The Dutch Wife

by Ellen Keith

  “Don’t be fooled,” Brandt said. “They’re trained to target prisoners’ stripes. At a moment’s command, they can tear someone to shreds.”

  “I left my dogs in Munich with my parents,” Karl said. “Living without them will be an adjustment.”

  “You should have brought them along. The officers’ dogs live like kings, spoiled with fresh eggs and red wine.”

  Each of the dogs’ stalls stretched far back, with a separate covered area for sleeping. Far more space than any of the prisoners must have in the blocks, Karl thought, based on the masses that had gathered for roll call. “Well, I know where to come if I need company,” he said.

  The tour continued in the SS command headquarters, the long building lining the road that led to the gatehouse. Next to this was the adjutancy, which contained the records department, the legal department and other administrative sectors. Karl’s own office proved to be larger than his one in Berlin, letting in ample daylight through the windows. He was pleased to spot a couple of potted plants in the corner.

  “Let’s make one more stop,” Brandt said, “at one of my favourite parts of camp.”

  He insisted they call the driver, even though it would have been only a ten-minute walk. They drove out the way they’d first come in, past the semicircle of SS barracks toward the south side of the Ettersberg. The sun had come out, and the clouds were giving way to blue sky.

  They stepped out of the automobile by a collection of small turreted buildings, with oak timbers carved in a traditional style. As they approached, Karl realized that the buildings held cages, and together formed an aviary. Brandt explained that Himmler himself had ordered the construction of the falconry as a gift for Göring, who had yet to even see it. Karl and the Kommandant toured the various cages, admiring the sharpness of the hawks’ beaks, the unmistakable intelligence in the eagle’s stare. A prisoner with thick gloves was trying to drop live mice into the falcon’s cage. The bird screeched from its perch and flapped its wings, sending the prisoner scuttling. He hurried off to a separate set of enclosures on the side, where Karl glimpsed the brilliant turquoise of a peacock.

  “Incredible, aren’t they?” Brandt said. “It’s not often you get to see such powerful creatures up close.” He paused to watch the falcon tear into a mouse’s tail. “You know, one of my nephews trains hawks on his ranch in Argentina. I always thought that might be a nice way to spend my retirement.”

  “Have you been there? Argentina?”

  “No, not yet. Once the war is over, I’ll pay him a visit. Have you?”

  Karl shook his head. “With everything we have here in Germany, I’ve never felt much pull to travel.”

  “Of course. And once we win this war, the Reich will be unparalleled. Even the Americans will be begging us to let them in,” Brandt said, before gesturing for them to return to the car.

  Karl looked back at a building near the falconry that they had skipped. Brandt told him it was the hunting hall, but that it was now being used to house some of the more prominent prisoners, including the former French prime minister and his wife.

  “A shame, really, that those Jews get to enjoy a big open hearth and nice furniture. If I had it my way, they’d be thrown in with all the rest. But don’t worry, Müller, you’ll see that your villa is just as grand and finely furnished.”

  The driver had to go only a couple hundred metres before reaching the officers’ housing. As they drove down the road, Karl counted ten charming villas bordering the wooded slope of the Ettersberg. A low stone wall with an ornamental turret wound down the lane. The driver stopped near the end, and Karl looked up at his new home. The wooden villa stood two storeys tall, and with its peaked roof and balcony, it reminded him of something he might see in the Bavarian countryside.

  The Kommandant walked Karl up the steps to the front entrance. “My place is right there.” He pointed. “Later this week, I’ll invite you over to meet my family.” He unlocked the door with a key from his pocket, which he gave to Karl.

  The interior was sparsely furnished, with a few items that the previous Schutzhaftlagerführer had left behind, and simple decorations, most notably a framed portrait of the Führer. The sitting room contained a fireplace with a pair of antlers that framed the mantel. Karl’s luggage sat on the rug. He had received instructions to order his own furniture, but had so far arranged only the necessities for the master bedroom.

