* * *
Her apartment building on 27, Metzer Strasse had been badly damaged by shelling, but her own first-floor apartment was intact—if you could call plaster dust all over everything, exposed laths, pitched floors, and no electricity intact. The heat was gone, and there was only occasional rusty water from the kitchen tap. Esme stayed in what was left of the apartment. Her mother had told her that if anything happened, she was to go to Mrs. Schmidt’s and stay there. Mrs. Schmidt was nice, but she had seven children and did not need another mouth to feed. Besides, Esme had lived at 27, Metzer Strasse all her life, and it was her last connection with happier times.
Esme had braved the twisted, splintered stairs to explore the wrecked part of the building, invading her former neighbors’ apartments, ignoring the broken, bloated bodies, gathering tins of food and blankets and men’s clothing—it was warmer than wearing skirts and socks, and easier to move in. She also had heard her mother whispering with her friends about the savage things the approaching Red Army were doing to women, and she thought it might be better for her if she dressed as a boy. She plaited her long fair hair and hid it under a cap.
Being a boy was not so easy in these last days of the Reich, either. The SS were snatching boys and old men off the street and drafting them to defend Berlin. Herr Gruber, who lived on her block, had been made a colonel in the SS, even though he was gimpy and fat. He rounded up every boy he found and pressed them into the service of the Reich. Esme had watched through her window as Herr Gruber and a group of new recruits strung up a boy who had declined to join. The boy had kicked wildly and soiled himself before he died. Esme always kept an eye out for Herr Gruber when she left her apartment.
Her friend Erik had been drafted. She came across him near Metzger Strasse. He was wearing a uniform much too large for him and sitting in a trench.
“What are you doing, Erik?”
“I’m in the Army now. I am defending the Fuhrer and the glorious Reich from the Russian barbarians.” His lips trembled.
“Erik, go home.” They both listened for a moment to the pounding, thundering sounds of the shelling in the near distance.
“No, no. I have met the Fuhrer. I have pledged my life to him.” He pulled on a blanket, exposing an anti-tank grenade. “See, when the tanks come, I will roll under them and explode this.”
Esme met Erik’s frightened eyes. No need to point out that Erik could hardly carry the grenade, and it was suicide. The Russians would shoot him before he got near any tanks.
“How will you explode it?”
“I don’t know. But I have to try. Heil Hitler!” His voice shook even as he tried to sound fierce.
Esme was suddenly furious at the Fuhrer for what he had done to Erik and to her. But she knew better than to say anything. She reached into her pocket and handed him a battered, precious tin of sardines, slimy with leaking oil.
“Goodbye, Erik,” she said and walked away.
* * *
She spent her days scavenging with others in bombed-out, abandoned buildings, searching for food and hiding from the shelling. Her ration card was buried in the rubble with her mother, so she could not even queue up for the scant rations still available. One of the things she had found on her scavenging trips had become her prize possession.
It was a crystal ball. Esme guessed it had been taken from a Gypsy and sent home as a souvenir. It had glinted at her in the rare, smoke-tinged April sunshine. When she scraped it out from under a pile of pulverized rock and splintered wood, it was miraculously unscratched. It felt heavy and cool to the touch but warmed as it nestled into the curve of her palm. She polished it on her coat and gazed into it, as she had heard the Gypsies did to see the future, but saw nothing but her own dirty face and the ruins all around her. Still, it was a fine and pretty thing amid the ugliness, so she took it home.
At night, with the shutters closed tight and a candle for comfort, she gazed into the crystal ball. But instead of the future, she saw only the past. The crystal images came alive as she focused deep into the curved, distorted world inside the ball. She could see herself, a young girl, swinging between her mother and father as they walked through the clean, green streets of Berlin. All the buildings were draped in red bunting, the Nazi swastika emblazoned everywhere. Everyone was joyful and happy because the Fuhrer had promised a thousand years of prosperity and glory. She saw a Sunday dinner with her family—her mother and father, her Oma and Opa. She could smell the savory hams and wursts, the schnitzels, and the honey cakes her mother was so proud of.
