Pheww! Sorry about the wait guys! This chapter would simply not behave!!! It was very arduous to write…I hope it is not so arduous to read! Be warned: this is lengthy…make sure you've gone to the bathroom before you begin reading…it may take a century to get through! At least the ball is rolling now…Enjoy, friends!!!!
Empty. Hollow. Barren. Void. Cavernous. Vacuous.
Soapy fingers trace the grey, mottled and curling flesh around the smoking bullet hole nestled in the valley between her breasts. The wound seems uninterested in bleeding but a few small droplets manage to slide halfheartedly down, and rest in her belly button, before fading into the milky bathwater. The quivering and cauterized flesh bursts outward as if trying to escape, wanting to chase the little piece of lead, long out of sight…that is normal though, when one is shot in the back.
The smell of gunpowder stings her throat and nose, but not enough. Not enough to distract her…she explores the numb edges of the gaping hole. Why is it she continues to draw breath, if the bullet has made her lungs and heart still?
He heedlessly put holes in everyone she ever loved. She shares this gaping chasm with her parents, her uncle, her sweet little brother…and now her Marcel. Why, then, is she the only one forced to endure? This nagging ache in her chest feels real enough, the horrific bullet hole looks disgusting enough…she feels dead enough. What else is there? What else can he possibly take?
Ah…but he had not pulled the trigger, had he? Someone else had. Every time…it was someone else. Her poor family was gunned down by common soldiers, her lover was slain by The Nation's Pride. Delegation does not a clean pair of hands make, though. He was and always will be responsible for those deaths. He probably would be first to lay claim to them, actually…
Were it not for The Jew Hunter, her family and her lover would be alive. Were it not for The Jew Hunter she would've spent the duration of the war, safely tucked away with her loved ones. Were it not for The Jew Hunter, she would have memory of what it is to truly smile and laugh.
To be whole…
To be alive…
Landa is right. She is a shell, a deflated ghost of a person. Marcel was the only reason for her to put food in her mouth, to wake, to function. Marcel was the beacon who reminded her what the sacrifice of her family meant: that she must live, and live fully…for her family, if not for herself. But she had failed. It was farce: her life at the cinema. She loves…loved Marcel, yes, but never gave herself completely. Marcel knew, of course, she could see that knowledge in his sad smile. It was enough for him, perhaps, but not enough for Shoshanna. Even with a man so good, and kind and loyal as Marcel to hold…her mind was ever wandering and restless. But the things her heart searched for were dead, and reduced to rotting bloodstains beneath the dairy farmer's floorboards. Now, Marcel is cold and bloodied somewhere too. She is alone.
Landa has taken the very last shred of purpose from her. Were it not for Landa…
Another trickle chokes and sputters from the offensive gash.
Were it not for Landa she would be dead too, though. As appealing as that option currently sounds to her, she muses why he chose to save her twice, now. It is a twisted play he directs, to shove her into death's loving embrace only to snatch her back by the scruff of her neck. Why hadn't he shot her in that field? Why hadn't he let Zoller execute his rage? What was the point?
"She belongs to me." The memory of Landa's musical French makes her shiver. How absurd, to keep her suffering because he wants to be the one to drop the axe. Of course he is keeping her alive, he will have to find a new toy, after all, once she is dead. He'll want to prolong his 'investigation' as long as possible. Sick. He is sick.
Well, she won't be his plaything any more. A few torturous days of that was enough…
The ugly thing on her chest oozes lazily as if to remind her of its existence…as if she could forget.
Her fingers trace a final idle lap around the ruined tissue before she purses her lips and huffs sharply in and out of her nose: deciding and preparing. In. Out. In. Out. In…Experiencing a wildly liberating rush of self-destructiveness she plunges her fist into the aching cavern between her breasts.
White-hot!
Fire!
Her brain is on fire! The rippling agony is everywhere and nowhere all at once! It is better to hurt than to feel though…she can almost cry with relief.
That is, until the fire is too strong, too hot. Wind rushes in her ears as the fire is sucked rapidly from her brain and her spine. It whooshes through her, not away…the coursing pain has a destination, somewhere specific. Curiously, it does not settle in the wound, as it should; instead the blaze settles in her screaming hand.
