Orphan Monster Spy

by Matt Killeen

  “Oh, goodness. Come on, then,” Sarah moaned, climbing out of the window.

  “Come on, what?”

  “Come and see what I’ve been doing.” Sarah swung out and slid down the drainpipe.

  * * *

  • • •

  “This is it?”

  “Yep. What do you think?”

  Elsa put her hands on her hips and watched the horse canter toward them in the moonlight. “This is the ugliest, cheapest carthorse I’ve ever seen.”

  Sarah shrugged from the top of the paddock fence.

  “I don’t know anything about horses. I just thought she was beautiful. Or him. I’ve no idea.” The horse trotted the last few meters and stopped, nodding in front of her. Bless you, she thought. “I grew up in Berlin. Didn’t see a galloping horse until I was in Spain—and then there was too much else going on.”

  “He’s a scraggy farm beast. Haller, really. You need to see a proper horse. Have you ridden him yet?”

  Sarah stroked his nose and he whinnied. “Hello again. Twice in one night, eh?” You are returning the favor, aren’t you? His skin was almost steaming. “No, I’ve never ridden anything. You need a saddle, don’t you?”

  “God no, you go bareback. It’s the only way to do it.” There was a joy in Elsa’s voice that Sarah had never heard. “Woman and beast in perfect harmony and all that. I’ll show you.”

  Elsa jumped up to the top of the fence and, gathering her skirt up, swung onto the horse. He gave a surprised neigh and took a step back, but then decided he was fine with it. She curled her fingers into the mane and slid into position.

  “Watch. You’re farther forward than usual, between the barrel and the shoulder—”

  “What’s a barrel?”

  “The barrel, you know. God, Haller, you don’t know anything.”

  “Teach me.”

  “You sit here, keep your toes up, heels down. Adjust your balance with the mane—you know what a mane is?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Sarah was relieved that her ignorance turned out to be her cover story. She let Elsa talk, instruct, lead.

  “Then you just ride him.” She laughed, tapping the horse’s flanks and coaxing him into a walk. She steered him into the paddock, and up to canter. “God, this field is a nightmare. It’s all bloody ditches and lumps,” she shouted.

  Sarah watched Elsa with a growing envy. She had a sudden hankering to be that graceful, that developed, that in tune with the world around her. Easy, smooth, and fluent. Muscles and silver moonlight.

  That’s my horse, she thought, then dismissed the idea.

  Elsa was explaining the art of riding, but Sarah just nodded and smiled. Now she’d diverted the other girl from the truth, the fear that had driven away her fatigue was evaporating.

  “Oi!”

  The call echoed across the fields, the small figure of the farmer already marching across the paddock.

  “Scheiße,” hissed Elsa as she galloped back to Sarah. She pulled up with such violence that the horse brayed in panic. She dismounted shambolically, landing on the ground with a bump.

  Sarah hauled her to her feet.

  “Come on, Haller, move it! Run!”

  They sped away into the darkness of the forest, laughing helplessly, with the farmer swearing retribution behind.

  “Do you do this all the time?” asked Elsa.

  “Nobody gets on any horses, if that’s what you mean.”

  “We need to do this again. You should come to my house and I’ll teach you to ride.”

  There it was. Sarah looked down, feeling her cheeks flushing in the gloom.

  How . . .

  Come on, dumme Schlampe. Now.

  “Well, my uncle is away over Christmas, I was going to be stuck with some ghastly relatives . . .”

  “That’s settled, then. You’re coming to my house.”

  Sarah wanted to scream and throw her arms into the air. Swamped in emotions, she managed to give Elsa her best oh good smile and caught Elsa’s expression. Sarah couldn’t figure it out. It looked like shame, sympathy, and disgust, all at once. The effect was disconcerting.

  “Are you sure?”

  The look was replaced with a more familiar one of devilment and a big, toothy smile.