She started when a drop of saliva fell on her hand. Her insides were hollowed out by hunger. She rubbed her stomach and stared again into the crystal, and it darkened. She saw her teacher telling the class that her friend Ruth was expelled because she was a dirty Jew. Esme didn’t understand. Ruth wasn’t a bit dirty. She always had a pretty dress on and freshly curled hair, and she smelled like rosewater.
Esme ran to Ruth’s apartment after school. Ruth’s mother, Mrs. Cohn, told her that she couldn’t play with Ruth anymore. Mrs. Cohn looked frightened, and she could see Ruth crying behind her.
When Esme asked her mother why, her mother had shaken her head.
“It is not for us to ask why. This is part of the Fuhrer’s plan. Don’t ask about this again.”
She saw her father. He swung Esme up in the air, looking so fine in his uniform, and promised he’d be back in the fall. Esme’s mother sat in a chair, screaming hysterically at the piece of paper in her hand. Bombs began to drop on her city. And then there was a pile of rubble with her mother’s hand protruding, smeared with white dust and blood.
Esme rubbed her eyes. “Why do you show me only past things?” she whispered to the crystal. “I want to see the future. I want to see what will happen to me.” She blew out the candle and cuddled the crystal ball close to her as if it were a beloved pet. It felt warm and solid against her chest.
* * *
The day the Russians came into Berlin, Esme hid in her apartment all day. She could hear shouts and gunfire, yelling and screaming. People further down Metzer Strasse hung white sheets from their window sills. Esme decided not to because she didn’t want anyone to know she was living there. She lay on her bed, peeking out the window occasionally until it was dark and hunger forced her out. She picked her way through the chunks of stone on the front steps and ventured into the street.
She saw bodies on the broken pavement. One of them was Herr Gruber’s. Blood was pooled around him, running in dark rivulets until it disappeared in the dust. Esme shrugged and moved past him.
The little shop on the corner, where Esme bought penny candy so long ago, was looted. Flour and sugar were scattered in the gutter. Coffee, too, and tins of vegetables stomped on until they exploded. Esme’s empty belly churned at the sight. Noiselessly, she slipped through the shop door, hoping something had been spared.
The shop was dimly lit by a fire burning half a block away. Cases were smashed, shelves broken, and the floor was sticky with juices from broken jars and crushed cans. She found a can of beans that had rolled under a collapsed shelf and pocketed it. She smelled meat and worked her way to the back, hoping to find a sausage or maybe some bacon.
An electric torch pierced the darkness. “Kto tam?” barked a male voice.
Esme cowered in the shadows, making herself small. The soldier advanced into the shop, sweeping his light back and forth. The beam fell on a dirty chunk of liverwurst. Esme’s mouth watered. She could not help herself and made a quick grab for it. As she pocketed her prize, a hand closed on her shoulder.
“Who are you?” said the soldier, in thickly accented German. He dragged her to her feet and blinded her with the torch. Esme struggled fiercely. She tried to bite the hand that clutched a handful of her coat.
“Wait, wait,” the voice said, a bit softer now. The torch scanned her face and body. She considered slipping out of her coat and running, but the food was in her coat pocket. She pulled away again and aimed a ki
ck at the soldier. The hand pushed her to arms’ length but did not release her.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Karl,” spat Esme. It was her father’s name. “Let me go!”
“Not before you have this,” the voice replied. His hand closed on hers for a moment, and she realized she had a handful of dried figs. She crammed them into her mouth all at once. The rich sweetness was overpowering, and she almost choked. She chewed hastily and swallowed them.
“You look like my brother, Yermak,” said the voice. He turned the light on himself, showing a weathered, high-cheeked face covered with a stubble of blond beard. “My name is Mitya.”
Esme eyed him guardedly. He let go of her coat, and she spun on her heel to run.
“Aren’t you still hungry?” he called.
Esme stopped and turned.
