The Empire of the Senses (4 page)

Lev glanced across the table at Hermann, who was also listening intently, storing away this information for later, when he would repeat it to others as if he had overheard a secret meeting behind closed doors.

He finished the beets. For a moment, he allowed himself to miss home. The starched white sheets on his bed, the quiet of the house after the children were asleep, and the lingering smell of bread and wine filtering through the hallways. How Marthe sang when she cleaned the kitchen late at night, preparing for the next day, and the sight of Josephine before her mirror in their bedroom, silently brushing her golden hair with a faraway look in her eyes, as if she was already dreaming, and how she would smile softly when Lev finally broke her reverie with the question, “What are you thinking?” A vague haze would overtake her, and to get closer to her, he would have to accept this dreamy state. Her abstraction would continue during the physicality of sex. She would sigh and arch her back and stare into his face without seeing him, with these bottomless liquid eyes, and he felt as if he was penetrating a shimmering mist. If he tried to break the spell and depart from this odd realm in which their skin felt translucent, his lips pressed into her shoulder blade somehow muted and unreal, she would recoil as if he had transformed into a vulgar and horrifying creature. She would fold into herself, clamoring for the lace pillows, burying her head in them, and muttering accusations Lev could never quite hear. She would fall asleep quickly, one hand frozen on her breast as if still experiencing an affront, and Lev would stare helplessly into the dark room, wondering how long it would be until she would give herself to him again. A month. Or two. He would have to wait. This he did not miss.

That night, they slept on the second floor of a deserted farmhouse. The first floor was filthy; the Russians had left piles of horse manure inside, and the process of removing it and cleaning the building was ongoing. The windows stood wide open, and he listened to the sound of a dogcart clattering down pavement and a salvo pushing through the night. He shared this room with twenty other men who breathed hoarsely, fitfully
turning in their sleep. Hermann sat cross-legged in the corner, nearest the window, smoking. After dinner, Lev noticed he had become spent and sullen, worn out by his own personality, and when they unloaded their packs here, he had retreated to the farthest corner of the room. They were the only two people awake, but Hermann acted as if he did not notice Lev sitting up against the wall, smoking too. Every so often the black sky filled with fireworks from rising and falling signal flares, and Lev tried to distinguish the difference between machine-gun fire and rifle fire. Hermann also studied the sky, and Lev wondered if he was playing the same game.

The next morning, Lev found out that he would stay at camp and work in the field hospital until further notice. His job was to record any changes in the soldiers’ wounds in the morning, make rounds, and clean the operating rooms in the afternoon. Relieved, he knew the possibility of death was at bay for a little while longer, and for an instant, Lev pictured that hated neighborhood dog of his youth, the mangy German shepherd who snarled and jumped up against the wooden fence that Lev passed on his way to school. The dog jumped so high, frantically clawing his paws on the slats, but never quite high enough. The stinging fear, the beating heart, the sweat under his arms never failed to surprise Lev even though he was safe, on the other side of the fence. This was how he felt now, on the other side of death, on the other side of the line. But in his relief, to stroll past the monstrosity but not into it, he felt shame too. Why had he been held back? Save for a few preliminary medical courses at university, he had no experience. Could they tell he lacked the conviction of his peers, who believed in war as if it was a necessary rite, a passage to manhood, whereas Lev slinked by, happy and ashamed all at once to remain on the sidelines and bide his time until he could return to his scented sheets, his scuffed wingtips, his wife’s golden hair tangled around his fingers.

The other men had already gone ahead to breakfast. Lev lingered in the barracks, neatly folding his blanket, marveling at his fate, which felt like a beautifully wrapped gift he should save and hide away. Placing the blanket squarely at the foot of his cot, he smoothed down the rough
wool fabric and wondered if Josephine still slept on her side of the bed, never crossing over to his side, or did she take up the whole bed now that he was gone, loose-limbed and languid among those lavender-scented sheets? Would she allow Vicki and Franz into bed with her when the nights grew dark and cold? Or if Vicki woke from a bad dream, would Josephine carry her down the hall, as Lev did, and take her into their bed until she fell back to sleep? When Lev did this, Josephine insisted he was spoiling Vicki. “She’s not a baby anymore,” she had protested, and Lev promised that next time he would not gather up Vicki in his arms, her long legs dangling on either side of him. But he never kept this promise. He always picked her up, carried her, held her close. His heart contracted, imagining Vicki alone and terrified of the darkness, of the invented demons lurking beneath her bed, of the red fox sinking its sharp white teeth into her ankle—a recurrent bad dream that caused her, upon waking, to race down the hallway crying, believing her ankle still pulsed from the phantom bite.

