The uniform, p.6
The Uniform, page 6
Almost as soon as David realized how precarious his future would be—after his expulsion from medical school—he forced himself to ride Eddie all around the district, introducing him to families who might take over his care when David finally exiled himself from Hungary. Any adopting families would have to continue nurturing Eddie’s most endearing habits. David had learned to endure the sight of the most hellish diseases without flinching, yet the idea of introducing Eddie to potential foster families made his eyes redden with tears. How could he leave a treasured family member to the fates?
David’s boyhood friend, Leon Zsoldoz, stepped out from behind his front door, looking every bit the Arrow Cross soldier he had become. His armband, a homegrown Hungarian variant of the Nazi party’s swastika, startled David, forcing him to step backward. But Leon wrapped David in the unreserved embrace old friends save for each other. He tried putting David at ease, explaining that his loyalty was to the Arrow Cross paycheck, not to its antisemitic mission. He was not eager to begin his military assignment and prayed to Saint Stephen that his orders would get lost in a bureaucratic maze. As for Eddie’s care, Leon was the sort of friend who appreciated David’s predicament. But he feared horses more than Jews.
The effort to find a home for Eddie delayed David’s exodus so long that the day came when he couldn’t leave. He found himself under the control of the Arrow Cross. They posted a notice on every door in the community instructing all Jewish men to make themselves available for work in the wheat fields and rail yards. To avoid frightening away their labor force, they allowed these conscripts to return to their homes each night. The order was less onerous than it would later become. Laborers were paid for their work, however, at rates well below prevailing wages. For all that, David was grateful he could find his way home to Eddie each night. He was happily surprised to learn he could send and receive mail. He wrote to reassure the state’s censors as much as his parents. The effect, as Jews would discover, was like the parable of the frog placed in a pot of warm water.
Before long, the ranks of Jewish laborers were expanded by the addition of homosexuals, criminals, gypsies, political dissidents, monarchists, and communists. As David’s work assignments took him farther from home, there were periods when he could only see Eddie from a distance. With each change in David’s civilian status, Eddie’s domestic calm gave way to impatience, flattening his ears back like a stallion preparing to escape. His neighbor, Leon, reassured David, in their last conversation, that he would deliver oats and apples to the big horse—if the creature wouldn’t charge at him. Leon even used his influence to diminish the burdens of brute labor on David by arranging for him to work as a labor crew medic.
***
Petra crossed the pathway between the barn and the house. Still carrying her anger at David’s disrespect, at having to perform a chore for him, of all people, she shoved open the back door. She hardly noticed the diagonal scar in the dark wood near the door frame. After Karsten had pried the pewter mezuzah from the wood, its oxidation left a darker stain, evidence of the occupants who preceded them.
Petra shuffled toward a bedroom unsure of where to look. The linen closet, she discovered, was empty. She turned toward a bedspread, tucked tight as a knot between mattress and bed frame. It took her a good deal of exertion to strip it free and, when she did, to find there was no sheet. She returned to the hallway on her way to the master bedroom. There, she yanked the blanket off the large bed she had shared with Karsten. The sheet was rumpled, its flower imprint seeming to shrivel. The tight stitching held smooth, polished fibers. How could she tear strips from such sturdy material? She got herself into this quandary and she’d have to see it through to the end. Yet, she was more than willing to be inconvenienced where Desdemona was concerned. She pulled the sheet away from the bed.
She performed a cursory search of dresser drawers, a half-dozen of them, before the nightstand drawer yielded a pair of scissors. Pressing its blade against the edge of the sheet, she carved a long thin gash into it. A parallel incision turned the material into a strip. She sliced a dozen more strips until there was little evidence the sheet ever existed.
In the barn, David continued working the hoof rasp against the leather knot, without luck. But he did notice an anvil stand, a 4-legged metal device, parked just outside Desdemona’s stall. If he couldn’t get close enough to the wagon to examine the bloodstain up close, he wondered if he could use the anvil stand to lever the wagon toward himself. David shoved the device toward the wagon, its iron legs scraping the ground. With a determined reach, the stand might be just long enough so one of its legs could drop into the wagon hitch.
