Again she saw the scar on his head. It went from the roots of his hair along his forehead and circled his skull.
“I prefer wolves to people. At night they pursue the moon. Ifs a world we don’t know yet.”
He spoke in a different tone from when he spoke of the Jews. Snow and blood, he told her, were pure colours for him. They marked the purity of the territory, the purity of the thought that inspired him: Germany from the Rhine to the Urals; with its allies from the Bay of Biscay to Latvia. Conquered territory on which — one day — vast numbers of Germans would live. A Nazi structure similar to a system of dykes. Rivers flowing into a German sea. A wonderful ocean not yet on any map. Compensation for centuries, or millennia, when they’d had to crowd into territory smaller than their worth. Just as Germany was once almost lost on the map of Europe, so the subjugated countries would now be lost within Greater Germany.
“No more rotten wooden synagogues, which burnt more quickly than showy Viennese stoves of marble and granite with false oriental decorations, as if they stood in Jerusalem. If the circumcised were given a free hand, there’d be Jerusalem everywhere. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“You aren’t saying either yes or no.”
“I’m saying yes.”
“Jawohl. That’s what I like to hear. Schon gut…”
He thought of what he’d had to give up in order to purify himself, to liberate himself.
She was looking at his holster. How many bullets had he left? Surely he would have more than one magazine and changing magazines was easy? Perhaps he wouldn’t wish to shoot again and make her freeze in the cold draught.
“Stoke up as much as you can,” he said.
“As you wish.”
She piled more coal on and raked the grate from underneath. The heat breathed into her face, her hands, her chest. Whatever she did, the damp brown coal would burn slowly. Again the place would be full of smoke.
“It’s smoking,” she said cautiously.
She could not be sure of the meaning of anything he said.
“You like mucking about on the floor?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Isn’t it more comfortable in bed?”
She didn’t know what to say.
No-one had come yet without wanting what they all wanted. It might be the last thing they ever enjoyed. She shouldn’t expect more from his babbling than simply a preface to the usual. She did not wish to think of her back, her belly, her joints. She would have to rely on being young and in good health. Nor was there any point in tormenting herself with thoughts of sin. Whenever she undressed she persuaded herself that she was slipping on a protective ring. Or that she was hanging on to a weir or to rocks in a river in flood.
She felt beads of perspiration on her forehead, and wiped them off. She concentrated on the stove, on the coal box and what was left of the firewood. She stretched her fingers which had been gripping the coal shovel. The mist in the Obersturmführer’s eyes was fixed on her. She knew what this meant.
There was silence in the cubicle. Only the wick with the little flame spluttered.
“I’ll mix you with a drop of my blood,” he said.
On his uniform there were ribbons — the Iron Cross, the Blutorden, the Nazi Party’s Blood Order. From the pocket ofhis tunic with its silver buttons he produced some cords.
“Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to hang you. Are you afraid?”
“No,” she lied.
“If you had a sister I’d need both of you.”
“I haven’t got one,” she said.
He lay down, still dressed. He spread his arms and legs. Was he going to order her to undress him?
“We’ll have a little excursion. Somewhere you haven’t been before,” he said.
He ordered her to tie him to the head and foot posts of the bed; by his wrists and ankles, as tight as she could, each hand and leg separately. The ropes had buckles. He hoped she would express no astonishment.
“We’ll make time stand still,” he added.
That was it, round the wrist. First one ankle and then the other. Pull hard. Or wasn’t she strong enough? That might be bad for her. He wouldn’t like to have to complain. Three floggings meant the wall or the “Hotel for Foreigners” at Festung Breslau. He did not wish her to protest or to have to command her. On the other hand, she would not be sorry if she did what he wanted. His voice was hoarse. Surely she realized that not all men were alike?
“Haven’t you tied anyone up before? Well, you can learn from me how it’s done. I’m glad I am the first. You too will be the first — after a long time.”
She was confused by the way he was acting. He was speaking in a jerky sort of way, no longer so haughty. Creases had appeared on his forehead, running across his scar. Why did he want this from her? There was impatience in him, almost anxiety that she might not do what he wanted of her properly. There was no longer the aggression or the self-assurance there had been when he had spoken of the inferior race or when he was shooting at the wolves. He had changed as though at the waving of a wand.
She tied him up the way he wanted. She avoided his eyes, concentrating on what she had to do and at the same time trying to detach herself from it.
“Freedom,” whispered the bound Obersturmführer. “Do you hear me?”
In the corners of his mouth there was a trace of arousal as well as anxiety or uncertainty. Tied up on the bed, the Obersturmführer looked like a captured animal. Or like someone who had voluntarily surrendered. She had never seen an SS man like this.
“I appreciate military qualities in a girl,” he whispered. “Keenness and obedience.”
He cleared his throat and swallowed. He was seeking a more comfortable position. The bed shook. He didn’t seek love or proximity as others did. He didn’t admit to himself that this was so because he himself was incapable of such things. He refused to regret what he was missing. What were prostitutes for? This, too, was free and he did not have to share any feelings of exclusion or inferiority. Here, no-one had vanquished him.
She was waiting for his next instruction. He told her to undress.
“I know how to tie and untie eight different kinds of knots. A friend from the navy taught me. He’d been three times in the brig on the cruiser Tirpitz. He’d slept with négresses”
She folded her dress and underwear and placed them on the chair by the stove. She took off her boots and pulled off her socks and stockings. It was warm in the cubicle now, but the floor was cold. For a moment she thought of Long-Legs who complained of cold feet.
Skinny felt alarm bells ringing inside her. She saw what at first glance was invisible. All the colours and shapes, all the outlines of mouths, jaws, noses, lips and irises suddenly turned into mist. She could not afford to make a mistake. She would always be on the losing side. She was very different from Ginger, who would get closer to men the worse they treated her. She couldn’t show gratitude as Maria-from-Poznan did to someone who treated her body as a butcher’s dog would a bone.
“You’re too far away. Come here, to the bed.” She obeyed.
“Unbutton me.”
She knew that what he wanted her to unbutton was not his shirt. She half-closed her eyes, and tried to stop her hands from trembling. He mustn’t sense how unwilling she was. It took her longer than it should have done. She heard his squeaky voice. His head was tilted back and it was hard to understand him. Maybe Madam Kulikowa was right — there were worse things. She let her hands do what they had to. He couldn’t see, he only gave her instructions as if he were telling her how to lead a horse to stables or lean a bicycle against a wall, or thread a needle. Then his voice grew weak.