The German House

by Annette Hess

  On the day of sentencing, Eva stood at the mirror in her room and slowly buttoned her suit jacket. Behind her, Frau Armbrecht was nervously brushing off the furniture with her favorite feather duster and asking, “So what do you think? What’ll they get? Surely nothing short of life?! Life in prison! Don’t you think?” Frau Armbrecht stopped talking and looked at Eva in the mirror, concerned. She had asked Eva, shortly after she moved in, about the black hat she had placed on one of her shelves. “Did it belong to your father?” And Eva had told her about Otto Cohn and the others. She now turned to Frau Armbrecht and replied that she, too, hoped for a just verdict.

  In front of the municipal building, where the whole city, if not the whole world, appeared to be flocking today, Eva paced up and down the sidewalk a little off to the side. She didn’t want to run into anyone. She looked at her watch: nine fifty. Just ten more minutes till the chief judge called the final day of proceedings to order. Eva recognized many of the people entering the building: the wife of the main defendant, the wife of the Beast, and Andrzej Wilk, the witness who was forced to watch his own father’s murder. At one minute to ten, Eva approached the entrance. The foyer was crowded with reporters and spectators who didn’t get a spot in the gallery. The double doors to the auditorium were already closed. The sentencing would be announced over the loudspeakers; the gray box mounted beside the door sputtered. Eva stayed back, in an alcove by the glass entryway. One of the hall attendants recognized her and beckoned her over to the auditorium door, which he opened a crack. Eva declined with a wave of her hand. The attendant appeared vexed, then pointed at a chair by the door. It was where Otto Cohn had so often sat, as if keeping watch over what transpired inside the hall. Eva hesitated, then walked over and sat down. The speaker above her head crackled: “The High Court.” A scraping and rustling droned out of the box. For the last time, everyone in the auditorium got to their feet, the defendants, defense attorneys, prosecutors, joint plaintiffs, and spectators. Eva involuntarily stood up with them. The voice spoke: “Please be seated.” Again, the sound of murmuring and chairs moving. A tense silence followed, even in the foyer. The speaker static provided the only noise. Outside the big windows, a few children scurried across the front courtyard. Eva realized then that vacation had started, and that Stefan had probably gone to see their grandmother in Hamburg. The chief judge’s voice then began to buzz over the speakers: “Over the many months of this trial, the court has experienced vicariously all of the pain and suffering that the people endured there and that will forever be tied to the name Auschwitz. There are undoubtedly those among us who will for some time find themselves unable to gaze into the happy, believing eyes of a child . . .” The voice that had—for all those months—remained so firm began to tremble as he continued, “without recalling the hollow, questioning and uncomprehending, frightened eyes of the children who took their final steps there in Auschwitz.” His voice broke. Even out in the foyer, several people bowed their heads or hid their faces in their hands. Eva pictured his familiar face, the man in the moon, who was only human, himself. A son. A husband. A father. What a difficult task he had taken on. After a pause, the chief judge continued, composed: culpability for crimes committed during the Nazi era was subject to the laws existing at the time.

  “What was lawful then cannot be considered unlawful today,” a reporter beside Eva quoted.

  The voice continued, “It is according to these precepts that those involved in the Holocaust will be sentenced. Only those perpetrators who acted in excess, who killed contrary to orders or of their own accord, may be sentenced to lifelong imprisonment for murder. Those who simply carried out orders are deemed accessories. I shall now impose sentencing.”

  Eva had disappeared from her spot by the door by the time the floodlights were extinguished in the auditorium. Hall attendants rolled up the map of the camp, while technicians dismantled the microphones. The blond man was the last to leave, gathering his papers together and lingering for just a little while longer in the hall. He smoked a cigarette, which wasn’t allowed. Today, though, no one said a thing.

