Author's Note: This story is inspired by Christoph Waltz's extraordinary performance as Col. Hans Landa. I will be portraying Nazis as they were and, also, Landa as he was in the movie. I mean no offense...this is only a story.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hans Landa. He belongs to QT!
P.S. Anyone else think that I Never Told You What I Do For a Living by My Chemical Romance fits Hans Landa pretty well?
Go on! Have a listen! :)
BIRDS OF PARADISE
by Harlequin Sequins
(Set before the time of the events in Inglourious Basterds, 1939)
Once upon a time, in Nazi Germany...
Every human being that walks this earth has a story to tell.
Whether it be one of intrigue or torment or betrayal or love, it is always a story with a beginning, a middle and an end. It never matters whether the accounts are unclear, stretched thin over the vast sea of the time that has passed since the tale was told, or if they are as stark and vivid as a painting in their heads.
The deciding factor, on whether or not such a story will be known to the world, is in the hands of the world itself.
If it would only listen, perhaps humanity would not be quite the destructive, impenetrable force it has become in the face of its own ruination.
I was young when my life really began, the one which was preordained by God for me to follow. My parents had long since been nurturing an important relationship with a certain Heinz Schwartz, a young man who never spared anyone of his alluring good looks and was well-known amongst the rich kind of folk. There were less and less of them every day as the great shining citadel that was Germany was beginning to dim underneath the weight of recession, the cruelty of the guilt of a crippling war and the bitterness which the loss of that same war entailed. Our country was ripe for rebellion against those who had shattered its great pride; little did I know that only a few months would pass before the Vaterland saw its first light of hope and that their man-made Messiah (who would begin the war) was to lead them into the promised golden age. In which the Aryan race would rule all and suffer the great loss no more.
He would ultimately fail.
But this defeat would not come for many years.
As it was in 1938, we were all blissfully ignorant to the horrors which would soon come knocking on our door. My mother's sole obsession was introducing me into the good society of the rich folk as my father's rank in the SS reached a comfortable equilibrium, important in his officer's title but rather unknown amongst the high command. As our family inherited the lifestyle which came with my father's rank, my mother decided that launching me into the grand kingdom of deceit and facades and afternoon parties so that I, too, could find myself the most wonderful husband was beneficial for both my reputation and her own. Satisfactory (money-wise, at the very least) would not do for my mother as the finest of everything was necessary for her minuscule world to thrive.
My father begged indifference to my marriage, as he recognized the independence of a woman was far more important and was much too involved in the progression of his country's rise to power; he was, at the time that I came in contact with the catalyst of my new life, gathering funds to help me establish my own flower shop.
Mother insisted. I could only guess that she supposed she had the money, the wits and the communicative skills enough to deprive me of my womanly independence within a month of our debut.
She was completely right.
For it was in the spring of 1938, the very same year in which we involved ourselves in the rich folk's society, that brought me to Hans Landa.
Handsome, but chilling.
Charming, but also cold.
A dormant monster trapped in the skin of a man, waiting for his chance to unleash its hell upon an unsuspecting world.
Hitler gave this monster a fighting chance, to really sink its teeth into human flesh, instead of the nonchalant cruelty disguised by charm and finesse and a misleading smile.
And so it began.
"No, dearest," my mother sighed as I chose a long, cream-colored evening dress from my open wardrobe. She elbowed me gently aside and chose a more fashionable choice of attire in its stead. "This one would suit you much better. Besides, look at it – it has your favorite pattern. You love flowers so much, so it would suit you well. Look here. They are carnations!"
"Those are not carnations," I informed her. "They are peonies."
She gave a wild sigh of frustration. "Oh, what's the difference anyway? A rose by some other name would smell as pretty, ja? Or was it a rose would smell as sweet? Oh, does it really matter?! A flower is a flower in my opinion. No need for all this useless classification."
Unlearned in the ways of Shakespeare's romantic musings and mostly immune to my mother's rather egotistical ramblings, I changed the topic of our conversation swiftly back to its origin. "Suiting me better and feeling comfortable are two different things, mother," I replied curtly. "And I would rather be comfortable in what I am wearing in a situation that is already very unpleasant to begin with."
She threw up her arms, a sign of resignation.
My mother was a rather vapid sort of woman. Looks and appearances were everything. A good set of moral values and even a touch of intelligence, however, were merely afterthought, even considered undesirable in her view. She cared only for the shallow exterior of humanity as she did not seem interested in digging deeper beneath the skin to see what was inside the being, what was more important in life.
It was just too evident in every single detail of our lives, our wide expanse of differences. My mother and I, we both had twin vanities which my father had awarded us on our birthday (as we shared the date of our birth), small white structures with painted wildflowers that embellished the ornate, glossy crowns. They seemed the sentinels which guarded our separate personalities – hers was littered with all sorts of makeup and rich perfume and creams which fought against the cruelty of wrinkles; my mother was a narcissistic soldier, forever battling the phases of life and spreading the war against age into her impressionable friend's minds as well.
My vanity, to say the least, was sparse. It contained small pockets of lipsticks and varying shades of rouge, but it mostly remained empty and forgotten. My bookcase earned the most of my attention, filled to its wooden seams with books on every sort of subject there could ever be on plants – the meanings of flowers, a dictionary of herbs, the study of botany, guides on how to successfully grow vegetables in such a harsh, cold climate, as it was in Germany.
I was simply enamored with all things which grew from the earth, like the hands of God rooted into mortal ground. Trees and flowers and even those little dandelions one could find nestled between the common sidewalks. They were my wishing petals – when I was a younger girl, I would steal them from their homes in the cracks of the city and blow the frail seeds into the wind. Wishes of all kinds, of pretty dresses and new dolls and a baby brother to play with when life was boring and I could find no vivacity in its daily goings-on.
Dolls and pretty dresses I was given an abundance of. A little brother, however, was a far greater expectation of mine which was ultimately failed on my parents' behalf.
My mother never seemed to understand it, my love of botany and horticulture. Of course, receiving flowers from my usually insensitive father on St Valentine's was a wonderful occurrence, however rare it was, but she found no reason to establish a life-long dream in such a trivial subject as botany.
It was much more rational to invest all my time in marriage instead. If I had not been the wiser, nor unswervingly knowledgeable of the time period in which we lived, I would have sworn my mother had walked straight out of a Regency ballroom – she had all the wits and petty endeavors of a 19th century woman of high society.
"Dearest?" She tucked a dark, feral curl of hers behind her ear, looking at me through the tall mirror by my wardrobe. "Have I told you about my new prospect for you? Oh, he is the finest prospect in the history of prospects! He is a very good match for you, I'll tell you that!"
I refrained from giving any outward signs of my already narrowed mind; I was very, very tired of mother and her endless line of männer der woche. "What was wrong with your old one?" I teased lightly. "Too fanatically German for your taste?"
She scoffed, waving one delicate hand and missing my sarcastic remark completely. "Oh, what a sure verlierer that one turned out to be! Herr Ulrich informed me that he was quite the swinger and I did not want that sort of filth in my familial connections. Because the only thing worse than a swinger and a cheat, Hanne, is a cheating swinger."
Her entire body seemed to convulse at the mentioning of such a sinful word. For a moment, she arranged her curls and pinched her cheeks to give them a feverish sort of glow. A sigh escaped her, one of contentment as the effects of the word dissipated, and she glanced briefly over her shoulder at me. "Come, darling. Have I told you about him?"
"No, I don't think you have," I replied as I settled down before my sparse-looking vanity and reached for a tube of Oxblood-colored lipstick. For a moment, I matched her gaze in my own mirror. "Enlighten me."
As I applied the lip color, she began to swoon. "Oh, Hanne…he is the most handsome man I've seen yet. He has since applied into the SS, which is very good for you as this means he will not be just another unemployed bastard. He is also the friend of a great man, whom may have been a little closer in age to you but he is regrettably taken by another girl. Nonetheless! Heinz Mendler, he is…the friend, I mean."
