Cleopatra�s Perfume (14 page)

Crouched in the dinghy, I huddled with my satchel close to my chest, my body shivering, nausea hitting me. The heavy potato sack smelled of human excrement, making me gag. I swallowed, trying not to breathe, grateful it covered me from the glare of naked bulbs strung on black wires across the deck, while a lone spotlight from the patrol boat swept over the trawler, adding to my anxiety. I crouched down lower, shivering. A lingering dampness in the lifeboat made me sneeze. I buried my face in my hands to quell the noise.

Then it started to rain.

A light mist at first, then heavier drops. That made the Nazis more urgent in their search. Shoving, pushing, I could hear them
opening barrels and ripping apart the deck, shouting orders, excited, demanding attention. I screamed when someone pulled the potato sack off me and shone a spotlight in my face. I blinked, trying to hide from the glare, saying nothing, hoping they’d take me for a boy. Dressed in a man’s dark trousers and shirt and a heavy pea jacket with a fisherman’s cap covering my hair, I imagined my features devoid of makeup appeared soft and fragile in the artificial light.

“Looks like we got us a stowaway, Kapitänleutnant.”

“Stinks, doesn’t he?” I heard the Nazi officer mutter, though I wasn’t sure if he meant the foul smell clinging to my clothes or the spicy perfume emitting from my skin. As a precaution, I had applied a liberal amount of Cleopatra’s perfume.

“What shall I do with him?”

“Toss him overboard.”

I screamed when the Nazi dragged me out of the dinghy and lifted me by the collar with my feet dangling. Stocky and muscular, he held me in the air for what seemed like several minutes. I twisted in his grip, my arms swinging, loud grunts erupting from my gut. Laughing at my frustration, the Nazi swung me over the side of the trawler, shouting threats at me, ordering the Danish crew to stand aside, then threw me down on the deck at the officer’s signal. I hit hard, knocking the breath out of me, my satchel flying out of my hands. In a desperate move, I made a grab for it and my cap flew off. My light-colored hair flew about my face, revealing my identity.

“
Ein Mädchen.
A girl!”

I panicked. What if they searched me and found the diary? They’d find out about my mission, who I was, where I was going. I was a fool.
Fool.

Stumbling to my feet, I tried to toss the diary overboard, but the Nazi officer ordered the other man to restrain me. The German pulled his weapon and pushed the barrel of his Luger against my throat. I felt his eyes upon me, penetrating my defenses. My pulse raced.
He intended to execute me.

The Nazi grinned, expecting to see terror in my eyes. Instead, I smiled at him, my expression buying me precious seconds. I inhaled, filling up my lungs with the perfume clinging to me with its evocative spicy scent. I had nothing to fear. I was certain the perfume would save me. The instant he pulled the trigger, the world as I knew it would spin insanely for a long moment, then I’d experience a great
whooshing
sound and a dizzying sensation making me want to vomit. My whole being would transform and exist in a state of suspension, my senses disappearing except for my sense of smell, my body rendered weightless, transparent, unseen to the naked eye. I
wanted
him to shoot me—

But I was wrong. I looked into his eyes and sensed his intent.

He didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to rape me.

The Nazi officer slammed me against the wall in the captain’s cabin, rattling the teeth in my head. I stifled a cry as he yanked down my trousers, then his black gloved hands parted my thighs, exploring, pinching, ripping apart my cotton knickers. Rough wood splinters scraped against my bare arse when he leaned over me and pressed my hips into the wall, slamming his body against me, pinning me to the wall with one hand while guiding his cock into me with the other. I yelled out more from fear than pain, though I knew no one would help me, my whole being screaming
this couldn’t be
happening.
I was being raped, perhaps murdered. Why didn’t the perfume protect me?

Believe me, dear reader, since I left Port Said, I
have
experienced more than one occasion when the perfume saved me from a violent death. I know you scoff at me, your lips curling in an angry sneer. I don’t blame you. I lingered too long on the eroticism of my story, indulging in my hunger for sensory pleasures and now I face your fury for not telling you sooner. You must forgive me and understand I paid the price that night for my amorous follies.

