"All human desire is poised on an axis of paradox, absence and presence its poles, love and hate its motive energies." - Anne Carson
Common sense warns that holding a palm over the flame longer than a second will start to burn. The flame will tarnish the skin pink and then blister. I pretend like I am surprised by the pain, yet still my ignorant hand remains.
The fingernails I dug into my own palms mimicked my self-inflicted punishment; or was it merely anger? Should I be punishing myself for the offense Dieter had caused me? Or was I angry because he was right?
I had no one to blame. I must hold myself accountable for the disaster that turned what should have been the best night of my life—into an embarrassment of thoughtless impulse. And, as it was, I had myself to blame for my position currently; wandering through the streets of Paris at night alone, no shoes, no purse, no course.
I back track by mere moments and he is there and I am there and our lips are connected—speaking languages neither of us knew but were suddenly fluent. We remain at arms length because heaven forbid my suggestion of forethought. I beg the consideration of intention rather than impulse and for that I am questioned of my own desire—my own…
Fucking Nazi, asshole…
How could I be so foolish? To get myself in this position anyway—to let myself develop feelings for a man like Dieter? How did this even happen? I start to fall in love with the first man who shows me the slightest bit of respect and care. Though in my defense this was in sort supply due to the war. Doesn't excuse it. Everything was misguided; everything I know about him—god what little I actually know—hauled me to him, fused my threads into his and now the tension in those threads were stringent, and fraying in their twists the farther away I got from him. It was exhausting.
Now must I punish myself for these thoughts? Would they even go away with the punishment?
Every blink I see Dieter again and again on the backs of my eyelids. If I could walk with my eyes closed I would have.
Darkness, he grabs my head in his soft hands.
Open, I cross the bridge into Montmartre and across the street is a uniformed officer.
Darkness, his lips are on my neck and he drags his hips into mine.
Open, I pass by the officer who sizes me up from head to toe and when I catch his eye he's on my tail.
Darkness, "I cannot go any longer without you," a breath and, "You are more important than this war."
Open, the German officer has my wrist in a firm grasp. He's asking for my papers. Papers that I keep in my purse. The purse that now is no longer at my side.
I close my eyes once more and see Dieter's staring back at me. I open my eyes and see the bright blue of the Aryan Boy Scout whose hold on my arm tightens by the second.
"I've lost my papers," I say in French.
"German, I speak German you French whore."
I repeat myself in German, foregoing the eye roll out of self-preservations. His eyebrows raised in what I assumed surprise at my accent which at this point was nearly perfect. His hand remained as he insisted on my name but I would not offer it.
"It's after curfew, you will be spending the evening in a cell no matter what."
"Gladly," I spit and I am hauled back the way I came in handcuffs. Back through the Champs-Élysées, and back to the Nazi headquarters I had just departed.
There was a particularly prickling feeling to being hauled through Paris in the arms of a degenerate, mindless pawn. It was a feeling of self-degradation, of yes of course this is happening and yes of course this is happening on tonight of all nights. It wasn't acceptance but it was close—more like compliance to a fate I built for myself in a world built for death. This was not a world curated for life.
I had rejected Dieter, at least I think that's what happened for the time being and held my hand over the flame and now I would be the fool to be surprised by this unique form of punishment.
The officer lugged me through the main hall and up the grand staircase that I wouldn't dream of taking during daylight hours. The midnight crew of the number 84 building was sparse, but we passed several people—all of which hardly gave a sidelong glance much less any meager consideration to my helplessness. With what little hope I could muster I doubted I would get lucky enough one was Dieter. I had never been that lucky anyway.
I was ushered into an office on the second floor, dimly lit and aggressively unlike any "cell" I had imagined he would throw me in. Instinct kicked in and my stomach dropped when I realized the reality of the situation. I had been alone, no papers to process, no witnesses to my detention and no paper trail. I was as good as dead, but something in me knew death would not be the most forthcoming punishment tonight.
The officer handcuffed me to a chair in the corner and leaned over me to test the locks, his lips in my ear with an exhausted moist and panting breath. I may have come quietly but I had not come easily.
"You scream, you die." the German said.
"I'm already dead," I replied in French and smile when he grew a sour face. Then without warning the back of his hand springs to my cheek. My neck ached from the sudden jolt, and my cheek burned. The gasp that left my mouth was involuntary but it was loud enough.
Then it seems, he's hesitant—working himself up, or rather getting himself hard enough.
