Grete had first heard of the Blumenthals, of all places, at the Café am Zoo. She hadn’t returned in three years, but everything looked the same: potted palms and fig trees, the three-story ceiling covered in green tiles like scales. Even the crowd, mostly uniformed men and expensive-looking women, could have been the very ones who’d stared at her that night she waited for Berni, the girl with a suitcase under her chair.
Before their entrées arrived, Klaus slid a folded square of paper across the table.
“I wasn’t expecting an assignment so soon,” she said quietly, her voice lost in the din of the restaurant, the buzz of good news. Czechoslovakia was now the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, thanks in large part to the success of Case Green, an SD operation. “I’m already tracking Herr Reuter.”
“I know, darling.” Klaus made his eyes pained, sympathetic, the way one might look at a dog. He leaned over the table and kissed her hand. She felt the give of his soft lips, the immediate response between her legs. “But stakes are high—the Poles could invade any minute.”
She unfolded the paper. Mr. and Mrs. Caleb Blumenthal. “Jews?” she said. “They’ll never let me inside. The Winter Relief wouldn’t send a nurse to check on a pair of Jews.”
“The wife has a condition,” Klaus replied. “We think they’re plotting to abscond without paying their property levy. A neighbor heard them phone a doctor in Sweden. They’ll let you in.”
Their wine arrived, and he inspected the bottle, gave a generous smile to the waiter. “In the Republic years,” he said, pouring Grete a glass of Riesling, “Mr. Blumenthal was a Lyzeum schoolteacher, a known rapist of students, I’m afraid—”
“Stop. Please.” Each time he needed her to check up on someone, there was a story; the former doctor was a pedophile, the family of Communists had been plotting to blow up a school. She had to look at the ceiling to keep from crying. A chandelier the size of a Volkswagen dangled in the center. She imagined what would happen if it fell, the crater it would leave in the checkered marble floor. Shards of brass propelled outward like shrapnel.
“I can’t do this,” she said quietly. “Not again.”
“Pardon?” he replied, and he leaned forward, one hand cupped around his ear. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear you.” He seemed to know she wouldn’t repeat herself. “You know I’ve brought you into the SD network to protect you, my love. Need we revisit your close calls?”
She shook her head, staring at the heavy chandelier. She saw herself choosing the weakest link in its chain, taking aim, firing.
• • •
Guns, not butter: Goebbels’ slogan was everywhere in early 1939, to get people to accept the rations. The average German could live without butter; the Reich as a whole would never survive without guns.
Grete had both.
Klaus had installed her in a new apartment complex in Neukölln; all day she heard planes ripping overhead. She did her best to hide the scents of coffee and butter from her neighbors, but she saw the way they looked at her. Late at night, she heard them return from the factories where they assembled electronics or airplane parts as she hid in bed with a cup of chocolate, another gift from Klaus. Through the thin walls she heard them complain about low wages, the tariffs taken out of their paychecks for food, uniforms, time off. They couldn’t even change jobs without permission from the Party. They feared war would break out before the end of the year. They lived like slaves. They questioned Hitler. Occasionally she reminded herself—when she wanted to feel better—that she could have turned them over for questioning the Reich, but chose not to. She only spied on people when Klaus asked.
He visited sporadically, when he was in town, and her neighbors treated him with fear and respect whether or not he wore the uniform. He usually came at night, after suppertime, a paper bag full of rationed goods in his hands, her next assignment in his pocket.
“But I’m a nurse, not a spy,” she told him. “My work is to keep people healthy.”
“You and I have the same duty,” he replied, raising a blond eyebrow. “The SS pledge to uphold the health of the German ethnic body. You and I both must root out germs and disease.” He took her wrist into his hand. “You know I’ve assembled an immaculate file on your service as an informant. I’ve practically made you untouchable.”
He said it as though she had nothing to do with it.
She wished he’d be more discreet about the gifts, that he’d be quieter as they made love. Everyone in the building, she knew, called her the SD officer’s whore. She could have told them she wasn’t his whore, she was his fiancée, but then they would ask the wedding date. They’d ask how she got along with his colleagues or his parents, whom she suspected knew nothing about the engagement.
