Widow Killer

by Pavel Kohout

  "She wasn't alone," Morava guessed.

  "Unfortunately, on that evening she was. And when a man she didn't even recognize asked for her hand at the front door, she mocked him...."

  The priest flushed and fell silent. He seemed to be fighting himself as to whether or not to continue. This time Buback spoke.

  "Did he confess to you that he'd killed her as well?"

  "Yes ...," the priest whispered in a rasp, "he did ... didn't he... "

  "And when did he—"

  "Two years later. Our country was already occupied—" He halted and glanced fearfully at Buback. "I mean taken under the Reich's protection. ..."

  The German smiled understandingly.

  "He appeared out of the blue as a voice in the confessional. 'Father,' I heard, without even recognizing him, 'I've leaned your picture against the door to the sacristy.' Then he told me this story in detail...." Sweat broke out on the cleric's forehead. "An awful story—that he had punished her, for his mother's sake as well, just as the executioners punished that poor martyr.... I didn't know what to say, much less what to do...."

  It was as if he were lost in his memories; both detectives ceased to exist for him. They all sat motionless for several long seconds before Buback sensibly asked, "And finally you . .. ?"

  "The confessional was stifling; I ran out and over to him...."

  "To whom?" Morava tried.

  The narrator was present in space, but not in time.

  "I locked the church and dragged him and the package into the sacristy. He looked the same as always: vigorous, keen. His problem wasn't at all obvious, except for a certain shyness toward women; I was probably the only one who knew about it, from confession...."

  He halted, as if he'd said something inappropriate, and was once again back with them.

  "He said he didn't tell his mother, of course, but when she was hit by a car and died, she must have found out up there, because she praised him and urged him to continue his work of purification. And he told me all of this as if it were a perfectly everyday occurrence. Yes, I thought just what you're thinking now: the grenade wound. I begged him to see a doctor. He shouted and got so angry that it frightened me. As a priest, he said, I should believe in life after death, and anyway, he'd come to confess, not to turn himself in; why didn't I just send him to the police? All I could do was refuse him absolution until he could tell me that he deeply regretted his deed and would never again spill blood. He kissed my hand silently and went.... I never heard of him again, nor of any horrors like the ones he told me about. In time I convinced myself that this picture of ours had conjured up a monstrous fantasy in him, and therefore he returned it to us ... until the local policeman brought me the news...."

  "Father," Morava addressed him once he realized the man had finally finished, "we're deeply indebted to you for this information, because—and I'm convinced of it—it frees us from the darkness.

  We've been looking for a needle in a haystack, and now we know where it is. Or we will know, once you tell us his identity. He knew the picture. Does he come from around here?"

  The old man's hands shook.

  "That's the thing ... that's my problem. I've lived with it ever since. My church is consecrated to Saint Jan Nepomuk, who was tortured rather than betray the secrets of the holy confessional...."

  "Excuse me, sir." Morava could no longer contain his outrage. "This is a fanatical killer you're talking about—a butcher of defenseless women. If you'd come forward to the police earlier, you could have saved six lives."

  "I know," he wheezed like an asthmatic. "I know, gentlemen, and this is my mortal sin, which I will answer for one day. But surely you can understand I don't want to compound it—"

  Before Morava could boil over, the German interceded in a calm voice.

  "In cases such as these, won't the church grant some sort of dispensation?"

  "I'd have to request it...," the priest responded.

  "Why didn't you do it long ago?"

  The cleric was struggling to undo his collar, but his fingers would not obey him.

  "I guess ... out of shame that a holy picture could lead someone to such a monstrous act.... Could you please open the window?"

  Morava stood up to grant his request, but remained merciless.

  "So why are you telling us now?"

  "Those horrible murders.... How could I live with it... ?"

  "And how will you live with what he does next? If we don't catch him in time, he'll do it again soon. The conditions are perfect for it." Yes ... yes....

  He's having a stroke, Morava realized, his heart in his throat, but he did not feel even an ounce of compassion, only a powerless rage that that human animal would wreak further havoc, unpunished and unrecognized. The crisp April air streamed into the room, but the priest's face had turned the color of ashes.

  "Your Reverence," Buback spoke almost soothingly, playing the time-honored role of "good cop," the carrot to Morava's stick, "do you think you could ask for that dispensation today from your diocese? I'm sure they'd be glad—"

  At that the priest of Klasterec truly fainted. Neither of the policemen managed to catch him as he fell. They summoned the housekeeper, who calmly sat down, crossing her bowling-pin legs by his head and placing it on her lap. Gently she slapped his cheeks.

  "Venda! My little Venousek! Don't worry about it, you had no choice!"

