by Rex Baron
His hand found its way to Helen’s knee and then into the opening of her skirt. She hurriedly slipped out from under its moist pressure.
“Fate may have granted you a replacement, but I'm afraid only in certain capacities,” she said flatly.
Once again, his hand found the inner part of her thigh. Helen snatched his hand from its unwelcome nesting place and squeezed his knuckles with her hand until she saw him grimace in pain.
“I assure you I am not being coy in resisting you, Herr Ziegler. I'm willing to be useful to you in your work, more useful than you can possibly realize, but I'm not here to play your little games.” She hissed the words at him in a low hoarse whisper, leaning close to his ear, bending back the fingers of his hand to be certain that he would not miss the point. “I'm not one of your buxom little Rhine maidens with eyes the size of saucers and an eagerness to please that borders on stupidity. My body is my own to do with as I please, and if you so much as lay a hand on me again without my permission, the Ministry will have another martyred official on its hands before it has the time to say Heil Hitler. Do I make myself clear?”
The old man nodded dutifully. Helen smiled and released his tortured fingers. Ziegler produced an exaggerated, jolly laugh and rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation.
“You misunderstood my intentions,” he said red-faced. “I have nothing but respect for your abilities and the office you represent in the Kammer.”
Helen nodded her approval, and patted him gently on his hand. Instinctively he jerked it away.
“I think we understand each other now,” she said.
Their skirmish under the table had not gone unnoticed by a burly dark man, wearing the regional knee-length leather trousers. He was unshaven and appeared as if he hadn’t changed his shirt in more days than he could remember. He sipped his beer at small, measured intervals, as if he consciously intended to extend the luxury of remaining at his comfortable place without having to buy another.
He probably only had money for one beer, Helen thought, as she returned his inquisitive gaze with coolness. He was dirty and poor, probably a Gypsy. This region was known for them, the rootless nomadic people who wandered back and forth across the constantly shifting boundaries of these ancient provinces, possessing recognizable features that were somehow tainted with a strangeness, a foreignness that one could immediately identify. They were like the migrants in California, she thought. They were the same tribe as the aimless wanderers with whom she had been raised, uprooting themselves, without comment, to go where the work was, shifting their loyalties to whomever held the purse strings.
She glowered at him with contempt. He was everything that she thought she had forgotten, yet he watched her with a look of recognition in his eyes. Helen took a deep breath and laughed to herself. It was the look that men had given her since she was fifteen. It signified no evil power over her, but a weakness, a willingness to surrender. It was the look of desire, which she had learned to recognize and use against them. It was as powerful a charm to be turned to her advantage as any she had fashioned and bound in the night. She tossed her head and turned away from the intense gaze, confident it held no danger. He was nothing but a poor Gypsy, whose desire for her was of no value.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Biergarten, Bavaria
The strings of paper lanterns overhead were illuminated as the violet color of twilight crept into the late afternoon sky. Cool breezes brought a chill to Helen's bare arms and she rubbed her skin against the attentions of tiny insinuating insects, drawn to her warm blood and the reflections of light glowing from her pale exposed limbs.
Ziegler drank three steins of beer, followed by a Schnapps or two. Finally, Helen suggested that they make their way back to the city, but as they approached the car, their driver informed them that he had discovered a mechanical problem that would require several hours to repair.
Ziegler was more than happy to return to the cozy brightness of the Biergarten, with its irritating accordion player and the simple attentions of the barmaid and her unbaked bosom. But Helen could no longer stomach the smell of stale beer on the oilcloth tables or Ziegler's breath.
After retrieving her jacket from the car, she announced that she would take a walk. Her declaration was met with no resistance, as the professor waved his hand in her direction and accepted a fresh stein.
As she ventured out into the shadowy landscape, Helen could hear his voice, raised in song, bellowing out over the accordion and the slowly darkening tips of the pine forest. She pulled her jacket around her shoulders and stepped carefully onto a path that led her away from the homely lights of the festive little village.
The coolness of the night air, scented with pine, filled her lungs and stirred her thoughts with its clarity. The forest grew black as she proceeded into its heart, but she had no fear of the night or its companions. She was at home, sensing the presence of the forces in each silent hollow of a tree, or in the voice of the whispering night zephyr. These were the voices of the unseen kingdom of beings, which those in the Kraft consulted for omens and glimpses into the future. They were collectively known as the fairy kingdom, the realm of beings that translated the desires and thoughts of the forest trees and the seemingly silent stones. The voices whispered all around her, reminding her of her own past as one of them, and warning her to return to her own kind.
Her ear perceived a sound foreign to this place, a sharp crackling. It was the sound of pine needles and twigs splintering underfoot. She quickly glanced over her shoulder but saw nothing. She dismissed it from her mind until the tiny sound, once again broke through her consciousness with a resounding crack. Her concentration magnified the sound to the volume of snapping tree limbs or the crack of human bones shattering on the rack. Again, she turned to look behind her, and this time saw a dim shape at an indeterminate distance. It moved along as her shadow, a dark doppelganger mirroring her movements, following her within the sound of her own anxious breathing. It came closer, a dark ambling shape like a great ape, featureless in the absence of light.
