Solimeos, p.16
Solimeos, page 16
On the floor in a pile was a red-and-white houndstooth coatdress with gold buttons, epaulettes, and a luxurious red chiffon scarf. Lifting it from the floor, Dietrich spread his arms, said apologetically, “I ordered it from Paris for you. It’s very fine, Raven. For the races, when we go to the races in Argentina. You’ll look wonderful in it.”
“I don’t wear red,” she shouted at him. “You know that. If I wear red I’ll fall down.” She held herself. She was quaking. The terror that she lived with, that she’d known. “What will become of me? Where will I go? Keep your shmata, Dietrich. Keep it!”
I remembered her, on the roof, watching the war in the sky, shouting.
Dietrich grabbed her arm, twisted her toward himself. “What is that word? Shmata. What is it?”
Raven looked, at that moment of exposure, two-dimensional, paper-faced, something startling and burning and terrified in her eyes. “Take your hands off me.”
“Just tell me what shmata means.”
“It means rag!”
He released her. Raven, exposed, weak, vulnerable, took a step back. Dietrich folded the dress and its stole, placed them carefully back into the shipping box, passed it to Maria. No one looked at each other; nothing was said. Then Dietrich put his arms around Raven. “That’s all right, Raven, you don’t have to wear it. We’ll keep it. Maybe someday you’ll like it.” He turned to me. “Please look up the origin of the word ‘shmata’, Axel. It sounds original.”
For a brief second, Dietrich had been present as a human being. “Raven, my dear. Look in the bottom of the box.”
“No.”
“Yes, look. It’s alright. You can look.”
Raven pulled out a tiara, a queen’s ransom tiara. Very gently, Dietrich placed it on her head. “There, isn’t that nice? Go look in the mirror. You are the Queen of the Amazon. Go look at yourself, how lovely you look.”
She did. She was able to. She had become Raven again. Entitled, manipulative, greedy.
Later I said to her, “Raven, is that why you don’t wear red? Because you have no courage?”
Very lightly she touched the top of my hand with her forefinger.
“I am afraid to wear red because they will find me. I am afraid. We wore yellow. Yellow stars.” I had no idea how deeply she’d been damaged.
“I know how to get up on the roof here,” I told her. “Come up with me. Come dream and count the stars with me. Come, Raven.”
Her eyes softened. She managed to smile. “That’s crazy.”
“I could help you climb.”
“Oh, Axel.” And then she shoved the tiara on her head and ran upstairs to look, I was certain, in a better mirror.
“Axel, the word shmata, please. Axel!” Dietrich yelled.
“It’s Yiddish. An insult to the old gods. Shmataii means two rags. The early meaning was two goddesses of the constellations Sirius, sisters. Isis was the goddess of retribution as in nemesis. Isis’s sister was the dark goddess, Nepthys, the dark star who is Sirius C, orbiting, the invisible star orbiting around Sirius. Two sisters, two rags, rag as insult. Shmata. Two sisters, two rags.
“Shma equals Sirius. Equals Sirius. That’s an indisputable connection. Schma, HaShem, Shamash. Shomah means soul, doesn’t it? Sirius, where souls go.” He shook his head. “What an astonishing letter. HaShem takes us back to Sirius, takes us back to the Jews. Poor Hermann. He made a terrible bargain. He’s not going to find Aryans at the dawn of civilization. He’s going to find something resembling Jews. Serves him right.”
Chapter Sixteen
Headlines trickled in: Physicist Albert Einstein turned down the job of president of Israel, West Germany joined NATO, Stalin was replaced by Khrushchev. Wars were smaller but not over. Meanwhile, hidden in the jungle, the people we lived among had parties all the time, celebrating even as there was nothing to celebrate.
Party-givers Magdalena and Karl Meyer lived in a ridiculous, orange-stone gingerbread house. Aside from its spectacular dock, one of the house’s distinguishing features was a large, glittery mirrored ball that Magdalena had acquired from a Manaus dancehall. Hundreds of small mirrors reflected the deep unhappiness below as the ball swung in the river breeze, looming over the Colony’s heads in multiple fragmented magnifying reflections of the pain of exile, the shame, the pride, the ambition, hope, hopelessness, fury, and fear. One night I overheard host Karl Meyer, a man I barely knew, tell another, “Maybe five hundred thousand. Some I killed personally….”
