Things fall apart, Anna thinks, remembering a poem Max once read to her; the center cannot hold. She is unaware that she has uttered the words aloud until the Obersturmführer lunges at her.
What? he says. He grabs the braided coil at the back of her neck and yanks Anna to her feet. What did you say? Why did you say that?
Anna cries out. She bats at his hands; an ounce more pressure and her hair will come out by the roots.
Nothing, she gasps, it was nothing, a foolish poem, it doesn’t mean anything!
The Obersturmführer ’s grip slackens somewhat, but he keeps a firm hold on the braid while he draws his pistol from its holster. He tries to fumble the safety catch off. This is an awkward maneuver one-handed; he nearly drops the revolver; he swears.
For all our sakes, he is saying, maybe it would be cleaner, better, the best solution for all of us if I—
Time slows to the sludgy pace of dream. Over the roar in her ears, Anna hears the click of the safety being drawn back. She won’t make it easy for him, she will put up a fight, she will bite his arm as hard as she can—
But then the Obersturmführer drops her hair. He gazes bewildered around the bakery. His mouth hangs down as though he has suffered a stroke. He is once again unplugged.
No, he says. It may be all right. It may still come all right.
Anna shuts her eyes.
Of course it will, she whispers, and touches his sleeve.
The Obersturmführer looks down at her hand, his lips thinning in disgust.
Clean this place up, he snaps, sliding his pistol back into its holster. He straightens his uniform tunic and yanks his greatcoat on. In the glare of the lamp, his shadow bulks to monstrous proportions on the wall. It’s a disgrace. You’re a disgrace. I’ve had it with the pair of you. Puling, whining, ungrateful! I’ve half a mind not to come back at all.
Please, Anna says, though she is not sure what she is begging for. Part of her rejoices, exulting, Good riddance, thank God! But if the Obersturmführer abandons them, she and Trudie will have no choice but to join the ranks of the dispossessed.
Please, Horst, don’t go away angry—He casts a pallid glance in her direction. The door slams behind him.
Anna looks about for Trudie, who is standing in the corner, her thumb in her mouth.
Come, little rabbit, Anna says. Hop upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a minute with some ice for your face; won’t that feel good?
The girl gives no indication that she has heard. Anna reaches for her shoulders to turn her around. Trudie flinches from her touch.
I’m sorry, Anna whispers. I’m sorry, little one.
Trudie slips away from her and walks toward the staircase.
Anna watches her go. Then she kneels to salvage what she can from the debris of the Obersturmführer ’s tantrum, raking the stuff into a pile. Her uncoiled braid swings over one shoulder like a hangman’s rope; her scalp smarts; the tine of a fork pierces her forefinger. Anna rocks back on her heels, sucking the wounded finger. She relishes the salt of her own blood. She has not eaten in two days.
What is to become of us? she asks aloud.
As if in response, there is a rap on the door. Anna gets to her feet to answer it. Then she bends and rummages through the refugees’ plunder until she finds a brass candlestick, big enough to have adorned a cathedral’s altar. Perhaps it once did. She conceals this in the folds of her skirt as she lifts the latch. She has not endured the indignations of the past three years to die at the Obersturmführer ’s hands. If she opens the door to find the cold circle of his pistol’s muzzle pressed against her forehead, she will bash his head in. Though maybe he is returning to apologize, to give her another chance?
He is not: when Anna opens the door, holding the candlestick in a death grip, she hears only a timid voice. Begging Anna’s pardon, it says, they are sorry to disturb her at this hour, but can she spare any food for a mother and her four starving children? Or, lacking that, a room for the night . . .
43
AS MARCH 1945 GOES OUT LIKE A LION, THE REMAINING townsfolk of Weimar resign themselves to meeting their enemy face-to-face. We’re finished, they whisper; everything is lost, the end will come any day now. The American infantry, it is said, has seized control of cities as close as Eisenach and Ehrfurt, ransacking and burning the houses, raping the women, worse than the Russians. German citizens have been forbidden to leave their homes. The percussive rumble of artillery shakes more plaster from the bakery ceilings. The SS, wall-eyed and jittery, march columns of prisoners through the streets, bound for the train station. But Anna would have known without these harbingers that things are crumbling around the edges. She hasn’t seen the Obersturmführer, her personal wartime barometer, for a month and a half.
