The Linz Tattoo

by Nicholas Guild

  But Karaj couldn’t appreciate the charm of the situation. Faraj could only stand there, rubbing his hands together, his throat puckering in distress.

  “When we have her, we shall have to exercise a little intelligence, that is all. She is important—more important, I think, than even an old fox like Mordecai Leivick appreciates—but in herself she is hardly more than a medium. I doubt if von Goltz ever actually told her anything.”

  “Colonel, if you have led us this far and she is. . .” Faraj returned his hat to his head and allowed the implied threat to hover wordlessly between them, like an uninvited guest. The sentry was coming back. Even Faraj understood the necessity of not arguing in front of a subordinate.

  Hagemann stood with his back turned. He could hear the sentry’s foothills on the pine needles behind him. He wanted to ignore his existence.

  The sentry already had his flashlight on.

  “Leave these matters to me, Faraj. I won’t fail.” The words seemed to come from between clenched teeth.

  As if the sentry’s flashlight had been a signal, the sound of an outboard motor insinuated itself across the water. The little sailboat wheeled about and began making its busy way back to the harbor at Burriana.

  Well, of course. He wouldn’t have lingered so long if he had to depend upon the wind to get him home.

  “Come with me tonight.” Hagemann turned around—he could hardly see Faraj s face, the light had grown so dim. “Come and enjoy the cabaret. Forget your Moslem principles for a single evening and we shall drink a bottle of champagne together, and you can see for yourself how the net closes around your hated Jews.”

  16

  “He may not come this evening. Don’t let yourself expect him. Don’t look for him. Plan nothing. Let him make all the moves, solve all the difficulties. Pretend nothing. Above all else, we must do nothing to make him suspect that he is not in perfect control of events.”

  Herr Leivick sat on the bed beside her, his hands pressed down against his lap, speaking in a calm, almost monotonous voice that still somehow managed to communicate a sense of irresistible urgency. They seemed to have been there together for hours, but it had been only the four or five minutes since Itzhak left the room to buy a pack of cigarettes in the hotel lobby. The cigarettes were for Herr Leivick, who seemed to smoke them more or less continuously now, but Esther felt reasonably sure they had only provided the excuse for these few moments of private conversation.

  “How are the two of you getting along?”

  “Fine.”

  Esther smiled, gasping out one voiceless syllable of embarrassed laughter. What was she supposed to say? She and Itzhak were registered here as man and wife. They must somehow contrive to spend the night together in this room, and yet on the train ride down from Barcelona they had hardly spoken. It was necessary that they appear to be lovers, yet how could they?

  “It has to be made to work, you know.” Herr Leivick took off his rimless glasses, which were clouded with moisture, and wiped the lenses against the lapel of his jacket. “This is supposed to be a honeymoon you’re on, my dear. Itzhak’s quite taken with you—play on that.”

  “I can’t. I. . .”

  “You don’t want to hurt his feelings? Hurt his feelings. He’s a big boy—you won’t kill him. Esther, this is more important than Itzhak’s feelings.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “Yes, he knows it.”

  And did Inar? She would have liked to ask Herr Leivick that as well, but how could he have told her? Inar had left the train in Barcelona. Inar understood everything that was expected of her, but he had left the train. She had been a whore for so long—she wondered when she would be entitled to stop. What, would Inar say? After this was over? Yes, after this was over.

  “I’ll do whatever you tell me.” she said finally. “It’s not as if I have anything to lose, is it?”

  “You’re a good girl, Esther, so don’t talk like that.”

  “Am I?”

  He never had a chance to answer, because that was the moment Itzhak chose to come back with the cigarettes.

  “It isn’t Inar’s brand.” Herr Leivick opened the package and, with a slight ironical nod that meant with your permission, madame, allowed Itzhak to hold a match for him. “That man is introducing us all to bad habits”

  . . . . .

  Itzhak stood in front of the dresser, tying his tie in the mirror. The expression on his face was concentrated, as if he were prey to uncomfortable thoughts. He always seemed to look that way when they were alone together.

  “Well go down to dinner in about half an hour,” he said, his reflection peering at her with evident suspicion. “Mordecai says we should be there by nine, but that gives us plenty of time. He says we should be seen in the hotel together, just in case Hagemann sends someone around to check. The club is only a five-minute walk from here.”

  “I wish it could be finished already.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  He turned around and stared. She could have been some local curiosity, some odd little animal that had wandered into their room by mistake, the way he was looking at her.

  “I’m frightened, Itzhak—can’t you understand that? You can’t know how that man frightens me.”

  There were tears streaming down her face. It didn’t matter to her. She was a coward, and she didn’t care whether anyone knew it or not.

  “I just wish you would sit down here and put your arms around me, Itzhak. Could you do that for me? I won’t tell anybody.”

  And he did sit down and pull her to him. She had wondered what it would be like, but she didn’t feel anything. Inar’s body had a warmth she could feel even through his clothes. Inar made her feel safe, as if it might matter that. . . But this was just a man holding her in his arms. She could smell the cologne he used and feel the slight scratch of his beard, but she was just as alone. There was no comfort.

