by Alex Beer
Oberwieser wiped the sweat from his brow and thought for a moment. Finally he put his pistol back into his waistband. “What do you want to know?”
“What happened back there in Galicia? Is it true that you killed civilians?”
Oberwieser shoved the beer to the side, stood up, and grabbed a bottle of schnapps from a sideboard.
“And what if?” he spat. “Ever heard of the war code? You must know of it, right?”
Emmerich nodded. The code allowed officers to execute civilians who collaborated with the enemy without court proceedings. They didn’t even need evidence—mere suspicion was enough.
“Women, children, the elderly, the disabled . . . ” Oberwieser took a sip of liquor and winced. “They could do as much damage as able-bodied men. They could use weapons and light explosives. Or worse: they could spy for the enemy. The adversary you don’t recognize as one is the most dangerous of all.”
A group of Royal and Imperial soldiers supposedly massacred civilians. Women, children, the elderly. Even babies. They were supposed to have done things so brutal that it would have shocked Beelzebub, Emmerich recalled Simon’s words. “And what about babies? They can’t talk or pull a trigger.”
“Not yet.” Oberwieser leaned against the sideboard and took another sip. “But what do you think will become of them in a few years? They’ll be grown up and out for revenge. You have to nip the danger in the bud. And besides . . . at the end of the day we did them all a favor. Better dead than in an orphanage. You ever seen what those places are like?”
Emmerich’s throat swelled with rage. “Nothing, not even the war code, gives someone the right to kill children. Innocent creatures who were just born in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“A lot of people have been in the wrong place at the wrong time since 1914. The relatives of all the dead will tell you that. It’s just bad luck.”
“Bad luck?” Emmerich couldn’t believe it. Things so brutal it would have shocked Beelzebub, he heard Simon in his ear again. “And why the brutality?”
Oberwieser rolled his eyes as if he were dealing with a dull-witted child. “As a deterrent. After that nobody dared collaborate with the Russians. We saved thousands of Imperial and Royal lives.”
“By massacring children? What kind of man are you? Don’t you have a conscience?” Emmerich banged on the table so hard that his beer bottle nearly tipped over. “Where’s the honor in that? I’d rather drop dead than stoop to that.”
“What were we supposed to do?”
“Nothing! You didn’t have to do anything!” shouted Emmerich. “Better to die than to bring such shame on yourself and the army.”
Emmerich thought of Luise, of Emil, Ida, and little Paul, and looked at the door. He had a burning desire to just get up and leave Oberwieser to his own destiny. Someone who did such things deserved no better.
“It was our duty!” Oberwieser had also gotten loud. He showed no remorse. “We were good soldiers. Obedient and true! We only did what we were told. Whoever killed my comrades had no right to.”
“No right to?” Emmerich stood up and looked out the window. A cloud passed in front of the moon. “Because of people like you, ideas like right and just are meaningless. Nothing more than illusions used to control people so anarchy doesn’t break out.”
He thought about his job and how hard he had worked to uphold the law. All in vain. For nothing. People weren’t worth saving.
He turned back to Oberwieser, looked at his face, which betrayed no sign of understanding or shame, and took his gun from the table. Without another word, he went to the door. Everything he had ever believed seemed lost.
“You can’t just leave me behind!” Oberwieser jumped up, ran after him, and grabbed him by the arm. “We just followed orders. The commander was to blame for everything. He ordered it. If someone has to die, then it should be him.”
Emmerich ripped himself free of his grip and pushed Oberwieser up against the wall. “Tell me his name.”
Oberwieser didn’t answer; he stared past Emmerich with his mouth open.
“Tell me his name,” he repeated.
The answer was lost in an ear-splitting bang, and Oberwieser jerked.
Emmerich, who still hadn’t realized what had happened, put his hands to his ears and stared at Oberweiser’s chest, where a dark red stain was spreading.
“Turn around. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The voice sent chills down his spine, and as Oberwieser slowly slid down the wall, Emmerich did as he was told.
“You!” That was all that he could say when he found himself face-to-face with the man with scar on his cheek.
He directed Emmerich over to the table and took his gun. Then he went over to Oberwieser, who was unconscious on the floor. He kicked his body, and when he was sure there was no more life in it, he reached down and pulled the gun out of his waistband.
“Nice of you to make it so easy for me.” His German was flawless, with a slight Viennese inflection. He wasn’t from Galicia. Or was he?
“I don’t understand . . . ”
“Scream like there’s no tomorrow. I’ve rarely gotten into an apartment so easily. And the neighbors will all confirm that you were arguing. An easy case for the police.” He winked at Emmerich and pointed Oberwieser’s weapon at him.
“I wasn’t in Lemberg. I didn’t do anything to anyone.”
“I know.”
“Then put down the gun. I understand why you killed these men. Believe me. If my family had been . . . ”
The man with the scar began to laugh. “You thought I was one of them? Do I look like a fucking bohunk?”
“No, but . . . ” Emmerich was lost. “Are you not a victim of the massacres?”