It was over quickly, the groping then penetration, his groin tight between my thighs, his cock throbbing, and I could hear him snorting through clenched teeth. I’ll never forget the feel of him bucking and twisting inside me, driving deeper and deeper. With each thrust I vowed revenge for his sadistic act. I would not rest until I sent every Nazi back to the decadent hell that spawned them, blood streaming from their mouths, their flesh ripped apart, the foul odor of death upon them before they drew their last breath.

For now, all I could do was spit on the Nazi bastard.

Rain, rain, rain. Buckets of it, pouring all over the deck, drenching me, filling my mouth with its sweet taste while my body recoiled against his ugly deed.

When the Nazi was finished with me, cursing me for soiling his uniform with my spit, he ordered his underling to drag me outside and leave me shivering on the deck as an example of his superiority. Someone threw a blanket over my limp body, the rain soaking through the thick threads, its heaviness holding me prisoner and prohibiting any movement on my part. I curled up to protect myself
against further violation, tears streaming down my face. I wasn’t ashamed of my tears. Soft whimpers at first, then louder as my humiliation turned into anger. The ferocity of the Nazi’s violent act revealed to me the extent of their animalistic behavior toward anyone who got in their way.

I knew I couldn’t change what happened, so I dried my tears.

I found out later the Nazi officer found nothing aboard the trawler but a receptacle for his lust, which was enough to satisfy him. The patrol boat sped away in the storm, creating a never-ending pattern of waves, the water lapping against the trawler, its ceaseless rhythm tormenting me. Laughing at me.
The perfume didn’t work.
Why, I questioned over and over.
Why?

I don’t remember how I came to be in a warm bunk, a dry blanket covering me, my body nude and shivering, my clothes drying, the diary
and
the perfume safe. The captain had retrieved my satchel intact and brought it to me.

I huddled under the coarse cover, my arms crossed over my breasts, my thighs clenched together so tightly my muscles ached. I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. No, dear reader, I made plans. Big plans. I would record my journey so the world would know the truth about these monsters. Yes, I ignored them once, turned my eye from their horror. No more. I must make my message heard before it’s too late.

I peered out the tiny porthole, glaring at the sea, the night dissipating into a dawn so gray I prayed out loud to God, begging him to punish these vicious perpetrators of the Third Reich. Erase the colors of the rainbow from their existence, destroy them as they’ve
destroyed lives once so vivid, lives eliminated from the Aryan palette by the madman in Berlin.

Jaw set, I fueled my courage with new determination. What happened to me that night isn’t worth a footnote in the annals of history. My life is insignificant, we all are in this fight. I’ll survive. I have to. I have a job to do.

I decided I would say nothing to anyone, never tell them about the dirty, rotten sores I imagined had popped out on my swollen genitals, red and raw from the Nazi’s pounding thrusts. Silence was my credo. And so my hatred would grow. For I would need that hatred to accept what I believed was certain death should I face the enemy in a similar compromising position. The perfume had failed me. Would it do so again? I wouldn’t know until it was too late.

I jumped off the bunk when I saw the jagged coastline come into view. The small German coastal village lay ahead. Warnemünde. I rubbed my arms and stomped my bare feet on the wooden floor to get the blood moving, then pulled on my damp clothes, ignoring the rawness between my thighs when the coarse fabric pricked the still-tender skin. I felt no pain, only purpose. I swore I’d finish my mission if I had to crawl to Berlin. Never,
never
will I forget this night.

Never.

A woman carrying a straw basket filled with laundry met me at the dock and, without a word, hurried me along to a farmhouse where I received my next set of instructions. I learned later she had a Luger hidden among the dirty clothes.

I undressed and she presented me with a traveling outfit, complete with silk stockings (which surprised me) and a stylish hat. When I
asked where she’d procured the silk stockings, she told me that since the fall of France, the German government fixed the exchange rate between the reichsmark and the franc so German currency had greater purchasing power. Soldiers with minimal pay could afford luxuries in Paris, like silk stockings and bottles of Chanel No. 5 perfume, she said, smiling, and sold them on the black market. As an American affianced to a Swede, I would be suspect if I
didn’t
have silk stockings.

