Orphan Monster Spy

by Matt Killeen

  “You must. You must think about them all the time! My father’s guards, they’re so handsome, and strong, and rugged—they make me feel tickly inside.” She snickered and Sarah joined in. Whatever else, her enthusiasm was infectious. Then she leaned forward and prodded the driver. “Not you, Kurt! You’re an old, old, wrinkly man.” She laughed. Sarah saw the figure in the front straighten his shoulders. She squashed the desire to wince and giggled her mother’s best coquettish giggle, like a music box with its key turned too fast.

  * * *

  • • •

  The road to the estate took a circuitous route. They trailed through the town, the driver sounding his horn to scatter the locals. Sarah looked sideways at the passing buildings, waiting for the beer hall, and then, from the corner of her eye, she saw the guesthouse’s grubby sign on a peeling red facade. She imagined the Captain sitting on a threadbare mattress, weakened and waiting. So far so good, thought Sarah, although Elsa was doing most of the heavy lifting. Maybe it would all be this easy . . .

  She began mapping her escape, backward from that point.

  The next delay was the wall of the estate, the enormous stretch of black brickwork, topped by barbed wire and unfriendly crenulations, a monster ready to swallow Sarah whole. She hoped that the other side was less intimidating, and that a wall designed to keep people out would prove unable to keep her in.

  They came to the entrance, and Sarah felt a familiar fear. There were crisp black-and-silver uniforms on show, but the soldiers in their drab forest camouflage unnerved her the most. They lacked the pomposity and arrogance of the officers. It seemed inconceivable that one of them wouldn’t turn and see the dirty Jew for what she was—a cuckoo in the nest. Sarah imagined them pointing and screaming at her. Willingly walking into this place was like a rodent climbing into the mouth of a snake.

  Run. Flee! Get out while you can.

  She rubbed her forehead to conceal her face, then stopped. This was no different from Rothenstadt, she thought. These soldiers were no less zealous than the Ice Queen, and she had made Sarah one of them.

  Through the first checkpoint, the car drove the winding, zigzag path of concrete blocks toward the gate itself. Elsa wittered on, pointing out the prettiest, the most handsome, the “most innocent-looking,” one of the many things that Sarah didn’t understand.

  Finally, the car emerged into a vast stretch of well-tended countryside. The wall fell away on either side, and the driveway diminished into the distance with no house in sight. The scale of it amazed Sarah. She could see fences, paddocks, animals, but no hiding places, no cover. Patrolling dogs were everywhere.

  Sarah watched the barricade close behind her.

  You’re in it now, dumme Schlampe.

  Just as rehearsed. Little Monsters on holiday.

  “Look, Haller, my horse,” Elsa burst out, smacking Sarah on the shoulder. She threw open a window. “Anneliese! Mutti’s home!” she bellowed.

  “She looks . . . lovely.” Sarah had no idea of the right terminology.

  “Oh, she is; just wait until you see her close up. I really thought I’d lost her . . .”

  “Why would you have lost her?”

  “Oh, you know. I don’t get to keep her unless I’m good.”

  Elsa made the word good sounded onerous. Wrong.

  Sarah didn’t really understand other children, their expressions, their moods. She had been isolated by her mother’s will, then by that of the German people. She had once found the companionship of her peers a rare treat, then an increasingly uncomfortable experience until she simply saw no one. So a few weeks with Elsa hadn’t been long enough for Sarah to figure her out.

  It’s not enough to know your own lines, darling. You must listen to the others, feed off what they say, perceive the meaning in what they don’t. That’s how to perform.

  I don’t do people. I told you that.

  People are simple. They desire. Some hide it, some don’t. They hurt. Some hide it, some don’t.

  “So, have you been good?” Sarah tried to joke, feeling the clumsy intention in her words.

  Elsa looked at Sarah. Shame. Sympathy. Disgust. “Yes. Yes, I have.”

