On my fourteenth birthday, I graduated into the Hitler Youth, and Otto followed eleven months later. We both have our daggers at our belts with the inscription “Blood and Honor” engraved on them. Otto has risen in the ranks, becoming Section Leader. He loves the role. “Eyes right. Stand down.” He pokes his face into other boys’ and tells them they are a disgrace to the Fatherland.
Winkler favored Otto. And in the older squad our new Section Leader, Scholz, feels the same about my brother. Otto looks like the perfect Nazi. And he’s strong, fast, brave, and disciplined—always the first to volunteer and the first to answer questions. He’s a star pupil, the ideal boy soldier.
We’re all outside the clubhouse after the Tuesday meeting, getting on bicycles, or heading back home on foot, chatting and calling out friendly insults to each other through the pale evening, when Conrad Lange steps in front of my brother.
Conrad puffs his chest out, his mouth pressed into a line. “What I want to know, Meyer, is where are your papers? Where’s your family report?” He pokes a finger at Otto. “How come we all have to prove we’re true Aryans—and you don’t? You and Ernst, you could be anyone. Gypsies. Mischlinge. Hell. You could be Jews!”
A small crowd gathers around both of them. I hold my breath, waiting for the punch. Instead, Otto reaches for a rope hanging from his belt. He doesn’t say anything. Casually, with thoughtful concentration, he winds it around his own bare arm. We’ve been practicing knots, and they are still twisted into the rough fiber.
With deliberate movements, Otto begins to saw at his skin with the rope, pulling it up and down the same patch of flesh. Conrad glances at Otto’s arm and then at his face. He shuffles his feet in the dry grass.
“What are you doing?” his voice croaks. I see the edge of Conrad’s tongue as he licks his lips.
Otto says nothing. The force of his looking could bore a hole in Conrad’s skull. Otto beckons to another boy from the group that’s gathered around. He indicates that the boy work the rope for him. “Harder,” Otto tells him between gritted teeth. He holds his arm out. And the boy works the gnarled rope knot up and down Otto’s arm until it shreds his skin, and the flesh underneath flushes purple, raw, with shiny pink patches and flecks of blood.
Conrad glances away.
“Watch.” Otto’s lips are tight. “This is for my country. This is how much pain I can stand for my Führer.”
Conrad steps backwards.
Otto holds out the rope. “Let me see you do it.”
Conrad’s face is drained of color, and he continues backing away, murmuring, “You’re crazy.”
“No. You’re a coward!” Otto shouts after him.
The other boys pat Otto on the back, examining his ruined arm with expressions of nervous admiration. I see Scholz looking out of the clubhouse window, his slight smile before he moves away.
* * *
Otto’s arm takes weeks to heal. It becomes a slimy, weeping sore. Bettina bathes it with salt water. He sits meekly while she dabs at it, exclaiming over his stupidity. Eventually, it grows a thin layer of pale scar tissue and he no longer needs Bettina’s nursing. I notice that he begins to hang around her more, offering her advice on how to do her chores more efficiently and even carrying things for her if they’re heavy. He is developing bigger muscles in his chest and arms. He does push-ups every day before bed, grunting and panting while I’m trying to sleep.
The horses are out in the field, and the stable door is open. Bettina is standing guard at the threshold, watching as Otto stalks a loose hen. The hen is darting backwards and forwards along the back wall, her speckled feathers fluffed up, apple-pip eyes bright with fear. Otto lunges, rolling shoulder first into the straw. The hen squawks as she makes a desperate leap into the dusty air, and Otto bounces up empty-handed, feathers between his fingers. Bettina laughs and claps. “Nearly!”
Panting, Otto glares at the hen. He plucks straw from his sweater as he waits for her to settle. When she begins to peck amongst the hay again, he throws himself at her fast as an uncoiling spring. This time he grabs her around the middle. Triumphantly, he hoists the bundle of feathers up with both hands, pinning the wings neatly, and presents her to Bettina. Bettina tucks the hen under her arm. “Bad girl. Next time the fox will get you.”
