The Best Contemporary Women's Fiction: Six Novels

by Jenna Blum

  Trudy looks at him. He is wearing black sunglasses that make it impossible for her to see his eyes, but his face seems serene enough. Yet Trudy feels bad, not only because of what he has told her but because she has never thought much about Thomas outside of the project. He is just always there whenever she needs him, ready with his equipment and benign smile and words of encouragement. Trudy has a sudden flash, shocking but not unpleasant, of what Thomas would look like in the nude: a potbelly and slightly concave chest, either with scant hair around the nipples or completely smooth. She takes a small breath.

  Thank you, Thomas.

  You're welcome, Trudy.

  They are in Minnetonka now, a privileged suburb of huge houses set far from the road on properties the size of golf courses. Old trees reach across the street to entangle in a canopy that allows only a few coins of sunlight to fall through. Thomas slows, canvassing the bronze nameplates and address plaques screwed into stone columns, and turns into the drive of 9311 Hawthorne Way.

  Heavens, he says mildly of the house at the end.

  Trudy silently concurs. Mr. pfeffer's residence is more of a showcase than a house, a towering structure of glass and steel that seems to float on its vast green lawn, an architect's dream of contemporary angles. It is not the sort of place Trudy would choose to live in even if she could, in her wildest dreams, afford to: with those glass walls one would be as dreadfully exposed as in a doll-house. Particularly at night. But Trudy has to grant that it is impressive, if only for the money it must have taken to construct.

  And Thomas is apparently following a similar train of thought, for as they climb from the van he asks, What does this guy do?

  I don't know, Trudy admits.

  You don't? I thought that was one of the questions you always ask over the phone first.

  Well, I do, says Trudy, but to tell you the truth, I don't remember.

  She takes out her portfolio and flips it open. Of course, there is only Mr. Pfeffer's scrawled address, but the action prods her memory as to the long-ago contact conversation.

  He was fairly evasive about his profession, now that I think of it, she tells Thomas. All he said was, Oh, I do a bit of this and a bit of that; I'm a man of many interests, dear lady.

  Thomas gazes around as he and Trudy proceed up the flagstones of the front walk: at the manicured grass, the clever lack of any landscaping that would compete with the house, the wink of Lake Minnetonka behind it.

  No wonder he was evasive, Thomas comments. He probably robbed a bank.

  Probably, Trudy agrees, and then jumps, startled, for Mr. Pfeffer opens the door before she has pressed the bell.

  Come in, come in, he says, ushering them into a foyer with the echoing dimensions of a cathedral. Welcome to my home! Is it not a lovely day?

  He rubs his hands, then jumps aside to let Thomas pass with his cart. He is a small and dapper man, this Mr. Pfeffer, with the wiry build of a tennis player and a head as bald as a cue ball. His hair, when he had it, must have been black, for his eyebrows still are. They climb his tanned forehead in delight as he looks Trudy up and down.

  But the morning is not half as lovely as you, dear lady, he adds. I suppose this is to your advantage as an interrogator, yes? I will be putty in your hands.

  Trudy blinks and touches her hair, which now nearly reaches her shoulders. She has been too dispirited to have it cut. Surely Mr. Pfeffer is poking fun at her.

  But he tilts his head and eyes Trudy with bright, robinlike appreciation. He is wearing a three-piece charcoal suit of fine Italian design, Trudy notices, and she is amused to see that the rose in his lapel is the exact shade of yellow as the silk handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket.

  Tell me about yourself, Mr. Pfeffer says.

  Well, as you know, I'm a professor of German Studies at the university, and I—

  No, no. Please, something more interesting. Are you married?

  No, says Trudy. I was once, but—

  No? says Mr. Pfeffer. He makes a face of astonishment. But how surprising. How can it possibly be that such a charming lady as yourself is unattached?

  Trudy tries to smile, but when her eyes fill she turns toward the glittering blue expanse beyond the clerestory windows.

  Thomas, carrying a sound boom past them, says quickly, This is an incredible house, Mr. Pfeffer. What is it you do for a living?

  Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that, Mr. Pfeffer replies, not looking away from Trudy. I'm a man of many interests, dear fellow ... But how rude I am! I have not even offered you a refreshment. Please, this way.