The important questions might not have occurred to her neighbors. How many traitors to the Reich do you have to uncover in order for him to actually marry you?
Or—how can you make love to someone who’d have you arrested if you ever dared disobey him?
Or simply—how do you sleep at night? Sometimes, looking out her tiny round window at the new, plain courtyard, she imagined Berni asking these things, her voice high-pitched and righteous, her fist in her hand.
Grete tried to stay in her victims’ apartments for the briefest time possible. Stop talking, she wanted to tell them when inevitably they slipped and said too much. The physician told her his blood pressure might have been high because that morning he’d given some students a hundred marks to print anti-Hitler leaflets. The old woman in bedroom slippers asked whether Grete thought anyone would notice if she withdrew money from her pension so that she might go to Denmark with her daughter’s family.
Grete knew why they confided in her. They saw the same thing in her that Klaus did: weakness. They saw a limp dishrag. And who needed to be careful around a dishrag?
It didn’t matter that she watered down the reports she gave Klaus after her house calls, that she left out some crucial information. The people she spied on could be hauled in for the tiniest infractions, then tortured, or killed, or sent to concentration camps. And they were.
• • •
She’d been visiting Herr Reuter for two months under the pretext of tracking his heart murmur. An auto mechanic, he’d been a labor organizer during the Republic, but had turned Nazi so enthusiastically in 1933 that he’d ended up on the watchlist with many other March violets. Herr Reuter saw her exactly for what she was; Grete could tell he despised her. He’d never let anything slip when she visited. For this, she could have kissed him.
His garage wasn’t three blocks from the Blumenthals’ apartment, and so she went past it on her way to call on them for the first time. She peered in at the cream-colored Type 1 he’d been working on the last few weeks. Someone had brought in another car for service, a huge yellow Mercedes with headlights like round spectacles. Both obscured the view of a rusty van without tires, floating almost to the ceiling on lifts.
She’d snuck past these doors in the middle of the night. She’d seen the flashlights, the van lowered, Herr Reuter and his assistant working to put a new engine inside. The tires, she knew, were resting against the back wall, ready to be installed at a moment’s notice.
Herr Reuter planned to leave the country, and soon. Nobody else—she knew the Gestapo, too, checked in on Herr Reuter from time to time—seemed to have noticed. All they were looking for was evidence of Herr Reuter stirring up labor trouble, and she could honestly report she’d seen none.
Reluctantly she left, walking her bicycle up a little street crowded with parked cars, leaping over puddles to avoid the trolley. Eventually she found herself facing a smaller street, almost an alley. One side was bathed in sun, the other shadowed. Halfway down, on the sunny side, she found the Blumenthals’ building, a five-story with blue flower boxes filled with geraniums. Every time, her heart pounded like this. She prayed they wouldn’t be home as she pressed the buzzer.
Her spirits sank when she heard the locks shift and a chain swing loose. The door opened a crack. A man in his late twenties peered out at her. He had full cheeks and a snub nose, long-lashed green eyes. “Can I help you?”
“Good morning, Herr Blumenthal. I’ve been sent by the Winter Relief to inquire after your wife’s condition. One of your neighbors implied she needed help, and we never let these reports go unchecked.”
Herr Blumenthal let the door open a little more so that he could peer up and around the alley, perhaps wondering which of his neighbors had brought the Reich to his doorstep. He stared down at her for a minute, blinking. “Yes, come in. I’m not sure what can be done for her, but perhaps there’s something.”
She followed him up a creaking set of curved wooden stairs. When they entered the apartment she smelled it right away: illness, urine, the odor of an unshowered body. She wondered what Frau Blumenthal suffered from. Klaus hadn’t said.
Herr Blumenthal gestured toward the bedroom. “Let me tell her first. She won’t like seeing your uniform.”
“I understand.” Grete waited in the little kitchen, the floor elaborately tiled in colorful squares. Long-tendriled plants cascaded from the window above the sink. The room would have been cheery in another time, and Grete had to stop herself imagining Herr and Frau Blumenthal setting up home here, full of optimism, before everything changed.
