by William Ryan
30
BY THE TIME the officers sat down to dinner, some of them were already quite drunk. It wasn’t an exclusively male affair – five SS women from the camp had been invited as well as the two telephone girls from the hut. The guests were arranged along the length of the table so that the officers would have a woman close enough to talk to. It didn’t make them behave any better. Brandt and the two white-jacketed SS clerks from the camp were kept busy filling up glasses.
The mood wasn’t cheerful. There was a shadow behind the polite smiles and forced laughter, and as the first course progressed the conversation began to reduce in volume to a muted mutter, with some withdrawing from it altogether. Even the two clerks seemed more like undertakers offering condolences than waiters serving a meal.
Only the Commandant, plump and self-assured, his round face made luminous by the candlelight, was enjoying himself. He was sitting in the middle of the long table with his officers arranged either side of him – Neumann to his right, looking concerned as he contemplated the glum expressions of his guests. The talk, by now, had fallen away to the occasional whispered request for a glass to be filled or a salt cellar to be passed. Brandt watched as Neumann leant over to whisper in the Commandant’s ear, and saw the Commandant nod, rising to his feet and clinking the glass in front of him with a knife. The clinking was unnecessary. All eyes were already on him. But the Commandant, benevolent as his gaze might be, was making some sort of point.
When he stopped, there was almost perfect silence. Only the hiss and occasional pop from the fireplace disturbed it. The Commandant stood back from the table, his posture straightening, his shoulders filling out, his eyes narrowing. He allowed his sharp gaze to move along the table – nodding to each in turn. Only when his gaze had traversed the entire company did he begin to speak in a conversational tone – quiet enough that those seated at the far end felt compelled to lean forward.
‘Comrades, there is sadness in our hearts this evening. The Führer has marked this day on the Fatherland’s calendar as one on which our nation should remember our many comrades who have fallen in the great struggle for a final, decisive victory. Let us take a few moments to think about them, the many who have made that ultimate sacrifice. Let us acknowledge their ghostly presence amongst us this evening. Let us remember them.’
The Commandant bowed his head.
‘And let us stand to honour them.’
The chairs scraped back on the wooden floor as his guests stood and followed the Commandant’s example, bowing their heads. It was some time before the Commandant broke the silence.
‘And let us drink to them.’
They raised their glasses. When the glasses were back on the table, the Commandant stuck his thumbs in his belt and drummed his fingers on his stomach.
‘Our comrades were happy to die for their country – and their homeland. Tonight we should celebrate their achievements and also celebrate our own. We can be proud of what we have done – fiercely proud. So let us cast off our cares for this one evening. Let’s enjoy ourselves, friends. Let’s celebrate the happy life our comrades led – and salute the glory of their deaths.’
Brandt felt his anger corroding his stomach. What had these men and women achieved, after all? The deaths of countless fellow humans was nothing to be proud of. It was something to be disgusted by. However, the Commandant’s words had a different effect on the gathering. The thought of their dead comrades seemed to lift their spirits, rather than oppress them. They were cheerful now.
And soon after that, they were jolly.
31
NEUMANN looked around the table. The dessert had come and gone – the coffee, such as it was, had been drunk, and things had gone well – considering the slow start to the evening. It was late now and many of the guests had gone to their rooms – including all of the women. He didn’t blame them. The remaining officers were drunk and, the majority of them, boorish. One of them had been sick in the entrance hall, and the white-jacketed SS waiters from the camp were nowhere to be seen.
There were eleven men still at the table, although one of the doctors – Heller – was slumped on top of it, snoring, using his crossed arms as a pillow. Ten, then. They had moved so that they sat together in the middle of the table, close to the Commandant. Neumann knew he was drunk, but he was behaving as an officer should behave. He was certain of it. The others laughed and swore, slapped each other’s backs and beat the table with their fists. Only he and Heller weren’t behaving like buffoons. He looked at Heller – the doctor’s face was pale and saliva had darkened the grey sleeve beneath his half-open mouth but his lips were shaped by a cupid’s smile.
