The German House

by Annette Hess

  The blond man stood up behind his desk. “Who gave the order?” He moved the coffee cups and laid out twenty-one photos on Eva’s table. Eva regarded the faces from the side. Men with numbers under their chin in front of whitewashed walls. But some in sunny yards, playing with big dogs. One man had the face of a ferret. Josef Gabor stood up and approached the table. He gazed upon the photos for a long time and then pointed at one so suddenly, it made Eva jump. The picture showed a younger man grasping a large rabbit by the scruff, holding it toward the camera with a proud smile on his face. The men in the room exchanged satisfied glances and nodded. My father used to breed rabbits, Eva thought, at their garden plot outside the city, where he grew the vegetables for the kitchen. The endlessly chewing animals were kept in little enclosures. But the day Stefan realized he wasn’t just petting and supplying his silky soft companions with dandelions, but also eating them, he had thrown a terrible fit. Her father got rid of the rabbits.

  Later, Eva had to sign her translation of the testimony. Her name looked different than usual. As though written by a child, clumsy and rounded. The blond man gave her an absentminded nod. “Thank you. Invoice goes through your agency?” David Miller rose from his chair against the wall and said brusquely, “Wait outside. Two minutes.”

  Eva put on her coat and stepped into the hall, while David conferred with the blond man. She could make out, “Unqualified! Utterly unqualified!” The blond man nodded, picked up the telephone, and dialed a number. The attorney general dropped heavily into a chair.

  Eva stepped up to one of the tall windows in the hallway and peered out into the shadowy back courtyard. It had begun to snow. Thick, heavy flakes. Countless dark windows, deserted and mute, in the high-rise opposite returned Eva’s gaze. Not a soul lives there, Eva thought. Just offices. Three mittens had been laid to dry on the radiator under the window. Who do they belong to? she wondered. Who does the single mitten belong to?

  Josef Gabor appeared beside her. He bowed slightly and thanked her. Eva nodded at him. Confused. Through the open door, she noticed that the gnarled man was observing her from his chair by the window. David Miller joined her in the hallway, pulling on his coat as he walked. “I’ll drive you.” He clearly wasn’t happy to.

  Neither spoke in the car. The wipers moved fitfully, driving off the innumerable snowflakes from the windshield. David was beside himself. Eva could sense his fury.

  “I’m sorry, but I just jumped in. Normally I just handle contracts. . . . It was absolutely horrible, what that man was—”

  The car skidded narrowly past a streetlight. David cursed under his breath.

  “What was he talking about? An incident from the war?”

  David did not look at Eva. “You’re all so ignorant.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You all think that the little brown men landed their spaceship here in ’33. Am I right? Then off again they went in ’45, after forcing this fascism thing on you poor Germans.”

  It wasn’t until he spoke for a longer stretch that Eva could hear he wasn’t German. He had a slight accent, maybe American. And he placed his words very precisely. As though everything he said had been rehearsed.

  “I’d like to get out, please.”

  “And you’re just another one of the millions of idiot Fräuleins. I saw it the moment you got in the car. Oblivious and ignorant! Do you know what you Germans did?! Do you know what you did?!!”

  “Stop the car this instant!”

  David hit the brakes. Eva seized the handle, opened the door, and got out. “That’s right, just run away. I hope your German comfort ki—”

  Eva slammed the door. She hurried through the falling snow. Suddenly everything was quiet, the furor behind her. The heavy vehicle swooped off. Eva thought, That driver, or whatever he is, isn’t mentally stable!

  Jürgen’s car had disappeared from out in front of German House. Where he’d parked was covered in snow, as though Jürgen had never been there. The windows of the restaurant glowed warmly. The drone of voices inside could be heard from the street. Company Christmas parties. Those meant good business for them every year. Eva watched the silhouettes moving behind the panes. She saw her mother, laden with plates, approach a table and serve the guests swiftly, deftly. Chops. Schnitzel. Goose with red cabbage and the endless dumplings her father, the magician, formed with his soft, dexterous hands and sent into the seething salted water.

  Eva wanted to go in, but she hesitated. For a moment, the place seemed like a maw that threatened to swallow her. Then she pulled herself together. Herr Gabor had experienced something terrible, but the question of the hour was: Had Jürgen asked for her hand in marriage?

