The Dutch Wife

by Ellen Keith

  “I’ve seen some of the work the artists here have done for other officers,” Karl said. “You have an eye for detail.”

  “Thank you.”

  While any other inmate would have avoided his gaze, this man met it without hesitation. Karl thought there was something familiar about his stare, something hard but hollow, eyes like machine gun shells.

  “I need a statement piece for the entryway of my villa.”

  “What did you have in mind, sir?” The sculptor took a step sideways, revealing a row of projects in various stages of completion. Two carvings, a porcelain platter, an enormous canvas filled with a family tree. An old oak, by the looks of it. The branches stretched outward to let prominent Aryan names nest on the limbs. Brandt’s name wrapped around the trunk with a flourish. A centrepiece for his study, Karl imagined.

  “I’d like a statue.” At his family’s summer home in Bavaria, a bronze nymph danced between the garden hedges, overlooking the lake. He and his friends used to slide their hands along her curves, rub her breasts until the bronze wore off at her nipples. When his mother noticed, she had gone straight to his father, who had given him a stern look across the wire-rims of his spectacles and then winked.

  He realized it was his father the sculptor resembled. Those curved shoulders, the droop of his eyelids, and the deadpan expression that seemed to mask some darkness. That day in the garden had occurred only weeks before his father had set off for battle on the Western Front. He had returned home with trench foot and a long bar of medals on his lapel but had never smiled at Karl again.

  “A statue that pays tribute to our great German forefathers,” Karl added.

  “Perhaps an eagle?” The prisoner lowered his eyes to Karl’s waist, and Karl looked down to find his fingers fidgeting absently with the holster at his belt, where his Luger sat loaded and ready. He patted the gun and leaned in as a side door opened. Five prisoners entered. At the sight of him, they moved to their places, one behind a half-finished bust, and another three beside a large kiln. The sculptor shifted as if to hide the fifth person, who bent low over a table cluttered with pens and ink.

  “Who is that?” Karl asked.

  The sculptor began to twist one hand around his wrist. “My son.”

  “Bring him here.”

  The figure rose and came forward. The boy was probably no more than fourteen or fifteen, but his body caved in upon itself, making him appear almost half that age. The skin of his cheeks looked as thin and transparent as the tissue paper that the department store in Munich used to wrap shoes. Karl couldn’t help but pity him, although he felt guilty for thinking that. “You work here?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is that so? A young body like yours is better suited to the quarry. Show me something you’ve made.”

  The boy pointed to the family tree. “I painted most of that.”

  The brushstrokes were assured, the design solid, so unlike Karl’s schoolboy endeavours: snow dogs that had toppled over as he tried to sculpt a tail, a lopsided sketch of the Reichstag.

  “Tell me,” Karl said, “if you could carve anything, what would it be?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do I need to repeat myself?”

  The boy’s voice wavered, and he stood up straighter. “Wood or stone, sir?”

  Karl thought of the forests in Bavaria, of towering silver firs and pines. “Wood.”

  The boy played with the cuff of his prisoner’s uniform as he considered his answer. “I would think,” he said at last, “a bird would be nice.”

  “I don’t want an eagle, something different.”

  A faraway expression consumed the boy, as if he had left the confines of the camp and returned home. For a brief moment, Karl wondered where that was, although it didn’t matter anymore.

  “No, not an eagle. An owl.”

  Once, in the dead of winter, a tawny owl had crossed Karl’s path. Even though it was a quiet evening, he hadn’t heard a sound as it swooped down on its prey. The owl left a perfect outline of its wings in the fresh snow. A feeling of calmness and awe had passed over him as it retreated into the trees, leaving with the same stealth and grace as it had appeared.

  Karl cleared his throat and turned back to the sculptor. “Excellent, you will carve me an owl—a strong, dignified one. And your son will help.”

