The Dutch Wife

by Ellen Keith

  Edith hesitated for a second, as if she wanted to push me more, but she took the bait. We had already gathered how much she, more than the other experienced prostitutes, loved to show off. “Lemon,” she responded. “A dab of lemon behind the ears and some rosewater. Of course, that’s a little tough to come by here.”

  Sophia looked like she was sucking up every word. “And how about some lines we could use to make things more tolerable?”

  “You mean, you want to speed things up a bit?” She winked. “The key, ladies, to making a man squirm with desire is flattery and fakery. Whether or not they’ll admit it, every fellow has an ego that needs stroking as much as his member.” She grabbed a tall glass from the table and held it to her mouth suggestively. “Mm, Herr Kommandant, two hands just aren’t enough for a cock like yours. Look at the way you fill me up! Why, yes, of course I came!”

  Sophia blushed and even I had to laugh at her ridiculous performance. She carried on with exaggerated exclamations until we all reached a fit of giggles. I chucked a ball of yarn at her head. “Now I’ve completely lost count.”

  “There was a man who kept coming to see me in Berlin,” she said. “He visited on Sundays, when his wife saw her Latin tutor, and he loved to be dominated. He would travel a full hour to come see me. The next thing I knew, he wanted to buy me a house. A house! So he could always drop in, any time he liked.”

  “And what happened?” Gerda asked. “You have a secret palace you haven’t told us about?” She touched her hand to her throat, like she was feeling for a long-lost string of pearls.

  “No. The war came and he enlisted straightaway. I heard he returned from Russia a year later without any legs. He never came back to see me, so I have a feeling that’s not all he lost, either.”

  We were quiet then. In the other room I could hear the brothel supervisor gossiping with the cashier. I noticed a hole where I had dropped a stitch. “I’m worried these socks might end up too small.”

  One of the Polish girls tsked. “My mother once made me a pair of socks that were too tight. They gave me blisters so raw I had to hobble home from school.”

  I put down my knitting and leaned in, lowering my voice. “Actually, that may not be a bad thing. What do you say, ladies, up for a little sabotage?”

  Sophia tapped her fingers against her lips and gestured toward the other room. “What if they notice?”

  “We’ll be subtle. Just tighten them a bit in the heels and we’ll have part of the Wehrmacht limping its way across Russia.”

  The others grinned. Sophia nodded, and then she also joined in. Our knitting needles clacked away, and for the first time all morning, I could close my eyes without seeing a stranger’s body overhead.

  Chapter Eight

  KARL

  AUGUST 2, 1943

  BUCHENWALD

  IN THE BEGINNING OF AUGUST, THE KOMMANDANT decided the camp was overflowing with “undesirables,” men no longer fit for hard labour. Karl agreed to oversee their execution. The execution room lay in the basement of the crematorium, a spot he tried to avoid. The smell of burning flesh was overpowering, like sulphur and charred liver, so thick he could almost taste it. As he entered the building that morning, shards of bones and a thin layer of ash covered the floor like dirty snow.

  A Jew loaded a corpse onto the steel trolley cart. Rigor mortis had taken hold of the body, and one leg jutted out to the side, preventing it from sliding into the oven. The Jew tried to adjust it before picking up a wooden mallet and bringing it down on the limb. The leg broke with a crack.

  “You there,” Karl said.

  His head snapped up as Karl pointed to the floor.

  “Get this filth cleaned up.”

  The inmate went to retrieve a broom and Karl walked past him, avoiding the bodies stacked nearby. A tangle of pale limbs like raw chicken legs. Some had begun to rot, and the skin was a greyish green.

  Three guards waited for him downstairs. The execution room consisted of a long hall, divided by concrete pillars. Streaks of red tarnished the white walls.

  He turned to the guard closest to him. “When was the last time you painted here? I want this place kept tidy.”

  The man, short and apish, stood with his weight cocked to one side. “With all due respect, there’s no sense in painting over it. We wouldn’t be able to keep pace.”

  “Take that as an order. And straighten up—show some respect.”

