The whispering in her head never stopped. When she had returned to bed from the window last night she dreamt she was on a train, holding up an open umbrella, unable to see the other passengers in the carriage. Through the window, she watched blurry green puffs whiz past. The conductor, his face ruddy and pained, handed her a letter. She opened the envelope, and out fell photographs she’d never seen before. She clutched them in her hand and quickly hid them in her bag. People standing in the corridor crowded into the carriage and she felt as though the world was rushing up to crush her.
CHAPTER 20
9 November 1937
Ernst felt relieved as he pulled on his knitted sweater and slipped his legs into dungarees. It was good to be out of uniform, to have peeled off the elegant black cladding of the Führer’s special guard. Of course, Ernst always wore it with pride; the prestige and admiration that came with it made him feel like a rare bird himself. And the opportunities that had opened for him were undeniably attractive. Himmler was freeing up Germany’s academia, cleaning Jews and communists out of the dusty halls of universities, and the promise of a glittering future seemed within everyone’s reach. Himmler’s demeanour was a little odd, but to his credit he was shaping a new order. There had been such a narrow focus on specialisation up until now, but finally scientists with a broader vision, whose research had application and relevance to developing the economic might of Germany once again, were receiving the recognition they deserved. You only needed to flip through a copy of Das Schwarze Korps, the journal of the SS that at any time was lying open on Ernst’s desk, to see the level of expertise Himmler had already attracted to his new intelligentsia. Early membership in the SS had proven to be a wise suggestion on the part of Albert Schäfer, becoming Ernst’s ticket to fame and personal glory.
Göring kindly organised for his personal chef to pack them a picnic breakfast – salami, sandwiches, apples, a draught of beer – before Ernst strolled down along a wooden pier to the boatsheds on the Döllnsee lake, checking which dinghy looked the sturdiest and safest for what he had in mind.
The lake was pure crystal, a light breeze tickling its surface. Sunlight crept through the branches of the spruce and oak that lined the shore. The mist was peeling itself off the trees, revealing their canopy of brown, crimson and yellow. Ernst’s breath was frosty in the crisp air. Released from the frenzy of the city, it was a relief to escape into the wilderness he missed so much.
A reedy man with a pencil-thin moustache met Ernst at the boathouse. A sudden gust of wind swept the clouds across the sky, setting the wooden boats rolling from side to side like drunken whales, their keels groaning under the effort to balance themselves.
‘Schäfer,’ he introduced himself. ‘Ernst Schäfer.’
They shook hands.
‘I have read your books.’ The man reached down to untie a rope, his fingers thick, skin weathered. ‘Felix Engel, forest warden. I’ll be taking you out on the lake this morning, Herr Schäfer.’
‘There will be no need for that. I know how to sail one of these little toys.’
‘Reichsjägermeister Göring’s orders, sir. I am to accompany his esteemed guests on a tour.’
Ernst clenched his fists. He was humiliated by his poor performance the previous night, and he planned to right things out on the boat. When they were out in the middle of the lake, he would lay Herta down in the hull and have his way. Playfully, of course. Their cries would be drowned out by the laughter of ducks.
But his fantasy was thwarted by Engel’s insistence. Ernst consoled himself with the fact that at least they were going duck-shooting, although that was a far cry from trekking along the Yangtze.
‘I envy you your job,’ he said, trying to strike up a conversation with the man. ‘I abhor the city, feel so restless there pacing its streets like a caged beast. What I wouldn’t give to live out here like you, so close to nature, my feet planted firmly on the soil.’
The surly warden didn’t answer. He towered over Ernst by a head and refused to put him at his ease, which made his superior even more determined to trump him.
‘I couldn’t help but notice you are a fan of Goethe,’ Ernst said, pointing to a volume that rested on the gunwale of the boat. ‘Are you enjoying him?’
Engel flinched and looked away. ‘It is a gift to you from my master. He thought you might like to recite some poetry to your bride as I row you both around the lake.’