A few moments pass in silence as the officer paces in front of me before there's a soft knock at the door.
"Not a word," he urges and when I don't respond he pokes my forehead with a dull and heavy finger. The leering gaze he casts as he starts for the door is enough to believe he'd shoot me without a second thought. Perhaps that should be the best course of action. Give him no choice. The better of two courses.
At the door he talks in hushed tones with a woman, I assume a secretary of some sort because as she pushed her way in to grab several files from his desk she gasps when her gaze flashes over me.
Hurriedly she looks between me and the officer who brought me in and talks in hushed and rushed German, I could only make out a few words with little clue to context.
And then, "Report her"—"No papers"—"Shh—Speaks German."
I sighed, of course this is how I go. What little life I have to show for such an anticlimactic death. Suiting, really.
"I would rather we just get this over with," I spoke up in German and the woman turned her gaze toward me. It softened before she whipped back to the officer.
"I'm reporting her to Sturmbannführer Hel—"
"No no—" the officer pulled her arm and drug her out of the room. What a peach he must be to work for.
A moment later the officer returns alone and tinkers with my handcuffs until they are released.
"Follow me," he grumbles and together with the secretary we head back down the stairs and through a long hall that connected one headquarters to another, a far more dark and ominous structure.
"I will report this to the Sturmbannführer. You know how he gets with detainees."
I am ushered into a room on the fifth floor, eerily similar to the one I found myself in not two months prior and cuffed to the table that sat in the center.
The man opens a ledger and uncaps a fountain pen. I cannot help but laugh at his grumpy, childlike behavior after obviously getting caught in the act of wholly unprofessional behavior. Who knew my savior would be a German secretary in a green felted suit.
"Name."
"Marlene."
"Surname."
"Dietrich."
The man sucks in a breath and scratches out what he had just written.
"You will tell me your real name if you ever want to see the outside of this room again."
I glanced around. It wasn't much of a stretch to assume the likelihood of release was grim indeed, no matter my cooperation.
"Lilian," I sigh out and he starts to write. God, what an idiot. "Lilian Dogover."
The man freezes for several moments before he caps his pen and stands. It's discomforting when he paces around the table and disappears behind me. I felt a fist clinch my hair in a clump and suddenly my face meets the cool and solid steel of the tabletop. The loud clang of my forehead hitting metal was nothing to the pulsating ring in my ears that followed.
With my hair still in his fist, neck exposed, his voice is spitting, "Name."
"I don't remember."
Again, my head meets the table and back again, "Do you remember now, bitch?"
Bright white flashes over my vision and for several moments I feel nothing. And then I feel it all.
There's a rattle that echoes in the room as the door knob shifts. The door, obviously locked, rattles again. Then a knock.
"Unterscharfuhrer Weigert? A word?"
The voice, distinctively German but cloudy speaks through the door. I could only make out the ringing in my head, and at this point could really only see faint outlines of the room and the objects in it. When the officer pushed me out of his grasp it wasn't without another aggression, but considerably less than before. A kindness.
The door is opened an inch but it's enough for whoever was on the other side of it to get a whiff of suspicion.
"Weigert open the door."
The door is reluctantly opened and footsteps prefaced the entrance of my hero, of course he would now always be considered my hero.
Dieter took one look at me and turned swiftly to Weigert.
"Where did you pick her up?"
"Half mile west on the outskirts of Montmartre."
Dieter hums and circles past me.
"You did not make it far," he said in a tone low enough only I could make it out. Then louder, "At what stage is she through processing?"
It was then that made me wonder what exactly he was playing here.
"Can't even get her name out of her, Sturmbannführer. She is proving uncooperative."
Dieter hums and leans against the table. We connect eyes but only for a moment before his flash over my face, bruises forming and blotched red hot cheeks likely. I'm certain I was a true beauty to behold. But then again this is how we met, Dieter and me—perhaps it's likely be prefers me this way.
Weak and in need of rescuing.
"Do you know what we do with detainees who do not cooperate?" Dieter asked, still hunched, still staring. I refuse to answer, I refuse to look away.
"Answer him, girl."
I turn to Weigert. "I thought the question was rhetorical. I did not want to disrespect the major when no response was expected."
Dieter breathed heavily out of his nose and turned his back to me. The breath could have sounded like a sigh, but to me it was a laugh, and he turned to hide his smile. I would never know for sure.
"But yes," I continued, "I am aware what happens when one does not cooperate."
"You know German well for a French whore," The officer said and before Dieter could speak I straightened.
