Heidegger's Glasses_ A Novel Part 15

Goebbels doesn't spread rumors, said Mueller.

But why didn't the Commandant stop him? said Elie.

Mueller pulled his eyebrows together.

Goebbels and the Commandant have a score to settle. So probably nothing will happen. Yet.

Elie suggested they go to the vent to talk in private. She planned to climb up first and shoot Mueller through the eyes so he would never discover Dimitri or threaten anybody in the Compound again. While they walked down the cobblestone street, she remembered what Goebbels had told her about shooting people. Your hand is just talking to the trigger. It's only the gun that's doing it. Your hand is just talking to the trigger. It's only the gun that's doing it. She thought this while she hurried him past the Solomons' house and into the water closet. But the vent was occupied, so they had to retrace their steps. Elie let Mueller hold her arm. She thought this while she hurried him past the Solomons' house and into the water closet. But the vent was occupied, so they had to retrace their steps. Elie let Mueller hold her arm.

They pa.s.sed the Solomons' house again. Dimitri, who was by the lead-paned window, ducked, and Elie pointed to the c.u.mulous clouds in the sky. She made her hand rigid to keep it from shaking.

What was that? said Mueller, looking at the window.

The Solomons' cat, said Elie.

Since when did those Jews have a cat?

Months.

What's it called?

Mufti.

A cat with a name like that should stay outside, said Mueller.

They'd come to the end of the hall. He sat on a bench near the mineshaft. He patted the s.p.a.ce next to him.

Sit down, he said. I want to know how I can help you.

Elie forced herself to sit down, and Mueller pressed his ring against her shoulder-so hard it felt like he was stamping her flesh. La Toya stuck his head from the main room, and Mueller glared at him.

Who can talk near this joke of a workplace? he said.

No one, said Elie. Let's go upstairs.

And this time, she thought, nothing can stop me from shooting you. nothing can stop me from shooting you.

Mueller hugged her in the mineshaft and walked up the incline, holding her hand, saying they were doing a minuet, and it was a shame the bed made the room too small to dance. But when they got to the door, he leaned against the doorframe, and his face crumpled like a paper bag.

My good man, he said, as though he was talking to the air. I thought you'd left us forever.

Elie turned and saw Gerhardt Lodenstein standing by the clerestory windows. She had thought she'd never see him again. Yet now he stood in front of her-intact, vibrant-like people who've died and appear in dreams. He hadn't shaved and was wearing his rumpled green sweater, which he'd rummaged for quickly, throwing his compa.s.s on the bed, scattering socks on the floor. This delighted Elie, who normally hated clutter. It convinced her that he really was back. She raced over to him, he took her in his arms, and she started to cry. Mueller fussed with a medal on his coat. Eventually he said: I hear you had quite a journey.

Lodenstein looked at Mueller as though he was about to say something dangerous. But he managed to smile and shake Mueller's hand.

It was good of you to come, he said.

How could I not, with poor Fraulein Schacten alone and you going through such dreadful things?

You mean the rumors that fly around like crows? Nothing was dreadful. Even that green waiting room.

Mueller plucked at his medal again, and Lodenstein picked up the duffel bag Mueller had brought in antic.i.p.ation of spending the night.

I wish I could offer you brandy. But they want you back in Berlin.

What do you mean?

I don't know. It's secret, like all your missions.

Elie heard the conversation as if she were in a trance. She walked outside with the two men, and they crossed the stone path, their boots making sharp noises. A wind blew fresh snow in their direction, and Elie held Lodenstein's arm, afraid he'd disappear if she didn't hold on to him. When they came to Mueller's Kubelwagen, Mueller grabbed the duffel bag from Lodenstein and threw it on the ground. He took out his knife. Elie put her hand on her revolver.

Are you satisfied, my good man? Mueller said.

With what? said Lodenstein.

The results.

No one's satisfied these days, said Lodenstein.

