“Bad food? What about paella?”
“Paella? What’s that?”
“What’s paella? Are you serious? And you’re lecturing me about Spain? Oh, never mind.”
“Fifty years from now, when Germans and Americans are living on the moon—probably killing each other up there—you’ll see, the Spaniards will still be riding donkeys and bicycles. I can’t believe it, you’re getting mad. It’s the girl, right? You are jealous that I went back with another girl.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Women are all the same, I should have known. Oh, my head.”
“You should sleep a little,” she said, “so you’ll be ready for the unpleasant discussion about ball bearings.”
“No way, falling asleep will make it worse. I’ll wake up, I’ll be groggy with bags under my eyes. No, I’m just going to lie down for a few minutes, then get cleaned up and get some coffee. Lots and lots of black coffee.”
Gabriela reached for the water carafe and poured a glass. “You’ll feel better if you drink some water.”
“What? No, not right now.” He yawned. “Say something so I don’t fall asleep.”
“So, you buy ball bearings and ship them to Germany? Is that your job in the army?”
“Why would you want to know about that?”
“You told me to say something, so I said the first thing I thought of.”
“It’s really complicated. I’m not sure you’d understand.”
“Probably not,” she said, deciding that there were upsides to having him continue to underestimate her intelligence. “But you need to talk, remember, so you don’t fall asleep.”
“Okay, yes, it’s something like that. Everything is wrapped in with the war effort. You’ve got guys like Helmut working as private businesses, but military orders take top priority at any and all times. You know, it’s kind of like how there’s not always flour and cooking oil on the shelves because our soldiers need the food so they can keep the Russians from penetrating the Reich.”
Sure, because “our” soldiers needed French flour and cooking oil more than hungry French children. It reminded her of the Demarais, hungry in their freezing apartment in the 14th Arrondissement.
“But I thought it was the Germans who invaded Russia, not the other way around,” she asked in an innocent voice.
“Purely a preventative war. I mean, you can argue about details of this thing or that. Maybe we shouldn’t have gone into Poland in the first place, and I always thought we should have come to an understanding with the British early on. They’re a reasonable race, they didn’t want a wide-scale war anymore than we did. And you know, as soon as the Brits started fighting, it was only a matter of time until Roosevelt forced the Americans into the war.”
“I thought that had something to do with Japan.”
“Well, the Japanese are another problem. But my point is, there’s nothing you could do about the Russians. They want to turn every country in Europe into little Soviet republics. Overrun the world with Slavs. Sooner or later the civilized races had to confront them.”
“So it’s purely a defensive war, then?”
“If you take a wide enough view, yes.”
“If there’s one thing you Germans are good at, it’s taking a wide view. In your narrow sort of way, that is.”
“Let’s not talk politics,” he said. “It’s an exceptionally boring subject, especially if I have to explain the background of everything for you to even understand what I’m talking about. Isn’t there something else you want to talk about?”
“Well, I’m still wondering about your job,” Gabriela said. “Sounds like you and Helmut do pretty much the same thing, just that you’re military and he’s a businessman. Is there a lot of money in it?”
“More money than you can imagine. Not that a major like me would see any of it. It’s just my job, I don’t make a profit.”
“You look like you’re doing pretty well.”
“I have access to a few nice things. That’s different.” He must have misunderstood her question, because he added quickly. “I’m not poor or anything, you understand.”
“Of course not.”
Ball bearings, money, big trainloads of goods. The major’s lavish lifestyle. Possible motives for Gestapo interest in Alfonse’s affairs came into focus.
And Helmut von Cratz, who seemed positioned between Alfonse and Colonel Hoekman. Which side was he working for?
She decided to push for that last bit of critical information. “One more thing, I was wondering about. I never see any of these other men you work with. You’re a major? Is that important?”
“Of course. There are higher ranks, sure, but I have my hands in everything. Many men answer to me.”
“Officers and enlisted men?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you ever have much contact with any of the simple soldiers?” Gabriela said it casually, simples soldats, in a way that might mean any lower rank. She watched his reaction.
“As little as possible,” he answered with a smile. “The privates, corporals and the like are good for a strong back and a weak mind. They respond best to shouts and threats.”
If she’d aroused any suspicion, he didn’t show it. Alfonse’s face betrayed nothing except his usual boastful attitude, mingled with exhaustion from the previous evening’s debauchery.
She’d asked. Now what was she supposed to do?
Chapter Twelve:
Helmut wasn’t used to the naked vulnerability in his wife’s face. He’d phoned Loise as soon as Gemeiner let him go, then stayed in a hotel last night so as to allow her a chance to adjust to the idea. It hadn’t been enough.
“Please, come in,” she said stiffly as he stepped into the big foyer, as if inviting in a guest instead of the owner of the house. “I’d take your jacket, but you’ll want to keep it on, I’m afraid.”
He stepped inside and understood what she meant. His breath came out in puffs. Loise wore a sweater and heavy wool trousers.
