothing, thought nothing. No thought of God nor man moved through him as Blaz bore down on the prisoner, a bolt of lightning in the silent night. The creature didn’t make a sound as Blaz grabbed his shirt with both hands and forced him to the ground, bracing one knee against his stomach and the other against the frozen snow. His hands went to the prisoner’s throat and Blaz squeezed with all his might, trying to force his thumbs straight through the man’s neck. At first, there was no struggle, only the practiced submission of the abused pet to its master. But instinct came through and made the man suddenly begin to fight, clawing at Blaz with his long, broken nails and kicking against the ice. This is what Blaz wanted, not to be given but to steal as he had been stolen from. He pushed harder, lowered his full weight on the prisoner as the man fought frantically, tearing at Blaz’ flesh in a vain effort to escape. Blaz’ glazed stare became a hateful sneer as he locked eyes with his victim. For every one, he promised his maker, I’ll take a thousand. Within moments, the spark of life was gone from the prisoner’s swollen eyes. Blaz released his throat, but sat straddling the dirty body. His fingers were cramped from the strain as he flexed them, bringing the blood back. Tiny beads of sweat between his shoulder blades began to freeze, sending a fierce shiver over his burning spine. He felt cold after all. He stood at last, the sky an open box of all the phantom tears he had cried over his lost sons. Looking up into the canopy of night he was certain there were more stars than ever. Hotter, whiter, more massive stars than there was room enough in heaven to hold. He swallowed once and then with great effort returned to his room where he collapsed onto his bed. Where the prisoner had clawed at him, blood seeped in tiny rivulets. Released sweat met with his blood as it melted into the wool blanket.
He realized he should seek medical attention, but he didn’t know how to explain the scratches in his skin. Not that any
one would question him, but he had a reputation for being steady. Dieter would certainly like to know how he lost control. It would have to be kept quiet.
Blaz rose from the bed, his exposed wet flesh clinging to the blanket fibers as he rose, tearing the wounds more.
He snuck into the hall and opened Claus’ door. Claus was not in his bed, but stood as if on guard at the window. Blaz motioned to his room silently and allowed Claus a view of his mangled flesh. Clause nodded; their familiarity a gift that meant no explanation was necessary. Blaz returned to his room to wait.
A few minutes later Claus knocked lightly on Blaz’ door and entered, followed by a beautiful female guard.
“Sir, I have a woman here who has medical training. She will help you and I promise she won’t tell a soul. I’ll stand guard outside and leave her to it.”
Blaz was grateful to Claus, not only for bringing the woman but for not wanting to talk about what happened. Claus slipped out the door and closed it soundlessly. Blaz looked at the woman. She was already beside him on the bed studying the scratches on his chest. She had a small kit in her lap that she rummaged through before producing gauze and ointment. She held up a needle and thread, ultimately decided not to use them and put them back in the kit. Dabbing gently at his chest she wiped the dried blood as tenderly as possible. The ointment she applied with her fingers before covering each mark with gauze. With that done she helped him ease out of his shirt and rolled him on to his stomach, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the small of his back.
“You have some fibers in these cuts. I’ll remove them as painlessly as I can, alright?” She had a soft, sultry voice. Blaz nodded into the mattress, his eyes closed.
She removed the curly fibers with tweezers, one at a time. When she was finished she began swabbing the cuts. Blaz was drifting into sleep.
“What’s your name?” He mumbled.
“Theatrice,” she said. It was the last thing he heard as his mind faded into darkness.
When he awoke, it was still dark. He didn’t dare look at the time, probably wouldn’t have been able to move if he wanted. His nurse was still with him, slumped in a chair beside the bed. He didn’t want to disturb her, but he needed to be sure she wouldn’t share what she had seen.
“Excuse me,” he whispered. When she didn’t stir he whispered louder, exhaustion still clutching his throat as he tried to create volume.
“Excuse me,” he finally said, loudly enough he was afraid he might be heard by Emil sleeping next door.
Her eyes flashed wide, her lashes fluttering in surprise.
“Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Do you need anything?”
Blaz wondered if her voice was naturally husky or if it only seemed that way because she had been asleep.
“It’s alright,” he assured her. “Tell me your name again.”
“Theatrice, sir. It’s odd, I know. But it makes it hard for people to forget.”
Blaz smiled. He was amazed how at ease he felt with her. It was as if he had known her for a very long time and had already learned how to trust her. He didn’t even feel the need to emphasize the delicacy of the situation anymore and he was sorry he had woken her.
“You’re a very good nurse,” he told her.
“I’m not really a nurse. I trained a little at the beginning of the war but I joined the SS before I had finished.
“Why?”
Her eyebrows went up, confused by the question, as if it had never occurred to her.
“Why not finish training? You seem to have a knack for it,” he explained.
“The truth? I fell in love with a guard. Well, maybe not in love with him so much as with the idea of him. He’s an officer and I thought if I followed him he would keep me safe.”
“An officer here?” Blaz asked.
“Yes, sir. Please don’t ask me who.”
