Although spending a considerable amount of her time at the hospital Jessica made few friends there. At home too she seemed to withdraw into herself and be haunted by a sorrowful, almost shameful, expression. When her mother would ask what was wrong Jessica would reply "Nothing", or "I'm just tired". Mainly for the benefit of her family she would still occasionally see, when the time and her energies colluded, the two or three suitors who came knocking upon her door, offering her luxuries and, in the case of Andrzej Nelkin, providing Kolya with work in one of the armament factories outside of town. Yet a cynicism as well as sadness furrowed her brow and Jessica grew cold and distant towards her suitors who, in her eyes now, were only after one thing. Out of her growing resentment at their advances Jessica wouldn't even let them neck or kiss her as she once permitted - out of payment for their favours and for her own sensual desires.
But yet a dream still punctuated the nightmares. Both Jessica and Thomas held out little hope of the other turning up to their pre-arranged meeting the day after they originally met. One can easily imagine and share in their small happiness then when they both arrived early at the designated quiet street in a corner of the ghetto. There was a strangeness to their meeting in that, considering the relationship between the Jewish girl and German soldier, there was an absence of awkwardness and forced behaviour that one might have conceived to be shunted into their encounter. For the most part, Thomas talked about his wife and family and how he missed home (at first Jessica admired him the more for the devotion he bore his wife and child, but after their second meeting she grew a little frustrated about hearing about "Maria"). Initially Jessica just listened. Thomas was engaging enough just through his looks and speech. When she did talk it was mostly about her life before the occupation, her aspirations then.
One time however, after a pregnant pause between the German and Jewess, the young woman broached one of the subjects that they had perhaps previously, consciously, skirted around. Jessica asked the German what it was to be Aryan, partly ashamed of her ignorance of the foreign ideology - but also intrigued by the concept which had spawned so much suffering and conflict. At first Thomas frowned slightly, upset that the war had inevitably penetrated their little world. It highlighted the gulf between them. But then, all of a sudden, an ironic smile enlivened the German's brooding features.
"I remember reading an article once, written by Samuel Beckett, an Irish playwright who visited Germany around a decade ago. He defined being an Aryan as the following, ‘He must be blond like Hitler, thin like Goring, handsome like Goebbels, virile like Rohm - and be called Rosenberg."
As much as Thomas tried to lighten the atmosphere with his satirical comment though it was his former frown, rather than his charming smile, which infected Jessica's demeanour and soul.
The pair continued to have their clandestine meetings when possible, which proved difficult but rewarding, given their respective schedules and the Corporal's visits to a sick friend in the ghetto. Yet whereas perhaps the soldier spent time in the girl's company out of a sense of compassion and companionship - something other than platonic friendship began to bloom in Jessica’s crimpled heart.
7.
The atmosphere was heavy, stodgy with damp - but still the rain refused to fall. Dark purple cumulus clouds hung in the air as if stapled to the cloth of the sky. A stale, wheezing wind did not even attempt to shoo away the thick, sulphurous humidity. The muggy heat and glazed, intense expression on his face all shrunk into the background however as Adam Duritz, in his now familiar position, stood transfixed, staring across the street at the entrance to the building where the Rubenstein’s lived. A couple of scrawny children scrambling for a finger-sized piece of bread, that appeared to have fallen from the sky from a passing pigeon, stole his attention away for a moment or two but he swiftly returned to his sentry-like pose.
The young Jew had carried out his programme of pseudo-reconnaissance for a week now. He had gleaned, more or less, the outline of Jessica's routine. Like some guardian angel he had followed her to and from work. Possessed, again. He was not altogether happy unless she was in his sight, yet his heart violently trembled and his thoughts raced when Jessica was so. During the first few days, not knowing her finishing time at the hospital, Adam had diligently stood outside her workplace for the entire shift - his mind occupied with his future duties and the rich imaginary scenes, conversations that would be hopefully played out between them. The tears, forgiveness, friendship, declarations of love, deliverance. If God could forgive him, then Adam could forgive himself. Conversely, if he could forgive himself, then maybe God could too. As if to convince himself that it was the family and not just Jessica he was intending to nobly protect and save, Adam also spent a lively day trying to keep up with the rascally Kolya. Duritz couldn't but help but admire the enterprising boy who braved the sewers and risk of being shot in acting as a mule for one of the ghetto's many clans of black market smugglers. As pleased as Adam was at seeing how temporarily safe Jessica and her brother seemed - owning a roof over the heads, work cards and regular food in their bellies - he feared for the mother and father. Again he was shocked and saddened upon seeing Mrs Rubenstein when she came out of the building the other day. She shielded her eyes from the scorching sun; her face appeared flabby yet starved of life and vitality. Skin like mouldy plasticine. Her ankles were painfully swollen and her hands appeared craggy with arthritis, which was all the more disturbing when Adam witnessed her going around trying to sell or barter some woollen scarves that she had knitted. There was nothing left of the elegant society hostess who Adam once esteemed for being the mother of such perfection. Her language and bourgeois voice had even changed since living in the tenement building Duritz reflected. Which came first, the change in her language or character? - the ex-philosophy student briefly posed. If Mister Rubenstein was no better than he was when Duritz had last observed him then he was already lost; Solomon Rubenstein was powerless to restore himself, never mind his family. If, or rather when, the SS raided the building the unessential elderly couple would be evacuated.
