Eva's Cousin

by Sibylle Knauss

  We can no longer tolerate ourselves. Our falsity, our cowardice, our depravity. We want to be released from the web of false loyalties, never mind by whom. We are ready, at last, for defeat. Let it come. Let it come soon.

  How much longer can I keep Mikhail hidden? How much longer can I keep the man who loves me and the man who needs me away from each other? How much longer can I protect myself from both of them? How much longer? When will I ever get away from this mountain? It is as if some curse kept me here. I myself am a fortress that has long been indefensible. Ready to be stormed. Ready to surrender. Tired of defending myself. I avidly listen to the news of the approach of the Western forces. The Americans! Oh, I wish they would come. Where are they?

  We. I. They. If you stay on the Berg you’ll be one of us, Eva said. I am one of them. I am one of us.

  The housekeeper raises an eyebrow slightly. Are you staying on? she asks me.

  Suddenly I am revealed in my true colors: an extra mouth to feed, a guest who has outstayed her welcome. From today my presence at the Berghof requires justification.

  Didn’t my cousin say? I ask.

  She didn’t say anything, says the housekeeper. She didn’t say good-bye to me either.

  That reestablishes a link between us. She’s hurt us both by leaving.

  I’m waiting here until she comes back, I say. That’s what we agreed.

  And will you still be sleeping at the Mooslahner Kopf? asks the housekeeper.

  Yes, of course, I tell her.

  Fancy you not being scared, all alone there, she says. If you like I can have them get your guestroom at the Berghof ready again. Only if no other arrangements have been made, of course.

  Thank you, I say, but please don’t worry about me. I’ll stay at the Mooslahner Kopf. I like it there.

  I sense that this doesn’t strike her as much of an argument, but I can’t think of a better one.

  You can still eat at the Berghof, that goes without saying, says the housekeeper.

  I am suddenly aware that it no longer goes without saying. At the same time it occurs to me, for the first time in ages, that I have no money. While Eva was still here that didn’t seem to matter. Mistresses don’t need money. They don’t pay bills. They get all kinds of services free. Nobody asks to see their ticket, their pass, their entrance to the best seats, the boxes where the VIPs sit. Suddenly I had no ticket. Suddenly I realized that if only for lack of funds I had to stay where I was.

  Even if one could still have traveled through Germany by train at this time, in March 1945—which one couldn’t, for you were in more danger on the railways than anywhere else when your enemies were attacking not just with bombs but with low-flying aircraft carrying air cannon—even if I had felt like risking my life in that way to get home I couldn’t have bought a ticket at the station. I don’t think Eva did that on purpose when she left me behind on the Berg on my own and went to join Hitler. It was not like her to picture the consequences of her actions in much detail. Not when they were nothing to do with her and the man who was her sole concern. Not when they had nothing to do with the grand finale toward which she was now making her way.

  She simply left me behind at the Berghof. Alone, just as I had come. She abandoned me. Was she an egoist? If she had had an ego she might have been. But she had nothing of that sort. No authority working for her own advantage. The opposite, if anything. The egoism of people like her is an urge for self-destruction that reliably prevents them from thinking about other people. My problem was that I had trusted Eva, and kept expecting something from her.

  But we can’t go serving separate meals just for you, says the housekeeper. Meals for the staff are eaten in the staff kitchen.

  Yes, I see, I say.

  Then winter returns. Quantities of wet snow bury us in the Tea House. It falls softly, insidiously. Suddenly there is a wall outside our windows on the side of the house facing the mountains. We can see the sky only through their top halves. We haven’t known anything like this all winter. And it keeps on snowing.

  I wait for a detachment of guards to come and shovel the place free. But no one comes. The morning passes. I don’t know how I am to reach the Berghof. I feed the fire in the hearth with the briquettes I still have. They are dwindling. I don’t know how long the stock will last. A day? Two days? The snow is over a meter high on the path outside the Tea House. It is heavy snow, a constant mass weighing down where it falls. It’s the kind of snow that crushes roofs, sets off avalanches, a malevolent snow.

