“This is great stuff,” said Butler. “Now if we can only figure out who they are. We need to get the other side of the story.”
Kai was aghast. “You can't possibly believe—”
“Oh, I know it's hogwash. But that's exactly why there must be some truth in it. Nobody would make up anything so ridiculous. A Jew, yes—but why an American Jew? Why Socialists, not Communists? And why admit you captured this guy, then let him get away? People don't invent stories that make themselves look bad.”
Kai looked downcast, as though dismayed by Butler's credulity. He poured himself more tchaj, a curious beverage, meant to be served warm, that tasted strongly of herbs but seemed to consist mainly of red wine spiked with brandy and quantities of sugar, and fatally effective. “What will you do with this ‘story’?” he asked, choosing the English word over its German equivalent, which carried a connotation of factual historicity. “Will you recast it as a heroic romance? The mysterious Yankee as Robin Hood, stealing from anti-Semites and giving to the common people?”
Butler swirled his mug, studying the dregs down there. “That might be exactly how to play it,” he said thoughtfully. “The folks in Iowa might get that. Thanks, pal.”
Something was wrong with Butler's pillow next morning. Of the two heads lying on it, neither ought to have been there.
The one attached to Butler's neck was a bloated, throbbing thing, rendered hateful by a day of champagne followed by a night of that stonework jug. The second head, which ought to have been Sissi's, was not. The hair was too thick, the bare shoulder and rounded breast—from which the blanket had slipped—too fleshly, and the skin lacked her blue-blooded pallor.
It came to Butler in fragments. Petra, the girl with Slavic cheekbones. Bellowed camp songs that grew increasingly bawdy and off-key. The ebbing fire, the enveloping darkness, the longing for body warmth, Sissi asleep on Kai's shoulder, Butler awake and amorous. Then the ease with which everything followed—the steady escalation from glances to furtive touches to a full-on embrace, starting by the fire but ending here amid tangled bedclothes in a tent that now, by daylight, was too bright and too hot and sagged ludicrously as its pegs worked loose.
Butler hoisted himself on his elbows and regretted it. Yet there was no going back; the day was advancing with or without him, and somewhere out there—this came to him now—a story waited to be told. A tale of American avengers, two-fisted innocents abroad, with “Butler Randolph” all over it.
He dragged himself out of the tent without waking Petra. Sunlight covered the world like a buttery glaze. Around him, the mountain stirred. Young Germany had arisen, the dj.1.11 had already marched off. The air was dank with heavy sweetness like that of a million overspent roses. You sensed renewal yet suspected an inner decay—lotus rising from the cesspool, that kind of thing. Jot these impressions down, old boy, before you lose them.
Sluggishly he retraced his path from the day before, coming at last to a quick-running brook where he dunked first his hands, then his entire head. Time to make a plan. Start with the Jungdo. Lock them into a version of the story, then go after the Yanks. Wrap it up by mid-afternoon and we may yet tuck in to a civilized dinner in Kassel.
There was no stopping Butler once he set his mind to something.
At first it seemed the pieces would fall readily into place. The Jung-deutsche Orden was conspicuously installed on the Meissner proper, in a campsite that bore a passing resemblance to a medieval tournament ground: colorful pennants flapping from high shaved poles around the periphery, watchtowers made of lashed timbers, an inner courtyard squared off with tents. Butler wondered how long such a fad for things troubadourish would last in America. About eighteen months, he guessed.
In Germany, it was well into its second century with no sign of anyone getting bored. They even had a name for it, Teutschtümelei, as untranslatable as the thing itself.
The gate to the camp, a swinging log that pivoted around an elm, was manned by a sentry who looked all of eleven. The lad's shrill command to halt and identify himself pierced Butler's aural nerve like a surgical instrument. Wincing, he brushed past the boy and knocked the gate open.
“Alarm!” the sentry cried. “An intruder has stormed the courtyard!”
