The Taster

by V. S. Alexander

I didn’t flinch from his intent gaze. “Nothing. I was at the Wolf’s Lair when the bomb exploded.”

  “Captain Weber is missing. You have no idea where he is or if he was involved in this heinous plot?”

  “No.”

  He put a finger to his lips and sighed. “He will be found and executed if my hunch is correct. Others, in the Gestapo, believe he was involved. Too many are involved.”

  For the first time, I looked away from him and out the window toward the common, where I saw the prisoners begin their lonely marches for the day. “If my husband was involved in this, he never shared such information with me. But it is ludicrous to believe he would play any part in this plot. He is loyal to the Reich.”

  The Colonel pounded his fists on the desk so hard the pen and pencil on it flew into the air. “I don’t believe you! You’re lying!”

  I turned to him. “If I’m lying why would I tell you the truth about who I am? Did the SS or the Gestapo tell you that I saved the Führer’s life? Or that it was the Führer who wanted Karl and me to be married?”

  His face turned sour with a scowl, as if I had deflated his argument. “No, I heard it from another—your boss,” he stated calmly. He picked up his cap and stared at it. “When you pledge your life to the Führer you make certain sacrifices. I was told you have made those sacrifices. I believe you.”

  The anxiety I carried drained from my body. “Thank you,” I said.

  “I didn’t just talk to the Gestapo. I talked to the cook at the Wolf’s Lair as well. She vouched for you.” He pointed to his cap. “See the death’s-head? Every SS man is sworn to obey the Führer and the Reich, to give up his life if necessary. The cook told me that no one knew where you were. The Colonel who sent you away told no one he was transferring you to Bromberg-Ost. Your boss was furious that such a loyal and devoted worker would be taken away from her without so much as a word. She went to the Führer and asked that you be returned to the Wolf’s Lair. He remembered you saved his life.” He leaned forward and tapped the top of his cap. “For your sake, I hope you are loyal to the Reich. I hope your husband who has disappeared is as devoted to the Führer as you are.”

  I answered with a gut-wrenching lie, but I had to speak. “I am loyal to the Führer. And so is my husband.” Memories of Karl rushed into my head and tears welled up in my eyes. I put my head down and sobbed.

  “No more tears,” the Colonel said. He rose from his chair and lifted my shoulders. “The cook is sending a car for you. It will arrive this afternoon. In the meantime, you must stay here. I will have Gerda look for your wedding ring. I hope it hasn’t been sent to be melted down.” He gathered his cap in his hands, wished me luck and walked out of the room.

  I was alone for about an hour before Gerda returned to the office. “You may have breakfast in the kitchen,” she said. “We didn’t know you worked for the Führer.” She studied me as if I were an actress, a star in my own right. She was in awe of someone so close to Hitler. I knew she was also suspicious of me, a woman who worked at the Berghof and the Wolf’s Lair only to end up in Bromberg-Ost. It made no sense to her.

  “An SS Colonel wanted to see me punished,” I said to satisfy her curiosity.

  She looked at me with more questions in her eyes.

  “I’m not sure why myself,” I said, “but the Führer understands the situation. That’s why he is calling me back to the Wolf’s Lair.”

  “I see,” she said, and the muscles in her thick neck tensed. She opened her clenched fist and revealed my silver wedding ring.

  A rush of feelings swept over me and I was overjoyed that my connection to Karl had been restored. I put the ring back on my left hand.

  “Follow me,” Gerda said. “The car won’t be here until this afternoon.”

  I spent the next few hours in the mess hall with the kitchen staff. Some were guards and Party workers, the rest prisoners from the camp. Everyone stared at me, including Jenny, who happened to walk through the hall. She said nothing, only glowered at my betrayal of her plans for me to be a brothel woman. After lunch—a sumptuous feast of pork, potatoes, green beans and cake for the guards and officers, as opposed to the meager offerings for the camp inmates—I walked back to the office where the Colonel had questioned me.

