by Annette Hess
“I’m aware. I wouldn’t do it. Or do you want to help spread these horrifying myths?”
“What do you mean, ‘horrifying myths’?”
At that, Annegret stiffened and fell silent, got up, and left without a word. Eva was familiar with this. Her sister would now head for the kitchen and really stuff herself. The phone rang in the hallway. Eva checked the time. Ten thirty. Her heart began to pound. She leaped from her room and reached the phone before her mother. It really was Jürgen.
“Good evening, Eva.”
Eva tried to sound nonchalant, casual. “Good evening. A little late for a phone call.” But it came out a bit hoarse.
“Are you well, Eva?”
Eva was silent.
“Please forgive me. I’m sorry. But it is for the rest of our lives.”
“I realize that.”
They were silent until Jürgen asked, “Would you like to go to the movies with me tomorrow evening?”
“I don’t have time. I have to prepare for my new job.”
“A new job? Did you get an assignment?”
“It’s a lengthier engagement. I’ve got to provide for myself, after all. I can’t live off my parents’ goodwill forever. I’ve got to earn money.”
“Eva, I will pick you up at seven tomorrow!”
He sounded stern. Eva hung up. Annegret came out of the kitchen, chewing, with a new, dark stain on her light-colored dressing gown, and looked at Eva quizzically. Eva shrugged in mock despair, but she was smiling. Annegret said, “You see? The cards don’t lie.”
The next morning—without any instructions from the prosecution, without any official permission—David Miller started driving south in a rental car that had cost him half a month’s earnings. His destination: Hemmingen, near Stuttgart. One of the main defendants, the head of the political department at the camp—the Beast—was registered there as a resident. David had read all of the interview transcripts and allegations against Defendant Number Four and prepared an analysis for the prosecution. If only a fraction of the accusations were true, this man—now employed as a commercial clerk—lacked the very capacity for human emotion. The prosecution had been trying for days to reach him by phone. In vain. And with so little time left before the trial. As he sped through wintry southern Germany, David felt justified in pursuing his suspicion that the defendant had absconded. He drove in the passing lane and far too fast. The countryside, hills, forests, and odd farm to the left and right of the autobahn hurtled by and looked like a toy landscape compared to Canada’s ancient grandeur. David fishtailed, after braking abruptly. He forced himself to slow down. Imagine the irony if I were to die here on one of Hitler’s autobahns, David thought, and smirked.
David had intended to bypass Heidelberg but found himself in the heart of the city, entangled in a network of streets. He crossed the same bridge three times, and whenever he thought he’d found the way, the towering castle would rise in front of him again, as in a bad dream. David cursed. There was no city map in his road atlas, and he was about ready to surrender. While waiting at a stoplight, however, he discovered himself behind a car with French plates. He followed the foreign vehicle, in the hope that it would guide him out of the city. His plan proved successful, and after an hour of senseless straying, David’s car was once more flanked by forests and fields.
In Hemmingen, a sleepy town, he rolled down his window and asked someone cautiously picking their way through the snow for directions. Moments later, David stopped the car on Tannenweg, in front of number twelve. The house was well tended, a typical single-family home in a working-class area; built before the war, David imagined. Like all of the houses in the neighborhood, it was simple, with white plastered walls and a dark, wraparound balcony with barren flower boxes. There was no car outside the garage. David got out, walked across the snowy yard, and rang at the front door. He couldn’t find a nameplate. He waited. Everything was quiet behind the small barred window in the door. He rang again, twice, and looked around. A few shrubs stood naked in the small front yard. Several rose bushes had been covered with old sacks and looked like bony, mummified figures. They seemed prepared to ambush him should he drop his guard for even a moment. David heard a door inside. He rang again, and this time he kept his finger on the button. The door slowly opened a crack—it was locked on the other side with a door chain. “My husband isn’t here.” David could make out the elegant features of a dark-haired woman of about sixty, who looked at him with dullish, almond-shaped eyes. A faded beauty, David thought. “Well, where is he?”
“Who are you?” The woman regarded David with suspicion.
“It’s regarding the trial. We can’t seem to reach your husband. . . .”
“Are you a foreigner?”
David was momentarily thrown by the question. “My name is David Miller. I’m a clerk for the prosecution.”
“Then I know exactly the sort of man you are. You listen to me, Herr David,” the woman spat through the crack. “What you’re doing is utterly indecent! These outrageous lies you’re spreading about my husband. If you knew how engaged my husband has always been, the kind of person he is. He is the best father and best husband anyone could ask for. If you knew my husband . . .”
