‘Quite delectable.’ Ernst’s Kommandant stepped forward. He took Herta’s hand in his and stroked her arm with his stubby fingers. ‘Adorable, in fact.’
She tried not to flinch.
‘And what a smile. A shining specimen of Aryan perfection.’ He grinned, then looked sternly at Ernst. ‘A good counterbalance for a stocky bastard like you.’
Ernst scratched his sideburn. There was an awkward pause before the words sprang out from somewhere inside Herta, just as she had practised reciting them over and over at bride school.
‘Our children will be blue-eyed and blond, Herr Kommandant. The hope of the Fatherland lies in the next generation.’
There. It could not be unsaid. Laughter spread like a wave of relief through the crowd.
Across the other side of the room, Vati raised his glass and called for the attention of the crowd. ‘A toast to the bride and groom. May they live out their lives in happiness and peace. Prost!’
Himmler held up his own glass. ‘Heil Hitler!’
Everyone followed suit, clinking glasses and shouting, ‘Heil Hitler!’ Everyone except Vati. Out of the corner of her eye Herta saw Mutti glaring at him, silently urging him not to make a scene. Vati mumbled something and brought the champagne to his lips, finishing the glass in one shot. She watched as he sidled up to a table for a refill, gulping that one down too. In between smiles and small talk, Herta kept an eye on him. Despite the alcohol rising to her head, she could see through the hairline crack that appeared in her father’s mask, revealing a raging fury coiled inside. He looked up and caught her staring at him, her eyes begging him to behave.
Herta left Ernst with Herr Stresemann, his supervisor, to discuss the latest techniques in ornithological specimen preparation. She joined Vati, who was seated on a stool in the corner, brooding and silent. An unruly strand of grey hair fell across his forehead. He stood abruptly.
‘I have something for you,’ he whispered, and made his way over to the back of the hall, slipping through a small doorway. She followed him, all her senses heightened like an animal desperately trying to find a way out of a trap it has fallen into. She found herself wedged in a narrow corridor with her father, whose face appeared strangely animated. A bubble of saliva formed at the edge of his mouth as he spoke.
‘First and foremost,’ he whispered, ‘you must promise me that you won’t breathe a word of this to Mutti.’
She nodded, unable to fathom what he wanted to hide from the woman he had always worshipped.
‘Many years ago when you were still a child, I was out in the garden taking photographs of some early blossom. You ran past, on your way to one of your jaunts into the forest.’ His forehead became a knot of veins. ‘I had always wondered where you disappeared to after school, so that day I decided to follow.’ He rummaged for something inside his jacket. ‘You stopped at a clearing and, to my delight, as I watched through the branches of a giant oak, I saw Ernst seated on the ground beside little Margarete. She was surrounded by a storm of wildflowers, her wheelchair nowhere to be seen. I knew he must have carried her there himself and was waiting for you to join them. And soon enough, you came running through the trees.’
Herta felt her life, which was just beginning to open, instantly fold back on itself.
‘I’d never seen you so happy, huddled there on the ground, the sun pouring through a filigree of lacy leaves, shining down on the three of you. I just couldn’t let myself lose that moment of pure innocence.’
His hand shook as he fished a small photo out from the left pocket of his jacket. It was faded, the edges torn. He handed it over as if he were serving up his heart for her to devour.
‘This is my real wedding gift to you both.’
She reached out to take it. A fleeting moment of wonder caught her before she looked up. Vati was staring at her.
Without a word, Herta stuffed the photo into the bodice of her wedding dress and rushed back inside the reception hall, leaning against the wall to gather her thoughts. As she watched the crush of guests chatting loudly while they ate and drank, she saw Vati make his way to the entrance. He looked so pale. A young man in black uniform was leaning against the doorjamb, and Herta could see a cold smile creep across his face. She edged her way over to them, close enough to overhear what the officer was saying.
‘You must be very proud your beautiful daughter has now become the wife of an SS man, Herr Völz? She is the image of perfection.’
Vati did not answer. He stood there, daring the officer to look into his eyes and all that they held. Instead, the youth shrugged and offered him a cigarette. Vati took one and lit up, breathing in a deep lungful of smoke before stepping outside.
