Ben Elton - Two Brothers

Frieda could feel herself reddening beneath her mask of stillness. Karlsruhen had begun to speak like this more and more. Offering extravagant compliments and making personal observations about the detail of her body. Becoming less and less careful to conceal his obvious desire beneath the pretence at professionalism.

Thank goodness she would be leaving soon. And in the meantime, just block it out. After all, weren’t all artists secretly somewhat in love with their models?

‘Your hair is a mystery, my dear,’ Karlsruhen was saying, not even bothering for the moment to work away at his clay but instead simply standing and staring. ‘Is it auburn? Is it brunette? I swear sometimes when the light from my lamp catches it just so, it almost glows a fiery crimson.’

Frieda sensed that it was not her hair that Karlsruhen was looking at, but she could not be sure as he had positioned himself just out of her eye line and she was not allowed to move her head.

‘How I wish you would let it grow and be your true crowning glory, instead of these ridiculous pageboy monstrosities with which you and your modern sisters vandalize yourselves. You know that when I come to begin upon my Rhinemaiden’s head I must make you wear a wig of golden plaits, for a true German daughter of the soil lets her hair flow all the way down to her… to her… derrière .’

There was a catch in his voice. He was circling her. She could feel him pause behind her and she knew what he was looking at.

Frieda set her mind to blocking out his uncomfortable chatter and the thought of his big sweaty face leering behind her. At least she was not required to respond, that was the one redeeming feature of the job really. She was absolutely not required to speak. He paid her to remain still, expressionless and mute.

That was how he liked it too. She knew that. He enjoyed her silence, her compliance. Her obedience . Wasn’t that the biggest part of the whole Kinder , Küche , Kirche thing that these old völkische dinosaurs obsessed about? Children, Kitchen, Church. Those were the duties of a good German woman. And above all obedience to her man. Well, it was 1922 and all that was changing, thank God. Her medical degree would be proof of that. Frieda set her mind to considering her studies. That was always how she tried to pass the long weary hours of posing, by reviewing in her mind the reading she had done the day before. Her current subject was circulation of the blood so she set herself to leafing through the pages of her mental textbook, exploring the anatomy of the heart.

She was just trying to sort out the arteries from the veins when she felt it. Karlsruhen’s hand on her breast.

She jumped as if she had been electrocuted, stumbled off the small podium on which she had been perched and ended up in a bruised and naked heap on the floor.

‘Please. Please,’ Karlsruhen said stepping forward. ‘Let me help you up.’

‘Get away from me!’ Frieda scrabbled to her feet. ‘What do you mean by touching me! I’m a married woman. I want to get my clothes.’

But Karlsruhen was in her way, standing between her and the curtained changing area, his expression a mixture of fear and lust.

‘You stumbled,’ he protested. ‘Your leg must have gone to sleep.’

‘That’s a lie! You touched me!’ Frieda exclaimed in fury. ‘You felt my breast. Let me past.’

‘I adjusted your hair. An inadvertent movement. My hand slipped. What are you suggesting, Frau Stengel? It is I who am wronged. You offend me.’

Frieda stared at him hard. She knew what had happened but he was denying it and there was an end to it. In a way she felt relieved. Money or no money, their relationship was over. She’d never have to see him again.

‘Get out of my way, Herr Karlsruhen. I’m afraid I will no longer be able to model for you.’

‘No! Don’t say that, please.’

‘Yes. I must. Please get the money you owe me while I dress.’

She walked past him, thinking the incident was over, but to her horror he grabbed her from behind. Suddenly his arms were around her and his face was buried in her hair.

‘Please,’ he mumbled. ‘I love you, little one. You are everything. Everything to me!’

Frieda struggled in his grasp, shouting once more that she had a husband, and also that he had a wife.

‘That heifer!’ Karlsruhen blurted, spinning Frieda around, his hot breath on her face. ‘She doesn’t understand me. You do! You are everything a woman should be, you are my muse. My love.’

He gripped her closer now, clamping her naked body against his chest. She could smell the schnapps on his breath. He was not a young man but he was strong and booze and lust had given him power. Frieda struggled but she could not free herself. Now she could feel his hand behind her, clawing between her buttocks as he ground his erection against her stomach.

‘My little Rhinemaiden,’ he was gasping, ‘ meine kleine Woglinde, Wellgunde und Floßhilde! ’

Then Frieda realized how to stop the madness.

Naked, much smaller than her assailant and caught unawares, she could not hope to fight him off, but she didn’t need to. She had seen his weakness. He wasn’t pawing her, he was pawing a fantasy, a warped romantic obsession.

One word would still his ardour.

‘Herr Karlsruhen!’ she shouted, forcing her face into his. ‘I am not your little Rhinemaiden, you arsehole! I am a grown-up woman! I am soon to be a doctor and, above all, I am a JEW!’

There was a pause of perhaps a second or so before his grip loosened and he stepped backwards, astonished.

Frieda seized the opportunity to rush behind the curtain for her clothes.

‘You’re… a Jewess?’ he said. ‘You never said.’

‘I ought to call the police!’ Frieda shouted in fury, pulling on her underwear and buttoning up her dress.

‘You… you don’t look like a Jew,’ she heard him mumble.

‘What does a Jew look like, you fatuous bastard?’ Frieda shouted as she emerged from behind the curtain, pulling on her shoes. ‘Do you think I should have a nose like a boat hook, you stupid old prick!’

‘Please… such language. It is not fitting for—’

‘ Language! You were trying to rape me!’

‘No!’ he protested, ‘just an embrace, a kiss, I thought you wouldn’t mind. I’m sorry. You must go.’

‘Give me my money first!’ Frieda said, grabbing at a large palette knife and pointing it in Karlsruhen’s face.

Karlsruhen reached into the pocket of his smock and pushed a bundle of notes into her hand.

‘Go. Please go,’ he said.

Frieda threw down the knife and ran to the door.

‘And let me tell you, Herr Karlsruhen. The only reason I won’t be telling my husband what you did today is that he’d kill you. Do you understand? He’d kill you!’

IT WAS MID-MORNING when Stone emerged from the house on Queensgate in which he had been interrogated. A troop of cavalry from Chelsea Barracks were rattling their way up the road towards Hyde Park. They were in khaki, not dress uniform, but nonetheless made an impressive sight. An echo of imperial greatness. Stone found himself offering a wry salute. Force of habit, perhaps. You can take the man out of the army, as they say. But Stone actually liked the army, not the spit and polish bullshit, but the courage and the comradeship. Briefly the British army had given him a home.

He headed down towards South Kensington tube station. Lorre and Bogart had told him to go home, call in sick at work and keep himself available. They promised to square things with Stone’s head of department, assuring him that he would lose neither wages nor credit.