Orphan Monster Spy

by Matt Killeen

  The girls marched down the corridors in well-drilled rows, illuminated only by candlelight, singing softly of the glory of the Fatherland, the virtue of its women, and their love for their leader. They entered the Grand Hall from different directions and merged seamlessly, their fringed banners and flags sliding into place at the head of the formation. They paraded up the grand staircase to meet the older girls descending it, and, turning, they formed a massed choir in front of the rank of teachers by the entrance door. Then, after a silence, one soprano voice soared into life and sang an aria to a hardy Alpine flower and how much the Führer loved it.

  Sarah had been escorted to the back of the lines of girls on the ground floor and kept out of the way. She recognized again just how easy it must be to open your heart to all of this. It was unquestionably moving. Every tiny element seemed designed to call out, Join us. National Socialist events were always filled with crowds, with torches, with fire, with thick embroidered banners. In the darkest corners, hidden from the firelight, one more convert could slip unnoticed into the throng. If you pushed to the front, there were always willing hands to clap you on as you burned books, kicked bakers, and smashed shop windows.

  She had sometimes stolen into a cinema many, many kilometers from home. The walk hurt her feet, but although cinemas weren’t officially forbidden to Jews until later, it was safer to be somewhere where she wouldn’t be recognized. Besides, she had no money. There she was always rewarded with anonymity and a broken back door. She could sneak in and wedge herself against the threadbare velvet seats in the corner, well out of the sight of curious usherettes. When she was eleven she had inadvertently crept into a film of a really big Nazi rally, The Triumphant Will or something, and had sat in rapt amazement at everything she saw. It was beautiful, like an extended dance routine, better choreographed than any American musical she had ever seen. It had seemed to glow from within, a golden sunrise from a forgotten, better childhood, with a god descending from the clouds, bringing joy and inspiration. More than that, it seemed an entire argument for National Socialism. The order, the grace, the majesty. Who wouldn’t want to belong to that?

  “Where are you from, my friend?” called the fresh-faced youths in uniform before others replied one by one, a roll call of German cities and towns. Everybody was there. So swept up in it was she that for those two hours she forgot these were the exact same people throwing stones at her windows and beating her in the street. Making a link between this beautiful dance of pride and celebration and the hate, pain, and humiliation they were dishing out seemed impossible. She must have gotten it wrong somehow. It took most of the walk home to break the spell. Her blisters and thirst reminded her why she had been made to walk fifteen kilometers to find a picture house that she could sneak into.

  The singing had stopped, and one of the teachers had stepped forward to speak. His voice was monotonous, so Sarah quickly lost interest. “A bright future . . . a glorious inheritance . . . Polish aggression . . . enemies of the Reich from the outside and from within . . . taking your place . . . the annual River Run, an example of your strength and commitment . . .”

  She scanned the crowd for Elsa Schäfer. Among the rows of seemingly identical pupils, immaculate in their Jungmädel and BDM uniforms, it seemed an almost hopeless task, until her eyes were drawn to one tall Final Year girl near the top of the staircase.

  She had wavy golden hair tamed in braids, and her face was clear, fresh, and welcoming, pale like alabaster with striking gray eyes. Her arms were muscular and her hips broad. She was a poster for the Third Reich come to life. Around her gathered a group of young women straight from the pages of Das deutsche Mädel. Each had strong features, athletic builds, and high-ranking BDM uniforms, yet it was clear who was their leader.

  Behind this girl was Elsa. She was fifteen like Sarah, but she was about ten centimeters taller—the kind of growth and maturity that came with a good diet, or enough food of any kind. Her hair was thick and glossy in a way that Sarah’s could be when she had time to care for it. Her eyes were wide and friendly, with a touch of vinegar hiding in their vitality.

  Then Sarah sensed that she was being watched. Their leader was staring at her intensely. Sarah tried to break eye contact but found that she could not. After an uncomfortable and drawn-out moment, the girl looked away, but only to nudge one of the others and point Sarah out.

  Sarah knew, instinctively, that this was a bad thing. She could spot a gang forming with mischief in mind and knew there would be no avoiding it. This leader would be the gatekeeper to the group, and there could be no approach to Elsa without her say-so.

