Those Who Save Us Read online

  Cautiously, after looking again this way and that, Anna approaches the librarian.

  What’s happening? she asks, voice low. Who has done this to you?

  Herr Nussbaum stares resolutely at the house opposite, remaining quite still except to tremble in the sleet that spits like sand from the sky.

  Anna drops her net bag of purchases to the pavement and starts to remove her coat.

  Here, she says. Put this on.

  The librarian ignores her. His long medieval face belongs over a ruff in a portrait, his gaze the sort that would follow the viewer to any corner of the room. Now the severe dark eyes that so frightened Anna as a child are terrified themselves, rheumy and watering from fear and wind.

  Go away, he says, without moving his mouth.

  What?

  Get away from me with that coat, you stupid girl. They’re watching.

  Who?

  Anna glances over her shoulder. On the ground door of the dwelling across the road, a curtain flutters, then falls back into place.

  But you mustn’t mind your neighbors, she whispers. If they had any decency, they’d take you in. You must be freezing—Not them, you idiot, the librarian mutters through his wispy beard. The SS.

  SS? Where? I don’t see—

  Everywhere. SS and Gestapo. Something has set them off; they’re on a real rampage. Started going through the Quarter this morning looking for something, God knows what. And they haven’t stopped since.

  Anna’s stomach turns to water.

  Every house? What about the Doktor? Herr Doktor Stern? Did they—

  The librarian gives a small fatalistic shrug: probably, it says.

  You’re just making things worse for me, he hisses. Go away!

  Anna seizes her bag and runs down the street toward the clinic. It looks as it always does, with its soot-stained stones and bronze nameplate, and for a moment Anna is reassured. Then she touches the door in the center of the six-pointed Star, and it swings wide to reveal the reception area dark and empty behind it.

  Max? Anna calls.

  Well, perhaps he has no appointments this afternoon. Most of his patients have emigrated anyway, and the remainder will not be seeking medical attention with the SS about. But—

  Max?

  Anna peers into the examining room. It is in wild disarray, the apothecary jars smashed, cotton wadding soaking up medicine on the tiles. The filing cabinet has been forced open to regurgitate its patient histories on the floor: GOLDSTEIN, JOSEPH ISRAEL, says the one Anna steps on, in Max’s distinctive, all-capitals hand; 3 MARCH 1940, SEVERE HEMA-TOMAS FROM BEATING, COMPLAINT OF PAIN IN THE LEFT ARM—Max! Max—In the kitchen, a teacup lies on its side on the table, milky curds clinging to the rim. The plants have been swept from their perch, and there are large bootprints in the soil surrounding the shattered clay pots. Anna races upstairs to Max’s bedroom, a place to which she has never been but often envisioned visiting under very different circumstances. It is small and impersonal and similarly despoiled, the mattress and pillows slit in an explosion of feathers, sheets on the floor. Anna picks one up in icy hands and buries her face in it; it smells of Max, of his hair and sleep. Then she flings it aside and descends the steps on legs that feel both rubbery and too heavy, as they sometimes do just before her time of the month, as though the blood in them is more responsive than usual to the pull of gravity. There is an unpleasant odor in the hall, reminiscent of sheared copper. It grows stronger as Anna follows it to the door of the shed.

  The fanlight window over the clinic entrance brightens for a second with weak sunlight as she opens the door, enough to show her the animals before dimming again, and at first Anna thinks they are sleeping. Then her vision adjusts and she realizes they are dead. The dogs must have been shot or stabbed, for blood drips from the cages, the air thick with its metallic stench. The cat’s fate is clearer: its skull has been crushed along with those of its kittens, whose corpses lie in a drift by the wall. Only the terrier, in the cage beneath Spaetzle’s, is still alive. Its paws twitch; one brown eye rolls piteously in Anna’s direction as it whines.

  Anna takes a few steps toward it. Something crunches under her heel. She looks down, grimacing: Max’s spectacles.

  A high, outraged little note escapes Anna’s windpipe. She scoops up the glasses and slides them into her pocket. Then she bends and vomits in the hay. When nothing is left in her stomach, she crosses the shed. She pauses in front of Spaetzle’s remains, wishing she could feel something about the death of her father’s dog. But as she can’t, she lifts the terrier from its cage.

