The Schäfers’ car was sumptuous. Its polish glistened in a shaft of winter sunshine that appeared as if to herald its arrival. Climbing into it felt like taking steps up to some kind of temple. It smelled of clean, waxed leather and the seats were covered in thick, soft blankets, but the car was warm – warm in a way Sarah had forgotten, warm like cocoa, warm like the edge of old firelight.
The driver was in an SS uniform.
Elsa had sweets. Tangy, sour-edged flashes of flavour, a little explosion of sherbet that was too exquisite to experience without grinning.
There was a machine gun on the front passenger seat.
There were books in the back with beautiful covers, telling wild tales of pirates and wizards in adventure after adventure. For weeks Sarah had seen only dull black type and questionable facts, but now rosy-cheeked children and fearsome beasts, islands of brave knights, quests and princesses all jumped from the illustrations.
Among them was Der Giftpilz, a warning to all children of the dangers of the Jews, the poisonous mushrooms of the Aryan forest.
Elsa talked of banquets and satin dresses, horses and parties in one long uninterrupted story of amusing escapades and delightful pleasures. She asked Sarah no questions about herself. This suited Sarah fine, but it began to occur to her that this was not entirely right. Unlike the Mouse, who could deliver a long and meaningless monologue to fill a silence but would stop whenever someone else talked, Elsa’s conversation filled the air so full of words that no others could fit. So animated were her phrases and anecdotes that other words seemed pale and pointless in comparison. Sarah felt swamped, held under by the same hand that stopped her being swept away. She wondered if this was how happy, normal children spoke. It was eerily like listening to her mother.
Sarah pushed that thought away and risked a question as Elsa breathed in.
“What does your father do?”
Elsa’s face changed. It was like a cloud had passed across the sun. “He is a scientist. He does experiments. It’s very dull.” Elsa looked out of the car window at the rushing hedgerows.
“What about your mother? What is she like?” Sarah hurried on.
“My mother was taken away from us four years ago.”
Dumme Schlampe. “That’s a shame. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She was a weak, cowardly bitch.” The words seemed like they would burn through the chassis onto the road.
“My mother is in a lunatic asylum,” Sarah volunteered.
She let those words settle and watched the passing countryside. She felt warm fingers coil around hers on the seat. Where the Mouse had calloused, damaged fingers, Elsa’s were soft and smooth like a polished banister. She reached out her other hand and touched Sarah’s cheek.
“I’m sorry.” She ran her finger down one of Sarah’s braids. “I’m sorry about everything.”
Sarah didn’t know what to say. Elsa’s face, unreadable, switched to devilment as she sat back and squeezed Sarah’s hand. “Do you like boys yet?”
“Oh, I haven’t given them any thought.” She was relieved by the change in atmosphere, but had nothing to contribute on this subject. She was dimly aware that this was a source of frenzied excitement for other, older people, but her mother had never really talked of it and the books she had read also skirted the details.
“You must. You must think about them all the time! My father’s guards, they’re so handsome, and strong, and rugged – they make me feel tickly inside.” She sniggered and Sarah joined in. Whatever else, her enthusiasm was infectious. Then she leaned forward and prodded the driver. “Not you, Kurt! You’re an old, old, wrinkly man.” She laughed. Sarah saw the figure in the front straighten his shoulders. She squashed the desire to wince and giggled her mother’s best coquettish giggle, like a music box with its key turned too fast.
The road to the estate took a circuitous route. They trailed through the town, the driver sounding his horn to scatter the locals. Sarah looked sideways at the passing buildings, waiting for the beer hall, and then, from the corner of her eye, she saw the guesthouse’s grubby sign on a peeling red facade. She imagined the Captain sitting on a threadbare mattress, weakened and waiting. So far so good, thought Sarah, although Elsa was doing most of the heavy lifting. Maybe it would all be this easy…
She began mapping her escape, backwards from that point.
The next delay was the wall of the estate, the enormous stretch of black brickwork, topped by barbed wire and unfriendly crenulations, a monster ready to swallow Sarah whole. She hoped that the other side was less intimidating and that a wall designed to keep people out would prove unable to keep her in.
They came to the entrance and Sarah felt a familiar fear. There were crisp black-and-silver uniforms on show, but the soldiers in their drab forest camouflage unnerved her the most. They lacked the pomposity and arrogance of the officers. It seemed inconceivable that one of them wouldn’t turn and see the dirty Jew for what she was – a cuckoo in the nest. Sarah imagined them pointing and screaming at her. Willingly walking into this place was like a rodent climbing into the mouth of a snake.
Run. Flee! Get out while you can.
