The Soul of a Thief

by Steven Hartov

  Her visits to my bedside were no longer cursory, and she did not flee when the business of my caretaking was done. She appeared more frequently, and eschewing the aid of an orderly, she alone helped me with my exercise. Limping there in circles around my cot, I leaned my weight upon her, inebriated by her warmth and her strength and her scents, and the more I healed the more I denied my progress, and of course she quickly caught on and began to laugh. Yet the frequency of her visits could also not be disguised, the intervals between merely chasms of waiting, for we had begun to really talk.

  “You are making fine progress,” she said one day as we hobbled around our circuit.

  “I am not. I believe it’s getting worse.”

  “Don’t be silly, Shtefan.” She smiled as we walked, my arm draped over her shoulder, her hand gripping my wrist. “You cannot deny it.”

  “I shall. To the end. I’m having a relapse.”

  “Liar.”

  “I may have to be here another month.”

  “I would have to break your other leg to keep you here.”

  “Fetch a hammer.”

  She fed me slices of apples and cheese, and one day she somehow found a melon and we partook of its sweet fruit together. The Wehrmacht surgeon came upon us laughing over some sharing of childhood mishaps, yet although I instantly fell silent and falsely morose, Gabrielle would not disguise her new demeanor. He regarded her with an intense gaze of suspicion, which she returned with such defiance that he withdrew.

  “He does not seem to like you,” I ventured.

  “His feelings do not concern me.”

  “Or perhaps he likes you too much?”

  “Perhaps. I do have a talent for attracting obsessives.”

  We did not speak for a moment, both of us clearly thinking of our mutual master. On the previous night, she had not appeared at all, and another nurse had dressed my healing wound. I knew that Gabrielle had been with Himmel, yet even though her role as his consort had begun to fester in my heart, I was not the one who raised the issue.

  “My body must be with him,” she fairly whispered.

  “I know.”

  “Yet my brain and my heart are elsewhere.”

  “I understand.”

  “You cannot understand this. Not really.”

  “I try.”

  “You are a slave only to your own actions. On any morning, you could run.”

  It was not so simple, but I let her go on.

  “You are not violated. No children are held hostage for your constant surrender.”

  She had begun to tremble, her knuckles white around the fruit knife, and I took it from her and embraced her fingers with my own.

  “Gabrielle, this is only one small part of your life,” I said, trying to convince myself as well. “It will only be a memory one day. It will be replaced by so many better things.”

  She did not believe a word of it.

  “What things, Shtefan?” She looked at me so intensely, her eyes glittering and hungry for hope. “I am so deep in my despair that I cannot imagine a happy morning.”

  “It will come. This war cannot last forever.”

  “Yes, I know. Of course it will end. The Allies will come and Germany will be done.” She realized what she’d said, and then, “I am sorry...”

  “No need. I know it. Even Himmel knows it.”

  She moved then, from the right side of my cot to the left, circling above my head, her hand never leaving mine. She glanced over her shoulder at the three still forms in their beds, as if any one of them might be a spy feigning his delirium. She leaned closer to me.

  “He will never free me, Shtefan,” she whispered.

  “That is not so.” I shook my head.

  “It is. He is obsessed with me.”

  “No. He is a practical man.”

  “You do not understand. You do not hear him, how he speaks in...in those moments. He thinks of me as his possession, like some golden artifact he’s found and will never relinquish. He wants to marry me, Shtefan.”

  A wave of heat rose from my chest then, and over my face. I could feel it burning in my scalp like a brush fire.

  “He cannot marry you, Gabrielle. He is already married.”

  “I know that!” she exclaimed, and she squeezed my hand with both of hers until it hurt. “It does not matter to him, don’t you understand? He thinks of himself as a being of godlike power, the power of life and death and fate. And he is right.”

  I lay silent for a moment, imagining the horror of a nuptial by bonfire, with Himmel grinning in his full dress uniform and Gabrielle attired in a soiled white dress, while the Commando made a canopy of sabers...

  “You must go,” I whispered. “You must escape.”

