In the Land of Armadillos

by Helen Maryles Shankman

  Leaving the cigarette dangling from his lips, the artist took up a pencil and squinted at the wall behind the bed. In his black pants and black shirt, he was pitiably scrawny, reminding Max of a broken umbrella, ribs inverted by the wind.

  With a pencil in his hand, Toby’s entire affect changed. His back straightened, realigned. His shoulders relaxed and, with that small adjustment to his posture, broadened. He seemed to grow several inches taller all at once. Simultaneously, the muscles in his face tautened to a kind of concentration Max usually associated with animals of prey. Inhabiting his element the way a lion inhabits the savannah, Toby radiated power and confidence.

  He lunged forward and began to draw. With a single undulating line, he brought forth a series of rolling, round-topped mountains. Max watched, entranced, as he feinted back, frowned, then darted forth to add palm trees and tufts of grass. With an intense flurry of strokes, Toby outlined a chubby armadillo. Before Max’s astonished eyes, the picture in the book came to life.

  “My God,” he said. The words burst out involuntarily.

  Now Toby seemed to remember that Max was in the room. He glanced at his drawing, gave him a wry smile. “Well, boss, what do you think?”

  Max was confused. In the white room, watching the thin, pale man in dark clothes summon forth images from the air, he felt an elation not unlike the awe he had experienced when he was a child in church.

  He shook his head to clear it of the dreaminess that had settled over him. An office full of work awaited his attention. “You look like you’re going to faint,” he grunted. “I’ll send up some breakfast.”

  * * *

  In the following days, Max was preoccupied with a whole Pandora’s box full of problems. Jews were pouring in from everywhere. There was a transport from Vienna, one from Kraków, another one from Skorodnica, all needing evaluation, labor assignments, housing. A crew of Jewish stonecutters complained that they were being mistreated by their employer and refused to go back to his shop. They wanted assurances that the abuses would stop. Furthermore, the Jewish Council was screwing around, unwilling to come up with a list of people who were too old, too sick, or too worn out for employment, having finally figured out what it meant when a large group of Jews was assembled for a walk in the woods. Up until now, the Judenrat had done everything they were asked. The time was right for his first visit.

  It wasn’t that the ghetto was walled off, or fenced in with barbed wire. Still, it bore all the signs of involuntary incarceration. The trees were dead, the crumbling buildings displayed leprous facades, the paving stones were cracked and missing. The gutters were swollen with an oily black runoff fed by melting snow. A fading, outdated movie poster peeled from a kiosk, advertising Gone with the Wind; a flyer demanding that Jews turn in all furs was tacked over it. Here and there Max could see a house destroyed at the beginning of the war and never repaired. Color had fled the Jewish quarter; the houses were gray, the snow was gray, the shingles were gray, merchandise in shopwindows, faces, too.

  On the sidewalk, Yids scattered at his approach, scurrying across the street to the other side. Children stopped playing as he strode by, observing with wide eyes the shiny death’s-head badge on his officer’s cap, the billowing skirts of his overcoat, his gleaming leather boots.

  The offices of the Judenrat looked like offices anywhere else. A desk, a telephone, a receptionist, rows of ledgers, a potted plant, the clatter of women typing in another room. There was a flutter of activity at his arrival. The members of the Jewish Council emerged from their offices, looking prosperous and harried. When enough of them had gathered around, peppering him with explanations and concerns, he handed his coat to the receptionist, pulled out his pistol, and shot them.

  From Max Haas’s diary, November 1, 1942

  . . . fifteen men, well dressed, cultured, with beautiful manners. I didn’t enjoy shooting them, but it was the quickest way to get their cooperation. The list of names I requested will be in my hands by morning.

  This is wartime. There are the victorious and the vanquished, and unfortunately for them, they belong to the side of the vanquished. I didn’t write the rules, that’s just how it goes. From now on, I expect the Jewish Council will be more compliant.

  From his letter to Gerda Haas, November 1, 1942

  The most exciting news! You’re never going to guess who I found to paint murals in Peter’s room. Tobias Rey, what do you think of that! He’s painting some scenes from In the Land of Armadillos. Please don’t tell Peter. I want it to be a surprise.