Yet even Anna doesn’t suspect how near the end is until the first of April, which also happens to be Easter Sunday, falling abnormally early this year to coincide with the Day of Fools. Anna finds this appropriate. She has little patience with people who still believe in the possibility of resurrection. She is mopping the floor of the bakery, the first chance she has had to do so since the last sad handful of refugees, when she hears the drone of engines overhead.
Trudie, run to the cellar, Anna calls, swabbing another clean arc on the cement. She isn’t overly concerned; she has learned to distinguish the sound of light reconnaissance aircraft from the heavier throb of bombers, and these sound like spy planes. The attacks have become a regular occurrence, the days and nights turned topsy-turvy by the wail of air-raid sirens: Air raid, all clear. Air raid, all clear. Anna listens for the clip-clop of Trudie’s soles, indicating that the girl has obeyed her. Satisfied, she bends to wring the mop into the pail. Then she straightens, dripping dirty water onto the floor. Something is wrong. The sirens have not sounded at all.
Anna is approaching the door to see what is happening when it flies open, nearly knocking her backward. One of her former customers, Frau Hochmeier, charges into the bakery. She is wearing an absurd hat, no doubt for the Easter service, its bunch of silk violets askew and dangling.
Frau Hochmeier bends double, catching her breath, and then shakes a piece of paper in Anna’s face.
What is this? she screams. These messages from the sky, what do they mean?
Anna takes the leaflet from the woman and flattens it on the display case. Her command of English, learned so long ago in Gymnasium, is shaky at best. But she can decipher the basic meaning of the words, and when she flips the paper over, she finds a German translation. Scholarly fellows, these Americans.
Citizens of Thuringia, Anna reads aloud. Due to atrocities perpetuated at concentration camp Buchenwald and by the Nazi regime in general, hostilities are imminent in your area. Be prepared to surrender peacefully to the Army of the United States of America.
Frau Hochmeier stares.
Is that all? she asks.
Anna folds the paper. Somewhere nearby, gunfire rattles like popping corn. The announcement of imminent hostilities, Anna thinks, is a bit belated.
Yes, she answers. That’s all it says.
Frau Hochmeier nods stoically. Then she shrieks, We’re done for! They’re going to kill us, they’ll shoot every last one of us!
Anna has never been fond of Frau Hochmeier, who in recent years is one of those who has leveled at Anna the flat stare of condemnation, as though Anna were the bearer of contagious immorality. But at the moment Anna feels some pity for her. Deeply religious, once pretty, the woman now looks mad, the sleepless nights carved in creases on her face. Then again, they all look different now.
Get hold of yourself, Anna tells her, voice low. My daughter is downstairs.
But what should we do, Anna? Frau Hochmeier asks. What will you do?
Anna shrugs. Wait, I suppose, she replies. What else is there?
Frau Hochmeier backs away.
I’m going to run, she says. I’d run if I were you. Especially if I were you.
When she has gone, Anna bolts the doo
r and draws the blackout curtains. After a moment’s thought, she carries a chair in from the kitchen and props it under the knob. Then, surveying these flimsy precautions, Anna laughs at herself: she is behaving like an idiot, like Frau Hochmeier. If the Americans want to come in, they will come in. And it is useless to run from them, for there is nowhere to go.
But the waiting is a strain on the nerves, for there is nothing to be done in the meantime. By midafternoon, Anna finds herself with no way to occupy the hours. The bakery is clean, the child napping in the cellar next to the sole remaining refugee, a manicurist from Wiesbaden with a convulsive cough. The woman has assured Anna that her throat is irritated from smoke inhaled during a bombing, that she doesn’t have the highly infectious typhoid or pneumonia. Anna isn’t convinced that her guest is telling the truth, but her proximity to the child can’t be helped. Trudie needs her rest; she has adopted a silent, unblinking stare that Anna doesn’t much like the looks of, and aside from the hiding space Anna has outfitted for the girl in one of the kitchen cupboards for when the enemy tanks arrive, the cellar is the safest place for Trudie to be.
