by Annette Hess
David went first, and Jürgen followed him down the hallway. He eyed David’s hair, which was too long in the back, his wrinkled suit coat, and his inappropriate footwear, which looked like athletic shoes. What a slovenly fellow, he thought. At the same time, he had to acknowledge that there were surely plenty of young women impressed by David. Eva, for example. David knocked on the open door to one of the offices and waved Jürgen in. The blond man, in shirtsleeves, was crouched on the floor by the wall; sunlight was beating in through the window, and he had taken off his jacket. He was sorting documents into different-colored folders. Order forms and delivery slips for Zyklon B.
“The people who signed these are all dead. We’re still missing those damn driving permits!” the blond man said to David as he entered.
“You have company,” David responded and left.
The blond man offered Jürgen a seat and waited expectantly. Jürgen removed his hat and explained.
“I am Fräulein Bruhns’s fiancé.”
“I see.” The blond man had been searching for his cigarettes under the papers on his desk. He offered Jürgen one from the pack. “What is this regarding, Herr Schoormann?”
Jürgen had felt badly. But it was too late.
EVA SAT OPPOSITE the blond man and listened as he told her, “He said that the work is taking too great a toll on your nerves, and that your nerves are not terribly stable as it is. He requested that we release you from your duties.”
Eva felt as if she were falling to indefinable depths. She was stunned. “He never discussed this with me. And I’m not going to stop! I’m a part of this trial! I provide the voice for these people.”
The blond man made a placating hand gesture. “Unfortunately, he holds the decision-making power in this case. As a governing authority, we would be liable to prosecution, ourselves, if we continued to employ you against the wishes of your future husband. I am sorry.”
Eva looked at the blond man and wanted to say something, but she just shook her head mutely. She felt nauseous. She stood up and left the office without a word. She rushed down the hallway, which seemed to go on endlessly, and ducked into the ladies’ room. Fräulein Schenke and Fräulein Lehmkuhl were both standing at the mirror, getting ready for an evening at the Boogie Bar. They glanced at Eva, who looked miserable.
“What happened?”
Eva fished the little bottle of peppermint oil out of her purse and opened it. This time the sharp smell shot straight into her forehead, her eyes teared up, and she coughed.
“That pig!” she finally said.
“Which one?” Fräulein Schenke snorted, penciling in her eyebrows.
“Your fiancé? Schoormann?” Fräulein Lehmkuhl asked. “If you don’t want him anymore, let me know.”
Eva stepped up beside the young women and looked at herself in the mirror, at her friendly face crowned with the prim hairstyle. Then she plunged both of her hands into her updo, pulled out the bobby pins one by one, undid the hairband, and shook out her tresses. She let out a desperate, enraged howl, like a battle cry by someone who’s still practicing. The two girls exchanged a bewildered look, then Fräulein Lehmkuhl grinned.
“So you are coming with us?”
Three hours later, Eva was dancing in the middle of an enormous black metal bucket where someone was stirring powerfully and relentlessly with a big metal spoon. Someone who—Pastor Schrader was convinced—made all the decisions. It was so loud that Eva couldn’t think. It was so full that she didn’t know where her body ended and another began. The air she breathed in was the air others had breathed out. Her breath was breathed in by them. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah! She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah! She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. With a love like that, you know you should be glad! Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeeahh. Eva was drunk and loved the feeling of Herr Wettke spinning her around this cauldron filled with colorful black people and white people. Eva occasionally caught a glimpse of David Miller, who was sitting on an elevated bench along the wall of the metal bucket, necking with Fräulein Lehmkuhl. Then Eva herself was sitting beside him, without knowing how or when she got there. Or what had become of Fräulein Lehmkuhl. “Where’s Fräulein Lehmkuhl?” she yelled into David’s ear. David shrugged—he was drunk too. He was celebrating his big day, after all. The Beast had been arrested earlier! The court had finally lifted the “deferred detention for health concerns.” He sadly hadn’t gotten to see the ferret’s face. After fleeing the courtroom, he raced to the synagogue. He sat down in the sanctuary, which was empty at that hour. He waited for Rabbi Riesbaum. He might have been able to confide the truth to him. The truth about himself, about his brother. About his family. But after a little while, he’d caught his breath, calmed down, and left. David watched the dancing people, the American soldiers, the civilians, and bellowed into the din, “That was my brother the Beast beat to death! And I had to carry him out! They had gassed my parents as soon as we arrived!” Then he felt Eva’s head fall heavily on his shoulder. She had fallen asleep. Or fainted. He sighed and lifted her off the bench.
