(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  From her pillow, almost oblivious of Craig, Emily seemed to consider the old scene.

  ‘She kept telling me how she loved me,’ said Emily. ‘She promised that she would be kind to me, and I would never be sorry. Then, while she spoke, her tone became more—more excited. She said that she did not want to waste time in idle talk. She said I must take off all my clothes as I had at the experiment. I made no move to do this, and she asked me if I had heard of the douche room, and I said that I had. One French girl was sent there for punishment. The bidet—the douche—shot up water like a geyser, with pressure of a fire hose, and you squatted over it until you passed out. Frau Hencke said she would hate to have that douche disfigure me. Still I hesitated about undressing, and she saw I was obstinate, and then she said without meanness, “Or do you wish your mother here in Ravensbruck with you or in Auschwitz where the crematorium buildings are? I am in charge of preparing the lists for Colonel Schneider.” One by one, as if in a dream, I removed my garments. When I was naked, she smiled. “Wunderschön!” she said. “You are better than any I have seen. Now take the blanket off me.”

  ‘Have you ever walked naked in front of a stranger? My legs were wooden sticks, and I tried to cover my—no matter—I went to her and took off the blanket, and there she was—with nothing on—so repulsive. I stood, shaking, and she told me to lie down with her. There was no choice. I sat down and—and—she stroked me and then again said, “Now lie down.” It was ugly the way she was breathing—but I did what I was told, because I was so young and had only my mother, and I did not want my mother in the crematorium.’ Emily paused. ‘That was for three months—’

  ‘Emily,’ Craig interrupted, ‘I don’t have to hear any more. Don’t—’

  ‘Are you afraid to hear?’ she asked without looking at him. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘That is not it. I’m thinking of you.’ But then he knew that she must have her catharsis.

  ‘I will finish,’ she said, and her words were not all distinct because of the sedative. ‘One night, as always, I went to Frau Hencke, and for the first time she was fully clothed. She said in her superintendent voice, “There is too much talk in this camp. Not always the prisoners, but the foul-mouthed men, the guards. Colonel Schneider has called me in and said our meetings are known, and there is much jealousy. He thinks it is bad for morale. I am sorry, but this is ended.” I wanted to weep, and thank the Lord for ending the nightmare, for ridding me of that horrible Lesbian. But then she said, “Colonel Schneider wishes to speak to you personally. After rations tonight, at eight o’clock, one of his guards will come for you. That is all, Emily.”

  ‘The guard came at twenty after eight, I remember. I went to Colonel Schneider’s bungalow. It was the best building at Ravensbruck. He was the commandant. I was shown into a study, and then the door was closed, and I saw him working at his desk. He was wearing a silk robe from occupied Paris. I stood a long time, and finally he turned around. I had never set eyes on him before. He had a fringe of hair with long sideburns, thick, and a broken flat nose, and he was middle height but big like a bull with no neck. He kept looking at me like—as if I were a prize heifer—and then he said, “Walk—walk around the room.” I did. He said, “You walk well. I wondered why Frau Hencke was so radiant these months. Now, I see why. Well, I will brook no perversion in my command.” Then he said, “You will do. Go through that door to my bedroom. Disrobe. I will join you.” I was stunned. I had expected anything but this. I knew if I was obstinate what I would hear, but I tried. I pleaded with him, I begged him. He would not listen. “You are not a virgin,” he said. “I have heard about you and the Jew boy. You brought him back to life, eh? Few females are so impressive. You will find a healthy Aryan better for you. Now into the bedroom. Worse things can happen to you—and your mother.” When he mentioned my mother, my resistance was gone. I went into the bedroom and undressed and waited on the bed. When he came to me, he was naked, also—a bull—’

  ‘Emily, please—’

  ‘I want you to know. I will spare you details. He did not even put a gentle hand on me. He treated me like something in a—in a breeding farm. He forced my legs, and he fell on me like a machine that pounds flat the pavement. A half hour later, he sent for Dr. Voegler, and I had four stitches and was told to rest ten days. I could hardly walk to the barracks—but I had a basket of food for my mother and the others—my mother never knew the truth.