  The man nodded at another guard who appeared in the stairwell and then left. Moments later came the pounding of footsteps overhead. A single, high-pitched wail. Karl’s gaze rose to the metal hooks that lined the walls, two and a half metres high, the kind a butcher would use to hang a pig carcass. A hollow clang brought a tumble of prisoners down a chute and the three guards approached them. Wooden clubs bashed at the blue-and-white stripes, clobbering the prisoners. Men with white whiskers, boys too young to grow a beard, all of them so gaunt and brittle they hardly looked alive. The cries grew louder, and one inmate glanced straight at him: the look of an ensnared rabbit. Karl turned away.

  Once they had drawn blood, the guards dropped their clubs. They grabbed for the prisoners one by one and together hoisted each up against the wall with the help of a stepladder. Not one inmate struggled. Karl hated them for that. Resigned to their deaths. The guards slipped nooses over their necks and fastened these to the meathooks. Most of the prisoners suffocated slowly. As they dangled there, some looked at Karl. He saw no pleading in their eyes, no desperation. Emptiness. A rush sent his head reeling, and he could feel himself starting to gag. He turned on his heel and moved for the stairs.

  “Everything all right, Schutzhaftlagerführer?” one of the guards asked.

  “You’ve done well. I’ve seen enough.”

  KARL had no appetite for the rest of the day. Not wanting to be alone with his thoughts, he decided to eat at the SS officers’ mess, which was serving his favourite supper, schnitzel with spätzle, but he consumed nothing but water. Each time he reached for a piece of bread, a potato wedge, he thought of those dangling bodies. He fingered the skull insignia on his hat and reminded himself that he believed in Brandt’s approach to the camp labour. He believed in the Führer, in the Reich.

  His lips cracked where he had bitten them. Water did nothing to hide the taste of blood. One of the other SS officers came by with two steins. Beer sloshed over the brims as he set them down. “Looks like you could use this, Müller.” The guard was a redhead named Ritter whose spectacles were always dirty. Word was that he’d spent some time living in America, where he’d picked up a bad habit of casual address.

  Karl opened his mouth to reprimand him but thought better of it. “Exactly what I need.” He took a swig, savouring the smooth coldness. He took another sip and another, until the day’s events slid into the bellows of his stomach. He was back in a beer hall in Munich, laughing with friends, women at their sides.

  Ritter put his elbows on the table. “How are you at cards?”

  “I don’t gamble.”

  “Eight o’clock in the officers’ lounge. Come join us.”

  His beer was half-empty, but his appetite had returned, and he wondered if the cook had any leftover schnitzel. “I should eat something.”

  “As you like.” Ritter stood and reached for his beer. “But coming from someone who has been here a while, it’s a good distraction.”

  THREE tankards of beer rolled around Karl’s empty stomach. He fanned out the cards in his hand. Two pairs: kings and sevens. The other four men looked down at their lot with poorly masked disappointment. All of them his inferiors. He considered that he ought to have spent the evening with the Kommandant, drinking wine and bathing him in charm. At least he had a decent hand.

  He pushed a stack of poker chips into the centre of the table. Ritter’s chair creaked as he leaned back, and Karl’s own seat felt wobbly. Another officer, Kommandoführer Hoffmann, counted out chips until his stack was as tall as Karl’s and then added three more. He had the
mug of a bulldog with heavy frown lines. The corners of Hoffmann’s mouth twitched as Karl debated his move.

  “You think I’ll fold,” Karl stated.

  “I haven’t said a word.”

  “How long have you been at Buchenwald, Hoffmann?”

  “Since it opened.”

  Karl rotated a chip between his thumb and forefinger, its grooves digging into his skin. “And based on your experience, what is your opinion of the camp?”

  “I don’t know how you expect me to answer that, sir.”

  “You seem like the type of man who would be happier out at the front, charging against the Tommies, blowing things up.”

  Hoffmann hesitated. “The work we’re doing here is essential to German prosperity.”

  “Indeed, and I suppose you do still get some excitement, with the occasional execution.”

  Ritter and the others exchanged uneasy glances while Hoffmann cleared his throat. “They get what they deserve.”

  “Yes, we all know they’re here for a good reason. Tell me, have you ever had to kill anyone yourself?”

