by Steven Conte
‘Such as a tendency to make Hirsch lose at cards?’
‘Scoff if you wish, Major, but consider the fact that our bodies are more than fifty percent water. The brain, as we know too well here, is viscous. Now, contemplate the gravitational pull of the moon on the oceans, the tides, and tell me that a heavenly body can’t alter our behaviour.’
‘It’s true,’ Molineux said. ‘A heavenly body invariably alters my behaviour.’
Weidemann said, ‘All right, let’s pretend you’re correct about the moon —’
‘And the planets,’ Metz said. ‘Don’t overlook the planets.’
‘All right, the planets too. Shouldn’t their effect on human behaviour be uniform?’
‘Not at all,’ Metz replied in the weary drawl of a professor addressing a slow-witted undergraduate. ‘Not only do human bodies differ from one another, they routinely respond differently to identical stimuli.’
‘Very well, but you were talking about the stars,’ Weidemann said. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that their gravity reaches us from so far away?’
‘Again, Major, why not?’
‘You claim that stars . . . no, constellations, composed of stars arrayed in depth and so not even near one another, can affect individuals here on Earth?’
‘Major, as I said, I’m just speculating. Science doesn’t hold the answers to such questions. It can’t even tell us whether the effects stars have on human behaviour – if such effects exist – are gravitational in nature or the consequence of some undiscovered force. Time will tell, I suppose.’
‘Unless it doesn’t.’
‘Major, there are two types of men in this world,’ Metz said, ‘those whose minds are open and those whose minds are closed.’
There was a brief pause, then Hirsch said, ‘I do keep losing at quartet.’ All eyes turned on him and he violently blushed.
‘There you have it,’ Metz said without a trace of irony. Looking suddenly exhausted he rose from the table, wished all of them goodnight and excused himself. Bauer would have liked to go after him straight away, but even allowing for his anger at Hirsch he preferred to spare him anxiety about a situation that was fundamentally of Metz’s making.
In fact the next to leave was Drexel. Bauer then had to reassure Molineux that he really did intend to turn up later for cards, and by the time he reached the entrance hall Metz had been gone for some time. The lieutenant colonel was an early sleeper and was possibly already preparing for bed, but, opting first to try his study, Bauer went down the corridor and rapped twice on the door. How often had Sophia Andreyevna stood here after dinner, he wondered, and knocked on the door of her world-famous husband? How many times had she been angry enough to barge in?
‘Go away,’ Metz called from inside. ‘I’m busy.’
‘It’s me: Bauer.’
‘Later.’
‘Sir, this is urgent.’ He would not be put off. ‘Sir?’
‘Later, dammit.’
Bauer grasped the doorknob. A man had died and there had to be consequences. He opened the door, stepped inside but immediately stopped. At his desk Metz was sitting with his tunic half off, exposing the pallid underside of one arm to Drexel, who was piercing it with a large syringe. Metz turned, swinging the lucky shrapnel on its chain around his neck. ‘I’m busy,’ he snarled. ‘Get out of here.’
Bauer reversed and closed the door. His first instinct was to leave, but leaving wouldn’t lessen Metz’s fury, and what he’d just seen had no bearing on the business with Hirsch. From behind the door there was murmured conversation, then about two minutes later Drexel emerged, greeted him coolly and strolled away, carrying a book-sized wooden box inlaid with ivory or nacre.
Bauer knocked on the half-open door.
‘Yes?’ Metz called, his voice much milder than before. Bauer stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Metz was sitting behind his desk, his uniform rebuttoned. ‘Captain, what can I do for you?’
Bauer blinked. If Metz wanted to pretend nothing unusual had happened, then so be it, Bauer thought, and in measured tones he described the Swabian’s death.
‘That’s all?’ Metz said when he was done. ‘We lose patients all the time.’
Bauer was stupefied. ‘Sir, this wasn’t a normal death.’
‘Well? What do you want me to do about it?’
‘Reassign Hirsch. Get a new anaesthetist. A trained one.’