PART II
CHAPTER 9
Basement held the world for me in those early days, when He first brought me here. I had no need to travel. A huge arm had swept across the mountains and the shores, trawling the depths of forests and oceans, bringing narwhals, armadillos, zebras and hummingbirds to surround me. Some were bloated from the journey, others shrunken and wretched, but they all watched me with unseeing eyes.
Shepherd’s role was to restore us from these repulsive caricatures of ourselves, so we might reflect the true poetry of Wild. He was an artist, paying as much attention to His model as Michelangelo did to his David. (Guard got that one right on Jeopardy last month.) He stretched our skins, moulded noses and muzzles, preserving the elegance of life with a steady, dissecting hand. His gentle breath held the essence of love; His touch turned a stiffened, wiry carcass into a work of beauty. His skills went far beyond just counting teeth or measuring limbs; it was His carnal knowledge of Wild that Shepherd brought to our lumps of skin and bone. No, He was not crude. He prepared us for the theatre of Glass with a deep understanding of character – orchestrating the sluggish indolence of sloth (Folivora), with its strange three claws, or helping choreograph the static combat of savage lion (Panthera leo) and docile antelope (Hippotragus equinus).
He cast his spell on us all, crafting an eternal mood on display for the world. We continue His legacy, showing our Truth through this staged spectacle. I see the reaction every day in the eyes of Visitors, my very presence a magnet for their imagination. Each brings their own story to me, trusting my silent listening. They spill out their chaotic, confused lives before the altar of Glass. Some linger, absorbing this counterfeit wilderness lovingly, connecting with the simulacrum of creaturely life. Others rush past as quickly as they can, squeamish over death on display.
For months, I lingered in Basement, in the land of Temporary Storage, gathering dust, until they dragged me out to live in my new Home. I never chose to be Immortal, laid bare to strangers staring at me with awe, revulsion or voyeuristic fascination. They impose all manner of narratives on me. But none seem to know about Him. I wonder where He is now, my young Shepherd. With the passing of the years our Story has been lost, and with its disappearance I have changed. Once I was Storyteller of His verve, His insatiable lust for adventure; now I am mere Decoration. I have become a kind of tombstone whose inscription has worn away with the passing sands.
I no longer belong to Him. I am Guard’s and Smalls’ and Girl’s and Cleaner’s and Jerkoff ’s. How to explain myself to Visitors, from inside this suspended time? Of the past, but not belonging there anymore. In Glass, we cast no shadows; freed from our inner flesh, we are masters of our own world. No predators, no cages. All our life, we struggle against this final silence and yet, when we cross beyond the mortal agony, we are left breathless.
Our eternity is based on a strict timetable:
10 am – 4.30 pm, Monday to Friday
10 am – 5 pm, Weekends and Holidays
When Museum is Closed and Guard gets to rest, we are forgotten. I live on First Floor. Directly across Street, beyond Window, is a strange Glass that holds grey squares, behind one of which sits Woman. Woman’s timetable is different from ours. She is on display there from 9 am – 5 pm, Monday to Friday. Guard looks at her a lot, bu
t she doesn’t seem to notice him. I am jealous she can still move her limbs, although most of the time she sits facing out, staring up at the clouds as she sharpens her talons, or rubs blood on her lips.
I wonder if the Woman whom Shepherd spoke about sometimes had similar markings. I would have liked to have met her one day. Her name was Herta, scientific name H. Völz. I am curious to know if she was as beautiful as He described – pale fur, blue eyes and a lithe and graspable waist. Even though they hadn’t seen each other since they were almost-grown pups, He said He would always love her. Love is a foreign language they speak of to me – Visitors and Guard. Over the years I have tried to understand its sounds, the yawps, howls and growls they have displayed. I imagine it might be like the rains returning after weeks of dry.
