The Ventriloquists

by E. R. Ramzipoor

  Only when the lad across the street began closing up his newsstand did Lada break the silence. “You realize you have doomed yourself by coming here, don’t you?” She took a cigarette from her purse.

  “I would have doomed myself if I’d stayed away,” Andree said quietly.

  Tarcovich lit her cigarette. “Why did you come back?”

  “I don’t know. I felt awful about Lotte and Clara—that I’d betrayed you.”

  “What does that matter? People feel awful about things, or they don’t.”

  “That is true.”

  “And so?”

  Andree gathered herself and said, “Lada, despite what you may believe about me, I entered this profession because I wanted to do something for people like them. That is God’s honest truth. But I was so focused on getting through this, you understand, that I didn’t think about what sort of person I would be when it was all over. I can’t say exactly what happened. War makes beggars of us all.”

  “Christ.” Lada exhaled smoke. “But does war have to make philosophers of us all?”

  “Sorry.”

  “You bloody well should be.”

  “I also read the stories in your notebook.” Andree looked at Lada. Her eyes smiled; the rest of her did not quite have the strength to do so. “They were glorious, Lada. The man who went out for a walk and lost his wife, the girl who built a treehouse to get closer to the moon, the pastry chef, the old couple with their dreams, the boy who wanted to be a dancer... It was wonderful, all of it. Like nothing I’d ever read.” Andree reached across the table to take Lada’s hand, stopping at the last moment. Lada’s heart was in her throat.

  “You came back,” she said, “because you read my stories?”

  Andree shook her head. “Because you were missing one.”

  Lada tossed her cigarette away. She was starving, desperate, her skin tingling and raw. “Hold me,” she whispered hoarsely. “Hold my hand, please.”

  And they did. They held hands, Lada and Andree, in view of everyone in the coffeehouse. People stared and talked, of course. An older woman, her two children in tow, begged the bartender to kick the women out. Lada expected him to comply; the definition of love was narrow, in those days, with no room for people like her. But in a strange act of mercy, the bartender allowed them to stay, holding hands until the Gestapo came.

  HITTING THE STANDS

  NIGHT

  The Professor

  IT WAS MANNING who opened the door, but Victor did not know that at first. The fellow was unrecognizable: his hair tousled, his clothes in ruins. He blinked at Victor for a long second—close to tears, it seemed. Then he said: “Oh, right. Come in, Professor.”

  Victor followed Manning inside the Nazi headquarters. The state of the place nearly took his breath from him. Clerks were running about, some of them sprinting. Papers, stamped in panicked footprints, lined the floor. Vases were overturned, paintings knocked crooked. The professor turned to Manning for an explanation.

  Manning, however, seemed unwilling to provide one. All he would say was: “I apologize for all this.”

  “What on earth happened?”

  “I will tell you soon, I promise.”

  “Are we in danger?”

  “No, no. Not by any means. Please follow me.”

  Manning led Victor to a small room, about the size of a closet. In fact, it looked as though it had been a closet until recently. Scuff marks streaked the floor where furniture once sat, and hastily-emptied filing cabinets still hung open. Manning gestured for Victor to stay put. He darted out of the room, returning moments later with a chair. It looked small and pitiful, sitting there by itself, as though this were the poorest, tiniest throne room in Europe.

  “Have a seat, please,” he said. “I’m afraid I will have to ask you to wait here while we sort everything out. You are technically a prisoner of the Reich until we release you—which we will, of course—so I will have to lock the door. I do hope you will not be offended. It really is a technicality. Well—ahh—” Manning put a hand on his forehead, struggling to think. “Can I get you something to pass the time? A book, perhaps? You do like to read, don’t you? Oh, right, you’re a bloody professor, of course you—”

  “Herr Manning,” said Victor, “would you do me the immense courtesy of telling me what is going on?”

  Manning sank against a filing cabinet, his eyes rolling back into his head. Victor thought, for a moment, that he’d fainted. “August Wolff is dead,” he said at last. “It appears he shot himself.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” breathed Victor. “When?”

