by Jenna Blum
I suppose so, sir, the driver says.
The Obersturmführer raises his cuff to eye level, squinting at it.
Jew or not, she's ruined her last shirt, he says. It should be enough that I have to cope with this endless paperwork—every-thing in duplicate, triplicate—I have to be bothered with these petty domestic details too? Where am I to find time to find another laundress?
I don't know, sir, the driver says.
The Obersturmführer rolls up his sleeve with short, jerky movements, hiding the scorchmark.
Maybe she was a Pole, he muses.
The driver says nothing. Except for the rattle of the Obersturmführers papers, the car is silent. Anna pictures the Obersturmführers office, reconstructing it from details she has gleaned. He is a man of Spartan tastes: the room contains his desk, a chair, a bank of file cabinets, and a portrait of the Führer. There is also the window from which he surveys the inmates. On bright days, he can see beyond them to the patchwork fields and hills in which Weimar nestles. The hapless laundress would stand in front of his desk, her head covered with a neat white cloth.
But here Anna's imagination falters. Does the laundress sink to her knees, her hands grasping at the Obersturmführer's boots; does she babble pleas for clemency? Or does she stand hollow-eyed, silently accepting her punishment? Does the Obersturmführer take her around the side of the building himself, or does he summon an underling? Perhaps the laundress never saw the inside of his office; perhaps she was pulled from a cot in the basement of the Obersturmführer's lodgings, her eyes grainy with sleep, stumbling as she was led outside.
Suddenly conscious of the eely speed of the car, Anna gropes at the inside of her door for the window crank.
What is it now? the Obersturmführer asks, frowning over at her.
I'd like some air, says Anna. Please.
The Obersturmführer sighs.
Karl, he snaps, and the glass glides down a few inches.
Anna tilts her face into the rush of wind, which loosens her hair from its careful roll. The breeze is cold but sweet, its smell of damp earth heralding the advent of spring. This reminds Anna of something, but what? After a moment it comes to her: she remembers wresting her hand from her mother's to run ahead, skipping through the puddles on the flagstone walk, delighting in the flutter of the ribbons on her braids. She can hear her mother calling, Anchen, slow down! Little girls never run in the churchyard.
Anna has not regularly attended church since her mother's death, over a decade ago. The Partei, as Gerhard often reminded her, frowns on such activities, such blind obedience to the antiquated dictates of Catholicism. And so it has come to pass that now, Anna has no opportunity to tie her own daughter's hair in ribbons: at the Obersturmführer's request, Anna has placed the child in the care of Frau Buchholtz, the butcher's widow, and on this Good Friday, Anna is accompanying the Obersturmführer to Berchtesgaden for the weekend.
Her nausea slides away, replaced by an emptiness at the pit of her stomach. Initially, Anna mistakes it for hunger; then she recognizes it as an uneasy anticipation. She has not been to the Alps since she herself was a child. It is Easter 1943, and she has not left Weimar in five years.
31
THE CESSATION OF MOVEMENT JOLTS ANNA AWAKE. FOR hours, it seems, she has been dreaming of being in a lift, rising and falling in an iron cage. Now she climbs from the car with the discombobulated sense of having traveled back four months as well as south, because Berchtesgaden presents the impression of permanent Christmas. The frigid Alpine air, more reminiscent of December than April, seeps through Anna's coat and tweed suit. Candles glow in the windows of the houses. Anna imagines breaking a piece from one of the stepladdered Bavarian roofs and biting it to find the taste of gingerbread. She yawns, coughs in the thin air, then yawns again, shivering.
Anna, the Obersturmführer says. Is it your intention that I stand in the cold all night?
His glacial tone signifies extreme displeasure, his sour humor exacerbated by the flat tire they suffered in the foothills. As the driver unloads the bags from the trunk, the Obersturmführer propels Anna toward the entrance of the hotel, his hand iron against her spine.
The reception room is more opulent than one would guess from the Gasthof's storybook exterior. The walls are draped with hunting tapestries in red and gold and forest green; Anna's feet whisper over oriental rugs. Two men wearing the gray tunics of the SS lounge in carved wooden chairs before a snapping fire. They examine the new arrivals before turning back to their schnapps. The woman with them, a stunning brunette Anna's age, doesn't bother to look up at all.
