by Kelli Stuart
Dashing into the hallway, I make a split second decision to head to the roof since I’m closer to it. Taking the steps three at a time, I burst out the door and look over the edge at the street below. Not a minute later, I see the entrance door fly open and the first boy, still gripping his apple, tears out into the street. He looks left to right and lets out a growl of frustration, flinging the apple hard against the ground. He’s without his shoes, his uniform jacket, and his gun.
Katya won.
Apple boy turns and huffs down the sidewalk, clearly livid and looking for a fight, and I hope that Katya has made it safely to the library. I watch and wait for the other man to come out. Then I hear the step behind me.
I whip around with a gasp. Grabbing the gun, I pull it up in front of me. He’s ten feet away, his cropped blond hair glimmering in the setting sun. My hand trembles violently as I feel a surge of terror. I prepare myself to jump over the side of the building. I determine that it would be better to take my own life than let a Nazi have another piece of my soul.
Taking very slow steps toward me, he holds up his hands. “Shh,” he whispers. My hand trembles harder, and my throat burns.
“It’s okay,” he says. I stare at him, stunned and confused. He’s speaking my language.
“It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” He takes another step.
“My name is Hans,” he says. His voice is honey. He steps closer.
“I am from Northern Germany, from a town not much different from this one.” Step.
“I promise I won’t hurt you.” Step.
He’s now within arm’s reach of me, and he slowly reaches forward. He doesn’t grab the gun, as I expect him to. Instead, he touches my hand and electricity courses through my body. I yelp and yank back, the gun dropping to the ground with a thud.
“What is your name?” he asks without reaching for his weapon or for me.
“Luda.” My voice sounds distant and small.
“Luda.” A thin smile spreads across his lips. “Luda, you’re a brave girl,” he says. I don’t reply. There are so many questions.
“I’m going to leave. You may keep my things,” he says, taking a step back. “I’ll tell my commander that you tricked me as you also tricked my foolish friend.”
I wait in baffled silence. I still feel the warmth of his hand on mine. I watch him continue backing up, his gaze locked on me until he reaches the door to the staircase.
“Wait!” I cry, and I move toward him. I am completely out of control of both my mind and my heart. I simply need to be touched by him one more time. I need to feel the heat of his hand and the power of his goodness. Confusion and fear mix with something I’ve never known: passion and bravery.
I stop in front of him, my chest heaving, heart pounding. I feel the tightness in my abdomen, and I remember the horror that caused it. But somehow in the presence of this man, I feel different. I’m not afraid of him. I want to know why. I grab his hand and squeeze it tight. He reaches up with the other hand and runs it over the back of my head. Again I feel the electricity of his touch. It’s as if the dead parts of my soul awake.
“You are a brave girl,” he murmurs. He pulls back and disappears into the dark stairwell, leaving me alive for the first time.
FREDERICK HERRMANN
December 20, 1941
“Herrmann!”
Blobel’s raspy voice bursts through the break room where I sit with two of the men from my unit. The smoke from the Russian makhorka floats around us like a cloud. I’ve long since developed a tolerance for the strong tobacco. No longer does it leave me dizzy. Instead, I feel the tension in my lower back release when I draw deeply of the thick smoke.
Nikolaus and Alfonse jump to their feet at the sound of Blobel’s voice, dropping their hand-rolled cigarettes on the floor and snuffing out the lit paper quickly. I do the same, but I move at a slower pace. No longer do I feel obligated to please Blobel, and this infuriates him.
Blobel marches forward and stands in front of me. I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. He is a small man and has to look up to meet my eyes. I stare straight ahead. I know better than to return his gaze.
“I have a special assignment for you, Herrmann,” Blobel says with enough glee in his voice to pique my interest. I nod, still looking at the wall above his head.
“You boys can join him,” Blobel says to Alfonse and Nikolaus, and my annoyance swells. While I have developed a tolerance for these two men, I don’t really desire to spend any more time with them than is absolutely necessary.
