The Wolves of Berlin

"A slight delay. Your usual girl is...not in tonight."

"You should have called ahead."

"We phoned your hotel, but you'd already left. We have a new girl instead. We think you'll like her."

A pause. "Let me see her and then I'll decide."

As soon as I see the opportunity, I'll run, Bethanie told herself. As soon as I can, I'll run...

She stepped out. Kerman looked relieved. A man in a grey-green dress uniform waited for her. She did her best curtsy, keeping her eyes down. "Good evening, sir," she said. The officer circled her, inspecting front and back. A listless blond woman with too much jewelry sat nearby, apparently having arrived with the German man. He took Bethanie's hand in his black-gloved fingers and kissed it. "I'm very charmed to meet you. Miss...?"

Bethanie hesitated. Kerman blurted out: "Kitty!" Bethanie could have slapped him.

"Yes, Kitty," she said. "Still very pleased to meet you. Mister...?"

"Not 'mister,'" the German said. He pointed to the red and gold patches at his throat. "General."

***

Bethanie's general, Von Choltitz, was a peculiar specimen: short and stocky, with an oily complexion. Bethanie couldn't decide whether the monocle he wore was practical or an affectation. The blond woman seemed to be his mistress, and it was Bethanie's job for the evening to entertain them both, though the woman seemed barely cognizant of anything around her. Kerman took them through the other curtain, where Bethanie found that despite the building's ramshackle exterior there was a fantastic boutique, complete with crystal chandeliers and waiters in crisp tuxedos. Germans (red-faced from too much drink) and coiffed, perfumed women (red-faced only from an excess of rouge) sat down to meals of appalling lavishness.

She was presented with half a roasted pheasant garnished with tiny, whole onions and cream sauce. Looking around at the rows of plates conveying meals of equal lavishness, her blood boiled. She wanted to smash every plate against the walls. Instead she picked up the bird with both hands and began cramming it into her mouth. "Grow fat on the food of your enemy," her aunt had taught her, though Bethanie suspected she was probably not speaking quite this literally.

Von Choltitz watched her with his good eye; it made her skin crawl. He ate in bites so small she wondered whether it was even necessary to chew. Once, when he set his knife closer to her plate than to his, she touched on the idea of driving it right into the center of that eye. She pictured a fountain of blood staining the pretty white table settings and ruining all this stolen food. Her fingers twitched. They'd kill her immediately, of course, but her life for a general's was a good bargain. But the memory of the monstrous shape in the alley reminded her that she couldn't afford to throw her life away before her other duties were discharged. Still, it was galling watching this pig chew his meat and knowing that, by rights, he should be dead by her hand already. So close...

They weren't alone at the table. On the other side a man with no uniform kept company with two perfumed creatures. They gave her a sideways look and in return she gave them a wide grin and perfectly placed eyebrows, a look which translated, in any language, to "Get me killed and I'll make sure you regret it." They apparently decided they had enough problems between the two of them and returned to fawning over their faceless customer. He and Von Choltitz were deep into an argument about matters of state, though the general seemed to believe that discretion was the better part of valor in such confrontations, as he said only one word to the stranger's ten.

"All I mean to say is that we out here in the field have no notion of what's really happening," the man said. "We're like ants in a thunderstorm: we contend with the drops that hit but have no notion of the size of the maelstrom."

"You don't, maybe," said Von Choltitz.

"That's the mistake of men with rank: You assume you're too important not to know what's happening. But you have commanders of your own, and what commander ever told his subordinate everything in a war?"

"Dietrich knows more than you think," the blond woman said. It was the first Bethanie had heard her speak, and it was apparent right away that she was drunk and probably had been for some time. "Not long ago he met with the Fuhrer himself. Two entire days--"

"Halt die klappe!" Von Choltitz said, so loudly and so forcefully that a man at a neighboring table dropped his fork. The blond woman blanched and buried her face in her wine glass. Von Choltitz sat up straighter (something Bethanie wouldn't have thought possible) and said:

"She speaks out of turn. Obviously if I had met with anyone I couldn't speak of it."

"But you have met him before," the stranger said.