Karl Meyer grew pineapples and hops and brewed beer in his basement. We learned about the beer that evening because there was a deep-throated explosion just before dessert.
The man who had killed half a million somethings leapt from the table and ran to a kitchen door.
Magdalena ran after him. “Karl, Karl!”
All the men drew their pistols until Magdalena explained her husband’s beer barrels were exploding.
I told myself he had killed half a million snakes in his hop fields.
When he was introduced to me again later that night, Karl was sweat-soaked and excessively cordial. Four or five more barrels had blown throughout the evening, and everyone was able to cheer and laugh at Karl’s problems with his hops.
The event around which Magdalena’s party grew was the annual visit of a plastic surgeon from Rio—the same one, it turned out, who had reorganized Raven’s face and body and had excised the slave labor numbers from her forearm.
Now she was having her eyes done. “They need to be widened,” she had explained to Dietrich and me. “Your face starts deteriorating when you hit thirty.”
The surgeon arrived every year on his fully equipped hospital yacht. He brought with him technicians and an anesthesiologist, remained a week, charged a fortune while making virtually the same improvements on each of the old, thick, lumpy wives who had, over the course of his visits, begun to look very much alike: noses, lips, hips, bottoms, bosoms, eyelids, faces. Magdalena had the longest dock and, since the surgeon’s yacht was larger than anyone else’s, Magdalena achieved the honor of hostessing.
While I had driven the pickup, Dietrich and Raven had sailed there. Visiting yachts were moored up and down the river. Dr. Hermann had arranged a cloud cover of fog dropped over them. Small planes landed at his airstrip, and partygoers were driven down the mountain to Magdalena’s estate.
She had arranged for the surgeon to bring with him a psychic communicator—
Madame Wanda—a Hungarian, probably a gypsy, who it was said had been doing extremely accurate readings with the dead for Magdalena’s cousin in Paraguay. Madame Wanda was to be that evening’s entertainment.
Some guests had flown in from other parts of South America, mostly Chile and Argentina. Like other similar parties, this event had been organized with safety as a priority. Bodyguards surrounded the house, patrol boats moved up and down the shoreline. After everyone’s arrival, the landing lights on Dr. Hermann’s airstrip were shut off, the boats and planes covered in camouflage netting, the cloud cover established.
Some of the guests I knew; others were unfamiliar. Some were Nazis; others hadn’t intended to be Nazis. Some hated themselves and hated Hitler. Others worshipped him. Our mutual exile and deep longing made us companions.
The guests arrived early in the evening, drank heavily, talked loudly, and were excited and rather silly about the psychic. A handful wore Waffen uniforms with an array of medals. My father sulked, arrogant and distant. Raven circled around him, chatty and charming. Surgeries were planned for the next morning, and the five female patients had been told not to drink.
We took seats in the back of Magdalena’s large dining room, which was more of a hall.
Dr. Hermann tapped a whiskey glass, welcomed the crowd, then complained that a yacht had left its lights on at Magdalena’s dock. “We have been secure here for years. No one has bothered us. But we cannot afford to let our guard down, ever. I thank you for your continued attention to our safety.”
At the front of the dining hall, Madame Wanda sat in a straight-backed chair, smoked steadily, wore black clothing, scuffed white high heels, and a flowered stole. She had electric, flyaway hair—long, almost kinky—very poor teeth and a gravelly voice. I kept staring at those teeth. They were large and yellow, like old piano keys. She seemed shy and would not meet my eyes.
Magdalena’s maids passed trays of candles in crystal tumblers. Magdalena curtsied to my father as she gave him his candle. Dutifully, everyone lit their candles and she turned out the lights.
