by Jenna Blum
She expels a sigh of relief: so this is what it's to be. It could be worse. Mechanically she takes him into her mouth. She is dull with lack of sleep. Her vision grays out. She stands in front of the silverware drawer, unable to remember why she has opened it. When she speaks to Trudie, she often forgets what she is saying mid-sentence. And she is delirious with hunger. Last year's birthday picnic: how could she have wasted the jam, the bread, even the beer? That ham, a fat pink haunch. What she wouldn't do for even a shred of it! She wouldn't chew and swallow, heedlessly. She would wedge it into her cheek like tobacco, sucking the meat until the last of its salty flavor had gone.
The Obersturmführer's hands fall to his sides. As usual, he has propped himself up against the pillows to watch, his eyes agleam in the false dusk. His face is empty; he might be waiting in a queue at the bank. His chin, a hanging bladder of fat, folds into dewlaps and wattles. He is not wanting for nourishment, not he. Where is he getting the food, all the food, now that even the black market is defunct? And why doesn't he bring her any? Anna has a constant low-level headache. Her eye sockets throb with hunger. She is cold no matter how warm the weather. At night she runs her hands over her body, taking stock of the new concavities and protrusions. Her stomach is a depression ringed by ribs and hips and pelvic bone. The squares of sponge she once inserted before the Obersturmführer's visits are no longer necessary; her flow dried up months ago. What if it never returns? Anna eyes the roll of white flesh above the Obersturmführer's pubic hair with hatred.
The Obersturmführer is still at half-mast, sticky and malleable. Even the smell of him makes Anna's stomach growl: the bacon-smoke sweat, the damp globes loamy as mushrooms. She frees her hands to pull at him like a milkmaid, forcing him deeper into her throat. She has learned not to gag. When she does, he corrects her with a sharp rap of knuckles to the skull. She envisions pork chops. Lamb chops. Veal. One morning this week, Anna discovered the front lock forced, the bakery window shattered. The burglars found nothing, of course; there is nothing to be found. When the noncom from the camp brings her supplies, an increasingly rare event nowadays, they are of the poorest quality: scant salt, no yeast, government-issue flour wriggling with maggots. What do they think, these women Anna must turn away, their hands empty but for their useless ration booklets? Can they not see that Anna too is starving, that any bread she makes now goes to the child? Which one of them broke in?
The Obersturmführer groans. His eyes are closed now, his breath harsh. Good. Good. Perhaps it is almost done, then. Anna shakes her arm to relieve the cramp in her elbow and re-applies herself to her chore. She hears Trudie singing in the dooryard: Backe backe Kuchen, der Bäcker hat gerufen ... Butter und Salz, Zucker und Schmalz... She chants this all the time. The only way Anna can keep from slapping the child is to remind herself that poor Trudie doesn't even know what sugar and lard are, let alone cake. Milch und Mehl, und Eier machen den Kuchen gel'. Yes, milk and eggs, Anna thinks. Sauerbraten. Liverwurst. Bratwurst. Rabbit. Trudie's pet, a longhaired angora that the Obersturmführer brought her last month from the camp's breeding hutch, was the only thing taken during the burglary. And Anna is grateful; a few more days and she might not have been able to resist eating it herself.
The Obersturmführer finally begins to thrust. Anna's jaws ache from the effort of not clamping down. Mettwurst. Bockwurst. Don't bite, don't bite! Her cheeks are wet with tears, her chin with spittle. She swipes it with a wrist before continuing.
A little faster, the Obersturmführer is saying, Ach, you've got me right there, right there right there—
He digs his nails into Anna's scalp and hisses.
Weisswurst, thinks Anna. Or better yet, Blutwurst. Ah, yes, Blutwurst: blood sausage.
41
OCTOBER 1944. A CRISP FALL, THE NIGHTS SEARINGLY cold. From the east and from the west, the Russians and the Americans are closing in, squeezing the Vaterland between them like the pincers of a gigantic crab, and Anna is watching the Obersturmführer. She is always watching the Obersturmführer, whenever he is in close proximity, and when he is not, she thinks of him incessantly. She is as helpless to stop analyzing his every word, nuance, flick of the wrist, as a schoolgirl with her first crush. It is part survival tactic, of course; the more Anna knows about him and how he perceives her, the safer she will be. Yet she would like to take a circular saw to the top of her skull, scoop out her brains, and hurl them against the wall.
