Heidegger's Glasses_ A Novel Part 3

The mention of seances made Stumpf so nervous he ate a gherkin off Mueller's plate. He'd often thought it was Mueller who had told Goebbels's office about a seance he'd held where a candle fell over and started a fire in a corner of the upstairs room. Mueller helped put out the fire and was the only person who knew about it.

I don't think you should do anything, Mueller continued, locking the black leather case where he stored his mysterious papers. The optometrist went to school with Heidegger before Heidegger knew the optometrist was a dog. Besides, Heidegger's p.i.s.sed off everyone. I say to h.e.l.l with him.

You're telling the former Chancellor of Freiburg to go to h.e.l.l! I should report you.

Go ahead. Let them shoot me.

This was a lie. Even though Mueller worried that his days were numbered, he wanted as many of them as possible and was angry that he, not Lodenstein, had been called back to Berlin. He was so angry he thought about putting a bullet through Stumpf's head. But he couldn't just throw him in the forest and cover him with leaves. There would be an investigation.

Do whatever you want, he said, yanking on his boots. Bring him the d.a.m.ned gla.s.ses. Leave them outside his little hut. I'm sure Heidegger believes in elves.

But don't think the Scribes are going to help you, he continued. They're useless with their lotteries and word games. You should shoot them.

You can't shoot the Scribes! There would be no one to answer letters.

Do you really believe these records matter?

Stumpf, who never forgot his inferior position, drew back.

I'm sure the dead are waiting to read them, he said.

No one believes that, said Mueller.

Himmler does.

But not Goebbels, said Mueller. He doesn't believe that at all. He dusted a boot and handed Stumpf a miniature ivory box and a deck of cards.

Tell Lodenstein the cards are a good-bye present, he said. And the box is for Elie Schacten.

I'm not your servant, said Stumpf, shoving everything back.

And he left the rosewood room still a burdened man because no one in the Compound took the mission more seriously than he did. Stumpf was sure the idea about answering letters to the dead or about-to-be-dead had occurred to him at the same time it occurred to the Thule Society, just the way two people in the 17th century-he couldn't remember who-had discovered calculus at the same time. Lodenstein treated the project carelessly, which so bothered Stumpf he often woke in the middle of the night, sure the dead were hounding him. He was sure he could hear them now.

Dearest Abramo,Please don't worry. We had to leave the office quickly because of important work. Conditions are good-much better than they were at home-and the food is plentiful. If you brought the children, we could all be together.Love,Vanessa After she left Stumpf's watchtower, Elie Schacten sat on a wrought-iron bench outside the Compound's main room. Hans Ewigkeit, with Thor Ungeheur, the Compound's interior designer, had ordered these benches placed at random on the street. He'd wanted to suggest an affluent city park.

Elie knew Stumpf wouldn't do anything but hoped she'd planted a seed. She lit a cigarette and stared at a photograph of Goebbels hanging next to the mineshaft. The photograph was five feet tall, just five inches less than his actual height. Goebbels was posed near an unusually small umbrella that made him appear taller. When Elie looked at his face, it was full of hope. But when she just looked at his eyes, she saw a sad, liquid quality. She took out the photographs-of Asher Englehardt and Heidegger, of Asher Englehardt's ruined shop. She looked at them and put them away.

A few Scribes asked if she was all right, and Elie fobbed them off by leafing through her dark red notebook. Now and then she paused to read something-never more than a fragment-a forest near the house/ice cracking in the spring-but was interrupted by Sonia Markova, a Russian ballerina who practiced plies in a state of eternal melancholy.

You look worried, said Sonia, sitting next to her.

I'm just tired, said Elie, closing the notebook.

Sonia's white ermine coat brushed against her cashmere sweater, and for a moment Elie felt caught in Hans Ewigkeit's dream: she and Sonia weren't ten meters below the earth in a converted mine, but two well-heeled women in a city park. She was glad when Scribes began to argue in the kitchen and she had an excuse to leave. They all wanted coffee, but no one wanted to brew enough for everyone. Elie ducked under the clanging pots and said she'd make it herself. But the Scribes said she did enough for them and waved her away. So she went upstairs, where Gerhardt 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 compa.s.s 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. 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 gla.s.ses fell from the pocket. Lodenstein picked them up.

Do you think Goebbels gives a d.a.m.n 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 gla.s.ses 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 want to handle them. He wants us to. And the outpost officer is frantic. 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 G.o.d 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 cla.s.ses. 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 am two people. And someday they might ask you the wrong questions. So the less you know the better. 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 f.u.c.k yourself, said Mueller. He slammed the door. They heard his duffel bag sc.r.a.pe against the incline.

You p.i.s.sed 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 crossing the border they took all my special papers and sent me to a pleasant place. And so I'm not traveling incognito anymore. It seems to be the general opinion that this is a good place and everyone should come, including you.All my love,Maurice Elie followed Mueller, who looked incongruous with his elegant tooled-leather case and beat-up duffel bag. Outside the shepherd's hut there was a path of oval stones that led to the clearing. Mueller turned around when he heard Elie's boots crack the ice.

How lovely to see you, he said and took her arm.

Elie held her arm at a distance and watched his elbow gesture toward the sky. It was a dazzling incandescent blue.

If only we could be like the weather, said Mueller.

Who says we can't? said Elie.

The war, he said. Rain means waiting to attack, sun means charging ahead, and winter means Stalingrad.

But Stalingrad was last winter.

And it changed winter forever, said Mueller.

Elie tried to free her arm. Mueller pressed closer.

Let me give you some advice, he said. Leave those orders alone.

What orders?

You know what orders. And you also know that if it weren't for a certain officer, we'd have spent more time together.

I'm not sure what you mean.

Of course you do, said Mueller. He put down his bags and kissed Elie's hand. She felt his moustache bristle her fingers and wished she'd worn gloves.

You're very kind, she said.

You know I'm not kind at all.

Well, I'm sure wherever you're going, you'll do good, she said. Gerhardt thinks so too.

You're lying, said Mueller. But you'll do good. You always do. Except you're too nice to those people down there.

Everyone suffers in a war.

But some people don't deserve to suffer as much as others, said Mueller.

They'd come to his Kubelwagen, and Mueller, who boasted about refusing a confiscated American jeep, patted a window, then bent close to Elie and spoke in a low voice.

About those gla.s.ses, he said. I'd ignore everything. People aren't themselves these days, and even a wild card like Heidegger isn't a problem. Who cares if he doesn't get his gla.s.ses? Nothing bends the will of the Reich. Not even the dead.

Elie tried to look incredulous. Do you really think so?

Of course, said Mueller. The Fuhrer won't leave his bunker, and Goebbels is always in that marketplace talking about the war. Who even knows if he even wrote those orders?

I'm sure he didn't, said Elie.

I'm glad you agree.

Mueller took off his gloves and patted Elie's hand.

I'll miss you, he said.

And I'll miss you, she said, in a voice so distant it seemed to come from the forest.

Would Oberst Lodenstein mind if I kissed you?

Oh...you know...best not to disturb things.

Of course, said Mueller. But if I can ever help you, let me know. Meanwhile, make sure those people answer letters. There are too many languages in that room. It's the Tower of Babel if they don't stay busy. And Stumpf should take his hands off Sonia Markova.

You're right about that, said Elie.

Well, here's a kiss anyway, said Mueller. And he pressed his lips against Elie's-so tightly his medals p.r.i.c.ked her chin.

You have no idea how much regard I have for you, he said.

And I for you, said Elie. But I'm freezing without a coat.