by Jenna Blum
42
WERE MATHILDE STILL ALIVE, SHE WOULD BE AGHAST over the condition of her beloved bakery. The lathing is exposed where plaster has fallen from the walls during the air raids, the shattered window covered with the boards of a dismantled crate. The portrait of the Führer that the Obersturmführer brought for Anna to hang behind the register has likewise suffered: a diagonal crack in the glass bisects the leader's face, so that he appears to be looking in two directions at once. The pages of the calendar have long since been conscripted for service as toilet paper, the beginning of 1945 swirling down the pipes of the WC.
The refugees are in worse shape than their temporary haven. When the cellar and the kitchen are occupied, they sleep on the floor in their threadbare coats amid puddles of snowmelt, filling the bakery with the stench of wet wool and unwashed bodies. Anna spends her days catering to the visitors and keeping Trudie from them. At first it is a relief to have the girl entertained; an elderly gentleman, a former schoolmaster, begins teaching Trudie her ABC's. But one afternoon Trudie does not respond when called, and a frantic search finds her halfway down the road, struggling in the clutches of a woman who screams, She's mine! You stole her from me! and fights with the strength of dementia when Anna pries Trudie away. The refugees from Dresden are the worst, however, with their staring eyes and hair burned in piebald patches. Sometimes Anna sweeps up the shreds of themselves they have left like discarded snakeskins on the floor.
Yet Anna is grateful for this miserable company. These people know nothing about her; they don't sneer or dart fearful looks in her direction; they view her solely as a source of bread, bandaging, or shelter. Anna much prefers the role of hostess to that of the Obersturmführer's whore. She misses the refugees when the Obersturmführer appears and orders them out, sending them into the frigid February nights. He hates to seem hardhearted, he explains to Anna, but he simply cannot relax amid such chaos. He prefers the company of his little adopted family.
Anna stands in the storefront one evening, sorting the refugees' goods into piles. It is astonishing, what they have been willing to trade for accommodation. The display case and the floor are heaped with offerings. All gold jewelry is stashed in one of the Obersturmführer's trunks. Another is reserved for silver. Into a Wehrmacht footlocker go miscellaneous items of value, such as pots, pans, furs, and the occasional Oriental rug. The Obersturmführer has unsentimentally requested that Anna remove photographs from their valuable frames, but he hasn't ordered her to dispose of them. Sometimes, when sleep evades her, Anna squanders a candle in order to flip through the couples posing stiffly on their wedding day, the groupings of children, the spinster with her cat on her lap.
What about this? she asks now, holding up a tapestry for the Obersturmführer's inspection. The brocade looks like gold, but I can't tell in this light.
He shrugs. Use your best judgment, he says. He is distracted by Trudie, whom he is teaching to march.
Hup-one, he says. Hup-two. Hup-two-three-four.
Anna runs her fingers over the material. It glitters even in the stingy light shed by the hurricane lantern the Obersturmführer has bought from the camp. She folds the cloth and places it in the footlocker atop a length of silk, in which she has wrapped a crystal decanter. The Obersturmführer is partial to crystal. Again Anna wonders what he does with these spoils. What good are they when the only true currency is the food that is in such short supply? One can't eat heirlooms, after all.
Hup, hup, hup, the Obersturmführer says to Trudie. Now turn. No, not like that. Here, watch.
He marches across the room, his boots thudding on the floor. He pivots, goose-steps back to Trudie, and clicks his heels.
Heil Hitler! he says, saluting.
Heil Hitler, says the girl, mimicking the gesture.
The Obersturmführer bends to touch her nose with a finger. Very good, he says. Now you do it.
Hup, hup, hup, says Trudie, stamping around the bakery. Despite the lack of rations, she continues to grow rapidly; her legs, as skinny as her father's, look like those of a stork.
Watching her, Anna is reminded of the sorcerer and his apprentice. She can't abide this game any longer.
Do you know, Horst, people will trade the strangest things for food, she says loudly. Just this week a woman tried to give me her pet schnauzer. What did she think I would do with it?
She laughs. I could always have eaten it, I suppose.
