The Hollow Bones

by Leah Kaminsky

  My mother would tell me stories when I was a cub of when our ancestors, white as snow, lived high up in the mountains. Long ago, a gentle shepherd girl from the valley below would take her flock to graze up there. Sometimes a young white panda would join her, perhaps mistaking the sheep for its own kind. One day, while the panda was happily playing with the flock, a leopard jumped down from a tree and began to savage the helpless cub. The brave girl picked up a stick and tried to beat the leopard. The panda ran off, but the leopard turned on its attacker, killing her instantly. When the other pandas learnt of the tragedy, they all came to the girl’s funeral to pay their respects. They covered their arms with ash, as was the tradition. They wiped their eyes to dry their tears and hugged each other, sobbing so loudly they had to cover their ears with their paws. To this day, the black stains from the ash remain as markings on their white fur. Overcome with grief, the girl’s three sisters threw themselves into her grave, the earth shaking violently with their sadness. Siguniang, a huge mountain range, swallowed all of them and continues to protect the pandas to this day, nestling them in the ridges between the peaks formed from the bodies of each sister.

  ‘Wunderlichs, wunderlichs,’ were the last words I heard the sturdy shape whisper as it approached me, before the sudden thunder and the sky turning grey. I stopped chewing when I saw Him, clenching a bamboo shoot in my paw. He stood there, waiting. No telltale signs that He was up to something. My inaction might have been almost comical if it wasn’t such high tragedy, me lounging on my perch up a tree, Him pointing a stick at me. All we shared together while I was alive was that swollen moment, a tiny liaison where my eyes bulged as His narrowed.

  Afterwards, He dug into a hessian sack and sprinkled coarse salt onto my skin, which lay spread out on a rock like a pile of linen bleaching in the sun. When I was all dry, He cradled me under his arm. The crunching of footsteps, His shouts to the local guides to prepare the mules for travel, invaded the silence that had settled on our scene. They called Him Bara-Sahib, while others called Him Schäfer, which means Shepherd here in the Glasslands. My heart drained as I became wrapped in myself. He stroked me gently with His bloodied hand, and made scratches on some bark I would later learn was His notebook. The tag He tied to me taught me that my home was in the mountains of Washu, in the bamboo forests of Kham, on the border of Tibet. And that fateful day we met was marked on His calendar as 5/13/31. The others, His travelling companions, Brooky and Weigold, lagged behind on the pathway like foul odours. Weigold was the first of Shepherd’s type to see a live one of us in the wild. He told us he had bought a Small just like me years before, but it didn’t live very long.

  When they opened me up I stepped out of myself, sinew and bone divided, scraps thrown to the dur bya, those sacred birds of death. They stabbed at my eyeballs, which would soon be replaced in their sockets by ground glass.

  Guard is my constant companion now, his face a reflection of past and future boredom. Sometimes I hear him curse. On quiet days, he dances a little, high-stepping it to Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’. Most days it’s just him and me, and the joyous Galaxy he holds in his hand. It is his treasure, for inside he has captured rays of sunshine.

  Some days are quite dull, I must admit. Even Bamboo Replacement Day has lost its thrill after so many years. Frankly, Guard’s daily tuna-and-lettuce sandwich looks far more appetising. Other days are happy ones; a new level on Clash of Clans might have been unlocked, or Guard thinks he knows the answer to Final Jeopardy. Moments like these are when I truly regret the rigidity of my form. From the corner of my eye I’ve seen his finger hover over the wrong answer. An understandable mistake, under that kind of pressure. But I’ve learnt to keep my cool and take my time.

  Some days my mind wanders back to Wild, to the mists of the forest with its gnarled, moss-covered tree roots abandoned among the grasses, like skulls of Torosaurus from Dinosaur Hall. And that’s the hardest, remembering the smell of freshly cut bamboo, the shrieks of the vultures circling in the blue above and the singing of distant villagers who knew well enough to leave us alone. When I was a cub, I used to gaze across treetops that were shrouded in fog, wondering what was out there beyond Wild, but I never imagined I would end up here beside Exit.

