He sighed. “The Poles are different yet again.”
“Because I’ve seen what happens to Polish women in the camp.” Elise couldn’t stop herself, the words tumbling out one after another, hot and ugly. “Do you know what they call them at Ravensbrück? Rabbits. The Polish women are experimental animals, used for septic and antiseptic bone operations, and two types of surgeries on muscles. Incisions on legs filled with gravel, glass, germs, other matter to simulate war wounds. Various new drugs tested for efficacy. Sections of bone or muscle removed, nerve transplants. Without anesthesia and without aseptic treatment. They shout, ‘Long live Poland!’ as they’re taken away to the operating theater.”
Fausten tilted his head. “Why do they call them rabbits?”
“Because, after their operations, they hop around on their makeshift crutches. The youngest ‘rabbit’ was ten years old—we called her Bunny. She’d been cut open some half dozen times before she died. And the surgeries were done by a renowned Berlin university professor of medicine.”
Fausten made a steeple of his fingers. “Yes, it sounds horrible. But please keep some perspective. We are in the midst of a holy war. It is God’s will the Germans win.”
“I find the words holy and war incompatible.”
“But even Pope Pius disagrees. The Pope is no fool—he recognized the Bolshevik threat to Christianity. He signed the Concordat.” Fausten pulled out a box of marzipan molded and painted to look like fruit and vegetables from his desk drawer, took off the lid, and slid the box toward her. “Would you like one?”
Elise’s mouth watered. Marzipan was her favorite treat. But she would not be led into temptation. “No.”
“We actually have the same aims, you and I.” He picked up one of the candies from its ruffled paper. “We want you to play a role in reconciling the Reich and the Church. A German-Vatican dialogue.” He popped the sweet into his mouth. Outside, a church bell tolled and a horn blared.
“Captain Fausten, your candy and your words fail to impress me.”
He plucked out another marzipan, in the shape of a yellow peach. “Oh, you don’t know what you’re missing, Fr?ulein….” Then, “Do you know where you’ll end up? Do you really want to be a martyr?”
Elise remained silent, her face impassive.
“This is all we want.” He lifted a piece of paper from his desk, fingers leaving a smudge of food dye. “We want you to renounce your role in the events at Charité Mitte hospital and exonerate Dr. Brandt. We want you not only to sign it but to take it to your bishop. And then you will be released. For good.”
Elise held the paper up and read it, then put it down. She chose her words with care. “I will not be your Judas,” she said finally.
“Jesus and Judas,” Fausten mused. “Flip sides of the same coin, don’t you think, Fr?ulein? Without Judas, we wouldn’t have Jesus. We all have our roles to fill.”
“You have no idea what my role is. And I have no desire to discuss theology with you.”
He pushed the sheet of paper toward her. “Well, you have some time to think about it. Nine days to be exact.” He smiled. “I’m here for you if you’d like to talk.”
He rose and gestured to the door.
Elise struggled to rise, wincing in pain, leaving the paper behind on the desk. As he walked her to the door, he said in soft tones, “And know this—if you run away, we will shoot ten of your bunkmates in Ravensbrück. Please keep that in mind. I’ll see you at your mother’s memorial service,” he told her, opening the door. “Oh, wait!”
He went back to his desk, picked up the paper she’d left, then chose another piece of marzipan. His hand hovered over the box, finally choosing a round red apple in its paper, dusted with sparkling sugar. “Here,” he said as he walked back with his hand outstretched, holding both paper and apple. “Even if you don’t want it now, take it with you. For later.” The apple seemed to shimmer in front of her.
“No,” Elise said. “No, I will not.”
He tucked both in the pocket of her coat. “I hope you’ll change your mind.”
Numb, she turned and left, slowly picking her way back down the stairs. Outside, she took a greedy breath of icy cold air. Snow had fallen and children were playing in the street, the jumping game Heaven and Hell. The church bell chimed again, entwined with the sound of sirens.
—
Captain Fausten’s superior, Heinz Gephardt, called him into his office. It was larger and even more imposing than Fausten’s, but featured the same framed photo of Hitler.
Gephardt sat in a massive leather chair behind a desk carved with swastikas. He was a tall and trim man, almost sixty, with thin lips etched with deep vertical lines. “Did Fr?ulein Elise Hess show up?”
“Yes, sir. Right on time, sir.”
“Good, good. Don’t underestimate her importance. We’re still having…trouble with the German bishops and certain parishes over this Operation Compassionate Death business. We need to mend fences—if only for appearances’ sake.”
“And the Pope?”
“Just last week sent greetings and addressed our Führer as ‘esteemed gentleman.’?” Gephardt shook his head dismissively. “I have no worries about the Pope.”
“Elise Hess is a good Aryan girl. I hate to think of her back at Ravensbrück.”
“Oh? She’s being stubborn?”
Fausten shrugged.
“Let’s raise the stakes, then. If you can’t get her to sign this letter—you’ll be sent to the Eastern Front.” Gephardt smiled, letting the threat sink in. “No joke this time. And I hear it’s still quite cold in Russia.”
—
At the SOE training camp in Arisaig, Scotland, recruits were required to swim in Loch nan Ceall regardless of the weather. In London, Maggie had taken to early-morning swimming at the Ladies’ Pond, an open-air pool off Millfield Lane, on the east side of Hampstead Heath in North London, open every day of the year. The water was freezing, but by swimming in it regularly, her body had become acclimated. She now found it invigorating exercise, as well as a way to clear her mind.
As she took a last tug on her bathing cap and buttoned the strap under her chin, she heard wolf whistling. Usually at this early hour she was swimming solo in the greenish water, or with one or two other stalwart women.
But a group of men, still drunk from the evening before, had wandered by to watch, beer bottles in hand. “Hey, nice ass!” one shouted, slurring his words.
Another bellowed, “Suck my dick!”
While the third leered and called, “Bottle of whiskey back in the trees—whattaya say, love? Come with us—we’ll show you a good time.”
Ignoring them, Maggie dove into the water, the shock of cold momentarily clearing her head and chilling her anger. She came up to the surface to hear their raucous laughter as they stumbled away. “I’d love to take a turn with that.”
“Screw her till her nose bleeds,” said another.
Maggie spat and began her laps with the crawl—but the peace she usually found under the wide sky eluded her. She knew why the men did it—they were asserting their power to her and also to themselves. They did it to remind her that she, as a woman, shouldn’t forget her place in society—and any outing in public, especially in a bathing costume and alone, was dangerous.
Why can’t we do something like go swimming, walk at night, cross the bloody street without constantly being reminded our bodies are merely things, ripe for insulting, leering at, and aggressive propositioning?
She flipped over and switched to the backstroke. Before Jack the Ripper’s time, women were obliged to stay home, be the “angels of the house,” with their only outings church or trips accompanied by men. Then, in Victorian times, women had more freedom—to go to the theater, to restaurants. But when the Ripper murders started, women were warned to stay inside. I suppose we could post warnings to women now, to keep off the streets after dark, to walk in groups, to ask a man to be an escort.