To the Obersturmführer she was a new girl. A novice, as he had said to the Madam.
“No,” Skinny answered absentmindedly. “Yes,” she corrected herself, “I am answering you.”
“Wake up!”
“I’m here …”
“You can sleep when I’m gone. There’s a time for everything.”
“Jawohl.”
“Suppose I made you swear?”
“Swear what?”
“On your race.”
“I’d swear.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” the Obersturmführer said.
She must pull herself together.
Last time he had played games like this with Ginger and with that tall prostitute. She had got on his nerves with her height, her big breasts and her moistness. But he had liked her nose — a large, straight Aryan nose. Should not prostitutes also be informed of the importance of race? Of what it meant? What far-reaching consequences it implied, here and now, for everybody? He swept his eyes over her as he spoke. He’d see. Soldiers like him should be offered if not princesses then at least virgins. Or perhaps not? Virgins with fairly extensive experience. Or girls with a quick grasp, quick learners, those who anticipated what was expected of them. There was more to it than just simply lying down and opening their legs. Better still, girls who understood even the unusual.
He had already summed the girl up. He was startled by her childish appearance. He wondered what she knew about him. He looked around the cubicle, hoping there wouldn’t be rats here. In the corner he caught sight of a cobweb, but the spider and the flies had gone. He realized that he was cold, and glanced at the stove. She had built a good fire. A good mark. He wanted her to understand that she was not irreplaceable, even before he convinced himself of it. He warmed himself by the fire, ignoring her. He scowled at his watch, as if planning his time. He tried to visualize what was happening at his unit, who was doing what while he was here.
The fact that he was an officer made her nervous. Not that she would have preferred NGOs, but his being an officer increased her fear. She did not worry too much about having to lie; but she was afraid of committing the sin of carelessness or of anything happening which was beyond her control. At least she could see that he was pleased with the fire in the stove.
He listened to the howling of the gale, separating it from the roar in the stove. The elbow of the flue radiated heat. He liked its red-hot colour. At moments it would turn white, blue and red again, sometimes all colours together. I have a taste for unusual beauty, he told himself. I am able to find it in the most unexpected places. This prostitute was probably still in training. Probably not a mistress of her profession yet, but he could handle that. Did not everybody have to learn all the time?
“I hope you’re not like my former neighbour’s cat,” he said when he had warmed himself. “The more friendly I was to her the more she withdrew.”
“I’m not withdrawing,” she said.
He was accustomed to people being afraid of him. Nothing to be said against that. It was better to count on the fear of the people one was dealing with than to rely on their meekness or humility, which might, at an unguarded moment, undergo an incredible change. He had seen what became of escaped prisoners in the forests and among the rocks — frenzy was too weak a word. It had happened countless times. He wished to prove to himself that he was strong not only in being part of the group, but also by himself. Sometimes he thought of himself as one of the wolves in the wasteland. Be oneself towards oneself and also towards others, he thought.
“A girl like you is like a heavenly body,” he joked. “They only show one side. I’d like to understand you. But first you have to understand me.”
He was treating her like a servant. And she felt like one. She would imagine that she was tidying up a room. She would accept that all employers had their whims. That brought her closer to the Obersturmführer without her realizing it. She could not know that he had just judged her young, healthy and generally fit — maybe not the best material, but in the circumstances and considering where they were, better than nothing.
“As a rule I get on well with a girl like you.”
He was filled with a sense of superiority. He knew there was no harm in working on a girl, especially one as young as this one, with words first, before it came to hands and body. He could afford to take his time. He blamed himself for not feeling at ease with himself, as he would have liked. Why was he sweating? Was he too close to the stove?
With no-one else had she been so aware, right from the first moment, that she was Jewish. She wrapped herself in caution. She could not compare him to Captain Hentschel. She would have to remain careful.
He searched her face. Surely she must realize that his eyes were boring into her? Perhaps she was telling the truth. She was not that old and all Jews, with rare exceptions, had vanished from the region. Was she blushing? Perhaps he was imagining it. He was convinced that Jews did not blush. It was a matter of the quality of blood. He could not recall now where he had heard that. To be on the safe side, crossing with dark-haired, dark-eyed partners would be forbidden in his family. That would be his legacy to future generations. Nor anyone below army regulation height, or with doubtful background. That was if he ever had a real family. So far his immediate and wider family were the Einsatzgruppen. Rankers, NCOs and commanders, including the supreme Führer. The Nazi Party. The élite, the only ones with whom he felt an equal among equals.
He regarded it as a lucky accident that the initials of his name were S.S. Stefan Sarazin. He always introduced himself as “Stefan Sarazin, Obersturmführer in the Waffen-SS,” stressing the sibilants.
“You were blushing?” he asked.
“I’m not blushing.”
“I should hope not. Do you know how to recognize a non-Aryan reliably? He hasn’t enough blood in him to blush.”
She was unable to guess the colour of his eyes. They were like the openings of two empty beer bottles. Poorly-blown glass. He reminded her of a girl she’d known with cataracts.
“The Lebensborn organization used this place,” he said. “I was invited here for a week. Together with my colleagues I impregnated my quota. We were a dozen chosen men under 25 from the Waffen-SS, without an iota of Jewish blood. The master race. Vigorous individuals who could trace their family tree as far back as 1775. Thirty-year-old German women who haven’t found a husband are reporting for the Lebensborn. The state takes care of them and ensures that they become mothers.”
He was drawing her into his world. She tried to guess his age. Not more than 25 or 26. She was afraid he might show her photographs. He was shorter than she was. It was a good thing that Captain Hentschel had not come again. Still, the previous night she had slept in his green pullover.
He fixed his milky eyes on her mouth, then they slid down, but not all the way to her boots.
“You have small breasts. We’ll see more when you take your clothes off.”
“I don’t know. Yes, I have small breasts.”
“And a small bottom.”
“I can’t see my back.”
“Is everything you have small?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should know. You’re new, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been here a fortnight.”
“Do you get enough to eat?”
“Yes,” she said quickly.
“You’re keen on food?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Perhaps you should be,” said the Obersturmführer.
“I only give the best, the very best, if you know what I mean.”
She didn’t say that she did not know.