  About two in the afternoon, I saw a black Mercedes touring car pull up outside the gate. Gerda came to the office and asked me to follow her. I was “processed,” the gate opened and I stepped out to freedom. The SS driver opened the car door and we sped away. Escaping Bromberg-Ost was as simple as that. As I reclined in the seat, I looked at my ring as it flashed like a silver star in the alternating patterns of sun and shade coming through the window. I wondered what had happened to Katrina at Stutthof. Was she dead? I suspected so. Would Helen, the communist Jew, meet the same fate? I would never know, and that haunted me. I wished I could save her, but to ask such a favor from the Reich would have been impossible.

  The driver kept the car rolling at a high speed. He said little to me and seemed in a hurry to get back to the Wolf’s Lair. After three hours, the car was in the wooded plains of Poland. We arrived in Rastenburg about six. After we passed through security, the driver left me near Hitler’s private rail station. I didn’t know whether the room I’d shared with Karl would still be waiting for me, so I picked up my suitcase and walked to the mess hall. Cook, I thought, would be in the kitchen, in the middle of dinner preparations.

  As I entered it, a hush descended on the staff. Everyone stared at me—the marked woman returned from her imprisonment. Cook stood at a table in the far corner of the kitchen. When she saw me, she rushed toward me with open arms, hugged me and inquired about my well-being. The staff watched our reunion with interest and then slowly returned to their work.

  “Magda, I must talk to you,” Cook said. I could tell from her tone that something serious had happened. She walked me to her small office near the entrance. We sat knee to knee in the two chairs crammed inside. Oddly, the surroundings of cookbooks, inventory lists, the fancy spices, our intimacy, felt comforting after my long days and nights at Bromberg-Ost.

  “The Colonel has been relieved of duty,” Cook said. “The Gestapo has taken him away.”

  I was shocked, but relieved to be rid of him. “Why?”

  “No one knows,” Cook said. “So much has happened since von Stauffenberg’s attack on the Führer. It’s insanity here.” She tapped her fingers on her small oak desk. “If I smoked, I would have a cigarette. A glass of wine would do me good.” She looked at me with furrowed brows. “I want you to be strong—the Gestapo wants to talk to you. I only know this because I spoke with the Führer personally to arrange your return. I told him you would never raise a hand against the Reich.” She paused and the concern in her eyes deepened to sadness. “He’s not well. He usually takes his meals alone, but sometimes he dines with his secretaries for company. His left hand shakes and he walks with a stoop. He is not the man he used to be before the blast. I’ve been told his rages are more pronounced than ever. No one crosses him.”

  Cook’s words set my nerves on edge.

  “Even Eva spoke highly of you,” she continued. “Usually she has no say in these matters. But the Führer knows you and believes you had nothing to do with this crime; otherwise, I would not have been able to free you. Many have been rounded up and executed for the bombing—I’ve heard hundreds have already been arrested. You are fortunate.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and reached to touch her hands. She took mine in hers and we sat for a moment as the tension in her body flowed into mine.

  “Bromberg-Ost was horrible,” I said. “The prisoners are treated worse than farm animals. I heard rumors of—”

  She withdrew her hands from mine with a look of disgust. “Magda! Please. Never speak of such things. It isn’t allowed. Whatever you saw must be a mistake. If the guards act like criminals they will be punished. The Reich would not allow such atrocities to happen. Tell no one what you experienced.”

  A kno
ck interrupted us. A young man, a valet, opened the door and motioned for Cook. “Wait here,” she told me as she left.

  I waited for thirty minutes before the door opened again. A middle-aged man with thinning black hair stepped inside. He wore a dark suit with the Party pin attached to the lapel.

  “Frau Weber,” he said, and sat down across from me. He held a black dossier, which he placed in his lap. “I would tell you my name, but my identity isn’t important.” He smiled, showing perfect white teeth.

  Something in his character unsettled me. He was formal and businesslike, not harsh or overtly threatening like the Colonel. However, I judged he would have no difficulty in slitting my throat and watching me bleed to death. He would draw the knife across my neck gracefully, as if committing the deed were an art. He struck me as a cold, calculating killer.