She wills her tearing eyes to focus and stares down at her unblemished chest, heaving and glistening with sweat and soapy bubbles. Her crumpled and bandaged hand shakes violently, its fingers splayed grotesquely as in rigor mortis. The fracture in her wrist sizzles, the pain will surely melt the bone.
Stupid. Stupid, girl!
There was no bullet hole, at least not for her. A foolish thing to imagine, as Marcel was probably shot in the head anyway…Not only is she not fatallyshot, she is left with a searing reminder of just how alive she is—in the shape of her grossly injured wrist!
Where is she? In the bath, obviously! What was she doing before her little daydream? Shaving. The straight razor feels heavy in her uncoordinated and weak left palm. But as her right is out of commission…the dull blade scrapes halfway up her calf before biting flesh. This time, real blood blooms and drips, swirling in the pearly water. God Damnit Landa! She drops the ridiculous razor and watches it float to the bottom of the tub and land with a delicate clink. Insufferable Nazi! Putrid hedgehog! It feels so good to lay blame on that murderous bastard. It is his fault, though; he forced her to this forsaken dungeon. The cut on her leg bleeds freely turning the water around the laceration pink. Clearly, the wretched blade was sharper than she realized. Sharp enough to make her bleed…
Sharp enough…
Would it be sharp enough to make him bleed?
Sharp enough to kill?
She checks herself: did that thought just occur to her? Had she really just considered taking human life?
No. That would be unforgivable…A Nazi is hardly human.
She had considered something entirely different. She had considered revenge…She is considering justice.
The excitement of her thoughts dulls the pain in her wrist and fills her with wonderful frenzy. She is going to kill Hans Landa.
No. No, she's not. She could never pull that off!
Then, what a way to die! Go out slicing instead of cowering…yes! She is going to kill the man who killed her family…
Now. She will do it now. Hah! The next time she sees him, will be the last time.
This is absurd and suicidal…and yet she has never felt more committed to a course of action in her life!
She palms the razor once more and shaves her legs quickly and clumsily with her left hand, ignoring the smattering of nicks in the razor's wake.
Practically leaping from the cold bathwater, she towels off and rushes over to the cupboard next to the vanity. Her reflection stops her, and she moves closer to examine the stranger there. A swollen face stares back through the permanent spider-webs that span the antique mirror. The left side of her face is black and blue, and her neck a hazy yellowish-green. She is surprised that her right eye is not as swollen as she had anticipated. Curse Landa and his apparently accurate declaration that she would heal easily! She isn't too pretty to look at now…all for the better, though. If this butchered visage is the last thing his loathsome eyes see…then she is happy for it!
By taking her purpose, the fiend has given her purpose.
She finally has something with which to occupy her mind and make it grind into action. This invigorating feeling may not necessarily make her a whole person, but she feels more awake than she has in years!
Her elation is somewhat deflated upon examination of the cupboard, though…
Dresses.
Landa had left a note on the bathroom door, in an annoying show of courtesy, rather than wake her up.
There are new clothes hanging in the W.C. I thought it imprudent to mention it last night, when you were so consumed by your spirited conversation with Private Zoller. I was forced to venture a guess as to what measurements you are, I will arrange for alterations if necessary. I urge you to take advantage of the selection, as I would like my favorite bathrobe restored to me. Do your very best to keep the dressing on your wrist as dry as possible. I shall return in the late afternoon.
H.L.
The Jew Hunter's so-called selection consists only of silly frocks. All are detestably gorgeous and fine, but none too practical. Where is she supposed to conceal a weapon on or within a dress? What she wouldn't give for a pair of pants! The clothes she wore to her prison are missing, presumably being laundered or discarded.
She glances longingly at the comfortable robe beckoning her from the hook on the door, at least it has convenient pockets…but it doesn't really qualify as clothing and the garment admittedly lost its appeal once she learned just who owns the thing. To think, she'd been wearing his robe! Disgusting! There was always something about the cologne embedded into the grey fibers that she did not like. The warm smell of gun-oil, firewood and fir may seem appealing at first blush…but it not so intriguing after a while. Yes, the masculine smell was intoxicating for the first day or two, but after that--it really got to be rather boring.
