by Dean Koontz
Beckmann returned Rotenhausen's ugly smile. "I think the arrangements will be satisfactory. But I do wish you would drop the clumsy Schutzstaffeln title and call me 'Oberst' instead." Beckmann looked at Kelly and shook his head sadly. "General Rotenhausen is such a one for form. Since we left Stuttgart, he has insisted on using the clumsy title." Beckmann's French was no better than Rotenhausen's.
"Standartenführer Beckmann is correct," the general said, directing himself to Kelly. "I am a man who believes in forms, rules, and dignity. Being a man of the Holy Roman Church, you must sympathize with me, Father Picard."
"Yes, of course," Kelly said.
"The Church relies on rules and form quite as much as the Wehrmacht," Rotenhausen said.
"Certainly, certainly," Kelly said, nodding stupidly.
Major Kelly sensed the friction between the two officers and thought he understood at least part of the reason for it. In the last year the German army, the Wehrmacht, had begun to lose nearly all of its battles to superior Allied forces. Meanwhile, the Waffen SS, the independent army which the SS had built despite Wehrmacht objections to this usurpation of its role, was still winning battles. Therefore, Hitler had begun to trust more in the Waffen SS and less in the Wehrmacht. The traditional army lost power, while the Waffen SS grew larger and more formidable. Hitler favored the Waffen SS in every case: officer promotions, weapons development, funds, weapons procurement, the requisitioning of supplies... And now as the Allies pressed closer to the fatherland, Hitler had given the SS permission to observe and oversee selected Wehrmacht units. A contingent of these black-uniformed fanatics now often accompanied a traditional army unit into battle- not to help it fight the enemy, but to be sure it fought exactly according to the Führer's orders. Naturally, the Wehrmacht hated the SS, and the SS hated the Wehrmacht. This was interservice rivalry carried to a dangerous extreme.
Kelly suspected that this institutionalized hatred was compounded by a deep personal antagonism between Rotenhausen and Beckmann. Indeed, he had the strong feeling that neither man would hesitate to kill the other if the time was ripe and the opportunity without peril. And that was no good. If the krauts were so insane that they were ready to kill each other, how much closer must they be to ruthlessly slaughtering innocent French villagers, priests, and nuns who got in their way?
Kelly twisted his hat more furiously, wringing it into a shapeless lump of sweat-stained felt
"Too much attention to rules and form makes dull minds and witless soldiers," Beckmann said. He tried to make it sound like the prelude to a pleasant debate, but the goad was quite evident. "Wouldn't you say that is true, General?" Beckmann asked. He knew that, while Rotenhausen outranked him, the terror induced by the SS image would keep the other officer from responding as he might have to a subordinate officer in the Wehrmacht. "Don't you want to venture an opinion, Kamerad Rotenhausen?" He used the Kamerad only to taunt the General, who was not a member of the Nazi Party.
"Gewiss, Sagen Sie mir aber, bekomme ich einen Preis, wenn meine Antworten richtig sind?" The general's voice contained a note of sarcasm which even Kelly could hear.
The major had no idea what Rotenhausen had said. But the tone of voice had made Beckmann pale even more. His lips drew tight and curved in a vicious rictus as he fought to control his temper.
Kelly nearly tore his hat to shreds.
"Nein," Beckmann told the general. He maintained his false serenity with a bit more ease now. "Sie bekommen keinen Preis..."
Rotenhausen smiled slightly. Whatever the nature of the brief exchange, however meaningless it had been, the Wehrmacht officer plainly felt that he had gained the advantage.
But around Beckmann, the air seemed charged with a very real if well restrained violence.
The two Wehrmacht oberleutnants who were Rotenhausen's aides stood at attention by the door to the kitchen hallway. They exchanged angry looks with an SS Haupt-sturmführer and an Obersturmführer, Beckmann's aides, who stood stiffly by the front door.
Though he was unaware of the fine points of the situation, Major Kelly knew that he must change the subject, get the two men thinking about something besides each other. "Will there be more officers who will require quality lodging for the night?" he asked Rotenhausen.
