Inside, the curtains had been drawn. She thought she had left them open; she always did, so Striped Peterl could look outside. Something else she must have forgotten, and now the air felt hot and stifling.
“Sorry, Striped Peterl.” She nudged the door shut. “It must have been boring for you all day, with nothing to look at.”
She tossed her pocketbook onto the bed and reached for Striped Peterl lying on her pillow. But he didn’t move when she stroked him, and his head sagged to one side. Panic seized her heart. Even as her fingers fumbled to find a pulse, she knew there wouldn’t be one. The cat’s neck had been broken.
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16
A HARSH CRY BURST FROM HER THROAT. DEAD. SHE laid him on the bed, running shaking hands over his body, as if she could somehow resurrect him with her touch. His neck, twisted at such a horribly unnatural angle, and his rib cage, no longer moving, and his eyes, mercifully closed, and his white paws and belly and striped fur, all the tiny parts of him she had loved so much. She heard herself sobbing, great gasping sobs, but they sounded far away, as though someone in the next room were crying.
Striped Peterl’s body was still warm and soft. He must have died only a short time ago. As she cradled him against her chest, she felt herself splitting in two—the girl standing in her bedroom, holding her dead cat, shaking, and the girl standing to the side, watching, the two entities separated by the haze of shock.
Memories shot through her head: reading in bed with Striped Peterl stretched across her feet, his purr rumbling into her toes; dangling a ribbon and giggling while he batted it; crying over one of Reinhard’s nasty tricks while Striped Peterl nudged his wet nose against her hand, concerned in his feline way; and sitting on the kitchen floor with Papa, cuddling the last gift he had ever given her. Don’t let anyone else play with it, he had said. The cat is just for you, do you understand?
Now she did. Awareness crackled through her mind like an electrical current. She knew who had snapped Striped Peterl’s neck.
Rage filled her, so red and so thick that she couldn’t contain it. Gently, she set her cat back on the pillow. Then she ripped the door open and ran down the stairs. All the second-story doors were closed, but she didn’t care. She flung Reinhard’s door open without bothering to knock and wait to be admitted.
Her brother lay on his bed, flipping through a magazine. The curtains had been shut, and only a small desk lamp burned, leaving most of the room in shadow and his face hidden. Only the whites of his eyes shone in the darkness. Slowly, he sat up, tossing his magazine aside. “What is it? Don’t you know you’re supposed to knock?”
“Knock?” she cried. “Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to kill poor, defenseless animals?”
He sighed and stood, the mattress whispering from the release of his weight. Quickly, he reached around her to close the door. He wore only an undershirt and trousers. Standing so close, she felt heat pumping off his body and smelled the sharp bite of his cologne. “Keep your voice down. Do you want to disturb Mama and the boarders?”
“Don’t pretend you care about them. You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself.” She couldn’t stop tears from blurring her eyes. “Why did you do it, Reinhard? He was only a cat. Striped Peterl never bothered anyone. Why did you have to do it?”
Reinhard leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. In the dimness, he looked bored. “I’m tired from my trip, Gretchen, so if you’re only going to repeat yourself and grow more hysterical, I’ll ask you to leave.”
“Why did you do it?” she cried again and raised her hand, with the foolish notion she could seize hold of him and force him up the stairs to her room, so he could see what he had done. But he must have interpreted her movement as an attempt to hit him, for he caught her wrist in his hand and twisted her arm behind her back.
“Don’t try to attack me,” he said. “Tonight can go one of two directions for you, so be careful which you choose. Why were you in my room?”
“I wasn’t in your room, Reinhard.” She was nearly bent over now, as he pressed harder on her pinned arm.
Her heart knocked against her ribs so frantically, she feared she might pass out. She sucked in a great gulp of air. She mustn’t faint, for there was no telling what he might do if she lay helpless on his floor.
“Don’t lie to me.” He spoke calmly. “Why were you in my room?”
