The Pale House

by Luke McCallin

  “And for good reason. Make no mistake, gentlemen, Partisan infiltration is very real. Those fuckers are everywhere. You have all heard by now, I think, of the rather audacious coup they carried out recently. The theft of the army’s defense plans, two days ago, from right out of the locked safe where they were held, in this very building.”

  “Hats off to whoever did it,” said Scheller, to a general murmur from the assembled officers. “That was a hell of an operation.”

  Herzog frowned at Scheller, though he nodded. “We tried to keep it a secret, and officially it still is. However, too many people got questioned, and too many things now need changing as a result of the theft, and it has been chaos. To make matters worse, the officer in charge of drafting the plans, Colonel Wedel, committed suicide yesterday, increasing the rumors and worsening the confusion. Back to you, Langenkamp.”

  “Our dealings with the Ustaše proceed on a delicate basis,” Langenkamp continued, as if Herzog had never spoken. “With the evacuation, we are under pains to ensure they do not take the wrong impression, and believe we are abandoning them completely. That would lead to unpredictable consequences for our troops here, and across Croatia. In addition, Ustaše activity in the city, even if it is causing problems for our occupation and evacuation, has been given an implicit seal of approval by the general officer commanding in Sarajevo, General Kathner. Lastly, for your information, I have a counterpart in the Ustaše, a Captain . Should you not be able to locate me, you may request his assistance. Thank you,” he finished, ending as he had started, with his hands folded on the table and his eyes focused somewhere else.

  There was silence after Langenkamp had finished, and Reinhardt wondered whether any of the Feldjaeger had an inkling of what awaited them out there, with the Ustaše. “Captain Langenkamp,” he said, leaning into the silence, feeling the weight of Herzog’s eyes boring into him. “You mentioned an Ustaša called Ante . I wonder, did he used to be in the Sarajevo police?” Langenkamp nodded.

  “Friend of yours, Reinhardt?” asked Scheller, eyebrows raised over the rim of his coffee cup.

  “Not exactly.”

  “So you’ll not be wanting to run into him again, I’d think?” Reinhardt’s mouth opened, but he did not know what to say to that. “Hold that thought, then, Reinhardt. Let’s listen to Major Neuffer. Major, please,” said Scheller, indicating he had the floor. With his smoothed-back hair, wide cheeks, and a pinched mouth stitched across his narrow chin, Neuffer suddenly reminded Reinhardt of no one so much as the old Kaiser, Wilhelm II.

  “Thank you, Colonel. I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you and your men to the city, and say that we are counting on your assistance to maintain order within the ranks. We are very happy to have you here with us,” he said, though he looked, like Herzog, anything but happy. The major went on longer in that vein, a formalistic and formulaic litany, with only a few real pieces of information and intelligence sprinkled through it until Herzog grunted at him to “fucking get on with it.” With flushed cheeks, Neuffer informed them that the Feldjaeger were to be deployed at certain hot spots, such as the train station and the main barracks here in Kosovo Polje.

  “Colonel, if I may,” Reinhardt spoke up. Scheller nodded. “General, sir, what is the role of the German forces in maintaining law and order within the city itself?”

  “I would like to reiterate what Captain Langenkamp has said about the Ustaše. They remain our allies, and as such, it is our duty to assist them or, failing that, to not hinder them in their operations. Our responsibility is to ensure that our men maintain good discipline pending their evacuation, and to put the fear of God into them if they step out of line. Except in matters of strategy, and in operational security, and in those touching directly upon our troops, we have no authority over the Ustaše.”

  “Meaning, sir?”

  “Meaning that law and order in the city is the almost exclusive preserve of the Ustaše.”

  “‘Almost’ exclusive? Meaning . . . ?”

  Herzog frowned, clearly annoyed by Reinhardt’s questioning. “Meaning we leave them the fuck alone.”

  “Meaning we leave them alone to do whatever damn thing they want?” asked Reinhardt, who had been irked by the general’s dismissive profanity into slipping one of his own into his words.

  Herzog’s eyes narrowed. “And remind me just who the hell you are?”

  “Reinhardt, sir.”

