The dancers jostled one another genially as they made their way from a last curtain call to the Staatsoper dressing rooms. A general consensus of having staged an outstanding performance well received by an appreciative audience floated above them, through them, like a light, lacy cloud. Teodor was not part of the happy bustle; he was still, intensely, back in the dance, in his small solo, surprised to find that he could not recall how he had danced. He could only remember the moment before he began, and the roar of the audience at the end of his last tour en l’air, which, he now recalled, was a triple turn and not the single he had rehearsed. This startling recollection made him feel anxious. What had he done? How else had he exaggerated his tiny role, his three minutes of dance? And what would the ballet master think, and his fellow dancers? Would he be branded an unreliable and selfish dancer? Would they despise him, punish or even banish him from the corps? He was, after all, not a Dane, dancing with the Danish ballet only thanks to the goodwill of one or two of its directors. Perhaps, he pondered sadly, this would be his demise.
He stood away from his fellow dancers, stepped out of line and let them pass on without him. Not a one caught his eye, not a one insisted that he continue with them. That’s it then, he thought, they despise me. And rightly so for trying to steal the show. He tried again to recall how he had danced, but it was, mysteriously, nearly a complete blank, as though someone else had pushed up from within him and performed in his place.
The stage was silent now, bereft of dancers and stagehands. He could hear the scuffle of his ballet slippers as he made his way down the hall to the dressing room. He would slip in as quietly as possible, he would find a way to apologize, first to the ballet master and then to the company, perhaps even publicly. He had not meant to dance with such abandon, certainly had not planned such an extravagant debut, and he hoped they would believe his sincerity and give him another chance as a dancer and as a friend.
He pushed his way through the dressing room door. The company, and quite a number of well-wishers, a few in the uniform of the Third Reich, stood crowded together. They were listening to the ballet master, who was addressing them in German for the benefit of their hosts. Aproned maids were passing out small glasses of champagne among the dancers and the assembled guests.
“Mr. Levin, won’t you come here, please?” Teodor felt one hundred eyes upon him as he made his way to the ballet master for what he knew was to be a public upbraiding. He stood long-faced and miserable beside his teacher.
“I wish to compliment you all, my dear dancers and pupils, on an exceptional performance. You were on a whole polished and professional, and I am proud of your poise and your technical excellence.”
The ballet master motioned to a young German soldier, who stepped forward. “Corporal Brendel has been sent with a message from Herr Hitler himself. Please give him your attention.” The soldier read a pompous trumpeting of the Danish ballet company that praised Germany’s Aryan neighbors for their physical beauty, skill and endurance. The members of the troupe listened patiently, then turned their attention back to the ballet master.
“Before we raise our glasses in a toast, I would like to say a word about our young Mr. Teodor Levin, who stands here to my right. As you dancers know, and our dear guests may have sensed, Mr. Levin, himself a guest in our company from Poland, did not comport himself according to plan. In his two years with us he has clearly learned and mastered the meticulous and energetic footing in the Danish fashion and can leap with the best of our dancers. But here tonight you saw his Russian training shine through our Scandinavian style. And while there is no denying the fact that young Teodor will have to learn not to surprise his fellow dancers and his teachers with an unrehearsed bravado performance, there is also no denying that what we saw here this evening, and what we all must know, is that Mr. Levin is a dancer of rare quality, of outstanding talent and sensitivity, and that this, his debut, will be remembered by all who witnessed it as a magical experience. It serves to remind us how beautiful, how demanding and courageous, how inspiring the ballet is. Mark my words, ladies and gentlemen, this is the beginning of a brilliant career for our Mr. Teodor Levin.
“Now let us raise our glasses in friendship and camaraderie, let us toast beauty and excellence, let us thank our gracious hosts, and let us drink to the new star born in our presence, this evening. Skål! Prost!”
“Prost!” the crowd responded in unison.
Teodor stood, glass in hand, too shocked to drink. In an instant they were upon him, his confreres, with congratulations and hugs, with pats on the back and kisses on the cheek.
Still barely able to speak, he muttered thanks and appreciation under his breath. When the general excitement died down and many of the dancers had moved off to begin removing their costumes, the lone remaining German in uniform approached Teodor, standing close in front of him.
“Your first champagne?” he asked gently, gesturing to Teodor’s still untouched glass.
Teodor nodded.