  “To where? To whom? Look at me, Shtefan.” She pressed her palm hard to her chest. “Look at me.”

  And I did look at her, and I knew the curse of her appearance. She was immensely beautiful, a thing impossible to disguise. In a herd of fine and chestnut wild horses, she would still be the brilliant white mare, a thing instantly desired and brought to ground.

  “How do you think a French Jewess survives this war?” she said as she thumped her chest. “By being coveted, by being wanted. I would not arrive at the very next village before another of your kind would take me.”

  “They are not my kind.”

  “Shall I shear my hair? Shall I bind my breasts and wear a woolen frock and wooden shoes like Jeanne d’Arc? Do you think it will make a difference?”

  “No.” I could not lie. Short of disfiguration, there would be no way to hide that face.

  She nodded slowly, and satisfied that I no longer denied her predicament, she laced her fingers together as if in prayer and breathed a sigh.

  “I will never be free.” She squinted off into the darkness. “Unless he dies.”

  “Well, that is a real possibility. I have seen him in combat.”

  “And those children of Avignon.” Her lip quivered a bit.

  “You don’t really think he would kill them if you ran.”

  “No. Not all of them. He has told me that if I left him, he would kill only one, and I could carry that soul with me for all my days.”

  Both of us believed it. Himmel was not a man of idle threats, but of tactics. She looked at me again.

  “You are the one who should run,” she said.

  “I cannot. No more than you can.”

  “No. It is different. You are a man. You could make your way.”

  “I would not be just a deserter, Gabrielle. There is more.”

  She said nothing, awaiting my explanation. Until that moment, I had sworn to never tell a soul what only Himmel knew, and how he ignored my status and nurtured and protected me, even as he exposed me regularly to the jaws of death he viewed as no less than privilege. Yet no longer could I leave Gabrielle alone in her terror and conundrum, for her attentions to my health deserved no less than a returning of the debt, if only to provide her with a kindred spirit. And after all, I already loved her.

  “I, too, survive only at the Colonel’s whim,” I said. “Perhaps it is charity, perhaps practicality. I do not really know. Yet he keeps this secret, and never reminds me of it.”

  She listened, saying nothing, and I went on.

  “My father was a devout Catholic. He is gone now. And my mother, her devotion to the church did not matter. She is at Dachau, because her mother’s mother...”

  I reached for Gabrielle’s apron, and I pulled her close and told her the truth in my simple French.

  “Je suis partiellement Juif.”

  Her reaction was unexpected, no more than a small smile. She touched her fingers to my forehead and gently combed away some errant strands of my hair, and I realized that Himmel did indeed confide in her, in those moments...

 
“I know,” she said. “I know.” She bent over me then, and as she brushed her lips to my brow she whispered, “Welcome to my purgatory, Shtefan Brandt.”

  IX

  IN MAY OF 1944, my master betrayed his true love.

  Should my words mislead, I ask indulgence for the moment, as I realize that the images that come to the fore are perhaps implausible ones of Himmel spurning Gabrielle Belmont, of even casting her aside for some other of more perfect character and beauty. Yet it should be clear by now that such a deflection of Himmel’s feelings for Gabrielle would not have been possible, for there existed no other creature of her ilk.

  No, I speak not here of the waning of Himmel’s romantic passion, nor of the diminution of his lust or longing for a woman. It was his purer love he began to cast away, the one most powerful and seemingly infrangible, the ardor for his rank and his uniform and his honor. And I was stunned to watch him as he planned to betray the army, and turn his back on Germany.

  Having been at last released from the field hospital, I returned to the estate and the troop and Himmel with some deep trepidations, for I now carried with me the added burden of Gabrielle’s touch. The horns of my dilemma were sharp and unyielding, for my feelings had to remain secret while I sought improbable resolutions. And so, delivered one bright morning by a rattling army ambulance, I climbed down and hobbled toward the mansion upon a makeshift cane, while my stomach churned and my mind raced like an auto engine with a snapped drive chain. Fruitless fantasies of escape once more surfaced in my mind, until a squad of the troop suddenly appeared from around one corner of the main house.

