Lycanthropos

by Sackett, Jeffrey

  "You are Doctor von Weyrauch?" one of them asked.

  "I...yes...yes, I am. Why? W...what do you want?" he stammered.

  The man turned to Louisa. "And you are Louisa von Weyrauch, maiden name Keimes?"

  "Yes," she replied evenly, frightened but bitterly resentful of this intrusion.

  The S.S. man nodded. "You will both please pack a bag and accompany us."

  "Accompany you where?" he asked, his lip quivering. He reached back to take Louisa’s hand, ostensibly as a gesture of protection, in reality out of need for support. She snatched her hand away from him and stood glowering at the two men so intimidating in their black uniforms and jack boots.

  "Your presence is required at S.S. headquarters in Budapest," he replied. "You have very little time, so you had better see to your packing immediately."

  "Budapest!" Louisa exclaimed. "Why? What in God’s name for? Who has ordered this?"

  "The order comes, I understand, from your cousin, Madam."

  Weyrauch rushed upstairs to pack bags for them both as Louisa, her face flushed and her hands curled into trembling fists at her sides, argued with their unwelcome escorts. Weyrauch knew as well as she did that the only cousin of Louisa’s to whom the trooper could have been referring was, when last they had heard of him, a colonel in the S.S.

  Less than an hour later they were on a military transport plane, flying through the blue Moravian sky on their way to Hungary.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Helmuth Schlacht dropped the file folders onto the large mahogany desk and shook his head. Facts do not lie; the information written in the files were facts, and the two dozen mutilated bodies stored in the freezers in the basement of the RagoczyPalace were facts. But when facts seem to run counter to reason, documentation must be very carefully assembled before action is taken. If Weyrauch can assist me in presenting this to Himmler, he thought, I’ll see that he and Louisa are taken care of. He should be grateful, even if she isn’t. He laughed humorlessly, recalling the many conversations, arguments actually, in which he and his cousin Louisa had engaged when they were children back in the twenties, before their estrangement had become so deep and fundamental that they had stopped seeing each other altogether.

  When was the last time I saw Louisa? he mused. Was it at her wedding? No, it was after that. She had refused to allow him into the church if he insisted upon wearing his uniform...he was in the S.A. then, a storm trooper, a brownshirt, until he was recruited by the S.S....and while he had no desire to attend the wedding in the first place, having agreed to go just to placate his forever needling mother, he was nonetheless angered at Louisa’s attitude. He had consoled himself with many foolish, adolescent dreams of vengeance upon her for the affront, but he had outgrown them.

  It had not taken long for him to realize that Louisa, married to a weak-kneed, spineless clergyman, living out her life as a petite-bourgeois Hausfrau in a provincial Silesian backwater, had taken a greater vengeance upon herself than he would have taken. He was reasonably certain that she was miserable, and he derived some satisfaction from the knowledge, even though on a different level he felt sorry for her.

  S.S. Colonel Helmuth Schlacht did not think himself a vengeful man. He was, of course, a dedicated and devoted National Socialist, and did not regard the necessary execution of national and racial enemies as vengeful acts, regardless of the harm these creatures had done to the Fatherland and the Volk. It was simply as the Führer had so often said, that the lying, deceitful, thieving, traitorous, destructive, parasitic, syphilis-ridden Jews had to be done away with, along with the Gypsies and, ultimately, the Slavs and the Asiatics and the intelligent apes that inhabited sub-Saharan Africa. There is no vengeance involved in the destruction of germs, he reasoned, though he did acknowledge experiencing a scintillating pleasure in the exercise of power, in the ability, indeed the right and duty, to cause pain and suffering to the enemies of the Reich. To his own mind, Schlacht was neither vengeful nor sadistic, but was rather a soldier in a great crusade which had as its goal the racial purification of the world and the establishment of a global German Empire. And if this goal necessitated the extermination of millions of sub-humans, what of it? And if he enjoyed his work, so much the better. Soon enough the work would be done, at least in Europe.