Her gambit doesn't work. The Obersturmführer is not listening.
Lift your feet, he commands. Bend your arm at the elbow.
Hup! Hup! Hup!
Trudie shuttles back and forth in front of the Obersturmführer. That's better, he says, that's much better; there's a good little soldier.
Clapping, he bursts into the Horst Wessel song:
Raise high the flags!
Stand rank on rank together.
Storm troopers march with quiet, steady tread.
Millions, full of hope, look toward the swastika;
The day breaks for freedom and for bread.
I think that's enough for one evening, Anna calls. It's past the child's bedtime.
But the Obersturmführer is truly carried away now. He taps time with a foot, singing in his faulty baritone. His voice cracks; his face contorts as though he is suppressing gas, and Anna sees to her amazement that he is about to cry. His colorless eyes brim with tears.
Raise high the knife!
Sharpen the blade to cut the Jewish flesh.
Jewish blood will run in the gutters;
On every corner the Hitler flag will flutter—
Horst, Anna says, I really don't think—
The Obersturmführer rounds on her.
WILL you be quiet! he roars. WILL you for once in your Godforsaken life just! shut! up!
Trudie, shocked into sudden immobility, stares at him and then begins to howl.
Stop that! the Obersturmführer screams.
He raises a hand and clouts the girl across the face. She goes spinning to the floor. The Obersturmführer rakes the same hand through his hair and paces, muttering.
Anna pushes past him and drops to her knees beside her daughter. Trudie is silent, and Anna is certain that the Obersturmführer has snapped the fragile little neck. But then the girl sucks air into her lungs and lets it out in a wail. Anna gathers her onto her lap and rocks her.
And shut that brat up, the Obersturmführer shouts from above. Wheeling, he sweeps an arm across the display case. Anna huddles over Trudie, trying to shield her from the shower of jewelry and silverware and candlesticks and china.
Jesus Christ, she's worse than an air-raid siren, the Obersturmführer rants. Of all the spoiled—disobedient—What does a man have to do nowadays for some peace and quiet? Just a second's worth of order!
Shhh, Anna says to Trudie, cupping the girl's face to feel for damage. One cheek is already puffy, blood welling from a cut inflicted by the Obersturmführer's death's-head ring. But he doesn't seem to have broken any bones, and the teeth are still intact. Shhh. Be quiet now.
Trudie tries to swallow her sobs. The Obersturmführer's boots pass back and forth a few centimeters from Anna's nose. Glass crunches and grinds beneath them. A young bride, still in her frame, smiles at Anna from the shards.
Things fall apart, Anna thinks, remembering a poem Max once read to her; the center cannot hold. She is unaware that she has uttered the words aloud until the Obersturmführer lunges at her.
What? he says. He grabs the braided coil at the back of her neck and yanks Anna to her feet. What did you say? Why did you say that?
Anna cries out. She bats at his hands; an ounce more pressure and her hair will come out by the roots.
Nothing, she gasps, it was nothing, a foolish poem, it doesn't mean anything!
The Obersturmführer's grip slackens somewhat, but he keeps a firm hold on the braid while he draws his pistol from its holster. He tries to fumble the safety catch off. This is an awkward maneuver one-handed; he nearly
drops the revolver; he swears.
For all our sakes, he is saying, maybe it would be cleaner, better, the best solution for all of us if I—
Time slows to the sludgy pace of dream. Over the roar in her ears, Anna hears the click of the safety being drawn back. She won't make it easy for him, she will put up a fight, she will bite his arm as hard as she can—
But then the Obersturmführer drops her hair. He gazes bewildered around the bakery. His mouth hangs down as though he has suffered a stroke. He is once again unplugged.
No, he says. It may be all right. It may still come all right.
Anna shuts her eyes.
Of course it will, she whispers, and touches his sleeve.
The Obersturmführer looks down at her hand, his lips thinning in disgust.
Clean this place up, he snaps, sliding his pistol back into its holster. He straightens his uniform tunic and yanks his greatcoat on. In the glare of the lamp, his shadow bulks to monstrous proportions on the wall. It's a disgrace. You're a disgrace. I've had it with the pair of you. Puling, whining, ungrateful! I've half a mind not to come back at all.