"What makes you think I am a whore, Unterscharfuhrer Weigert?"
The officer started before Dieter cleared his throat.
"Yes, I am curious myself. She does not look or dress like a whore, and does not speak like a whore. I wonder did she proposition you for sex? I didn't think so. Though I will admit—despite not looking or speaking like a whore she does look like she prefers the German fortitude. Does she not?"
Weigert did not taken the bait, "She was not wearing shoes. And was out after curfew."
"Don't forget no papers," I added.
"Right yes, no papers either."
Why I was helping this man child validate my arrest was anyone's guess—however the sparkle in Dieter's eye was none short of bemused, which made him rather pleasant to look at so it was difficult to resist the urge to continue. His fortitude as a Nazi rather than a man, as it was, is currently being tested.
"Tell me, then, what happened to your shoes?" Dieter asked me.
"I lost them."
"Where?"
"In the Seine."
"Hmm, papers too?"
"How'd you guess?"
The officer gripped me by the collar and my neck by proxy. He nosed my cheek in a spiteful attempt at intimidation and raddled my chair in its spot.
"You will show respect."
When Weigert dropped his hold I sucked in a shaky breath of clean air. I tried not to dramatize the need for air but my head was pounding. I was exhausted, and most of all completely obliterated of all logical sense because of it; there was no coyness concerning the pain I was in. Dieter's eyes, dark already, clouded over even more, brow tense with practiced restraint. He may have looked calm but his mind was turning, that much was abundantly clear. The anger was directed toward Weigert who was otherwise oblivious, his own anger focused on me.
Our eyes met once again and suddenly all I wanted was to be in his arms. Safe in his arms. Was this my decision? Or was Dieter merely the only option? Uniform or not, both would be my sanctuary.
"I apologize, Sturmbannführer," I said, "I do not have shoes, nor papers, but I promise you I am not here for sexual favors, or endeavors otherwise. Despite Unterscharfuhrer Weigert's intentions."
Dieter's jaw ripples and he asks me quietly, in English, "Did he touch you?"
"No," I responded in English but continued in German, "but he tried."
Weigert split his sneer between me and Dieter, an unreadable expression filtering through those baby blues.
"Weiger, remove her hand cuffs."
Weigert balked at his superior officer, but rather than challenge, he obliged. I had not realized how tightly he secured the cuffs around my wrists until they were removed, bright red and quick forming purple points speckle my wrists.
"I will ask you this once, Weigert—your intentions with this young woman."
"Sturmbannführer?"
"After you arrested her—what were your intentions?"
Weigert swallowed and it was now clear he realized something and it was that he had made a deeply regrettable mistake, even if he did not know exactly what that mistake was or why. This rendered him silent and red faced.
"You brought her here, intentionally forgoing proper registration," Dieter started for him but the officer was suspended in terror. Dieter was changing into something deeply malevolent, changing into the face I'm certain he wore often—at least enough for the young officer to recognize it in a split second.
"I brought her here and…"
"He took me upstairs, to an empty office," I said in his silence. "But he didn't get the chance."
"And why is that?" Dieter asked me.
"A secretary came in and saw me. She made him bring me here."
Dieter nodded while Weigert started to plead, suggesting I was lying—of all things.
"No, no—as I see it," Dieter started as he pulled out his Luger, checking the magazine as he continued, "this young woman has no reason to lie. From her perspective there is little hope of survival at this point. Look at her, she is not stupid—you know what would be in store for you next, yes?"
I nod, "The camps."
"Yes indeed, an occupancy opens every minute and the void must be filled. Tell me, Weigert did you intend to fill that void with this young woman after you were done with her?"
"Yes, Sturmbannführer."
"Well that simply won't do, you see the next train out is to Bergen—the work camp. They can't do much with a thing of this size. No, what they need is someone big—stronger, someone like you, Weigert."
"Sir, you can't be insinuating—"
"Or I could kill you in lieu of the transaction, which do you prefer?"
I sucked in my breath and watched the confusion continue to grow on Weigert's face. I did not blame him, I would be confused in his position too.
"Sir I do not understand—"
"Or perhaps we have her pick? She is, after all, the one in control here."
My eyes flash to Dieter and his eyes flash to mine. It was a peculiar thing to say, given us the three characters in the room—I would not be the expected authority to any audience. But because these words were uttered with such weight, I knew I was. He was asking me to guide him, to decide what to do with this man who had abused me. He was doing all but placing the gun in my hand.