  A scene from a mediocre anticlerical farce, Buback thought to himself, but quickly realized his error. The housekeeper turned out to be the priest's sister, who had come to work here after her husband died. She told Buback that her sorely tried brother had asked her whether he should go to the police or not, but had not even told her that the murderer and the thief were one and the same.

  They helped move the priest, who soon came around, into the bedroom, and then had to bow to her insistence that they leave him in peace today. He had high blood pressure, she insisted, and further disturbance could strain his heart; they could probe more later. Of course, she was right, and so they agreed with her over the remains of their now cold coffee that they would come again tomorrow, either to take him to the diocese or bring someone from there to him.

  On the way back they were mostly silent; both knew that it was pointless to talk until the next day. The younger man, sitting beside Buback in the back seat, was obviously suffering from a deep depression. Buback could certainly sympathize: Grete was today's bait. Her spontaneous offer and his efforts to insure the trap was safe had made him assume she found it an exciting role, and nothing more. Only early this morning had she confessed that each time she walked through the cemetery gates she could feel her backside clench—she showed him her closed fist—this tight!

  "Come on, why?" He tried to reassure her. "You know how thoroughly we've tested the scenario."

  "Too thoroughly, if anything." She grimaced. "What if this show doesn't run the way you've written it?"

  "He's the one who wrote it—five times already," he objected. "They all opened the door themselves. You won't even come into contact with him."

  "You don't think so? I hope you're right."

  "Then there are still two men inside with pistols."

  Grete freed herself from his embrace and went to light up. Sitting in her favorite position—knees against her chest—she exhaled the smoke and laughed awkwardly.

  "Today I imagined that for some reason they weren't there."

  "You have a sick imagination," he rebuked her, and was instantly afraid he had insulted her.

  "Forgive me. It was silly and mean of me to take it for granted. It never occurred to me what must be going through your head. I'm an idiot."

  "No! You're wonderful both as a lover and a person. You really have only one flaw."

  "Which is?"

  "Oh, love, I told you before: think it over."

  Now Buback turned to his companion. Their driver, Litera, knew barely enough German to say Gootin tock or Owf weeder zane, so he did not worry about him unde
rstanding.

  "Mr. Morava," he said, addressing him as a civilian, "does your fiancee ever feel frightened as she plays the widow?"

  Surprise reflected from his neighbor's face.

  "I was just thinking about that."

  "So she does, then."

  "I don't know. She says not, but maybe she just wants to reassure me. Does Mrs. Baumann?"

  "Today she told me she's afraid the safeguards will fail."

  "How could they?" Morava was uneasy again.

  "I'm with you; I don't think they can. Anyway, she let it pass."

  Buback remembered how, and was filled with joy at the thought that tonight he would hold her in his arms again.

  "Still, I've got three people to worry for," the Czech said. "We're expecting a child, you see...."

  Buback was amazed. How could they do this? An apocalypse was coming, and these two were having a baby right in the middle of it. With Jitka promenading herself every other day as bait for a murderer? He gazed into the young, tense face and was surprised how deeply touched he was by another man's problems.

  "When?" he asked, so he would not just be staring.

  "By all the signs, just before Christmas."

  Sometime between today and Christmas—probably sooner rather than later—the battle of battles would take place. Did the boy have any idea? And what did he expect from it personally? Why not ask him? He could answer as he liked.

  "Do you think it'll be born in peacetime?"

  The Czech stared right back at him.

  "Yes."

  "Any feeling how the war will end?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you want to tell me?"

  "Yes," his neighbor repeated for the third time. "I think the Reich will collapse fairly soon."

  "And aren't you afraid it might be disastrous for your people? They say dying horses kick the hardest."

  In return he got an unexpected counter question.

  "Don't you want to live?"

  "Of course I do," he said without thinking, and again remembered Grete at night.

  "Well, I think it threatens Germans more than Czechs. You're the only German I know to any degree, but you can't be the only one who feels that way. I'm counting on people like you to prevent it."

  "Aha... but how?"

  "By capitulating in time, how else?"

  Morava expressed this without the slightest embarrassment or hesitation. Buback was at a loss for words.

  "Do you really trust me that much?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Sometimes a person just has to decide. And I've decided to believe you."

  "But why?"

  The Czech was ready with an answer; he seemed firmly convinced of what he was saying.

  "My fiancee—actually, she's already really my wife, it's just we haven't gotten married yet on account of the war—she says that a man's partner is a reflection that doesn't lie. Both she and I are very fond of Mrs. Baumann."

  "Aha...."

  He could not think of anything better, but what was there to say anyway? His Germany was locked in a life-or-death battle, and what was the Czech's sympathy worth, anyway, if he didn't even bother to hide his allegiance to the enemy?

  "His" Germany! Yes, unfortunately so.