The modest commotion that ensued was opportune, insofar as it brought a dozen older members of the Order out of their tents and away from their breakfast fires into the open, where he could size them up. They didn't look like a gang of bullyboys, such as one saw on the streets of German cities nowadays—more like members of a sporting club at a competitive Gymnasium in some staunchly bourgeois suburb like Berlin-Steglitz. Most were in their teens, though a couple looked old enough to be recent university grads. All were in uniform, a white jersey over baggy tan britches, and a few wore hats on which insignia of rank or degree had been sewn. Butler picked out the one with the most silver crosses, reckoning him to be the leader.
“I'm a journalist,” he said, uncapping his pen. “I'm looking into an incident that happened yesterday, when—if my information is correct—a member of your group reported that certain items were missing, and that the person or persons responsible had been apprehended. What can you tell me about that?”
The fellow worked his jaw muscles but did not reply. He studied Butler with narrow eyes. He was a solidly built character who could have held his own in a street fight, and in fact might have done so quite recently; a pair of tiny bandages made a neat white cross on the bridge of his nose. Butler judged him to be just young enough to have missed the last war, and determined not to miss the next one.
“I should tell you, I intend to write up this incident whether or not you're willing to provide information. But I'm sure you'd like to see your own side of the story fairly presented.”
“As opposed to what?” said a voice from the side.
Butler turned to see an older man, thirty-five-ish, wearing a wide-brimmed expedition hat, a crisply tailored waistcoat and a pair of tall riding boots. The only thing missing was the horse crop. He stood arms akimbo some paces off, fixing Butler with a look that aspired to withering condescension.
In a haughty academician's voice he went on: “As opposed to the usual sort of bias and distortion one expects from the Jew-run press?”
The stout, bandaged fellow gave a quiet chuckle, then cocked a thumb toward Butler. “Herr Professor, this person has entered the camp without permission. I was about to help him leave.”
The older man shook his head. “Not quite yet, I think. Let us learn first who he is, and on whose behalf he has come.”
It irritated Butler to be spoken of as if he were incapable of understanding. “I came on my own behalf. And as to who I am, I'm a representative of the press—that's all you need to know. Listen, Professor, if you don't want to talk, that's fine. Just let me make a note of this for the record.”
He scrawled break the fucker's nose again into his notebook and then glanced around the circle of Jungdo boys. They were much of a type, not in physical appearance but in their arrogant demeanor and pseudo-military bearing. They seemed to have taken the concept of Orden very much to heart.
“You may put your pen down,” the Professor said. “No one has refused to speak to you. We ask only that you reveal the true nature of your investigation. Also, if one may inquire, mein Herr—your accent. Are you of foreign nationality?”
Butler believed a reporter's job was to ask questions, not answer them. But the man's supercilious manner was getting under his skin. “My name is Randolph. I'm an American writer, studying at Leipzig. All right? Now, what can you tell me about yesterday?”
The older man's smile was hard to read; something about Butler seemed to amuse him. “If we are to have a talk, it would be well to sit down. Come, we shall go to my tent.”
He led Butler across the open space to a square pavilion of white canvas, the stout young man following with the rest of the Jungdo. At the door the younger boys paused; the Professor motioned them all inside. The interior was furnished lik
e a movable study, complete with a folding wooden desk on which books and papers were stacked. An ornate tapestry—the slaying of a huge stag by a knight on horseback—hung from the rear panel, an imposing backdrop. There were only a couple of chairs, but the floorcloth was well supplied with pillows. The Professor took the largest seat and the younger boys arranged themselves in a semi-circle at his feet. The burly one perched on a stool, looking edgy, ever ready to leap up again. This left a rickety-looking chair for Butler.
“To begin,” the older man said, “my name is Professor Doktor Konrad Freiherr von Cheruski. I am honored to serve as chief scholar of the Jungdeutsche Orden—my title is Oberbachant. This is Gunter, our Gruppenführer. At his side there is one of our Stamm leaders and an aspiring Bachant.”
The youth in question, a boy about sixteen, was notable chiefly for his bland Teutonic features: limp blond hair and empty eyes, with a complexion that was almost white except for a faint blush of pink through the clear skin, like a healthy vampire. He stared blankly at Butler, who could detect no trace of a soul through those unclouded irises.
