The Art of the Devil (16 page)

She beamed at her own small witticism. Her girls beamed in return, nudging each other with excited elbows. Josette and the new girl, Elisabeth, who had become fast friends, exchanged whispers. Miss Dunbarton considered admonishing them for impoliteness, but decided against it. At the moment she felt charitable even toward Josette, who listened to her radio every night in violation of the rules, and snuck men up to her room when Miss Dunbarton was off-premises, thinking nobody knew.

And what of the senator's housekeeper? Again, it might have been the sherry talking – Miss Dunbarton had put down more than her usual ration, between breakfast and lunch, in celebration of the season – but Elisabeth Grant had proven an agreeable surprise. She didn't flirt with the men, and except for her friendship with Josette she kept mostly to herself. She was pretty and charming and pleasant to have around. Any attitude she may have harbored had been kept out of view. She had done her work thoroughly and, as far as Miss Dunbarton knew, had broken no rules except for her late-night bull sessions with Josette. Overall the loss of Barbara Cameron, while inconvenient, seemed actually to have been a boon for the farm.

Animated chatter spread between the young ladies; Miss Dunbarton officiously clapped again. ‘Back to work!' she cried. A bit of the carrot, a bit of the stick; otherwise they would mistake her generosity for soft-heartedness. Give these girls an inch and they took a mile.

In mid-afternoon a ten-foot Douglas fir, freshly chopped from the backyard, was trundled into the parlor, dripping needles and instantly filling the herdsman's home with a sweet, citrusy smell.

Girls watched, wide-eyed and cooing, as men wrangled the tree into a five-legged stand and then drilled screws into the trunk, clamping it upright. The tree was the
coup de grace
to a parlor already decked that morning with tinsel, wreaths, garlands, mistletoe, and glittering ornaments. A Christmas scene had been impressively rendered in miniature on a tabletop, with a tiny compact mirror doubling for an ice-topped pond, and lace antimacassars giving the illusion of a snow-covered field.

Watching along with the rest, Elisabeth felt a flicker of scorn. Although some of her earliest childhood memories were of Advent calendars and sleigh bells, she had soon enough discovered the vibrant, primal pagan deities – Fricka and Brünnhilde, Wotan and Loge – and never looked back. Compared with nomadic wolf-warriors hunting in throes of bloodlust and ecstasy, with gold coins and haunches of meat and fleeing young women perfumed with sweat and terror, Christian symbolism seemed insultingly weak.

Here in America after the war, however, frivolity and indulgence were the rules, as per usual. And why not? They had all worked hard, Elisabeth included; their hands were callused with the evidence. And the unchallenging symbols of Christmas were comfortable and easily digested. A sorority had developed, binding them together – even Elisabeth felt a reluctant part of it – and so they deserved a night to celebrate. There would be men to kiss beneath the mistletoe, and whiskey by the barrel, and music for dancing, and no unwelcome reminders of the laws of nature, the redness of tooth and claw. In fact, someone had already switched on the turntable, and the room brimmed with Perry Como softly crooning ‘There's No Place Like Home For the Holidays'.

As Elisabeth watched, Josette was boosted up, star in hand, by farmhands who couldn't resist the chance to sneak a glance under her skirt, winking and laughing. Then Miss Dunbarton entered the room, carrying herself with the extravagant precision of the tippler, and made a beeline for Elisabeth. ‘Miss Grant,' she said. ‘How are we, this fine day?'

‘Very well, Miss Dunbarton. And yourself?'

‘Very well, thank you.' The elder woman swayed slightly on her feet. ‘Looking forward to tomorrow's party?'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘We'll need a hand serving and clearing. Everybody's pitching in. I'd like you and Josette during the first hour, please, from six until seven.'

‘Of course, ma'am.'

For another moment Dunbarton glowed, oscillating, clearly full of Christmas spirits. ‘Until later,' she said then, and weaved off toward Josette, who was being lowered to the floor, having finally pinned the star atop the tree. With Elisabeth looking on, they held a brief palaver. As Dunbarton headed for her next victim, Josette came toward Elisabeth, glowering.

‘Some party,' said the younger girl beneath her breath. ‘Sounds like we'll be working the whole time.'