  Eva wandered the streets. She wasn’t in any hurry to get back to the boardinghouse, and she took several detours. Suddenly it seemed as though David were walking beside her. He was beside himself and spat at her, “When in doubt, for the accused?! I can’t believe it! Take the pharmacist—accounts of his involvement in selections on the ramp and of his managing the toxic gas were corroborated by dozens of witnesses! But he’s found guilty only of being an accessory to murder?! Defendant Number Eighteen and the medical orderly, who single-handedly killed their victims with a shot in the back of the neck, or the men who administered the gas in the gas chambers—you’re telling me they’re nothing more than accessories?!”

  Eva got the feeling she had to hold David’s head still, look into his uneven eyes, and say, “At least Defendant Number Four got a life sentence.”

  But there was no calming him, it seemed. “Shooting and gassing thousands of defenseless victims is punished with four to five years?!”

  Eva nodded. “You’re right, David, you’ve got to appeal!”

  But David wasn’t there anymore. Eva walked on alone. She, too, felt disappointed and empty.

  That evening, Walther Schoormann sat slumped in a chair in the living room of his mansion, staring blankly at the television. They were covering the sentencing on the late news. In the next room, Frau Treuthardt was clearing the dinner table and whistling a Schlager pop tune, “You Aren’t Alone.” The anchor read the verdict: six sentences of lifelong penal servitude, including for the defendant known as the Beast, who had an instrument of torture named after him. The formal main defendant, the commander’s adjutant, was given fourteen years for aiding and abetting murder. Three defendants were acquitted for lack of evidence. The rulings had triggered widespread outrage, the newscaster reported. Jürgen came in from outside, and Frau Treuthardt met him in the front hallway, where she took his coat and briefcase. What would he like for dinner? But Jürgen declined; he had eaten in the cafeteria. He went in to his father and dropped a catalog in his lap. On the cover was a woman changing bedclothes with gusto. A child was playing with a doll in the foreground.

  “Our special edition, ‘Laundry’ catalog. Hot off the press. And with a kid on the cover.”

  Walther Schoormann mechanically turned the pages without looking at them. Jürgen went to the television and turned it off. “Our circulation has reached a hundred thousand,” he added.

  “Everything hurts today,” his father answered. He rubbed both hands on his chest, then his shoulders, and grimaced. Then he began tearing pages out of the catalog, crumpling them into balls, and rubbing his torso with them, as if trying to remove a stain. Or blood. Jürgen stepped over and took away the catalog.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like a pill?”

  Walther Schoormann looked at his son. “Why doesn’t that young woman come by anymore?”

  “You ask me that a hundred times a day,” Jürgen griped.

  “Why doesn’t she come by anymore?”

  “She called off the engagement, Father!”

  “Why?”

  “Because our house reeks of chlorine!”

  “That’s true.”

  Jürgen left the room. He met Brigitte coming through the doorway, wearing a fashionable new dressing gown and a towel twisted into a turban on her head. She had clearly been swimming.

  “And my wife reeks of chlorine too,” Walther Schoormann said. Brigitte went over to her husband and stroked the top of his head.

  “Someone’s very charming today.”

  “I’d like a pill.”

  Brigitte studied him. “I’ll go get you one.”

  THAT SAME EVENING, Doctor Hartmut Küssner showed Annegret their new home together. They paced through the empty rooms of the Art Nouveau mansion. Bare bulbs dangled, illuminated, from the ceilings. Their steps echoed, and the yard outside the windows was hidden in the dark. Annegr
et pointed out that they had barely any furniture, and asked how they were going to fill all these rooms. She suggested leaving the upstairs empty. Küssner agreed. The pediatric practice at the front of the house was outfitted with white steel furniture. It smelled strongly of camphor and rubber. Annegret said that the space felt too clinical and that they should paint the walls in color. “Whatever you say,” Doctor Küssner repeated. He was happy. A few days earlier, he had gone to the nurses’ lounge to take his leave. But then he refused to let go of Annegret’s hand and asked her, right in front of Nurse Heide, whether she would come with him. Not once had he brought up “Annegret’s misconduct,” as he secretly referred to it. And they both knew: they never would speak of it. They would marry the following year. Annegret would stay fat. Hartmut would love her unfailingly. She would get pregnant and give birth to a baby boy in her early thirties, under life-threatening conditions. The parents would spoil and neglect their son in turns. When he reached adolescence, he would dye his hair green and then one night, with his friends, sneak into the tennis club where his father was an active member—his mother a passive member—and take a pickax to the courts, tear through the fencing, and set fire to the nets. Against the establishment!

