Islands of Deception

by Constance Hood

  Bergen Belsen was a labor camp. Outside of the shoe factory the footwear of barefoot prisoners was heaped up as high as the building, leather to be re-stitched into German boots. Iron ornaments from street lamps lay by the foundry to be recast as guns. Each camp had its own kitchen and the Germans had picked out ten of the prettiest girls for kitchen privileges. The kitchens were warm, lined by bread ovens down one long wall. Spelt and rye were ground into sour black bread. The coarse grain had to be kept dry so that that it would not rot. It was impossible to distinguish the spelt seeds from rat droppings.

  Esther and Hannah were assigned to cook and serve meals. Long wooden tables were set up the length of the room so that guards could walk back and forth, patrolling and supervising the women’s work. Rows of women were armed with kitchen knives, and stood by their vast steel pots as they sliced turnips into water for the midday meal. Berthe, the guard, was heavy set with greasy blonde hair that strayed from under her cap. She looked like a butcher’s wife, but instead of a knife and apron she wore culottes and boots, carrying a riding crop to whip women who were not working fast enough.

  She picked up an oversized turnip, toughened by too many days lying in the field. “Look, a sweet white potato. Won’t it be delicious mashed? Gravy dripping onto the plate, a puddle of sauce to go with your roast beef.” The prisoner looked up, and the whip came down. “Get your fat Jew ass to work!”

  The guard stopped near Hannah and looked at her delicate hands, long tapered fingers that had spent their lifetime on an ivory keyboard. Hannah had already been in the kitchen for two days and she did not look up. Berthe had held her hands against boiling pots until the blisters rose. Hannah convulsed, gasping and coughing. She put her knife down and grabbed onto the edge of the table. Her body was racked with spasms as she tried to clear her lungs. Esther slapped her on the back, then ran for a dipper and some water.

  “What are you doing?” barked Berthe.

  “I need to get a little water for my friend.”

  “This is not a time to rest. You are not guests at a café.”

  Esther froze in her spot. “Sorry, I will get back to work immediately.”

  She turned back to the cutting board, picked up the next turnip and jammed her knife into the heart of the vegetable. Hannah blew her nose in the edge of her pajama top and then picked up a turnip as well. The two of them struck the vegetables with all the force that they could not use against their captors. The second guard came by, impressed with the speed at which the two girls were working.

  “That is better. I was afraid that we would need to cut out your bread rations for three days until you were ready to work again.”

  Late in the afternoon a matron came to Esther and instructed her to follow. She was escorted outside, to stand before Lutz. He grabbed her hands and twisted them behind her back. “Komm.” She followed, head bent in submission. His eyes were hidden under the bill of his cap, his stern face meant for public observation.

  She knew what he wanted. Inside of his quarters he sat in the only chair and stated, “I have a headache.” She climbed on his lap facing him and began to rub his neck and shoulders. Even then he did not relax his jaw. Instead of pulling her to him, he peered at her intently. “You’ve lost weight. When is the last time you had a meal?”

  She looked at him as if he had gone mad. The slight swell of her breasts and abdomen were hidden under the shapeless top. Hundreds of people were starving to death each week, and he wanted to talk about meals?

  “On a good day we get three servings.” She was puzzled that he didn’t know this. He had seen the porridge and the boiled roots.

  “I meant, when did you have a good meal?”

  “Oh, but of course.” She climbed off him and primly took her seat on the bed, unfolded imaginary linen and adjusted her napkin. Fingering a long string of make believe pearls she rolled her eyes upward at the waiter. “I would like Canard a la Orange. A soft white roll. Maybe a white Bordeaux with that?”

  He watched her, amused. “Before this war, we used to say a good German cook is a French cook. But no French food now – just hearty German food, a meal with meat, potatoes and some vegetable.” The words in German and Dutch were very similar and they understood each other well. He pulled out a crate from under his bed. In it were tinned food, tea, and even a bottle of wine. “Do you see this? If you do as I ask, you will have enough to eat.”