“How are you, my dear?” he asked.
“As good as can be expected.”
Helmut looked around the front hallway, noted a pair of children’s boots, a brightly colored umbrella, and a box with some building blocks. “You have guests?”
She followed his gaze. “Ah, that would be Della and Jarvis. Their parents work in Leipzig and they’ve been evacuated.”
“Are the British and the Americans bombing that far inland?” he asked, surprised.
“I don’t know, I don’t think so. Not yet.”
“It’s only a matter of time.”
“Yes.”
“And the children are difficult, or no?”
“No more difficult than any other child. But I don’t always miss them when they go off to school.”
If the moment hadn’t already been awkward enough, the mention of children made it doubly so. They stood and looked at each other for a long moment before she cleared her throat. “Well, they’re at school now, we have the house to ourselves. Come in, please.”
She led him further into the house. Her gait shuffled and he caught a grimace of pain. It was dark in the house; most of the windows had blankets nailed over the frame to cut down on drafts. Loise led him into the salon and shut the door behind them. She made to shovel coal into the fireplace. “Let’s warm things up and then I’ll make some coffee.”
“Let me do that, you get the coffee.” He took the shovel and their hands met. Hers felt like ice. “You’ve had trouble getting coal?”
“No, you’ve sent plenty. But it doesn’t look good to have smoke pouring out of the chimney when we’ve seen coal rations cut three times since October. I gave some of it away. Discretely, of course, don’t worry.”
“And the oranges?” He smiled. “Please tell me you didn’t give those to the neighbors.”
“Oh, god, were they good. I shared them with the children, and Della actually started crying. I ate more than my share, I confess. I t
ook a little sugar and used the peel to make cookies. Here, I still have two left, let me get them. We can have them with the coffee.”
The cookies were good, the coffee weak, and the conversation stilted. Loise was a beautiful woman, blonde and with blue eyes; Helmut had been prodded many times about all the beautiful little Aryans they were sure to produce. Alas, this particular bloodline of the Master Race had apparently run its course.
When the conversation sputtered and died, Helmut picked up the newspaper Loise had left on the coffee table. It was full of the usual propaganda, wishful thinking, and outright lies. So many British bombers shot down, this many American ships torpedoed. The usual stories of Soviet atrocities, which may have been true enough, except for the part about the valiant efforts of Germans to spread peace and prosperity throughout Eastern Europe.
“I can’t read this rubbish,” he said at last and tossed down the paper.
“Have you been following the news from the Eastern Front?” Loise asked.
“This doesn’t exactly qualify as news.”
“Some of it is true.”
“Not enough,” he said.
“Maybe not, but you can learn a lot even from what they don’t say.” She picked up the paper and flipped to the third page. “The Fuhrer is talking about the great sacrifice of the Sixth Army and how they’ll be known as heroes.”
“Sacrifice?”
“Exactly. Nothing about victory or pushing the Soviets into the Volga River like what they were going on about last fall.”
Helmut nodded. It was an exceptionally grim sign.
“You know what I think?” Loise said. “I think they’ve given up the Sixth Army for lost. The Bolsheviks have them surrounded, that much is clear. There’s some nonsense about holding out until spring and a massive new push. An air bridge, reinforcements, a counter-attack, all that sort of nonsense. But then you see that some of the generals have been airlifted out of the army. Why would you do that?”
“Because you think the cause is lost.”
“And what then? Is the war turning against us, Helmut? You see these things, you have to know.”
“We’ve lost the momentum,” he admitted. “And there are so many of them. But it all depends on whether or not the Soviets can sustain an offensive.”
“Do you know Frau Schneider?” she asked.
“The lady with all the dogs?”
“Not so many dogs anymore, but yes,” Loise said. “She has a Ukrainian servant girl. The girl’s brothers are volunteers with the Wehrmacht and she volunteered to come work in Germany.”
“The Reich is full of foreign volunteers these days.”
“So this girl said that when the Bolsheviks recaptured her village, they committed outrages against every woman and girl in town. The soldiers were Mongolians and Cossacks. And Russians, too, of course.”
“Our troops have not always behaved in an upright manner, either,” Helmut pointed out.
“You wouldn’t catch Germans behaving like animals,” she protested, to which he said nothing. “And this was a Ukrainian village! The Bolsheviks were liberating it and they still committed outrages. There was a baby. Six months old. They took her and—no, I can’t even say it. The stories were horrible, awful.”
“You can’t think about that. It’s far away and you can’t help by worrying about it.”
“We simply must win this war.”
“You can’t worry about that.”
“And if we don’t? If we lose?”
“If we lose, it won’t be to the Soviets. Don’t forget about the Americans.”
Loise got up to check the fire, returned to her seat. “I don’t know, I just don’t know what to believe anymore. They don’t tell us anything, they’re trying to protect us, I know, but I just want to know the truth. How can I prepare myself if I don’t?”
Helmut made a sudden decision. “I have business in Switzerland in two weeks. Would you like to come?”