He pulled the makeshift apparatus toward himself. The wagon resisted until David committed all his strength to the task, grunting until it gave in and began rolling toward him. It wasn’t going to be a smooth trip, however. A ladder laying flat on the ground interrupted the wagon wheel’s progress. And David couldn’t reach the ladder to move it out of the way.
The bell cluster above the back door rattled and rang as Petra stepped outside, loaded down with a bundle of newly carved sheet strips.
The sound sent panic surging through David’s skin. He couldn’t let himself be seen poking around in Petra’s world. He hurried to return the anvil stand to Desdemona’s stall, then quickly lowered himself to the ground. Closing his eyes, he pretended to float inside a morphine-induced nap.
A moment later Petra carried her armful through the barn’s rear door.
She sniffed the air every time she entered, an act of prayer for the scent of horse to mask the smell of death. She didn’t miss Karsten but expected the wintry air would keep any hint of decay from attracting notice, at least until Liebig disposed of David. If it didn’t, she thought suspicion would surely fall on the prisoner. Should he protest, who would take seriously anything the two-legged pile of rags had to say?
She followed a path around the wagon and dropped the pile of sheet strips onto David’s lap.
He opened his eyes and described a dream. “I was in Prague. Have you ever been on Parizcka Street?”
Petra wasn’t interested in conversation. “Do you need something else?”
“A train ticket to Zurich perhaps. I can manage from there.”
She warned him. “I’ll inform the authorities if you dare escape.”
“If I dare?” David pretended surprise and thought it best to reassure her. “Madame, why would I leave this? I’m on holiday.”
“For one more hour.” The minutes couldn’t go by quickly enough for her.
David examined the bed sheet strips, noting the precise cut of the new edge. “Nicely done.” But several of the strips bore fresh droplets of blood. He looked for the source. His own wounds had been staunched, but he spotted a gash on Petra’s left palm. It still leaked blood. “Have you been in a fight?” he asked.
“It’s nothing,” she answered. “The bridle chain…”
“It looks deep.” He offered a professional opinion. “It would benefit from stitches.“
“Stitches?”
“To staunch the bleeding. To prevent infection, discomfort, scarring, and in the most extreme case, sepsis or amputation. Not an impossibility during wartime.”
The prospect gave her a touch of nausea. She was determined to stop the flow of conversation. “Do you think it will make you less of a prisoner?” She sounded unimpressed. But she did not welcome the prospect of infection.
He flirted, “If it curries the favor of a Gestapo bride? Possibly.”
“I distinctly heard Leibig say he’s taking you to Ebensee.”
The name was just another place he’d never heard of, another mark on a map. “I don’t know that place.”
“They say it’s hellish.”
“Worse than labor camps?”
“It’s a death camp, doktor.”
David fumbled his sulfa packet. “Perhaps your husband would intercede.”
“At the moment, his opinion doesn’t count.” Indeed.
“But a word from you…? In return for medical services rendered…? Expertly practiced. Why risk infecting it?”
Again, she considered the most frightening medical possibility. Maybe David’s appearance was a lucky accident after all. “Would the stitches hurt?”
“Not with a morphine injection.” This was his realm and, lashed to a horse’s stall or not, he could offer a reassuring bedside manner.
“Why volunteer to treat an oberführer’s wife?”
“To be a physician again. For a few moments.”
David’s certainty made an impression on Petra. There was no longer a spec of dirt on his hands. So, she lowered herself onto one of the bales of hay that surrounded the barn walls like furniture. This one was adjacent to Desdemona’s stall. Petra extended her lacerated palm toward him. David sprinkled sulfa powder on it.
He noticed yarn wrapped around the inside of her wedding band. The gold ring was loose.
“I have to have it sized,” she explained.