  Friedrich led the welcome party, and while it certainly was no match for the pomp and ceremony once offered Himmel by firelight, my joy at this reception certainly dissolved my quandaries for the moment. The men marched and clapped in unison, singing an SS choir of battle, and despite the early hour they upheld a single, large, foaming tankard of beer. In the midst of this unruly throng was Blitzkrieg, coaxed gently along by Corporal Noss, and his neck was garlanded by a string of wild daisies and his empty saddle held a scabbard and a cavalry blade. When my stallion saw me again, he lifted his head in some wild nods, whinnied loudly and surged forward, and when he butted my forehead with his wet nostrils, the men roared and passed the stein around and pounded me hard enough on the back that my leg nearly collapsed.

  Himmel emerged from the house then. He was wearing boots and his uniform trousers and snapping his braces over a long-sleeved undershirt. A cigar was already clamped in his mouth, and he grinned widely when he saw me.

  “Brandt!” he yelled. “Thanks be to God!”

  The squad turned to him and fell somewhat silent, awaiting some order or remonstration. But the Colonel only jabbed a finger in my direction and boomed, “Five minutes to drink. Then get in here and type.”

  He withdrew and slammed the door then, and indeed I enjoyed the time allotted, parrying the lurid jokes of my comrades and their disdainful finger pokes at my Iron Cross. That dreadful night in Russia, though fermented now by a month’s time, was fresh enough to not be spoken of. No one mentioned the faces of the lost that still hovered in the air, but when at last I asked the men how they were faring, there was a moment of silence before Noss finally grinned.

  “Well, it’s spring, Brandt,” he said as he clapped my shoulder. “We all need a really good fuck!”

  With a laugh at that, I nuzzled Blitzkrieg, and the men led him away and returned to their tasks, and I to mine. I inhaled a dollop of the morning air, the scent of infant flowers and fresh cool rains, and I limped into the house. Mutti was clearing the Colonel’s breakfast plates, and when he saw me he intoned “At last!” as he blew me a grateful kiss with both hands and raised his clenched fists into the air. Edward, who was attempting to decipher and arrange a pile of maps and papers, dropped them on the map table and came straight for me, taking me in a bear hug that stole my breath and surprised me with its genuine warmth. Himmel then strode in from his bedroom, rubbing his hands together like the gleeful witch of some fairy tale.

  “Get out, you bumblers,” he called to the cook and driver. “My prince has come!”

  I smiled as the two men gratefully withdrew, though I hardly felt the dutiful son of any righteous king, but more the Hamlet to my uncle. I was not then aware of any changes in my master, while my own were at the very forefront of my mind. I had as yet no burgeoning plan, no concept of the future, no idea of what the morrow might bring. It had always been so in Himmel’s service, for I was subject to the whims of war and my master’s missions. I only knew that now I was in love with Gabrielle, and to keep my grasp on that fragile and flowering blossom I would have to betray this man. Already it roiled within me, and although back in the comfort of this house, it was no longer home.

  “To arms, to arms.” Himmel was waving at my work desk, upon which a pile of unfinished reports and requisitions looked as massive as the entire inventory of a paper mill. “We’ve only a week or so to finish all this and get ready.”

  I smiled a bit and limped toward the desk, slipping into the wooden armchair and sliding my makeshift cane beneath. It was an oak branch that had been carefully whittled by a wounded Luftwaffe gunner, who had suddenly died from an infection.

  “Ready for what, if I might ask, Herr Colonel?”

  “For Paris.” Himmel strode into the kitchen and poured himself a steel mug of coffee. “We shall be moving up. The Allies are coming.”

  “Are they?” I had begun to check the ribbon in my typewriter, but his words stilled my hands. I had heard no news of an invasion, although such was certainly inevitable.

  “Of course they are. They’ll be hitting the northern coasts any week now.” My master sipped from the mug and pulled a face. “Scheiss Dreck!” he spit, as apparently Mutti’s cooking skills were also faltering.

