And when she finally limps through the back door of the bakery, calling reassurance to her daughter, Anna sees to her horror that the Obersturmführer is there. He stands with his arms crossed in the center of the kitchen, a monolith, while Trudie sits red-faced and crying in the corner. Anna hobbles to the child and lifts her. My God, is it Thursday already? How could she have made such a fatal mistake? It can't be; Frau Buchholtz came for her weekly bread this morning, as she does on Wednesdays, always on Wednesdays, or has she altered her schedule? Or has the Obersturmführer acted on uncharacteristic impulse and changed his instead? If it is indeed Wednesday, what is he doing here?
Not that this matters: he is here, impassively watching the maternal scene.
Where were you? he asks, when Trudie's squalling has trailed off into snuffles and hitches.
I? says Anna idiotically. I was-Well, the child is sick, you see, with stomach pains, she's been complaining of them all week, so I-I ran to the doctor for medicine.
The Obersturmführer eyes her from head to toe, his scrutiny doing a much more eloquent job of indicating Anna's torn dress, her scratched and dirt-stained hands, than if he had pointed at or touched them.
Flushing, Anna turns away to help Trudie climb onto her chair.
I tripped and fell, she says; I was in such a hurry that I caught my heel in a grate, and I-
Because her back is to him, Anna doesn't know the Obersturmführer has crossed the room until she feels his gloved hand on her neck. His kidskin fingers dig into the soft troughs behind her ears, making Anna's arms instantly numb. She gasps.
I won't stand being lied to, the Obersturmführer says, shaking Anna by the nape as though she were a puppy. Her teeth clack painfully together. I won't tolerate falsehoods, Anna, do you hear?
I-wasn't-lying-Anna stutters between shakes. She pulls at his hands, but his grip is like a manacle. I went-to the doctor-I swear!
In her peripheral vision, Anna sees Trudie watching quietly from the table, which upsets her more than if the child had been screaming.
The Obersturmführer releases Anna and she stumbles, the wounded ankle sending up a flare of pain.
Get upstairs, he says.
Please-can I at least give her the medicine-some milk-
Now.
The Obersturmführer seizes Anna by the arm and half propels, half drags her toward the staircase.
It's all right, little rabbit, she calls gaily to Trudie over her shoulder. You stay here. I'll be down soon-
In Mathilde's bedroom, Anna backs to the window. Despite the time of year, the weather is still deceptively hot; the curtains hang limp as bandaging, and Anna wishes like a child that she could hide behind them. The Obersturmführer closes the door quietly, with finality.
Get undressed, he says.
Please, Herr Obersturmführer, the child truly is sick, you heard her crying when you came in, she-
I don't have time for this, the Obersturmführer says. Your clothes.
He flicks a finger and sits on the bed, watching as Anna obeys. Inept with fear, she has trouble undoing her garters. When she dares glance up, the Obersturmführer is leaning forward, the familiar greedy look in his ghostly eyes.
He gazes at the red indentations the garters have left on her thighs. He likes these.
I'm a busy man, he says petulantly. It's hard enough for me to take time from my schedule to come here. If you should require something in the future, you ask me first, understand? I expect you to be here at all times, whenever I need you.
Anna nods.
The Obersturmführer gives her a grin: all is forgiven, for now. He draws her to him; he cups her breasts and lets them fall, cups them and lets them fall.
Lovely, he says, such delicious bouncy breasts, the very ideal of breasts.
He pinches a nipple, then rubs his fingertips together, blinking at them.
What's this? he says.
Anna flushes. Downstairs, Trudie is crying. Although the child has been weaned for months, Anna's body still responds to her pleas for food.
It's milk, she mumbles.
What?
Milk! snaps Anna, humiliated past caring whether his tone is one of surprise or disgust. Perhaps, if it is the latter, he will take himself away.
The Obersturmführer laughs.
Really? he says. And the girl nearly two. Well, Anna, you've just made my evening easier: I can have my dinner here. Kill two birds with one stone, as they say.
He takes her nipple into his mouth, drawing milk through the aureole in thin threads. Anna closes her eyes, pretending that it is the child, only the child, but the sensation is wrong, he uses his tongue rather than his lips, and his stubble prickles against her skin. Her hands, rising in instinctive quest to his dark head, encounter coarse, close-cropped hair; she knots them together behind her back, swaying for balance on her painful ankle, staring at the wall. She has learned another lesson from the Obersturmführer this evening: she will no longer make deliveries to the quarry. It is too dangerous to even contemplate. She has other mouths to feed.
25
COME HERE, ANNA, THE OBERSTURMFÜHRER SAYS.
Anna complies. She stands before him, as usual, as he sits on the side of Mathilde's bed. This is how the game always begins. What Anna can never guess at are the middles or the endings. He will bring a phonograph player from the camp, place a forbidden jazz record on its turntable, and order her to strip to it. Ach, never mind, he will say, laughing at her artless burlesque. Or he will command her to stand on a chair, naked and blindfolded, while he circles her, touching her here and there with teeth or tongue or baton. He has poured bourbon onto her shirtwaist and suckled her through the whiskey-soaked cloth. Yes, the Obersturmführer is endlessly inventive in this wearisome schoolboy fashion. Has he gleaned these scenarios from the forbidden books in his father's bedside drawer? Anna pictures the Obersturmführer as an adolescent, hunched over such a manual in the WC, the door barred, his shorts around his ankles, eyes bulging, and she feels the same cold revulsion as she would for worms writhing on the sidewalk after a rain. She waits now for some indication as to what he has devised this time.
Tonight he wants her passive, to remain still so he can mold her in his hands like bread. His breathing thickens as he undoes Anna's blouse, unbuttons her skirt, rolls the silk stockings he has brought her down her legs. Anna moves only to kick them free of her ankles. Perhaps he will bind her with them, as he once did, then removing a straight razor from his pocket and shaving her all over: legs, arms, armpits, pubic bone. The hair grew back rough, in sharp bristles that reminded Anna of those on a pig's hide. It itched for days.
Raise your arms above your head, the Obersturmführer commands. Then turn around. Like a ballerina. As a girl, did you want to be a ballerina? Of course you did; all little girls do. Yes, like that. So I can see you.