‘Bah!’ Huber shouted. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’ He whispered something into the girl’s ear, and she moved towards Stahl. She pressed herself against him and cupped a hand over his groin, her fingers squeezing him gently in the hope of eliciting his interest.
‘The answer’s still no,’ Stahl said as he pulled the girl’s expectant fingers away.
‘Are you telling me that there’s not one piece of meat in this fraüenblock that appeals to you?’ Huber cried.
Stahl’s eyes flashed towards the dancer on the stage. ‘Nothing at all,’ he lied.
Giving up, Huber shook his head as he pushed his female companion towards the privacy of the salon’s brothel. But before he disappeared, he shouted back at Stahl and Blomberg. ‘The things I do for the Fatherland!’
Stahl turned back to the runway, but by now the song had finished and the dancer was gone. In desperation, he spun around searching the salon for her. A sense of dread overcame Stahl as he searched. What if she had retired to the shadows of the unseen brothel with another member of the crew?
‘Where is she?’ he muttered. ‘Where is she?’
For a moment, Stahl contemplated barging into the brothel to see for himself if his unspoken fears were true, but he let his eyes return to the stage. There he saw a crack of light beyond the satin curtain, and so, just like a moth to a flame, he pushed himself from the bar and left Doctor Blomberg alone with his thoughts of Germany, the East and his family. He hurriedly pushed past men and women, kicked empty bottles, stepped over vomit and bounded onto the runway to slip through the silky barrier like Alice passing through the looking-glass.
On the other side of the curtain Stahl passed down a short corridor and found a similar sized room to the salon, but its appearance couldn’t be more different. The white-washed room was divided into a series of cells and the smell of bleach and perfume hung heavy in the air. The drunken roar from the salon, now muffled by the heavy curtains, faded the further down the corridor he went. It was unnervingly quiet, a mocking contrast to the giddy atmosphere of the salon. Stahl made his way through until he eventually found what he was looking for.
The dancer sat in her cell with her back towards Stahl. He stopped and then stood silently at the cell’s door and watched as she removed the blonde wig and cap. Removing the wig exposed her shaven skull and revealed her true nature to Stahl. The fantasy baubles of the Nazi cap, the swastika arm-band and all the other items that had been used to enhance the fantasy, all now lay strewn on the cell’s small bed. On the dresser at which the dancer sat were other props. An alpine milk-maid’s smock and apron sat in a round box and a brown Hitler-Youth uniform hung next to a set of childish pig-tails. These props, no doubt, would arouse the sexual fantasies of some other Nazi or technician, but at this moment in time, they held no appeal to Stahl. It was the sexualised stormtrooper that had aroused his loins. The dancer, still seemingly oblivious to the Nazi’s presence, then started to wash off her gaudy make-off over a bowl of water. The black eye-liner and the bright-red lipstick formed inky rivulets that dripped from her face and into the bowl and down her chest. The washings clung messily to her small breasts, the colourful stains tracing their shapes and, in Stahl’s eyes, adding an erotically charged edge to the seemingly mundane task the dancer was performing.
After she erased the make-up, the dancer suddenly froze as the Nazi appeared in her small mirror. Fumbling with the damp cloth that hung from the side of the bowl, she turned and stood.
‘I thought it was too good to be true,’ Stahl said quietly.
The dancer symbolically held her arms across her body, hiding it from the imposing SS officer. The glamorous beauty of the salon was now long gone. The figure that stood before Stahl was what she really was – an emaciated, forlorn woman. This apparent transformation from fantasy to revulsion should have dissipated the lust that had consumed Stahl, but instead of storming away, he remained where he was, and even stepped closer to the girl.
‘You’re not supposed to be back stage,’ she said defiantly.
Stahl ignored her. Instead, he settled onto the cell’s cot, which protested noisily under his weight, and lounged back, his eyes never leaving the dancer.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
Like Konrad before her, the dancer remained silent in the presence of the Nazi overlord.
Stahl smiled. ‘There’s no need to be shy with me. You weren’t shy out there in the salon. That was quite a performance you did. I was very impressed.’ He leaned forward. ‘I just want to know your name, that’s all.’
‘Does it matter, Herr Sturmbannführer?’ The fear was evident in her voice.
‘It matters to me,’ he said. ‘Tell me your name.’
‘Elsa,’ she stated.
‘Elsa will do for now. Now tell me, how did you end up out here?’
She avoided Stahl’s gaze and remained silent. A refusal to answer any of his questions usually would have raised the hackles of Stahl, but instead, he let this small note of defiance pass. He moved onto his next question.
‘Since you have chosen to remain silent on that matter, I’ll ask you another question,’ Stahl said. ‘What did you do before you committed your crime? You can indulge me with that answer, at least. I could order you to tell me, but I’d would much prefer it if you offered the answer to me.’
‘I was a musician in Nuremburg,’ Elsa finally said.
Stahl raised his eyebrows in admiration. ‘A musician, no less. Now that is a pleasant surprise. What did you play?’
But before she could answer, he suddenly raised his hands to stop her. ‘No, let me guess. You don’t appear to suit the piano, or a wind-instrument. Perhaps your expertise was with a string instrument?’
Elsa nodded.
‘Not the cello.’
Again Elsa nodded.
‘Excellent!’ Stahl exclaimed. He peered closer at the woman. ‘In that case, was it the violin?’
Elsa didn’t need to say yes for Stahl to know that he was right. He slapped his thigh triumphantly.
‘I knew it! I looked into your heart and I knew I was right,’ Stahl nodded. ‘Which orchestra was it?’
‘I performed with the Wagner orchestra,’ Elsa said with a small hint of pride.
‘The Wagner orchestra. But they are the best orchestra in all of Germany. Only the best musicians in all of Germany are allowed to play for them. I am impressed.’ Stahl then stood up off the bed and approached Elsa. ‘Yet despite for all your musical skills, my beauty, you have still ended up here to exhibit a new set of skills… much to my pleasure.’
He reached out and tucked his fingers into the waist-band of Elsa’s costume and pulled her toward him. His long fingers traced the contours of her sunken belly, her protruding ribs and up the braces, and then across her breasts. A shiver of revulsion overcame Elsa, but she sensibly controlled this nervous reaction and kept still as Stahl’s caresses continued. In contrast, revulsion was far from Stahl’s mind now. His lust totally consumed him. His excitement grew as he pressed himself against the frail figure, all the time whispering her name over and over again, faster and faster in time with the blood that was swelling his penis. Elsa closed her eyes as she felt the erect organ pressing into her and waited for Stahl to consummate his interest. It never came.
A piercing scream sounded.
Elsa’s eyes snapped open as the horrifying shriek erupted again, its source deep within the salon.
Stahl released Elsa. He cast an eye towards the sound, then back towards her. It was, as if, for that brief second, he would let his lust, his need to enter her, dictate him and hold him on that spot. Elsa could see the yearning, the desire that had dulled his harsh exterior. He dashed away and instead of remaining in her cell, Elsa followed.