"Once," Von Choltitz conceded. "A long ago. I even met with him in the...I'm sorry, the words escape me. My dear, what would you call the 'Wolfsschanze?'"

Bethanie realized the question was directed at her. She wiped her mouth and blurted out the translation before she realized what she was saying:

"Wolf's Den."

"That's it," said Von Choltitz. "The Wolf's Den. That's what they called the eastern command in those days."

The back of Bethanie's neck prickled.

"From the looks of you, you'd have been scarcely more than a child then. Tell me, have you always lived in Paris?" Behind his monocle the general was inspecting her like she was the last cut of meat at a market. She reminded herself that she was supposed to be playing a cover here--another perfumed pet here to entertain important men like Von Choltitz during their layover. She opened her mouth to produce a sufficiently cheerful and meaningless response--and at the last second changed her mind.

"Would you know the difference if I hadn't?"

The other women stared. The general didn't flinch. "You must remember the day the occupation began. I often wonder what people feel under such circumstances."

"Boredom," Bethanie said and, with one quick stabbing motion forked an entire half bird off the plate of the woman sitting nearest her (who was not eating anyway). She sawed through it while keeping eye contact with Von Choltitz. "There was nothing to do all day, with everything closed and everyone frightened. I couldn't wait for things to just go back to normal. Isn't that what everyone was thinking?" She looked at the other women around the table and each of them looked away, one even having the grain of decency necessary to blush.

Bethanie ate her way through the rest of her plate with glacial calm. She knew the risks she was taking, but getting out of this place alive hinged on making sure Von Choltitz considered her not with his head but with his cock. If she had him pegged right, the scrutiny he was giving her right now was lustful rather than suspicious. And if not...

"I believe there is a ballroom somewhere here," he said. "Do you dance?"

"Not with the lights on."

The general eyed her for a second longer and then, wiping his mouth on an embroidered napkin, he stood. "You'll have to excuse us. All of us."

The blond woman stood up too fast, almost knocking her glass over. Bethanie allowed herself to be led away by the arm. Your only job is to live through this, she thought.

Upstairs, a darkened boudoir. Bethanie found it claustrophobic and for a horrifying second she imagined it as like the tiny cells where the SS take you for questioning. The thought of Von Choltitz touching her seemed only a marginally less grim a fate. Whether she let something of her revulsion slip or whether Von Choltitz was simply more self-aware than she'd have given him credit for, he seemed to anticipate this. "You have nothing to be afraid of," he said. "I wouldn't dream of forcing myself on you."

Bethanie gave him the most sincere smile she had. "You wouldn't be."

"I don't have any business with women. It's not in my nature. Putting my rude hands on you would be...criminal." He cleaned his monocle with a handkerchief. "But I do like to watch." The mistress was slipping out of her sable furs and unzipping the back of her evening dress. The general fixed Bethanie with an inquiring look. "You can do that, can't you?"

Bethanie marched across the room, cupped the blond woman's face in her hand, and kissed her right on her too-red lips. Then she looked back at the general. "Of course."

Von Choltitz settled into a chair in a dark corner, like some immense toad on a log. Bethanie and the blond woman regarded each other from opposite sides of the bed and Bethanie recognized the look the woman gave her, because it was the same one she herself had down not too long ago, the "Just don't get me killed and I don't give a damn what else you do" look.

Bethanie helped her out of her dress, reminding herself that she was putting on a show here and not doing the laundry. She tugged the dress down slowly, letting the expensive material glide over the woman's body before dropping like a puddle onto the floor. She was a curvaceous woman, with bounty in places where Bethanie had comparable economy. This was hardly the first time Bethanie had ever seen another woman's body, but it was the first time she'd had occasion to examine it so thoroughly. Mindful of her audience, she spent a long time looking, and when the other woman appeared to grow uncomfortable Bethanie found that she liked it. It was good to know that this preening, pampered woman was vulnerable in such a simple way.

