by Heinz Rein
‘I’ll sort it out,’ Klose says, still standing, and carefully watching every movement of the brown-clad man.
Sasse acts as if he doesn’t notice Klose’s expectant and forbidding attitude, he simply sits down at the table, in the seat that Lassehn has just left, he picks up his brown cap and runs his hand over his bald skull.
‘A little game?’ he asks cosily, and nods encouragingly to Dr Böttcher.
‘People need entertainment,’ Klose says, and stands behind his chair, resting his hands on the back. You didn’t come here because of the blackout, he thinks, you just wanted to snoop.
Dr Böttcher tries to let his face settle into obliging wrinkles. ‘Our little game of skat,’ he says. Red is trumps, he thinks, and you brown rogues come in with a score of fifty-nine. Wiegand forces himself to smile weakly and looks at his watch. ‘It’s nearly eleven, we were about to play our last three hands.’
‘Don’t let me disturb you, gentlemen,’ Sasse says, looking from one to the other, ‘I’ll sit here and kibitz, if that doesn’t bother you.’
No one says a word.
Dr Böttcher gestures vaguely.
‘Well, then, let’s get going!’ cries Sasse.
Klose sits down hesitantly and slowly picks up his cards again, then gives Dr Böttcher and Wiegand a challenging look. ‘Right, then,’ he says, ‘I’m first, say something, Fritz.’
The three men begin to play, the fourth sits there as an onlooker. Everyone knows that people are really playing a game of hide-and-seek with their true intentions, the three know that the brown-clad man hasn’t come because of the blackout and stayed because of the game of skat, the brown-clad man knows that these three men are anything but harmless card players.
They play stubbornly and carelessly, they keep lowering their cards and pausing, but Sasse keeps instructing them to get on with the game, and there is something that sounds like mockery in his voice. He looks at the cards and keeps giving advice, he looks at the hidden cards and comments long and loud on every hand. Any normal card player would have complained long ago and energetically refused to tolerate his presence, but these three players let him get away with it, they don’t answer his questions or rebut his objections, they play very mechanically, they bid, pass, take tricks and follow suit, but it is all done without noticing, far from their thoughts.
The game reminds Wiegand of the sarcastic orders of the SS guards in the concentration camp, who tied a prisoner to the rack and whipped him while the other inmates stood there motionlessly, lined up neatly in the old Prussian military tradition, to attention, with their hands extended along the seams of their blue-and-white striped trousers, and were forced to sing ‘Take Joy in Life’. And just as he cannot leave the game under the observant eye of political functionary Sasse, because he must maintain the fiction that they are actually playing a game of cards here, neither could he refuse to sing in the camp, because when two SS men were taking turns to bullwhip the bound prisoner, others, like dogs following a shepherd, crept around them, peering carefully and paying close attention to the mouths of the inmates, ready to lash out as soon as anyone dared not to sing the song about the joy of life.
Wiegand clearly remembers that look, passing quickly from one mouth to the next, like that of a beast of prey convinced of its place in the food chain, turned on him and the others; but in one respect this situation is totally different. Back then, during the whipping ritual in Sachsenhausen, everyone knew what was going on: there the beasts in human form, here the inmates, their souls almost extinguished in the swamp of brutality and wickedness, and in the atmosphere of complete abandonment, in which every muscle quivered with rage suppressed and forced violently back into the body. The roles were clearly assigned, error was impossible. The hatred and fury which had sprung nakedly out of their eyes in the camp are now masked by specious cordiality and feigned harmlessness. A heavy tension settles over the four men, and without a word being exchanged each of them feels the situation coming to a head and rushing towards its decisive phase.
Dr Böttcher is in a state of slight unease, but he observes himself and the others with the cool reasoning of a psychologist unwilling to waste the opportunity to study rare objects in an unusual situation, his face is controlled, his eyes mostly peer over the edge of his glasses with the searching gaze of the scientist looking through a microscope, he plays calmly and reflectively, and when it is his turn to play he sets his cards down slowly on the table.
Klose is completely calm, his stout figure leaning backwards in his chair, he doesn’t make any rash decisions, his phlegmatic temperament lets things take their course, an ironic smile plays around his lips then rises to his eyes. He draws his cards quickly and throws them down rapidly on the table.