“I am not a psychic,” Madame Wanda began. The red tip of her cigarette moved in small circles as she spoke. Placed beside her was something she described as her “spirit horn.” “I do not read minds. I am a communicator. Spirits speak to me. I just tell you what I hear. I take no responsibility. I don’t fabricate information, and, after, I don’t remember what I say. If it comes into me and it is wrong, it is most likely another voice, the wrong voice. Spirits are very anxious to come through the channels. They mass up and everyone yells like schoolchildren. I know none of you. I know nothing about you except that you live well and are all very anxious. Please try to be quiet. So—” She stubbed out her cigarette on the sole of her shoe, folded her stole, laid it on her lap, clasped her hands over it, closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell.
The room was utterly silent. We held our breaths.
“Wait your turns. Speak louder. Someone has a black-and-white kitten. On this side. The kitten says she can’t wait to get to heaven so she can have a cigarette. And there’s a child in the forest—a girl—who says she needs a name.”
Where had I heard that? A child in the forest who needs a name. Then I remembered that Okok had told that to Raven who told it to Maria who told it to me.
There was nothing on Raven’s face. The assemblage looked around at each other. The candles made monsters of us.
Madame Wanda closed her eyes, pinched her forehead with forefinger and thumb, concentrating. “Someone says to me, ‘I wanted my pocket watch to go to Norman. Why did it go to Niklas?’ Is there a Norman in the room? Someone, Frank?”
Embarrassed, we looked around at each other.
From the back of the room, Uncle Wolf said softly, “Hans Frank, the Butcher of Poland, had a son named Norman.”
“Shut up, Wolf.” My father leaned toward Raven. “Does this worry you, my dear?”
“Who was Hans Frank, Dietrich?” Raven asked. She looked worried. Why was that?
“Inner circle, governor of Poland,” said Dietrich. “Two sons, Nicholas and Norman.”
“Oh God, Dietrich.”
“Don’t be afraid. She’s a phony. She probably has notes on the bottom of her shoes.”
From the rear of the room, a woman called out, “There was a problem with the Frank sons. I knew them.” Someone else told her to shut up. An odd mix, I thought, of the curious and frightened. The past loomed up dangerously in that glittery, grim room of candlelight and shadows.
Magdalena passed around a silver bowl of smelling salts, but no one wanted them. There was not a sound in the room. Candles flickered.
“Someone here should not wear red,” said Madame Wanda.
I took Raven’s hand. It was cold. I knew Madame Wanda meant Raven. After being forced to wear that ugly, bulky, diamond-smuggling vest upon our arrival in Brazil, Raven had refused to wear red. She’d told me, “If I wear red, I’ll fall down.”
Now she said, “I don’t want to believe it, so I won’t.” Even so, she sat on the edge of her chair, leaving her hand in mine.
Madame Wanda paused, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, exhaled, brought her spirit horn up to her ear. “Oh, yes, darling, don’t be afraid. Someone wishes to…Violet. Does anyone know a Violet?”
Raven pulled her hand from mine and clutched her husband’s. “This is nothing, Dietrich. Someone told her of the giraffe.” I, too, moved closer to my father. The muscles on his neck tightened, pulsed.
Raven ripped her hand from mine, hissed at me. “You told her about Violet?”
“What are you talking about?” said Dietrich. “I never saw the woman before in my life.”
Raven turned to look across the table at Uncle Wolf. “Someone did.”
“Maybe not, Raven,” I said.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“You sound just like a girl I used to know. Her name was Luba.”
“Keep your mouth shut.”
Madame Wanda banged the spirit horn on the floorboards. “I asked you to be quiet, Missus,” she addressed Raven. “Oh my! This voice comes like thunder, like a tornado. Above the other voices. Be quiet. You in the audience, also be quiet. It’s a man.”
My father gripped the edge of the table. There was nothing on his face. Magdalena crossed herself.
“Very intense,” Madame Wanda continued. “He says…‘I regret that I didn’t give you a gold medal. You deserved a gold medal.’ Does anyone understand? For Poland.” She put the large end of the spirit horn to her mouth, blew through it as if cleaning it.
“It’s him!” Horst shouted. The old “Special Projects” Nazi ran to Madame Wanda, lifting her from the chair, shaking her, as if to shake loose something or someone from her.
Weeping and blubbering, Horst shook Madame Wanda too hard.