  The animal is clearly dying, and Anna knows she should put it out of its misery with a swift twist of the neck or blow to the head. Instead she sinks to the ground cradling it, stroking the matted fur. So Max, for whatever reason, has been arrested. God in heaven, what if it is Anna’s fault? Anna presses a bloody fist to her mouth, her eyes stinging with tears. What if, despite her caution, somebody has seen and reported the Aryan girl visiting the Jewish physician’s house? But no; the SS would not be ransacking the entire Quarter if this were the case. Regardless, Anna must help him. What can be done for Jews who have been taken into protective custody? If only Anna had paid more attention to the rumors whispered around her during her daily errands. It is like trying to recall voices overheard from another room while one is dozing. Random beatings of Jews, roundups, detainments, deportations. The homes of Aryans who question the treatment of their Jewish neighbors suddenly empty and remaining so night and day, mail accumulating in their boxes, milk souring on the doorsteps.

  But Anna remembers hearing that the SS can be bribed, particularly if the supplicant is pretty and desperate enough. She has used her looks for lesser things. And the safe in Gerhard’s study surely contains something of value. Anna need only think of a way to get her father out of the house.

  She sets the terrier’s body down, its eyes having long since filmed over. Then, after cleaning her sticky hands as best she can with straw, Anna leaves through Max’s back garden so as not to be seen. The SS may still be abroad, and the last thing Anna needs is to be detained for questioning as to why she is in this district. The premature dusk is smoky and raw, its uniform grayness an ally to Anna in her dark Zellwolle coat. She races through the alleys of the forsaken Jewish Quarter, skirting tricycles and ducking lines of washing, all the while clutching the spectacles in her pocket.

  4

  THAT EVENING, GERHARD IS FORCED TO AMEND HIS DIN-ner plans. He telephones his important new acquaintances and arranges to meet them at a restaurant. After all, Anna hears him explaining into the receiver, he doesn’t want them to catch his daughter’s influenza. Anna has told him that it is rampant in Weimar just now, the streets a symphony of sneezes, the shops like TB wards. Gerhard’s companions must be pleased with his concern for their health, for Anna hears him humming as he dresses and descends the stairs. The cloying fragrance of his Köl-nischwasser, of which he has used a great deal, lingers long after his car disappears from the drive.

  Some time later, Anna creeps down to the kitchen. Breaking into her father’s safe has been useless, as the strongbox contains only Gerhard’s traveling papers and a gold pocketwatch that no longer tells time. Anna sits dully in a chair, forcing herself to nibble a wedge of cheddar while she considers alternate plans. None comes to mind. Perhaps the watch would be worth something on the black market, but Anna has no idea who might be involved with this risky venture nor how to find out. In despair she abandons the cheese on the table.

  She is attempting an apple next when she hears a rap on the window near the maid’s entrance. She freezes with her teeth half-sunk into the fruit. The knock comes again, faint but insistent.

  Anna rushes to the door and flings it open to find Max standing there.

  Oh, my God, she cries, dropping the apple, which wobbles unheeded across the floorboards. Oh, thank God you’re all right—

  Max tries to smile.

  May I come in? he asks.

&nbs
p; Don’t be a fool, Anna tells him. She tugs him into the kitchen by the shirtsleeve.

  Max props himself against the icebox as Anna secures the lock and begins whisking the curtains shut.

  So you know, he says. About the Aktion this morning.

  Anna turns to examine him. He is covered in mud, his hair plastered to one side of his head as if he has just awakened, and there is a shallow scratch on one cheek. Other than this, he appears unharmed.

  I was in the Quarter and I ran across Herr Nussbaum, she says. And when I went to your house, I found the animals—

  They killed them, Max says.

  Yes.

  Max frowns at the floor, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

  I was afraid of that, he says. I wanted to do it myself, the humane way, but there wasn’t time.

  Anna begins rummaging through the pockets of her skirt.

  I have your glasses here somewhere, she says. I know you’re hopeless without them—

  Then, without warning, she begins to weep.

