‘Fascism?’ I stutter.
‘Yes, please. Explain the origin of the word. Name the country where this political movement originated.’
I think desperately for a moment, then blurt something about Italy, Mussolini, the ancient Romans, fascio as a bundle of rods, which I try to illustrate using the lieutenant’s badge-covered stick… and all the while my hands and knees can’t stop shaking, because I suddenly think I know what this major represents and what he’s after. He wants to subject me to a political exam, ferret out my beliefs, my past – all in order to draft me into some Russian job, as an interpreter or army helper. Who knows? I see myself being dragged off and enslaved somewhere in some war-torn town. Or are these GPU men hoping to recruit me as an informer? A hundred horrible thoughts flash in my mind I can feel my hands turning to lead and dropping, I can hardly finish what I’m saying.
I must have blanched because the widow looks at me, though she doesn’t understand a word we’re saying. She’s obviously concerned, puzzled. Then I hear the major speaking to the blond lieutenant. He sounds satisfied: ‘Yes, she does have a decent knowledge of politics.’ And he raises his glass and drinks my health.
I breathe with relief, my heart stuck in my throat. Apparently I’ve passed the exam, which was only designed to test my basic knowledge. I finish my glass, which is refilled with the last of the champagne. The widow’s eyes are drooping. It’s time for the guests to leave.
Suddenly there’s a new tone, an open proposition. The lieutenant sums it up in two sentences: ‘Here is the major. He wants to ask you, citizen, if you find him pleasant.’
Out of the clouds and back to earth, I stare at the two men, dumbfounded. All of a sudden the major is fiddling with his cigar, carefully stubbing it out in the ashtray, as if he hadn’t heard what the lieutenant asked on his behalf. It’s so dark I can’t make out the orderly who’s still sitting mutely by the window. No champagne for him.
Silence. The widow looks at me, lifting her shoulders enquiringly.
Then the lieutenant, toneless, calm: ‘Do you find the major pleasant? Can you love him?’
Love? That damned word, I can’t hear it any more. I’m so shaken, so dishearted, that I don’t know what to say or what to do. After all, the lieutenant is part of Anatol’s circle, so he knows about the taboo. Does this mean Anatol is no longer around? Could this major be his successor in the field? And does he think that means he can inherit me as well? He can’t be thinking that – he’s just told us that he’s been staying in the hospital, that he has a bed there.
I stand up and say, ‘No. I don’t understand.’
The lieutenant follows me through the room, limping on his stick, while the major goes on sitting by Pauli’s bedside, seemingly detached, looking right past the two Germans frozen there in silence, helpless and scared.
I murmur to the lieutenant: And Anatol? What about Anatol?’
‘What Anatol?’ he shouts, coarsely, loudly. ‘What do you mean, Anatol? The man’s long gone. He’s been transferred to staff headquarters.’
Anatol gone? Just like that, without a word? Is it true? But the lieutenant sounds so certain, so superior, so scornful.
My head is spinning. Now the major gets up as well, says goodbye to the widow and Herr Pauli with great ceremony. I hear him thanking them repeatedly for their hospitality. Neither Pauli nor the widow has the faintest idea of the procuring being conducted. And I don’t dare speak to them in German, right in front of the other two. I know from experience that the Russians don’t like that – they immediately suspect conspiracy, treason.
The major heads towards the door, bowing to all of us. The Asian comes waddling over from the window. I hold my candle up to light the way out for all three. The major traipses very slowly through the hall, his right leg dragging slightly, he’s dearly doing his best to minimize the limping. The lieutenant shoves me with his elbow, asks rudely, ‘Well? You mean you’re still thinking about it?’ Then there’s a short discussion between him and the major about where to spend the night, whether in the hospital, or… And once again the lieutenant asks me, coldly but politely, ‘Could we possibly spend the night here? All three of us?’ And he points to the major and to the Asian standing beside them half asleep.
All three? Yes, why not? That way we have protection for the night, so I lead the three of them to the back room, next to the kitchen. There’s a broad couch there with several woollen blankets. The lieutenant and the Asian push past me into the room. The lieutenant quickly pulls the door shut. Before it doses I see him shining a torch.
I’m standing in the kitchen, candle in hand. The major is standing next to me, in silence. He politely asks me where the bathroom is. I show him the door and hand him the candle. While I wait for him by the kitchen window, looking out into the dark, the door to the back room opens again. The surly blond lieutenant, already in his undershirt, hisses at me: ‘About us – yesterday – nobody needs to know about that.’ And then he’s gone. I have to think a moment. What does he mean, ‘about us?’ Then I remember the previous night: the dogs’ love, his spitting next to my bed. It seems an eternity ago, repressed, nearly forgotten. I’ve lost all concept of time. A day is like a week, a gaping abyss between two nights.
The major is back; he goes with me into my room. By now Pauli and the widow in the next room will have realized what’s going on. I can hear their muffled voices through the wall. The major pulls a tall, new candle out of one of his bags, drips some wax onto an ashtray, secures the candlestick and places it on the little table next to my bed. He asks quietly, still holding his cap, ‘May I stay here?’
I wave my hands and shrug my shoulders in signs of helplessness.
At that he lowers his eyes and says, ‘You should forget the sub lieutenant. By tomorrow he’ll be far away. That’s what I’ve heard.’
‘And you?’
‘Me? Oh, I’ll be here a long time, a very long time. At least another week, maybe even longer.’ He points to his leg. ‘There’s a fragment inside. I’m being treated.’
I actually feel sorry for him, the way he’s standing there. I ask him to sit down, take a seat. He answers awkwardly, ‘You must be tired. It’s so late. Perhaps you’d like to lie down?’ And he moves over to the window of scraps and cardboard and acts as if he’s looking outside – where you can no longer hear any sounds from the front, none at all. In a flash I take off my outer clothes, throw on an old robe that belongs to the widow, crawl into bed.
Then he comes closer, pushes a chair next to the bed. What is he after? More conversation, more etiquette manual, see under ‘Raping enemy demoiselles’? But no, the major wants to introduce himself. He takes all his papers out of his pockets, spreads them on the quilt and moves the candle closer so that I can get a better look. This is the first Russian who’s revealed himself that way, with all the details. I soon know his full name, date and place of birth, even how much he has in his bank account, because there’s also a savings book from the city of Leningrad with over 4000 roubles. Then he gathers up his papers. He speaks a sophisticated Russian; as always I can tell by the fact that whole sentences go by without my understanding a word. He seems to be well read and quite musical, and he’s clearly taking pains to behave like a gentleman even now Suddenly he jumps up and asks, nervously, ‘Is my company not pleasing? Do you despise me? Tell me frankly!’
‘No, no.’ No, not at all, you can go right on being the way you are. I just can’t force myself into this role, to feel at ease so quickly. I have this repulsive sense of being passed from hand to hand; I feel humiliated and insulted, degraded into a sexual thing. And then once more the thought: And what if its true? What if Anatol really has disappeared? What if my taboo is gone, this wall I’ve taken such trouble to erect? Wouldn’t it be good to create a new taboo, one that might last a little longer. To build a new wall of defence?