The general seemed to be relieved to have an excuse to break off his staring match with Beckmann. "Other officers? But already we have put out the other priests who live here, rousted your housekeeper from her room. We would not want to inconvenience you even further."
"It would be no inconvenience," Kelly said. "And... will your men want shelter for the night in the homes of my people?"
"Not at all," Rotenhausen said, dismissing the suggestion with a wave of his hand. "We would not dispossess nuns and deaf-mutes for the convenience of soldiers. Besides, Father Picard, I am known as a tough commander. My men must be constantly battle-hardened. They've had too much good living in Stuttgart. It is time they slept out and endured a bit of hardship."
"If it should rain-" Kelly began.
"So much the better for them!" Rotenhausen said. He was, Kelly thought, putting on quite a show for the Standartenführer.
Trying not to pray, Kelly turned to Beckmann. "And your men, sir? Will they require lodging tonight?"
Beckmann's broad face was set like a lump of concrete. "You know little about the Schutzstaffeln, Father Picard. I have but fifteen men with me-however, each one is tougher, more dedicated, more battle-hardened than any five other troopers the Third Reich commands." He looked at Rotenhausen and cracked a concrete smile. "Present company excepted, of course." To Kelly, he said, "My men will sleep out by the side of the road with the rest of the convoy. If rain should come, it will not perturb them, Father."
Major Kelly twisted his hat and hoped that the meager light from the two large kerosene lanterns would not reveal the immense relief that must be evident in his face. Yesterday, he had decided that it would be best to offer the krauts shelter in order not to seem suspiciously secretive about the town's houses and schools. Of course, had either Rotenhausen or Beckmann accepted the offer, the hoax would have fallen down like a village of cards. In this respect, their personal feud and the interservice rivalry between the SS and the Wehrmacht had worked to Kelly's advantage. Neither wanted himself or his men to appear weak and soft in the other's eyes. And thus far, neither bad mentioned the necessity for a building-to-building search. They were so involved in their reciprocal hatreds that they might actually blunder through this whole long night without even suspecting the secreted enemy around them.
Kelly almost smiled at this thought-and then realized that he was indulging in hope. The deadly disease. If you hoped, you died. It was that simple, but he had forgotten. He began to tremble twice as badly as he had done, scared witless.
Rotenhausen took a pipe from his shirt pocket, a thin tin of tobacco from his trousers. As he prepared his pipe, he stared at the top of Beckmann's head and discussed the procedure for standing down the convoy until dawn. "The Panzers should be parked on both sides of the road, at least twenty feet between them. Likewise, the trucks and artillery wagons. Only the 88 mm guns and the antiaircraft kliegs should remain on the road where they have a good base for counterattack in the event of a raid. No vehicles will be pulled into St. Ignatius; there is no need to jeopardize nuns and deaf-mutes." He finished tamping the tobacco. "We will post guards at all the intersections. Two-hour watches. Would you care to commit any of your men to this enterprise, Standartenführer?"
"Certainly, Kamerad," Beckmann said. He propped his jackboots on a small table before the sofa. "We will take responsibility for the bridge."
"Good enough," Rotenhausen said. He looked past Kelly at the two Wehrmacht junior officers who waited by the hall door. In German, he gave them orders for the bedding down of the convoy.
Even while Rotenhausen was speaking, Beckmann gave his stone-faced aides their orders for the establishment of an all-night guard patrol on the bridge.
One Wehrm
acht soldier left, and one remained.
One Schutzstaffeln man left, and one remained.
Major Kelly, standing in the middle of it all, sweating profusely and methodically destroying his hat, thought that this was like some complex game of chess in which real men were the pieces. Clearly, the rules were elaborate.
Having lighted his pipe, puffing calmly on it, the warm bowl gripped in one hand so tightly that it betrayed his studied nonchalance, General Rotenhausen said, "Father Picard, with your kind permission, I will have my aide start a fire in the kitchen stove and heat some water for my bath."
"Certainly! Be my guest, General, sir," Kelly said in mediocre French. "But first-" He sighed. He knew this might precipitate disaster, but he said, "My people will be wanting to get back to their beds. Could you tell me when you will want to search the village?"