  Cupping Trudy's elbow, he escorts her into an enormous living room. Trudy gives Thomas a grateful glance as they pass. He reaches out to press her arm, then occupies himself with setting up screens near a white Steinway.

  Mr. Pfeffer pats a leather couch.

  Come, he says, sit here by me.

  Trudy does. She is amazed to see, among the glinting chrome furniture, the sprigs of orchids in Meissen vases, a hotel tea cart at Mr. Pfeffer's elbow. It is stocked with a silver service and little crustless sandwiches and—can they be actual crumpets? They must be: a pyramid of small cakes, the hybrid of English muffin and scone.

  Tea? Coffee? Crumpet? asks Mr. Pfeffer.

  Just coffee, please, says Trudy.

  She accepts a cup and smiles at him, more successfully this time.

  Where in Germany were you born, Mr. Pfeffer?

  Felix, dear lady, please. I come from the forests of Thuringia; I was born in a dank little hovel there, the seventh of eleven children, if you can believe that ... The closest city was a small one, Weimar—but of course you would be familiar with it, given your field of study.

  Trudy sets the coffee on her knee, feeling as though she has been doused in cold water. To hear the name of her own birthplace in the mouth of somebody who has actually been there produces not only a chill but the images so much a part of her that she is rarely conscious of their existence: more mood, almost, than memory. A muddy street running past a shabby store front. The winding stone wall alongside. The field behind the bakery, gray and white with snow. The dark smudge of the Ettersberg woods at its edge. A bare lightbulb swinging. Melancholy. Fear. Brötchen under glass. And the officer, of course, standing in the doorway or upstairs in the bedroom. His light wolfish eyes.

  Trudy manages a sip of coffee.

  What a coincidence, she tells Mr. Pfeffer. I was born there as well. But closer to the center of the city.

  Mr. Pfeffer rears back in delight.

  Were you! But you are quite right: that is an extraordinary coincidence. However, I could have guessed you were a native German from your given name. Trudy is short for Gertrude, correct?

  Yes, it is. I can't imagine what my mother was thinking.

  Mr. Pfeffer laughs. It could have been worse. You could be a Helga, for instance...Und sprechen Sie jetzt Deutsch? Do you know what my name means in our original language?

  Ja, natürlich. Auf Deutsch, Pfeffer ist Pepper.

  Mr. Pfeffer claps. Ah, yes, your accent is Thuringian! But I was not referring to my surname. I meant my first: Felix.

  That I don't know, says Trudy. Is there a direct translation?

  No, says Mr. Pfeffer. But it means happy. Or, I should say, happy-go-lucky.

  He wags a finger at Trudy.

  My mother, Hannaliese Pfeffer, was a smart woman. She named me well. I have been lucky all my life.

  In what way? Trudy asks.

  In what way? Mr. Pfeffer repeats. His brows again rise, wrinkling skin the color and texture of caramel. Why, in almost every way. I am blessed with good health and an optimistic disposition. My business interests in this country have thrived, as you can see. And in Weimar, during the war, while so many of my compatriots were dying in such nasty ways in the Russian snow or the deserts of Africa, my business ventures exempted me and fed me and kept me warm. Until my unfortunate incarceration, that is. But I managed to survive, and here I am—whereas so many others of m
y generation are rotting in the ground...

  Mr. Pfeffer pats Trudy's knee, his hand lingering perhaps a bit longer than it should.

  And if that isn't lucky, dear lady, he says, his small brown eyes shining, what is?

  60

  THE GERMAN PROJECT

  Interview 14

  SUBJECT: Mr. Felix Pfeffer

  DATE/LOCATION: May 10, 1997; Minnetonka, MN

  Q: ...You mentioned your business interests in Germany, Mr. Pfeffer. Can you tell me more about that?

