by Thaisa Frank
Now he wrote Elie’s hideout over Mueller’s old room and hutch of fiascos over Stumpf’s watchtower. He considered writing backstabber over the Solomons’ house. But Mikhail and Talia had endured enough aspersions before they came to the Compound. Instead he picked his way across the room to get another rose. He put it in the trunk.
During the twenty-seven hours since Stumpf left, a pall had come over the Compound: Mikhail had a huge welt on his forehead and stayed inside 917, as did Talia, who said to him, This place is as bad as Lodz. Lars, who blamed himself for not guarding Mikhail more carefully, kept watch outside the house. Elie almost never left Mueller’s old room. Scribes used the kitchen quietly.
Only Dimitri was happy because Elie was downstairs all the time. Since he’d come to the Compound, she took him with her almost everywhere. And if she didn’t, Dimitri shadowed her, popping up near her desk so often the Scribes nicknamed him the little mouse. He loved to look at the stamps on the letters as well as pictures of animals Elie found in books. And early that morning, Elie had taken him to the well, and a thin calico cat walked out of the forest. The cat delighted him. He named her Mufti.
As for Lodenstein, even solitaire upset him. Games that once amused him, like Beleaguered Castle or Forty Thieves, now had aching resonance—about Elie’s schemes, Mikhail’s collusions, and the letter on its way to Heidegger. He’d capsized the bed and had to play on the floor. Cards kept slipping under socks.
He thought about trying to play another game, then noticed two pieces of paper he’d found in the main room. One read: Who in the hell is bothering to write to us? The other read: If Lodenstein thinks this is all horseshit why does he go along with imagining Goebbels?
Both sounded like La Toya. He folded them and saw light in pale bands through the oblong windows. It was already dawn. He’d slept only three hours.
He was picking up another rose when he heard an engine roar into the clearing and boots crack the ice. The door to the shepherd’s hut opened, and Lodenstein felt wind and cold weather on his face. Then he saw Stumpf tiptoeing past his room, holding his boots. Lodenstein walked over the smashed ivory box and experienced a moment of piercing repulsion, a sense of visceral recognition that happens after someone who’s familiar has left and then comes back: all the things he’d done to airbrush Stumpf were out of reach.
Stumpf didn’t know he was being watched. It gave Lodenstein vicious pleasure to put his hands around Stumpf’s thick neck.
You evil fucker, he said. I should shoot you in front of everyone.
Please, said Stumpf, in a wheezing voice. I didn’t do anything.
Then why was Mikhail unconscious? And why are the glasses gone?
A terrible thing has happened, said Stumpf. Yes. Terrible.
What in God’s name are you talking about?
Please don’t shoot me, said Stumpf.
What happened?
I don’t want to tell you.
Stumpf’s eyes were points of dread in his enormous face. Lodenstein’s stomach lurched.
What did you do? he said.
You don’t want to know. Believe me.
You have to tell me.
I can’t.
I have to know.
Stumpf looked down. Tears fell in the crevices of his face.
I promised to take Heidegger to Auschwitz, he said.
What?
I have to take Heidegger to Auschwitz.
Lodenstein pushed Stumpf against the wall so hard the bread Elfriede gave him fell from his pocket. Lodenstein picked up the bread and ground it into Stumpf’s face. Then he pounded Stumpf’s chins and neck and heavy shoulders and slammed his head against the wall as if he could pummel out everything Stumpf had done.
I can’t believe you’re real. You fuck up everything you touch, he said.
Stumpf began to wail.
Heidegger is a living link! he sobbed. A living link to the Compound!
Don’t bother to spell it out. You’ve told me enough.
But Stumpf spelled everything out: How Elfriede Heidegger had made him peel potatoes. How Martin Heidegger had made him walk in the Black Forest. How planks could have fallen on his head. How he’d had to sleep behind a stove. How he’d brought the wrong glasses. How Mikhail’s letter had fallen in the soup.
He went on and on until Lodenstein put his hands around Stumpf’s neck with such force his chins rose around his face.
I want you to tell me about Elie, he said.
They don’t know anything about Elie.
But Lodenstein knocked him to the floor again, and Stumpf’s teeth cut his lips, oozing blood.
Tell me, he yelled.
Stumpf wiped the blood with his sleeve.
They know about Elie, he said.
Dear Cipriana,
People are stealing shamelessly from each other—not just food, but shoes and coats. Still, every day I save a little more bread for you. Please come talk to me.
Love,
Mirella
Lodenstein hit Stumpf on the mouth where it was already cut, oozing more blood. Then he shoved him down the incline into the mineshaft. When it thudded to the earth, he threw Stumpf to the ground and pounded on the door of Mueller’s old room.
Let me in, he shouted to Elie. You have everything to lose if you don’t.