She has been his mistress for two and a half years now, longer than her friendship with Mathilde, more than twice the time she was allotted with Max, and in some ways Anna knows the Obersturmführer better than she has ever known anyone. She knows his vanity: how fanatic he is about his boots, his uniform; how he curries his dark hair with Mathilde's brushes while practicing his smile in the mirror over the bedroom bureau. She knows that his appearance is crucial to him because his immaculate facade has carried him further than any true leadership ability. She knows that he doesn't see himself as monstrous, that were he to be called before the Throne of Judgment to account for his infinite misdeeds, he would be honestly perplexed. To the Obersturmführer, his murderous work is merely a job, taxing at times but affording power and advancement. Not that he considers the issue much. When faced with self-reflection he shrugs his shoulders, giving it up as being too difficult a task altogether.
Yet in other aspects the Obersturmführer is an enigma to Anna, a study in contradictions. For instance, his zealous adherence to the twisted principles of Partei purity: a sham. He is married, as all top-echelon SS must be, and yet he keeps her, Anna, and seems to care for her. Or does he? This is what Anna puzzles over as she watches him, trying to slot the disparate pieces of him into place. Is she cherished or a convenience? Would the Obersturmführer put a foot on her neck and shoot her in the head if she gave enough cause for offense? Will he do this anyway, when the end comes? Anna tries to envision herself from the Obersturmführer's height, from behind the cage of bone and pale windows through which he surveys the world. Perhaps, confronted with the matter of his own survival, the imperative of not leaving any evidence for the advancing armies, the Obersturmführer could quench his fondness for Anna as easily as turning off a faucet.
Tonight, All Hallows' Eve, Anna is watching the Obersturmführer from across the table in the bakery kitchen, at which she and he and Trudie are having dinner. These are, perhaps, more humble surroundings than the ones in which the Obersturmführer is used to dining, but Anna has tried to make it as nice as possible by spreading a sheet over the floury wooden boards in lieu of a lace cloth, using blackout candles as a centerpiece. She has done all of this to show her appreciation of the food the Obersturmführer has provided in response to her pleas that she and the child are virtually starving. And Anna is genuinely grateful for the venison, more gristle than meat but substantial enough to bring tears to her eyes; for the potatoes, the beetroot she has boiled and sliced into a dish, the lentils and—a marvel—the handful of desiccated peas.
Her appetite finally satisfied, Anna tries to shake off the stupor of unaccustomed satiation to resume observing the Obersturmführer. Despite being twice her size, he has eaten somewhat less than she; he has actually left a few small potatoes on his plate. His uniform jacket hanging on a peg near the door, he sits with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, tipping his chair back on two legs and conversing with the child. He and Trudie are spinning a tale between them, some fable that seems to involve a family of rabbits living in a nearby Trog. The Obersturmführer nods quite seriously as Trudie chatters on, interrupting her only to insert the occasional question, and Anna imagines what the three of them would look like to somebody peering in from outside: a happy little family—indeed, happier than most in these times, given the unusual presence of the patriarch—enjoying the end of a meal.
...But you have left the father rabbit out entirely, the Obersturmführer is saying. And that will never do. What is his name?
Guess, says Trudie.
Ach, I am not
smart enough. You'll have to tell me.
No, guess, you have to guess, the child insists.
Peder.
No.
Dieter, says the Obersturmführer.
Trudie whips her head from side to side, braids flying.
The Obersturmführer throws out his hands.
I give up, he says. What is it?
Horst! Trudie shouts.
She giggles wildly as the Obersturmführer's chair thumps to the floor.
Horst? he says, feigning great astonishment.
Yes, yells Trudie; yes, yes, your name, what Mama calls you!
She squeals and squirms as the Obersturmführer plucks her from her chair and slings her over his shoulder in much the same way he carried the side of venison in earlier.
