by John Wray
The hallway was immaculate, its concrete and tile floor polished to mirror-brightness, so I was very much surprised, at the end of it, to find the Reichsführer’s front office in even worse disarray than Mittling’s had been. Papers and photographs of all sizes spilled from dog-eared, water-speckled folders and littered the floor between chairs set at strange and irrational angles to the walls. I watched a clerk sift through a massive pile of manila envelopes at the foot of a three-legged table for the space of almost a minute before recovering the presence of mind to clear my throat. The clerk looked up at me blankly, muttered a grudging pleasantry and reached up to the intercom button set into the wall above his desk. A very long time later the black-and-white-checked door of the inner office opened slightly, seemingly of its own accord, and the clerk waved me on. I cautiously pushed the door open.
Himmler’s office, in turn, proved very much like the hallway: a high-ceilinged rectangular room furnished only with three straight-backed farmer’s chairs and a narrow steel-topped desk, from which two high, square windows looked out onto the street. The uniform of a captain of the Waffen-SS hung from a coatrack. The Reichsführer himself was nowhere to be seen. I stood stiffly in front of the desk, in anticipation of his appearance, but after a number of minutes drifted over to the windows and finally to the uniform. I was holding one of the boots to my foot when Himmler entered, so quietly I gave a little cry of surprise when he spoke my name.
“Obersturmführer Kurt E. Bauer,” said Himmler, peering at me nearsightedly. “The last of our unsung freedom fighters. That is how you see yourself, am I correct? The hope of our as-yet-fettered south?” He drew his lips together not unkindly. The expression on his face, one of myopic, schoolteacherly attentiveness, was deeply unnerving. His eyes were so tiny behind their bottle-glass lenses that you could never make out precisely where they were pointed. Innocuous, colorless, well-intentioned eyes. I shook my head.
“Not at all, Reichsführer. I’m sure the south has long forgotten me.”
“Well. Let’s hope so.” Himmler smiled. “Please be seated now, Herr Bauer. Please. That’s better.” He paused. “We hear good things about you, in circles. You’ve made yourself some very devoted friends. Vocal friends.”
“I try to be worthy of them, Reichsführer.”
“Yes,” he said, less benevolently. “I’m sure of that.” He sat a moment lost in thought, his breath whistling through his nose. “You’re a citizen of the Reich now, I understand.”
“Yes, Reichsführer.”
“Please, Herr Bauer. This is a casual visit. Herr Himmler will do between us for the moment.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, biting back my disappointment. “Of course, Herr Himmler.”
Himmler smiled. “You did good work, Bauer, in your brigade. What’s more, you lived to tell about it.”
“I’ve lived to tell no-one about it, Herr Himmler.”
He smiled again, settling back in his chair. “Yes. We know that very well.”
Both of us were silent. Himmler seemed to look down at his desktop, on which lay an assortment of passport-sized photographs, and at the next moment past me toward the uniform.
“It’s a shame to see you in a common suit, Bauer,” he said finally. “What’s more, yours doesn’t fit very well.”
I shifted uneasily in my chair. “I know it doesn’t, Reichsführer.”
“We’d like to see you in a uniform again.”
I said nothing, struggling to hold in my excitement. Himmler was squinting at me patiently, apparently expecting some sort of a response, running a slender upturned finger along his clipped blond mustache. I thought of the state portrait we’d had of him in Vienna, above Glass’s cherished couch. What an inaccurate picture! I thought. He isn’t at all an ugly man.
Himmler was still watching me. After a few moments more, his expression changed; he seemed to have decided something to his satisfaction. “We have a man in protective custody at present,” he said, sitting forward. “A former Party man. Former Schutzstaffel. We’d all of us appreciate it deeply if you would visit with him, in your civilian capacity only”—here Himmler smiled faintly—“and try to talk some sense into him. He’s become violent recently, and given us no end of worry. The two of you, believe it or not, have had certain shared experiences.” He paused a moment. “Lately our man has been plagued by suicidal thoughts. I don’t mind telling you, Bauer, we’re at our wit’s end. Our little fraternity has always had a difficult time smoothing over these crises of confidence among its own, as I’m sure you’re abundantly aware . . .”
