HS02 - Days of Atonement

by Michael Gregorio

  ‘General Katowice mentioned a room where I can sleep tonight,’ I said.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Rochus replied promptly.

  Clearly, I had stepped back inside the rules that Katowice had set for me.

  15

  ROCHUS DARTED THROUGH the dark byways of the fortress like a malignant goblin drawing me into the depths of an impenetrable forest. But then we passed beneath an archway, and came unexpectedly into the desolate vastness of the main square. Snow glistened on the cobbles where I had witnessed the parade of boys that morning. On my right was the main gate and the command post from which the captain-of-the-guard had emerged the night before. A phrase from the paper attached to the medical report flashed through my mind.

  An entry in the Out-Book . . .

  Rochus was ten paces ahead of me. Without a word, I veered away and strode directly into the command post, where a finely dressed officer with braided red hair, trailing mustachioes and bushy side-whiskers had made himself comfortable. Seated behind a desk, riding boots crossed on the edge of the table, silver spurs hanging down into space, he was smoking a massive meerschaum pipe. It dangled like an upturned question mark from the corner of his mouth.

  At the sight of me, he pushed his chair back, and raised himself to his full height.

  ‘I am looking for Lieutenant Klunger,’ I announced.

  ‘I am he,’ he replied.

  At that moment, Rochus came bursting in through the door. At the sight of the officer, my guardian angel snapped to attention, his mouth shut tight in a fearful grimace.

  ‘I am Hanno Stiffeniis,’ I began to say, but the smug smile on the officer’s narrow face revealed that my name was known to him already.

  ‘The magistrate, sir!’ Rochus chanted, just in case.

  ‘I wanted to ask a question, Lieutenant Klunger,’ I said. ‘I know that you have more important things to do than answer idle questions from a civilian.’

  I glanced at the pipe smouldering lazily on the table-top.

  ‘Indeed,’ he agreed rather stiffly. ‘Most considerate.’

  ‘You were on duty the day that Major Gottewald’s body was brought back to the fort. I read a facsimile of your note in the duty book,’ I added, in case he should make any attempt to deny it.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said again, though more forlornly. ‘The man was dead on arrival, as you know.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I echoed, ‘but what of the men who brought his body home?’

  I struggled to recall their names. ‘One was called Albert Rainer . . .’

  ‘Albrecht,’ Lieutenant Klunger corrected me.

  ‘That’s right,’ I agreed, grateful to him for this unexpected assistance. ‘Then there was a corporal whose name was Luthant. Rodion Luthant? And . . . Malevic?’

  ‘Malekevic,’ Lieutenant Klunger corrected me again.

  ‘I’d like to speak to them,’ I said.

  ‘Sir!’ Rochus cried. In warning, I believe, but the officer turned on him as if he meant to stamp on him like a beetle.

  ‘Hold your tongue!’ he snapped.

  He turned his attention back to me. ‘You should have come a month ago,’ he said with a sweep of his hand, and an apologetic smile. ‘Malekevic has been drummed out for drunken conduct. They should have done it years ago, the man was a disgrace, rude and violent, totally uncontrollable. He’ll be drinking himself to death in some lurid den in the wilds of Poland, his head deep inside a barrel of spirits, I shouldn’t doubt.’

  ‘What about the corporal, and the other two men?’ I tried again.

  Klunger clicked his tongue and shook his head. ‘All dead, I’m afraid, sir. Lost in a skirmish with rebels just the other week.’

  ‘Prussian rebels?’ I asked, hardly able to believe my ears.

  ‘Are there any other kind?’ the officer replied with a sardonic smile.

  I strode out onto the parade ground again, charging ahead before Rochus caught up with me.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Herr Magistrate,’ he said.

  ‘Done what?’ I asked, enjoying his displeasure, reflecting at the same time that audacity had got me nowhere.

  He led me wordlessly on. The whole fortress seemed colder, blacker, more sinister in the flickering light of pitch-dipped torches. Rochus roamed effortlessly through the place, seeming to know its every trick and turn. We climbed steep staircases which might have been carved from solid ice, ran down others that were as filthy as they were slippery, and all the while the Buran ripped and roared through the building, a turbulent gale from the Steppes of Russia.