Again Adam momentarily dwelt upon the morsel of hope that the British or Russians could arrive before the Rubenstein’s were taken away, murdered. Again he reasoned how the Allies must've known by now from their intelligence about the camps and the killings. Indignation fired his thoughts and features that they were doing nothing. In truth Duritz may have had cause to feel even more indignant as not only did the Allies know about the camps and evacuations but it was "de-prioritised" as an objective due to the strain of thought that the Nazi's strategy towards the Jews directed valuable resources away from Germany's War effort. Churchill was almost a lone voice among Allied Command who desired to address and prioritise the issue, wishing to bomb the gas chambers and camps as soon as possible. He called the killing "probably the greatest and most horrible crime ever committed in the whole history of the world". Others did not, nor do not.
Adam's reverie was interrupted however as Jessica, wearing a fetching flower-print dress and pretty wide-brimmed bonnet, descended the steps from her building. To Adam she looked as achingly alluring as to when he had first glimpsed her figure upon that fateful afternoon. He wiped the gathering sweat away from his forehead and eyes to view her more clearly. Was she not even more fascinating, beautiful now - for suffering lined her features and compassion swayed Adam's heart? Yet as quietly enraptured as Duritz was at the sight of a dressed-up Jessica a vicious melancholy suddenly assailed his chest. Jessica was with Andrzej and she was smiling coquettishly, falsely. Andrzej Nelkin was in some of Adam's classes at college, before he dropped out to be a professional sponger off his senior Civil Servant father. He was the first student at the school to drive his own automobile. He preened himself and puffed out his chest as if he were an alpha male in those days. Fatuous. Privileged. He used to amuse and disgust Duritz in equal measure. But now this anti-thesis of Adam, as he himself once called Andrzej, was fawning over and winning her. Dispossessed.
Christian Kleist had just finished his lunch - a steak cutlet, rare to the point of being bloody, with a side order of various fresh seasonal vegetables. He sat alone at his desk in his opulent apartment. Upon the desk, under a large portrait of the Fuhrer, sat two busts. One of Charlemagne, the other of Caesar. The classically educated officer was something of a student of imperial Rome and Caesar. Drunk, he would sometimes call his men "legionaries", or of course the SS were Hitler's "Praetorian Guards". So too Christian was not beyond quoting the brilliant General - he once stepped out into the Umschlagplatz on a warm summer’s day and satisfyingly exclaimed to himself, surveying the smooth operation of his troops in the evacuations, "Veni, vidi, vici". To those who did not share his enthusiasm - or needed convincing - of Caesar's greatness Christian would also repeat what Napoleon had once remarked to Goethe,
"You should write about the death of Caesar in a fully worthy manner, grander than Voltaire's. It could be the greatest task of your life. The world should be shown how happy Caesar would have made it, how different everything would have been, had he been given time to bring his lofty designs into fruition."
The idealistic Lieutenant would close his argument by asserting that the spirit and sense of Caesar's greatness had been reincarnated in the Fuhrer (the afore immunising his Roman hero against criticism) and that, equally, the Reich was similarly Rome re-born. Was that not partly why he was here? Like Caesar, Christian was doing his military service before he took his place within the Senate.
The fascistic officer smoked another cigarette, fastidiously picking any crumbs or flecks of dirt from his daily pressed uniform. He noticed an old, faded gravy or claret stain on the cream tablecloth. He would change both his laundry woman and the tablecloth. Despite the heat and stuffiness of the room the officer refused to remove his jacket. He took another large swig of his comforting cognac and, as was the Lieutenant's custom at this time of the day, he went over his morning's activities and drafted the reports and diary entry he would complete later that evening.
"Oversaw another canning process for some sardines this morning (Christian was here referring to the "sardine method" of disposing of Jews. The victims would first dig a long trench and then lay down in it. Soldiers would then fire down upon them and the next layer, heads lying upon feet, would be similarly murdered. Up to six layers of bodies would be so formed and the mass grave would then be filled in). The sun has baked the ground somewhat over the past few months, causing small time delays in the construction of the trenches, but I believe it is still an effective method for the evacuation of the Jews. Moreover, apart from the odd teething problem with cases of nausea and shock from some troops employed in the operation, my teams are now sufficiently battle-hardened so to speak - and the wheat has been separated from the chaff - to bring them to the standards of efficiency I require. Not only did the out of town inspection grant me the opportunity to assess the progress and validity of this now old method of evacuation but so too, more importantly perhaps, it furnished me with the experiment of seeing how well my team at the station could manage the operation without me. Despite the apparent odd hiccup the men performed admirably by all accounts. As I have trained my men in the same philosophy and techniques as I was trained, or rather self-trained, I have as much confidence in them as I do in myself."
