Chapter 73

On Christmas Eve morning, scents of roasted goose, carp, and sour cabbage mingled with fragrant Obatzda and marzipan wafted down from the Koch home, into the yard of the teeth-clattering prisoners turning blue from the gnawing cold.

At four o’ clock, before the sun faded away, Ilse came down to the yard in a chauffeured black Mercedes-Benz, bearing baskets of cookies, as if she were St. Nick. Wrapped in fur, puffing on a cigarette, she watched from the warmth of the car as the soldiers distributed the treats amongst the prisoners.

The cookies, shaped like swastikas, were as large as a man’s palm. Harlan brought the treat to his nose and sniffed. He hadn’t smelled anything that appetizing in a long time. His stomach groaned with longing, but he was already thinking about throwing the cookie to the ground and stomping it to crumbs. She had, after all, murdered his best friend and brother. Eating the cookie would be like an act of forgiveness and Harlan could never forgive her.

But still . . .

It wasn’t just Christmas Eve; it was also his birthday. After all he’d been through—all he continued to suffer—didn’t he deserve a gift? Even one molded into this heinous image?

Harlan shook his head. Held the cookie in the air, released one finger and then another. In his mind, he saw the cookie hurtling to the frozen ground. But his body refused to comply. His thumb and index finger remained tightly clamped to the pastry.

Harlan looked down at himself; he was so emaciated that he could press his hands into his back and feel his grumbling stomach. And he wasn’t sleeping; his dreams were filled with nightmares of Lizard—more than a hundred of him, swinging from ropes dangling from oblivion. On top of that, Darlene had returned, flocking through the darkness of his sleep, batting wings bright with flames.

He raised his head, mumbled an apology to the heavens, and devoured the cookie in two bites.

The sweet taste still in his mouth, Harlan broke into sobs.