The Linz Tattoo by Nicholas Guild Read Free Book Online Page B

corporal had said.
“It’s time to clean you up. If you want to make an impression here
you’ll have to be presentable. We soldiers of the Waffen-SS are a
very fastidious lot.”
    It was a joke. He threw back his head and
laughed. At intervals, as he marched her along, he would laugh to
himself, enjoying his witticism all over again.
    Her first bath at Waldenburg came out of a
garden hose. The corporal held it for her. and she scrubbed herself
off with clumps of withered grass because, of course, there was no
soap.
    During the time she was the General’s pet she
had a steel tub and lavender-scented crystals that foamed in the
hot water. The general had a sensitive nose and even gave her a
bottle of cologne. She had three changes of underwear and a pair of
patent-leather shoes.
    The General sometimes said that he had never
been cut out to be a soldier, that actually he disliked the company
of men, which was the one absolute condition of the military life.
That would be on rare evenings when the General felt disposed to
give himself a little treat and they would spend the whole night
together and he would drink wine and play the violin. He liked to
be told that he played well—it was a vanity of his that he could
have been a great virtuoso, or perhaps, even better, a conductor,
even another Furtwängler. “I gave up all thought of leading
orchestras to lead my division,” he would say, smiling sadly. “And now, as you see, I don’t even have most of my
division.” So he would play Bach and Paganini on his fiddle and
get quietly drunk. He was not a very active lover; he preferred to
lie quietly and have everything done for him. And then he would
sleep, never stirring until nearly noon.
    And in the stillness of night Esther would
listen to the faint sound of his breathing and wonder how she could
stand to live.
    “The General likes his women well broken in,”
the corporal had told her as he led her away. She was still
shivering from the cold water, but he had given her a soldier’s
tunic to wrap around her. “You’ll spend a little time with the men
first, and then you’ll get the idea.”
    He opened the door to one of the barracks and
dragged her inside by the arm, shouting, “Here she is, lads!
Remember we want her back in good repair.” And then he laughed, and
shut the door behind him.
    She would always remember the way their faces
had looked in those first few seconds. There were seven men in the
barracks that particular afternoon, and they stared at her,
grinning hungrily. They were like animals; she thought at first
they might tear her to pieces with their teeth.
    There were four barracks. For the next three
weeks she was passed from one to the next. She was the evening
entertainment. She learned everything there was to know about
men.
    No, perhaps the Russians weren’t as bad as
that.
    . . . . .
    Filatov took her to the doorway of the
hearing room and waited with her outside in the
corridor—personally, so that they were alone together. He seemed to
think he was conferring some great distinction on her
    “You must look nice for the judges,” he said,
pushing a loose strand of hair back from her face. “You want to
make a good impression.” He kept glancing around, as if afraid of
being overheard.
    When the door opened, he took her roughly by
the arm and marched her through it. Suddenly she was standing in
the center of the floor, facing a long table behind which sat three
men in uniform and a woman in a khaki blouse. The woman was taking
notes, which seemed odd because for a long time no one spoke so
much as a word.
    The presiding officer, who sat in the center,
directly in front of her, was a captain of artillery—she could tell
that from the cannons on his collar patches. He seemed about fifty,
hard-faced and completely bald. He didn’t even look up from the
papers on his desk when Filatov saluted crisply and stepped back to
stand at parade rest by the door
    “You are Polish?” he asked