  Max comes to Anna and takes her in his arms. This is the first time he has held her properly, and Anna relishes it, damp and filthy as he is. She sways against him, closing her eyes, but Max stares at the wall over her shoulder, distracted.

  How long will your father be gone? he asks, detaching her.

  How did 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? How can he come here, to her home, and dump this repugnant story in her lap?

  That can’t be true, she tells him.

  Max attempts an ironic smile, but a muscle flutters near his jaw.

  Oh, it’s true, he says. I know it seems impossible. But it’s happening as we speak.

  How do you know? How do you know it’s not just a rumor?

  It’s not a rumor, Max says wearily. I’ve been there. I’ve seen it.

  He withdraws his hands from hers and fumbles in the pocket of Gerhard’s trousers, producing a small cylindrical parcel.

  What’s that?

  Film of the camp. There’s a photography studio the SS use for identification shots of the inmates. Some of the prisoners have managed to take pictures of what goes on up there, don’t ask me how. I have to make sure that this film gets to a safe place.

  Where?

  Somewhere in Switzerland. Exactly where, I don’t know. It’s safer that way.

  So the SS found out you were working for this—Resistance network.

  Yes.

  And they were looking for the film.

  Yes.

  Max drops the little canister into Anna’s palm. The waxed paper it is wrapped in is greasy to the touch. It will repel water.

  Such a small thing, says Max. You’d never suspect it was worth so much blood.

  Anna returns it to him, trying to parse this new Max with the man she knows, the good doctor to whom she has confessed secrets she never knew she had. All along, while she has been thinking only of beguiling him, he has been engaged in an infinitely more complicated and important game. She looks at the braided rug beneath her feet, suddenly shy.

  Who else is involved? she asks.

  Max slips the film back into his borrowed trousers.

  I don’t know the extent of the network. A handful in Weimar. Most beyond. Frau Staudt, for one—Frau Staudt?

  Anna pictures the baker trampling through the forest on the Ettersberg and begins to laugh helplessly.

  I would have gone to her tonight, but I saw the SS outside the bakery, says Max. I couldn’t think where else to go.

  Anna gets up and kisses him on the forehead, inhaling, for a moment, the smell of his h
air.

  I’m glad you came to me, she says. So glad. Now come, time for bed.

  Anna, are you mad? I can’t stay here!

  You’d rather go back to the bushes?

  Max frowns, but he allows Anna to help him stand. He is shaking with fatigue.

  In the morning, he says, as soon as things settle down, I’ll find a safer place.

  He follows Anna to her bedroom, where she bustles about, folding back the eiderdown and plumping the pillows. She turns to see him looking at the shelves of Dresden figurines and trophies from the League of German Girls, the embroidered samplers, the canopied bed in which Anna has slept since girlhood.

  No, he says. It’s too risky.

  You couldn’t be safer in heaven. My father never comes in here. I’ll bring you some food.

  Max glances at the doorway as if considering flight, and then at the high lace-curtained window, through which even he, skinny as he is, couldn’t fit.

  All right, he says. For one night, since there’s no feasible alternative. But Anna, please don’t trouble yourself with food. I’m so tired I can barely see.

  As Anna starts to object, Max climbs into her bed without removing Gerhard’s trousers.

  Shhh, he says. He settles into the pillow.

  Anna closes the door and moves about the room, shedding her clothes. She exchanges her slip for her shortest nightgown and eases in beside Max, who is lying with his back to her.

  I forgot to give you socks, Anna whispers. Your feet are cold.

  She rubs them with her toes. Max shifts his legs away.

  Anna presses against him and rests her lips on the nape of his neck.

  Max rolls over. No, Anna, he says.

  Why not?

  Anna senses that he is smiling.

  I’ve already told you, you’re far too young for me, Max says, and they both start to laugh, shaking with it and trying to muffle the noise against each other’s shoulders.

  It is then that Anna hears her father’s unsteady progress up the stairs, the risers complaining under his weight. There is a soft thud as part of Gerhard, a shoulder or knee, hits the wall in the hallway. His labored breathing stops outside her room.