  As Eva stepped into the restaurant—into the human warmth, the haze of sizzling goose fat, the roomful of bodies, all a bit drunk and merry—her mother came up, balancing plates. Edith Bruhns was now wearing her work clothes: black skirt and white blouse, a white apron and her comfortable beige shoes. She whispered in alarm, “What happened to you? Did you fall?”

  Eva shook her head indignantly. “Did he ask?”

  “Talk to your father!” Edith turned and carried on serving.

  Eva entered the kitchen. Her father was hard at work with his two helpers. Her father, in his white coat, dark trousers, chef’s hat on his head, his belly always pushed out a little in front, which gave him a funny look. Eva whispered, “Did he ask?” Her father opened an oven, which released a massive cloud of steam in his face. He didn’t appear to notice. He heaved a large pan of roast goose—two whole, brown birds—from the oven. He did not look at his daughter. “Nice young man. Decent.”

  Eva sighed in disappointment. She had to struggle to keep from crying. Then her father came up to her. “He’ll ask, Eva, sweetheart. But if he doesn’t make you happy, heaven help him!”

  That night, Eva lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. The streetlight in front of the house threw a shadow into her room that looked like a man on a horse. A tall man with a lance. Don Quixote. Eva studied him every night, the way he floated above her, and asked herself, What is it I’m fighting in vain? Eva thought of Jürgen and cursed her fear that he might leave at the last moment. Maybe women didn’t interest him. After all, who voluntarily decides to become a priest? Why hadn’t he ever touched her? Eva sat up, switched on the light on her bedside table, opened a drawer, and pulled out a letter. The only letter from Jürgen in which he’d written “I love you.” It was, however, preceded by “If I had to settle on a feeling, then I could definitely say that . . .” There it was. In Jürgen’s awkward way of expressing emotions, this was an untarnished confession of love! Eva sighed, placed the letter back in the bedside table, and turned off the light. She closed her eyes. She saw flakes swirling, and an indistinct façade with dark windows. She began to count them. At some point, she fell asleep. She did not dream of Jürgen. She dreamed of a hostel, far to the east. A hostel tastefully covered in flowers and grasses to keep out the wind and cold. She had invited many guests. As Eva and her parents served the crowd, the guests reveled heartily till early morning. Till none of them were breathing.

  Monday. The city lay under a thick blanket of snow. Those responsible for the roads ate breakfast standing that morning while making phone calls about the precarious situation, only to spend the rest of the day in their overheated offices, being bombarded with complaints about vehicular damage and streets that hadn’t been cleared.

  Mondays meant that German House was closed. Ludwig Bruhns got in his “weekly beauty rest” till nine. Annegret, who had gotten home from her shift earlier that morning, hadn’t made an appearance yet, either. The remaining family members ate breakfast in the big, bright kitchen that faced the back courtyard. The fir tree that towered there was covered in white, a few crows perching motionless in its branches, as though they couldn’t comprehend the snow. Stefan had stayed home, supposedly with a “beastly” sore throat. Edith Bruhns had feigned mercilessness and responded, “Well, someone decided to play in
the snow without a coat . . .” But then she had rubbed his little chest with eucalyptus salve, which lent the kitchen a gentle aroma. She’d wrapped a scarf around his neck and was now slathering a third slice of bread with honey, which was good for sore throats. Meanwhile, she was also comforting Eva, who paged unhappily through the morning paper.

  “Your worlds are too different. I can understand the attraction, child. But it would be the end of you. Just the thought of that estate. I know the ones, up there in the hills. People’s properties the size of ten soccer fields . . .”

  “Can I play soccer up there?!” Stefan asked with his mouth full.

  “After the first flush of love has faded,” Edith continued, “you need to represent. You need to keep a smile on your face and stay strong. And don’t expect much of your husband. He’s got such an important post, you’ll barely set eyes on him. You’ll be alone. And that’s not the life for you, Eva. It’ll make you sick. Your nerves always were so delicate. . . .”

  “Nerves.” The word bothered Eva every time she heard it. It was as though her nerves were something outside of her, cladding her body. As though her delicate nerves were a matter of having chosen the wrong clothing. Eva thought of Brommer’s Costumes, by the train station, a store as musty as it was magical, as dark, dangerous, and impenetrable as the jungle. Since childhood, she had loved plunging into their wares every year in preparation for Carnival. She imagined coming across strong nerves hanging among ruffled princess gowns on one of the store’s countless racks. A coat woven and knotted out of thick, steely strands. Impregnable, impossible to tear, protection from all pain. “Mum, that’s something you can learn! Just look at Grace Kelly. First an actress, and now she’s a princess. . . .”