The Obersturmführer stalks to the front desk and summons the innkeeper, a middle-aged Brunhilde with coiled braids and a chest on which one could balance a plate of Schnitzel. Anna feels drunk with color and sudden warmth. Yawning convulsively, she watches a little drama unfold by the door: yet another officer, young and with flat Ukrainian features, has just stumbled in, clinging to a girl whose tongue is in his ear. When he notices the other guests, he pushes her away, saying, Shh. Shh. But flecks of spittle fly from his lips with each Shh, and he begins to laugh.
The girl can't be more than sixteen; the sharp planes of her face are blurred with drink, and she wears no coat. The ruffled neckline of her tea-party dress, far too flimsy for the altitude and season, slips from her shoulder. She claps a hand to the young officer's behind.
Stop that, you shameless slut, he slurs; behave yourself or you'll get a spanking.
Bitte, she says, and cups his crotch, looking around with drunken craft. Then she spots Anna.
Well? she says. What are you staring at?
Pulling a long face of prudish dismay, she sways toward Anna. I didn't know we were in a convent, she says. Something smell bad to you, Sister? or do you just have a spindle up your ass?
Really, Gitta, you are incorrigible, the young officer says, and sniggers.
The Obersturmführer crosses the room in three strides and seizes the girl by the nape of the neck, forcing her into a chair. She sputters, struggling to rise, but he shoves her back down. Then he takes the younger officer's elbow and murmurs something too low for Anna to hear. The group by the fire watches intently.
Whatever the Obersturmführer says, it has the desired effect: a blush suffuses the young officer's face, starting at his neck and climbing upward like wine filling a glass. When the Obersturmführer releases him, he sketches a salute, staggering a little. Then he drags the complaining girl out into the night.
One of the officers by the fire sets his schnapps on the table and applauds. You have preserved the spotless reputation of the Schutzstaffeln single-handedly, he calls. Well done.
Shut up, Dieter, the other says amicably. He smiles at the Obersturmführer. Pay my friend no mind; he has so few opportunities to be gallant himself, you know.
For a moment, the Obersturmführer looks uncertain, as though trying to decide whether these comments are genuine or sardonic. Then his colorless gaze sweeps past his brethren and alights on the innkeeper.
What kind of establishment are you running here? he barks. Have you no discernment in your clientele?
No, sir, she says, wheezing. Yes, sir. We cater exclusively to officers—
And to their whores as well, apparently, the Obersturmführer snaps. I have been a visitor here since 1933, and I have never seen such behavior. It is a disgrace to the Reich.
Yes, Herr Obersturmführer, sir, the innkeeper says. Bitte—
I am mortified, says the Obersturmführer, that my wife should have witnessed such a scene.
He turns his back on the innkeeper.
Heil Hitler, he says to the other officers, and then, Come, Anna.
Dutifully, her head lowered like a good wife, Anna walks behind the Obersturmführer to the staircase. Only when she has gauged from his pace that he will not turn and catch her does she make a wide-eyed face of amazement at his broad gray back.
32
IF THE RECEPTION AREA OF THE GASTHOF M
IMICS A BARONIAL CASTLE, its sleeping quarters are undeniably gemütlich. When the innkeeper unlocks their brightly painted door, there is another behind it, reminding Anna of an Advent calendar. Since she is in the Obersturmführer's world now, Anna half expects this second door to reveal a scene of dismemberment rather than the chocolate she found as a child. Instead, it opens into a little room that could belong to a maiden aunt: the furniture is sturdy pine, the bed heaped with a white eiderdown, the only wall decoration a sampler featuring a boy in lederhosen and a girl in a dirndl, holding hands.
Anna moves to the window and pushes aside the lace curtains. Downstairs, the SS strut in pomp and circumstance, but here they clearly prefer the plainer comforts of childhood. Max would have borrowed a term from Herr Doktor Freud to describe it, Anna thinks, staring toward the mountains she knows are there but cannot see; what is the word? Schizophrenic. Or perhaps Mathilde's explanation is more apt: At heart, Anna, men are all babies, wanting nothing more than to suckle at the tit.