Up close, Josette didn't look festive at all; she looked as if she'd been crying, with the skin beneath her eyes shiny and hard. ‘Can we talk?' she added.

Dunbarton was distracted. The help was milling aimlessly, shirking chores in the general confusion. Nodding, Elisabeth followed Josette upstairs. No sooner had the door to the girl's bedroom closed behind them than she burst into tears.

Sobbing, she buried her face in Elisabeth's shoulder. ‘James broke up with me this morning.'

Somewhat at a loss, Elisabeth patted the girl's broad back. ‘Shh,' she said. ‘It's all right.'

‘No, it's n–n–not. He d–d–dumped me and I wasn't even – I wasn't even expect–pect-
pecting
it—'

‘Take a deep breath,' said Elisabeth. ‘Settle down.'

Instead of a deep breath, Josette took her bottle of schnapps from beneath the bed. ‘Ah,
fuck
,' she said eloquently, wiping at her eyes. She widened them and tilted her head back, trying to spare her mascara. ‘What is about me, Libby? What makes people walk all over me? It's like I'm wearing a sign around my neck:
kick me
.'

Elisabeth said nothing.

‘It's always been that way,' Josette plowed on, ‘for as long as I can remember. There's always been a James. There'll always
be
a James.' She uncapped the bottle and guzzled vindictively. ‘Luke, my fiancé, said he loved me. Until he got what he wanted, of course. You know what
that
is. And then he dumped me. And he laughed while he did it. That's what happened this morning, Libby; James snuck in to see me, and we got a little drunk, and then we made love, right here, right on my bed; we made love, and then as soon as it was done …' The tears rose again, choking her. ‘As
s–s–soon as it was d–d–done
—'

‘Oh, honey, don't.'

‘—he s–s–said – he s–s–s–said—'

‘He's not worth it.' Elisabeth hugged the girl. ‘Shh.'

Moments passed. The sound of Josette's crying blended with the plangent hum of wind through the house's eaves – lower-pitched than usual, more spectrally alive – and the voices and music from downstairs. At length, Josette gave a final-sounding snuffle. She relaxed her clinch with Elisabeth, but did not let go completely. Drawing back a few inches, she left her hands on shoulder and waist.

‘I ask for it,' said Josette in a dull monotone. ‘It's my own damn fault. I ask for it, and I always have.'

‘It's not your fault, honey.'

‘Don't lie to spare my feelings. I may be a lot of things, but I'm not stupid. I ask to be taken advantage of, and then I ask to be dumped.' A tendril of snot hung quivering from one nostril. ‘And it's always been the way. If there's a louse within a thousand miles, I'll find him. And I'll fall in love with him. And then I'll cry like a fool when he dumps me. Oh, I thought I was doing it right this time, Libby. I waited to go to bed with him until he said he loved me. Now I realize: it was all just an act. It was all one-sided, the whole time. But I bought the whole story. Hook, line, and sinker. Like the fool that I am.'

Elisabeth shook her head. ‘It's in the past,' she said firmly. ‘Never look back, Josie.'

Josette's eyes shone. Despite her best efforts, her mascara had run in two black smears down her round cheeks. ‘Oh, Libby,' she said, with a sad little laugh. ‘I'm such a mess.'

‘You're going to be okay.' Elisabeth embraced the girl again, harder, and smiled. ‘I promise.'

N
ever look back.

Doubtless good advice – but with her eyes closed and the scent of crisp resin lingering in her nostrils, the advice became indistinguishable from the recollection of receiving the advice.

She could see her father now, standing before the Christmas tree in their isolated cabin by the lake, trying to find the perfect bough off which to hang a glittering ornament. Elisabeth had been but five or six, overflowing with enthusiasm to help. Running toward the tree, she had slipped on a shred of tinsel, crashing hard against the plank-board floor. A moment later she had been up again, laughing. Then her mother had grabbed her from behind, twisting her arm up sharply, revealing blood trickling down her wrist where a splinter had broken the skin.
Look at that, Elsa. Look what you've done to yourself. You must be careful. You are delicate!
Concern had underlain the words, but they had come across as angry, and Elisabeth had burst into tears.