When Lev arrived at the mess hall for breakfast, men milled around the long tables, smoking and talking. The cooks ran in and out of the kitchen, ferrying bowls of porridge. His stomach, tight with hunger, grumbled even though the porridge looked gray and watery. Hermann grinned at Lev, coming over to him. “The damn Russians and Poles still live on Russian time. So every morning breakfast is either too early or too late. Even though we changed all the clocks to German time.” He shook his head. “Incredible.” Up close his eyes were slate gray, an indefinable color that changed with the light.

Lev glanced around the mess hall. “The natives aren’t so cooperative after all.” When he said this, his voice sounded stiff and detached. He sat down next to Hermann. Bowls, filled with the indistinguishable lukewarm grain, had been placed on the table. Hermann nudged Lev with his elbow. “But we’re better than the czarist army—they terrorized their own people. Killed them if they didn’t evacuate within twenty-four hours. Burned down their houses and slaughtered their livestock. Brutal, unpredictable rule—these people have lived under the worst kind of fear.” Hermann’s eyes flickered when he said
fear
.

“We’re here to rebuild.” Lev didn’t know what else to say.

Hermann smiled sarcastically. “We’ll make all the Poles, Lithuanians, White Russians, Latvians, and Estonians into Germans. They’ll realize they always were German.” He stopped short, pressing his thin hands together. “Even the Jews will become German here.”

Lev stared at Hermann’s slate-colored eyes and nodded, as if he had nothing to do with Jews.

Hermann continued, now eating his porridge vigorously. “The clocks and the fields and the slant-eyed women picking potatoes, even the animals will be German by the time we’re done.” His spoon dropped into his empty bowl, clattering against the tin.

2

For three weeks, Lev worked in the field hospital, recording how fast the wounds decayed and the agony of the men who housed them. He got used to the sharp smell of putrefaction hovering in the halls, even though fans were blowing and the rooms were well lit, giving off the impression of cleanliness and order. Sometimes, after he was done with his rounds, he lingered in the empty operating room, his hands sore from cleaning, and wrote in his diary, the snatched half hour a boon. He wrote about how yesterday a first lieutenant’s chest wound appeared like a ruby. He had stated calmly to Lev, “The bullet entered here,” pointing to the dark cavity lodged in his white chest. Then he added, “Not much longer, eh?” Lev recorded his death in the ledger two hours later. But the lieutenant did not shake. Brain contusions, abdominal wounds, and the effects of machine-gun fire made most of the men shake unapologetically. They suffered lockjaw, wheezing, their eyes searching the corners of the ceiling. What struck him were not so much their faces but the radiant colors; white gleaming skin contrasted with crimson blood, the wounds under bandages that would inevitably turn, after a few days, a dark muddy yellow. He wished he’d brought his oils, his canvases and brushes. But he hadn’t packed any materials because it had seemed embarrassing, almost blasphemous, to suggest war provided leisure time to paint landscapes, and worse, that he expected this for himself. But here he was, bereft of his tools, save for a stubby piece of charcoal, which he tried on vellum, but the paper easily tore, only furthering his frustration at his ineptness for not having done any drawing or painting over the last few years. He cursed himself for even thinking he could take it up again, and under such circumstances.
But still, his desire to capture the odd, wondrous details that surrounded him persisted. Especially when hospital days were uneventful, or when he was granted the afternoon off, feeling slovenly and empty, the insides of his hands itched for his brushes.

Days passed into nights, and Lev, exhausted, would make his way to the barracks in the predawn hours. Walking back, a cool voluptuous rain fell. He would look up into the dripping tree branches and no longer feel as if the land was hostile. He held his face up to the rain, licking his chapped lips, his eyes opening and closing in response to the heavy drops, the sky emptying out its distress. When he reached the barracks, he would collapse onto his cot as the sky grew paler, his clothes sticking to his skin. He didn’t mind getting his woolen blanket damp beneath him. It was too much trouble to remove it. He lay there, staring out the window at the thick gray rain, thinking, You and the world have drifted away.

A few days later, he wrote this at the end of a letter to Josephine. She took it too literally and in response included reminders of home in her next package, a lock of her hair, for instance. Sometimes, he flicked the bottom of his chin with her silky lock, not thinking of her at all, but merely enjoying the immediate pleasure of something soft and ticklish.

And sometimes he directed his thoughts back to that particular moment when he first saw her at the Ice Palace, in Schöneberg. It was late summer 1907. He had just turned twenty, and she eighteen.