  The house rose over the brow of a hill. It was huge, bigger than Rothenstadt, larger than many government buildings in Berlin. Sarah marveled that any single family could live in such opulence. The central house was classical in style, the entrance flanked by columns and a portico, with grand steps up to the double doors. On either side, newer wings had been added in increasingly aggressive and modernist styles, until, at the fringes, utilitarian concerns had swallowed the art entirely, leaving concrete bunkers and iron sheds. Behind it, an ornate greenhouse almost dwarfed the house itself.

  As she often had cause to notice, Sarah wondered that there might be one people, one leader, one nation, but there was still another, more privileged Germany.

  A servant with white gloves opened the car door before Sarah could reach the handle. He offered a hand to help her out even as she scrambled on her coat. The gravel Sarah stepped onto was deep and gave underfoot. Thick, she thought. Expensive. Another servant was replying in hushed tones to Elsa’s chatter, and others busied themselves with the luggage. The house loomed over Sarah, recalling the beast-like visage of the school. Yet this one was spotless, polished, and well cared for. It was a predator of an entirely superior kind.

  “Come on, Haller, let me show you the place,” shouted Elsa, already skipping up the stairs.

  The hall was a palace of white marble. Two enormous staircases rose up, around and over Sarah’s head, their black iron banisters an intricate set of spirals and flowers. A life-sized portrait of the Führer dominated the room, and underneath it, lighting a pipe, was Hans Schäfer. His face was alive with humor, lit by recognition. He couldn’t have looked less like the evil scientists of the movies. If anything, Sarah felt like the predator, coming to his house with an ulterior motive.

  “My dear, welcome home.” His voice was soft and friendly.

  “Father,” Elsa replied quite formally, curtseying in front of him. He bent down and put his arms about her, kissing her cheek.

  “And whom do we have here?” He straightened up, hands on his hips, pipe in mouth.

  “This is Ursula Haller,” Elsa pronounced with pride. “Third Year Schlafsaalführerin and winner of the River Run.”

  “A Third Year? The winner? Goodness me,” he enthused.

  “Heil Hitler.” Sarah saluted.

  “Oh, we don’t stand on ceremony here, Ursula. The Führer is secure in the knowledge of our support. Besides, it gets really dull: Heil, Heil, Heil, Hitler, Hitler, Hitler, Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil . . .” He saluted over and over with an increasingly comedic voice.

  The girls laughed. This was going to be so much easier than Sarah thought.

  “So, you have done well,” he finished.

  “Thank you,” said Sarah and Elsa together.

  “Well, dinner at eight. Dress up, please—there are surprises for you both in your bedroom, Elsa.”

  Elsa clapped her hands and then, after quickly curtseying, ran up the stairs. Schäfer beamed at Sarah and cocked his head after his daughter. Go on, he meant. Sarah smiled, a real joyful thing that spilt out of her face and made her cheeks ache. It felt strange. She skipped up the stairs after Elsa.

  * * *

  • • •

  The carpets were thick. The door handles were golden. The picture frames were dusted and polished. The light shimmered from crystal chandeliers with a million captured rainbows. Sarah chased Elsa down the corridors, up the stairs, around the corners, and finally through a doorway into a room the size of Sarah’s first apartment in Vienna. To be here, with permission, to experience such luxury, triggered long-dormant memories of Sarah’s past. It was intoxicating.

  On the four-poster bed were two large white boxes. “Let�
��s open them together—this is yours. You ready?” Elsa grinned. “Three, two, one, go.”

  The box seemed to suck the lid back down as Sarah pulled at it, and she had to push her fingernails under the edge to heave it off. Revealing a nest of tissue paper, she peeled the top layer away.

  Inside there was what looked like a bolt of dark green silk that gave with a rustle. It was a ball gown, a soft, cool, and lavish creation that whispered luxury and extravagance. There seemed to be enough material for many normal dresses, yet the silk fabric felt light, almost buoyant. It was something an American film star would wear.

  Sarah knew nothing of fashion, but what she held in her hands was clearly a work of art. She felt too grubby to be touching it, but it had the power to change her.

  “Will it fit?” she gasped.

