The Taster

by V. S. Alexander

  I ran my tongue over my lips. “It’s not bad.”

  Cook attempted to fill my glass, but I stopped her with my hand. “I shouldn’t. Dora might smell it on my breath.”

  She nodded, but her eyes flickered with anger. “To hell with Dora. She needs a drink to loosen up. Most people here do. . . .” Her voice faded and she poured herself another shot. Her face soured. The joy she got from the bottle dissipated. “The situation is bad, Magda. The Führer rarely sees anyone but his military staff, whom he constantly berates for their ineptitude.” She tipped back the glass and swallowed her drink. “He keeps to his room. The doctor tells me he complains about his stomach and takes constant injections to keep up his energy. He looks like an old man.”

  “And the war?” I asked.

  “We are losing. The Red Army is on our doorstep. I’m certain it won’t be long before we must leave the Wolf’s Lair for safer quarters.”

  “If I could leave now, I would.” I leaned back and drained the vodka.

  Cook put her glass on the desk and sighed. “You must leave now. The Eastern Front is falling fast. The Reds could be here in a few months, perhaps a few weeks. It’s for your own good. Even the SS officers are secretly telling others to leave.”

  Her suggestion caught me off guard. A hole opened in my heart as I pondered being pushed out of headquarters into the war. Suddenly, I realized how charmed my life had been despite my incarceration in Bromberg-Ost. I remembered my days at the camp and the women like Katrina and Helen who were left behind. Perhaps their liberation might come soon. There was nothing I could do about their plight.

  News of the Red advance shook me. Karl had begged me to stay alive for my sake, and for the sake of our unborn child. But had I survived—and also failed in my desire to kill Hitler—because of my own selfish desire for safety? Without Hitler’s protection, I was destined to be an “ordinary German,” caught in the cross fire of approaching armies. Those around Hitler felt protected, safe from harm, despite the war. The Propaganda Minister continued to feed lies to the Reich’s citizens: The army would win the war and Hitler would protect his people. What about American and British troops? How far were they from Germany? I had no idea of their positions. How safe was my father in Berlin, a targeted city?

  “The others have gone to a farmhouse outside of Rastenburg,” Cook said. “It’s near here, but safer than headquarters. You can still come to work. A car will pick you up.”

  I held out my glass; I wanted another shot of vodka. Cook poured a bountiful dose. “What about you? Are you coming?”

  She shook her head. “I will stay at the Wolf’s Lair. My place is by the Führer’s side, no matter what happens.”

  The look on her face echoed the resolve in her voice. I could not argue with her. I wanted to tell her that staying at headquarters was suicide. I wanted to tell her about the plots to kill Hitler, the way prisoners were treated at the camps, to get the truth out, but I knew she wouldn’t listen because such things shouldn’t be talked about. I understood, but despised, her loyalty to the man she admired above all others. Hitler inspired that kind of loyalty in his personal staff. Perhaps it was his paternal attitude, his kindness and attention to their needs, that kept them in line. Why would they believe what Karl and I knew was true? They had no idea what was happening in the East or in the camps.

  “The car will take you to the house after tasting tonight,” Cook said. “It shouldn’t take long the way he eats these days. I don’t see how he can live on milk and apple cake, but I suppose it helps his stomach.”

  I returned to the dormitory and packed my bag once again. Oddly enough, when I searched under the bed, I found my stuffed monkey. It had been moved from the room Karl and I shared. It had lain on the floor since my unfortunate trip to Bromberg-Ost. I pulled it out, patted the dust off its furry body and put it in my suitcase. I vowed it would never leave my side again. The family mementoes had disappeared, however.

  Cook was correct about tasting. It had become a perfunctory affair with little worry about Hitler being poisoned. Why poison the man when the end was near? Surely other staff members at the Wolf’s Lair knew how badly the war was going. Of course they could say nothing.

  A few hours later, Else and I left for our new home.