  A shake of Hoffmann’s head gave way to silence, so Karl took another sip of beer and counted out the extra chips. They clinked together as they fell. The men leaned in as the two of them flipped over their cards. Triple eights. Karl clasped his hands and shoved the chips toward Hoffmann, who gave a nod of recognition while the others stayed quiet.

  “You have me beat,” Karl said. “What else do you do for fun around here?”

  The men threw out options: go into town, the cinema, drink, the brothel.

  “I’ve tried the brothel,” Karl answered. “Dull girls, nothing like the ones back home.”

  Ritter clapped Hoffmann on the back. “Our man here tested out the new brothel last week.”

  “New brothel?”

  Hoffmann looked like a boy caught stealing apple pie. “It just opened. Pretty decent girls, but the good part is that they’re a fresh bunch. They’re meant for the prisoners, but the supervisor will look the other way if you slip her a few marks.” He reddened. “Not that you would need to, of course.”

  Karl raised his stein to his lips and swished a mouthful of beer as he debated the idea. Brandt had mentioned the prisoners’ brothel: Himmler’s pet project, he’d called it. Himmler believed that the best way to increase the productivity of the camp labourers was to introduce a reward system for the more privileged prisoners. Cigarette vouchers, visits to the prisoners’ cinema. The brothel was the top prize. Those girls Karl had seen outside the property depot had to belong to this new brothel.

  Between drinks, the image of those bodies returned. Bruised, gasping. He needed to erase those thoughts for good and decided a fresh, ripe girl would do the trick. “One more drink,” he said.

  Hoffmann jumped up to get the beers. After he left, Ritter laughed. “He doesn’t know how to handle a superior who looks him in the eye.”

  “Just because I’m playing a round of cards doesn’t make you my equals.”

  Ritter shut up. Nobody spoke until Hoffmann returned. The cards lay discarded on the table, so they sat and drank while the conversation stayed on women and sex. Ritter went on about a girl he’d left back home, worried she was straying. Karl stopped listening. The fizz in the beer was making him belch, and he kept blinking to bring the table into focus. Everything felt fuzzy. A naked woman, that’s what he needed. A round ass to squeeze, breasts to fondle.

  He swallowed the last of his beer and stood up. “That’s it for me.”

  Ritter raised his stein. “Enjoy your nightcap.”

  BY the time Karl found the prisoners’ brothel, tucked near the back of camp and across from the infirmary blocks, it was past eleven. Only one of the brothel windows was illuminated, and he paused at the entrance, bracing himself against the concrete stairs while he banged on the door.

  A curt female voice called out, “We’re closed.”

  “Open up.”

  The door opened a crack. A tall vixen of a woman stood there, red lips pursed. She looked him up and down before inviting him in. “Schutzhaftlagerführer Müller. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

  Her hand was cold, but he held it an extra second. He would have happily taken a turn at her as well, but there was something hostile about her he didn’t trust. “I’ve come to see one of your ladies.”

  “Are you aware there’s an officers’ brothel?”

  “I am.”

  “The girls are all sleeping.” Her eyebrows peaked, but the buzz that had set in told him not to back down.

  “Bring me the most attractive one. No, wait, is one of them Dutch?”

  She looked like she wanted to say something but instead rushed off. Karl took a seat in the waiting room. Five minutes later, she returned. “She’s ready for you, although we normally require visitors to get an injection.”

  “I’ll have none of that.”

  “The doctor isn’t here at this hour, in any case.”

  “Aren’t your girls clean?”

  “We take every precaution, sir, and they are new recruits, but you understand there’s always a risk.” She led him down a corridor filled with doors, stopping at the one labelled “9.” “Here you go.”

  He pushed open the door. The Dutch girl stood in front of him in a low-cut blouse and slim skirt. She smiled coyly, folding her hands in front of her like a woman in line for ration coupons. The same girl he’d hoped for, all right, but he hadn’t anticipated some show of virginal modesty. He walked over, pulled her in to taste her. She blushed, and colour flared down to the beauty mark left of her chin. Her lips parted, asking for another kiss. That morning—the broken limbs and suffocating gags—blurred into the background.