She heard whispers from the other room, and at one point a high-pitched cry, but after a minute, Herr Blumenthal emerged. “She will see you.”
It took effort, as she entered the bedroom, not to gasp. Frau Blumenthal lay sprawled on the bed, taking up most of the mattress with her pregnant belly and splayed legs. Her ankles emerged from the hem of her nightgown, thick and red as hams; her hands looked like inflated rubber gloves. She watched Grete with quick, hateful eyes as she pulled a chair to the side of the bed. Grete pulled a blood pressure cuff from her bag, but hesitated before trying to slip it on Frau Blumenthal’s swollen arm. She already knew what the result would be.
“You’re what,” she said quietly, “eight months along?”
“Seven,” said Frau Blumenthal, her voice unexpectedly dainty and light; Grete wondered about the woman hiding under all of this bulk.
“I’ll need to check your blood pressure, but I’m fairly sure you have toxemia.”
Frau Blumenthal laughed harshly. “Is that so? Did we need a visit from the government to tell me I have toxemia?”
“Rosi.” Her husband hovered in the doorway, arms still crossed. “Let her check you.”
She allowed Grete to put on the cuff and verify what she already knew. One-forty over ninety; Grete didn’t even read the number aloud. “Well, Frau Blumenthal, the good news is there are ways you can control it. I’d suggest eating—”
“Less salt,” Frau Blumenthal said, ticking things off on her bloated fingers. “Drink water, elevate my legs. Stay in a reclined position, to keep the swelling down. Anything I’m forgetting, Frau Doktor?”
Grete shook her head, studying the rickrack sewn along the border of Frau Blumenthal’s duvet. She imagined the mother or aunts who would have assembled her trousseau.
“We’ve been following these so-called remedies for a month, and look at me.” When Frau Blumenthal gestured toward her feet, the pent-up water in her arm jiggled grotesquely.
Grete bit the inside of her cheek. Every shred of her medical training screamed at her to do all she could to save this woman, who could be days from death. She cursed the Nazi teachers who’d taught her to preserve life above all else and with the other sides of their tongues spoke of rooting out diseased portions of the populace. As though the Volk really were one body, not a collection of individuals with dignity; as though some of them were indispensible and some disposable—the human equivalents of tonsils or adenoids.
Klaus knew this woman was suffering. Yet he sent Grete here not to help her, but to make sure she and her husband paid an unfair tax before daring to leave the country that rejected them. It didn’t take medical training to feel compelled to save Frau Blumenthal. All it took was humanity.
Wincing, Frau Blumenthal lifted herself onto her elbow, her enormous belly shifting and sagging with her effort. Grete thought she saw movement inside, and had to keep herself from feeling for the baby.
“Tell me,” Frau Blumenthal said. “What advice would you give me if I weren’t a Jew, if I were Aryan like you and you’d come to help me rather than interrogate me?”
“Rosi,” Herr Blumenthal said, sounding terrified now.
“It’s all right,” Grete told him. She turned Frau Blumenthal’s wrist over and felt for her pulse, as much to buy herself time as to examine the patient. She looked back at Frau Blumenthal’s lively eyes. “I’d say you needed to be in hospital,” she said honestly. “There isn’t much they can do, but they can administer a few drugs that might help, or they could assist if you went into early labor. Your baby or you could die otherwise.”
Behind her, Herr Blumenthal let out a moan, though his wife’s face seemed to relax a little. She loosened her grip on Grete’s arm, winced and flexed her fingers to ease the edema. “And what would you do, if you were me, Frau Doktor?”
“Please, I’m only a nurse—”
“Would you, if you were a Jew—would you walk into a German hospital, a child in your womb, asking for treatment? Would you trust the doctors to save your baby?”
Grete looked around. They had no radio playing, the windows in the kitchen were open; she could hear someone talking in the Hof. “No,” she said. She didn’t even bother to keep her voice down. “I wouldn’t.”