  How are my little soldier’s riding lessons coming along? Tell him that Lilo is a little lame from a fall she took during a hunt, so she is getting a good rest in the barn right now, but when he gets here, we’ll go riding all the time.

  My dearest darling sweetheart, how I miss you! Today I am thinking in particular of your little bunny nose, and your little bunny chin, and the softness of your hair when I put my fingers through it. How I long to be alone with you in our little den! All this romantic talk doesn’t sound much like your old Max, does it? The closer the day of your arrival comes, the faster my heart beats for you.

  * * *

  The tall clock in the stairway chimed ten times as Max climbed up the steps. At the threshold of the nursery, he pushed open the door. He caught his breath, speechless with delight.

  Using the word red to describe the armadillos would have been laughably inadequate. The color was scarlet, or carmine, or madder lake, boiling crazily into a neon sunset orange, overflowing into an ecstasy of bronze, cinnabar, rust, before finally bleeding back into crimson. A wide swash of blue was brushed exuberantly around the outline of each armadillo, a pure, burning hue he had seen only once before, in a painting of the Virgin.

  Max was just returning home from the cinema, a gala premiere for a new German film. A young, handsome scientist was developing a top-secret weapon that would win the war for Germany. Disaster struck when a foolish secretary let the secret slip to her new boyfriend, who, surprise surprise, turned out to be spying for the enemy. Order was restored in the end—the handsome scientist shot the traitorous spy and married his virtuous blond fiancée—and the foolish secretary learned a tough but valuable lesson. Max loved movies, especially movies like this one, thrillers that delivered a timely political message.

  Toby was standing in the middle of the room, his thin arms crossed over his chest, lost in contemplation. There was something glamorous about him, Max thought, a certain inborn elegance, as if he belonged to a lost branch of a forgotten monarchy. He had already begun sketching out the next mural, which showed the armadillo Aramis and his lady love, Bianca, at the café they opened together in Paris. Men in homburg hats soared through the air, while fantastic animals of every shape and color populated the little round marble-topped tables. Bianca, the blue cockatoo, was in her white apron, Aramis, his vest and bow tie. Max barely stopped himself from clapping his hands with childish joy.

  Under his protection, and with a steady diet, Max had expected Toby to fill out a bit or, at the very least, to cheer up. But if anything, he looked worse, the lines in his elongated face etched too sharply for his thirty years, the angles of his body growing more extreme by the day.

  “You’ve got to stop fucking Gruber’s secretary,” Max growled, plopping heavily onto the bed.

  Startled from his trance, Toby nearly lost his balance. “I’ll try, boss,” he began to say before breaking into a harsh cough.

  Max removed his officer’s cap and flipped it onto the desk. “That doesn’t sound good,” he said. “How long have you been coughing like that?”

  Toby was bent over double; it took him a moment to catch his breath. “Since yesterday,” he rasped.

  Max frowned at the artist’s shirt and trousers, too thin to be of any use against the eastern cold. “You should dress warmer. It’s cold as a witch’s chuff out there tonight.”

  It was the end of a long day. There had been an action at the hospital, all the patients shot
in their beds, concurrent with a raid on the orphanage. His presence had been required at both operations. A cloud of fatigue was descending over him, assisted along its journey by the champagne served at the premiere. With a sigh of relief, he unbuttoned his dress-uniform jacket. He kicked off a boot, pushed the other one off with his toes. As he made himself comfortable, something nosed its way into Max’s perception.

  “You do have a warm coat, don’t you, Toby?”

  The artist shook his head, coughed lightly into his fist.

  “Well, why not?”

  He shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling with indifference.

  Max sat up straight, indignant. “This is outrageous. We have warehouses full of clothing. I’ll see to it that you get another one right away.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. When I die of pneumonia, you’ll be commended for saving the Reich the cost of the bullet.”

  “You’re not allowed to die just yet. Not before you finish Peter’s room, anyway. I’m joking, I’m joking. Don’t go anywhere. I know just the thing.”