Blobel turns to me again, eyes narrowed. “There’s a nightclub in the center of town where many of our men gather to relax in the evenings.”
I fight to roll my eyes. While I’m intent on the mission of our grand German culture, my fellow soldiers spend their nights drinking and dancing with Untermensch in dark, dirty nightclubs.
“The club’s only real attractions are the girls who dance there. Those girls are a distraction. I want to shut the club down,” Blobel continues. His voice echoes as his words sink in. Alfonse and Nikolaus tense next to me.
Breaking my stance for a fleeting moment, I glance at my commander, curious as to why he feels the need to take this particular course of action. Why are we wasting our time on dancers in a club when there are so many bigger things with which to be concerned?
“I want you to take the van and take care of this little problem for me,” Blobel says, his thin lips stretched taut over yellowed teeth.
This method is madness, and I know it. Going to a nightclub to remove a handful of girls is a waste of precious time and resources in our overall mission. Blobel is a coward who finds satisfaction in the kill, but he cannot bring himself to turn on the gas. I know this, but say nothing. I’ve been taught well.
Blobel narrows his eyes, the smile fading slowly. “You leave immediately.”
Snapping his heels together, Blobel raises his arm in a rigid salute. “Heil Hitler!” he barks. We return the salute, then watch him leave, his short thin legs carrying him swiftly from the room.
“Why are we doing this?” Alfonse asks when the door closes.
“He’s angry that so many spend time in the club,” Nikolaus answers, his face flushed with shame. He’s spent time at the club.
I let out a frustrated sigh and reach down to pick up my hat. “No, Blobel doesn’t care what we do on our free time. All he wants is to make a statement. This is a game to him, and the prize is a pile of bodies.”
Alfonse raises his eyebrows as he absorbs the disdain dripping from my tongue. “And what is this to you?” he asks.
Looking him straight in the eye, I answer. “This is the mission of my life.”
“Killing dancers?” Nikolaus asks.
I shake my head hard, furious at his ignorance. “No. Making Germany all powerful and great. This is my mission, and I’ll follow orders, no matter how pointless, because that’s what I was trained to do. Greatness begins with the ability to obey a command.”
“Interesting,” Alfonse answers. “I thought greatness began with the ability to have an original idea and the courage to mobilize others to join you in accomplishing your vision.”
“Greatness,” I spit back, “is the ability to do both. Greatness is the willingness to be both a leader and a follower. Greatness is knowing your place and taking it seriously.” I glare at Alfonse and wait for his reply.
“Let’s go.” Turning on my heel, I march toward the door. My hands shake with anger at Alfonse’s obvious jab. He questions my potential, and this cannot be so. I need him to believe me destined for greatness because if I can’t convince him, how will I ever convince my father?
We arrive at the nightclub forty-five minutes later. I pull the van up behind the large stone building and cut the engine. Alfonse and Nikolaus sit quietly next to me. I sense their discomfort. It’s easy to detach yourself from the killing when it’s from afar, but we’re preparing to look into the eyes of our victims. Even I swallow a gro
wing sense of dread.
“What’s the plan?” Nikolaus asks.
“We go in the back entrance and find the club owner,” I answer. “We’ll tell him to round the girls up and bring them to the dressing room.”
“What then?” Alfonse asks.
“We finish the job,” I answer.
“That’s it?” Alfonse asks. He laughs mockingly. “We tell a group of girls to come to the dressing room and then ask them to quietly and calmly follow us to a van where we’ll gas them? That’s going to work?”
I sigh impatiently the way my father used to do to me when he found my stupidity annoying and ignorant.
“No, stupid,” I answer. “I have more of a plan than that.”
“Then tell us, Frederick!” Nikolaus throws his hands up in the air, clearly fed up with the whole process.
“We’re going to tell the girls they’re being transported to a local spa as thanks for entertaining our soldiers. We’ll ask them to remove their clothing and leave it behind so that we don’t have to deal with that task when it’s all over. We’ll put them in the van and start the engine. Then I will turn on the gas.”