  I don’t even have a spade. I try forcing a path through the snow. I give up.

  Mikhail tries, too, but I stop him.

  That’s no good, I say. I’m the one who has to get through, not you.

  But even he couldn’t get any farther.

  He asks me where my friends are.

  I guess exactly what he means by that question.

  They’re not my friends, I say.

  When dark falls it begins to snow again.

  At home, Mikhail tells me, they used to tie staves from wooden casks under their shoes in winter, and then they could walk over the snow.

  I don’t tell him I have a pair of skis at the Berghof. Eva, who neglected no form of sport, sometimes insisted on my skiing with her. I hated it. There seemed to me something wrong about it, and when I watch the old sequences of film today, I know why: that playful tumbling about, that romping to the accompaniment of squeals and shouts of glee almost always ended in a fall, and could hardly do otherwise because our bodies had not mastered a crucial skill, and at the time we didn’t know what it was. Prewar skiing was simply transported from the hills of Scandinavia to the Alps, and something wasn’t right about it.

  Not until the 1950s did they reinvent skiing as a sport on the Arlberg. Strange that our bodies didn’t know it of their own accord: a slight shift in the body’s center of gravity, a twist of the shoulders, and there you had it: the heavenly, matchless elegance of skiing, taking control of Alpine topography and the human body at the same time. It took me a long time to forget my experiences of skiing with Eva: her dogged determination to get some fun out of the tumbles we took.

  I often declined to accompany her, pleading pain in my knee. But now, a prisoner snowed in up at the Tea House, I’d be very glad for a pair of skis.

  That evening we share a packet of biscuits. We eat all of them but two. When Mikhail is about to reach for the last biscuits I take them away from him, saying: For the morning.

  Just for a moment I am afraid of him, of the savagery with which he snatches them from my hand. Then I see that reason is triumphing over his wolfish instincts.

  You not eat, he says, a question in his voice.

  I promise I won’t.

  Now all we have is the stocks of canned milk that the staff kept replenished, as if they might expect a visit from the master of the house at any time. Six cans of condensed milk and some sugar. That’s more than many people buried under the snow have as iron rations.

  It snows for four days on end, almost without stopping. Around noon we sometimes think the snow is turning to rain. On the valley side, masses of snow slide off the roof and fall like avalanches to the valley. We hear a dripping somewhere. It’s the thaw, we say.

  But in the afternoon we see thick, solid snowflakes falling densely. A soundless burial. I don’t even know if the house can still be seen from its side of the mountain. Perhaps the round tower of the tea salon is still sticking up. We at least can’t see anything in that direction. The snow comes up to the roof and may perhaps cover it. If the slope didn’t fall so steeply to the valley we wouldn’t be here anymore. It’s been a long time since we could open the front door. We’re lost without a trace. Even if anyone wanted to rescue us it would be difficult.

  But who would want to rescue us? No one at the Berghof knows I’m still here except the housekeeper. As time goes on she assumes demonic characteristics in my mind. Why does she want to murder me? Why is she doing it? What does she know about me?
Or is this the way they get rid of guests here when the guests don’t go of their own accord? Suppose Eva phones and asks after me? Will she lie then?

  On the second day we take a kitchen chair apart and try to make snowshoes out of it. I tie them to my shoes with a sheet torn into strips and climb out of one of the windows on the valley side. But it is so steep that I immediately dive headfirst into the masses of snow, and as I try to struggle out again one of the boards comes off my foot. I am stuck in the snow with a twisted ankle, while more snow keeps falling on me. I can see Mikhail trying to climb out after me. That way neither of us will get back into the house again!

  I call to him to stay where he is. I need something to hold on to. I feel the snow giving slightly beneath me. It is nearly noon. Avalanche time. With the temperature rising, if only slightly, I could start an avalanche sliding down to the valley with me at its center. Luckily I realize that only later. At the moment I just feel as if I am stuck here forever, in this icy cold envelope of snow, which is being melted by what body warmth I still have to form a solid carapace molded exactly to my body, enclosing it as tightly as if I were cast in concrete.