  A gag response came up in her mouth, but this was not a good time to heave. He saw the color of her face.

  “I’m not hungry.” She paused, eyeing the packets of foods she had not seen in months. “Besides, those rations are for men. I would be in trouble if I ate some.”

  He opened a packet of cheese and some biscuits. “Don’t be a fool. The prisoners are starving to death. I don’t want your lovely breasts to sag. You must eat to remain, umm, saftig.” After she picked at the cheese, he pushed her down onto the bed, gently by the shoulders. “So, you are not a whore? But you would keep me comfortable for food?” He snickered, but then stopped abruptly. It was his decision to take a lover instead of visiting the brothels. He was a party to cruelty each day, and she knew it. If he wanted her, he could not treat her like a prisoner in his room. They were both hungry. He lay down beside her, and stroked her breasts, then like a hungry child, took one in his mouth.

  Esther held him, stroking his neck and shoulders. Night after night he plundered her body. This man was savage and dangerous. She didn’t love him, not like she had loved Peter. It wasn’t the love of a girl. There were no expectations and no dreams. Even a beast had needs. If she could take care of him, he might take care of her. If he learned too much, it would cost her life.

  Over the next weeks, he cared for her, his “little bird.” At dinner he often did not finish his plate, and would sometimes take a bit of bread or meat with him “for later.” Once he brought a sweet juicy apple. On a cool fall evening he had been hungry, but he only ate half the knackwurst on his plate, wrapping up the rest in his handkerchief with a piece of bread. He smiled as he brought the rich treat back to his quarters and set the prize down in front of Esther. She started to gag, but her eyes filled with tears and she began to cough, hoping to mask her revulsion at the greasy meal in front of her.

  As she held her head down, crying and spluttering, he asked, “Why aren’t you eating the meat? You are not sick are you?” He stood before her, his frustration evident.

  “I have no hunger.”

  “Are you hungry for anything else?” She slipped into his arms, nodding. As he took her shirt off on that chilly fall evening, he looked at her body. She had lost weight, but her breasts were still firm. He placed his warm hands on her waist, and then embraced her, holding her close against him. “Esther, what is wrong with you tonight?”

  “You can’t tell, can you?” She had been trapped by her secret since the day they met, but nature would reveal it any day. Now she needed a partner to survive.

  “Can’t tell what?”

  “That I’m pregnant.”

  He froze, and turned her around. Pregnant women were sent to the hospital for experiments. After the abortions, their ovaries were removed and, if they survived, they were placed in brothels until they died. Until that moment Lutz had always followed orders. Now there was one order that was even higher than the orders from Berlin. As a teen he had been told that he must never touch a woman until he was married. Women get pregnant and pregnancy was a kind of sacrament. You don’t hurt pregnant women, and you must protect their innocent infants. But was a Jewish infant innocent? Could he father a child with a Jewish woman? Would it be a monster?

  Abortion was a mortal sin. Lutz was an Austrian Catholic, and he knew his answer, but he did not know how to act on it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  New Caledonia

  October 1942

  “Jesus Christ and General Jackson, what a hot potato
they have handed me!”

  ~ Admiral Halsey re. American Occupation of Noumea

  There are millions of little men and little jobs in a big war. At a peak in the center of the island, drops of rain form rippled puddles and ponds. Lakes release the drops into streams and rivers. Eventually the drops become a force of nature, the ocean. Troops continued to pour into Noumea.

  Hans’s break appeared Sunday afternoon on a secluded beach. He walked down the path to a deep blue cove bordering the shaded lagoon. A little waterfall rushed down the hill into the lagoon, with well-worn rocks at its base.