I nodded.
“I’ve often found,” he continued, “that a no-nonsense conference of some kind, conducted, of course, in absolute and total privacy, is the one hope for betterment in such cases.” He paused a moment, patting down his mustache. “What’s your opinion, Bauer, as a private citizen?”
“I quite agree, Reichsführer. Private solutions are always best.”
“Not always, Bauer. Not always. Sometimes the more public the solution the better.” He frowned very slightly. “But not in this case.”
“This man . . . he’s an Austrian?”
Himmler nodded with an air of deep regret. We regarded one another for the briefest possible interval in silence. His squint was more severe than usual, his eyes almost completely hidden, and I had the distinct impression he’d lost sight of me altogether. Sensing that our appointment was at an end, I rose.
“Thank you for your time, Reichsführer. I’ll report back with the result of the conference.”
Himmler waved a hand. “Quite unnecessary, Obersturmführer. Quite unnecessary.” He smiled one last time, then took up a glossy brown folder and began leafing through it. “Weidemann, just outside, will explain things to you further. Heil Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler.” I pulled the door closed as quietly as possible behind me.
The next time I saw Himmler he was riding down the Ring in an open sedan at the Führer’s side, waving to the adoring crowd, smiling myopically out at them and nodding his small pale unassuming head, blinking uncomfortably in the noonday light. I was three cars ahead of him, looking back along the bright black motorcade with a mixture of exultation and remorse and pride, sensing on all sides of me the noises and the colors and the smells of the city I’d always known I would return to and claim.
Two days later Ryslavy’s sedan rumbled up the drive. It was loaded high with parcels and crates and dust rose in the noontime sun where its back axle scudded against the gravel. Voxlauer was in the garden. By the time he came round the side of the house Else was already at the door.
Ryslavy tapped the horn once, stepped out of the car and saluted. —Sturmführer Apfelschnapps reporting for assignment!
Else laughed. —We’ve been worried about you, Herr Ryslavy.
—What’s the meaning of all this? said Voxlauer, pointing at the crates and boxes.
Ryslavy shrugged. —Call it tax evasion.
—That’s not what I call it.
Else came partway down the steps. —Come inside, both of you. I’ll make a pot of coffee.
—That’s not necessary, Fräulein, thank you, said Ryslavy. He paused. —I thought Oskar might like to come up to the ponds.
—We’ll have the coffee afterward. On our way down, said Voxlauer.
—Oh, said Else, more quietly. She went back inside.
—Is she offended? Ryslavy whispered.
—Not half as much as I am, said Voxlauer. —Get in the car.
Going back around the hood Ryslavy took out a steel hoop of keys and began sorting through them. The overloaded rear of the sedan was covered in a creased canvas tarpaulin tied down with looped-together leather belts. It bulged and billowed frighteningly.
—Like a circus tent, said Voxlauer, tugging doubtfully on the canvas.
—What’s that?
—Are you figuring to join the circus, Pauli?
Ryslavy didn’t seem to hear. He was flushed and his hands moved restlessly alon
g the door of the sedan. —I thought I’d have a look at them one last time, he said cheerily. —Not enough time to fish, of course. But I’d like to have a look at them just the same, the little ingrates. His eyes as he fumbled with the door handle seemed vague and unfocused.
—Are you in any state, Pauli? said Voxlauer, his hand on the half-opened passenger door. —I hope you are aware I am entrusting you with my life.
—Cold sober, Oskar, Ryslavy said, bringing a finger slowly up to the tip of his nose. Voxlauer climbed into the car and slid over to unlock the other door.
—Voilà! Ryslavy said triumphantly as the door opened, holding a small copper-colored key aloft. —Now we’re off, boy. Now we’re rolling.
The engine bucked to life and the sedan lurched violently forward with a noise like the firing of artillery, nearly shearing off the end post of the garden fence before coming to rest at a steepening of the lawn. Ryslavy cursed and spun the sedan around and suddenly they were rolling down the dappled drive, gathering speed, Ryslavy rocking back and forth impatiently behind the wheel. In another moment they were out onto the road and catapulting up the valley, tires stuttering furiously over the slanting ruts. —Not so fast, Pauli, for Jesus’ sake! Voxlauer shouted.
