you know he’s not here?
I’ve been in the bushes much of the afternoon. I saw him leave a half hour ago, off to dine with his friends, am I right? Top brass, all of them.
Max rubs his eyes. Dear God, of all the places I could have come, he groans. I’m so sorry, Anna . . .
He runs a hand down the side of his face, which rasps with stubble. I just need a bite to eat, he says. Then I’ll be on my way.
Of course I’ll fix you something, Anna says, collecting herself. But first we must get you out of those wet rags.
Anna—
Ignoring his protests, Anna leads Max from the kitchen and into the house, beneath the twisting, exaggerated shadows cast by the chandelier in the entrance hall, up the main staircase.
Here, she says, once she has shown him to the WC. Clean yourself up. I’ll be back in a moment.
Then she ransacks Gerhard’s bedroom closet for clothes he will not miss, keenly attuned all the while to the small splashes Max makes as he bathes and shaves, the noises she would hear each morning if they lived here together. It is ridiculous, given the circumstances, but there it is: the fierce joy that Max is in her house. Anna shakes her head at herself and returns to the WC with a pair of old tweed trousers and a shirt.
Thank you, Max says, accepting them. I’ll be quick.
Anna ignores this, exiting to let him change but leaving the door open a few centimeters. From behind it, she says, So you left before the SS began the Aktion. How did you know they were coming?
Silence from the WC. Stealing closer, Anna watches Max remove his shirt. His skin is very white, blotched here and there with a fair man’s spreading freckles; because he is so thin, his body looks much older than that of a man in his mid-thirties. His chest, however, is furred with a surprisingly healthy crop of reddish hair. He slides his trousers and briefs from his hips.
Please, Max, Anna says, touching her burning face. Tell me what happened.
Max dresses in Gerhard’s clothes, which, Gerhard being a portly fellow, bag comically on his narrow frame. Then he opens the door all the way. Anna slides past him into the narrow room and perches on the lip of the tub.
I’m sorry about your father’s dog, Max says. Jews aren’t allowed to own pets. The animals were killed because they’re considered contaminated by Jewish blood—
Anna makes a dismissive gesture.
Herr Nussbaum said the SS were turning the entire Quarter inside out, she says. You can’t expect me to believe they were only looking for who might still have a dog or two.
Max contemplates Anna for some time, stroking his razor-reddened chin. Then he says, My being here is placing you in terrible danger. The less you know, the better.
Anna leaps to her feet.
You listen, she says, giving Max a small shove. Do I mean so little to you that you can’t trust me? Were all those nights we spent talking and playing chess nothing more than that, only games?
Max sighs.
Of course not, he says. All right. Since I’ve already involved you by coming here—
Yes, tell me.
I did know about the Aktion before it happened. More than that, I’m afraid I was its cause.
I don’t understand. How—
Max looks sternly at her. Quiet, young lady. Let me explain in my own way.
He sits beside Anna on the tub.
You know of the concentration camp?
Chastened, Anna nods.
There’s been some talk, she says. It’s up on the Ettersberg, yes?
Yes. In the forest on the mountain. Established for political prisoners and criminals and Jews and anyone else who offends the Nazis. They’re put into this Buchenwald for re-education, which means they are used for slave labor. They are starved and beaten and then, when they’re half-dead, they are considered dispensable.
What happens then? Anna whispers.
Why, they’re dispensed with. But since it’s a crime to waste ammunition nowadays, it’s done by lethal injection. The SS kill them in batches, with needles to the heart. Evipan sodium, I believe. Or air. Afterwards, the bodies are cremated.
Anna tries to digest this and fails. It is too insane to be comprehended. She looks resentfully at the cold, skillful fingers on hers, then up at Max’s dear, tired face, strangely exposed without his glasses, poised and watchful as that of a fox. The deep lines hashmarked about his eyes, the violet shadows beneath them. How can he inflict this on her?