The Pale House

by Luke McCallin

“With you?”

  “With me.”

  “I will listen,” Reinhardt said.

  “I can maybe give you Jansky,” said Alexiou, a calm blink belaying the weight of his words. “This is what this judge wants, is it not?”

  “Go on.”

  “We are Greeks who enlisted in the German Army, as we felt we could no longer live in our own country,” said Alexiou. It was said simply, but the deeper meaning was there, the deeper truth that they were collaborators who had backed the wrong cause and were now paying the price for it. Said simply, it was a fact, like a rock in the road. It just was. It could not be moved, shunted aside. Only acknowledged, then contoured.

  “We have been with this unit for some time, Captain. We were the first foreigners to join it. Nearly a year ago, in Greece. We needed a place of safety, and although it may sound strange to you, this place was it. If you like, I took the chance—for me and my family, and those others outside who are loyal to me—to hide away. To hide in plain view, if you like, to wait for another day, and I paid good gold for that privilege. Alas, that day never came. I used to think it would, but anyone who says there is a brighter time coming for our cause is dreaming. Now, I am no longer involved in the councils. In the decisions. Look at us. Everyone has gone, except the runts. We are last to move. Even the Albanians come before me.”

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “I do not know.”

  “I heard of an Albanian who was killed, recently. In a car crash. He was from Balli Kombëtar.” The Greeks went still, all three of them staring at him. “What do you know of that?”

  “Nothing. What the Albanians do is not our business. They are pigs.”

  “What about the Ustaše?”

  “What of them?”

  “What do you hear?”

  “They are pigs, too. We are all pigs, rooting in the dirt, eating shit, not able to see past our nose. I do not know the whole shape of what is happening, but what I see I do not like. This place no longer has the welcome of before, and now, I fear I must find another place for my people. I am tired of being ignored, of just being fed words. Words that are supposed to fill some hole, as if anyone but my sons could know the shape of the hole that fills me. Words that are supposed to kindle a fire in me, words that are supposed to recall the great blows we struck against the fucking leftists and the weaklings and the Communists who would have sent my country to ruin. Words that are supposed to describe the great things we will still do, if only we are patient. As if a warm handshake and a pat on the shoulder and praise is any substitute for action. You give such to a dog, Captain, not to a man.”

  Alexiou paused, and though his voice remained calm, his anger was palpable. He sipped from his cup, his eyes far away. His sons looked past each other, round-shouldered around their own cups.

  “Who is it who tells you these things?” Reinhardt asked.

  “I do not know,” Alexiou answered. “Some fucking Germans. You all look and sound the same to us. One spoke like . . . like a fisherman. Harsh. Swearing. One spoke like a priest. That is when I knew. Always when you have no more need of us, this is when the big words come out.”

  “Did Kreuz tell you about Dreyer?” Alexiou said nothing. “If he didn’t, who did? Was it Jansky?” Reaction, the nose flaring, pinching. “It was Jansky. Ask yourself, why would he do that? What does he want you to do with that information?”

  “I do not know, and I do not care.”

  “You should. Maybe you should think why you are still here when the others have gone.”

  “I do not march to Jansky’s music anymore. Now, I must consider how best to act for my people. I have a deal for you. I will give you something. But you must look away.” Alexiou leaned forward, his cup tiny in his thick fingers. “If you can promise Dreyer will leave us alone, we can help give Jansky to him. We know things, and we are still close enough we can find new things. But you get nothing for nothing. For what we have, you must deal with the devil, and I think men like you find that hard.”

  Reinhardt turned the coffee cup around in his fingers, gently tilting it so the liquid ran away from the grounds. He lifted it, sipped slowly until the taste went gritty and sour. “I can do that,” he said, looking at the sludge of grounds in the bottom of his cup. “After all, it’s not so hard. You can even get used to it,” he finished, raising his eyes to Alexiou’s.

  “To fight injustice, you must sometimes commit it,” agreed Alexiou, gravely, leaning forward and taking the cup gently from Reinhardt while Reinhardt seethed inside, as if this man could dream he could plumb the depths of what Reinhardt regretted. Holding the cup delicately, Alexiou tilted it and turned it three times, spilling out a thin stream of liquid and dark grounds, then turned it upside down onto a small saucer and sat back.