Eva came to in the summery evening air outside the Boogie Bar. David had her coat draped over his left arm and held her up with his right.
“I’ll hail a cab for you.”
David led her to the edge of the street and kept an eye out for a glowing yellow roof sign among the passing cars.
“Thank you,” Eva said weakly. Then she remembered something. “What were you just saying about your brother?” Eva lifted her head and tried to find David’s face, but everything was spinning, and she couldn’t catch it.
Then David threw up his arm and waved. “Taxi!”
The car pulled over, and David deposited Eva on the backseat. He placed her purse in her lap, tossed her coat on the seat beside her, and told the driver, “Three-eighteen Berger Strasse.” David shut the door before Eva could even say thank you. He watched the taillights as the taxi drove off and thought that Eva had looked different today. He couldn’t put his finger on it, though. Then he popped up the collar of his jacket and trudged off. To Sissi’s.
The taxi driver, an older man, wanted to have a conversation with Eva. He tried making eye contact in the rearview mirror.
“You want to go to German House? They close soon. In any case, the kitchen is already closed.” Eva looked at her watch but couldn’t make out the time. The driver continued, “Is that place worth visiting, the Boogie Bar? Full of Negroes, isn’t it? You girls need to be careful around them.”
Eva leaned forward then and said she wanted to go somewhere else. She gave the driver the address. The driver repeated it, puzzled, then switched on the blinker, turned the car, and didn’t ask any more questions. The fancy address had silenced him.
THE DOCTOR WAS PAYING Walther Schoormann a visit. He’d had a seizure. He and Jürgen had been talking about their new range of products over dinner, in particular about the washing machines. Should they offer installation packages or not? Would it be worth partnering with plumbing companies and charging a percentage? Walther Schoormann resisted the idea of making money off the workers. He spoke out against it. There was no argument—on the contrary, Jürgen agreed with his father. Walther Schoormann then toppled from his chair, like a candle from its holder. He began to convulse on the carpet, kicking forcefully in all directions. It looked as if he were possessed by a demon. Jürgen couldn’t bear the sight and had to leave the room. Brigitte, together with an astoundingly calm Frau Treuthardt, cleared away everything that might injure her husband and waited for the fit to end. The doctor had prepared her for something like this. After three minutes, it was over. Walther Schoormann was now lying, exhausted, in the expansive bed in his room. He looked fearful but alert, and was discussing with the doctor whether he should spend the night in the hospital. They ultimately decided that the doctor would stay at the house a little while longer.
“But a word of warning: I charge by the minute, Herr Schoormann.” Everyone laughed. Then the doorbell rang, and the
y all looked around in surprise. Who could that be, at this hour? Jürgen went to see.
He could immediately tell that Eva had been drinking, and as he steered her quickly down the hallway, he called toward the master bedroom, “It’s Eva. She . . . she was in the area.”
Jürgen closed the door to his room behind them and studied Eva—who stood swaying slightly before him, her hair down, makeup smeared, and eyes glazed—with a mixture of revulsion and desire. “Sit down. Would you like something to drink?”
“Got any gin?”
“I think you’ve had enough.”
Eva collapsed on the wide sofa. “You’re right, I have had enough. Jürgen, I’m breaking up with you.”
Jürgen instantly felt sick. He tried hard not to let it show. “I see. And what has brought about this decision?”
“You! You’ve brought it about! How could you go the office behind my back like that? I will not be treated like a child. I decide for myself, where, when, and how I’m going to work. I’m in charge of myself, and myself alone!”
Not everything came out clearly—Eva was slurring slightly and stumbled over some of her words. But she was very serious. Jürgen could see that.
“You’ve fallen in love with that Canadian.”