I glare at Alfonse. “Is that enough information for you?”
He nods. The little respect that I had built up for these two men over the last month has vanished. I want to finish the job and be rid of their company. It’s clear to me that no one has been groomed for this war as I have.
I push open the van door and slide to the ground. The evening air is cold, and a tuft of frozen air floats from my mouth. I watch my breath momentarily cloud the building in front of me. I am calm and steady. Though I don’t understand or agree with Blobel’s order, I prepare to follow it wholeheartedly. It’s what Father would do.
It’s what I will do.
We enter the dimly lit hallway of the back building and make our way toward the pulsating music out front. Just before we reach the club doors, we pass the nightclub manager’s office. A small, thin, sniveling man sits behind a desk, his head down in his arms, sound asleep.
I stride swiftly into the room. “Wake up,” I bark, kicking the table. He jumps and throws his head back, cracking it on his rickety wooden chair.
I wait a moment for his eyes to focus and the shock of seeing three armed Nazis standing in his office to wear off.
“Where are the girls?” I ask. My Russian is still thickly accented, but I’m gleaning the nuances of this vile language a bit more each day.
“G–Gir–” He stammers nervously. Reaching to his right, he grabs a small pair of spectacles and puts them on with shaking hands. I’m momentarily amused at this greasy little man. I wonder how he managed to acquire the job of manager.
“Where. Are. The. Girls,” I repeat.
“They’re finishing the show,” he says, his voice high and whiny.
“When will they be done?”
Pulling a small watch out of his pocket, he glances at it, then at me. “They’re set to finish this show at eight thirty. The next one begins at ten thirty.”
I sneer in disgust. “When this show is finished, gather all the girls and bring them to the dressing room.” I nod toward Alfonse and Nikolaus. “We’ll be waiting.”
He nods, eyes large and round behind the glasses on his face. His nose is thin and pointed, and his dark black hair sticks to his forehead. A small bead of sweat appears on his temple. I feel powerful when I look at him.
Forty-five minutes later, Alfonse, Nikolaus, and I stand at attention as the waitresses and dancers file into the nightclub dressing room. They are young, these girls. Most look to be between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one.
Huddling together, the girls grip hands and look at me, their doe eyes filled with terror. I open my mouth to speak and am rendered momentarily mute when I notice a taller girl standing in the back toward the wall. Her bright red hair is wavy and hangs soft over her shoulders. Her eyes are bright and her skin a delicate porcelain.
She looks exactly like my sister.
I pull my eyes away from her and focus on the rest. They’re dressed in thin, short gowns that leave little to the imagination and much to delight desirous young men. They look innocent and frightened, but instead of feeling powerful, I find that my bravado has waned.
“We’re here,” I begin, and my voice cracks. I clear my throat as my face grows hot. I can see the girls shift, some with amused looks on their faces. I straighten my shoulders and envision the face of my father staring at me with disapproval. I start again.
“We are here to reward you for taking good care of our comrades in this difficult time,” I say, my voice strong and disconnected. I won’t look at the redhead again.
“You’ll be transported tonight to a local spa, where you are to be treated to a relaxing sauna.”
Nervous whispers break out among the girls, and a few begin to cry softly. I continue.
“I need all of you to remove your clothing and leave it here. You won’t need it at the sauna. We’ll leave shortly, so please hurry.” My words are sharp and clipped. The girls immediately fall into hysterics.
The redhead grabs the door handle and yanks it open, her eyes wild with fear.
“Close the door!” I yell. Instinctively, I raise my gun. The girls scream, ducking their heads. The redhead freezes and looks directly at me. She slowly closes the door, two large tears escaping her bright blue eyes and rolling down her cheeks.
With my gun held high, I look at the rest of the group. “Remove your clothing now!” I command. As if weighted down, the girls undress, humiliated and terrified. I don’t look at Alfonse or Nikolaus to see their reactions. I don’t want to see the look of hunger on their faces. Refusing to be taken in by the beauty of this group, I see nothing but a mission before me.
