Child of the Journey (10 page)

Your wife
...

E
rich opened the long velvet box and examined the diamond bracelet he had bought for Miriam more than a week before, for no particular reason except that he thought it belonged around her wrist. He had been carrying it around ever since, hoping for a moment when she would seem receptive.

For the last few days, she had been more distant, more preoccupied than ever. The longer he waited, the less benign he felt toward her--and the less inclined to give her something bought in a fit of tenderness and longing. He was sure she would find a way to denigrate his gift. Not crassly sarcastic, but subtly and, thus, more emotionally devastating. He had no way to fight her verbal choreographies, except to play the stoic soldier and swallow his rage.

Worse yet, like a mother offering strudel because one's blocks were picked up, she would invite him to his reward between her legs--reminding him all the while that her hatred of anything Nazi or even vaguely military was being fueled by his weakness for her.

What would happen then? Doubtless another erectile failure and the pretense that her satisfaction was all he wanted this night. Small wonder that the act which he had in the past anticipated with pleasure now revolted him, as it had done ever since the business with Hempel and that poor prostitute. What had her name been?
Toy.

There was only one female with whom he could truly share his feelings, Erich thought. The one who had loved him unconditionally.

Taurus.

Slipping into his black silk robe, he poured himself a cognac against the November dawn, pocketed the bracelet, and went outside. By the time he reached the kennels, he had disposed of the brandy. He was about to set the glass under a tree, where he could find it later, when he saw that the duty officer was Krayller--a loner who would certainly not find the need for a cognac unbecoming of the conduct of his superior officer.

"You weren't scheduled for duty tonight," Erich said.

Though Erich's tone was conversational, Krayller reddened. "One of the other men." His reluctance to name the man stemmed, Erich knew, from an effort to avoid getting the other trainer in trouble. "I'm filling in."

Erich tried to rearrange his features to reflect a stern demeanor in the face of the trainers again changing the duty roster without permission, but secretly the
esprit de corps
and self-sufficiency the trainers exhibited pleased him. He took pride in the fact that his men were different from so many German soldiers, with their rigidity and blind insistences. While his men certainly knew the value of following orders, he encouraged them to question. To think for themselves, unlike some of the so-called finest units-- who reminded him of the Communist insurgents of his childhood whose takeover had failed because they'd lacked proper tickets to board the train. One conductor, armed with nothing but a ticket punch, had stopped a coup.

As a member of the Abwehr, the military-security branch of the armed forces, he had visited many units and often been on assessment teams. What others applauded made him shudder. He had asked himself: what would become of those units if the officers were killed, or if the commander were a Judas goat? What would become of the country?

"I've no problem with changes. Just make sure the paperwork's proper," Erich said, nodding at Krayller. "Oberschütze Müller visiting his sister again?"

The man hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, Sir," he said. "And thank you, Sir." He adjusted his carbine on his shoulder.

Erich thought about Ursula Müller, remembering the time when, both of them barely into puberty, she had tried to goad him into probing her with his
damaged
fingers. She was ready for something new and different she had said. His fearful refusal had triggered her sarcastic laughter and made him so angry that he had lied to the other boys--Solomon among them--bragging about something he hadn't done.

Now where was she, with her weak IQ and strong libido? A depressive, institutionalized by the New Order and forced to service the officers under threat of involuntary sterilization.

"You're forever filling in," Erich said. "Volunteering in an emergency I can understand. But you seem to make a career of it."

The corporal scooped up the affenpinscher, his constant companion, and held the black monkey terrier against his huge chest, playing with the forelegs. "The other men have families, Sir. Me...I'm a loner, a sort of...clown."

"Clown?"

"Like Grog, Sir." Krayller puffed up his corpulent cheeks, as if expecting Erich to join him in
Sch-ö-ö-n
, the clown routine the real Grog had made famous. When Erich did not respond, Krayller said, somewhat awkwardly, "Always smiling--always alone." He quickly added, "Except for Grog Junior, here." He patted the terrier.

"Fine, but don't let your generosity interfere with your regular duties," Erich said, ambling down the ramp that led to the garage underneath the mansion. "I don't want anyone falling asleep during drills."

"No Sir. I'll sleep after I'm dead. Nothing to do then but lie around anyway," Krayller called after him. "Just so they bury me with my smile painted on--Sir."

Until he pulled the chain of the dangling bulb, Erich was unsure why he had entered the garage, with its two rows of army and civilian vehicles lined up like troops awaiting inspection. Then he noticed Hawk, his bicycle since childhood, and thanked the impulse that had brought him down here. Someone--Konnie, perhaps--had washed the bike and polished its considerable chrome to a high shine.

Sch-ö-ö-n,
he thought.
Beautiful.

Pulling off his robe, he exchanged it and his empty glass for the military blouse he kept in his garage locker. Without thinking, he transferred the bracelet from the pocket of his robe to the pocket of his shirt. Then he snapped off the light and walked Hawk clear of the garage and up into the breaking dawn, aware that the feeling of oppression was draining from him.

Some of the shepherds whined or whimpered pitifully when he unchained Taurus from her dog-run. Others performed a retinue of tricks or simply, shamelessly begged. To no avail. Tonight, he wanted no other companion than Taurus. He hooked up her leash and led dog and bike past Krayller's post.
 

Older than any of the other dogs by half a dozen years, Taurus lifted her head like a princess and pranced along, basking in her master's affections. The corporal saluted smartly, and Erich returned it left-handed, a bit of occasional military irreverence the men seemed to enjoy.