  “Kreuz had evidence he wanted to give to me. Can you find it?”

  “What was it?”

  Reinhardt shrugged, slightly, his mouth turning down. “I don’t know. But I suspect it was documents. Maybe even these soldbuchs you mentioned he saw.”

  “Where would he get those?” The three Greeks exchanged blank looks. “If he stole those, or if Jansky suspected he might have, I can understand he is dead now,” Alexiou continued.

  “Kreuz was last seen alive in the latrines. Could it be he hid something there?” The three Greeks exchanged blank looks again. “Or somewhere else in the fortress.”

  “You will meet with one of my sons, tonight. With Kostas,” Alexiou said, indicating the twin who had been doing the translating. “You will meet with him at the Serb Orthodox cathedral. There is a small place next to it. On Strossmayer Street, by a tavern. There is an alley. Go there to the house at the end. He will bring something. Information. Or evidence, if we can find it.”

  “What time?”

  “At nine o’clock.”

  Reinhardt nodded, looking from face to face. There seemed to be nothing else to say.

  “Thank you for the coffee. And the conversation,” Reinhardt said, rising to his feet. The twins rose with him, Alexiou remaining in his seat. Reinhardt extended his hand, and the old man shook it, his eyes grave and serious, as if he took homage.

  “Captain.” Alexiou’s voice called him back. The Greek gestured at the coffee cup, upside down on its saucer. “Don’t you want your fortune to be read?”

  “Has it ever worked for you?”

  Alexiou’s mouth twitched in a smile. “No. Not really.” But he leaned forward and turned the cup up. He looked inside, then up at Reinhardt, then shrugged with his mouth.

  “Women and wealth?” Reinhardt asked. The twins chuckled, and a smile cracked Alexiou’s imperious façade. “I’ll just have to take my chances, then.”

  “I found out today that site in the forest was a logging camp run by the penal battalion,” Reinhardt said.

  Dreyer looked up from his desk, where he was putting files together. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair slicked back against his head. He looked terrible, like the drunk he was, Reinhardt supposed. “Meaning . . . ?” Dreyer asked.

  Reinhardt’s mouth tightened, and he slapped his cap against his thigh. “I don’t know. But it was an unlucky detail. Men went missing on it. Supposedly the Partisans killed them, or captured them.”

  “But you think what?”

  “I think its part of . . . whatever . . . makes this up. Whatever ‘this’ is,” he sighed, and sat heavily in a chair. “How did we get from three dead Feldjaeger to men going missing in a penal battalion?”

  “‘Supposedly,’” Dreyer muttered, looking around at the piles of papers and boxes surrounding him.

  “What?”

  “They are supposedly going missing,” Dreyer said, a self-deprecating smile on his face. “Sorry. It’s the jurist in me.”

  “‘Sorry’?” Reinhardt’s brow furrowed, irritation lacing his voice. “Look, Marcus
, you asked for help, I’m trying to give it to you. You seemed pretty convinced last night that this penal battalion is being misused by Jansky. Are you splitting hairs on me, now?”

  Dreyer raised placatory hands as Reinhardt talked, coming around the table. “Sorry, Gregor. I’m sorry,” he said, taking the chair next to him. “It’s like I said, I’ve been on this so long, I can’t believe someone believes me, and I suppose I’m . . . just acting cautiously.”

  “Where are those files, then?”

  “I can’t find them,” said Dreyer, looking sheepish. He sat back, looking nervous. “It wasn’t much, but I can’t find it in all this mess. They’re moving us out in a day or so. So everything is in boxes that needs to go.” Dreyer gave a small smile, a cramped grimace.

  “So tell me what you know.”

  “What I know . . . I suspect Jansky is still up to his tricks. Black marketeering, mainly. Other forms of corruption. As to the penal battalion, it was originally a combat unit, but they were decimated in Greece, then almost destroyed in Montenegro. Now, they do all kinds of stuff. Menial labor. Construction. Casualty collection. Transportation. The opportunities for corruption are significant.”