They landed on the bed in a heady cloud of the blond woman's perfume. At first Bethanie found herself helpless as to how to start such a thing, but her counterpart seemed better versed. They fell into open-mouthed kisses and aggressive, grabby stroking and touching of both Bethanie's petite frame and the blond woman's ample one. When the blond woman presented her breasts a tangible sense of anticipation rose from the corner. She kissed them one by one and then returned to each to suck the swollen, too-large nipples. There came a grunt of pleasure from dark.

Still not letting herself think about what was happening, Bethanie pushed Von Choltitz's mistress onto her back and let their naked bodies twine around each other before her lips returned to their previous perch. The woman mewled like a kitten. Bethanie thought the display too exuberant. But staying alive compelled such things sometimes.

The little bedroom hemmed them all in. The mattress was thick and the sheets cool, but it was luxury stretched thin for troubled times, and the principle applied to Von Choltitz's mistress as well: beautiful, yes, and submissive, with a body ripe and full as the succulent birds being served below in the dining room and equally as easy for a man like the general to pick clean when his appetite demanded it. But the makeup, the perfume, the glossy garments, all seemed calculated to cover an underlying weakness. Here was a woman who could not afford to not make the most of every extra trick.

These odd thoughts fluttered through Bethanie's head as she kissed and fondled her way down the woman's body, eventually reaching the place where her soft thighs met. The blond woman's mouth froze in an O and an icy gasp floated in the air when Bethanie made contact. She touched with parted lips and then with the tip of her tongue, making small, experimental nudges, testing the feeling and the taste. She had no idea what she was doing, but since the point was just to look good she pressed her open mouth to it in a manner she hoped expressed abject desire. The blond woman writhed and thrust her hands into Bethanie's curls while making small tortured noises. Bethanie closed her eyes and let the insistent bucking of the women's hips control her rhythm as she licked over and over and over, until they both lay naked, panting, sweating, and spent. In the dark, unseen eyes were always watching.

After, Bethanie lay on the mattress, not daring to actually fall asleep. The room was silent, the mistress asleep and Von Choltitz as silent as a corpse. How was she going to get out of here? Even if the general let her go, surely someone here was going to recognize that she did not belong and make a point of it? Bethanie had lost track of the time, but dawn must be approaching. Maybe her best bet was to sneak out now.

She was halfway through dressing again when Von Choltitz's sharp tones startled her. "You're not leaving us?"

She managed a look of simpering apology. "I have to be along. I work during the days..."

"And during the nights, too, and very hard. Be along, then."

To reach the door Bethanie would have to pass by Von Choltitz's chair. The image of a coiled snake, ready to spring, came back to her again. I can't show any fear, she reminded herself. If he even thinks he detects something amiss, it will all be over. She forced one foot in front of the other. Just walk by him and say something pleasant, she told herself. By the time he responds you'll be gone. Just walk by him and--

"My dear?"

Again those hard-edged syllables, like ice down her back. She was right in front of him now, the general's monocle glittering like a hideous magical eye. She waited for him to grab her, to train his pistol on her, to call for the police--or would he even bother with that? Would he simply stand her against the wall and take care of her himself? It's not as if anyone would question him.

To her surprise, all he did was stuff a few bills into her hand. "For the extra trouble I put you to. If you buy something pretty with it, maybe I'll get to see it on you when I come again."

"I'm sure you will," she said and, as a final sacrifice to secure her safe passage, she kissed him, trying again not to imagine him as a squat fairy tale toad while she did.

She made it eight steps down the hall before crumpling against the wall. She had to find a way out of here, had to report in without being followed, had to find out (if she could) whether the JED team was secure. She tried to summon up on acceptable alibi if she was stopped on the way out but there was nothing to draw on. Nothing to do but go forward.

Kerman was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. His tie was loose. He looked impatient. "You took long enough." And then, anticipating her planned response perfectly, he said: "You can hit me now and maybe even try to kill me and in the process get yourself arrested, or you can let me take you out of here and in all likelihood live at least until sundown.

"They're both tempting choices in their way and I wouldn't blame you one way or the other, so go ahead and decide now. But hurry it up."

***

June 4:

1,143 days under occupation.

Bethanie couldn't remember the last time she rode in a car. It made her disoriented. Paris seemed to be passing them too quickly, like a river that had burst its banks, and the vehicle itself felt confining, like a cell.