  At last, he pulled up sharply, took a lantern from the floor, lit it from one of the torches, then pushed open a battered door which had not seen paint in a hundred years.

  ‘This is it,’ he announced, ‘the best that Kamenetz can offer.’

  By flickering candlelight the room was ten or twelve feet wide, twenty feet long, and unfurnished, except for a narrow cot and a three-legged stool. A blanket had been placed on the bed, which stood beneath an iron grating set high in the wall. This fissure would have let in light, if daylight there had been, but it could never keep out the cold.

  ‘Am I supposed to freeze to death?’ I asked. ‘Is that the general’s plan?’

  There was an unmistakable glint of amusement in the eyes of Private Rochus as he replied. ‘He ordered me to make you comfortable, sir. I’ll bring you something to eat and drink.’

  Then, like a whippet from a trap, the boy was gone.

  I walked up and down the length of that cell a number of times, my temper cooling. I would have to make the best of it. The following morning I would be leaving for home, I reminded myself. Never to return.

  I took off my heavy, outdoor mantle. Moving more freely, I positioned the stool beneath the window, climbed upon it and used my cloak to block out the freezing draught which surged in through the open grille. I was standing on the stool when Rochus returned, a plate of food in one hand, a large stein of beer with a metal lid in the other.

  I jumped down, and took possession of my viands.

  ‘I know that visitors here are rare,’ I said, ‘but even the hardiest must occasionally feel the need to relieve his bowels and empty his bladder. I see no pot intended for night-soil in this room. Can you bring me one?’

  General Katowice had made no plans for me on that account either. A mottled flush spread slowly over the boy’s nose and his cheeks as he tried to come to grips with the thorny question of how to dispose of the solids that might come bursting at any moment from my intestines, the fluids that might gush in torrents from my bladder.

  ‘We . . . we don’t use pots,’ he stuttered uncertainly.

  ‘I do not intend to foul the room where I am obliged to sleep,’ I contended.

  ‘We have latrines . . .’

  ‘You’d better tell me where they are,’ I said. ‘I’m sure the general has more important matters on his plate. If you wish to check with him, of course, I’d be most grateful. He told you to make me comfortable, did he not?’

  Rochus stood there, debating silently what to do. An armed French thug might have been standing over him, demanding to know where the keys to the arsenal were kept.

  ‘The latrines on this side of the fortress are beneath your feet,’ he said at last.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ I said. ‘How am I supposed to go there?’

  Getting anything out of the boy was like trying to extract gold from the basest of metals. He frowned, scratched his head, looked this way, then threw an uncertain glance in the other direction.

  ‘All I want to do’, I said emphatically, ‘is piss. Am I asking too much?’

  ‘Turn left out of the door, there’s a ramp of wooden stairs. Take the short corridor on the floor below till you reach the stone steps. Go down there, and it’s right in front of your nose.’

  ‘Is there any news of Doctor Korna’s return?’ I ventured.

  ‘I thought you wanted to empty your bowels?’ Rochus shot back
.

  ‘I will use the latrine when I feel the need,’ I replied. ‘Unless you intend to lock me in for the night?’

  The boy glanced at the door.

  ‘I don’t see no lock, do you?’ he scowled.

  He snapped to attention, saluted, and marched out leaving the door wide open. If I had expected to hear a sliding bolt from the outside to seal my tomb, all I heard were his metal-tipped clogs crashing away down the corridor.

  I closed the door, pleased to realise that I was not going to be imprisoned for the night. It was a small consolation. Then I sat down to eat. The cuts of meat were cold, tough to grind and harder to swallow, so I washed them down with the beer, which was flat and stale and certainly more than a quart. Afterwards, I lay down fully dressed on the bed and covered myself with the blanket in a vain attempt to keep warm. More tormenting than the cold was the knowledge that my journey to Kamenetz had been a disaster.

