Ena Lang closed her eyes as the stiff, warm breeze vibrated against her soft, pale skin. Alfred still hadn’t told her where they were going; only that it was an urgent mission, so as the Police Battalion Commander, he had to be there.
“Please, I want you with me,” he cajoled her out of their honeymoon bed, and into the back of his Benz staff car, for a pre-dawn, top-down ride through the countryside.
She sighed. “If I must.” But later, as she slid into the leather back seat, she said, “No sitting in a school gymnasium like last time. I didn’t come to Poland to watch you berate locals for not cooperating with the Reich.”
“I promise, I promise,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender before closing the car door.
So off they flew in the wine red and black convertible, but only after she made him promise that his car would lead the way. The last time he took her out on an urgent mission, his car was at the rear of the convoy, and she got sick on petrol fumes spewing from the police transport trucks that lumbered ahead of them. What was he thinking? The last thing she needed right now was to breathe gas emissions.
She sighed, thinking: At least, there’s a morning breeze. And really, anything’s better than sweating and waiting for Alfred’s triumphant return from a day at the office. Some honeymoon. But what could she do? He couldn’t take another leave. He’d already taken one to woo her in the spring, then again for their quick June wedding. No, there was no choice. If she wanted a honeymoon, she had to come to him, and it had to be in Poland.
Poland, she thought, Who the hell honeymoons in Poland? You do, that’s who. This wasn’t the way her new life was supposed to begin. Then again, why should her new life be any different from her old life? Stop it! She quieted the thoughts in her head. Because it is different; Alfred’s different.
She pushed away the strawberry hair strands and opened her eyes just as the sun’s yellow-orange halo peered over the horizon. She had seen so many sunrises lately that her body clock was now fine-tuned to the event. Suddenly, she saw tree branches thrusting out of the gray-darkness pursuing the new light, the way a ravenous baby groped for his mother’s breast. She shuddered, and her eyes grew big. Her face became hot, as she felt the butterfly twirl in her stomach. It seemed the butterfly’s body clock was fined tuned as well. She let out a nervous giggle, grabbing her stomach.
Alfred reached for her hand, “What is it?”
She turned way, “Nothing.”
He turned toward her, moving in close. “Don’t lie. I know what my St. Pauli girl is thinking,” he whispered in her ear, while rubbing her hand softly with his fingers.
She pushed his hand away, while whispering her scold. “Never call me that. Besides,” she motioned her eyes toward the front of the car, “the driver is watching us.” Immediately, the driver cut his eyes away from the rearview mirror and toward the road.
Alfred laughed, trying to rub her hand once more. “It’s ok. He knows we’re on our honeymoon.”
Ena pushed his hand away once more. “Stop it.” She folded her arms across her stomach and turned away from him feigning disgust.
He continued to laugh, but she knew he would leave her alone now. She took a deep breath, trying to relax, hoping the butterfly would go back to sleep. She hadn’t let him feel the flutters yet. He knew about it; he said he was glad. That’s why he wanted to marry so quickly, that, and the fact, the Reich look favorably upon young officers who repopulated the Fatherland. But she hadn’t let him feel it twirl and whirl about in her stomach. She knew that would make it too real for him, and he would start seeing her as a mother, not his bride.
No, there was time enough for that reality later. Not now, not on their honeymoon, not when she still wanted him and needed him to woo her and touch her the way he always had; the way a man touches his bride so that she burns, quivers and sighs. No, she thought, men only touch brides like that, never mothers or St. Pauli girls.
The sun had climbed halfway out of its hiding hole, and she could see the fir and beech trees more clearly now. They were swollen with lush, wet green leaves. The long grass that bordered both sides of the road was thick and stiff, but not an unruly, tangled mess; intermixed with the long blades were purple and yellow wildflowers. She smiled, surprised by the quiet beauty of country side and wondered why she hadn’t noticed before.
Then, just as quickly as it came, her smile vanished, as she chided herself for being surprised. Why wouldn’t Poland be beautiful? Because Papa said it wouldn’t. Remember, the Polocks and Jews destroyed it after the first Great War. Of course, they did. He wouldn’t lie. Because, if anyone knew desolate, barren ugliness, it was Papa.
Ena wished she could dismiss her father’s ignorance by saying he’d seen too many of Goebbels’ films, but he didn’t watch his films or anyone’s films for that matter.
Just like he didn’t read books or magazines or even listen to music. No, No, she thought, that’s not true. He listened to music: whiskey soaked piano bar concertos that reverberated from the cabarets and whorehouses on Reeperbahn Street.
Ena swallowed. That music. She hated that music. Every hour on the hour, every day of the week, except on Sunday mornings when the bars closed for church services, the pianos belted out ragtime operas. And she hated how she could still hear it playing so clearly: if she was six-years-old standing on the back porch of her St. Pauli district, brown brick, fish market home.
“Dance, Ena, dance,” her Papa Gunter had clapped. “Faster, faster.”
Ena twisted and stomped to the piano clatter while her mama flayed the day’s catch just brought home by Papa. She moved carefully in and out of the fish baskets. The last time he made her dance, she knocked one over, and he smacked her on the leg, leaving a huge palm print. “Clumsy clods never dance in the cabaret.”
