The German House

by Annette Hess

  The hall never really brightened, even as midday approached, the foggy glass panes gleaming a soft gray. An attendant turned on the overhead lights, and the spherical fixtures floated over their heads like great glowing bubbles. Although several windows were cracked open, the air was thick. It smelled of damp wool, leather, and wet dog. Following their swearing-in, the interpreters were seated on the side of the prosecution. Eva took a seat directly behind David Miller. She pulled the dark folder from her briefcase and placed it on the table in front of her. She looked at the back of David’s head, at his reddish hair that was just a little too long at the nape of his neck. He looked like a boy from behind. Like Stefan when he occasionally succumbed to childish brooding. David was reading through papers that he passed on to the blond man after a quick perusal. On the other side of the room, a tall man stood up. He fished through the folds of his robe and withdrew a silver pocket watch on a chain, which he popped open to check the time, somewhat absentmindedly. His long, soft features and white tie reminded Eva of the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, a book neither she nor Stefan had liked because this wonderland was inhabited exclusively by unfriendly characters. The man was representing seven of the defendants. He made a motion to hear witness testimony from the wives of Defendant Number Four and the main defendant. Eva turned toward the gallery to look for the woman in the little hat, who smelled vaguely of roses, but couldn’t spot her in the crowd. The blond man stood and stated that the prosecution rejected the motion. There was no knowledge to be gained from such testimony, he argued, as the wives were biased. They could also refuse to give evidence, should such details serve to incriminate the defendants. A clash ensued between the defense attorney and the lead prosecutor about the number of witnesses for the defense. Eva knew that the first witness to be called today was Jan Kral. She opened her folder and reflected that Jan Kral’s wife, in any case, would not be called to the stand. The last time he had seen her was November 1, 1942.

  The chief judge accepted the motion of the defense. Visibly pleased, the lawyer snapped shut his pocket watch. The blond man sat back down, took a drink of water, although he wasn’t thirsty, and crossed his arms. His colleagues exchanged looks. David Miller leaned in and whispered something to him, but the blond man shook his head gruffly in response.

  The chief judge then announced, “The court will now commence the hearing of evidence. Please call to the stand the witness Jan Kral!” The blond man turned to signal Eva, but she had already risen and was headed for the witness stand. A police officer led a dignified elderly man into the room. Kral came across as suave in his dark blue suit, as though he were an attorney himself, or even an American film star. Eva knew from his file that he worked as an architect in Krákow. Kral held himself remarkably erect. Eva watched him approach and tried to catch his eye. But Kral looked past her, through his angular eyeglasses, straight at the bench. He did not look at the tables of the defendants to the left, either. When he reached Eva, she expected him to shake her hand. But he didn’t seem to notice her; his focus was now on the chief judge, who invited him to take a seat. Kral sat on the long side of the table, facing the judges. Eva did not sit beside him, but pulled up the chair at the end of the table, as she’d been instructed. On the table were two microphones, a simple carafe of water, and two glasses. The court began reviewing the witness’s personal details: name, birth date, place of residence, profession. Kral knew some German and delivered curt responses to these simple questions in a loud voice. Eva didn’t have anything to do yet. She pushed her notebook and pencil back and forth until perfectly positioned. She regarded the witness from the side, taking in his profile and distinctive eyeglasses. Kral had a slight tan and was clean-shaven, with a small nick on his strong chin. Eva noticed that he’d missed a bit of shaving cream beneath his right ear. She tried to breathe and smelled fresh soap.