While the man’s wife continued to expound on her husband’s virtues, David recalled one witness’s account that had been placed on the record for the prosecution. She had had to work as the defendant’s secretary in the camp. She described a young prisoner, whom Defendant Number Four had interrogated for hours in his office in the political department. “By the time he was through, it was no longer a human being. It was just a sack. A bloody sack.”
“If you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll have to inform the police. Surely, you don’t want him to be picked up by the police, like a criminal—which you’ve assured me he isn’t.”
“He’s done nothing wrong!”
“Where is he?”
The woman hesitated, then snarled, “Hunting.”
THE TWO MEN SLOWLY traverse a rugged mountain landscape on horseback. The sun glitters, waterfalls tumble, birds of prey circle overhead. Screeching. One of the men is dressed in a buckskin suit with fringes. The other wears Indian garb. It’s Old Shatterhand and his blood brother, Winnetou. They ride in silence, on guard, scouting the area. Because somewhere in those rocks up there, their enemies are on the lookout, waiting for the perfect moment to shoot them dead on the spot.
Eva and Jürgen sat in the second row of the Gloria Palast cinema, their heads tilted back. They hadn’t managed to find any other spot. Every last seat was taken. Apache Gold had just opened in theaters. More importantly, Ralf Wolter would be signing autographs after the show. He played Sam Hawkens and was everyone’s favorite. Eva’s and Jürgen’s faces reflected the colorful shadows onscreen. Another screech of the eagle. Or was it a vulture? Eva didn’t know her raptors. The first shot was fired with a loud bang. Eva jumped and mused happily, The gunshots always sound best in Winnetou films.
The music swelled, and the battle got under way . . .
A LITTLE LATER, after good had prevailed, Eva and Jürgen ambled around the brightly lit Christmas market. The sky was black, the air frigid. Clouds formed in front of their faces when they spoke. They felt far removed from the heat of the prairie. Eva had gone without getting Ralf Wolter’s autograph, and Jürgen would rather have seen the new Alfred Hitchcock film, anyway. The Birds. Eva had linked arms with Jürgen. She was telling him about her first time at the movies. Don Quixote. The way the old man screamed as he hung from the sails of the windmill. She had been frightened. Her father had comforted her quietly: loons like that were very rare. Eva said her father could always calm her down. Jürgen wasn’t really listening. He stopped at a booth and bought two mugs of mulled wine. As they stood facing each other, he asked to hear more about this assignment. Eva told him. She lied, though, and said she had already agreed to the job. Jürgen had read about the trial.
“Eva, this trial could stretch on fo
r ages.”
“All the better. They pay weekly.” Eva was already a little tipsy from the half cup of mulled wine. Jürgen remained stern.
“And I do not wish for my wife to work. Our family is known in this city, and word would get out . . .”
Eva looked at him defiantly.
“And which wife might that be? I thought those plans had been dashed last Sunday.”
“You shouldn’t drink any more wine, Eva.”
“My family isn’t refined enough for you! Admit it!”
“Eva, please, don’t start with that again. I found your parents very likable. I am going to ask your father.”
“And besides, I’m not sure if I like that I’m not allowed to work. I’m a modern woman!”
But Jürgen was still speaking. “Under one condition: that you resign from this job.” He looked at Eva with the dark eyes she loved so much. His gaze was calm and secure. He smiled. She took his hand but couldn’t feel its warmth, because they both wore gloves.
Not far from where they stood, a brass ensemble began to play “Unto Us a Time Has Come.” Others at the market stopped to listen, the mood solemn. But the old men played so unsteadily and off-key that Eva and Jürgen couldn’t help laughing. Though they tried to stifle the urge, it was no use. With every new blunder, one of them would start again and infect the other. By the end they both had tears in their eyes, despite its being Eva’s favorite Christmas carol.
Later, on the walk home, she quietly sang it for Jürgen.
Unto us a time has come,
And with it brought an awesome joy.
O’er the snow-covered field we wander,
We wander o’er the wide, white world.
’Neath the ice sleep stream and sea,
While the wood in deep repose doth dream.
Through the softly falling snow, we wander,
We wander o’er the wide, white world.
From on high, a radiant silence fills hearts with joy,
While under astral cover, we wander,
We wander o’er the wide, white world.
Jürgen loved the way Eva nestled up and clung to him. If someone were to ask him that very moment what he felt for her, he thought, he could say, I love her.