Please, Anna says, though she is not sure what she is begging for. Part of her rejoices, exulting, Good riddance, thank God! But if the Obersturmführer abandons them, she and Trudie will have no choice but to join the ranks of the dispossessed.
Please, Horst, don't go away angry—
He casts a pallid glance in her direction. The door slams behind him.
Anna looks about for Trudie, who is standing in the corner, her thumb in her mouth.
Come, little rabbit, Anna says. Hop upstairs and get ready for bed. I'll be up in a minute with some ice for your face; won't that feel good?
The girl gives no indication that she has heard. Anna reaches for her shoulders to turn her around. Trudie flinches from her touch.
I'm sorry, Anna whispers. I'm sorry, little one.
Trudie slips away from her and walks toward the staircase.
Anna watches her go. Then she kneels to salvage what she can from the debris of the Obersturmführer's tantrum, raking the stuff into a pile. Her uncoiled braid swings over one shoulder like a hangman's rope; her scalp smarts; the tine of a fork pierces her forefinger. Anna rocks back on her heels, sucking the wounded finger. She relishes the salt of her own blood. She has not eaten in two days.
What is to become of us? she asks aloud.
As if in response, there is a rap on the door. Anna gets to her feet to answer it. Then she bends and rummages through the refugees' plunder until she finds a brass candlestick, big enough to have adorned a cathedral's altar. Perhaps it once did. She conceals this in the folds of her skirt as she lifts the latch. She has not endured the indignations of the past three years to die at the Obersturmführer's hands. If she opens the door to find the cold circle of his pistol's muzzle pressed against her forehead, she will bash his head in. Though maybe he is returning to apologize, to give her another chance?
He is not: when Anna opens the door, holding the candlestick in a death grip, she hears only a timid voice. Begging Anna's pardon, it says, they are sorry to disturb her at this hour, but can she spare any food for a mother and her four starving children? Or, lacking that, a room for the night...
43
AS MARCH 1945 GOES OUT LIKE A LION, THE REMAINING townsfolk of Weimar resign themselves to meeting their enemy face-to-face. We're finished, they whisper; everything is lost, the end will come any day now. The American infantry, it is said, has seized control of cities as close as Eisenach and Ehrfurt, ransacking and burning the houses, raping the women, worse than the Russians. German citizens have been forbidden to leave their homes. The percussive rumble of artillery shakes more plaster from the bakery ceilings. The SS, wall-eyed and jittery, march columns of prisoners through the streets, bound for the train station. But Anna would have known without these harbingers that things are crumbling around the edges. She hasn't seen the Obersturmführer, her personal wartime barometer, for a month and a half.
Yet even Anna doesn't suspect how near the end is until the first of April, which also happens to be Easter Sunday, falling abnormally early this year to coincide with the Day of Fools. Anna finds this appropriate. She has little patience with people who still believe in the possibility of resurrection. She is mopping the floor of the bakery, the first chance she has had to do so since the last sad handful of refugees, when she hears the drone of engines overhead.
Trudie, run to the cellar, Anna calls, swabbing another clean arc on the cement. She isn't overly concerned; she has learned to distinguish the sound of light reconnaissance aircraft from the heavier throb of bombers, and these sound like spy planes. The attacks have become a regular occurrence, the days and nights turned topsy-turvy by the wail of air-raid sirens: Air raid, all clear. Air raid, all clear. Anna listens for the clip-clop of Trudie's soles, indicating that the girl has obeyed her. Satisfied, she bends to wring the mop into the pail. Then she straightens, dripping dirty water onto the floor. Something is wrong. The sirens have not sounded at all.
Anna is approaching the door to see what is happening when it flies open, nearly knocking her backward. One of her former customers, Frau Hochmeier, charges into the bakery. She is wearing an absurd hat, no doubt for the Easter service, its bunch of silk violets askew and dangling.
Frau Hochmeier bends double, catching her breath, and then shakes a piece of paper in Anna's face.
What is this? she screams. These messages from the sky, what do they mean?