Dieter looked at me expectantly but I shook my head.
"Dieter, you can't ask me to—"
"I am." It was a soft delivery, in English, and it hit me straight in the chest like a bullet. He wasn't giving me a choice but to make a choice. An odd thing to be hesitant about, I admit. The pain in my head was clouding judgement and part of my heart guided by this pain wanted the officer to suffer. But that was not me. I was not a monster.
I nod and gaze at the gun in Dieter's hand.
Dieter, who had been expecting the merciful decision, nods in compliance and I am filled with a sudden warmth in my stomach. A warmth that queued behind this obedience to me, this sudden relinquishment of power to me. Was this a game? A mind trick? Or…
The sound of the shot popped off the walls and it jolted a spark through my body down to my toes—I suddenly felt every inch of my body, even the parts that did not hurt. I felt the fabric of my dress on my skin, the coldness of the floor beneath my feet, the heavy and humid air coating my face and neck.
And then, his hands.
"Tell me where you are hurt." His words are soft, the mask of the murderer was traded for the mask of the concerned, of the loving. His hands hover, afraid to touch but overwhelmed with the need to comfort. He is knelt at my side as I remain in my chair, one hand cradles my wrist still tender like raw meat, and the other brushes hair from my eyes. I take that hand and brush his fingertips over my forehead, nose, and eyelids—these were the parts that screamed the most.
I am met with a sigh of relief, "You will bruise, but you will live. Can you walk?"
"Yes I think so."
Dieter ushered me to my feet with what felt like every intention to carry me wherever I intended to go. But I could indeed walk enough to step around the body of the once young Officer Weigert bleeding out from the hole in his dull head.
We exited the room and I was urged to follow Dieter as he led the way back to his office. We did not pass by many people, though the few we did I quickly garnered the high sense of respect Dieter had. Respect can often be confused with fear, I wondered how many respected him in that manner. Was I the same?
It was still dark and the halls were dim at best as I began to recognize where we were. Not two hours ago we were here together in much different circumstances. Though they weren't that different in the end, were they?
In his office Dieter sat me at the cold leather chair behind his desk and poured a glass of whisky with ice. I accepted it with a sip and Dieter smirked as he then moved my hand and the glass to my forehead.
"Oh I see," I smirked softly. The chill felt nice on the parts of my face that pulsated like a dying heart, heavy and burdened with purpose. It would bow down eventually. Eventually.
"You were foolish," he said. The words seemed spiteful but Dieter's eyes were kind, concerned. He was pointing at the obvious thread dangling between us, "and lucky. Had I not still been here, or you were taken to another location I would not have even known—"
"I know."
Dieter nodded, satisfied that I was clearly aware of the mistake I had made tonight. I am aware I am a fool. I am aware I will continue to be the fool, especially if he continues to watch me just as he is now—with tenderness, without expectation. A fool.
"Thank you."
Dieter acknowledged the gratitude with a gentle brush of his lips against my fingers. The downward angle of his mouth betrayed the delicate mime of his affections.
"You look worried," I observed.
"I have many worries."
"Such as?" I pushed.
"I am worried about this. About you. Because of this I am now aware I cannot be with you to prevent a mistake like this from happening again. I am worried by how much I suddenly…" Dieter quieted and eyes remained drawn to the floor. "I am worried by how much I want this to be...I am worried by my need to protect you, against my better judgement, to…"
"Care for me against your better judgement?"
Dieter kneels at my feet and looks up at me, catching the lamp from his desk just so his eyes glimmer and his skin radiates a true benevolent gold.
"You were right. We barely know one another," Dieter says and he takes my glass to capture both my eyes with his. "And we are supposed to hate each other."
"How could I hate you after this?" My question was barely a whisper, as though my heart garnered a voice separate from my own and screamed from within my chest, muted by my ribs and flesh until there was only a whisper of the truth.
"I am cruel. And I am…hate." Dieter's sincerity brutalized my warmth, my comfort which he had built only to burn again. "You, Alma, you are…" his voice cracks as he struggles to find the right words, but they never come. Any words that might endear my heart to his fall short as I brush my lips with his and for a moment we are still, body and breath connected at this one mutual point of vulnerability and love.
Love?
Dieter pulls back and holds my head softly. A sad smile is shared.
"You should go home."
"I tried that, remember?"
A changed smile to amused, Dieter nods, "I will walk you this time."
