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merely
lifts a head or a hand or pinches an earlobe but palpates a breast,
tweaks a nipple, forces a knuckle between the lips of the woman in
front of him. The tweaks become fiercer as he moves on. One woman
moans lightly in pain. He raises his other hand to pinch both
nipples. This time she makes no sound, but her face grows very
white. When he comes to the twelfth woman he orders her to turn
round and fondles her buttocks, grunts, moves on. At the next he
grips with both hands the high collar of her dark dress and rips it
open, exposing her breasts. In a reflex movement the woman tries to
cover them with her hands. Von Blixen slaps her very hard across
the face.
    “Herr Oberst,” says Frau Knesebeck.
    The woman drops her hands, looking down at the floor.
    The commander moves on and on. Soon he no longer bothers to tear
open the shirts or dresses in front of him, but barks brief
commands at the women to do it themselves. It becomes boring. He
returns to the table, refills the empty glass at his place, drains
it in a single gulp, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand,
resumes his inspection. They are now ordered to raise their skirts
and remove their underwear, some with their backs turned to him,
others facing him. He glances at their lower bellies, tugs at pubic
hair, inserts a finger in a vulva, withdraws it in disgust when he
discovers that the woman is menstruating. As is the next, and the
next.
    “Herr Oberst,” pleads Frau Knesebeck.
    “Gottverdammt!” snarls von Blixen. He turns back to the table,
instructs his officers to complete the inspection on his behalf.
They draw blood every time. The colonel contents himself by
finishing his round at some distance from the inmates lining the
walls, merely glancing in passing at the odd face that appears
briefly to interest him and gesturing to the nearest officer to
sample her more intimately. More blood.
    It is only when he reaches the girl Katja that the colonel comes
to a standstill.
    “You,” he says. “Come here.”
    Katja tries to slide behind Hanna X.
    “Come here!” he shouts, so loudly that some of the women exclaim
in fright.
    The trembling girl approaches a pace or two. He beckons her with
a finger. She stands in front of him.
    “Now, girl,” he says. “No need to be afraid.” With surprising
gentleness, almost fatherly, he takes her face between his hands
and leans over to kiss her on the forehead. “Was this so bad?” he
asks.
    “No.” She manages to force a little smile.
    “And this?” Von Blixen takes her by the shoulders – such thin
shoulders, the blades behind protruding like incipient wings. He
presses her slight body against him, still with a show of tender
care.
    She seems briefly to overcome her fear, even leans her head
against his shoulder.
    “Show me your tits,” he says.
    “I don’t have any,” she whispers. Coyly, archly, ashamed,
terrified? It is hard to tell.
    “Herr Oberst,” says Frau Knesebeck.
    “I’ll take this one,” he says, grasping the girl by the
hand.
    Hanna X makes a deep sound of protest in her throat.
    There is a general low-key commotion among the women, inmates
and staff alike.
    “Silence!” shouts the colonel. His face is once again shiny with
perspiration. It even glistens among the bristles between the
joints on his fingers. He is still grasping Katja’s narrow hand in
his free hand. For another moment he glowers at the assembled
women, then turns towards the nearest door, pulling the girl after
him.
    “I’m sorry, Herr Oberst,” says Frau Knesebeck. Suddenly
resolute, she leaves the table and hurries past the colonel to
block his way to the door. “You cannot take this girl. She is in
our special care.”
    “Stand aside!” he bellows.
    The small woman hesitates for a moment, then shakes her head.
“I’m afraid she is here under a special dispensation.”
    “From whom?” he asks. “What difference does it make?”
    She stands her ground. “We have instructions from the