The under-things the Nazi had provided are hardly realistic, either. Frilly garter belts, brassieres, panties and stockings even! How frivolous and hypocritical for a Colonel to purchase silk and nylon, when the two are in such short supply!
While straightening the seam on the stockings, however, Shoshanna feels a rush of gratitude for Landa's disregard for wartime rationing. The razor slides soundly into place between the garter belt and her hipbone. Perfect. She grabs a slip and skips back to the mirror, shaking about to test the security of the weapon: it doesn't budge. The slip whispers over her form, its fit extraordinary, a small bulge gives the razor away, though. Luckily the pleats on the exquisite navy blue dress conceal the tell.
Positively humming while she pins the front of her hair back, she can't help but smile at the well dressed and painfully bruised woman in the mirror. The contrast is wildly ridiculous, but suits the reckless mood she finds herself in rather well…
***
"It is one of the world's greatest mysteries: how women can spend so much time bathing. I thought you might've drowned…" Landa's thoughtful drawl meets her the moment the she turns the knob to open the door into the bedroom.
"Have you been waiting in here the whole time?" The metal of the razor burns dully at her hipbone, and fear simmers in her belly.
"I'm afraid that I am not certain what you mean by 'the whole time' but I can assure you that I have been waiting for quite some time. I assumed you would be anxious for me to put a more stable bandage on your wrist."
"I am never anxious to be in your company and even less eager to be subject to your touch, Colonel." She seethes, summoning the vestiges of her former thirst for vengeance.
"That makes two of us, then…Sit down," comes the dangerous whisper from the monster in the corner.
She plops robotically down on the corner of the bed closest to the draped window--and to him.
"Give me your hand." He commands softly as he abandons his corner to kneel before her. There is only a similar gauze and what appears to be a few tongue depressors in his hand…hardly the makings of a 'stable' bandage.
"Are you not going to actually set the bone…with plaster?" she asks, puzzled.
"And effectively attach a cannon to the hand of a volatile Jew? Certainly not. The very last thing I care to do is fend off any feeble attempts you might make of hitting me with a heavy cast. The bone is not even broken; therefore plaster is unnecessary."
The Jew Hunter's eyes meet her own and his face mirrors the grinning death's head atop his cap, except that a skeleton cannot have dimples or wink mischievously. He leans in as if to tell a secret, "You'll have to think of something else, Mademoiselle."
Once again he is too close for her liking, and once again she does not know what to make of his teasing mood. She denies the half-smile that tugs at her lips; ashamed that he was even able to provoke such a response…especially when she has just decided to slit the man's throat. The idea seemed so much simpler in the steamy lavatory, where she could not be threatened by the imposing, wiry strength of his body or the infallible knowledge in his eyes. If she is going to do it—she better do so before she loses her nerve. But how can she possibly expect to overpower him, and how can she even extrapolate the blade before he thwarts the attempt? Trying not to show her confusion she opts merely to shrug at him and offer her hand limply.
He takes her wrist gently, palm up, but does not remove his gaze. Something is off. He senses that she hides something. He can smell the fear and conflict; the air is ripe with it. Landa's eyes bore into her, searching for clues. The silly girl is unnerved, and her breath shakes all the way from her lungs.
"Is there something you'd like to tell me…?" he asks with one eyebrow raised and his tongue hovering at the roof of his mouth.
Shoshanna feels herself shrinking beneath his scrutiny. She can barely breathe. The Standartenführer is clearly wise to her game. Unable to endure the intense examination any longer she averts her eyes to the bedspread, not wanting to give anything away.
To avoid is to confirm. Enraged and now certain that the girl conceals something, the Nazi takes the wooden depressors in his free hand and slams them onto her trembling wrist with as much force as he can muster. The sound of the thin wood snapping mixes with the piercing cry that erupts from Shoshanna's throat. Tears immediately obscure her vision and she cannot help but sob at the fresh agony.
