The Smell of Evil

by Birkin, Charles

  Jack looked at the cluster of absorbed figures. In two of the apertures which had been revealed were hunched the bodies of young women, embalmed grotesquely by the action of the lime in which they had been embedded, the skin stretched tightly over their bones. Their legs had been forced up nearly to their chins, like those of skeletons in a prehistoric grave, and as Jack stared at them he saw that the stuff of their garish garments were the tatters of a fashion of twelve years ago or more. The clothes had been bundled in beside them, and were rotting, and rusted with dried blood.

  Between them gaped a smaller opening in which lay the corpse of a little girl, flaccid as a sawdust doll. She was wearing a white frilly party dress and a spotted bow was in her hair, and her face was dark and swollen, the tongue protruding from between the congealed lips, as if in lewd mockery of what had befallen her. For some reason Elsie had been permitted to retain most of her clothing.

  Sergeant Tomlinson turned round as Jack came in. “You were too late, lad,” he said. “We were both of us too late.” He left his companions and came across to where Jack was standing in the doorway. “There was a lot more to it than a child’s game,” he said. He indicated the excavated alcoves. “Dorothy and Madge,” he said quietly. “As yet we’ve not found Selina, but we shall do so.” Jack was gazing aghast at the rubble where Elsie lay. “When you mentioned their names and their descriptions,” Edward Tomlinson went on, “it came back to me and I remembered them as if I had heard them yesterday. Selina Boucher, Madge Burke and Dorothy Johnson, three prostitutes in the files of missing people. They weren’t none of them over eighteen. Well, they’re missing no longer, poor little devils.” He blew his nose loudly. “She was violated too,” he said, nodding towards the wall. “The old bugger must have been as mad as a hatter. He could never have hoped to have got away with it again, not with that child, he couldn’t.” A flash bulb exploded, blinding them. “Those girls there,” he went on, “were long before your time, lad, you must have still been at school. Caused quite a stir, their disappearance did. On a national scale. And to think it was old Albert Piers! Only goes to show, doesn’t it?”

  “So those were the . . . ‘the godmothers’?” Jack said.

  Sergeant Tomlinson laid a hand on his sleeve. “There’s nothing for you to do here, Jack,” he said. “Our men are too thick under foot already. Look, lad, you’d best be getting along to Mrs. Donaldson and your Edith. They’ll be needing you more than what I will.”

  “Very good, Sergeant. Thank you, Sergeant.” Jack marched up the stairs and walked heavily along the hall and down the steps to the street.

  White with blue ribbons and carrying a posy of primroses and lily of the valley.

  Now that the wagon had gone the bystanders were beginning to disperse. The street lights were softened by the first fingers of a fog. “Move along there,” P. C. Morland was saying authoritatively. “Move along, now, there’s no more to see. Move along, please.” He glanced round at Jack. “Told you it was a proper lark, Stock, didn’t I?”

  Jack did not answer. He found his bicycle propped up against the railings and began to wheel it slowly up the road.

  GREEN FINGERS

  Hilde Berger refilled her guest’s cup. It was such a treat to drink coffee again, real coffee, after the meagre ration of that horrible ersatz stuff which tasted more like ground acorns. It had been kind of the Herr Major to give it to her, and had been even more kind on her part to share some of it with Elsa.

  They were sitting one on either side of the card table which she had brought out on to the porch of the neat doll’s house in which she lived on the outskirts of Krandorf, a house sheltered on three sides from prying neighbors by high brick walls against which she had trained peaches and plums and pears. In springtime their blossom was a sight to see, and when they fruited they were acknowledged to be in a class by themselves. Hilde knew that some people laughed at her for being so extremely house proud. She paid no attention to the scoffers. The floors and windows gleamed, the whitened steps were always freshly done and immaculate, the lace curtains, newly starched, were reflected as dim ghosts in the high polish of the furniture.