Ernst laughed. He jumped off the edge of the pier, his coat-tails flying up like wings, and landed in the boat with a thump. He grabbed the book then held it up and grinned broadly.
‘My host has excellent taste.’ He flicked through the pages as if stroking a lover, every square inch of whose body he could trace, even while blindfolded. His breath quickened. ‘What you don’t feel, you’ll never get by chasing/ Unless it presses from the soul.’
Engel stood still, watching Ernst scour the pages in search of more lines.
‘Ha! Herr Göring is a genius – he thinks of everything.’ Ernst felt like a teenager who had found the secret of too much drink. ‘I will recite to her from Goethe, a man who wrote for those who love the truth of bird and beast: Escape! Into a wider land! Nature then your only tutor.’
He looked at Engel. ‘What better way to awaken a lady’s passion?’ Ernst spoke to him as one spoke into a mirror. Flipping through more pages, he found a final passage he was particularly fond of: ‘As we return from dewy fields, dusk falls/ And birds of mischief croak their ominous calls.’
The conversation didn’t falter, because it had never really begun. The warden made no attempt to feign interest in Ernst’s enthusiastic recitations. He turned his back and silently went about his business, tying the rope around a bollard. Eventually, he retreated back into the boathouse. Ernst might have leapt out of the dinghy and pounded him for his rudeness if Herta hadn’t called to him, her voice filled with light.
‘So kalt!’ she said with a shiver, as she stepped onto the pier. The lace of the plain blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders had woven itself into his dreams the previous night. Overhead, a flock of wild geese sliced their way through the clouds. Deer grazed on the banks of the lake, launching small avalanches of crumbling dirt into the water as they tugged at scattered tufts of grass growing on the shore.
Ernst set the picnic basket down in the boat. He turned to his young bride and held out his hand.
Moments before, having made her way down from the mansion after a restless night, Herta had watched her husband from afar as he busied himself with preparations for their outing. Sometimes she pitied him, as if he were somehow bruised or dented, but there was an intensity in his eyes that she found quite frightening at times. To her shame and dismay, one icy glance from him could freeze her heart in an instant. That morning on the pier she showed restraint and, wrestling with her tears, stood before him smiling. They hadn’t spoken about Margarete since she’d shown him the photo. Perhaps after what she had to say he would be in a more generous mood to discuss it again. How manipulative marriage had made her.
She took his hand, climbed into the boat and settled herself onto the wooden bench, tucking wisps of her hair under a scarf. She watched her young husband prop the shiny barrel of his favourite rifle against the gunwale, resting a spare in the bottom of the boat beside the picnic basket. A worn copy of Faust lay on top of a pile of old blankets. Ernst chewed his lower lip as he stood looking up, painstakingly studying the sky, the feeble sunlight playing cat and mouse with an assembly of low-hanging clouds. She wanted so much to tell him right then, almost bursting with the news she had first gleaned in the bathroom of the exhibition hall, but she would wait till the right moment when they were out on the lake, away from everyone and everything.
Engel emerged from the boathouse. He walked to the edge of the pier and bowed obsequiously to Herta. ‘At your service, Frau Schäfer.’
Ernst stared at him. ‘You may go. You are no longer required. I am perfectly capable of rowing a boat myself.�
� His solid build underlined his determination to do as he pleased, his short, muscular legs rooted in place, like those of an angry bulldog.
A fish leapt out of the water in a streak of silver.
‘As you wish, sir.’ The warden untied the rope from the bollard with seeming reluctance and pushed the dinghy away from its mooring.
She had heard the warden parrying with Ernst as she made her way down to the lake. A faint grimace seemed to appear on the man’s face as his stooped figure faded into the distance. Out on the lake everything was silent, except for small waves lapping at the boat’s hull. Now would be the perfect time. Herta hugged her belly with her hands, watching her husband as he rowed.