  A: With pleasure. To begin with, at fifteen I was an apprentice to an antiques wholesaler in Weimar—Fizel, his name was. I fibbed about my age in order to get the job, I must confess. But while my numerous siblings contented themselves with woodcutting and carpentry and other forms of manual labor, I somehow had been born with a taste for the finer things and a talent for persuasion, and within a few months I became Fizel's best salesman. When I had learned as much as I could from him, I advanced to working for a jeweler whose specialty was old stones in valuable settings. I traveled the Continent seeking such merchandise, and while doing so I met a great many influential people with an appetite for acquisition; in addition to gems, they wanted art, carpets, rare books. I soon discovered that I possessed, you should forgive my immodesty, an exceptional ability to procure for them whatever they asked for. By the time the war broke out, I had established quite a name for myself. I was only twenty-two then, but already on my way up. And as the Reich came to full power, other business opportunities presented themselves, of which I took quick advantage.

  Q: What opportunities were those?

  A: Well, I suppose you could say I became a broker [subject laughs]. Yes, a broker.

  Q: A broker of...?

  A: Why, people, my dear, of course. Jews escaping the oncoming juggernaut. It is true that many of them did not recognize the danger in time; they put their heads down and prayed it would pass. But there were plenty who were desperate to get out, and thanks to the numerous connections I had made, both among the wealthy and the, shall we say, less reputable element, I was able to help them. They were frantic to barter whatever they could to secure visas, new identification papers, passports. The supply soon overwhelmed the demand, I can tell you. I was swamped with furs, silver, paintings, heirloom jewelry, a grand piano or two. One family even convinced me to take [laughs] a canary in an antique cage. The bird naturally was worthless, but the cage was solid gold and I was able to find a home for it in short order.

  Q: And what happened once you had accepted these payments?

  A: I would put my Jewish clients in touch with the right people, and those people would get them out. Despite the Gestapo, there was a strong Resistance network in Germany, at least in the early days. As to what happened once I had turned my clients over to my contacts, that I do not know. I assume most of them got out.

  Q: Did you ever feel guilty about making money this way?

  A: No, dear, not at all. I did feel sorry for the Jews, but guilt? No.

  Q: Then do you see yourself as a hero for helping Jews to escape?

  A: [laughs] Oh my, no. Allow me to explain. In wartime there is always excellent business to be done, if one is only enterprising enough to spot the opportunities. As a historian you must know that certain men have always built fortunes from others' misfortune. If there must be wars—and given the nature of man, they are inevitable, sad but true—then why should one not profit from them if he is able? Business is business.

  Q: How long did your business continue?

  A: This particular sideline lasted until the, oh, I'd say, late thirties. Then the source dried up, as my Jewish clientele had already left the Vaterland with my aid or in less pleasant ways, at the behest of the Nazis. Yet I still had more business than I could handle, for the SS were by then entrenched at Buchenwald, that hellhole on the hill. Their demand for certain goods was more rapacious even than that of my former wealthy customers, and as my reputation had preceded me, I began to procure for them as well. Of course, the products were somewhat different.

  Q: And they consisted of...?

  A: Liquor, primarily. And drugs. Medicines, hashish, opium, cocaine. Also French cigarettes—the Schutzstaffeln had an unpatriotic preference for Gauloises, for whatever reason. At any rate, I knew everyone from Marrakech to Moscow, so whatever the SS requested, I could get.

  Q: Who exactly asked you to get these things?

  A: I had dealings with almost all the SS, but my main contact was Kommandant Koch, and he was my best client. You know, nowadays historians make a big hoo-ha about Göring having been an opium-addicted degenerate; I never had the dubious honor of making the man's acquaintance, so for all I know, they may be right. But from what I observed, he could not have held a candle to Koch. Now there was a fellow who enjoyed his pleasures. A sensualist. A hedonist. His position enabled him to do whatever he wanted, and believe me, he took full advantage.

  Q: In what ways?

  A: There were, for instance, the Comradeship Evenings, a little ritual Koch established during the early days of the camp. At least, that was what he called them. In reality, they were orgies. They occurred every Sunday, regular as clockwork, in the Bismarck Tower just outside the camp boundaries. There all of the officers would gather—their attendance being mandatory—to enjoy the company of prostitutes. Not the poor girls working in the Special Building, the Buchenwald brothel, but imports. And Puppenjungen, boys who were chosen from incoming transports specifically for this purpose. I supplied the champagne the officers drank and, when the evening's activities were concluded, in which they bathed. Also cigars, marijuana, the opium and cocaine I previously mentioned.