Five minutes later, rubbing his daughter's wrist as she sat on his knee, Father had leaned in close and whispered beneath his breath.
Don't be upset, Liebchen.
Your mother means well. You are all she has; you are her entire world. But I know that you are not so delicate as you might seem. When you get hurt – by the floor, by Mother's tone, by anything – you must just shake it off. Never look back.

She had taken the words to heart. Later, alone in her room, she had turned them over, treasuring them – as she had treasured the tree they had trimmed, and her small Advent calendar with its chocolates and little toys and songs written on scraps of paper. She had not yet learned that these were the old ways, the crutches of the weak, and that she must leave them behind.

Before sending her to school each morning, her mother bundled her in layer upon layer of clothing, as if protecting a piece of fine china against breakage. As a result Elisabeth walked stiffly, lurching awkwardly through the school yard. Her fellow students teased endlessly, calling her Dresden, and Chinadoll, and Frankenstein's Bride. The worst offender was a chubby brute named Inge, mannish even before puberty, a full head taller than her classmates, stocky around the shoulders and neck. Elisabeth tried to ignore the taunts, focusing on her lessons. She was a good student. After passing the Abitur, the graduation test, with flying colors, she would attend the University of Munich, where she would study biology. Then at last she would rise above her tormentors, proving her superiority.

But a change had been washing over the Fatherland – a great, irresistible tide. The first manifestations had been subtle. More coal became available; Elisabeth could no longer see her breath as she sat behind her desk in school. She encountered more horses and dogs, during her daily walks to and from the lakeside, as animals were less often butchered for meat. One day during her seventh year, a portrait of Adolf Hitler appeared in her classroom, and soon after, a Nazi flag. Many adults seemed uncomfortable with these developments, which to Elisabeth made no sense. They had complained bitterly about the deprivations following the War – but now that someone had arrived to show them the way out, they resisted. Her father compared Hitler to the Pied Piper of Hamelin, who with his flute led children to their doom. Her favorite teacher refused to start his class by
heiling
Hitler, insisting instead on the old greeting of: ‘Good morning, children.' Her mother cautioned against joining the
Hitlerjugend
, claiming that the family could not afford the monthly dues of ten pfennig, and that the mandatory meetings would interfere with chores and church.

But those who resisted were fighting a losing battle. By the time she'd turned eight, Elisabeth could see that clearly. One Sunday, a contingent of
Hitlerjugend
brazenly disrupted church services by standing in the graveyard outside the basilica and playing trumpets. Later that month, a squad of Hitler Youth – one hundred boys wearing full regalia – appeared at the door of her science class to insist that the teacher begin the day with the proper greeting. She saw the fear in Herr Hofmann's eyes. And from then on, days began by
heiling
Hitler, after all.

Yet still Elisabeth tried to follow her parents' directives. Mother had drilled into her head that she was weak, fragile, and dependent, and so going against their wishes had seemed inconceivable. All through her ninth year, as the tide roiling the Fatherland had spilled over borders into Czechoslovakia and Poland, she strove to be faithful and obedient, and kept to herself. But then had come a fateful week that changed everything: starting with a confrontation with Inge in the school yard, and ending, at Elisabeth's first youth rally, with the revelatory Karl Schnibbe, the boy who had shown her the way to a better life, a better self.

Inge, like many schoolchildren, had been emboldened by the change in the wind. Never before had the youth felt so free to flaunt the orders of the elders. And so the mannish girl dared bring her abuse to the next level, lying in wait after class and then ambushing the strange, stalking figure of Elisabeth. As girls gathered around, chanting encouragement, Inge tackled the smaller child as she tried to walk home, bringing her down onto hard cobblestones.

Elisabeth would never forget the feeling of Inge's rock-solid body plowing into her: like running into a brick wall. Then she was down on cold cobbles, disoriented. Unyielding ground scraped at her back and Inge's heavy fists pounded into her face, and she felt pain, distress, fear, and, worst of all, hot shame at her own weakness.

When the beating was finished, the girls withdrew, laughing and pointing, and Elisabeth stumbled home in tears. There her mother received her not with sympathy, but with anger. Elisabeth, insisted Mother, should have known better than to wrestle with girls like Inge. She should have kept her distance, protecting herself. She was fragile, and Mother could not always be there to hold her hand.