  ‘On the tenth day, the guard came, and Colonel Schneider was at his desk, and he didn’t even speak to me, just waved me into the bedroom. After that, it was every night—except twice when he had to fly to Berlin for weekends—it was every night the same, for one month. Then, the second month, he said he was displeased with me. He said I came and lay like a stick and let him do what he wanted, but he was becoming bored, he did not have to endure such insolence from me. Henceforth, if my mother and I were to enjoy his favour, I must be demonstrative—pleasing—display love and genuine excitement.’

  She halted and was quiet for a painful interlude.

  ‘I did all I was told to do,’ she said. ‘Apparently it was enough. I serviced Colonel Schneider four and five and six times a week, for as much as an hour at a time, for seven months—yes, seven months. It meant nothing to me any more. But then the gossip was that the Russians were near, and the war would be ending, and Colonel Schneider flew to Berlin to see Hitler and Himmler. He never came back—he was killed in an air raid—but he had told his junior officers about me, and a Major and two Captains of the Waffen-SS took me with them when they evacuated Ravensbruck, took me to their new post at Buchenwald, near Weimar, and for several weeks—my mother was gone and I didn’t give a damn about life any more—I serviced the three of them in their quarters. I went like an automaton—Pavlov’s response, I suppose. Night would fall, I would automatically go to the door, the guard would come, and the cot and the three of them would be waiting. And then, suddenly, one day they were gone—and no one called me to come in the night even though I was at the door—and it was April 11, 1945, and the Americans had arrived to liberate us. They checked our records—the documents, journals, whatnot—and they found mine—and the American psychiatric officer told me what a British psychoanalyst told me later—I was in a catatonic state. No one knew of what had happened to me except the doctors, until Uncle Max found me, and they told him a little.’ She paused. ‘Ravensbruck,’ she said. ‘That is Ravensbruck.’

  ‘Emily—Emily—what can I possibly say? Except that—except now that you’ve—’

  She would not listen. ‘Everyone thinks I am a virgin,’ she was saying. ‘Wouldn’t their hair stand on end to hear this? Even you thought I was a virgin. I’m sorry, Andrew, but you had to know—your nun was a whore—a veteran of three hundred nights.’ Suddenly she covered her eyes and her voice broke. ‘God, oh God, how many times in the years after—how long I’ve wanted to die.’

  He reached for her wrists and pulled her hands from her tearful eyes, and he kissed her hands. ‘It has nothing to do with you, Emily, none of it. You were forced into that life—and now you are free—and it is gone.’

  She looked at him for the first time in all this long while. ‘Is it gone, Andrew? How can it ever be gone?’

  ‘Because sadism and violence were inflicted upon you—and you confuse them with loving—when they have nothing to do with loving, because you have saved and preserved and never given your love. That is still untouched. In love, you are a virgin still.’

  ‘I know you want to be kind—you are kind—you pity me—’

  I’m sorry for what happened, but what I feel for you has nothing to do with pity.’

  ‘—and I want to believe you,’ said Emily. ‘But how can I? Ever since the day the war ended, and I came to America, no man has ever touched me. I would not allow it. It was as if I had to live in a sterile bottle, apart from human contact, doing penance for mortal sin—secretly knowing that I had been soiled beyond redemption—that below the waist I was unclean�
��and if I were ever with a man again, he would find it out and be revolted and cast me out—and if he didn’t find out, he would be cheated and used, and I would be consigned to hell’s fires. Then, in all the more than fifteen years since, I began to live a fantasy—this—that if enough years passed, that filthy part of me would rot away with time, and be replaced by new clean flesh—and I would become wholesome like any normal woman—and then I could allow myself to—to accept a man—or fall in love. You know, on the boat crossing, I tried once to see if any human contact was possible, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t go through with it. Then I met you—and I allowed myself to let go a little—to think it was possible—but then I knew. I met your Lilly, and I knew, seeing her, knowing me—that she was health, and I was an incurable emotional cripple—that what I fancied for you—to offer myself as young and cleansed and virginal was—unreal, and that you had suffered too much to be robbed by life again.’