DAVID WAS BACK IN HIS CAR. It bounced down a forest track, wheels spinning, till one of his rear tires slid into a pothole. The Ford wouldn’t budge. David switched off the engine and climbed out. The air was still, the sky starless. A cold full moon provided the only light. David looked around and spotted a gleam in the distance. He turned up his coat collar and trudged toward it. Snow filled his oxfords and melted. His socks were soon soaked. David kept walking. He arrived at a simple cabin with shuttered windows. A little light forced its way between the cracks. He heard nothing but a gentle rustling in the treetops. He hesitated, then opened the door without knocking. Three men in hunter green were gathered around a suspended carcass. All three looked toward the door. None appeared surprised. Two of the men were drinking bottles of beer. The third—haggard, with the face of a ferret—held a long knife in his hand. David recognized his face as that of Defendant Number Four. He was gutting a deer. Or whatever it was, it hung from a hook in the ceiling. It could be a person, for all David knew. Either way, it looked like a bloody sack.
The defendant gave David a quizzical but friendly look. “How can we help you?”
“My name is David Miller. I work for the attorney general.”
The man nodded, as though he’d expected as much. One of his hunting mates, meanwhile, a red-faced man who was already drunk, advanced menacingly on David, but the defendant stopped him. “What are you doing out here, and at this hour? The trial doesn’t start till Friday.”
“We’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“Make yourself scarce, kid!” his other crony joined in.
David trained his gaze on the defendant. “I would like you to come right now, come with me back to the city.”
“You couldn’t possibly have the authority! Or can you show me some credentials?!”
David didn’t know how to respond. The defendant set aside the knife and wiped his hands on a threadbare cloth hanging from a hook on the wall. Then he slowly approached David, who involuntarily recoiled. “I know I’ve nothing to fear. I’ll be there punctually. You have my word.” The man held out his right hand to David. David looked at it. A human hand, like any other.
A short time later, David stood outside the hut as though marooned in the moonlit forest. His feet were cold and wet. He didn’t remember where his car was. He set out, stumbled through the snow for a while, then stopped. No car. The cabin had disappeared now too. David stood under a thick cover of fir trees, in the middle of Germany somewhere. A gust of wind blew through the treetops, a quiet sigh. David looked into the canopy above him. Here and there, snow fell from the branches. He was suddenly overcome by the staggering number of crimes to be presented in three days’ time. He briefly imagined the number of people they were fighting for and for whom justice was due. As many as were he to gather all of the needles from the fir trees above him. Each stood for one of the persecuted, tortured, murdered humans. David’s legs went weak, they began to shake, then buckled. He fell to his knees, folded his hands, and held them high over his head. “God, visit your judgment on us all!”
Half an hour later, he had found his car. He maneuvered it laboriously out of the pothole. The car careened back down the forest track to the main highway, which had since been plowed. David hit the gas. He was embarrassed by his genuflection. Luckily, no one had seen him.
The new day brought with it new record low temperatures and blue skies. Eva, feeling well rested and in love, marched up the street to the newsstand. Her father needed this month’s issue of his favorite food magazine, The Pleasing Palate. The elderly Fräulein Drawitz vanished into the depths of her stand to look for it, surprised anew by the request, as she was every time. Eva’s gaze lingered on the daily papers on display. The upcoming trial was front-page news. One especially thick black headline read, “70 Percent of Germans Do Not Want Trial!” Eva felt guilty: she had never contacted the office of the prosecution. She bought the paper. Along with several others.
EVA HAD THE APARTMENT to herself. Her father was at the wholesale market, as he was every Thursday morning, her mother taking care of Christmas errands in the city, Stefan sweating it out at school, and Annegret tending to her infants at City Hospital. Eva sat down at the kitchen table, spread the papers out in front of her, and started reading. The time had come to draw a line under things, the articles argued. The twenty-one defendants were harmless family men, grandfathers, and good, hardworking citizens who had all undergone the denazification process without incident. That tax money should be invested more sensibly in programs for the future. Even the victors considered the chapter closed. “The moment one believes the grass to have grown back on a thing, along comes some stupid camel and eats it all up.” In this case, the camel had the same glasses and hairstyle as the state attorney general. Eva discovered, in a newspaper from Hamburg, that it had been the young Canadian lawyer David Miller who had managed to locate the Polish witness Josef Gabor just in time for him to testify on the first ever use of Zyklon B. That was the gas allegedly used to kill more than one million people in the camp. Eva was sure the number was a misprint. One entire back page was dedicated to photographs of the accused, several of which Eva had already seen at the law office. Now, however, she could study the men closely and right side up. She fetched the magnifying glass from her mother’s sewing box and looked at each face individually. One was fat, the next narrow, others smooth or wrinkled. One man grinned like a big friendly ferret, nearly all wore glasses, and several defendants were going bald. One was heavily built, with bat ears and a flattened nose, whereas another had very fine features. There was neither correspondence nor distinction. And the more Eva wanted to find out, the closer she leaned into the images, the more the faces dissolved into tiny squares of black, g
ray, and white.