"Closer in age, mama? You don't mean…oh, mama, you are quite desperate to have me hitched to whatever wagon comes along that is even satisfactory for you, aren't you? Despite how old and rusted it is!"
Her eyes glittered with indignation. "Oh, you are so picky! He is not yet fifty, don't you worry your head about that. I would say, since I am always very good at guessing ages, you know…oh, well, I'd guess only about forty-six. If he is anything more than that I will be very surprised."
"Forty-six, mother? I suppose, then, in your excitement over this new man, that you have forgotten to guess my age. It's twenty-three, if you were at all interested. That makes this new prospect exactly twenty-three years older than me!"
"Oh, you will hardly notice! He does not look his age, I will tell you that. Except for a small patch of gray at his temples, there is nothing else to prove that he is anything over forty at all! All great men do not look their age, I say," she paused, sighing happily as she congratulated herself with her newest pick. "And you should take care not to use that dangerous tone with me, Hanne! You are lucky that I am arranging these prospects for you at all, what with you being so damn spoiled!"
I could barely contain my exasperation at such a comment. "I would think that any young woman would want a man that will take care of her, not the other way around. He will be able to provide for me ten years before his health will fail him and I will become his personal nursemaid. Is that the sort of life you want for me?"
"Well, look on the bright side dear - you will not have to have that flower shop anymore, like your father first thought. What sort of married woman would keep a shop when she has a husband to entertain and, in your case, take care of?"
I turned in my seat, watching her from my perch at the vanity with great annoyance. "How many times must I tell you that I want to keep a shop regardless of whether I marry or not?"
"I have a very hard time believing you as it does not seem important, having your own business. Besides, Herr Hans Landa is very rich and very handsome and is the son of an important man, God rest his soul, who died in the first World War and left a handsome fortune to his only heir…you need not worry yourself with finances and such!"
"Herr Hans Landa?" I questioned.
"The man's name! He is my new prospect for you. It's a family name…his father was Hans Landa the first. This man is Hans Landa the second, which is very important you remember as they are two very separate men. Hans Landa the first was a soldier in the The First and Second Schleswig Wars, fighting against the Danish I believe, and our dear Hans Landa fought in World War I, too, which I think was against…the Italians? Oh, I was never one to pay much attention to history; there are more important things in life than studying the past! It doesn't matter much anyhow. But Herr Landa! Isn't it such a fine name for such a fine man?"
"I've never laid eyes on the old man, how can I judge him so thoroughly now? Besides, by your standards, I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be some hateful schwein. I have proof as I have been blessed with a geriatric patient on account of your poor taste this time around. Wherever did you find him, mother? A retirement home perhaps?"
Before she could conjure up a suitable reply for such a rude remark, the door groaned on its old hinges and my father walked in, looking fine in his polished suit and burnished black shoes. He sighed, just as displeased with all the needless socialization as I was…if not more.
"Aren't you ready yet?" He hissed, approaching the wardrobe mirror to straighten his bowtie and slick back his dark greased hair. "I've been ready for hours and you two have not even applied your rouge yet!"
I couldn't help but laugh as I reached for my perfume. "Father, it hasn't nearly been an hour." He tugged a little roughly on the lapels of his overcoat.
"Yes, well, it feels like hours. You women are always so slow. Your mother the slowest of them all!"
The woman in question was much too enraptured by the sight of her own reflection to care much for her husband's apparent slight. Father huffed a little at the wasted opportunity of upsetting her and wriggled his moustache in a subdued fit of great dissatisfaction. However intense the fit had been (as father was a master at portraying his emotions without a care as to who it offends), he soon recovered from the small failure and recalled a sore subject which was ever so popular with me – the flower shop I had been so enthusiastic about opening. Every day he told me he was only a step closer to procuring the necessary funds for me; I tried to remain patient, knowing how difficult it was to open even a tailor shop in such a downtrodden economy as ours, but it grew harder with each passing day. Perhaps it was selfish of me to want my shop straight away, but if my father had ever found a good excuse to escape my mother as I had, he would have suffered the same sort of intolerance in waiting so long for it.
"Ah, Hanne, I have been informed by the bank that the loan has just been processed. Granted, you'll probably have to pay interest until you're an old, old woman with this economy the way it is, but it's a start, is it not?"
I leapt from my seat and threw my arms around my father's neck, a distinct cry of joy escaping me like a breath of wind. "Oh, this is such good news! I cannot thank you enough, father! How I can ever repay you, I don't know!"
"It's not me you have to repay at all," my father replied. My mother, who was at first completely uninterested, even outraged at such news, was suddenly ensnared by the ambiguous reply.
"What do you mean?" I asked, my brow furrowed and lips pursed.
"It was an older gentleman who paid for the last of it. Wasn't much, mind you, but it got the job done all right. Oh, what's his name…I clean forgot it…"
"Herr Landa?!" My mother inquired breathlessly.
"Yes, that's the one," he replied, snapping his fingers as if to catch the epiphany with an air of finesse. "Said he'd buy the last of it if you'd accept his suit…or something as sickeningly charming and old-fashioned of that sort. God knows what girls do these days with men. Carriage rides in the park have long since been out of style since I courted your mother, a big mistake in retrospect if you ask me. But I'm sure it was only on his young friend's urging that he did it. The man's never seen you in his life and his young friend, Herr Schwartz, is more a matchmaker than your mother here…But I daresay, this Herr Landa here has enough charm to have any lady he wants in his bed and have another lined up behind her just as pretty and willing as the one before! Mark my words, dear Hanne...this one's a swindler. I can smell it...his intentions, they're too artful. His design is a suspicious one."
I refrained from issuing a sarcastic response and looked briefly at mother, who was practically brimming over with such excitement that could not be contained. Father shrugged his weary shoulders, realizing his warning had been entirely ignored and heaved a great sigh at the silliness of the whole situation. Once mother had her eye on one man, it was like pulling teeth to get her to see the truth of his ways until she saw them for herself (and even that was hard to accomplish!).
"It escapes me why two grown people would toy with other people's affairs. It's none of Herr Schwartz's business whom Herr Landa marries, isn't it? It's the last thing on the man's mind! He's been enlisted into the SS, a hard feat mind you, and has no time for wives, to be honest." His finger was promptly raised and pointed in mother's direction, who seemed surprised at such an accusatory gesture, although I was surely not. "And you, Hannelore, you've got no right to be 'finding prospects' for poor Hanne here! She's a grown woman who knows what she wants in the world and doesn't need your petty, useless squawking about marriage and fine young men to distract her from her goals. She's an independent woman of the Third Reich now…no need for a husband at all. Especially that cunning snake-charmer you've got your petty little eye on! If she was to marry anyone at all, it would only do that the finest Aryan, of pure blood, would have her hand and deserve her in my view...with blond hair and blue eyes! We must preserve the purity of our race."
"Oh, Wilhelm, you're a simple man! Don't you want a grandson to bounce on your knee and go fishing with and spoil at Christmastime? Well, there's no way you'll get one of those by promoting lifelong chastity, especially with such standards! All the blonde-haired, blue-eyed men of any real importance are married by now. Besides, a woman has to settle down young, find her place in the world with a man beside her, or else she will end up the laughing stock of the lot if she doesn't! You don't want that for Hanne, do you? To be the laughing stock? Well, do you? Besides, what do you know about marriage and love and the importance of a good match?"
"It's a good thing I don't," he replied scathingly. "I'd be rounded up with the rest of the homosexuals and those schwein Juden, bound for the camps, if I dared act like some matchmaking dummkopf."
Father gave a hearty snort and walked out of the room, grumbling to us that if we were not ready in ten minutes he would drag us out to the car by our curls and wouldn't be at all merciful about it either.
I, on the other hand, was much too happy to pay much attention to his empty threats. And mother was still much too busy occupying the largest lot on cloud nine to care much either.
It was the birthday party of one Herr Schwartz which we were invited to, the last formal social gathering I'd attend as a woman of unemployment and the first which marked my acquaintance with my mother's new favorite, and the host of the event, Herr Landa.