A pity about that flat tire, the Obersturmführer says from behind her; we would have arrived in daylight otherwise. The view is stupendous.
I can imagine, Anna says, without turning.
Have you everything you need? he asks. I would order dinner brought to us, but at this hour—
No, it's perfectly all right, Anna says. Having not eaten since morning, she has arrived at the stage beyond hunger, in which the stomach feels like a rock.
We'll have a fine breakfast, the Obersturmführer assures her. They provide quite a repast, if memory serves.
His footsteps creak on the floorboards and Anna braces herself for his touch, but then she hears the snick of a latch and understands that he has gone instead to the WC. She releases her breath and fetches her bag, which has been deposited with the Obersturmführer's by the bureau. Anna digs through her daytime clothes to the lingerie beneath. What is the Obersturmführer's current inclination? Which would he prefer, the diaphanous red negligee, the garters? Although the tags are missing from every item he brings her, their cut indicates that they are French. She has long stopped trying to picture whom they belonged to before. The embroidered children smile at her from the wall.
The door to the WC opens and Anna turns, straps dangling from her hands. Which—, she begins, and then words fail her: the Obersturmführer has emerged in yellow paisley pajamas.
Anna's face works madly. She bites her lip, but it is no use. Laughter explodes from her, and the more she tries to choke it back, the more helpless she becomes. She laughs and laughs, and the muscles of her diaphragm, unaccustomed to such exercise, ache as though she has just been sick. It is a delicious feeling.
Eventually she regains control and lowers her hands. The Obersturmführer is climbing into bed with great dignity, wearing a wounded expression.
I'm sorry, Anna says. Really, I apologize. I don't know what came over me.
Perhaps the altitude, the Obersturmführer suggests.
That must be it, says Anna. She coughs into a fist to conceal a final giggle.
Please, could you—The Obersturmführer jerks his chin toward the lamp.
Oh, of course, Anna says. But do you want me to—?
She holds up the lingerie.
No, it's—No.
Bemused, Anna shuts off the light. She strips to her brassiere and slip, modest garments designed for comfort rather than seduction; then she settles into the bed, pulling the eiderdown to her chin. The Obersturmführer lies stiffly on his portion of the mattress, his limbs not touching hers. Between them, there is a zone of cool air.
He shifts toward her and again Anna tenses, but he merely places a kiss on her cheek.
Good night, he says.
Good night.
Anna's vision has adjusted; she can discern the window's outline, a faint gray rectangle on the wall. If the Obersturmführer is watching her, he will see her smiling, so she turns on her side to hide it. She fights to stay awake, for it is heavenly to be lying in this wide bed, revered as a wife, unmolested. She must not waste it. It must be too good to be true.
It is: an indeterminate time later, Anna is yanked to consciousness by the Obersturmführer thrusting against her from behind, pushing her insistently across the mattress. Anna has to grab the edge of the bed to keep from tumbling to the floor. At some point he must have removed the pajamas, for his hair grates against her skin. He entangles one hand in Anna's braids and pulls; with the other, he tugs up her slip.
Anna remains in a fetal position. She feels like a snail who, believing the outside world to be safe, pokes its soft head from its shell only to be prodded once again; she curls inward both mentally and physically. As the Obersturmführer wedges a knee between hers, she thinks how very unpleasant it is to be awakened this way, worse almost than the Obersturmführer's regular visits by dint of its being unexpected. She thinks, Let him get on with it and then we can go back to sleep. She twists onto her back and makes noises to encourage him, scissoring her legs around his waist. The Obersturmführer's breath steepens. He cups Anna's buttocks and lifts her against him, and then her cries become involuntary.
It is nearly dawn. A tinny churchbell begins to clang just outside the window, tolling the hour. The Obersturmführer thrusts in perfect, solemn rhythm. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. He hisses like a goose in Anna's ear, as he always does near climax, but this time he says, Anna!...Then she feels the telltale trickle, as though she is being tickled internally. The Obersturmführer collapses, trembling.
