The Second Winter (15 page)

Polina couldn’t understand what he wanted.

“Here — come this way.” Hermann grabbed her naked shoulder, pulled her a few steps into the room, away from the window. “I need the light behind me.” He set the camera in front of the window, aimed it at her. The mirror was behind her, and her reflection was visible in the glass. Still, she hadn’t breathed. “Perfect,” he said. “Absolutely perfect.” His lips were raised in the same ugly smile when the shutter released. He snapped the photograph, then another.

Jutland. December 24, 1941
.

Amalia knelt beside the tub in the children’s bathroom on the second floor of the Nielsens’ house. Pushing her sleeve above her elbow, she submerged her hand into the bath. The hot bathwater stung her fingers. Between her knuckles, the skin was so dry that it was beginning to crack. The harsh detergents she used for the Nielsens’ laundry had given her eczema. At night sometimes her hands bled onto her sheets. Naked in the white porcelain tub, twelve-year-old Christina Nielsen splashed her. A droplet of dirty water nipped her eye. The bar of soap Christina had lost slipped from her grasp. Her sleeve dropped into the bath. The milky water blushed red around her fingers.

Although it was the day before Christmas, Amalia had woken at four a.m., as she always did in order to get to work by five. This morning, she had allowed herself an extra few minutes under the covers. The wind had been blowing so hard that it whistled in the chimney. Amalia could hear the shrill sound
through the wall. It had been difficult to pull herself from bed, knowing that she would have to cross the field to the Nielsens’. The soil had frozen into ice. There was a hole in the sole of one of her shoes, and the slush would pinch her toes. Before the war, Christmas had meant roast pork and red cabbage, marzipan cakes and candles and gifts in the evening. Seven years ago, Amalia had traveled with Oskar to Copenhagen to spend the holiday with Fru Gregersen, and the family had taken a sleigh ride in a park where the trees were made of sugar and the sky cotton. What she remembered from that day was the slap of bells tied to the leather harness and the breathing and snorting of the horse when the driver coaxed the animal into a trot. It had been so warm beneath the heavy blanket. Dry flakes of snow had melted into nectar on her tongue. Now Christmas meant something else. Christmas only reminded her how harsh life had become.

By eleven o’clock, Amalia’s chores in the kitchen were complete. She had scrubbed the floor in the pantry, cleaned yesterday’s dishes, carted the trash outside, unpacked the special linens. Setting up for the afternoon party belonged to Mrs. Nielsen herself and her personal maid. Amalia was too young to be trusted with anything so important. Normally, Amalia had nothing to do with the Nielsen children, either, but Alicia, the governess, had contracted influenza. This had happened two weeks before, and Alicia hadn’t been allowed anywhere near the children since. Mrs. Nielsen had asked Amalia to look after Christina and Erik, to keep them out of trouble until it was time to get them ready for an early supper.

Christina giggled. Amalia’s knees throbbed on the cold, hard tile floor. A twinge traveled up her thigh. She ignored the pain, leaned over the wall of the tub, reached into the water to chase the bar of soap. When she touched the girl’s toes, the
child squealed. She rubbed her legs together, sending another splash of water into Amalia’s face. “It’s not there, silly,” Christina said, “or I would have felt it myself.”

Amalia peered into the gray water. The soap was hidden beneath the film and froth. Giving up, she placed her hand on the edge of the tub, began to push herself to her feet.

“Not yet,” Christina whined. “You haven’t washed my back.”

Only four years separated them, but Amalia had the impression that she was bathing a baby half her age. The contrast between them was stark. Christina was rail thin. Her arms were twigs. Her skin was translucent. Amalia was dark and heavy. She was on her feet all day, but she ate too much. She could barely fit herself into the new uniform the Nielsens had given her just a few months before — she didn’t bother even trying to button the collar. Christina’s cheeks were rosy. Amalia’s were chafed from the weather. As far as Amalia could see, Christina danced from one delight to the next. Her own thick shoulders stooped. She had long since forgotten how to smile. “Does Alicia wash your back for you, too?” she asked the girl, pausing with one knee still on the floor.