We were invited in by Schwartz himself, who wore a black formal jacket and matching black trousers, hoisted over his waist and held in place by equally simple black suspenders. The man was a portrait of the dark sort of good looks his father, the late Herr Hans Schwartz once had. His hair was as black as the night sky, not yet tarnished with the threaded silver of telltale age. His eyes were dangerously dark, like the Juden, but there was a considerable amount of good-intentioned German pride in them which betrayed all nuances of the Jewish race and religion.
He greeted my father with a suffocating hand shake, one that would have rendered my hand crippled for the rest of my life if he had inflicted it on me. "Standartenführer Kessler! Frau Kessler! You came! I am thoroughly surprised."
"Oh, dear Herr Schwartz, I hope it is a pleasant surprise that we are here." My mother quipped flirtatiously. Father's eyes rolled in their sockets at her ridiculous antics.
"Yes, very pleasant," Schwartz assured her, then turned his dark, dark eyes on me. "Ah, so you brought your Hanne with you, ja? Such a pretty girl, isn't she? Pretty enough to deserve my friend I'd say."
Dear God, I mused, smiling politely at the ostensible compliment, which came across more unnerving than it was intended. Someone should really think about giving this man an occupation. Being the proud friend of an SS soldier and having such a beautiful fiancé to be grateful for are simply not occupying his thoughts enough.
"I'd like to think so myself, young Heinz!" Mother replied gleefully. "Speaking of friends…is he present?"
"Old Landa?" Schwartz seemed lost for a moment, searching the crowds of chattering people behind him. "Oh yes, he's here! Where is that poor fellow? Probably nursing a brandy somewhere in a corner. The ladies simply can't get enough of him! My dear friend can be quite the charmer when he wants to be, can have the whole room laughing or crying or frightened out of their damn minds in a moment if he wished it, such a marvelous charming man he is. But when his mind isn't set to it – well, then it's a hopeless business. He won't say a damn thing at all, even to please me."
"Aren't those the schemes of all men?" Father grumbled. Herr Schwartz laughed, misinterpreting my father's comment altogether, and he sent us on our way in order to greet the next swarm of guests that arrived on Herr Landa's doorstep.
It really was a beautiful place. Richly decorated with red Persian carpets and white veil curtains through which the vacant eyes of the windows watched the darkened world behind them. Family portraits lined an end table in the main corridor, the passageway which led into a variety of rooms – the first room on the left being the great room and on our right was the dining room. Before us lay the path to the kitchen and the enormous staircase, to which the bedrooms were located. More artwork was propped up on the walls of the surrounding rooms, Expressionist works of Reiter and Kirchner and Mueller. While my parents wandered into the great room to immerse themselves in the general affluent populous of Germany (as every last one of them, few as they were, had attended), I remained behind to puzzle over the bizarre paintings in the halls.
"Strangely beautiful, aren't they?" A smooth, yet demanding voice suddenly overwhelmed the muted hum of the chatter which flooded the broad span of the hall. I started, nearly toppling over the end table behind me and the scenic sort of flower vase which commanded the center of attention. It would have been such an atrocity to tip over that vase – the beautiful flowers it housed would have been in an even worse state of upheaval than they were already suffering.
A hand reached out to steady me and I followed the length of the arm to discover a handsome, though fairly weathered face. He was not particularly tall, perhaps even lacking an imposing physical stature at all. But in his formidable appearance he towered over me, the spark of attentiveness and charisma seeming to disguise something much more frightening behind its pleasant pretense. In particular, the origin of his power seemed to stem from his eyes – they were the color of the sea, wrapped in the cold, hard arms of some violent storm.
"Yes, they are quite…unique." I finally replied, as he seemed intent on receiving an answer. His eyes, they appeared to grow as hard as stone for a moment.
"I agree, they're rather outlandish and dark by nature, but there is something of the human soul I see in them…I selected them myself, since my poor friend, who is usually so ready to share his views, has admitted himself that he does not know anything at all about art. He would not know Van Gogh from Monet, if I did not reveal the difference between them!"
I could not help but laugh as his own musical chortle filled the small corridor. "Then you are the Herr Schwartz's dearest friend?"
"I'm afraid I am. Hans Landa. It is a pleasure to meet you my dear…?"
"Hanne," I replied. "Hanne Kessler."
"Yes, it certainly is a pleasure to meet you, fraüline!" He exclaimed, his eyes catching fire. I thought they would melt under such heated exuberance, but it seemed they only grew harder, guarded and rigid like a looking glass. He very gently took my hand and pressed a kiss to my knuckles, his lips catching on my skin for a moment as he let it go. My breath caught; I could only hope he did not notice my reaction to such an unexpected gesture. "I have heard of you often since my friend met your parents some years ago. He has been quite keen on having us introduced, but with my enlisting into the SS, his hope has been long delayed."
At last, I regained my composure. "Is that so? I had no idea that you and your friend were such fanatic nationalists?"
"Oh," he replied, looking rather pleased at my inquiry, as if he detected more beneath the simple words."But we are. Men of country are such fascinating creatures, don't you agree? There is nothing more important in the world but their superiority. As is such with Heinz...he bears his national pride with a rather effortless dexterity and I daresay, he will be a fine source for the next pure-blood German generation, in the future of course. I understand your father, too, is a man of country?"
"He is. In fact, he holds the rank of Standartenführer within the SS regime."
He gasped, his dark eyes widening to the slightest degree in the most animated expression of surprise and awe. "Why, that is very fascinating indeed! And in being the daughter of such a man of rank, you must receive many suitors. But, wait..." He held up his hand most apologetically. "I cannot discredit you; it would be an inexcusable cruelty, would it not? I am sure you would lure them in with such a lovely face and that resplendently beautiful smile even if you were lacking your father's excellent fortune to recommend you."
"Thank you, herr," I responded airily, trying to receive such an array of compliments as gracefully as I could. "You flatter me, of course, but I have to say...you're quite wrong."
"Surely you are not such a shy creature...you know, it is only the ugly ones who are shy, poor things." He sighed heavily, looking as if he genuinely lamented their unfortunate lot in life. "They do not wish to earn the abhorrence of their race by putting their unpopular faces on display and stray away from speaking and laughing and enjoying themselves entirely. They leave the occupation of the charming flirt to the beautiful ones, as it tends to be...though, I have come across a very few number of beautiful introverts, as they trail almost into nonexistence. Nonetheless, a theory is merely a theory...perhaps you are precisely the contradiction I've been looking for my dear!"
A chuckle snaked through the undercurrent of his breath as he turned to the flowers, petting their soft white petals as he would an animal...perhaps human skin. The way his fingers drifted across the skin was so sensual in the way it provoked such feeling that I could barely stand it. It was as if he were teasing me and did it so expertly and covertly that I could not accuse him of such a thing, just for the sake of watching me squirm.
I cleared my throat and tore my eyes away from the erotic spectacle."Herr, what does the SS do exactly?"
He seemed rather indifferent of the topic, but even with a touch of apathy, his allure remained. At last, he ceased his stroking of the tuberose petal. "You mean you do not know? With a Standartenführer living under your roof? Your father must not be such a pleasant man....Oh, well, it is a simple business, dear Hanne. We carry out the orders of the Fuhrer, of course, you silly girl. I have never been a man of politics, really. They are much too intricate for my delicate interests I think. No, I am more useful with a good mystery and a nice horde of Juden to find."
Watching him speak so matter-of-factly about the Third Reich and the possibility for the rebirth of Germany made my head spin. It was an overwhelming sensation born of uncertainty and discomfiture as I had not yet chosen a side in this strange war which Germany waged against the world, who did not yet know to fight back, but knew there was a shadow of a threat growing on the streets and in the homes of the Vaterland. Hatred reigned supreme against all non-Aryan races; the Jews were considered the most guilty of them all, the scapegoats for our suffering. I didn't know quite what to think.
Such men and women and children I'd only seen on the streets, carrying on the burdens of their everyday lives as the rest of us, but seemed a race of quiet suffering. They bore the weight of persecution which sprang forth from a cruel and ignorant world, perching on their weary shoulders like a great black crow of ill omen. They knew they would suffer greatly for the misplaced hatred of the Germans, I could see it in their downcast eyes as they tried to make it through the streets of the world unseen; but they could only hope that the suffering would not be more than they could bear. This hope was apparent in every face which bore the name Jew.