  Herzog turned his squinty eyes on Neuffer, who nodded. “Reinhardt. Right. Colonel,” said Herzog, addressing Scheller, “this is precisely what we were afraid of. I must bring up the actions of Captain Reinhardt earlier this evening, about which we have received a written complaint from the Ustaše, and a report from one of our own people.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “An officer who observed Captain Reinhardt’s dealings with the Ustaše.”

  Scheller cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Reinhardt. “There was a Feldgendarmerie unit there at that checkpoint earlier this evening, sir.”

  “And what cause for complaint did Captain Reinhardt give, sir?” Scheller asked.

  Herzog’s mouth moved, and Reinhardt could not tell if he found the question distasteful, or the whole thing funny. “Captain Reinhardt got in the way of things, shall we say. The natural order of events.” Scheller cocked his head, inviting Herzog to say more.

  Neuffer shifted uncomfortably. “If we might return to the matter at hand . . .” He paused, as if inviting Herzog to say more, but the general remained silent. “Such unilateral actions as Captain Reinhardt’s, going directly against the wishes of the Ustaše, are detrimental to our smooth relations and operations in this city. I have been asked for your assurance this will not happen again.”

  “Quite,” said Scheller, his chin sunk on his chest. He looked up at Herzog from beneath his lowered brows, looking calm and reasonable, but those who knew him—and Reinhardt was starting to read his moods—could see the annoyance that was on the verge of turning to anger. Scheller was, as Reinhardt had learned in these past months, a man intensely loyal to his subordinates. He expected a great deal of them, but he gave a great deal back in terms of trust and responsibility and freedom of action. “We must all hope Captain Reinhardt, and indeed any of my men, not be faced with such situations.”

  “Too fucking right,” Herzog grunted. “A rule of thumb, gentlemen. Think of it as colors. Our jurisdiction begins and ends with those in field gray. We have no authority over those dressed in black. And on that, I’ll leave you to it, shall I? Neuffer’s your man if you need anything. Best of luck and all that,” he said rising, tugging his tunic straight, and then something seemed to change in the way he stood, and spoke, as if he suddenly stood in focus. “This is no picnic, gentlemen, and although it may seem like the worst of times, this is a prelude. Sometimes, you know things have to get bad, sometimes really bad, before they get better. These, gentlemen,” he said, jutting his chin at the Feldjaeger, “these are such times, and this is such a place. When they look back, they’ll look at this place, these times, and they’ll wonder at the caliber of the men who lived and fought through it all.” Herzog paused at the door as Neuffer held it open, looking back at them. “And with that, gentlemen, I wish you luck.”

  “Right, lads,” said Scheller when they were alone. “Morten, be a good chap and reach that bottle out from the cabinet.” There was quiet as Morten poured four glasses of brandy, and then they sat back, lighting cigarettes. Each of them, it was clear, was thinking of General Herzog. Reinhardt exchanged a glance with Morten, who raised an eyebrow as he glanced at the door. “Here’s what I want. I want us all out of this city intact. I don’t want anyone lost if we can help it. Not for this dump—you’ll excuse the reference,” he said, nodding to Reinhardt, who raised his glass back, “and not for these psychopathic Ustaše, either. So, we back up the Feldgendarmerie where they ask us to, but particularly at the tr
ain station. Things can sometimes get out of hand there, apparently.”

  “That’s to be expected, sir. Men can go a bit crazy so close to a way out,” said Morten.

  “Quite. I want a few of our own patrols out, as well. I don’t know how long we’ll be here for, and I want our own eyes and ears and feel for the ground. Lainer, you take care of that, will you?

  “Reinhardt, I’m taking you off operations. I want you on the staff here, and I want you liaising with army command. You know the city. I want your experience at hand if Lainer’s and Morten’s boys call in, or need intelligence.”

