And although his cheeks were dry, he was crying.
"Oh, Papa, I should have known . . . that was the wrong song."
She was furious with herself for not thinking. She knew so many songs, and yet she had picked one that would most remind him that he could no longer play. She started to rise to go to him and stopped. The room did not seem as well lit as it had a moment ago.
"It's all right, Magda. At least I can remember all the times I played along with you . . . better than never having played at all. I can still hear in my head how my violin used to sound." His eyes were still closed behind his glasses. "Please. Play on."
But Magda did not move. She felt a chill descend upon the room and looked about for a draft. Was it her imagination, or was the light fading?
Papa opened his eyes and saw her expression. "Magda?"
"The fire's going out!"
The flames weren't dying amid smoke and sputter, they were simply wasting away, retreating into the charred wood. And as they waned, so did the bulb strung from the ceiling. The room grew steadily darker, but with a darkness that was more than a mere absence of light. It was almost a physical thing. With the darkness came a penetrating cold, and an odor, a sour acrid aroma of evil that conjured images of corruption and open graves.
"What's happening?"
“He's coming, Magda! Stand over by me!"
Instinctively she was already moving toward Papa, seeking to shelter him even as she herself sought shelter at his side. Trembling, she wound up in a crouch beside his chair, clutching his gnarled hands in hers.
"What are we going to do?" she said, not knowing why she was whispering.
"I don't know." Papa, too, was trembling.
The shadows grew deeper as the light bulb faded and the fire died to wan glowing embers. The walls were gone, misted in impenetrable darkness. Only the glow from the coals, a dying beacon of warmth and sanity, allowed them to keep their bearings.
They were not alone. Something was moving about in that darkness. Stalking. Something unclean and hungry.
A wind began to blow, rising from a breeze to full gale force in a matter of seconds, howling through the room although the door and the shutters had all been pulled closed.
Magda fought to free herself from the terror that gripped her. She released her father's hands. She could not see the door, but remembered it having been directly opposite the fireplace. With the icy gale whipping at her, she moved around to the front of Papa's wheelchair and began to push it backward to where the door should be. If only she could reach the courtyard, maybe they would be safe. Why, she could not say, but staying in this room seemed like standing in a queue and waiting for death to call their names.
The wheelchair began to roll. Magda pushed it about five feet toward the place where she had last seen the door and then she could push it no farther. Panic rushed over her. Something would not let them pass! Not an invisible wall, hard and unyielding, but almost as if someone or something in the darkness was holding the back of the chair and making a mockery of her best efforts.
And for an instant, in the blackness above and behind the back of the chair, the impression of a pale face looking down at her. Then it was gone.
Magda's heart was thumping and her palms were so wet they were slipping on the chair's oaken armrests. This wasn't really happening! It was all a hallucination! None of it was real . . . that was what her mind told her. But her body believed! She looked into her father's face so close to hers and knew his terror reflected her own.
"Don't stop here!" he cried.
"I can't get it to move any farther!"
He tried to crane his neck around to see what blocked them but his joints forbade it. He turned back to her.
"Quick! Over by the fire!"
Magda changed the direction of her efforts, leaning backward and pulling. As the chair began to roll toward her, she felt something clutch her upper arm in a grip of ice.
A scream clogged in her throat. Only a high-pitched, keening wail escaped. The cold in her arm was a pain, shooting up to her shoulder, lancing toward her heart. She looked down and saw a hand gripping her arm just above the elbow. The fingers were long and thick; short, curly hairs ran along the back of the hand and up the length of the fingers to the dark, overlong nails. The wrist seemed to melt into the darkness.
The sensations spreading over her from that touch, even through the fabric of her sweater and the blouse beneath it, were unspeakably vile, filling her with loathing and revulsion. She searched the air over her shoulder for a face. Finding none, she let go of Papa's chair and struggled to free herself, whimpering in naked fear. Her shoes scraped and slid along the floor as she twisted and pulled away, but she could not break free. And she could not bring herself to touch that hand with her own.
Then the darkness began to change, lighten. A pale, oval shape moved toward her, stopping only inches away. It was a face. One from a nightmare.
He had a broad forehead. Long, lank black hair hung in thick strands on either side of his face, strands like dead snakes attached by their teeth to his scalp. Pale skin, sunken cheeks, and a hooked nose. Thin lips were drawn back to reveal yellowed teeth, long and almost canine in quality. But his eyes, gripping Magda more fiercely than the icy hand on her arm, killed off her wailing cry and stilled her frantic struggles.
His eyes. Large and round, cold and crystalline, the pupils dark holes into a chaos beyond reason, beyond reality itself, black as a night sky that had never been blued by the sun or marred by the light of moon and stars. The surrounding irises were almost as dark, dilating as she watched, widening the twin doorways, drawing her into the madness beyond . . .
. . . madness. The madness was so attractive. It was safe, it was serene, it was isolated. It would be so good to pass through and submerge herself in those dark pools . . . so good . . .
No!
Magda fought the feeling, fought to push herself away.