And for that I couldn't hate them. For their forbearance and their enduring faith that good would come to them if they would only push harder against the tide of abhorrence they had come to face. But to oppose the Fuhrer was to oppose the ideals and the persistence of the Vaterland. That I could not do. A new Germany was ripe for founding as our people struggled to live, to eat and to celebrate the life they had been given without the pangs of shame and the misery of destitution. Germany, above all, deserved to be rewarded for enduring such suffering as we had suffered. It was time for rebirth. I was torn – the love for my country and the innocence of the Jews pulled me two different ways and yet my resolve stood like a rock rooted deep in the earth. There was no room for decision in such a violent fray. I revived myself from the thinking stupor.
"So the SS…what separates it from the Wehrmact?"
An unfurling smirk tore at the edges of his face. "It is Hitler's private armed forces, a separate division from the Wehrmacht entirely. You see, like I previously stated, political participation is necessary and those who are not desirable are promptly turned aside for lack of pure German ancestry. We simply assist our country and our leader against the enemies of the Vaterland," He paused. "But, please, my dear young lady…do not think of me as a man that does not have his own ideas to bore you with. I am nothing if not opinionated and not only on the concepts which form the Third Reich."
"Of course not. I couldn't dream of it, not with such an astute eye for Expressionist art," I said, looking behind him with such longing as I saw the unharmed vase on the end table. I could not help myself any longer. "Not to mention such beautiful flowers!"
"Oh, those poor old things? You see, I used to order them every week to impress my femme du jour," he said, pivoting on his spit-shined boots to watch me caress the multi-colored petals. "My guests, that is."
I did not know what he had said, but smiled as best I could through the confusion at the switch in language (it was French, I was sure of it), which he seemed to detect anyway despite my best attempts to conceal it.
Hans watched carefully as I delicately arranged the flowers and tried to block out the strangely cruel and awkward silence. "You will forgive me if I am entirely wrong in assuming this...but I do believe you are very much in love flowers, fraüline?"
"Oh, very much," I smiled, looking at him briefly before focusing my attentions entirely on the fragile blossoms. I noticed, with a sad sort of realization, that they had already begun to wilt from poor treatment or complete neglect. "These are fine specimens, I'll say, you have good taste."
"Always, my dear." He gave a low chuckle. "Always. Now, again, you must excuse my assumptions...I take you as a woman who enjoys them so much that she studies them with the most voracious attentiveness to detail and certain topics?"
"I do," I replied, unable to contain my astonishment. "However did you know?"
"Oh, it is in your perfume. It is not a perfume at all, really...much too delightfully fresh to be bottled and sold in shop windows!" He leaned into me so closely that I could feel his lips graze the sensitive spot between my ear and jaw line, gently breathing the scent as I tried to remain as steadfast as possible in such provocative proximity. At once, as if he had lost interest instantaneously in teasing me, he returned to his former activity - picking through the arrangement in a mostly detached manner. "A flowery fragrance, without that chemical lilt that most men despise so much. You are a woman of study as well, that much is evident by your natural curiosity."
I studied him inconspicuously from my vantage point behind him. "And from these small, inconspicuous hints you deduce that I am a botanist?"
"Of sorts, yes," he replied nonchalantly, his ego swelling with each bemused bat of an eye on my behalf. "However, I know little of flowers at all...I admit, it's quite scandalous of me. That I should share my room with them and the entirety of my house and my guests and still do not know anything at all about them. Won't you enlighten me, dear Hanne?"
He gave a genial, wolfish sort of smile as I gave a small nod of agreement. "Why of course, Herr Landa, you see this one here? It is called Hyacinth, from the Hyacinthaceae family, but they first belonged to the Liliaceae family, you see. These particular flowers here are Hyacinthus transcaspicus. Of course, they are not native to Germany, as most beautiful plants are typically not, but to the east, like Iran."
Herr Landa laughed, a gently rolling sound. "Why, you do know your botany, don't you?! Lovely and intelligent...I do wonder how you achieve such a feat."
"Oh, herr. I would not dare assume such a thing of myself...only that I adore plants. They are more complicated than you should think. They grow and reproduce and make their own food by way of soaking in the carbon dioxide we emit through respiration and the nutrients which the sun gives off simply by rising in the east and falling in the west. But not only that, they, in turn, provide for us the air we breathe, a sort of symbiotic relationship which requires the participation of both parties if it is to be at all successful – I am eternally grateful to them, for prolonging our air supply thus far."
Herr Landa, again, indulged in my silly interest with a hearty chortle."Well, then indulge me for a moment, my dear. I have heard that many flowers have significant meanings. Is this true? Or have I fallen prey to the utterances of lovesick fools again?"
"Not at all, herr," I replied. "Would you like to know the meaning of this arrangement here?"
He waved his hand in a grand gesture, signaling for me to continue. A broad, jack-o-lantern's grin spread in wide patches of mirth on my cheeks, lighting them with a slight blush that I hoped he would not see. "Well, the Hyacinth here means sincerity. You were smart for choosing that one if you were trying to impress your guests."
"These? These pretty white flowers here...." He pointed to a white specimen with a long stem. "And this one?" He motioned toward one with almost translucent pink petals.
"The white ones are tuberoses, which mean passion. And the pink, they are sweet peas, which indicate shyness. Were your guests shy?"
"In their own small ways, yes, but only at first. However timid they were on arrival, I did manage to shed them of their demure clothing before the night was over," he replied, almost teasingly.
We shared a bout of laughter, in the middle of which I began to realize how pleased I was. It had been a long time since a man took notice of anything I said about botany, growing bored and practically yawning by the time I'd finished speaking. However, Herr Landa gave not a hint of boredom in the midst of my long-winded speech. He remained steadfast in the face of my scientific rambling and did not stray for a moment.
I began to entertain the thought as I looked up at him that it was a possibility, if he remained the enthralling, mannerly gentleman I'd first encountered…
That I could sincerely fall in love with him, despite the long gap of age between us.
The night of Herr Schwartz's birthday party had been the first time I met Hans Landa, but not the first time my father had come to make an acquaintance with him.
Just before they had the chance to realize I was away, he had excused himself as he had a prior engagement, for which he was very late and could not stay another minute to meet my mother. He promised that the next occasion which we met he would allow me to introduce them and then offered another handshake in farewell – I took it and grimaced as I felt my fingers crack and release their frail cries of pain into my bloodstream, which boiled with a hot blush as it crept up my cheeks.
And please...do call me Hans.
I hadn't been so instantly attracted to and instantaneously enamored with a man since I was sixteen. And that was truly a long time passed.
Of course, my mother had been extremely unhappy that she had not been given the chance to formally meet her new prospect for me, though she had seen him a great deal in the long years beforehand. In fact, the woman had been watching him grow up since he was but a boy in grade school. But she had never thought of him as a husband for me until she had seen him at Frau Schweiger's garden party, where he had been so very charming with all of the women, not just the ladies of his age that had attended. It had been the first party which my father and I had not attended with my mother – we had been called to a meeting with the banker on account of my flower shop instead.
This had been only a week ago, in which Hans Landa had somehow snaked his way into my mother's line of discovery.
It was all a very strange affair. That my mother had not noticed or met Hans earlier, with my father knowing of him as he did, and that Herr Schwartz had not offered him to my mother as a candidate for matchmaking before, seeing as the two were so involved in the practice. It was as if Hans had not even existed before the day Hannelore Kessler realized he was not merely 'that good friend of Heinz Schwartz and an acquaintance of my husband' at all, but perhaps one of the most amiable men in Germany. In fact, Frau Schweiger's party was the only reason that poor Hans Landa had instantly become the perfect contender for her matchmaking business.
