by Jina Bacarr
Believe me, dear reader, since I left Port Said, I have experienced more than one occasion when the perfume saved me from a violent death. I know you scoff at me, your lips curling in an angry sneer. I don’t blame you. I lingered too long on the eroticism of my story, indulging in my hunger for sensory pleasures and now I face your fury for not telling you sooner. You must forgive me and understand I paid the price that night for my amorous follies.
It was over quickly, the groping then penetration, his groin tight between my thighs, his cock throbbing, and I could hear him snorting through clenched teeth. I’ll never forget the feel of him bucking and twisting inside me, driving deeper and deeper. With each thrust I vowed revenge for his sadistic act. I would not rest until I sent every Nazi back to the decadent hell that spawned them, blood streaming from their mouths, their flesh ripped apart, the foul odor of death upon them before they drew their last breath.
For now, all I could do was spit on the Nazi bastard.
Rain, rain, rain. Buckets of it, pouring all over the deck, drenching me, filling my mouth with its sweet taste while my body recoiled against his ugly deed.
When the Nazi was finished with me, cursing me for soiling his uniform with my spit, he ordered his underling to drag me outside and leave me shivering on the deck as an example of his superiority. Someone threw a blanket over my limp body, the rain soaking through the thick threads, its heaviness holding me prisoner and prohibiting any movement on my part. I curled up to protect myself against further violation, tears streaming down my face. I wasn’t ashamed of my tears. Soft whimpers at first, then louder as my humiliation turned into anger. The ferocity of the Nazi’s violent act revealed to me the extent of their animalistic behavior toward anyone who got in their way.
I knew I couldn’t change what happened, so I dried my tears.
I found out later the Nazi officer found nothing aboard the trawler but a receptacle for his lust, which was enough to satisfy him. The patrol boat sped away in the storm, creating a never-ending pattern of waves, the water lapping against the trawler, its ceaseless rhythm tormenting me. Laughing at me. The perfume didn’t work. Why, I questioned over and over. Why?
I don’t remember how I came to be in a warm bunk, a dry blanket covering me, my body nude and shivering, my clothes drying, the diary and the perfume safe. The captain had retrieved my satchel intact and brought it to me.
I huddled under the coarse cover, my arms crossed over my breasts, my thighs clenched together so tightly my muscles ached. I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. No, dear reader, I made plans. Big plans. I would record my journey so the world would know the truth about these monsters. Yes, I ignored them once, turned my eye from their horror. No more. I must make my message heard before it’s too late.
I peered out the tiny porthole, glaring at the sea, the night dissipating into a dawn so gray I prayed out loud to God, begging him to punish these vicious perpetrators of the Third Reich. Erase the colors of the rainbow from their existence, destroy them as they’ve destroyed lives once so vivid, lives eliminated from the Aryan palette by the madman in Berlin.
Jaw set, I fueled my courage with new determination. What happened to me that night isn’t worth a footnote in the annals of history. My life is insignificant, we all are in this fight. I’ll survive. I have to. I have a job to do.
I decided I would say nothing to anyone, never tell them about the dirty, rotten sores I imagined had popped out on my swollen genitals, red and raw from the Nazi’s pounding thrusts. Silence was my credo. And so my hatred would grow. For I would need that hatred to accept what I believed was certain death should I face the enemy in a similar compromising position. The perfume had failed me. Would it do so again? I wouldn’t know until it was too late.
I jumped off the bunk when I saw the jagged coastline come into view. The small German coastal village lay ahead. Warnemünde. I rubbed my arms and stomped my bare feet on the wooden floor to get the blood moving, then pulled on my damp clothes, ignoring the rawness between my thighs when the coarse fabric pricked the still-tender skin. I felt no pain, only purpose. I swore I’d finish my mission if I had to crawl to Berlin. Never, never will I forget this night.
Never.
A woman carrying a straw basket filled with laundry met me at the dock and, without a word, hurried me along to a farmhouse where I received my next set of instructions. I learned later she had a Luger hidden among the dirty clothes.
