THIS MORNING, I opened my eyes to find you still asleep next to me. I lay next to you, still as a mouse, and for a brief moment, I had the luxury of honesty. Of my truest emotions. Because you did not see me, I could stare at you with everything buried deep in my soul and not think how placid I must keep my expression, how delight-filled I must keep my eyes.
I stared at your eyelids with their sparse brush of lashes, your fine slim nose with the impressive commanding profile. Your cheeks were flush with the color that must’ve glowed like radium in your youth.
I studied your mouth. A strange mouth for a man such as you. The lips were mobile and sensitive. Tender. In my mind, it was really the only feature that made you handsome. I confess with terrible pleasure that I sometimes enjoyed your kisses. And when you rise up above me for your little death, I found sometimes I loved how I made you groan. The power over you at those moments could make me drunk with it. If I had you at my command for those few seconds, might I be able to have you at my command forever? You would be mine. All mine. And it is I who would control those infernal papers you sign by the pile. I would control who knew what. I would have the final say over who lived and who died.
So I lay this morning staring at you, bitter about all I had to do, all still left undone. I no longer think of myself as just another U-boat trying to find shelter in a sea of mines. I am different now entirely. I am with you. I am protected. No one could hurt me. No one would dare.
Except you.
And today this most unusual U-boat stared at you and knew that I cannot hurt you back. For how does one cut off the head of the Hydra without it growing ten more? It would be easy in this moment of vulnerability to seize upon you. But I do not. Instead, when you wake, I must hand the power to hurt me back to you once more. I’ll know with every painful second that the breath I take today will only be because you allowed me to have it.
I write this diary as a testament. A testament to you and all that you made this little U-boat do in this tragi-comedy of no hope, only war. Every day I am alone, even with you at my side, so this little diary will be the friend that I will never have in you. In it, I shall confess all my unholy experiences, and I shall do it fully and truthfully. The way I can never do with you. I’ll write it down for the small humanity left in me that longs for someone to find this diary and know that I existed at all. What I did in the name and falsity of love. I share with you all the intimacies of the bedroom. I have surrendered to that mouth in my most sacred of places, and its release brought tears to my eyes. But I want you to know that in this world you have created of gray and black, of all night, all the time, I still found my secret little joy. I still defy you with my imaginary colors. There is still release.
A U-boat doesn’t have the luxury of honesty. Not when its very essence is to hide. But this morning, I wanted you to know, my lover, my tall blond Aryan beast, the one I surrender to at your every whim and notion, that today I revealed my inner most hidden feelings to you while you slept. I laid bare my self to you. I stared at you with everything in my heart and mind. I stared at you with sheer and utter naked honesty. From the deepest and truest part of my broken and now tarnished soul. For one brief moment I was no longer a U-boat, and you were no longer the Young Evil God of Death. No, at that moment, I was a lioness.
And, I looked at you with all the dispassion of a starving lioness that stares at a pile of bleached bones.
Stag looked up and gazed at the dingy, institutional lobby of the hostel. It was more and more evident that this remarkable woman was Heydrich’s mistress, even referring to him as the Young Evil God of Death, just one of his lovely nicknames. But what was a U-boat? U-boat in this sense was a term for something other than a submarine, but for what?
He grabbed one of his unused GoFones and dialed Jake.
“Jake? It’s Stag.”
“Jesus, Stag, where are you? Where the hell are you calling from? Harry was found dead of a heart attack in your goddamned apartment, and no one knows where you are.”
“I had to go out of town for a while—”
“The authorities have a lot questions—and frankly, so do I!”
“I know that, Jake. I know. And I know about Harry. I’ve run into some problems.”
“You left your apartment open with Harry dead inside it. I’m glad to hear from you. I was worried something had happened to you.”
Stag grappled with the need to tell Jake what was going on. He knew he could trust the older man, but he was uneasy about getting him involved if he didn’t have to. “I … I know.”
Jake’s voice was thick. Clearly Stag had woken him up. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”
“Listen, Jake, I’m not going to be there. It can’t be helped. And I don’t want to tell you where I am.”
The silence at the other end of the line was heavy. “That bad?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
By Jake’s blind acceptance, Stag was able to continue. “I need help.”
“You’ve got it. Anything.”
Stag was relieved to hear it. “I’ve got a question. This is kind of random but I’m working on a piece right now and—have you ever heard the term U-boat?”
“You mean like a submarine?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think they’re referring to a sub. They’re referring to themselves as a U-boat.”
“Ahhh …” Jake seemed to understand. “Referring to people, you say? What kind of piece are you doing? Glad you’re working, by the way, but this isn’t how I pictured you getting back to it.”
Stag tasted the bitter words. “Trust me when I tell you it isn’t the way I saw it either. But it can’t be helped. Now, do you know another term for U-boat?”
“Yes. ‘U-boat’ refers to a Jew who went to ground in Berlin. It began around the time of the pogrom—you know, Kristallnacht.”
“Were there a lot of them?”
“More than we know. Certainly, after November 1938, they left Germany if they could, or went underground if they knew what was good for them.”
“I see.”
“I can’t imagine you missing Harry’s funeral. You guys were like brothers.”
“As far as I’ll ever be concerned, we were brothers.” The words cut at Stag.
“I’ve got to tell you … ah … Interpol questioned me about knowing you. Yes, that’s right. Interpol.”
Stag’s chest tightened. His situation was as dicey as he thought it was.
“I’ve got to go, Jake. I’m sorry about Interpol.” The words brought new bitterness. “Could you put a wreath on Harry’s coffin for me?”
“Let me know what else I can do. I mean it. With Ruthie gone, you know I have nothing but time.”
Stag tapped the end call button. He leaned his head back in the chair and thought about the diary. He wasn’t quite shocked by the revelation as much as he was impressed by it. Isolda Varrick was a Jew in hiding. And somehow, perhaps through her painting, she’d managed to find herself the object of Heydrich’s desire.
Weariness was overtaking him, and he knew he would have to get some rest or collapse. At some point they were going to come for him, but they hadn’t shown up yet.
He closed the book and put it back in his jacket. He went to the elevator and punched the floor number of his bunk. He hoped like hell he could sleep. Because, without a doubt, when they got a bead on him again—they were going to run him to ground like a Jew in 1938 Berlin.
That is, if he lived long enough.