The German Girl by Armando Lucas Correa Page B

tremble.
    Mama opened the door, genuflected, and gestured with her hand for them to come in, without asking who they were looking for or what they wanted. Four Ogres entered the living room one after the other, bringing with them a blast of cold air. I couldn’t stop trembling. The freezing draft chilled me to the bone.
    The chief Ogre reached the center of the room and came to a halt on the thick Persian rug. Mama stepped to one side so as not to obstruct the view of this man who had come to change our lives forever.
    “You do live well, don’t you?” he announced, without bothering to disguise his envy. He began to study the room in great detail: the coppery drapes, the silk net curtains to filter the light from the courtyard window, the imposing sofa with yellow Pompeii cushions, the oil portrait of Mama with her flawed pearl hanging around her neck and bare shoulders.
    The Ogre inspected every object with the precision of a ruthless auctioneer. It was obvious from his eyes the things he liked most and he was planning to keep for himself.
    Our living room was filled with the smell of gunpowder, burnt wood, smashed windows, ashes.
    I placed myself as a shield between the Ogres and Mama. When she laid her hands on my shoulders, I could feel her trembling.
    “You must be Hannah,” said the chief Ogre in a cultured Berlin accent. “The German girl. You’re almost perfect.”
    He pronounced almost with such spite that it was as if he had slapped me.
    “As far as I can see, Herr Rosenthal isn’t at home.”
    When he said Papa’s name, I thought my heart would burst. I took deep breaths to try to calm it, to prevent them from hearing my blood pumping so loudly. I began to perspire. Mama still had the fixed smile on her face. Her cold hands were making my shoulders numb.
    I had to think of something else, to escape from the room, my mother, the Ogres: I started to peer at the brocade on the silk wallpaper. Strands of fern leaves ending in bunches of flowers that were repeated endlessly. Go on, Hannah, follow the trace of your roots and don’t think about what is going to happen, I kept telling myself over and over. One, two, three leaves on each stem.
    I lost concentration when a drop of sweat started slowly to roll down my temple. I didn’t dare stop it, so I let it drip onto my front.
    I sensed that Mama was about to break down. Please don’t cry, Mama. Don’t let them see how desperate we are. Don’t lose that beautiful, cold smile of yours. Tremble all you like, but don’t cry. It’s Papa they’ve come for, and we knew this moment would arrive. It was high time we heard the banging at the door.
    The chief Ogre went over to the window to check which side of the street our living room faced and possibly also to calculate how much our apartment was worth. Then he crossed to the gramophone. He picked up Papa’s fragile record, examined it, and looked straight at Mama.
    “A key piece for every mezzo-soprano.”
    I could sense Mama was about to offer them tea or some other drink, and I stiffened to try to convey to her not to do it. Stay as you are, proud and erect. I’ll protect you. Lean on me; don’t let yourself collapse and don’t offer the Ogres anything.
    The man paced slowly round the room, and as he did so, the current of freezing air expanded around him. I couldn’t stop trembling. I was going to have to run to the bathroom.
    The Ogre waved to his two men to search the other rooms. Perhapsthey wanted to steal our jewels. It wouldn’t be hard to find them: they were in the box with the lonely ballerina on top, together with the Patek Philippe watch that Papa wore only on special occasions. Perhaps they were after the money Mama kept in one of her bedside table drawers. All our cash was there, apart from some she’d given to Eva in case of an emergency. The rest was in bank accounts in Switzerland and Canada.
    The Ogre went back to the gramophone.
    He lifted the arm with the needle and studied it