Orphan Monster Spy

by Matt Killeen

  Her fingers brushed up against something that moved. She wanted to snatch her hand back but resisted and reached out again. She touched the thing, and it vanished once more. She waited and it returned to her. It was a thin chain, with a knot at one end, the other disappearing upward. She grasped the knot and pulled down.

  There was a click and then a light so blinding that Sarah lost her balance. She was in a squalid bathroom with a broken toilet bowl in the corner behind a rotting wooden partition. A long trough ran the length of the far wall at floor level. Everything was filthy, but next to Sarah a rusting tap spat brown water into a low, long basin.

  She grabbed the edge of the sink and thrust her mouth under the tap, opening it up to full. The liquid tasted warm and rusty, but it was wet and it didn’t stop. Sarah gulped and swallowed, gulped and swallowed, ignoring the sense of smothering when it went up her nose. After a minute, she stopped and stretched out her back, letting the water drip down her chin, feeling the life seeping back into her body.

  “Oh, look, it’s the little girl from the roof.”

  A man’s voice. Sarah froze. Dumme Schlampe! You left the door open. The man was between her and the doorway. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do. That helplessness took the weight from her shoulders. She felt oddly calm and light. So light that she felt herself rise above the sea of panic. She grunted an affirmative noise and bent down to drink again, trying not to imagine the next few hours.

  TWO

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” said the man.

  “Drinking,” she replied between gulps.

  “What were you doing on the roof?” His delivery was flat, almost emotionless.

  Don’t be fooled. That just means you can’t read him.

  “Looking for someone.” She stood up and wiped her chin. It seemed to be covered in brown dirt. She purposely avoided looking straight at him, buying time to think of something without her eyes giving anything away.

  “On the roof?”

  Trap.

  “Yes.” She was just delaying the inevitable. It didn’t matter what she said, and this made her feel free. Bold. “What were you doing watching the airship?”

  “I’m asking the questions.” The merest hint of tension. Not anger.

  “Yes, you are.” She cocked her head to one side and waited. The man was dressed in black, with a woollen hat and a dark knapsack. His face looked dirty. Not what she’d expected. He just stared back at her like he was trying to work something out. Sarah wondered if she really could just brazen this out. “Well, I shouldn’t take up any more of your time, so . . .”

  The man pushed the door shut behind him. Sarah took a step back. He leaned against the door and folded his arms.

  “And you’re going where, exactly?” Colder. Almost icy. Sarah wanted to shiver.

  “Home, now. I couldn’t find . . . my father. He’s a dockworker.”

  “Why were you looking for him?” She was definitely being interrogated now.

  “His dinner was ready.”

  “At four in the morning?”

  “He’s working nights.”

  “On the roof?”

  “I was looking everywhere.”

  “And what happened to your face?”

  Sarah reached up and touched her nose. It stung like she’d been slapped. Something flaky peeled off in her fingers, and she looked down to see what it was. It was then she noticed that the front of her light brown dress was stained a dirty red brown. Congealed blood had crumbled off on her fingers.

  “I . . . walked into something in the dark,” she tried to say, but the words were lost as she choked, then coughed and finally sniffed, wincing with the pain. The man laughed. It was a joyless thing, full of scorn. Sarah found a wellspring of anger and defiance deep inside. She stared into his eyes, a girl on the verge of a change, covered in dried blood, rust, mold, and rotting leaves. Be the duchess, darling, said her inner voice, her mother’s voice. You’re onstage; they are not. They are yours to command. They are ready to be convinced. So convince.

  “Yes, I got lost and walked into a broken piece of guttering. Shall I show you?” He had watery-blue eyes with dusky edges. Don’t blink, she told herself.

  “What’s your name, girl?” he asked more softly. The creases around his eyes seemed to smile. There was something odd about his accent. He was Bavarian, she thought, but odd words seemed different . . .

  “Sarah, Sarah Gold . . .” Think. “G . . . Elsengrund.” Dumme Schlampe. Sarah slumped against the sink. The man laughed again, this time not so hollow.