The walk is quiet and we maintain a modest distance apart. It is still dark, the lights that flank the streets are dim or dead completely. I would not normally feel safe venturing the route which Dieter was taking me, but it is precisely because of Dieter that I do not question my safety in the slightest.
Was that truly all this was? Feeling safe? Of course I could not take it for granted, in war this feeling was fleeting at best. Tomorrow I could wake up to a bomb in my bedroom. This was not safe. This was…temporary ease.
I look at Dieter, tall and broad—domineering and powerful—and I remember the feelings roused in that interrogation room when he handed me the control, when he insinuated it was never his to begin with. This was curious to me, and if it was true—how far could I push it, how much of this do I want?
All of it. I want all of it.
I slow out of pace with Dieter and he notices immediately. His pressed lip concern predictably returned.
"Are you well?" He asks and I nod. Overtaken by uncertainty in the right words, I remain silent. Dieter approaches me and I am compelled to observe my surroundings—out of panic, or insecurity, or fear of judgement it is all the same yet exceedingly complex. I am met with emptiness. No eyes to judge me for my indisputable yearning.
If we are to be together, this would be our stage. Our one and only stage; night, shadows, emptiness, secrecy. It would never change and it could never last. This fairytale would have a grim ending indeed.
"Alma," Dieter urged for my attention and I am reminded of how it feels when he says my name like that. The pluck of the right string.
"I'm sorry, just tired."
A minor lie.
"It has been a long night. For the both of us, but especially you. Should you need someone to carry you, do not hesitate to say something."
I laugh and fall back into step with him.
"As tempting as that is, I believe I will survive."
My block in Montmartre is the most secluded of all, canopied by trees and tall buildings and quiet, so so quiet. Walking down the street with Dieter at my side felt neither wrong nor right. It just was. Perhaps I was more tired than I thought, perhaps I should have taken Dieter up on his offer as chariot.
"This is my door," I say, stopping us at the light blue door I've known as home for nearly ten years. Dieter eyes it and approves. What his criteria for approval in a door was seemingly none of my privilege.
"Good night, Alma."
Dieter turns without a second glance but I quickly decided that the evening wasn't over. Not yet.
"Wait," I grab his arm and haul him back to me with the little strength I still had. Dieter continues to play me the fool as he lets me pull him back. He turns and looks at my feet, intentionally avoiding my eye. "Dieter look at me."
A breath in and with the breath out he tilts his head up.
"Yes, Miss Antony?"
My hand still clutched the stiff leather of his black trench, the scent would stay under my fingernails for hours.
"If I asked you to come up with me, would you?"
"We both know that answer."
"And if I told you to?"
When Dieter's jaw clinched, rippled beneath his taunt cheek, I knew I was closer to plucking the right string for him as well.
I pull his sleeve until he is barely an inch from me. His hand plucks mine from his coat and he kisses my knuckles nestled between his palms.
The gentleness of his lips pulls a sigh from deep in my chest and I fall back against the door. Exceedingly exhausted yet exceedingly under his spell.
"We both know a choice cannot be made tonight." Dieter says before adding another soft kiss. "I need you to sleep and ice your head and if in the morning you wake up feeling the same, then you may find me."
He returns my hand to rest at my chest and I agree with him. Sleep would give light to all this.
Dieter has made the decision for me. For us. Perhaps this night's worth of chaos was enough to fill someone's entire life. Maybe we had both outlived our relationship in just this one night.
"And where will I find you?" I asked.
"Where you always find me. Where I always find myself, as you say."
My smile bloomed behind closed and tired muscles, and for a moment we are stuck—like a photograph. And then, like a snap of a shutter, we part.
I fall asleep in my clothes, my head spinning and burning and heart sore. For the time I rest, brief as I'm sure it will be, I will get a much needed break from my mind and from my heart after an exceedingly long and exhausting day.
When I wake up the next morning the wounds on my face have fused to my pillow. My body feels equally fused to the sheets, as though tied down and cursed with beaten weakness. I imagined this is what babies feel when they realize they cannot support their own heads. Powerless.
This is all I think of first. But as consciousness trickles back to me I am overwhelmed by event after event from the day before. Event after event after regret after regret—no small moment forgotten and suddenly every emotion sparked, every inch of skin touched, every ounce of fluids mixed and spilled and cried—floods. I drown in it.
I scream into my pillow all morning until my throat is raw.
I scream because I remember the way I felt last night, and for whom I had those feelings for. I scream because I have woken to a new day, with feelings completely unchanged and stronger moment by moment.