Free In the Land of Armadillos by Helen Maryles Shankman Page B

forcing the ugly and unfamiliar feelings down, down, down, as far away as possible, where they would stay safely locked up in a dark and unexamined vault at the back of his mind forever and ever. To his surprise, water was leaking freely from his eyes. Gerda will be here in the spring, he told himself, clenching and unclenching his fists . Everything will be fine when I am with my family again. Nothing makes sense without my little bunny by my side. But the tears wouldn’t stop coming.
    By the time he reached Rohlfe and Gruber, he was outwardly calm, able to assume his duties again. Lucky for him, it was freezing; he could blame his running eyes and constant sniffling on the cold.
    At his trial, witnesses would remark on his demeanor that day, known forever after as Black Thursday. They would tell the judge how subdued he was, how often he wiped his eyes, how kindly he addressed them, a remarkable aberration in the career of Sturmbannführer Maximillian Haas, famed throughout the region for his reputation as a cold-blooded killing machine.
    By the time the day was out, ten thousand Jews had been transported to nearby Sobibór. Two hundred more shared Toby’s fate, shot dead on the streets, empty lots, stairways, and back alleys of Włodawa. Their bodies would lie upon the pavement until the following day, when they would be picked up in a wagon and burned in a field outside of town.
    Late that evening, Max plodded through the market square back to his villa. As he handed his coat to the housekeeper, she reported that the cook was missing. Exhausted, barely listening, he took the bottle of vodka and climbed up the steps to the attic.
    The light was out, it was dark. With all the activity of the day, he had almost forgotten that Toby was gone. He left it off. In the dark, Toby might still be there, sitting languorously on his stool in the middle of the room, watching the smoke from his cigarette make pictures in the air.
    Max collapsed on the bed, unbuttoned his jacket, and upended the bottle of vodka into his mouth. The liquor burned his throat, sent a stinging glow through his body. It was the first time he had felt good all day, so he did it again, and again, and again, until the bottle was empty.
    That was when he heard something scuttle across the floor.
    In astonishment, he watched a small armored creature, red, oblong, with a head like a squirrel and a tail like a pointing finger, waddle under the bed. Looking up, he realized that the paintings were in motion. The creatures at the tables sipped their cappuccinos and bantered with their companions. The little men in homburg hats soared across the ceiling in tight formation. As for the armadillos, he could hear the sound of their marching feet, locked in step, tramping in perfect synchronicity up and down the undulating hills. It was so real, he could hear the clink of dishes being washed in the café’s kitchen.
    The tailor’s dummies tilted toward each other, conspiring like spies. On the table, the brushes clacked their handles in an accusatory way; it was obvious that they blamed him for their master’s demise. In the corner, the discarded painting rags seethed like a pile of snakes. With a silky, slithering motion, they knitted themselves together and stood erect. The pile swayed back and forth, trying to get its balance; then it lumbered toward him in the form of a man.
    â€œMax,” it hissed in Toby’s voice. “ Maaaaax . . . ”
    The SS officer stared at the entity made from rags, his eyes starting from his head. With a sibilant sound, it moved in his direction, sliding one ropy leg in front of the other like a baby learning to walk. Max was too frightened to scream.
    He covered his head with his arms, waiting for the inevitable blow. The air moved around him as the thing approached, reeking of turpentine and pine resin. When he worked up the courage to peer between his fingers, he found it standing before him,