  THE following evening after roll call, Karl went to inspect one of the blocks in the Little Camp. The wooden barracks blocks there lacked windows, and almost a thousand inmates crammed into the one he was set to inspect. On the shelves that served as bunks, men packed together like matchsticks. Rampant dysentery depleted the incoming labour force before it even arrived at the munitions factory.

  The block reeked like stale sweat and vomit. Covering his mouth with a handkerchief, he completed the inspection as quickly as possible, avoiding the throng that parted as he crossed the creaky floorboards. He tried to replace their pocked faces with scenes from Leni Riefenstahl’s films—bearded rabbis swindling honest men, ragged Gypsies snatching from German pockets. After briefing the Blockführer on how to handle the dysentery outbreak, he ducked out of the block and circled around it to leave the Little Camp. He checked his watch, already counting down the time until he could return to the brothel, to Marijke’s soft legs and warm, inviting mouth.

  That was when he noticed the painting. A mountainous landscape spread across the lower-right corner of the outside block wall. The remnants of a castle turret caught the light of a morning sun and the blue paint glistened against the damp, rotting wood. With a frown, he touched the outline of a foothill. Who had painted it? His initial thought was an artist from the sculpture studio; they were the only ones with easy access to paint, but a barbed-wire fence separated the Little Camp from Buchenwald proper. Someone in quarantine must have somehow pilfered art supplies. The rich earthy palette reminded him of the beautiful peaks and hiking trails in the Bavarian Alps, the smell of freshly baked pretzels after a day of skiing. He turned away from the block and continued on without any investigation. After all, it was just one painting.

  BRANDT called Karl into his office the next day. Karl stood in front of his desk and waited for him to speak, trying to ignore the itch of his officer’s tunic, which was far too thick for the summer heat.

  “Well.” Brandt stopped to take a puff of his cigar. “What did you think of Monday’s executions?”

  “It was quite an experience, sir.”

  Brandt tapped off the ash. “All week, you’ve looked very . . . anxious. Are you sure you’re cut out for life here?”

  Karl thought of his father, how much he was counting on him to perform well, to make the family proud. “Of course. I’ve just always been behind a desk, up until now. Give it another week, and I’ll have made the adjustment.”

  “I hope so. On a different note, what’s the status on the new camp vandal? Have you found him?”

  “What do you mean, sir?” As soon as the question left Karl’s mouth, he recalled the painting. He’d hoped the maintenance Kommando would remove the artwork but should have known the matter would come back to haunt him.

  “That graffiti made a mockery of me.” Brandt sat up straight and smacked the stack of papers in front of him. “Next they’ll try to smear the block walls with their Zionist hogwash.”

  “What would you like me to do, sir?”

  “Deal with it.” He motioned for Karl to leave, but stopped him at the door. “Make an example out of the culprit. I don’t want to see any more of this in my camp.”

  Karl walked back to the officers’ quarters, his Luger heavy against his hip. His pace slowed with each step. As he approached the villas, he glanced at the place next to his. The children of another officer played house on the balcony, their dolls spread out around them as they giggled.

  HE found the boy kneeling outside the entrance to the sculpture studio, whittling away at a large chunk of wood. When the boy saw him coming, he moved out of the way. “Your owl, sir.
”

  The bird perched on a jagged stump a half-metre high. It was still a crude outline, but the tail feathers had taken shape. Karl’s attention turned to the boy, whose hands were blistered from the knife. The rusty blade lay on the ground. “What happens to these carving knives when you aren’t working?”

  “They are taken at the end of each day.”

  “And the painting supplies?”

  The boy stiffened. “Those too.”

  “Why do you think we keep an art studio at Buchenwald?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Give me an answer.”

  The boy squinted into the sun. “Maybe everyone needs a bit of beauty in their life.”

  “Everyone worthy of art, you mean. Those loyal to the Reich.” Karl thought of Marijke, her love of the violin, and how much pleasure it gave him to anticipate her reaction to the surprise he was arranging. But that was different; she was different.