  “You have to be the right type for something like that.”

  “Then what type might I be, pray tell?”

  “You are a normal young woman who needs a normal man. Maybe a tradesman. Roofers make very good money.” Eva snorted in outrage and was about to voice her disdain for every last type of tradesman, when a small black-and-white photograph in the newspaper caught her eye. It showed two of the men she had spent an hour with in a smoke-filled room yesterday: the younger, blond man and older fellow with the funny windswept hair. They were pictured in serious conversation. The caption read, “Lead prosecutor and Hessian state attorney general holding preparatory discussions.” Eva started to read the one-column article. A trial against former members of the SS was evidently set to begin in the city that very week.

  “Eva? Are you listening? I’m talking to you! What about Peter Rangkötter? He courted you for such a long time. And tilers never run out of work.”

  “Mum, do you seriously think I would ever want to be named Eva Rangkötter?” Stefan, his little chin covered in honey, giggled and gleefully chanted, “Frau Rangkötter! Frau Rangkötter!” Eva ignored her brother, pointed to the article, and looked at her mother. “Have you heard about this? This trial? That was my assignment yesterday.”

  Edith took the paper, glanced at the photograph, and skimmed the article. “It’s terrible, what happened. In the war. But no one wants to hear it anymore. And why in our city, of all places?” Edith Bruhns folded up the paper. Eva looked at her mother in surprise. It sounded as though she had some stake in it. “And why not?” Her mother didn’t respond. Instead, she stood and began to clear the dirty dishes. She was wearing a tight-lipped expression—her “lemon face,” as Stefan called it. She turned on the boiler above the sink to heat dishwater.

  “Can you help downstairs today, Eva, or do you have to work?”

  “Yes, I can. Things are slow around Christmas. Besides, the boss always asks Karin Melzer first. Because she always wears such pointed brassieres.”

  “Shhh,” Edith hissed, with a glance at Stefan, who merely smirked.

  “As if I didn’t knew what a brassiere is.”

  “As if I didn’t know,” Edith corrected him. The water in the boiler began to seethe. Edith stacked the dishes in the sink.

  Eva opened the newspaper again and finished reading the article: twenty-one men had been indicted. They had all worked at a camp in Poland. The trial had been repeatedly delayed. The main defendant, the camp’s final commander, had already died on them. His adjutant, a Hamburg businessman of excellent repute, had been indicted in his place. Testimony would be heard from 274 witnesses. Hundreds of thousands of people in the camp were allegedly—

  “Boo!”

  Stefan unexpectedly smacked the bottom of the paper, one of his favorite jokes. As always, Eva was terribly startled. She tossed the paper aside and leaped to her feet. “Just you wait!” Stefan stormed out of the kitchen, Eva on his heels. She chased her little brother through the apartment, finally capturing him in the living room, where she held him tight and threatened to squish him like the lousy louse he was. Stefan squealed in delight, his peals so shrill they shook the crystal glassware in the cupboard.

  In the kitchen, Edith still stood at the sink, watching the boiler. The water was now boiling loudly, unsettlingly. The dirty dishes waited in the sink. But Edith didn’t move. She stared, motionless, at the big, hot bubbles dancing behind the glass.

  At the same time, in the offices of the prosecution, the atmosphere resembled backstage at the theater shortly before the curtain rises on a world premiere. David Miller attempted to appear composed and professional as he stepped into the corridor but was instantly seized by the feverish surge: every office door was open, telephones were ringing, pastel-colored office girls balanced towers of files or wheeled documents across the linoleum on squeaky carts. Ring binders were laid out along the length of the hallway, dark red and black, like collapsed rows of dominoes. Plumes of smoke spilled from every room. The clouds reminded David of greyhounds hovering, as if in slow motion, over the nervous chaos and dissipating before their chance to chase the mechanical hare. David almost laughed. It made him uncomfortable, it seemed cynical—but he was excited. He was there. Of the forty-nine applicants for the clerkship, only eight had been selected. Himself included, despite having passed the bar only a year earlier in Boston. David knocked on the open door to the lead prosecutor’s office. He was standing at his desk, on the phone, a glowing cigarette between his fingers. The outlines of a construction crane in the courtyard outside were visible through the foggy windows. The blond man gave David a curt nod and, as usual, appeared to struggle to recall exactly who he was. David entered.

