The German House

by Annette Hess

  “I do not understand you! Get that in your head! No un-der-stand-y! Nix!”

  The woman shooed him away, but the man didn’t move. The stall owner now appeared beside his wife.

  “Scram, old man Israel! Go away!”

  Eva wasn’t sure if “Israel” was what she had heard, but she left Annegret—who hadn’t observed the scene and now watched her in surprise—and went over to the stall.

  Eva walked up beside the man in the hat. “Can I help you? Kann ich helfen?” She repeated the question in Polish as well. The man reluctantly looked at her. Eva peeked at the paper in his hand. It was a brochure for a boardinghouse called the Sun Inn. Eva noticed that its emblem was a rising sun. She addressed the stall owner. “The gentleman is looking for a place called the Sun Inn. He must have seen your sun there and thought—”

  But the two behind the counter didn’t care what the man thought. The owner bristled. “Is he going to buy anything? If not, he’d better quit loitering and go back to Israel.”

  Eva wanted to respond, but then shook her head and turned to the old man. “Come with me, I know where the boardinghouse is.”

  The man responded in Hungarian—that much, Eva recognized. But she understood very little. Only that he had just arrived at the train station and was now looking for the inn. Eva left the man for a moment and returned to Annegret.

  “I’m going to bring this gentleman to his boardinghouse.”

  “Why? How is that any of your concern?”

  “Annie, the man is completely helpless.”

  Annegret glanced at the man and turned away. “By all means, run along and rescue some unknown tramp. I’m going to go buy the book.”

  Eva went back to the bearded man, who stood waiting for her motionlessly and seemed to be holding his breath. She tried to carry his suitcase for him, but he refused to let it go. She took him by the arm and began leading him toward the inn. The man moved slowly, as though fighting some inner resistance. Eva noted that he smelled slightly of burned milk. His coat was stained, he wore thin, scuffed shoes, and he kept slipping, and Eva held him up each time.

  The boardinghouse was on a side street. Eva spoke with the owner behind the small reception desk, a doughy man who had clearly just eaten dinner and was now blithely fishing bits of food from between his teeth with a toothpick. Yes, a room had been reserved for one Otto Cohn from Budapest. The innkeeper eyed the bearded man with aversion. The elderly man then opened his wallet, in which several crisp hundred-mark bills were visible, and pulled out his identification. The innkeeper tossed aside his toothpick and demanded a week’s advance pay for the room. The bearded man placed one of the bills on the counter and received the heavy key to room eight in return.

  He then started in the direction the owner had indicated. He seemed to have forgotten all about Eva. She watched him stop in front of the elevator and shake his head. He’s at sixes and sevens, Eva thought. She snorted impatiently, approached the helpless man, took him again by the arm, and led him up the stairs. Eva unlocked the door to number eight. They entered a small room with a simple bed, unadorned wardrobe finished with an oak veneer, and orange curtains bright as fire. Eva stood there indecisively. The man laid his suitcase on the bed and opened it, as though Eva were no longer in the room. A black-and-white photograph, half the size of a postcard, lay on top of his things. Eva could make out the merged shadows of several people. She cleared her throat.

  “Very well, then.”

  The man in the hat did not respond.

  “A thank you might be in order.”

  Eva was about to leave when the man turned to her and said, in broken German, “I beg your pardon. I cannot say thank you to you.”

  They looked at each other. In the man’s pale eyes, Eva discovered a pain more profound than any she had ever seen in a person. She suddenly felt ashamed and nodded. Then she carefully exited the room.

  Otto Cohn turned back to his suitcase. He picked up the photograph and gazed at it. Then he said, in Hungarian, “I’m here now. Just as I promised you.”

  EVA’S FATHER NEEDED her help in the kitchen early Friday morning. The fourth Sunday of Advent was upon them, and he expected triple the orders as usual to pass through the window that weekend. Besides, he had already taken two painkillers with breakfast, because his back was “smarting like hell.” The cold crept into his bones, and he wasn’t at the top of his form. He hadn’t even turned on the radio today. He looked pale as he dressed one goose after the other and gathered the giblets—save the liver—in a pot for the gravy. Frau Lenze, an older employee whose husband was a war cripple and who therefore had to earn a little extra, silently scrubbed vegetables for the stock. Eva shredded cabbage till her right arm ached. Her father combined the red cabbage with cloves and lard in an enormous black enamel pot that no one but he could lift. The stove was fired up. Cooking aromas filled the kitchen. Eva separated eggs and beat the whites to stiff peaks. She mixed up two types of pudding, chocolate and vanilla. These would be served with rhubarb compote her mother had made last summer. All three began to sweat as the air grew impenetrable. Then Frau Lenze cut a deep gash in her finger while dicing onions. Her face went white. The blood dripped on the tile floor, and the water she ran over it from the tap turned red. Eventually they stanched the bleeding, and as Eva put the adhesive bandage in place, she stole a glance at Frau Lenze’s watch. The trial was set to begin in three quarters of an hour. Eva took over the onions from Frau Lenze, who removed her apron contritely. Ludwig gave her a nod. “You’ll be paid through three o’clock.” Relieved, Frau Lenze went home with her throbbing forefinger.

