But she hadn’t been frightened, and then that moment had flared and enfolded her, and she had felt – she herself, no one else – the grasp of her thighs and bent knees against his sweating torso, and her arms had reached up and pulled him down to her.
That, and everything else, had passed. The man took his rest, his duty performed.
She was almost afraid to touch him now. He lay with the back of his head against one forearm, a dark-blue mark revealed on the skin above his ribs. A tattooed letter B was visible beneath the sheen of his sweat. Slowly, her outstretched fingertip trembling, she reached toward it. The symbol reminded her of the stigmata etched upon her father’s wrists, that he had tried to remove, and upon the wrists of all his brethren who had remained true to the secrets of their faith.
Her hand darted back when the man beside her opened his eyes. He glanced at his own torso, then smiled gently at her. “It signifies my blood type,” he said. “That’s all. Everyone in the SS is marked that way. So if we fall in battle, the medics might assist us with no time lost.”
She said nothing, but drew back against the headboard and watched as he sat up.
“I should be going.” He swung his legs out of the bed, then walked across the room to the chair on which he’d laid his uniform. He held the black trousers up, brushing a wrinkle from them with the back of his hand.
“You’re very . . .” The sound of her own voice surprised her. She didn’t know what to say; she had almost said pretty , but she knew that was the wrong word. “Nice. I mean . . . you look good.”
He glanced over his shoulder, as if he had already forgotten, and now been reminded of her presence. The corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “There is no such thing as ‘nice’ in the SS, Fraulein . There is only Härte .” Toughness, the unbreakable nature of stone.
“I’m sorry.” Marte pulled the blankets up to her chin.
“No need to be. You are a very sweet child. I shall always remember you.”
He wouldn’t. There was nothing to remember.
“I . . . I’ve seen you before.” The words came unbidden. “Your face.”
“Oh? Where would that have been?”
“In the newspaper. It had a picture of you.”
“ Ach –” He shook his head in annoyance. “That stupid business. Just grateful that it didn’t happen when I was in training camp at Bad Tölz. The others would have given me a rough time of it, with all that crap about being a hero of the Reich.”
“Are you?” Marte studied him. “A hero, I mean?”
“I killed somebody, in front of the right somebody else.” He didn’t look at her, but watched his own hands buttoning his shirt, from the bottom up. “In the Blood Purge. The Sturmabteilung leaders then were all perverts and conspirators; that’s why it was necessary for the SS to clean them out.” He finished the top button, then smoothed the front of the shirt flat with his hand. “There were others who did as much as I had, or more. But my commanding officer had Reichsführer SS Himmler’s ear and told him all about me.” He shrugged. “That is how one becomes a hero.”
She watched him continue dressing, the uniform assembling upon him like dark armor. In the little mirror over the wash basin, his reflection attended to the last details, the straightening of the bright bits of insignia on his chest, the tight closure of the jacket’s collar. He didn’t see her watching him. There was no one there to see her. The eyes the mirror showed . . . the girl she’d seen in the mirror had had eyes like that. Not blank or empty – not any more – but sealed shut, to keep inside the things that had been placed by others in that hollow darkness.
Marte had long ago stopped wondering what was in the little dark rooms behind the mirror girl’s eyes. Even lying here, under sheets that smelled faintly of a
That, and everything else, had passed. The man took his rest, his duty performed.
She was almost afraid to touch him now. He lay with the back of his head against one forearm, a dark-blue mark revealed on the skin above his ribs. A tattooed letter B was visible beneath the sheen of his sweat. Slowly, her outstretched fingertip trembling, she reached toward it. The symbol reminded her of the stigmata etched upon her father’s wrists, that he had tried to remove, and upon the wrists of all his brethren who had remained true to the secrets of their faith.
Her hand darted back when the man beside her opened his eyes. He glanced at his own torso, then smiled gently at her. “It signifies my blood type,” he said. “That’s all. Everyone in the SS is marked that way. So if we fall in battle, the medics might assist us with no time lost.”
She said nothing, but drew back against the headboard and watched as he sat up.
“I should be going.” He swung his legs out of the bed, then walked across the room to the chair on which he’d laid his uniform. He held the black trousers up, brushing a wrinkle from them with the back of his hand.
“You’re very . . .” The sound of her own voice surprised her. She didn’t know what to say; she had almost said pretty , but she knew that was the wrong word. “Nice. I mean . . . you look good.”
He glanced over his shoulder, as if he had already forgotten, and now been reminded of her presence. The corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “There is no such thing as ‘nice’ in the SS, Fraulein . There is only Härte .” Toughness, the unbreakable nature of stone.
“I’m sorry.” Marte pulled the blankets up to her chin.
“No need to be. You are a very sweet child. I shall always remember you.”
He wouldn’t. There was nothing to remember.
“I . . . I’ve seen you before.” The words came unbidden. “Your face.”
“Oh? Where would that have been?”
“In the newspaper. It had a picture of you.”
“ Ach –” He shook his head in annoyance. “That stupid business. Just grateful that it didn’t happen when I was in training camp at Bad Tölz. The others would have given me a rough time of it, with all that crap about being a hero of the Reich.”
“Are you?” Marte studied him. “A hero, I mean?”
“I killed somebody, in front of the right somebody else.” He didn’t look at her, but watched his own hands buttoning his shirt, from the bottom up. “In the Blood Purge. The Sturmabteilung leaders then were all perverts and conspirators; that’s why it was necessary for the SS to clean them out.” He finished the top button, then smoothed the front of the shirt flat with his hand. “There were others who did as much as I had, or more. But my commanding officer had Reichsführer SS Himmler’s ear and told him all about me.” He shrugged. “That is how one becomes a hero.”
She watched him continue dressing, the uniform assembling upon him like dark armor. In the little mirror over the wash basin, his reflection attended to the last details, the straightening of the bright bits of insignia on his chest, the tight closure of the jacket’s collar. He didn’t see her watching him. There was no one there to see her. The eyes the mirror showed . . . the girl she’d seen in the mirror had had eyes like that. Not blank or empty – not any more – but sealed shut, to keep inside the things that had been placed by others in that hollow darkness.
Marte had long ago stopped wondering what was in the little dark rooms behind the mirror girl’s eyes. Even lying here, under sheets that smelled faintly of a
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