That's very clever, he tells her, very clever indeed. And do you know what becomes of clever little girls who steal other people's names?
No, what?
They must go straight to bed, says the Obersturmführer.
Noooooooooo, Trudie cries. Please, let me stay up just a few minutes longer, I'll be good, please—
The Obersturmführer dumps her unceremoniously on her feet.
That's enough. It's late. You'll go to sleep so fast you won't know what happened.
He swats Trudie's rump and turns.
Anna, he says.
Anna rises and takes Trudie by the hand. Can I have a story? the girl begs.
You have already had one, Anna tells her. Come along now.
The Obersturmführer stretches mightily, canvassing the table, and releases a belch.
You may leave the dishes, he says to Anna, sotto voce, as she passes. I will be upstairs.
Anna lingers as long as she can putting Trudie to bed, washing the child's face and unbraiding and brushing her hair, checking beneath her nails for dirt and even behind her ears, but eventually Trudie is settled yawning on her basement cot and there is nothing more to be done. Anna brushes her lips over Trudie's forehead before pulling the string that turns off the light.
That's right, little rabbit, she says. Go to sleep.
Then, her stomach heavy with food and dread, Anna walks slowly up the two flights to Mathilde's room. The Obersturmführer is standing by the window, although there is nothing to see as he has drawn the blackout shade. He has also lit the flame under the kerosene lamp on the nightstand.
He says nothing but turns his head to stare at Anna, which she takes as her cue to undress. When she is naked she lies down, teeth chattering. She has not kindled the fire in the WC stove, and the heat from the kitchen has done nothing to warm this room. Her breath is visible in the frosty air.
She waits, but the Obersturmführer remains silent, merely watching her over one shoulder, so Anna reaches for the threadbare blanket near the footboard.
Don't, the Obersturmführer says.
He turns to face her, and Anna sees that his fly is unbuttoned. She glimpses a tuft of dark hair through the slit of his briefs, the sadly hanging flesh. He has been handling himself, to no avail.
As if unaware of the potential embarrassment of this, the Obersturmführer walks casually to the bed. He stands by Anna's side, looking down at her.
Did you get enough to eat? he asks.
Anna nods.
Are you sure? No more complaints? Anna shakes her head.
Good, says the Obersturmführer. Very good. For I should hate to think I was failing you in some way, Anna.
He starts to remove his belt and pauses. He takes his pistol from its holster and holds it thoughtfully in his hand.
Then he begins to trace Anna's ribs with it. The muzzle bumps down the bones one by one as though he is playing a xylophone.
You are quite thin, he comments. I suppose that is why you also complain of the cold; you have too little fat ... Are you cold, Anna?
Anna keeps her eyes fixed on his. His expression is polite, concerned. He is at his most dangerous when he is like this. She shakes her head again.
The Obersturmführer smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
You must not lie to me, he says. I can tell you are.
He trails the Luger up Anna's arms, across her breastbone, around her nipples, beneath the curve of her breasts, over her belly. The metal leaves gooseflesh in its wake.
You see? says the Obersturmführer, bending to blow on the tiny bumps. You are cold. But I will forgive you the lie. I know you said it only to please me. Didn't you?
The pistol pauses at the top of Anna's thighs, nuzzling, moving back and forth, a cat's tail switching.
You are so unlike any other woman I have ever known in this respect, adds the Obersturmführer. Always. Wanting. Only. To please. Me.
His tone is dreamy, distracted. He is for once not looking at Anna's face. Instead he gazes at the Luger, which with each word he is wedging further between her legs. Anna feels nothing. She has come untethered from herself now, so separate that she is unable to summon any of her usual comforting fantasies. She floats above the bed like a bride in a painting she once saw, long since classified as the degenerate work of a Jew: Chagall, the artist's name was.
And I know what pleases you, the Obersturmführer continues, still sounding as though he is speaking to himself. This. This. There. You like that, do you? No, don't answer. I can tell you do. I'm going to keep using it until you come. And don't fake it, either. You know I can tell when you do.