The German touched his glass lightly to Teodor’s. “To perfection,” he said quietly. He did not smile when he said this.
The German was only half a head taller than Teodor, but he seemed massive to Teodor in his smart uniform, gold epaulets gleaming. Teodor felt himself awakening, finally, from his performance, and took notice of the man standing squarely in front of him. His fair hair was thin, the color of honey in sunlight, and his eyes a pale blue, too pale, almost translucent.
“Danke schön, Herr …” Teodor tried unsuccessfully to read the name on the German’s chest.
“Von Edelwald. Baron Friedrich Sebastien Amadeus von Edelwald, at your service.” He clicked his boots and gave a slight nod to his head. “My friends call me Freddy.” Now he was smiling in a friendly way, which Teodor found charming. “And you, perhaps, are Teo?”
Teodor laughed. “No one has ever called me that before. Always Teodor.”
“Teodor, ‘a gift from God’ according to the Greeks. But I think Teo suits you best.” Freddy stared into Teodor’s eyes too long. Almost to himself he said, “One blue eye and one green. Extraordinary. As unsettling as a Modigliani.” Teodor took a small sip from his champagne. “Drink up young man, you must be parched. You danced as if you were on fire, as if you were fire itself.”
A photographer with a swirl of dark hair pinned into a neat chignon appeared from nowhere and snapped several shots of Freddy and Teo chatting and sipping champagne. “Genug!” Freddy said sharply to her after the third blinding flashbulb. He waved her away, then leaned in even closer to Teodor, to whisper into the young man’s ear. Teodor could smell him, a mixture of expensive cologne and tobacco. He felt wide awake now.
“I am a Kunstsachverständiger, an officer whose job is to advise Herr Hitler on matters of art and culture. He has asked me to join the dancers at the postperformance party at the hotel this evening as his emissary. I should like to invite you, afterward, to a small, private midnight supper. You needn’t worry about your curfew, I shall take care of all arrangements.”
Freddy’s voice resonated richly in his ear. Or perhaps it was the cologne or the pipe tobacco, or the champagne, of which Teodor had by now drunk nearly to the bottom of his glass, or the gleaming epaulets or quite likely the headiness of the dance and the praise from the ballet master. Whatever it was, Teodor was swooning, overwhelmed and dazzled. He nodded his consent, but in that same instant knew it would not have mattered a bit.
The party was bright and loud, held in a plush reception hall. Teodor was fêted lavishly, plied with questions and champagne. Freddy largely ignored him, engaging in long conversations with the ballet master, the producer and several elegant guests, though Teodor did catch him watching him from across the room several times. There was a seriousness in his gaze he found both a fright and a thrill. Freddy unsettled him, but he could not tell why.
At half past eleven Freddy approached Teodor in a throng of dancers, who parted when the German officer came near. He took Teodor’s hand and said, “Mr. Levin, I wish you all the best in what will surely be a brilliant career and I look forward to seeing you dance again soon.” Into Teodor’s ear he whispered, “Front steps of the hotel at midnight,” and took his leave. Teodor and the other dancers silently watched the soldier-aristocrat shake hands with the few remaining dignitaries and then depart.
As they made their way to their hotel room, Lars and Niels were in high spirits, reliving the excitement of the evening, while Teodor was pensive. He was aware of each step his feet took, the taste of champagne on his lips. Mostly he was thinking about Freddy. What would they talk about at the table?
At midnight he left the room as the other boys prepared for sleep, on the pretense that he wished to send a telegram to his parents in Warsaw. The front desk clerk was busy with an arriving guest and did not notice as Teodor glided silently across the carpeted lobby and out a set of heavy revolving doors. Freddy was waiting for him on the pavement, and when Teodor first caught sight of him he was framed by the Brandenburg Gate, which stood across the square. Freddy was wearing street clothes and seemed to Teodor to be slightly closer to his own height.
“Come, my friend, we’ll walk.”
A long evening of drizzle had turned into a soft haze lit up from within by light from the streetlamps. They strolled leisurely while Freddy talked. “Berlin is not a beautiful city, never has been. Massive, yes, even overwhelming, but never beautiful. It was built more to impress than to please.” Freddy had come to Berlin from southern Bavaria, way down near the Austrian border, where his family had been the local royalty for more than five hundred years. His mother and his wife and three children were installed there, in the family castle.
