She smoothed down her skirt. “It’s still quite unthinkable.”
He had since reopened the window and a tepid breeze blew into the room. “In the confines of this office, what we have is a safe environment to reenact past trauma consciously so that it may be integrated into the psyche with a greater degree of understanding.”
Josephine nodded, trying to conceal her pleasure at the thought of repeating such an exercise.
“Good,” he said, snapping his notebook closed. “Until next week.”
“Until next week,” she repeated, standing up.
He led her to the door and pointed out how they’d run over time. “I won’t charge you for it,” he joked.
She paused, touching the brass doorknob. “How’s your mother?”
He hesitated. “It’s been—” He stopped short. He touched her face, his thumb gliding down to her sleek collarbone. “I shouldn’t burden you with my troubles.”
She took his hand. He squeezed it and opened the door. Before them, thick bars of sunlight flooding the empty hallway shimmered with visible dust. She started to leave, but he took hold of her elbow and explained, haltingly at first, how his uncle had recently died, leaving a vast estate behind for his mother to manage in Grunewald forest but it was all too much for her at this age, so the problem naturally fell on his shoulders. They were trying to sell it, but the estate had already devalued greatly since the war. It proved too expensive to keep. “Yesterday, I let half the staff go. Some of them have worked there since the last century.” He took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his shirt.
“I’m so sorry.”
He nodded with resignation.
Without thinking, she took him into her arms, holding him tightly against her. His chest crushed into her chest, his chin bore into her shoulder blade, and tunneling into her ear, his breath, at first uneven and labored, grew as quiet and calm as a Bavarian lake at night.
38
“She’s been gone for ages.”
“Carin’s in Paris?”
“With her mother,” Wolf said, ordering two more beers. “Shopping for her bridal trousseau. Apparently the best lace is in Paris.” Four empty glasses stood between them. Wolf’s eyelids shimmered with sweat and his long lashes made him look particularly feminine, especially in the dim lighting of the bar. They sat on barstools sharing sausage cut into coin-sized pieces. Wolf’s knee brushed up against Franz’s, and it gave him a momentary thrill, despite knowing the futility of such sensations. Today, they had trained near the Staaken military airfield. Physical drills with no breaks. Barking out the occasional order, Lutz watched with a satisfied smirk, pacing the damp field. In one exercise, all the boys stood in a line, one behind another. The last in line had to hold a medicine ball and crawl through the legs of the other boys all the way to the front; then the next would go. Looking up through the tunnel of gaping gym shorts was paradise: the muted color of the jockstraps, the shadow of pubic hair, some dark, some light, muscular legs planted in a V, inner thighs taut. Franz had fumbled the ball twice, the grass grazing his face, and emerged from the tunnel of legs with dirt on his lip, his brow shining with sweat, to the sound of Lutz cursing. He was clumsy and stupid. He lacked basic agility. He needed to repeat the exercise. Franz acted disappointed, but inside he was singing.
After training, Wolf proposed they stop off for a beer in a local bar—the heavy wood paneling and rustic feel of the place appealed to them. When they walked in wearing their brown uniforms, Franz noticed how the other men glanced in their direction, some of them nodding with respect. The bartender gave them the first two beers on the house.
Franz shifted in his chair, thinking about all the Parisian lace Carin was buying for her trousseau, and if she only knew that Wolf had fucked that Ukrainian girl who worked in the university cafeteria last week. Ukrainian or Czech? What did it matter? He was getting married. “It’s June seventeenth?”
Wolf ran a hand through his hair. “You remember the date of my own wedding better than I can.”
“Don’t you want to marry her?” Franz cringed at the hopefulness flooding his voice. He would have to practice producing more definitive statements in short bombastic sentences. He would have to start sounding like everyone else.
“Of course I want to marry her,” Wolf retorted, mimicking the slight elevation in Franz’s voice—that hope.
In the corner a group of men started singing a drinking song. Arms over shoulders, they swayed on the long wooden bench, their shirts unbuttoned, chests blooming with hair.
“What about the Czech you fucked?”
Wolf slapped him on the back of his head. “What’s it to you?”