On the way home that night, when we had all taken leave of the Schwartz and his fiance and drove through the dark, sleepy streets of Berlin, I made the grave mistake of mentioning my chance encounter with Hans Landa in the main hallway. I found it rather strange, in retrospect, that we had gone unnoticed for the whole of our twenty minutes of conversation.
"You what? Met him, did you? And you did not think to introduce me to him? What on God's green earth were you thinking, you stupid girl? That I would magically gravitate toward you and initiate the acquaintance on my own? You are a stupid girl, really, if you thought such a thing as it is plain to see it didn't happen! Wilhelm, tell her she is a stupid girl for thinking such a thing!"
Father's eyes rolled dramatically, his usual cantankerous temper aggravated by the lateness of the hour. "Damn you, don't you ever shut up? It is only a man! No one of consequence to anyone else but you, you stupid pigeon!"
"You see, Hanne, your father agrees with me. And why shouldn't he? He's met the man already, known him for months as far as I know! But it makes me very mad that he has not introduced me to him before, seeing as the man is practically made for you! Nonetheless, I am not angry at him…he is a simple man and that is not his fault, but I can't blame him as Heinz and I are the only ones who know what we're doing when it comes to making the perfect match. But for God's sake, girl, have some sense in these delicate situations! You should have brought him to me straight away and I would have introduced you properly. And let me guess! You talked of nothing but flowers, didn't you?"
She knew me all too well. "Of course not, mother," I replied nonchalantly. "He talked of his enlistment. He has joined the SS regiment." My mother ignored my reply completely.
"I knew it. You always do! Those flowers are going to be the death of me and your future. If they were all blown up and never grew again I would be a very happy woman as they are nothing but trouble in my opinion! They distract you from what's important, dearest, and that is not a good thing at all! Oh, dear…I can't believe I have to wait until Frau Ackerman's garden party to meet him. And even then it is a shot in the dark! The man is naturally shy and does not always like to socialize with his own kind! Not that I blame him, but still! He'll probably die in a shoot-out before I ever meet him, or ever have the chance to call him son, won't he?!"
Beneath his half-hearted grumblings, I discerned the words 'halt die fresse' amongst the unintelligible mess of phrases. For the duration of the ride home, all I had heard was the infernal ranting of my fanatic mother and the stream of profanity which issued like a gust of mid-winter breeze from his lips – cold and empty of all meaning.
However, my mother's sour mood, however provoked by my apparent senselessness, improved by the next day, when she had turned to talking about Hans endlessly once again. We say in the great room, her cup of cold coffee on her lap as she raved for an hour without stopping about Hans' 'eyes like cold, opaque gray sea glass, I would die for a grandson with such eyes!' I reposed on the rose pink and white settee across from her, my thoughts buried deep in Flora of the British West Indian Islands by August Grisebach, which took me completely away from the tedium of listening to her brag about a son-in-law she might never have.
It was a cruel thought to harbor against my mother's most ardent wishes, but candid nonetheless. It was plain as day to anyone that such a catch, as Hans surely was, would be caught by the likes of me.
My father, in the meantime, as he awaited Frau Ackerman's garden party, took to his own hobby with keen interest. While my mother's interests were shallow, lying only in makeup and beauty and matchmaking (marriage was more like an addendum to this last hobby, the effect of the cause), and my own were in horticulture and botany, my father's pastimes were more reasonable and common and not so entirely focused on one subject. He loved to study anything German - people and places and animals in the most casual sort of way, very much like my systematic pursuits and readings. He enjoyed a good game of poker with his fellow Nazi friends and a well-performed German play, but could not stand a lack of intelligence or pure Aryan ancestry, which made me wonder about my parents' marriage as my mother was clearly lacking the high standards of smarts he required (perhaps even Aryan purity). Though, it could be duly noted by anyone that knew her well that my mother was not devoid completely of cleverness; they would simply know that, when she put her mind to it, Frau Kessler could prove herself a smart woman.
I could only think, under the circumstances, that life had a funny way of turning out in the end, which would become more apparent after my impending marriage.
The day Frau Ackerman's garden party arrived was met with much excitement on my mother's side. She chattered and guffawed and sighed all morning about the impending event until the look in my father's eyes promised murder if she did not quiet soon. In order to save her from a fate worse than a ruined reputation, I led my mother into my room to help me dress as she was already prepared to leave. And though I was forced to endure her exaltation of Hans over and over again, it was the lesser of the two evils – tolerating mother's pettiness or watching my father throttle her to death in the cruelest way possible.
"Oh, you must wear your lilac dress! It goes very well with your eyes. Such pretty eyes you have, Hanne, I will give you that compliment very readily. You are lucky that you inherited your father's eyes! Oh and these white shoes, too! You must wear them or the whole look of your dress will be ruined. Be careful with your makeup, as you do not want to make it gaudy or else you will look like a whore and we do not want that…Hans will certainly not want a prostitute for a wife, ja?"
In the end, I submitted to her wishes. She was merely an old woman who wanted to see her daughter in a happy situation and was stuck in the ways of the old world, back when women were dependent on their husbands for their livelihoods. If all went well with Hans, I could be a wife and a flower shopkeeper at the same time – my mother could have her cake and I could eat it too.
"The two of you drive me completely mad! All your primping and powdering and lipstick-applying! Can't you just slap a dress on and be done with it? I'm growing a schnurrbart here waiting on you!"
It was not a happy day until my mother retorted pompously that the wiles of women and the way their charms worked with a little rouge and a smudge of lipstick. And when she was done with her dissertation on feminine charms, she walked out of the room, leaving my father to curse heavily in German and squeeze the bridge of his nose as he felt a migraine begin to spread through his temples. He snapped at me to follow her and then packed us into the car, the entire dysfunctional family consisting of wife, husband and the daughter that one hoped to marry off and the other to ascertain a steady business in the near future (perhaps even a perfectly Aryan son-in-law, if the fates allowed it).
For the first time since the night before, my mother was quiet when we arrived at Frau Ackerman's rather large country estate in the nearby town of Potsdam. Though there were manors twice its size and importance nearby, the Ackerman's estate was lavish enough to make our own large apartment in Berlin look positively sad in comparison.
"Ah, Frau Kessler!" She cried, outstretching her long, thin arms to embrace her old friend. "Why, you old prune. You look as wonderful as any ancient fruit could manage!"
Frau Ackerman, even in all her stately beauty and social standing, was prone to making strange commentary. Mostly her analogies had to do with food and alcohol in general as she loved both so dearly and was the frequent source of laughter amongst Berlin's choice affluence. That didn't stop them, however, from meeting her at her doorway with a feigned smile and a positive attitude all the same.
My mother tapped the woman on the nose and chuckled. "The best prune you know, ja?"
"There is no better prune I know and I can tell you that for sure," Frau Ackerman replied. "Now, don't you go and exercise that usual port wine allure on my guests here. They are very proud people." My mother frowned, not at all pleased with the manners of the mentioned guests.
"Not all as cool and collected as cucumbers, dear?"
If my father had not been used to our friend's eccentric comparisons, he would have taken to the pillars on the porch and made dents in the extravagant columns with his head, which would only encourage the woman to make another food-related remark on his juvenile behavior.
"Not at all my dear! They are about as kind with their tongues as horseradish on bread. Especially Herr Zedler." Frau Ackerman shook her head gravely as our small family made our way through the foyer of the manor. Herr Ackerman, who was a friend of my father's, seemed to be doing awfully well as an officer in the SS regime if he could afford to keep such an extravagant place.
As the hostess had warned, the guests which had arrived there were not as inviting as the company usually was. They were mostly other well-to-do families in Potsdam who merely roamed the garden parties and evening gatherings to gain stature in society. No more and no less.
"Do you see Herr Schwartz, Wilhelm? Or, even better, Hans himself? You are taller, dear…please do look. Think of your daughter and look for the pair if you would please."
My father heaved the sigh of a man undone, but complied and scanned the crowd for the mentioned pair. "You are in luck, Hannelore. They are by the…oh, what are those damn things called there..."
"Society garlic?" I offered breathlessly, looking eagerly to the western side of the garden.
Father was looking east. "No, the trees with the purple hanging flowers."