I undressed and she presented me with a traveling outfit, complete with silk stockings (which surprised me) and a stylish hat. When I asked where she’d procured the silk stockings, she told me that since the fall of France, the German government fixed the exchange rate between the reichsmark and the franc so German currency had greater purchasing power. Soldiers with minimal pay could afford luxuries in Paris, like silk stockings and bottles of Chanel No. 5 perfume, she said, smiling, and sold them on the black market. As an American affianced to a Swede, I would be suspect if I didn’t have silk stockings.
Her mood darkened, her eyes widened, when she saw my ripped knickers and bruised thighs. I said nothing about my ordeal and she didn’t ask. She avoided looking at me, but she knew. I’ve no doubt she’d seen the vacant stare in a woman’s eyes after she’d been violated, understood the sensual awareness that takes over, her hatred of her body for being the instrument that killed her soul. Perhaps she’d known the depth of such humiliation herself, because she left a porcelain bowl filled with warm water, soap and a towel, indicating I should wash, then left me to do my business. Alone. I shan’t go into details except to mention I found only scant traces of blood staining my knickers, for which I was grateful. I cleaned myself as well as I could, though I doubted I’d ever feel clean again.
After a hot meal and sleep, I changed into the print frock and accessories provided for me, then a burly man who never smiled and spoke no English drove me to the train station in a beat-up gray truck used to haul fertilizer. The smell made me nauseous, but I said nothing. I once said I wasn’t a soldier. That was no longer true. I was in this fight until the end.
With little fanfare he helped me aboard the train to Berlin then brought my luggage to my compartment. The local village women had assembled a retinue for me, adding personal pieces of their own packed with fashions in my size. A remarkable sacrifice on their part. Not only would they have nothing to replace their clothes (Germans faced strict clothing rationing, with each person’s allotment recorded in a national registry), but certain death awaited them if they were caught.
I thanked the man in German, then he was gone. A shadow crossed over my heart, knowing I can say nothing more about him or the others who helped me without jeopardizing the welfare of future agents who cross into Germany. I make mention of them here should history fail to record their sacrifice and courage. I’d been briefed by SIS that the resistance in Germany against Hitler consisted of small groups of individuals who dared to defy the Nazi regime rather than an organized movement. I’m certain that will change.
I settled into the maroon leather seat, opening and closing my Tiffany compact to occupy me until we were well on our way. I had a long journey ahead of me, but when I arrived in Berlin I’d be on my own to complete my mission, which is why I must continue with my story to keep my mind from scattering and losing focus.
Determined to put the ugly incident aboard the fishing trawler behind me, I set my mental compass back to a different time, a different place. Cairo. A city overwhelmed by smells. Olive oil frying, leather being cured, bodies unwashed with the smell of sweat and nut oil clinging to them, saffron smoking in a brazier, incense with the distinct scent of sandalwood hypnotizing all who drew in its scent, and roses.
Roses.
Rose water in atomizers to soothe the skin, rose vines entwining the trellised roof of a mosque, rose perfume bottles on copper trays. And three little barefoot shoeshine boys wearing skullcaps and shapeless shifts overwhelming me with big bouquets of red, pink and apricot roses when I arrive
d at the train station in Cairo. Ramzi had arranged for them to meet us. Teeth missing, grinning, their shy dark faces glowing with impish enthusiasm, they bade us follow them down a trail of rose petals leading to a gharry, an open-air carriage drawn by a stately black horse.
Riding in the local cab through the city of Cairo with Ramzi at my side, I fell in complete bliss with the welcoming sweet fragrance of the flowers sweeping me along into my dream. My Egyptian lover nuzzled my neck with his lips, then his hand moved under my skirt, groping until I heard the familiar snap of my garter. I made no protest but allowed his finger entry into me, for I hungered to live out my obsession for him in the most provocative ways imaginable. I could only speculate what fetishes he would engage in to stimulate me, what ribald cabaret act he would orchestrate to extend my orgasm. I wanted to devour him and so I did. With raucous enthusiasm, I embraced his theater of sexual magic. Be aware, dear reader, the next part of my incredible journey is about to begin. You may be shocked, amazed, even titillated, but I beg you to remain with me so as to understand the tightrope I teetered on, though I was sure of my footing. I believed this erotic release would never end.