  Dear Eva, there’s something I have to tell you, because you don’t know who I truly am . . .

  That’s where he got stuck. Jürgen couldn’t count the number of times he had started this letter. He never managed to get past the opening sentences. He crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash. It was almost midnight. Jürgen sat at the desk in his room. He, too, had heard about the sentencing in the car on the way home. He could imagine how Eva was taking it. He wanted to write to her. He took out a new sheet. Dear Eva, I heard about the verdict on the radio and . . . There was a knock on the door. Brigitte poked her head in.

  “Jürgen, I can’t get him into bed.”

  Jürgen stood up and followed Brigitte into the dimly lit living room, where Walther Schoormann was still in front of the television, sitting rigidly in his chair. He looked like a worn-out doll.

  “Come on, Father, it’s late.”

  Jürgen tried to help his father up, but Walther gripped the armrests with both hands. Brigitte tried to loose his fingers, while Jürgen took hold of his father under the arms from behind, to lift him from the chair.

  “On three,” he said quietly and counted. Brigitte then pulled on Walther Schoormann’s hands, and Jürgen hoisted him up. But the old man howled so wretchedly, as if they’d inflicted terrible pain on him, that they both let go, and he dropped back into the chair.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Jürgen asked Brigitte over his father’s head. She shook her head helplessly. “Father, are you in pain?”

  “You’ll never get me to talk!” Walther Schoormann said.

  Brigitte looked at Jürgen. “I already gave him two pills. I don’t know. I don’t know,” she repeated. Then she placed a hand before her face and said, from the bottom of her heart, “I can’t do this anymore, Jürgen.”

  “Go sleep. I’ll stay with him.”

  Brigitte regained her composure, nodded, assumed her near-proverbial optimism, and left the room. Jürgen looked at his father, who stared straight ahead, at the television.

  Then he walked over to the sweeping panoramic window and peered out. Several of the trees in the yard were recently attacked by a fungus and had to be felled. It looks like the yard has cavities, Jürgen thought.

  “Why doesn’t that young woman come around anymore?” his father asked.

  Jürgen shook his head in exasperation. “Do you know who I am?” he asked in response.

  “It’s so dark in here. Are you my brother?”

  Jürgen took a step closer to the window. As he spoke, his breath appeared on the glass. “I killed a person. It was a week after I learned of Mother’s death. I ran away from the farm. I wanted to find my way to you and rescue you. It got dark. I was in a field, and then these low-flying aircraft flew over, Yanks on their way toward Kempten. The sirens started howling, and I saw the flak firing on the horizon, and one of them turns back, burning in the air. I see a man fall out. A parachute opens, and the Yank lands right at my feet. He lay before me and couldn’t get up. ‘Help me, boy.’ There was blood running out of his mouth. And I kicked him, first in the legs, then in the stomach. And finally in the face. I was screaming with a voice I didn’t recognize, kicking with all my strength, and it was fun, hellishly fun. I ejaculated. It was my first time. And then the man was dead. I ran away and holed up somewhere. I went back the next day. I always thought, I didn’t do that—evil did.” Jürgen listened to his father’s silence, then continued. “But that was my powerlessness, my revenge, and my hatred. It was all me, and only me.”

  Jürgen fell silent. The room stayed quiet behind him for some time, and then a voice said, “My boy.” Jürgen turned around. Walther Schoormann had gotten out of his chair and was reaching a hand toward Jürgen. “Help me.”

