The Obersturmführer crosses the room. He is an enormous man, projecting an air of complete solidity except for a weakness of the jaw; his face disintegrates into his neck. He moves with the same purpose Anna recalls witnessing at the quarry, but his gait is odd, almost mincing. Anna will later discover that this is because his feet are disproportionately small for his body, barely bigger than hers, sometimes causing him to trip over his own toes.
He plants his gloved hands on the counter and leans forward.
Do you always lock the door in the afternoon, Fräulein? he asks. Hardly an astute business practice.
Then he grins as if he were any man flirting with a pretty girl, teasing her into giving him a free sweet from the display case. The expression transforms his face into one nearly handsome, the upward movement of his cheek muscles lifting the flesh from his doughy jawline. There is something wrong about it, however, that Anna can't put a finger on.
She attempts a return smile. I was just about to close up, she says; I'm afraid we've sold out of nearly everything. This time of day, you know. But-
I haven't come for bread, the Obersturmführer says.
Oh, of course! Forgive me. For a special customer such as yourself, I'm sure I can find something more appealing. There's a Linzertorte in the back, and some poppy-seed cake, very fresh.
The Obersturmführer examines Anna for a moment. At this close range, his eyes are like those of a sled dog, the pinprick pupils set in an absence of color ringed with black. Anna feels them on her flushed cheeks like small cold weights.
Your business partner, Frau Staudt-
Anna twists her hands in her apron. My boss, you mean? she babbles. She's not here, she's delivering the afternoon orders-
The Obersturmführer makes an impatient noise and strides behind the counter, passing close enough to Anna that she can smell the wind in the folds of his greatcoat, cold air, promising more snow. He glances into the kitchen.
She's been executed, he says.
Executed! Anna gasps.
She has been rehearsing this moment for hours, knowing how important it is to appear shocked, and now that it has arrived she finds she hardly has to pretend. She braces herself against the display case, her breath materializing in white gusts. She is nearly panting.
That can't be true, Herr Obersturmführer; begging your pardon, but you must have made a mistake!
The Obersturmführer's gaze alights on Trudie, still sleeping in her pile of makeshift blankets. He bends for a closer look, bracing his hands on his knees.
A pretty girl, he says. Yours?
Please, Herr Obersturmführer, Frau Staudt is a good woman, absolutely loyal; I haven't heard her say or do the slightest thing against the Partei since I've been working here! Why on earth should she have been executed?
Why don't you tell me? the Obersturmführer says absently.
Tell you-? I'm sorry, I don't understand.
He removes his gloves and places a finger on Trudie's cheek. The toddler stirs.
How old is the child? he asks. One, one and a half?
One and four months, Anna whispers.
The Obersturmführer nods. Then he stands and beams at Anna, who realizes why his grin seems ersatz: he waits a beat too long before delivering it, like a bad actor reminded to perform by a director's hissed cue from backstage.
Now then, says the Obersturmführer, slapping his hands together as if about to tackle a difficult task. Let's not waste any more time, shall we? Why don't you tell me how long this has been going on?
What? says Anna. I don't know what you mean.
The Obersturmführer makes a moue of exaggerated surprise.
You don't? he asks. Really?
The tendons in Anna's neck creak as she tries to shake her head.
You don't know, Fräulein, that your boss was feeding the prisoners in our correctional facility, leaving bread for politicals, a-socials, murderers?
No, I didn't know-
I suppose your ignorance also extends to the weapons we found in the bakery truck, beneath the bread.
Weapons? Of all the-Where would Frau Staudt get weapons?
Why, I haven't the slightest idea, the Obersturmführer says, taking a step toward Anna. But you do, don't you, Fräulein? Just as you helped load them into the truck yourself; just as you worked all night, every night, to make that extra bread. Come now, don't look at me that way. Don't insult my intelligence by pretending you didn't know where it was going.
I knew it was going to the camp, but Frau Staudt told me it was for you, for the officers. She acted so proud, saying it was such an honor to supply you-
Anna starts to cry. She lied to me! she says, weeping.
The Obersturmführer watches her.
Enough, he says.
Anna continues to sob. She took advantage of me. She thought I was an idiot! she wails, spraying spittle.
The Obersturmführer stalks to Anna and grabs her by the chin, forcing her to look up at him as though she were a naughty child. Then his thumb is in her mouth, callused and tasting of cigarettes. Anna gags, her eyes tearing afresh. When he withdraws it, she tries to see his face, to gauge his intentions. The Obersturmführer is breathing hard through his nose. He clamps his hands to Anna's cheeks, kneading the skin, rolling his tongue in her mouth.
Anna struggles free. Please, she says.
The Obersturmführer raises an eyebrow.
I don't want to wake the child, Anna whispers.
Nor does she want to take him to her bed in the cellar, where Mathilde has hidden so many enemies of the Reich, so Anna begins walking toward the staircase. She is thinking of all the rewards she has reaped from being a pretty girl, things she has come to accept as a matter of course: compliments, catcalls, men turning to watch her on the streets, smiling, offering her seats on trams, setting aside the best produce for her at market, imminent marriage proposals, flowers. She would trade every last one of them if only this Obersturmführer would now follow her up the stairs. Anna acts with a primitive cunning she didn't know she possessed, an innate knowledge of an ancient system of barter; she wordlessly urges the Obersturmführer onward as she mounts the first step, the second, her breath trembling in her lungs.
Her prayer is granted. Mathilde's old bed is not meant for such punishment: the mattress spills them toward the middle, and the frame cracks beneath their combined weight. The Obersturmführer doesn't bother to remove his clothes; he merely shrugs off his greatcoat and yanks open the buttons of his trousers. He grunts and heaves on top of her, and Anna tries to stifle her own noises by biting the inside of her cheek. Max too was often rough, taking her by surprise and sometimes using his teeth, but he was at least quick. Nothing has schooled Anna for this burning, this prolonged internal abrasion. She concentrates on widening her eyes at the ceiling, knowing that if she permits herself to blink, the tears welling in them will spill over.