Dark Light

by Bernard, Bonnie; Ellery, Stefan; Hansen, John; Browning, Amanda R. ; Thomas, S. J. ; Barrett, Ruth; Sharpe, Dennis; Parker, Megan J. ; Purdy, Alexia

  “Why, yes.” She smiled. Kübler studied the picture closely. Ferdinand, the man holding Lena’s hand, looked like he was stifling searing gas pain, which he’d insisted did not look unnatural. Lena gestured to the kitchen and told the Major “I was about to have some coffee. Would you like some?”

  Kübler waved his hand. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

  “Well, just let me tend to the stove.” She turned on her heel and went to the kitchen.

  “Your husband,” he called after her. “Is he here?”

  Lena turned off the gas stove looked at the clock on the wall. Almost ninety minutes before sunset. Ferdinand wouldn’t be up until then, which was good. What did Kübler want? What if he got pushy about talking to Ferdi? With the Gestapo in the living room, Lena was not anxious to go down to the cellar and rouse him. Anxious, she tapped her teeth with a fingernail, until the smell of wool and tobacco warned her that Kübler was coming down the hall. She turned around just before he came through the doorway.

  “Well.” Kübler folded his hands over his stomach. “Is he here?”

  “Yes.” Lena nodded. “But he’s asleep.”

  “Asleep?” Kübler raised his eyebrows. “What does he do?”

  “He’s a philologist.”

  “Hmmm.” Kübler pursed his lips. “Like Nietzsche?”

  Smiling, Lena leaned against the stove. “Yes. He’s doing independent research and prefers to work at night.”

  “So he’s writing a book? A good one, I hope.” Kübler chuckled, and then made the same slow scan he’d done in the living room. His nostrils twitched. “And you?” He turned toward her. “You keep odd hours as well? I hear that during the day, there is not as much coming and going as there is with other homes in the area.”

  “The farm stays very busy during the day,” Lena said. “But I try to overlap my schedule with my husband’s preferred hours.” She unfurled her cutest smile. “It’s all a girl can do.” With her sapphire eyes and lambent blonde hair, most Nazis treated Lena like racial royalty, but Kübler just stroked his chin. Lena pushed herself upright from the stove. “I beg your pardon, Major. But is there something I can help you with?”

  The SS man let out a short, apologetic sigh. “Yes. There have been some disappearances, and I am tasked with finding their source.”

  Lena frowned. “I’ve heard. Dreadful, isn’t it? But it’s only Poles, right?”

  “So far, yes,” said Kübler. “But their families have started complaining to the Gestapo because they think we are arresting them. Apparently, none of the missing had caused any trouble.” A slight laugh waddled in his throat. “Now some German families have started to worry. They’re afraid that a mutiny is in the offing.” He held out his hands. “So you can see this is a bit of a problem.”

  Lena nodded. “Well, I run the farm overall, while Ferdi works on his book. Our two overseers, Ernst and Peter, take care of the day-to-day. You could talk to them if…”

  “We have,” Kübler interrupted. “Oddly enough, they claimed they weren’t aware of any disappearances.” He gestured toward Lena. “You wouldn’t know if any of your laborers have disappeared?”

  Slowly, Lena blinked. “To be truthful, I don’t keep very good track of them. They all kind of look the same.” She unspooled a flimsy laugh.

  Kübler took a cigarette from his breast pocket. As he lit it, Lena walked to the kitchen table and stood a couple of feet away from him. She raised her eyebrow. “May I have one, Major?” Kübler obliged, and lit it for her. She took a long drag, leaning her hip against the back of a chair. “So, what are the Poles saying about this?”

  “Some of them just think we’re lying.” He shrugged. “Others think there’s a monster. If so, I guess it likes cheap meat.” Kübler snickered.

  Lena’s eyes narrowed a little, and she forced a laugh. The kitchen floor was tiled. She could rip Kübler apart and clean up the mess well before sundown. Not without ruining her dress, but she could just order another one. But with the Gestapo already worried about her and Ferdinand’s nighttime poaching, she did not want to know who would come looking for Kübler if he went missing.

  Kübler’s eyes drifted to the shuttered window above the stove. “You and Herr Memminger don’t have children?”