Suddenly, it was upon her, grabbing at her, tearing the jacket from around her shoulders. She struggled, pushing its head back with the palm of her hand, forcing its face toward the glow of the moon. She saw, in the borrowed light, the face of the Gypsy from the tavern.
He clawed at her flailing arms, burying his face in the hollow of her throat, tearing at the flesh of her neck with his slathering mouth and teeth.
She could not stand under the weight of his body and fell backwards onto the damp moss of the forest floor. His great legs anchored themselves between her thighs, and she heard the fabric of her skirt tearing as he stretched his kneeling stance wider.
His open mouth above her dripped its foul smelling spittle onto her face. All she could see was the occasional glint in his eyes, a reflection of moonlight illuminating the hungry madness in his mind.
She tore her arm free from under his insistent bulk and struck out at the tiny sparks of light that she knew marked the position of his eyes in the constellation of darkness over her head. Her nails dug deep into the vulnerable flesh, causing him to cry out, sending a wild shriek of pain resounding through the blackness of the forest, like the cry of a wolf mortally caught in a trap. His hands left her body and groped at his own face, now glistening with dark crimson.
Helen pushed him aside and staggered to her feet. She ran into the forest, mindless of the direction, away from the cries of pain, into an area darker still, haunted with the mocking screams of night birds and the constant vigilance of smaller beasts of prey.
She had broken her heel in the struggle, causing her to hobble uncomfortably, reaching out like a blind woman for the security of friendly tree branches, steadying her and guiding the way in the dark.
She turned constantly, scanning the wall of non-dimensional blackness for evidence of the return of her attacker. Her hearing strained, listening for him. The sound of her own breath thundered in her ears, in cou
nterpoint to the pounding in her chest.
The lights of the village were lost to her, and her sense of direction confused with every turn. She walked for what seemed hours, resting now and again to relieve the soreness of her feet. She wanted to sleep, to lie down on the soft earth and drift away to another place, but she knew the Gypsy was still out there somewhere, more blind than she, tracking her, groping his way through the dark to find her, his desire now fired by hatred.
She closed her eyes against the weight of the dark. Like the suffocating pressure of earth piled into an open grave, it weighed on her, making it hard for her to breathe. She gasped, airless, unsatisfying breaths from its impenetrable volume.
All at once, a laughing woman's voice filtered through, a laser of a sound, giving her direction in her confusion, a point of focus to lead her toward her salvation. Steadily, she walked toward the voice that mingled with others into a far away hum, like a swarm of unseen, night flying bees.
Up ahead, a dim light shone through the thickness of the forest wall and the voices became more discernible and blessedly real. Helen approached cautiously, half fearing she had stumbled on the Gypsy encampment where her attacker might have retreated for assistance. She removed both of her shoes and crept to the edge of a stand of trees, behind which a bonfire blazed with unnatural light.
Carefully, Helen parted the branches of the evergreens and peered through the opening. Her dilated pupils strained against the brightness of the scene before her. Her ears registered the sense of things before her eyes had the time to adjust.
Before her, dozens of people, hand in hand, slowly moved about the great fire in a circle. Their eyes closed, they chanted in unison. The German words were unfamiliar, but the rhythm and sound of it was buried deep in her childhood memories. It was the chanting of witches, the calling down of the moon in a foreign tongue, but still vibrating with a power that Helen knew and understood.
They were naked to the last one, men, women and children, rhythmically moving counter clockwise, uttering the name in a single voice.
Off to one side, she saw a row of parked automobiles and an overgrown path, which had brought them to this place. She could not ask for a lift, nor reveal herself as a sister to the priestess positioned above the flames. She dared not intrude upon their Sabbath for fear of her life. Instead, she slipped her crippling shoes back on her feet and hobbled down the path, hoping to find her way back to the village.
It was after eleven o'clock when she limped back into the Biergarten. Ziegler was unconscious, slumped face down on the table, surrounded by a ring of overturned glasses. All but a few die-hard revelers had left for the night, and the buxom barmaid sat quietly at a corner table counting the coins of her trinkgeld.
Helen roused the driver from his sleep and instructed him to load the professor in the auto and head back to Munich without delay.
As she rode through the darkness along the forest road, now within the safety of her car, she tried to warm herself against the penetrating night air. She tapped on the glass window that separated her from the driver and demanded heat.
She settled back in the seat, aware of her aching muscles, twisted and bruised in the struggle with the Gypsy. It had been a frightening incident, one that she need not mention to anyone, and yet, the evening was not without its rewards. She had stumbled onto the meeting place of the local coven, a feat not easily managed, even by one who knows of its existence. She smiled to herself in the dark. When the time was right and when the need arose, she would know where to find her own kind.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jewish Quarter, Munich
Lexi turned the corner and passed a row of tiny shops. Each consisted of two dingy curio windows flanking a narrow door, deeply recessed from the scraps of sunlight that found their way down into this dreary part of the city. She paused for a moment in front of one such place that displayed three gold orbs clustered over the doorway. The faded sign, peeling from the glass read: Fine Jewelry Bought and Sold.