  If we have the time, he thought. If we have the time. If we can hold off the Russians and withstand the cross-Channel invasion that everyone knew would happen soon, if we can keep the firm grip on the rest of Europe which we have held for the past five years. He looked down at the file folders once again. This man may be of great use to us, to the S.S. and to the Reich. If he can be brought under control, if he can be trained, if his madness can be turned to our uses.

  He heard a knock on his office door and he said, "Come." His voice was brusque and official. Corporal Hans Vogel entered, came to attention and snapped his right arm upward in the Nazi salute. Schlacht returned the salute and then asked, "Well?"

  "Doctor von Weyrauch and Frau von Weyrauch have arrived, Herr Colonel," his adjutant said. "They are waiting in the outer office."

  "Good," he responded, rising from behind his desk. "Show them in, and then send up some schnapps."

  "Jawohl, Herr Colonel." Vogel turned about briskly and closed the door behind him. Schlacht rose from behind his desk and walked around to stand in front of it. He leaned back against the desk and folded his arms somewhat imperiously, aware that such a stance would communicate authority and confidence. He had no desire to engage in any banter with his cousin, and hoped that an immediate communication of his power and his position would serve to intimidate her into silence. It was her husband with whom he had to speak, after all. Her presence was little more than a courtesy. Besides, he thought sarcastically, he recalled that during the abortive Hungarian revolution of the early twenties, she had declared that the Magyar Communist Bela Kuhn was her hero. She should be grateful to her cousin for affording her the opportunity at last to visit Budapest.

  A few moments later the door of his office opened and his adjutant ushered Louisa and her husband into the room. Schlacht smiled broadly and opened his arms as he walked toward them, saying, "Louisa! How good to see you! You are as lovely as ever."

  She eyed him warily and accepted without comment or responsiveness the kiss on the cheek which he gave her. "Helmuth," she replied, a non-committal greeting, a mere acknowledgement of his presence.

  "And Gottfried," Schlacht went on, turning to Weyrauch. "It’s been too long, don’t you think?" He shook Weyrauch’s hand with affectionate vigor, smiling at him and slapping him on the arm as if they were the oldest and best of friends.

  Weyrauch returned the smile weakly, nervously. His hand, he knew, was cold and clammy, and when he tried to speak, all he could emit was a nervous giggle.

  Louisa watched her husband’s shoulders start to hunch over with his customary, instinctive obsequiousness, and she made a soft sound which bespoke her disgust before saying, "All right, Helmuth, you sent your people to arrest us, and now we’re here. What do you want from us? You should know enough about Gottfried to realize that he has nothing to do with the resistance, and..."

  "Louisa, you wound me!" Schlacht said, grinning. "You aren’t under arrest! Far from it, actually. You two are my honored guests, and Gottfried here may be in a position to be of great service to me personally and to the Reich as well." He paused. "And, as I’m sure you know, there is no resistance." His smile remained, but the humor and warmth which his eyes had been expressing vanished with a chilling immediacy as he spoke these last words. He seemed to be indicating that his statement was an axiom, with which one could disagree only at the risk of great danger.

  Louisa chose to ignore the implications of his sudden change of expression.

  "Indeed!" she replied haughtily. "Do you seriously believe that all Germans are as ignorant and spineless and wicked and..."

  Schlacht forced a laugh as he took her by the arm and led her over to the large leather sofa which
rested to the right of his desk, against the wall of his richly furnished office. "Ah, dear, sweet Louisa, you never change." He was suddenly once again the friendly, solicitous host. As he offered her a seat on the sofa and motioned Weyrauch forward to take a seat beside her, the door of his office opened once again and an S.S. private entered carrying a silver tray upon which stood three crystal glasses and a bottle. "Good," Schlacht said as the private placed the tray down upon the desk and then, after saluting, left the room and closed the door behind him. "I’m sure that you could both do with a drink after your long flight."

  "Well, no thank you, Helmuth," Weyrauch said, clearing his throat. "I don’t think..."

  Schlacht filled all three glasses, ignoring what Weyrauch was saying, and handed a glass to each of them. He took the third glass in hand and raised it up to make a toast. "The Führer," he said. He sipped the schnapps and watched out of the corner of his eye as Weyrauch did the same. Louisa held her glass motionless, her eyes fixed with suspicion and obvious dislike upon of her cousin.