Eva looked at Jürgen and swore indistinctly. “That’s the only reason you would get, isn’t it?” she said. “You’re so shortsighted!” She struggled with the word “shortsighted,” which came out sounding more like “shoresighed.” But she was furious, sad, and absolutely decided. “You know, Jürgen, what I need is a friend. And I’ve realized that you aren’t one.”
“Well, I am your future husband.”
“Which means what? My lord? My master? I have to do your bidding?”
“When we met, you told me you were happy to be led.”
“Depends on who’s doing the leading. It would have to be someone who’s mature and knows himself. Not a boy like you!”
“Eva, where is this insolence coming from?”
Eva did not respond, but instead pulled the engagement ring off her finger, with some effort. She set it on the glass coffee table with a distinct click and got up.
“Besides, I could never live in a house that reeks of chlorine like this!”
Jürgen was afraid now. He approached her and tried to take her hand. She dodged him.
“Is this because of what happened the other night?”
Eva almost laughed, then growled, “Please, I’ve experienced worse.”
Jürgen flinched, and Eva almost felt badly for him, but she did not take back what she’d said. Jürgen made one final, fittingly pathetic attempt.
“I just wanted to protect you. I can see how this trial has changed you.”
“Yes, thankfully.”
Eva took her purse from the sofa, her raincoat from the back of the chair, and teetered slightly as she left the room. Jürgen followed her to the front door. He was quiet, then suddenly dashed in front of her in the hallway and blocked her way, his back to the door.
“You’re not leaving!”
Eva looked into Jürgen’s eyes, dark green and flashing deep in their sockets. She looked at his black hair, which by this hour was a bit mussed—he had two devil horns. He had once come close to hitting her. Today, though, all she sensed was his desperate fear of being left. She could have cried, but instead she said, “I wish your father all the best. And please give Brigitte my warm regards.”
Eva reached past Jürgen for the front door handle. Jürgen looked at the floor, then stepped aside and let her pass. The door snapped shut. Brigitte appeared in the hallway and looked at Jürgen curiously.
“What did she want?”
But he went to his room without answering.
ONE DAY IN LATE SUMMER, when especially fat black flies were buzzing against the closed windows, the little girl and her big sister were allowed to join their mother at the hairdresser’s for the first time ever. The big sister didn’t want to go, though. She stamped her foot, and when her mother tried pulling her out of the house, she clung to the door frame with both hands. She was screaming like a small child, although she was nearly nine years old. Then she bit her mother’s hand, and her mother slapped her. But she also no longer insisted she come along. The little girl turned around in the doorway one last time and tapped her temple at her sister. She couldn’t begin to understand her behavior. After all, they were going to get their hair curled and would smell like flowers afterward, like fancy ladies did. The little girl was excited as she walked down a dusty road, holding her mother’s hand. The apples were turning red on the trees, but would still give you a bellyache if you ate one. A group of men in striped suits came walking from the other direction. They were led by three soldiers. One of them greeted her mother by lifting the cane he was carrying. The men in the suits were thin, with big eyes and funny haircuts under their hats. They need to go to the hairdresser’s too, the girl thought.
“Don’t look over there,” her mother said. The girl was spooked by the men, who wouldn’t look at her and moved as if there were no one at home inside. The girl and her mother reached a red-and-white gate. Her mother had to show a piece of paper with a small picture of herself glued on it, then she had to sign something. The girl craned her neck and looked down the endless fence. She wondered why there wasn’t a single bird sitting on the wire. They passed through the gate and walked toward an archway that had something written on it. The girl already knew the letters A and E, because they were in her name.
“A-e-a-e,” she spelled out loud. They passed under the archway.
The light blue room smelled of soap. A man in a white coat lifted the girl into a chair and spun her around a few times. Like a merry-go-round. And like a magician, the man made a comb and pair of scissors appear in his hands.
“I want curls,” the girl said.
The man responded in a foreign language and pointed at a sink. The girl was scared, because having her hair washed hurt her eyes. But the man led her to the sink. He turned on the warm water and let it run through the girl’s hair; he rinsed and lathered and rinsed. He was careful. Not a single drop of water touched the girl’s face, but she kept her eyes shut tight the entire time.
