"One more question," the captain said to Papa. "Why, do you think, are there never any birds here at the keep?"
"I never noticed their absence, to tell the truth."
Magda realized she had never seen a bird here in all her trips, and it had never occurred to her that their absence was wrong . . . until now.
The rubble outside the broken wall had been neatly stacked. As Magda guided Papa's wheelchair between the orderly piles, she felt a cold draft from the opening in the floor beyond the wall. She reached into the pocket behind the high back of the wheelchair and pulled out Papa's leather gloves.
"Better put these back on," she said, stopping and holding the left one open so he could slip his hand in.
"But he already has gloves on!" Kaempffer said, impatient at the delay.
"His hands are very sensitive to cold," Magda said, now holding the right glove open. "It's part of his condition. "
"And just what is the condition?" Woermann asked.
"It's called scleroderma." Magda saw the expected blank look on their faces.
Papa spoke as he adjusted the gloves on his hands. "I'd never heard of it either until I was diagnosed as having it. As a matter of fact, the first two physicians who examined me missed the diagnosis. I won't go into details beyond saying that it affects more than the hands. "
"But how does it affect your hands?" Woermann asked.
"Any sudden drop in temperature drastically alters the circulation in my fingers; for all intents and purposes, they temporarily lose their blood supply. I've been told that if I don't take good care of them I could develop gangrene and lose them. So I wear gloves day and night all year round except in the warmest summer months. I even wear a pair to bed." He looked around. "I'm ready when you are."
Magda shivered in the draft from below. "I think it's too cold for you down there, Papa."
"We're certainly not going to bring the bodies up here for his inspection," Kaempffer said.
He gestured to the two enlisted SS men who again lifted the chair and carried it and its frail occupant through the hole in the wall. Captain Woermann had picked up a kerosene lamp from the floor and lit it. He led the way. Major Kaempffer brought up the rear with another.
Reluctantly, Magda fell in line, staying close behind her father, terrified that one of the soldiers carrying him might slip on the slimy steps and let him fall. Only when the wheels of his chair were safely on the dirt floor of the subcellar did she relax.
One of the enlisted men began pushing Papa's chair behind the two officers as they walked toward eight sheet-covered objects stretched out on the floor thirty feet away. Magda held back, waiting in the pool of the light by the steps. She had no stomach for this.
She noted that Captain Woermann seemed perturbed as he walked around the bodies. He bent and straightened the sheets, adjusting them more evenly around the still forms. A subcellar . . . she and Papa had been to the keep again and again over the years and had never even guessed the existence of a subcellar. She rubbed her hands up and down over her sweatered arms, trying to generate some warmth. So cold here.
She glanced around apprehensively, looking for signs of rats in the dark. The new neighborhood they had been forced to move into back in Bucharest had rats in all the cellars; so different from the cozy home they'd had near the university. Magda knew her reaction to rats was exaggerated, but she could not help it. They filled her with loathing . . . the way they moved, their naked tails dragging after them . . . they made her sick.
But she saw no scuttling forms. She turned back and watched the captain begin to lift the sheets one by one, exposing the head and shoulders of each dead man. She was missing what was being said over there, but that was all right. She was glad she could not see what Papa was seeing.
Finally, the men turned back toward Magda and the stairs. Her father's voice became intelligible as he neared.
". . . and I really can't say that there's anything ritualistic about the wounds. Except for the decapitated man, all the deaths seem to have been caused by simple severing of the major vessels in the neck. There's no sign of teeth marks, animal or human, yet those wounds are certainly not the work of any sharp instrument. Those throats were torn open, savaged in some way that I cannot possibly define.".
How could Papa sound so clinical about such things? Major Kaempffer's voice was surly and menacing.
"Once again you've managed to say much yet tell us nothing! "
"You've given me little to work with. Haven't you anything else?"
The major stalked ahead without bothering to reply. Captain Woermann, however, snapped his fingers.