  Suddenly she closed her eyes and shook her head, then opened her eyes wide, as if recognizing him as Andrew Craig, and then she pushed herself to a seated posture. ‘I think the drug is wearing off. I’ve talked too much. Did I tell you all the things . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, Emily, thank God.’

  ‘I’m glad. Did I tell you—did I say anything about caring for you?’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘Then you know that, and you know why it can’t ever be.’

  ‘I don’t know any such thing,’ he said. ‘I’m going to love you and I’m going to marry you.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that. Have some respect for my feelings. We can’t go on, and you know why. If we married, how would it be every night? You’d know what had been before—be reminded of all I told you—know that every move I made—the filth of it would corrupt your love—and in the end, you’d have only hate, and I couldn’t bear it.’

  She patted her hair, and straightened her sweater, and began to move her legs off the bed. ‘It’s no use, Andrew. Let me go back to my room.’

  He had her by the shoulder. ‘No,’ he said sharply.

  The need for her to be a part of all his remaining years, the desire to possess and own her, had become an unbearable craving. ‘No, you’re not going to leave me alone, not when I can’t live without you, not when you want me equally as much.’ He took her hand. ‘Emily, think of it, Emily, I’ve heard the worst, and I love you more, and I’m not going to let you ruin my life by being no part of it. I won’t think of all that happened, I don’t now, I won’t ever in our lives. It was a black planet, inhabited by inhuman creatures, but we are human beings of the light and the earth planet, and we deserve our time. And I mean what I’ve been saying—you have not been touched by any man, because you have not known a moment’s love. And what is untouched is all that matters—and should belong to someone who must have you and care for you. Emily, I didn’t think there could be another after Harriet. When she died, I thought I had died, too. But now there is another me, a different me, alive and yearning to belong to life once more—but not alone—only with you.’

  He took her in his arms, and her body relaxed in them, and he kissed her hair, her ear, her cheeks, her eyes.

  ‘Andrew,’ she whispered against him, ‘Andrew—you do mean what—what you’ve been saying?’

  ‘With all my heart and soul. I’d give my life for you. It would not be worth living without you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly. She buried her head in his chest. Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘I believe you now. You showed that today.’ Then she said, ‘Lie down with me, dearest. Lie down and hold me and never let me go.’

  ‘Never in our lives,’ he said.

  She had stretched out on the bed. He lowered himself alongside her, embracing her, at peace, with the contour of her warm breasts and smooth belly and supple hips as one with him, and safe at last. He kissed her face and kissed it and kissed it, and stroked her shoulders and hair, until the last of the fright was exorcised, and the old past crept away into darkness.

  ‘Andrew,’ she whispered, ‘now you can say it.’

  ‘I love you. Forever.’

  She lay in bliss, and she thought: welcome earth, warm earth, the sun-warm, the green-warm, the blue-warm, the singing earth of the living. She moved her face against his to tell him her secret, to tell him—yes—yes—now I can love, too—but then she knew that he knew, and so she kept her peace which was theirs, and they rested as one. . . .

  It was 6.21 in the evening.

  The majestic Ceremony in the auditorium of Concert Hall was drawing to a close. Dr. Claude Marceau and Dr. Denise Marceau had been introduced and extolled in Swedish, and greeted in French, and they had accepted their award from the King, and for both of them Dr. Claude Marceau had addressed the vast assemblage. Dr. Carlo Farelli and Dr. John Garrett had received their awards, and each spoke briefly, eloquently, in turn.

  Now, Professor Max Stratman, having been honoured, had tried to dismiss his apprehensions about Emily, and was at the lectern, reading the speech he had so carefully prepared, a plea for East-West understanding, a plea for eternal peace.

  He had reached his last paragraph. ‘Every year, in my country, the United States of America, we sponsor a Nobel anniversary dinner in New York City, during the month following this night. On one such occasion, a giant whom I admired and was proud to know spoke in the role of scientist and pacifist, and fittingly, his concluding words must be my concluding words. In 1945, at the American Nobel anniversary dinner, Professor Albert Einstein said, “May the spirit that prompted Alfred Nobel to create his great instititution, the spirit of trust and confidence, of generosity and brotherhood among men, prevail in the minds of those upon whose decision our destiny rests. Otherwise human civilization will be doomed.” Thank you, and good evening.’