That day, Lev had worn his best suit, a recently purchased three-piece with a white cravat and bowler hat. He wore it stiffly and wondered if anyone noticed how the starched collar pulled at his neck. He wanted to look languorous and smooth in it, as if he had been born in such a suit, as if he didn’t save away two months’ salary just to feel the delicate light wool under his fingers while catching a brief glance in the mirror at how perfectly the lapels rested on his chest, the fluidity of the double vent in back, the fine length of the sleeves covering his gangly wrists. There were mirrors everywhere, so it wasn’t too obvious when he checked his
reflection. The mirrors were high and arched, causing the Ice Palace to appear grander than it actually was. Lev had heard all the pretty girls came here on Saturdays to escape the Berlin heat. He’d abandoned his university friends—they would play scat all day at the beach, happy to listen to the mingling of the seagulls and lake tides. So Lev ventured here alone, feeling strangely shy when he saw all the mirrors and the music. Dimly lit chandeliers hung over the ice rink. Sun streamed in through the long arcade of windows on the second floor. Lev positioned himself on the upper balustrade, peering up at the domed ceiling, wondering what this was before it became an ice-skating rink. He considered ordering a coffee and watched the skaters.

There were all sorts of combinations. Men with women, women with women, unruly gangs of children colliding into the paneled walls, a few older men dignified in their top hats, hands in pockets. A waltz played. His feet were starting to get cold. He thought about skating, but he wasn’t very good. Well, the pretty girls were here, plenty of them. Lev lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully, as he often liked to do when surveying the opposite sex. On the ice, girls glided past painted frescoes on the walls. An alpine scene, full of snowy peaks. A cottage on a lake, the lake mirroring the reflection of the cottage and the surrounding firs. Supposed to make you think you’re out in the country, Lev mused. As if we’re all hearty peasants having a day off, our cheeks ruddy and full of blood. But the long silk dresses the women wore, with full skirts and shawls and elaborate hats, and some girls even skating with parasols, to block the rectangles of sun that fell across the ice from marring their untouched skin, gave them away as Berliners of a certain class. Old aunties sat at the café, stuffing their mouths with lemon cake while their younger versions, lithe and angular, pirouetted on the ice, the girls laughing and throwing their heads back as if they’d never seen the way the Wannsee freezes over every January, as if this was all new and sparkling. But it was summer outside, and the novelty of feeling a wintry chill while the rest of the city sweated was what made them all laugh so gleefully, as if they alone were exempt from the elements, inside the Ice Palace.

It happened quickly, as he was contemplating how hot the apartment
would feel when he returned, and how much he must have already sweated through his white shirt because it had turned into a cold sweat, and how his collar really was too tight, and he might as well leave because his feet hurt, and he was hungry but sitting down didn’t seem right, although the idea of a coffee tingled his tongue, the hot black liquid: she sliced across the ice, instantly, her long lean form frozen in an arabesque, one arm stretching over her head on the same level as her extended leg, making the most exquisite but impossible shape. Her dress was a golden brown, the color of fall leaves, a color I could paint, Lev thought as he leaned farther over the balustrade. In the last moment, when it seemed as if she might crash into the wall, she swiftly swung her leg down and performed a tight turn. Her neck looked extraordinarily long and white. The color of her hair, golden, flashed in the light. She was with two other girls, who stuck together, and occasionally she glided past them to make some remark, but by the time they could respond, she was off again. She weaved between couples and children, lost in her own world, impervious. Lev lifted his chin, as if to challenge her. He forgot the chilly air, warmed by her lunar beauty. A few times, he thought she might have glanced up at him, an averted haughty glance. Now she spun, her skirt billowing out, her arms crossed over her chest, like a Russian doll. Her friends watched, tugging on their hats. They were round-shouldered and awkward. She suddenly stopped, boring the pointed tip of her skate into the ice, as if to say voilà. Then she held his gaze. It was a piercing wintry gaze. Lev felt his chest cave and groped for a newspaper or another cigarette, though he knew he didn’t have one. All he could do was stare back. She carefully placed a hand on her hair as if to smooth it down, but her plait was perfectly coiled around her head, and this little movement called attention to how she knew there was nothing out of place. Lev nodded, acknowledging this. She smiled. A small faint smile, but enough to make Lev move from his spot where he’d been gripping the balustrade and rush down the wooden stairs, almost slipping on the last stair, wet from a spill, until he came to the edge of the ice, the tips of his oxfords butting up against the frozen surface.