  At dawn I would be evicted from the fortress, and I had nothing to show for my pains. I had abandoned my wife and children, leaving them in danger. I had travelled for two days only to discover that Major Bruno Gottewald was dead. Thanks to the single-minded obstinacy of General Katowice, I knew the extent of his wounds, but I had found no proof of foul play, no reason to suspect that there might be a direct connection with the massacre in Lotingen. The medical officer might have been able to add some valuable detail to what I had read, but I had not been allowed to question him. My only source of information had been Rochus. If the boy were any measure of the officers and the doctor, I could hope to learn little more before I set off on my journey home. I felt like an eel-fisherman examining his pots on a bad day. All of them were empty.

  Suddenly, the light from the oil lamp guttered in the draught and went out.

  No matter how I tried, sleep would not come.

  I was tormented by another goad that would not let me rest. What had happened in Lotingen in my absence? And what was I to say to Lavedrine when I returned? There was no telling what the Frenchman might have discovered. Had he found Sybille Gottewald? Had Durskeitner confessed? Rather than the eel-fisher, I felt like the hooked fish, twisting and turning this way and that to free myself of the uncomfortable barb.

  I was frozen beyond coherent thought.

  My cloak covered the window, keeping out the wind to some extent, but it could do little against the numbing cold. After turning restlessly from one side of the bed to the other for an hour or more, I jumped to my feet in the dark, frantically beating my stiff arms and aching legs with my gloved hands. Then I took off my gloves, the better to rub my hands and agitate my limbs, trying to stimulate more rapid circulation of the blood, as the English doctor, William Harvey, recommends.

  As time stretched out, the temperature continued to drop. Sleep was out of the question. And that dreadful beer had begun to swell my stomach painfully. Left with no alternative, I opened the door and glanced warily into the gloomy corridor. To my left, a torch dimly lit the beginning of the staircase of which Rochus had spoken. I darted a look the other way, expecting to find the boy lurking somewhere close by, but all was still. The profound silence was ruffled by the wind and nothing more. Stepping out into the corridor, I made my way down the stairs, smiling to think that even the most dutiful of boy soldiers had to rest.

  I could have found the latrines in total darkness, as Rochus suggested, by following my nose. The acrid smell of organic waste was heavy on the cold night air. And there was nobody on patrol. Indeed, I did not recall seeing a single soldier on guard in any of the yards, corridors, or passages that I had traversed that day. And yet, it made sense. If the French decided to take control of the fortress they would not bother doing so under cover of night. They would come marching straight in through the gate. Dittersdorf was right: Kamenetz could only survive so long as the French persisted in ignoring its existence, or the Prussian high command continued to close a benevolent eye on what Katowice was doing there.

  On the floor below, a torch illuminated a legend written in chalk on the wall by a door in what seemed to me to be a childish scrawl—PISSHOUSE. I dashed into the room, unbuttoning my trousers as I went. The latrine was long, narrow, totally unlit, except for the pale glimmer of the moon which filtered in through an iron grille taking up most of the wall at the far end of the room. This grid had been provided to disperse the oppressive smell, no doubt, but even the driving power of the Buran had little chance of doing that. On the right-hand side, a structure of planks had been set like a long bench with holes cut at intervals. On the left was a tin sink full of water which had frozen solid, the surface glistening, a wooden handle trapped in the ice until spring. There would be a sea-sponge or a bundle of rags attached to the end of the stick for the purposes of cleansing one’s body.

  In my desperation, that stinking cavern was like an oasis in the desert. I sat down at the first place on the bench-top, the wood warm and smooth to my naked buttocks. The stench that rose from beneath me might have caused a less desperate man to flinch. Where there’s filth, I thought with revulsion, there are rats.

  I gave myself up to hopelessness, let out a sigh, and unclenched my bowels.

  In that instant, a voice spoke out in the gloom.

  ‘Don’t move, sir! I will come to you.’

  16

  THE BULK OF a man shifted into silhouette against the moonlit grille, moving swiftly towards me.

  I reached for my trousers.