  Stratman bowed to the prolonged ovation, and he returned to his chair.

  Ingrid Påhl, who was to introduce Andrew Craig, last of the laureates to be honoured, had already taken the empty seat beside Jacobsson, and, tugging nervously at the corsage on her gown, she despaired of what to say.

  ‘What has happened to him?’ she asked. ‘It will be a disgrace. What excuse can I make to His Majesty, the audience?’

  ‘You’ll have to—’ Jacobsson had begun to reply, when suddenly an outburst of applause, louder and louder, from the audience, crashed against the stage. Jacobsson saw all eyes on the platform directed to the rear, and he swung around.

  Andrew Craig, resplendent in full dress, wing collar and white bow tie and patent-leather pumps, was marching slowly down the centre steps of the stage to his place in the right front row.

  Ingrid Påhl, pale with relief, leaped up to shake his hand and give him the seat so long vacant, and Craig bowed to her and settled next to Jacobsson.

  Immediately, Ingrid Påhl walked to the lectern and began to deliver in Swedish the speech on Craig and his writings that she had memorized. As she spoke to the audience, Craig tried to pretend attention, but he spoke, too, in an undertone from the corner of his mouth to Jacobsson.

  ‘Forgive me, I want to apologize,’ he said. ‘I was unavoidably detained—no discourtesy—there was some—some trouble—but it is solved. Perhaps one day I will be able to explain it to you.’

  Jacobsson stared at Craig with amazement, and then deep curiosity, wondering what had detained him, and Krantz, too, Krantz across the aisle, and it occurred to Jacobsson, with not a little sadness, that no matter what he heard and saw and read, his precious Notes would never be complete. But then, he consoled himself, no record of men can ever be complete, for what is inside them, the bottomless mysteries, are not meant to be known. And, at least, at least, he told himself with relief, Craig was here, and the Notes would not be forced to record a scandal. In all, in summary, it would be a quiet and pleasant account he could make of one more placid Nobel Week.

  Craig tried to listen to Ingrid Påhl, but understanding no word of Swedish, again his attention drifted. He enjoyed the gala stage, and he oriented
himself to the elegant audience, and he desperately tried to remember the protocol that must momentarily be observed.

  In a loge high above, his eyes caught Lilly Hedqvist, Gunnar Gottling, and Emily, his own Emily, entering, standing, staring proudly down at him. And he smiled up towards them.

  He remembered how he and Emily had left his bed, and dressed, and hurried downstairs to urge the taxi to speed them to Concert Hall. Backstage, Lilly and Gottling had been waiting for his cryptic reassurance that everything had worked out all right—and then Lilly, with her own news that Daranyi was watching television in the hospital and would be home tomorrow, and Gottling, with his news that ‘that flat-assed broad, Sue Wiley, had gotten suspicious, and is nosing around for the story, but I warned her if she made any more trouble, I’d bust into her room and deflower her, so I think she’ll behave.’

  And as they had waited for Stratman’s speech to end, listening backstage, Craig had taken Emily’s hand, knowing that she had given herself to him for life, knowing that this life with her would not always be easy or uncomplicated, yet knowing, even as he left her to march into the glare of the stage, that it would work, because Humpty Dumpty had been put together again.

  With a start, hearing his name and himself addressed, he realized that Ingrid Påhl had completed her speech in Swedish and was now speaking to him, briefly, in English, informing him of why he had been honoured this night. And then this was done, and she advanced towards him, hand outstretched, a smile wreathing her face, and he was on his feet, accepting her hand, as the audience applauded.

  She guided him now along the train of carpet to the railing and stairs that led down from the centre stage. And there she remained, while he descended the stairs to the King who waited to shake his hand. They met again, clasped hands warmly.

  ‘I congratulate you, Mr. Craig,’ said the King. He handed Craig a large tooled-calf portfolio. ‘Your citation-diploma,’ said the monarch. ‘And in this leather box, the gold medallion. Have a look at it.’ Craig accepted the box and opened it, and the medallion, bearing two classical figures, one with a lyre, sparkled, and he enjoyed it.