She rubbed her forehead to conceal her face, then stopped. This was no different from Rothenstadt, she thought. These soldiers were no less zealous than the Ice Queen, and she had made Sarah one of them.
Through the first checkpoint, the car drove the winding, zigzag path of concrete blocks towards the gate itself. Elsa wittered on, pointing out the prettiest, the most handsome, the “most innocent-looking” soldiers, one of the many things that Sarah didn’t understand.
Finally, the car emerged into a vast stretch of well-tended countryside. The wall fell away on either side and the driveway diminished into the distance with no house in sight. The scale of it amazed Sarah. She could see fences, paddocks, animals, but no hiding places, no cover. Patrolling dogs were everywhere.
Sarah watched the barricade close behind her.
You’re in it now, dumme Schlampe.
Just as rehearsed. Little Monsters on holiday.
“Look, Haller, my horse,” Elsa burst out, smacking Sarah on the shoulder. She threw open a window. “Anneliese! Mutti’s home!” she bellowed.
“She looks…lovely.” Sarah had no idea of the right terminology.
“Oh, she is; just wait until you see her close up. I really thought I’d lost her…”
“Why would you have lost her?”
“Oh, you know. I don’t get to keep her unless I’m good.”
Elsa made the word good sound onerous. Wrong.
Sarah didn’t really understand other children, their expressions, their moods. She had been isolated by her mother’s will, then by that of the German people. She had once found the companionship of her peers a rare treat, then an increasingly uncomfortable experience until she simply saw no one. So a few weeks with Elsa hadn’t been long enough for Sarah to figure her out.
It’s not enough to know your own lines, darling. You must listen to the others, feed off what they say, perceive the meaning in what they don’t. That’s how to perform.
I don’t do people. I told you that.
People are simple. They desire. Some hide it, some don’t. They hurt. Some hide it, some don’t.
“So, have you been good?” Sarah tried to joke, feeling the clumsy intention in her words.
Elsa looked at Sarah. Shame. Sympathy. Disgust. “Yes. Yes, I have.”
The house rose over the brow of a hill. It was huge, bigger than Rothenstadt, larger than many government buildings in Berlin. Sarah marvelled that any single family could live in such opulence. The central house was classical in style, the entrance flanked by columns and a portico, with grand steps up to the double doors. On either side, newer wings had been added in increasingly aggressive and modernist styles, until, at the fringes, utilitarian concerns had swallowed the art entirely, leaving concrete bunkers and iron sheds. Behind it, an ornate greenhouse almost dwarfed the house itself.
As she often had cause to notice, Sarah pondered that there might be one people, one leader, one nation, but there was still another, more privileged Germany.
A servant with white gloves opened the car door before Sarah could reach the handle. He offered a hand to help her out even as she scrambled on her coat. The gravel Sarah stepped onto was deep and gave underfoot. Thick, she thought. Expensive. Another servant was replying in hushed tones to Elsa’s chatter and others busied themselves with the luggage. The house loomed over Sarah, recalling the beastlike visage of the school. Yet this one was spotless, polished and well cared for. It was a predator of an entirely superior kind.
“Come on, Haller, let me show you the place,” shouted Elsa, already skipping up the stairs.
The hall was a palace of white marble. Two enormous staircases rose up, around and over Sarah’s head, their black iron banisters an intricate set of spirals and flowers. A life-sized portrait of the Führer dominated the room and underneath it, lighting a pipe, was Hans Schäfer. His face was alive with humour, lit by recognition. He couldn’t have looked less like the evil scientists of the movies. If anything, Sarah felt like the predator, coming to his house with an ulterior motive.
“My dear, welcome home.” His voice was soft and friendly.
“Father,” Elsa replied quite formally, curtseying in front of him. He bent down and put his arms round her, kissing her cheek.
“And who do we have here?” He straightened up, hands on his hips, pipe in mouth.
“This is Ursula Haller,” Elsa pronounced with pride. “Third Year Schlafsaalführerin and winner of the River Run.”
“A Third Year? The winner? Goodness me,” he enthused. “Heil Hitler.” Sarah saluted.
“Oh, we don’t stand on ceremony here, Ursula. The Führer is secure in the knowledge of our support. Besides, it gets really dull: Heil, Heil, Heil, Hitler, Hitler, Hitler, Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil…” He saluted over and over with an increasingly comedic voice.
The girls laughed. This was going to be so much easier than Sarah had thought.
“So, you have done well,” he finished.
“Thank you,” said Sarah and Elsa together.
“Well, dinner at eight. Dress up, please – there are surprises for you both in your bedroom, Elsa.”