  “Oh, oh, oh, you were doing so well. You’ll have to do better than that, Sarah Goldberg, Goldstein, Goldschmitt—whatever you are.”

  Sarah began to wash her face, hoping it would hide the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes. The man came very close, then sat on the edge of the basin. He spoke quickly. “Wash your dress, wash it clean, it can stay wet if need be . . . and wipe your coat down. You’re from Elsengrund, right? Right?” Sarah nodded. “That’s good, stick with that . . . and use Ursula or something. Sarah—doesn’t get more Jewish than that. You have anywhere to go?”

  Sarah shook her head. She had been defeated, but now she was uncertain what was happening.

  “And no papers? That’s good. If they were stamped, they’re useless for Switzerland anyway. Ferry is your best bet. Little-girl routine, like you’re meant to be there. Wait for dawn, but not here. That roof is as good as any.” He paused. “One more thing . . .” He caught her face and grabbed hold of her nose. Sarah managed to seize his wrists, but before she could do anything, he pulled. Sarah squealed despite herself. The pain was all-consuming. Then there was a loud crack and it was over. She staggered backward, too scared to touch her face.

  “Don’t touch it, it’s straight now . . . definitely less noticeable.” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “You didn’t know it was broken?” Sarah’s hands trembled in front of her. She inhaled through her nose: it was sore but clear. The voice in her head was silent. She looked up from the floor to see the man in the open doorway.

  “And trust no one. Good luck, Sarah of Elsengrund.” Then he was gone.

  Sarah watched her hands. It took a full minute before they were still.

  * * *

  • • •

  Dawn was cold and gray. After a clear night, dirty clouds had rolled in from the lake to turn the sunrise into a faded photograph. Sarah stood in the shadows, her damp dress wrapped around her legs like moldy curtains. It rubbed against the cuts on her knees and thighs until it was all she could think about. She let the irritation eat her up as it kept the voice in her head quiet. Right now she didn’t need it.

  The blood had washed out to leave an ugly stain on her dress, so she had buttoned up her dark coat to hide it. Around her neck was a piece of dark sacking that could be mistaken for a scarf. It smelled of stale milk, but it was dry. It was the only thing she was wearing that was. She had pulled her hair into some kind of order with her last hair clip and braided the rest at the back of her head, tied off with a piece of wire. She would look fine at a distance, but, as with a scarecrow, a close-up view would fool no one.

  Sarah hadn’t let herself sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw blood and chasing dogs. Conscious, she was able to control them, but when she drifted off, they ran her down and leapt at her. She woke barely able to breathe for sobbing. Awake she could keep her mind on the here and now.

  The ferry horn sounded. That was her cue. She stepped into the light and, ignoring the gnawing pain in her legs, began to skip down the road toward the harbor. She might be fifteen but she could pass for eleven, or younger if she acted the part. Sarah had always been small for her age, something that years of poverty had made more pronounced, and this was a role she had played before—staying small, unobtrusive, childlike. The town was starting to make its way to work across the
cobbles, staring at its own feet or making a swish-rattle bicycle noise as it passed. Tired and disgruntled and uninterested. Sarah kept the rhythm of her movement going, resisting the urge to break into a run. Instead she began to hum a tune she’d heard the Bund Deutscher Mädel, the League of German Girls, singing when they marched past her house. She felt the beat in her head, drawing strength from its bounce and thrilled by taking the song over for herself.

  “Uns’re Fahne something something,” skip, skip, “uns’re Fahne something Zeit! . . .” She struggled to remember the words. The banner something. She was nearly at the entrance. “Und die Fahne führt uns something something . . .” What was the next bit? Yes, yes . . . our banner . . . banner?

  “Our banner means more to us than death!” shouted the soldier as he loomed in front of her.

  Sarah shrieked as she bumped into his chest and stumbled backward, the smell of sweat and leather thick in her nose. He towered over her, a gray monster with brown straps.

  “I mean, what is your youth leader teaching you?” He shook his head, hands on his hips and rifle slung over a shoulder. He was young, maybe twenty, his brow furrowed with theatrical disapproval. Sarah made herself smile, pushing the corners of her mouth up until her cheeks hurt.