  I have to wait until Mikhail has wrenched out a floorboard. He has little more than his bare hands and some kitchen cutlery to do it with. It turns out that the floorboard isn’t long enough. It won’t reach down to me. Mikhail has to tear up another sheet.

  Finally, when I reach for the knot, my hands are far too numb to catch hold of it. Mikhail manages to fasten the sheet to the window, I don’t know how. By now I am noticing nothing but the slight give of the snow beneath me. I don’t feel the cold anymore, only the pull of the snowy current underfoot, constant, eerie, tugging me away with it. Then Mikhail is with me. He seizes my hand, pulls me up. The sheet holds. I manage to get the remaining board off my foot, reach one of the knots in the sheet with it, and push myself off. Then I feel myself being pushed onto the floorboard. I have a firm foothold now, and at some point we both fall back through the window and into the house. I’d rather die here than out there in the snow.

  On the third day the heating packs up. We have used our whole stock of briquettes. It is still snowing. I never knew how much snow the sky could hold. Strange for it to finish like this, I think. There’s something embarrassing about being buried by the snow in the middle of war. It doesn’t seem a proper way to die. The airmen I can hear fly over us as if in derision, dropping their bombs somewhere else. That has nothing to do with me now; only the voices from the radio still reach us.

  The city of Cologne has been taken. The Red Army has reached Pomerania. The German troops still fighting around Danzig are cut off. U.S. bombers have destroyed part of the city of Tokyo in a major raid.

  Cologne and Tokyo are equally distant from where I am now. The war has forgotten me, and I have forgotten the war. When the snow melts, I think, they’ll come here. Hitler. The Americans. Never mind who. It’s none of my business now.

  Mikhail and I pile all the blankets and cushions, anything with any warmth in it, on my bed. Then we lie under the pile together. The cold still hurts. That means we’re still alive. They say that at the end you don’t feel the cold anymore. We assure each other of that. We know it must be true.

  I say I read it somewhere.

  Mikhail says everyone knows it.

  Good-night, I say.

  Good-night, says Mikhail.

  But the next morning I am still alive. It’s even quite warm under our blankets. I remember that Eskimo igloos are said to be pleasantly warm. Perhaps the covering of snow around the house can warm us? It’s a pity we have nothing left to eat, though. Even Eskimos can’t live without food.

  Then I hear voices. Quite close. I hear one man shouting at another.

  Here! he shouts. Here! You knew, for God’s sake! I shall report you! Incredible! he shouts.

  I hear the front door being opened; the next moment the man who loves me bursts in. I burrow my way out of the bed, heaping blankets over Mikhail as best I can. My lover pulls me into his arms.

  You’re still alive, he says.

  The room is full of SS men.

  Go on, light a fire, he shouts. Get the bathroom stove working! And bring some breakfast!

  Two breakfasts, I say.

  Two breakfasts! he shouts.

  Three, I say.

  Hear that? Double helpings! he shouts at the men.

  I try to get him out of the room. You can see there’s a floorboard missing in the hall.

  I tried climbing out of one of the back windows, I say.

  My God, he says. How on earth did you do it on your own?

  Soon afterward he is watching me eat breakfast at the kitchen table.

  He arrived from Fischhorn the day before, and at the Platterhof they told him that Eva and I had left. No one knew for certain where we had gone. So he went up to the Berghof to find out where we were. He discovered that I was still here but hadn’t been seen for days. She supposed, said the housekeeper, that I’d been going to the Platterhof to eat, because I hadn’t been back to them since Fräulein Braun left.

  And then, says the man who loves me, a terrible idea suddenly occurred to him. He went down to the road and saw that the path to the Mooslahner Kopf was invisible. There was nothing but snow piled meters high at the roadside. It had taken them all night to make their way through to the Tea House.

  So here we were, both of us heroes, both of us exhausted. I a mistress of the art of survival, he my rescuer. It seemed impossible to avoid the logical idea that we must now finally belong to one another, our relationship sealed by the overcoming of obstacles, by the harsh trials we had withstood to come together. After that nothing seemed possible but to fall into one another’s arms and live happily ever after.