  “Perhaps two hours ago. David Spiegelman—you know Spiegelman, don’t you?”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He, too, is dead.”

  “How?”

  “We believe Wolff shot him prior to taking his own life.” Manning began to shake, like he was crying—but no, it was laughter. “It all happened—can you believe it?—in the bloody communications room. By the telex, of all things. I cannot imagine how they must have ended up there in the first place.” He cleared his throat, wiped his eyes. “I beg your pardon, Professor. It has been an odd day.”

  “Do not apologize. I can only imagine.”

  “It keeps getting odder, too.” Manning pressed his palms to his eyes. “We were due to release La Libre Belgique this afternoon, but there have been strange reports of newsstands receiving two different versions of Le Soir. Can you believe it? Naturally, that delayed everything. One of the versions is some sort of parody. Swanzing, I think the locals call it.”

  “Zwanze.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is called zwanze.” Victor tried to keep his expression neutral.

  “I see,” said Manning. “Well, I’m afraid you must excuse me for now. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

  “No, thank you, Herr Manning,” said Victor. “I think I could use a few moments alone. It has been, as you said, an odd day.”

  ONE DAY AFTER FAUX SOIR

  MORNING

  The Jester

  THOUGH THE SET was the same, the players had changed between the first act and the last. Aubrion would have called it lazy writing. “Continuity is important in a play,” he always said. “An audience is a disloyal bunch, so they must be given something to latch on to.” This play was a woefully discontinuous one, Aubrion thought. It was the same brick-lined conference room as before, the same low, square table where Aubrion first met Wolff and learned of the propaganda bomb. But other than that, discontinuities abounded.

  From the end of the table, Aubrion cataloged the characters’ fates. Tarcovich was there, seated in the same spot as before. Her manacles rattled as she pushed in her chair. Grandjean sat next to her. Aubrion was surprised to see the judge there, but there was always some shocking romance in these cheap plays. Tarcovich looked mostly unchanged from last time, save a bruise over her eye and the absence of her scarf. And last time, Theo Mullier had sat between Aubrion and Tarcovich; his heavy absence made Aubrion’s chest grow tight. After Tarcovich and Grandjean came in, a man from the Gestapo led René Noël to the seat across from Aubrion. René had no part in the first meeting, and he looked as though he wanted no part in this one. He greeted Aubrion with a tense nod. Ferdinand Wellens trailed after him, the poor man; he looked naked without a cape. Martin Victor was the last to enter the room, his eyes never straying from his chains. Now there was a changed man, Aubrion thought. Victor’s shoulders, always larger than Aubrion expected, bore the weight of some private defeat. As before, two soldiers with machine guns oversaw the whole thing.

  But there were twists, too. Contrary to Aubrion’s expectations, neither Wolff nor Spiegelman joined them at the table. Maybe Spiegelman had been spared all this business. If Wolff still knew nothing of his involvement, then Spiegelman was safe. And Aubrion thanke
d God, thanked anyone, that his dear Gamin had not been captured.

  Manning entered, trailing behind a polite-looking man in the uniform of the Schutzstaffel. Aubrion felt the room tighten, as though all air had gone out of it. He’d seen photographs of the man, and he’d prayed that would be the extent of their interaction. But Heinrich Himmler was there, and he looked at them each in turn. He took his time, like a surveyor encountering a new map. Aubrion had never seen eyes quite like Himmler’s: the intensity of a madman, the lucidity of a predator.

  “Well done.” Himmler lowered his head in a bow. “Well done, all of you. But the gentleman who did this will be shot with silver bullets.”

  When Himmler was seated at the head of the table, Aubrion replied: “With his humble slingshot, David killed Goliath. Rest assured, Monsieur Himmler, we will crumble the colossus with feet of clay.”

