Heidegger's Glasses: A Novel by Thaisa Frank Read Free Book Online

Lodenstein was playing his ninth game of solitaire for the day.

    Lodenstein knew over fifty games. Among them were Zodiac, The Castle of Indolence, Griffon, Streets and Alleys, Thumb and Pouch, Open Crescent, Five Companions, Seven Sisters, Waste the Same, Mantis, Scarab, Twin Queens, Up or Down, Step by Step, and Milky Way. He played in stacks and cascades and felt a sensual thrill when he could do a full levens. Besides Elie Schacten, solitaire was the only thing that kept him sane. When she came in he was playing Czarina. His compass was on the floor. She put it on the bedside table.

    So, he said, is Stumpf your angel?

    He didn’t understand a thing, said Elie.

    Has he ever?

    Not once. But I thought it would work to our advantage this time.

    Our advantage? said Lodenstein. He gave her a sharp look. All I want is to keep the Scribes from a death march.

    You’re imagining the worst, said Elie.

    Then why do you bother with rescues?

    Elie didn’t answer and took off her cardigan. Heidegger’s glasses fell from the pocket. Lodenstein picked them up.

    Do you think Goebbels gives a damn if Heidegger gets these? he said. Germany’s losing this war, so what better way to feel good than issue impossible orders?

    He doesn’t want the Heideggers to know about the camps, said Elie, taking the glasses back. And if they don’t get what they want, they’ll keep poking around.

    He’d handle them if they found out.

    He doesn’t want to handle them. He wants us to. And the outpost officer is frantic.

    Lodenstein set a few cards aside. It was a special move called a heel.

    You see, said Elie, pointing to the cards. There are always ways to break the rules.

    That’s why I like solitaire. It’s not a dangerous game.

    Elie stayed by the windows and looked at snow dusting the pines. She wondered if it was snowing at Auschwitz.

    It looks like a painting out there, she said.

    Except it’s not, said Lodenstein. Who knows how many fugitives are hiding in those woods?

    And I could have been one of them, said Elie.

    Thank God you’re not.

    Except I’m not myself anymore, she said. Sometimes I think even you don’t know who I am.

    Of course I know who you are.

    You know what I mean.

    What Elie meant was that she often felt like two different people. One was Elie Schacten, born in Stuttgart, a translator for the importer Schiff und Wagg. The other was Elie Kowaleski, a student in linguistics at Freiburg.

    Elie Schacten had grown up in Germany with nursery rhymes and cooking classes. She was engaged to a soldier killed at the front. Elie Kowaleski had grown up with Polish nuns who beat her fingers until they bled, had parents who found her obstreperous, and a sister she missed every day. The two Elies worked in tandem: The first was cautious, established bonds with the black market and got food for the Compound. The second was dauntless, got more food than people ever meant to give, and smuggled people to Switzerland.

    I wish you’d tell me your real last name, said Lodenstein—not for the first time.

    It’s a secret, said Elie—not for the first time.

    It’s not good to feel like two people, he said.

    But I am two people. And someday they might ask you the wrong questions. So the less you know the better.

    They were interrupted by General-Major Mueller, who came in without knocking and shoved a deck of cards at Lodenstein.

    What game should I tell Goebbels you’re playing these days? he said. Persian Patience? Odd and Even?

    Tell him I’m playing Mueller Shuffling Papers, said Lodenstein.

    Go fuck yourself, said Mueller. He slammed the door. They heard his duffel bag scrape against the incline.

    You pissed him off, said Elie.

    Go out and make up to him, said Lodenstein.

    Why? He’s a pig.

    I want to keep Goebbels happy.

    So even you need the other Elie.

    You just know how to charm people, said Lodenstein, taking her in his arms. But you’re always the same to me.

    Dear Yvonne,

    As I was