Wiegand’s face is tense, with a smile that is completely unnatural. He looks stiffly at his cards and hurls them down on the table with an almost contemptuous movement. Even though he is gripped by a terrible excitement he is quite calm, because he is resolved to do anything at all.
Sasse sits on the edge of his chair, his hands resting on his knees and his body leaning forward, a smile is fixed firmly among the folds and wrinkles. He speaks constantly, not because he needs to talk or because the game is interesting, but in order to provoke the three players, to disturb their calm, to make them nervous and prompt them into making statements or actions that will give him the opportunity to expose this game of skat once and for all.
But nothing happens, the game goes on, the tension keeps on condensing into a black storm cloud rising from the horizon.
Even though he has the authority of an all-powerful state, Sasse is the most uneasy of them all, the atmosphere that he has created is becoming unbearable. He clearly feels the tension within him stretching beyond endurance until it is about to snap, so he can wait no longer. Even though he doesn’t need to weigh his words, he wants to achieve the greatest possible effect with them, he wants to sneak up slowly on the target he has set for himself, and he can’t do that if he is too agitated to think or speak properly.
When another round has been played and Klose shuffles the cards, the first words are spoken casually, apparently without any hidden intent.
‘And there was a light in your window last night during the air-raid warning, Klose,’ Sasse says.
Klose goes on calmly shuffling the cards. ‘That’s impossible, Mr Sasse,’ he says without hesitation, ‘I always take out the fuses before I go to the cellar.’
‘Then you neglected to do so yesterday,’ Sasse insists. ‘You must have had your reasons, I should guess?’ Klose is still shuffling the cards, but now he slowly cuts the pack. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Sasse, I’m short-sighted in my right eye.’
Sasse claps him cordially on the shoulder. ‘A little girlfriend in your bedroom, you old sinner?’ His smile is still there, but the excitement within him almost erases it from his features, and a malicious glimmer in the back of his eyes reveals that the smile has been skilfully donned as if by a gifted actor. ‘Stop that nonsense,’ Klose says gruffly and shakes his hand away, he sets the cards down on the table and passes them to Wiegand. ‘Cut!’ he tells him.
Now any hint of a smile has vanished completely from Sasse’s face, leaving only a pinched expression of malicious anticipation. ‘But there was someone in your flat,’ he persists, ‘I know that very well.’
‘Then you know more than I do,’ Klose replies, and starts dealing the cards.
Now Sasse’s face turns bright red. ‘Don’t evade the issue, Mr Klose,’ he says, his voice struggling to maintain the tone of friendly conversation. ‘You see, I’m responsible for everything that goes on in this building. You do understand that, don’t you Mr Klose?’ Klose shrugs and doesn’t reply, he picks up the cards, fans them and brings them back together again. ‘Go on talking to each other,’ he says, turning to Dr Böttcher and Wiegand.
The slight flush on Sasse’s face quickly turns deep red.
‘Enough of this play-acti
ng,’ he says loudly, his voice now harsh and peremptory. ‘I want to know who was in your flat last night during the air-raid warning.’
Dr Böttcher lays the fan of his cards face down on the table. ‘I’ll pass,’ he says to Wiegand and then turns to Sasse. ‘Won’t you let us get on with our game, Mr Sasse? If you have things to sort out with Mr Klose in private, do it tomorrow. It has nothing to do with us.’
Sasse looks furiously at Dr Böttcher. ‘You keep your nose out of this,’ he snaps. ‘The three of you belong together, you’re all a big happy mischpocha.’
Wiegand lays his cards slowly on the table and pushes his chair back slightly so as not to be impeded by the table. ‘Let’s call it a day,’ he says.
Sasse leaps to his feet and pulls his revolver from his holster. ‘Sit where you are!’ His voice is shrill with fury and agitation. ‘Or I’ll shoot you down on the spot like a mad dog!’
Any ambiguity has fled, making way for the excitement of open combat. Faces reveal themselves like a landscape lit by a beam of sunlight from behind a cloud. The three men sit there at a table, still in front of the cards that they have used as cover from undesirable questions, as a pretext for their meetings, and a few metres away, leaning against the credenza, stands a tall man in a brown uniform with a revolver in his hand, his brown cap still lying on the table like a straggler surrounded by the enemy.