  He withdrew a black eyeglass case from his jacket and placed it on top of the dossier. “Let me say, you are a lucky woman. Others have not been so fortunate.” He opened the case, pulled out his glasses and slid them on. “The Führer, in his wisdom, has judged you innocent of the crimes claimed by the Colonel.” He opened the dossier, flipping to the first page, and said, “You will have no further interaction with the Colonel, rest assured. He has been sent away.”

  “To where?” I asked. “How can I be certain he won’t return?”

  “You needn’t worry. That’s all I can report. The matter is of no consequence to you. Perhaps in the future . . .”

  He looked down at the typewritten lines and read, “‘The Reich reports the death of Captain Karl Weber.’”

  He continued to read, but my ears refused to hear the voice that droned on. I felt myself slipping from the chair into the void. A strangled scream poured from my mouth, but it seemed to have come from somewhere outside myself, from some distant point in the universe. I tumbled through the darkness until the man caught me and lifted me back in my chair. I refused to believe what I’d heard.

  “Frau Weber!” He shook my shoulders until I looked at him in horror.

  “He’s dead?” I repeated the question over and over until it became a violent protest.

  “Yes! I must ask you to compose yourself.”

  I steadied myself against the chair and held on tightly to its wooden seat. It rocked underneath me like a boat in a tempest.

  He returned to the dossier. “Regarding the death of your husband, I can tell you his body was found in the outer perimeter of the Wolf’s Lair yesterday. A note was found nearby. Captain Weber was a suicide. His body was taken away for burial.”

  A dark veil of tears formed in my eyes. “Where was he taken? How did he die?”

  He took off his glasses and put them in the case. “Unfortunately, that is all I can tell you. The matter is closed. You may return to your duties.” He stood and with a stiff voice said, “Heil Hitler.” I heard the door open and close and he was gone.

  I cupped my face in my hands and cried until I felt a gentle touch upon my shoulders. Cook sat across from me and held on to my arms until my eyes were devoid of tears and only dry, heaving sobs remained. She took my suitcase and led me across the grounds to my old dormitory. There, Dora and Else waited for me. I collapsed like an iron weight upon the bed. I heard them talking, but what they said made no sense. I didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. My husband was dead.

  * * *

  My period was late and I suspected I was pregnant. But one morning a sharp pain struck my stomach and I rushed to the bathroom. When I lifted myself from the seat, I looked inside the toilet. The water was cloudy with blood and a whitish fluid. Karl’s prediction had come true: I had carried his baby; but I lost it after his death.

  CHAPTER 17

  If one can live like a corpse, I did so for the next four months. It was deep in the fall before I experienced my days and nights as something other than a morass of pain. The business of living returned slowly like a picture formed by a jigsaw puzzle, constructed day by day, hour by hour, piece by piece. On some days I could see through the haze that floated through my head; on other days I was overwhelmed by depression and tears.

  I came to hate the routine at the Wolf’s Lair, and, frankly, I didn’t care whether I would be poisoned. Cook tried to cheer me up with her jokes and her lighthearted banter about food, but I remained a joyless soul. Most nights, as I tasted the Führer’s dinner, I wished for death, some blessed relief from the monotony of my useless existence.

  I dreamed about Karl and what must have happened to him. Rumors circulated throughout the Wolf’s Lair about his suicide, but most people were too kind to speak of it. I knew when something was being said about me—the hushed voices, the eyes turned away, those actions indicated gossip. Even Dora, who I suspected knew the most about Karl’s death, remained silent.

  One evening in late September, outside the movie theater, as the wind blew fiercely through headquarters, two SS guards stood puffing on cigarettes. They smiled as I passed, the wind fanning the smoke from their nostrils. One of them mentioned my name, so I ducked around the corner of the building hoping to hear their conversation. Their words carried on the swirling air and I made out “land mine,” “pieces of his body,” “coward.” I waited in the shadows until they were gone; then I went back to the dormitory and confronted Dora. She lay on her cot, reading a book, her long frame barely fitting the mattress.

  I threw my coat on my bed. “What happened to my husband?” She looked at me as if she couldn’t believe I’d asked the question. “I’m sure you know. Everyone in headquarters knows but me.”