“Now,” said Cheruski, “I must proceed by correcting certain of your ‘facts.’ The incident to which you refer was, indeed, reported yesterday. However, it took place on the previous evening—that is, the second day of the Jugendtag. Several of these lads were present.”
Butler made a little business of writing in his notebook. Yesterday, the day before…it made no difference to him. He cared more about getting this scene right: the glowing, worshipful eyes of the boys, the leather-bound edition of Tacitus weighting down a corner of the Schreibtisch. He hoped also to convey the self-satisfied pomposity of the Herr Professor, whom Butler judged to be a second-rate scholar, unimpressive to his colleagues, who had found in the Youth Movement a ready market for otherwise unsalable theories. Probably there had always been such people, in every nation, but Weimar Germany seemed awash in them.
“All right—day before yesterday. Now, could you just tell me exactly what happened? In your own words, please. I don't want to rely on hearsay.”
Cheruski was not ready to drop his supercilious attitude; nonetheless he complied, more or less. His story was much the same as the one Butler had heard the night before, with minor variations. In this telling, the number of thuggish assailants was not specified, and certain other details were left purposely vague. The Deutsch subjunctive mode, thought Butler, is a fine vehicle for using many words to say nothing definite. It didn't matter. He had what he needed: a look at the supposed victims, a strong dose of local color. Still he supposed he ought to play the hard-nosed Yankee reporter.
“What makes you think”— returning to what seemed to him a weak spot in Cheruski's account—” the young man you've called, let's see, ‘an American Jewish type,’ was, quote, ‘in league with Bolshevik elements’?”
“I made that quite clear. I have no wish to repeat myself.”
“You say, ‘He had been seen often in company with known agitators on the Left.’ “
“This I saw with my own eyes.”
“So the young man was not a stranger to you?”
“Of course he was a stranger,” Cheruski insisted, toying with the German term Fremder, whose meaning could be slippery. “An individual of that type would be a stranger even should he reside in the house next door. He is a stranger to all honest men and to all wholesome places, by his very nature.”
“By his race,” explained the blank-eyed youth, the budding Stamm leader.
Cheruski tightened his lips, as though nothing more need be added.
“Thanks,” said Butler, shutting his notebook. “Now I need to track down these other people—the ones who, you say, physically assaulted you.”
“That is a waste of time. They will deny everything.”
“Oh?” Butler feigned puzzlement. “I should think you'd want them found, if everything happened like you say it did.”
Cheruski said tersely, “I will bid you good day then.”
Butler rose to depart, then paused. “One more thing. What's your field, Professor?”
“I am a philologist,” said Cheruski, enunciating slowly, as though he did not expect the foreigner to understand. “I study archaic manuscripts. I investigate the deeper levels of truth encoded in the text. You may say that in studying a given document—let us say, a heroic saga—I seek to understand what it really means, as opposed to what it merely says.”
“I'll send you a copy of my story,” Butler promised.
In the August sun—strong for Germany, more like the sun of his boyhood in the West End of Richmond—Butler's headache made an impressive comeback. He slumped in the shade of an oak tree. Another two hours' sleep would have been wasted on him. Nearby, in a sloping field whose yellow, rasping grasses made his throat feel dry, a javelin-throwing contest was under way. That's correct, Butler told an imaginary editor, raking over the text of his unwritten article, a fucking javelin-throwing contest. And in the background, you could hear some kind of singing competition. One side was armed only with folk tunes, the other fired back with depressing ballads about fallen comrades. It wasn't even close.
Jesus Christ, laughed the imaginary editor—an acerbic Maxwell Perkins sort. What was that song by Uhland? The real hankie-wringer.
“Ich hatt' ein guter Kamarad”— yeah, they sang that one, too. Only Jesus had nothing to do with it. Try Wotan.
Not Thor? I thought he was the warrior.