The morning sun had been a fully exposed throbbing, pungent orange. Sweat trickled down her face, while her dress fluttered in the warm, sticky wind as she spun.
Papa’s blue fishing cap bobbed up and down on his bald head as he clapped. “Yes, that’s it. Keep it up, keep it up.”
She was so hot; her checks felt like fiery cherries. “Mama, please, can’t I stop?”
Her mom pounded the cleaver against the flopping fish. Thud! Then, she threw the fish head into a bucket, sloshing bloody fish guts on the porch. “Come on Gunter, can’t you see the poor child’s tired?”
Her father smoked his pipe and ignored their pleas, “Faster, I said, faster, my little St. Pauli girl.”
She hated him for always making her dance. She didn’t want to be in the cabaret, and she never wanted to be his little St. Pauli girl.
Ena’s world was a dizzy patchwork of sweat stinging, blue, white and cracked brown images. Suddenly, she became nauseous and closed her eyes so she wouldn’t vomit, but the hot, salty perspiration burned too much and she had to open them again. God, she wanted to scratch her eyes out, scratch out the pain and make the spinning world stop forever.
A hot gust of wind whipped across the back porch, stirring up curdled, dead fish. The odor blasted into her nose, making her more nauseated. She stumbled about like a
drunkard, splashing into the bloody puddles on the back porch and staining her bare legs a putrid pink.
As the cool water doused her legs, her queasiness subsided. Her senses were awake once more, and she realized the music and her father’s laughter had merged and twisted in the hot morning wind, keeping time with her pounding heart and fading in and out of her ears. In between beats, she heard a bird chirping, and she knew what she must do: spin faster, faster than the world, so fast that her fluttering dress would catch the wind and lift her into the air, turning her into a bird. Then, she would fly far away where Papa would never see or torment her again.
Her heart pounded louder, as she spun faster and faster, drowning out the music, Papa, everything. The world became a slow motion blur. She knew her plan was working because she felt lighter, somehow, and believed at any moment she would be air born and free.
As she prepared for liftoff, another wind gust came up from under the porch boards, blowing her dress up, over her head. Startled, Ena fell backward and knocked over a fish bucket. She slipped in the slosh and hit the porch with a horrid thud, covered in fish guts, a grounded, wounded bird.
Instantly, she heard Papa’s rage, as he stomped up the porch stairs. “Stupid, clumsy whore,” he said, boxing her about the head before pulling down the dress to hide her stained legs and bloomers. “Do you want the neighbors to see?”
“Gunter,” her mother yelled, as she came to Ena. “What’s wrong with you? The child fell for God shake.”
He backhanded her mother across the mouth, knocking her down the stairs. “Clean up this filth. We have a market to open.”
Her mother waited for the screen door to slam before she ran to her. “Baby, you know how he is.”
She pushed her mother away, got up and straightened her dress. “You heard him. We have to clean up the mess.”
Yes, Mama, we both knew how he was. We both knew, and you couldn’t protect me. Ena swallowed hard and quickly flicked the tears away; she could feel herself slipping into despair. Enough, she had to silence the fears. You escaped, and he can’t ever hurt you again.
“Ena, Ena,” Alfred lightly squeezed her shoulder. “What is it, my pet?”
His soft voice and gentle touch brought her back to reality. She turned toward her husband; his soft blue eyes made her feel safe once more. “Nothing,” she let the words escape before she could think of anything else to say.
“Oh, Ena, you’re crying.” He put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her close, then rubbed away the remaining tears from her bright pink cheeks. “Don’t cry now. I can’t stand it when your pretty blue eyes are all red streaked.” He kissed her left eye, then her right. “It’s this war, this damned war. It’s not fair you should have to honeymoon like this.” He kissed her forehead, then said softly. “It’s just--you’re so beautiful that I always want you with me.”
Ena laid her head against his chest. “And I always want to be with you. I’m just tired, that’s all.”
Alfred held her close. “Not much farther now. Miedzyrzec is just a few more kilometers, and when we’ve done what we must, you and I will fly home for a candlelight dinner,” he paused, lowering his voice to a wanton whisper, “for two. Maybe, we’ll dance? You like to dance, uh?”
Ena smiled, “Maybe.”
The sun had finally escaped the horizon, losing its orange tint and emerging a vivid, creamy yellow. She rested against Alfred, content once more. Somehow, he always knew what to say and what to do. This is why you married him, she thought, even when Mama warned you not to.
“You’re too smart for this,” her mother said, as she placed the cup of tea down in front of Ena. “You’ve got a good job at the library. You haven’t been there a year, and you’re already night manger. For heaven’s sake, you’re only twenty. What’s the rush?”
Ena flipped the gold teaspoon in and out of her fingers as she watched the steam twist and curl from teacup toward the kitchen ceiling. The off-white porcelain teacup set and gold teaspoons were the finest things her mother owned. She kept them in a wicker picnic basket hidden under the steps and only brought them out for their secret tea parties when Papa was gone. “You see,” she always told Ena, as she sipped tea with her pinkie fully extended, “they’re an heirloom, the only link I have to my Grand-Mama Greta from Bavaria.” Then, they’d giggle, pretending to have tea with a Duchess.