  Something rustled in an adjacent room. Karl entered the kitchen to find a prisoner polishing silverware. He was the skeletal vestige of a man, like the sorry traces that cling to the bones thrown to dogs. He stopped what he was doing and looked up, but didn’t quite meet Karl’s stare.

  The Kommandant’s voice came like a whiplash from behind. “What are you doing? Remove your cap before an officer!”

  The prisoner fumbled for his cap and pulled it off to reveal a freshly shaven scalp. He scrunched the fabric into his palm while he stuttered out an apology.

  “This time I’ll let you off,” Brandt said, “but if it happens again, the Schutzhaftlagerführer will send you to the quarry.”

  The prisoner nodded and apologized repeatedly. Karl felt uncomfortable with them both standing there, waiting for him to react, while all he could think about was getting some rest.

  “I assume you’ll be working for me,” he said.

  The prisoner responded that he was the cook and asked if Karl would like him to prepare breakfast. Karl shook his head.

  Brandt checked the time again. “Take some time to get settled; I’ll expect you in my office in an hour.” He nodded toward the prisoner. “And don’t hesitate to get violent with them. They need to be put in their place.” At that, he set off, leaving Karl in an unfamiliar house with a manservant he wanted nothing to do with.

  Chapter Three

  LUCIANO WAGNER

  MAY 2, 1977

  BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA

  LUCIANO WOKE TO A THUD. AS HE WRESTLED FREE of his dreams, he felt the cold tiles against his bare legs and the thick, bitter taste of licorice incubating in his mouth. He rubbed his eyes, opening them to see the half-empty bottle of Fernet lying beside him, its neck hovering over the shower drain.

  The light glared overhead. A headache sliced at his temples. How long ago had he passed out? His toothbrush balanced on the edge of the bathroom sink, topped with a glob of toothpaste, while a half-smoked joint sat forgotten on yesterday’s newspaper. All he was wearing were his briefs. He needed to clear his head, to try to forget the humiliation of the night. Rejection was a patch of nettles: it stung at first encounter, but the real suffering came afterwards as a lingering scarlet rash. He cringed, recalling Fabián’s look of shock, almost disgust, the way Fabián had yanked away his hand and taken off into the crowd of protestors. How stupid Luciano had been, reading into his friend’s every gesture like some sort of sign: the way Fabián had grinned at him when the student rally began, the way he’d clapped him on the back and hugged him a second too long.

  Luciano rubbed his aching forehead, imagining he could still smell Fabián’s scent of spearmint and aftershave, the traces of his touch. He groaned and groped for the light switch, not ready to face his shame or his hangover. But as soon as he flicked it off, there was another noise in the apartment. A crash in the kitchen, like something falling off the counter. Low, muffled words. Burglars? A rush of footsteps followed as a band of light appeared beneath the door. Luciano thought of his parents asleep in their bed and fumbled to get up. Then he heard his mother scream.

  He felt around for something that could serve as a weapon but froze at the rasp of a man’s voice. “Arturo and Patricia Wagner?”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Luciano caught the panic rising in his father’s tone.

  “Where’s your son?” asked another man.

  Luciano clenched his fist around the towel rack while his mind roiled. The men’s Spanish sounded proper, not the slur of petty criminals. He held his breath as he heard his bedroom door k
icked in and thought of his bed, still made, his satchel on the shag rug, where he’d tossed it when he came in from the student rally. They would discover the banners, the pamphlets.

  A second later, two men barged into the bathroom. Luciano squinted at the sudden brightness, his eyes locked on the assault rifles in their arms.

  One grabbed him by the shoulder. “Got him!” The man laughed at the sight of the liquor bottle and yanked him forward, sending him stumbling down the hall toward his parents’ room.

  Three men stood in the corner, training their rifles on his mother and father, who sat huddled on a mess of bed sheets. The clock on the nightstand read 4:00 a.m. His mother looked up at him through her tears. Loose strands of hair had fallen from her bun, and her pink nightgown had slipped down to expose her chest. She whimpered, mouthed his name and flexed her hand like she wanted to reach for him, but one of the gang stepped toward her and snapped at her to sit still.