She wondered what it must feel like to be his prey, unaware of him creeping along the ground, whispering curses as he hides behind fallen logs. He has settled you into a corner and, just as you begin to sing in that throaty, ancient language he will never understand, comes that terrible sound. He has split you open like a ripe pomegranate, no time for ballooning fright. And with your last ounce of strength you stare at him wide-eyed, before rising to heaven.
The bloodstain on the sheet when she woke this morning made her fearful of a small death. Even though it was no more than the size of a pea, its body was already bloated with their future. She felt weary. And sad. Their child would be born into a world that she no longer recognised. For Herta the flowers, the meadows, leaves rustling in the wind, no longer held the promise they once did. Where would her baby live in this new world? She watched a brown wren hop busily from bush to bush. Gentle clouds gathered above, calmly pressing down on them. They formed a halo around the sun, which struggled to escape from their hold. She was safe for now, here in Ernst’s hands.
The autumn breeze slowly undressed the trees, leaf by leaf, as they leaned over the water. A flock of ducks rose from the lake, pointed in the direction of the graveyard, where Carin lay buried in her mausoleum. The leader’s call carried across the sky. Herta’s thoughts flew up with them. Jolted by a sudden lurch of the boat, she clasped her belly. Should she tell Ernst now? She imagined that soon she would begin to feel the baby kicking. And which name to choose? She thought perhaps they should name their first child after a majestic bird.
Dark shapes watched from the shore, their skeleton branches shivering in the dawn. She saw a feather floating on the water, curled upwards, rising and falling in the wake of their little boat. She leaned out to grab it. When she looked up, a solitary reddish-gold eagle stared down at them, its wings cleaved to the lofty ceiling of clouds. Herta saw it as a sign. Their child would be called Adler, like the eagle. Ernst would be thrilled to name his son after a bird of prey, although she would have preferred to call the baby Feder. Her little feather.
‘Ernst,’ she said, hesitantly.
Before Herta saw them, she heard the querulous quacking of ducks coming from somewhere behind.
‘Ernst. I have something to tell you.’
He grabbed the rifle and bit his lower lip as he aimed. The baby kicked violently as the sound echoed high above the forest – a shot as short and forceful as a single heartbeat.
PART III
CHAPTER 21
In Photo that He kept on His small desk in Basement, young Shepherd is perched on a wooden beam, legs crossed, as He cradles my head close to his breast, Firestick propped up against us. I don’t know where He has hidden the rest of me. In His left hand, He clutches the white neck of a headless vulture, its claws scratching the earth beneath its feet. He sports a beard and moustache, His hair thick and wavy. Against a mountainous backdrop, He is seated in front of a makeshift wooden hut. He gazes lovingly at my face, the way Mother used to. I am staring back, my eyes half-closed, looking peaceful, content to be bathed in His adoration. This intimacy was forced upon me back then, the secrecy of my life invaded by those same eyes that were fascinated by my very existence. I did not choose immortality; it was His yearning for me that brought me here to Glass.
Every day I hear Testing Testing speak in a voice that booms from above. ‘Live animal encounter on Level One. Science Live outside auditorium. Enjoy the rest of your day here at the Academy.’
Writer came once and visited me every day for an entire week they called Fellowship. I enjoyed her constant company, although she looked tired and sad, seated on the floor in front of Glass, her book open, whispering secrets to me. She told me she felt guilty, knowing how this looking at me had been made possible. In Life, I did not want to be seen, and Mother always told me to be still if Noise came close to Forest. Writer reads to me sometimes and apologises, calling herself a voyeur. Her heart is heavy because I was torn away and preserved, but her hand pushes Magic Stick furiously across the blank page because I am here. She tells me I am the true Storyteller, says I’ve written an adventure narrative without moving a muscle. My Visitors are like her Readers, she says, each one claiming ownership over the interpretation of the story I tell.
‘This is my favourite diorama of all,’ she writes.