“I wasn’t, Reinhard, I wouldn’t sneak into your room—” She couldn’t keep the hysteria from her voice. Each word rose higher until she was practically screaming.
He released her, then pushed her shoulder blades so hard that she stumbled forward several steps before she managed to catch her balance. She swung around to face him; he stood between her and the door, and the single lamp illuminated the far corner of the room, leaving him in shadow. “Stop lying to me. Why were you in my room?”
She was sobbing now, even though she hated herself for it. “Why did you kill Striped Peterl? He was only a cat who never did anything at all to you—”
He drew his arm back, then cracked her across the face. White-hot pain exploded in her jaw. She staggered sideways. Only his grip on her arm held her upright.
“Why were you in my room?”
“Please—stop, Reinhard, please—”
He pushed her against the wall, pressing his forearm so tightly on her throat that she could barely gasp for air. His face shoved against hers, so close their eyes were only inches apart. She couldn’t look away from him. The bored expression in his eyes chilled her. He doesn’t care, not at all, she thought desperately. He could hurt her in any way he wished, and not hear the smallest whisper from his conscience. In that instant, she realized her brother wasn’t the ice-hearted trickster she had always thought. He was dangerous.
“Why were you in my room?” He spoke in the same bland tone, but sweat beaded his forehead. His pale eyes watched her. “Don’t lie to me again, Gretchen. I came home this afternoon from important Party business to find my room unlocked. And you needn’t blame it on any of the other residents. That bunch of boring old ladies wouldn’t think of breaking into my private space, and Mama wouldn’t either.”
He pressed harder, and she heard her last lungful of air escape in a shallow gasp. Black spread across the periphery of her vision, the sides of the room collapsing into darkness. “That leaves you. Why were you in my room?”
He released her so suddenly that she fell. On her hands and knees, she gulped in air, the blackness softening to gray. Her throat felt raw; every breath scraped against the damaged tissue.
“Please, Reinhard,” she managed, “I didn’t mean any harm. I—I was curious. It’s been so long since I’ve seen your room. It isn’t normal. I’m your sister.”
He considered her. For a long moment, Gretchen remained crouched on the floor, frozen in place, as though the slightest movement might upset her brother. Don’t move, don’t move, she repeated in her head, and then he reached for her.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, and yanked her upright. Before she could throw up her arms for protection, he slapped her face.
An ache flared in her cheek. She reeled backward, smacking into the wall. Blood welled in her mouth, its copper taste gagging her. She curled her arms over her face, and though she wanted to close her eyes and block out the sight of him walking closer, she couldn’t. She watched his arm rear back, winding up for another blow, and she tensed, then felt the sudden agony as his fist plowed into her stomach.
She couldn’t breathe. She staggered, falling forward, but Reinhard seized her by the arms, jerking her upright. She couldn’t suck in any air, and she felt herself sinking down, and she looked up to see Reinhard’s hand descending again, and a sudden wall of darkness fell as he punched her eye.
For an instant, her vision went black, then it flooded back, dotted wit
h gray. She saw Reinhard, a collection of black and white and gray, saw him reaching for her again—
“Please stop,” she begged. The words were hard to say; she was trying to talk around the blood filling her mouth. “Reinhard, please.”
He tossed her to the floor, as easily as though she were a doll. When she flung out her arms to break the fall, her palms slapped hard on the floorboards. Pain jolted through her wrists, radiating up to her shoulders.
“Reinhard, stop!” she cried. The slurred words sprayed a fine mist of blood on the floor. “I’ll tell Uncle Dolf!”
He stood over her, shoulders rising and falling from loud, angry breaths. “He won’t care.”
“Yes, he will!” She wanted to say, He’ll care and he’ll make you stop; he’ll make you go far away so you can’t hurt me and Mama ever again, but moving her mouth sent waves of agony pulsing from her jaw throughout her skull.