When Christina laughed, her eyes caught the soft, gray light from the window and flashed liquid blue. Except for the cobalt accents in the corner of the floor tiles, Amalia had the impression that this was the only color in the room. Christina’s laughter burst around her like an explosion. “Don’t be so silly all the time,” she said to the fat servant. “Alicia doesn’t give me baths. She’s my governess. She reads to me and teaches me to write and to do math.”

“I’m sorry,” Amalia said. She didn’t understand why, but she felt suddenly stupid. “I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know because you didn’t ask, because you’re a silly girl.”

Amalia’s fingers turned white on the edge of the tub beneath the weight of her body as she stood. Water tinged red dripped down the slippery porcelain.

“Wait!” Christina insisted. “You haven’t found the soap, and now you haven’t washed my back either.”

“Why do you want me to wash your back,” Amalia asked the girl, “if Alicia doesn’t?” Straightening up, pain radiated from her knees like heat, then dissipated. She stretched her neck and shoulders, arranged her shirt around her stomach.

“Because it feels good,” Christina said.

“If Alicia doesn’t wash it, who does?”

“Mama does, of course. Now wash my back, you silly cow, or I will tell Mama that you stole one of her brushes. The silver one with chestnut bristles.”

Amalia blinked. The girl’s words had stunned her. Though she had little experience with Christina, she didn’t put the threat past her. The soapy lather on the girl’s naked chest began to evanesce. Beneath the residue, her nipples were dots as faint as stains of raspberry jam. “How can I wash your back?” Amalia finally asked her. “You lost the soap, and I can’t find it.”

“Use a washcloth,” Christina said. “Do I have to think of everything?”

Amalia took a small towel from the linen cabinet, sat down on the edge of the tub behind the girl. The porcelain rim dug into her ass. She waited for Christina to oblige by leaning forward, then dipped the cloth into the water and began to wipe the girl’s back. It surprised her how sharp the child’s bones were. The ridge of her spine jutted from her neck. Her tendons were sinewy cords, as taut as the wires in the Nielsens’ grand piano.

Christina bent her head forward, rested her hands on her knees. Her shoulders, though, remained tense, raised. Without thinking what she was doing, Amalia let her fingers travel down the girl’s rigid muscles. “Mama never does that,” Christina said, closing her eyes.

Amalia dipped the towel into the bath again, squeezed out the excess water. Gently, she pressed the hot cloth onto Christina’s slender back, let her fingers trace the channels and grooves, peaks and valleys, in the girl’s frame. The bathwater stilled, and steam rose in small clouds that hovered above the surface. Drips pattered from the spout. The soapy brew sloshed against the porcelain. A minute passed and then another, before Amalia realized that the girl was working her thighs together. Slowly but deliberately, in rhythm with her own massage. She paused, and the girl paused. She dipped the towel one more time, lifted it again. Now the girl’s small hand found the apex of her thighs and, silently, disappeared into the water. “You mustn’t do that.”

Christina froze. Her body was as tight as a coil.

“You have to stop that,” Amalia repeated. “Now.”

Christina’s body stiffened under Amalia’s hand.

“Take your fingers away.”

Christina shook her head.

“Do you understand me? Take your fingers off your cunt.” For this was the word that she had heard her father use, so this was the word that she knew.

Christina quaked. A quiver started in her core, then traveled up her spine. “My what?”

Amalia took a breath — almost, it felt, for the first time since she had started giving the girl a massage. Steam filled her nose. The cloth, she realized, had become tepid in her hand. The fabric gouged her fingertips, and she understood that her fingers were pressed into the girl’s ribs. “Your cunt.”

A second quiver rose through the girl’s body. “Why?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Amalia asked, answering the girl’s question with one of her own.