“You see that building across the street, those round corners? That’s a nice example of Bauhaus architecture, which lends a little more character to our oppressive city. A Jew by the name of Mendelsohn designed it, talented fellow. He’s gone now, left for Palestine I think.” Freddy stopped walking and so did Teodor, several paces later.
“Say, Teo, I know you can dance, but can’t you talk, too?”
Teodor smiled but said nothing. They turned a corner and continued to walk. The buildings were smaller here, clustered together haphazardly. They turned a few more corners and the streets were darker. At the entrance to a courtyard between two buildings Freddy took Teodor’s elbow and directed him toward a staircase that led below street level. The stairs were dark, and Freddy kept his hand firmly on Teodor’s arm until they reached the bottom. He gave two quick raps on a heavy door, waited, and rapped four more times slowly. A tall black man, taller and blacker than anyone Teodor had ever seen, opened the door. A cloud of noise and smoke accosted them. The black man smiled when he saw Freddy, pulling him ahead of Teodor through the doorway. He was an American, this black man, and Freddy spoke to him in English. Teodor understood nothing.
Through the smoky darkness Teodor could see that the room was vast, and filled with the most colorful, fanciful people he could imagine. This crowd was nothing like the dignitaries he had danced for at the Staatsoper, and certainly nothing like their usual audiences in Copenhagen. These Germans wore bold and revealing costumes, shiny and full of glitter; they were laughing and howling and drinking and petting one another with abandon. A jazz band of American Negroes performed on a small stage in the center of the room while couples and trios danced in wild gyrations. The general atmosphere was that of a circus, and Teodor, barely more than a child himself, was enthralled. The music was fabulous, and Teodor the dancer could scarcely contain his impulse to spin out onto the dance floor.
When they were seated side by side at a table clearly saved for them near the jazz band, Freddy stuffed a pipe with cherry tobacco and, gesturing to the crowd, leaned close to Teodor and spoke into his ear, over the noise. “All of Berlin looked like this a few years ago. Noisy, colorful. Unusual, original, artistic behavior was an asset during Weimar. Until the Nazis came in and cleaned everything up. Now you practically can’t hear good jazz anywhere anymore.” He lit the pipe and breathed in deeply, a look of serious concentration on his face.
To speak to Freddy, Teodor had to lean into his body, his chin grazing Freddy’s shoulder. “I thought you were a Nazi.”
“I am, officially. It’s like this: the Nazis as a rule hate people like me from old, titled families. But privately they’re enchanted by our blue blood. Hitler is only too happy to spend time with the von Edelwalds, and frankly, my family tolerates him because we want to hang on to our castle and our lands. But when Adolf showed interest in my sister, my mother married her off quickly and quashed a family alliance. As for me, he knows I’m a useful source of information about the arts, and culture in general, so he’s given me a plummy job and even put aside a bit of state money to renovate our family home.” A waiter put two beers, a basket of deep-fried chicken wings and several ears of corn on the cob on the table in front of them. “First time for American food?”
Teodor peered into the basket and nodded. Freddy showed him how to eat the wings with his fingers, a fairly shocking enterprise for Teodor, but a welcome relief from the usual decorum. Teodor took a sip from his beer and began to relax.
Freddy, too, unwound, drinking copiously and eating with gusto. “These Nazis,” he said over a buttery yellow ear of corn, “they may have bad taste but they’re very art- and culture-conscious. Adolf draws, Baldur von Schirach and Hans Frank write poetry, Goebbels has published a novel. They profess to hate modernism, what they call degenerate art, the stuff that takes a good, hard look at who and what we really are. But it makes them so didactic.” He looked carefully into Teodor’s eyes. “I’ve seen some of Adolf’s drawings,” he says, scrunching up his face and shaking his head emphatically from side to side.
Freddy jabbered on about Hitler, Berlin, the war, art, his castle, the Alps. He talked at length about Weimar Berlin, about clubs with names like the Zauberflöte and Cosy-Corner, places he had frequented a decade earlier as a student. He talked about American jazz and sang along with the band through many of their songs, his hand on Teodor’s thigh, or wrapped around his shoulders. He seemed to know the words to every song, in English, and translated some of the choice lyrics. When a certain Jimmie Lunceford song was announced, Freddy pulled Teodor close and crooned in his ear.