"Oh, you mean wisteria," I replied. "They are-"
"Don't say another word, Hanne! I don't want to hear about stupid flowers anymore! From now on, I will not tolerate even a vague mention of flowers, do you hear me? Especially in Hans' presence; men do not want to hear of stupid flowers! Nor would they want a wife with their head stuck in the ground."
I could only hope that she would soon forget her newly established rule, as she did all the other times that she made the mentioning of any sort of botany or horticulture a taboo subject.
We made our way toward the group of people that surrounded Hans and Herr Schwartz, my mother the quickest to reach them. Herr Schwartz greeted her with a brilliant, charming smile and a tip of his hat.
"Herr Schwartz!" My mother cried. "It is so good to see you. And so soon, too!"
"Of course, Frau Kessler," he replied, with a complimentary shake of the hand for my vater. "A nice surprise, as usual."
My mother was far too excited to see the older man standing before her to gratify such a vague declaration with a response. She gave a stark, strained smile. "Herr Schwartz. Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend here?"
"Oh, this one?" He briefly glanced at Hans, who was quietly looking at me as he stood in the midst of the group of matched men and their adoring wives, presenting himself almost apathetically in contrast to my mother's nearly uncontrollable delight. "This is my dearest friend, Hans Landa. There's not a better man I know than Herr Landa here!" He gave Hans a great pat on the back and Hans smiled enthusiastically at him in return. "I'm sure you've met him before?"
"No, herr, never." Replied my mother.
Herr Schwartz scratched the back of his neck. "I could have sworn…"
"Never mind that, Heinz," my father assured him. "My wife has a bad habit of being forgetful when it suits her the best and inconveniences the world around her. However, I may assure you that this time it was not her forgetfulness to blame. She has never been acquainted with Herr Landa here before, though I have."
"Oh, halt die schnauze, Wilhelm, you old schwein!" My mother chuckled heartily, masking her irritation with my father. "You never have anything good to say about anyone, now do you dear?"
"Now it's my opinion that women that can speak for themselves are very great and rare women indeed, don't you agree, Hans?" Herr Schwartz commented passively.
Another man cut in, though it had not looked like Hans had intended to answer at all in the first place. "I don't think so at all, Heinz. I think a woman should be put in her place if she dares speak up in such an impudent way."
A tall, balding fellow stated this decidedly as he downed the last of his drink, looking formidable in his cold, gray SS rank uniform, quite different from Hans' simpler dress attire. The timid, shrunken looking wife beside him, who might have been very pretty at one point in her life before marrying the cruel officer at her side, seemed to tremble at the sound of his voice. Her shadowed eye-sockets sunk even deeper into what seemed a perpetual shade.
"Women are certainly entitled to their own opinion...though I imagine sometimes it may be in society's good interests to remain patriarchal and disregard them entirely. However, I must say, only on occasion. The world would be deprived if it lost such a beautiful sound as the voice of a woman. Don't you agree, Herr Schuster? " Hans, though his voice was innocent of all dangerously rebellious nuance, assessed Herr Zedler with an air of calculation and sharp scrutiny.
Herr Zedler remained almost completely unfazed by the comment, appearing, at first, to be much too involved in finding himself another good, hard drink...but a deeper look found him unnerved. Very unnerved.
"Yes, Herr Landa, I do agree with you there," stated the aforementioned Herr Schuster. "Women are creatures too, equipped with equally able minds as any great philosopher there ever was before. Susan B. Anthony and Mary Wollenstonecraft, for example, were great and influential people, despite their gender and the oppression of the patriarchal society in which they lived. They need to express their opinions, no matter how disagreeable they might be."
"Yes, but were they German? It is my opinion that a woman who is not German is lower than the dirt beneath the mud beneath my shoe. Those Juden, too!"
Many of the men laughed at my father's comment, including Hans. The women, however, looked rather uncomfortable in contrast...including my mother. She stayed her aggressive retorts, which became increasingly difficult for a moment as Hans excused himself to find himself another drink. Before he left, however, he inquired, kindly, if I would like one as well...
I agreed and he patted my hand, almost adoringly. My mother's face, though strained, seemed to gradually unravel from its coiled rage.
I remained quiet throughout the duration of the small discussion, listening attentively to each response and waiting on Hans to return. Herr Schwartz and Herr Schuster seemed to approve of independent women, while that cruel arschloch SS-Untersturmfuhrer Zedler approved only of a completely submissive woman who did not say anything at all. My father was in a state of opinionated limbo; he didn't know what to think when it came to German women (although, he was quite decided on the non-German ones, that much was certain), what with having such a dogmatic wife has he did. The group soon fractured and migrated into other conversations after much deliberation on the freedom of women until only Herr Schwartz and his fiance and the Kessler's remained behind.
It was around this time that Hans returned, two tall, crystal glasses of champagne in hand.
My mother was well pleased with the development and did not take it for granted.
"So, Herr Landa…"My mother glanced furtively my way. "Have you met many beautiful women since you've started going to parties again?"
"Of course, dear Frau Kessler!" He replied, smiling at her charmingly. "There is always a myriad variation of beauty to unravel in the midst of such a beautiful season in Germany, don't you agree Herr Standartenfuhrer?"
My father gave a stiff nod, indicating his full cooperation with the appeasing statement despite the telltale disquieted narrowing of his eyes. "I wouldn't be happier to agree with anything less in regards to our beautiful Vaterland, Herr Landa. And might I add that I couldn't have put it better?"
Mother did not like the ambiguity of his comment all that much and drifted into silence while my father took the reins on the conversation and asked about his enlistment. She was much too busy brooding over her own disappointment over Hans' aloofness in regards to my looks to notice father's sudden personality change, though slight as the shift was.
Like the night of our first encounter, Hans seemed to exercise his ability to say so much, but to say so little all at the same time. In fact, he contributed little to many of the chosen topics which were discussed and this vexed my mother beyond all reasonable doubt. I watched her face fall a little more each time her beloved Hans Landa refused to put forth his most charming efforts to sway her into the premature bliss of approaching mother-in-lawhood.
My father, in all respects, could care less about my mother's disappointment.
He only knew that he approved most adamantly of Hans.
And could not seem to look more unhappy about his ostensible approval if he tried...
After the garden party at Frau Ackerman's, which was a success to every other family which had attended, my mother took to slighting Hans in the most vicious sort of way she could think of. With no more events to keep her focus and her friends all quite busy with their own lives, she fell into a state of ennui that even I could not help by feigning interest as I read or knitted or stared out of the apartment window, watching the world walk by on the sunlit walks of Berlin. Her inane chatter would spill ceaselessly over the carpet, over the coffee table and into the hall so overwhelmingly that, when he was not away on important, professional business, my father would shout at her to halt die schnauze! And, of course, my mother would retort with another comment on the superiority of women and their gainful wiles and their banter would end.
It was a particularly warm and pleasant day in the early summer of 1938 and my mother was prattling away about Hans again. That particular morning found me sitting by the window, a stream of light highlighting the words so vibrantly that I had to squint to read them properly. However, if I retreated back to the settee, it would start her up again and there would be not a breath drawn on her behalf between her incessant, verbose streams of nonsensical drivel.
Before long, I had to relent and crawled to the beckoning cushions.
At first, she only heaved a mournful sigh as I settled into the pillows.
Then, it grew into a mention of the weather while I busied myself with opening my book.
At last, when I dragged my index finger down the page to find my place, she mentioned his name...Hans.
"He has a hateful temper under all that sweet charisma, I assume! You saw the way he was smiling at us, all smug like he knew he was better than us. And he just stood there while I tried to make pleasant conversation like some great statue! I don't care how handsome he is…he is not marrying my daughter, no matter how handsome! That's for damn certain!"
She continued on, her face growing considerably red with indignation. "And the way he was looking at you, dear Hanne! Like some cheap prostitute on the street corners of Berlin! I could barely take it…I do not know how your father stood so quietly while he looked at you like that! It is not appropriate and I should have said something but oh, I did not! Poor Hanne… you poor girl. Slighted by an old man! Old enough to take me out for a night, you know!"
