In the yard, Skinny was pushing with all her might against the stiff gate. It was 3.40 a.m. The oiled iron hinges yielded with a squeak. She swept the snow in the driveway. The previous day a truck had skidded there, smashing its headlights and right-hand mudguard and buckling the door.
She raised her eyes. A wolf cub was standing about 20 metres from the gate. It had long thin legs and a yellowish, almost white, fur. The snow was turning blue in the dawn. She lifted her broom, and the cub jerked, turned and ran away. Twice it looked back as it fled. In that first moment when they had looked at each other she’d seen in the cub’s eyes the look of a brother. Finally she saw herself. The wolf cub would turn up at daybreak, when the night ended and the mists gave way to daylight. The first time it came was on the day of Captain Hentschel’s visit to Skinny, the last time on the day when Obersturmführer Stefan Sarazin of the Einsatzkommando der Einsatzgruppen turned up again. While still in the doorway he had informed her that they’d caught the saboteurs who had derailed the train. They had executed them on the spot. He regretted that they couldn’t have executed them twice, a hundred times, a hundred thousand times. A dead man cannot carry another, said a German proverb. These punitive actions rarely failed to be effective. Every spot at which an enemy was killed would one day be declared sacred. Fools, all those who believed they could destroy the Reich! In the Obersturmführer’s squeaky voice she heard unassailable conviction.
In her mind Skinny ran with the wolf cub along the river down to the snow-covered quarry and beyond. The cub ran to where all wolves were equal and were allowed to breathe the same air. Where that was did not matter.
Beautiful swallowed the gram of cyanide at the moment that artillery corporal Fritz Möhlen — one of Major von Kalckreuth’s men — lay on top of her. A snowstorm was raging outside. From the start they had not spoken a single word. She had undressed, opened her legs and waited for the corporal to come to her.
Now he was hammering on Madam Kulikowa’s door.
“Is anything wrong?” the Madam asked.
“Not with me,” he replied.
Big Leopolda found Beautiful in Cubicle 7 with her head turned back and her legs drawn up as if she were sitting while lying down; her lips were parted and already stiffening, her glassy eyes slowly getting darker. Like a frightened fish, the Madam thought. There was some raspberry-coloured lipstick, badly applied, on Beautiful’s lips — the lipstick which the Madam had given her that very morning. Over her face fell the shadow of the dead. Her arms were flung wide open, her hair slightly dishevelled as if she were half a sleep. Her naked throat was like that of a pigeon. Her breasts had begun to sag, still fresh and at the same time already those of an old woman. On her face was a mixture of sadness, pain and horror.
It struck the Madam that if the corporal had called the doctor, and if the doctor had used a stomach pump on the girl, there might have been hope. Who could tell what the Oberführer would have done? Finally, as if she felt it her duty, Madam Kulikowa picked up the girl’s lifeless hand. For the first time in her life she felt that in the girl who had taken her own life she had lost a piece of herself. In the dead girl’s expression there was an unanswered question. But even if they had saved Beautiful’s life she would only have gone to where she was already, via the wall. The Frog would have pumped her stomach so he could have stood her up against the back wall.
For some reason Madam Kulikowa could not tear herself away from the dead girl’s face. She was like a drowned body pulled from a lake. Beautiful had not just been a pretty girl; her attractiveness lay partly in her ability to resist subjugation: it implied more strength than most other women have, a special female strength. Would this puzzle the Gestapo?
The Madam drew a deep breath and let it out with a wheeze. No doubt I’ll get it in the neck, she thought to herself. But she could not delay reporting to Oberführer Dr Gustav Schimmelpfennig.
“There must be no disruption of operations, you bitch!” the Oberführer screamed at her. He interrogated Corporal Möhlen. He took notes. His first instinct was to hush it up. He got the man to sign the standard form about keeping official business secret. The corporal signed without even reading it. Then The Frog went along with Madam Kulikowa to look at the dead girl.
One of her hands was resting on her stomach, the other was flung out to the edge of her mattress. Hadn’t she had both of them on her chest before? The Madam was not sure. They were long girlish arms, now turning bluish, with slender wrists. She looked at the girl’s tattooed abdomen as though she were seeing it for the first time. At the spot where Beautiful had felt the coiling snakes.
“Where did she get the poison?” the Oberführer wanted to know. Even though Feldbordell No. 232 Ost enjoyed an exceptional reputation among brothels, without Oberführer S chimmelpfennig having done anything to enhance it, he feared that Corporal Möhlen’s encounter with the dead girl would not help his standing with his superiors. It was sickening that a corpse should detract from the merits he had earned. In his mind he saw himself retreating, just as, in the larger picture, the Herrenwaffe was on the retreat.
“Damned sabotage!” he growled.
He was about to slap the Madam’s face. “And that applies to you, too. Not a word to anybody. This is a military and police secret. She left this place under escort, you understand? I’ll make sure none of you lives to a ripe old age here. At roll-call you’ll announce a punishment. Three strokes of the cane for everybody, without exception. You won’t say what for. One day and night without food. If they ask why, you don’t know. The heating ban to be extended for another three days. Not a single shovelful of coal, not a single log. Do you hear?”
“Yes. Three strokes for everyone tomorrow.”
“No, today!”
Then it was as if a sharp razor blade had run down her cheek, drawing blood. Her face twisted with pain. It was the most powerful blow she had ever received from The Frog. He nearly lost his balance, and had to steady himself, legs apart, and even take a step or two back. Madam Kulikowa shut her eyes. The corners of her mouth hung down.
Slowly she opened her eyes, as if even the half-light hurt them, and under her lids she turned her grey pupils on the Oberführer. Before her she saw an executioner.
“You’ll lock up this cubicle. How the hell could you have left it unlocked? You’ll hear about this later. We’ll carry her out when it’s dark. You’d better make sure operations proceed normally.”
The Oberführer spared her the second slap. But she could bet her life that he wouldn’t forget it.
In the waiting room Corporal Möhlen was listening to Strauss waltzes, a lecture on racial hygiene, and then more waltzes. He had been waiting three hours for the Gestapo. He studied the posters stuck up in the waiting room. They included the one with the big ear: Feind hört mit! The enemy is listening. The soldiers waiting their turn suspected nothing. Ginger, Long-Legs, Smartie and Maria-from-Poznan each got two extra men. A prostitute had fallen sick. Corporal Fritz Möhlen had been with her.
They could hear the artillery barrage. It seemed quite close. The bursts were continuous, no longer like the distant rumble of thunder.
“I can’t go to sleep,” Estelle whispered. “My eyelids are heavy.”
“You’ll fall asleep in a little while.”
“Do the roots of your hair hurt?”
“No. I haven’t got much hair, combing’s no problem.”
“I only spoke to her this morning. We’ve been here the same time. Forty-three days.”
With no heating it was cold in the dormitory. They were covered up to their chins, their overcoats on top of them. Estelle knew that if she got no sleep she would be looking at the soldiers with lifeless eyes. She bit her nails in the dark.