—What’s that? said Ryslavy.
—Mother of Christ, Pauli!
Ryslavy grinned. —Hold tight, Oskar. Here comes a tricky piece, if I remember. The car lurched left and shuddered into a sliding curve. —Mind those boxes, Ryslavy yelled. He shifted down with all his weight and leaned fiercely into the wheel.
—Dear precious Christ! Voxlauer gasped over and over, half covering his eyes. The curve seemed to ribbon ahead of them into infinity. He clutched wildly at the seat back and at the handle of the door, an identical ribbon of nausea uncoiling in his bowels. But then they were out of it suddenly, out of the pines and rolling gently along the pond bank, the blur of white along the right side coming smoothly into focus and resolving itself into a line of birches. Ryslavy killed the motor and they floated effortlessly alongside the flat, green water.
—Yes, that was fast, said Ryslavy, beaming.
Voxlauer said nothing, filling his lungs with air.
—Don’t be angry with me, Oskar. Indulge me my little excesses.
—Stop the car, said Voxlauer, thowing his door open and leaning out over the road. Ryslavy slowed the car and he jumped onto the sunlit grass, stumbling a little.
—Hold on! Ryslavy shouted. —Hold on a minute! He leaned down and pulled the hand brake and scrambled out of the car. Voxlauer was walking away from him up the road.
—Oskar! Stop! I want you to come with me! Oskar!
Voxlauer stopped walking. —To hell with you, Pauli. I’m not getting back into that death barge.
—You can’t stay here. Ryslavy looked meaningfully about him at the water and the trees. —None of this is mine anymore.
—Yes, that’s right, Pauli. You’ve given it to them.
—Sold it to them, Oskar. Sold it to them. For a nice fat cube of butter, too, I don’t mind telling you.
—Don’t lie to me, Pauli. They robbed you blind.
Ryslavy didn’t answer. —Has anybody been up yet? he said finally, looking over at the cottage.
Voxlauer shrugged. —A few logging trucks.
—Have you talked to anybody?
Voxlauer nodded.
—Who?
—A fairly high-ranking officer of the police, said Voxlauer. —He’s promised me a thorough investigation.
Ryslavy shook his head. —Why you had to pick that girl, out of all of the attractive and well-cultivated women of this valley, I’ll never know. He smiled sourly. —She hasn’t brought us very much luck, you must admit.
Voxlauer looked at him. —You’re not honestly going to put any of this on her head, are you?
—No, no. Of course not. Ignore me.
—I’d better, while I still have the chance, said Voxlauer. He was quiet a moment, looking at the car. —The truth is, I’m not so sure you’ll make it.
Ryslavy nodded and looked back at the car almost penitently. —Still. You’ll let me go, won’t you?
—Yes, said Voxlauer. —It looks as though I will.
—You won’t come? That’s your final word?
—Tell the truth for once, Pauli. You don’t want us both along. Three of us, with Else’s girl.
—Of course I do, said Ryslavy, looking flustered.
They stood a moment looking at each other.
—What’s to become of you? said Voxlauer.
—We have family in Budapest. We have family in Nuremberg. I was thinking Budapest, maybe, said Ryslavy. He cleared his throat. —By the by: I’ve been forbidden to leave town. Ever heard anything so jackassed?
—Parting is such sweet sorrow for them. They’re probably missing you already.
—They want me to throw pies at, I think, on holidays. That’s the only way I can explain it.
—I’ll never understand these monkeys, said Voxlauer, sighing.
They were quiet again for a while. —I’d guessed you’d be headed down to Italy, said Voxlauer, squinting into the water.
—Italy? That’s comic, Oskar. They’ve already had purges in Milan.
Voxlauer laughed. —You’re thinking of the Communists, Pauli. Communists have purges. Fascists have rallies.
—Fascists have purges, I’m sure, when the fancy takes them, said Ryslavy. —What’s the blessed difference?