Elie unlocked the door and shrouded her face with her hair so Lodenstein couldn’t see she’d been crying.
Tell me something, he said. How many lives would you risk to save a child?
None, said Elie.
But you did, said Lodenstein. And now Heidegger has to go to Auschwitz.
I don’t understand.
Ask Elfriede Heidegger. She says you’re a little tart.
Elie flinched.
She doesn’t know me.
Yes, she does. How many Polish women in Freiburg got her recipe for bundkuchen?
What do you mean?
I mean Stumpf told her your name.
Elie took off her scarf and wrung it as though it were a neck.
How could he do that? she shouted.
Because he’s Stumpf, said Lodenstein. And you’ve set him up to do everything he’s so good at.
I wish I’d changed my first name too.
Are you insane? Your name’s not the point. You went behind my back twice. And now we’re all in trouble.
Stop.
Why should I? I always stop. From asking what you do to get people across borders. Or why the SS are so nice to you.
I don’t want to hear anymore.
You have to.
Elie went outside and sat on one of the wrought-iron benches. Lodenstein followed her.
You flirt all the time, he said. With forgers. With bakers. With anyone who could help.
Elie began to cry.
I told you I was going to see Heidegger myself, she said.
And then what were you going to do?
Manage it, said Elie. She heard her voice reverberate throughout the Compound. It sounded hollow, like a voice from the dead.
You mean manage Martin Heidegger, who loves the Reich but pissed them off so much the Gestapo’s watching him? You mean manage Elfriede Heidegger, who doesn’t like you at all? You mean getting her to go to Auschwitz to pick up Asher Englehardt the way you’d pick up someone at a train station?
You’re relentless, said Elie.
So are you, said Lodenstein.
It was barely six in the morning. The Scribes woke up and listened with concern. Mikhail Solomon opened his door.
You better come inside, he said. And for God’s sake, talk quietly. You’ll wake Dimitri.
Elie and Lodenstein sat far apart on velvet chairs. Mikhail touched the welt on his forehead. Talia looked at her hands.
Did any one of you ever think about how dangerous this was? said Lodenstein quietly, noticing Dimitri asleep on the couch.
We did it to save Maria, said Mikhail.
You knew I’d get her if you asked, said Lodenstein.
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br /> That doesn’t matter, said Elie. I would have brought Heidegger the right glasses.
Who gives a damn about the right glasses? said Lodenstein. You had no business messing around. Besides, Elie, if you were going to manage everything, why didn’t you write the fucking letter yourself?
I don’t know enough philosophy to mess it up, said Elie.
Ah! Our linguist from Freiburg. Why bother to write a letter at all? Why not just talk to Elfriede Heidegger?
Because it got involved with saving Maria, said Elie.
That’s ridiculous, said Lodenstein. Stumpf’s a fool. So now Heidegger knows about Elie.
My God, said Talia.
What else did you expect? said Lodenstein. And there’s even more: Stumpf’s promised Heidegger he can see Asher at Auschwitz.
But that’s not possible, said Mikhail.
But he has to, said Lodenstein. Because if he doesn’t, Elfriede Heidegger will tell Goebbels that he knows about the Compound. Did you ever think that almost sixty lives were at stake? Or who would have to fix this?
No one answered. Mikhail and Talia reached for cigarettes.
While they smoked, the crescent moon made its last mechanical descent—the gears creaking and groaning like a giant in agony. Lodenstein walked to the window and wondered if everyone woke up to a life they hadn’t chosen or whether he was the only one who’d been singled out. Was this a punishment for joining the Party without giving the matter much thought? Or for not helping Elie with Heidegger’s glasses in the first place? No matter. He kicked an ottoman and left the room. Elie followed.
Where are you going? she said.
To see Goebbels, he answered.
You can’t. It’s too dangerous.
I have to, Elie. They know your name.
But Goebbels is crazy.
You should have thought of that sooner.
Lodenstein went to the mineshaft too quickly for Elie to get in, locked the door to their room, and played Imaginary Thirteen and Half & Half. A few Scribes were in the clearing, and he didn’t want to run into them in the SS uniform he had to wear for trips to Berlin. So he couldn’t leave and felt imprisoned, as if time was solid, and he was standing next to it. He played more solitaire and got perverse satisfaction when Elie tried to open the door.
It’s dark, she said. You can’t drive there at night.
Of course I can, he said.
Gerhardt, please. I’m sorry I started this.
It’s about saving you now. And everyone else in the Compound.
He pushed away the clutter and managed more solitaire. It was awkward on the floor, but he viewed the upturned furniture as a token of his anger and felt setting it right would be a concession—especially to Elie if she saw he’d straightened the room.