  Aubrion sat back, pleased with himself. His throat was a little hoarse, and that had affected his delivery, but all in all, it was a good line, one he’d prepared beforehand. Even so, Noël looked as though he wanted to punch him. At Himmler’s nod, one of the guards did punch him—pulling out Aubrion’s chair and planting a fist in his stomach. Aubrion doubled over.

  “Any other comments?” asked Himmler. No one said anything. “Excellent. Let us proceed. Herr Manning?”

  “Everyone here is a traitor to the Reich,” said Manning, “guilty of sedition and propagandizing. Does anyone wish to deny that?” None of them did. “In that case, we will get straight to the point. Your guilt has been decided. All that remains is to sentence you appropriately.” Manning was otherworldly with his sallow cheeks and hollow eyes. “As you might have guessed, we have files on each and every one of you. We know you occupied important positions in the FI. Therefore, we’d like to give you a chance to decide on your sentence with us. We are confident that, together, we can arrive at a punishment that is suitable for your crimes.”

  “Does anyone have any questions before we begin?” said Himmler.

  “Yeah,” said Aubrion. “Where is our pal Wolff?”

  Himmler and Manning exchanged a glance. The former nodded.

  “Wolff shot himself,” said Manning.

  Aubrion heard Tarcovich and Noël gasp. He sat back, blinking at his reflection in the table. It was strange, but he felt something—not quite sadness, and not yet pity—for the Gruppenführer. Wolff had seemed so very incomplete.

  “And Spiegelman?” said Noël, haltingly.

  “Wolff took David Spiegelman’s life before he took his own.” Disgust spoiled Himmler’s clean features. “They were traitors, the both of them.”

  Aubrion was an empty sky after a hard rain. He’d suffered a universe of losses since this war began, but they were nothing at all. The world lost an undiscovered genius, a museum of wonders that would never be seen. It wasn’t just the loss that pained Aubrion: it was that no one knew.

  “Our intelligence reports suggest Spiegelman assisted you in your Le Soir endeavor,” said Himmler. “And an examination of Herr Wolff’s personal memos yielded some disappointing results.” Himmler tapped a folder on the table.

  A paper was sticking out of the folder, and though most of it was typed, a bit was handwritten. The handwriting looked, for the most part, like Wolff’s, but Aubrion was certain—and here, his heart filled with the smallest joy—there was a touch of Winston Churchill there, too. Aubrion would have bet his right arm it was intentional. A smile came to him, warm and good, and slightly gawky, befitting David Spiegelman. Spiegelman was a fine jokester after all, and he’d saved his best work for last.

  “David Spiegelman lived a great life,” said Noël.

  “Several of them, in fact,” said Tarcovich, with a sad smile.

  Himmler managed a tight-lipped nod. “Any other questions?” No one had any. “Good. Let us begin. Professor Victor.” With some effort, Victor lifted his head. “You have been charged with the same crimes as everyone else. But, in appreciation for your service to the Reich, we hereby pardon you for all you have done wrong.”

  Aubrion tried to spring from his chair, forgetting he was chained to it. “What service? What goddamn service?”

  “I bloody knew it,” said Tarcovich.

  “Martin, what have you done?” demanded Noël.

  “The professor is a smart man,” said Himmler. “He provided us certain information.”

  Victor closed his eyes. He used to recite a prayer in times like these, when he wanted the world to disappear. The words eluded him.

  “However,” said Himmler, “the Reich does not suffer traitors, and you are a traitor to your own kind. You have lost all privileges as a citizen, and you must leave the country.”

  “Does that strike you as fair?” asked Manning.

  Victor nodded.

  Wellens and Noël were next. Aubrion was so furious he missed the first part of Himmler’s sentence. A crimson noise hummed in his ears. “—have used their labors for evil, they will be sent to a labor camp,” he was saying. “Ferdinand Wellens, René Noël, and every member of the FI who remained in the print factory after Wolff’s warning—you will all be aboard a train tomorrow morning. Do you find that fair?”

  “I find nothing about this fair,” said Noël, “but we haven’t any choice, have we?”