  “Not yet,” Lena said.

  Kübler thinned his lips. “This land is here to further our race. Without children, was it difficult for you to acquire a plot?”

  “We’re lucky, I guess. Ferdi knew some people.” Acquiring the land had been expensive, but not difficult, thanks to Ferdinand’s centuries-old investment portfolio.

  “My wife is carrying our third child.” He looked at her intently. “You are planning on having children, though?”

  “Yes,” Lena chirped. “As soon as Ferdi finishes his book.”

  “Well.” Kübler stubbed his cigarette in an ashtray on the kitchen table. “I must be going. I would love to talk to your husband about his book sometime. I studied a little philology at the University.”

  Nodding, Lena walked him to the front door. “I’ll be sure to tell him. Maybe you could stop by tomorrow night for dinner. Will you be free by eight o’clock?”

  Kübler turned in the open doorway. “Yes, that would be splendid.”

  Lena smiled. “Until then, Major.”

  “Until then, Frau Memminger.” He made another polite nod, and strode down the walkway. When Lena shut the door, she pressed her back against it and let out a long breath.

  ***

  “Wake up, Ferdinand.” Lena stood atop the cellar stairs, ringed by a corona of electric light. The stink of carrion dusted with lime prickled her nose. Ferdinand stirred from his repose on the dirt floor, near the bottom of the stairs. A sticky, brownish-red muck caked his mouth and stained his shirt. Since settling in the East, he’d seemed to have forgotten the utility of a bed. Lena said “Ferdinand, get yourself together and meet me in the living room. We have a problem.” He looked up at her, holding an arm above his eyes. A bottle of vodka was nestled in his other arm. Next to him, lay a man with grayed temples and a gaping coagulated throat wound. It was a miracle that Kübler hadn’t demanded to see the cellar.

  Twenty minutes later, a freshly scrubbed Ferdinand joined Lena on the sofa. He’d also changed into a rumpled, but clean, set of clothes. Lena lit a cigarette. “A man from the Gestapo, Major Kübler, stopped by today.”

  One of Ferdinand’s shoulders flicked, his face impassive, but Lena sensed his restraint.

  “He was asking about all the disappearances,” she said.

  Ferdinand folded his hands over his stomach. “So…” The word came out in a meandering hiss. “They are suspicious of us?” Lena nodded. Ferdinand shook his head, dismay weaving through his brow. “That’s odd.” He leaned back into the sofa. “I always figured the Poles would come after us first.”

  Lena laughed. “And just how far do you think a mob of peasants wielding torches and pitchforks could go before they were shot down by the SS?”

  “Fair point,” said Ferdinand. “But this is a real problem, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Lena tapped her cigarette over an ashtray on the coffee table. “And Major Kübler is coming over to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Uh.” Ferdinand’s mouth hung open. “Why? You let him?”

  “I invited him. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to get rid of him.”

  “We have a lime pit full of bodies in our cellar. You should want to be rid of him.”

  Lena tapped the couch next to his knee. “I have a plan.”

  “A plan that involves this Major Kübler coming back into our house?”

  Lena raised a hand. “We’ll take precautions.” Smiling, she gently patted his cheek. “And you’ll just have to pretend that you love me.”

  ***

  Kübler arrived precisely at eight p.m. the next evening, firmly grasping Ferdinand’s hand as he came through door. Lena and Ferdinand led the Major to the living room, where h
e declined an aperitif. Ferdinand drank two, but successfully navigated Kübler’s probing questions about philology and his alleged book.

  Before long, they moved to the dining room where Kübler complemented Lena’s cooking: lamb, cooked rare with rosemary and boiled, seasoned potatoes. They chatted about the war, agreeing that America’s newfound belligerence made little, if any, difference. Kübler boasted about his family. Gunther, his oldest, recently earned a sports badge in the Hitler Youth, and his youngest, Hannelore, was a precocious reader. A third was on the way, which they would name either Dolphus or Gudrun.

  Near the end of his meal, Kübler said, “Some more Poles have gone missing. A ten-year-old boy and his parents.”

  Ferdinand stared at his plate, while Lena covered her mouth. “Oh my,” she said.