Rotenhausen took his pipe from his mouth. Smoke rose between his lips. "Search the town, Father? But whatever for?"
Kelly cleared his throat. "I am quite aware that not all Frenchmen are as uncommitted in this war as those in St. Ignatius. I would understand if you wished to search for partisans."
"But you have no partisans here, do you?" Rotenhausen asked, taking a few short steps from the stone fireplace, halving the distance between them.
"This is chiefly a religious community," Kelly said. Remembering how convincing Maurice could be when he was lying, Kelly clutched at his heart. "God forbid that the Holy Church ever take sides in an earthly conflict of this sort."
Rotenhausen smiled, stuck his pipe between his teeth again. He spoke around the slender stem. "You call this village St. Ignatius?"
"Yes, sir," Kelly said.
"And how many people live here, did you say?"
Beckmann sat on the sofa, watching, face expressionless.
Major Kelly could not see the purpose in Rotenhausen's asking questions to which he already had the answers. But he responded anyway. "Less than two hundred souls, sir."
"And the town is built around a convent of some sort?" Rotenhausen asked, smiling and nodding encouragingly.
He did not look like a man who would lead a backwoods French priest into a deadly admission and then blow his head off with four shots from a Luger. Nevertheless, he must be dealt with cautiously.
"The convent was here first," Kelly said, cautiously. "The deaf came to be taught. Then the mute. Then deaf-mutes. Other sisterhoods established nunneries here to help with the work. The church was built. Then the store. A few of the laity moved in, built homes, seeking the calm and peacefulness of a religious community." Kelly felt that his knees were melting. In a minute he was going to be writhing helplessly on the floor.
Rotenhausen took his pipe from his mouth and thrust it at Major Kelly. "To tell you the truth, Father, I would like to search your village."
Kelly almost swayed, almost passed out.
"However," the general continued, "I believe it would be a waste of time and effort. My men are weary, Father Picard. And they will soon be expected to fight the Allies. They need what rest they can get." He put the pipe in his mouth and spoke around it. "Furthermore, the Reich is currently in no position to make an enemy of the Catholic Church. If we were to pry through nunneries and church schools looking for partisans, we would only help to force Rome into taking sides, and we would buy even more bad publicity for the German people."
Behind Rotenhausen, Standartenführer Beckmann had gotten to his feet. Lantern light caught the polish on his leather belt, glittered in the death's head insignia on his cap and shoulders. He was an evil, black Frankenstein, his white face slightly twisted, half cloaked in shadows.
Kelly felt sure that Beckmann was going to disagree with the general. He was going to say the search should be held. Then everyone would die. Bang. Bang, bang, bang. The end.
But that was not what Beckmann had in mind. "Perhaps General Rotenhausen has given you the impression that Germany has, in the past, done the wrong thing and that, as a consequence, our country now suffers from a poor image in the rest of the world. I must set you straight, Father. Germany follows the dictates of the Führer, and it makes no mistakes." He smiled at Rotenhausen. "There is no need to search St. Ignatius, because the Catholic Church is no enemy of the Reich. Oh, at times, a few of your bishops have acted unwisely. But for the most part, you people have remained neutral. Why, even Himmler is of your faith, Father. Did you know?"
"I didn't know," Kelly murmured.
Standartenführer Beckmann's voice rose as he spoke. "Whether or not a search of St. Ignatius would generate bad publicity for the Reich is purely academic. The main reason we need not hold a search is that-you are all Catholics here. Christians. And that means you are not Jews." Beckmann's voice had taken on a strange, chilling urgency. His face was strained, his eyes wild. "The Jews are Germany's only enemies, Father Picard. The Jews, Mischlingen, and subhumans are the threat to the race's perfection. When the world is Judenrein, then this war will end, and everyone will see that the Führer was correct!" He was breathing heavily now. "Free of Jews! How good the world will then be! And your great church recognizes this, Father Picard. It remains neutral. It is no ally of the Reich, but neither is it an enemy."
