No longer able even to dislike him, Gerlach said,
“What a competent fellow you are, Leist. I’m sure there’s an error in your little sum, but I shan’t try to find it.”
His urbane voice irritated Leist — he had not meant it to, and he was carelessly pleased. Who wouldn’t rather be murdered humanly than officially? He watched Leist stand up, resting his hand on the revolver. His heart made a suffocating leap. Come now, none of that, he thought drily.
In a voice that surprised him by its quietness, Leist said,
“I have no hesitation, absolutely none, in getting rid of you. Less than if you were a rat. A rat in a house is a nuisance, but doesn’t corrode the confidence of the people who live in it. I could hang you —” he pointed behind Gerlach’s head: instinctively, Gerlach looked round: he saw that, near the staircase, an iron pipe crossed the ceiling; at a point where the plaster had fallen away, a length of strong wire was looped round it.
“As a simple man, I feel it more decent to shoot you. What I’m going to do is to give you five minutes exactly, to think it over. If you decide against yourself, it’s your responsibility — vour choice.”
He picked up the revolver, nodded to the two guards, and without looking again at Gerlach edged himself between the two curtains, like an actor.
Gerlach’s attention was caught for a moment by the boy. Since they came in, he had been leaning against the wall near the table, without moving, and without any expression on his pointed colourless face. The change in it now was remarkable because it was taking place below the surface, a slight wriggling contortion such as might be made by a transparent sea-worm moving under the sand. When he saw Gerlach look at him, he flattened himself a little against the wall, and his face became blankly quiet: except that his eyes were wide open and staring, he might have been dropping off to sleep.
Gerlach looked away. He made a terribly difficult effort to think. . . It was absurd, a foolish and clumsy piece of playacting. Nothing, not even his nerves, believed that he was going to be put an end to in this windowless room. . . A vivid flight of images rose, soundlessly, in his mind, rising and dipping. He was on the terrace of his house, with friends. In the fixed brightness of those mornings, under a young sun, he saw the near gentle slope of the vines (he felt a flash of pleasure in the thought of his strong head; he could drink anyone to a standstill and remain sober), the glory of the laburnum, the delicate common grass, a woman’s face (or wasn’t it Emil’s), laughing, the candles of the library. . .
“One minute up.”
Divorced from his gross strong body, Leist’s voice lost weight: it was less insistent than the heavily slow rain drops.
He had a spasm of rage, and the stench of Buchenwald in his nostrils. Why did I allow them to put me there? he thought: I could have avoided it. With anguish, he saw that an act of decency and honour had been doubled in him by an act of pride, arrogant and contemptuous. Forgive me. Forgive me. . . He noticed the boy. With a fixed avid stare, almost with simplicity, he was watching the man they had arranged to kill as though he were watching an insect. . .
“It’s very strange — but I never liked you until this minute,” Leist said, in a level voice, “when you’ve only three left.”
A feeling of space round him, of extreme lucidity. The pleasure of giving pain is the sharpest in the world, he thought: the real cause of war. He dismissed Leist completely — recognising as his own the arrogance of dismissing the fellow as nothing, even liking it. Why waste time? The few objects in the room, the lamp, the decent table, had a sharper claim on him; he looked at them as though they were the first he had seen, the first made, then at the curtains: at this moment, knocked against by an arm, one of them billowed out and began to slide from the rope. He saw a few inches of cracked discoloured wall and a door — open, hanging by one hinge over a blackness which suggested a pit. Before the curtain could fall to the ground, Rudi’s gloved hand twitched it into place.
He felt an agony of grief. In the same instant he knew that his relief when he first came into the cellar had been relief that Rudi was keeping himself out of sight. In a low voice he said,
“Rudi —”
A silence.
“Two minutes left, Gerlach.”
He was calm. Emil’s son is there, he thought quietly. He knew that at this moment Rudi was as collected and coldly sure of himself as he had been during a raid. Afterwards, his nerves would go back on him, and he would have to deal with an hysterical fear — fear of everything, not only of what he had done. He tried to think of something that would help him.
“I want you to listen,” he said gently. “I want you to remember that you’re not responsible for this business, do you hear? I acted for myself. I did what I chose to do, you’re not in any way to blame —”
“One minute.”
He was silent. He felt that he had been abandoned, and he felt humble. . . one of the bright images, a straggler from the flight of the rest, crossed his mind: he was in a corner of a sunlit room, a child too small to reach the chair near him, lifting his arms to an unseen person to be helped up. . . A familiar voice: Now, my child, I will hear your confession. . . Again his mind filled with light. There is nothing I need do, he thought: I’m nothing, and in God’s hands. Into Thy hands. . .
Leist came through the curtains, buttoning his jacket with his left hand. He looked coldly at Gerlach, who shook his head.
Gerlach saw him hesitate, glance for less than a second at the wire, then lift the revolver. He saw the boy’s face sag, his mouth falling open, eyes dilated suddenly; then, much nearer and more distinct, one of his own hands. With all his strength he thought: No, I’m not dying. He felt a blow at the side of his head. For less than another second he felt the rough coldness of the floor under his hands. A second blow.
