In The Presence Of My Enemies

They might not care. They might decide that, once they'd used him up, he wouldn't be able to do anything to them anyhow. Who in the Reich in the past seventy years had been able to do anything to the organization Lothar Prutzmann now ran? Nobody. Nobody at all.

Horst went away. Susanna couldn't remember a single thing he'd talked about. A game show came on, with a wisecracking host and a statuesque blond sidekick. Susanna usually turned off the televisor the instant the news ended. Tonight, she left it on, more for the sake of background noise than for any other reason.

The questions were stupid. Some of the answers the contestants gave were even stupider. And the way the people jumped up and down and squealed-men as well as women-made Susanna cringe.This was the Herrenvolk? This was the material from which the Nazis had forged a Reich they said would last for a thousand years?

"If this is the master race, Lord help the rest of the world," Susanna said. But what had the Lord done for the rest of the world? Given most of it German overlords, that was what. How could you go on believing in a God Who went and did things like that?

Susanna looked down and discovered her glass was empty again. That, fortunately, was easy to fix. The book-crowded living room swayed a little when she got up. She made it to the kitchen and back without any trouble, though-and she didn't spill the fresh drink, either. As for how and why you could go on believing in a God Who did dreadful things-people had been wrestling with that at least since the time of Job. She wasn't going to settle it one drunken, frightened night in Berlin.

And if she drank enough, maybe she'd even stop worrying. She set about finding out.

Heinrich Gimpel sat in a cell that held a cot whose frame was immovably set in the concrete of the floor, a sink, a toilet, and damn all else. Whenever he stood, he had to hang on to his trousers. They'd taken away his belt-his shoelaces, too.

Of course, the first thing they'd done when they got him here was yank down his trousers and his underpants. They'd grunted when they saw he was made the same way they were. One of them said, "Is that all you've got?" He supposed that sort of insult was meant to tear him down so he'd be easier meat when they really started questioning him. He wondered why they bothered. He was already about as frightened as he could be. He was so frightened, he reckoned it a minor miracle he had anything at all to show down there.

They hadn't beaten him-not yet, anyway. They hadn't drugged him, either. They'd just tossed him in this cell and left him alone. He didn't know what that meant. Were they working up something particularly horrible? Or were they unsure he was what they thought he was?

Think, Heinrich, dammit,he told himself. If he could change the mess he was in to any degree, it would have to be with his brains. But what were the odds hecould change it? Slim, and he knew as much. Still, he had to try.

If I were truly agoy,how would I act? He'd still be frightened. He was sure of that. If you weren't frightened after the Security Police grabbed you, you had to be crazy. But he would also be outraged. Howdared they think him a dirty Jew? The anger he generated was ersatz, but after a while it started to feel real. He wondered if actors worked themselves into their roles this way.

For the time being, he had no one for whom to show off his fine synthetic fury. None of the cells close by had anyone in it. No guards tramped past. Why should they? He wasn't going anywhere.

"I want a lawyer!" he said loudly. "This is all a stupid frame-up! Get me a lawyer!" Maybe nobody was listening. He wouldn't have bet on it, though. A Security Police prison was bound to have microphones.

After what seemed a very long time-he didn't have his watch any more-two blackshirts came up the corridor. One pushed a food cart. The other carried an assault rifle. "Stand away from the bars," he ordered in a bored voice. Heinrich obeyed. The man pushing the cart shoved a tray into his cell.

"I want a lawyer," Heinrich said again. "You've got to get me out of here. the Fuhrer himself has consulted me."

They ignored him. He might have known they would. How many prisoners had they seen? Thousands, without a doubt. How many had admitted they were guilty? Even one?

He ate what they gave him: cabbage stew with little bits of salt pork in it (did they think he would pick them out if he was a Jew?) and a chunk of brown bread. It wasn't as good as what he got at the canteen at work, but it wasn't a whole lot worse. He turned on the water in the sink and drank from the cupped palm of his hand till he'd had enough to cut his thirst.

Then he lay down on the cot on his back and stared up at the rough concrete of the ceiling. He hoped they hadn't grabbed Lise and the girls, too. He did his best to pray, but that didn't come easy. If God had let this happen to him, how reliable was He? But if you didn't believe, what point to staying a Jew?