"The words on the wall! Written in blood in a language nobody knows."
Papa's eyes lit up. "I must see them!"
Again the chair was lifted, and again Magda traveled behind to the courtyard. Once there she took over the task of propelling him as the Germans headed for the rear of the keep. Soon they were all at the end of a blind corridor looking at ruddy brown letters scrawled on the wall.
The strokes, Magda noticed, varied in thickness, but all were of a width consistent with a human finger. She shuddered at the thought and studied the words. She recognized the language and knew she could make the translation if only her mind would concentrate on the words and not on what their author had used for ink.
"Do you have any idea what it means?" Woermann asked.
Papa nodded. "Yes," he said and paused, mesmerized by the display before him.
"Well?" Kaempffer said.
Magda could tell that he hated to depend on a Jew for anything, and worse to be kept waiting by one. She wished her father would be more careful about provoking him.
"It says, 'Strangers, leave my home!' It's in the imperative form." His voice had an almost mechanical quality as he spoke. He was disturbed by something about the words.
Kaempffer slapped his hand against his holster. "Ah! So' the killings are politically motivated!"
"Perhaps. But this warning, or demand, or whatever you might wish to call it, is perfectly couched in Old Slavonic, a dead language. As dead as Latin. And those letters are formed just the way they were written back then. I should know. I've seen enough of the old manuscripts.”
Now that Papa had identified the language, Magda's mind could focus on the words. She thought she knew what was so disturbing.
"Your killer, gentlemen," he went on, "is either a most erudite scholar, or else has been frozen for half a millennium."
FOURTEEN
"It appears we have wasted our time," Major Kaempffer said, puffing on a cigarette as he strutted about. The four were again in the lowest level of the watchtower.
In the center of the room, Magda leaned exhaustedly against the back of the wheelchair. She sensed some sort of tug-of-war going on between Woermann and Kaempffer, but couldn't understand the rules or the motivations of the players. Of one thing she was certain, however: Papa's life and her own hung on the outcome.
"I disagree," Captain Woermann said. He leaned against the wall by the door, his arms folded across his chest. "As I see it, we know more than we did this morning. Not much, but at least it's progress . . . we haven't been making any on our own."
"It's not enough!" Kaempffer snapped. "Nowhere near enough!"
"Very well, then. Since we have no other sources of information open to us, I think we should abandon the keep immediately."
Kaempffer made no reply; he merely continued puffing and strutting back and forth across the far end of the room.
Papa cleared his throat for attention.
"Stay out of this, Jew!"
"Let's hear what he has to say. That's why we dragged him here, isn't it?"
It was gradually becoming clear to Magda that a deep hostility burned between the two officers. She knew Papa had recognized it, too, and was surely trying to turn it to their advantage.
"I may be able to help." Papa gestured to the pile of books on the table. "As I mentioned before, the answer to your prob
lem may lie in those books. If they do hold the answer, I am the only person who—with the aid of my daughter—can ferret it out. If you wish, I shall try."
Kaempffer stopped pacing and looked at Woermann.
"It's worth a try," Woermann said. "I for one don't have any better ideas. Do you?"
Kaempffer dropped his cigarette butt to the floor and slowly ground it out with his toe.
"Three days, Jew. You have three days to come up with something useful."
He strode past them and out the door, leaving it open behind him.
Captain Woermann heaved himself away from the wall and turned toward the door, his hands clasped at his back. "I'll have my sergeant arrange for a pair of bedrolls for you two." He glanced at Papa's frail body. "We have no other bedding."
"I will manage, Captain. Thank you."
"Wood," Magda said. "We'll need some wood for a fire."
"It doesn't get that cold at night," he said, shaking his head.
"My father's hands—if they act up on him, he won't even be able to turn the pages."