As is the custom in the Arab world, I shall not rush into it, for to appear too hurried is an insult not taken lightly. We’ve come this far together and I’ve no desire to offend, but to give you the opportunity to catch your breath. To create a mood, meditative, dreamlike, seductive.
I will take you to a secretive place where fantasy became reality, where a woman could be both mistress and whore. A place where slender minettes found romanticism and lust side by side, where girls executed a man’s desires in numerous languages. Joy-girls whose sexual mastery included vaginal as well as oral skills. And for the woman who wanted an intoxicating encounter with a man or a woman, a partner with a liberating wit and a phallus, either flesh and blood or man-made, no expense was spared to satisfy her sexual passion.
What I will share with you in these next pages are erotic images of wanton sexuality in a licentious atmosphere, all depicting the wages of sin in a very private, very exclusive nightclub in Cairo known as—
The Cleopatra Club.
7
Berlin
April 29, 1941
H e had been reading for a hour, maybe two. Chuck hadn’t expected the diary to reveal the inner workings of a woman so complicated, so defined by cultural expectations and so filled with pent-up desire. Sex was her god, though she masked her emotions with British manners that were nothing more than a disguise, compounded by her insatiable hunger to become inextricably caught up in lust.
How well he remembered witnessing the vision of her singularly beautiful body. Naked, sitting on the edge of the marble sunken bath, spreading her legs so he could get a view of her. Moist, wet. Her lower lips swelling up when he sucked on her, inhaling her smell, a scent that defined her for him as a woman of this exotic world, evoking a dreamlike state from which he couldn’t escape. He envisioned her wrapping her legs around him, then penetrating her with hard thrusts, making her cry out for more until his energy was spent. Even then, he wouldn’t stop. He wanted it to go on and on, reveling in the wonder of all of her, her body deliriously sensual, her touch soothing, her curves rounded and smooth. She was his.
He wrinkled his brow, frowning. No, that wasn’t true. She belonged to no man. Not even that Egyptian. Yes, she slept with him, allowed him and the Nubian to pleasure her, but that wasn’t enough for her. She wanted something else. Haughty, proud, slinking around the club in a gown so sheer every man gazed upon the curve of her breasts with her nipples hard and brown, she perfected her act of reigning sex goddess with a sophistication that transported him to another sphere. A place where pleasure never ceased and torment didn’t exist. Yet he sensed she wandered in an aimless circle, lost as he was in the decadent back alleys of Cairo, running from the confines of a society that judged their actions. He hadn’t seen the pain reflected in her eyes, only his own. He was so caught up in pursuing the game, he didn’t recognize that his prey was more vulnerable than he was.
His hands coated in sweat, he let the diary fall to the floor, ignoring the white card engraved with fancy writing slipping from the pages. Anger replaced amazement, imagining the horror she’d experienced aboard that trawler. He knew the enemy was vicious, heartless, but such acts were unforgivable, even in war. She’d been raped by that Nazi, yet she was determined to go through with her mission. This wasn’t the same woman he knew in Cairo. And what was all this nonsense about Cleopatra’s perfume? He remembered her babbling about it to him before she disappeared at the lake.
Determined to distance his emotions from what was an unpleasant chapter in his life, he picked up the diary, though his hands were shaking. He couldn’t stop the physical reaction he had, remembering the confinement in prison, the rotten smells, the psychological games to drive a man mad. He had escaped only through the help of another prisoner, a Czech whom he suspected wasn’t what he seemed. But that was in the past. He owed it to Eve’s memory to continue the journey as she’d written it in her own hand, in her own words. A curious thought pricked his mind. What wouldn’t she reveal about herself? Damn, he couldn’t make sense of anything. She was an enigma.
And him? Was he any different? Before he landed in Cairo, he’d been kicking around the Near East for months, running the mail back and forth for Imperial Airways, an outfit out of Great Britain. Women, drinking, gambling. He’d left the States to forget the mistake that cost his younger brother his life. A woman. Chuck had taken it upon himself to seduce the society girl with the dark glasses and pointy breasts before she could ruin the kid with her lies. She was interested only in showing off to her rich friends how she’d snagged the handsome flyboy. How could he have known the kid would convince her to fly with him so he could pull off some crazy stunt in the air to get her back? A stunt that went wrong. He crashed into the field, killing the girl. Afterward, he committed suicide.