Grinning, Otto leans forward to plant a kiss on her lips. Bettina gasps, stepping away, so that Otto’s mouth slides across her chin. She lifts a hand and slaps his cheek. I hear the sting of fingers against flesh. Without waiting for his response she marches past, the hen jolting in her grip.
“Bitch.” Otto stares after her, rubbing his cheek. “She thinks she’s too good for me. Well, too bad for her.” He folds his arms. “She’s a slut anyway. She’s been with Bruno Stein. He boasts about it all the time. I want a girl who’s pure and innocent. An angel. That’s what I’m looking for.”
* * *
Since I can remember, my brother has had nightmares. I used to think he’d outgrow them. But they’ve got worse as he’s got older. He’s much too big for his bed, and however he positions himself, tucking himself up, burrowing into the thin mattress, he loses the blanket, and his feet or his shoulders stick out. I’ve got used to waking suddenly in the dark, hearing him crying out. Sometimes I creep over to him and sit on his bed and stroke his damp hair back from his forehead, try to rearrange his covers over him. He trembles and moans, the nightmare clinging to him. In the morning, he doesn’t seem to remember. If I ask him about it, he smiles and shrugs and says that I’m imagining things. He’s never slept better.
* * *
Meyer doesn’t want us to go to the Nazi party rally at Nuremberg. There’s too much to do on the farm. But he has no choice. It is an order. Otto and I have never been farther away than the local town. There is a whole week of festivities. We stay in tents pitched in neat lines. There are games and marches. And on the last day, Hitler comes to talk to the whole rally. Sixty thousand Hitler Youth stand motionless in their ranks. Flags with eagles’ heads and the sword and hammer snap and flutter above a mass of fair heads. Drums and trumpets sing out, cymbals clash. Every uniform is clean and pressed. Not one person steps out of place. A woman with a camera hurries among the lines of boys, filming us.
When Hitler appears on the podium a great roar goes up and every arm is raised in a Sieg heil. The ground shakes. And then a hush falls as he speaks, chopping the air with his hands, his voice trembling with emotion as he tells us that the Germany of the future will have no ranks and no classes. “You, my youth,” he shouts, “never forget that one day you will rule the world.”
He stares out at the crowd, his sweeping arm including us all. “You are flesh from our flesh. Blood from our blood,” his voice echoes.
My throat constricts with pride. Despite the distance between us, I swear he’s looking right at me, picking me out.
Otto is at the end of the line. I can’t see him without turning my head. But he is thinking the same thing as me. Nobody ever claimed us as flesh and blood before. The seduction of it washes through my body. I begin to understand that it makes Otto feel more than important: it makes him feel safe. Inside that vast mass standing shoulder to shoulder, with the Führer spreading his arms to embrace us, I feel safe too.
On the way home in the train, Otto wets his mouth and stares out of the carriage window, his eyes moving greedily over the landscape as if he wants to devour everything he sees. And although our voices are hoarse with shouting and singing, we all begin to sing again, a marching song. Otto’s voice rises until it is the loudest in the carriage, the veins in his neck swollen with effort, blood pumping blue and thick at the base of his neck.
We arrive home to a dark, sleeping farm. We slink into our beds, hungry and exhausted. But neither of us can sleep. I hear Otto tossing and turning, his feet hanging over the edge of the cot. I am filled with adrenaline. Heady words repeat in my mind. Drums and cymbals clash and stamp. Flags strain high up, soaring towards the clouds, towards the promise of a new Germany
, and a new future for us. A boy can grow to be powerful and important in Hitler’s Germany.
When we go to feed the horses the next morning, Meyer turns up, mouth set in a line, his face heavy with resentment.
My fingers fumble around the bridle. Berta twitches her head, knocking my hand and I drop the whole thing, the heavy, silver bit clunking against Meyer’s toe.
He glares at me, his fingers scrabbling at his belt buckle.
“Leave him.” Otto steps between Meyer and me and looks him in the eye. “Put that away. You’ll never beat us again,” he says.