  “. . . more to us than death . . . than death!” she shouted back and giggled, almost hysterically. “Oh, she’s very good really. Sorry!” she called over her shoulder and waved hurriedly. She watched the soldier smile, shaking his head as he turned away. “Death . . . death . . .” she breathed, trying to slow her pounding heart. She waited for strong hands to grab her shoulders, but nothing happened.

  They’re not looking for you, the voice said.

  Then why are they even here?

  Keep singing. Keep smiling. The voice changed the subject. You play the part all the way into the wings, on into the dressing room. You don’t stop until the final curtain.

  The ferry was drifting toward the dock, and beyond it was the blurry horizon. Above it Sarah could see the jagged shapes of the mountains across the lake, mountains that meant . . . freedom? Safety? She had only the vaguest notion of what she would do even if she got on board the ferry to Switzerland.

  Keep your mind on the show. Everything else—the party, the fame—those are for afterward, not now. The show is where you earn them.

  On the right, a line of passengers was forming. To the left a horse and cart had been parked, waiting for the boat to dock. Everywhere else, there were soldiers and police, checking, looking, talking, guarding, watching.

  Sarah slowed her pace. She would have to time this just right. The ferry stopped, lines were thrown to the dock, a few passengers hopped off the ramp. Wait. The line began to shuffle on, the cart and horse trotted forward. Momentary chaos . . .

  Crying, my love, is an art. It’s about control. Not keeping it in—any fool can do that. Taking it inside and storing it until you need it, that’s the secret. No leaks, just a tap that goes on . . . and goes off.

  Crying?

  Take the horror and use it.

  Sarah recoiled. She had kept the image of her mother in the car at arm’s length, until now.

  No.

  Yes, the voice insisted.

  No, it hurts.

  That’s the point. Look back into the car.

  Sarah pleaded. Mutti, no . . .

  LOOK INTO THE CAR, DUMME SCHLAMPE.

  The blood.

  Yes, the voice whispered.

  So much blood . . .

  Tears streamed down Sarah’s face as the emptiness wrapped itself round her stomach. She threw up in her mouth but swallowed it down.

  Now.

  She ran along the waiting passengers, shouting, letting the rage and fear take over.

  “Vati! Vati! Daddy! Daaddee! Where are you! Vati!” The people in the line shuffled uncomfortably and looked at one another. Sarah accelerated toward the ramp. “Vati!”

  “Whoa, stop, Fräulein. Miss, please.” The sergeant took a step back, thought about raising his gun, and stopped, uncertain. Sarah skidded to a halt and raised her hands to her face.

  “Where’s Vati? He said he’d be here!” she wailed, and squeezed her eyes shut. “He must be here . . . Vati!” She looked up at the sergeant’s face, opened her stinging eyes, and snorted snot down her face over her open mouth.

  “He’s on board? Is he? . . . Just . . .” The sergeant looked around helplessly and his troopers looked back dumbly. He shouted to a policeman deep in conversation on the other side of the ramp. “Wachtmeister! Some help here!”

  “Vati!” howled Sarah. “Is he on board?”

  “Yeah, like I’m your slave, Scharführer,” the policeman called back.

  The sergeant turned back to Sarah. “Ticket? Who has your papers?”

  “Vati . . .” Keep going, keep crying, keep screaming.

  “But . . .”

  “Excuse me, can we get on board?” Polite voices getting agitated.

  “VATI!”

  “Just go, okay, go find your father . . .” The sergeant raised his arms and made a shooing motion to Sarah, who ran past him and climbed aboard, taking one look back to see the horse and cart block her view. She waited a moment and then ran for the staircase to the top deck, wiping her nose and mouth with her coat sleeve.

  Good girl. I’m sorry. You’re not dumb.

  Ignoring the voice, she shoved the crash and her mother’s absence back down into the dark, regaining control. She went toward the bow and squeezed herself behind a life buoy, out of sight.

