Anna, fighting another swell of nausea, lets the door swing shut behind her. When she re-emerges, carrying the tureen of soup, the three men have seated themselves in the dining room, Gerhard at the head of the table, the other two to either side. Wagner lounges in his chair, but von Schoener sits upright, a mismatched bookend. He presses his handkerchief to his lips, watching Anna's every movement as she serves him.
Is this watercress? Wagner asks, dipping his spoon into his bowl.
Cucumber, Anna tells him. An antidote to the warm weather.
It's nice, Fräulein. A local recipe? They have nothing like this where I'm from.
And where would that be? Anna asks, taking her seat opposite Gerhard.
A small town in East Prussia. You probably haven't heard of it.
Anna revamps her image of the pre-war Wagner: he would have been a farmhand, then, tormenting the animals and perhaps the younger, weaker boys.
Wagner laughs nastily.
I've never understood why everybody considers East Prussia so backwards, he says. I see you now think I'm a hayseed, Fräulein.
Of course not, Anna murmurs.
Let's hope the Führer never asks you to be a spy, says Wagner. He slides the spoon over his lower lip, tonguing the silver concavity. You'd make a very bad one. I can see your every thought on your face.
Anna prays this isn't true. She forces herself to take some soup. Though she is normally fond of cucumber, the liquid coats her mouth, slimy as algae.
And have you left your family behind to fulfill your duties here? she asks, looking pointedly at Wagner's left hand, where a slim silver ring glints on his wedding finger.
Wagner's grin fades.
Yes, my whole family. This ring is-It belonged to my grandmother.
Really, says Anna.
Wagner applies himself to his soup.
We must all make sacrifices for the Reich, Gerhard says. His voice, sonorous from years of courtroom appearances, is modulated, but Anna knows that he is furious with her, as he has been ever since she told him that Spaetzle ran away. He conceals his anger well, even as his silver mustache hides a harelip; like many of his imperfections, it is invisible to the casual observer. But can't even these officers, acquaintances of a few months, see Gerhard's conceit, his sycophancy, the foppishness of his cravat and handmade shoes?
Apparently not, for Wagner tells Gerhard, I like your waistcoat.
Gerhard looks modestly down at the garment, which, embroidered with a hunting scene, would be more appropriate hung on a wall.
And this room-! Wagner waves his spoon, scattering green droplets. That chandelier is magnificent. Did you kill the deer yourself?
Of course, Gerhard says of the configuration of antlers above the table. He reaches for the decanter. I am an avid hunter, he adds carelessly, though Anna knows he has never so much as held a rifle.
The acrid smell of the officers' boot polish is suddenly overwhelming. Swallowing bile, Anna collects the empty bowls, sets her own full one atop the rest, and excuses herself to attend to the main course. She arranges the slices of venison on a silver platter with distaste: the flesh glistens, the pink of a healing burn, causing her stomach to perform an even more lively set of calisthenics. Averting her eyes, holding her breath, Anna brings the meat out to the men.
Do you know, she says to Hauptsturmführer von Schoener, I don't think I've ever asked you what brings you to Weimar. What is it you do here, specifically?
The Hauptsturmführer blinks. Tears trickle down his face, which otherwise remains immobile.
Desk work-mostly-he gasps. He coughs into his handkerchief, inspects the contents, then folds it into a small square. I'm really-no more than-a bureaucrat-I wouldn't dream-of boring you-with a detailed-description-
He again brings the handkerchief to his mouth, gazing at Anna over the linen.
False modesty is a bad habit, Joachim, Gerhard booms. He spears a slice of venison and sends Anna a significant look from eyes as small and greedy as a bear's. Translated, his glance means: This one is good husband material; his lineage is impeccable and his valor demonstrated, but because of his injuries, he will never leave you to be summoned to the front!
Anna doesn't return her father's smile. Having fulfilled her duties as a hostess, she is now free to eat without participating in the conversation. She focuses on cutting her meat and dropping it into the napkin on her lap, listening for useful tidbits that Frau Staudt might pass on to others in the Resistance. But the men don't oblige her. Rather than discussing the camp-with which, as SS, they are obviously affiliated-they analyze the Führer's brilliance during the recent offensive into France. Anna would glean more information from the Völkischer Beobachter, the local paper.
Suddenly Hauptsturmführer von Schoener breaks off midgasp.
What is it, Herr Hauptsturmführer, Anna asks. Would you like more wine?
I thought-I heard-something-he says.
The group freezes, Wagner's fork halfway to his fleshy lips. From near the ceiling, from the direction of the hidden maid's staircase, there is a muffled thump-the sort of sound produced, for instance, by a person sneezing so violently that he has knocked his head against the wall.
Immediately Anna bends over her plate, coughing. The men turn in her direction, Gerhard annoyed, Wagner startled, von Schoener concerned. And Anna meanwhile finds that her act has become reaclass="underline" there is no morsel of food lodged in her throat, of course, but she can't catch her breath. In his consternation von Schoener starts to cough too, and the table begins to sound like the percussive section of a human orchestra.
Then Wagner is behind Anna, seizing her arms and raising them above her head.
Breathe, he commands. Deeply. That's it.
He reaches over her shoulder for a glass.
Drink this.
Anna obeys. A last convulsion forces some of the wine into her nose, but she is finally able to draw a shallow breath. As Wagner releases her and resumes his seat, she nods her thanks and daubs her tearstained face on her sleeve.
That's how we East Prussian hayseeds stop choking fits, Wagner says.
The men chuckle. Anna laughs weakly along with them. Her energetic charade has expelled Max's fluids, and she feels them sliding like egg whites between her thighs.
Anyone for seconds? Gerhard asks. He crooks a finger at Anna.
Anna doesn't move. The officers will have to wait or serve themselves. She fears she has stained her dress.
I couldn't-eat-another bite-says von Schoener. My-compliments, Fräulein-
Again, from behind the wall, there is a bump.
What is that? Wagner asks.
Mice, perhaps, suggests Gerhard. I suppose this house has its share of them, like all old houses. This one was built in 1767, you know, as a summer home for the Kaiser.
Anna closes her eyes. Even she hasn't heard this tale before.
Wagner chews mechanically, his fat lips bunching.
That's impressive, he says. But you really do need an exterminator, even so. To get rid of the vermin.
7
BY JULY 1940, CONVERSATION AMONG THE CITIZENS OF Weimar is limited to one topic: the phenomenal success of the Blitzkrieg on London. No more whispered complaints of how hard it is to find a decent leg of lamb, a pair of real stockings, a good cognac; no mourning once-voluptuous figures or lamenting husbands absent at the front. Instead, the Volk go about with their chests thrust forward, heads high, greeting one another with smiles: Did you hear? Four thousand killed in a single air raid! Those Messerschmitts are a miracle, a marvel. That fat sausage Churchill must be cowering in his bunker. Our boys will be home by Christmas yet!