‘We’ve already been through this. I’ve written to Major General Oeding. There are no anaesthetists to spare.’
‘Write again. Surely Oeding can’t approve of patients dying for no reason.’
‘Oeding has bigger concerns.’
‘And what about you, sir? Do you have bigger concerns?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Promotion, say? Not rocking the boat?’ This was reckless but he didn’t give a damn.
‘Captain, you’re overwrought,’ Metz said, his voice preternaturally calm. ‘Accordingly, I’m going to overlook your remarks.’
‘Do as you please, sir, but I can’t overlook the lieutenant’s incompetence.’
‘Incompetence? Isn’t that putting it too strongly? The man’s a trained dentist.’
‘He has no feel for anaesthetics.’
‘He needs more training, that’s all. Ask Hermann to help.’
‘Sir, Molineux might be good at what he does but he’s no teacher. And he dislikes Hirsch.’
‘Dislikes him? What makes you say that?’
‘Sir, it’s obvious. Surely you’ve noticed?’
‘Captain, I have two hundred and fifty men under my command. I can’t be expected to know all their petty goings-on.’
Bauer paused, consciously collecting himself. ‘Sir, what about the other solution we’ve discussed: giving the job to Corporal Winkel?’
‘No and no again. Anaesthesia is the preserve of officers.’
‘That’s all very well; you’re not the one who’s lost a patient.’
‘Captain, I’m warning you: don’t push your luck. In case you haven’t noticed you’re on active service in the field. The standard of care here won’t always match what you were used to in a civilian hospital.’
‘A year ago you would have said that constraints in the field are the very reason we should strive for perfection.’
‘A year ago we were in France. A year ago my officers weren’t getting killed.’
In his voice there was a hint of real distress, and while it was unclear whether this was for himself or for Dieter, Bauer was touched – previously the loss had apparently only irritated Metz. Encouraged, he said, ‘Sir, what I just saw in here with Drexel —’
‘Is no concern of yours.’
‘As a fellow surgeon I believe it is. Your judgement —’
‘Listen, there’s nothing wrong with my judgement, Captain. On the contrary, I’ve never felt such clarity of purpose.’
‘I can only comment on what I’ve noticed, sir. Your volatility. Your anger.’
‘Volatility? Nonsense.’
‘In recent weeks you haven’t seemed yourself.’
‘If I’m angry at times, that’s natural. These are testing times. And a little anger, rightly directed, can spur men on. Yourself included, Bauer.’
‘Sir, what was in that syringe?’
‘That’s a private matter between me and Lieutenant Drexel.’
‘Weidemann didn’t prescribe it?’
‘Weidemann has nothing to do with it.’
‘Shouldn’t he, though?’
‘I’m making myself hardier, not treating an illness.’
‘But how?’
‘I prefer not to say, at least not at this stage. Though I can reveal that one of the components is Pervatin.’
‘Good God, sir, and you expect me not to be concerned? What about the side effects?’
‘Captain, calm yourself. Drexel and I are conducting an experiment whose results we will report to the authorities at the proper time. For now all you need to
know is that the formulation both magnifies the benefits of Pervatin and eliminates its risks.’
‘Including the risk of addiction?’
‘As a smoker you dare to lecture me on the topic of addiction?’
‘The consequences of smoking are quite different, sir.’
‘Yes, wholly deleterious,’ Metz said.
‘Sir, why not get Major Weidemann’s opinion? He’s the most experienced of us. If he concurs with you, good. If not, reconsider.’
‘Oh, Weidemann,’ Metz said dismissively. ‘An arch conservative —’
‘All the better —’
‘Whose time has passed. The Reich’s future depends on young men of action and imagination. Men like Drexel.’
‘Maybe. But what about the long-term damage to your health? Have you considered that?’
‘Captain, we all face long-term damage to our health. It’s called death. Life is damage. War is damage. We must be bold enough to take risks. Boldness is all if we’re to beat the Bolsheviks, who though inferior to us are far more numerous. Luckily boldness is an Aryan trait, a trait Drexel can enhance.’