  “Of course it will. It was made for you.” Elsa was holding the exact same dress to her chest. “We’ll be like twins.”

  Sarah looked at the taller, more womanly creature next to her. “I’ll probably spill something on it. I can’t wear it.”

  “Then spill something on it. Spill everything on it! It doesn’t matter. It’s yours to ruin.”

  “I can’t accept this.” The polite phrase belonged to another lifetime, when things could be refused.

  “Shoes, too,” Elsa pointed out. “What, there were no balls in Spain? Come on, let me show you around before dinner.”

  * * *

  • • •

  As they approached the stables, Sarah noted that the bunkers and greenhouse hadn’t been on the tour.

  “So what’s in there?” she asked, waving in their general direction.

  “Father’s stuff.” Elsa dismissed the subject. Then she added, “The greenhouses were my mother’s obsession. Everything is dead now.”

  Sarah waited a respectful moment. Clearly this was the part of the house that she needed to see. She might not have another chance to raise the subject.

  “Why are there so many guards? What are they protecting?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever he’s got in there, I expect.”

  Sarah couldn’t understand Elsa’s lack of inquisitiveness. “Aren’t you curious?”

  “I don’t bloody care, Haller,” snarled Elsa.

  Sarah walked alongside her in silence. “Sorry,” she said eventually.

  After a moment, Elsa carried on. “Look, there she is! There’s my baby.” She broke into a jog and then a run for the stable doors. A jet-black mare was being led inside by a stable hand. The horse turned to the noise of Elsa’s feet and then, when she saw her, let out a fulsome whinny, bucking and refusing to follow the boy. “There you are.” Elsa buried her face in the mare’s neck. The horse nodded and blew her approval. “See, Haller, this is a horse.” She smiled, and this time her eyes smiled, too.

  “Miss, she has to get down for the night,” interrupted the boy in a thick country accent.

  “Of course. Tomorrow, my love, tomorrow.” Elsa released the mare’s muzzle and gave her a gentle shove. She moved away as if ordered. Sarah saw the light leaving Elsa’s face.

  “She is pretty,” Sarah said, struggling for the right words.

  “She’s more than pretty.” Elsa turned on Sarah. “I’m pretty. Pretty is nothing.”

  She strode back to the house, leaving Sarah alone in the gathering gloom.

  * * *

  • • •

  “This dress has no back,” Sarah moaned, looking over her shoulder in the mirror.

  “Are you worried about the whip marks? You can barely see them. Besides, they’re like dueling scars. You should be proud.”

  “No, the dress is missing a whole piece.”

  “Silly, that’s the style. You look like Carole Lombard.”

  “I look half-dressed.” Sarah scowled at the mirror. The cinched waist and the extra material in the cowl neck gave her the shape of an older girl. She seemed painted in green light, and each little curve had a tiny halo of silver stars. She felt a pang of realization: that what she was looking at was more than the sum of its parts, that it was somehow appealing. She didn’t know what to do with this knowledge, so it sat at the top of her belly and fluttered like a trapped moth.

  As she looked at herself, Elsa tousled Sarah’s hair, wrapping, twisting, braiding, brushing. It made it luscious, luminous. It also made it identical to Elsa’s own. The two stood side by side in matching dresses, like two nested matryoshka dolls.

  Elsa hummed. “Pretty enough,” she said with a sigh.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “MY, DON’T YOU both look beautiful.”

  Hans Schäfer stood at the far end of the table in a dinner jacket, at the center of an array of silverware and crockery. At first Sarah thought he was polishing everything, as she had often done in the springtime with the maid when she was little. Then she realized they were expected to use it all. There were three chairs, so there were to be no other guests.

  The dining room matched the rest of the house. It was almost as big as the hall at Rothenstadt, with a ceiling so lofty that it couldn’t be seen without hurting your neck. The walls were filled with portraits of disapproving relatives and their horses.

  Footmen guided the girls to their seats.