But . . . why fight? Life was nothing but disease and misery, a struggle that everyone eventually lost. What was the use? Nothing you did really mattered in the long run. Why bother?
She felt a swift undertow, almost irresistible, drawing her toward those eyes. She sensed lust there, for her, but a lust that went beyond the mere sexual, a lust for all that she was. She felt herself turn and lean toward those twin doorways of black. It would be so easy to let go . . .
. . . she held on, something within her refusing to surrender, urging her to fight the current. But it was so strong, and she felt so tired, and what did it all matter, anyway?
A sound . . . music . . . and yet not music at all. A sound in her mind, all that music was not . . . non-melodic, disharmonic, a delirious cacophony of discord that rattled and shook and sent tiny cracks through the feeble remainder of her will. The world around her—everything—began to fade, leaving only the eyes . . . only the eyes . . .
. . . she wavered, teetering on the edge of forever . . .
. . . then she heard Papa's voice.
Magda clutched at the sound, clung to it like a rope, pulled herself hand over hand along its length. Papa was not calling to her, was not even speaking in Romanian, but it was his voice, the only familiar thing in the chaos about her.
The eyes turned away. Magda was free. The hand released her.
She stood gasping, perspiring, weak, confused, the gale in the room pulling at her clothes, at the kerchief that bound her hair, stealing her breath. And her terror grew, for the eyes were now turning on her father. He was too weak!
But Papa did not flinch under the gaze. He spoke again as he had before, the words garbled, incomprehensible to her. She saw the awful smile on the white face fade as the lips drew into a thin line. The eyes narrowed to mere slits, as if the mind behind them were considering Papa's words, weighing them.
Magda watched the face, unable to do anything more. She saw the line of the lips curl up infinitesimally at the corners. Then a nod, no more than a jot of movement. A decision.
<
br /> The wind died as if it had never been. The face receded into the darkness.
All was still.
Motionless, Magda and her father faced each other in the center of the room as the cold and the dark slowly dissipated. A log in the fireplace split lengthwise with a crack like a rifle shot and Magda felt her knees liquefy with the sound. She fell forward and only by luck and desperation was she able to grasp the arm of the wheelchair for support.
"Are you all right?" Papa said, but he wasn't looking at her. He was feeling his fingers through the gloves.
"I will be in a minute." Her mind recoiled at what she had just experienced. "What was it? My God, what was it?"
Papa was not listening. "They're gone. I can't feel anything in them." He began to pull the gloves from his fingers.
His plight galvanized Magda. She straightened and began to push the chair over to the fire which was springing to life again. She was weak with reaction and fatigue and shock, but that seemed to be of secondary importance.
What about me? Why am I always second? Why do I always have to be strong?
Once . . . just once . . . she would like to be able to collapse and have someone tend to her. She forcibly submerged the thoughts. That was no way for a daughter to think when her father needed her.
"Hold them out, Papa! There's no hot water so we'll have to depend on the fire to warm them!"
In the flickering light of the flames she saw that his hands had gone dead white, as white as those of that . . . thing. Papa's fingers were stubby with coarse, thick skin and curved, ridged nails. Small punctate depressions marred each fingertip, scars left by tiny areas of healed gangrene. They were the hands of a stranger—Magda could remember when his hands had been graceful, animated, with long, mobile, tapering fingers. A scholar's hands. A musician's. They had been living things. Now they were mummified caricatures of life.
She had to get warmth back into them, but not too quickly. At home in Bucharest she had always kept a pot of warm water on the stove during the winter months for these episodes. The doctors called it Raynaud's phenomenon; any sudden drop in temperature caused constrictive spasms in the blood vessels of his hands. Nicotine had a similar effect, and so he had been cut off from his beloved cigars. If his tissues were deprived of oxygen too long or too often, gangrene would take root. So far he had been lucky. When gangrene had set in, the areas had been small and he had been able to overcome it. But that would not always be the case.
She watched as he held his hands out to the fire, rotating them back and forth against the warmth as best as his stiff joints would allow. She knew he could feel nothing in them now—too cold and numb. But once circulation returned he would be in agony as his fingers throbbed and tingled and burned as if on fire.
"Look what they've done to you!" she said angrily as the fingers changed from white to blue.
Papa looked up questioningly. "I've had worse."
"I know. But it shouldn't have happened at all! What are they trying to do to us?"
"They?"
"The Nazis! They're toying with us! Experimenting on us! I don't know what just happened here . . . it was very realistic, but it wasn't real! Couldn't have been! They hypnotized us, used drugs, dimmed the lights—"
"It was real, Magda," Papa said, his voice soft with wonder, confirming what she knew in her soul, what she had so wanted him to deny. "Just as those forbidden books are real. I know—"
Breath suddenly hissed through his teeth as blood began to flow into his fingers again, turning them dark red. The starved tissues punished him as they gave up their accumulated toxins. Magda had been through this with him so many times she could almost feel the pain herself.
When the throbbing subsided to an endurable level, he continued, his words coming in gasps.
