Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

“Thank you,” I said. “You've told me a great deal. If you've had any doctor bills, or lost a day's work to-day—as a result of what happened last night, I'd like to repay you.”

Willie looked at his wife quickly, at Ollie, then said without looking at me, “That's okay. I didn't go to a doctor, and I'm not working—so didn't lose no time.”

Daisy, his wife, looked unhappy, as though she wanted to say something, ask for money. But she didn't. There was a moment of awkward silence, then I took out my wallet, handed Willie three tens. “Take this for the... eh... damage she did.”

“Like I said, you don't have....”

“Take it. In a way it's her money,” I said. “And thank you.”

I went out, down the stairs to the street and Lenox Avenue, where I hailed a cab.

I felt so depressed I wanted to cry. Poor, poor Lee and her smattering of German, French, and Italian, her horrible tattoo covering up a concentration camp number; for how many years of her life had she been branded and worked like a beast? What could such inhuman treatment produce but a distorted, hurt mind? And poor Hank. I understand now—only too well—how he had got into all this, what he had meant when he said, 'What we've done to her— all of us.” My God, from the time she was 10, what a pitiful, crazy, brutal world Lee must have known! Her big shoulders, the man's hands and feet, her strength—all the result of doing the hardest menial work. And when she reached the age when kids are attending high-school dances, the horrible, filthy, continuous rape. What small kindness had she ever known? Every sensibility beaten and dulled in her, except to eat and have a shelter, like an animal.

Added to everything I had given her a sweet, refined rooking!

I'd make it up to her. Going through Hank's papers, army records, I would find her real name, her home. Perhaps she had a father or mother someplace in this shattered world, maybe sisters and brothers (or were they merely ashes, their skin a tortured lampshade, the chemicals and fat of their body now clumsy cakes of soap?) I'd have to investigate, try to return her to her family, if they were still alive.

I'd begin at once, cancel my poker date at Joe's that night. When I reached the house, Lee was still in bed, holding Slob with one big hand. He was meowing, trying to get loose. I noticed he never fought or scratched her. I sat on the edge of the bed, gently stroking her face, wondering how many men had sat on the edge of her beds, or had they thrown her on the rough ground, backed her against some wall-? Good God, if she'd been 17 back in 1945, she was still a kid of 21 or 22 now! I gently kissed her face, said, “Hello, darling.”

“Hello,” she said blankly, hugging me in her impersonal manner. She pulled me towards her and I pushed out of her arms: touching her suddenly became a monstrous, obscene thing.

I ran my hand through her soft long hair, over her odd nose. (Had a rifle-butt broken that?) “If I'd only known. I want to make you happy. I never really meant to hurt you, and now I want to make up for everything.”

Lee said, “Hello, George,” and giggled.

“Liebchen.”

The word had a, (black) magic effect on her, she sat up quickly, staring past me as if she was alone. Then she burst into the most nerve-racking crying I've ever heard. Hoarse sobs that shook her great body. I was so upset I began bawling myself and when I went to hug her, she pushed me away with such force I was sent sprawling on the floor. For a moment she watched me with unseeing eyes, her face wet with tears. Then she giggled, asked, “George, we eat?”

I realized the comic figure I must have presented, smiled, and got up. “Yes, we'll eat in a moment.” I went to the phone and dialed Joe, told him I couldn't make the game that night.

“You're a blip. And Walt is going to play with us, too. That doll keeping you that busy? She must be some piece, the way you been sticking so close to home, and your bed. I...”

“For Christsakes, shut up!” I slammed the receiver into its cradle. A few seconds later Joe called back, asked in a hurt, kid's voice, “What did you do that for, Georgie? I didn't mean nothing.”

“I... eh... didn't sleep much last night, my nerves are on edge. Take it easy to-night and don't try to draw to straights and flushes,” I said, hanging up again.

I didn't want to eat out, I wanted to talk to her and I was afraid she'd make a scene in a restaurant. I told her I was going to get some food, took a cab up to 86th Street and 3rd Avenue, where I bought a cheap pocket German-English dictionary, some groceries, then cabbed back to the house. While I cooked supper I had her sit in the kitchen—I gave her Slob to play with; and as she stroked the big tomcat head, I said, “Look Lee, I know a little of what you've gone through. And I want to help you. Maybe we can find your family, locate your relations. Do you remember where you were born?”

She was watching Slob and I had to ask her again. “I am not bright, I do not remember such things.” She had her drawl back now.”

“You must. Where were you born? Think hard—Berlin? Frankfurt? Vienna? Hamburg? Warsaw?” The names had little effect on her, except her eyes seemed to become more alert. I tried a few more, for size. “Rome? Venice? Munich? Prague?” Nothing changed on her face.

I put the chopped meat in the oven to broil, after I had soaked it in wine, took out my dictionary. “Lee, you must help me. Do you understand what I am saying? What is your name, your whole name?”

“Lee is my name.”

“No, that's short for Liebchen. What is your last name?” When she didn't answer, I thumbed through the dictionary, said slowly, hoping I was pronouncing the words correctly, “Wie heissen Sie?”