  “Is there intelligence?” I asked.

  Himmel looked at me above the mug, then threw his head back and laughed once and with great disdain.

  “Intelligence? From the General Staff? Those fools think the Americans are going to wait until August, until after we’ve thawed out from Russia and have had a nice comfortable summer gorging ourselves on cunts and fresh fruit!” He placed the cup on my desk and leaned into me, as if at last enjoying again a proper and attentive audience. “But I know they’re going to come now. Right now.” He slapped the desktop. “As soon as the weather can sustain a channel crossing. And Rommel knows it too. He’s been trying to get Hitler to give him command of all panzer divisions in Europe, but our illustrious Führer has taken that task upon himself personally. So, Rommel will be sitting on his ass while the Allies storm the beachheads, and then he’ll come to the party after the cake’s already on fire.” Himmel turned away and sucked on his cigar, and as he swung the coffee mug, I could see its black waves sloshing over the sides. “But thank God we’re not tankers, Brandt. Thank God we’re SS, where every colonel’s a king.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I agreed, though I was not pleased to be reminded that I was an indentured servant to a crown. “Paris, then,” I whispered. The thought crossed my mind that a move to the French capital might indeed free Gabrielle from her bonds, for surely Himmel would not bring her there, especially on the brink of a final battle.

  “Yes, Paris. So, get to typing.” He stabbed a finger in my direction. “We need requisitions, with deliveries to be made en route. What we’ve ordered up in the past for missions and training, double it all. No, triple it. Ammunition, grenades, demolitions, everything. Also, I want every man’s file up to date. Edward bollixed up all the citation forms, so do them again. Got that?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And get me the precise train routes for all of northern France. Even if some of the rails are out, I want a detail of all tracks remaining intact and functioning, civilian and military. Mark them out for me on the large-scale map, right?”

  I was fur
iously making notes with a pencil, and I failed to notice that Himmel had circled around behind me.

  “And Brandt.” I winced as the Colonel clapped me on the back. His face bent and drew near to my ear, and my body tensed as I immediately suspected that some accusation regarding myself and Gabrielle would surely be hissed. “How’s that leg?”

  “Fine, Sir,” I managed without stuttering.

  “Good. Exercise it well. You’ll need to be able to move as you did before. All of Germany’s going to soon be on the run from the Allies. But first, we’re going to do some running at them.” He gripped my shoulder and snorted. “You’re good at that. Maybe we’ll add some oak leaves to that Iron Cross.”

  With that, he fetched his tunic and went off to the day’s training, and I began to type.

  I welcomed the work, for at last I was no longer imprisoned upon a hospital cot and left idle for hours to contemplate the future. I had often heard it said that hope was the most subversive foe of the combat soldier, for such speculations could snatch a man’s reflexes when he might need every instinct and synapse. My weeks of rest had indeed sapped the warrior spirit I had endeavored so long to construct, and even the appearances of Gabrielle had brought equal measures of delight and despair. And so, I embraced the opportunity to drown myself in a tidal wave of Papier Krieg—paper war.

  Edward had indeed made a shambles of the men’s files, and although I might have made corrections and prettied them up, I chose instead to begin at the beginning. Sheet after sheet of Schutzstaffel letterhead flew through my machine, and it hammered away like a light machine gun, and its bell rang like a fire wagon’s gong as I rewrote the recent history of every man in the troop. By Himmel’s written order, everyone who had participated in Russia deserved some sort of citation, and I executed each request to perfection, crimping each completed page with a watermark, smacking it with an ink stamp, and assembling a neat pile for the Colonel’s signature. And then, it was on to the requisitions. Heinz’s armory was vastly depleted, and I ordered up crates of small-arms ammunition, hand grenades, Panzerfaust missiles, satchel charges, mortar bombs and spare parts for every weapon in the pot. I pounded every urgent order with a brace of bold Achtung!’s, and it was not until nearly 4:00 p.m. that I suddenly swooned with dizziness, realizing that I had not taken food or drink for the entire day. Yet it was a blessing, for I had thought of nothing but the work.