I am startled by his tone of cold authority. My little brother has grown up. It isn’t just the fuzz of hair on his cheeks, the muscles in his shoulders and his towering height—he’s taller than Meyer now—it is his certainty. Meyer’s mouth droops. His hand goes to his belt again and then falls away. He spits in the straw. “Think you’re a big man now.”
But that is the end of the beatings.
KLAUDIA
1996, London
I’M ON MY WAY to work when I catch sight of the back of Cosmo’s head. My step falters. I loiter on a street corner for a second, uncertain about whether to run to catch up, or let him go on without me. Since our Chinese meal we’ve fallen into a kind of uneasy truce, making polite but brief conversation, not quite meeting each other’s eyes if we happen to bump into each other.
Backing into the safety of a shop doorway, I stare after him, catching glimpses through the crowd. Another head is keeping pace with his, and the realization grips me: he isn’t alone. It isn’t his grandmother this time, but a dark-haired girl. As if drawn by a hypnotist, I leave the shelter of the doorway and trail behind. They’re having an animated discussion, and I see by a flash of profile that she’s beautiful. She’s tall, long-limbed, with the kind of smooth amber skin that tans in moments. She waves her hands around in a passionate, Mediterranean manner. He throws his head back, laughing at something she says, stepping closer to wrap his arm around her, pulling her to him. Her shoulder slots exactly into the hollow under his. I turn away, pushing my knuckles hard against my lips.
* * *
At night I twist my head on my crumpled pillow, trying to erase the image of them together. Except I keep replaying it, recalling details: her faded jeans tight on her thighs, her long swinging ebony hair and the line of her cheekbone. They’d seemed so comfortable together, as if they’d known each other for years. She’d looked like the kind of girl I’d like to be friends with. What hurts most is that it didn’t seem to be a “fling,” something casual. There was something deeper between them. I could see it. Even at a distance.
* * *
I’ve changed my mind about the burlesque lessons. I can’t go on being a coward about everything. But the timing couldn’t be worse. Scarlett likes to teach in her room, which means I’m at the flat more often, and I’m terrified of bumping into him. Worse, seeing him with her.
When I ring the bell Scarlett throws the keys down. I hurry up, one hand clutching the keys, the other sliding along the rickety bannister, feeling my way in the dark. I have to be agile to move quickly in the dim, narrow corridors of the flat: piles of old magazines, hairdryers, wine bottles, boxes and odd shoes lie in wait for me. I hop around the obstacles, my ears straining for the sound of his voice, or a door opening. So far I’ve managed to avoid him. I wonder if he’s avoiding me too.
“Here.” Scarlett hands me an envelope. “This is for you.”
“What is it?”
As I pull two pieces of paper out of the envelope, she explains. “It’s an application to the Laban Center. All you need to do is fill it in.”
My mouth falls open.
“Just do it,” she says. “You should be training as a dancer, not working behind a bar. Not even doing burlesque. But for now, burlesque will have to do.”
“Thanks.” I look down at my feet. My throat tightens.
She rubs her hands together, dismissing my embarrassment, my gratitude. “OK,” she tells me. “Let’s start. Make an entrance. Walk into the middle of the floor and turn. Look at me. Make eye contact.”
We have cleared a path through the chaos of her room. I walk, swinging my hips. I stop and turn and force myself to look at her.
She shakes her head. “There’s no conviction in it. If you don’t feel it then pretend. Make-believe is part of life. It’s how we find out who we are.”
I try again. She shows me how it’s done. She steps with a careless swagger, and yet each movement, each curl of her fingers, is a deliberate art.
“You know what they say—that you can’t expect anyone to love you until you love yourself?”
I nod.
“Well. It’s the same principle with enjoyment too. You need to learn to enjoy yourself.” She separates the words. “Enjoy. Your. Self.” She twists her bangle around her wrist. “People feel uncomfortable watching a performer that’s uncertain. I used to be nervous until I told myself that it didn’t matter. If I fucked up, so what? You can’t take life that seriously or you’ll never do anything. Try again.”
I take a deep breath and do the walk. This time I step as though I mean it. I feel the intention in my bones. It gives me a sudden flare of empowerment.
“Better,” Scarlett says. “Much better. Trust your body. It knows what to do.”