  She rose on her elbows. The only noise in the room was the infernal swoosh of air through the vent. She shook her head. “Are you sure you want to hear the answer? Most war widows don’t want to know how their husbands died.”

  I sat on my cot and stared at her. Dora was no friend, nor would she be an ally. “I deserve to know,” I said. Since we had little invested in our friendship, I suspected she would tell me the truth.

  Dora put her book aside and sat up. “Very well, I will tell you what I know, but if you mention this to anyone I will deny I told you anything.”

  I nodded.

  “Captain Weber blew himself up with an explosive pack in the outer perimeter.”

  I cringed at the image in my mind, but I retained my composure. I also knew the land in that area was dotted with mines. “I can’t believe it,” I said.

  “It’s true. I received a firsthand report.” Dora leaned forward. “Cook found out, but I don’t know how. She was afraid to tell you. Of course, no one should speak of such matters.”

  “My husband would never do such a thing. I know Karl. He would not kill himself. Is that why I heard officers whispering he was a coward?”

  “Most likely. He took the easy way out. Are you so certain he wouldn’t commit suicide? What if your husband was implicated in the plot to kill the Führer?”

  “Impossible.”

  Dora dropped her voice to a whisper. “I only know what I’ve been told. It seems the Colonel was blackmailing officers, whether or not they were involved in the bombing. That’s why he was taken away. He cast suspicion on many men—and a few women. I assume he tried to get you to confess, but failed. The Gestapo, of course, must investigate every possible lead.”

  I shook at her words. “The Gestapo officer indicated there was a note. Do you know what it said?”

  “I never saw it, but your husband proclaimed his innocence—and yours as well. Apparently, he knew he was in for a rough time. To be accused is as damning as the deed itself.”

  I didn’t have to think hard to figure out what atrocities might occur at the hands of the secret police.

  Else came into the room and offered her cheerful smile. She greeted us, but neither Dora nor I answered. When Else perceived our sour moods, she undressed for bed, crawled under the blanket and closed her eyes. Dora returned to her book while images of Karl ran through my head. I had kept his hope for our future close to my heart. That was why it
was so hard to believe he had killed himself. I wondered how I would spend my remaining days at the Wolf’s Lair.

  * * *

  The first snow fell in late October. Cold, damp air weighed down the day. First, the rain came, turning the tree bark black with wetness. Ice pellets followed for several hours before the snow fell powdery in the gray dusk.

  Cook came to me that morning and asked for my help. Of all the people at the Wolf’s Lair, I considered her the one person I could trust—a friend of sorts. We went to her office to review food inventories. We stepped inside and she closed the door.

  I looked at the journals on the desk. The ink ran in lines over the pages like waves. I rubbed my eyes and said, “I think I’m going crazy. Time away from the Wolf’s Lair would do me good.”

  Cook sighed and put her hand on my shoulder. “We would all be better off away from here.” She sat near me and grinned. “Would you like some vodka? I keep a bottle hidden, but you must never reveal the secret of my small stash. The Führer would not be pleased if he knew his cook had a drink now and then.”

  I chuckled. “I’ve only had it once before—at a birthday party. The host gave me a small glass.”

  “Well, that’s all you’ll get here.” She reached into a cabinet I’d opened many times before. She shuffled boxes and books around and then lifted a piece of wood, like removing the cover to a secret panel. Glass glinted in the dim light. Cook reached in and pulled out a bottle of Russian vodka. “Contraband. Imagine having this in the Wolf’s Lair as our mortal enemies approach. One could get strung up for having a bottle, but I don’t worry too much. I wipe off my fingerprints. If someone asks, I’ll answer, ‘How would I know how it got here?’” She took two small glasses from the cabinet and poured the vodka. “To us.” She tipped her glass against mine and poured the liquor down her throat in one gulp. I took a sip. The drink burned on my tongue and my first response was to cough it up, but I forced it down and a fuzzy, warm ball settled in my stomach. “You grow to like it,” Cook said, “especially on a cold night.”