Wiegand bites his lips, he is sitting closest to the Nazi, but there are still three or four metres between them. Dr Böttcher and Klose are sitting in unfavourable positions, there is a table between them and the brown-clad man, and in any case they have pushed their chairs too tightly under the table to be able to jump to their feet unprepared.
Dr Böttcher looks at Wiegand and they agree with a glance, he knows the important thing now is to get a conversation under way, or subject themselves to an interrogation, and that either or both must be extended ad infinitum to gain time and weaken the Nazi’s attention.
Klose’s broad, comfortable smile has frozen into a menacing mask, his eyes are narrow slits, his lips reveal his gritted teeth, hard folds run from his mouth to his chin, which seems to have shed its former bulk.
‘Who was here yesterday?’ Sasse barks again. ‘Do you think we’re asleep, you fat boozer? I’ve been keeping a close eye on your place, three people went in, and there are only two here now. Where is the third?’
For a moment Klose looks as if he is thinking. ‘Oh him,’ he says at last. ‘He left ages ago, he was just bumming cigarettes.’
‘Claptrap,’ Sasse says quickly, ‘I don’t believe a word. He didn’t come out again, I was watching you very closely.’
‘There’s no one here but us,’ Dr Böttcher says.
The brown-clad man doesn’t even look at him. ‘Klose, where’s the boy? I want to know.’ His voice has become a little milder. ‘Perhaps it’s all completely harmless, but I want to know what’s happening here.’
‘Nothing is happening here,’ Klose says, and brings his hand down on the table. ‘Leave us in peace.’
‘That would suit you,’ Sasse says with a broad, sarcastic grin and fumbles with his pistol. ‘Will you spill the beans, you fat, greedy bastard?’
Klose’s lips part. ‘Kiss my arse,’ he says calmly, ‘there’s no one else here.’
Sasse’s eyes dart around the room again. ‘So there’s no one else here?’ he says in a measured voice. ‘And who owns the ski-cap on the sofa?’
‘I do,’ Wiegand says quickly.
‘Codswallop,’ Sasse replies. ‘You were both wearing hats, you can’t fool me. You gang of rogues, I’ll unmask the lot of you, I have my doubts about all three of you, the Gestapo will loosen your tongues. That must be a rare bird you have in your nest.’
‘There’s really no one here, my good man,’ Dr Böttcher begins, ‘I …’
‘Shut your mouth!’ Sasse roars. ‘I don’t believe a word you say, not a word. You sit where you are, just like that, and not one of you is to move. I’ll shoot straight away!’ He looks around the room once more and checks their faces in turn. ‘Right, then, let’s make a phone call.’ He reaches out towards the telephone on the credenza.
Gain some time, Dr Böttcher thinks, just gain some time, he stares fixedly at the door leading to the restaurant, which is out of Sasse’s range of vision because it’s behind him. Dr Böttcher has to force himself not to look at the door so as not to draw the Nazi’s attention to it. ‘I think we’ve had a misunderstanding of some kind,’ he says.
Sasse lets his outstretched hand rest on the receiver. ‘It will all sort itself out, my dear fellow, the men from Prinz Albrecht Strasse are very good at clearing up misunderstandings.’
‘They certainly are,’ says Dr Böttcher, looking over the rim of his glasses at the door again. The latch moves slowly downward, millimetres at a time. ‘I don’t know who you think we are, Mr Sasse.’
Sasse laughs sarcastically, his hand is still on the receiver. ‘I think you are rogues, tramps and traitors, if you really want to know,’ he roars, ‘in fact you should simply be shot without further ado.’
Dr Böttcher draws Wiegand’s attention to the door with a movement of his eyebrows. Wiegand tenses his muscles, his joints are twitching like those of a runner at the start of a race, his expression is one of grim resolution, his teeth are grinding hard against one another. ‘Forget this nonsense,’ he says. ‘You don’t even know who we are.’
Sasse laughs his mocking laugh again. ‘I don’t care what your names are,’ he hisses through his teeth, ‘but you are friends of Klose’s and that’s enough for me. You thought you were safe, didn’t you, Klose?’