  The wooden farmhouse lay less than ten kilometers northeast of the Wolf’s Lair. The couple who owned the property was provincial but maintained a fierce loyalty to Hitler. Nazi insignia draped the mantle. Swastikas covered the pillows and the rugs. Peter and Victoria were true Prussians and intensely proud of their Germanic heritage: He stood tall and thin, while his wife was shorter and stout. He reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Otto von Bismarck when he was middle-aged. Peter wore his hair combed to the left over a long face accented by a russet beard and mustache. Victoria met us at the door and promptly offered me a bowl of goat stew. I accepted and reveled in the taste of her cooking. The stew was hearty and full of potatoes, cabbage and onions. I suspected quite a bit of their homegrown food ended up at the Wolf’s Lair. Perhaps the Nazis provided the couple with a stipend in appreciation of their “sacrifice.”

  The rectangular house was filled with rustic furniture. Everything that Peter and Victoria owned came from the land, even the hand-crafted cuckoo clock over the fireplace. Else and I were not the only tasters at the house. Four other women also resided there. I had rarely spoken to them at headquarters, except to exchange greetings and small talk. The six of us shared a long cabin, with comfortable bunks and warm bedding, attached to the main house. Several cats sat on the window ledges and a yellow retriever had free run of the house.

  We enjoyed our accommodations, in addition to our trips to the Wolf’s Lair. This respite in the farmhouse was much more comfortable than our cramped quarters in the Wolf’s Lair. An easy sense of familiarity and warmth pervaded the home, but winter was setting in and the mid-November evenings were growing longer and colder.

  One night, whispering awakened me. I shot up in bed, horrified that something was terribly wrong.

  “Magda, do you hear it?” the voice asked.

  I peered into the darkness and Else’s stricken face came into view. She clutched the railing and stared at me. I was in the bunk on top of hers.

  “For God’s sake, Else, what’s wrong?”

  She pointed to the single window near the center of the cabin. I slipped out of bed as quietly as possible and tiptoed to it. The room was freezing in the deep of night and the cold wooden planks stung my bare feet. I opened the curtain and peered out. The dark tree line came almost to the house. Past the frosty window, a light snow fell, but I heard nothing.

  “Listen,” Else whispered. She cocked an ear toward the window. “It’s been going on for about a half hour now.”

  I was beginning to think Else had lost her mind. A few seconds later, light flashed through the dark branches, its yellow-whiteness fractured into shards by the thick trees. Then a soft rumble rolled to my ears. I knew what we had seen and heard wasn’t lightning and thunder. It was far too cold for a storm. We waited a few more minutes, transfixed by the falling snow. I shivered and walked back to my bed to grab a blanket. Else continued to watch at the window. She looked as small and vulnerable as a child. I stood by her side and shared my blanket. Another explosion split the sky.

  “Cannon fire,” I said. “The Reds are getting close.”

  The shelling continued for another half hour before ceasing. Else and I trundled back to bed, but it took me a few hours to fall asleep, thinking all the while of the advancing Red Army.

  The next morning, the other tasters, except for Else and me, had left by the time it grew light. At breakfast, Peter mentioned the shelling and shook his head in disgust. “The Wehrmacht will push back the enemy invaders,” he said. “There is nothing to fear.” Victoria seemed less convinced as she paced in the kitchen. Dark circles had formed under her eyes from a bad night’s sleep. She said to me after Peter left the table, “I’m afraid of what might happen
.” She clutched a towel in her hands and absentmindedly wrung it. “The Führer says we should protect ourselves from the Asian horde at any cost. They will burn our homes, kill our men and rape us.”

  Else’s face went white and she cried out. I had not seen her so visibly upset since the day we arrived at the Wolf’s Lair.

  I was also shaken by the advance, but I wanted to be strong for Else. “You can’t believe everything you hear,” I said, trying to put on a good face. “The Reich will prevail.” I didn’t believe those words, but they seemed to cheer up Victoria, who returned to her duties in the kitchen. I dried the dishes as she washed. Else tidied the table and brought the plates to us. She frowned as she worked; cleaning was an unsatisfactory distraction against the black thoughts of the day.