“I thought not. Is this why you didn’t advise me to go to the hospital to begin with?”
“No,” Grete replied. The truth surged up her throat, compelling her to let it out. She felt the way she might feel right before vomiting, nauseous but anticipating relief. “No, I didn’t give you that advice because I am not here to help you. I am here because they know you’re planning to emigrate without paying the property levy, and the SD sent me to report on you.”
Once the words were out they seemed to hover above the bed, lulling all three of them into silence. Sitting between them, Grete could sense the Blumenthals communicating with each other over her head, using only the panic on their faces.
“Now you know,” Grete said, writing in her notepad. “When I come back, we don’t have to pretend. I will return in a week. Meanwhile, do nothing. This is the report I will hand in.” Herr Blumenthal came to read over her shoulder: Nothing of note. Wife too ill to travel. Out of the corner of her eye Grete could see his fists clenching, and she knew what he was thinking—if he killed her, would their problems disappear, or worsen? Could he kill for his wife and unborn child? Would he?
“They are watching you,” she told Frau Blumenthal, whose nostrils flared in fear. “So don’t do anything rash. When I return, perhaps we can discuss a better way to get you to that hospital in Sweden.”
She left, feeling as stunned as she imagined they felt.
On her ride home she wouldn’t congratulate herself; she’d done nothing to help them so far except offer the truth. The image of Frau Blumenthal’s ankles and feet loomed before her every time she closed her eyes.
That night Klaus came over long after dinner, late enough to set her neighbors’ tongues wagging. As they lay together, her secret lay between them. She made love to him as she never had before, taking control, pinning him down by the wrists.
• • •
In the light of day things seemed different, more precarious. Grete wasn’t quite sure what she was doing. All she knew was that it was dangerous, but that she couldn’t stop the truth now that it had begun to spill out.
In Herr Reuter’s study that weekend, after she’d listened to his valves rasp, she took out her notepad right in front of him and prepared the same report she did week after week: No suspicious activity. “Don’t you want to know what I put in my log, Herr Reuter?” she asked as he buttoned his shirt. “About your heart?”
“Not really,” Herr Reuter replied. He was a pudgy man with great brown nipples covered in hair, and he wore round tinted glasses. “Long as I’m not dying.”
She went in front of his chair so that he would have to look up at her and turned her notebook around, putting her finger over her lips. His large face changed little as he took his time reading. Finally his eyes rolled upward, a sneer at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know what to make of this. I don’t understand . . . medical speak. You will have to explain.”
She nodded. “It just means there’s little danger. Good news, mein Herr.”
“Good news,” he echoed in a kind of trance.
She went to his radio and turned it on as if she were in her own home, then brought a chair close to his. “I am closing my journal,” she said quietly, even though he could see her do it and replace it in her satchel. “Now tell me about the van.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
Herr Reuter’s breath charged from his nostrils. “Why don’t you just arrest me?”
“Would you rather I did?” She tried to steady her voice. Between the radio, turned up nearly to full volume, her tinnitus, and the hatred on his face—she’d never seen such hatred—she could feel herself losing control. “If you were imprisoned, you would let them down, nicht? I think someone is waiting for you to take him or her out of the country.”
Blood ticked through a vein on the side of Herr Reuter’s neck, but he said nothing and did not move.
“I want to know when you plan to leave. I can tell the SD whatever I want, Herr Reuter. It won’t take much to have you arrested, as you have pointed out. If you’ll tell me what you’re planning, maybe I can help you.”
He began chuckling, a nasty, porcine sound. “Help from a Nazi bitch, no thank you.”
“I’m the only one who’s noticed the van, Herr Reuter. You’ve done a good job hiding it.”
Now he stood. He began pacing behind her chair, and though she couldn’t hear his footsteps, she could feel them vibrating the floorboards.
“It is not I who plans to emigrate,” he said finally, forcing her to turn to face him, cup her hand around her better ear. “It is my brother. He’s what they call one of Berlin’s ‘warm brothers,’ a companion to other men.” His lip curled a little. “I’ll drive him to the green border one week from now, with whatever of his possessions fit. Minus his lover.”