  Max padded down the stairs in his socks. This late at night, there was only an oil lamp burning in the kitchen, the corners of the room sunk in murky shadow. He could have woken the housekeeper, but making the preparations himself gave him a certain proprietary pleasure. When the copper kettle began to sing, a voice from behind him murmured, “Can I be of service, Sturmbannführer?”

  With all the extra duties of the last month, he had nearly forgotten about his new cook. On the petite side, with a pleasing round rump and a small, nipped-in waist, she had that dusky skin tone some of the Jews had, wan but pretty. Her eyes were large and hooded; to him, it seemed that they swam with myriad unfathomable secrets.

  “I’ve forgotten your name,” he said.

  “Saltzman, Adela, Sturmbannführer.”

  “And how long have you been working here?”

  “A month, Sturmbannführer.”

  Slowly, deliberately, he poured hot water over the tea leaves. “Was it you who made that saddle of rabbit for dinner last night?”

  The shoulders were bowed, the eyes cast submissively downward. “Yes, sir.” A husky voice for such a slight figure.

  “Relax, relax,” he said in a tone that was meant to be congenial. “That was the best rabbit I’ve ever eaten. Where did you learn how to cook like that?”

  “From my mother, sir.”

  “Well, Saltzman. The next time you see your mother, you can tell her that Sturmbannführer Maximillian Haas says her daughter is the best cook in the entire country.”

  “Thank you, Sturmbannführer,” she answered, her gaze still trained on the floor.

  “Call me Haas. You can go back to bed.”

  “Yes, Sturmbannführer,” she said, and evanesced into the shadows beyond the door.

  When the tea was ready, he slowly climbed the stairs. On a tray, he balanced a tall glass set on a china saucer, filled with a transparent ruby-red liquid. For himself, there was a bottle of vodka. “Here,” he said brusquely, setting it carefully down on the desk. “Oma’s recipe. Tea with wine and honey. Drink up.”

  Toby took the glass in his slender, aristocratic fingers. “Honey,” he murmured. “I haven’t had honey since . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. Closing his eyes, he brought the tea near to his nose, abandoning himself to the sweet fragrance. The lines in his face eased, faded. Without them, he looked ten years younger.

  It was late. Max should have gone downstairs to sleep, but after the unusual pressures of the day, he found he was hungry for company. He sat back down on the bed. “Tell me something about yourself, Toby,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Do you have a wife? Sweetheart?”

  The artist cupped the glass with both hands. “No wife, no sweetheart. Before the war, there was someone.”

  Max loosened his belt a couple of notches, slid down farther on the mattress. “So what happened? Why didn’t you marry her?”

  It was some time before Toby answered. “She isn’t the marrying type.”

  “Oh, come on. All women want to marry, to become mothers, care for a home . . . It’s in their nature. You’re not making sense.”

  “All right, then, it was me. I’m not the marrying type.” Toby’s smile was too quick, the hand that ran through his lank hair, too unsteady.

  Max turned this preposterous statement over in his mind. He couldn’t conceive of a man who didn’t yearn for the comforts of hearth and home. An idea formed in the depths of his consciousness, swirled slowly into focus.

  “You’re hiding something. Come on, Toby. The truth.”

  Toby went rigid, his graceful slouch frozen into corners and edges. “The truth is . . . I was seeing my translator. She isn’t Jewish. It wasn’t illegal then, you can’t arrest her for that.”

  “I’m not looking to arrest anyone. It was just a friendly question.”

  Toby brushed the tips of his fingers across his forehead, as if he had walked into a cobweb. “The war started. She left me. But that was a long time ago. What about you?”

  “Me? What’s there to know? I’m married to the prettiest, cleverest, most wonderful woman in the world. I have a son, Peter, my brave little soldier.” He felt around in his jacket for his wallet. “Here they are, take a look.”

  In the small black-and-white image, Gerda was propping Peter up on a carousel horse. Toby accepted the photo in his pale fingers, regarded it for a moment before handing it back. “It’s a nice picture,” he said.