“It’s alright. I think we both understand the value of secrets.” Blaz smiled again and this time she returned it. She had a nice smile, nothing like Giselle’s but unique. Her upper lip thinned out revealing polished teeth.
“Well, whatever your training, you did a good job. I’m not in much pain now. Just very stiff.”
“Would you like to sit up? Here, let me help you.” Theatrice gathered the cushions from his couch and pulled him forward as she placed them behind him. Having been woken in the middle of the night her hair was undone, falling over his face as she propped him up. He breathed in and when she let him slip back his eyes were closed, almost pained.
“Are you alright?” She asked.
“Yes. It’s just that your perfume is very much like my wife’s.”
“It must be terrible, being so far from home.”
“It is."
"What’s she like, your wife?”
Blaz didn’t know what to say. His family life, particularly how he felt about his wife was extremely private. He barely shared anything with Claus. Here was a woman who seemed perfectly at ease asking personal questions and while a part of him was a little affronted, there was a part that wanted to share with her. Something about her not only got his attention but wanted to have hers as well. But how was he to talk to a woman that was not his wife? He tried to think of the most honest thing he could.
“Giselle is . . . she’s very special.”
Theatrice smiled, pleased by his answer. But her pleasure was replaced by something else Blaz couldn’t quite place. Longing?
“I wish someone would say that about me,” she finally said.
Blaz was about to tell her that she was special, too. But he didn’t know her and offering her the same compliment as his wife didn’t feel appropriate. Besides, she had a man, didn’t she? Wasn’t he supposed to be the one telling Theatrice nice things?
“Your man doesn’t tell you how wonderful you are? Shame on him.”
Theatrice smiled appreciatively.
“I should let you rest, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No,” he replied, adding with sincerity, “Thank you.”
She lifted the gauze on his chest, inspecting his wounds. Her fingers replaced the bandages gently and he was too tired to prevent her when she let her fingers linger on the healthy skin of his stomach.
“Good night, sir,” she whispered. He was already closing his eyes when she slipped away.
CHAPTER 7
February 1944
Cora
Cora grasped the bronze frame, tilting the mirror a little more towards the light. Her face was getting longer, the chubbiness now gone from her cheeks and neck. Of course, she was thinner because of the rationing, but her family ate better than most and she gazed with girlish pride at her reflection. Sometimes her mother allowed her to brush herself with the powders and blushes on the vanity and once she even helped Cora apply a small amount of lipstick. Cora had loved the way the color slid up from the tube, loved the way her mother bit her lip, concentrating as she smoothed it over her daughter’s tiny mouth and smiled as if completing a masterpiece.
Seeing herself in the mirror now she wondered if she might be allowed a small amount of rouge but thought better of it, knowing it would be obvious why she was asking. Cora chewed her bottom lip and pinched her cheeks, hoping it would give her enough color to look pretty when her father arrived. He had been gone longer than expected but it was alright. Cora always hoped for more time in which she could work on herself. Another postponement of a week or day or even hour was a gift to practice just a little more piano or penmanship so that she might have something to impress him with should he ever ask her. She had used his most recent delay to rewrite her report. She had already handed it in at school and received high marks for it, but she had brought it home and rewritten it anyway to show him how hard she was willing to work. The report was set neatly on her desk, arranged perfectly in the corner with a book on top to keep it from creasing or falling to the floor. She had broken her pencil twice just trying to make the words as clear and bold as she co
uld without tearing the paper. The assignment had been to write about family traditions and she had entitled it “How I Serve the Reich.” She smiled to herself, imagining the look on her father’s face when he read it. She went to her window and looked down at the road, wondering if she had missed the arrival. Maybe the car had already dropped him off and maybe he was already downstairs kissing her mother and taking off his coat. She listened. Nothing yet.
She checked her reflection once more, smoothing her bangs and readjusting the collar of her blouse. Any time now, she told herself. She carefully lifted the book from her essay and picked it up with ginger fingers, cradling it into the hall as she would a wounded bird. Where was he most likely to see it, she wondered. She didn’t dare leave it on his pillow. He may try to sleep on it without noticing. If she put it on the bench in the entry he might sit on it to take off his boots or toss his coat on it. She could put it on the dining table, but her mother might move it with supper being so soon. On his desk he wouldn’t see it until at least after she’d gone to bed. Maybe that was good, though. Then he could have all night to think about how much he liked it and in the morning she could pretend to have forgotten all about it. She would be brilliant and humble. He would be even more proud then. She went down the hall to his study. This was the first house in which he’d ever had a study. Cora remembered moving in and how he had said to Giselle how he wished his father could see him now. The study was next door to Cora’s room, had the same dark wood floor and wallpaper. The window in the study was smaller, though. There was less light but Cora liked it. Her father’s study was a mystery to her, full of closed books and locked drawers.
She placed the essay carefully in the center of his desk, the pages perfectly aligned. An eager smile spread over her face and she went downstairs to watch for him at the parlor window. The view from there wasn’t as good as from her room, but she could at least see down the street enough to know if he was nearly home.
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