  Hans looked toward the waterfall, and saw a woman wading below the cascading water. Her back was bare. As she turned he saw her breasts, completely brown like the rest of her, hanging full like ripe fruit. Her long flowing hair draped into the small of her back. Only her dark coloring kept her from looking like a Venus from the sea. He looked at her body, too startled to meet her eyes. The mist around the waterfall did nothing to cool him down. She came forward and touched him gently, then smiled. “Come with me – one dollah.” Her pidgin language broke the spell. He looked out across the beach. Lying on towels and blankets were sailors with women. Uniforms had been tossed to the sides, and men were enjoying the day in their skivvies. Some showed the effects of too much alcohol and sunburn. Sarong clad women fetched drinks and simple snacks of fruit. There were dozens of couples on the beach.

  Some women were still looking for partners for the day. Hans pulled out his little Leica pocket camera and began taking tourist photographs. He was ready for the next woman who approached him. He greeted her. “Bonjour mademoiselle! May I take your picture? You are so beautiful – here, you need to pose for me.”

  She grinned at him, revealing dark stained teeth. “Will you give me the picture?”

  “Of course.” Meanwhile Hans was already thinking about his need for a darkroom.

  “Turn around, can you bend your arms this way – dance? My goodness you are graceful – have you ever seen a movie? Betty Grable or Rita Hayworth? You are as pretty as they are.” The girl giggled, and then stood straight, like a stone statue, her huge grin revealing a couple of blackened teeth. “Here, stretch out your leg and turn away from me – there you go. Put your hand across your breast. It makes us wonder.” After the “photo shoot” he asked for an address.

  “You want to come with me?”

  Hans glanced into her soft eyes, and smiled. The invitation was attractive, but he was very curious about the beach scene. It just looked a little too organized.

  “I have an appointment. You know, it takes a few days to develop the pictures. Don’t you want to see which pictures we should send to Hollywood?”

  Her eyes lit up. She had been using her body to make a living, but acting in movies seemed too good to be true. “How do I see the pictures?”

  “I will make a sheet of your poses and drop it off at your house next … What day are you free? Sunday … OK, I will be by next Sunday in the afternoon. Your address is?”

  “34 Avenue Fontaine, Room 21. It’s a big pink house, with balconies.”

  A short time after that girl had gone with a client, he approached another.

  “Give me that beautiful smile – your eyes light up the sun itself.”

  “34 Avenue Fontaine, Room 26. The balconies are lacy. They paint them white.”

  And another, “You dance so beautifully. A real Ginger Rogers.”

  “34 Avenue Fontaine, Room 14. There are flowers in my windows.”

  “A friend will help me get your prints. It might take a week or so, so please be patient. I will come by to see you when I have them ready.”

  ***

  The girls lived in an old hotel. He had never been in one of these establishments before. Several tables were placed in the lobby, which was obviously the area for announcing your arrival and meeting friends. A polished mahogany bar was set across the archway into a receiving area, and behind it was an enormous carved French mirror, covered with gilt and decorated with nymphs and satyrs. The expansive lobby led off to several receiving rooms, each decorated with a gaudy screen and large wicker chairs. A double staircase wound up to the second and third stories of the building.

  A young man and an older woman sat in the lobby. The houseboy rose to greet him. He looked up at the tall stranger. “You want a girl?”

  “Oh, I’m here with something for Leila.”

  “You’re here to see Leila? She busy right now. Come sit down.”

  The older woman inquired, “You buy me drink?”

  “No thank you.” He paused. “I’m not thirsty right now.”

  “You very handsome man. Girls like you. You want to buy me a drink?”

  Her black dyed hair frizzed tightly near her forehead, and her wide nose was pierced. But she had warm eyes and he needed to kill some time. He might even need her to be his friend.

  “You like this place? This place is mine. You like to buy me a drink?”

  “OK, what do you have?”

  “We have wine.”

  She reached below the bar and retrieved a bottle. “This is my special drink for man I like.” The ancient bottle of Mogen David had a frayed and faded label. He was startled, but determined that she would not see his ears pull back as his jaw tensed. So he smiled. She poured two drinks. He lifted his glass and took a sip. The liquor burned though his nose, some sort of homemade berry infusion into god knows what. It was purple, and it was not Passover wine.