The first time I saw you,
I knew at a glance
I was meant to be yours, yours alone;
As I stood before you,
My heart seemed to dance,
And I prayed you would call me your own.
When I look in your eyes,
I am thrilled to the skies,
And I feel like a king on a throne,
The first time I saw you,
I knew at a glance
I was meant to be yours, yours alone.
He could not understand it all, but Teodor was fascinated, had never met anyone remotely as interesting as this German nobleman and soldier. He held his ear close to Freddy’s mouth, trying to absorb and remember all the stories and information flowing his way. Once, at the end of a melancholy story about an American jazz singer whose name Teodor did not catch, Freddy leaned a tad closer, pressing himself into Teodor and planting a small kiss on his ear. “You are a charming and lovely boy,” he said in a tone so low and close that shivers ran up and down Teodor’s neck. Nobody around them seemed to care or even notice. Teodor wished to think quietly about Sofie, but there were so many distractions that each time he conjured her face she disappeared.
Later in the evening, when nighttime threatened to turn to daylight and the music had reached a frenzied pitch and beat, Freddy suddenly stood up straight and pulled Teodor to his feet. “How foolish of me!” he shouted. “All this wonderful music and I’ve kept you sitting next to me all evening, telling you stories. It’s time for you to dance.”
Teodor was intrigued but perplexed. For all his training, he knew no moves appropriate to this extraordinary music, and politely demurred. But Freddy was insistent, and Teodor was curious, so when Freddy pushed him a few meters away from the table to where couples had broken into a throng of soloists, and then sat back down to watch, he did not protest. He stood still and alone for a moment in the sea of whirling humans, looked around at what some of his fellow dancers were doing, and slowly, subtly, began to move. To their low and slinky moves he added Danish ballet turns, Russian arms, the Charleston that a friend in Copenhagen had taught him, and then whatever else seemed right and natural with this music. In minutes he was swinging, swaying, spinning and strutting with the rest of them and the crowd began to make way for the lithe young man all on his own. Occasionally he turned toward Freddy, who was watching him intently. The serious look on his face caused Teodor’s chest to tighten each time he saw it, but he kept on dancing, finally losing himself in the music, losing all track of time or the people around him.
He did not know how long he had been dancing when Freddy was suddenly there with him in the center of the circle of dancers, standing completely still. He held out his hand to Teodor. “I’ve come to take you home,” he said. Teodor gave him his hand and let Freddy pull him from the dance floor.
The morning came far too quickly for Teodor, who had a difficult time waking up. His roommates asked him where he had been, and Teodor conjured a weak excuse, but the clothes next to his bed stank of beer and smoke and he doubted anyone believed him. They ate a quick breakfast in the hotel dining room then returned to their room. They would be traveling back to Stettin, where they would catch an afternoon ferry to Copenhagen. While he packed, Teodor thought about jazz and corn on the cob, and quite a bit about Freddy. After walking him to the hotel, Freddy had embraced him on the stairs of the hotel, but only briefly. He said he would come to say an official good-bye before the troupe left in the morning, and Teodor wanted to be ready in time.
There was a knock at the door just as Teodor laid his ballet slippers on the top of his valise. Niels answered the door. Two German policemen stood outside. “Mr. Teodor Levin, please,” said one.
The boy stood aside and motioned to Teodor to come to the door. “We have orders to bring you to headquarters immediately,” said the policeman. Teodor looked to Niels, who shrugged his shoulders.
“Why?” he asked simply.
“Security clearance for departure. Your papers are Polish, not Danish, and we need to ask you a few questions, that’s all.” The second policeman coughed and looked down the hall.
“I’m not permitted to go anywhere outside the hotel without my ballet master’s knowledge,” he said, hoping his ballet companions would not betray his late-night absence.
“You, boy,” said one of the policemen to Niels. “Fetch the ballet master right away.” Niels darted down the hall. In the meantime, Teodor stretched the bedspread over his bed and fastened the latch on his valise. Niels returned with the ballet master very quickly.
“What’s all this about, gentlemen?” he asked with some irritation. The policeman again explained his mission.
The ballet master listened politely. “I’m certain this is a mistake,” he said. “Mr. Levin’s papers did not draw any attention on our way in to Germany.”
“The situation between Germany and Poland has changed since then,” the policeman said by way of explanation. “He is now a feindliche Ausländer.”