Thor is mighty and stupid. He's the god of the Fritzes in the trench. Wotan is the sneaky son-of-a-bitch back at headquarters. He's also the dispenser of the mead of poetry, which makes him the patron deity of propagandists.
Sounds like you've been over there too long, old man. You ought to come back to this side of the pond for a spell.
Maybe. Someday. But the future is over here. I want to stick around to see it. I want to write it all down.
And the future is what—singing contests? Hurling javelins?
The future, Butler would say, is barbarism. The death of reason. Raging delusions of vengeance and heroism and destiny. It starts with toy weapons and ‘The Hunter Is to Green Woods Gone,’ but it doesn't stop there. You watch. You'll see.
Only in Germany, Perkins would laugh.
No, said Butler. It doesn't stop there, either. It's the millennial complex, the dream of a thousand-year empire. Bring light to the dark corners of the Earth, break the shackles of history. Germany is next up in the queue. But sooner or later …
Perhaps he had begun muttering aloud. Butler looked up suddenly to find himself being stared at. The staring face was blurred by the glare of backlighting—he had to shade his eyes to make it out. He was surprised to recognize the Jungdo boy, the blank-faced blond, hovering before him. That vampire complexion, those empty Aryan eyes.
“They have gone away,” the boy said. No greeting, no ceremony. His voice was uncolored, a pure tone, like a radio test signal. “The Jew and his friend, the ones you are looking for. They left early, just at dawn. The friend was German, I think. And a third also, a woman.”
Butler shook his head, trying to clear it enough to think. Had the boy followed him here? Was he acting on his own or at the behest of the Professor? If the latter, why had the story suddenly changed—the tally of bad guys dropping to two? And this new character, the lady friend—where did she fit in? Butler felt like laughing at such an unlikely spin of the wheel. His reporter's intuition, such as it was, told him he'd tapped into something here, a seam of glittering metal. Whether it would prove to be more than fool's gold required further analysis.
“You're sure about this?” He didn't bother opening the notebook. “You're saying only two people were involved in the attack? One of them a Jew and the other, what, a German?”
“The second one spoke in English. But he seemed German to me.”
“He seemed German. And they left this morning?”
“With a Fräulein. I believe, a Jewess.”
Butler peered at
the boy but it was like staring into a stream. You saw patterns, but no meaning. Facts without truth. “Why are you telling me these things?”
“I know where they have gone,” the boy said.
For the first time, a faint expression came over his features: a look you might see in a courtroom when an attorney—careful to make no overt display of triumph—calmly adduces what he knows to be the decisive piece of evidence.
Butler didn't ask Where?— he figured that the kid, having come this far, would get around to that. Instead he said, “What's your name, Wölfling?”
“Wolf cub” was a term of rank, denoting the very youngest of the Pathfinders, Germany's Boy Scouts. Butler figured it would needle the Jungdo boy.
“If you want to find these people,” the kid said, “you will have to follow me. But we must set out immediately, the path is long. I hope you are not afraid of hiking.”
Butler shrugged. He could hike when he had to.
The boy stood there a moment longer, his demeanor once again opaque. “I am Hagen von Ewigholz,” he announced in a formal voice. “I come from Saxony. I hope someday I shall become also a writer. But not a journalist. A writer of history. I am especially interested in the history of war. Have you read Clausewitz?”
Butler blinked. He recognized the boy's expression now, and it was not that of an attorney. No—the boy wore the mask of a hunter. An old-fashioned Jäger of the greenwood, not lacking in courage or stamina, but blessed above all with patience, with instinctual caution, with a gift for moving through the forest methodically—fi rst the stalking, then the sighting-in, and at its appointed moment, neither a breath too soon nor a moment late, the ecstasy of blood.
SLOVAK PARADISE
EARLY NOVEMBER 1944
Right up until the explosion, Ingo pretended to believe everything was fine: the mission was well planned, the volunteers adequately trained, the leadership competent, the logistics in order, the objective attainable. Even afterward, he did not abandon this pretense at once. It was like any other sort of belief—in Catholicism, for example, or the Washington Redskins—that after a time becomes habitual.
Another Green World Page 20