‘You brown piece of shit,’ Klose growls.
‘An honest word at last,’ Sasse exclaims. ‘Well, wait, my lad, I’ll see you dangling yet, we’ll order a specially strong piece of rope for you, you red swine.’
Dr Böttcher looks at the door, which is opening very slowly, already he can feel a cold draught. The Nazi will notice it soon as well, he thinks.
‘What do you keep staring at?’ Sasse asks, half turning round.
Dr Böttcher suddenly feels his heart beating fast and hard … now he’s got to …
Wiegand leans forward, he sees the door opening a crack, and crouches like a cat about to pounce.
Then it happens. The door flies open, Lassehn is standing in the doorway, there is a short, sharp bang, a little cloud of smoke, the Nazi totters, reaches into the air with both hands and drops sideways, pulling a few bowls from the credenza, glass shatters, a dull crash, the floorboards echo for a few seconds. Then all is still.
Klose is on the Nazi like a tiger. ‘He’s done for,’ he exclaims. ‘You did well, Joachim.’
Lassehn is still standing in the doorway, his face is pale, but stiff and resolute, although now there is a violent twitch running around his mouth, his features slacken, his arms fall limply down, he leans exhausted against the door frame and looks at the brown-clad man and Dr Böttcher, who is now bending over him. ‘Is he dead?’ he asks excitedly.
‘No,’ Dr Böttcher replies, ‘sadly no, three centimetres lower and you’d have got his heart.’
‘Damn it all,’ Klose says, ‘now we’ve got this fellow to deal with.’
Lassehn steps through the doorway and looks down at the Nazi. He is still holding the revolver, there is shock and horror in his eyes, he is trembling feverishly. ‘And what happens now?’ he asks in a blank voice.
Wiegand pulls the door shut and rests a hand on Lassehn’s shoulder ‘Stay calm, Lassehn,’ he says, ‘stay calm, we have to be quick and resolute. Is the wound fatal?’ he asks, turning to Dr Böttcher.
Böttcher has taken a pack of bandages out of his medical box, removed the wrapper and made a plug of white cotton wool that he stuffs into the wound. ‘Not necessarily, as far as I can tell right now,’ he replies. ‘However …’ He breaks off and shrugs.
‘What? Tell us, Doctor,’ Wiegand urges, ‘we have no time to lose.’
&
nbsp; ‘A quick operation might save him,’ Dr Böttcher says.
Klose snorts. ‘God alive, Doctor, how do you imagine that?’
‘I can’t,’ Dr Böttcher replies. ‘I know what you’re getting at, Klose. If he stays alive …’
‘… we’re all done for,’ Klose completes his phrase. ‘Clear as mud.’
‘You want …’ Lassehn begins, his lips quivering, he looks at the Nazi lying by the credenza, his bald, white skull is almost a ghostly glow in the shadows.
‘No sentimentality,’ Wiegand says sharply. ‘The question is this: it’s him or us, there is no middle way. If he lives, then we’re for it. Or do you think he’ll spare us? The first word he utters will mean certain death for us.’
Lassehn’s face is white as snow. ‘That wasn’t what I wanted,’ he says.
Dr Böttcher pulls Lassehn into the room and pushes him down on a chair. ‘If it wasn’t what you wanted, you shouldn’t have shot him. Apparently you haven’t yet found the right attitude towards … well, let’s say, towards your deed. You acted out of self-defence, Lassehn, isn’t that clear to you?’
‘Self-defence?’ Lassehn looks at Dr Böttcher, disbelief and hope battling it out in his eyes.
‘Even justified self-defence,’ Dr Böttcher says excitedly, ‘not according to National Socialist laws, but I can’t imagine you obey those?’
‘I know no others,’ Lassehn says. ‘Which laws am I supposed to have acted on?’
‘The natural law of self-assertion and self-preservation,’ Dr Böttcher replies. ‘If you hadn’t shot the man, then you and the three of us would have been hanged in cold blood. Is that clear to you?’
Lassehn nods with relief. ‘Certainly, but I’ve only wounded him …’
Wiegand intervenes firmly in the conversation. ‘No long speeches and academic discussions, now, gentlemen, we’ve got to be quick and reckless. I hope no one heard the shot.’