‘He’s bottling Germanness?’
‘You say that satirically, but why not? Taking the native strengths of an ordinary German like myself – intelligence, daring, resolution, rigour – and enhancing them, that’s precisely what we’re doing. To shrink from the attempt would be cowardly, a dereliction of duty.’
Bauer hesitated. He was getting nowhere, that was clear. ‘Sir, I can’t work with Hirsch any longer,’ he said, returning to the purpose of his visit. ‘Not after this.’
‘Captain, you can and you will. You’re a fine officer, I know you can.’
Bauer grimaced, incensed but also swayed a little by the praise.
‘Besides,’ Metz went on, ‘it’s an order.’
SEVEN
The following morning, Tuesday, 11 November, Bauer asked Molineux if he would give Hirsch some more training in anaesthetics.
‘Waste of time,’ Molineux said, straining to pull on a boot.
‘What makes you say that?’ Bauer asked.
‘Anaesthesia is an art – you either have a gift for it or you don’t.’
‘I’m not suggesting he’ll reach your level,’ Bauer said, ‘just that you’ll drag him up a bit.’
‘Drag him up a lot,’ Molineux said. His second boot was giving him even more trouble than the first. ‘I trained for years.’
‘I’m only asking you to do your best.’
‘Under the hands of a skilled anaesthetist the patient is an instrument to be plucked and played,’ Molineux said, finally getting his second boot on.
‘Rubbish. Musicians bring their instruments to life.’
‘As do I!’ Molineux said. He stood up and reached for his tunic. ‘Wakefulness depletes; unconsciousness restores.’
‘Whatever you say, Hermann. The point is, will you do it?’
‘What’s in it for me?’
Bauer had anticipated this question, or something like it. ‘The first bottle of vodka I can find.’
‘You have a deal,’ Molineux said. ‘But don’t expect a miracle.’
‘I won’t. Just stop him killing any more of my patients.’
Molineux went to the mirror he’d hung by his bed and began flicking a comb through his thinning hair. Bauer waited by the door, resisting an urge to share the information that Metz was injecting amphetamines, knowing Molineux would treat it less as a cause for concern than as a choice bit of gossip.
But was it a concern? Bauer wondered. Pervatin, in tablet form, had been in widespread use throughout the army since the French campaign, particularly among tank crews, who took it to stay awake for the vital two or three days after breaking through an enemy’s line. To Bauer’s knowledge there was no one studying the consequences for health, no doubt because there were more pressing threats than Pervatin to the wellbeing of the average panzerman. Taking it intravenously, as Metz was doing, would no doubt concentrate its effect. It would be necessary to keep an eye on Metz, though assessing his behaviour wasn’t going to be easy when, as Metz himself had pointed out, certain side effects of amphetamine use – determination, dynamism, grandiosity, aggression – were established aspects of his character.
‘Ready?’ Molineux asked.
‘For the last fifteen minutes.’
‘Unprecedented. This Hirsch thing has really shaken you up.’
They left the room and went downstairs, where they found Winkel trying to speak with the housekeeper.
‘Oh, hello,’ Molineux said. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘I’m asking her name,’ Winkel said.
Bauer turned to her. ‘Daria Grigorievna, da?’ She nodded but wouldn’t meet his eye.
Molineux said, ‘Planning to have it off with one of the local ladies, Corporal? Slav females are strictly forbidden, don’t you know?’
‘It’s not like that,’ Winkel said. ‘Our duties overlap.’
‘I’ll bet they do. Lucky you. Just watch yourself, though, she’s quite a heifer. You don’t want to get crushed.’
‘Sir, you’ll embarrass her.’
‘She can’t understand us, Corporal. Can you, Milk Cow?’
‘But you’re staring,’ Winkel said. ‘It’s not nice.’
‘Good God, man, what’s the point of being the master race if we can’t ogle a lady subhuman?’
Bauer seized him by the elbow and began steering him towards the mess.
