What was he to do? Theatrice was gone. She was supposed to help with Giselle’s care and the birth. But she had left that afternoon to fetch Blaz more cigarettes. He could go find her, tell her to hurry. But that would require him to leave his wife. He did not dare. When he called the physician he was told the good doctor was delivering another baby and would come as soon as possible. So Blaz did the only thing he knew and sat beside his wife, allowing her to grip his arm when the pain hit and stroking her when it passed.
When the heavy front door opened and closed followed by the interior glass door, Blaz kissed his wife’s drenched forehead and went to the top of the stairs. Theatrice was calmly removing her coat one button at a time as she hummed idly to herself.
“Where have you been?” Blaz shouted.
Theatrice looked up, startled. “I’m sorry?”
“Giselle has been in labor for almost an hour. She’s bleeding. What took you so long?”
She didn’t answer his question as she dropped her coat on the stairs and pushed past him into the bedroom where she promptly slammed the door.
Blaz froze for a moment, uncertain what to do next, numb from the burden of being his wife’s caregiver in a situation that found him agonizingly helpless. He rubbed his face with both hands. The odor of sweat and blood kicked his brain and he was able to move again. He hung up Theatrice’s coat, washed his hands, made tea. Then he took his cup and saucer into the parlor where he sat very still, listening to the cries of agony that descended the stairs to find him. He didn’t drink his tea, didn’t finish reading his paper, didn’t even bother with the rug. He just listened and waited for the shouts of his wife to be replaced by the cries of his son.
He could just imagine the little boy, an angelic face surrounded by dark hair. They hadn’t settled on a name yet, but Blaz decided he would let Giselle choose. She was going to give him a son. It was the least he could do. He imagined the boy as a toddler, wrapped up in a winter coat with a little hat and a red scarf, waving the flag with pride at a parade. One pudgy little hand would grip Blaz’ fingers and when the boy was tired Blaz would put him on his shoulders. He would teach him about the stars and ancient Rome. He hadn’t dared to dream so much before, but now it was finally happening. Any moment he would at long last have a son.
At some point, Blaz fell asleep. He was awoken by Theatrice tugging on his sleeve.
“Sir?” She whispered. “Blaz? You need to come with me now.”
Blaz blinked at her. Outside, night had come, its black curtain pulled over the now silent house. Theatrice had turned on only the light in the entryway and Blaz smiled, the thrill of all his dreams coming true made him leap from his chair. But the silence forced a familiar terror to suddenly start climbing inside him. There was no infant crying.
Dear God, he thought as he followed Theatrice obediently up the stairs. Not again. Not this one.
As he slowly took to the stairs he already knew what he would find. It was a situation all too familiar, the pulled up knees and silent shaking of his wife. He knew the look of reverent but detached sympathy from the doctor and the tiny wrapped corpse that would be waiting in a pile of bloody sheets. He had always handled it before; always held his wife and reassured her. But this time, he didn’t know if he could. The tears were already filling his eyes, blurring the dim light from the bedside table as he pushed open the door.
Giselle was not sobbing. She was not even awake. She lay on her back, her body tucked under a thick quilt, loose strands of hair that curled over her cheek waved at him as she breathed. There was no doctor. Maybe he had come while Blaz was asleep and seen that nothing could be done. Maybe he had never come at all.
This was not the scene he was used to. But one thing was the same. In the corner, by the bassinet wrapped with a bright blue ribbon was a pile of bloody sheets. Blaz choked on the angry cry that threatened to erupt. He bit his knuckle, willing himself to look. He moved slowly towards the bassinet, holding his breath.
Inside, wrapped tenderly, the baby lay. His pink face was so clean and so beautiful he could almost be sleeping. Suddenly, the tiny mouth trembled and the body stretched beneath the blanket. The baby was alive.
Blaz choked on his breath and then let it out in waves, vomiting relief. The noise startled the babe and Blaz let his tears flow freely. He looked up at Theatrice who was still standing in the doorway. Why was she so solemn?