  The snowfall ended by late morning. The sun peeked through the high gray clouds and cast long shadows through the trees. I read in the living room and Else played with two cats until it was time to get ready for work. The SS car arrived about three to pick us up. The returning tasters departed from the car with long faces. The SS driver leaned against the long black sedan and lit a cigarette. As Else and I were getting into the car, he said, “This may be one of your last days at headquarters. The Reds are within twenty kilometers. The situation is grim.”

  I stepped out of the car. “Else, gather your things—you may need them.”

  “You don’t have time to pack,” the driver said. “I’m on a schedule.”

  “It will only take a minute,” I said. On the way to the door, I told Else to cram as much as she could into her bag. “If anyone asks, say we have orders and leave it at that.”

  We took about five minutes to get everything together. It didn’t take me long because I had never really unpacked, feeling we wouldn’t have long to stay at the farmhouse. I threw my stuffed monkey into my bag and closed it. Else had a few more things to pack than I, but she did so quickly and soon we were able to leave. We didn’t say good-bye to the other tasters or Peter and Victoria—we headed straight for the car. Our irritated driver hit the accelerator, spraying mud and rocks as he sped away.

  When we arrived at the mess hall, we placed our bags in Cook’s office. She also seemed dismayed by the approaching Red force and struggled to keep her distracted mind on cooking. “You were right to bring your bags,” she said. “The order to evacuate may come at any time.” Her eyes clouded. “All we have built and fought for will be destroyed.”

  I wanted to tell Cook about the pictures I’d seen, the information Karl had gathered about the camps and the atrocities, but I knew the time for the truth had passed. Her illusions would be shattered soon enough.

  As Else and I were about to taste the evening meal, the thud and shock of cannon fire vibrated through the building. The brick and wooden walls shook from the blast. The hall was not a bunker. Cook and I looked at each other and Else took a deep breath. A wave of fear washed over us as another blast hit only a few kilometers away.

  “Leave,” Cook told us, “go to the farmhouse. You will be safer there. I have much to do.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Else said. “Can’t we stay here?”

  “Where do you think the shells and bombs will land?” Cook asked. She took Else’s hands in hers. “Get out now. I pray I will see you in the future.”

  Cook ordered a young SS officer to take us back to the farmhouse. We gathered our bags and followed him to the car. Once we had departed from the checkpoints, the man accelerated the sedan down the road. As we traveled the short distance, I saw bursts of orange light to the east, followed by thunderous rumbles. The shock waves hit the vehicle with such force the car shook, like a gigantic invisible hand was pushing against it.

  Else shivered in the seat and I tried to console her, but I was having a hard time being brave. “Hurry,” I shouted to the driver, and looked frantically to the east. My throat grew dry from fear.

  As we drew near the house, the driver slowed the car.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He pushed back his cap and pointed ahead. Flames licked the sky and black smoke billowed from a spot deep inside the forest.

  “It’s the house,” I said. “We have to help them.”

  “I don’t take orders from you,” he said. “We could be ambushed. I’m turning around.”

  I slammed my hand on the back of the driver’s seat. “Do you really want to be responsible for the deaths of four members of the Führer’s staff? Could you justify your actions to your superior officer?”

  He turned his head toward me. Even in the dim interior I could make out the expression on his face. He looked like a child who had been scolded. I guessed he was hardly over eighteen. He scowled, then faced the windscreen again and said, “I will go another half kilometer. You can go on foot from there.”

  Else tugged at my coat. “Don’t be a fool, Magda. The Reds may be here. Please, let’s turn back.”

  Else had always been protected since I met her, first by Minna, and then Cook and me. “We’ll be all right,” I told her. “The other tasters may need our help.” I ordered the driver to proceed.

  The young man turned off the sedan’s headlights and inched forward. The smooth Mercedes engine purred in a whisper. We swayed over potholes, crunching the rocks in our path. The artillery fire had slowed, but the flames in front of us soared higher in the air.