Mother sat up in her seat, another idea wrapping around her head and squeezing her so tightly that she had to speak of it before it stifled her completely. "And the way his friend just stood there, too! Why, the man is supposed to be my good friend and he allows me to be treated badly by his own badly behaved companion? Stupid boy! And I thought you were the stupid one, Hanne, but it appears you have been bested by Heinz himself!"
"Oh, but if only I had better taste in men for you, my dear," she lamented. I could feel her red-lined eyes on me, searching for sympathy. "If only I could have picked a better candidate for you. Then you would be on your first escapade and have it done with and be married within the next three months! But, of course, I have failed you again. I am a terrible mother."
"You are not," I replied, looking up at her from my book. "And I don't think Hans is quite as bad as you think."
"Oh, but he is! I know he is. I can see it in those eyes of his…like snake eyes! They are cruel and he is very cruel and much too old for my young, beautiful daughter."
I nearly burst with restrained laughter at the thought of my mother's censure of Hans' eyes. Only a week before, they had been the most beautiful she had ever beheld…now, they were of der Teufel. Demonic in appearance, or so she claimed.
"Perhaps he's not as unreserved in front of strangers, mama. He strikes me as a sort of private man. "I replied, still managing to pour over Charles Darwin's On the Origin of Species with rapt attention.
"That's no excuse! I am shy of strangers and you don't see me retreating into my shell like some frightened muschel!" She cried.
It was at the most opportune moment, when my mother's reply reached me across the room, that father walked in with the daily periodical and a cup of tea for his livid wife.
"Many things you are, Hannelore, but shy of strangers you are most certainly not," he countered.
"Oh, what do you know, arschloch? Nothing! Especially of that rotten man Hans Landa! He treated us badly and you know it, but you don't care, do you? You approve, of course, because he is purely German! That is all that matters to you, not at all that my poor Hanne is deprived of a match yet again!" She raged, taking the tea cup that my father offered to her gently and taking one large swallow of it.
For a few minutes more, we tolerated her irritation. But I suspected we would be relieved of her suffering, and our own, as there seemed to be more than just tea in that porcelain cup. She began to take smaller sips of it and grow calmer with each passing minute.
Before very long, my suspicions were confirmed; mother lay sprawled across the couch, snoring contently in her drug-induced oblivion, the empty tea cup in her lap. Father sighed peacefully and looked at me.
"Well, darling...enjoy the silence as much as you can. I'll be off...got a meeting with my superiors in an hour."
I returned to Darwin as the quietude filled the room, before I could forget fully what information I had already processed in my head and have to start all over again.
My father, on the other hand, exchanged fond farewells with me and left the silent aparment...proud of his handiwork and a job well done.
It was another three weeks before Hans unknowingly prevailed upon my mother's good opinion again.
A chance encounter allowed him to gracefully reintroduce himself as a candidate for what was supposedly my inescapable marriage when my mother had insisted we go out for streusel. It was really not for streusel at all, but a small chance of seeing Hans again which prompted my mother out of our front door in her nicest casual attire with me trailing behind.
I only agreed to go along with her ridiculous, last-minute stitched design on the terms that I was allowed to bring a book and did not have to wear the sinfully ugly dress she had bought for the occasion.
She permitted my terms and I was allowed to take my newly acquired Manual of the Botany of the Northern United States, from New England to Wisconsin and South to Ohio and Pennsylvania Inclusive, or Gray's Manual, penned by Asa Gray, which had been hard to find as American botany was frowned upon in most bookstores. But one older bookshop keeper had ordered it for me, an old, torn copy that had seen better days before it fell into my fortunate hands, though it was not so terribly damaged so that it was illegible.
My mother, upon seeing the title of the book, shook her head and cursed whatever maker had been so cruel as to send me for a daughter to her. I, however, was all too happy in realizing she had lifted her rule…or forgotten it completely.
As soon as we reached the café down the street from Hans' residence, my mother promptly ripped the fragile copy of Gray's Manual out of my hands (nearly wrecking the spine and the water-damaged pages) and put it under her feet.
I cried out and tried to stop her, but as she gestured to the door with her wild her expression, I realized her wish had come true – Hans had come in, looking rather dashing even in his gray uniform.
"How did you know he would be here?" I whispered hoarsely across the table. "You are stalking the poor man, aren't you? Aren't you?!"
"Of course not! That would be very stupid of me, wouldn't it?" She replied, furrowing her brow. "I merely took a guess and it was right."
Of all the pitiful things my mother was, I could at least give her credit and admit that she was most certainly observant.
"Oh, Herr Landa!" She crooned vociferously as he passed quickly by. The poor man heard his name and looked toward the table out of some misplaced curiosity. He knew well the banshee-like quality of Frau Kessler's voice and could attach it to a familiar face, since he seemed intelligent enough. Upon realizing that we were not merely adoring strangers, but women of his acquaintance, he brushed on his best, most alluring smile.
However, he did not let on even an insinuation of annoyance as he approached the table."Why, if it isn't the two most beautiful Kessler women in Germany!"
"I thought that was you dear herr! What a wonderful coincidence this is, is it not?"
"It is, very much so, dear Frau Kessler! A wonderful accident," He replied genially, a certain smugness unfolding from its concealment. "The both of you look quite lovely today." He added.
My mother was instantaneously won over by a kind compliment and a promising glance of interest in my general direction. It could have been an expensive car passing by on the roads or perhaps a pedestrian on the walks behind me that caught him unaware, but even the vaguest hint of an attraction on his part was the equivalent of a proposal of marriage in my mother's distorted view of the world.
"Aren't you kind?" She chuckled good-naturedly and nudged her body closer to the large window on her right side. "Would you like to join us, Herr Landa? We have just stopped for strudel before we resumed our excursion for the day."
His expression communicated that he was genuinely tempted by the offer, but it was without a touch of regret that he replied, "I will have to politely decline your offer, Frau Kessler. I am quite the busy man this morning. You see, I was just on my way to see a few good old friends of mine when you stopped me, not that your interruption was unwelcome."
She inclined her head and smiled a little mournfully as looked at me briefly before fixing her eyes attentively on him. "Ah, well, that is a very sad thing. We will miss your company, then, and politely demand that you visit us tomorrow, if you are not a busy man then?"
"Perhaps I may, if I have the time," he replied. "And if it so happens that I do have the time, I shall be there at one in the afternoon. How does that suit?"
"It suits just fine." My mother replied and watched him resume his trek across the small café, where he sat down with a few men dressed in the same Nazi attire I'd been seeing mostly and greeted each with one of his bone-crushing handshakes. I felt ghost pains tear through my right hands as I watched the men receive their greetings, but they seemed not at all affected by a particularly strong grip. In fact, the lot of them commented on each other's strength as if it were a great attribute to have, an observation which I could tell was obvious by the pleasantly-surprised expressions on their stern, weathered faces.
Except for Hans, of course, who remained startlingly silent throughout the contest of masculinity.
"You see," my mother said as she looked at him for a moment more. "I told you he was a good man. It will all work out, you will see. I will have you married by Christmastime, if I am careful! Perhaps a grandson by late summer on the next year!"
I scoffed at such a false declaration and retrieved Gray's Manual from underneath my mother's simple gray shoes as she ordered our apple streusel.
It just so happened that, by chance, Hans' afternoon was free that very next day and he came to visit us at the prearranged time he had offered us at the café the morning before. My mother was, for once, quiet as she read a wedding periodical, humming the wedding march while she flipped through page after page of wedding dresses. I sat on the small ottoman which was stationed beside the window, a collection of Dickenson open in my lap as I took a moment to evaluate the state of the walks below. It was mostly empty, the city streets, but I recognized one face amongst the rest, simply dressed, but unmistakable in both appearance and that ominous sort of stature he bore.
"Mama, Herr Landa is here," I announced calmly.
She instantaneously shoved the periodical under the couch and raced to the kitchen to make tea, not saying a word except to alert my father, who had been lounging peacefully, for a few hour's worth of stolen solace, in his study room in the most ferociously loud and exasperating voice in the history of mankind altogether.