That’s how they spent her childhood, keeping secrets and pretending.
“Ena, are you listening?”
Ena took a slow sip of tea, then said. “Yes, Mama. I heard you.” It was remarkable how her mother seemed so small to her now, so old, shriveled and gray. What had she been afraid of? She took another sip, then said coolly. “I’m not asking for your advice or permission. I’m telling you that Alfred and I are getting married.”
“Child, you’re not thinking. He’s-”
“I’m not a child anymore.”
Her mother shot back. “Then quit acting like one. For Christ’s sake, you’re running off with the first uniform that comes along, and he’s not even a real Captain. He’s a Police Captain stationed in Poland. Poland! Once the war’s over, then what? He comes back to Hamburg to walk a beat, directing traffic. You’ve worked too hard and been through too much to settle for a policeman. You don’t have to marry him!” Suddenly, her mother’s tone became softer as she sat down next to her, gently touching her hand. “You deserve better.”
Ena snatched her hand away and stood up, knocking her cup over as she did. Tea ran down the side of the table, forming a puddle on the floor as her voice shook with rage. “I do have to marry him, Mama, just like you had to marry Papa. And we both deserve better. Only, you don’t believe it, so you stay, even after everything Papa did to us, to me, you stay. Well, I won’t stay another minute. I’m escaping, because I know I deserve better.”
Now, four huge troop transports sped ahead of the Benz, kicking up road dust exhaust and exhaust fumes.
Ena quickly covered her nose and mouth with her shirt collar. “Alfred, you promised.”
He smiled. “I’m sorry my pet, but we must hurry now. You know the damn, drunken Hiwis. Why the Reich ever bothered recruiting these Ukrainian fools? Well,” he patted her arm, “You know. If I’m not there to supervise, there’s no telling.”
After a few moments the dust settled, and Ena could see the flaps on the back of the last truck waving back and forth as it lumbered down the dirt road. Every so often she saw the soldiers bouncing up and down in the back like green and brown specters. Poor Bastards, she thought, what a God-awful ride.
Alfred pounded the driver on the shoulder. “Sich Beeilen!”
The car quickly sped up, turning the light airy, breeze into a hard, raw wind that pounded against Ena’s face and mangled her hair. She felt her cheeks flush and knew they’d look like beets by the time they reached town. She pushed the hair from her eyes just in time to see a huge flock of Red Breasted Flycatchers scatter to the west just above the tree lines; their shrill creeps made Ena shiver, as goose pimples prickled over her arms.
Before she could catch her breath, the Benz had bounced and jerked its way across a rock bridge and down the hill toward Miedzyrzec. She saw cottages dotting the countryside, then the brown brick row buildings lining the Town Square. Police and troop transport trucks bordered the both sides of the road leading into town. Ena had never seen this many transports before.
As soon as the Benz reached the bottom of the hill, it entered the transport truck tunnel and headed for the Square. She saw Alfred’s police squad popping out of the back of the trucks like grasshoppers, swarming toward the masses gathered. Then, she heard the pop, pop of shots and understood Alfred and his men were here to do much more than berate the locals.
The Benz driver took a sharp turn to the left, sliding the rear of the car and jarring them. The tires skidded while grinding and spitting out rocks as the car spun in a complete circle before shuddering to a stop.
Dazed, Ena clawed through the matted hair about her face to find she was alone. Alfred and the driver were already out of the car. Trembling and dizzy, she stumbled out of the Benz, trying to regain her bearings.
Smoke hung in the air, turning the brilliant morning sky into a choking, thick gray canopy. The Miedzyrzec Square below was littered with rummaged suitcases and discarded clothing. The hoard, a ragged patchwork of blues, browns, greens and faded yellow stars, moved slowly, ever so slowly to the crackling sounds of The Fairies blaring from a phonograph on the back of transport truck and gun fire.
POP!
Ena turned to find Alfred standing over an old man, lying on the ground, flailing helplessly about. Her husband’s hand went POP! POP! And the old man’s jerking body went limp, and Ena watched, as the red puddle next to his head gradually grew bigger and stained his soft white beard. Her heart pounded. Then, the wind changed directions, whipping from the west, and she smelled sweat and blood, and before she could stop herself, Ena was on her knees vomiting breakfast on the dark, red dirt.
Now, above the broken, music and moans, she heard Alfred yelling, Zum Zug! She wiped her mouth and looked up to find her husband pointing toward the thick gray smoke funneling above the rail station in the eastern part of town. Alle Juden zum zug!
A sudden wind gust picked up a dingy white handkerchief, swirling it quickly about her head before dropping it like a stone at beside her. She slumped against the Benz, sobbing, clutching her stomach. The butterfly danced as the little St. Pauli Girl watched Alfred calmly direct traffic. A chill shivered up her spine, making her shake, and she wondered how she would protect her child from the Fatherland.