“Is it,” he sniffed, “Is it a boy?”
Theatrice nodded.
“Then what’s wrong?” He asked. He couldn’t remember ever being happier.
Theatrice approached him, watching Giselle as she crossed the room, careful of her steps. When she reached him, she smiled through her own tears at the baby. Taking Blaz’ hands in her own, she gazed earnestly into his eyes with that same awful pity he had endured in more tragic times.
“It’s not your fault,” she whispered.
Before he could ask what, Theatrice released his hands and reaching into the bassinet, pulled the blanket away.
Blaz looked down and saw his son. His smile dropped. The grateful tears ceased. He took in the naked chest and ribs breathing rapidly with new air, the little legs kicking furiously against the cold and the horrifying, bat like arm that curled and bent in a shriveled brown wing.
“Merciful God,” he breathed.
The baby was straining, a cry trembled about to emerge from its heart shaped mouth. Blaz pinched the corner of the blanket and tossed it over the boy, not daring to touch him.
“Blaz,” Theatrice started.
“Get rid of it,” he ordered. Theatrice gaped.
“But, but he’s your son!”
“He’s a monster.”
“Blaz, you’re not thinking.”
“Not thinking? Not thinking?!” He shrieked. “What am I supposed to think?!”
“Don’t yell at me. I only meant-”
“What would you have me think about, Theatrice? Should I think about the children who are Jews? What about the Gypsies, should I think about them? How about the insane, all those poor, innocent souls who are sucking the blood from every country in Europe? Tell me, Theatrice, what should I be thinking about?”
“They’ve got nothing to do with him.”
“Oh no? I’m an exterminator! My entire life is about tearing the unclean from the world! And he’s . . . just look at him!”
“Maybe there’s something that can be done about it.”
“What? What can possibly be done about it?”
“There are all sorts of new advancements in medicine. Maybe it can be fixed.”
“Well why didn’t I think of that?” Blaz mocked. “Yes, let’s do that, shall we? Let’s have the son of a senior SS officer paraded through the halls of every university and medical hospital looking for a cure.”
“You’re upset, I can see that,” Theatrice tried to sound comforting.
“I’m not upset. Don’t you dare tell me that I’m upset. I’m upset when my driver doesn’t sweep the seat of my car. I’m upset when a waiter forgets to bring me water. This? What I’m feeling right now? There are no words for it!”
“Exactly. You can’t even articulate your feelings yet. Why don’t you get some rest? Wait for Giselle to wake up. You can discuss it with her. But don’t do anything rash. Maybe it is the best thing to put him out of his misery. Keep in mind, though, crippled or not, he’s still Aryan.”
“Maybe not. What if someone made a mistake? Maybe I’m not Aryan. How else can you explain the deformity lying in that bassinet?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not because of you. You are pureblooded through and through. I’m certain of that much.”
“I was supposed to have a son, Theatrice,” he whispered, his anger melting into sorrow. “Where is my son?”
He sat as a drunken man. His back was against the wall, his feet thrown out in front of him. Theatrice had put the baby in his nursery crib as she tended to Giselle. Blaz had stayed with his wife a
t first. But the blood, so much blood, kept flooding out of her. He tried to pay attention to what Theatrice was doing. She crouched before Giselle, a threaded needle in her hand. Blaz couldn’t take the sight of it anymore so he set out to go to his study. When he stepped into the hallway the nursery door was open and he followed his feet into the darkness of it. He slumped against the wall, unable to face the baby again. Blaz’ eyes were affixed to the cradle, but his mind was a grasshopper, leaping from one thought to another. Some thoughts were memories, some ideas. He grabbed his head with both hands, trying to steady his brain. Mercifully, it ceased leaping and settled on a teenaged English boy and a faded coin.
Two sides, he heard the words again in his mind. Blaz closed his eyes and gave in fully to the memory, remembering Grey, the smell of the street, the weight of the metal in his hand. Soon, he drifted and was dreaming. He and Grey were standing in the alley, the coin flipping between his thumb and finger.