  Weyrauch looked from his wife to her cousin and commented to himself how similar they were in appearance. It would have rankled Louisa to hear it, but she and Schlacht were Hitler’s quintessential Aryans, with ice-white blond hair and crystalline blue eyes. Both were tall and slender, though Schlacht’s slimness was muscular and Louisa’s was somewhat wraithlike. Each had the same precisely chiseled nose and the same high, aristocratic cheekbones, the same flawless, almost translucent skin and the same long, delicate fingers. They’re almost like brother and sister, Weyrauch thought. He took a moment to wonder if Louisa’s passionate ethical intensity and Schlacht’s fanatical devotion to the dream of a Nazi empire were two sides of the same coin, reflections of personalities which were immovable and single-minded, each in their own ways idealistic and intolerant.

  There is a difference, of course, Weyrauch thought, sipping once again from the glass of schnapps which he had not wanted but which was imparting a warm glow to his stomach and serving to calm his nerves a bit. The difference is that Helmuth kills and enslaves people.

  "Louisa," Schlacht smiled, "don’t you like schnapps? I can have something else brought up for you..."

  "All I want from you is an explanation, Helmuth," she said coldly. "And you can stop your pretense of friendship and good cheer. You know exactly what I think of you, and I know exactly what you think of me."

  He laughed. "You misjudge me, my dear, you really do. You have always misjudged me."

  "Have I!" she said, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

  "Certainly," he replied. "But since you don’t seem in a particularly sociable mood, let me get right to the point. First of all," and he turned to Weyrauch, "let me apologize for sending for you in such a, shall we say, preemptory manner. Secrecy was a prime consideration. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you."

  "Oh, no, no, that’s perfectly all right," Weyrauch said, giggling again.

  "Oh, Gottfried!" Louisa muttered with disgust.

  "Good, good," Schlacht said. "The thing is, I need your help, Gottfried. I need someone I can trust to keep his mouth shut…"

  "You’ve found your man," Louisa commented glumly.

  "...someone who can be relied upon to keep certain things to himself. In addition, I need someone with medical knowledge and some experience with psychology. I know that you hold a medical degree, and I seem to recall that you did some studies of the theories of the Jew Freud. Am I correct?"

  "Yes, on both counts," Weyrauch replied. "But Freud’s theories are not…well…"

  "I know, I know," Schlacht said impatiently. "When fighting an insidious enemy, extreme protective measures have to be taken to guard against subversion. I know that Freud’s books have been burned and his theories are anathema, but that doesn’t mean that we, the elite, cannot familiarize ourselves with them or apply them where needed. The ideas of Einstein have been treated the same way, but that hasn’t stopped our research into the possibility of creating an offensive weapon deriving its power from nuclear fission."

  Louisa frowned. "What are you talking about?"

  He sat down behind his desk and smiled at her. "I am talking about state secrets, my dear, things about which very few people have been told. The point is the fact that Freud and Einstein are Jews does not in and of itself mean that their discoveries are without merit or use."

  "And you are interested in the works of Freud?" Weyrauch asked. "If so, Helmuth, there are probably many people who have a greater knowledge of his theories than I have."

  "It should be easy to find them," Louisa muttered. "Most of them are in concentration camps."

  "Ah, Louisa," Schlacht laughed amiably. "Always the wry wit. No, I am not interested in exploring Freud’s theories personally. I am interested in…" He paused for a moment, as if considering something. "Tell me, Gottfried, have you had any experience with forensic medicine, autopsies and the like?"

  Weyrauch shrugged. "Standard medical school study, nothing more. Why do you ask?"

  "Are you capable of determining the cause of death, when presented with a cadaver?"

  "I suppose so, as long as there isn’t anything exotic or mysterious involved. I am not a research chemist, you know."

  "I know, I know," he mused, still thinking. Then he stood up and said, "I want you to see something we have in the basement. Louisa, I suggest you stay here. What I have to show Gottfried is not particularly pleasant."