  ‘Do not stand up, Herr Magistrate,’ he hissed, his face hidden by darkness. ‘If danger threatens, I will leave, and you will remain. You are doing what you have to do, while I have my own sort of immunity.’

  I thought I heard a trace of humour in his words.

  ‘Puffendørn said that you’d been asking after me. I expected you to come again, and I waited late in the Infirmary. Finally, I took the onus upon myself. I know too well how things go in Kamenetz. I’ve been here longer than I deserve. I hope that you will remember that?’

  His voice had sunk to a whisper, and he waited for an answer.

  ‘I will,’ I said, though I had no notion what I was promising.

  ‘My name is Korna,’ he continued. ‘Alexei Korna, medical officer of this garrison. I knew I’d find you here if I waited long enough.’

  I could not see the smile on his lips, but I was aware of it.

  ‘The human body was not made for a place such as Kamenetz. Rochus told me where they’d put you. I knew the cold would do its work. All you had to do was drink a little water.’

  ‘I drank a large jug of flat beer,’ I said, and heard him chuckle in the dark.

  ‘I wanted to see you, sir,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘And I wished to see you . . .’

  ‘My need is greater,’ he added quickly.

  I did not know how to reply.

  ‘This must come to an end,’ he continued gravely. ‘It will be better for all of us. You can’t imagine the risks I had to run to get that message out of here. He is vigilant, I’ll say that for him. But I will not be cowed. I have reached an age when . . . how shall I put it? What career can I look forward to here? What future anywhere? My only price is a ticket out of Kamenetz on the post-coach. I speak as a Prussian, and proud to be so. This is not what I call king and country.’

  I tried to hush him, but passion had got the upper hand. He would not be silenced.

  ‘I hope you will not take it ill,’ he continued, ‘if I express my surprise that the authorities have been so slow to wake up. They should have sent a regiment long ago. But why are you alone? No, forgive me, sir,’ he ranted on. ‘Affairs of State, I can understand. I ought to thank my lucky stars you’re here at all.’

  Before I had the chance to say a word, he rushed ahead.

  ‘What did Baron Stein make of my note?’

  The newly appointed Chancellor was the most powerful man in Prussia, more influential than the king himself, according to almost every voice that I had read in the newspapers.

  ‘I�
��ve no idea,’ I began, intending to inform the doctor that I had never been privileged to meet that gentleman in my life, but he did not allow me the time.

  ‘How many men does he intend to send?’ he insisted.

  I was ever less sure where he was leading me. The doctor knew my name. My business in Kamenetz was plain to one and all.

  ‘When will they arrive?’ he pressed me. ‘A rebellion in the East will have terrible consequences for Prussia. They are bound to fail. Violent repression will follow on.’

  ‘I am sure the fault is mine,’ I cut in on him. ‘I know nothing of secret notes, nothing of the Chancellor, or of troops being sent to Kamenetz. To be honest, I have not clearly understood what anyone is doing in this place—much less am I calling for more men to be sent here.’

  ‘What?’ he cried in a strangled whisper, his hands reaching out to grab the lapels of my jacket. His face caught the moonlight as he twisted to secure me, his eyes wild and flashing, his hair a tangled white forest, chubby mutton-chops of the same colour framing his square jaw. Yet his face was that of a younger man. He was no more than forty years old.

  ‘If you have not been sent by Stein, who the devil are you? They said a magistrate had come on a royal commission. And that Katowice had ordered Rochus not to let you out of his sight. What are you doing here?’

  I placed my hands on his, vainly attempting to free myself.

  ‘I am a magistrate,’ I replied, ‘though not the one that you were expecting. I am investigating the murder of the children of an officer who was stationed in Kamenetz. I am interested in nothing else.’

  ‘Children?’ the doctor echoed weakly, releasing his grip on my jacket. ‘I thought . . . that is, there’s been a mistake. On my part, sir. I beg your pardon.’

  ‘I am glad you’ve found me,’ I said. ‘I read your report concerning the death of Major Gottewald.’

  ‘Was he the father?’

  I told him briefly of the events that had brought me to Kamenetz.

  ‘What has the death of Gottewald to do with the murder of his children?’