Neumann understood it was almost the point of these evenings – that they needed to behave disgustingly, these men. Not all of them, of course – some had gone to bed precisely to avoid this part of the evening. Everyone had drunk heroically, even the women, but now was the dangerous time. The ones that were left, like him, sought oblivion or a means to vent their self-disgust.
With luck, there would be no violence – although he could feel the hunger for it running through the room like something electric. For half an hour, even he’d wanted to pick up one of the candlesticks and brain that smug rascal Beltz from the accounts department. Why had he sat the fool across from him? Always stroking his plump stomach or rubbing his thick fingers over his close-shaven, fat-padded scalp – Beltz had an unnaturally moist mouth and eyes that filled with tears when he laughed. He was laughing now. His teeth yellow against his purple lips – his tongue a quivering pink snake’s head. He would like to rip that snake’s head out. That might shut him up.
‘Can I help you, Neumann?’
Neumann could only imagine what expression his face must have held. He mustered a smile.
‘I was wondering what you were laughing at, dear Beltz.’
‘Just something Jäger said.’
Neumann turned his attention to Jäger. The tanker wore a crooked smile. His weary grey eyes twinkled like cracked beads in the candlelight.
‘What did he say?’ Neumann asked, holding Jäger’s gaze.
Beltz thought about it for a moment.
‘I can’t remember.’
Beltz couldn’t help himself. He laughed again, dabbing at his eyes with a corner of the tablecloth as he wheezed for breath.
‘I’m thought to be very witty, in my own way.’ Jäger’s smile looked as if it had been painted on. ‘I think it was something about death. Something humorous. Death is a very amusing subject, don’t you think?’
‘I’ve spoken enough about death,’ Neumann said, conscious that the edges of his vision had begun to swirl. ‘I’d prefer to talk about women. Or the hunt tomorrow. The last film you saw, perhaps. Or music.’
A twitch of Jäger’s thin lips.
‘What is your favourite piece of music, Neumann?’
Neumann looked away, a thick belch forcing itself into his mouth. The black-jacketed tanker seemed to be a great distance away even though he could reach out with his arm and touch him. What had he asked? Ah yes. He remembered now. He would play along.
‘I don’t remember the tune’s name. Da, da, da. Something like that. Uplifting. A dance of some sort. Classical. Do you know it?’
‘I think I do,’ Beltz said, putting his hands over his ears as if that might help him hear it. The fool.
‘Don’t be confused by his version, Beltz,’ Jäger said. ‘It goes quite differently.’
Beltz looked troubled, as though considering whether he should be offended or not, and when Jäger began to laugh, it didn’t help matters. Now Neumann felt sorry for Beltz. He wanted to take the round little accountant into his arms and reassure him. What a rat Jäger was – to make fun of such a fine fellow.
The Commandant was sitting to Neumann’s left and Neumann watched his superior’s hand inch across the table. The Commandant placed it on top of Neumann’s. As if in slow motion, Neumann saw the Commandant’s kindly blue eyes approach until they were only a few centi
metres in front of his own. If they came any closer their noses would touch.
‘Neumann? You’re white as a ghost – white as a sheet of paper.’
His superior’s breath smelled like rotting flesh.
‘I do feel a little unwell.’
‘Don’t give in to it, old friend. The night is still young.’
‘We should sing songs.’ Jäger’s voice was slurred. He appeared surprised by his own suggestion. The Commandant turned towards the tanker and Neumann took the opportunity to lean back and breathe in sweeter air, reaching as he did so for the glass of brandy on the table in front of him. The movement almost unbalanced him. There were howls of amusement from the other end of the table – but not because of him, he didn’t think.
‘Songs you say, Jäger?’ The Commandant was enthusiastic. Neumann, on the other hand, was wary. ‘What song should we begin with?’
‘“It Was an Edelweiss”?’ Jäger suggested. ‘I like that song.’
‘Do you know all the words?’
‘Of course. Holla-hidi hollala, hollahi diho.’