  David Miller observed Eva from where he sat, with a view of her in half profile from the back, of her feminine shoulders and tight chignon that just had to be real. Not padded with one of those strange round cushions that mostly older women used. Yet again, her appearance somehow infuriated him. He knit his eyebrows. He had a headache. He’d overdone it the night before with colleagues from the prosecution—only their boss and the blond man had not joined in the revelry. In the merry section of Berger Strasse, they had started with drinks at the Mokka Bar and watched the women slowly remove their clothing to the music. David then continued on his own and found his way into an establishment called Suzi’s, where loud Schlager music played. Half-naked women sat at the bar, and after twenty minutes, David wandered into a back room with the one who reminded him least of his mother. The room—number six—was windowless and overly perfumed, and someone had carpeted the walls. The woman, who said her name was Sissi, quickly undressed and opened his pants. David had been with plenty of prostitutes in the past. It wasn’t about desire. The act of intercourse was invariably mechanical and joyless. The women never smelled the way he hoped. But he could always tell himself afterward that he was a contemptible human being. His mother would be appalled. The thought pleased him in a strange way. The double bed had such a soft mattress, he thought he might sink into it and eventually emerge in Australia. Or, rather, what was the antipode of this German city? He thought of the globe he’d had in his bedroom as a kid, and how he had pierced it with a long knitting needle to see what was on the other side of the world. Where will I come out if I dig a tunnel? He recalled this as he lay down on top of Sissi: he’d have drowned in the Indian Ocean. Sissi smelled a bit musty and sweet, like raisins, which he didn’t like and had fished out of desserts since he was a boy. As he penetrated her, he mused that she must have had at least one child. The review of personal details had now concluded in the auditorium. David turned his mind back to the trial.

  “Herr Kral, when exactly did you arrive at the camp?”

  Jan Kral now responded in Polish. He spoke rapidly, without any discernible pause for breath.

  Thankfully, Eva thought, he doesn’t speak in a regional dialect. She took notes. Ghetto, boxcar, bucket, straw, children, three days, son . . . Kral spoke faster and faster. Men. Officers. Trucks. What was that last word? Red Cross? He said that in German, didn’t he? Eva could not keep up. She quietly addressed Kral in Polish.

  “Please! Herr Kral. I’m sorry, you’re speaking too fast. Please, you must take short breaks.”

  Jan Kral fell silent and turned to the side. He looked at Eva in confusion, as though he didn’t understand who she was. Eva repeated her hushed plea, and the chief judge leaned in to his microphone.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Eva shook her head, but turned so red, it must have been visible to the spectators in the gallery. Some of the defendants, who all had a clear view of Eva’s face, grinned and snorted—it was the less educated of the men, the stoker and the medical orderly. Kral had now realized what Eva’s task was, and gave her a quick nod. He started from the beginning and spoke more slowly. Eva intently studied his lips, which blurred before her eyes. Her hands went cold. The blood began to roar so loudly in her ears, she could no longer hear Kral properly. I can’t do it. I’ve got to get out of here! I’m going to get up and leave. I’ve got to run . . . I’ll run . . . But then Eva noticed how, one after the other, small beads of sweat were appearing on Kral’s forehead. His chin began to twitch. Only Eva could see it. She felt ashamed. What were her nerves compared to his hardships? She calmed down. Kral stopped speaking and looked at his hands, which rested on the tabletop. A drop of sweat ran down his right temple. Eva referred to her notes and translated what Jan Kral had said up to that point. She noticed that she was trying to mimic his tone.

  “On October twenty-eighth, ’42, I was deported from the Krákow ghetto with my wife and son. We traveled for three days by freight train. In a locked boxcar. There were no sanitation facilities. Just a bucket in the corner for eighty people. We had no food or water. People died along the way, at least ten. The elderly in partic
ular. When we arrived, on November first, at the ramp, they pulled us out of the boxcar. Then the survivors were split up. Women, children, and the elderly to the left, men to the right. Two SS officers argued over whether my son—he was eleven, but already big—belonged on the left or the right. I thought that those on the left would be sent to a less strenuous camp. And I didn’t want him to have to work. I got involved. I told one of them, my son is still too young, he can’t work. He nodded, and my son climbed together with my wife into a truck. It was from the Red Cross, which reassured me. Then they drove away.” Eva fell silent. The chief judge leaned forward to ask a question, but Kral started speaking again. It was only a few more sentences, and he spoke rapidly, his words tumbling out by the end. Then he stopped, as though he were finished. Eva looked at Kral from the side, at his Adam’s apple above his starched white collar. She watched him swallow and swallow and swallow.