Nothing could bring his brother back. Chuck had been on a downward spiral since then and it only got worse. Was it only two years ago that his life changed? Because of her. Lady Eve Marlowe. A society dame. Weren’t they all the same?
He’d never forget that night in Cairo when he jumped in to a cab smelling of urine and headed for the bar at Shepheard’s Hotel, never looking out the dirty window covered with a muck of oil and dust. Why bother? The scenery never changed, whether it was boys with trays of cakes darting in between the cars and gharries, men playing checkers at crowded sidewalk cafés, or a file of donkeys burdened with sacks bumping into anything that got in their way.
After he’d numbed the pain with enough whiskey at the hotel bar, he wandered through the bazaar, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and cumin, filling his belly with nuts and dried fruits before the smell of rancid raw meat and skinned heads of sheep sent him running back to the bar. He paid no attention to the sparks flying from the spinning wheels of knife sharpeners or the grease splattering from the strips of beef sizzling in huge pans of sesame oil. He headed for Wagh El-Birket, the brothel district.
There he chose a dark-eyed beauty dressed in a blue gauze chemise so flimsy, when he touched the fabric it seemed to melt away, revealing a body that made him want to run his hands over her buttocks and hips, moving his fingers down to her smooth shaven mound and open her to him. Probing, exploring her, but not fucking her. Drunk or sober, he couldn’t forget that disease ran rampant in these three-, four-story houses on Jermyn Street.
With his passion reduced to her lips brushing the head of his dick, he wandered down to the bird market. The raucous cacophony of lime-green parakeets squawking in their bamboo cages grated on his nerves, but it didn’t stop him from following a man in a dark woolen robe and billowing turban down a narrow alley. The sweet aroma of hashish guided him to a circle of men slamming down their bets, their blood hot with excitement, the screeching sounds of birds raising the ante to a fever pitch. He threw down what money he had left to bet on a fighting partridge, a larg
e, red-beaked bird with a killer instinct. The bird’s raucous cries echoed his own emotional turmoil and sexual frustration. Too long he’d been living the life of a man he would define as one who drinks, rants, gambles, is irresponsible, unfaithful, but never forgets. Never. And it was killing his soul.
When his gamble paid off and his bird won, he thought about returning to Mary’s House, his favorite hangout in the red-light district, but a casual remark from a man warming his hands over a wood fire glowing in a barrel made him finger the money in his pocket with renewed interest. A new club with a private backroom with forbidden pleasures was open to anyone who could pay, the man said, smiling. The Cleopatra Club. He brought his thumb and forefinger together and poked a finger through them, meaning sex.
Chuck grinned, but remained silent. An uncomfortable ache in the back of his head reminded him his other alternative was to pass out in a dirty hotel room with a whore’s empty sighs blowing in his ear. Why not see what new vices Cairo had to offer?
That had been his undoing.
Thinking about that night, he wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand and loosened the tight collar on the SS uniform he wore as any man would when he hungered for the taste of a woman he couldn’t have. Quickly, with barely controlled anticipation. The pain in his groin shot through him, worsening the situation because he had tasted her, known the softness of her body against his, the tilt of her head when she teased him, the fullness of her breasts with taut perfect nipples hardening between his thumbs.
Damn her.
He still didn’t understand why he allowed himself to be drawn into the underbelly of the Cairo nightlife. Garish, salacious, expressionistic. All he knew was the Cleopatra Club provided an erotic melodrama from which he couldn’t escape, an aesthetic mask to assuage his guilt. Even now in the Berlin hotel room, he could see in his mind the blur of nude bodies dancing without shame in the shadowy spaces between the small round tables, the women shimmying and licking their lips with their tongues, the men grabbing them and caressing their breasts, then sliding their hands between wet thighs before disappearing behind partitioned areas with low-to-the-floor tables with sunken leg spaces underneath for easier penetration during sex.