“A vacation, now? What would we do in Switzerland?”
“No, not a vacation. A vacation has limited duration.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh. And you would come with me?”
“Of course. At least at first, to help you get settled.”
“I see. Then what’s the point?”
“You’ll be safe, that’s the point.”
“Helmut, Switzerland isn’t safe either. Nowhere is safe.”
“There are safer places than here.”
“No, I can’t do it, not now. Maybe. . .” Her voice trailed out. “Maybe if the Bolsheviks come here, then—no, that is impossible. I just can’t believe it will come to that. This is all temporary. We just need to work out a truce with the Americans and British and then we can win this war. We can still win, don’t you think? Don’t you think so? Helmut?”
He looked down at his empty cup. After a long, awkward silence, he said, “May I please have some more coffee?”
She got up wordlessly and took the cup. It was a relief when she left the room.
#
They made love that night. Rather, tried to.
Loise had warmed the bed with the pan and then heaped the bed with extra blankets before going down to the WC. The electricity was out, so she took the lamp. Helmut wore socks, woolen underwear, and a hat. He resisted the urge to stoke the stove and throw off some of the blankets. Instead, he climbed in and waited in the dark.
The children had seemed intimidated by his presence at the dinner table. They shyly waited until he gave them permission to eat, then only spoke in whispers when they wanted something. Normally, he might have brought a tin of cookies to break down their defenses, but given the circumstances of his arrival, he didn’t have so much as a piece of chocolate to share between the two. It took almost until bedtime to break them out of their shells, when Helmut sat at the piano and played old Bavarian folk songs, while Loise joined him in singing. By “Mir Ham’s Vom Sauerkraut,” they were laughing and clapping.
Loise returned from the bathroom wearing a nightie. She stood by the door, shivering, with the lamp held unsteadily in one hand.
“Is something wrong?”
“You look beautiful,” he said, truthfully.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
He tried to erase whatever expression he’d been wearing. “I was surprised is all. I thought it would be too difficult.”
“To make love to my husband? I’m not so sick as that, just a little uncomfortable.”
And yet Loise gave a distinct grimace of pain as she sat on the edge of the bed and extinguished the lamp. She moved like an old woman as she stretched herself beneath the covers. “I’ll feel better once I’m warmed up a little. Want to help?”
It was stupid to get his hopes up, but in spite of the pain, of everything, at the first touch he wanted her. It had been so long. He needed her so badly he was shuddering. She kissed him and touched him and helped him out of his clothes and everything seemed to be just perfect. But when the time came to enter her, one, two, three movements and she was stiffening in pain. He tried to stop, but she begged him to continue and he did so until at last he knew she couldn’t stand it anymore and he couldn’t stand knowing she couldn’t, so he pulled away and rolled onto his side. The ache was almost too much to bear.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“No, no it’s okay.” He just needed to regain control. It would only take a minute.
“Let me touch you, let me do it that way. I can still do it for you, you understand.”
“Loise.”
She put her hand between his legs. “Shh, just let me, please. Let me try.”
He didn’t think it would be possible, but he was a man, after all, and it had been months. Within a few minutes it was over. She had a handkerchief by the lamp, which she used to clean him up. And then she leaned her head on his chest.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Thank me? I didn’t do anything. But maybe I could—”
Sh
e put a hand on his lips. “Shhh. No, maybe later. I just need to relax and it will feel better.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.”
They lay in silence for several minutes, but just when he thought she was asleep, she said, “France is a long way from home. It’s almost another world.”
“France is a lot like here. Just people, struggling. Things are getting the same way everywhere.”
“Is it hard for them?” Loise asked.
“They’re enduring the war. Hungry. My employees are so thin, are always talking about food and recipes. Their children are even thinner and hungrier. It’s heartbreaking.”
“You should help them.”
“Oh, I do, believe me, whenever I can. Last week alone I gave out two hundred loaves, three hundred kilos of flour, plus cooking oil, potatoes, beans, coffee, and even some dried apples. Some weeks I can get more, some less, but it’s always something, whatever I can get. But they’re still hungry. I don’t know how someone would survive on official rations, it’s just not possible.”
“I’m glad you can help. You’re a good man.” She put her hand on his face and stroked it. “You’ve got a whole separate life there, don’t you? But I’m grateful you come to visit when you can.”
There was something else she was saying, but he couldn’t pin it down. “You need to stop worrying about the war. We’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
“No. I mean, yes, I worry. But you’ve made a different life, you have to. An apartment, contacts. You probably live your life thinking in French half the time.”
“Well, sure, that’s just natural. I’m speaking it so much.”
“And there are women, too, in France.”
“What? Loise—”
“Wait, don’t say anything, let me finish.”
“You don’t need to finish. There’s nothing like that. Nobody shares my apartment and there are no women.”
“Helmut, I know that men at war have special. . .challenges.”
“War is hell for everybody. Everybody has to sacrifice. Why should I be any different?”
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