  THE AUDITORIUM IN THE MUNICIPAL BUILDING had the ambiguous character of a function hall. A light-colored veneer clad the walls, and the floors were an impervious beige linoleum. Instead of regular windows, big smooth glass panes had been installed from floor to ceiling in the outer left-hand wall. The trees in the overgrown courtyard beyond the wall were distorted into flickering spots and silhouettes, which could give one the feeling of intoxication. The auditorium was typically used for Carnival programs, sports banquets, or touring theater performances. Just last week, a troupe from Braunschweig had presented the comedy The General’s Trousers. In the play, a rather juicy case was taken to court. The audience had laughed in appreciation of all the double entendres, and the performance concluded to hearty applause. A real trial had never been held in this room, though. Since the city courthouse lacked the capacity for the trial’s many participants, this convenient space had been selected. For days, builders had been hammering, tightening screws, and doing what they could to transform the prosaic space into something approximating a hallowed court of law. The gallery had been separated from the action by a balustrade, to underscore that the trial was not intended for entertainment. What was actually the stage had been hung with thick, pale blue drapes. The long, heavy judge’s bench had been erected before this backdrop. The prosecution would sit on the right side of the hall. Three rows of individual tables and chairs had been arranged in front of the glass wall, facing the prosecution: the defendants’ spots. A solitary table waited somewhat forlornly in the open space between the prosecutors and the accused. This was where the witnesses and interpreters would sit and speak. Every last spot had been equipped with a small black microphone, and yet, half an hour before the trial was set to begin, there were still some that didn’t work. Technicians hectically tinkered with connections and taped up the last cords. Staff working for the prosecution trundled carts carrying their precious files and deposited folders on the prosecutors’ table and the bench. Two hall attendants carried in a wide, rolled-up screen and began securing it to a map stand behind the bench.

  A young man with reddish hair was placing numbered cardboard signs on the defendants’ tables. It was David Miller, his expression as rapt as if he were executing a sacred rite. He was reading the seat assignments from a sheet. That chart was the product of lengthy discussion. The main defendants, who carried the most serious
charges, were now seated at the front. Behind them, those accused of lesser allegations. As if you could consider them lesser. Is someone who kills ten, less harmful than one who kills fifty? David thought. He looked at the clock. It was five minutes to ten. At this very moment, eight of the defendants were being picked up by minibus from pretrial detention. Thirteen had not been detained or had been released on bail, such as the affluent main defendant, who had been the adjutant to the camp commandant. Or they’d been released from custody for health reasons, such as Defendant Number Four, who had given David his word he would be there. Meanwhile, the attendants hoisted up the map stand and unrolled the screen, which immediately filled the auditorium with the smell of fresh oil paint.

  “C’mon, Officer, let us in already, will ya?!”

  “We’ve been standin’ out here since eight!”

  Outside the double doors to the courtroom, a throng of spectators was growing impatient, as all hoped to secure a spot in the front row. Judicial officers in dark blue uniforms prevented them from entering the hall. It was already evident that the seating in the gallery was insufficient. Hall attendants were bringing in more of the stackable chrome chairs, always in threes. Two men in black robes entered the hall through a side door. One of them was the man with light blond hair. He appeared primed for battle—the coat he wore beneath his robe was bulky and looked like armor. The second man was older and rather plump, and his robe billowed out shapelessly around his body. He was partially bald and his strikingly round, pale face provided a sharp contrast to his black horn-rimmed glasses. He stumbled over one of the cables but caught himself. He was the chief judge, the man who would lead the trial. The man who would deliver the sentences. The two men conversed quietly. The blond man explained that they were still waiting for the Polish interpreter, but that they’d received confirmation of his permission to leave the country by next week. The Czech translator could help answer questions till then, although he neither wanted nor was able to translate witness statements. They had therefore postponed the Polish witness testimonies till later in the trial. By now, David had distributed all of the cardboard signs on the tables. He made his way across the room to introduce himself to the chief judge. David was already lifting his hand, but as he drew near, the blond man turned his back on him, as though he didn’t recognize him yet again. He blocked David’s path. David let his hand fall. The blond man had stopped one of the attendants and was giving him instructions, upon which the man began dragging the witness stand away from the defendants’ tables. This pulled at the microphone cord. One of the technicians jumped in.