  The boy dug his toe into the dirt. He’d been issued a bulky pair of wooden clogs. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Karl gave him what he hoped was a threatening look. “That owl better be in my sitting room within twenty-four hours.”

  Karl left the boy and continued his morning round. A thought came to him while passing the Little Camp. He worked his way around the perimeter of the fence, pushing aside tall stalks of weeds, searching for troughs in the dirt. His trousers snagged on one of the barbs, and on loosening the fabric, he nicked his finger. Searching in his pocket for something to act as a bandage, he spotted a pile of scrap metal and an old tire a few metres down the fence. As he rolled the tire away, a colony of ants scattered out over the toes of his boots. Sure enough, behind the debris was a gap in the wire just big enough for a boy.

  AS Karl left the brothel that evening, the clouds parted to reveal a full moon. Aside from the warm breeze that shook the trees and the howls of dogs in the kennel, the night was quiet. He removed his hat to wipe his brow, which felt slick with sweat. His mind was trapped in the lazy trance that follows a good fuck, and he already ached to see Marijke again as soon as possible.

  He cut across the compound in the direction of the main gate. The sound of movement came from around one of the two-storey blocks. A glance at the watchtower told him the guards couldn’t see the block from their post and he rounded the corner in time to see someone darting away.

  “You, there.” He switched on his torch. “Stop!”

  The prisoner halted, but Karl swore under his breath as he turned around. Even from a distance, the boy’s outline was clear. He shone his torch to the side. On the wall to his left, still wet, a field of wildflowers in pink and purple.

  The boy stood on the spot, blinded by the light. As Karl strode toward him, his expression shifted from fear to horror. “Did you really think you could keep doing this undetected?”

  The tendons in the boy’s neck rose until Karl could see his throbbing pulse. “No, sir.”

  “Why would you risk your life? And that of every person in this camp?”

  The boy looked down at the dirt.

  “Get out of my sight.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Go.”

  Without a word, the boy ran off. Karl returned to his villa and asked his servant to run a steaming bath. The servant also set out a fruit basket and a bottle of brandy. For a few private hours, Karl relished the fantasy that he was back home, in a place where the women he bedded were eager, the air pure and alpine fresh, the artists as valued as the art, and where the only orders he had to follow were his own.

  IN the morning, he rose to find the owl sitting on his veranda, along with a message from Brandt: We have the culprit. You’re to supervise punishment in the sculpture studio. He leaned against the wooden pillar of the veranda with the message crumpled in his fist. The owl leered, mocking his stupidity. The Third Reich had risen on the backs of powerful, decisive men—not cowards.

  An hour later, two officers accompanied him to the sculpture studio. Upon his order, they lined the artists up against the wall for a flogging. The boy was missing.

  Karl pulled the boy’s father out of line. “Where is he?”

  The prisoner focused on Karl’s chest, the corners of his mouth quivering. “He was selected for special treatment.”

  Karl’s throat tightened as he stepped back, knowing full well what that meant. The guards raised their clubs. He opened his mouth to call out and revoke the punishment, but thought of Brandt’s orders, of his father, the highly praised officer. The guards looked at him, and he nodded.

  He heard a smack and the shattering of glass as the sculptor’s face hit the wall, watched the sculptor’s body jerk with each strike. Afterwards, the man knelt to retrieve his spectacles, his shirt torn and bloody as he fumbled around on the dusty floor.

  Pushing past the other officers, Karl stepped outside into the glaring light of the sun. A jackrabbit bounded across the gravel road before disappearing into a copse of trees on the other side of the fence. Karl stared ahead at the smoke that poured from the chimney of the crematorium. Then he turned away.

  Chapter Nine

  LUCIANO

  MAY 9, 1977

  BUENOS AIRES

  THE GUARD CAME FOR LUCIANO IN THE MORNING. As usual, Luciano went to eat with the others, but all they received for breakfast that day was a chunk of bread and a lukewarm gourd of maté. He nibbled on the bread, wishing he could stow a piece in his pocket, but he was far too hungry and couldn’t risk getting caught.