“Not the green border,” said Grete. “The Gestapo have caught on about people walking into the Netherlands. They will round him up in the woods with the others and drag him back to Germany. They’ll send him to Dachau wearing the pink triangle.”
He paled. “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me or don’t, but I say take him north, to the port at Travemünde. Have him stay there a few days, pretend he’s on holiday. Then buy two round-trip tickets for a ferry ride to Sweden.” She waited for the music to crescendo. “Have him take nothing with him but a small valise. He can pretend he’s going for only one night, so that he and his girlfriend might enjoy the sea air before she gives birth to his child.” The speech made her dizzy.
“Sweden?” Herr Reuter asked, looking merely puzzled now. “Girlfriend? Child?”
“Yes. You’ll be taking someone else with you; this is my price for allowing you to go. She is expecting a baby, which will look good for your brother. You’ll have to hide her somehow on your drive to the coast.”
Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Hide her? Is this person a Jew? If they catch me—”
“It is a risk you’ll have to take.”
He fell to his knees on the floor, his hands in front of him for support, and she feared his heart really had failed him. She helped him into the chair, yanked his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. When she returned from the kitchen with a glass of water, he still hadn’t opened his eyes. He lay back, his head damp, his glasses askew across his nose and mouth.
She held his chin and coaxed water down his throat until he sputtered. “I like you, Herr Reuter,” she said, wishing she could make him believe her. One of his eyes opened a crack. He looked as if he could spit at her face. “I am not doing this to hurt or threaten you. The Jewish woman is someone else I’ve been sent to report on. I’ll be pleased to hear both she and your brother make it to Sweden alive.”
“Oh, so I’ll still be dealing with you upon my return?” he said, his voice hoarse. “Nurse Metzger, my sweet caregiver?”
“Yes,” she said. “I need you to keep hold of that van. When you return, your next task will be to help me out of the country.”
• • •
The day after, she went to give the Blumenthals Herr Reuter’s name and explain that Frau Blumenthal should be ready to leave in six days. If she’d expected them to thank her, she would have been gravely disappointed, but Grete knew better. The three of them sat in the dining room, Grete playing with one of the silk flowers in the arrangement on the table as the couple stared at each other, mouths open, heartbroken.
“Six days?” said Frau Blumenthal. “And you’re sure he can be trusted?”
Grete nodded. “He has as much to lose as you do,” she said, realizing only after she’d spoken how untrue these words were.
Herr Blumenthal still hadn’t moved. His green eyes shimmered and mouth trembled as he studied his wife’s hand, turning it over and over on the tabletop. His wife whispered something Grete could not hear, and he shook his head, inhaling with a wet sniff.
“It is the best chance we have, Schatzi,” he said, stroking her skin. “We’ll take an even greater risk if we both try to hide in Herr Reuter’s car. Besides, we don’t have the money for a ferry ticket for myself and your doctor bills once you’ve arrived safely. You and the baby go. I will find a way to Sweden as soon as it’s possible.”
“That’s right,” said Grete. “Your husband can meet you later, Frau Blumenthal. The important thing is for you to take care of your health right away.”
Frau Blumenthal cut her eyes, full of tears, toward Grete, pursing her bluish lips. Grete felt acutely how unwelcome she was in this moment, despite the role she’d played in bringing it about. “And what about you?” Frau Blumenthal said. “How can we be sure you can be trusted?”
“You can’t,” Grete said, getting up to go. “When Herr Reuter arrives it will be very late at night. If you decide not to travel with him, if you decide all of this is a trap, you can keep your lights off and ignore the buzzer. I am sure he will not wait long.” She took in Frau Blumenthal’s swollen wrists, the skin marbled in red and white, for what she hoped would be the last time.
“I wish there were a code word I could give, something to convince you to believe me.” Buttoning her brown jacket, she made her voice very soft. “All I can say is I pray you’ll go.”
• • •
A couple of weeks later she sat with Klaus, having dinner at the Hotel Adlon, feeling as though everything she’d done behind his back were written on her skin. Nothing to report. Go through Travemünde. Part of her wished he could see.