  In his mind's eye he saw Hilde in the Franconian vineyards and once again heard her question: Wasn't it the Fuhrer who had lost touch with his people rather than the other way around? At the time—not all that long ago—Buback had babbled confidently about the iron will of all Germans. Today remorse stung him as he realized that hers could not have been the only voice in the wilderness. After all, it anticipated his own doubts as well. And Grete? Was it just the natural cynicism of a generation come of age in wartime that made her avoid any mention of it? Was her obsession with passion and love a woman's only way of resisting this type of Germanness?

  Buback had broken off the conversation after leading it down a figurative blind alley. Now the car approached an actual one. A large sign directed drivers to turn off the main road for a detour. They had used it this morning on the way from Prague, arcing around the forbidden zone where, as the signs cautioned, guards would shoot without warning.

  "Tell him to go straight," Buback ordered on a sudden impulse.

  Morava immediately translated it, but Litera stopped the car.

  "Is he crazy?" the driver asked in Czech.

  The assistant detective translated it as a polite question: Could they really do so?

  "Tell him to go," Buback repeated. "I'll deal with it; it'll save us half an hour."

  He assumed both Czechs had some idea what hid behind the walls of the Theresienstadt fortress and former army base. At the stone gates, a barrier and men in SS uniforms stopped them. They studied Buback's document much more closely than the military police had done that March in Moravia, and demanded the police IDs of both Czechs as well, but finally let them pass without a word.

  The road led into streets that at first glance looked almost normal. The only surprising details were the barrackslike appearance of the buildings and the throngs of people that immediately surrounded the car. Buback had been through here quickly once before, investigating a case last winter: the deputy commander of the so-called Lesser Fortress had been robbing other officers. Thanks to Buback, he disappeared into a chain gang out east. That time too Buback had only driven through the fortified city, but the images of the strange anthill were unpleasantly fixed in his memory.

  During their visit no one had attempted to explain to either him or his deputy Rattinger whether this was a permanent population or not, whether this was a practice run or a test of how Jews would get along in the victorious Reich, or whether this was just a way station on a journey somewhere else. No information was forthcoming, not even a hint, and asking questions was a violation of military secrecy.

  From comments heard here and there in the Gestapo building, he had nonetheless formed his own picture. The most logical one seemed to be— and his first cursory visit to Theresienstadt confirmed him in this belief— that the Jews had been resettled in this way here and there, primarily in the East, where they had always been more common. It therefore shocked him when Grete laughed rudely at his recent mention of it.

  "Buback! Are you really that naive, or that cunning?"

  "What are you trying to tell me?" he asked, stunned.

  "Nothing at all. If you're that cunning, I don't need to tell you anything, and in the other case I don't want to deprive Germany of its last lotus flower. I'll admit, I'm an ostrich with my head in the sand."

  Nothing could persuade her to explain herself, and for the first time he had the impression that she did not completely trust him.

  For God's sake, it wasn't as if Himmler's executioners were really liquidating them, as he'd heard in those anonymous rumors that refused to die! Of all the things his lover had offered him since that first night, her joyous levity fascinated him most. His early bad experiences taught him to avoid disrupting Grete's now continuous sunny weather, so he swallowed her mockery this time as well. The day before yesterday he had heard a reliable report in Bredovska Street that a Red Cross mission led by Count Bernadotte of Sweden was operating in this very ghetto. It confirmed his cautious optimism: Otherwise they'd never let in a prominent neutral power, which could report any crimes they found to the world. However, he decided not to mention it to Grete....

  As opposed to his last visit, the winter coats, blankets, and rags of various origins that protected their wearers from the cold had vanished from the streets, as had the infamous yellow stars. Neither did they see a single German uniform. The Jews—for Jews they clearly were—plied their trades, bought and sold, but also kept the peace. Even an exacting Swedish eye could hardly find fault with this picture, so why did he find it even more disturbing now than last time?

  The answer was obvious: Suddenly he was seeing it through the eyes of the two astounded Czechs. The crowd fell silent, doffed their hats, and pressed to the
side of the road at the mere sight of three civilians in a car—only the threat of imminent death could strike this sort of dread into people's hearts. Yes, Hilde had sensed the truth and Grete probably knew it directly from Meckerle. But simpleminded little Erwin had stayed faithful till the bitter end, the slave of a regime embodying the very opposite of the values he thought he had spent his life serving.

  He was so deeply depressed that his companions sensed something was wrong. Why had he treated them to this spectacle, which he was supposed to hide from them? The human mobs suddenly ended at the exit gates. The guards let them pass without notice and the car rolled past the ramparts of the Lesser Fortress and out into the open countryside. Suddenly he knew why he had done it. He turned to Morava.