After several long minutes of argument, the ballet master turned to Teodor. “They say you’re an enemy alien now that Germany is fighting with Poland. This is certainly an unnecessary and untimely diversion, but perhaps you’d simply better go with these gentlemen to the station, clear up the matter and return as quickly as possible so that we shall not miss our ferry.”
Teodor nodded his agreement but did not like the idea of setting out accompanied only by these two policemen. Still, he did as told, gathering up his papers and heading down the hall in between them.
It was a short ride to headquarters. He was shuffled from one desk to another, asked the same questions again and again and made to wait. After two hours the ballet master arrived, in the company of Freddy.
“Teodor, I have good news for you. When Baron von Edelwald came to say good-bye and learned you’d been temporarily detained, he offered his help. I’m afraid it’s going to take just a little while longer and the troupe cannot imaginably stay, but I have the baron’s assurances that he will see to it personally that you are released as quickly as possible and on the first train and ferry back to Denmark.” He patted Teodor on the shoulder. “You are in very, very good hands.”
Teodor glanced at Freddy. Today Freddy was all business, though for Teodor’s eyes only he managed a small, secret smile. “Thank you, baron,” Teodor said. He did not smile in return.
Two hours more passed, then three and four and five. Teodor was mostly alone during this time, though Freddy would occasionally pop into the office where he was waiting to say, “Only a little longer” or “This bureaucracy has become unmanageable” or “I am outraged and will be filing a complaint about this.” It was seven in the evening by the time he was released to Freddy’s custody.
Teodor was hugely relieved to be leaving the police station, and thanked Freddy for rescuing him. Freddy’s car and driver whisked them away from the center of town. “My poor dear boy, you must be completely distraught. And certainly quite hungry and tired. I’ll take you to my home in Grunewald, where Cook will feed you a nice soup, draw a bath for you, and we’ll put you up in a guest bedroom for the night. Then tomorrow morning we’ll have you on an early northbound train.” Teodor laid his head back on the soft leather of Freddy’s Mercedes and closed his eyes.
He awakened from a short sleep just in time to notice the car turn onto quiet, leafy Erbacherstrasse. They stopped in front of a heavy iron gate that looked like a row of medieval spears. It was opened immediately by a waiting servant, and they drove up to the grand front door of a large, square villa flanked by two smaller buildings, which Teodor guessed to be stables or servants’ quarters. The house had a tall, sloping tiled roof and a balcony over the front door. Immense trees secluded the villa behind a wall of greenery, and no other house stood close on either side. A well-tended garden stood between the front gate and the door to the villa.
Cook was barely cordial to him when he sat at the dining room table, clearly hostile to his presence in the house. She did not seem to believe her master’s story about the boy’s origins, the scion of a noble Danish family. As soon as she placed a hot potato soup and thick brown bread with butter in front of him she announced she would be leaving for the night. Teodor ate greedily, his first food since breakfast. The smell of nutmeg reminded him of his mother’s own potato soup. He wished he could see her just then.
Freddy sat watching him in silence. When he finished eating, Freddy led him upstairs, to the bath. Steam rose from the scented, foamy water and the room was warm and cozy. “You may undress here and use these pajamas and the robe hanging on the back of the door,” Freddy told him. He stood as if waiting for Teodor to begin removing his clothing. Teodor did not move, however, and after a moment Freddy left the bathroom, closing the door behind him. When he was sure Freddy had gone back down the stairs, Teodor locked the bathroom door.
He soaked for a long time, at once relieved to be free and at the same time apprehensive. He was sorry the troupe had not waited for him. He was grateful to Freddy and wondered how much longer he might have been trapped there were it not for him. Where, he wondered, would he have gone when released, alone in this foreign city?
The pajamas were silk, a deep red and sensuous to his skin. He wrapped himself tightly in the matching robe and descended the stairs. He found Freddy in a small study off the living room, poring over several full-color reproductions of paintings. When he noticed Teodor he returned the pages to a manila envelope.
“Ah, there you are, all fresh and rosy from your bath!”
Teodor smiled slightly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Come to the kitchen. Cook has left us some chocolate cake, and I’ll put on a pot of tea.”
Teodor plodded after Freddy toward the kitchen. Several bright watercolors and gouaches on the walls of the hallway caught his eye as he walked past, but he did not stop to inspect any of them.