Leist moved the table to be able to reach the body without stepping over the long arms, flung out.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Arnold had slept little. He got up in the first light, wrapped his shabby overcoat round him, and sat on the edge of his bed, smoking one after another the cigarettes he had meant to slip into Barbe’s hand before he left.
He reflected, with exasperation, that if Gary had said: I’m changing your job, you’ll do this and this... he would have accepted. With only an inner and unseizable regret — to be told off, like all such unwelcomed ghosts, to go and bury itself. What Gary had done was either very clever or very decent. Decent, he decided quickly. . . “I don’t want you to agree now. In fact, I refuse to let you speak — unless there are questions you want to ask. If I haven’t made myself clear. No questions? Right — we’ll discuss it, and all the details involved, when you come back from London. Until then you can think about it. . .” No shadow of an idea that he might refuse. . . Come to that, what did I do? he thought. Mumbled fatuous thanks. Gary had startled him by bursting into a fit of laughter — amused and, yes, unbelievably rowdy. . .
“All right, off to bed with you. I’ll see you with your orders for London in the morning. After that you can do what you like for the rest of the day.”
He stood up and walked over to the window. There was a haze, promising warmth, and the lake, promising, if he chose to dive into it, an empty mind. Exactly opposite his window a bird crash-landed on a branch, drenching itself in a bright jet. . . He went back to the bed, dropping his half-smoked cigarette into the tray with the others — a haul for one of the servants — and forced himself to think. A month ago he would have hurried with his news to Edward. Knowing exactly what Edward would say. Smiling, envious, warmly pleased for him. A young man who is offered the chance to train — what was the phrase? — “for as great a responsibility as you are able to take. . .” doesn’t think about it: he accepts.
He rejected instantly the thought of telling Edward. Impossible, and obscurely painful. Edward, he knew it, suspected him of having become Gary’s pilot for what he could get out of a very rich man. . . But that was not the reason. Then why? He r
efused, with a savage impatience, to know why his friend had become the last person whose advice he could ask. David Renn? No, he thought quickly: he has it in for Gary. God knows why, except that dear Davy has too many ideas and would like me to close my eyes, open my mouth, and see what the wise man has brought me. Master Arnold take his medicine the kind doctor sent him. Master Arnold will not.
Queer there’s no one I can ask, he thought, without bitterness. If Andrew hadn’t walked out on me. . . He turned sharply away. As if it had been waiting for him to fall over it, the thought that his mother would be overjoyed tripped him head first into a cauldron of rage. To do what she would approve — it was the last thing he wanted. He was startled and a little ashamed. My poor mother, he thought. He forgot her at once. . . What’s the matter with me, I ought to be leaping with joy? Take it? Of course I shall take it, I’m not an idiot. The best man I ever knew, the most generous, the most decent. . . He felt a sudden excitement, almost suffocating. I can do anything, he thought, anything. . . He forced himself to be quiet. Tomorrow, I’ll think about it when I’m flying tomorrow.
Before dressing, he drafted in his notebook the letter he would send Renn to tell him that Gary not only remembered Kalb, but was doing all he could to help him. Better write than go to see him. He was not sure, in talking to Renn, of being able to rub in ironically the contrast between Renn’s doubts of Gary and Gary’s splendid kindness. The letter gave him a great deal of trouble, but he got it right.
In the library, when he went there to wait for Gary, he found, laid on a table, a folded half-sheet of paper. He opened it. . . Can you find out why I have been under arrest since Saturday? Interrogations made by an officer named Brett. I should be deeply obliged. Hugo v. Rechberg. . . Gary came in at this moment. He handed the note to him.
“Where the devil did you get this?”
Arnold told him. The servants were questioned — as usefully as if they had been deaf-mutes.
Gary shrugged his shoulders.
“This place is a madhouse! Make an appointment for me to see General Lowerby.”
Since his accident, Gary had put on weight: his heavy body was no longer graceful. He looks older than he is, Lowerby reflected, and as placable as the C-in-G or a bison. The forced slowness of Gary’s walk exaggerated the impression he made of power. In spite of himself Lowerby was gratified to see this power, friendly, smiling, come into his room and seat itself near his desk. He felt himself lucid and alert, able to deal with it.
“You remember my talking to you about Rechberg? We agreed that our good Brett was a little too enthusiastic in nosing out trouble. I hear that Rechberg has been arrested, and I hoped, if it’s not a top secret, you might tell me about it.”
How, the general wondered, did he hear of the arrest? He noted, without pleasure, the gentle reminder that he had made a promise of some kind about Rechberg. Exactly what?
“You know where he was? In the Russian sector — he had no right to be there.”
Gary lifted his hands.
“Of course not. It can’t be easy for a man, in his own city, with the authority Rechberg had, to remember a set of imaginary frontiers. What do you think?”
“I think,” Lowerby said drily, “that a man used to authority should know better than to disregard it. All the more so since he used his authority when he had it, only to support the Nazis.”
He was conscious of pleasure in his frankness — and in the same moment of a slight, a very slight, fear. Had he been rash? Nothing in Gary’s manner suggested it: he spoke with a smiling gravity.