  “It’ll be wonderful. You’ll never, ever forget it.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ELSA WANTED TO be there, but Sarah insisted she watch the putsch from a distance. Liebrich was a tired, washed-out version of the girl who’d showed Sarah the dormitory just a few months ago.

  “I can take you, Haller. I’m still bigger than you.”

  Sarah was cold. “But you won’t.”

  Liebrich’s chin quivered. “This isn’t fair . . .” she gasped. Then she rounded on Sarah. “What does your father do, Haller?”

  “My uncle makes wireless sets.”

  Liebrich laughed callously. “Then you have no idea. My father is an Oberführer in the SS. Nothing but perfection is enough for him. The weak, the stupid, the incapable—as far as he’s concerned, they’re going to fry along with the Jews and the communists. If he hears I’ve been replaced, I don’t know what will happen to me.”

  Sarah wanted to reassure her, to make it better, to leave her alone, but the only way out was through. So she put her compassion in the box along with her fear. “I am the new Schlafsaalführerin. You will raise a hand to no one without my leave and you will obey my commands. Are we clear?”

  Liebrich stood defiantly. Sarah moved very close to her.

  “You know, I hear Rahn will be back next term, and I believe she’s now my best friend,” Sarah whispered, using the Ice Queen’s emotionless delivery. “She’s in a very bad mood right now, and she’s probably looking for someone to take it out on, especially since she can’t touch me.”

  Liebrich nodded gently, face red.

  “Obedience. Your father will understand that, surely?”

  “And what about your friend the Mouse? Where does she stand now?”

  Sarah didn’t want Liebrich to see her face. “I couldn’t care less.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “You’re late.”

  He was still pale and tired, but he was sitting up and dressed.

  “Extra precautions. You know . . . spy thing.” She bustled in and busied herself with the door.

  “So how was your day?”

  Sarah opened the bag of food and sorted through it. “Embraced the politics of the Reich and condemned an enemy to a beating at the hands of her father. Same old thing. Fun and games.” She sat and handed him a tin of beef. “I can’t stay long, I’m being missed.”

  “Who by?”

  “My hostess for the Christmas break.” She smiled. “Done and dusted. Alles in Butter.”

  For just a moment his mask slipped, and Sarah saw something close to delight and pride. Then it was gone. It was enough.

  “Good, I can get the hell out of this place. See if my car is still there.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Just. Well enough.”

  “Well, then.”

  Sarah felt there was something that needed to be said, but she couldn’t quite form the thought. It seemed to her that he was having the same trouble. Then the space for it vanished.

  “Right, in town there are rooms over the beer hall, the Gästehaus Rot. I’ll be there on Christmas Eve and until you come and find me. This”—he handed her a scrap of paper with a number on it—“this is how you can contact me. They’ll be listening, so watch what you say, niece. If I have to get you, I can’t go to the house. They’ll recognize me. You’ll have to meet me on the road. Take some money.”

  Sarah committed the instructions to memory and secreted the banknotes away. The Captain offered a hand.

  “Good luck,”
he said. She was about to take it, but then she smiled.

  “Take a bath. You stink,” she replied, standing up. “See you after Christmas.” She reached the barn door and then stopped. She was frightened to open it, scared to go on. “Why are you so sure I can find out anything?” she asked.

  She couldn’t read his face in the dark.

  “You’re a smart little girl. They aren’t expecting a smart little girl.” It was enough.

  Something else occurred to her. “Am I coming back to Rothenstadt? Ever?”

  “Probably not.”

  Amid the relief, there was unfinished business. “Then I have one last thing to do.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Liebrich said you wanted to see me.”

  The Mouse stood at the door of the dormitory. She looked especially small against the doorframe, like a doll who had wandered into a real house.

  “Come in, Mauser.”

  It would be easier for Sarah to threaten the Mouse as she had belittled and rejected Liebrich. Tearing the sticking plaster away quickly. But now she looked into the Mouse’s wide eyes, she realized that would be impossible. In the end, the Mouse broke the silence.