  Sarah willed herself to look elsewhere.

  The teachers were an unremarkable and miserable-looking collection of aging suits and hair pulled into buns so severe the wearers must have had constant headaches. Herr Bauer was wedged into an oversized seat at the back. Hovering to one side was the skeleton Klaus, his brown uniform letting him blend into the shadows.

  Sarah leaned over to her escort.

  “Mouse, who is that in the uniform? Is he a teacher?”

  The Mouse glanced quickly left and right. “That’s Sturmbannführer Klaus Foch. He’s not a teacher, he’s just sort of there. He’s in charge of the political purity of our—you know—thoughts. He doesn’t do much . . .”

  “Not a music teacher, then?”

  The Mouse raised her eyebrows. “Oh, oh . . . yes, he likes the piano. He likes music. Or rather, he likes the girls who play music.”

  “Silence,” whispered one of the older girls farther down the line. The Mouse went quiet and bowed her head, but she bounced a little on her toes and kept sneaking a peek at Sarah. After a moment she leaned over again.

  “Apparently, he was very high up in the Sturmabteilung, you know, the SA, a friend of Röhm’s and everything. Somehow Foch survived the Blood Purge when the Führer executed everyone else in the SA, but they say the old skeleton has never been the same since. He’s a little, you know, funny . . .”

  This time the older girl reached over, grabbed the Mouse’s braid, and pulled it. “I said shush,” she said, giving the hair one more slow tug before releasing her. Sarah kept looking straight ahead and watched this out of the corner of her eye. She counted thirty seconds before glancing over to the Mouse again. A single tear had drawn a line down her cheek. A bubbling fury threaded its way around Sarah’s temples, so she slammed her eyes shut.

  There was no film of bullied little girls in that movie of the rally, but Sarah knew that around the edges and out of view, hair was being pulled, just as windows were smashed and innocents dragged off to some camp for re-education.

  Choose your battles, Sarah. This is survival of the fittest.

  As if she’d opened the door to the street on a winter’s evening, Sarah went cold. She realized her transformation to little monster had already begun.

  The teacher finished railing against the plans of the Poles and Slavs to oppress the German-speaking people of Europe and was now promising, with regret, a swift and decisive response. His voice rose in volume but lost none of its dullness.

  “You must believe in Germany as firmly, clearly, and truly as you believe in the sun, the moon, and the starlight. You must believe in Germany as if Germany were yourself. As you believe your soul strives toward eternity. You must believe in Germany—as your life is but death. And you must fight for Germany until the new dawn comes.”

  To this climax, the girls saluted and shouted the Führer’s name over and over. It began as a unified chant, but the words and patterns dissolved into a hysterical, excited howling. Grins fixed, eyes wide, faces flushed.

  Each time Sarah joined in, it was like a piece of her died away. Dumb monster, dumb monster, she repeated to herself. She felt increasingly grubby and unwashed.

  Finally, the ceremony was over, and the lines of girls broke into babbling groups. Electric lights flickered into life all over t
he hall, making everything seem smaller and more childish.

  Sarah looked for Elsa Schäfer, but in the disorder she seemed to have vanished. There would be no quick win this first night. Seeing it this way, the scale of the challenge dwarfed her, as did the danger. How long before someone turned and pointed at the dirty Jew among them? Sarah was about to ask the Mouse what they were meant to do next when a voice yelled over the hubbub.

  “You, new girl! You don’t know the songs.”

  The girl’s voice had command: a Berlin accent that spoke of expensive housing and servants. Sarah felt the Mouse dissolve away before the tall girl, the leader, who strode toward her.

  She was flanked by her entourage of high-ranking BDM uniforms, and almost imperceptibly, they encircled Sarah. She had received enough harassment on the streets of Berlin and Vienna to know where this was going, but she quelled the need to flee.

  Enter Little Monster, stage left. She pauses. She has no need to fear.

  “I’m sorry?” she said, tilting her head to one side and saucering her eyes. Her heart fluttered in her chest, so she breathed out slowly and silently through her nose.

  “How did you get this uniform if you don’t know our songs?” The girl smiled.