I falter when the redhead stands up, and for a brief moment I cannot breathe. She has tied her hair up in a delicate yellow scarf. She stands tall and regal, her shoulders back. She is beautiful. She, like the others, has left on her undergarments in what appears to be a vain attempt at maintaining some dignity. I decide to allow it as my mind is cloudy and sluggish at the sight of her.
Alfonse leans over and breaks my momentary lapse in judgment. “They’re all undressed, Frederick,” he whispers.
I nod, and pull my eyes away from her. Taking another deep breath, I push forward.
“Follow us outside where a van waits to take you to the spa,” I say with firm authority. “My comrades will gather your clothing for you, and we’ll have it ready when you’re finished in the sauna.”
As I push through the group, I feel their thin, shivering bodies brush against me and I fight a tremble that runs up my spine. I’m in charge. I have the power. I can’t become distracted. I reach the door quickly and pull it open, then step into the dark, seedy hall. The manager waits, wringing his thin hands nervously. He looks past me at his group of employees and his eyes grow wide.
“Wh–Wh–Wh–” he stammers. I roll my eyes, pushing past him. The girls follow me, muted cries filling the narrow hallway.
“Where are you taking them?” His voice pierces the darkness, and I stop short. The manager has grabbed the hand of one of the girls, a young one with dark hair, dark eyes, and bright red lips. She shakes violently next to him, her small frame racked with fear.
“To the spa,” I answer as calmly as I can.
“Why are they undressed?” he asks in astonishment.
“To avoid the hassle,” I answer back. I have no patience for this man, and I turn on my heel. “Follow me now!” I bark. “Schnell!”
“Nyet!”
I halt at the sound of his rebellion. Turning slowly, I’m met with silence and nothing but his determined stare.
“What did you say?” I ask. My voice is thin, my words clipped.
“I … I …” His voice falters. He looks at the girl to his right, then turns back to me. “I said no,” he answers, this time with less force behind his words.
It happens fast, and in the split second
that I raise my gun and pull the trigger, I know I’ve gone from soldier to cold-hearted killer.
Would that make Father proud?
He falls to the floor, a pool of blood immediately forming under his head. His arm juts up at an awkward angle as the young girl, now screaming, still grips it tightly. The noise in the hall is deafening, and we need to act fast.
“Get them to the van,” I yell to Alfonse and Nikolaus. Like two sheep dogs, they begin to herd the girls forward. I push out into the cold and run to the waiting van, opening the heavy door. The girls spill out into the dark alley sobbing and screaming. In the wide, open spaces, they begin to spread, and I fear they’ll try to escape so I fire one single warning shot into the stars.
The group jumps and quiets. They all look at me now. I see the redhead, her eyes dry and staring up at me with such hatred and venom that I’m stunned. That’s the same look my sister gave our father the day she left home. She hated him the way this girl hates me, and my heart twists at the memory.
“Get in the van,” I rasp. It’s time to end this. I want to be done with this mission. I want to be done.
One by one, the girls climb into the van, and I count as they do. There are twenty-eight girls, all beautiful, all young, all about to die.
Once crammed inside the small space, they huddle close, gripping one another with racking sobs. Many of them have their hair tied up in colorful headscarves, customary for visiting a spa. But their growing hysteria tells me they know that I’m not taking them to the sauna.
I swing the door shut with a clang and hear muffled screams inside as everything goes black in the truck. A wave of nausea hits me, and I feel my knees buckle. Taking long, deep breaths I let the cold night pierce my lungs. I drink the air as though it will make me free.
“Frederick …” Alfonse pierces my anxiety, stepping up next to me. I didn’t realize I had bent over, my head now parallel to the ground. I still hear them screaming. I cannot tell if it’s real or perhaps their screams are trapped inside me, reverberating off the walls of my conscience.