Volk

by David Nickle

  “Not absurd at all,” said Dominic, so softly that Andrew thought he might be the only one who heard, so Andrew amplified:

  “It doesn’t sound absurd, Herr Zimmermann. I hope Jason was happy when you reported your success.”

  “Happy enough,” said Zimmermann. “Although it was not for some time—not for more than a week, when so much had changed.”

  “Albert,” said Ruth, “you are getting ahead of yourself again.” She shifted so as to address first Andrew. “Jason returned to the valley rather quickly, as you might imagine, Andrew.” And to the rest: “Mr. Thistledown has never lain long in his sick bed. On the third day—”

  “The second,” said Zimmermann.

  “The second day,” said Ruth, “Jason left the farmhouse.”

  “At dawn,” said Zimmermann. “I missed his departure. By the time I was up, the infirmary was open and the sheets on his cot were fresh. I did catch Aguillard at work at the desk, and asked him about Jason’s whereabouts. Was he at the plane, preparing for us to leave?

  “‘Not today,’ said Aguillard. ‘We are guests here for a while longer.’

  “‘Pardon me for asking, but do you know how much longer?’ I had spent very little time in Aguillard’s company, and if Jason were gone, I reasoned it might be a credible time to press him for more information. ‘Desrosiers must be wondering, after his investment.’

  “‘He and you have both been well-compensated for this delay,’ said Aguillard. ‘But I cannot say how long it may be. If Mr. Thorn’s condition upon his return from his last sojourn beyond the hills was any indication, it might not be long at all.’

  “‘May I guess that he has returned for a second trip?’

  “‘You may,’ said Aguillard.

  “‘What is he doing in that place?’

  “‘I shouldn’t say,” said Aguillard. ‘But I believe you’ve already guessed. You must have, having spent time here among all these—’ He gestured about him, with a short flourish ‘—these bumpkins.’

  “‘They call him the sorcerer,’ I said, and at that Aguillard laughed.

  “‘Bumpkins,’ he repeated. ‘Thorn is no sorcerer. What he is . . . is unnaturally strong-willed. He is here because unlike you and I, Herr Zimmermann, he will not be bent. Yet he is going back to a place where everyone bends, sooner or later.’

  “‘That is the world as I know it, Doctor,’ I said, and Aguillard laughed again, this time until he coughed and shook his head, finally reaching into his desk to produce a steel flask. Would I have a drink with him? Of course I would.”

  “What was Aguillard drinking?” asked Lewis. “Cognac?”

  “Scotch whisky,” said Zimmermann. He looked puzzled at the question and Andrew explained:

  “Dr. Lewis is helping drawing a truer memory than might otherwise exist.”

  “Do you think I am fabricating?” asked Zimmermann.

  “No,” said Andrew. “Not with your conscious mind. But our memories and the stories we tell . . . the lies . . . can sometimes intermingle. You’re a spy, after all.”

  “It is an element of the Decameron system,” said Ruth. “A failsafe. I daresay, these gentlemen have deployed it with unusual discretion so far this evening.”

  “Of course. Well, then. Scotch whisky was not what I would have expected Aguillard to have on hand, and not a drink that I often imbibe. So I had to ask him what it was, and that is what he told me. May I now tell you the other questions I asked of him?”

  “Of course,” said Lewis.

  Zimmermann set his glass aside and took a moment to relight his pipe. He made no effort to disguise his irritation, and finally, continued.

  “I asked him about his own politics, to get that out of the way.

  “‘Well I am not a supporter of Herr Hitler, if that’s what you mean,’ said Aguillard. ‘I am . . . let us say that I am a Perfectionist. In the formal sense of the word. And the men of Hitler’s Nazi Party do not fit with that, however much they might imagine themselves to.’ He paused, as though choosing what to say next. ‘It is necessary that we cooperate with them now,’ he said, at last, ‘particularly given the things that they have sacrificed for this . . . experiment. You are not, I hope, sympathetic?’ I assured him that I was not. ‘No need to tell any of those men these thoughts I am sharing, then.’

  “‘Of course,’ I told him.