  As you can imagine, this was a highly profitable venture, and it had the additional benefit of exempting me from service in the Wehrmacht. Nor was I the only one to reap the rewards of a contract with Koch, I can assure you. Some of Weimar's most respectable merchants did quite nicely for themselves. Herr Fischkettel, for one, a metalworks owner. Wohnmeyer, a purveyor of fine wursts and other meats. Frau Staudt, a local baker, made a tidy sum supplying bread for the officers, as well as the petit fours of which Koch was so fond.

  Q: How long did your enterprise continue?

  A: Oh dear, I was afraid we would come to this sooner or later ... Well, I have told you I am a lucky man, but in 1940 my good fortune ran out for a while. Koch said that some of the cocaine I had provided was a bad grade—cut with sugar, he claimed, or some such nonsense. One of his deputies, an Unterscharführer Glick, had a somewhat nasty reaction to it: he died. I suspect overindulgence rather than any fault of the product, but one never knows. At any rate, the Gestapo caught and arrested me in late 1940, and I was taken to Buchenwald.

  Q: What happened to you there?

  A: It was a very nasty business all around. Firstly, I was classified as a Green Triangle, a Berufsverbrechen, which was the camp designation for professional criminal. Not a desirable occurrence, for the BVs were treated much more harshly than, say, the Jehovah's Witnesses or the Red Triangles, the politicals. And in some cases we were worse off even than the Jews, for often the Green Triangle guaranteed one time in the punishment block, being reeducated by the madman Sommer. Everyone called him the Hangman, for that was his preferred method of teaching: to string a man up by the wrists and let him dangle for days, from meat hooks or window bars. And that was his least creative method. A more inventive one was to force a garden hose down the throat of a hanging man and let the water run until his stomach burst.

  I managed to avoid this initiation because of my connections within the camp. However, I was immediately assigned to the worst work detail, the stone quarry. I started making arrangements to be transferred to the laundry or the Gustloff armament works, where one would at least be inside, or to the kitchen, which of course was ideal because of the access to food. And that is where I did end up. until liberation, in fact. But organizing the proper payments took some time, and meanwhile Koch was still irritated enough with
me that I began my incarceration in the quarry. And that was a literal hell.

  Q: What did quarry detail consist of?

  A: We worked twelve hours a day, from six in the morning until six at night. We had the poorest rations, and we worked in all weathers, carrying enormous stones about. I never quite saw the point of it, but then I've never been one for manual labor. The exposure to the elements and the lack of food started to tear me down fairly quickly.

  However, it was the guards who posed the greatest danger. They hated the monotony of overseeing the quarry; they called it Shit Detail—you should forgive the vulgarity. They were very easily bored, as stupid men often are, and often hungover and most often drunk, and they had atrocious ways of combating their ennui. The favorite was to whisk the cap off the head of some unfortunate inmate and throw it across the sentry line. It was punishable by death to be without one's cap, and it was equally forbidden to cross the boundary. Yet the poor devil singled out would be commanded to retrieve his cap, and the instant he stepped over the line he would be shot. All of the guards found this endlessly entertaining. Gretel and Lard-Ass, as we called them, were two of the most willing participants. And Wasserkopf-—water on the brain—a Kapo so nicknamed because of his abnormally large head and total idiocy. But the worst sadists, the originators of the game, were Hinkelmann and Blank, and more inhuman creatures I have never met to this day. As was the case with all the guards, they had been professional criminals before the war—real ones—and to keep them out of trouble, Koch posted them permanently in the quarry. I used to thank God I was adept at hiding behind the other prisoners, for evading the notice of Hinkelmann and Blank was one's only hope of surviving each day.

  The sole benefit of quarry detail—and it kept some of the men alive long past the point at which they would have otherwise perished—was that bread was left for us just beyond the sentry line. It was sometimes possible, when the guards were involved in their sport, for one of us BVs to steal over and retrieve it and conceal it in our trousers. This duty often fell to me, since I was relatively small in stature and good at not calling attention to myself. Two women from Weimar, Aryan civilians, hid rolls for us in the hollow trunk of a large pine. They did this at great risk to themselves, of course, since füttern den Feind—feeding the enemy—was also punishable by death. We revered them; we called them die Bäckerei Engel, the Bakery Angels. Those who were religious prayed for them every night.