Her mood darkened, her eyes widened, when she saw my ripped knickers and bruised thighs. I said nothing about my ordeal and she didn’t ask. She avoided looking at me, but she knew. I’ve no doubt she’d seen the vacant stare in a woman’s eyes after she’d been violated, understood the sensual awareness that takes over, her hatred of her body for being the instrument that killed her soul. Perhaps she’d known the depth of such humiliation herself, because she left a porcelain bowl filled with warm water, soap and a towel, indicating I should wash, then left me to do my business. Alone. I shan’t go into details except to mention I found only scant traces of blood staining my knickers, for which I was grateful. I cleaned myself as well as I could, though I doubted I’d ever feel clean again.

After a hot meal and sleep, I changed into the print frock and accessories provided for me, then a burly man who never smiled and spoke no English drove me to the train station in a beat-up gray truck used to haul fertilizer. The smell made me nauseous, but I said nothing. I once said I wasn’t a soldier. That was no longer true. I was in this fight until the end.

With little fanfare he helped me aboard the train to Berlin then brought my luggage to my compartment. The local village women
had assembled a retinue for me, adding personal pieces of their own packed with fashions in my size. A remarkable sacrifice on their part. Not only would they have nothing to replace their clothes (Germans faced strict clothing rationing, with each person’s allotment recorded in a national registry), but certain death awaited them if they were caught.

I thanked the man in German, then he was gone. A shadow crossed over my heart, knowing I can say nothing more about him or the others who helped me without jeopardizing the welfare of future agents who cross into Germany. I make mention of them here should history fail to record their sacrifice and courage. I’d been briefed by SIS that the resistance in Germany against Hitler consisted of small groups of individuals who dared to defy the Nazi regime rather than an organized movement. I’m certain that will change.

I settled into the maroon leather seat, opening and closing my Tiffany compact to occupy me until we were well on our way. I had a long journey ahead of me, but when I arrived in Berlin I’d be on my own to complete my mission, which is why I must continue with my story to keep my mind from scattering and losing focus.

Determined to put the ugly incident aboard the fishing trawler behind me, I set my mental compass back to a different time, a different place. Cairo. A city overwhelmed by smells. Olive oil frying, leather being cured, bodies unwashed with the smell of sweat and nut oil clinging to them, saffron smoking in a brazier, incense with the distinct scent of sandalwood hypnotizing all who drew in its scent, and roses.

Roses.

Rose water in atomizers to soothe the skin, rose vines entwin
ing the trellised roof of a mosque, rose perfume bottles on copper trays. And three little barefoot shoeshine boys wearing skullcaps and shapeless shifts overwhelming me with big bouquets of red, pink and apricot roses when I arrived at the train station in Cairo. Ramzi had arranged for them to meet us. Teeth missing, grinning, their shy dark faces glowing with impish enthusiasm, they bade us follow them down a trail of rose petals leading to a gharry, an open-air carriage drawn by a stately black horse.

Riding in the local cab through the city of Cairo with Ramzi at my side, I fell in complete bliss with the welcoming sweet fragrance of the flowers sweeping me along into my dream. My Egyptian lover nuzzled my neck with his lips, then his hand moved under my skirt, groping until I heard the familiar snap of my garter. I made no protest but allowed his finger entry into me, for I hungered to live out my obsession for him in the most provocative ways imaginable. I could only speculate what fetishes he would engage in to stimulate me, what ribald cabaret act he would orchestrate to extend my orgasm. I wanted to devour him and so I did. With raucous enthusiasm, I embraced his theater of sexual magic. Be aware, dear reader, the next part of my incredible journey is about to begin. You may be shocked, amazed, even titillated, but I beg you to remain with me so as to understand the tightrope I teetered on, though I was sure of my footing. I believed this erotic release would never end.

As is the custom in the Arab world, I shall not rush into it, for to appear too hurried is an insult not taken lightly. We’ve come this far together and I’ve no desire to offend, but to give you the opportunity to catch your breath. To create a mood, meditative, dreamlike, seductive.

I will take you to a secretive place where fantasy became reality, where a woman could be both mistress and whore. A place where slender
minettes
found romanticism and lust side by side, where girls executed a man’s desires in numerous languages. Joy-girls whose sexual mastery included vaginal as well as oral skills. And for the woman who wanted an intoxicating encounter with a man or a woman, a partner with a liberating wit and a phallus, either flesh and blood or man-made, no expense was spared to satisfy her sexual passion.