Franz shrugged, looking down.
“I know. You want to hear all my dirty details. Peter says you want to fuck me.”
He kept looking down, so Wolf wouldn’t see the redness spreading all over his face. He had to say something quickly, something definitive and cutting. Something to make them both laugh, to disperse the panic rising in his chest. “Peter’s the one who wants to fuck you.”
Wolf smiled.
There. A short, nonemotive reply. The hot embarrassment lessened. He touched his face—it felt cool and white again. He looked up from the floor and stared at the murky mirror behind the bar. The room took on a tilted quality as the lights grew dimmer, more golden. The workmen, swaying fluidly, laughed. They clinked glasses, white foam flowing over the rims. “Zum Wohl!” they shouted. Franz thought about the customary words, what they meant: To your completeness, to your fulfillment.
The bartender poured Wolf and Franz complimentary shots. He gave Franz a sidelong smile, and for a second, the idea of sex glittered between them.
Wolf stuffed a few extra marks into the tip jar, and the bartender bowed. Even though he was young, he was Old World—the bowtie, the genuflecting, the complimentary drinks, the way he seemed to know his place, the miniature portrait of the emperor behind the wine cases.
Wolf restlessly glanced around the room. He would want to leave in a few minutes, and it always stung a bit, when he so instantly tired of Franz’s company. It was warm here—Franz felt the comfort of Wolf’s closeness, the way his elbow inched toward his own, and the latent excitement of the bartender’s glances, the robust male singing interlacing their conversation.
He blurted out, “I need your advice.” And then he told Wolf about how Vicki was seeing a Jew—a real Jew from Galicia who wanted to take her to Palestine. She had been brainwashed by this Jew, thinking Palestine and Zionism and Communism were the true paths. Worst of all, his father welcomed this Jew into their home with open arms. His father knew the Jew from the war, from the poor little Russian town where he’d been stationed. But he’s an upstart, an arrogant little Jew who thinks he owns the world, thinks he can just take away his sister and disgrace the family. “The pride of the chosen people,” Franz added sarcastically.
After a pause, Wolf said, “Does this Jew have a name?”
“Geza Rabinovitch.”
The tips of Wolf’s fingers met. “The only solution: we kill him.”
“Kill him,” Franz repeated. Plainly spoken, laid out bare before him, it felt clean and pure. Franz envisioned bones on the beach, bleached by the sun, the ocean washing over them, making the surfaces smoother and smoother. Blindingly white bones. That was all Geza would amount to.
Wolf pushed back his barstool, one knee jammed up against the counter. “It’s a job for us, the SA. There are precedents. This won’t be the first time a Jew oversteps his boundaries. We’ve got to rein them in lest they grow too certain of themselves.”
“And Vicki, even if she can’t realize it now, has gone too far. She says she loves him, but how can she? She’ll be terribly unhappy if she marries him, if he takes her away to Palestine,” Franz said, his voice gaining conviction.
Wolf nodded and slammed his fist down on the counter. “You’re right, Franz. Such a beautiful girl as Vicki shouldn’t be sacrificed because we
stood by and did nothing. She’s always felt like my little sister too.” Wolf’s face was sweating, his neck blotchy. Perhaps he’d had too much beer, Franz thought. Or perhaps he still fancies Vicki. Either way, they would stop Geza together. The thrill of talking so confidentially with Wolf pulsed through him.
The bartender, using a damp cloth to clean the nearby tabletops, stopped for a minute, as if transfixed by the hatching of their plan.
Wolf then took Franz’s arm and explained in a low urgent voice how Franz should not tolerate Jewish scum polluting his family line, because even though his father was a Jew, he was the better kind of Jew, having refined himself into a respectable member of society and marrying a gentile, which made Franz and Vicki children of mixed blood: mischling. But if Vicki married Geza and procreated, this made her a full Jew again and their children would be full Jews and there you have it: genetic regression.
“Genetic regression,” Franz echoed, catching the bartender’s eye. He was young—maybe eighteen judging from his smooth tan skin, the way he wore his hair parted on the side, the clean white part healthy and neat.