  After they ate, the guard called out a series of numbers: 341, that was Gabriel. At the sound of his own number, Luciano rose. With the hood back on his head, he stumbled over something, probably a foot. Someone grabbed him by the arm. This guard had thin fingers but a taloned grip. Luciano imagined him as a hawk. A friend of his father’s used to train hawks outside the city. Luciano had visited once and would never forget the morning he’d woken up to discover a mouse in the aviary, its neck twisted in the hawk’s beak as tufts of fur flurried down onto the lower branches.

  The small group of prisoners—he’d counted twelve—fell into file. Hawk led them down the corridor until they stopped and started down a long flight of stairs. At the landing, they turned and descended another flight and then another. They came to a flat spot, moved forward, before dropping a few more steps. There was a loud clang in front of them and the creak of hinges. They proceeded across the hard floor and the sudden cool, moist air made Luciano stiffen. His muscles twitched, everything in his body urging him to run. But he had no hope of escape, not with his blindness and guards everywhere, and, besides, Gabriel’s hands on his shoulders showed no sign of tension, so he told himself that there must be more to the basement than torture chambers. Noises came from all sides, but without any echo, which made him wonder if the basement contained a series of rooms.

  “Workers in the photography lab, step right,” Hawk ordered, speaking with a mild lisp.

  The person in front of Luciano shifted. Luciano tried to picture prisoners gathering around cameras and film but didn’t understand what purpose there would be for photography in such a purgatory. Hawk marched off with that group and different footsteps approached. Without a pair of shoulders to hold, Luciano didn’t know where to move, and Gabriel had to push him forward until the guard took Luciano and led him into an abrupt left turn. Then the guard yanked him to the left again. Luciano banged his elbow on something hard. After a few more steps, he felt a tug on his shoulders as Gabriel stopped behind him.

  A jangle of metal ran down the line, the guard removing handcuffs. Luciano twisted his wrists, rubbed the skin until the numbness disappeared.

  “Hoods off,” the guard said. “Take your seats.”

  Luciano did as he was told. The air felt chilly against his skin after the damp chamber of the hood. He shut his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the light. Fluorescent bulbs overhead buzzed like wasps in a glass bottle. Partitions formed a small room that contained only a few cupboards, a desk and
a large table with typewriters where the other prisoners gathered. The far wall had two high vents, which he assumed led outdoors. No daylight pierced the dense metal grilles, but he longed to pull over a chair, to climb up and inhale the smells of autumn: rain-pattered soil or rotting leaves or whatever might lie on the other side of that wall.

  Luciano hurried to take the seat next to Gabriel and slumped into the chair, his legs tingling from their sudden use. There were four other detainees. The woman and two of the men looked to be in their twenties or thirties, but the man at the far end was much older. He had a distinguished air about him, even though his face was no less gaunt or grimy. All the men had scruffy beards, but Gabriel’s was by far the sparsest. This struck Luciano as odd, but he assumed Gabriel had spent less time imprisoned. The woman sat across from Luciano. Her blank face reminded him of a plaster death mask he’d once seen in a museum.

  They stopped fidgeting and straightened up when a balding man in military uniform entered to replace the guard. He carried a stack of documents under his arm, which he distributed systematically. It became clear each person around the table possessed a particular skill. Once everyone else had a file folder, the man came up to Luciano, towering over him so the brass buttons of his uniform were at eye level. He had a wine-coloured birthmark on his neck shaped like the boot of Italy. “Well, it looks like more coward scum knocking at my door. You speak English?”

  Luciano swallowed and nodded, fixating on those gleaming buttons in the hope of hiding his nervousness. The braided design of a rope encircled each one like a noose. He swallowed, picturing this tightening around his neck. In exchange for a little relief from torture, he was offering himself as a collaborator.