The Empire of the Senses Read Online Free Page A

to everything Lev put stock in. It reminded him of his parents. They had left Galicia for Berlin when Lev was two years old—their one act of will. But after this, they lived snugly in the Jewish quarter speaking only Yiddish and treating the rabbis as if they were gods. They refused to venture outside the limits of Scheunenviertel because they did not feel entitled. When Lev asked why, his mother would throw her hands into the air and exclaim, “We should be happy for this much.” Her mouth would set into a tense line,and she would point to Lev’s light eyes as if this caused his arrogance. “You always want so much. You always ask why, why. This,” she yelled, waving a cloth around the dimly lit kitchen, “is more than enough.”
    Lev took the last drag of his cigarette, watching the women walk away, retreating into the thick woods, their scythes on their shoulders.
    “I think,” the man said after flicking his cigarette out the window, “we’re here.” His face glowed in the red sun. “But we’re not at the front.” He tapped his ear. “No artillery fire.” His head tilted to the right, as alert as a bird listening for a mating call. “Faintly. I hear some fire faintly in that direction.” He gestured in the opposite direction of where the women had gone.
    Lev’s stomach knotted with hunger. They had not eaten all day. He tasted nicotine mixed with the orange peel he occasionally bit into. The man told him at camp a hot meal would be served. “And maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll have a wash and some whiskey.”
    “Where are you from?” Lev now felt convinced this man was a Berlin waiter in one of the posh dining clubs where he liked to take Josephine dancing.
    “Dachau.” The man twisted one end of his mustache into a fine point. “I was a policeman there.” He paused and then began twisting the other end. “Have you been?”
    “I haven’t been south of Frankfurt.”
    “It’s a beautiful place.”
    The general hum of discussion, as they lined up in the aisles of the train, established they were at Königsberg. The man with the mustache forged ahead and then blended in with the other men as they waited to debark the train. Lev could still see the back of his clean neck, the close shave he must have enjoyed before leaving Dachau. A huddled silence fell, followed by one voice speaking above the rest, a confident and conspiratorial stream of words radiating from the front of the train, where one man stood, small in stature with sharp clear eyes that roved the crowd as he described what lay ahead. Lev heard snatches of conversation from others commenting on what the man was saying. Most of them couldn’t hear him very well. Someone standing behind Levbreathed in quickly and asked, “Did he say we’re leaving for the front today?” Lev felt a renewed shower of sweat break over his chest. The man spoke quickly and energetically and had a lean animated face. His eyes darted around the car as he explained that the front line was only a few kilometers away, that some of them would be sent there, and some would be held at camp until needed.
    The engineer clamored toward the man, placing a thin hand on his shoulder. “Do you think I’ll be sent to the front directly?”
    The man rubbed his chin. “It’s possible. You are young. But”—he paused—“they are always changing their minds. From what I hear, it’s not as organized as it seems.” Other men nodded. Lev watched him with fascination. His information was merely speculative, and yet he had fashioned himself into an authority on what the authorities were thinking. His name, Lev heard, was Hermann Streich. Physically, he was round-shouldered and slight, his oblong face wagging back and forth with various theories, but Lev felt drawn to him, as the other men did.
    When they arrived at the camp, there was drinking and music. The air was celebratory over the recent taking of the Polish fortresses of Kowno and Wilna, which had driven the