Read Online Prisoner of Night and Fog by Anne Blankman - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Blankman
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ought to know how to handle a weapon.
On Sunday afternoons, after he stopped by for tea, he and Papa would take her and Reinhard to the Englischer Garten, to a copse of beeches far from the paths, so no one would see them practice shooting at the trees. At first, the recoil shoved her back a few steps, into Uncle Dolf’s legs. He laughed and showed her how to dig her heels into the dirt, so she could brace herself.
She stared at Papa’s shirt. If the hole had been formed by a bullet’s exit, there wouldn’t have been powder burns. Only blood. But she could see it, a messy circle of grayish dust and dried blood.
Someone had shot her father in the back. State police troopers had stood in front of him. Only other National Socialists had been behind him.
The Jew had been right .
8
THE NEXT NIGHT, GRETCHEN WALKED INTO THE Golden Phoenix dance hall and stopped short to stare. Blue-and-gold designs papered the walls, turning the enormous space into a glittering Easter egg. A glorious sound, pulsing with sinuous energy, cascaded from the orchestra stand. Small tables had been arranged along the room’s edges, where couples in evening dress lounged over drinks.
The dance floor dominated the room’s center; it was a massive wooden rectangle where men in tuxedos and women in short satin frocks danced a peculiar routine Gretchen had seen in films. The Charleston, she thought it was called, a popular dance from America. She couldn’t help feeling a burst of excitement. How beautiful and glamorous everything seemed.
“That music,” said a voice behind her, “is American swing.”
She turned. Daniel Cohen leaned against the bar. Tonight he wore a black suit. At some point, the bow tie had come undone and the shirt’s top button had popped open, exposing his finely wrought collarbones. She could see the pulse beating in his throat, a rapid tattoo beneath the skin, and the sight relieved her. He was nervous, too.
“Swing music is degenerate.” She forced the words out.
He studied her with watchful eyes. “Do you like it?”
Yes. But she wasn’t supposed to. “I’ve never heard anything like it before,” she evaded.
Cohen spoke a few words to the bartender. Gretchen leaned against the counter, trying to appear as though she knew how to act. This was madness. She glanced toward the exit. Maybe she should leave. But then she wouldn’t know what had happened to Papa.
She didn’t move.
Cohen pressed a glass into her hand. “You National Socialists clean up well.”
She flushed and resisted the urge to look down. Geli had given her the dress last summer, after she’d tired of it. The short black cocktail dress glittered with thousands of sequins. Gretchen had untied her usual braid and let her long hair ripple halfway down her back. A beaded band with a dyed-black ostrich feather encircled her head. The dress was a perfect fit for Geli’s curves, but on Gretchen’s smaller frame the bodice dipped lower than she liked, and she kept yanking the neckline up.
“Thank you.” She tried to hand the glass back, but he didn’t take it. “I can’t accept a gift from you—”
His mouth twisted. “From a Jew, you mean? You certainly do march to your Hitler’s drum, don’t you?” He grabbed the glass, setting it down so hard on the bar that liquid sloshed over the edge. “Will sitting with me offend your delicate sensibilities or must we stay standing?”
She had angered him. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more—that she was sorry for it, or that he was bothered by her. Somehow he had struck her as the sort who would never permit someone else to make him feel uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry,” she said, but he waved her off.
“Forget it. Let’s sit down.”
They found a tiny table against a wall. Gretchen watched the men and women at the bar, laughing too hard over their drinks, and the dancers, moving too fast, as though trying to forget their troubles for one night.
“Why do you keep
On Sunday afternoons, after he stopped by for tea, he and Papa would take her and Reinhard to the Englischer Garten, to a copse of beeches far from the paths, so no one would see them practice shooting at the trees. At first, the recoil shoved her back a few steps, into Uncle Dolf’s legs. He laughed and showed her how to dig her heels into the dirt, so she could brace herself.
She stared at Papa’s shirt. If the hole had been formed by a bullet’s exit, there wouldn’t have been powder burns. Only blood. But she could see it, a messy circle of grayish dust and dried blood.
Someone had shot her father in the back. State police troopers had stood in front of him. Only other National Socialists had been behind him.
The Jew had been right .
8
THE NEXT NIGHT, GRETCHEN WALKED INTO THE Golden Phoenix dance hall and stopped short to stare. Blue-and-gold designs papered the walls, turning the enormous space into a glittering Easter egg. A glorious sound, pulsing with sinuous energy, cascaded from the orchestra stand. Small tables had been arranged along the room’s edges, where couples in evening dress lounged over drinks.
The dance floor dominated the room’s center; it was a massive wooden rectangle where men in tuxedos and women in short satin frocks danced a peculiar routine Gretchen had seen in films. The Charleston, she thought it was called, a popular dance from America. She couldn’t help feeling a burst of excitement. How beautiful and glamorous everything seemed.
“That music,” said a voice behind her, “is American swing.”
She turned. Daniel Cohen leaned against the bar. Tonight he wore a black suit. At some point, the bow tie had come undone and the shirt’s top button had popped open, exposing his finely wrought collarbones. She could see the pulse beating in his throat, a rapid tattoo beneath the skin, and the sight relieved her. He was nervous, too.
“Swing music is degenerate.” She forced the words out.
He studied her with watchful eyes. “Do you like it?”
Yes. But she wasn’t supposed to. “I’ve never heard anything like it before,” she evaded.
Cohen spoke a few words to the bartender. Gretchen leaned against the counter, trying to appear as though she knew how to act. This was madness. She glanced toward the exit. Maybe she should leave. But then she wouldn’t know what had happened to Papa.
She didn’t move.
Cohen pressed a glass into her hand. “You National Socialists clean up well.”
She flushed and resisted the urge to look down. Geli had given her the dress last summer, after she’d tired of it. The short black cocktail dress glittered with thousands of sequins. Gretchen had untied her usual braid and let her long hair ripple halfway down her back. A beaded band with a dyed-black ostrich feather encircled her head. The dress was a perfect fit for Geli’s curves, but on Gretchen’s smaller frame the bodice dipped lower than she liked, and she kept yanking the neckline up.
“Thank you.” She tried to hand the glass back, but he didn’t take it. “I can’t accept a gift from you—”
His mouth twisted. “From a Jew, you mean? You certainly do march to your Hitler’s drum, don’t you?” He grabbed the glass, setting it down so hard on the bar that liquid sloshed over the edge. “Will sitting with me offend your delicate sensibilities or must we stay standing?”
She had angered him. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more—that she was sorry for it, or that he was bothered by her. Somehow he had struck her as the sort who would never permit someone else to make him feel uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry,” she said, but he waved her off.
“Forget it. Let’s sit down.”
They found a tiny table against a wall. Gretchen watched the men and women at the bar, laughing too hard over their drinks, and the dancers, moving too fast, as though trying to forget their troubles for one night.
“Why do you keep
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