Then he was off, dawn flooding the streets, Taurus's claws clicking against pavement as she trotted alongside. He rode slowly, both to savor the moment and in respect for the dysplasia that had invaded Taurus' hips and likely would eventually cripple her. She moved easily this morning; her pain seemed far away, no more than a dark cloud on a horizon. He opened his mind to her, exulting in her sense of smell and purpose. Her happiness at roaming and being beside him beat against his consciousness as colorfully as the wings of a lunar moth against a window screen. He was a boy again. He wondered if he had ever, really, grown up. Everyone else seemed so much older, so much more mature. Did they feel like boys, too, or was he the only one who felt forever boy, his dog beside him, clothespinned-on playing cards fluttering against his spokes?

They went up the Kurfurstendamm and down Mauerstrasse. When they reached Ananas, to which he realized he had unconsciously been heading the whole time, he was inordinately thirsty--and hungry for human camaraderie. He chained the bike to a pole outside the nightclub and threaded the leash around the handlebars. Almost paradoxically, in contrast to its wilder, cabaret days, the place was now an officers' club and never closed.

He glanced up at the spread-winged Nazi eagle on the marquee, remembering with nostalgic regret how the nightclub had once flown on wings of creativity and artistic verve. Once, when Miriam was the star; once, when Werner Fink's deadly humor was applauded even by those who feared its edge, and the likes of Bertoldt Brecht drank nightly at their regular tables.

Once, when there was hope.

Guard the bike
, he mentally told Taurus, almost in afterthought as his depression returned.

Inside, in the foyer, a stolidly bosomed hat-check girl wearing a severe suit took Erich's officer's cap, eyeing him appreciatively. He wished she were one of the chorines from the old days, dressed only in feathers and flesh, then hoped she wasn't. Some changes he could not abide.

The atmosphere in the cabaret proper was subdued and smoky, not the usual gaiety and toasting by men coming off duty. Soldiers of all ranks meandered among the tables, beer mugs in hand, but conversations were quiet. There was a tension in the air in counterpoint to the atmosphere of
gemütlichkeit
he had sought. Many men just sat and stared at the pineapples that served as table centerpieces. Someone had painted them green, so that they looked like grenades--hardly the exotic, erotic symbols that once could buy a man a night between almost any woman's legs if not a lifetime in her heart.

But that change was not new, not since his last visit. There was something else odd, something he could not determine much less name. He looked around, trying to figure out what had changed.

The stage was darkened except for a tiny light above a drum set and a tuba cradled on a stand. It seemed almost funereal, the antithesis of the delightful exhibitionism of just a half-dozen years ago. Gone were acts like kohl-eyed Mimi de Rue--Miriam's stage name; she had dropped "Rathenau" in the hope of obtaining work--the professionally trained dancer who sang like a seductress. Gone too, though who knew where--Erich had heard that, miraculously, Fink had not been arrested--were
conférenciers
like Werner Fink, whose outrageous comedy had been like a Hitler salute right up the nearest Nazi's ass. Now, when there was a revue, Nazi comics about as interesting as beer left in a mug for a week introduced the acts.

Abruptly, Erich realized what had changed since his last visit. Except for one woman near the bar, clad in expensive black nylons and what looked like a pink house-robe, all the waitresses were gone. He was about to ask the nearest soldier about the change, when he noticed one of the trainers, Corporal Hans Müller, sitting in the corner, smoking, the back of his head against the wall.

"I heard you had gone to the, um, hospital," Erich said, ambling over to him.

The corporal nodded for Erich to sit down but did not in any way acknowledge his rank. "I went to the
nuthouse,"
Hans said. "You can say it, Herr Major. It doesn't bother me."

Müller thumped out his cigarette against the ashtray, swirled the wrong end in his mouth to make sure it was dead, and replaced it in his pack. Habit, Erich knew, borne of the Depression days that Hitler's military regime had ended.

"They released her," Müller said. "She was gone by the time I got there. Left. On her own. No money. No family with her. The doctor told me they needed the bed for someone
useful
. Someone who might return to society and produce strong Nazi babies." He looked around as if to make sure that they were not being overheard. "Nazi
bastards,"
he added in a low voice. "There's no room left in the Reich for old-fashioned sentimentalism, for compassion."

"I'm sorry," Erich said, at a loss for words. "Where is she now?"

Müller shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Probably at the bottom of the Elbe. I wouldn't know where to begin to look. Aren't we all siblings in the eyes of the State? I'll just find another sister."

Erich stared at the grain lines in the table top. Had he contributed to her downfall by refusing her, he wondered.
Getting as bad as Solomon,
he thought.
Shrouding myself in conscience. Only real difference between a goddamn Jew and a goddamn Catholic is the degree of guilt. Has little to do with Jesus.

In an attempt to lift a corner of his gloom, he listened to the conversation of the soldiers at the next table, heads together like chuckling conspirators, and then wished he hadn't. They were describing their latest sojourn with a Jewish prostitute. "Big-nosed bronco busting," one called it, trying for an American cowboy inflection. "They can't get enough of it. Not when
we
start poking them."

The conversation sickened Erich, though he knew he should be used to it. The Jewesses who worked the alleys had no other choice. Those who did not do it for food, did it in a desperate attempt to help rescue loved ones from work camps--begging for something as simple as a letter forwarded to the right authority.
Like Miriam with me,
Erich thought, annoyed with himself for making the comparison.
Except Solomon really isn't incarcerated
.

"I left her tied up, back there," the soldier went on. "Ready for the next one." His laughter, ringing hollow in the otherwise quiet cabaret, chilled Erich.
Back there.
There were prostitutes in here now? Not that there hadn't always been a working girl or two among the tables, but this was different. These were...
Slaves
.

Back there,
beat within his brain.

They had a Jewish woman, perhaps several, tied up in the back rooms. Maybe even in Miriam's former dressing room, the one with the tawdry, half-peeled star on the door. Is that what it had stood for all these years...a Star of David?