She shook her head dumbly, let Slob jump out of her lap.

The silly dictionary had all sorts of stupid phrases like, “Shall we take a taxi?” “What are they playing at the Opera House?” but nothing as simple as, “What is your mother's name?” I stumbled on with, “Welch... euer... famile... nennen?” This was supposed to be, “What is your family name?” but if she didn't understand my German I couldn't blame her.

She stared at me, her eyes hard and troubled, then they flooded with tears. I went over and hugged her. “Lee baby, I'm not trying to hurt you. I know it's hard to recall these things, but you must tell me. Where were you born? What's your father's name? Wo... euch... geboren? Welch... euer... Vater... nennen?”

She had her face pressed against my chest as I leafed through the dictionary, and now she began to cry. It was sort of a horrible moaning, as though she was under physical torture. It was such a dreadful sound, she scared me stupid and I realized what tortures I must be subjecting the poor kid to.

I threw the dictionary on the table, pulled her to her feet. Holding her tight, kissing her, whispered I would always look after her, she would never have to worry. I got a chill when it suddenly struck me that poor Hank must have whispered the exact same words to her at some time or other. When she stopped bawling, I said, “Lee, you must understand I only want to help you. Nobody will ever harm you again. But you have to help me...”

Once or twice she surprised me by showing signs of shrewdness: now she quickly smiled, wiped the tears from her face on my shoulder, “George, I want to dance... very much dance... right now, please.”

It was a neat way of changing the subject. “Well the meat is on and...”

“We will make it... it wait.” She reached over and turned off the gas in the oven, under the pots. I didn't know she knew how to work a gas-range and I watched her like a proud poppa seeing junior show off.

She ran into the bedroom and I followed her, as Slob yelled indignantly for his supper. Lee was getting into her rehearsal trunks. I undressed, put on my sweat suit and shoes. She was waiting for-me downstairs, and I put on a stack of records, starting off with the only “German” music I had, Wagner's Parsifal, and one side of Beethoven's Concerto No. 4 in G Major. I don't know why I kept probing her wound.

Maybe it was the music, or the German words I'd been asking her, my pecking (or trying to) at her mind... for she suddenly danced a wild solo, moving with magnificent, savage, heavy steps that expressed all the drudgery, the torture and fright, she had experienced. I'd never seen any dancing like it and I tried to write down the steps and movements, but it was too much for me. A skilled choreographer was needed. I suppose I couldn't fully understand what she was trying to express. The other records were jazz pieces, and she went back to her usual awkward movements, as I danced around her, in an effort to make her fed she wasn't alone.

We danced through one set of records, then took a shower, and she still refused to lie tinder the sun-lamp with me, and I wondered what electric and heat tortures she had been subjected to. She put on a robe and we ate, and then she lit a cigarette, went into the living room, stretched out on the couch, patting her stomach with contentment. I realized the animal they-... we... the world... had made out of this child; all she understood was a full gut, a soft place to rest on, and a roof overhead.

I didn't ask her to help with the dishes and when I finished, she was still on the couch—some ashes had fallen between her breasts and she had thoughtlessly crushed the cigarette butt out on the carpet. She had a faint, blank smile on her face, a faraway look in her eyes. It was only a little after seven. I told her I'd be back soon and I don't think she even heard me.

I stood outside the house a moment to light my pipe and Henderson called down to ask when I was going over to Joe's: he'd share a cab with me. I told him I couldn't make it, was about to ask if he spoke German, but didn't. It wasn't that I was afraid of his finding out about the money; but rather I didn't want him—or anybody else—to know I was living with this backward child.—

I walked to Lexington Avenue, went into a drugstore and ordered a quart of ice cream—to please her. While the soda clerk (who am I to call anybody a jerk?) was packing it I called Marion.

“Why George Jackson! Why haven't you called me? The gay, phony coyness in her voice threw me for a moment. After the usual insane, small talk, I asked, “Marion, when Hank came back with his wife, did he have any papers with him? I mean, do you know his wife's maiden name?” I damn near said, “Lee's maiden name.”

There was the flustered pause, then the suspicious, “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” I began, trying to carefully choose my words,” a friend of mine told me he struck up a bar acquaintance with... eh... some refugee girl. She said her husband was an American officer and he had died here, in an accident, and... I wondered if she might be Hank's wife?”

“I haven't heard from her since that... that... awful day. And believe me, I'm just as happy. That evil bitch! When I think of my poor dear brother and...”

“Marion, you once said you wanted me to find out... eh... more about what happened to Hank. Don't you see, if this fellow—one of the men in the office—can gain the confidence of this girl, assuming she's Hank's wife, then we might get someplace,” I said, wondering how high she would go if I told her the truth, that I was living with Lee. The phone would probably explode in my ear.

“I suppose it might do some good, although I've almost forgotten about her. I'm happy you want to help, George. Her name was Lee.”

“That's not enough, I must know her full name, also what town in Germany she came from. We can't make any mistakes about this, waste time on the wrong girl. Didn't Hank leave any private papers, like a marriage certificate? Or did the girl have any official papers when she came over?”