  Sarah felt exposed. Her dress felt too fine, too figure-hugging. Now that she was apart from her double, it didn’t feel like there was enough material between her and nakedness. She felt watched. Looked at.

  Professor Schäfer pulled out Sarah’s chair, then his daughter’s.

  “You look tremendous, really. It must be a relief to be out of those uniforms, I expect?”

  “Oh, yes, Father.”

  “There’s something to be said for all looking the same, though,” said Sarah.

  Shut up, dumme Schlampe.

  “Why would you say that, Ursula?” the professor asked.

  “We’re ein Volk, one people, rich or poor.” She felt there was something amiss with the Schäfers’ attitude, or with what it should have been.

  “You’re an excellent National Socialist. I’m pleased. But here, well, this is a place of learning, of science. We make a huge contribution to the Reich. So we may also enjoy the fruits and rewards for our work,” he pontificated. “That’s fitting, don’t you think?”

  Sarah thought it was hypocritical, but said nothing.

  Elsa changed the subject. “Ursula’s father flew in Spain with the Condor Legion.”

  “Then you yourself are worthy of reward,” he enthused. “Did he fly in Poland, too?”

  “I’m sorry to say he was killed in Spain,” Sarah said quietly. Take that.

  His face changed immediately, showing guilt and then sympathy. He reached out and took her hand. His was warm, and he smelled of good soap and a touch of musky aftershave.

  “I’m so sorry, little one.” He sounded bereft. “You’re too young for that to have happened.”

  You have an advantage. Push it home. Cry. Cry now.

  “Is it not a worthy sacrifice for the Reich?” She let her voice crack just slightly.

  “No one so sweet should have to suffer so.” His voice was soft and comforting. “Not for anyone.” No adult had been this caring toward Sarah for many years.

  Sarah drew a brave smile on her face. He patted her hand and didn’t let go of it. She accessed a shaft of her real loneliness and grief, then rode its dark troughs and cold peaks, allowing his unexpected warmth to point to a brighter, less dismal destination in the range of her misery.

  She looked over to Elsa. Shame. Sympathy. Disgust.

  “Well, for sadness, God created wine.” Professor Schäfer gestured to the footman. “The Führer himself does not partake, but he has an extensive cellar for his guests, as I myself have discovered,” he boasted, before he smiled indulgently at Sarah. “So this bears the stamp of approval of the highest auth
ority, Fräulein.”

  “I’m too young for wine, surely?” Sarah frowned.

  “Nonsense. In Paris children drink wine every day.”

  “Aren’t the French degenerates?”

  He slapped the table and chuckled. “Not when it comes to wine.” He had the footman fill Sarah’s glass to the top.

  Elsa took a giant gulp of hers and then gestured to Sarah, who put the glass to her lips. The chilled wine was creating condensation on the rim, and it smelled not the least bit fruit-like—in fact, it reminded Sarah of her mother’s breath. She overcame this and finally took a sip.

  The sourness caused her to suck in her cheeks. Her teeth ached and her throat protested, but somewhere on her tongue there was the hint of something sweeter and less aggressive.

  Elsa laughed. “You get used to it.”

  The ache in Sarah’s cheeks receded but didn’t disappear. It became strangely pleasant, along with a warm sensation in her chest.

  The meal proceeded under the guise of a banquet, courses rolling into the room with a team of servants. There was horseradish, mustard, breads, and sausage, as Sarah’s glass was refilled. The vegetables were crisp to the bite and succulent inside. Meats were juicy and rich. Fried marinated herring followed before the wine changed color to a dark, bloody draft that smelled of a wood fire and spices. There was a thick gamey soup of wild boar, stocky and warm like a hug. Sarah’s glass emptied and filled as a venison sauerbraten slid down, with potatoes so creamy they dissolved on the tongue.

  Sarah couldn’t remember being so sated. Hans Schäfer asked her a constant stream of questions and took an interest in all her answers. While she found constantly divining what Ursula Haller would think and feel tiring, the attention was comforting. Desirable. She wondered if this was how normal children felt, living in a world that was attentive and curious.