Really? Mueller took out a handkerchief and began to polish his knife as though he was b.u.t.tering toast. People just aren't themselves anymore, he said.

Goebbels seemed to be.

That's because you don't know him as well as I do, said Mueller. He cleared his throat. By the way, an extra cat's not a problem. Or maybe even a kid-although that could turn out to be serious. But two fugitives are different.

That's why we don't have them, said Lodenstein.

Good, said Mueller. Because one of these days Goebbels really will visit. Except he might send someone who looks just like him. Or there will be ten people who pretend to be him. What I mean is-you're asking for trouble.

I don't know what you mean.

Maybe you can play Persian Patience. But you don't know how to bluff, said Mueller. So I think you do know.

He held his knife up to the sun-Elie could see light quivering in the blade. He put it away, moved closer to Elie, and took Lodenstein by the sleeves. Elie saw his greased hair and smelled his loathsome pomade.

The Reich's just like any other office with a mission, he said. In the long run, people die when they show up in the wrong places. And so do the people who hide them.

Only a fool doesn't know that, said Lodenstein.

Then there are some fools around here, said Mueller.

Lodenstein smiled and shook Mueller's hand. It seemed twice as large in its leather glove.

Have a safe journey, he said.

Mueller took off, his Kubelwagen rumbling like a dangerous beast. It turned the bend, and Lodenstein rushed Elie to the hut, saying it was cold. The light had shifted to a milky haze-dusk, a time of half-sleep, where the edges of the world begin to lose their hard outlines. Lodenstein walked to his jeep, and Elie saw a confusion of blankets in it, unearthly cloth that seemed to move by itself. Then she saw two figures emerge-so thin and insubstantial, they could have been smoke or shadows. Lodenstein shrouded them in more blankets. Then all three walked toward the shepherd's hut. Elie began to shake when she heard the ice crack. It was as though a spring had uncoiled inside her, as though every moment she'd ever lived was coming together at once. The figures came to the door.

Elie Kowaleski, said a voice in the cloth. Is that you?

Elie couldn't stop looking at Asher's face while he sat on the cobblestone street, staring at the pretend sky. It wasn't a real face, but grey skin stretched over bones, an a.s.semblage of angles and hollows, a vehicle for exhaustion and starvation-but not a face. The flesh beneath it was gone. His eyes were the only thing that seemed alive. Yet Elie could see everything in that face-every gunshot he'd heard at Auschwitz, every moment he'd seen people die. And the person she'd known at Freiburg, she could see that too: The man who worried about his wife and gave exhilarating lectures about Leibniz. The man who read late at night.

She and Lodenstein were pulling crates from the storage room Gitka had shown Maria hours before. It would be a bedroom for Asher and Daniel. They bent and swayed with the rhythm of people who are used to working together, as though they'd never been apart-and this surprised Elie. She remembered Lodenstein's strength. How crates seemed weightless when he lifted them. And the characteristic way he pushed back his hair-quickly, as if he didn't have a moment to waste. The stack got top-heavy, and he moved crates near the trompe l'oeil trompe l'oeil that led to the tunnel. Elie found mattresses, blankets, lanterns, and a Tiffany lamp for the one wall socket. She stopped at the Solomons to look in on Dimitri. Then she and Lodenstein went to the kitchen. that led to the tunnel. Elie found mattresses, blankets, lanterns, and a Tiffany lamp for the one wall socket. She stopped at the Solomons to look in on Dimitri. Then she and Lodenstein went to the kitchen.

My G.o.d, I was afraid I'd never see you again, said Elie, handing him a gla.s.s of water.

I was afraid too. You don't know how much.

Are you upset that he knows me?

Not now. I'm just glad to see you.

Are you saying that to be nice? Or do you mean it?

For the most part, said Lodenstein.

Asher began to cough, and Elie brought him a gla.s.s of water. Daniel was still in the street looking at the paralyzed sky. Asher had moved to a mattress in the storage room.