This life is about sides, Blaz. Two sides to everything. And everything changes depending on which side you’re looking at. Hold the coin right side up. You see? Why did you do that? How did you know which side was the right side up? You only know because someone else told you it was the right side. You didn’t choose it. They chose it for you.
Slowly, the buildings began to disappear and were replaced by high barbed wire fences. The smell of paper and oil was gone and the light changed from the wide blue of afternoon to the whispered pink and gold of dawn. Grey was still there, but he was no longer a boy. He had grown, his face drawn and eyes weary. The man he had met on the shore. Blaz was older, too.
They were alone in the vast and snowy yard of the camp. Blaz opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by something. A sound? No, it was a black wind that curled around Blaz and shook the collar of his coat. Blaz turned his face to it and caught the silhouette of a wagon against the impending sunrise. It seemed strange to him that it was not a truck, but an old wagon drawn by horses, their furry winter coats buffeting in the breeze. Crowded into the bed of the wagon were more than twenty inmates, some sitting on top of each other. Bodies shriveled, eyes swollen, they all stared at Blaz. In the very back, one man trapped his attention. He was young, maybe twenty. He had fierce blue eyes and his winged right arm was cupped in a dingy sling and Blaz knew him instantly. He stared earnestly back at Blaz, blank and serious. The horses pulled the wagon behind a flat, innocuous concrete building. Blaz recognized it for what it was; the gas chamber. The wagon stopped and the wheels creaked as the men climbed off the back. Blaz listened as the horses whinnied nervously. They did not like where they were and wanted to keep moving. Blaz watched the men march to the building. He saw the backs of their heads, some with caps, some bald as they descended the hard steps to the basement where the chamber was waiting. The man with the shriveled arm disappeared in the midst of them. Blaz turned to explain to Grey, but there was no one there, not even the horses. So he waited in the silent yard, not bothering to look around for something to do or anyone else to talk to. He knew there was no one else there anymore. The humming began; the deep and reverent hum of the conduits flushing out the poisoned air. So soon, he thought. He fussed with his coat buttons, brushed the white snow from his shoulder and prepared to watch the bodies being carted off to the furnace. He didn’t know why, exactly. There was no one to pull the carts. But it was his habit, a job he had performed for a long time. The watching, monitoring, confirming. He found himself waiting again. Waiting and waiting, for every moment that passed he found it more challenging to keep his carefully measured composure. He had to see his son one more time before it was too late, wanted one last look at the body. It was his right. And then, instead of the familiar cart piled with cadavers, a man emerged from the entrance of the chamber. He was solid, strong, blond and beautiful. Blaz wondered if he was an officer, but he wore no uniform. Instead, he wore a dark suit, smartly fitted and striking in such a stark place. He saw Blaz and made his way to him. He was blue eyed and so like his father, but with the angelic face of his mother.
His arms were both perfect.
When he stood before Blaz he stopped. They faced each other, not speaking. Blaz took in every similarity with awe. His son stood with inherent restraint, expressionless. After several moments the man looked away as if unable to continue and for the first time seemed moved to tears. But he did not cry. Instead he breathed a steady sigh, looked back and smiled. It was not a happy smile. It was the pained smile of a boy trying to forgive his father. Blaz knew it well. It was the same smile he had often given his own father, the same smile that had never been returned. It was all Blaz could do not to grab him and feel the strength of a whole son in his arms. But before he could try, his son’s expression turned horror struck, his eyes wide as he stared past Blaz into the rising sun. Blaz turned and saw the wind evolve into a mighty column of black smoke bearing down on him like a tornado. He turned to take his son and run. But the man was gone. In the moment Blaz spent looking for him, he was overtaken by the blackness.
