German. Wiktor’s German was better than the Major’s Polish, and Wiktor always responded in German. Sometimes Frankel wondered where a jailbird like Wiktor had learned such good German.
There was nothing on the desk except for two metal trays and two pens lined up neatly beside them. Not a piece of paper in sight. Wiktor moved the trays an inch or two and lined them up perfectly with the edge of the desk. He moved the pens an inch toward the trays.
“You asshole of the world.”
The two men stared at each other until they heard the sound of a car engine.
Major Frankel forced himself to move down the hall to the outside door. Should he open it? Should he send Wiktor and remain in the office? Would the SS officer think he had nothing to do if he stood outside and greeted him? Should he be busy inside? “This fucking country.”
Maybe it wouldn’t go badly. This SS officer might be a comrade, a brother. He might even wear a ribbon worth having in his second buttonhole.
Major Frankel glanced down. It wasn’t regulation. But the medal had been sent home after the winter of 1941-1942. There wasn’t much use keeping the medal to get wrecked at the front, so he had sent it home to be framed and put on the wall. But he kept the ribbon. They all had. It was tied through his buttonhole where it always was. Dirty now and limp.
But noble, Frankel thought. Noble, goddamnit. Winter of ’41—’42 at the eastern front had been so terrible, so huge, that only a token would do. It wasn’t fitting to wear some hunk of metal with eagles and swastikas. Just a dirty piece of cloth to show you had been there for the dirtiest war ever survived, but every soldier knew what that ribbon meant. It meant you had fought the Russians through the worst winter of the century, and you were still standing. Wearing the ribbon tied through the buttonhole wasn’t regulation, but it was the only decoration he’d ever wear.
Wiktor opened the outside door, and Major Frankel saluted. “Heil Hitler,” he shouted.
The man was too high ranking. SS Oberführer. Almost a general. What was he doing here? With only a car and two soldiers?
“Heil Hitler.” The Oberführer returned his salute.
“I am honored, Oberführer, that you—” the major stopped.
“Let me present Sister Rosa.”
Frankel felt the sweat roll down his back under his shirt. Who the hell was she? Not a nun. But the brown cape and brown dress were odd. The Brown Sisters. He couldn’t remember exactly what they were for, not nursing, something to do with the SS. He didn’t know how to greet her, and his right leg began to tremble like a horse’s leg when it sees a piece of paper fly across the riding ring and is getting ready to bolt.
“Heil Hitler,” the woman screamed.
“Heil Hitler,” he screamed back. Major Frankel stared at the Oberführer’s chest and had to stop himself from smiling. Oak wreathes, swords on top of oak leaves, swastikas, glittering lines of medals. Everyone a piece of crap. A bunch of damn medals for physical fitness. Athletic medals.
The SS man walked up the steps in front of the woman and felt a moment of disgust. It was obvious why the Major was in this dung heap of a village. He was a cripple. Hideous looking with that scarred face. And sweating like a pig, of course. The Major jumped for the office door too late. The SS man opened it and swept inside.
The Oberführer smiled again and turned to let the Major, who was almost walking on his heels, see the smile. Now the Major would sweat even more. And the insolence of it. Wearing his greasy little rag in his buttonhole like he was someone. After the war all these butchers and postal workers would leave the army, and it would be run by professionals.
I should have gotten the door, thought the Major. He was so hot he felt his eyeballs throbbing. I should have opened it. Maybe not. Maybe it was the soldierly thing to do. Men in the field. Everyone paying less attention to things like that.
There was nothing on the desk except for two metal trays and two pens lined up neatly beside them. Not a piece of paper in sight. Wiktor moved the trays an inch or two and lined them up perfectly with the edge of the desk. He moved the pens an inch toward the trays.
“You asshole of the world.”
The two men stared at each other until they heard the sound of a car engine.
Major Frankel forced himself to move down the hall to the outside door. Should he open it? Should he send Wiktor and remain in the office? Would the SS officer think he had nothing to do if he stood outside and greeted him? Should he be busy inside? “This fucking country.”
Maybe it wouldn’t go badly. This SS officer might be a comrade, a brother. He might even wear a ribbon worth having in his second buttonhole.
Major Frankel glanced down. It wasn’t regulation. But the medal had been sent home after the winter of 1941-1942. There wasn’t much use keeping the medal to get wrecked at the front, so he had sent it home to be framed and put on the wall. But he kept the ribbon. They all had. It was tied through his buttonhole where it always was. Dirty now and limp.
But noble, Frankel thought. Noble, goddamnit. Winter of ’41—’42 at the eastern front had been so terrible, so huge, that only a token would do. It wasn’t fitting to wear some hunk of metal with eagles and swastikas. Just a dirty piece of cloth to show you had been there for the dirtiest war ever survived, but every soldier knew what that ribbon meant. It meant you had fought the Russians through the worst winter of the century, and you were still standing. Wearing the ribbon tied through the buttonhole wasn’t regulation, but it was the only decoration he’d ever wear.
Wiktor opened the outside door, and Major Frankel saluted. “Heil Hitler,” he shouted.
The man was too high ranking. SS Oberführer. Almost a general. What was he doing here? With only a car and two soldiers?
“Heil Hitler.” The Oberführer returned his salute.
“I am honored, Oberführer, that you—” the major stopped.
“Let me present Sister Rosa.”
Frankel felt the sweat roll down his back under his shirt. Who the hell was she? Not a nun. But the brown cape and brown dress were odd. The Brown Sisters. He couldn’t remember exactly what they were for, not nursing, something to do with the SS. He didn’t know how to greet her, and his right leg began to tremble like a horse’s leg when it sees a piece of paper fly across the riding ring and is getting ready to bolt.
“Heil Hitler,” the woman screamed.
“Heil Hitler,” he screamed back. Major Frankel stared at the Oberführer’s chest and had to stop himself from smiling. Oak wreathes, swords on top of oak leaves, swastikas, glittering lines of medals. Everyone a piece of crap. A bunch of damn medals for physical fitness. Athletic medals.
The SS man walked up the steps in front of the woman and felt a moment of disgust. It was obvious why the Major was in this dung heap of a village. He was a cripple. Hideous looking with that scarred face. And sweating like a pig, of course. The Major jumped for the office door too late. The SS man opened it and swept inside.
The Oberführer smiled again and turned to let the Major, who was almost walking on his heels, see the smile. Now the Major would sweat even more. And the insolence of it. Wearing his greasy little rag in his buttonhole like he was someone. After the war all these butchers and postal workers would leave the army, and it would be run by professionals.
I should have gotten the door, thought the Major. He was so hot he felt his eyeballs throbbing. I should have opened it. Maybe not. Maybe it was the soldierly thing to do. Men in the field. Everyone paying less attention to things like that.
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