  “Oh, well, that’s a little embarrassing. I was traveling with my parents a lot, and my time with the Jungmädel was very patchy. My uncle is hoping my education will improve here.” She was about to add, “I’m sure it will!” brightly, but stopped herself.

  “Where were you?” said the girl curiously.

  “Spain, mostly. My father was in the Condor Legion.”

  “Oh, good. Bombing the Republicans into mulch, I hope.” More smiles. “What is your name?”

  “Haller, Ursula Haller.” This is going too well, she thought. Something more was on its way.

  “Well, Haller.” Smile. “You will come to see me tomorrow night and sing each song we sang tonight. For every mistake, for every word you get wrong, Rahn here will pull out one strand of your hair.” Smile. “That will improve your education, won’t it?” Wide-eyed innocence, agreement, satisfaction.

  Sarah looked at Rahn, a mountain of a girl whose arms threatened to burst from her shirt. The leader was still smiling, with no trace of anger or hate, while the others smirked. She nodded at Sarah and walked away, calling out, “Shall we say sunset? Yes, let’s.”

  Now everyone was looking at Sarah. Her lips felt dry. Was she blushing? Her neck was warm. The totality of her defeat was shattering, as was its speed. Close your mouth, dumme Schlampe, you look like a fish.

  “Von Scharnhorst. She’s the Schulsprecherin, the Head Girl.” The Mouse had reappeared and moved from foot to foot. “We only sang four songs tonight . . . or was it five? Not sure. The Ice Queen is going easy on you.”

  “That’s still a lot of hair,” croaked Sarah.

  TEN

  “I KNEW IT. I knew you would make trouble.” Liebrich paced up and down at the end of Sarah’s cot, practically growling. “The last thing we need is Von Scharnhorst making this dorm her latest pet project. Damn you, Haller.”

  Sarah was sitting cross-legged on the bed, hastily written pages spread out in front of her. She scanned the lines over and over. Some songs, like “The Banner,” were easy—she was familiar with the tune—but two of them she’d never heard before. With no melody to hang the words on, they just drifted away, autumn leaves blowing off their branches.

  “You aren’t making this any easier,” Sarah murmured.

  “I mean, what rock have you been under that you don’t know these songs?”

  “Yes, that was it, I was under a rock. Not in Spain, under a rock. My best friend was a worm,” Sarah said icily.

  “Don’t get smart, Haller.”

  “Well, we can’t all be like you, can we?”

  Liebrich thought about that for a moment. Two of the other girls getting ready for bed behind her stifled a laugh. Liebrich clenched her fists by her side. “If you don’t make die Eiskönigin happy tomorrow, you’ll have another hair-pulling session here right afterward.”

  “I’ll look forward to it. Bring a hat.” Sarah didn’t look up. She didn’t care about Liebrich anymore. There were bigger sausages to fry.

  “Lights out,” called a voice, and the girls hurried to their cots. Sarah shuffled into the bed and tried to wrap herself in the sheet. Liebrich had lied. It was nowhere near warm enough.

  Sarah was running headlong down the alley. She had scratched her cheek and could feel blood running down her chin.

  “JUDE!” screamed a voice behind her.

  “JU-DE,” other voices chanted, more distantly.

  She glanced back to see how far they were behind her and totally failed to see the three boys from the Hitlerjugend, the Hitler Youth, until she was right on top of them. The tallest, a boy of about fifteen, seized her wrists and dragged her to a halt.

  “Look, it’s the little golden Jewess.” He flung her against a wall and wiped his palms on his uniform trousers. The rough brick tore at her back through the thin cotton.

  “You’ve got your hands dirty now, Bernt,” said one of the others, slouching against the wall. They were almost twice her size, too big to fight but young enough to keep up with her if she got away. She tried not to breathe heavily, but the moment was too much for her and she ended up panting like a dog.

  “They shouldn’t be out soiling up the place,” muttered the other, blocking Sarah’s escape on the other side and making a wet snorting sound.

  “Yeah, we should make them wash. Don’t you think, Martin?”