Anna has resorted to distracting herself by making tea, coaxing it from sodden leaves already steeped three times, when a knock on the door startles her into dropping the pot. She upbraids herself as she stoops to gather the pieces: stupid Anna, to be so jumpy over the arrival of another refugee! Or perhaps it is a Wehrmacht deserter, one of the boys, pitifully young, who creep shamefaced from the Ettersberg forest to beg from Anna anything she can spare them: salt-and-flour soup, a crust of bread. Whoever her visitor is, he is a persistent fellow. The knob beneath the bolt swivels back and forth. Anna takes a rolling pin to the door with her, hoping she will not be forced to use it.
Coming, coming, she calls.
When she sees that her impatient guest is the Obersturm-führer, Anna utters an exasperated pfft! and turns her back. Fetching the broom, she begins sweeping up the smaller fragments of china.
I thought you’d abandoned us, she says. Do you have any food? Anything—flour, lentils?
No, says the Obersturmführer. Stop that now. I haven’t time to watch you do your housework.
Anna hurls the shards into the rubbish bin.
But I suppose you have time to go upstairs, she says, in a shaking, scolding tone. Oh yes, there’s always time for that. Well, I’ve news for you: you’ll have to carry me. I haven’t the energy to climb the steps. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve eaten? Do you? The whole city is under siege, we’re starving and terrified, while you sit up there safe as a king, gorging yourself on— on God knows what— you—
When you’ve finished your tantrum, Anna, the Obersturm-führer interrupts, perhaps you’d be so kind as to listen to what I’ve come to say?
His overly courteous tone, his use of the formal Sie, frightens Anna into composure. She grips the lip of the sink until her knuckles are as white as the porcelain. Then she looks at him as if to say, Go on, and what she sees startles her further: the Ober-sturmführer is in civilian clothes. He wears patched trousers and an ill-fitting jacket, the garb of a peddler or dockworker. His jowls are blue with stubble. For a moment Anna is amused by this pathetic dirty costume, this affront to his vanity. How it must gall him! Then her attention is riveted by a brown stain on his shirt. It looks like sauce of some sort, gravy or mustard. She longs to lick it.
It is nearly over now, the Obersturmführer tells her. Pister has given orders that the camp be completely evacuated. Once this is done, it will be destroyed . . .
He snaps his fingers beneath Anna’s nose. Are you listening, Anna? Pay attention.
Anna arranges her features into an expression of polite inquiry.
I am meant to travel south with the other deputies, to ensure that the largest shipment arrives at KZ Dachau, the Obersturm-führer continues. They have bigger containment facilities there. We’re scheduled to leave tomorrow, before dawn.
But what about us, Anna starts to protest, myself, the child—The Obersturmführer makes a silencing slash with a forefinger. However, I have decided to leave sooner, he says. Now, in fact. And instead of going to Dachau, I will travel to Munich and from there to Portugal, where I will board a ship for Argentina.
Anna’s gaze returns to the sauce on his shirt. Argentina. The very concept is as remote to her as the schoolroom in which she once studied it.
You’re thinking me a coward, the Obersturmführer says peevishly. But there’s no good in hanging on, Anna. The war is lost, our cause in ruins. You were right when you said things fall apart, and in such situations, it’s every man for himself, no?
The Obersturmführer pauses for her response. Receiving none, he continues, You will come with me, traveling as my wife. I already have the documents.
He pats the breast pocket of his threadbare jacket. After a moment, he produces a semblance of his former grin.
But there is one other matter, he says. We can’t take the girl.
Anna’s head snaps up.
What are you talking about?
I couldn’t get papers for her. But it’s impossible in any case. Use your brain, Anna! We have to be careful. There are borders to cross, there will be questions; she would give us away. I’ve arranged for her to be transferred into the Lebensborn program in Munich. The fellow in charge there is an old friend who owes me a favor. He’ll watch out for her. She’ll be perfectly safe.