  Eva whispered in Polish, “Could you please repeat the final sentence one more time?” Everyone was waiting, and someone drummed his knuckles impatiently on a tabletop. But Kral shook his head imperceptibly and looked over at Eva. Behind his glasses, his eyes were red. His chin was trembling. Eva sensed that it was impossible for him to continue. She paged through her dictionary and looked up two words, “slup” and “dym.” Pillars and smoke. She leaned toward her microphone and stated what she believed to have heard at the very end. “At the camp later that evening, another prisoner pointed out a smokestack on the horizon. He said, ‘Look. Your son and wife are climbing into the heavens.’”

  Kral removed his glasses and pulled out a checkered handkerchief that was freshly pressed and folded. Eva thought, He bought that for the trial. Kral used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Then he hid his face in it.

  For a moment, no one spoke in the hall, even among the defendants. A number of them had closed their eyes, as though dozing. The blond man jotted something down, then asked, “Herr Kral, why did you think your family would be sent to a less strenuous camp?”

  Eva repeated the question in Polish. Jan Kral blew his nose, swallowed once more, and responded.

  “One of the SS men on the ramp promised me it would happen,” Eva translated.

  “Who?” the blond man wanted to know. Kral didn’t move. “Was it one of the defendants? Do you see him here?”

  Kral put his glasses back on, then turned to face the defendants’ tables. His gaze lingered briefly on Defendant Number Four’s haggard face. Then he indicated Number Seventeen, the pharmacist in dark glasses. He snorted, practically amused, as though he’d been chosen to perform some prank in a parlor game. He stood calmly, and as he responded, Eva translated for Kral.

  “That’s a lie. The witness must be mistaking me for another person.” The pharmacist sat back down.

  His defense attorney, the White Rabbit, stood up. “Herr Kral, you claim to have arrived at the camp on November first, ’42? The defendant was not even on site that day, as he was visiting Munich from November first through fifth. He underwent surgery there. We have documentation.”

  Eva translated. Kral replied, “It may have been October thirty-first when we arrived. One loses his sense of time when locked in a boxcar.”

  The chief judge addressed his associate judges. “Are death certificates available for the Kral family?” Head-shaking.

  “Maybe the entire story is untrue. I doubt the witness’s credibility,” the defense attorney said, which Eva translated for Kral. He looked at Eva and went white in the face.

  At the same time, the blond man countered sharply, “Many of the victims’ names were not even known, as I am sure the defense is well aware! Your Honor, we have here the witness’s registration at the camp.” David Miller produced the document in question. The blond man quoted, “The witness was registered as prisoner number 20117 at the main camp on November first, ’42. It was not uncommon for arrivals not to be processed until the following day. An arrival on October thirty-first is therefore entirely plausible.”

  Eva translated for Kral. The chief judge asked, “Herr Kral, do you remember when, exactly, you were registered after your arrival? Was it the same day? Or later?”

  “I don’t remember.” Following a pause, he added, “To me, November first is the day my wife and son died.”

  The defense attorney declared, “I repeat: you therefore could not have seen my client on the ramp, Herr Kral.”

  Defendant Number Seventeen now took off his sunglasses and gave the witness almost a friendly nod. “I’m sorry, sir, but I was never on this so-called ramp.”

  Someone let out a cry of indignation from the gallery, and the crowd whispered. The chief judge called for order, then asked the witness to describe his arrival at the camp again, step by step, to allow for a better understanding of the timing. Eva translated for Kral. He gave her a quizzical look, and she repeated the request.

  “Once more, from the beginning.”

  Kral began to shake; a giant invisible hand appeared to have seized him and was shaking every bone in his body. Eva turned toward the prosecution for help. The blond man saw that the witness needed a break, and motioned to the chief judge.

  A windowless, low-ceilinged room behind the auditorium, which was normally used as a green room for performers, served as a waiting area for the witnesses. The lead prosecutor, together with David Miller, was there questioning Kral, who had declined to sit. He stood, swaying, with his back to an illuminated mirror and his face drained of color. His suit appeared to have become too big for him, his collar too wide. Any trace of his initial stateliness had vanished. Eva translated: his testimony was important, he had to try and remember. But Kral stated that he would no longer subject himself to this situation. He had realized that it would not bring his wife and son back to life. David grew more insistent and told Kral that he also had a responsibility. A responsibility to the other victims! He grabbed Kral by the shoulder, but the blond man pulled David back.