  In that way at least, Itzhak was not so very different from Hagemann. Very well then, so much the easier.

  His head rested on her shoulder. She took it between her hands and pushed him away. Just enough to let her kiss him on the face, touching the corner of his mouth with her own. Herr Leivick had said. . .

  He was surprised, of course. She could see that in his eyes—Itzhak hardly knew what had happened. He was about to speak when she covered his lips with her fingers.

  “It doesn’t matter what you think of me, Itzhak. It’s better if you don’t like me. I’m the kind of girl men use, and you have to learn to use me the way the others have.”

  “The way Inar does? Does he use you?”

  “Forget about Inar—this doesn’t have anything to do with Inar.”

  She wanted to strike him, to make a fist and hammer his face. She hated him for reminding her, for trying to make her weak. But instead she took hold of his hands, which were gripping her shoulders, and brought them down so that the palms were pressing against her breasts.

  “You have to learn to touch me. I’m not like the nice girls you knew in Tel Aviv, so I won’t pull away. You can do anything you want to me. You have to learn to treat me the way a man treats a new wife, a woman with a past—like something you own.”

  He didn’t know—she could read everything in his face. He was just a little frightened, like the younger men, hardly more than boys, hardly older than she had been herself, in the barracks at Waldenburg. They had known she wouldn’t stop them, that they could beat her if she tried, that they could do anything they wanted. Still, they had been frightened. Afraid of what she might think, as if what she thought could possibly matter. For some of them, probably, it had been the first time.

  It was all there in his face—she could see everything. Of course he was afraid of Inar. He was afraid of her. But he wanted her, and that was all that mattered.

  They were all the same, just the same. The fear was always there, even in Hagemann. That was why there was no comfort in them. Only in Inar, who feared nothing, not even
death.

  But she didn’t want to think about Inar.

  “Go ahead—what are you waiting for? I won’t tell anyone.”

  She couldn’t seem to feel anything. His hands were there, cupped over her breasts. She had only to glance down to see. But it was as if she had turned to dough. He could dig his fingers into her, twist the flesh, press the nipple down to nothing with his thumb. It didn’t make any difference.

  Except that Itzhak was helpless. He simply sat there, holding her breasts, staring into her face. With a certain surprised relief she realized that he could go no further unless. . .

  And she wouldn’t. She didn’t have to now.

  “You’ll wrinkle the dress,” she said, pushing his hands away. “Do you want me, or not?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, but his eyes burned with pain.

  . . . . .

  It doesn’t matter, she kept telling herself. I have nothing to lose, so it doesn’t matter.

  The thing had to be made to work. Then Inar would have his revenge, and it would make him whole again. And nothing would ever make her whole. This would be all she would ever be able to give him.

  The street was dark and noisy. Lights flickered yellow and demonic through tiny windows, and people pushed past one another on the cobblestones. She was wearing high-heeled shoes, and the uneven path and the darkness made her feel less than steady, so she held Itzhak’s arm.

  He had become a little drunk from the wine at dinner—just a little, but it made him sullen. He was almost violently possessive; he would run his hand over her shoulder and down to her arm, and he would reach across the table to do it. She closed her mind and let him. This is what she had wanted. This was what would make Hagemann believe everything.

  Itzhak was a nice boy, but he should never drink because he wasn’t nice then. It wasn’t his fault. He felt she had cheated him, and he was right.

  “Is it always this way with you?” he had asked, standing by the dresser as they waited for the moment when they could go downstairs to the dining room. “Are you always so—businesslike? I would have been all right if you just hadn’t been. . . Hell, you act as if it were a field exercise or something.”

  “You can’t expect romance, Itzhak. It isn’t always that important. Don’t you have any whores in Palestine? Haven’t you ever known any girls who trade it for money?”

  “Is that what you’re like?”

  “Maybe.” Even as she spoke, she could feel her throat tightening. “At least I’m not going to die of shame if some man wants to put his hands on me.”

  He stood with his back to her as he adjusted the knot in his tie, and the hunch of his shoulders revealed how deeply his vanity had been wounded.

  But at least he wasn’t afraid anymore.

  “Don’t be mad at me, Itzhak. Try to understand.” With her left hand she brushed a few wisps of hair away from her face, feeling once again quite calm. “We have a part to play, and we have to be ready play it. We can’t go there and sit at a table and be polite to one another—Hagemann is no fool. Now you won’t have to act at all. You can treat me just like a whore you’ve picked up to spend the evening with.”

  “Will Hagemann believe that? You’re supposed to be my wife.

  “He’ll believe it.”

  “The only whores in Tel Aviv are the Arab women.”

  “Not even you believe that.”

  So Itzhak had gotten a little drunk at dinner and had started pawing her. And as they walked along the narrow, crowded, treacherous Spanish streets, and he began to grow sober again, he was finally able to put his arm around her, quite as if he had forgotten that sort of thing had ever been a problem. They would do very well together.

  The club was smaller than she had expected, hardly larger than one of the tiny shops, selling everything from embroidery to newspapers to wine by the glass, that lined both tides of the street. The outer walls were whitewashed, like those of every other building in town, and covered with huge, brilliantly colored posters announcing bicycle races and soccer matches. A surprising number of small children were standing around, taking turns opening the club door for patrons and holding out their hands for tips.