“I know Rechberg well; he’s a remarkable unassuming man, a believing and practising Catholic, of an old and very upright family. It would have surprised me far more if he had not been loyal to his government — with whatever reservations he felt. Disloyalty — after all — and in wartime. . . no, no, it’s not a thing one can decide with one of Brett’s school-book platitudes.”
“He says he was kidnapped.”
“Oh, does he? Surely that absolves him?”
“Yes. If it’s true.”
Gary looked at him with surprise and a light irony.
“I don’t see why you should doubt it,” he said drily. “Apart from the fact that it’s not a new Russian habit. . . Have you talked to him? Of course you have. What was your opinion?”
Lowerby hesitated.
“I haven’t talked to him.”
This time Gary’s astonishment, quickly as it was suppressed, humiliated him a little. He felt a relief that Gary had risen and was leaving. At the door, Gary looked at him with a warmly mischievous smile.
“My dear George, don’t give me away, will you? I should hate to find myself in Brett’s hands this afternoon.”
Alone, the general scarcely knew what had reassured him. He reflected coolly and briefly that Gary had used a great deal of art in making plain his annoyance with the arrest. . . Why is he so certain of this fellow Rechberg? Even if he was not a member of the party, he collaborated in every sense — loyally, Gary would say. . . Abruptly, he decided to see Rechberg.
When the German was brought in he noticed first his exhaustion, then the gentle dignity of his manner. Anything but impressive, he was still, and with simplicity and modesty, very well-bred. The general asked him to sit down. Rechberg thanked him in a low voice, and sat leaning forward: his short legs only touched the floor.
Lowerby questioned him about the kidnapping. The quietness, the lack of gestures, with which Rechberg answered, satisfied him. He dropped it.
“How did you manage to inform Mr Gary that you had been arrested?” he asked brusquely.
After a moment, the German said,
“I beg you not to press that. No English person is involved. My name still counts for something with my countrymen, and you could easily find out at which moment I saw one of them. I hope you may feel it’s not necessary.”
Lowerby looked more closely at him. His manner was excellent, and he was making no attempt to show off his exhaustion. From the way he held his hands it was clear that they would tremble if he relaxed them. In heaven’s name, the general wondered, what have they been up to with him? He felt an impulse to give the interview a polite turn.
“This is not an interrogation,” he said coldly. “You are at liberty not to answer questions. At the same time I should be glad if you would answer one. What was your attitude to your government? One moment. I know what your actions were. What I am asking is simply: Had you an opinion, personal, on the men in power?”
Rechberg did not lose his air of simplicity and courtesy.
“Yes, certainly. I disliked them. But they were the government, and I felt that I was in the same position as my relative General von Bleichröder. In any State the politician is responsible, the soldier obeys. If he did not, what would become of the country?”
“You didn’t, I take it, approve of the generals who revolted and tried to kill Hitler?”
Rechberg did not hesitate.
“Certainly not. They were traitors.” He looked directly at Lowerby, but without being present in his glance: wherever he might be at this moment, he was nowhere near the surface of his eyes. “I find politics disagreeable and unclean. I say simply: unclean. Soldiers who engage in politics are betraying themselves and their duty — and the country.”
For a moment, the general’s assent went so far as a touch of respect, even sympathy. He brushed it aside.
“Towards the end,” he said in a dry voice, “you yourself were arrested — for writing to people in America.”
“I wrote to a close friend,” Rechberg said gently.
“You were in prison, how long?”
“Eight months.”
He hesitated, refolded his hands, and at last, as if deciding, murmured,
“I expected to die, of course. My children prayed for me, and I didn’t die.”
The general considered him again. In everything, manner, opinions, bravely and modestly held, even to the well-bred quiet voice,
he was the man Gary insisted he was; he was even likeable.
“What are you doing now?”
The German smiled a little, so little that it only marked his solemnity.
“Waiting,” he said simply.
“For what?”
“For work... we Germans are a disciplined people. I can’t believe that there is no work for us to do, nor even that it is not a great work. Nor even —” his expression did not alter — “that the natural need your country has for mine — and mine for yours — will be denied for ever.”
The general frowned. He felt that he had let himself in for the remark, that it was tactless — in short, if you give a Boche an inch he takes all he feels like. Pious, well-bred, honourable, no doubt, and a Boche. Leaning back in his chair, he considered coldly what to do with the fellow. Suddenly, glancing up, he saw that Rechberg had closed his eyes, and had given up the struggle to keep his hands in order. They lay trembling on his knees; his face, piteous in its fatigue, was grey.
Lowerby decided to release him.
Since his arrest by the English, Rechberg’s nights had been spent dreaming that the objects round him were shapelessly alive: the amorphous disgusting mass of a table would fasten itself to him, suffocating and cold. Rags of this nightmare clung to him during the day; he was never sure that a chair would not push out a globular seeing eye or quivering antennæ. So, when he returned home and found his sister, as usual, arranging and rearranging their rooms, madly dishevelled by all the objects, priceless or trivial, she had brought with her from East Prussia, he felt too ill and exasperated to stay there.
The Black Laurel Page 31