His name was Jaschinsky. Eva remembered now. Standing at the shattered sink in the camp’s former hair salon, Eva remembered him. He’d been a prisoner—once, during a later visit there, the sleeve of his white coat had ridden up, and Eva had noticed the tattooed number. She pointed at it, and he read her the numbers out loud in Polish. Eva repeated them, in order not to forget. At her next visit, she wanted to show Herr Jaschinsky that she had memorized the numbers. But he wasn’t as friendly as usual that time. He normally had two helpers, two young women, who swept up the clippings and put ladies’ hair in curlers. One of them had a funny face, a nose that swooped upward. She wasn’t there that day, though. Herr Jaschinsky washed Eva’s hair and got soap in her left eye. He didn’t notice. Eva typically would have cried at that, but for some reason, she kept quiet. Later, though, when it was time to crimp her hair with the curling iron, he pressed the hot metal against her scalp. It hissed and smelled of burned hair and skin. Eva shrieked. Her mother yelled, and Herr Jaschinsky apologized. With tears in his eyes. Eva’s mother never took her back.
Eva involuntarily touched her fingertips to the spot above her ear, where the oblong scar was covered by her hair. She was ashamed of her childish bawling. What was that momentary pain compared to everything those people had been forced to endure here? A figure appeared in the open doorway to the salon.
“Where have you been? We need you outside. We’re at Block Eleven.”
Eva followed David Miller out onto the camp street.
The day before, Eva had been the one woman among twenty-four men to arrive there by way of Warsaw. The group included six representatives of the defense, the chief judge and his two associate judges, the lead prosecutor, five other prosecutors, David Miller, and two reporters, among others. From the airport,
the travelers rode seven hours in a rickety bus on poorly constructed roads. By the time they reached the town that had given the camp its name, it was already dark. They retired to their rooms in a simple lodge on the outskirts. There was very little talking. They were all tired and watchful at once. Eva moved into her small, sparsely appointed room. On the narrow bed was a folded towel of an indistinct pale color and so threadbare that one could almost see through it. That towel’s probably been in use since the camp was running, Eva thought. She got into bed, turned out the light, and tried to comprehend where she was. On location. She listened to the brave ticking of her travel clock and assumed she wouldn’t sleep a wink. But she soon drifted off and the night passed in dreamless sleep. A rooster crowing woke her the next morning, even before her alarm. She went to the window and looked out at the yard behind the inn, where the rooster was bustling about with his hens. Beyond the fence was a marshy meadow, and the horizon was lined with rows of trees—poplars—whose leaves glowed yellow in the morning sunshine. At breakfast, where the whitewashed chill of the dining room suggested a newly built clubhouse more readily than an inn, the men from the defense sat together. The White Rabbit was opening and snapping shut his pocket watch even more than usual. On the other side of the room, members of the prosecution were gathered around the light blond-haired man. David sat there quietly, withdrawn, and didn’t touch his food. The chief judge sat alone at a table and paged through documents as he ate his bread. They look human without their robes, like fathers and sons, husbands and friends and lovers, Eva thought as she sipped the weak coffee. After breakfast they walked to the entrance of the main camp, past single-family homes, where children wearing knapsacks came out on their way to school, and past workshops busy with activity. Conversation, lively at first, quieted and then petered out entirely. They met three Poles at the gate, older gentlemen in dark coats; one was a representative of the Polish government; the other two, employees at the camp memorial site, who would be guiding their tour. Eva translated for the chief judge, whose face no longer looked like the man in the moon from up close, but ordinary. “We would like to gain a comprehensive understanding of the conditions at Auschwitz-Birkenau, the concentration and extermination camp.” The guides looked at them almost pityingly at this request. Together with the delegation, Eva walked under the lettering of the archway and into the camp. Many photos were taken, both by the two reporters and one of the prosecutors. The White Rabbit was busy with a tape measure, pacing off the space between individual blocks with one of his colleagues. He noted distances and vantage points. He hoped to prove the courtroom map of the camp unusable. Eva translated the guides’ remarks and looked around without recognizing anything. Until they entered one of the two-story brick buildings on the camp street.