Anna turns her head toward the window and receives her first visual confirmation that they are in the Alps: gray and white peaks rear sawtoothed into the sky. She waits for the Obersturmführer to roll off her, but he stays as he is, lying on her like a dead thing, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His sweat slicks them, or is it Anna's? Anna is unable to take a full breath; she can't tell whether the heartbeat that thuds against her ribs is the Obersturmführer's or her own.
33
BY MIDMORNING, THE WEATHER HAS TAKEN A TURN FOR the worse. From the dining room, Anna watches a fog roll across the mountains, first snagging on the peaks and then cloaking all Berchtesgaden in a dense shroud. The Obersturmführer is disappointed; he has envisioned a rigorous hike in the foothills, lunching like Tristan and Isolde beneath the trees. But the conditions permit neither picnicking nor perambulation, so after their breakfast, they return to their room.
Anna sits astride the Obersturmführer on the bed, straddling his buttocks; he lies on his stomach, his dark head turned sideways on the pillow. He wears only his briefs. His wounded shoulder, he tells Anna, reacts poorly to the cold and damp; it often troubles him in the camp, but it is a misery to him here. I am a human barometer, he says ruefully, his voice muffled. Anna doesn't have the breath to answer. Massaging the muscles around the wound, as he has instructed her to do, is a vigorous business.
The Obersturmführer gazes sadly toward the window. The fog, a swirling gray mass, is so heavy that one cannot see the church opposite.
The Gods conspire against us, Anna, he sighs. And I so wished to show you the trails. The excursion up the Höhe Göll is especially magnificent.
Hummm, Anna murmurs. She is drugged, gravid with food. As the Obersturmführer promised, breakfast here is a veritable feast: eggs! cheese! yogurt with muesli, and, a small miracle, jam! Her overladen stomach groans. Even the Obersturmführer's back reminds her of unbaked bread. His wound is a saucer-sized crater near the right shoulderblade, the scar tissue stiff and shiny, but the flesh around it is elastic as dough. Anna plucks it between thumb and forefinger, watching fascinated as it slowly sinks, reddened, back into place. The Obersturmführer is getting fat.
And the Berghof, the Obersturmführer adds. The Berghof and the Kehlsteinhaus, the Führer's private retreat—a marvel, truly!
As Anna probes an obstinate tendon, he grunts and closes his eyes.
I was there only once, in 1938, when Koch and I were summoned, he continues. We SS stayed in the Hotel zum T�
�rken, of course; only the biggest wheels slept at the Kehlsteinhaus. But I never forgot the view—one could see into Austria!—nor the grounds. Just think, Anna. Among those inhospitable peaks, Bormann has created Utopia as a gift for the Führer: a greenhouse, a mushroom farm, beehives, and birdhouses. Salt licks for the Führer's deer.
It sounds quite opulent, Anna says, unable to prevent a note of sarcasm.
Oh, yes, you can't imagine ... The Obersturmführer chuckles. Just reaching the place is an engineering exhibition. First the drive up the mountain, a nightmare of a road, hairpin turns every hundred meters or so. And when the road stops, one drives straight into the heart of the Höhe Göll and then is whisked to the top by a lift. I have never been fond of heights, but Koch's face—it was absolutely green, I can tell you.
He laughs again.
One can drive into the mountain? Anna asks, intrigued despite herself.
Bormann ordered a tunnel blasted through the rock with dynamite. Ingenious...
The Obersturmführer grows pensive. The laborers were all criminals, of course, he says; rapists and murderers. But I must admit, I felt some sympathy for them, clinging to the mountainside like goats. The explosives and exposure did away with quite a few. And to look down from that height is to see oneself falling into the abyss, to envision one's own death ... However, they were well-treated. There was even a cinema where they could watch films once the day's work was done.
Suddenly the Obersturmführer stiffens, drawing air through gritted teeth.
Achhh, he says, not so hard!
Anna forces her hands to unclench.
I think it's revolting, she hears herself say.
After a pause, the Obersturmführer replies thoughtfully, Yes, I suppose you're right. Such decadence when even gasoline was declared a national resource—yes, it shows poor judgment.
Anna resumes her work, pummeling harder than necessary, her hair swinging on either side of her face.