Woermann sighed. "I'll ask the sergeant to see what he can do—perhaps some scrap lumber." He turned to go, then turned back to them. "Let me tell you two something. The major will snuff out you both with no more thought than he gave to that cigarette he just finished. He has his own reasons for wanting a quick solution to this problem and I have mine: I don't want any more of my men to die. Find a way to get us through a single night without a death and you will have proven your worth. Find a way to defeat this thing and I may be able to get you back to Bucharest and keep you safe there."
"And then again," Magda said, "you may not."
She watched his face carefully. Was he really offering them hope?
Captain Woermann's expression was grim as he echoed her words. "And then again, I may not."
After ordering wood brought to the first-level rooms, Woermann stood and thought for a moment. At first he had considered the pair from Bucharest a pitiful couple—the girl bound to her father, the father bound to his wheelchair. But as he had watched them and heard them speak, he had sensed subtle strengths within the two of them. That was good. For they both would need cores of steel to survive this place. If armed men could not defend themselves here, what hope was there for a defenseless female and a cripple?
He suddenly realized he was being watched. He could not say how he knew, but the feeling was definitely there. It was a sensation he would find unsettling in the most pleasant surroundings; but here, with the knowledge of what had been happening during the past week, it was unnerving.
Woermann peered up the steps curving away to his right. No one there. He went to the arch that opened onto the courtyard. All the lights were on out there, the pairs of sentries intent on their patrols.
Still the feeling of being watched.
He turned toward the steps, trying to shrug it off, hoping that if he moved from this spot the feeling would pass. And it did. As he climbed toward his quarters, the sensation evaporated.
But the underlying fear remained with him, the fear he lived with every night in the keep—the certainty that before morning someone was going to die horribly.
Major Kaempffer stood within the dark doorway to the rear section of the keep. He watched Woermann pause at the tower entry arch, then turn and start up the steps. Kaempffer felt an impulsive urge to follow him—to hurry back across the courtyard, run up to the third level of the tower, rap on Woermann's door.
He did not want to be alone tonight. Behind him lay the stairway up to his own quarters, the place where just last night two dead men had walked in and fallen on him. He dreaded the very thought of going back there.
Woermann was the only one who could possibly be of any use to him tonight. As an officer, Kaempffer could not seek out the company of the enlisted men, and he certainly could not go sit with the Jews.
Woermann was the answer. He was a fellow officer and it was only right that they keep each other company. Kaempffer stepped out of the doorway and started briskly for the tower. But after a few paces he came to a faltering halt. Woermann would never let him through the door, let alone sit and share a glass of Schnapps with him. Woermann despised the SS, the Party, and everyone associated with either. Why? Kaempffer found the attitude baffling. Woermann was pure Aryan. He had nothing to fear from the SS. Why, then, did he hate it so?
Kaempffer turned and re-entered the rear structure of the keep. There could be no rapprochement with Woermann. The man was simply too pig headed and narrow minded to accept the realities of the New Order. He was doomed. And the farther Kaempffer stayed away, the better.
Still . . . Kaempffer needed a friend tonight. And there was no one. Hesitantly, fearfully, he began a slow climb to his quarters, wondering if a new horror awaited him.
The fire added more than heat to the room. It added light, a warm glow that the single light bulb under its conical shade could not hope to match. Magda had spread out one of the bedrolls next to the fireplace for her father, but he was not interested. Never in the past few years had she seen him so fired, so animated. Month after month the disease had sapped his strength, burdening him with heavier and heavier fatigue until his waking hours had grown few and his sleeping hours many.
But now he seemed a new man, feverishly poring over the texts before him. Magda knew it couldn't last. His diseased flesh would soon demand rest. He was running on stolen energy. He had no reserves.
Yet Magda hesitated to insist that he rest. Lately he had lost interest in everything, spending his days seated by the front window, staring out at the streets and seeing nothing. Doctors, when she could get one in to see him, had told her it was melancholia, common in his condition. Nothing to be done for it. Just give him aspirin for the constant ache, and codeine—when available—for the awful pains in every joint.