  “You’re not allowed to talk to me anymore,” the Mouse prompted.

  “Yes—but—”

  “I guessed when I saw you with . . . that older girl.” She stopped and seemed to be staring off into space. Sarah was about to lean forward to nudge her when she continued. “It’s all right. No one talked to me before you came . . . much, so I guess it’ll be just like that.” It was almost as if the Mouse was trying to make her feel better. This wasn’t what Sarah wanted either.

  “Mouse, you have to leave here,” she pleaded. “Don’t come back after Christmas. Tell your father all you know, the corruption, the violence—”

  “Haller,” the Mouse interrupted with a whole new tone that Sarah had never heard before. “You know when Langefeld called me a waste of skin? She was right. I’m useless. Except here. Here I’m useful, I’m doing something. If I tell him, he’ll take me away, and then I’m nothing again.”

  This horrified Sarah, who could see that the Mouse meant every word.

  “Oh, Mouse, you’re not useless,” said Sarah softly.

  “Really? Then why would you give me up for the Ice Queen?” There was a real defiance in her voice. “It’s fine, Haller. Just don’t lie to me and say that I’m worth more.”

  Sarah had the urge to snap at the Mouse, but her anger would have been misdirected. The price of Elsa’s continued friendship, the bill to be paid for taking the next step, was having to live with what she’d just done.

  “There’s more to life than this school, Mouse.”

  “I’m doing my job.”

  So am I, Sarah wanted to cry. She envisioned a way out, a chink of redemption.

  “What if I told you I was working, too? That I have to make the Ice Queen like me?”

  “Then I’d say you’re just like all the others,” the Mouse said sadly.

  Sarah tried again. “I told you I’d never leave you, Mouse. I might be missing for a bit, but I will come back to you.”

  “Tell yourself what you need to, meine Schlafsaalführerin.”

  Paid in Full. With Thanks.

  “Thank you, Mauser; you can go.” Sarah closed her heart and slowly pushed the Mouse and this conversation into her box of horrors.

  “You should be careful, Haller. You think this is all wonderful and by the time you realize it isn’t, it’ll be too late.”

  Sarah ignored this final warning. She was already more alone than she had ever felt.

  Her mother had bolted the door from the inside. Sarah couldn’t pick a lock that she couldn’t touch, and there must be something else behind the door because it didn’t move a centimeter when kicked. She had tried to climb down to the window, but the outside of the building on that side was sheer brick. Anyway, the window would have been too small to climb through, even for an emaciated girl.

  She had known her mother was still alive, because she could hear her screaming. It had gone on for four days. At first Sarah pleaded with her mother to open the door and begged to know what was happening, sobbing in frustration. Then, slowly, Sarah began to withdraw, preparing herself for the worst. She slept on the roof to escape the noise.

  This morning, however, as Sarah climbed in through the kitchen window, she was hit by the silence. The bedroom was empty. Sarah closed the door against the stench. She checked the bathroom and the hall, panic rising.

  She burst through the front door onto the landing to see someone coming up the staircase.

  “Mutti! Where—”

  Her mother, her real mother, reached the top step. Gone were the wide, red-rimmed eyes; the pale pockmarked skin; and yellow teeth. Instead her face was made up to perfection, and she was dressed in a feathered hat and her best fur coat—a coat that Sarah would have sold for food long ago if she’d known her mother still owned it. It wasn’t a perfect performance, but it was like sunlight on a cold spring morning. The suggestion of better things to come.

  “Sarahchen, it’s time to go. Anything you want to bring, put it in the car now.”

  Sarah stood, openmouthed, before recovering her composure. “We don’t have a car anymore, Mutti.”

  “The Mercedes is outside, waiting.” She gave a tiny wriggle of her shoulders.

  “How did you manage that?” Sarah did not like being confused. Then her mother flashed a cunning grin, and Sarah came to a realization. “Mutti, did you steal back our car?”