Reinhard crouched down, then cupped her chin with his hand, forcing her to look up at him. She saw him through a film of tears and sweat. His figure had begun to blur around the edges, and she wondered frantically if he had damaged her eyesight. The room seemed to grow dimmer, as though someone were slowly turning down a gaslight.
His eyes were flat and emotionless, as though he couldn’t even summon the energy to be angry with her anymore. “Gretchen, you’re so stupid.”
Then he rose and crossed the room, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He opened the door. “Get out. And get rid of that cat’s body. We don’t want it stinking up the place.”
Fear made her move quickly. She got to her feet and stumbled through the open door. The corridor looked misty, as though she wore rain-streaked spectacles. No one was out there, but they all must have heard.
Something blurred her vision; it might have been blood or sweat, but right now she didn’t care which. She wiped it off with the back of her hand and stumbled to her mother’s room next door.
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17
MAMA OPENED THE DOOR ON THE FIRST KNOCK. Her face tightened and she pulled Gretchen into the room, closing the door behind them.
“My God, Gretchen, what has happened?”
“Reinhard,” she said, and had to spit blood onto the floor before she could go on. More blood immediately welled up, so the words came out slurred. Her lips felt thick and clumsy. “Mama, Reinhard did this.”
Her mother sighed. “Sit down, Gretl. If we wipe off the blood, we can see how bad it is.”
She didn’t know what she had expected, but it wasn’t this quiet, matter-of-fact acceptance. “Mama, didn’t you hear me?”
Her mother looked ghostly, a lightbulb flickering in and out of life. She hurried about the room in her white nightgown, gathering salve and bandages from the armoire’s top shelf.
Gretchen squinted, trying to bring the room into focus. What was wrong with her sight? Gingerly, she touched her eyes, feeling the bulging curve of her left eye. It had already swollen closed.
Bile streamed up her throat. As she started retching, her mother whipped a water pitcher under her mouth. She vomited into it. The acidic liquid burned her throat.
Exhausted, she sank back onto her mother’s bed. Dimly, she realized her entire body had started shaking uncontrollably. But her body seemed to belong to another person; her mind was floating somewhere near the ceiling.
“I’m sure Reinhard didn’t mean to hurt you.” Mama put the pitcher on the nightstand, then busied herself at the bureau, dipping a washcloth into the water basin. “He doesn’t understand things as we do, Gretchen. I shall have a talk with him.”
Gretchen froze. Surely she couldn’t have heard correctly. “Mama, don’t you see what he did to me?”
“He’s always been an impulsive boy who doesn’t know his own strength.” Mama dabbed Gretchen’s face with the washcloth. “I’ll make him understand his behavior was unacceptable.”
Gretchen’s good eye widened. Mama was taking his side. Again. Even when she, Gretchen, sat in front of her, bruised and broken and bloodied. With Reinhard still in the next room. She could hear the rustle of paper. He was reading his magazine again.
“No!” She had to force the words past her already swelling lips. “Make him go, Mama. He can’t stay here.”
“This is his home. Why do you think we never moved to Dachau, to stay with my parents, after Papa died? They didn’t want Reinhard. I can no more choose between my children than I can choose which limb to cut off.” She reached for Gretchen with the washcloth. “You and Reinhard shall have to work out your differences.”
“Our differences?” Gretchen choked out. Panic locked her throat. Nothing was ever going to change. She had to get out. She pushed her mother’s hands away.
“Gretchen—” Mama started to say, but Gretchen staggered out of the room. Her heart hammered when she glanced at Reinhard’s door. Closed. Every nerve in her body screamed to get away from him. She forced her aching body up the stairs, back to her room, as fast as she could. There was no one in the hallway, and she half-ran, half-fell into her room.
She pushed the chair into its nighttime position, blocking the door. Then she rested her back against the wall, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. Gradually, she felt her body beginning to burn with new pains: stinging mouth, throbbing palms, a pulsing eye, wrenched arm sockets, aching back.