After finishing his notes for later insertion into his official reports and personal journal Christian turned to his schedule for that evening. Nervousness fluttered in his heart but still a pleasurable feeling came over him as he thought of his plan to promote the Private to his adjutant. Christian was taken back by his innocence and attractiveness again after witnessing the youth on parade. Dietmar was almost the double of Christian's first male lover, Johann Koller, in his days at University. He had the same round, boyish expression, blue eyes and downy skin - but yet most hauntingly and attractive for Christian was the similar way in which Dietmar seemed to admire and serve the Lieutenant as Johann had once loyally done. In his diary at University Christian had richly called the younger adolescent his ‘John Edelston’" to his Lord Byron.
The industrialist's son and playboy had owned numerous lover's since Johann, from dazzling socialites to male prostitutes - but it was his young idoliser and clandestine affair at University that Christian had always looked back fondest on. Perhaps it was because Christian had never had time to grow bored with his young friend, or that Johann near worshipped his older, generous room-mate. There was something noble in their companionship. Although Christian couldn't sometimes help himself - every Saturday night he instructed one of his Corporals to select a suitable Polish girl for him to relieve himself with, bugger - he had become increasingly misogynistic over the years. Indeed one of the reasons why he raped the women and girls in such a way was because he couldn't stand to look them in the face, or have them look at him. Women were for him nothing but whores and liars. They were insubstantial, dumb, or sly; he could see the gold-diggers coming from a mile off and found their base behaviour disgusting. Self-loathing sometimes pervaded Christian's thoughts after he had once again felt himself being used, or anything but commanding in his transactions with women. The true virtues of "toughness" (to quote Himmler), duty, intelligence, fidelity, were embodied in Man. The highest form of love and friendship was between two men - hadn't Plato ("The Republic" was one of Christian's favourite books) proved that?
The Lieutenant gently smiled to himself thinking upon the androgynous, Germanically handsome face of Dietmar again. Yes it would be sweet to seduce such unaffected innocence, but it was certainly not just lust that attracted Christian to the Private. He wanted to also mould the youth. Christian also just craved some intelligent, masculine companionship - someone to share his day and thoughts with. The demands of his rank and Christian's philosophy regarding how an officer should relate to his men bred a degree of isolation. He wanted to be loved, not just feared. The officer had tried to employ a secretary before but the candidate proved unsuitable. He grew awkward at his advances and, once Christian began to feel the pangs of his discomfort and rejection, the Lieutenant hastily posted the youth to the Eastern Front to avoid any further anxiety or indiscretions.
But Dietmar was different. Sensitive. Christian welcomely saw the way in which the recruit had looked, looked-up, at his superior officer. Already Kleist sensed that Dietmar wanted to please him. Christian prided himself on having an eye for talent and Dietmar was SS, not Wehrmacht, material he judged. The Private passed the test of the hunt - he suitably felt privileged to be invited and didn't show any weakness in its execution. Kleist smiled to himself again as he recalled the glance he fancied the youth gave him whilst in the outdoor showers. The Lieutenant often visited the washrooms. Cleanliness was of paramount importance to a soldier, especially when he was in such close proximity to the pestilence of the Jew. Furthermore Christian told himself that the men's shower areas were the best place to assess their morale; he enjoyed their banter. It was where he first saw, appreciated, Dietmar - and in turn Dietmar appeared to notice the Lieutenant. Soldierly living had yet to besmirch his semblance and figure; there was enthusiasm and honour in the youth's aspect; his slim physique was still lithe and defined, glistening and hairless like the marble statues of the nubile Olympian heroes he had seen in the museums that his father had taken him to as a child.
Even from that moment the Lieutenant wanted to possess the youth. Christian had checked his files. His schooling was more than sufficient for the post. No one would raise an eyebrow if, when, he transferred Dietmar onto his staff. Yet still he wanted to talk to someone in his platoon about the recruit; his appetite was whetted but he wanted to know more about the boy before he took him on. Dietmar was a convenient pretext to meet and finally talk with the Wehrmacht Corporal the officer concluded. Christian had heard of Thomas Abendroth first through the University that both men had attended, albeit the Corporal had attended the celebrated institution years before the Lieutenant Abendroth, the son of some Bavarian village blacksm
ith, was able to attend the school through attaining a scholarship. His nickname at the University had been "young Goethe", for the student was known to be proficient in the sciences as well as arts (as well as being the school's fencing champion two years running). The University also funded and published an edition of his poetry during his years at the school. Christian had a copy of the anthology somewhere back home as it was unofficial required reading at the institution. Kleist read the book after hearing an older student who he was attracted to talk about the volume. The narrative poems, composed whilst Thomas was still a teenager, were particularly rich in interpretation and verve Christian recalled. One never knew if the poet was being romantic or ironic - and the verse always rhymed. As much as Thomas Abendroth seemed to be the darling of the faculty - the student was being groomed to one day be a teacher at the institution - the golden boy eventually left the college under a cloud. Poems and a novella circulated after his dismissal from the University - caused by an alleged assault on his fencing master - describing a life of alcoholism and debauchery. Whether or not the cult writings were authentic, in terms of Thomas being the author of them, was never proved - but it was apparent at the time from his circle of friends that the drinking and visits to brothels were genuine.
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