  The happiest days for Guard and me are the ones when they bring in Smalls: tiny specimens that jostle and push each other out of the way so they can get a closer look at me. They splay their palms against Glass, their fish-like lips trying to suck me towards them. I have been chosen to teach them Nature, a job that weighs heavily on me. But I wear it as a badge of pride; besides, it’s better than being stuck in Basement, draped over some coathanger like poor old Hsing Hsing.

  Girl comes every Saturday afternoon. She sets up a small folding chair and pulls out a sketchbook and charcoal pencil from her leopard-print backpack. I’ve caught a glimpse of some of her drawings, delighted to be her model for Super Panda, Kung Fu Panda and Ninja Panda. She calls me her BFF. Best Friend Forever. But Forever is such a long time. She has several red striped markings above her paws, which seem to be fresh wounds. I hope no one is trying to prepare her for Glass. Perhaps I should warn her?

  I wish I could visit the woolly Takin, which inhabit the Glasslands over the other side of Exit. He brought them here from Home, not long after I arrived. I have an ache inside to share my story and hear other tales that have given birth to this New Life we all share. Shepherd used to say that each one of us He brought across the waves was ‘an object of remembrance from an impoverished past’, in which we were merely ‘temporary and evanescent’.

  ‘Now you have the power of immortality,’ He would whisper in my ear while we were in Basement, stroking my head with His strong hand. ‘No room for wistful memories of a distant joy; your collective past will exist forever in the present. You have risen above the personal apocalypse we mere mortals suffer.’

  I am so grateful to Him. His desire to make sense of our world and His fellow man’s place within it was so admirable. And He was as devoted to me as a father. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, the lights would come on. I heard those familiar footsteps approaching along the corridor. He would forget to sleep, go for long stretches without food or drink. There was only me, and He would worship my every bone, even the Phalanges of my toes, which He kept in a special drawer. He was trying to find the right potion that would bring me back to Life. He wanted me ready for that moment, in my best pose to re-enter the world, my Glass Mother beside me, as if I’d never died.

  CHAPTER 7

  April 1937

  During her first week at bride school, Herta slipped up one evening while rehearsing how to keep up conversations at cocktail parties. These were the most difficult classes, social niceties not being her forte. The Directress was pretending to be a high-ranking SS officer, trying to engage the girls in a conversation about how German women were desperately needed by the Reich as sustainers of the race. The absent look on Herta’s face was an invitation for the formidable Gertrud Scholtz-Klink to mount a stealthy attack.

  ‘We live in exciting times, Fräulein Völz, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, Frau Scholtz-Klink.’ Herta was trying hard to calm herself, concentrating on filling her lungs.

  Frau Scholtz-Klink, her two long braids woven neatly around her forehead, spoke to the group. ‘You are the spiritual caregivers, called upon by fate for this special task!’ she recited in a syrupy tone. ‘Deutschblütig. Aryan women are participants in the resurrection of the sacred German bloodline. You will be the secret queens of our people.’

  The girls tittered.

  ‘May I remind you this is no laughing matter.’ Her face turned to marble. ‘Our Führer relies upon you, and your duty to him must be your priority. He should be your role model for health and wellbeing – I know him personally and can tell you that he abhors smoking, doesn’t drink and eats an almost vegetarian diet. He has the highest respect for the role of the German woman in making this country great again. He denies th
e Liberal-Jew-Bolshevik theory of “women’s equality” because it dishonours us. He said in his famous speech, “A woman, if she understands her mission rightly, will tell a man: You preserve our people from danger and I shall give you children.” The Führer shall forever remain your first love.’

  She looked back at Herta. ‘Now, step forward, young lady! Imagine I am Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, and you have just been introduced to me at an official function by your husband.’ She puffed her chest out and took on the corpulent man’s manner. ‘Good evening, Fräulein,’ she bellowed. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, and happy to see you have embraced one of the Nine Commandments for the Workers’ Struggle – “Take hold of the frying pan, dustpan and broom, and marry a man!” I’m very proud to have made that one up myself. Do you like it?’ The Directress, staying in character, let out a deep guffaw.

  The hall echoed with her laughter before turning silent. Everyone looked at Herta, waiting for a response. She stood there wishing a chasm might open up between them to swallow her deep into the folds of the earth, as far away as possible from this place, this country, this time. The words came out slowly, heavier than stone.