"So who are you really?" she said, after some time passed with Kerman saying nothing.

"Ah, names. So much time spent on names."

"Fine. I don't really want to know anyway."

"My real name is Jean Fontenoy."

Bethanie started. "The fascist journalist?"

"Ah: a fan."

She laughed. Fontenoy looked alarmed. Before long she was bent over, holding her stomach. "I'm sorry," she said (which she wasn't). "I just never expected...what are you doing working in a place like that? As a doorman? You're supposed to be at the front."

"And you're supposed to be dead. If it wasn't for me you really would be."

"My gratitude is very limited. Where are we going?"

"Somewhere we can talk without extra ears around."

"I have nothing to talk to you about."

"Not even the werewolf?"

That shut Bethanie up. Fontenoy offered no more answers until they came to his apartment. The place was dingy with a smell she faintly recognized as opium. He went to the kitchen and poured something in a glass. She refused one of the same. She waited for Fontenoy to say something but all he did was sink into a chair and sip his drink. She tapped her foot on the carpet and finally broke the silence herself: "So you know my real name, and you know the family legend."

"Yes."

"And why do you buy into such a preposterous story? No one these days believes in werewolves."

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a werewolf."

Bethanie cocked her head. "You're making fun of me."

He shook his head.

"You're serious?"

He nodded.

"Let's see then," Bethanie said. And she stabbed him in the heart.

The knife she'd lifted from the dinner table was short, and not designed for killing, but she was strong and standing very close, and she punctured his chest five or six times in ten seconds. Red spots blossomed on his shirt and his body jerked, eyes widening in shock, but she didn't stop. When she stuck the knife in for the last time she twisted it and stood back, panting. Her hands were all red.

Fontenoy sat there. Then, very slowly, he got up, went to the kitchen, and fixed a new drink. Then he came back and sat in the same chair, all the while leaking like a sieve. The knife still protruded from his chest. He took a sip. "Convinced?" he said.

Bethanie reminded herself to breathe. A sense of morbid fascination compelled her to look very closely at the place where his flesh parted around the blade. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes. But everything hurts when you're one of us."

"But you're not the werewolf who chased me last night. You can't be. So who is?"

"My wife, Madeline." Bethanie gave him another incredulous look. "That's why I came to find you the other day. I wanted your help. Madeline has lived with the curse for her entire life, but things changed a few years ago. She went mad, for lack of a better word. Started to lose what made her human. I've seen it happen before. Awful."

He looked dreamily into his glass, swirling the ice, as he talked. "It happened while I was away, in Shanghai, in '37. You've read my work about Shanghai? Seeing the Jap occupation, what they did to people...that's when I realized there was no winning against people like that. The Allies don't have the spine for it. When a thing like that rolls toward you the only thing to do is make sure you're not in the way."

Bethanie made a rude noise.

"When I came back, she wasn't the same woman anymore. I don't know if something happened to cause it or if she just started to drift at some point, but...well, it got to the point that I had to lock her up. She's rabid, you see. In the official records she's dead, and I'm serving abroad. You know the drill: fake names, illegal lease. The landlord assumes we're spies and I have to pay him double. I had to keep her hidden. You understand, yes?"

He seemed to be dozing off. The exhaustion that must have been creeping in on him all night was mixing with the alcohol.

"Two weeks ago she seemed to be getting better. Sounded more like her old self. I unlocked the door for a while, even though I knew it was stupid. And then of course--poof--she disappeared. Since then she's been out there somewhere, doing God knows what. She needs help. That's why I came looking for you."

"You want me to help your wife?"

"I want you to kill her."

Bethanie gaped.

"There's nothing left of her anymore. I want someone to end it. I don't know if there's any peace for creatures like us, but I can hope. Who else would I turn to?" He sagged a little more in his chair. "But when I finally worked up the courage to come talk to you I became afraid. You seemed so angry, so...dangerous. So I ran away. And now here we are."

Bethanie settled uncomfortably into another chair. The drafty apartment seemed that much colder now.

"Now you know everything. Well, not everything, but as much as you have to. Tell me, do you know how to kill a werewolf?"