A few minutes pass in complete silence but for the Obersturmführer's increasingly labored breathing and the quicker rhythm of Anna's own.
There, he says, working at her with his free hand. There. There—
At the moment of climax he pulls the trigger. Bang! he says.
Anna gives a small shriek and lies shuddering, staring at the ceiling.
The Obersturmführer slips the pistol from her and tosses it across the room. He climbs onto the bed to kneel above Anna.
Bang, he repeats, this time cocking a thumb and forefinger in imitation of the gun. He bends over Anna and studies her. Then he throws his head back and roars with laughter.
Your face, he gasps, when he is capable of speech. The look on your face!
He wipes tears from his eyes. Did you really think it was loaded? You really did, didn't you? My poor silly girl.
And somehow this or Anna's expression or the business with the pistol or a combination of the factors must have excited him, for the Obersturmführer is now at the ready. He becomes abruptly solemn and scrabbles to yank his trousers down.
I would never—, he says, pushing into Anna,—never use—a loaded gun—with you—of all people—the way—you go off—like a pistol—yourself—three, four times—in a row—like a rocket. It makes—a man—feel—like a god. If only Eisele knew—that smug—prick—with—all his bragging—about enforced—impotence—if he only knew—about you—Anna—he'd know—something—much! more! important!—
The Obersturmführer shouts and pulls Anna's hair. He falls forward, panting. When he has regained his breath, he clambers off her and reaches for his trousers.
You are my cure, he mutters, you have cured me...Ach, what's this?
Something has fallen with a clatter from his pocket. The Obersturmführer comes back to the bed and presses it into Anna's stomach, and she hisses in a breath: whatever it is, it is made of metal, and cold.
I have been meaning to give this to you for months now, says the Obersturmführer. Stupid of me to have forgotten.
He retrieves his Luger from the corner and walks to the door.
I suppose I am growing forgetful in my old age, eh, Anna? he adds, and laughs as he leaves, high good humor restored.
When she hears him clanking plates about in the kitchen, his appetite postcoitally stimulated, Anna sits up gingerly, wincing and sore. She examines the sheet beneath her, streaked with oil from the Obersturmführer's pistol. She will boil and scrub, wring and scour, but she suspects nothing will get it out, not lye nor salt nor bleach. No household manual, no exchange of feminin
e wisdom, has prepared her to vanquish this kind of stain.
From the thin torn cotton, Anna picks up the object the Obersturmführer has left on her belly and turns it over in her hands. It is a small gold case with the symbol of the Reich on its cover, the sort of container that might hold cigarettes. But when Anna opens it, she finds instead a photograph, a portrait of herself and Trudie and the Obersturmführer. Taken, Anna recalls now, during her surprise twenty-third birthday expedition, in the Park an der Ilm. After they had eaten and returned to the Mercedes.
Still naked, shivering convulsively, Anna huddles over the photograph. She brings it close to her eyes, squinting in the weak light of the kerosene lamp. In the portrait the Obersturmführer is standing behind her as she sits with the child in her lap, his hand on Anna's shoulder. Is this pose casual? Possessive? Proud? The brim of his cap hides his face so that she cannot read it.
What does it mean, this gift? Does the Obersturmführer truly care for her after all? Or is it merely a bauble, the sort of thing he might give to any girl he had taken as a mistress? His cure; he has said Anna is his cure. He has said he will never harm her. Or has he? Anna tries to remember his monologue of a few minutes earlier. No; he has said he would never use a loaded gun on her. A different matter entirely. He has made no promises, and Anna is no better off; she is no closer to understanding him than she was when he arrived for dinner nor even a few months before.
Pulling a blanket around her shoulders, Anna hobbles painfully to the bureau, on which she sets the case—propped open in the event that the Obersturmführer should return to the room. She stares at his image. Does she exist for him at all outside of bed? away from the bakery? The stiff little uniformed fig ure tells her nothing. Perhaps, Anna thinks, if one were able to open the Obersturmführer the same way one can this hinged frame in which his likeness is contained, undoing a latch to swing his face aside, one would find only a dark space. Nothing behind it. Nothing at all.