Don't ever say my last name here, she said to him. I'm Elie Schacten now.

Asher smiled. So you found yourself an alias. Like everyone else in this war. Did you just get new papers-or were you baptized?

Elie said she'd gotten new papers, and realized she couldn't remember the way she and Asher used to talk. It was a language of nuances, irony, and double meanings. Now she spoke a language of crisis that was urgent, truncated, and literal. Sometimes it surged with intimacy and shared revelations-the way people confide when they're never going to see each other again. But beyond moments of peril and exhilaration, she'd never spent much time in the company of someone she'd helped rescue. Finally she said: Was it safe for you on the train?

I doubt it. I tried to sleep, but I kept wondering if we'd all be shot. The only thing that made it bearable was Gerhardt Lodenstein. I think he's some kind of angel, and I don't even believe in them.

I do too, said Elie. And I don't believe in them either.

But where did he bring us? To a heaven that's run by pulleys?

He brought you to a place where we answer letters from people who are probably dead by now.

Asher flinched. They must have a lot of work then.

Elie wished she could remember how to joke, if only to erase the look she saw on his face.

They only write to people whose letters are returned, she said. These-she pointed at the crates-are where they put the answers.

Returned from where? said Asher.

From the camps, said Elie.

Did you ever get a letter from me?

No, said Elie. But we got a letter for you, along with your prescription for Heidegger's gla.s.ses. It's a small part of why you're here.

They were interrupted by Stumpf, who walked past them with mincing steps and arranged crates near the trompe l'oeil trompe l'oeil.

Asher noticed Stumpf's uniform and edged toward the wall. You have guards here, he said.

He's a lackey, said Elie.

I don't think so, said Asher. I think this place is just like Theresienstadt.

He was talking about a camp in Czechoslovakia with a few pleasant streets and decent houses that were facades for visits from the Red Cross. Children sang in an opera and were sent to Auschwitz to be ga.s.sed the next day.

n.o.body dies here, said Elie.

What a comfort.

Elie looked at Asher directly. And there they were: the same blue eyes she'd seen at Freiburg.

Did you really go to Auschwitz? she asked.

Asher stared at her the way he once stared when Elie said she was sure his wife was safe. Elie looked at her hands. They were dappled with red and white light from the Tiffany lamp, and she turned them at different angles until Lodenstein arrived with two bowls of soup. Only two bowls of soup? Where was the sausage and knackebrot?

That night, Elie and Lodenstein stayed in Mueller's old room so they could be close to Asher and Daniel, who were resting in the room that once stored crates. They were near the main part of the Compound and could hear Scribes cry out in sleep-a sound Lodenstein once found eerie and now found comforting because they were familiar and human, not the clinking of a jailer's keys or the shots at Auschwitz. He'd felt close to Elie when they said goodnight to Asher and Daniel. And he felt close to her when they said goodnight to Dimitri. They'd spoken softly, the way they'd say goodnight to children. But now he felt an uncanny tension, as though the air between them was vibrating with taut string. He leaned over and opened the duffel bag he had brought back from Auschwitz.

Elie, I have a surprise for you. You know all the food you get? I've gotten some too.

My G.o.d. You've already done enough.

Lodenstein uncorked a bottle of wine.

The best, he said. And now people who deserve it can drink it.

Elie smiled and leaned against him.

I'm sorry I never told you my real name.

It's a long name, said Lodenstein. I would never have remembered it.

Are you trying to be nice?

Only a little. But I just want to know-were you two lovers?

Elie hesitated. Then she said: At Freiburg. His wife was gone. The Party was starting. And both of us were lonely.

Lodenstein took a long drink of wine and rubbed a hand over his face.

It doesn't matter anymore, he said finally. We saved two people.

He reached for Elie in the dark. But Elie sat up and hugged her knees.

That's not the least of it, she whispered.