  “Now, gentlemen, I can see by your expressions that you think this to be a very odd business. Drinking with Dr. Aguillard in the early morning—taking confidences such as those . . . One of you might want to ask me to provide another telling detail, to see if I’m not making it all up. Well. While I was thinking about what we were drinking, I might have forgotten to describe Aguillard’s state. Do you recall how I was, a few moments earlier? Quiet, maybe shaking—at a terrible recollection, a monstrous shame? At times, as Aguillard spoke, he was like as I might have seemed. His eyes would dart about the room, sometimes seeming to light on something . . . but nothing that I could see. And then that would pass, and he would speak in a more ordinary way until it came again.

  “I suppose . . . as I was telling this story, I suppose that I might have omitted those moments. They would have interrupted the narrative I was constructing . . . fabricating, if I have that correct, Dr. Waggoner.”

  Andrew folded his hands around the stem of his glass.

  “Why do you think he was in such a state?” asked Lewis. “What thing was he recalling?”

  “What indeed? I think that I know what it was now, but at the time, I would have had no idea.” At this, Zimmermann allowed himself the tiniest smile.

  “Well, what, then?” demanded Kurtzweiller.

  “All right,” said Zimmermann. “I will break the sequence of events and tell you. All through the night ending in Jason’s departure, Aguillard had not slept. I learned later that he and Dr. Bergstrom had been in conference until the small hours. At issue was Jason’s trustworthiness: Bergstrom was of the opinion Miss Harper should be extracted posthaste, and brought to properly motivate Jason. Aguillard thought that premature. They left one another in disagreement, and Aguillard stalked off to see to his patient. Aguillard spent the remaining hours with Jason, locked in the room. What transpired therein? It is not known. What is known, is this:

  “Jason departed in the truck, accompanied by Dr. Aguillard, just past five in the morning. Later that morning—after Aguillard and I had finished our discussion, and most of his flask—I would learn that more than three-quarters of the provisions on hand in the kitchen were gone. I imagine that weighed heavily on poor Aguillard. For assuredly, as I learned later still, he was more than complicit—just as I was—in the schemes of Jason Thorn. Jason Thistledown.”

  Zimmermann drew deep from his pipe, and exhaled slowly into a haloed miasma.

  “I had delivered a letter. He had delivered a larder.”

  Five

  There was a sharp knock at the door, a rhythm familiar enough that Andrew shouted to come in. It was Bobby Grady, up from the bar. He stepped inside and left the door open behind him, long enough for the quiet from the Liberty to settle on them.

  “Just thought you gentlemen ought to know, we’re closed for the night now.”

  “Is it that late?” Andrew looked at his watch, and saw it was: close to three in the morning. “I’m sorry, Bobby. We got absorbed.”

  “So you did,” he said and smiled. Bobby was an American expatriate, like Andrew from New York City originally, specifically Brooklyn. Unlike Andrew, a couple of decades on the continent hadn’t dulled his accent. “You don’t look like you’re done either. Look at all those bottles with corks in ’em!” He gestured with one thick arm to the table, where indeed a good eight bottles of wine still stood untouched. “I don’t mind if you stay past closing, but you gentlemen—and lady, pardon me, Miss Harper—got some work ahead of you.”

  Kurtzweiller lifted his glass in an exaggerated toast, but the attempt at levity didn’t go far. He, like all of them, was
mulling the implications of Zimmermann’s story—of Jason Thistledown’s return to the valley with a truck full of provisions. Just as one might, if one were worshipping, and feeding, a growing Juke.

  “I think we do want to stay,” said Andrew. “Not sure how much more wine we’re going to have, though. This looks as though it’s turning into an all-nighter. Do you have coffee down there?”

  “Not made,” said Grady. He deftly found his way around the table, picking up the empty bottles and tucking them in his arm—pointedly leaving the full ones. “I could fill the urn before I shut up, though. Not much trouble, Doc. You can fetch it yourself from the bar, if you don’t mind doing that, and leave the back way. Might be best. Just lock up.”

  Andrew thanked him, and Grady addressed himself to Ruth: “Good to see you again, Miss Harper. Trust we’re keeping the place to your satisfaction.”