  The garden, too, which was spacious, covering as it did more than an acre, was a credit to her industry. The closely weeded gravel walks enclosed oblong or triangular beds of roses, while during the summer months a hedge of sweet peas at the end of the main path of shaven grass shut off the vegetable section from view. On this July day both roses and sweet peas were at their peak.

  Hilde leant forward, her full bosom resting on the table’s top. Her large pale blue eyes considered her guest. Elsa was the exact opposite to herself, a spare dark woman with a brown and wrinkled face who might have belonged to any European country. Her niche in life had always been that of friend and confidante, despite the fact that she was a married woman of many years standing and one who undoubtedly had problems of her own.

  “This is good coffee,” said Elsa. “I have not drunk such coffee since the invasion was started in France.” She waited expectantly for her hostess to reveal the source of this luxury.

  Hilde smiled but did not reply at once. “I am afraid,” she said after a noticeable pause, “that I cannot provide you with any white sugar to put in it . . . as yet.” She knew that in all probability Elsa’s curiosity would not allow the topic to drop.

  But her question, for once, was not a direct one. “You will sweep the board as usual?” Elsa inquired. “It is becoming quite monotonous. First prize for roses . . . Frau Berger; for sweet peas . . . Frau Berger . . . for the best mixed bowl and for the largest strawberries . . . who else will it be but Frau Berger again?” Her smile was a little pinched. “There is no doubt at all that you have green fingers.” What made it the more annoying for her was that she herself was by no means to be despised as a gardener, frequently carrying off third and sometimes even second prizes at the local shows, but she had never as yet succeeded in defeating her friend in any category. “If we should lose this war,” she lowered her voice instinctively, “it will be women like you, my dear, who will secure the affections of the conquerors. You have all the virtues which they so much admire, domesticity, artistry and,” she hesitated briefly before adding with a touch of acidity, “nice blonde looks. In you they will recognize the true peaceful Germany, you will give the lie to much of the disgusting and lunatic propaganda that has been spewed forth by the Communists and Jews and others from among our enemies.”

  “Lose the war?” Hilde raised her eyes to Elsa’s in shocked surprise. “What are you talking about? How could we lose the war?” There was no note of warning or reproof in her voice as she repeated the words, only astonishment. In anyone else except Elsa Stein she would have regarded such a supposition as being dangerous and subversive talk.

  Hilde shifted in her chair, an uneasy movement which Elsa noted. She saw her glance unobtrusively at her watch. It was clear that Hilde wanted to get rid of her. Perhaps she should have telephoned in advance before dropping in. No doubt she was expecting a caller . . . perhaps Karl Schultz? It must have been Herr Hauptmann Schultz who had been the supplier of the coffee, of that she was sure. He must be well placed for obtaining extra delicacies. Still, she must not be censorious. Hilde had been a widow for a long time now, for her husband had been killed right at the beginning of hostilities, when the army had gone into Poland.

  At first, Elsa remembered, there had been a period of intensive mourning of her “dead hero”. His room must be kept unchanged, inviolate, just as it had been when he had left it. His photograph, in uniform, had been draped in crêpe, and Hilde had been inconsolable. But so violent a grief naturally could not be maintained and gradually the bereaved widow had recovered. She had declared it to be her duty to take her part in entertaining soldiers who were stationed in Krandorf, far from their homes, and the crêpe had been removed, and the photograph itself had been taken from the bedroom and no
w stood in the front parlor. Well—why not?

  Elsa got to her feet and leant forward to give her friend a kiss. “Good-bye my dear. We will meet again on Saturday at the flower show—the day of your anticipated triumphs.” She walked away down the path that bisected the arrangement of flower beds. They were filled at this season with floribundas, fine enough but not comparable with those to be found at the back of the house.

  She had left her bicycle propped against the knee high aubretia-bearded stone wall by the newly painted gate. As she wheeled the machine into the roadway she turned to wave.

  Hilde was something of an ostrich. When she had made the remark to her about the possibility of defeat she had been personally affronted. Hilde had never been able to bear to face disagreeable facts. Anything unpleasant was pushed away into the back of her mind like discarded objects that are pushed into an attic, and the door is then closed and the contents forgotten.