The laughing got louder. “If there is one thing I am not, it is a victim. Victims are weak. Inferior. Ever heard of Darwin?”
Thoughts were flashing through Emmerich’s mind. If this man wasn’t a victim of the massacres, what was he? Why had he killed the men of the 13th company? What was his motive? Slowly an even worse thought began to take shape in his mind.
“Oberwieser talked about you. You were the commander and ordered the massacre of civilians. And now that the war crimes commission is starting to ask questions, you’re getting rid of all the potential witnesses.”
“Shut your mouth!” The stranger’s laughter died, and he pulled the trigger.
35.
I’m still alive . . . was the first thing that went through Emmerich’s head when he opened his eyes again and found himself on the floor of Oberwieser’s apartment.
Should he be happy about that? Or disappointed? And how long had he been unconscious? Where was the man with the scar? He sat up with a groan and piercing pain shot through his chest.
He cautiously felt around his ribs and looked at his hands—no blood. He looked down and scanned his shirt. In his chest pocket, directly in front of his heart, was a round hole that was blackened all around. Emmerich ran his fingertips over it and felt something hard. What the hell was that? He frowned, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the amulet—a deformed bullet was stuck in the head of the snake. Emmerich was laughing and crying at the same time.
Lightheaded, he stood up and went over to Oberwieser’s lifeless body, which was lying in a pool of blood that was slowly seeping into the wooden floorboards. The man was dead, there was no doubt about it.
He reached for the schnapps, which was still on the sideboard, sat down at the table, and took a gulp. What a day. He’d escaped prison, got involved with a wanted criminal, witnessed a cold-blooded murder, and had come within a hair of being gunned down.
At that moment he heard the sirens.
His first reaction was that of a veteran police detective. He stood up, put the bottle away, and wanted to start to secure the crime scene for his colleagues who
would collect evidence. Until he realized that the role of friends and foes had been reversed overnight. He hurried to the door, paused, and looked back. His fingerprints were all over the apartment. He had to get rid of them, but was there enough time?
Doors slamming and the sound of heavy boots on the staircase gave a clear answer.
“Damn it,” he cursed, exhaling the breath he had reflexively held. “Have to leave it.” He crept out to the hall. Whether they put him away for life for one murder or two didn’t matter.
To avoid being seen by the neighbors, all of whose doors were open a crack now, he pressed himself into a window niche and took stock of the situation: he was on the third floor, at the end of a long hallway, a little ways from the only staircase that went up and down. If he went down he would run right into the arms of the police. His disguise was good, but men who had known him for years wouldn’t be fooled. And fleeing upstairs wasn’t an option. It would only delay his arrest by a few minutes.
The steps were coming nearer. It must be three or more men. In any event, more than he could possibly take on.
“Remain in your apartments!” he heard a voice shout. “There’s nothing to see. Stay calm and listen for our instructions.”
Murmurs, yells of protest, and slamming doors followed, and Emmerich pressed himself deeper into the window niche. They would soon make it to the third floor and enter his field of vision. He closed his eyes and thought about the interior of the apartment. Was there someplace inside he could hide? No, if the police did a halfway decent job they’d find him regardless of where he hid.
“What did I say? You need to remain in your apartments! Nothing to look at!”
The voices were close now. Even though he was warm with agitation, he could feel the cold air from the window.
The window!
He carefully pushed the latch to the side and opened both sides of the window. “Ach,” he whispered as he looked down. It must have been at least twelve meters to the ground, if not more. Undaunted by the thought of death, he climbed out. He had nothing left to lose.
The ornate façade, covered in stucco ornaments, offered enough footholds and places to grab. He could at least consider a dangerous descent.
Thank god Oberwieser didn’t live in one of the new-style buildings, he thought, as he placed his left foot cautiously onto the stone shelf that created a visual divider between the second and third floors. The architect Adolf Loos had built a totally unadorned building directly across from the Hofburg a few years before, with a smooth exterior without so much as corbels above the windows, which was why it became known as “the house without eyebrows.” Kaiser Franz Josef hated the view of the plain, unornamented building so much that he had the palace windows facing Michaelerplatz nailed shut so he wouldn’t have to see the abominable building, as he called it.
“We’re going in. You hold the fort out here,” he heard a voice say above him, just as he’d found purchase.
He held tight to a stone rosette and was about to jump down the arched top of a jutty when something he overheard caught his attention.
“You hear about Officer Winter?” one of the policemen stationed outside the apartment asked another.
Surely he didn’t mean his Winter? What had happened to him? Emmerich stayed in place with bated breath, struggling to listen.
“Damn shame,” said the second officer. “A real tragedy.”
Emmerich had to suppress his desire to ask for details. What had happened to Winter? His heart beat so loudly that he was afraid it would give him away.
“You think there’s anything to the rumors?”
“That it was Inspector Emmerich?”
There was a loud sigh. “I heard he couldn’t stand him from day one. He thought he’d be better off without the rookie.”
“But that’s no reason to run him over.”