  “It’s your place, Mr. Grady. It’s my investment, but I daresay you’re keeping it better than I would if I owned it.”

  Grady laughed and shook his head.

  “All right,” he said. “Coffee’ll be ready in a quarter of an hour. I’ll leave a tray of mugs on the bar. And a key.”

  When Grady was gone, Zimmermann turned to Ruth.

  “You have a stake in the restaurant?” he asked.

  “A small one,” said Ruth. “Mr. Grady was one of my father’s . . . more sensible employees. Like Dr. Waggoner. And that meant, as things transpired . . . it was better he make himself scarce of America.”

  “Was he in that town?” asked Zimmermann. “Eliada? When it happened?”

  “No,” said Ruth. “Only Dr. and Mrs. Waggoner. And Jason and I. Only us.”

  “Mr. Grady was in Chicago at the time,” said Andrew. “He’s a good man.”

  “He protected my interests,” said Ruth, and added, pointedly: “As you’re doing now, Albert.”

  “Well.” Zimmermann smiled. “Perhaps we can start an airline when this is finished.”

  Ruth smiled back. “With Jason.”

  “And on the subject of Jason,” said Andrew, “what happened when he returned?”

  “Did he return?” asked Lewis.

  “Oh yes,” said Zimmermann.

  “It took longer than his first trip, though: he was gone for seven days this time, and when he returned, he was healthy and strong. This time, all the ill that came from his absence fell upon the farmhouse. The scouring of the larder was one cause—but not truly a serious one. It only left the company of S.A. men on rations for a day while the group arranged for more foodstuffs from Wallgau. I, of course, offered my assistance, riding in on one of the trucks to gather supplies once they were ready . . . and also, to take the opportunity to collect a letter from my masters in Vienna that was waiting with the postmaster. I had not told them everything—but I had told them enough that they wanted to know more. What was the experiment in the valley? They demanded that I make my way to the site, and photograph it. They wanted to know more about the involvement of Hitler’s party, and ordered me to ingratiate myself with the scientists there.

  “Of course, I had already done so by this time, with Aguillard. The others . . . Muckermann was not at the farm during my stay, and Plaut, I learned, had departed shortly after Jason’s first return. Dr. Bergstrom, meanwhile . . . he was not a man I thought I could deceive. He had a way of looking at you . . . as though he were listening very carefully, to things that you were certain you were not saying.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Even approaching him would arouse suspicion. So I kept a respectful distance. But I made a point of observing him, eavesdropping as fortune allowed, as I continued to talk with Aguillard. Bergstrom came downstairs twice daily at most, always wearing the same half-smile. Sometimes he would confer with Aguillard, but when this happened he would invite him out for a stroll in the field, or into the low hills. Aguillard would speak of many things—but not those conversations.

  “Given Aguillard’s state, I cannot help but think that Bergstrom was speaking to him as much as a patient as he was a colleague.

  “Aguillard’s state. Yes. The nervousness I’d seen during our conversation in the infirmary room only grew worse. He would lose the train of his thought frequently. To keep the conversation going, I decided to draw him out on politics—German politics, and the many flaws in the doctrine of Nazism. I was generally inclined to agree with Aguillard—but not for the same reasons. His loathing was that of a spurned lover . . . an ally, betrayed. For there was common cause between Adolph Hitler and Hector Aguillard.”

  “Never mind the politics,” said Kurtzweiller, a trifle sharply.

  “It is getting late,” agreed Lewis amiably, “and we’re too drunk for politics.” He looked to Dominic. “Why don’t you go downstairs and fetch the coffee?”

  “Of course.” Dominic rose and excused himself.

  “My only point,” said Zimmermann, “was that I could not extract a great deal from Aguillard, and he was . . . deteriorating. I began to wonder if that deterioration didn’t have something to do with his daily routine. For each day, Aguillard would drive out to the checkpoint up in the foothills where Jason was to rendezvous upon his return. He would spend several hours there. But to what end? It was manned by two S.A. men at all times—they had a radio, and would be able to signal should Jason return. What would Aguillard have to do there for hours on end?