She dipped a washcloth into the basin. Slowly, carefully, she cleaned her face, trying not to notice as the water turned pale pink, then red. The washcloth, though it was soft from years of use, felt rough on her raw skin. When she had finished, she inspected herself in the mirror.
It wasn’t nearly as bad as she had expected. Her mouth was split and puffy but—she ran her tongue experimentally along her gums—that seemed to be the worst of it. None of her teeth were loose. Her left eye was swollen and already sealed shut. By morning, it would probably be blackened, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Her hands and knees were scraped from her fall, but soon the skin would heal. Within a week, maybe two, she should look presentable.
She had no luggage, and Papa’s ancient valise was somewhere in the cellar. All she could find was an old burlap sack she used for the market, but it would have to do. Two blouses, a skirt, a nightgown, and some underclothes went into it, along with her life’s savings—twelve marks, pitiful.
She placed Daniel Cohen’s letter in her bag, too. She wrapped Striped Peterl’s body in an ancient woolen sweater she had outgrown, and laid him on top.
Her banged-up fingers protested when she drew the curtain aside. The first stars had winked into life. The hour was earlier than she would have liked, but if she waited, she would lose her nerve. It had to be now.
As she crept down the stairs, each wooden creak jolted her heart. What if Reinhard heard, and came out, and . . . She couldn’t finish the thought. She couldn’t imagine what else he could possibly do to her.
The steps groaned. Someone was coming up. She shrank against the wall, trying to hear over the sound of her hammering heart. A light footfall. Not Reinhard.
Whitestone rounded the curving staircase, reaching the landing where she waited. His spectacles gleamed in the darkness. Behind his glasses, his eyes grew wide.
He said something in English she didn’t understand before switching to German. “My God, you’ve been badly hurt.” He shook his head, looking furious. “Your brother. Curse my reticence! I should have warned you. Are you all right—”
“I must go,” she said, and rushed past him. Down the steps as fast as she could, her already aching legs screaming with every step. From the parlor, the old ladies called to her, but she ignored them and went straight to the empty kitchen. She snatched her mother’s soup ladle from a drawer and fetched her father’s ancient bicycle from the back steps, wheeling it through the front hallway to the street outside.
Balancing the bundle on her lap, she bicycled across the broad avenue into the Englischer Garten. At this late hour, the place was nearly empty.
As she cycled along the twisting path, she passed the occasional couple, kissing in the shadows, and a solitary man, wending his way home after a long day’s work. In the distance, voices chattered from the beer garden around the Chinese Tower, and far off, streetcars clanged. But she felt alone, as though a protective invisible bubble separated her from everyone and everything else.
Soon she reached a cluster of trees near the Monopteros Temple. She wheeled the bicycle off the path and stopped under a towering chestnut. It had been her father’s favorite tree. When she was quite small, they sometimes picnicked here on Sunday afternoons. Once they had eaten, her father would stretch himself out on the grass and she would rest her head on his chest and feel very special because he would tell her stories, memories of his childhood in Dachau and proposing to her mother, and moving to Munich to find his fortune, and his kindly parents who had died during the great influenza outbreak of 1919.
Other fathers didn’t share those stories with their daughters; they told them to their sons. But Papa rarely talked to Reinhard, instead circling him warily, like a man confronting a wild animal, striking out whenever Reinhard’s peculiar behavior unsettled his own precarious grip on his temper. Such as the time Reinhard pushed a neighborhood girl down the front steps because he wanted to see if she would cry. Or the time Reinhard used a magnifying glass to burn ants crawling across a sidewalk, because he wanted to time how long it took them to die.
Those days, Papa didn’t bother using his belt, as he usually did; he beat Reinhard with his fists, crying the whole time until, finally, he sagged against the wall, muttering to Mama, “Liesel, something’s broken inside this boy, and not even my discipline can fix him.” And all the while, Reinhard watched them—curled in the corner, his arms clutched around his bruised body, his eyes dry, his face cold.
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