  “Here,” the man said. “This is far enough. If you wish to—”

  A spray of bullets splintered the windscreen. One pierced the young soldier’s head. His blood spattered backward in warm droplets as he fell on the steering wheel. I screamed for Else and tugged at her arm. She fell limply against my side, her eyes lolling. Blood seeped from a hole in her coat. I screamed again and struggled to open the door. I sat on the right side of the seat nearest the woods. I pushed it open and tumbled into the forest, falling across a log. Fortunately, my heavy coat protected my body. The cold and the snow that fell upon me from the branches above added to the shock coursing through me.

  Men’s voices, from in front of the car, carried down the road. I cut deeper into the forest, feeling nothing but panic pushing me forward until I came to a small outcropping of rocks. I hid behind it and listened to the approaching men over the wild thumping of my heart. They spoke Russian and I didn’t understand what they were saying. I heard the sedan doors open and slam shut. The men laughed and shouted what sounded like curses. The voices then disappeared down the road we had taken to get to the farmhouse.

  I shivered in the darkness and pulled myself up from the ground. The fire, spewing orange flames into the sky, still burned a hundred meters away. Its heat warmed my face when I looked toward it. I stumbled through the forest toward the house, away from the men on the road. The closer I got to the fire, the brighter the woods shone. Dark branches glistened in the light. The snow covering them had begun to melt, creating cold drops, which fell upon my shoulders and head.

  Soon I reached the edge of the forest. The light was so bright I needed to shield my eyes with my hands to see into it. I gasped. The farmhouse was consumed by flames. Large columns of fire and smoke swirled into the air, dropping sparks and ash to the ground.

  In front of the house, spread across the narrow strip of earth between the door and the woods, lay six bodies in a neat row: the four tasters and Peter and Victoria, the owners. Their heads pointed toward me, facedown in the snow. Blood pooled around each of them, shining red on the slushy coating of ice. I crept close to the tree line in order to remain hidden from view. The women’s arms were outstretched over their heads while Peter and Victoria lay on the opposite ends of the row, their hands at their sides. It appeared that each had been shot in the back of the head. The yellow dog, snuffling at the bloody snow, circled close to his master.

  I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. Peter, Victoria and the tasters were Party members, but they didn’t deserve to die in this fashion. Then I remembered the photos Karl had shown me from the Eastern Front that corrob
orated the rumors of atrocities against the Poles, the Russians and the Jews. My heart sank under the weight of the advancing army’s capacity for retribution, to take “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

  I fell to my knees on the wet ground, pulled my coat up to my mouth and sobbed. If only I had listened to their protests, the young officer and Else might be alive. I trembled from the realization that I was responsible for their deaths. But I had only wanted to save the others! Now they lay dead in front of the burning farmhouse that had sheltered me for several days. I couldn’t cry out in shame or in horror.

  Memories of Karl flooded my mind. I had to have strength to go forward without him, but I wondered how long I could maintain his wish for me to live. His final note to me, I love you, hung before my eyes. He wanted me to live and I wanted to honor his intention.

  I looked at the fire for several minutes, watching the flames grotesquely illuminate the bodies. Suddenly, the right hand of one of the women jerked against the ground. I didn’t know whether she was alive or if it had involuntarily contracted, but I knew I couldn’t leave my hiding place to save her. She would bleed to death on the cold earth if she was not dead already.

  I struggled to make sense of what I saw. In the distance, like sound traveling through fog, men’s voices carried in the air. Gunshots rang out, some rapid fire. There was shouting, cries of pain and then silence. I knelt at the base of a large tree and pondered what to do. I couldn’t go back to the car; the sedan was useless. I couldn’t stay in the forest overnight, for I would freeze to death. My only option was to find shelter and warmth.

  An unpleasant thought crossed my mind. An outbuilding stood several meters behind the house on the edge of the forest. Perhaps it was far enough away that it had not been destroyed. It was my only hope for survival through the night.

  I circled through the thick woods, pushing aside branches and brambles, skirting around the house until I arrived behind it. The latrine still stood and the heat from the blaze extended well beyond it into the forest. I opened the door and stepped inside. The stench was overpowering, but the odor was a small price to pay for survival. A quarter moon was cut into the door. I stood for several hours watching the fire and breathing in as much fresh air as possible. Finally, exhausted, I sat between the door and the toilet and put my head down to rest.