‘Steady on,’ Molineux said, ‘I’m not finished here.’
‘All right, but hurry up. Breakfast calls.’
‘A favour, Sepp?’ asked Molineux.
‘What is it?’ Winkel said, uncharacteristically abrupt.
‘The temperature?’
‘I’m not sure. I haven’t checked.’
‘Could you now, though, before it rises? My chattering teeth are saying it’s a record low.’
* * *
Bauer found Katerina Dmitrievna in the library, on a ladder, returning books to the shelves. ‘Restocking?’ he asked.
‘Making it harder for you to carry them off when you go.’
The room was icy, their breaths vaporous, though for what seemed like the first time in weeks there was sunshine outside, making the frost on the window panes glitter.
‘You needn’t worry. Our top priority if we have to retreat won’t be books.’
‘And burning’s more your style with literature, I’ve heard.’
It would take decades, he supposed, for Germans to live down the barbarities of National Socialism. To make a beginning he said, ‘I’m enjoying War and Peace.’
‘Good for you.’
‘But there’s something you should know about the copy you lent me.’
‘Gave you,’ she corrected.
‘There are annotations.’
She peered down at him, making him think of his allegedly thinning hair. ‘What sort of annotations?’
‘They’re in pencil, just a handful in the opening chapters. Comments on the translation. Did Tolstoy know German?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you’d better check,’ he said, and held out the book. ‘I’ve marked them all.’
She descended the ladder, accepted the book and examined the first of the pages he’d marked.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
She looked at a second page, a third, then smiled. ‘I think you’ve made a small discovery, Captain. Congratulations.’
‘You think it’s Tolstoy?’
‘Undoubtedly. The handwriting. The irascibility, come to that.’
‘There are nine of them,’ he said.
She began to read and Bauer took the opportunity to admire her. Her neck was slender and elegant, her pulled-back hair revealing a small brown mole on her nape. After three or four minutes she closed the book, her expression thoughtful.
‘I suppose you’ll be needing it back now,’ he said.
She considere
d this for a moment then shook her head. ‘No, a book needs a reader and, as I said the other day, you are this one’s. Its one and only, probably, since I doubt Lev Nikolayevich would have read very far beyond this point.’ From a pocket of her quilted jacket she took out a pencil. ‘I’ll just transcribe what he’s written.’
‘Of course. And don’t worry, I’ll return it when I’ve finished.’
‘If you wish. But as you know, I doubt you’ll still be here.’
‘I’ll read quickly.’
‘You’ll need to,’ she said.
Using an empty shelf as a desk she began transcribing Tolstoy’s annotations into a notebook. Bauer wandered over to one of the room’s two windows, intending to look outside, only to be dazzled by sunlight in the frost on the glass. Instead he turned around, as if to warm his back, and gazed again on Katerina. Her expression was serious, which in combination with her glasses emphasised her teacherly look; she was peering downwards, compressing her smallish chin. Bauer’s heart rate was escalating. She looked lovely to him – radiant – and in alarm he shook his head. Such feelings were futile, absurd.
‘Done,’ she said, and handed back the book.
‘The original manuscript,’ he said. ‘Is it here somewhere?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Katerina said. ‘It’s in Moscow.’
‘Of course,’ he replied, feeling foolish. He made to go.
‘So, Captain,’ she said, ascending her ladder, ‘which parts do you prefer: the war or the peace?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ he replied, turning to face her again.
‘Don’t be a coward. Choose.’
‘If I say war, do I incriminate myself?’
‘Just answer truthfully.’
‘All right. The war parts.’
‘Why?’
He hesitated, assembling an answer. ‘Because the novel’s drawing room scenes are all alike, while each war scene is warlike in its own way. I’m generalising, of course.’
‘Of course,’ she said. If he had managed to amuse her she wasn’t showing it. She had no more books in her arms but seemed in no hurry to come down.
‘For example, the first time the French appear,’ he said, ‘at a distance, lobbing cannon balls at the Russians on a bridge. This is Austria somewhere. I forget the river.’