Angelology(115)
Slowly, I unbound myself from my thick woolen clothing. I unbuttoned my trousers and slid the
heavy sweater—worn for protection against the icy mountain wind—over my head and wiggled into
the gown, careful not to tear it. The dress was too big; I felt it immediately. Four years ago, when
Gabriella had worn it, the dress would have been too small for me, but I had lost ten kilos during the
war and was little more than skin and bones.
Dr. Raphael Valko went through a similar costume change. As I dressed, he withdrew the black
jacket and trousers of an Allgemeine SS Nazi uniform from his case, pulling a pair of stiff, glossy
black riding boots from under the seat. The uniform was in perfect condition, without the wear or
smell of black-market hand-me-downs. I supposed it to be another useful acquisition from one of our
double agents in the SS, one with Nazi connections. The uniform sent chills through me—it
transformed Dr. Raphael completely. When he had finished dressing, he brushed a clear liquid onto
his upper lip and pressed a thin mustache upon it. Then he slicked back his hair with pomade and
attached an SS pin to his lapel, a small but precise addition that filled me with repulsion.
Dr. Raphael narrowed his eyes and examined me, checking my appearance with care. I crossed my
arms over my chest, as if I might hide myself from him. Clearly I had not metamorphosed to his
satisfaction. To my great embarrassment, he straightened the dress and fussed over my hair in the way
my mother used to do before bringing me to church as a child.
The car sped through the streets, stopping at the Seine. A soldier at the bridge tapped the glass with
the butt of a Luger. The driver unrolled the window and spoke to the soldier in German, showing a
packet of papers. The soldier glanced into the back of the car, resting his gaze upon Dr. Raphael.
“Guten Abend,” Dr. Raphael said with what sounded to me to be a perfect German accent.
“Guten Abend,” the soldier muttered, examining the papers before he waved us across the bridge.
As we climbed the wide stone steps of a municipal banquet hall featuring a series of columns
rising before a classical façade, we passed men in evening attire and beautiful women on their arms.
German soldiers stood guard at the door. Compared to the elegant women, I knew I must appear
sickly and exhausted, too thin and pale. I had pulled my hair back in a chignon and applied a bit of
rouge from Dr. Raphael’s case, but how unlike them—with their styled hair and fresh complexions—I
was. Warm baths, powders, perfumes, and fresh clothing did not exist for me, or for any of us in
occupied France. Gabriella had left behind a cut crystal bottle of Shailmar, a precious reminder of
happier times that I had kept with me since her disappearance, but I dared not use a drop of the scent
for fear that I might waste it. I remembered comfort as something of my childhood, something I had
experienced once and never again, like loose teeth. There was little chance I would be mistaken for
one of these women. Still, I clung to Dr. Raphael’s arm, trying to remain calm. He walked swiftly,
with confidence, and, to my surprise, the soldiers let us pass without incident. All at once we stood in
the warm, noisy, lush interior of the banquet hall.
Dr. Raphael led me to the far side of the hall and up a set of stairs to a private table on the balcony.
It took a moment to adjust to the noise and odd lighting, but as I did, I saw that the dining room was
long and deep, with a high ceiling and mirrored walls that reflected the crowd, capturing the nape of a
woman’s neck here, the glistening of a watch fob there. Red banners stamped with black swastikas
hung at intervals throughout the room. The tables were covered in white linen, matching china,
bouquets of flowers blooming at the center—roses in the dead of a wartime winter, a minor miracle.
Crystal chandeliers threw wavering light upon the dark tiled floor, catching upon satin shoes.
Champagne, jewels, and beautiful people gathered in the candlelight. The room was aflutter with
hands raising wineglasses— Zum Wohl! Zum Wohl! The abundance of wine being served from one
end of the room to the other took me by surprise. While food was difficult to acquire in general, good
wine was nearly impossible for those unconnected with the occupation forces. I had heard that the
Germans requisitioned bottles of champagne by the thousands, and my family’s cellar had been drunk
dry. To me even one bottle was an extreme luxury. Yet here it was, flowing like water. At once I
understood how very different the lives of the victorious were from the lives of the conquered.
From the height of the balcony, I examined the revelers up close. At first glance the crowd