Blaz jerked awake and the camp was gone. All that was left was the dark and chaffing sleeve of his wool jacket as he wept, curled up on the floor of the nursery. He breathed deeply as he stood up and exhaled, rejecting the sadness that welled within him. As he walked out, a tiny cry reached out to him from the elegant cradle. He ignored it, closing the door resolutely behind him.
CHAPTER 14
October 1944
Cora
Cora had stayed in her room as her mother gave birth. She avoided the center of the room where the broken tea set lay menacing, its jagged pieces threatening her as the cries from her mother echoed in the hallway. She had tried everything to occupy herself; reading, drawing, even an attempt to do the puzzle of the black sun, but nothing could engross her enough to drown out the horror that was about to descend on their home. The little prince would destroy what little connection she had with her father. It was happening already, had been happening for a long time. A rung of a ladder, weak and eroded, ready to snap at the slightest pressure it connected her to nothing and she was slipping. Even her mother’s love was sure to eventually fade away. Her father already commanded all of Giselle’s love when he was home and his precious only son would be no different. And Cora could do nothing but lie on her bed and cry into her bear. Her stupid bear. To think she had ever believed in his valiance, his loyalty. But he couldn’t help her now. He was just a useless, stupid waste of space. Cora realized she was squeezing the bear, not his soft belly, but his bow tied throat. The louder her mother’s screams became, the harder she squeezed. As a little girl he had been her confidant, her ally. Now, he was just something warm to hold onto when all other arms were absent.
She released her hands. It wasn’t the bear’s fault. There were so many people in the house who didn’t care about her and she was grown up enough to know he didn’t either. But at least he didn’t not care about her. The feeling that he was somehow, secretly alive brought new tears and Cora tenderly, penitently began to pat and kiss the soft face and neck of her beloved friend.
The crying and moaning down the hall finally stopped. Was it over? Was he here? Cora waited, her bear still in hand. Her unwiped tears that had gathered beneath her chin were starting to itch but she ignored them, knowing that any moment there would be all manner of excitement and she would have fresh tears to wipe away. But the expected shouts of joy and running about never came. What was happening?
She took her bear into the hall, holding him before her like a bodyguard. A light was on in her parents’ bedroom. As she entered she saw the bassinet first, abandoned. No one stood around it. On the floor was a pile of red sheets. No, not red . . . bloody. She forced herself to look at the bed.
Theatrice was kneeling over the carpet at the foot of it. She was scrubbing furiously, her back to Cora as she attacked the floor. On her mother’s night stand was a white bowl with veins of pink and red dripping down its side. And there lay Giselle. Cora moved silently toward her, a new fear
poisoning her heart.
“Mama?” She choked. When there was no reply Cora stopped and looked at Theatrice. The strange woman had stopped scrubbing and was watching Cora. For once, Cora didn’t hate her. She just wanted to know what was happening to her mother. Where was her father? Where was the baby?
Cora didn’t know she was crying until Theatrice crawled across the floor and lifted herself onto her knees as she pulled Cora to her.
“Oh, you poor darling,” she crooned.
“Is she going to be alright?” Cora asked fearfully.
“She’s still with us but she needs her rest. This tragedy will be a heavy burden to bear when she wakes up.”
Tragedy.
Cora nodded, the reality sinking in.
“So I don’t have a brother?” She asked.
“It’s too soon to tell.”
Cora’s brow furrowed as she tried to understand. Did she have a brother or didn’t she? Was he like her mother and alive but sleeping? Cora wanted to ask more but was guided back to her room by Theatrice.
As she lay on her bed, she tried to understand what had happened. With every passing minute she grew more and more angry, but for once it wasn’t directed towards the baby. What if he died? What if it was her fault because she had willed it? What was going to happen to her mother? What would happen if her mother died? Would Theatrice try to be her mother?
Cora imagined them married and Cora would be like Cinderella. Her father would ignore her even more and she would be left alone with the vile stepmother and that hideous fake smile.
Cora heard voices in the hall. Her father was in his study talking to Theatrice. Cora knelt on her pillow and tried to listen.
Beneath the Universe Page 14