  “Sir,” began Reinhardt. He looked at the other two captains. Both of them were, as was normal for the Feldjaeger, highly decorated and immensely experienced combat officers. Lainer was given to sporting a rather rakish appearance with his hair permanently combed back from a widow’s peak, and Morten was somewhat piratical with a patch over his left eye. It had not been easy to win the respect of these men. Reinhardt was still not sure he had it, feeling that they all looked sideways at him, wondering if they thought him weak, or not tough enough, and sometimes the urge to tell stories of his days as a stormtrooper in the first war—to show them he was once as young and strong and hard as them—was powerful, but he stopped himself, not wanting to be seen as someone living in the past. Not some old man holding up the bar with stories from a bygone era. “If it’s because of the Ustaše . . .”

  “It is and it isn’t, Reinhardt. I’m relying on you to make sure we navigate these waters. Which means, I want you focused, here. In fact, get yourself off. I want your after-action report on your patrol on my desk before midnight. Then get some sleep. You’re on duty as of oh six hundred tomorrow morning.”

  For most of that following morning, Reinhardt’s time was devoted to operational details of the Feldjaeger’s deployment, liaising with the army commanders in charge of the ongoing evacuation. The Feldjaeger were deployed in the train station for the most part, where their reputation preceded them and where trouble had died away considerably since their arrival. They had been perceived as being so successful that calls had come in for their presence from several other areas where soldiers were billeted or barracked, and where tension was rising high as men’s thoughts bent ever more sharply toward their seat on the train, and when it would be.

  Dealing with those requests, rotating the Feldjaeger in and out for rest, was tricky but rewarding, and Reinhardt found his knowledge of Sarajevo coming back in useful as he directed Feldjaeger units around the city, and further afield, into the rear areas and out along the roads leading west and north toward Visoko and Zenica. All the while, twisting across his mind, the forest, three burned bodies, a corpse with a goatee, and a young girl in her father’s arms. And behind all of them, the Ustaše. Bunda at the checkpoint, the primeval size of the man, the fear he engendered. Reinhardt found himself stroking the gap in his teeth, then clenched his jaw in anger.

  “There’s a judge wants to see you.”

  Reinhardt started, looking up and around from the duty roster he was correcting, then getting to his feet. Colonel Scheller stood behind him, a slip of paper in his hand. He waved Reinhardt back into his seat, and hooked a chair and sat down himself.

  “A judge?”

  “Judge’s name is Dreyer.”

  Reinhardt frowned. “Dreyer? Marcus Dreyer?”

  “And you know this Dreyer how?”

  “If it’s the same Dreyer, then he and I go a long way back. We served in the same unit together in the first war, then he became a judge in Berlin when I was a policeman. I lost sight of him in the late 1930s; then we were posted together to Norway. Turns out he had quit the judiciary and gone back into the army.” Dreyer had been a good friend to the police, and a good friend to Reinhardt himself. The two of them had come under the same kinds of pressure from Germany’s new masters, to conform, to adapt, to toe the line. Dreyer had given in before Reinhardt, if what Reinhardt had done to stay in the police longer could be countenanced as resistance. “I lost touch with him again after that. I’d heard he was in Russia. What’s this about anyway, sir? Why does he want to see me?”

  “Apparently, he’s read your report from yesterday, and he wants to talk to you about it.” Scheller stopped, chewing his lower lip, lowering his head to look at the paper held in his thick fingers. For all his formidable size and energy, Scheller was desperately tired. Major Hassler had been killed in Montenegro and not replaced, and although Reinhardt had covered some of the major’s workload, much of it had still fallen on Scheller.

  “Yesterday’s report?” Reinhardt frowned.

  Scheller shrugged. “You’ll find out. Get going, Reinhardt. Take my car and driver.”

  Reinhardt wound his way back through the hallways, through the scrum of men and swirl of noise and back out into the cold. Mercifully, Scheller’s car had a hard top and sides, and was thus warm. The driver trundled it past the lines of waiting troops, through the weaving streams of smoke from their fires, and then the car was pulling up at the State House, the old Austro-Hungarian building. Hurrying out, past the salutes of sentries on duty and through the echoing foyer, Reinhardt remembered coming here to speak with Captain Thallberg of the secret field police, back when he was investigating Marija and Stefan Hendel’s murders.