Near midnight he put underwear, socks, his gun, and playing cards into a duffel bag. He checked for bullets, knotted the black SS tie, considered taking the compass, decided not to, then rummaged in the trunk for the rose Elie gave him when he asked her to sleep upstairs again. He found it by the broken wool carder—soft, fragrant, like a rose in a summer garden. He held it for a moment then pushed it to the bottom of the trunk. But within moments he was rummaging again. The rose was still perfect when he found it, buried under photographs, clocks, and lamps. He picked it up and put it in his pocket.
Dear Dasha,
We have no thought of our lives, anymore. We can’t let our children, our friends, our husbands, our wives, remember us as going under.
Love,
Nicolai
Gerhardt Lodenstein let himself out of the shepherd’s hut a few minutes after Mikhail and Lars came back from the watchtower. There had just been a snowfall, and his boots carved a path—one he hoped Elie would see in the morning. A week ago she’d taken his jeep to buy cigarettes and left a red scarf on the seat. He threw it next to his duffel bag. Then he began to drive on the long, narrow road.
The fresh snow was piled in drifts, and every few minutes he had to get out and shovel a path. He shoveled angrily, lifting huge mounds of snow and throwing them into the forest. While he shoveled, he remembered Elie parodying the Nazi salute when he began to throw their dresser drawers on the floor for the second time. She had kicked shirts and camisoles and said he was a fucking Nazi. He’d overturned the mattress again and told her she was lucky because only a fucking Nazi could fix this mess. The images exploded along with regret: He should have let Elie in when she cried outside the door. They should have made love. Suppose he didn’t come back? Suppose he never saw her again?
He drove and shoveled and drove and shoveled until he came to the junction that led to the main road. It was miraculously plowed at this stage in the war—a long, dark arrow pointing to Goebbels and the Offices of the Reich. He got out of the jeep to look at the sky. Orion and his hunting dogs were glittering due south, the Great Bear had pine branches nestling in his paws, and Lepus, the Hare, was arcing over the forest. Everything was in order.
For a moment he thought about disappearing—like the other officers who left without a trace: The admiral who had helped Wilhelm Canaris rescue Jews vanished in Denmark. The SS officer who gave his uniform to the nightwalkers hid in a barn near Dresden. A former assistant to Himmler was somewhere in Sussex. These officers were scattered like stars. The SS hunted them tenaciously. The Resistance protected them in return for their uniforms, identity papers, and information. They lived for days seeing no one, afraid of being caught—like any other fugitive. Images of such a life burst before his eyes like grenades. But he knew if he disappeared he couldn’t save Elie. Or the Compound.
He got back in his jeep and drove slowly on the smooth, wide road. Near dawn he stopped at an inn where he used to drink—over ten years ago, when he’d been reading for law in Berlin. The innkeeper didn’t recognize him and apologized for the ersatz coffee. Then he made jovial conversation about the war while his wife stood behind him smiling. Lodenstein left without bothering to salute.
By the time he got to Berlin snow was falling. It dusted streets like sugar on cakes no one could make since the war turned, including—he thought bitterly—Elfriede Heidegger and her bundkuchen. He remembered once loving this city and his exuberance on the wide, open streets. He remembered nights in beer halls where people talked about books that had no doubt been burned. Now the Gestapo was everywhere.
Yet houses were intact, and winter vegetable gardens looked prosperous—not like the bombed-out city of Hamburg, where another SS officer hid, or the town where Elie had rescued the children. The only evidence of war was a line outside a butcher shop, snaking around a corner. A beet-faced man in a white apron opened the door and shouted:
We don’t open until ten. And no sausages today!
The crowd scattered, and Lodenstein ignored the butcher when he saluted the swastika on his jeep. He wanted to leave this city as soon as possible, yet he drove slowly. Everything was gone for him here—even the Brandenburg Gate. He’d once loved its Doric columns—part of Athens floating in the north. Now it was hung with Nazi banners and led straight to the Offices of the Reich.
Lodenstein drove past the Kaiserhof Hotel—a huge, stone music box dripping with banners and flags. Before Hitler came into power, he’d occupied a whole floor, and anyone who mattered—diplomats, officers, mistresses, wives—still stayed there. The front of the building was clotted with SS, as well as civilians who wanted to bask in its façade. Lodenstein recognized a diplomat.
As though it had a will of its own, the jeep drove the length of the Kaiserhof until it reached the Reich Offices: a grey monolith that extended for two city blocks and reminded Lodenstein of a stalag. He would rather have found Goebbels through a small side door, but his jeep was forced to drive into the Honor Courtyard.
The courtyard was the main entrance to the Offices and designed to broadcast immensity. As soon as Lodenstein drove in, his view was focused on the main building. It was gargantuan, with steep steps, flanked by two identical statues of muscular
men in black marble. One carried a torch to represent the Party and the other a sword to represent the Army. Two other buildings surrounded this building. All three had Greek columns.