  “It was no good asking. I tried that one morning . . . the fourth morning, if you want some specificity, Dr. Kurtzweiller . . . and it was awful. Aguillard opened his mouth to answer, closed again, and so on, until he was gaping like a fish, eyes screwed shut . . . his voice a glottal sound, as much like retching, or choking, as speech. When he finally took control of himself, he was red-faced and breathing heavily. He wagged his finger at me, and coughed, and retreated to the kitchen to pour himself some well water.

  “Some of the S.A. men rotated through guard duty there, and I asked them: what happens there? What does the shift entail? None of them offered Aguillard’s response. But of course they had their own stories, and had already told me as much—of the children who’d turned into trees, and the serpent.

  “‘We guard,’ they said. ‘You are lucky you don’t have to.’

  “And it was in that conversation I hatched my plan to complete the second task my masters asked of me.”

  “Did you follow Jason into the valley?” asked Lewis, and Zimmermann shook his head.

  “My masters in Vienna wanted me to do that, but I wasn’t about to follow him there. I’m not a coward, but I’m no fool either.”

  “Of course not,” said Ruth. “Tell them the story of the watch.”

  “The story of the watch?” Andrew spared Ruth a knowing glance. It was no accident that Ruth fell upon the Decameron to name the system they’d devised. Since he’d first met her, when she was really a child, she’d been enamored of stories . . . Andrew remembered that half the reason she’d given young Jason the time of day in Eliada was because she liked to imagine the gun battles his father Jack Thistledown’d waged in the Incorporation Wars from the last century. Ruth could not ever resist a tale.

  Zimmermann merely shrugged.

  “I persuaded one of the S.A. men to let me take his shift. His name was Gerhardt Holtz, I believe. He was older than the rest . . . not much, but enough. He was a complainer. That made it easy to convince him, and easier to convince his mates. ‘Give Gerhardt a few nights off. Isn’t Albert Zimmermann a good fellow for volunteering? Why not let him?’”

  “So let me understand this,” said Lewis. “The men of the S.A. decided amongst themselves the guard shifts? Who was their commander?”

  “I wondered that myself, at first,” said Zimmermann. “There was a Hauptsturmführer . . . like a lieutenant in the army, but of course the S.A. is not an army . . . but it seemed only in title. He, like the others, deferred to Plaut, or Bergstrom. But Plaut was away that night, and Bergstrom . . . well, he was preoccupied with his own matters. So yes
. The S.A. men decided their own guard shifts. The Hauptsturmführer didn’t care. So long as it was done.

  “We marched up the road on foot, with packs of provisions and our rifles. It was less than a mile, not very steep but a very steady climb. There were four of us altogether. Shall I name the others? Frederich Stohl, Ernst Weber, a third . . . Peter . . . Janz? I am not certain. I didn’t spend the full two days with them, as matters transpired, and their company was not the thing that I recall most vividly.

  “The checkpoint itself . . . it was a small log cabin along a roadside, in a copse of evergreen. There were two rooms in it, and an outdoor privy behind it. One room was occupied with a wood stove, and cots. The other, with provisions—and rifles too, with ammunition, and a radio set.

  “It was high enough in the foothills that the mountains beyond didn’t seem as majestic. From the front stoop, it was possible to see the cleft through which the road passed, into the valley beyond.

  “When we arrived, the men there were glad to see us. The weather was turning from an overcast morning to a stormy afternoon, so the eight of us waited it out around the stove while the cold rain pounded down. We were told things to watch out for. A brown bear was foraging in the vicinity, so we better keep the food shut away and always carry rifles outside—maybe just use the chamber pot at night, rather than chance the privy. The woodpile was getting low, and if we didn’t cut some then the shift that came after us would have to. And we should keep an eye on the pass. One of the men reported seeing lights there the previous night—flames, he thought, from torches or lanterns. ‘They were moving in a line,’ he said, ‘as if coming down from the pass toward us.’

  “‘But they didn’t,’ I said.

  “‘They vanished amid the trees,’ he said, pointing up the hill.