  The barrel of a rifle hit Luciano in the back, knocking him to the floor. He started to shake.

  “What do you want with him?” His father sounded like he was at the far end of a tunnel.

  One of the men stood over Luciano as two others left the room. Somewhere, they were opening cupboards, rummaging through bookshelves. Glass shattered. The floor spun around, the dusty carpet in his nostrils. Above him, thick moustaches, striped polos, a tweed blazer. Like any other men on the streets of Buenos Aires.

  The man jabbed him with the butt of the rifle. “Where were you tonight?”

  Luciano yelped and his mother cried out.

  “Shut up, you fucking whore.”

  At this, his father flinched but said nothing.

  Luciano’s voice was shrill. “At a friend’s, studying.”

  “You’re lying.”

  He winced, expecting another blow, but something soft landed on him. Fabric.

  “Get dressed.”

  He grabbed his clothes and fumbled to put them on. A pair of faded bell-bottoms and his favourite striped T-shirt. As he crouched to tug on the socks and shoes, he glanced sideways at his father. Wiry white eyebrows stretched to meet, his blue eyes frosty, unblinking. Luciano searched for some sign of worry in the deep wrinkles on his father’s face but couldn’t find any. His father raised a hand to his chin as he watched Luciano, brushing it once, twice, until Luciano became aware of the trail of spit that clung to the corner of his own mouth. But before he could wipe it away, the men forced his parents to get up and tied their wrists. They grabbed Luciano’s arms and bound his hands behind his back with a rough cord.

  “Papá, help me!” He didn’t know what his father could possibly do. His father’s back stiffened, but he said nothing. Luciano’s mother started to cry harder, provoking a growl from one of the men, who pulled Luciano’s binds tight. The look on his father’s face didn’t change while he nudged Luciano’s mother with his foot, silencing her.

  The man in the tweed blazer reached into the closet and withdrew two neckties. He fastened the plaid one around Luciano’s mouth. It forced Luciano’s tongue back, making him sputter, and he squirmed under their grip. Then he was pushed forward again, down the hall, away from his parents. He turned in time to get a final glimpse of his mother’s tear-stained face and his father’s fingers trembling against the bed sheet.

  Two of the men led him out of the apartment and into the cramped elevator. The cage door rattled as it was dragged shut. When the elevator came to a halt on the main floor, a neighbour’s apartment light flicked off. Luciano fidgeted with his bonds, glanced at every door in the hall, praying someone would emerge to intervene.

  When they stepped out into the crisp autumn night, Luciano’s heartbeat went into overdrive. Two Ford Falcons were parked beside the curb, their green hoods gleaming beneath the glow of the street lights. A man with a pistol nodded when he saw them and opened the back door to the first car.

  One of the men shoved Luciano up against the side of the vehicle and fastened the other necktie around his eyes. Luciano caught the scent of fried onions on the man’s fingers. Something dropped over his head. Soft, like a knit sweater. The smell of his mother’s laundry detergent. The man palmed the back of his skull, forced it down and shoved him into the car. Luciano tried to yell but the gag left him rasping. His head smacked a hard edge before he landed on smooth leather.

  “We’re taking you for a little drive.”

  The door slammed. He kicked the seat and tried to yell again. Two of the men climbed into the front and exchanged hushed instructions. In a scramble for air, Luciano turned his head to the side and inhaled through the wool of the hood, but only sucked in his own liquor breath. The motor turned on. The seat rumbled against his cheek as the car pulled out and started down the road. He prayed as hard as he could for something to stop them, whoever they were, for someone to look out a window and call for help, but all he heard was the jackhammer pulse in his ears as they took him farther and farther from home.

