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Karl was a young man again, adorned in his uniform, smoking a cigarette. He stared down from the verandah, the camp below laid out like a gray-brown gathering of old bones swarming with tiny, striped insects. At intervals, he heard the pop of pistol- or rifle-shots. Black smoke poured from a pair of great chimneys protruding from a squat, fat brick building in the center of camp. White smoke snaking nearer on the northwestern horizon indicated a new shipment of workers arriving by train.
“Here’s a pretty piece,” Schultz said from within. The doors to the sitting room were wide open, allowing the autumn air to work its way through the house. It was sunny and cool. The leaves were just turning. Karl heard the whisper as Schultz slid the grammophone album from its sleeve, followed by a crackle as he placed the needle on the spinning album’s face.
Mozart’s Horn Concerto played, a balanced melange of buttery French horns and piquant orchestral counterpoint, like a fine Riesling in music. Cool on the surface, warm underneath. Smooth, sweet and balanced: ripe peaches in a bowl of cream, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar.
The three young officers were silent as the concerto played. Lemmler puffed his pipe, the fine tobacco a balm to his companions’ senses. Schultz poured a small cup of coffee and sat, sipping. Goethe smoked his cigarette on the narrow verandah. Though the camp lay strewn below him, a piteous and ugly sight, he almost forgot about it completely. Those first few moments, when the music caressed him, were like the first forays of lovemaking. They erased the past, obscured the future, drew one into a perpetual, semi-permanent present. What could be wrong in the world, so long as such sublime music filled the air?
Footsteps. The tiny clink of crystal against silver. That would be the houseboy with their breakfast. Goethe turned and marched into the sitting room. The boy caught his eye for a moment, thin and underfed, ears and nose too large for his square little head and his bony, marionette’s body. He saw the boy’s hunger in his eyes, heard the churning and growling of his empty stomach. Just beneath those three tureens, salvation waited for the little waif: eggs, sausages, cabbage and brown bread. Butter. Sugar. In the pot on the sideboard, rich Italian coffee.
The boy set the tray on the sideboard and turned to hurry from the room. Goethe stopped him.
“Boy,” he said, and smiled to set the boy at ease.
The boy turned. For a long moment, the young officer and the little Polish Jew shared a pregnant silence and appraised one another. Something strange passed between them.
Karl was struck by two thoughts. First: the boy was not afraid of him. Second: some part of Karl was afraid of the boy. That feeling defied all sense and logic—he was only a child, after all; no doubt, barely strong enough to lift the breakfast tray.
It’s not the strength in his shoulders or arms that worries you, a voice said within him. It’s the look in those eyes. Give him one moment alone with you and a straight razor and see what happens.
What pity he held for the child—and the hundreds like him down in the camp—melted. This was no child to be pitied: this was a rodent; a pest to be eradicated, lest his fearlessness and impertinence spread. He searched his mind for some advantage, and in moments had it in hand.
“Are you hungry?” Goethe asked, smile broadening.
Lemmler snorted. “If he touches my breakfast, I’ll break his goddamned little fingers.”
“Calm down, Fritz,” Karl said. “I’ve got a game in mind.”
“What game?” Schultz asked.
Karl crouched, meeting the boy’s gaze. “What would you do for a piece of bread, boy? For some butter on that bread?”
“You’re mad, Karl.”
“Quiet, Fritz. It’s only a game.” He looked the boy in the eye again. “Well, boy?”
The boy’s eyes rounded the room: he took in Schultz, then Lemmler, then looked back to Goethe. He was trying to control his desperation—Karl could tell. The boy knew that something was amiss. Further, he wanted to spit in Karl’s face—Karl could see that, too—but all the boy mustered was a tiny whimper, and a trembling lip. “Please,” the waif said. “Please.”
“Good Christ,” Lemmler snorted.
“Schultz,” Karl said, “call in that serving girl.”