  “You know, they never took my car keys. They must have wanted me to use them. Quick now, we have to get to Friedrichshafen and it’s a long drive. I’ve sent a message to your father to meet us in Switzerland.”

  There was a light in her mother’s eyes that had been missing for . . . months? Years? Sarah had begun to suspect that her mother only glittered in her imagination and that she’d always been sour, stinking, and bloodshot. Yet here she was. Sarah knew that her father hadn’t answered and he wouldn’t be waiting for them, not after all these years of silence. She’d long since given up caring . . . but maybe it didn’t really matter what her mother believed now.

  “But our papers? Do we have visas? How will we—”

  “Shush, shush, don’t you worry about all that.”

  Her mother opened her arms and Sarah fell into them. The scent of whisky and sick had faded, swamped by soap, perfume, and mothballs.

  Don’t we need a visa? Unstamped papers? Money?

  Shush.

  A stolen car?

  Shush.

  But—

  Shush.

  TWENTY-SIX

  December 23, 1939

  THE SCHÄFERS’ CAR was sumptuous. Its polish glistened in a shaft of winter sunshine that appeared as if to herald its arrival. Climbing into it felt like taking steps up to some kind of temple. It smelled of clean, waxed leather, and the seats were covered in thick, soft blankets, but the car was warm—warm in a way Sarah had forgotten, warm like cocoa, warm like the edge of old firelight.

  The driver was in an SS uniform.

  Elsa had sweets. Tangy, sour-edged flashes of flavor, a little explosion of sherbet that was too exquisite to experience without grinning.

  There was a machine gun on the front passenger seat.

  There were books in the back with beautiful covers, telling wild tales of pirates and wizards in adventure after adventure. For weeks Sarah had seen only dull black type and questionable facts, but now rosy-cheeked children and fearsome beasts, islands of brave knights, quests, and princesses all jumped from the illustrations.

  Among them was Der Giftpilz, a warning to all children of the dangers of the Jews, the poisonous mushrooms of the Aryan forest.

  Elsa talked of banquets and satin dresses, horses an
d parties in one long uninterrupted story of amusing escapades and delightful pleasures. She asked Sarah no questions about herself. This suited Sarah fine, but it began to occur to her that this was not entirely right. Unlike the Mouse, who could deliver a long and meaningless monologue to fill a silence but would stop whenever someone else talked, Elsa’s conversation filled the air so full of words that no others could fit. So animated were her phrases and anecdotes that other words seemed pale and pointless in comparison. Sarah felt swamped, held under by the same hand that stopped her being swept away. She wondered if this was how happy, normal children spoke. It was eerily like listening to her mother.

  Sarah pushed that thought away and risked a question as Elsa breathed in.

  “What does your father do?”

  Elsa’s face changed. It was like a cloud had passed across the sun. “He is a scientist. He does experiments. It’s very dull.” Elsa looked out of the car window at the rushing hedgerows.

  “What about your mother? What is she like?” Sarah hurried on.

  “My mother was taken away from us four years ago.”

  Dumme Schlampe. “That’s a shame. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She was a weak, cowardly bitch.” The words seemed like they would burn through the chassis onto the road.

  “My mother is in a lunatic asylum,” Sarah volunteered.

  Sarah let those words settle and watched the passing countryside. She felt warm fingers coil around hers on the seat. Where the Mouse had calloused, damaged fingers, Elsa’s were soft and smooth like a polished banister. She reached out her other hand and touched Sarah’s cheek.

  “I’m sorry.” She ran her finger down one of Sarah’s braids. “I’m sorry about everything.”

  Sarah didn’t know what to say. Elsa’s face, unreadable, switched to devilment as she sat back and squeezed Sarah’s hand. “Do you like boys yet?”

  “Oh, I haven’t given them any thought.” She was relieved by the change in atmosphere but had nothing to contribute on this subject. She was dimly aware that this was a source of frenzied excitement for other, older people, but her mother had never really talked of it, and the books she had read also skirted the details.