  Chapter Four

  MARIJKE

  JUNE 25, 1943

  RAVENSBRÜCK, GERMANY

  IT WOULD BE A LIE TO SAY THAT I IMMEDIATELY regretted my decision. While the other prisoners trudged off to the factories or to dig ditches under the sweltering sun, the sixteen of us were shepherded into the infirmary. A Blockova came around with an extra ration of soup. The pot was still hot and, for once, the Blockova reached the ladle down to the bottom to scrape for potato peels, examining us with a mix of deference and suspicion. I sucked all the taste from each spoonful before swallowing. When I finished, I got into line.

  The doctors ordered us to remove our clothes again so they could compile our records. The female guards in the room jeered, calling us whores and night walkers and commie-lickers. While I waited my turn, I shielded my body with my arms and told myself over and over that I was a respectable, loyal wife.

  Two doctors sat at a small table. One checked a sheet of paper and asked to see the number on my uniform. “Now then,” he said, “you’re twenty-three, correct? At what age did you begin menstruating?”

  “When I was fourteen, sir.”

  “Are you still experiencing regular cycles?”

  The girl beside me blushed as the other doctor questioned her, but I swallowed and looked directly at the man in front of me. “Not since I got here.”

  “Any chance of pregnancy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you ever given birth?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And how would you describe your sexual experience?”

  I thought of Theo kneeling to kiss my chest and something inside me ached. “Sufficient.”

  “You’re single, I presume?”

  “No, married.”

  He stopped writing to look at my face. “What is your husband’s name?”

  “Theodoor de Graaf.” Perhaps he expected us to be regular women of the night, but saying Theo’s name sparked my hope, making me certain I would find him, that everything would be worthwhile.

  With cold, gloved hands, the doctor prodded my chest and vagina, examining them for blemishes and sores before testing for venereal disease. The wrinkles on his forehead bunched up as he scribbled something on my records. Only one woman failed the medical screening, but the staff swiftly replaced her with a slight German girl with nutmeg hair who had been given no choice about her fate. She spent that first day cowering in the corner like a wounded kitten.

  After the examination, we received a disinfection bath and an injection. The Nazis were taking no chances, unwilling to let us contaminate their labour force with disease. They sent us to a room with sun lamps, and we all spent a few minutes under the glow. But the best blessing was the food. Oh, the food. All of us women sobbing at the sight of a full plate: a thick hunk of bread without mould, a piece of sausage, a boiled potato. Sausage! Never had anything tasted so decadent.

  Once we had eaten and scraped our plates to catch every last crumb, the conversation began. We swapped stories, conversing in Ge
rman in a strange stew of accents. Some of the girls were Polish, but most were German, though they’d been imprisoned across the country for different reasons. Some, for avoiding work, others for their political affiliations or for petty crimes. Gerda, the first to volunteer for the brothel, had received her green triangle for having an illegal abortion. The frightened brunette who had been forced to join us last minute was a communist and introduced herself as Sophia. Two girls were divorced and another had seen her boyfriend shot, his body robbed of its possessions, right down to the monogrammed handkerchief she’d given him. Edith, a heavy-breasted woman with a gap in her teeth, had worked as a prostitute before the war, as had three others. When Edith said this, we all grew quiet, realizing we would need to rely on their experience.

  A hot, dry spell consumed the next two days. The SS officers responsible for our transport to Buchenwald allowed us to enjoy the weather, encouraged us to lie in the sun. My sallow complexion returned to something more human. Instead of our uniforms, they provided us with regular clothes, colourful pleated skirts and even cotton undergarments. My chest had started to shrink at Ravensbrück, but it still felt like a luxury to slip a brassiere back over my breasts.

  We treated those days like a vacation, but the thought of what lay ahead kept me up late into the nights. I curled up on the thin straw mattress, listening to the snores of the other girls, which grew louder as they regained their strength, and I tried to imagine what it would be like touching a man I’d only just met. So much time had passed since I’d even thought about making love. Nothing could arouse me. I tried to fantasize about Theo—about running my fingers through the cowlick in his hair, the taut muscles in his arms as he helped my father carry sacks of flour into the bakery. But no matter what, I couldn’t shake the image of his black eye, bleeding and swelling shut beneath his glasses as the moffen led us away from home.