IF THE RECEPTION AREA OF THE GASTHOF MIMICS A BARO-nial castle, its sleeping quarters are undeniably gemütlich. When the innkeeper unlocks their brightly painted door, there is another behind it, reminding Anna of an Advent calendar. Since she is in the Obersturmführer ’s world now, Anna half expects this second door to reveal a scene of dismemberment rather than the chocolate she found as a child. Instead, it opens into a little room that could belong to a maiden aunt: the furniture is sturdy pine, the bed heaped with a white eiderdown, the only wall decoration a sampler featuring a boy in lederhosen and a girl in a dirndl, holding hands.
Anna moves to the window and pushes aside the lace curtains. Downstairs, the SS strut in pomp and circumstance, but here they clearly prefer the plainer comforts of childhood. Max would have borrowed a term from Herr Doktor Freud to describe it, Anna thinks, staring toward the mountains she knows are there but cannot see; what is the word? Schizophrenic. Or perhaps Mathilde’s explanation is more apt: At heart, Anna, men are all babies, wanting nothing more than to suckle at the tit.
A pity about that flat tire, the Obersturmführer says from behind her; we would have arrived in daylight otherwise. The view is stupendous.
I can imagine, Anna says, without turning.
Have you everything you need? he asks. I would order dinner brought to us, but at this hour—
No, it’s perfectly all right, Anna says. Having not eaten since morning, she has arrived at the stage beyond hunger, in which the stomach feels like a rock.
We’ll have a fine breakfast, the Obersturmführer assures her. They provide quite a repast, if memory serves.
His footsteps creak on the floorboards and Anna braces herself for his touch, but then she hears the snick of a latch and understands that he has gone instead to the WC. She releases her breath and fetches her bag, which has been deposited with the Obersturmführer ’s by the bureau. Anna digs through her daytime clothes to the lingerie beneath. What is the Obersturmführer ’s current inclination? Which would he prefer, the diaphanous red negligee, the garters? Although the tags are missing from every item he brings her, their cut indicates that they are French. She has long stopped trying to picture whom they belonged to before. The embroidered children smile at her from the wall.
The door to the WC opens and Anna turns, straps dangling from her hands. Which—, she begins, and then words fail her: the Obersturmführer has emerged in yellow paisley pajamas.
Anna’s face works madly. She bites her lip, but it is no use. Laughter explodes from her, and the more she tries to choke it back, the more helpless she becomes. She laughs and laughs, and the muscles of her diaphragm, unaccustomed to such exercise, ache as though she has just been sick. It is a delicious feeling.
Eventually she regains control and lowers her hands. The Obersturmführer is climbing into bed with great dignity, wearing a wounded expression.
I’m sorry, Anna says. Really, I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.
Perhaps the altitude, the Obersturmführer suggests.
That must be it, says Anna. She coughs into a fist to conceal a final giggle.
Please, could you— The Obersturmführer jerks his chin toward the lamp.
Oh, of course, Anna says. But do you want me to—?
She holds up the lingerie.
No, it’s— No.
Bemused, Anna shuts off the light. She strips to her brassiere and slip, modest garments designed for comfort rather than seduction; then she settles into the bed, pulling the eiderdown to her chin. The Obersturmführer lies stiffly on his portion of the mattress, his limbs not touching hers. Between them, there is a zone of cool air.
He shifts toward her and again Anna tenses, but he merely places a kiss on her cheek.
Good night, he says.
Good night.
Anna’s vision has adjusted; she can discern the window’s outline, a faint gray rectangle on the wall. If the Obersturmführer is watching her, he will see her smiling, so she turns on her side to hide it. She fights to stay awake, for it is heavenly to be lying in this wide bed, revered as a wife, unmolested. She must not waste it. It must be too good to be true.
It is: an indeterminate time later, Anna is yanked to consciousness by the Obersturmführer thrusting against her from behind, pushing her insistently across the mattress. Anna has to grab the edge of the bed to keep from tumbling to the floor. At some point he must have removed the pajamas, for his hair grates against her skin. He entangles one hand in Anna’s braids and pulls; with the other, he tugs up her slip.
Anna remains in a fetal position. She feels like a snail who, believing the outside world to be safe, pokes its soft head from its shell only to be prodded once again; she curls inward both mentally and physically. As the Obersturmführer wedges a knee between hers, she thinks how very unpleasant it is to be awakened this way, worse almost than the Obersturmführer ’s regular visits by dint of its being unexpected. She thinks, Let him get on with it and then we can go back to sleep. She twists onto her back and makes noises to encourage him, scissoring her legs around his waist. The Obersturmführer ’s breath steepens. He cups Anna’s buttocks and lifts her against him, and then her cries become involuntary.
It is nearly dawn. A tinny churchbell begins to clang just outside the window, tolling the hour. The Obersturmführer thrusts in perfect, solemn rhythm. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. He hisses like a goose in Anna’s ear, as he always does near climax, but this time he says, Anna! . . . Then she feels the telltale trickle, as though she is being tickled internally. The Obersturmführer collapses, trembling.
Anna turns her head toward the window and receives her first visual confirmation that they are in the Alps: gray and white peaks rear sawtoothed into the sky. She waits for the Obersturmführer to roll off her, but he stays as he is, lying on her like a dead thing, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His sweat slicks them, or is it Anna’s? Anna is unable to take a full breath; she can’t tell whether the heartbeat that thuds against her ribs is the Obersturmführer ’s or her own.