  “The length of the trial will depend on the chief judge,” the blond man spoke into the phone. “And I cannot read the man. If he acts according to the consensus, then things will be hushed up and relativized and we’ll be through in four weeks. But the prosecution will insist upon a thorough evidentiary hearing. Personally, I’m expecting more along the lines of four months.” He paused. “Sure, consider it a present. Go ahead and write it.” The blond man hung up and used the butt of his cigarette to light the next. His hands were steady. David didn’t waste time with a greeting: “Has he been in touch?”

  “Who?”

  “The Beast.”

  “No. And I would prefer it, Herr Miller, if you would refrain from using such slanted terms. We’ll leave that to the public.”

  David waved off the rebuke. He couldn’t comprehend how the prosecutor could remain so calm. One of the main defendants had been released from custody three months earlier, citing health issues. For the past five days now, they’d been unable to reach him at his registered address. And the trial was scheduled to begin Friday morning.

  “But then we’ve got to get the police involved! They’ve got to launch a manhunt!”

  “No legal basis, I’m afraid. The trial hasn’t begun yet.”

  “But he’ll abscond, damn it! Like all the others, to Argentina and—”

  “We need that young woman. The one from yesterday. What was her name?” the blond man interrupted him. David shrugged reluctantly, although he knew who he meant. The prosecutor didn’t wait for a response.

&n
bsp; “They won’t let Dombreitzki leave the country.”

  “Dommitzki.”

  “Exactly, him. Negotiations are under way, but he’s staying where he is for now. In a Polish prison. An agreement could take months to reach.”

  “I don’t believe that a young German woman, of all people, is suitable for such a demanding position. Sir”—David was becoming more insistent—“we are entirely dependent on our interpreters. They could tell us whatever the hell they wanted—”

  “She’ll take an oath. You could also see it this way: a woman might have a calming effect on witnesses. And that’s exactly what we need, witnesses who feel safe! We need to get everything we can out of them—and they have to tell us what happened, have to endure the strain. So drive over there straightaway. You remember the address?” David nodded hesitantly and shuffled out.

  The blond man sat down. This Miller fellow was too keen, too dogged. He’d heard a rumor that Miller’s brother had died in the camp. It would be tricky if there were any truth to that rumor, because they’d have to replace him then, due to conflict of interest. On the other hand, they needed dedicated young people like him to spend day and night processing the thousands of documents, comparing dates, names, and events, and helping maintain order in this cacophony of voices. The blond man deeply inhaled the smoke from his cigarette, held his breath for a moment, and turned to the window. Outside in the courtyard, the shadowlike crane traced its usual circles.

  Eva mopped the floor of the cavernous German House dining room. Her father, who had since risen from his beauty sleep, was in the kitchen polishing surfaces with the radio on. A Schlager pop song Eva and Jürgen had once danced to carried into the dining room. Peter Alexander crooned, “Come with me to Italy!” Jürgen was a good dancer. And he smelled so good, like resin and the sea. He held her so tight when they danced. He always knew what was right and what was wrong. Eva swallowed. She pushed him away in her mind, furious and disappointed. Jürgen, who for half a year had called from his desk every morning at eleven, hadn’t been in touch today. Eva slapped the wet mop on the floorboards. She resolved never to see him again if he didn’t call by two. As for his letters, the white gold bracelet, deerskin gloves, angora undergarments (she’d had pneumonia in November, and Jürgen had been very concerned), collection of Hesse poems, and . . . boom boom boom! Someone was thumping on the locked front door. Eva spun around: a man, a young man. Jürgen, overcome by emotion, had uncharacteristically abandoned his desk to ask for her hand in marriage, right here, right now. On bended knee. Eva set aside the mop, hastily shed her smock, and rushed to the door. Everything was fine. But then she recognized the unfriendly man from yesterday through the glass. David Miller. Annoyed, she opened the door. “We’re closed!” David shrugged and looked at her, unfazed. “I’m here on behalf of . . .” Eva was astonished to notice that David hadn’t left any tracks in the fresh snow, as though he’d flown up to the door. Strange.