“I have more figs here.”
“Give me the torch,” she replied.
He gave it to her, and she played it over him. His face was guileless.
“All right,” she replied, before handing back the torch.
* * *
Esme ate while Mitya talked. Mitya was twenty-two, a lieutenant in the Eighth Guards under General Zhukov, and he missed his younger brother a great deal.
“He is all I have left. My parents are gone. When the German Army invaded, my parents sent us off to live with my grandmother in Moscow. I was to take care of him. We got letters from my mother every week, and then nothing. So I left Yermak in Moscow and went back home to Kiev. “
“Mmmm?” said Esme, her mouth full.
“The house was burned. They left my mother and father to rot in the front yard. Nobody was left alive in my town.” Mitya made a feral noise in his throat.
Esme swallowed. “My parents are dead, too,” she said.
“So Karl, you live with your auntie or uncle?”
“No,” she replied.
“Where do you live, then?” Mitya sounded concerned.
“Here.” She shrugged.
“Well, Karl, if you need anything, you come find me. Ask my men for Lieutenant Wolodny. I’ll look out for you.”
“I will, sir.”
When she left, she disappeared into a different building and waited until she was sure Mitya was gone. He was still a Russian.
* * *
Mitya and his men apparently had been assigned to patrol Metzer Strasse. They set up camp in front of the corner store. The soldiers would laugh and yell rude things at women who passed, but to her they were boisterously friendly. When Mitya saw her, he would wink at her, and she would smile.
But she was still wary of Mitya and his soldiers. One day, they opened up the storehouses that held the food for the German armies, and Berliners swarmed in, pushing and shoving and grabbing blindly. Esme squirmed through the mob, and got some coffee and tinned meat and a sack of rice. The persistent sound of screaming caught her attention, and she looked for the source. In a corner, a young mother lay on the ground, with her baby howling beside her, surrounded by ten or twelve soldiers. One man was on top of her as the others waited their turn, laughing and joking while she sobbed and pleaded vainly for them to stop only long enough to nurse her hungry child. Nobody was paying any attention, much less trying to intervene. Esme fled back to Metzer Strasse.
Over the next few days, her hunger receded, and she found time to bathe and comb her hair. Even though it was a betrayal to the Reich, she liked being cleaner and better fed. She stared hard into her crystal ball each night and thought about Mitya, but she saw nothing but her own face. She wished the library still existed so she could find a book to tell her how to use a crystal ball to see the future.
“You are a useless thing,” she said in disgust, and picked it up to throw it across the room. It warmed quickly in her hand, and the reflected candlelight flickered like golden fireflies inside it. She held it to her cheek instead, and sighed.
* * *
On occasion, Mitya would seek her out, to make sure she was all right. Esme would sit with him on carved stone steps of the buildings and talk. Mostly, Mitya talked about the beautiful farmland in the Ukraine, and Yermak.
“How would you like to come with me when I leave?” he asked her one day. “Your family is gone. You have no home. You could live with us—three brothers together. You like this idea, Karl?”
Esme cringed inwardly and pulled her cap down more firmly on her head.
“Yes, sir, that might be fine,” she said, and she forced a grin.
Mitya grinned back and handed her a small canvas sack. She peered into it and saw hard candies and a tin of evaporated milk.
“Here, have the milk now. Let me open it for you.” Mitya used his knife to punch two holes in the top and handed it to her. It tasted heavenly. Mitya smiled as she gulped it down, ignoring the droplets flowing down her chin and neck.
“Yes, Karl. You and me and Yermak. We will work our family’s farm.” Mitya slapped her on the back in mid-gulp and laughed when she choked and coughed.
* * *
The Russians had occupied Berlin for almost a week. During the day, they brought in food to the starving citizens, cleared rubble from the street, and offered medical treatment. At night, however, Esme was often awakened by screams. Women screaming. And soldiers singing drunken songs and cursing as they prowled the street. She burrowed under her blankets to shut out the noise.