The apartment door snapped shut. Eva’s mother came in with Stefan, whom she had picked up at school. He was bawling because he had fallen in the street and hurt his knee.
Edith set down her shopping basket and scolded him, “I told you to stop sliding around out there!”
Stefan sought refuge on Eva’s lap, and she inspected his knee. His checkered pants were torn, his skin beneath a little scraped up. Eva blew on the harmless wound. Stefan noticed the pictures of the defendants. “Who is that? A team?”
Their mother had come to the table too, and looked curiously for a moment at the sea of newsprint. The moment Edith realized what it was Eva found so interesting, she swept up all of the papers in a single motion. She opened the oven beside the stove and shoved in the entire armful.
“Mum! What on earth are you doing?!”
The faces caught fire, turned black, and ash fluttered through the room. Edith closed the oven door. She covered her mouth with her hand and rushed from the kitchen to the bath. Eva got up and followed. Her mother kneeled at the toilet and vomited. Eva watched, perturbed. Stefan appeared beside her in the doorway.
“Mummy, what’s wrong?”
Their mother stood up and rinsed out her mouth at the sink.
“You know that Mummy sometimes feels sick when she smells smoke,” Eva answered her brother. But that didn’t explain why Edith had burned the newspapers. Eva studied her.
Edith dried her face on a towel and said, “Let go of the past, Eva. It’s for the best, believe me.” Edith returned to the kitchen with Stefan. Eva stayed where she was, in the bathroom doorway. She looked into her own baffled face in the mirror above the sink.
That afternoon, Eva and Annegret went into the city together. Their father had slipped them an envelope containing five hundred marks, amid a flurry of enigmatic hints and indecipherable hand gestures, although their mother wasn’t even in the room, and although they had agreed weeks earlier that the sisters would purchase a washing machine for their mother, on behalf of their father. A long-coveted Christmas gift. They submitted to the presentation of one of Hertie’s new products, a top-load drum model with both prewash and normal cycles. The salesman opened the lid, closed it, pushed in the detergent drawer, and pulled it back out again. He earnestly described how much laundry could be washed per load (5.5 kilograms), how long that took (two hours), and how clean their clothing would be (like new). Annegret and Eva exchanged amused looks here and there: they both found it ridiculous how well this man knew his laundry. Regardless, they ordered the newest model from Herr Hagenkamp—as identified by his name tag—and took his word that the machine would be delivered and installed before Christmas Eve. As they left the department store, Eva realized that, during the Twelve Nights, their mother wouldn’t be doing any laundry. Annegret retorted that the tradition applied only to bed linens, because that’s what the mischievous spirits were known to steal between Christmas and Epiphany. They crossed the Christmas market. It was already getting dark. Annegret wanted to get a bratwurst. Eva was hungry too. They went to Schipper’s Sausages, although their father had forbidden them from eating at that stall: “Schipper fills his sausages with sawdust, I’m sure of it—especially for the Christmas market! How else could he afford that house in the Taunus hills?” The sisters liked Schipper’s sausages best, though. Perhaps it was their forbidden nature that made them so delectable. Eva and Annegret stood facing each other, chewing happily. Annegret mentioned that she still needed to buy her gift for Stefan, a book by Astrid Lindgren, whom Annegret adored. He was getting too old for those simple fairytales Eva always read to him. The detective at the heart of the story was a boy just a little older than Stefan. A real crime occurred. Their brother was mature enough for that now. But Eva wasn’t listening. She had noticed an older bearded man cautiously making his way across the market, as though afraid of slipping in the snow. He wore a thin coat and a tall, jet-black hat with a narrow brim. He carried a small suitcase. He approached a stall selling tropical fruits. A large banner depicting the rising sun hung on its back wall. The man said something to the woman behind the counter, but it looked like she hadn’t understood. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and showed it to her. She just shrugged her shoulders. The man persisted—he pointed again at the sheet, then at the stall. The woman raised her voice.