Wolf waved a finger in front of Franz’s face, his speech slurring. “We can’t let it happen.”
The bartender shoved the rag into his back pocket. All the tabletops were shining. The group of workmen had left, leaving behind the heady scent of sweat and hard labor. The sound of dishes clattering from the kitchen carried into the main room. Wolf ranted on about Jewish tentacles spreading over the surface of the earth, unchecked. “They are like octopus—octopi! Fists in every pot of gold!”
The bartender produced the bill, and Franz paid up. He was a good bartender—discreet, expedient. Wolf staggered to the door, and Franz said, “Call him a cab.” The bartender nodded.
Wolf hung in the doorway, his head lolling. For the first time, Franz noticed a physical defect—Wolf’s head was extraordinary large, almost baboonlike.
“I can drive myselth home,” he sputtered. Then he slumped into a nearby chair, his eyes half-closed slits.
After the cab left with Wolf asleep in the backseat, Franz lingered in the bar. He was the only one left besides two waiters quietly eating their dinner in the corner. The bartender came over and offered Franz a cigarette.
“I don’t smoke.”
He took a long drag. “A purist.” Then he squeezed Franz’s arm, and Franz tensed at his touch. “You probably have one hundred percent oxygen in your blood. Maybe you’ll get a medal for it.” The boy’s amber eyes lit up with mockery.
Franz leaned back into the chair, tracing a circular stain on the wood. “You think we’re ridiculous?”
He shook his head, sitting down next to Franz. “I admire the new movement—the energy, the unity, the infusion of hope for all of us. It’s really something.”
Franz took the cigarette from the boy’s mouth and put it out. “You’ll ruin your lung capacity.”
He put Franz’s hand on his chest and breathed in and out. “How am I doing, Doctor?”
“Strong.”
The boy guided Franz’s hand downward. “I’m Manfred. But you don’t really care, do you?”
“Not really.”
His amber eyes lit up again with that teasing mocking glee.
Franz’s heart accelerated at the sight of the boy’s sloping jaw, his long swanlike neck and perfectly proportioned head, as if molded by a Roman sculptor.
They ended up in the back room—a threadbare couch, an old radio, peeling wallpaper, the smell of kitchen grease hanging in the air. Despite the coarse atmosphere, Manfred was considerably gentle. He preferred a lot of kissing and caressing. His breath smelled of vermouth. He barely had to shave because his hairs were so fine and light. Franz touched his face, his mouth, his long neck. Then he wrestled him to the ground, calling him a weakling. The carpet smelled of cigarette smoke.
“Are you really going to kill that boy?” he asked.
Franz ruffled his hair. “Wolf always talks that way when he’s drunk.” Then he bit Manfred’s shoulder and pressed into him. Sweat sprung up on the boy’s skin, and Franz licked his smooth chest, circling his tongue around Manfred’s berry-colored nipple.
“Bite it,” Manfred said, cupping his palm behind Franz’s neck.
Franz took a little nibble.
“Harder.”
He looked up, resting his chin on Manfred’s smooth chest.
Manfred ran his fingers through Franz’s hair and then hoisted Franz up to eye level. His metal belt buckle bore into Franz’s stomach. “Does that hurt?” he asked.
“No,” Franz said in a high whisper.
“Well, it’s uncomfortable regardless, keeping these on,” Manfred said, taking off his trousers, but he stopped when he noticed Franz staring at him, silent and still.
“Is this your first time?”
“No,” Franz lied.
Manfred smiled and playfully flicked the hair out of Franz’s eyes. “It’s okay. I can tell it is.” Manfred cupped Franz’s chin; his hand felt warm and dry. “Let me show you.”
Someone hollered good night and shut off the lights in the hallway. A door slammed.
“You don’t have to—” Franz stammered. He should leave, forget all this—already he had failed, but then he inhaled Manfred’s scent. It reminded him of warm milk and almonds mixed with the sharp sting of his own nervous sweat. He stared at Manfred’s bare chest, as smooth as wood, a rich walnut. Manfred’s warm hands slid down Franz’s forearms. “It’s all right, really.”
“Really?” Franz asked, feeling foolish.
