Wunderland(71)

“Ja, Hauptsturmführer.” Ilse cleared her throat. “I don’t know whether you know it or not, but two of my fellow Service Maidens were recently attacked in town. In broad daylight, in the village.” She cleared her throat again. “By—by Poles.”

“Ah.” He shook his head regretfully. “I hadn’t heard of this incident. I have to say, though, I’m not surprised. Poles are practically animals—barely a notch above Jews, in terms of evolution.” Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands over his belly. “In fact, the farther across the border you go, the more interbred the two are, to the point where they become almost indistinguishable from one another. Did you know that, Fr?ulein von Fischer?”

Ilse did not. But she also had no interest in an impromptu eugenics lesson—she was late enough for dinner as it was. She decided to get to the point.

“I’ve been told,” she said carefully, “that the mayor has spoken to these young men’s parents. But a number of us—myself included—worry that without more serious repercussions, these—these incidents might be repeated.”

The Hauptsturmführer tipped his chin up thoughtfully. “You have the names of the culprits?”

Ilse nodded. “Yes.”

If it came out with conviction, it was because she’d thought this part through. It was true she had no proof that the boys who’d trailed her to the butcher’s were the same ones who’d knocked Marita and Lies down. Nor did she know for sure that the names the butcher had written down were the actual names of the boys who’d bothered her. Logically speaking, though, it seemed far more likely than not that there was some overlap between the three categories. And even if these weren’t the exact same Poles who’d knocked two girls off their bicycles, they were Poles nevertheless, and someone had to pay for the transgression. One way or another (she reasoned) the point had to be made—even if it meant that one or two of the boys might be wrongly disciplined in the process.

It was as she’d told Renate the day she’d fetched her back to Herr Hartmann’s class: Sacrifices have to be made. Anything that gets in the way of what we are trying to do has to go.

“Yes,” Ilse repeated now. “I have the names.”

Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved the folded page upon which the butcher had carefully written down his list. Unfolding it, she placed it on the commander’s desk. Lips pursed, he picked it up, perused its contents. Then he set it back down, leaned back again.

“I am impressed by your resolve, Fr?ulein,” he said. “But can you tell me if either of your lovely Maidens were assaulted in a way that—how do I put this—compromised their purity?”

It was a straightforward enough question. But something in his demeanor made her stomach tighten uneasily. It might have been his bemused smile, which seemed to imply less concern for Marita and Lies than titillated interest in the details of their abuse.

“No,” she said, feeling herself flush again. “No, they weren’t. But given the current environment—and your own observations about the Polish nature—such things certainly can’t be ruled out in the future. That is, not unless proper measures are taken. As I’m suggesting.”

“No,” he said, “they certainly cannot.” He chuckled a little. “I’m curious. What measures do you believe would be ‘proper’?”

Ilse blinked again, again taken aback: wasn’t it his job to know these things?

“I’m not certain,” she said slowly. “But whatever it is, it should be well publicized. In the paper, and on the bulletin board and such.”

“How about a whipping?” He said it almost gently, tenting his fingers under his chin. “Would you like me to have them whipped?”

This left her even more flustered: “Perhaps,” she stammered. “Or—or perhaps a day or two in detention. Or perhaps they could be assigned to work one of the German farms without pay.”

“You’ve thought about this quite a bit, I can see.”

“I have,” she conceded. “Out of concern for both my fellow Maidens and the future of the Labor Service here as a whole. You see, I believe some of these—some of these hooligans are actively trying to discourage us from our purpose. I think some of them even want us to leave. And if they succeed, who knows what will happen to the poor Volksdeutsche in this town? They’re practically outnumbered as it is!”

It came out in a rush; impassioned, almost accusatory. For a moment she worried she’d gone too far. But the Hauptsturmführer just nodded again, still smoking, his bright eyes still tightly trained on her face. He kept them there for what felt like an uncomfortably long time.

At last, stubbing out his cigarette, he stood. “How about this,” he said. “I’ll have my men round them up tomorrow. Then you can come back and decide for me what should be done with them.”

“Ich?” The proposal caught her so fully off-guard that she actually took a half step back. “I—I believe it would be more advisable for you to make that decision, Hauptsturmführer,” she stammered.

“And why would you believe that?”

“Well, you obviously—you obviously have more experience in these things.”

Almost sadly, he shook his head. “Ah, Fr?ulein von Fischer,” he said. “The problem with experience is that it’s very hard to get it without committing to action. But I’m more than happy to help you with that.”