  “Watch it!” he admonished him. “You can’t just yank it away like that. D’you’ve any idea how long I had to mess around with this?!” The technician turned on the microphone on the table and rapped against it with the knuckle of his index finger. A deafening sound popped over the speakers: everyone froze for a moment and traded looks of surprise.

  “Now we’re awake!” someone called. The speaker system worked, beyond question. Then they all laughed.

  At that moment, a haggard man wearing a perfectly tailored dark blue suit appeared among the swarming spectators in the doorway. He presented identification and an official letter to one of the judicial officers. The officer abruptly stood at attention and clicked his heels. David looked over and recognized the man. A feeling of triumphant hatred—if such a combination even existed—surged down his body. The man, unknown to the crowd and consequently undisturbed, entered the hall and oriented himself. He headed for the defendants’ tables and took his place. It was Defendant Number Four. The Beast. After removing several folders and notes from his briefcase and arranging them neatly on his table, he looked up. He noticed David watching him. He gave him a nod. David quickly turned away, but the blond man, who had witnessed the greeting, caught his eye and rushed over.

  “Are we acquainted?” he asked quietly.

  David hesitated, then admitted that he had driven to Hemmingen. “We’ve got to err on the side of caution!”

  “We’ll discuss this later!” The blond man stormed over to the haggard man, who politely stood as the prosecutor told him the defendants were all first meeting with their lawyers in another room, then entering the hall together.

  Defendant Number Four responded curtly, “I require no legal counsel.” Nevertheless, he gathered up his papers and followed the blond man out the side door. For a moment, David stood alone in the middle of the hall. He studied the screen that had been hung. It was a map the prosecution had commissioned from a painter. The artist had used diagrams and photographs to create a rendering that appeared spatially accurate. Even the lettering above the gate to the main camp had been perfectly replicated. The b in the word Arbeit was upside down. One of the witnesses had told them this had been a silent protest by the metalsmith who’d had to craft the sign for the SS.

  In the spacious, sunny foyer—which seemed newly opened, with a light stone floor that invited rubber soles to squeak—more and more spectators were gathering and surging toward the auditorium doors. English, Hungarian, and Polish could be heard. Drinks and sandwiches were being sold at a counter. The air smelled faintly of coffee and cervelat. A clutch of reporters had formed around the gnarled figure of the state attorney general. Some extended microphones in his direction, whereas other reporters scribbled on small notepads.

  “Following four years of preparation . . .” one young man began.

  “We could easily say ten years.”

  “Following ten years of preparation, and counter to public interest, you have managed to force this case to court. Sir, do you consider this a personal triumph?”

  “If you take a look around, my good man, one could hardly suggest a lack of interest.”

  Another reporter had turned away from the group and was speaking into a Wochenschau camera: “Twenty-one defendants, three judges, six jurors, two associate judges, and three talesmen are involved, as well as four prosecutors, attorneys representing three joint plaintiffs, and nineteen defense attorneys. The taxpayer may well ask: what is the justification for these efforts and these costs?”

  IN THE KITCHEN AT GERMAN HOUSE, Eva peered at the clock again through the steam. It was ten minutes past ten. If she ran as fast as she could, and if she caught the streetcar, she could still make it. She washed the smell of onions from her hands.

  “Daddy, the basics have been taken care of for now.”

  Ludwig Bruhns was just patting dry the inside of the last goose with crepe paper.

  “The stuffing hasn’t been made yet . . . someone needs to shell the chestnuts for that, Eva.”

  “But I still need to . . . go into the city. Now.”

  Ludwig Bruhns turned to face Eva.

  “Where’s the fire?”

  “I can’t postpone it,” Eva responded evasively. Ludwig gave his daughter a puzzled look, but she didn’t elaborate.

  “Presents, right? Me and my dumb questions, huh?”

  “Exactly, Daddy. It is almost Christmas.”

  “Then by all means, leave your poor, old, sick father in the lurch. Heartless child!”

  Eva gave her father a peck on his sweaty cheek and ran out. Ludwig was alone. The red cabbage simmered quietly. He felt queasy. Afraid. And he didn’t know why. He looked at the dead bird in his hands, which was now cleaned and dried. It must be those damned pills. They must not agree with his stomach.

  Moments later, Eva stumbled out the front door of the restaurant, pulled on her plaid coat as she ran, slipped in the snow, steadied herself, and kept running. She didn’t know what was driving her. But she had to be there when they read the indictments. She owed it to someone! But who? She couldn’t think of a soul.