His Past emerged in snippets and I tried to piece His Story together over time, waiting patiently for Him to unfurl the map of Life He held rolled up in His heart. But He made it difficult, determined to follow His instincts of Order, in which everything had its Proper Place. His species are such determined taxonomists. I think by now H. Völz must have been placed in Permanent Storage a while ago. From what He told me, she sounded as if she might have been one Specimen that He could not catch. I suppose He was frustrated He would never catalogue Her in His Book, the one in which He wrote our names beside our numbers and descriptions. I peeked at my entry once when we were still down in Temporary Storage:
Ailuropoda melanoleuca
Bamboo forest of Kham, Eastern Tibet [May 13th, 1931]
One male juvenile. The entire underpart badly abraded. Shoulder height 35 cm, round head, stocky body, and short tail. Distinctive markings – limbs, eyes, ears, and shoulders are all black and rest of the body is white. An enlarged shoulder and neck region, along with a smaller back end, produces an ambling gait. A baculum (bony rod in soft tissue of penis) is present. In other bears it is straight and forwardly directed, while in giant pandas it is S-shaped and backwardly directed. Skull has a large sagittal crest, wider and deeper than other bears, resulting in powerful jaws. The molars and premolars are wider and flatter too, with extensive ridges and cusps for grinding tough bamboo. A notable feature is an extra opposable thumb-like digit on the hand.
I’m sure He caught me looking, because He quickly placed the Book facedown, its pages still open like the wings of a dead bird whose feathers ruffled in the throes of its dying.
Mother says one day we will all go Home. Of course, she is not my real mother, although she cares for me here in Glass as well as can be expected. She promised that before we leave, she will teach me to walk again. The clay that He replaced my metatarsal bones with is so stiff. On that day, when we line up to board the same boat that brought us here, the dur bya from other Glass countries will rise up and fly homewards, although I pray they will not fall from the sky on their stiffened wings.
Behind me is Horizon. I watched while they created the Heavens and the Earth under His guidance. Shepherd wasn’t the one to paint the World, but He directed the Creation and saw that it was good. Some days I will my clay feet to turn around so that I might face the Purple Mountains, my glassy eyes aching to see the sky over Wild. But they will not budge, and I am forced to gaze at Exit. Day and night take turns chasing each other on an endless Merry-go-Round. A Small once brought one of those in to show me, with gaily painted ponies, tigers and giraffes racing each other in a circle as the music played.
CHAPTER 10
September 1937
Afternoon turned to evening as Herta waited for Ernst to appear in the doorway of their first-floor apartment at Hohenzollerndamm 36. Her husband – it felt so strange to call him that – was still at the laboratory. Klaus, who had been with her since the day she found him mewling outside Frau Lila’s apartment, kept her company as she played the flute. The cat was her greatest comfort of late, and her most trusted confidant. There were things she could say to Klaus that she would never tell any human being. Who in their right mind could ever believe there was no soul behind feline eyes?
Herta had been made to understand, by those in Ernst’s orbit, that as the wife of an SS officer she could not become a professional flautist. In the end, all that time at the Conservatory, studying for and excelling in her exams, had been for nothing. Even so, she was determined to keep up her practice as her own small act of rebellion. She had been playing Debussy’s Syrinx this week, returning to the piece her father taught her as a child. As she sounded the final note of the solo, Ernst arrived home. He threw his bags on the floor and gave her a peck on the cheek, glancing over her shoulder at the sheet music spread out on the stand.
‘That’s funny. A syrinx is the anatomical term for the voicebox of a bird. It’s their lower larynx.’ He sank into his armchair. ‘Who is Debussy?’
‘He was the most wonderful French composer who ever lived, but they’ve banned his music now. Some say the real reason it is regarded as “degenerate” is because he was married to a Jew.’
Ernst kept talking as if he hadn’t heard her answer. ‘It’s quite fascinating, you know. Songbirds have the largest and most developed syrinx of all creatures. It has a very different structure from ours, so they can produce several sounds at once.’ He took some tobacco from a tin and placed it in his palm, rolling his pipe in a spiral over the top. ‘Actually, I have an excellent specimen of an American mockingbird at the laboratory. Brooky gave it to me as a gift. He told me it used to be Thomas Jefferson’s pet, and called it Dicky – such a silly name for a bird. But I never believed a word that Brooky uttered, the old soak.’