  She leaned out and looked back at the harbor with a feeling of extreme triumph. This was better than a gymnastics medal, better than a curtain call, better than getting home without being called names. Finally, after all this time of being endlessly starved, harassed, and attacked, the dirty Jewess Sarah was the Königin, the queen, the boss. The National Socialists, their marches, their window-breaking, and their vicious hate could go take a giant jump. She felt like screaming to the sky with the gulls and taking off after them.

  The sense of victory, of raw howling satisfaction, didn’t last long. When that thin seam of passion had been exhausted, Sarah felt oddly hollow, like chocolates raided, eaten, and then the empty box rewrapped.

  She looked at buildings, the twin spires of the church off to the west. She was looking at her country. Her country. She had been running scared so long, she’d forgotten what she was actually running from. She belonged here. She was not a stupid J stamped in a passport. She was German. They were making her leave her country, like they made her leave the house in Elsengrund and the apartment in Berlin, and when she and her mother fled to Austria, they made her leave there, too.

  The victory was now hollow and filled with bile, ringed by fears and doubt.

  She sniffed and spat over the rail. This drew a reproving glance from one of the passengers, but Sarah didn’t care. They couldn’t get her now.

  Could they? She looked back at the dock. The soldiers were busy, disorganized, distracted. Two of them had drifted to a corner for a smoke. The sergeant was arguing with the policeman. Nobody was in charge, like they didn’t know what they were looking for.

  Didn’t they know what they were looking for? A girl, an escaping Jew, a blonde Jew at that, whose mother had panicked and plowed through a roadblock, because everything she did was a disaster. Why hadn’t they caught her? Unless . . . they weren’t really looking for her in the first place?

  She watched the last few stragglers coming on board and a man running along the quay. He had a long black coat and a carpetbag trailing behind him. The sergeant moved to head him off, arm outstretched. The smokers finished their cigarettes and approached the ramp.

  The roadblock that her mother had driven into: it was unexpected. Everything else had gone according to plan. Was there a plan? They’d gotten to a border in a car they shou
ldn’t have had, but after that?

  Her mother might have described the plan in detail, but Sarah hadn’t been listening. She was angry at the National Socialists, even the other Jews for whatever they’d done to bring this on them all, but she reserved her deepest, seething, suppressed resentment for her mother, for her drinking, her failures, and her hopelessness. Worse still was the endless line of fantasy and optimistic delusion. Crashing the barriers and getting herself shot, that was typical.

  But if the roadblock hadn’t been for them, if they hadn’t been the target, what were these soldiers here for? Maybe there were checkpoints everywhere now . . .

  They wouldn’t let the man on board. Sarah leaned out for a clearer look. The policeman was now taking an interest. The man took off his hat and ran his fingers through his blond hair. The ferrymen began to untie the lines, impatiently coiling the wires and watching. The man now had soldiers on three sides. He retreated a step and gestured back into town. He tried to reclaim his papers, but the sergeant pulled them away. Sarah watched the shoulders of one of the onlooking soldiers, the coarse material of his uniform stretching as he shifted his gun into his right hand.

  Sarah looked out over the lake to the mountains. To safety, maybe. No visa, no friends, no money, no mother—Switzerland didn’t want Jewish refugees, so she’d have to be careful on the other side, but she had no choice . . .

  Then she looked back to the harbor. This man, she realized, was the reason for the roadblocks and soldiers. Hunted. She knew what it was to be hunted.

  The policeman circled behind the man and waited about ten meters back, blocking his retreat. The ferrymen started to shout at the soldiers. Late. The sergeant turned to them and shouted back, just as the man looked up toward the ferry. Sarah saw his watery-blue eyes and recognized him. He had the look of a cornered animal, so different from the face he had used the night before. A man without friends. Without a choice.

  The departure horn sounded above her.

  Sarah was at the top of the stairs before the sound finished. She slid down the banisters on either side on her hands and hit the deck running, her palms burning. The ramp was now up, so she took a half step and leapt over it. She saw the sliver of dirty water beneath her, and then it was gone.