I know this because when she has filled the page, she takes a break to drink from Flask, then reads me the words that have appeared. Like this, from the other day:
‘The baby panda is a spectacle. Through the sacrifice of his short life, he transcends death. A gruesome artefact, he has been destroyed and removed from his vanished habitat, in an attempt to bring us closer to imagining it. The hunter came in search of exotic landscapes, wild and raw terrain in which to find bigger and rarer beasts. And in the chase, he made up narratives about the love of nature, his prowess, the heroism of conquering a savage land, having it yield its treasures to a stranger. And the trophies he shipped back home to populate museums and parlours boasted of his skill with a shotgun, his dominion over Nature.’
She takes Magic Stick and scribbles across the page, ‘Overwritten, sentimental claptrap!’ At times, she thinks I am ‘Adorable’, writes that down. Then in a flash, changes her mind, crosses out the word and writes in angry, big letters, ‘OBSCENE!’ What a fickle, grumpy woman Writer can be. Shepherd never harboured such ugly thoughts about me. He worshipped me, proudly showing me off to all His friends.
‘Du, Geist der Erde, bist mir näher; schon Fühl’ ich mein Kräfte höher,’ He would purr as He patted me, calling me His Earth Spirit, a timeless being, the immaterial becoming manifest through me. I must admit, in those days I didn’t understand everything He spoke of, but over the years in Glass, I have learnt Wisdom. Now I know that for Shepherd, Nature was the ultimate mystery, and collecting as many of us as He could was His noble attempt to solve it. He was determined to unlock our secrets in the laboratory, then display them to World.
Artist covets me, so grateful Shepherd found me and brought me to her, says my everlasting posture makes me the most perfect model. Writer disagrees. She calls me ‘Survivor’, but I don’t really understand how I can be victimised and saved at the same time. I am laid bare before Viewers, who stop to stare, laugh, smile, some turning pale, tears in their eyes. Some stay for only a moment, others spend months coming back and forth. Scientist tells his students I am Empirical Data, a record of a moment on this earth that will soon vanish. Apparently, my form holds Information that only future generations will discover. Artist uses Stick to copy my likeness. She tells the group seated on folded chairs, their hair the colour of Sky or Bamboo, that ‘the visceral pleasure of the backdrop speaks to people in a language in and of its own, the curved walls and foreshortening techniques conveying a vast landscape, painted by Clarence C. Rosenkranz, in a brilliant evocation of habitat.’ I don’t really understand what this means, but it sounds Important. I guess some of them are in the same clan as Tattooist, because his drawing of me appears on their hides.
What compels them all to have stared at me since Opening on 28 December 1933? I was a part of Him, but now that we are no longer together it is hard to know who I am anymore. In here, I feel safe. Visitors spiral closer and closer, then wander off to see Okapi Glass opposite, which has just been cle
aned and renewed, then retrace their steps to me. Some return hours or days later. They never scream, except for Smalls, who often shout and smile at the same time. Do Visitors think of the beauty of my fur, or do they see me as the fragile object of Shepherd’s desire?
My face has been endowed with eternal calm, although that is not what I felt at that moment of Noise. Back then, I felt a searing pain and watched the white of my fur turn red. I fell to the ground and cannot remember much, except when He came and cradled my head, staring at me with such love. He was with another, who rolled up his sleeves, following Shepherd’s orders to tie my feet together before they carried me out of Forest and away from Mother. I saw the pain in her eyes as we left. I lay helpless in the harness they had made, must have fainted several times as they stumbled through Bamboo, trying to find their way out of Forest. By late afternoon, we arrived at Shepherd’s cave. His clan stood around me; I neither moved nor made a sound. They thought I had gone to Death, but it wasn’t until Shepherd came up that evening with a blunt knife and drove it into my neck that I drowned in a sea of red.
How lifelike, Artist tells her students: ‘Docility crafted into the product, as if the specimen is grateful for its own capture. Now, can you express the essence of the wild in your notebooks? The obsession, the valiant struggle between man and nature.’ But she doesn’t understand. I am not important just because He brought me from Forest. My crucial role was to help Him understand Himself better in the world.
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