  Martin stooped and spat in Sarah’s face. The phlegm was hot as it slapped into her cheek, splashing into her eye before coming to rest across her ear. She waited for it to slough away, staring at the ground, both eyes wide. She knew better than to look them in the eye at this point. Her only defense was their boredom. I am nothing, I am not worth bothering with. Walk away.

  “What’s a Jew doing with that hair, anyway? Eh?” The leader seized one of her curls and pulled slowly. This was new, and she wasn’t sure how to play it. Seeing her confusion, he tugged quickly and tore the hair from her scalp. She cried out despite herself, and she could feel the tears coming.

  Don’t you dare cry, dumme Schlampe. Better they take every hair on your head than be that weak.

  My lovely, lovely hair.

  You vain little Hure. You shouldn’t even have hair that color.

  The boys laughed and reached for her head.

  “Is this what the master race is doing these days? Bullying a little girl?” The voice made them stagger and turn. “That making you feel big and important?”

  The butcher was huge. Tall and broad shouldered, he had arms that were rounded and merged seamlessly into his bald head without stopping for a neck. The front of his white coat was soaked red, with gleaming patches where it was still wet. In his hand was a chalef, a long cleaver, with a glittering edge.

  In the silence a sphere of blood formed at the end of the blade and dripped onto the cobbles.

  “Move on, old man. This is Reich business,” Bernt stated, but his voice quavered.

  “The business of the Reich? Children menacing children?” He swapped the cleaver into his right hand. The blood left a trail across the ground. “You’ve got until I count to five to get lost. One.” The boys looked at one another.

  Bernt stepped forward. “We don’t take orders from a Jew.”

  “Two.”

  “You take orders from us.” Behind him, Martin took a step to the right.

  “Three.”

  The third boy looked at Martin. Martin shrugged.

  “Bernt . . .” Martin whispered.

  “Shut up,” Bernt hissed, but Martin shuffled farther away.

  “Four.” The butcher took a step forward, and the third boy ran. Bernt took an involuntary step bac
kward and Martin was gone.

  “This isn’t over, Israel . . .”

  “Five.”

  Bernt ran. He stopped ten meters away and cried out, “Not for you. Not for your little Hure.”

  The butcher turned slowly toward him, but the boy was gone.

  He breathed out slowly and shook his head. He crouched down and shook off his coat. He laid the cleaver down gently on its folds and covered it with a sleeve. Sarah was shaking. He reached out to her, but she pulled away.

  “Hey, hey, it’s all right, it’s all right,” he shushed, pulling a bloody handkerchief from a pocket. He reached over and moved the wet hair from her face. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have risked the blade on those lowlifes. Too precious.” He gently cleaned the spittle from her face with the cloth that smelled of meat. “When I do this for my son, I usually spit on it, you know?” He laughed gently.

  “Those boys . . .” Sarah whispered.

  “They’re gone; it’s over,” shushed the butcher.

  “It’s not over,” she rasped. “They’ll come back and there’ll be more of them, and the SA and . . . aren’t you scared?” The butcher’s eyes were small brown walnuts in a giant suet pudding. He wasn’t.

  “Rapunzel, there were pogroms before, there’ll be little Arschlöcher like that throwing stones through my son’s windows in the years to come. Nothing changes. Yet we remain. I can’t be scared that there’s a storm. It rains. It stops. It’ll rain again. Are you scared of the rain?” he asked with mock seriousness.

  “No.”

  “The thunder or the lightning?” He smiled.

  “No.” Sarah giggled, unexpectedly like a hiccup. It was like a ray of sunshine through the cloud.

  “See? Now, you’d better get home.”

  The sky darkened and the air grew cold. Sarah looked up at the butcher. His smile faded and the light in his eyes grew dull. His right cheek swelled, the skin bruising and blistering, finally cracking with dark blood. The growth spread across the white of his eyeball and it turned a dark red black. His nose grew and snapped to the right, his lips thickening even as broken teeth pushed through them. The sky was night, and the world was lit by fire and screaming. As the butcher sank to his knees, Sarah could see that the floor was littered with broken glass that twinkled like a million stars, as the boots crashed past. About his neck was hanging a board hacked into a crude Star of David, and the rope was tight around his throat. He opened his mouth and leaned toward her. Blood and vomit spilled down the yellow paint.