—Communists have purges, said Voxlauer. —That’s the difference.
They began walking slowly back to the car. —Where’s your daughter now?
—At the mother-in-law’s.
—You’d best be getting on, then.
Ryslavy nodded. —I’ll drop you at the villa.
—You go on, said Voxlauer. —I said I wasn’t getting back into that sarcophagus.
—Get into the blessed car. Don’t insult me.
—Begone from my sight! said Voxlauer, waving his arms.
They stood by the hood of the sedan, looking at each other in embarrassment. —You’re fired, said Ryslavy finally, opening the driver’s-side door and putting a boot up on the fender.
—Good-bye, Pauli.
—Good-bye, Ryslavy said, getting in.
—Kurt is coming up today, Voxlauer said quickly, looking Ryslavy in the eye. —On his motorcycle.
—Up this road?
Voxlauer nodded.
Ryslavy said nothing for a moment. —When?
—Soon. About this time, Voxlauer said. —He’ll be alone, he added after a little pause.
Ryslavy was staring at him from inside the car with the door still open, understanding what he was saying fully and absolutely but looking at him in confusion just the same. Another moment went by. —Well. Good-bye, Oskar, Ryslavy said again, very quietly, reaching out to close the door of the sedan.
—Yes, said Voxlauer, stepping back.
Ryslavy pulled the door closed and waved once through the dust-caked window. He started the engine and sounded the horn and drove up to the pilings and turned back down the valley road. He let the car gradually gain momentum, waving again as he passed, and rolled down the sun-flecked road into the trees.
—Careful in the curves, Voxlauer called after him.
The sedan took me on unfamiliar roads through the suburbs of the city, past the new Alfred Rosenberg Housing Authority on the south bank of the river, past the site of the Air Rally Stadium, out through the fir-covered hills of Oberwiessen, low and crumpled together, to the ruins of the old Weimar Gasworks. I’d been given a pocket-sized .20 caliber handgun—a society lady’s pistol, really— a slim box of cartridges, a roll of gagging tape and a flashlight, all in a plain yellow box. The box was too big for its contents and they rattled and slid about more and more noisily as we turned onto ever-smaller roads. The rattling might have bothered me at another time but now it seemed insignificant and far away. I was about to do something I had never done before.
The door was padlocked and I walked around the building to a decrepit slate-roofed cottage just behind the gasworks. It was stained a uniform brown from decades of smoke and soot, and the windows were almost completely blacked over, but I saw a dim light coming from one of the ground-floor rooms. I went to the door and turned the handle and found it unlocked. A naked light-bulb was burning in the filthy soot-covered stairwell, illuminating great continent-shaped water stains on the wallpaper. I stood at the foot of the staircase a moment, listening. Then I walked to the end of the shabby little hall and stepped into a tiny unlit room in which a man was sitting tied to a chair by the neck, hands and ankles with loops of bailing wire. It was hazy in the room, and dark, but I recognized him just the same. It was Glass.
Voxlauer walked down through the dwindling light patterns, kicking up the ever-present red clay dust under his heels. Blackflies glittered on the road and climbed to the scent of him and buzzed and worried around his ears. He could hear the steady noise of water to his right and the rustling of the heavy boughs on every side. Past the colony junction he began to hum a half-remembered air, a song his father had favored in the evenings. He heard again for a moment the bright accompaniment of the piano and saw his mother in the doorway, playful and at ease, announcing supper. The color of the scene was sepia and gold and reminded him of the photographs he’d sorted through that first day back, ages ago already, in the old house. He imagined Maman herself now as a sort of photograph, lucent and serene, composed and unchanging for all time. The questions that had harried him for the past hour, of what might happen that day and the next, receded under this image like fever chills beneath a quilt. As he walked into Pergau he felt calm and resolved.
When he arrived at the villa Else was sitting on the steps with a broom across her lap, the folds of her housedress hanging over the gravel. It was an old dress, worn through in patches and coal-colored. —You can’t come up yet, she said tiredly. —I’ve put this entire shack under quarantine.
