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Amon despised her. He despised her trembling body, the flesh which constantly threatened to soil him, the skin which bruised so easily, disturbing his guests. And that was usually all he felt for her.
But sometimes, deep inside a bottle sent by the Herr Direktor, when the sweat beaded on his forehead and soaked his uniform, when the world was warm and giving to the touch, and Helen was there by his side…sometimes he loved her. She was a good servant, devoted, her cooking excellent. From within that bottle, his vision warped by the rosy, sticky glass, Helen beckoned him with needy eyes, craved his discipline. A fruit at its peak of ripeness. She dangled, sweet-smelling and pliant in his hands, maddening him until he found himself beating her to keep from kissing her.
Amon knew better than to touch her. His friend, Oskar Schindler, was known to have been close with Jews, and Amon had defended him before the Schutzstaffel when he was arrested for it. The Herr Direktor had drunkenly kissed a Jewess at a party. Amon sweated through the trial and when he returned home to his villa, Helen was the first thing he saw. Amon didn't even remove his white gloves before striking her.
God, how he hated her, and yet he couldn't kill her. Something always stayed his hand and the luger seemed to weigh a thousand pounds until he holstered it once again.
"Get up, bitch." He would finally say to the quivering mess on the floor.
The mess would pant and drag itself together and he would look away, and when he looked again, Helen Hirsch stood in its place. She would try to be silent but he could hear the blood bubble and crack in her nose when she swallowed.
There was nothing beautiful about Helen. At best, she was plain. At her worst, she was a starved, shambling ghost. Even as the bruises from her last beating faded, hunger pains stung fresh and new in her belly. Too many times to count, she hid and wept in the cellar, cradling her shrunken stomach with broken fingers. Sometimes she sucked the grease from bones before giving them to Amon's hounds, ignoring her cut lips and tongue. If Amon had ever seen her do this, the punishment would have been unimaginable.
She never gave in, not even for an instant. He reassured himself with that knowledge, dozens, maybe hundreds of times. That hard little body never relaxed or surrendered. And it was good, because it was his place to push, and hers to resist, and if she didn't resist, then it was not good and he couldn't keep her around anymore.
The first time he touched her was on the veranda. He was drunk again on gifted liquor. Schindler had left nearly an hour before, and Amon remained outside, too drunk to walk to bed. He lolled in the sun chair, drinking without thirst, listening to the roar of his own veins. The summer night was hot and he perspired freely, his hauptsturmfuhrer's tunic unbuttoned to the waist. The darkness was warm and close, like the inside of a womb, lulling him and at the same time igniting his melancholy. Nights like these drew him into morbid speculation, drunk and alone.
Helen appeared with a tray and began to clear away the empty glasses and dirty plates. Amon watched quietly as she loaded the wooden tray, enjoying the sight. His own Helen. His own little creature. He normally didn't care to watch the servants except to find excuses to hurt them, but he was drunk, and the task interested him. It was a pleasant distraction.
Helen noticed him looking and her features tightened.
"Do not…do not be afraid, little fraulein…" he muttered. He struggled to lift his legs from the sun chair and failed. And of course, Helen did not answer him. She gathered the corks from the ashtray, inclined her head, and turned to leave. He suddenly didn't want her to go.
"Stop!" he commanded. Even this drunk, Amon's voice held a frightening power. The Jewish girl froze. "Come here."
Trembling, Helen turned back around. With little footsteps, she inched closer to her lounging master. She stopped just out of reach. Amon tutted. The clever girl. It was strange to imagine these Jews as not being completely human. Fear was such a human emotion, stretched over the girl's plain features.
"Do not be afraid, little mouse." He crooned. Amon was not certain what he meant to do, but he had the strangest desire to touch her. He reached out and she flinched, the cups rattling on the tray. It gave him an idea.
"I was watching you carrying those things on your tray, and you really do it quite well. How is it that you can balance such heavy things so delicately?" He asked. Helen did not answer, only stared, wide-eyed, at the ground beside his feet. This encouraged him.
"You should be tested, yes? You have never dropped a dish as long as you've worked at my villa…" He swiftly reached out and caught the edge of her skirt, dragging her forwards. He let his hand brush up beneath the worn cloth, his fingertips dragging against the skin of her thigh. "I wonder what would make you drop one."
Helen shuddered violently, rattling spoons and glasses and setting the corks rolling between plates. He let the tips of his fingers worry their way up her leg. Jewish girls with their thin, muscular legs…so different from the soft German frauleins he had known. He could feel her muscles twitch.
"Ah, careful now…Drop it, and I'll shoot you where you stand."
With his left hand, he drew the luger from his trouser pocket and set it on his lap where she stared at it, transfixed. It was improbably heavy. He lifted it to point at her stomach, drawing her skirts up, up, higher…above her knees. A wide scar on her left knee, the smooth skin pitted. He drew them higher. No nylons, of course. The only women who had nylons these days were whores. Higher still, and the cotton shift she wore beneath her clothes sparkled in the glare of the watchtower lamp. She wept silently as he glutted himself on the sight of her. It was good this way, with her crying. It gratified the sadist within him. He found her misery arousing.
A noise brought his eyes up. The corks were rolling off the tray, all five of them in a row, dropping like bombs onto the paved terrace. They bounced around her feet. Helen remained still, tears pouring down her cheeks.
Amon fingered the trigger of the luger.
He was disappointed. Had she failed this game? The gun in his hand was shaking in his sweaty grip, so terribly heavy as it pointed at her. He looked at Helen's face, searching for a motive to kill, but couldn't find any. The terrified girl was barely breathing, only the tears on her cheeks moving.
One dripped onto his wrist.
Amon jerked his hand back with a shudder, dropping the luger, and rubbed his wrist on his tunic. The red-tinged moment was over, and he no longer desired anything at all, not even to slap her. He grimaced in disgust.
"It was only corks, little rat…I suppose that means you may live."
He retrieved the gun, and then, surprising himself, he also picked up the corks and pocketed them. Helen remained still, too afraid to move.
Amon imagined he could hear her heart beating, dull and muffled in the thick night air.
"You are dismissed. Go."
She turned and was gone. The melancholy was gone, too and his drunkenness, and Amon was able to rise and stumble to bed.