  Elsa had not been pedalling for more than five minutes when a small closed lorry passed her. It was one of those used by the Camp. A prisoner with the prominent cheekbones of a Slav was at the wheel and by his side, his arms folded across his broad chest, she glimpsed Herr Hauptmann Schultz. Elsa knew him well by sight although Hilde had never seen fit to arrange for them to meet one another.

  Elsa smiled to herself. No wonder Hilde had been rather fidgety. There had not been a wide time margin. Suppose she had not taken the hint and had lingered! He was a well set-up fellow was the Herr Hauptmann and she could not find it in her heart to blame Hilde at all. She would have behaved in precisely the same way herself had she been given the chance, but then she was not a glamorous widow and had no opportunities for such pleasurable diversions. The presents, she acknowledged, must come in so useful, too.

  On Saturday, as Elsa had foretold, Hilde carried all before her to a ripple of enthusiastic applause and merriment. She had looked very nice in a new blue spotted dress and a big straw hat which had matched her eyes exactly. She had smiled and been maddeningly gracious as she had accepted many congratulations, and had kept on explaining: “Flowers always grow well for me. It must be because I am kind to them!”

  Standing at a short distance from the complimentary group Elsa had thought that Hilde might have been the prima donna of an operette—in a touring company of course.

  Karl Schultz waited for the “kapo” who was with him to jump down from the lorry and open the door on his side of the vehicle before he himself got out. When that had been done the Major had smoothed his tunic and buckled his belt, and the man had saluted smartly and had climbed up once more to his seat, after which, as a matter of practiced routine, he had driven the lorry round to the back of the villa by the empty garage.

  The Herr Major lit a cigarette and went up the path to the front door. He was aware that Hilde Berger was watching for his arrival from behind the lace curtains in the front room. She was a great comfort to him. Whenever he was able to visit her it was like stepping into another world and for an hour or so the Camp, in which he was the Second in Command, faded away into a temporary unreality.

  Frau Berger had really been more than kind and had proved herself most grateful for the favors that he, in his turn, had been able to bestow upon her. His wife, Irma, was in Berlin and he saw her only when he was on leave which, if he was to be honest with himself, was no hardship. Hilde Berger was younger than Irma, more appreciative, and far better company. His rendezvous with her ordinarily took place after dusk, but lately he had been kept busy, work had grown increasingly heavier, and it had been more than two weeks since last he had seen her, and so he had seized this chance to come along in the afternoon. He tapped discreetly at the door.

  It was opened immediately. Hilde made a show of surprise at seeing him at such an unexpected hour, although he had telephoned during the morning to tell her that he hoped to be able to get away. She led the way into the sitting-room and he put down the parcel which he was carrying on to the table. “For you,” he said.

  Hilde stood on tiptoe and brushed his cheek with her lips. She smelled strongly of “Chanel 5”. “You spoil me,” she said, “and I love it!” Her plump white fingers undid the string and she uttered subdued and appreciative cries as the contents of the package came to light. Sugar. Margarine. Biscuits. Coffee. A half bottle of French brandy. Two pink cakes of soap. She arranged them in a circle around an embroidered mat and stood behind them beaming with pleasure. “You spoil me, Karl,” she said again.

  She turned away to the sideboard upon which she had put out a dark green bottle of hock and two tall glasses, with a silver-plated bon-bon dish in the shape of a shell, which was overflowing with salted almonds, an earlier gift that she had resolutely kept hidden from Elsa and her other friends.

  She poured out the hock and came towards him. When he had taken his glass she raised her own. “To my very good . . . friend!” she said with a bewitching moue. Her fat ankles bulged over the sides of her shoes. Her legs were not her best point. There came the chink of glass on glass as he joined her in the toast. “I have made a cake,” she told him, “and there is also a can of beer for Zelini. He, too, is so kind to me, so helpful.” She twinkled up at Karl with arch coyness. “Shall I leave them for him in the kitchen?”