‘That’s not singing.’ His voice sounded strange to Neumann – like a poor recording, played too slowly. ‘It’s yodelling.’
It transpired that yodelling was a sticky word, one that clung to the teeth. Care had to be taken that the word didn’t trip up on itself.
‘It’s part of the song,’ Jäger said, slipping slowly under the table. ‘It’s part of the chorus.’
One moment Jäger was all there, brow crinkled by concentration. Then there was a bit less of him, his frown now one of irritation. Then his elbows gave way and he disappeared altogether.
‘Where’s Jäger gone?’ the Commandant asked.
Jäger’s voice came from beneath the table.
‘Just a moment, I dropped something.’
‘Let us know if you find it.’ The Commandant beamed as if he’d made the finest of jokes. Beltz’s head rolled back, his mouth like a cannon’s muzzle ready to fire. When Beltz finally let his laugh out he beat his hands on his chest as if his heart might be in danger of stopping. Neumann wished it would.
‘I found what I was looking for,’ Jäger’s voice sounded amused. Neumann took a grip on the table and leant down to see what it might be. He found Jäger sitting cross-legged, bent forward, a small black pistol in his hand. Pointed at Neumann. The tanker’s finger was on the trigger, a smile on his face.
‘I know what we should do,’ Jäger said. ‘We should play Russian roulette.’
‘With an automatic?’
‘Maybe you’re right. Too easy. I was going to take the first turn, of course. But you’re right – no point in shooting yourself if there are others happy to do it for you.’
Jäger put the gun back in his pocket, then turned to pull himself back onto his chair.
‘What’s he up to down there?’
The Commandant’s expression was quizzical – his voice gentle.
Neumann felt more sober now. Jäger who had regained his seat and lifted a finger to his lips as if to say, ‘Our little secret.’
‘Excuse me, comrades,’ Neumann said, standing to his feet. ‘I need to relieve myself. Too much drink. I’ll be back, don’t worry.’ Nobody was listening to him and his words were so quiet, they wouldn’t have heard him if they had been. It was just as well. He needed to hold on to the table with both hands to stand upright. He felt precarious. When he felt more secure, he leant down to whisper in the Commandant’s ear.
‘Herr Sturmbannführer?’
‘No ranks, Friedrich. Not between us, anyway. What is it?’
‘Can we speak? Not now, but tomorrow? About the situation?’
The Commandant’s mouth pursed but he gave a single sharp nod.
‘Tomorrow. At the shoot. We’ll take a walk.’
‘Thank you.’
The Commandant looked up at him – his eyes golden in the firelight. His mouth relaxed into a sympathetic smile. He took Neumann’s elbow and squeezed it.
‘Go to bed. Don’t worry about this warrior band – I’ll keep them in check. Get a good night’s rest. This evening has been a great success, thanks to you.’
Neumann didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded and somehow, with a tottering momentum, walked to the far end of the table. There he steadied himself on one of the chairs. Breathed deeply. None of the officers was looking at him. It was as though he were invisible. At least until Brandt stepped forward, the camera in his hand. He heard the click as the steward took his photograph.
Neumann leaned forward and took Brandt’s arm.
‘No more pictures. That’s enough,’ he said, as calmly as he could.
‘As you wish, Herr Obersturmführer.’
‘Go home.’
‘Of course, Herr Obersturmführer. And the women prisoners? In the kitchen?’
‘Do I look as though I care what happens to them?’
‘No, Herr Obersturmführer.’
Neumann saw the sullen anger in Brandt’s eyes and considered, for a moment, dealing with it. But the evening was going well. And his eyes were heavy. He let it go, satisfying himself with a hard push to the steward’s shoulder as he passed him.
32
NEUMANN LEANT his head against the wall as the urinal swayed in front of him. Or perhaps it was him who was swaying. He was tired, that was his problem – it wasn’t the drink. Had he even drunk anything? Yes. He remembered. Quite a lot.