He tried to make small talk so forced labor might give way to office chit-chat. “You’re a newlywed?”
“Five months.” She made a point of being matter of fact and not at all familiar.
Ever professional, David injected a vein inside Petra’s elbow with a morphine ampule. He noted the vessel’s delicate aquamarine tint and some mild engorgement. His patient pretended not to feel the pinch.
“Where is your husband if I may ask?”
“Away.”
“And if he were to come home?” he asked, unaware that the Oberführer was still home.
“He would consider this a hanging offense.” The morphine swam toward her head and warmed her. It pushed away any worry that David might detect Karsten’s rotting corpse. And if it did, who would take seriously anything her ragged prisoner said about anything?
“Would you prefer that I stop?”
“If he was absent less often, he could have more of a say in the matter.” She had already begun thinking of Karsten as a casualty of war. That is not intended to sound heartless. She had always enjoyed being in his company, nestling in the warmth of that sturdy frame, the protection it offered and comforts it promised, an Aryan fantasy come to life. That solace merged with her attraction to power, all of it swollen by her instinct to survive.
While David added a couple more stitches, he looked up, surprised that Petra would admit her dissatisfaction.
“Didn’t you ever find pleasure in annoying a spouse?” She wasn’t joking. One more stitch stopped the flow of blood from her palm.
“Believe me. It’s one of life’s hidden fulfillments.” She crossed her legs and grinned.
“So far I’ve only managed to annoy Germans,” replied David. “But I seem to have a talent for it.”
He skillfully tied off the sutures. Light in color, against her alabaster skin, they were barely noticeable. “Yes,” he announced as the task was done. He leaned away to scrutinize his handiwork from a distance. With a touch of surprise in his voice, he said, “I am very, very good.”
Locating a strip of a bed sheet from the pile, he measured it against Petra’s restored hand. Somehow her palm felt colder than his own. As he clipped the strip, divided it, trimmed it, and wrapped it around her stitches, he glanced up. Her overcoat, open at the neck, gave him a look at her collarbone. To him, it was nothing more than an anatomical detail, but with skin so impossibly delicate it suggested more. He tried to ignore it but, between stitches and bandages, he found himself peeking up at a glorious, life-sized, female attribute. It tantalized him. Was she interested only in the cause, in men of rank, or would a rebellious streak allow her to think a prisoner’s touch could become something more animal? After all, these were extraordinary times. She gave him no reason to think she favored either possibility. A short distance past Petra’s shoulder, David could see the framed photo of the triumphant horse. He wondered about the people surrounding Desdemona. Where had they gone? And what was Petra’s part in it? Could he have mentioned any of this to his hostess without finding himself on precarious ground? Would it provoke Petra to summon Sturmbannführer Leibig and cut short his holiday? Even though David was allowed to handle Petra’s skin, to inventory her neck and other parts, he understood; nothing had changed between them. His curiosity was interrupted by the ring of the bell cluster above the rear door.
Petra excused herself to answer it. Struggling against her morphine-induced serenity, she reminded herself of her obligation to the Reich by alternately fumbling and tugging on David’s restraints. In this way, she convinced herself her prisoner could go no further than the horse’s stall. She steadied her legs for the trek to the house. She left the barn wondering who would think about visiting today, of all days.
9
Enno and Gerte
The cold air sharpened Petra’s attention. Her boots sidestepped the icy stone pathway for the grip of the surrounding snow. The bells above the back door jingled once more, prompting her to walk faster. She hadn’t expected company but if Karsten’s colleagues came calling, she couldn’t ignore them. A firm kick against the concrete stairs knocked the slush off her shoes.
Inside the house, she felt the doorbell throb overhead, a tone soon joined by an urgent thump at the front door. Pulling off wet boots, Petra crossed toward the sound and turned the knob. Almost as soon as she pulled the door open, her visitors burst into song, somewhat raucously for a Teutonic birthday melody.
“How nice that you were born.