“Ask him why he led us into the wilderness,” he said, looking at her desperately. “Ask why he took us to Russia. Ask him why he ruined Germany.”
Madame Wanda scratched Horst’s cheeks, trying in vain to free herself from his grip.
I jumped into the fray, struggling with Horst to protect Madame Wanda, finally pulling him away. Others who didn’t understand were laughing but some were not. I was not.
Madame Wanda collapsed back into her chair. “I refuse to work like this. Take him from the room or I leave.”
A few others helped me settle Horst outside by the pool. I loosened his tie, his pants. A surgeon present came to listen to his heart. Among continued sobs, Horst struggled to find his breath. Our hostess Magdalena fanned his face with her large hat.
Inside, Dr. Hermann took a seat next to Dietrich, and I joined them.
Madame Wanda snapped her fingers. She held the spirit horn to her ear, cocked her head. She looked around the room. “Now he says to…uh…uh…Dieter.” She spoke to the air as if calming it.
“Dietrich?” Dr. Hermann offered wryly. “We have a Dietrich.”
My father snuffed his candle with thumb and forefinger. Dr. Hermann leaned over and relit it with his own flame.
Madame Wanda continued in a flat tone that wasn’t her own. “‘It is the curse of the great that they have to step over corpses to create new life.’ That’s what he says, not me. Madame Wanda says nothing.”
Raven shivered. The room was deathly quiet. My father stared steadily at Madame Wanda.
“Ghost,” Dietrich mumbled. “Ghost, host, guest. Write this down, Axel. How does the host of the communion relate to the ghost of this party? Host, guest, ghost, visitor. Who is our visitor? Who is our guest? Who is our ghost?”
Madame Wanda bent forward. She pointed the spirit horn at my father. “He congratulates you and promises you the recognition you deserve.”
My father sat ramrod straight, an iron composure. “Magdalena, get her out of here,” he said calmly, but I heard the panic just underneath.
Madame Wanda stood behind her chair, continued in a small voice, not her own. “One more thing, Baron. Violet says she loved it when you kissed her eyelids.”
The assembled laughed and hooted at the thought of the upright Baron having a mistress. A few stuck their pinky fingers into the sides of their mouths and whistled harsh taunting notes. My father got to his feet, correct and upright, and faced them down. They fell silent.
Magdalena begged all of us to be still. We were ruining a lovely evening. Out of respect for Madame Wanda, who came all this way to entertain us with her gift, we should remember our manners.
Again a man yelled, “Ask him why the hell we went into Russia.”
My father’s face was white with anger. He stood, moved forward, hand raised to slap Madame Wanda. His fury and arrogance were palpable. “I will not have this…this gypsy insult the Reich!”
Uncle Wolf did not cause the trouble. My father did, but Uncle Wolf capped it off. These days, people in our circles had begun calling my uncle Wolf “that Wolf.” He’d become a jackal, wandering as he did at the edge of our lives: hungry, ill, self-destructive.
Madame Wanda stood, expecting a blow from my father, but she went on, “He says, this voice like a tornado, ‘You will get what you deserve.’”
At that, Uncle Wolf jumped from his chair, which went crashing to the ground. He ran to my father and, before anyone could stop him, broke one of Magdalena’s crystal tumblers on Dietrich’s forehead.
The wound filled with blood, then bled profusely.
Magdalena fumbled against the walls for the lights, turned them on. We blew out our candles. Some guests ran from the room. Others surrounded my father, helping him lay on the floor. People held napkins to his wound.
He pushed them away, waved his arm toward Madame Wanda, who sat shaking in her chair. “Get her away from me. Get her out of here!”
The surgeon bent over my father, plucking a sharp piece of crystal from his forehead. “He’s fine. This is just minor. Surface. I do need more napkins, please.”
The surgeon’s assistants tried to lead Madame Wanda from the room. Part of the crowd followed her, pulled at her clothing, grabbing her arms. “What else did he say?” a man asked. “Is he coming back?” a woman asked breathlessly.
Raven leaned closer to me, said, “He’s still hypnotizing, even while dead. These pigs are willing to believe anything.”