My father sighed and emerged from the alluring dimness of his study, proceeding to answer the door once the bell was rung. I heard his wearied voice in the main hall and Hans' honeyed-silk, purring vernacular which sashayed through the length of the house and lured its atmosphere into a dream-like stupor. I abandoned my copy of Dickinson's poetry on the cushion behind me and stood to tame the wrinkles that had settled into the natural folds of my skirt.
I finished refreshing my static clothes just as Hans, looking handsome and oddly omnipresent even in his relaxed sort of attire, and my father, unwittingly dwarfed by his overwhelming presence, entered. My mother followed close behind, looking as if she would simply rupture from sheer exhilaration, although the gentler rays of hope shone through the intensity of her happiness on account of Hans' sudden and rather unexpected appearance.
"This is quite a nice surprise, Herr Landa!" My mother exclaimed as she poured him tea. He intervened with a gentle hand and a swaying smile when she prepared to add sugar to the brew and she returned the small, mirthful gesture, moving on to her husband's next; she was not so careful in pouring his tea, that was for certain.
"I made a promise, didn't I? I tend to be a man of my word..." He replied graciously, leaving his tea cup to emanate small whorls of a serene, fragrant haze as it curled into the deathly grip of the open air and withered away in its blithe fingers. I wandered toward the couch, taking my own tea cup (two cubes of sugar and approximately five drops of cream) into my hands to chase the leftover chill of the morning from the marrow of my bones.
"You did?" My father's brow knitted together inquisitively.
"Ja, I was fortunate enough as to cross the paths of both your dear women here yesterday! It was a most unexpected occurrence, but Frau Kessler here issued an invitation for me to arrive here at one exactly. But if I am not welcome by you, herr, then I may leave straight away." Hans replied enigmatically and took a small, elegant sip of his tea. My mother nearly swooned at the thought of such a man connected to her family.
"Oh, you are quite welcome, Herr Landa! Isn't that right, Wilhelm?" My mother tossed a very precarious look in my father's direction. Father, on the other hand, appeared to be both displeased with and relieved by Hans' presence, the two conflicting emotions battling for dominance in his furrowed brow; it took mostly everything in my power to keep my own insatiable curiosity to myself. But I did not deprive myself of the comfort of casting a worrying glance his way, for which I received a reassuring one in return for my efforts to discover his secret plight.
Whatever sort of inner turmoil he suffered, he insisted wordlessly, would be repressed for the present and discussed later.
I set my cup down, thoroughly warmed, and looked to Hans. "I understand you are soon to be promoted, Hans?"
"At last, a justified rumor! It has crossed town, has it? This little mentioning of my promotion?" He chuckled good-naturedly, a crooked smirk forming at the corners of his mouth. "Why, I don't know whether to be pleased or intimidated by such skilled conversationalists! Perhaps they should apply for the Gestapo, what with such quick unearthing of evidence!"
"Oh, you are smart, aren't you?" My mother praised him over her porcelain cup. "It is a wonder, really, that you are not already married!"
I felt my face burn and my father shift with growing unrest at my mother's expectant mention. Hans looked at her curiously, but his expression did not falter into disapproval, despite her antics.
My father decided it was time for a change of conversation and sat up quickly in his seat with a new resolve. "So, Hans," he began, much to my mother's dismay (which he happily ignored), his hands fastened before him. "Whatever in the world did you do to earn such a speedy promotion?"
Hans' smirk deepened, as if he contained some dark secret which he did not mind displaying for all the world to see. "I am quite the skilled detective, Standartenführer Kessler."
"Is that so? What do you detect?"
"Why, the Juden of course!" He replied, a streak of laughter coursing through his countenance. He stirred his tea, the motions of his spoon slow and calm despite his agitated state. "It is common knowledge, Standartenführer Kessler, that if a man desires to find his place in a new world and a new age, he must not only know his talents and his strengths....but also how to put them to good use."
My father looked authentically astounded. "I'm quite impressed."
After a small sound of something like mirth completely left him, Hans set down his tea cup and reached into the breast-pocket of his dark tweed coat, drawing out a gold-plated pocket-watch from the compartment and checking it with a furrowed brow. He sighed and replaced it, looking up at the three of us with distinctive remorse dancing across the cold, hard shells of his eyes.
He stood suddenly and my mother nearly upset her tea cup altogether. "Well, I must apologize, Standartenführer Kessler, Frau Kessler…" He nodded graciously to the both of them and his gaze traipsed briefly over me. "But, it is time for me to leave. I have the most urgent business to attend to!"
"But…"She protested, glancing at his half-empty tea cup. "You have not finished your tea just yet! Surely you cannot go if you have not finished your tea?"
"I'm afraid I must. There is something of very great importance that I must pick up," he replied. My mother wilted like an orchid caught in an early winter storm. He looked at me less discreetly, his focus unwavering as he cast a pleasant glance my way. "Would you be so kind as to escort me to the door, dear Hanne?"
I stood, abandoning the warming console of the sofa. "Certainly," I replied, and followed him into the main hall.
He replaced his cap on his head as he reached for the door handle and at first I was quite at a loss as to why he had asked me to see him off. It seemed to me he had nothing to say and was not even planning to depart with a fond farewell.
Contrary to my certainty that he was to leave without another word, he turned and kissed me gently on the mouth, his hand lingering on my cheek even after he withdrew. The influence of his cold eyes spread into the very pit of my stomach, ensnaring me in some wintry spell.
"You'll receive a parcel in a few moments, after I leave," he informed me, his gloved hand sliding down the planes of my unpainted cheek. "Oh, and please, do not forget - do not be late."
He then departed, leaving me in a state of shock. It seemed he was privy to my mother's susceptibility to overwhelming enthusiasm and had waited until he knew for certain that she had not followed. A smart man…a very smart man.
My mother finally shuffled in, dejected. A good sign that she had not witnessed our second encounter, the most important of the mere two we'd had. "So, what did he say? Told you he had another girl in mind, did he?" She asked mournfully.
"No," I replied patiently, a little breathlessly as I was still trying to recover from such an unexpected, but nonetheless welcomed kiss. "There's no need for me to explain; you'll see soon enough, I promise."
Just as I had reassured her, the bell rang once more. I outstretched my hand for the handle, but my mother had gotten to it before me, always the quickest fingers when it came to my prospects. She threw open the door and saw a man standing there, a long box tucked inconspicuously under his arm.
"Frauline Kessler, are you?"He looked at me, the more youthful looking of the two women standing before him. I nodded and he handed over the parcel while mother paid for the delivery and a tip for a speedy conveyance. Meanwhile, I was opening the box, peeling back the cardboard flaps to reveal a red tulip, a declaration of love. My heart stuttered and revived so rapidly that I barely noticed, in my exerted efforts to regain a consistent state of equilibrium, the folded piece of paper with my name scrawled in refined calligraphy across the front.
"Oh, it's from Hans, isn't it dear?" My mother cried. "Oh, read it! Read it quickly! I want to know what it says!"
"Stille, please, mama!" I snapped at her and she went instantly rigid. I unfolded the letter, revealing the elegantly penned contents as they were revealed.
Hanne,
Meet me in the cafe. I am sure that I am not required to specify...it is the very same in which you sit each day, your chamomile tea, your book of pressed flowers (or perhaps, depending upon your mood, a book of science instead?) and a delicate shadow of rumination on your brow.
If you are not there by eight sharp tonight, I will consider your nonappearance an act of refusal.
All my love,
Hans Landa
I grinned surreptitiously, my heart beating against the walls of my chest so hard that I could feel the vibrations in the tips of my toes. Even as I still strained to catch my breath, I caught my mother's attention from across the surface of the paper.
"It looks as if your dream may be coming true sooner than you think, mama."
She tore the letter from my hands, her victorious laughter filling the quiet entrance hall as my father came in to assess the ruckus.
All the while, I could only think of accepting him, eyeing the flower that he had sent me.
I took the tulip from its box…my decision had been made.