Emmerich nearly fell from shock. It couldn’t be, no, it just couldn’t be. He pressed his forehead to the cold plaster and fought off the wave of rage and doubt that threatened to overwhelm him. The man with the scar . . . had killed Winter.
It was all his fault. He should never have dragged the kid into the whole thing. He himself had caused all sorts of problems and his assistant had paid for it. With every instant, a feeling grew stronger and stronger inside him until it had crowded out all other emotions: an uncontrollable thirst for revenge. The man was going to suffer. He was going to hunt him down—if it was the last thing he ever did.
“No idea what’s gotten into Inspector Emmerich,” he heard one of the two policemen say. They couldn’t have suspected the man they were talking about was only a meter or so away. He dug his fingers so hard into the stone that they began to bleed. “Sander said he thought he’d been affected by the war.”
“Could be. Hörl said he’s been acting strange the past few days. Stranger than usual.”
“The war is going to stick with us for a long time.”
“Let’s wait and see whether Winter wakes up. Maybe there’ll be a miracle and he can explain what really happened.”
“Let’s pray.”
Emmerich wanted to cry from relief. Winter was alive. All was not lost. Though this didn’t affect his decision to seek retribution. The man with the scar would pay. For the death of the civilians, for trying to kill him, and most of all for trying to kill Winter.
My rage will find you, he mouthed silently as he maneuvered himself into position to make a breakneck leap down to the jutty and then descended the façade with icy resolve.
August Emmerich was on the hunt.
36.
What he had in mind was irrational, but he didn’t see any alternative.
Before he could devote himself to the hunt for scar-face, Emmerich needed to find out what the story was with Winter. He wouldn’t be in any condition to think straight and handle things until he knew how his assistant was.
As nonchalantly as possible, he strode into the general hospital, headed straight for the laundry room, and threw on a lab coat. He knew his way around this institution better than he cared to.
“Nurse,” he confidently greeted an older woman he encountered in the hall who was dressed all in white.
Only too late did he realize she was the same nurse who had taken care of him after his unfortunate night when he had lost not only his dignity but also all of his belongings, including his service weapon.
She narrowed her eyes and looked him over as he stood there unable to do anything more than simulate a smile. Apparently she didn’t recognize him as the man who had fled her custody half-naked a few days before.
“Can I help you, Herr Doctor?”
He was once again surprised how well the simple item of clothing disguised him. “I’m to look at a patient named Ferdinand Winter, a young policeman who was brought in today.”
“He’s in room three, at the back, behind the curtain. You can’t miss him. Some of his colleagues are at his bedside.”
Damn it! Police protection. Horvat thought of everything.
“Is he going to make it?” Maybe he could find out what he needed right here, without seeing Winter in person.
The nurse raised an eyebrow. “How should I know . . . It doesn’t look good, but . . . you’re the doctor.”
“Of course. It was possible that one of my colleagues had already made a definitive diagnosis. I didn’t mean to offend.” He nodded to her and hurried off.
“Room three’s upstairs, and the stairs are the other way,” she called him back and narrowed her eyes now to slits. Was she suspicious now?
“Of course.” Emmerich grabbed his head and then was appalled to see that his hand came away stained. The dye Frau Maria had used was apparently not sweat-resistant. “I’m new here, and it’s late,” he yammered, trying to paper over the situation.
“I thought you looked unfamiliar, Herr Doctor . .
. ?”
“Schwarz.” He put his hand in the pocket of his coat. “Dr. Schwarz, from orthopedics.”
“Got it.” She pointed the way and then went on her way. “Vain bunch, doctors,” he heard her grumble. “Deal with death every day and still worry about a few gray hairs.”
When Emmerich opened the door to room three, he was met by a stale smell. Heat was apparently regarded as more important than fresh air. He walked slowly between the rows of beds lined along opposite walls. He passed heavy breathing, irregular snores, and quiet groans. When he reached a curtain at the end of the room, he held his breath and took a cautious peek through it: in the separated area was an empty chair next to a bed. It appeared he was in luck—there were no police to be seen.
Less pleasant was the sight of Winter, who, just as the nurse had intimated, was covered in plaster from the tips of his toes to his chin. His right leg and both arms were secured with long straps that ran to a sort of pulley that left his limbs hanging grotesquely in the air. There was a thick bandage wrapped around his head and what was visible of his face was swollen and covered with bloody scrapes.
“My God, Ferdinand,” whispered Emmerich, sitting down on the chair and looking at his assistant. “Who did this to you?” He leaned forward so his ear was directly in front of Winter’s mouth and listened. After a long anxious moment he made out a quiet breath, and the relief nearly caused him to break down laughing and crying at the same time. “I don’t know if you can hear me,” he whispered, “but you should know how proud I am of you.” He would have liked to hold Winter’s hand or at least pat his head, but he didn’t dare touch him. “You’re going to pull through, and when you do I’ll tell you everything you need to know to become a great detective. So hang in there . . . And as far as this pig with the scar . . . ”
“Be . . . ” Winter’s eyes opened a tiny crack and he struggled to say something.
“Don’t talk.”