  “Yes.” Kübler made a terse nod. “Last night.” He took another bite of lamb and chewed it with leisure, eyebrows slightly raised. After swallowing, he said, “We are worried that something very dangerous is in our midst.” He sipped some water. “What were you two doing last night? You were safe, I hope.”

  Ferdinand rubbed between his eye and the bridge of his nose. “I was parsing Xenophon.”

  Lena swallowed a bite of lamb. “I reviewed some recipes for tonight and washed our good table cloth.”

  Kübler wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “That must have left you free for most of today then?”

  “There’s always a lot to prepare for good company,” said Lena. She rose from her chair. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a surprise.” A moment later, she placed a dusty bottle of seventy-year-old Bavarian wine on the table.

  Kübler exhaled appreciatively as she poured the thick red liquid into three glasses. “Well,” he said, “I’ve been declining your offers of spirits all night. I wouldn’t want to appear rude.” Kübler swirled a glass under his nose and took a slow, but modest, sip. He asked Lena “Are you Bavarian?”

  Lena smiled. “I grew up in Munich.”

  Kübler’s eyes widened. “Were you there during Hitler’s Putsch?”

  “I was just a girl, but I remember a spectacular energy charged the air, like something amazing was about to happen. The SA often marched past my school in their smart, brown uniforms, singing the Horst-Wessel-Lied. My spine still tingles when I think of it.”

  Kübler leaned back and gazed at the ceiling, glass in hand. He sighed. “Phenomenal.” After another sip, he said, “You two are such fine people. Why don’t you have children?”

  “I’m sorry, Major,” said Lena. “I wasn’t wholly honest with you yesterday.” She reached over and clasped Ferdinand’s hand.

  Kübler’s eyes hardened. He put the glass on the table. “Oh dear.” He smiled. “What did you do?”

  Ferdinand ran a nervous finger across his upper lip.

  Lena took a sip of wine. “We’re not waiting for Ferdinand to finish his book.” She beamed at her ersatz husband. “We say that because we keep trying, but I haven’t been able to get pregnant. We have no idea what’s wrong.”

  Kübler nodded, pressing his lips together.

  Lena swept an arm into the air. “So this farm, what we grow, is our contribution to the Reich. We donate half our produce to the Army.”

  “I see.” Kübler rested his chin in the crook of his hand. “That is too bad, but I understand.” He looked at his watch. “This has been a lovely meal, but I must be going.” On the way to the front door, he said, “I do not wish to intrude, but I know a doctor who specializes in fertility problems. He’s in Potsdam, but he still might be able to help. I’ll stop by tomorrow with his address.” He shook their hands and strolled into the night.

  ***

  Ferdinand paced the floor of the kitchen. “If Kübler comes back as late as tomorrow morning, we’ll be lucky. You shouldn’t have invited him to dinner.”

  Lena sat at the kitchen table, her feet propped on a chair. A wine bottle filled with blood sat next to her elbow. “He won’t be back tonight, but when does, I’m not sure he’ll be so polite.”

  “Why didn’t he just insist on searching the house in the first place? I’m not complaining, but this whole…” Ferdinand raised his arms and waggled his hands. “Game of his― it’s annoying.”

  Lena settled further in her seat and took a sip of blood, trying to wash away the hollow swell in her stomach. Human food tasted good enough, but was as nourishing as candy.

  “For someone like Kübler,” she said, “It is all about wits. He wants to catch us in a lie.” When she was a nightclub singer in Berlin— before her rebirth, and long before she’d met Ferdinand— one of her suitors had been in the Gestapo. He’d lacked Kübler’s patient subtlety, but Lena saw first-hand how such men enjoyed tormenting others with unapologetic authority.

  She took another sip, closing her eyes as the thick, coppery liquid glazed the inside of her throat. “We couldn’t charm him away. So now…” She rose from the table. “You’ll be happy staying in the cellar for a few days, right?”

  Ferdinand nodded.

  Stopping at the back door, she said. “Do want a cot down there? You don’t have to sleep in the dirt, you know.”

  Ferdinand gulped from a bottle of Polish vodka he’d taken from the pantry. “My ancestors owned this land during the age of Frederick the Great.” His lip curled. “Long before the Treaty of Versailles.” He took another great gulp of vodka. “This soil gives me better rest than the finest down pillow.”