Anna takes the leaflet from the woman and flattens it on the display case. Her command of English, learned so long ago in Gymnasium, is shaky at best. But she can decipher the basic meaning of the words, and when she lips the paper over, she finds a German translation. Scholarly fellows, these Americans.
Citizens of Thuringia, Anna reads aloud. Due to atrocities perpetuated at concentration camp Buchenwald and by the Nazi regime in general, hostilities are imminent in your area. Be prepared to surrender peacefully to the Army of the United States of America.
Frau Hochmeier stares.
Is that all? she asks.
Anna folds the paper. Somewhere nearby, gunfire rattles like popping corn. The announcement of imminent hostilities, Anna thinks, is a bit belated.
Yes, she answers. That's all it says.
Frau Hochmeier nods stoically. Then she shrieks, We're done for! They're going to kill us, they'll shoot every last one of us!
Anna has never been fond of Frau Hochmeier, who in recent years is one of those who has leveled at Anna the flat stare of condemnation, as though Anna were the bearer of contagious immorality. But at the moment Anna feels some pity for her. Deeply religious, once pretty, the woman now looks mad, the sleepless nights carved in creases on her face. Then again, they all look different now.
Get hold of yourself, Anna tells her, voice low. My daughter is downstairs.
But what should we do, Anna?
Frau Hochmeier asks. What will you do?
Anna shrugs. Wait, I suppose, she replies. What else is there? Frau Hochmeier backs away.
I'm going to run, she says. I'd run if I were you. Especially if I were you.
When she has gone, Anna bolts the door and draws the blackout curtains. After a moment's thought, she carries a chair in from the kitchen and props it under the knob. Then, surveying these flimsy precautions, Anna laughs at herself: she is behaving like an idiot, like Frau Hochmeier. If the Americans want to come in, they will come in. And it is useless to run from them, for there is nowhere to go.
But the waiting is a strain on the nerves, for there is nothing to be done in the meantime. By midafternoon, Anna finds herself with no way to occupy the hours. The bakery is clean, the child napping in the cellar next to the sole remaining refugee, a manicurist from Wiesbaden with a convulsive cough. The woman has assured Anna that her throat is irritated from smoke inhaled during a bombing, that she doesn't have the highly infectious typhoid or pneumonia. Anna isn't convinced tha
t her guest is telling the truth, but her proximity to the child can't be helped. Trudie needs her rest; she has adopted a silent, unblinking stare that Anna doesn't much like the looks of, and aside from the hiding space Anna has outfitted for the girl in one of the kitchen cupboards for when the enemy tanks arrive, the cellar is the safest place for Trudie to be.
Anna has resorted to distracting herself by making tea, coaxing it from sodden leaves already steeped three times, when a knock on the door startles her into dropping the pot. She upbraids herself as she stoops to gather the pieces: stupid Anna, to be so jumpy over the arrival of another refugee! Or perhaps it is a Wehrmacht deserter, one of the boys, pitifully young, who creep shamefaced from the Ettersberg forest to beg from Anna anything she can spare them: salt-and-flour soup, a crust of bread. Whoever her visitor is, he is a persistent fellow. The knob beneath the bolt swivels back and forth. Anna takes a rolling pin to the door with her, hoping she will not be forced to use it.
Coming, coming, she calls.
When she sees that her impatient guest is the Obersturmführer, Anna utters an exasperated pfft! and turns her back. Fetching the broom, she begins sweeping up the smaller fragments of china.
I thought you'd abandoned us, she says. Do you have any food? Anything—flour, lentils?
No, says the Obersturmführer. Stop that now. I haven't time to watch you do your housework.
Anna hurls the shards into the rubbish bin.
But I suppose you have time to go upstairs, she says, in a shaking, scolding tone. Oh yes, there's always time for that. Well, I've news for you: you'll have to carry me. I haven't the energy to climb the steps. Do you know how long it's been since I've eaten? Do you? The whole city is under siege, we're starving and terrified, while you sit up there safe as a king, gorging yourself on—on God knows what—you—
When you've finished your tantrum, Anna, the Obersturmführer interrupts, perhaps you'd be so kind as to listen to what I've come to say?