Ernst checked the draw for blockage, then lit a match and teased the top gently. He tamped the tobacco down and relit the pipe, puffing on it distractedly. A waft of smoke made its way across to Herta.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘mockingbirds are brilliant at mimicry, stealing songs from others. Remind me to bring old Dicky home to show you one day.’
‘Of course, darling. That would be wonderful.’ Stifling a cough, she forced herself to smile.
Her husband and his unlovely specimens. What she didn’t tell him was that the true inspiration for Debussy’s piece was the incessant drive in men to collect what was well beyond their grasp. Vati had told her the story as a child: how the lustful god Pan fell in love with the beautiful virgin nymph Syrinx and wanted her all for himself. But his love went unrequited. In order to avoid Pan’s amorous pursuits, she ran away and turned herself into hollow reeds. Determined to keep her honour, she hid from him in the marshes. When his frustrated breath blew across the reeds, though, he was enchanted by the sound of the sweet, liquid song that seemed to answer him. He cut down the reeds to make pan pipes. When he discovered that Syrinx had been among them, he was deeply saddened, but comforted knowing he would have her next to him for eternity. Some days Herta wished she could be like Syrinx, hide away from all men, shake herself loose from this city.
She placed the flute carefully back in its case. The harmonica she had saved up to buy Ernst as a wedding present lay on the shelf, untouched. What possessed her to think he might play it? He’d never shown the slightest interest in music. Even when they were children he would pick up a book while Herta practised flute. Karl May’s adventure stories had been far more interesting to Ernst than Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.
‘I’m hungry as a wolf,’ he said.
Herta went to the kitchen and turned on the stove. ‘Dinner’s almost ready.’
She tucked some loose strands of hair into her headband and tied her apron around her waist. As she uncovered a plate of drumsticks, Klaus rubbed his side against her legs.
‘Mmm, those look good.’ Ernst came up behind her, kneading her buttocks with his strong hands. He untied the strings of her apron, kicking Klaus aside as he whispered in her ear. ‘You’d better be careful, my wife. You look so delicious tonight, I might eat you up instead.’
‘Go wash up!’ She wriggled away from him.
While he was in the bathroom, she started frying the chicken
, throwing a small scrap into a bowl for the cat. When Ernst returned, he sat down in his usual chair at the table, placed an embroidered napkin on his lap and waited to be served. He lit a cigarette and took a quick puff, resting it on the pewter Liberty Bell ashtray brought back as a souvenir from Philadelphia. He had promised to take Herta on a visit to America one day, said she would love it there, with department stores as fancy as Hertie, only much bigger. And he would show her around Philadelphia’s attractions: the Academy of Natural Sciences, the beautiful zoo and the grand main hall of 30th Street Station.
After a few minutes, during which Klaus nibbled at chicken scraps, Herta placed a drumstick, some sauerkraut and a slice of Limburger cheese on rye onto Ernst’s plate. She went to serve herself, but by the time she returned to the table with her own meal, he had almost finished eating. One thing was certain: there were never any niceties at dinnertime with Ernst. Food was something that had to be devoured. She spooned out some more chicken for him and he stripped the flesh from another drumstick, chewing loudly on the gristle before spitting out the remains. He bit into the slender thighbone and sucked out the soft marrow, crunching on the ends until only a mound of white splinters remained on his plate. As she watched him, Herta pushed her food from one side of the plate to the other with her fork.
Ernst held up a wishbone between them. She tugged on one end of the scant bone and broke off the larger piece, then closed her eyes and made a wish.
Ernst got up from the table. ‘As if the fused collarbone of a bird can magically bring us what we want.’
His napkin dropped to the floor and Herta bent to pick it up. If only she was brave enough to tell him what she had wished for.
After clearing the table, she washed the dishes and boiled the kettle. She joined Ernst, who was already seated in the parlour, and placed a cup of strong black coffee on the small table beside him. She added a dollop of milk and stirred in some sugar. Reaching across to the shelf, she chose a record to play, hoping to lift the mood. The wonderful Hans Albers warbled the song that had been so popular back in ’33: ‘Mein Gorilla hat ’ne Villa im Zoo’.
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