"I spoke to him in Old Slavonic . . . told him we were not his enemies . . . told him to leave us alone . . . and he left. " He grimaced in pain a moment, then looked at Magda with bright, glittering eyes. His voice was low and hoarse. "It's him, Magda. I know it! It's him!"
Magda said nothing. But she knew it, too.
FIFTEEN
The Keep
Wednesday, 30 April
0622 hours
Captain Woermann had tried to stay awake through the night but failed. He had seated himself at the window overlooking the courtyard with his Luger unholstered in his lap, though he doubted a 9mm parabellum would help against whatever haunted the keep. Too many sleepless nights and too little fitful napping during the days had caught up with him again.
He awoke with a start, disoriented. For a moment he thought he was back in Rathenow, with Helga down in the kitchen cooking eggs and sausage, and the boys already up and out and milking the cows. But he had been dreaming.
When he saw the sky was light, he leaped from the chair. Night was gone and he was still alive. He had survived another night. His elation was short-lived, for he knew that someone else had not. Somewhere in the keep he knew a corpse lay still and bloody, awaiting discovery .
He holstered the Luger as he crossed the room and stepped out on the landing. All was quiet. He trotted down the stairs, rubbing his eyes and massaging his stubbled cheeks to full wakefulness. As he reached the lowest level, the doors to the Jews' quarters opened and the daughter came out.
She didn't see him. She carried a metal pot in her hand and wore a vexed expression. Deep in thought, she passed through the open door into the courtyard and turned right toward the cellar stairs, completely oblivious to him. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, and that troubled him until he remembered that she had been in the keep a number of times before. She knew of the cellar cisterns, of the fresh water there.
Woermann stepped out into the courtyard and watched her move. There was an ethereal quality about the scene: a woman walking across the cobblestones in the dawn light, surrounded by gray stone walls studded with metallic crosses, streamers of fog on the courtyard floor eddying in her wake. Like a dream. She looked to be a fine woman under all those layers of clothing. She had a natural sway to her hips when she walked, an unpracticed grace that was innately appealing to the male in him. Pretty face, too, especially those wide brown eyes. If she'd only let her hair out from under that kerchief, she could be a beauty.
At another time, in another place, she would have been in grave danger in the company of five squads of women-starved soldiers. But these men had other things on their minds; they feared the dark and the death that unfailingly accompanied it.
He was about to follow her into the cellar to assure himself that she sought no more than fresh water for the pot in her hand when he spied Sergeant Oster pounding toward him.
"Captain! Captain!!"
Woermann sighed and braced himself for the news. "Who did we lose?"
"No one!" He held up a clipboard. "I checked on everyone and they're all alive and well!"
Woermann did not allow himself to rejoice—he had been fooled on this score last week—but he did allow himself to hope.
"You're sure? Absolutely sure?"
"Yes, sir. All except for the Major, that is. And the two Jews."
Woermann glanced toward the rear of the keep, to Kaempffer's window. Could it be . . .?
"I was saving the officers for last," Oster was saying, almost apologetically.
Woermann nodded, only half-listening. Could it be? Could Erich Kaempffer have been last night's victim? It was too much to hope for. Woermann had never imagined he could hate another human being as much as he had come to hate Kaempffer in the last day and a half.
And s with eager anticipation he began walking toward the rear of the keep. If Kaempffer were dead, not only would the world be a brighter place, but he would again be senior officer and would have his men out of the keep by noon. The einsatzkommandos could come along or stay behind to die until a new SS officer arrived. He had no doubt they would fall in right behind him as he left.
If, however, Kaempffer still lived, it would be a disappointm
ent, but one with a bright side: For the first time since they had arrived, a night would have passed without the death of a German soldier. And that was good. It would boost morale immeasurably. It would mean they had a hope—a slim one—of overcoming the death curse that blanketed them here like a shroud.
As Woermann crossed the courtyard with the sergeant hurrying behind him, Oster said, "Do you think the Jews are responsible?"
"For what?"
"For nobody dying last night."
Woermann paused and glanced between Oster and Kaempffer's window almost directly overhead. Oster apparently had no doubt that Kaempffer was still alive.
"Why do you say that, Sergeant? What could they have done?"
Oster's brow wrinkled. "I don't know. The men believe it . . . at least my men—I mean our men—believe it. After all, we lost someone every night except last night. And the Jews arrived last night. Maybe they found something in those books we dug up."
"Perhaps."
Intriguing, but improbable. The old Jew and his daughter could not have come up with anything so soon. Old Jew . . . he was beginning to sound like Kaempffer! Awful.
Woermann led the way into the rear section of the keep and ran up the steps to the second level. He was puffing by the time they reached Kaempffer's room.
Too much sausage, he told himself again. Too many hours sitting and brooding instead of moving about and burning up that paunch. He was reaching for the latch on Kaempffer's door when it swung open and the major himself appeared.
"Ah! Klaus!" he said bluffly. "I thought I heard someone out here."
Kaempffer adjusted the black leather strap of his officer's belt and holster across his chest. Satisfied that it was secure, he stepped out into the hall.
Adversary Cycle 01 - The Keep Page 14