She hesitated, then ducked inside. Lexi stood at the counter for a moment, scanning the jewelry cases and looked nervously back over her shoulder, through the window and out into the street.
“If you're so worried that someone will see you coming in, why do you bother to come at all?” A man's voice called from the back room.
The drapery behind the counter parted and an elderly man with horn-rimmed spectacles on his ruddy face scowled at her. He pulled the drapery closed behind him with a single angry tug.
“Stop standing there pretending to look at the merchandise. It only makes me angry.” He placed his hands on the counter between them and stared at her down-turned face. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she answered quietly. “I came to see Mischa. He is my brother after all.”
“Oh you mean Michael… Now he's Michael. His own name isn't good enough for him after eighteen years. He's ashamed, like you. He is your brother… that's for certain. He listens to your nonsense.”
The man turned his back and fumbled purposelessly with display cards filled with watches in a cabinet. It was clear that he had turned his face away to avoid the flood of emotions that looking into her eyes would bring.
Lexi slipped behind the counter and entered the unseen world beyond the curtain. It was a small room, airless and without the natural light of day. Two lamps illuminated the stacks of papers and books systematically arranged on nearly every surface with the exception of two narrow cots and the heating stove in the corner. She ran her finger along the edge of a Biedermeier table and frowned at the line it drew in the dust.
Michael looked up from his reading. He too wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, but under his tousle of thick bohemian curls, they only succeeded in making him appear lean and handsomely studious.
“Sorry sweetheart,” he said, attempting a masterfully masculine air. “I would have gotten up to greet you, but I had to finish this last paragraph. My exams for university are at the end of the week.” He kissed his sister gallantly on the cheek.
Lexi smiled weakly and touched his face.
His brows wrinkled. “What's wrong?”
Lexi motioned toward the curtain separating them from the shop.
“Oh him,” Michael said, slumping back into his reading chair. “He's sore at both of us now, I guess. You can’t imagine what it's like living here, when all he does is shuffle around here trying not to look at me, muttering to himself about what ingrates we are and betrayers to our ancestors.”
He laughed lightheartedly.
“We are,” Lexi said, releasing the air from her lungs as if in pain.
Michael's smile faded from his lips at Lexi's remark.
“I felt it was the right thing to do, pretending to be a Gentile, so that I might have a chance at the Kammers Kultur post, but maybe it was terribly wrong to lie.” She lowered herself to the edge of a straight back chair and sat uncomfortably, staring at the faded wallpaper like a sinner doing penance.
Michael placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Well, I know I would have no chance if I registered at the university as a Jew. I had a friend whose family immigrated. He let me have his papers, his school records, everything. So now I'm a Lutheran and an A student without even having to study.”
Lexi listened to his explanation with disapproval.
“Since I'm going to university in Stuttgart, no one will know me there,” Michael said.
“Suppose you meet someone who knows this boy or his family, what will you do?” Lexi asked with concern.
“Michael Kroeger is not such an unusual name. I'll invent new parents. It won't be hard at all.”
He spoke with the excitement of a child. The deception was nothing more than a disguise, a game to be played out for the winning. He picked up his book, feeling that he had made sufficient allowances for his future life, and thumbed through it until he found the place where he had stopped reading.
“Uncle Jacob will never forgive me
for betraying our people,” Lexi said. “After taking us in when mother died, I feel like I've betrayed him too.”
“Make no mistake about it. That's what he thinks all right,” Michael said a little too brightly.
Lexi's eyes welled with tears and she reached her hands into the pockets of her coat to hide their fidgeting.
“Oh yes,” she said pulling a folded cluster of Reichmark notes from her pocket. “These are for you, and Uncle Jacob of course. He wouldn't take it from me, and I know business has fallen off, so I want him to have it.”
Michael let out a low whistle and lunged forward to take the money. He unfolded and counted out the notes into a neat stack on the arm of the chair. “Things are looking up for you. Even without your appointment to the Kammer, you haven't done too badly,” he said approvingly.
Lexi paced the room, unable to take off her coat, still feeling the pervading unwelcoming coolness around her.
“The woman I'm working for pays me well. I don't know why. She isn't interested in the money I suppose. She has already placed herself in a position nearly equal to Ziegler and has the ear of many I wouldn't dare speak to.”
“She sounds like a good person to know these days.”
“I hate her,” Lexi said with the sharpness of steel in her voice. “She's despicable, a whore.”
Michael's face reddened. The word was one that still carried the unsavory titillation of words forbidden in childhood. He did not reply, but returned his attention to his book, making his discomfort with the subject clearly felt.
“I better go now,” Lexi said, gathering the folds of her coat around her to stave off the coldness in his response. “See that you don't lose that money, and don't tell Uncle Jacob where you got it. He'd rather that you stole it than think you'd take it from me.”
She kissed him and walked toward the door.