Herr Reuter’s shop hadn’t opened in days; an On Holiday sign hung in the window. The van was missing. At her weekly appointment with the Blumenthals, nobody had answered the door. She’d felt a surge of victory swell in her stomach, then the urge to burst into tears.
“We’ll be having champagne,” Klaus told the waiter, winking at Grete, or perhaps admiring the view; behind her head there was a window that opened out to the Brandenburg Gate. When the waiter began to list varietals, Klaus shooed him away. “Bring us the best, please,” he said. “Tonight we’re celebrating.”
“Ah,” said Grete, her smile thin. Her next assignment, then, would be a difficult one; she’d known as soon as he suggested the Adlon. She, too, had made more effort than usual tonight. She’d painted her lips coral and curled her hair so that it lay on her shoulders, gold on emerald, hoping if she looked especially nice it would distract him from asking questions.
Instead of reaching into his pocket, he took her hand. “You are a sight for sore eyes, darling.” A lock of blond hair fell across his forehead, and he grinned with one corner of his mouth, and despite everything a little gasp of love sighed in her chest. She was fifteen, naked under her nightgown on his balcony all over again.
She half-listened as he told her about his most recent visit to Poland and what the SD aimed to accomplish there. “Entirely feasible, we know, because of our successes in Czechoslov . . .”
She was having trouble concentrating. The room swam before her in a sea of cream and plush brown, dizzying her. It hurt, almost, to focus on his eyes, and so she picked a spot somewhere on his forehead, noticing lines in the skin that hadn’t been there before. Perspiration rolled down the sides of her torso.
She realized only when she shifted her gaze to his mouth, watched his teeth close around his fork, loaded with ham and beans, that their dinner had arrived. Half a roast chicken, which she couldn’t remember ordering, sat before her, untouched.
“I just want you to tell me,” she said, gripping her fork and knife without lifting them. “I want to know what my next assignment is.”
He cocked his head and lifted his glass. At some point, he’d switched to beer. “But that is what I’ve been trying to say, darling. Because of my new position under Brigadeführer Jost, we need to turn our attention to the move to Warsaw.” He laughed once, irritated, it seemed, that she’d missed all of his good news. “Haven’t you been listening?”
Grete could see their waiter approaching with a tray of whipped and sculpted desserts. She blinked him away with a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. “We?” she said.
“Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying. We are moving to Poland, at least for the time being, so that I may serve as Herr Jost’s undersecretary. This may be the most important post of my career.” He leaned back in his chair and gave his mouth a thorough wipe with his napkin. She noticed he’d cleaned his plate. “Why, look at you, little Grete. You haven’t touched your dinner, and here I’ve paid through the nose for it. Whatever could be on your mind?”
With her fingertips she smoothed the fine linen covering the table. Underneath she could feel nubby, ordinary terrycloth. “Where will you put me in Warsaw? What will you tell the other officers—you need to find lodging for your mistress?”
“Look at me, Grete,” he said, and when she did, she could tell he enjoyed this. His pale eyes twinkled. “You’re being melodramatic. You aren’t my mistress, you’re my fiancée! We’ll be married, of course, as soon as we get there. Before we go, if you’d prefer.”
Stunned, unsure what else to do, she nodded.
Klaus laughed. “We’ll even do it in church, if you’d like—my little Catholic fool. We’ll get you a pair of lace gloves. In Poland, you can surround yourself with Catholics if you want.”
“Oh, Klaus,” she said. There were tears in her eyes, one slipping down her cheek, but she couldn’t be sure what caused them.
• • •
Butter, not guns.
No, that wasn’t right.
Grete couldn’t sleep. Goebbels’s slogan hammered against the inside of her skull. Klaus snored beside her. After his proposal, she’d finished the bottle of champagne.
Guns, not butter.
After a while she got up and pulled the curtain aside, letting in enough moonlight so that she could study him, his long white body immodestly draped in her sheet, his sticky genitals exposed. He’d drifted off immediately after they made love. His penis curled in its nest like a giant grub.
