A Small Death in Lisbon

‘Lots of questions about your pedigree?’

‘I told them my father ploughed the strong German soil with his bare hands. They liked it.’

‘Did you tell them about your foot?’

‘I said my father dropped a plough on it.’

‘Did they laugh?’

‘It’s not a very humorous atmosphere down there.’

He finished his coffee and poured brandy over the dregs.

‘Do you know someone called Gruppenführer Lehrer?’ asked Felsen.

‘SS-Gruppenführer Oswald Lehrer,’ she said, becoming very still. ‘Why?’

‘I’m playing cards with him tonight.’

‘I’ve heard he’s in charge of running the SS or rather the KZs as a business . . . making them pay for themselves. Something like that.’

‘You know everybody, don’t you?’

‘That’s my business,’ she said. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. He’s been in the club. This one and the old one.’

‘I have. Of course I have,’ he said, but he hadn’t.

Felsen’s mind raced. KZs. KZs. What did that mean? Were they going to assign him some cheap concentration camp labour? Switch his factory over to munitions production? No. Job. It was for a job. He felt the cold in his bones suddenly. They weren’t going to make him run a KZ, were they?

‘Drink some brandy,’ said Eva, sitting on his lap. ‘Stop guessing. You’ve got no idea.’

She ran her fingers over his bristly head and thumbed one of his cheekbones as if he was a child with a mark. She tilted his head and planted some fresh lipstick on his mouth.

‘Stop thinking,’ she said.

He slipped a large hand up under her armpit and cupped one of her firm, braless breasts. He eased another hand under the hemline of the slip. She felt him hardening under her. She stood, wrapped herself in the gown again and knotted the belt. She leaned in the doorway.

‘Am I seeing you tonight?’

‘If they let me go,’ he said, shifting in his seat, his erection troubling him.

‘Didn’t they ask how come a Swabian farmboy speaks so many languages?’

‘Yes, they did, as a matter of fact.’

‘And you had to give them a guided tour of all your lovers.’

‘Something like that.’

‘French from Michelle.’

‘That was French was it?’

‘Portuguese from that Brazilian girl. What was her name?’

‘Susana. Susana Lopes,’ he said. ‘What happened to her?’

‘She had friends. They got her out to Portugal. She wouldn’t have lasted long in Berlin with that dark skin,’ said Eva. ‘And Sally Parker. Sally taught you English, didn’t she?’

‘And poker and how to swing.’

‘Who was the Russian?’ asked Eva.

‘I don’t speak Russian.’

‘Olga?’

‘We only got as far as da.’

‘Yes,’ said Eva, ‘niet wasn’t in her vocabulary.’

They laughed. Eva leaned over him and tilted the lampshade back up.

‘I’ve been too successful,’ said Felsen, failing to look sorry for himself, trickling more brandy into his cup.

‘With women?’

‘No, no. Drawing attention to myself . . . all this entertaining I do.’

‘We’ve had some good times,’ said Eva.

Felsen stared into the carpet.

‘What did you say?’ he asked suddenly, looking up at her, surprised.

‘Nothing,’ she said, leaning over him to stub her cigarette out. He breathed her in. She stepped back. ‘What are you playing tonight?’

‘Sally Parker’s game. Poker.’

‘Where are you taking me with your winnings?’

‘I’ve been advised to lose.’

‘To show your gratitude.’

‘For a job I don’t want.’

Outside a car drifted through the slush down Kurfürstenstrasse.