Clearly, Rotenhausen found Beckmann's mania offensive. He turned away from the Standartenführer and ordered his aide to heat the bath water.
"Father Picard," Beckmann said, even as Rotenhausen was speaking to his man, "how many griddles on the stove?"
"Four," Kelly said. He was aware that the danger had passed, but he was slightly confused.
"My aide will heat water for my bath on two of the griddles, if that is all right with you, Kamerad," Beckmann told Rotenhausen.
The general did not like that. But Beckmann's display of Nazi psychosis was enough to make him wary and, in fact, somewhat afraid of the SS colonel. "I suppose that will be fine," he said.
The aides rushed for the kitchen, nearly colliding in the narrow hall.
"Dear Father Picard," Rotenhausen said, "I believe we will not need you any more tonight. You may sleep in your own room. Tomorrow, please offer my apologies to your junior priests for our having had to put them out."
"I will do that, General," Kelly said. "Sleep well," he said, nodding his head vigorously to both of them and bowing in an oriental fashion as he backed toward the stairs.
That was when he fell over the chair. When he backed into it, he thought he had somehow bumped into one of the soldiers, though there were no more men in the room. The knobs at the top of the backrest felt like gun barrels in his kidneys. He cried out, staggered forward, tripped, and fell.
Rotenhausen and Beckmann rushed over and helped him to his feet. "Are you hurt, Father?" the general asked, solicitously.
"No, no," Kelly said. He was so relieved to find that he had backed into a chair instead of into a gun that he could hardly control his tongue. "It was merely a chair. Nothing but a chair." He turned and looked at the chair. "It is one I have owned for years. A chair cannot hurt a man. A chair can do nothing to a man unless he wants it to." He knew he was babbling, and his French was not good enough to trust to babbling, but he could not stop. For a moment, he had been sure they saw through him and were going to shoot him. But it had just been the knobs on the back of the chair.
"Be careful," Beckmann said as Kelly backed away from them again. "You're walking right into it, Father."
Sheepishly, Kelly looked at the chair. "I'm so stupid," he said. He patted the chair. "But this is an old chair in which I have sat many times. It cannot hurt me, eh?" Shut up, you idiot, he told himself. He reached the stairs and started up.
"Father Picard," Beckmann said. "Your hat."
"My what?" What was a hat? The word seemed familiar. Hat? Hat?
Standartenführer Conrad Beckmann bent down, picked up the shapeless black hat, and brought it over to the steps. He handed it to Kelly. "You twist, tear, and rumple it so fiercely, Father. I hope we have not made you nervous?" He smiled.
Was it
just an ordinary smile? Kelly wondered. Or was there something sinister behind it? Had Beckmann become suspicious?
"Nervous?" Kelly asked. "Oh, not me." He looked at the ruined hat in his hands. "I twist it up because-well, because it is only a hat. It is only the hat which I have worn on my head for years. It cannot hurt me no matter how much I twist it up." He gripped the lump of felt in both hands and wrenched it violently. He grinned weakly at Beckmann. "You see? I twist it, but it cannot hurt me. Just like the chair, eh?" He laughed nervously. Babbling, babbling...
"Goodnight, Father," Beckmann said.
"Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, General Rotenhausen." He turned and fairly ran up the steps to the second floor, past the house altar, down the short corridor, and into his room, closing the door behind.
"Why are priests all such idiots?" Beckmann asked Rotenhausen, as the door closed overhead.
In his room, Kelly collapsed on the mattress and hugged himself. He was shaking so badly that the brass bed vibrated under him like a drumhead. His hands were so cold he could feel the chilly outline of his fingers through his suit coat and clerical vest. Yet he was slimy with perspiration.
Don't pray, don't pray, don't pray, he told himself. He was so terrified that he was on the brink of prayer, and he knew that weakness would be the end of him. He hugged himself until the tremors gradually seeped away.
The room was blacker than Danny Dew. The sound of booted feet, foreign voices, and banging pans echoed up from downstairs, but this room itself was quiet. In a while, the darkness and silence soothed Kelly and restored a bit of his self-confidence.