He wanted to take her to Poland. She could tell he meant it by the way he’d attacked her once they were alone in her room. They’d staggered to the bed, attached at the mouths. Kissing before intercourse had been tossed aside months or years ago. Normally he started at her nipples, or by dropping his pants. Tonight he held her, cradled her head between his forearms as he pushed himself into her. He teased her tongue with his teeth. Did it hurt, he wanted to know. Did it feel good? Just these questions were almost too much for her to bear. He’d never asked before.
Warsaw. Married at a Catholic church in Poland. She dug around inside the bottom drawer of her desk, careful not to make much noise as he went on snoring. She’d heard the wives, even the officers’ children, who went to Czechoslovakia had helped make Case Green a success. They flirted with, hosted, befriended the Slovak nationalists whom their husbands convinced to side with Germany.
She found what she’d been looking for and quietly shut the drawer. In Poland, Klaus had told her, she could surround herself with Catholics. He’d figured out how to give her the biggest assignment of all and offer it dusted in sugar.
What would he think if he could see her now, naked except for her thin pair of panties, her tired hands pointing a gun at his face? Hers was a Mauser C96. It hadn’t been difficult to obtain, not after the Night of Broken Glass; the government’s ban on Jews keeping firearms resulted in a surplus for everyone else. All the salesman told her was that it was preowned. She’d never fired it, or even held it for so long; it required both wrists steadying the wooden handle, and still the barrel shook.
As delicately as she could, she cocked her weapon, keeping her eyes on his face. Soon he would ask about Herr Reuter. He’d ask after Frau Blumenthal. He was smart enough to put it together. She either had to leave him or kill him. She took a step closer, watched his chest rise and fall. Her sweat took on a different smell, something animal. Her neighbors would hear and come running. She would have to take care of herself before they could break down the door.
She couldn’t have known, not at this point, just what she might accomplish in killing Klaus. The annexation of Poland still sounded fairly innocuous. She could not know where Klaus would be in three short years, his boots caked in Lithuanian mud as he watched an endless parade of Jews, stripped naked and holding hands, march toward Soviet-dug trenches. Watching his brows lift innocently as some dream took him by surprise—he let out a faint whimper—Grete could not have imagined he’d be one of the men standing on the perimeter of those pits. That on command he would empty his weapon into the crowd.
She did not know what was to come, and yet she did.
Spit foamed in her mouth, leaking from her lips and mingling with her tears. Even if she convinced Herr Reuter to take her to Sweden tomorrow, even if she never committed another evil act for Klaus, she wouldn’t have done enough to stop him.
These would be her last thoughts on earth, then. One she offered to God, a prayer for forgiveness that she didn’t expect to be answered or even heard, and one for Berni. Wherever Berni was—above her, watching; abroad, living another life—she’d want Grete to pull the trigger.
Do it, little bird. Squeeze. It’ll be over in a second. One squeeze is all it takes.
Counting, Grete thought, might help; she’d count to three, and then she’d do it.
Eyes pressed shut, she got to three, still stood there trembling.
First she would touch him one last time. One caress, and then she’d end it for both of them. She chose her favorite place on his body: the hip, white and smooth, blue veins under the skin. When she felt how warm he was she realized too late that her hands had frozen. He jolted, eyes fluttering, and she stumbled backward, the gun dangling in one hand at her side.
“What is it?” he said, smacking his lips. He rolled over, facing the wall. “While you’re up, bring me a glass of water, will you? Then come to bed.”
She stood there with the gun pointed at him, waiting for him to turn and see her. “Yes, Klaus.” Her chest heaved. What would he say if he could see her? Would his pulse even rise, or would he know she wouldn’t go through with it?
After a while his snores began again, and slowly, slowly, her arms fell. She felt as though her spine had been yanked from her, as though she were a fish who’d been gutted. The Mauser returned to its drawer. Perhaps she’d have another chance, tomorrow, or after he returned from his next trip abroad. She spread her limp body onto the mattress, and Klaus draped a hand over her waist.