Freddy bustled about the kitchen, though he did not always know where to find what he needed. Sometimes he yanked open the same drawer three times before he found whatever spoon or tea sieve he was looking for. Teodor waited patiently at the table, warm and comfortable after his bath.
After several minutes of banging around the kitchen and cursing the cook, Freddy managed to get the tea to the table. He added brandy to each cup. “This will warm up your insides and make you properly sleepy before bedtime,” he told Teodor.
Freddy was unusually silent as they sipped the tea and nibbled the cake. After a long silence Teodor asked, “What time will I be leaving in the morning?”
Freddy stopped chewing the cake in his mouth and put his teacup down on the saucer. He stared at Teodor. “Are you uncomfortable?” he asked sharply. “Are you lacking something? Have my cook or chauffeur somehow disappointed you? Or is it my company that is not to your taste?” His voice was tight, as though his teeth were a dam holding back an angry flood.
“I’m sorry,” Teodor interjected, cowed, “I just thought I …”
“You did not think at all. You did not think what an inconvenience it was for me to spend my day working for your release. You did not think about all the more important matters I could be tending to. You are a Pole and you are a Jew, two points against you. Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull, how many VIPs I had to call today to be able to free you immediately? No, of course you don’t. And now you sit in my kitchen, wearing my pajamas and enjoying my hospitality and all you can think about is when you can leave this horrible little house.”
He snatched away the cups and saucers and plates, banging them into the sink. One saucer smashed to the floor, but Freddy ignored it.
Teodor remained at the table for a while after Freddy had thundered his way out of the kitchen and down the hall. There were no sounds at all anywhere in the house. He did not know if he should wait for Freddy to return, to show him where to sleep, or whether perhaps he was now meant to put his head down on the kitchen table and sleep right there, as punishment for having insulted his host. He wondered whether his faltering attempts at German had been too abrupt, or whether his manners had been inappropriate.
After a while Teodor stood up from the table and, with a sigh, collected the broken china from the floor. There were shards everywhere, a few crunched under his knees as he slid along the floor hoping to find every last piece. When he was certain he had gathered them all, he stood up and paced the kitchen, inspecting Cook’s utensils, her cookbooks, her collection of aprons. As he was peering through beveled panes of glass into the darkened back garden, but catching mostly his own reflection and that of the room behind him, the kitchen door suddenly flew open and he spun around.
Freddy’s face was flushed and his eyes red. He looked disheveled, hardly reminiscent, in fact, of the neat and polished officer Teodor had met only the night before. He was breathing hard, and seemed to be weighing something in his mind as he stared across the room at Teodor. He straightened himself before speaking, checking his posture and pushing a hand through his mussed hair. “You must be exhausted. I’ll show you to your room.” His voice was level, with effort.
Teodor followed him through the hallway and up the stairs, at a distance. The room was a bit musty, small but pleasant. His valise stood in a corner, and the bed had been turned down for him. An open door led out to a verandah, which Freddy instructed him to leave open to continue airing the stuffy room. He was cordial, controlled, and after these brief explanations he left Teodor alone.
Teodor removed his bathrobe and climbed into the low bed. It was comfortable, deep and plush. Cold night air from the verandah made him burrow under the heavy quilts, but this was something he had always loved to do, especially on winter evenings in Warsaw. His mother would come to kiss him good night and there ensued a mild game of hide-and-seek, as Teodor would tunnel deeper and deeper into the wilds of his bed. He thought about his mother now, and Margot and his father, too, what they might be doing, whether they were thinking of him. Too bad he had not really sent that telegram, they knew he was due to perform and were undoubtedly wondering how he had fared. And what about them? Did they know the German army was on its way toward them? Were they making preparations to pick up and leave?
He thought, too, about his new family, the Sonnenfelds, in Copenhagen. Little Bent would be asleep by now, the older children would have finished washing the dishes, their parents would be settled into their armchairs for a long evening of reading. Peter would be in their shared bedroom sketching airplanes in his notebook. And what about Sofie? Would she be dreaming of him now as he was of her? He wished he had kissed her full on the mouth that day in the dance studio.
Suddenly from the edge of wakefulness he leapt from the bed and ran to the door. He turned the lock, in absolute silence, and crept noiselessly back to bed. In no time he fell into a deep sleep.