  ‘Women must speak the truth.’ Herta paused, realising she must have missed something, judging from the tiny gasps that echoed around the hall. ‘Sir!’ she added.

  ‘No, no, Mädchen! No opinions. No jokes. And no poetry. Starting from right now, you must learn to be politely talkative.’ She paced back and forth in front of the line of young women, hands clasped behind her back. Whispers spread across the group like waves licking the shore, ceasing the instant she shouted, ‘I’m speaking to all of you!’ The Directress kept talking as she prowled around Herta. ‘In your application form, you said you are hoping to marry your sweetheart this summer, am I correct?’

  Herta tried to hold back her tears, but it was too late. The older woman had already picked up the scent of fear in her prey.

  ‘Getting all weepy is rather pathetic, girls. Don’t you think?’ She turned towards the group, who tried hard to stifle their giggles this time.

  ‘You are going to need me to sign your certificate if you want the prestige of being the wife of an SS officer.’ The Directress moved up close to Herta. ‘Tell us. Who is this fortunate man of yours?’ The sarcasm oozed out of her like molten lead.

  Herta spoke quietly. She almost choked on her words, but managed to cough out, ‘Ernst Schäfer, Frau Scholtz-Klink.’

  There was a collective breath of surprise among the brides-to-be.

  The woman’s eyes widened. ‘The explorer?’

  The pack seemed to draw closer, twenty girls waiting excitedly for the imminent attack.

  The Directress circled her victim, and Herta felt the stout woman’s hot breath on her face. It reeked of garlic.

  ‘Really? What would a man of his standing be thinking, marrying a mouse like you?’

  Herta looked down at the tiled floor. On that day last June when Ernst proposed, she had felt so light and happy, as if they had both come full circle back to where it all started, their hideaway in the forest. She remembered how confident he seemed about their future together. A solitary bird sang. And with raw-voiced love she had chosen to join its refrain: Yes. Yes. Yes!

  ‘You’d better pay attention and work hard here, young lady.’ Frau Scholtz-Klink took a step back, still glaring at Herta. ‘Believe me, if you do not pass your exams, Untersturmführer Ernst Schäfer is not going to forsake his brilliant career for a lowly fiancée like you. Now, recite for us the Ten Commandments for Choosing a Spouse.’

  Herta was blushing. She felt as though she might throw up. The others craned forward to see her.

  ‘Immediately!’

  ‘Kinder, Küche, Kirche! Children, kitchen, church!’ she blurted out, now breathing as quickly as if she’d been asked to drop and do fifty push-ups.

  ‘Keep your body pure.’

  Her mouth felt dry as she tried to regurgitate the morning’s very first lesson. Clearing her throat, she started over again.

  ‘Remember that you are a German.

  ‘If you are genetically healthy you should not remain unmarried.’

  ‘That’s enough for now. See me in my office immediately after lunch tomorrow, Fräulein Völz.’

  Herta’s lips started tingling. Surely the woman didn’t suspect anything? She always tried to keep a straight face whenever there was any mention of genetic illness in the blood. Nobody knew about Margarete outside of the immediate family. No one except Ernst or Father Gerhard, that is.

  Thankfully, Frau Scholtz-Klink moved on to quiz her next target. ‘You!’ She pointed to a freckly, red-haired girl. ‘Continue!’

  Her new victim proudly obliged, reciting the rest of the Commandments.

  ‘Keep your mind and spirit pure.

  ‘As a German, choose only a spouse of the same or Nordic blood.

  ‘In choosing a spouse, ask about his ancestors.’

  ‘All of you! Schnell! Join in.’

  ‘Health is also a precondition for physical beauty.

  ‘Don’t look for a playmate but for a companion for marriage.

  ‘You should want to have as many children as possible.

  ‘Marry only for love.’