  “We can execute you or imprison you.” Himmler spread his hands as though he were offering menu options. “All you must do is present your case. Our minds and hearts are open.”

  “We’ll take your bloody labor camp,” said Wellens, his eyes blazing.

  “Do you feel the same, Monsieur Noël?” said Himmler.

  “How many years?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “In the camp.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fine. Your kind will not last that long anyway.”

  “Monsieur Aubrion,” said Himmler. Aubrion forced himself to hold the man’s blue stare. “You are the architect of this scheme, are you not?”

  Aubrion tried to straighten his posture, but his torso was still sore from the punch. “Of course I am.”

  “Idiot,” whispered Tarcovich, who’d started to cry.

  “You will be executed for your crimes.”

  “Good.” Aubrion struggled to keep his words from shaking. “The Nazis have yet to build a prison large enough to hold me.”

  Himmler looked prepared to spit at him. “You are a child, Marc Aubrion, and this is not a war for children. We have given everyone else a choice in their sentence, but not you. Children are treated as such.” Himmler began organizing the objects on the table: Wolff’s memos, a pen, an inkwell, a coffee mug. He did so idly, the same way he organized the country, Aubrion thought. “You owe us a debt of thanks. The Reich is doing you a great service by removing you from this adult affair.”

  “The problem with you German commanders,” Aubrion said softly, “is that you don’t have anyone around to tell you when you talk too much.”

  The Smuggler

  When he’d finished with Aubrion, Himmler smiled in Tarcovich’s direction. He did not know how to smile, Himmler. The man wore his smile like a carnival mask.

  “This is especially unfortunate,” Himmler said, but it was unclear which this he meant. “Madame Grandjean, until yesterday, your record was stellar.” Tarcovich felt Grandjean tense in the seat next to her. Himmler’s eyebrows descended. “We understand what it means to be corrupted by the perverse. That is why we take the measures we do, measures that some consider extreme. Even the noblest among us can be lured astray when we least suspect it. We have all heard the tragic stories of—”

  “With all respect,” said Andree, her voice clear, “my life has not been tragic. Please get to the point, Monsieur Himmler.”

  Shocked, Himmler sat back. He nodded at Manning, who said:

  “As you know, the Reich has immense respect fo
r those who make it their life’s work to uphold the tenets of justice. We are therefore giving you a chance, Judge Grandjean, to show that you have not lost your way, and that you remember the nature of your life’s work.”

  “You will preside over a trial tomorrow,” said Himmler. “You will try Madame Tarcovich for the crimes of sedition, treachery, propagandizing, sexual perversion and prostitution. If you find her guilty, you may return to your position as a judge, and we will forget all this business.”

  Lada’s heart stopped.

  “And what will become of Lada?” whispered Andree.

  “She will be imprisoned for her crimes.”

  “At Fort Breendonk?”

  “No, no. A local prison, of your choosing. You can see to it she is well cared for.”

  “You will sign a document attesting to this?”

  “Andree, no—” Lada tried to reach out to her. Her chains rattled against her seat.

  “Of course. However, if you find her innocent, you will both be put to death.” Himmler smiled, like a physician comforting a patient. “You need not make a decision now, Madame Grandjean. I understand this is difficult for you. We will give you tonight to think it over.”

  Lada could not look at Andree, could not stop herself. Andree stared down at the table, solitary and confused. And Lada tried to beg her silently—to do what? She wanted to be spared, of course she did, but even that choice was repugnant to her.

  Himmler stood, motioning for Manning to do the same. “Well, then. I think that takes care of everything. This has been a productive meeting, hasn’t it? I bid you all a good day.”

  As the guards chained Tarcovich and the other prisoners together, Noël quipped, “I think this has been the FI’s problem all along. We don’t have nearly enough productive meetings.”

  Tarcovich laughed, as did the others.

  “Very good, René,” said Aubrion. “You picked a hell of a time to develop a sense of humor.”