A food center was set up in what was left of the corner shop. One afternoon, Esme took Mitya’s sack and went in. A man as big as a bear gave her flour and potatoes. He grinned at her, a little drunkenly, and reached into a burlap sack.
“For the lieutenant’s friend Karl, we have something extra special.” He pulled out a red apple and put it in the sack. Esme’s face lit up with delight.
“Danke schön” she whispered. She could not wait to bite into the crisp skin and taste the sweet juice.
The bear-man exchanged a glance with another soldier in the shop. “Say it properly, boy. Say ‘spessiba.’” She stared at him, eyes suddenly wide with apprehension.
The second soldier laughed. “Ignorant boy. He needs some vodka to loosen his tongue!”
Esme backed away, clutching her sack of food. The bear-man reached out and knocked her cap off. Her blonde braids tumbled to her waist.
She shrieked and turned to run—and ran straight into Mitya.
“Karl?” he said, looking into her terrified face. Suddenly his face darkened, and Esme panicked. Before he could grab her, she ran blindly down Metzer Strasse and hid in an alley. Hours later, she crept out and slipped into her apartment.
She pressed her back against the door and found the rosy, shiny apple in the sack. She bit deeply into it. Her face contorted, and she hurled it onto the floor in frustration.
It was mealy and dry, like dust in her mouth.
* * *
Too frightened to light the candle, Esme huddled in her mother’s closet. The closet still smelled faintly of her mother’s scent, and Esme found that comforting. There was a great celebration going on down at the corner, much yelling and singing and gunfire in the air. Esme gathered it had something to do with Hitler.
“I hope you are dead and in a million pieces, mein Fuhrer,” she whispered bitterly. “Then maybe you will know how I feel.”
The closet door hung askew on its hinges, so the door wouldn’t close tightly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her crystal ball. A shaft of light penetrated the closet, and Esme held the ball up.
“Please, please, show me what will become of me. Especially now. I am so scared.”
She looked into the shadowy depths and saw, much to her amazement, something new. It was Mitya, coming into her apartment. He had a bottle of vodka in his hand. He took a swig and looked around, seeking something.
“Oh!” cried Esme in her excitement. Then she heard a crack as Mitya turned, and she realized she was seeing a reflection, not a vision. She leaped from the closet at a run, but Mitya was faster. He grabbed her and sp
un her around, pulling her close to him. His breath was rancid with vodka fumes.
“Who are you, really?” he breathed.
“Esme,” she squeaked.
“Well, Esme, you made a fool of me.” He clutched her shoulder and grabbed her face with the other, squeezing it painfully. Esme had to stand on tiptoe to keep him from wrenching her neck from her shoulders.
“I looked out for you, protected you. You were a sad little boy alone in Berlin. My men wanted to shoot you, but I stopped them. I wanted to take you home with me. Now they laugh because I have been fooled by a girl—a very stupid girl.”
“I’m sorry,” Esme whispered.
“Not sorry enough,” Mitya replied roughly. He backhanded her across the face, and Esme crumpled to the floor. She slid back from him and rubbed her cheek, her eyes glued to his face. Mitya stared down at her, his eyes filling with tears.
“My parents are dead. My farm is ruined. I thought you might be the one good thing to come out of this,” Mitya said, his voice hitching. He reached down and hauled her back up, wrapping his arms around her in a bear hug. Esme trembled in his arms, terrified by this strange behavior.
“It’s all right. Don’t cry, Ka—Esme,” Mitya murmured. He kissed her cheek, and then kissed her on the mouth. Hard.
“No, no,” she cried, and struggled to get out of his grip. He released her, and she backed away again. He walked over to the table and took a long pull from the vodka bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked Esme up and down.
“Come here,” he said, his voice now rough. Esme shook her head. Mitya moved toward her, and she turned to try to run again. He tackled her, falling on top of her and sending them both to the floor. He grabbed her arm and twisted her onto her back, pinning her legs with his own.
Mister October - Volume Two Page 34