How nice that you were born.
How nice that you were born, Uncle Karsten
On this glorious day.”
The front portico twinkled with candle fire atop a large chocolate birthday torte. Its light sparkled across the faces of Enno Hausler, his wife, Gerte, and their 11 year-old daughter, Ingrid. Since Karsten installed his brother and sister-in-law in a nearby chalet expropriated from a local dentist, they demonstrated a knack for surprising Petra with inopportune visits. They were fair and sturdy people, like Karsten, and not at all taxed by the weight of the cake. Thick frosting offered plenty of support for the burning candles. The parents nudged Ingrid forward, inviting themselves inside before they arrived at the song’s finale.
Enno chirped, “My brother warned me not to miss his birthday.”
Gerte chimed in, “You don’t say no to an Oberführer’s birthday.”
“Where is the bastard?” demanded Enno cheerfully.
Petra reproached herself at the oversight. Who forgets her husband’s birthday? A detail like this would never have escaped Petra’s recall if Karsten had revealed it but, then, they were still what most people considered newlyweds; and she had recently become preoccupied with the sudden need to annul their union. “Apologies, Enno…Gerte. Sincerely. He left earlier.”
“Today? Of all days?” asked Gerte.
The widow had her ready-made Berlin excuse. “I’m no less disappointed.”
“You?” scolded Gerte. “He promised to give us a painting.”
Enno reminded her, “It’s Karsten’s birthday, dear. Not yours.”
Gerte turned to Petra. “Should we be worried about him?” After all, there was a war on. Even Oberführers suffer wounds.
“Not a bit,” she reassured. “But, I’ve discovered it’s best to stay out of Karsten’s official business.” Petra’s tone seemed to calm them.
Speaking of wartime casualties, there was the matter of the floral bandage on Petra’s hand. Enno noticed. “What about you?”
“I had a riding accident.”
“You? Riding?” Gerte could always be depended upon to play the snide in-law.
Petra said, “I don’t claim to be an Olympian.” She quickly found a way to change the subject. “Oh, Karsten asked me to give something to you.” She stepped toward a handsome roll-top desk and opened a drawer where a small gift box awaited. “I haven’t had time to wrap it.” Lifting the cover of the box, she revealed its contents: a pure silver amulet forged into the shape of a hand. “The rabbi who sold this to Karsten swore it protects against the Evil Eye.” In truth it hadn’t been a voluntary exchange.
“What’s a rabbi?” pondered little Ingrid.
“Like a magician,” her father explained without delving too far into the unfortunate details.
Gerte threw a darker shroud over the subject. “A magician who makes Black Magic.”
The clarification delighted Ingrid. “I know that song.” She scooted toward the piano bench, in a hurry to hammer at the keyboard. She chanted, “Old black magic. Old black magic. Old black magic…” It was her own variant of the American standard, but she performed it enthusiastically.
The composition, as earnest as it was tone-deaf, prompted Petra to step toward the piano and pull at the keyboard cover. “Ingrid?” The visit couldn’t have come at a worse time.
Enno quickly took his daughter’s side. “Please, Petra. Do we punish a little girl for the machinations of others? Why deny her a moment of pleasure?”
“Of course.” She raised her palms in regret.
Jumping at the next flicker of an idea, Ingrid asked, “Can I see Desdemona?” Without need of an answer, she sprang from the piano bench.
The barn would require too many explanations. “Another time, Ingrid.” Petra sidled between Ingrid and the back door. “Desdemona isn’t feeling well.” Instead she realized the piano could provide a welcome distraction. She steered the girl back toward the piano and asked, “Can I teach you a song?” Though she hated the sight of grimy, young fingers smudging the precious Bösendorfer, these difficult days forced a working piano teacher like Petra to make peace with the prospect.
Ingrid loved the idea and hopped toward the keyboard. She slid onto the piano bench and made room for Petra. The teacher pressed the grand piano’s keys into a slow, simplified version of a German folk tune.