It could have been minutes later, or hours, he did not know. He was aware first of the cold, but when he reached to pull the covers back into place he met with Freddy’s head on his belly, his face turned away from him, toward his legs. Teodor gasped, and Freddy, who was kneeling on the floor, reached his left hand backward, caressing first Teodor’s cheek, then his hair. They remained like this for several minutes, Teodor too frightened to move or protest. Presently Freddy raised his head from Teodor’s belly, unbuttoned the boy’s pajama tops and grazed his lips up and down his flat white stomach. Teodor could feel the tickle and scratch of whiskers. At the same time, Freddy’s hand was gently probing his face, passing lightly over his eyes, brushing his forehead, a finger tapping delicately at his lips. When his other hand reached down into his pajama bottoms Teodor began to shudder, his whole body wracked by jolts large and small. Freddy removed that hand but continued stroking his face gently with the other, like a father comforting his son.
Freddy raised his head and for the first time looked at Teodor. “Are you hurt?” he asked quietly. “Are you suffering?”
Teodor hesitated briefly, then shook his head slowly from side to side. Indeed, he was neither of those, really, just terrified.
“Good,” Freddy said. “Relax.” He laid his head down again, and this time both hands were at work fondling and stroking Teodor’s body. The boy did not resist when Freddy’s fingers crept beneath the waistband of his pajamas, nor did he shake when the man took hold of his penis, which was now hard as a dancer’s barre. Freddy rubbed his hands down the shaft two times, maybe three, when Teodor erupted and sat bolt upright, gasping and squirming.
Freddy pushed Teodor back down on his pillow, then climbed on top of him, releasing the sash on his bathrobe as he did. Teodor could feel his nakedness, the tautness of his body, the thrust of his penis as it pushed heavily back and forth in the small puddle on his belly. Teodor turned his head sideways to avoid Freddy’s panting mouth; a drop of his saliva dripped into Teodor’s ear and, with a deep moan, Freddy clutched the boy’s shoulders and slammed his groin down hard. Teodor could feel the man’s body relax, gradually, before he pushed himself up and off of him. Wordlessly Freddy retied the sash on his bathrobe, tossed a hand towel to Teodor, unbolted the lock on the door and closed it behind him silently.
In the morning Teodor roused himself with difficulty, confused. The door to the verandah was still open, bright sunlight deluging the room. When he sat up he thought he could see a small lake glistening through the thick trees at the back of the garden. He washed his face and his chest and stomach at the bathroom sink, and ran a wet cloth over his privates before dressing. Outside he could hear a train pulling into a station, but the inside of the house was, as the night before, silent. He found Cook pulling a tin of muffins from the oven. “Out in the garden,” she said brusquely.
Freddy was seated, in uniform, at a small table of glass and wrought iron, reading a newspaper. Several plates lay in front of him littered with scraps of food. He made a great show of welcome when Teodor approached. Cook was washing the muffin tin in the sink behind them, with one eye to the table in the garden.
“Well, good morning my young and sleepy friend,” he said, folding the newspaper and setting it aside. “In this house we are usually up bright and early on weekday mornings. Are you aware that this is not a holiday?” he said with a laugh to his voice. He winked at Teodor, causing Cook to frown.
“What time is it?” Teodor asked, taking a seat across from Freddy.
“Nearly nine o’clock, and I’ve got a mountain of work to do, so I will have to leave you now in the good care of my trusty staff.” He swilled down the last of his coffee as he stood from his chair. “Cook,” he called, “bring young Teo a breakfast fit for a growing young man who worked hard yesterday.” Another wink for Teodor. He was gone before Teodor could ask about departure.
The day passed slowly. Cook ignored him, and the chauffeur, an old uncle named Albert, was gone most of the day. Teodor would have liked to write a letter to his family or take a walk or read one of the books in Freddy’s locked study, but all these required Cook’s permission and assistance, so he contented himself, just barely, with exercises in the garden, some dancing in a corner of the salon, and hours of watching the occasional passerby from the second-floor balcony. Twice he dragged his valise down the stairs and set it by the front door, twice he lugged it back upstairs, worried that its presence might irk Cook. He was careful to avoid thinking about what had happened in his bed the night before, and by late afternoon was not entirely sure he had not dreamt it.
The light in the sky was nearly gone when Cook called Teodor to the kitchen. “The baron will be late, he says you’re to take your supper alone right here.” A plate of sausages and potatoes lay steaming on the table. “I hope those Danes taught you to wash your own dishes,” she called over her shoulder as she let herself out the back door.