Elsa clapped her hands and then, after quickly curtseying, ran up the stairs. Schäfer beamed at Sarah and cocked his head after his daughter. Go on, he meant. Sarah smiled, a real joyful thing that spilled out of her face and made her cheeks ache. It felt strange. She skipped up the stairs after Elsa.
The carpets were thick. The door handles were golden. The picture frames were dusted and polished. The light shimmered from crystal chandeliers with a million captured rainbows. Sarah chased Elsa down the corridors, up the stairs, round the corners and finally through a doorway into a room the size of Sarah’s first apartment in Vienna. To be here, with permission, to experience such luxury, triggered long dormant memories of Sarah’s past. It was intoxicating.
On the four-poster bed were two large white boxes. “Let’s open them together – this is yours. You ready?” Elsa grinned. “Three, two, one, go.”
The box seemed to suck the lid back down as Sarah pulled at it and she had to push her fingernails under the edge to heave it off. Revealing a nest of tissue paper, she peeled the top layer away.
Inside there was what looked like a bolt of dark green silk that gave with a rustle. It was a ballgown, a soft, cool and lavish creation that whispered luxury and extravagance. There seemed to be enough material for many normal dresses, yet the silk fabric felt light, almost buoyant. It was something an American film star would wear.
Sarah knew nothing of fashion, but what she held in her hands was clearly a work of art. She felt too grubby to be touching it, but it had the power to change her.
“Will it fit?” she gasped.
“Of course it will. It was made for you.” Elsa was holding the exact same dress to her chest. “We’ll be like twins.”
Sarah looked at the taller, more womanly creature next to her. “I’ll probably spill something on it. I can’t wear it.”
“Then spill something on it. Spill everything on it! It doesn’t matter. It’s yours to ruin.”
“I can’t accept this.” The polite phrase belonged to another lifetime, when things could be refused.
“Shoes, too,” Elsa pointed out. “What, there were no balls in Spain? Come on, let me show you around before dinner.”
As they approached the stables, Sarah noted that the bunkers and greenhouse hadn’t been on the tour.
“So what’s in there?” she asked, waving in their general direction.
“Father’s stuff.” Elsa dismissed the subject. Then she added, “The greenhouses were my mother’s obsession. Everything is dead now.”
Sarah waited a respectful moment. Clearly this was the part of the house that she needed to see. She might not have another chance to raise the subject.
“Why are there so many guards? What are they protecting?”
“I don’t know. Whatever he’s got in there, I expect.”
Sarah couldn’t understand Elsa’s lack of inquisitiveness. “Aren’t you curious?”
“I don’t bloody care, Haller,” snarled Elsa.
Sarah walked alongside her in silence. “Sorry,” she said eventually.
After a moment, Elsa carried on. “Look, there she is! There’s my baby.” She broke into a jog and then a run for the stable doors. A jet-black mare was being led inside by a stable hand. The horse turned to the noise of Elsa’s feet and then, when she saw her, let out a fulsome whinny, bucking and refusing to follow the boy. “There you are.” Elsa buried her face in the mare’s neck. The horse nodded and blew her approval. “See, Haller, this is a horse.” She smiled, and this time her eyes smiled too.
“Miss, she has to get down for the night,” interrupted the boy in a thick country accent.
“Of course. Tomorrow, my love, tomorrow.” Elsa released the mare’s muzzle and gave her a gentle shove. She moved away as if ordered. Sarah saw the light leaving Elsa’s face.
“She is pretty,” Sarah said, struggling for the right words.
“She’s more than pretty.” Elsa turned on Sarah. “I’m pretty. Pretty is nothing.”
She strode back to the house, leaving Sarah alone in the gathering gloom.
“This dress has no back,” Sarah moaned, looking over her shoulder in the mirror.
“Are you worried about the whip marks? You can barely see them. Besides, they’re like duelling scars. You should be proud. Same with the bandage.”
“No, the dress is missing a whole piece.”
“Silly, that’s the style. You look like Carole Lombard.”
“I look half-dressed.” Sarah scowled at the mirror. The cinched waist and the extra material in the cowl neck gave her the shape of an older girl. She seemed painted in green light and each little curve had a tiny halo of silver stars. She felt a pang of realization: that what she was looking at was more than the sum of its parts, that it was somehow appealing. She didn’t know what to do with this knowledge, so it sat at the top of her belly and fluttered like a trapped moth.
As she looked at herself, Elsa tousled Sarah’s hair, wrapping, twisting, plaiting, brushing. It made it luscious, luminous. It also made it identical to Elsa’s own. The two stood side by side in matching dresses, like two nested matryoshka dolls.
Elsa hummed. “Pretty enough,” she said with a sigh.