  “So, you like Leila?”

  “I have a little gift for her.”

  “Funny, we haven’t seen you before.”

  “Oh, I’m not a client. I’m a photographer. She is very beautiful.”

  “You photograph me?”

  He took a flower from the vase and stood her in a corner next to a bamboo screen. She took the bottle with her. “I don’t think you should put the flower into the bottle. Why don’t you put it in your hair? And here, let’s pose you at a three quarter angle to show off your figure. Pull your muumuu like this. You should look back over your shoulder.”

  She flipped her frizzy hair toward her back, some of it straggling in various other locations. But she actually had an engaging smile and he was able to make her look presentable. He moved table lamps into position so that the light fell from above and cast a soft glow around her. For a middle aged native with bad teeth, she now looked her best. She probably had been quite attractive as a young girl.

  As he photographed Madame Tutau, girls passed back and forth through the lobby. Leila’s guest departed, and Madame Tutau pressed the button to her room. “She will be ready to see you very soon now.”

  Leila came down the stairs in a beautiful violet sarong tied up over her shoulders with fresh flowers in her hair. It was evident that she had nothing on underneath. Hank took a deep breath and pulled out the manila envelope from his camera bag.

  “Here are your photographs. Please let me know which ones you like, and I will enlarge some for you.” He turned and addressed the proprietor. “Madame Tutau, it has been a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again.”

  “No freebies.”

  “No, I am not expecting freebies.”

  Later that week, a battleship came in with British and Australian sailors. The French half-breed whores were already languishing on the beach. Pidgin French and English sounded everywhere as the sailors struck their bargains. Once again, Hans started taking pictures of the girls. His Leica pocket camera was a standard tourist model, but he was as convincing as a Hollywood talent agent, although he had never been to Hollywood.

  Three girls were left over after the sailors had made their choices for the day. He photographed them - a childlike nymph arranged shells on the beach, soft pinks and lavender hues making delicate shadows against the sand. The forms hid among pebbles of similar colors as she laid out patterns, som
e symmetrical and some wandering. A bare breasted matron posed with her succulent fruits. She still had some refreshments for sale. A third woman swam nude in the brilliant blue lagoon. Although her shape was visible in the water, her skin wasn’t. This was the best shot of the day by far, layers of transparency distorting light and ultimately obscuring the image. This photograph engaged the imagination of the viewer. He felt like a voyeur taking her pictures as she laughed and splashed water toward him. He wished he had color film to capture the aquamarine droplets lit by the sun.

  The entire scene on the beach presented a puzzle. The girls were lovely, almost childlike, but everything on the beach seemed a little too planned. Hans’s business experience indicated that he was looking at a fresh enterprise.

  The Sunday morning quiet of Avenue Fontaine was a pleasant contrast to the normal wartime bustle of Noumea. There were no jeeps, no shouts, and no loudspeakers. Hans made his rounds to deliver prints to the girls. It was his understanding that they had a quiet late morning, with time for church or just relaxing. He also had a large portrait of Madame Tutau. He had carefully erased some lines and shadows, and even added a gentle color wash to the flowers, as well as lips and rosy cheeks. A final touch was a white cardboard frame. Madame Tutau was at her station behind the bar, washing up glasses from a busy Saturday night.

  “Good morning! You buy me a drink?”

  Hans laughed easily, “It’s a little early for a drink. How about later?” He looked around the lounge. “Actually, I came here to see Mei.”

  “Oh so now you like Mei? Mei can’t see you right now.”

  “I think I had better wait for her. She is expecting me.” He pulled up a chair next to the coffee table.

  “Mei can’t see you. She has guest right now.” He spotted the large open book, some sort of guest registry sitting on a coffee table next to the couch.