I walk and stand. Turn slowly, arching my back. Run my fingers lightly down my arm.
“I know you don’t want to be looked at.” Scarlett tucks her legs up under her on the bed. “But we don’t want them to look at you. We want them to see you. To see what you want them to see. Don’t forget, it’s an act. You’re in charge.”
I slink around the chair, trailing my hand across the back of it. With one move, I kick up a leg and swoop it over to the other side. I feel a lurch of uncertainty. It’s embarrassing to be advertising my sexuality like this.
“Keep the focus,” Scarlett tells me. “You can’t stop believing in what you’re doing. Not for a moment.” She gets off the bed and strolls over to the wardrobe.
“I think it would help if we dressed you up. Get you into the mood.”
“Oh, no.” I grip the back of the chair. “I don’t think so…”
She ignores me and starts pulling out items of clothing, satin, lace and gauze, holding them up against me, her head on one side, squinting. “That’s your color. That would look awesome on you.” She puts her hand to her head, slapping her forehead. “No. Wait. I know!” She rummages in the back of her wardrobe, half inside it, wrestling with fabric, so that it looks as though the clothes are trying to drag her inside and swallow her whole. She emerges with a hanger, pushing her hair back into place as she holds it up triumphantly. “This will fit you. I was thinner when I was working this baby.”
She slips a man’s smoking jacket and a corset in shiny black off the hanger. Dipping into the bag attached to it, she hands me a pair of black stockings, white collar and tie and a top hat.
“You’re kidding.”
She shrugs. “I never joke about dressing up. Come on. Outta those jeans. Let’s see if you’ve got the legs for this get-up.”
When Scarlett has finished lacing me up, I can hardly breathe. The bones dig into my ribs. The bow tie itches my neck. She sits me down on the pin-free bed and dabs at my face with make-up brushes, her eyes half-closed in concentration. A little of this. A little of that. It feels pleasant to have brushes fluttering and pressing against my skin. She stands back, admiring her handiwork and steers me over to the mirror.
We stare at my reflection together. My heart is hammering inside the constraints of the corset. I look like someone else. Not the English girl of my imagination, but someone that I might be in awe of if I spotted myself at a party. I look like the kind of girl that would never have to fetch her own drink.
“You look like Marlene Dietrich,” Scarlett announces. “Enigmatic. Cool and…” She pauses, nodding. “Germanic.”
The image in the mirror wavers. I blink, clearing
my throat, and turning away from my reflection. “I don’t think this is really me.” My hands claw at the bow tie. It hugs me tighter than a constricting snake. I want to strip it off, throw it from me in a slick black unraveling.
“Don’t be crazy!” Scarlett grabs me and forces me to confront my reflection again. “You’re sexy as hell.” She slaps my thigh playfully, but hard enough to sting. “Look at those legs! It’s a crime to waste them.”
I stare at the girl in the mirror. Eliza and Klaudia collide, their images sliding across each other. They blur, mixing like two colors, making a swirl of muddy nothing. I hover outside, watching the thin texture of two strangers tremble and fade. I lower my eyes, my body stiffening under her fingers.
Voices come tumbling into the room from outside. West-Indian accents. A loud discussion shouted across the street and a peal of raucous laughter.
I begin to take it all off, unrolling the stockings, shrugging out of the jacket. My fingers scrabble at the hook and eyes behind me, trying to loosen the stays. I can’t breathe.
“Let me…” Scarlett is there, quickly stripping out the laces. I feel the corset undo, my breasts spilling free. “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough,” Scarlett says quietly. “That’s Mae West. And she knew what she was talking about.”
We both hear the moan of the saxophone. The sound drifts down as if it’s coming from the sky, as if it’s falling from the few hazy clouds that sift across the rooftops.
“Luke must be playing to his bees,” Scarlett says. “I think we’re done for the day. Let’s go see.”
I’m glad of the distraction. I struggle back into my jeans, yanking my T-shirt over my head. “Luke has bees?” I ask as I follow her up the narrow stairs that lead onto the flat roof of the extension at the back of the house.
The Other Me Page 16