  At dawn the next day Herta lay on her bed, drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming about Wannsee, the most romantic place in all Germany. A slice of nature right in the heart of Berlin. Herta was surprised to find herself loving this place after having felt such dread when she first arrived there, the weeks lying endlessly ahead of her. But she imagined how much Ernst would enjoy it here – majestic swans gliding on the Wannsee lake, and the crescendo of birdcall at dusk echoing across from the Grunewald forest. Herta could picture his cheeky smile as together they raced from the majestic villa across the finely manicured lawns, down towards the shore. He would dive straight into the blue, splashing about like a little boy, while she sat on the banks, sunning herself. Sometimes she fantasised that a few years from now this stately mansion might become their own home, little Heidi tottering along the path, pushing her dolly around in a pram, young Brooke bouncing a ball against the back wall, scolded by the groundsman for leaving dirty marks on the perfectly whitewashed bricks. And they would hold such wonderful parties for their friends, where together she and Vati would play the ‘Flower Duet’ from Delibes’ opera Lakmé, the invitations sent out on embossed cards, handwritten in her elegant cursive script:

  Herr & Frau Ernst und Herta Schäfer

  Cordially invite you to a musical soirée,

  at their residence

  Inselstrasse 28

  Schwanenwerder Island

  Sunday 7 September 1941

  7 pm sharp

  By then, Ernst would have long ago returned triumphant from his third Tibetan expedition, the darling of everyone they knew. Having published several more books, he would be in huge demand as both a speaker and an internationally renowned scientist. The Schäfer family would be rich and mix in the most influential circles. No longer would she have to scrimp and save. These six weeks at the Reichsbräuteschule, the most sought-after school for brides in Germany, would have all been worth it.

  When Ernst first told her about the school she was horrified, but since he had become so important in the SS there was no choice really, and certainly no room for protest. If she wanted to marry the man she loved, she would have to go along with what was expected of the future wife of an SS officer. When Ernst explained to her it was a non-negotiable condition for their marrying, he also made it very clear that his career depended on it. Reichsführer Himmler treated his men as one big Sippe, an extended family, and, like any caring father, enforced strict rules concerning their choice of partner and plans for having children. Now that they were engaged, she was expected to become the best bride possible for a man of Ernst’s standing. At first she didn’t give the notion much thought, focusing instead on her studies in between relishing the heady joy of romance. It was only afte
r she had read the application form a few months later that she felt a creeping sense of trepidation. The Reich promised to take each girl in turn and reassemble her as an ideal National Socialist woman, ‘truly worthy of an SS officer’s love’.

  Her reveries were cut short by the morning wake-up call. Later today she was to present herself at Frau Scholtz-Klink’s office. Herta jumped out of bed, carefully running her hands over the wrinkles in the sheets, then rushed outside for rollcall, immediately followed by gymnastics. With daylight just peeking over the horizon, she stood in line with all the other girls beside the driveway, wearing the standard white T-shirt and black shorts. They ran around the perimeter of the grounds then stood in a circle performing lunges and squats, led by an enthusiastic and well-built instructor. Herta certainly fitted in on a superficial level. Most of the girls were strong and slim, with blue eyes, sharp aquiline noses and blondish hair. Aside from hiking in the woods with Ernst as a child, she was never one to enjoy exercise, always preferring to read a book or play flute, but the Reich placed a huge emphasis on maintaining a fit and healthy body.

  After an open-air bath, followed by a hearty breakfast, they would attend classes on cooking and nutrition, interior decorating, sewing and household budgeting. Herta’s favourite lesson was childcare, in which they were each given a baby doll and taught how to bathe and dress it. The plastic stare of the doll’s mechanically blinking blue eyes mesmerised her, calling her towards motherhood. She found the classes on how to fatten geese or make perfect floral arrangements rather boring, but there were other skills she would never have envisaged herself learning, such as how to starch and iron SS dress uniforms, or polish Ernst’s SS dagger and gun. At times it all seemed comical, but the busy routine kept her from feeling homesick.

  Lessons continued. The women danced in the garden, swaying as they stretched their arms above their heads. They made sure to try their best at all times, always on guard, as it was rumoured that the Reichsführer himself would on occasion pay a secret visit to watch the girls from behind a hedge. Their classes on Volksgemeinschaft, or community spirit, focused on the importance of genetics and race. They learnt how the national stock was weakened by those who carry defective genes, especially Jews and the mentally ill. Everything in their lives centred around country and sacrifice.