Manfred kissed him on the mouth. The kiss was tidy, just the right amount of saliva. Franz felt his muscles loosen, his stomach soar with excitement.
Manfred buried his mouth into Franz’s shoulder blade and bit him hard. Then he sucked the place where he had bit him. Franz sighed—a long sigh filled with all the times he had wanted to do this with Wolf but couldn’t. He pulled Manfred into him, their belt buckles clashing. They both laughed. Then Manfred slid off his pants and Franz did too. They stood before each other, naked in the darkness except for the white moonlight filtering through the small dirty window.
Manfred carefully turned Franz around, his hands massaging his abdomen, his thighs, his chest. “See?” He breathed into Franz’s neck.
Franz gulped, feeling Manfred’s hardness pressing up against him.
“Don’t worry,” Manfred said, planting little kisses on Franz’s neck. “We’re alone and free now.”
39
Coming in from the fields, she needed time to let her eyes adjust to the darkened room of the meetinghouse. She pulled off her straw hat, fanning her face. It was hot for April. Before her, she squinted at the outline of Zev and Maya Dubinsky, huddled over a newspaper article. They were discussing something intensely, as usual. They proved incapable as long as Vicki had known them, which had only been the last two weeks, of tepid table talk: Pass the salt. How was your day? Will it rain tomorrow? No, no. For them, speech was solely reserved for heavy drawn-out discussions regarding the immigration process, the illusion of assimilation, how Europe was a bourgeois fantasy waiting to crumble, how they must sever all ties to their Diaspora existence and begin anew in the Middle East. Which began, of course, with the assigning of a Hebrew name that was either the equivalent of one’s European name or bore some relation to it.
“Aviva!” Maya called, motioning for Vicki to come over. She still had to get used to her new name, which meant “spring” in Hebrew. Because of the presence of the v, it was the name that sounded closest to her real name. As it turned out, there was no Hebrew equivalent for Vicki.
Vicki wiped her brow with her sleeve. “What are you reading?”
Maya beamed. “Zev just published an editorial in the Jewish Daily Forward about the necessity of Labor Zionism.”
“It’s only a little article.” Zev shrugged, chewing on tobacco, which Vicki found unnecessarily vulgar. How did Maya stand it? She had grown up in Paris, the daughter of White
Russians who had fled Saint Petersburg on the eve of the revolution, whereas Zev hailed from some backwater town near Odessa. Maya had swept her long dark tendrils into a French twist and then covered her head with a shimmering green scarf. Even in the heat, Maya didn’t break a sweat, despite the tight floral dress she wore just for digging potatoes.
Maya waved the newspaper in front of Zev’s face. “The whole bottom half of the second page—I would hardly call that little!”
He took it from her and rolled it up into a baton. “What I should have said, but I’m too much of a coward to say, is this: what the Jews are seeking in Palestine is not progress but a state. When you build a state, you make a revolution. And in a revolution there can only ever be winners and losers. This time around, we Jews are going to be the winners.” He grinned, tapping the rolled-up newspaper against his thigh.
“Congratulations anyway, on the editorial,” Vicki said, feeling uncomfortable all over again. Last night at dinner, she had offhandedly complained about tending to the baby animals because it was boring, smelly work—the calves just stared at her all day with their doleful blank eyes, and when she stopped moving for one second, they took the opportunity to shit on her shoes. A few people laughed in recognition, including Geza, but Zev ate his rice without looking up from the plate, his jaw tensing, before launching into a tirade about the importance of Jewish work: young Jews from the Diaspora would be rescued from their effete, assimilated lives and transported to remote collective settlements in rural Palestine where they would create a living Jewish peasantry, which inevitably, though unfortunately, excluded the Arabs. Under the table, Geza had squeezed Vicki’s hand. He understood, at least, how difficult it was to suddenly shun her European upbringing and trade it in for this. Even if this—a line of dirt ever present under her fingernails, the rarity of a shower, singing songs she didn’t know the words to—was what they wanted. Or said they wanted. And every night, cupping her face with his rough hands, Geza promised, “It will be different once we get there. It will be different.”
The Empire of the Senses Page 42