church since her mother’s death, over a decade ago. The Partei, as Gerhard often reminded her, frowns on such activities, such blind obedience to the antiquated dictates of Catholicism. And so it has come to pass that now, Anna has no opportunity to tie her own daughter’s hair in ribbons: at the Obersturmführer ’s request, Anna has placed the child in the care of Frau Buchholtz, the butcher’s widow, and on this Good Friday, Anna is accompanying the Obersturmführer to Berchtesgaden for the weekend.
Her nausea slides away, replaced by an emptiness at the pit of her stomach. Initially, Anna mistakes it for hunger; then she recognizes it as an uneasy anticipation. She has not been to the Alps since she herself was a child. It is Easter 1943, and she has not left Weimar in five years.
31
THE CESSATION OF MOVEMENT JOLTS ANNA AWAKE. FOR hours, it seems, she has been dreaming of being in a lift, rising and falling in an iron cage. Now she climbs from the car with the discombobulated sense of having traveled back four months as well as south, because Berchtesgaden presents the impression of permanent Christmas. The frigid Alpine air, more reminiscent of December than April, seeps through Anna’s coat and tweed suit. Candles glow in the windows of the houses. Anna imagines breaking a piece from one of the stepladdered Bavarian roofs and biting it to find the taste of gingerbread. She yawns, coughs in the thin air, then yawns again, shivering.
Anna, the Obersturmführer says. Is it your intention that I stand in the cold all night?
His glacial tone signifies extreme displeasure, his sour humor exacerbated by the flat tire they suffered in the foothills. As the driver unloads the bags from the trunk, the Obersturmführer propels Anna toward the entrance of the hotel, his hand iron against her spine.
The reception room is more opulent than one would guess from the Gasthof ’s storybook exterior. The walls are draped with hunting tapestries in red and gold and forest green; Anna’s feet whisper over Oriental rugs. Two men wearing the gray tunics of the SS lounge in carved wooden chairs before a snapping fire. They examine the new arrivals before turning back to their schnapps. The woman with them, a stunning brunette Anna’s age, doesn’t bother to look up at all.
The Obersturmführer stalks to the front desk and summons the innkeeper, a middle-aged Brunhilde with coiled braids and a chest on which one could balance a plate of Schnitzel. Anna feels drunk with color and sudden warmth. Yawning convulsively, she watches a little drama unfold by the door: yet another officer, young and with flat Ukrainian features, has just stumbled in, clinging to a girl whose tongue is in his ear. When he notices the other guests, he pushes her away, saying, Shh. Shh. But flecks of spittle fly from his lips with each Shh, and he begins to laugh.
The girl can’t be more than sixteen; the sharp planes of her face are blurred with drink, and she wears no coat. The ruffled neckline of her tea-party dress, far too flimsy for the altitude and season, slips from her shoulder. She claps a hand to the young officer’s behind.
Stop that, you shameless slut, he slurs; behave yourself or you’ll get a spanking.
Bitte, she says, and cups his crotch, looking around with drunken craft. Then she spots Anna.
Well? she says. What are you staring at?
Pulling a long face of prudish dismay, she sways toward Anna. I didn’t know we were in a convent, she says. Something smell bad to you, Sister? Or do you just have a spindle up your ass?
Really, Gitta, you are incorrigible, the young officer says, and sniggers.
The Obersturmführer crosses the room in three strides and seizes the girl by the nape of the neck, forcing her into a chair. She sputters, struggling to rise, but he shoves her back down. Then he takes the younger officer’s elbow and murmurs something too low for Anna to hear. The group by the fire watches intently.
Whatever the Obersturmführer says, it has the desired effect: a blush suffuses the young officer’s face, starting at his neck and climbing upward like wine filling a glass. When the Obersturm-führer releases him, he sketches a salute, staggering a little. Then he drags the complaining girl out into the night.
One of the officers by the fire sets his schnapps on the table and applauds. You have preserved the spotless reputation of the Schutzstaffeln single-handedly, he calls. Well done.
Shut up, Dieter,