Dr. Levi Levi's Memoirs Part 2

Now that I had achieved funding and acquired the girls camp in Deep Creek Lake, it was time for the difficult task of getting my twelve Spartan Housewives on board.

As I write this many years later, I know these individuals very well, as well as I know my own soul. I shall refer to them by the surnames I gave them, without a Mrs. to embellish and feminize these names. They are One through Twelves because they are one unified group to me. Though it might seem strange to read these still feminine and girly Housewives being called he and him, if you knew them like I did you would use the same pronouns. Now, at this point, some of them prefer to use other pronouns, but I feel this account will read easier if I stick with he and him.

Now, by the time I introduced them to my self-improvement seminar, at the 4th of July party hosted by One, I had known them for only five months. I had met them all at another party hosted by One Family to celebrate moving in. One has always been a spectacular hostess, or perhaps I should say host. I shall now proceed with my first impressions and relationship with each Housewife.

One was a beautiful woman. I had met other beautiful women before in my life, such as Marlene Dietrich in a Berlin nightclub in 1925, but they had never affected me. I thought myself immune to female beauty and indeed I was immune to his beauty, until I saw the potential masculine beauty underneath. But I was disturbed by his flaming passion for me, a passion that did not go away despite my attempts to not feed the fire. My tears over my adopted late wife did not extinguish that fire. Instead, it was like dousing flames with oil. I was disgusted by the awful things he said while trying to bond with me over our supposed shared political worldview—instead of side-stepping the Nazi thing like most people did.

Two was a clown, through and through. That was his religion. He came from the Circus Llywellyns, a long line of Welsh clown folk, a pedigree more distinguished than Queen Elizabeth I. And the double L’s in the name bode well. Everything about him declared “the Show Must Go On!” He kept his hair in a raggy light brown mop top. He possessed the rubbery face of a top comedian. His body was lithe and light, somewhat tall for a woman yet he would likely make a short man, or perhaps he was a silly teen-ager. In me, he saw the stock figure of an eccentric German professor. The Two family was undergoing a trauma—a secret almost as big as mine. Mr. Two’s boss had taken his life and I could tell that the Twos were forced to move to the suburbs because the Georgetown Set believed Mr. Two was responsible. However, Two played this off as a joke, telling me if the head of George Mason University’s psychology department wouldn’t play ball his husband Mr. Two could pay him a visit. Like with all clowns, it was intensely hard to know when he was being sincere. I don’t think he knows when he’s being sincere.

Three was a poet. He kept his shocking red hair in a bouffant, with two pigtails hanging down. His cheekbones were round and full, like a chipmunk. Her eyes were as green as the emerald isles; from which his ancestors had come from and of which he loved. He cannot bear to leave guests to their own devices. I tried to have an after-dinner smoke and he pushed me into discussing Tristan und Isolde. I don’t think he excused my alleged Nazi war crimes like One, yet I think he did have a masochist fascination with them. He wanted me to tell him morbid tales that could fuel his poetry.

Four was a Samurai. He often compared himself to a Samurai’s wife, but sometimes he called himself a Samurai. He worked on excelling in the same arts the Samurai practiced between wars. His long straight black hair, not permed and curled like most married American women, made him look like he was out of Edo Japan. His piercing blue eyes behind his thick glasses showed, however, that he was a gaijin. I think he put on a stoic air to hide his loneliness over loving the culture everyone hated.

Five was a traveler. He was always up for any adventure. At his height of 175 centimeters and with his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and small breasts, he already passed as a sort of “Tintin” boy-reporter during the War. However, at the time he dresses like the middle class Quaker wife his mother likely always wanted him to be, except for his excessive jewelry. He kept his auburn hair in a bun, but he soon went on to wearing it cropped. I had met him once before, when he took my first photograph as Dr. Johan Engelbert. I think he was the only one who approached my Nazi background with actual Christian forgiveness. He would point to his husband Mr. Jake Five and said the Australian had one full-blooded Aboriginal great-grandmother, and yet he had accomplished much. So, perhaps my Nazi racial science was wrong. Yet, I wondered if Five could forgive me for impersonating a Nazi.

Six was a cowgirl, but he always worked better as a cowboy. Tough-as-iron-nails, even before his first dose of testosterone, he grew up on a Mormon farm in Colorado. He always had a broad body but he packed on the muscle. His hair was salt and pepper, worn at shoulder length. He was clearly uncomfortable with the feminine housewife lifestyle. And he was uncomfortable with me. He didn’t trust me at first. But soon, I would have no problem getting him on board.

Seven was the saddest woman I had ever seen. His eyes were as big and soulful as a martyred virgin in an early Christian mosaic. He was tall but not filled out, entirely made out of sharp edges. He acted like he expected some great tragedy to happen to him, yet he had already gone through so much pain. He soothed himself by gambling. Though he lost money, he was intelligent enough to win every time. Whichever way, he seemed to want to do penance for a crime he did not commit.

Eight was a mystery to me. At first, he seems shy and reserved, defeated even. Yet, I knew there were hidden depths to him. His intelligent dark brown eyes could look into you like he knew your intentions. He wore his dark brown hair clipped in a short pixie against his scalp. His breasts were small but high and firm, despite his three pregnancies. Though One prided himself on being a fashion plate, I think Eight’s fashion sense outshone them all. I have not seen anyone look as good in purple and rose as he does. And under my tutelage, he became as handsome and noble as a prince.

Nine was a rock and roller. He loved the music of the Afro-Americans and made me love it as well. He also loved the operas of Puccini, my favorite opera composer of all time. It broke my heart to have to say to him that I thought Wagner built cathedrals with his music, and Puccini only made cheap little cafes for whores and consumptives (a quote from the real Engelbert). He said to me, “nobody would sit through a Wagner opera if they didn’t think it would impress their favorite antisemite, but everyone can enjoy Puccini.” He is absolutely correct. I’d rather watch a bad production of La Boheme, where Mimi doesn’t die for some reason, than the best production of the Ring Saga. Our relationship greatly improved when he found out I was a secret Jew/Puccini lover.

Ten was a robot. I thought he acted odd, though he said nothing unusual. However, he was fixated on doing his housewife tasks. And when it was not time to do tasks, he would do nothing. Absolutely nothing. When I found out his life story, I was horrified; and I am a veteran of the Nazi concentration camps. With his family treatment of him, why shouldn’t he think he is an object made for use? However, he was not grateful to me like some of the other housewives.

Eleven was a spy. I am not going to admit I knew it all along. Perhaps I should have, but I did spend a lot of my energy trying to hide my own secret and didn’t always notice other people’s secrets. It just happened that he was not as interesting to me as the other housewives and their secrets. He said the most normal things. But in retrospect, that was the most suspicious thing he could have done in the madhouse of that cul de sac. He dyed his hair blonde, but a modest sandy color instead of Hollywood platinum. Though Jewish in ancestry, he had Aryan blue eyes as cold as Siberia. I could not tell if he trusted me or not.

Twelve was my mensch. Though Seven and Eleven were ethnically Jewish, Twelve was raised Jewish until he was thirteen, when his father converted the family to Lutheranism. He had the Jewish spirit that I was missing. Though he was not attractive to most other people, being so compact and meaty and with a fine heavy brow, he was the most attractive person I had ever met. But his Jewishness meant he did not trust me, since I was impersonating a person who had murdered his tribe. We have had a troubled relationship but I consider him my soulmate.