He had been a living dead man. Now he was showing signs of life. Magda couldn't bring herself to damp them. As she watched, he paused over De Vermis Mysteriis, removed his glasses, and rubbed a cotton gloved hand over his eyes. Now perhaps was the time to pry him away from those awful books and persuade him to rest.
"Why didn't you tell them about your theory?" she asked.
"Eh?" He looked up. "Which one?"
"You told them you don't really believe in vampires, but that's not quite true, is it? Unless you finally gave up on that pet theory of yours."
"No, I still believe there might have been one true vampire—just one—from whom all the Romanian lore has originated. There are solid historical clues, but no proof. And without hard proof I could never publish a paper. For the same reason, I chose not to say anything about it to the Germans."
"Why? They're not scholars."
"True. But right now they think of me as a learned old man who might be of use to them. If I told them my theory they might think I was just a crazy old Jew and useless. And I can think of no one with a shorter life expectancy than a useless Jew in the company of Nazis. Can you?"
Magda shook her head quickly. This was not how she wanted the conversation to go. "But what of the theory? Do you think the keep might have housed . . ."
"A vampire?" Papa made a tiny gesture with his immobile shoulders. "Who can even say what a vampire might really be? There's been so much folklore about them, who can tell where reality leaves off—assuming there was some reality involved—and myth begins? But there's so much vampire lore in Transylvania and Moldavia that something around here must have engendered it. At the core of every tall tale lies a kernel of truth."
His eyes were alight in the expressionless mask of his face as he paused thoughtfully.
"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that there is something uncanny going on here. These books are proof enough that this structure has been connected with deviltry. And that writing on the wall . . . whether the work of a human madman or a sign that we are dealing with one of the moroi, the undead, is yet to be seen."
"What do you think?" she asked, pressing for some sor
t of reassurance.
Her flesh crawled at the thought of the undead actually existing. She had never given such tales the slightest bit of credence, and had often wondered if her father had been playing some sort of intellectual game in his talk of them. But now . . .
"I don't think anything right now. But I feel we may be on the verge of an answer. It's not rational yet . . . not something I can explain. But the feeling is there. You feel it, too. I can tell."
Magda nodded silently. She felt it. Oh, yes, she felt it.
Papa was rubbing his eyes again. "I can't read anymore, Magda."
"Come, then," she said, shaking off her disquiet and moving toward him. "I'll help you to bed."
"Not yet. I'm too wound up to sleep. Play something for me."
"Papa—"
"You brought your mandolin. I know you did."
"Papa, you know what it does to you."
"Please?"
She smiled. She could never refuse him anything for long. "All right. "
She had catercornered the mandolin into the larger suitcase before leaving. It had been reflex, really. The mandolin went wherever Magda went. Music had always been central to her life, and, since Papa had lost his position at the university, a major part of their livelihood. She had become a music teacher after moving into their tiny apartment, bringing her young students in for mandolin lessons or going to their homes to teach them piano. She and Papa had been forced to sell their own piano before moving.
She seated herself in the chair that had been brought in with the firewood and bedrolls and made a quick check of the tuning, adjusting the first set of paired strings, which had gone flat during the trip. When she was satisfied, she began a complicated mixture of strumming and bare-fingered picking she had learned from the Gypsies, providing both rhythm and melody. The tune was also from the Gypsies, a typically tragic melody of unrequited love followed by death of a broken heart.
As she finished the second verse and moved into the first bridge, she glanced up at her father. He was leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, the gnarled fingers of his left hand pressing the strings of an imaginary violin through the fabric of his gloves, the right hand and forearm dragging an imaginary bow across those same strings but in only the minute movements his joints would allow. He had been a good violinist in his day, and the two of them had often done duets together on this song, she picking counterpoint to the soaring, tearful, molto rubato figures he would coax from his violin.
Adversary Cycle 01 - The Keep Page 13