All the same, he’d been tired for nearly two years now and that must take its toll. He’d been tired since the Commandant had plucked him from the desk job in Kiev and told him there were opportunities for a man like him in the new German provinces that had been taken from the Poles. Kiev was dangerous and unpleasant and only a fool would have stayed there rather than return to Germany, where, even in a newly acquired province, it would be safer and more comfortable. Of course, his childhood friend hadn’t told him the work he was offering. Of course, Neumann should have guessed. Neumann was aware of the Commandant’s involvement with the camps and, by then, everyone knew what went on in them. But he’d been greedy for advancement, of course, and, at the time, he’d thought anywhere must be better than Kiev. All he’d wanted was to be closer to his family, to climb another rung on the ladder – to be somewhere safe. He hadn’t planned to become a murderer, he didn’t think. It had just turned out that way.
Neumann sighed as he fumbled with his buttons. They were more difficult to do up than they had been to undo.
He wasn’t quite sure when he’d first become aware of his presence. Not immediately. About six months after the train, he thought – although Neumann hadn’t looked for him before then. Perhaps he’d been there all along. He had been easy to overlook – a suggestion of a shadow at dusk, a movement out of the corner of his eye in a place where everything should be still. It was intangible except that, once he became aware of it, Neumann had known, almost immediately, who the presence must be.
He’d been picking up the old man’s scent all day – a musty mixture of stale sweat and mothballs. He didn’t remember it from the train, but he supposed it must come from there. What other reason could there be for it? It was growing stronger. He’d noticed it when he’d been lighting the candles – the piney tang of the tree couldn’t smother it. It had been there when the guests had arrived and he’d smelled it all through the meal. And now the odour of fear and age was so pronounced that he was certain the old man was standing right behind him. Neumann took a deep breath and turned.
There was nothing to see – only the flickering candlelight sending strange shadows across the wall. Was he losing his mind? Neumann knew the old man must be nothing more than a twist of his imagination. And yet, perhaps soon, he might forget the difference between reality and unreality. The two would merge.
Of course, it was also logical that, if the old man came from within his own mind, then there was a simple way to put an end to him. But Neumann wasn’t ready to take that step. Not just yet.
&nb
sp; 33
BRANDT descended the stairs to the kitchen, still feeling the grip of Neumann’s fingers on his shoulder. He wanted to wash himself – to cleanse his skin of the contact. He also wanted to take back his stupid petulance. He could only hope Neumann wouldn’t remember the conversation in the morning.
In the kitchen, the Bible students stood beside the counter, as if waiting for inspection. The others had been sent to the bunker earlier.
‘The Obersturmführer says you can go to bed.’
Gertrud, the older one, closed her eyes as if a prayer had been granted. Katerina held his gaze. Neither of them moved. Katerina’s tone was patient.
‘Someone has to unlock the bunker.’
‘Of course. I’ll get one of the guards.’
Outside, the pale moon lit the snow and made the shadows of trees, fences and even guard towers crisp. The air was sharp, it stung his eyes it was so cold. He could see Bobrik in the tower by the gate, his face orange – he must have the stove’s door open, trying to keep himself warm.
‘Bobrik?’ he called up to him, his voice breaking the silence of the night.
Bobrik’s shadow appeared above him, leaning over the parapet.
‘Brandt? Are you going home?’
‘In a few minutes. But the women need to be taken back to the bunker first.’
‘Wait a moment.’
There was a delay and the sound of Bobrik’s iron-nailed boots walking across the tower’s concrete floor.
‘Here.’ The keys dropped into the snow beside him. ‘It’s the big round one.’
Brandt looked down at the keys then up at the guard tower.
‘Bobrik?’ he said, and heard the anger in his voice. ‘I’m not a guard. This isn’t my work.’
‘I can’t leave the gate. Peichl would have my skin. It’s just letting them in. You can manage that.’
Brandt cursed as he bent down. Bobrik was still leaning out over the parapet – watching him – and Brandt felt a scowl pulling at his taut, frosted skin. He was certain he heard Bobrik’s chuckle as he walked back towards the kitchen, the cold keys heavy in his hand.