  “So what is it you suspect him of?”

  “Misusing assets. In this case, now, his men. It’s all he has.”

  “Like what?”

  “Hiring them out. Extorting them.”

  “There’s a fair few foreigners in that penal battalion. Greeks and Albanians, I hear. What do you know of them?”

  “Turncoats and traitors to their countries, probably. Or just people who nailed their flags to the wrong mast. I heard a rumor some of them might be the remnants of a Greek paramilitary unit. The unit was mostly destroyed, but not all of its leaders were killed.” Dreyer rolled back his head, staring at the ceiling, his hand going to his neck. “Gold,” he murmured. “Always rumors of gold, but never any proof . . .”

  Something clicked open in Reinhardt’s mind, a bright sparkle of thoughts tumbling out.

  “What’s the best way to hide something, Marcus?” he asked. Dreyer tilted his head straight to look at Reinhardt. “I’ve been hearing it nonstop since this started. In plain sight. You hide something right under someone’s nose.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “I think Jansky’s scam is he is offering protection—asylum, if you like—to anyone who’ll pay for it.” As Reinhardt said it, he felt it was right. It settled into and around him, and his pulse quickened as he began to work it out.

  Dreyer’s expression quivered as he stared back at Reinhardt. “What are you saying?” he repeated.

  “Look at where his unit’s been, and look who he’s got in his ranks. Greeks. Albanians. Probably Montenegrins. People from all over the Balkans. People who can’t stay in their own countries. Collaborators. Criminals. Opportunists. Soldiers who chose the wrong side. Whatever. They pay him, he gives them protection. He enlists them as cooks, drivers, clerks, cleaners, whatever, but not soldiers. They’re as out of harm’s way as it’s possible to be.”

  “They pay him, and he looks after them . . . ?”

  “You suspected corruption, right? You thought it was linked to soldbuchs and misappropriated pay? Well, you were on the right track, but you weren’t thinking big enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” said Reinhardt, hunching forward, his tone turning sardonic, echoing Langenkamp’s words, “people like them—people like us, Marcus, if we’re being honest—have had four good years to loot these lands bare. Think of the opportunities. Think! Works of art. Jewelry. Valuables. Properties. The resources of whole states.”

  “The gold,” Dreyer whispered.

  “The gold,” Reinhardt repeated. “Stolen. Just taken. You just walk into the state bank and take it. Who could stop them, especially when they were the state? But the people, too. The victims. The refugees. The desperate and the lost. Everyone’s got something to give, and if everyone gives only a little, it becomes a lot.”

  “My God,” Dreyer whispered, again.

  “Everybody. Every body, Marcus. Don’t forget the dead. A watch. A ring. A bracelet. A necklace. A gold tooth. Something.”

  “Everyone’s got something to give.” Dreyer’s eyes seemed to flutter frantically, as if something were trying to slam shut inside him. His gaze swung, suddenly, down to his pocket, and he pulled out his flask and tilted it to his mouth. Reinhardt sat back, his heart still racing, thinking, watching Dreyer drink. It felt right. It felt right, but there was still something else, he felt, some part that did not quite fit, or was still missing.

  “You think the Ustaše are part of this?” Dreyer mumbled, his eyes downcast.

  “They’d certainly have motivation. Some of them, for sure.” Reinhardt’s pulse quickened again. Is that where the Ustaše were going, the ones the Partisans were concerned about? Bribing their way to some kind of safety in a German penal battalion?

  “Could Jansky manage this on his own?” Dreyer asked.

  “Good question. I’ve no idea. I suspect not. And one of those foreigners I mentioned to you—a Greek, probably a former security battalion commander—has had enough of Jansky, and wants out. He said he’ll give you Jansky, as long as we let him go.”

  “Wait, wait.” Dreyer shook his head, heavy jowls quivering. “What are you talking about?”

  Reinhardt ran him through his conversation with the Greeks. Dreyer listened with wide eyes. “The upshot of it is, I’m meeting the Greek’s son tonight. He’s going to give me more information on Jansky. Hopefully, he’ll be able to find out what Kreuz was going to bring me.”