"Look at me, please." The Colonel purrs quietly, barely audible over her noise. But Shoshanna's sightless eyes focus only on her ruined wrist. "I said: LOOK AT ME!" he sneers, yanking her delicate tear-covered chin to face him with his thumb and forefinger.
She blinks to banish the salt water and stares painfully back at him, daring him to guess her plan. Landa recognizes the defiance there, but he also sees the secret. She'll tell him soon enough, they always do. Better to let her think she's fooled him…
"I told you to keep the dressing dry." He says simply, making her jaw drop at his sudden change in tactic. "I do not have time to wrap your wrist every day. There isn't any blood, so your bandages should suffice for a few days each. Do I make myself plain?"
She nods hesitantly, perplexed but not entirely convinced that he has given up.
"Good girl." He smiles at her again, removing his hat, combing his fingers through his caramel hair, and scratching at the hint of silver at his temples. It falls into perfect place. The man is the very picture of composition; almost is if he could never be surprised or without total control. It is ironic that he makes her feel the exact opposite of that. Always on the edge of crying or raging…most unlike herself.
Again, he wraps her wrist expertly, this time much tighter, making her entire arm throb dully. The Jew Hunter's forehead wrinkles and relaxes alternately with the effort, and for a moment she is lost in the way he bites his bottom lip subtly while he ties the thing into place. Every movement he makes is exercised with great grace and care. The man is a machine, she muses. But flesh and blood all the same. It will not be easy, but it is possible. It is possible to kill Hans Landa Hunter of Jews.
He straightens fluidly and discards the old bandage and splintered depressors in the W.C. As he walks back over to her, she scolds herself for not pulling the razor out while he had run the little errand…she can't seem to function properly with the Colonel present. Almost as if she is perpetually paralyzed with fear and anger around him, there is something else there too. Something new, something since his 'rescue' of the previous must be disgust that makes her stomach flip.
Landa perches atop the dented pail, his regal posture making it look nothing short of a throne. "Cigarette?" he asks pleasantly, offering the gold case to her. She takes one, fumbling awkwardly due to the untrained nature of her left hand. He lights her cigarette first, then his own. They take a drag in unison, each contemplating the other.
It feels good to take the calming tobacco into her lungs. With all that has happened, some simple pleasures can remain. The cigarette sobers her, reminds her that she still has control of her own actions…she even finds it somewhat easier to withstand the intrusive pair of eyes that behold her now.
"What do you feel Shoshanna?" he asks suddenly. Unsure of how to respond, she merely blinks stupidly.
"About your Negro? About Zoller betraying you? About how Zoller hurt you? You thought he would whisk you away…you thought he would understand…but he chose to thrash you, instead. Not only that but he did so with the projectionist's blood and brain matter spattered on his cuffs…What? Oh, you didn't see…" His brutal words hang heavy in the air like poisonous gas.
She is shattered. In only a few breaths he has cut her yet again, and it is only when hissing ash from the cigarette burns her hand, that she is able to blink or breathe. Landa smirks, taking the cigarette from the stunned girl and snuffs it, as well as his own, into the floorboards.
"So," he continues harshly, without giving her time to recover. "What do you feel?"
"Nothing." She gasps through dry sobs. "I feel nothing. I don't know how to anymore."
"Liar." He accuses, slamming his hand against the pail. "What do you feel now…here…? What do you feel when I tell you that the discovery of your family is one of the jewels of my career? That I am enjoying every moment of my time with you…that I drink in every tear, every gasp and every disenchantment like sweet wine? When I tell you that you are a sorry excuse for a Jew! When was the last time you kept the Sabbath, Shoshanna, can you even remember? You dishonor your family and heritage even though they died for it! And, you are not nearly as upset as a grief-stricken lover should be…I wonder if you cared for the Negro at all. Do you ever have the courage to feel anything you want to feel…or only what you are supposed to?"
He leans so far in that she can see the tiny creases set about the corners of his cruelly hypnotic eyes, and their breath collides in the small space between their faces. "What. Do. You. Feel?"
