She moved toward him and lifted her white nurse’s skirt and began to unbutton him. It was not lust, not merely desire he told himself, it was validation — for her as well as him. It was as if he were being reborn. The past, the old ideas, the bitter Jew hate seemed to be quickly disappearing.
“Not here, Stephanie, not here.”
He restarted the car and headed back to the highway, his thoughts buzzing with possibilities. She sat beside him as he drove, caressing his penis as if it were somehow a symbol of their unity, the connection between them. He had never before thought of this in such mystical terms. What had he become? Who was he?
“There.” She pointed to a lighted sign ahead. “Cabins.”
He left her in the car and went to the small office where he paid cash for a cabin. An old man took his five dollars and handed him a key.
When he returned to the car, she looked troubled.
“You were limping, Frank.”
“Gets stiff sometimes.”
“Was it x-rayed?”
“I’m fine.”
“You didn’t come back to the hospital, Frank. I assumed you found a private doctor.”
“I did,” he lied. “It’s just stiff. The doctor said it would take time.”
“Yes, it does,” she agreed, frowning, obviously troubled.
“I’m fine,” he said again. The reminder made the pain worse.
He parked the car in front of the cabin, and they entered.
Although the cabin was cold and damp, they reacted as if they had suddenly arrived in Valhalla. He felt suddenly replaced — the old Franz Mueller and the new Frank Miller fading into nothingness — and a new person emerging to fill his outer skin. They clung together, naked, merged now into a single being. Connected! I am home now, he told himself.
“I love you, Frank,” she whispered, lost in passion.
“And I, you,” he cried, repeating it again and again. “And I, you.
He wanted time to stop, to freeze the moment.
Even after they were sated by orgasmic fury, they stayed connected and entwined.
They had not bothered to pull down the shade in the cabin. They dozed, contented, dreamy, isolated. Opening his eyes, he saw the morning winter light wash over them. Her eyes were open, her head turned upward, as if she had been watching him all night. She lay in the crook of his arm, her fingers caressing his body.
“Take me with you, Frank,” she persisted. “Please, Frank, take me with you.”
As far as he could remember, he had never doubted that his course was the right one. Was disbelief entering his consciousness? Or could it be that there were exceptions to his conviction that all Jews were vermin to be exterminated from the face of the earth. Were there no exceptions? Had some errant gene found its way into the evil mix that could neutralize the beast within and create an alien species? Stephanie had to be an exception, misplaced, an aberration. In her, the errant gene was absent. She was misplaced, he was certain. She was a full-blooded Aryan. She had to be. How could he feel this if it were not so?
He could not, of course, take her with him. But there was the possibility that when his assignment was over, he might return here, a free man, able to make a free choice, to live a complete life without fear. Perhaps, if he broached it, she would stand beside him in all his future battles with the enemy. In her mind, hadn’t she already rejected a kinship with her misbegotten people? Could he hold out such a possibility? Questions… questions. He needed to find answers.
They made love again, then, their bodies’ rage depleted, they simmered, still entwined, unwilling to disengage. Suddenly, as if an explosion rocked the room, she cried out.
“No,” she screamed. “It can’t be.”
His left arm had embraced her, and his right arm lay relaxed above his head. She screamed again, her eyes focused on the space under his arm. He had forgotten the blood type number the SS had tattooed under his arm.
She was on her hands and knees inspecting the tattoo under his arm.
“It can’t be! I’m dreaming!” she shouted. “I’ve seen that before. I know what it is — SS. I saw this mark on those Germans in the New England hospital. I know what this is. How could this be?”
He had been caught completely off guard. It was indeed an SS regulation, the pure-Aryan, pure-blood-type tattoo, proudly recorded, a ritual marking that accompanied induction.
She looked at the tattoo in horror, mesmerized, unable to take her eyes off it. He brought his arm down, but she continued to stare, her hysteria unabated.
“I can explain,” he whispered lamely. Explain what?
“You’re SS. I can’t believe it! SS are Jew-hating killers. You sent my people to the ovens. I don’t believe this. When they were prisoners, I wouldn’t nurse them. I wouldn’t touch them.”
She jumped from the bed and began to gather her clothes.
“You’re SS, a monster!” She shrieked, repeating the words over and over again. “You’re SS! Forgive me, God. I’m so ashamed.”
She moved away from him, to a corner of the room.
“I can’t stay here. You’re SS. I don’t believe this! I’ve been sleeping with the devil.”
He came toward her, and she began to shriek again, shaking.
“Get away from me. Please don’t touch me.”
“Stop,” he commanded. “Stop this.”
She began to scream again. He felt disoriented, a fire of rage in his gut.
“Jewish bitch,” he cried, reaching for her.
As he came forward, she waited, terrified. Then with all the strength she could muster, she kicked him in the genitals. The blow stopped him. He doubled over but quickly recovered and came at her again.
She fought hard, punching him. Then she tried to gouge out his eyes. Despite her strength, she was no match for him. He hit her in the face, and her head thudded against the wall. Then he reached for her neck.
The fight was still in her. She renewed her struggle, twisting and turning, trying to maneuver herself out of the power of his grip.
Unwilling to stop her vain attempts to get out of his grasp, she fought him with all her strength.
“Enough,” he hissed the words into her ear, but she continued to struggle. His hands closed on her throat.
As he increased the pressure, she began to weaken. He heard a cracking noise and she slumped against him.
“Filthy Jew,” he whispered, letting her limp body drop to the floor.
Chapter 16
Harry Truman, president of the United States, in a neat, double-breasted suit and a splashy-colored tie, stood just inside the rear car of the Ferdinand Magellan, the seven-car, bullet-proofed, armor-plated train commissioned by his predecessor. He was impatiently waiting for Churchill to arrive. Because the train was so closely associated with Roosevelt, Truman felt uncomfortable. It was only the second time he was on board, having used it once to make a quick whistle-stop tour at the urging of Roosevelt during his campaign for Vice President.
Shedding the Roosevelt mantle had been an arduous task for Truman. Although he did admire the former president and was indebted to him for appointing him vice president, he continued to be resentful of the man’s death at that critical time. It was a foolish, he knew, but he had been completely unprepared, and the year of catch-up had presented him with enormous challenges. It might have been less of a chore if he had been fully briefed beforehand. Nevertheless, despite his initial bewilderment, Truman’s confidence in himself never flagged. He wished he had been more involved during the eighty-eight days of Roosevelt’s presidency, twenty-five of which he had been away.
He had met with Roosevelt as vice president only twice before he died. He remembered how shocked he was seeing him face-to-face on his last visit. The hollow cheeks and pallid face suggested he was dying, although at the time, Truman had never acknowledged it to himself. Nor, he supposed, had Roosevelt.