  "I have a strong stomach, Helmuth," she said. "I need one, to live in Germany."

  He shrugged. "As you wish. Follow me." Schlacht led them from his office out into the hallway of the one-time palace of the Magyar nobility. As they walked along the marble corridor, Weyrauch looked up at the murals that had been painted upon the high, vaulted ceilings and contrasted them with the blank, empty walls. The square and rectangular variations of color indicated that at one time these walls had been hung with paintings, and that the paintings had been removed. He sighed, remembering what he had heard about Hermann GMring’s private art collection, personal spoils from a despoiled continent.

  At every corner and at every door they passed S.S. guards, who snapped to attention and saluted Colonel Schlacht. He returned the salutes in an impatient, perfunctory manner. They turned at the end of the hallway and descended a flight of long, wide stairs. "Gottfried," Schlacht was saying, "I am going to show you some human remains. I want you to try to determine the cause of death."

  "But surely you must have people at your disposal who can answer that question to your satisfaction," Weyrauch protested.

  "You misunderstand me," Schlacht said. "I already know the cause of death. But I want you to see for yourself and come to your own conclusions. You’ll understand why soon enough."

  They proceeded down a long corridor and approached a large door which was flanked by S.S. guards. One reached behind him and pushed open the door and then joined his comrade in saluting Schlacht. The colonel walked past them, followed by his cousin and her husband. Weyrauch was visibly unnerved by the presence of so many armed men, and even Louisa was increasingly ill at ease. In their little town of Kappelburg, the armed might of Hitler’s minions had not been a constant presence, relegated instead to newsreels and the occasional parade. But there was no element of pretense or show in these S.S. troops. They were heavily armed and, as the Weyrauchs knew full well, quite willing, ready and able to kill upon orders from their colonel.

  Schlacht walked over to the rear wall of the large, empty, starkly white room which they had just entered as Weyrauch looked around and decided that this must at one time have been a kitchen. Against the wall stood a number of very large freezer cases, and as Schlacht placed his hand upon the door handle of one case he turned to his cousin. "Last chance, Louisa," Schlacht warned her. "This isn’t a pretty sight."

  "I can avert my eyes if I want to, Helmuth," she replied laconically.

  "I think you may want to," he said as he pulled open the door. She averted her eyes almost immedi
ately. Her husband would have done the same, but for the fact that he knew that Schlacht expected him to examine the contents of the freezers. Weyrauch did not think it would be wise to disappoint him.

  Weyrauch walked closer and, repressing his nausea, looked into the freezer. It was packed full with parts of human bodies: arms, hands, legs, internal organs, wild, staring eyes set into severed heads whose open mouths had been frozen into death screams, chunks of flesh that had been torn brutally from human bodies. They were the ripped and raked and ruined pieces of mutilated corpses.

  "Your findings, Doctor?" Schlacht asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. What a weakling you are, Gottfried, he thought.

  Weyrauch leaned closer, feeling the bile rising in his throat. He looked at the edges of the body parts, at the length and structure of the scraping wounds. He stepped back and wiped his brow. "Well, I couldn’t be certain, of course…"

  "Of course," Schlacht agreed patiently. "Just give me your impressions. What killed these men?"

  Weyrauch sighed. "They were S.S.?"

  "Yes. You noticed the shreds of uniform, of course."

  "Of course." He paused. "Well, I would have to say, as strange as it sounds, that these men were torn apart by wild beasts."

  "Precisely the findings of our doctors," Schlacht agreed, and then leaned forward to say in almost conspiratorial tones, "The problem. Gottfried, is that these two dozen heavily-armed, well-trained soldiers were killed by one unarmed man."

  Weyrauch stared at Schlacht for a moment and then, at a loss for how to respond to so outrageous an assertion, he said, "That’s, uh, remarkable, to be sure."

  "It’s more than remarkable, Gottfried," Schlacht said, closing the freezer door. "It may very well be a matter of the greatest importance."

  "Yes, yes, of course it may, of course it may," Weyrauch agreed, having not the foggiest notion what Schlacht was talking about.