  “You can’t force me,” Kral said. The blond man pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to the witness. Kral took a cigarette. He and the blond man smoked. All four were silent. A few open-face sandwiches sat on a tray by one of the mirrors, left over from the day before. The slices of meat on top were sweating and had turned up at the edges. Like the others, the mirror was framed by a wreath of glowing white lightbulbs. One clearly had a loose connection and flickered alarmingly. Eva could see that David was fit to burst from impatience and aggravation. He had dark bags under his eyes, as though he had barely slept.

  With strained self-control, he now said, “Herr Kral, you are not only an important witness with regard to the pharmacist. You are also critical in the case against Defendant Number Four, the Beast—”

  “Herr Miller, I’ve already told you—” the blond man interrupted him.

  David waved it off. “Yes, fine. Herr Kral, you are one of the few to have survived the tortures of Block Eleven. You must testify!” Then he barked at Eva, “Translate that!” Eva was about to speak when Kral’s knees suddenly buckled and he fell like a marionette whose strings have been cut. Eva and David barely managed to catch him and helped him onto a chair. Eva took his half-smoked cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray.

  The blond man gave David a long look and said, “We already had our doubts during the pre-trial interviews. I don’t think we should insist any further if he’s crumbling already. We’re just wasting time.” He addressed Eva, “You needn’t translate that, Fräulein Bruhns!”

  David started to respond, but the blond man looked at the clock, nodded at Kral, and exited the room. David followed him sulkily, without another glance at either Kral or Eva. He left the door open. Eva was outraged. How could those two simply leave this man sitting here like a broken appliance? She turned to Kral, who sat hunched over on the chair.

  “Would you like something to drink, Herr Kral? A glass of water?”

  He turned it down with a wave of his hand. “No, thank you.”

  Eva studied t
he man indecisively. He also seemed unsure of what came next. It looked like he was waiting for directions. Eva rested her hand on his lower arm, to her own surprise.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to reconsider?”

  Kral didn’t look at Eva. “How old are you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Such a young person shouldn’t concern herself with the dead. She should live.” With that, he struggled out of the chair, murmured a good-bye, and left the room. Eva watched the flickering lightbulb and wondered whom Kral blamed for the death of his son: the men out there or himself.

  IN THE NURSERY, where—like in court—the electric lights had been on all day, Annegret prepared the infants for their second feeding. She placed the tiny bundles, which screeched with hunger, into small carts that she and Nurse Heide wheeled to the maternity ward. There Frau Bartels, a young mother, was already sitting up in bed in her private room—Herr Bartels had money—and waiting for her little Henning. Frau Bartels looked quite fresh again, after two weeks battling childbed fever. She and her boy were going to be released soon. Annegret lifted Henning from the carriage and laid him howling on his mother’s bare breast. His cries quieted immediately and he began to suckle loudly. Annegret gazed at the back of his tiny, lightly bobbing head and smiled. Frau Bartels looked over her child at Annegret and decided that, although the nurse was a little too fat and wore too much makeup, she liked her. And that would be the case even if she hadn’t saved her son’s life. Frau Bartels had developed a high fever shortly after his birth, and breast-feeding was out of the question—the nurses had had to feed little Henning formula from a syringe. On Christmas Day, however, Henning suddenly began vomiting violently, and later developed diarrhea. He shed weight by the day, until his little arms were as thin and pliable as reeds. Every half hour, Annegret gave him a spoonful of sugar water, which immediately ran out the sides of his mouth. But she didn’t give up. And after three days, Henning—more dead than alive, weighing just fifteen hundred grams—kept more of the solution down for the first time. Bit by bit from that moment on, things had started looking up. He now weighed almost as much as he had at birth. Frau Bartels was immensely grateful, which she repeated to Annegret yet again. As Annegret started for the door, however, Frau Bartels grabbed her arm and whispered, “There’s something else I have to tell you, Nurse. My husband is suspicious and wonders whether Henning might have been given spoiled formula. He submitted a written complaint to the hospital. I just hope this won’t cause you any trouble. I would be so sorry for that, after everything you’ve done for Henning.” Frau Bartels looked at her apologetically. Annegret smiled in reassurance.