  Jürgen went to his father and placed an arm around his shoulders. He guided him slowly toward the door. Walther Schoormann stopped suddenly.

  “That’s why you wanted to become a priest.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  Outside his bedroom door, Walther Schoormann looked up at Jürgen. “It’s hard being human.” Then he opened the door and disappeared inside.

  In late November, Eva came across a postcard-size ad in the paper: Christmastime is Time for Goose! German House, Your Destination for Good Home Cooking for Family and Business Gatherings. Also Serving Lunch. Reservations Required. Proprietors: Edith & Ludwig Bruhns, 318 Berger Strasse, Tel: 0611–4702.

  Eva cut out the ad, then didn’t know where to put the slip of paper. She placed it on the narrow table she had pushed up to the window as a work space. A few days later, the clipping was gone. Maybe Frau Armbrecht had cleared it away or a draft had pulled it out the window. The first Sunday of Advent was approaching, and Eva thought about decorating her room for Christmas. Ultimately, Frau Armbrecht made the decision for her and placed a pine arrangement with a yellow candle on Eva’s table. Now, when Eva translated her instruction manuals (This machine to be operated by trained professionals only! Keep area around master switch free of foreign objects!), the light flickered and gave off the delicate scent of beeswax. Sometimes she had to blow out the flame, because it made her too sad. In those moments, Eva cursed the decoration and Frau Armbrecht and Christmas as a whole. One afternoon, there was a knock on the door. Frau Armbrecht poked her head in and trilled that there was a “gentleman” here to see her. For a moment, Eva hoped it was Jürgen. But then a small figure in an orange hat appeared in the doorway. Eva opened her arms, and Stefan ran in. She squeezed him tightly and breathed in his boyish smell, which reminded her of grass, even in winter.

  “This is my brother,” Eva explained to a curious Frau Armbrecht. She waved and withdrew. Stefan wandered around the room, taking everything in, but he wasn’t interested in anything he saw, beyond the picture of himself and Purzel.

  “All that’s left of him now is bones, isn’t it?”

  Eva took Stefan’s jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door. Stefan sat down in her only chair and stretched his legs out. He looked at Eva.

  “You’re so skinny,” he said.

  “It’s true, I haven’t been very hungry lately.”

  “Do you think it’s going to snow soon?”

  “Definitely.” Eva smiled. She asked if their parents knew he was visiting her. Stefan shrugged. They thought he was at Thomas Preisgau’s. But he wasn’t even his best friend anymore.

  “How come?” Eva asked.

  “He told me his parents don’t want him playing with me anymore. Herr Paten quit too.”

  “Herr Paten . . .” Eva repeated pensively. She didn’t ask any further, and Stefan had already changed the subject.

  “Mummy hit me.”

  Eva looked at Stefan in shock—that had never happened before. “Why on earth did she do that
?”

  Stefan hemmed and hawed, then admitted, “Because I called her a toothless granny. She has teeth she can take out now.”

  Stefan got up to climb on the bed. Eva grabbed hold of him. “Stefan, you can’t say things like that. It hurts her feelings.”

  “Yeah, I know that now!” he responded impatiently, then jumped onto the bed.

  Stefan bobbed up and down. “I’m getting a bike for Christmas. And a dog from Annegret. I already know everything. Annegret is coming with her new husband. She has a husband now and you don’t. Weird, huh?”

  “Yes. Do you want some cookies?”

  Stefan’s mouth twitched halfheartedly, but then he nodded. Eva took a tin off the shelf, where she kept the cookies. She bought them a few weeks earlier, when Fräulein Adomat and their new co-worker came over for coffee. They discussed getting a work anniversary gift for their boss, Herr Körting, and settled on a wicker rocking chair. Since both of her colleagues were dieting, there were lots of cookies left over. Stefan chewed listlessly on one of the dried-out treats but reached for a second. To be polite. Eva looked at her brother and was surprised to realize that he had matured.

  “How are you doing, Stefan?” she asked.