  “And this Greek wants out?”

  “He wants to disappear. He says he has the means to take care of himself.”

  “So those rumors of gold are true?”

  “Probably. Who cares?”

  “A lot of people, I imagine.”

  “But that’s not the point, Marcus. We just have to let the Greek go.”

  “And he thinks I can arrange that?”

  “Not arrange it. But he’s scared of you. He doesn’t want you coming after him.”

  “Why?” Dreyer frowned.

  Reinhardt frowned back. “Because you’re War Crimes Bureau, and he obviously thinks he’s got something to answer for.”

  “So Alexiou thinks Jansky’s got someone backing him up.”

  “Can you try to find that out?”

  Dreyer nodded and swigged from his flask, wiping his mouth as he gasped at the wash of brandy down his throat. “But what about the soldbuchs, then? Where do they fit?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t even seen them, yet. For all I know, they don’t exist.”

  “So what’s . . . ?”

  He cut off as Reinhardt raised a hand, head cocked, listening. There was a far-off rumble, like thunder, but sharper, more distinct. He took an involuntary step toward the window, stopping himself in time.

  “Artillery!” he snapped, backing away from the window as shells ripped overhead with a sound like tearing cloth.

  There was a rumble of explosions, somewhere in town. Another salvo clawed across the sky, explosions echoing across the valley. From somewhere to the west came the answering crack of counterbattery fire, German guns firing back.

  “It’s started,” breathed Dreyer.

  Reinhardt nodded. “The Partisan offensive. They’re firing from the north and east.” Unspoken between them was what this would do to what they know knew, or suspected.

  “I need to get back to the barracks,” said Reinhardt. He paused at the door, something skittering along the edge of his mind. Something they had said, but when he reached for it, it trickled away and he knew if he kept after it, it would vanish. “When I saw Jansky at the Pale House yesterday, he said something. He said to tell you, ‘All are not hunters who can blow the
hunter’s horn.’”

  Dreyer looked up from the papers, swallowed, and tipped his head back for his flask again. “Bastard,” he muttered. “That’s what he said to me in Poland. The last time I saw him, walking away scot-free.”

  “He rather likes his classical quotations, doesn’t he?”

  “He does,” said Dreyer, his mouth twisted. “But now I’ve got you. I was never a hunter. But you are.”

  “So, no pressure, then,” said Reinhardt, ironically, awakening an answering grin from Dreyer, but it fluttered lightly across his mouth. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Outside, Reinhardt scanned the area quickly and saw smoke rising from the train station. Most of the soldiers were gone now; the queues of thousands that Reinhardt had seen upon first entering the city had been sucked away into the station and it was mostly civilians who ran and scurried and cowered for shelter. There was another concussion of artillery fire from the German batteries on the south bank of the Miljacka, opposite the barracks, and then all was quiet except for a steadily increasing crackle of small-arms fire coming, if Reinhardt was not mistaken, from within the city, meaning Valter’s Partisans were also adding their weight to the Partisan brigades around the city.

  He made the drive back to the barracks quickly, the roads largely deserted. Inside, the hive of activity was heightened. A stream of soldiers was coming out of the barracks, arms heaped with papers and folders, and either loading them onto trucks or tipping them into fires made in upturned oil cans where flames licked up at the air. In Feldjaeger operations, the room was full and Scheller, Lainer, and Morten were all bent over a map of the city.

  “This is it, Reinhardt,” said Scheller, motioning him over. “Two more days. Three at the most. And then the Partisans have this place to themselves. Our orders are in. If the lines hold, we pull out the day after tomorrow. Next stop, Visoko.” He pointed at the map, indicating a small town northwest of Sarajevo. The west road from Sarajevo forked at Ilidža, one road continuing west, then south toward Mostar, but that road was cut off now. The other road turned north, through Visoko, on up the Bosna River valley in a meandering path past Kakanj, through Zenica with its giant steelworks, on to Doboj, and beyond that the Sava River, which marked Bosnia’s northern border with Croatia.