  “Give them something,” she whispered. The sight of them made her throat tighten. “A man on his honeymoon is expected to be generous. Give them all something.”

  “The world is full of begging children—what difference does it make to you?”

  “Never mind. Just give them something.”

  He did. He reached into his pocket and took out a handful of silver coins, dropping them into eager palms that snapped closed around them like traps, it turned into a kind of game.

  “Come on, Esther. Let’s go inside before they mob us.”

  It was not quite eight-thirty. Somehow the place seemed larger from the inside, but perhaps that was only because it was still half empty. In one corner by the stage, which was itself little more than a long table against one wall, was a band consisting of a piano player, a drummer, and a boy of about fifteen with a trumpet polished up so bright it hurt one’s eyes to look at it. The floor manager, in a tuxedo with a gleaming display of shirt front, guided them to a table in almost the precise center of the room. No one would have any trouble seeing them.

  Itzhak ordered a bottle of champagne and the waiter brought it over in a silver bucket, wiping the outsides of the glasses before positioning them with elaborate ceremony on the table. Esther tasted hers and then set it back down again. The band was playing an American dance tune. She couldn’t rid herself of the idea that everyone was watching her.

  “He isn’t here,” Itzhak said, almost as if he could read her mind. “His table over there in the back is still empty. It’s early yet.”

  “Don’t imagine I’m looking forward to it. I can wait.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s the devil.”

  “I mean, what does he look like?”

  She turned her head slightly and let her eyes rest on him, smiling the way she imagined new brides to smile, wondering what he could be talking about.

  “There aren’t any photographs—at least, none that we have—and Mordecai hasn’t let me near this place. I just wondered.”

  “He looks quite ordinary. Perhaps he is quite ordinary. Light brown hair, a little taller than average, nice looking without actually being handsome. In his late forties by this time. You could meet him in the street and never notice him. That is, of course, unless you were at Waldenburg,”

  “Drink your champagne. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Perhaps I will, tonight.”

  But she did drink the champagne. She drained the glass, and then Itzhak poured her another. He didn’t touch his own—he was working now.

  At a quarter to nine there was a little drum flourish and a man in checkered coat and black-and-white saddle shoes came onto the stage. His whole manner announced that he was there to be a comedian—he grinned and swayed at the shoulders and recited a few jokes. At least one assumed from the expectant silence that followed each of them that they must be jokes. Esther and Itzhak didn’t laugh because neither of them understood any Spanish. No one else laughed either. No one seemed even to notice that he was there. After he was finished, a woman obviously in middle age but still quite handsome came out and, to the accompaniment of the piano, sang a sad and beautiful song in a language that was probably Catalan. When the song was over, she stood quietly and received the audience’s fierce applause with the resignation of a martyr. Nothing, it seemed, could induce her to sing another, and when she left the waiters suddenly became very busy taking people’s orders. One gathered that the first phase of the entertainment was over.

  “According to Hirsch, the girls don’t come on until after nine, so Hagemann never bothers to come until then. He says it’s a pretty tame show. I wonder why your friend is such a fan.”

  Itzhak filled her champagne glass again, studying her face as if he really expected her to know. P
erhaps he was only having his revenge, for which she couldn’t blame him.

  “Don’t make it any harder for me, Itzhak—please?” She smiled and reached across to place her hand on his arm. They couldn’t know who at that moment might be watching them. Itzhak covered her hand with his own. He was smiling too. Yes, he was having his revenge.

  “I don’t know what you’re worried about. This is a public place and the war’s over. He can’t touch you. I wouldn’t let him touch you.”

  Esther could only laugh. She realized she must have gotten a little drunk, but that was just as well. She felt as if her heart had frozen shut, but the laugh still sounded pleasantly girlish. No one turned to stare at her.

  “If he decides he wants to touch me, he will simply kill you, Itzhak. ‘The war is over. I wouldn’t let him touch you.’ How would you stop him, would you tell me? Do you really imagine this is just anyone?”

  Suddenly she was sick with dread. She wanted to get up and run, and knowing that she couldn’t, that she might be running straight into Hagemann’s arms, only increased her rising sense of panic.

  Oh God, where was Inar? If she could know only that he was somewhere around, she would feel safe again. But perhaps she had forfeited her small claim to his protection. Yes, of course she had. She had given up even her right to love him, except that she wouldn’t help herself.

  Poor Itzhak, he was all at sea. He looked so uncomfortable, almost ashamed. They weren’t having a very pleasant honeymoon.

  Another flourish of the drums and three girls tumbled on stage, almost as if they had been pushed. The trumpet blared out one of those throbbing tunes that everyone knows but that don’t seem to have any name, and the girls swayed back and forth in a parody of dance, swinging their hands and behinds like mechanical toys. Their costumes were bright yellow, edged with ruffles, and no less modest than the sort of thing one saw every day on any beach in Europe, but the whole performance still managed an impressive lewdness. After a few moments the comedian returned and stood at one corner of the stage shouting jokes as the girls continued to dance. Now everyone laughed.