  Following directions upstairs, past the old secret field police offices, he came to the section occupied by the army’s judicial service. He paused, hesitating, feeling for a moment like an interloper, or worse, like a penitent. He shook himself out of it and pushed the door open, stepping tall into the office, and finding it empty. There was a murmur of voices from across it, from down a short corridor that ended in a half-open door, a harsh quality to them as if men were arguing. He walked up to it and knocked. The voices cut off, a stentorian “Come!” echoing from the other side.

  The office was unlike any other judge’s office Reinhardt had been in during his police career. No shelves of rich and paneled wood filled with legal tomes, no carpet, no leather armchairs and shaded lamps. This office was cold, spare: a desk, a couple of mismatched hard chairs, a gramophone in one corner standing next to a camp bed that had been hastily made and with a prodigious dip in the mattress. And rising from behind the desk, a man with a smile creasing a look of surprise off his face. He was big and bluff, breasting across the room like a galleon under sail.

  “Gregor? Gregor! By God, it is you, man!”

  “Marcus. Major Dreyer, sir.” Reinhardt took the other man’s hand, acknowledging his rank. He smiled back, but it was a sudden nervousness he felt more than any pleasure at seeing what was indeed an old friend.

  “Bloody hell, Gregor! I’d heard you were here, but had no . . . idea, this was . . .” He stopped, his hand gesturing at the Feldjaegerkorps gorget around Reinhardt’s throat.

  “You get used to it, sir.”

  The other man in the room cleared his throat, a polite smile on his face as he looked between them. He was a tall, thin man in a well-tailored uniform, a pair of spectacles held in long fingers, like a pianist’s. The man had a smooth head of silver-white hair, two spots of color on his cheeks, and an expression of erudite surprise and query on his face as he looked at Reinhardt, head to toe.

  Dreyer turned, an arm extending to include him. “My manners, I do apologize. Reinhardt, this is Judge Felix Erdmann. A redoubtable jurist and my superior here.”

  “How do you do, Captain,” said Erdmann.

  “How do you do, sir. I am sorry for interrupting, only there was no one in the outer office.”

  “Not at all, Captain.” Erdmann smiled. “I gather this is a happy reunion, Dreyer?”

  “Very much so,” said Dreyer, grinning at Reinhardt. “The captain and I go way back. We were in the first war together. He must’ve saved my life half a dozen times. And then he did it again in 1940, up in Norway. Pulled me off a sinking ship at Narvik after the British had destroyed i
t.”

  “My goodness!”

  “And we were colleagues in Berlin when the war ended.”

  “Oh, really?” Erdmann’s head tilted toward Reinhardt inquisitively. “You are a lawyer?”

  “I was a policeman, sir.”

  “A policeman? Of what, exactly?”

  “A detective.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Reinhardt was one of the Alex’s best.” Dreyer grinned, proudly. “Fancy meeting him here!”

  “Indeed,” murmured Erdmann, again, a faint smile on his face as he brushed the frames of his spectacles across his lips.

  “Sir, I wonder whether you might give the captain and me a few minutes to reminisce?”

  “But of course, Dreyer. Of course,” said Erdmann. He glanced at his wristwatch, an elegant bend of his arm. “Let us pick this up again on the hour? In my office? A pleasure to meet you, Captain.”

  The door clicked shut behind Erdmann, and Dreyer ushered Reinhardt over to a pair of mismatched chairs. “Tell me. What’s been happening to you? And for God’s sake, drop the ‘sir’!”

  Reinhardt looked Dreyer over, from the dark green piping on his rank to the Knight’s Cross at his throat, the Winter Campaign medal slanting red across his tunic.

  “Cigarette?” Dreyer held out a metal cigarette case, its body lacquered silver and ivory, and he lit Reinhardt’s cigarette with a matching lighter. Dreyer smiled as he saw Reinhardt’s eyes on it. “The contents aren’t quite up to scratch,” he murmured, as he lit his own cigarette. “Damn things are all paper and precious little tobacco.”

  Reinhardt watched Dreyer’s head tilt forward and down to the flame of his lighter. His eyes caught on the deep lines etched into the judge’s face, the red veins that forked in broken tributaries across his nose. As Dreyer’s eyes opened, Reinhardt’s darted elsewhere, focusing furtively on his own cigarette, then lifting, following the smoke he blew at the ceiling.