  “You,” he said, “you’re going to help me forget a rough day.”

  Karl brushed aside her dishevelled hair to get a better look. The beer lurched in his stomach. A pretty girl, but nothing spectacular. Flecks of gold sparked across big green eyes. Her breasts swelled from the neckline of her blouse. Modest, but the perfect size to cup. That inviting cleft between them. His blood started rushing, but she shrank back and fiddled with her skirt.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She raised her chin and made some snide remark about being swindled by the Reich. Had one of his colleagues been in his place, they would have given her a well-deserved lashing, but she spit those words with venom, that same alluring determination he’d caught the other day. A flash of colour in all the grey.

  “Don’t be foolish.” He granted her a chuckle before waving at her to undress. She turned in a circle to show off a slim figure, pearly legs that stretched on and on. Her ribs poked out at awkward angles, making him wonder why they couldn’t even feed the whores a proper diet, but a splatter of freckles on her lower back pointed down to a peachy ass. He wanted to grab it but tried to calm down, hoping to draw out the night’s distraction as much as possible.

  When he tried to compliment her, she bristled and gave a saucy reply. But that just made him want to kiss her again, to feel the heat of her tongue against his skin. His hands felt empty without her breasts. “You know, I could have you killed for that mouth of yours.”

  She went quiet, and he reached for her, pleased by the power of his words. His lips ran up her shoulder, but on meeting the tender spot at the back of her neck, his erection flagged. The sharp point of those meat hooks. Five, six dangling bodies. How easy it was to take a life.

  He reached round to spank her and pulled her close, kissing her hard to fight off those images. He drew her hand under his belt, her touch cool against the heat of his body. Her fingers were the type you’d see in a cigarette ad, long and slender, but she fumbled with the buckle, chewed her lip, pushed instead of pulled. His hand closed around hers, guiding it up and down until a groan escaped him. Under the harsh light, her legs glowed. Clutching her shoulder, he entered her, bit the lobe of her ear, bent t
o kiss her chest. The scent of soap clung to her skin. He was desperate to keep going, speed up and give in to the pleasure. But he needed to last, to take his mind away from that camp.

  His hands on her hips. Sweat gathering on her collarbone, at his temples. Kissing her, thrusting deeper, faster, hungry for her. Her legs tensed, spurring him on. He pulled them wider apart, buried his face in the crook of her neck, licked her there and growled into her hair as a pulse within him shuddered into a quake, the heat leaving his body. Finally, he let it all go.

  TWO days later, rain poured down outside his office window, and the light flickered as he tried to get comfortable in his straight-backed chair. A stack of papers sat in front of him, cataloguing the latest output from the camp armaments factory, but as he scanned the budget, his thoughts kept returning to the prisoners’ brothel. The night played over and over. He’d slept with far more attractive women, but this one, Marijke, stayed on his mind. Her bare body in his hands. Goose pimples on her breasts. It was her lips that kept drawing him back to that moment, lips spewing angry, prickly words—such a mouth for a feeble-looking girl. She was the first prisoner at camp who treated him like a regular person instead of someone to fear, but he couldn’t take her seriously with that adorable, guttural accent. She had pluck but wasn’t cold like the brothel supervisor. Something about her kept him permanently aroused, the way she’d erased those unpleasant images from his head. Karl reached for his schedule. Thursday night he had an officers’ dinner, and Friday a meeting in Weimar. Saturday, he would see her.

  ON a quiet morning, Karl left his office before lunch and walked over to the camp sculpture studio. The air inside was thick with dust, a welcome change from the sour rot and decay that hung outdoors. His boots trampled over wood shavings and powder as he approached the work table, where an eagle was emerging wing-first from a block of marble. He could tell it would be a majestic creature and pictured the swastika it would soon clutch in its talons.

  An inmate chipped away at the stone. He watched from a distance of a few metres until the sculptor glanced up and his fist stiffened around the chisel. Although the sculptor’s shaved hair was barely greying, he hunched like an old man, with spectacles perched at the tip of his nose. White smudges covered his cheeks and the blue-and-white stripes of his uniform, which bore the Star of David.