  Lena rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself.” She stepped out the back door and into a wide, furrowed field.

  Ferdinand’s histrionics were not lost on her. For centuries, this farm had been Prussian, until Britain and France corralled it into an ad hoc Polish state. It was natural that Germany retook the land when the war started. Most human politics had ceased to concern Lena, but land was something she still understood. People needed a place to call home, to stake a claim to something greater whenever possible. Lena recognized how Hitler had tapped these desires among the German people, but the Nazis’ racial hierarchy still seemed petty to her. Small varieties not withstanding, all humans were livestock. Kübler may have been a smarter breed of cow, but his confidence flirted with hubris. He needed to know his place.

  At the edge of the plot sat a low, stone-walled shed. A brick fire pit smoldered next to it. That morning, after upbraiding Ernst and Peter for their hapless response to the Gestapo’s questions, Lena had ordered them to secretly burn the remains from the basement.

  Lena scuffed her foot on the floor of the shed, clearing a small depression with the toe of her shoe. She leaned over and opened a trap door. Below, in a dark bunker, something scuttled and hissed. She checked her hair, making sure nothing was too loose or easy to grab, and dropped feet-first through the hole as if dipping into a deep swimming pool.

  The boy came at Lena as soon as she landed. Little fangs showed dull white in the soupy black air. His little blue eyes flared with an angry, predatory glow. She reached out and clutched his shirt collar. Small, hard fists pummeled her forearm, and hurt more than she cared to admit. “Shhh,” she said. His chin jabbed into the base of her thumb. He was trying to bite her. The boy was a fast learner; she had to admire that. “Shhh,” she said again. She spun him around and pulled his shoulders back against her stomach, pressing his forehead with an open palm so he couldn’t bite her other arm. In his ear, she whispered “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” He stopped fighting and looked up, bewildered. He was too young, and too Slavic, for most Germans to address him with anything but the informal ‘du.’

  The boy tried to nod. “Yes.”

  Lena stroked his hair. “What is your name?”

  Quietly, he said “Nemec.”

  Lena turned the boy around and knelt in front of him. “You were kidnapped by the Nazis. They wanted you for labor in Germany, but you’re safe now.”

  “Where are my mom and dad?” Tears snaked down his dirty cheeks.

  “I’m sorry.” Lena glanced at the floor. “They are
dead.”

  Rage blazed in the boy’s eyes. His legs wobbled.

  Lena shook him by the shoulders. “Do you want revenge?”

  “Yes.” The word rode from Nemec’s mouth atop a taut breath.

  “The Nazi who killed your parents and put you in this cellar is named Major Kübler.”

  “Where does he live?” He shouted. “Tell me!”

  Lena reached in her pocket and pulled out the napkin Kübler had used at dinner. “I don’t know, but this is his scent.”

  He took the white square of cloth from her hands and pressed it over the lower half of his face. He inhaled deeply. The way that the napkin and his scruffy, birch-brown hair framed his bright eyes almost made Lena laugh. Under the cloth, she saw him frown. In a muffled voice, he asked “How can I find him with this?”

  Lena smiled. “Haven’t you noticed how things are different?” She raised her nose toward the ceiling of the bunker. “How all the smells of the world blend together but are distinct at the same time?” The boy pulled the napkin from his face. He tilted his head, confused. Lena repeated herself in a mix of Polish and German.

  “I feel different but…” Nemec shook his head.

  Lena touched his cheek. “Sometimes, something so bad can happen to someone that their pain gives them enough strength to right the wrong. It happened to me. The Nazis killed my sister.” She wondered where her sister really was, but only for an instant.

  Nemec’s mouth twisted downward. “But you live on this farm. You’re German.”

  “I am German,” Lena said. “But I am not a Nazi.”

  Clouds of emotion swirled behind Nemec’s eyes. After a long pause he said “I can really find this man by his scent?”

  “Yes, and you are strong enough to kill him when you do.” Lena stood up and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But you only have until sunrise. When dawn approaches, you must go and lie down in an open field so the angels can heal your grief.”

  “Thank you!” Nemec wrapped his arms around Lena’s waist and pressed his ear beneath her breasts.