He ate carefully, slowly, but did not have the appetite to finish everything on his plate. He scraped the remainder into the rubbish bin and washed his dishes with caution, in hot water. Alone in the house now, he wished to pick up the phone and place a call, but to whom? Anyway, the only telephone was in Freddy’s locked study.
Teodor meandered around the house a while longer, this time daring to enter Freddy’s bedroom. He opened his closets and drawers and found racks and piles of the most beautiful sweaters and shirts and trousers and suits. He found cuff links and medals, he found photographs from Paris and London and a big gleaming city of skyscrapers, probably New York, but he could not be sure. He found a charcoal drawing of a young boy, yellowing at the edges, and by tilting the page this way and that Teodor thought he could see a young Freddy. In a drawer in the night table next to the bed, he found a stack of postcards, naked boys and girls frolicking in nature. Licht-Luft-Leben it said on the back of each one, Light-Air-Life. None of these fair and healthy children appeared to be Freddy.
The hour had grown quite late by the time he put everything back in its place and turned out the lights. He washed up and, before changing into Freddy’s silk pajamas again, he ran his hand over the crotch and sniffed the fabric for signs of a scene he now barely believed had actually occurred. He checked the verandah door for a lock and bolt but there was none, so neither did he bother to lock the door to his room.
This time he was awake when Freddy staggered in. Teodor could see from his silhouette in the doorway that he was still in uniform, the square epaulets pointed at perfect right angles. Freddy flung his cap on the dresser, struggled to pull off his boots, and climbed in next to Teodor in his low, narrow bed. He reeked of alcohol and cigarettes and his skin was damp with sweat. He lay motionless next to him for several minutes, his breathing slowing down by the minute until Teodor thought he might have fallen asleep.
But he had not fallen asleep, as Teodor, in his heart of hearts, knew. And any doubts he might still have been harboring about the previous night disappeared. By the time Freddy left his bed, Teodor lay curled in a tight ball, sore and raw, feeling stunned and ashamed and despoiled, under the heavy comforter.
Two more days and two more nights passed thus. On the fourth day in Freddy’s house neither Cook nor the chauffeur was in residence. Teodor spent the morning rattling the garden gates, looking for a route of escape, then poking through drawers for a set of keys. He could not even gain access to the cellar, where he thought he might find a ladder tall enough to scale the gate of spears. After a lunch of bread and cheeses he stood at the edge of the garden trying to glimpse the train station he could hear off to the right. When a man or woman walked by, he searched their faces for sympathy to his plight, but found not one he dared signal for help.
Freddy pulled up at the gate, driving the Mercedes himself. “In the house,” he ordered Teodor, “I won’t have you standing out here like some waif.” Once inside the front door Freddy grabbed hold of his waist from behind. But Teodor broke away and ran down the hallway, Freddy in close pursuit. He ran up the stairs but Freddy took them two at a time, overtaking the boy at the top landing. Freddy did not smell of alcohol this time, nor was he disheveled or threatening. He was rough with Teodor, tearing off his clothes with abandon. When he tried to enter him from behind, the boy began to whimper and Freddy stopped.
He lay down next to Teodor, who, though relieved at the reprieve, was now sobbing quietly. Freddy stroked his naked back, kissed his ear. He pulled the boy close and held him, but Teodor continued to cry. Freddy turned the boy’s face to his own and kissed him on the mouth, running his tongue over Teodor’s lips. Teodor stopped crying and felt himself kissing Freddy back, grateful for kisses instead of something worse. Freddy held him now in a tight embrace, kissing him deeply. Teodor put his arms around Freddy, pressing himself into the man. Frightened and confused, he nuzzled his cheek, his neck, while Freddy sang softly in his ear:
I call you sugar,
There’s reason, too,
Your lips are honey,
I know that’s true …
They can’t make candy
As sweet as you
For you’re pure sugar
Dear, through and through …
Then, almost as a coda, he whispered, “We’re at war, Teo.” Teodor at first thought he was referring to the two of them. “All borders have been sealed and passage in and out of Germany is impossible right now.” He tried to pull away from Freddy. “I’ll take care of you here until we can figure a way to get you back to Denmark.” Teodor’s arms slackened their grip, but Freddy still clutched him tightly. “You’re safe with me,” he said.