They lock glances, Anna’s disbelieving, the Obersturmführer ’s beseeching. The kitchen is silent but for the tick of rain, the manicurist’s cough, a distant rumble that might be thunder or the thud of artillery.
We haven’t time to dawdle, the Obersturmführer says, taking Anna’s silence for agreement. You’ve a few minutes to pack. One small bag for each of you—
No, Anna says.
What?
No.
I admit it’s not an ideal solution, Anna. But she’ll be safer than if both of you stay here.
No, I said.
The Obersturmführer advances toward her and Anna backs away, wincing in anticipation of a blow. But he kneels at her feet, taking her hands in a grotesque parody of proposal.
Be reasonable, he pleads. What will you do when the Americans get here? It will happen any moment now, I promise you. Do you know what Americans do to children? They drive their tanks over them, run them through with bayonets. I know, I’ve seen the reports firsthand. Come now, go upstairs and pack—
No, Anna shouts. No, no!
She slaps him. He makes no effort to protect himself other than lowering his head. Anna rains blows on it, pounding his skull with her fists. She grips his dark hair, coarse as steel wool, and pulls with all her might.
The Obersturmführer clasps Anna about the waist. She can feel his face working, hot and wet, through her dress. She beats at his head, trying to push it away. He endures it.
After a time, Anna stops as suddenly as she began, simply running out of strength. She stands with her eyes shut, swaying in the Obersturmführer ’s embrace, her hands resting on his hair.
Slowly, the Obersturmführer withdraws his arms and rises to his feet. Sweat runnels down his face from temples to jaw.
For the final time, he says, are you coming with me or not.
Anna shakes her head: no.
After all I’ve done for you, the Obersturmführer says. After all the gifts I brought you and the child. I fed you; I protected you when I should have shot you the first moment I saw you. I should have finished you off long ago—
He pats his hip, where his holster usually rests; not finding it, he yanks his shirt from his waistband.
Perhaps I should do it now, he says.
Go ahead then, Anna shouts. Go on.
But they both know the Obersturmführer is bluffing. His hand trembles so badly that he can’t extract the weapon from beneath his belt. He lets the shirt fall over the hairy bulge of his stomach, hiding the small scimitar of a scar resulting from a childhood dog bite, this flesh more famil
iar to Anna than her own.
I thought I knew you, the Obersturmführer says. I even loved you. Now I find that I don’t know you at all.
But I know you, Anna tells him. I’ve always known you for exactly what you are.
The Obersturmführer gazes at Anna for some time with his ghostly eyes. Then he clicks his heels, executes a military turn, and walks to the door. En route, he stumbles over his own small feet, pitching forward. It is the first and only time Anna will see the Obersturmführer wearing civilian shoes.
He catches himself on the jamb.
Very well, he says. So be it. I wish you luck. You’ll need it, I assure you.
He opens the door and pauses, his hand on the knob.
But we would have had a good life together, he adds. I would have provided handsomely for you, you know.
Anna stands watching him grow smaller through the flyspecked window over the sink. The evening is green and watery, the trees dripping condensation on the Obersturmführer ’s bare head. As he climbs into a truck much like the delivery van, he stops and looks at the bakery for a long moment. Then he starts the engine and drives away.
Trudy, March 1997
44
EVER SINCE THE BEGINNING OF MARCH, ANNA HAS BEEN acting strangely, although Trudy doesn’t notice it at first. It is only in retrospect that she realizes her mother’s walks around the lake are growing longer; that Anna returns somewhat disheveled, her hair mussed from her plastic rain scarf and with a blank staring look about the eyes; that she cleans the house obsessively and with astonishing thoroughness: beating the rugs, scrubbing the walls with watered-down Clorox, endlessly washing the sheets and—as she disdains Trudy’s dryer but lacks a clothesline in the yard—hanging them from her bedroom window like flags of surrender. It is true that Trudy is a bit taken aback by Anna’s ferocity, but she shrugs it off as spring cleaning, to which Anna annually subjected the farmhouse as well. At least Anna is keeping busy.