“I don’t know.” The girl squeezed her eyes shut. Her body was still flexed. And then her legs began to move again, as if she were swimming, only so slowly that — except for the surface of the water, rolling in small waves — Amalia could barely discern it.

Amalia let her eyes travel the length of the girl’s arm. Where her fingers disappeared into the gray bath, she was able to see the top of the girl’s small, hairless vagina. “Stop it.”

Christina shook her head. Her fingers were moving faster again.

“You mustn’t —”

Now the bathwater splashed against the walls of the tub.

“Stop it!” Amalia repeated.

“No.”

Amalia grabbed the girl’s forearm. In the same instant, the door to the bathroom swung open. The slosh of the water was so loud, so intense in Amalia’s ears, that she didn’t hear it. She wasn’t aware of the footsteps or the change in the value of the light. Her grasp tightened on the girl’s thin, bony wrist. Her fingers plunged into the warm water. She hadn’t intended to squeeze the girl so severely.

“What’s happening in here?”

The voice ricocheted off the tile walls like a hammer striking a mirror. The words reverberated in Amalia’s head. Her scalp caught fire. She twisted toward the door. For a split second, Erik was a giant. Then he was nothing more than a ten-year-old child again. A reedy, blue-eyed, blond-haired boy with a puzzled smile creasing his face into an exclamation point. “Get out of here,” Amalia said. Her fingers were crushed
between Christina’s thighs. The water surrounded her hand like the lick of flames.

“Why do I have to?”

“Get out of here!”
It wasn’t a shout. But the intention was clear. Erik hesitated. A shadow darkened his eyes. Then he backed out of the room, and the door closed behind him. On Amalia’s hand, the girl’s thighs had become a vise. She waited for the spasm to stop, then pulled her fingers away. Her knuckles bled. Her own thighs ached.

At eight o’clock that evening, Amalia was still in the kitchen of the Nielsen house. For families living in town, ingredients for a traditional Christmas dinner had been hard to find. Meat was scarce. Even butter was in short supply. It was so expensive that most shopkeepers couldn’t afford to stock it. The risk that it would perish was too great. Here on the farm, there was an abundance. It had been a lean year, but that only meant less money coming in — and that meant little to a man like Jurgen Nielsen. There was not much that he wanted anyway. A new tractor maybe. A dress for his wife, to silence her nagging. They had everything they needed and more. For Amalia, this meant a long night, with hours of hard work behind her and mountains of effort still to come. Every pot, every pan, every plate in the kitchen had been used, some more than once. Standing in front of the sink, she had processed a river of cookware in a sea of dishwater. Her fingers were sore. Her back ached, her shoulders were numb. The skin on her hands was white and spongy. She had started with the roasting pans at four thirty, before the meal was served. Now more than three hours later she had been on her feet ever since, without a single break. And there was no end in sight. Plates from the main courses
were piled next to the sink, and behind her, in the dining room, she could hear the scrape and clatter of silverware on dishes. The party would continue into the night.

She stopped to straighten her spine, dug her fingers into the muscles above her hips, leaned back and took a breath. When she closed her eyes, she was suddenly dizzy. After all, she hadn’t herself eaten since morning. At ten a.m., she had taken a minute to swallow a few slices of bread. Watching the children, she had missed her usual lunchtime. And then she had gotten busy in the kitchen. A second maid, a girl named Birgit, whose family had come from Belgium to Denmark just before the war, entered the kitchen with yet another load of dishes. She set the tray down on the counter next to the sink. Amalia sighed, reached for the dishes to make sure that none toppled. This was the family’s best china, the blue-and-white Royal Copenhagen that had belonged to Mrs. Nielsen’s parents. They had to take extra care with these pieces. Mrs. Nielsen catalogued every plate, every cup, every saucer. “Another family joined them,” Birgit said.

“Who?”

Birgit shook her head. She didn’t know their names — she hadn’t seen them before. “I don’t think they’ll stay long.”

“I thought I heard the front door open.”

“They sat down for a bite, that’s all. I think there are twenty-eight at the table now.”