She inhales all the world's sorrow and hate; it tastes like blood in her mouth. Just as she tries to remember how to speak, there is a soft knock on the door. Landa breaks the spell and studies his watch.
"Right on time." He mumbles, as he rises to answer the door. Shoshanna can barely make her thoughts go fast enough to process what was just said, let alone the prospect of a visitor…therefore she is thoroughly confused by the tiny, ancient woman that Landa ushers in. She appears to be absolutely terrified and turns her beady gaze back to Landa, who merely juts his chin in Shoshanna's direction.
The woman walks hesitantly over to Shoshanna and murmurs to the floor, "Stehen Sie auf, bitte." Shoshanna shrugs at Landa who is busy lighting another cigarette in his corner.
"Oh," he blows smoke through his nostrils." This is Marion, she doesn't speak French, I'm afraid. She wants you to stand up."
"What for?" Shoshanna asks warily.
"We mustn't bicker in front of the company ma chère…Stand. Now."
Shoshanna stands and steps forward at the old woman's gesture. Marion walks around Shoshanna, her beady eyes moving up and down rapidly. Shoshanna remembers the sorry state of her face and wonders what the lady must think.
The woman asks Landa something in the thick language to which he nods in response.
"She wants you to take off your dress."
"I beg your pardon!" Shoshanna hisses incredulously. But the old woman nods encouragingly and moves to help Shoshanna out of the frock.
"Don't be absurd, I'm not undressing in front of two strangers!" she cries, taking a step back.
"Please do not be shy on my account. And, you know, it hurts me that you consider us strangers after all we've been through…" he replies sweetly.
The razor bursts into flame against her skin. If she takes off her dress, he'll see the weapon even if she is allowed to leave her slip on. That is a scenario she would rather not entertain at the moment…
"Shoshanna…" he huffs. "I have never had to force a woman out of her clothes. Pray, do not make me start now."
Shaking all over she lifts the dress over her head and tosses it into Landa's waiting arms. He folds it over his arm and stares brightly at her. She is relieved when the Marion begins measuring every part of Shoshanna's body without asking her to remove the slip. Slip or no slip, she feels naked, though, and prays that the telltale bump goes unnoticed by Landa.
"Am I allowed to ask what this is all about?"
"Marion is a seamstress, obviously. She is making your gown for the premier."
"My gown…for the what?"
"The premier. You will be accompanying me to the Private Zoller's premier in two weeks time…Don't look so worried, he won't say a word or lift a finger."
"But why?"
"Because. I am obligated to go and I have a strange feeling about that night. I want my prized possessions about me…"
"Well, why couldn't I have worn something you already brought? Every thing fits just fine?" she practically whines.
"Yes. I can see that." He purrs, turning his head slightly and eyeing her appreciatively. Her stomach flips, there's that…disgust…again.
"I want you to look stunning. I want the dress to hug like it was made for your body alone, I want the other women to burn with envy and the men to wish you were on their arm…Ja?" He asks the waiting seamstress, who jumps. He does not break his gaze with Shoshanna.
"Welche Farbe?" she squeaks.
"Rot…dunkel rot." His eyes stay trained on Shoshanna's face and her heart beats strangely. The old woman bows out of the room and leaves the enemies to themselves.
Does he see the razor? Does he know? He doesn't look angry…he looks, well…
"Do you want your clothes back?"
"Oh!" The question wakes her from her reverie. "Umm. Sure. I mean: yes."
He chuckles and throws the dress to her left hand. She catches it and pulls it hastily on over her head, glad to have her modesty restored. By the time she looks up, Landa is at the door.
"Would you like tea or coffee…or a glass of milk perhaps?"
Shoshanna swallows her heart, forcing it back down from her throat.
"Coffee, please.
"With crème?"
Again she swallows hard.
"Y-Yes, thank you."
He nods and winks over his shoulder, "Do try to stay out of trouble this time…"
The blade feels like a brick pressed to her skin, still she cannot help but smile at the door after he is gone.
Reviews are my delight! I would love feedback! Sorry this was SOOOO long…it had to be done.