  There was a soft knock at the door. Guiltily, as if he had been sharing a confidence, Max leaped to his feet, buttoning his jacket.

  But it was only the housekeeper. “Yes?” he said impatiently. “It’s very late.”

  Even this hour of the night, not a single hair escaped the tight blond bun. These Poles. Such a tidy people. “Telegram, Herr Haas,” she said. “It came while you were out.” He took the envelope from her hand, and she left as silently as she had arrived, closing the door softly behind her.

  Max tore it open and scanned it, his heart beating wildly. It was from Gerda. Peter had come down with bronchitis. Their move was being postponed until after Christmas. The doctor thought he should remain where he was for now.

  Panic filled his throat the way wind fills a sail. Rattled by the unexpected emotion, he fumbled for a cigarette and tried to light it; when his hands shook, Toby held the match. Max took a few puffs, then angrily stubbed it out on the tray.

  “She’s put it off again,” he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Now you don’t have to rush.” But his voice betrayed his agitation, and he reached up to rake his fingers through his short hair, parted with martial precision. “They should have been here months ago, but always something holds them up. First it was his allergies. Then she was concerned about school. Last time it was those fucking partizans. I’d shoot them all myself if it would get her here any sooner.” His next words were so forthright, so baldly honest, that he startled even himself. “What’s the matter with her, anyway?” he burst out bitterly. “I haven’t seen them in so long, I hope I recognize them when they get here.”

  God, it was good to say those words out loud. He loosened his tie and poured himself another two fingers of vodka. “Forget I said anything. Let’s change the subject. Tell me the truth, Toby. Do artists really draw naked women?”

  With the hand holding the glass of tea, Toby waved indifferently at a flat case leaning against the wall, bound in marbleized paper. “I was going to ask you if I could leave my portfolio here for safekeeping. See for yourself.”

  He lifted the portfolio onto the bed and untied the strings. It fell open to an ink sketch of a woman lying back on a bed, her knees apart. One hand rested behind her head, the other lay lightly on the dark isthmus between her thighs. Max felt himself grow warm all over, felt the shock of adrenaline to his brain, his throat, his balls. In the drawing, she wore black stockings and a camisole that rode up over her breasts. At the bottom, he could read the inscription. Par
is, 1938, it said.

  “Who is this?” he demanded. “A model?”

  The corners of the gray lips curled up in a slight smile. “A friend.”

  Max studied the girl in the drawing. From her dreamy expression, it seemed to him that she was enjoying herself. “What was Paris like?”

  “Exactly what you want Paris to be like. Girls willing to sleep with you for the price of a meal and a good time. Interesting people, from a hundred different places, with a hundred different opinions. Food of the gods. Streets overflowing with books and art and beautiful women. And the nightlife!” The burnt-out eyes sparked at the memory. “Frankly, in Vienna, it’s the same thing, only with better pastries. And the girls are kinkier. But for sheer quantity and variety, nothing beats New York.”

  “New York,” he exclaimed. “What were you doing in New York?”

  “I was invited to teach in an art school there.”

  Max was intrigued. All he knew about New York was what he saw in the movies. “Are the buildings really as tall as they say? Did you see a baseball game? Al Capone? Did you go to Coney Island?”

  “There’s nothing like it. It’s a city of immigrants, everyone is from somewhere else. But that’s its strength. There’s an energy in New York, an attitude, that you don’t find anywhere else in the world . . . like they can do anything, with a little luck, if they try hard enough.”

  “They’re like children, living in Cloud Cuckoo Land,” said Max, dismissing the Americans with the wave of a hand. “So, tell me, Toby. Why did you come back?”

  A shadow crept across the gray, exhausted face. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. My life was here. My dealer . . . my publisher . . . my family . . . a woman . . . ”

  “Do you still think it was the right thing to do?”

  “No, I think I was an idiot. What do you think, Herr Sturmbannführer?”

  They both laughed.

  Max turned the page, hoping for another sexy pose. But the drawing that followed was a portrait of a woman, handsome, with a long, thin nose, dark eyes, and the traces of a knowledgeable smile playing about sensuous lips. “Who’s this?”