  If only I’d been here sooner, says my rescuer, this wouldn’t have happened. But it was impossible to make much progress on the roads with all this snow. And even for us it’s getting harder and harder to find petrol, he says. Don’t worry now. I’ll try to get transferred here. I’m well in with the Gruppenführer—he means Fegelein—so it should be possible. Then I can take care of you. After all you’ve been through.

  He takes my hand. He kisses it. He looks tenderly at me. I realize he thinks I stayed here for his sake. Eva, I think, help me. Don’t forget your promise. And hurry up about it.

  I rise to my feet. I must act. I must take charge before he thinks of making his way to my bed, the bed in which Mikhail is still lying under the blankets.

  This house seems like a prison, I say. I must get out of here. I need to see if there’s anyone else around. Oh, let’s go!

  I can see how you feel, he says. We leave the breakfast tray in the kitchen. Butter, fresh rolls, plenty of breakfast left. I know Mikhail will fall on it as soon as we’re out of the house.

  The path leading from the Tea House to the road is a ravine between walls of snow. The sky clears for the first time in days. A full thaw has set in. We are suddenly surrounded by springlike air, and the war is back again, too: There’s an air-raid warning. The artificial mists rise around us, enveloping us. They darken the sun above us again. The next moment the urgent air-raid warning sounds. As we are close to the Berghof we make for the bunker entrance beside the old part of the building.

  They’re all there inside one of the caves, the domestic staff, the chauffeurs, the guards, even the housekeeper. I pull myself together. I mustn’t cross her, I think. Anyway, a bunker with the air-raid sounding is no place to have a quarrel.

  I ask if Eva has rung.

  The gnädiges Fräulein? Yes, she says.

  Did she ask after me?

  No, she says, she only asked after the dogs. Oh, my God, I forgot the dogs!

  What dogs? one of the chauffeurs asks.

  Fräulein Braun’s dogs. Those two miniature schnauzers, says the housekeeper. Stasi and Negus. I hope nothing happens to them.

  Stupid tykes, says the man.

  He speaks with scornful precision, as if he were
spitting at a particular spot on the ground and meeting his target accurately. His scorn is meant for my cousin and, as I clearly feel, for me, too. Stasi, Negus, and I are all that’s left of Hitler’s whore on the Berg.

  Didn’t she leave any message for me? I ask the housekeeper.

  Wait a moment, she says. A message? No. No, I can’t remember a message.

  Think! I say.

  Oh, dear me, she says. Perhaps the gnädiges Fräulein sent you regards. But everything’s upside down in Berlin. She’ll have other things on her mind.

  Very likely, I say. She’ll be back soon.

  Stupid tykes. She’d thought of them.

  Soon afterward the all-clear sounds. They’d only been flying overhead again. Up here on the mountain we expect no less. We are Hitler’s Alpine fortress. They won’t dare to bomb us.

  We see one of the labor columns outside. The men have obviously taken cover from the risk of an air raid by the tall ramparts of snow at the roadside. They are knocking the snow off their clothes and reforming under the orders of the overseers. Many of the men have no shoes, only rags wrapped around their feet. They must be wet, and the gray cotton drill jackets with the Eastern workers’ badges are wet through, too. The men wear them as if trying to crawl into them and become invisible. They are thin enough. Their jackets hang off them like wet sacks.

  Look at that, I say to my companion.

  It’s the late shift, he says. They’re working on the bunker extension.

  How long does the late shift go on? I ask.

  Why should that interest you? asks my companion. There’s no reason for you to be interested in that.

  They look so worn out, I say. Do they get anything to eat?

  Of course they do, he says. After all, they couldn’t work if they didn’t. They get everything they need. They even have . . . He stops.

  What do they have? I ask.

  They even have their own brothel, says my companion. With their own Polish whores, so they won’t be any threat to the safety of German women. Everything laid on, you see? They’re well looked after, I can assure you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned that to a lady. I’m only telling you so that you’ll know, so that you won’t get any silly ideas about the treatment of foreign workers in Germany. They’re well off.