  “Zelini?” said Karl. He gave her a playful slap on the bottom. “He is not so very kind.” He made a grimace. “He is a ‘kapo’, which is self-explanatory. Obedient, yes . . . but a loving heart? That I would question!” He crushed out his cigarette. “I should leave them for him now, then we can forget all about him and he can enjoy his reward when he has finished his task.” Karl was faintly uneasy when he employed a prisoner on any ex-curriculum job. He was by nature law abiding and observed regulations. He could not get accustomed to the idea, as all his fellows had done so quickly, that the Camp inmates were, in fact, slaves devoid of any rights and to be used for any purpose.

  Hilde went out of the room. When she came back the Herr Major had emptied a second glass of hock. He raised his eyebrows and glanced suggestively towards the door. He loomed very large as he climbed ponderously behind her up the narrow staircase. Three of the treads creaked under his weight. Hilde had been meaning to have them repaired. Every blind on the upper floor had been drawn. After all, it was natural for her to close them in order to protect the furnishings against the summer sun and it would cause no comment. Like so much else textiles were in short supply.

  Stanislav Zelini put away his spade in the tiny elaborately carved chalet at the end of the garden which served Frau Berger as a tool shed. He had worked hard and he was sweating, but his labors, he realized, could have been a lot more back breaking had not Frau Berger’s soil been cultivated for so long and with such intensive care.

  Still, accustomed as he was to physical labor he had had enough, and he decided to peer through the kitchen window to see whether the Frau had remembered to leave out something for him. It was understood between them that anything that might be left on the shelf under the window would be intended for his consumption.

  As he stood making his reconnaissance with his hands on his hips and his muscular torso bent slightly forward, his slate-grey eyes narrowed. The preparation of the ground had taken longer than he had thought. He expected every moment to hear the Herr Major’s jovially shouted summons but there was no sign or sound of life from the house. He stared up at the curtained windows, his mouth bitter. Then he lifted an arm in its striped sleeve and pushed gently, probing against the window of the kitchen, which yielded to his touch.

  On a metal tray on the shelf below and within easy reach lay a bottle of beer and a sponge cake sprinkled with icing sugar. Savoring the promised ecstasy he gazed at the offerings for a few moments before he reached through to stroke them with his thick spatulate fingers. Frau Berger might be a greedy and self-seeking whore, but at least she realized that people, even prisoners, were human beings.

  Ev
erybody needed friends, even Frau Berger might be grateful for one before the whole story was told. He was willing to help her only for as long as it paid him to do so, and she must know it. Was she being amiable out of benevolence—or was it a form of insurance? He was inclined to think that Frau Berger and himself were two of a kind. She had left a knife on the side of the plate upon which she had placed the cake. It was a refinement which he appreciated, and by cutting it into thin slices it could be made to last longer. He wondered as he lifted the tray through the window if she had done so in order to restore a modicum of his dignity as a man, or if the action had merely been the automatic one of any tidy hausfrau.

  He ate the cake slowly and drank the beer with a lingering appreciation. Then he ran a spittle dampened forefinger over the crumbs and replaced the empty plate and bottle on the enamelled shelf. Next he went to relieve himself behind the tool shed, cleaned the rake before putting it back beside the spade, and walked across to the lorry to await the Herr Major’s call.

  He sat apathetically behind the steering wheel. His past life had paled into an unreal limbo, and his future was nonexistent. He was doomed forever as a slave laborer, utterly dependent on the whim of whoever it might be who was in control of the Camp. The Herr Major was tolerable, a weak character who would never dare to stand up to the Herr Oberst, but who knew when he might be transferred? It was paradise just to be on the outside of the electrified wire fence, away from the squalor and the suffering, irregular though such procedure was, even for a “kapo”—“trusty”. It was blissful to leave its confines, and the dreary countryside around Krandorf, a hideous modern town which tentacled from a medieval nucleus, appeared to him to be as beautiful as Arcady.