by Steven Conte
‘What? I don’t believe that.’
‘For another, I doubt your Russian is up to reading fiction.’
‘Even fiction written for the proletariat? I do read Russian slightly better than I speak it, you know.’
‘Even if I had a copy I wouldn’t give it to you now. Not while you’re reading War and Peace. The letdown would be grotesque.’
‘I don’t know Tolstoy personally.’
‘Knowing the author only leads to disappointment.’
‘In the author or the book?’
‘In my case, both.’
‘Mmm,’ he said noncommittally. ‘What about your second novel?’
In the open doorway Hirsch appeared and tentatively knocked.
‘Yes, what is it?’ Bauer asked, sounding snappish, he noticed, even Metz-like, a recognition that only worsened his annoyance.
‘I was just passing,’ Hirsch said, ‘and saw you in here, and thought . . .’
Katerina had returned to sorting books, the spell of their conversation broken.
‘These books . . .’ Hirsch said to Katerina, who pretended not to notice him. He tried again, ‘Excuse me, gnädige Frau, but are there any more books like the one you offered the lieutenant colonel? In German, I mean?’
‘Some,’ she admitted.
‘It’s just that I’ve been looking for something to read. And so . . .’
Katerina pointed to a neighbouring bookcase where the German language volumes were arranged on the lower shelves. Bauer made for the doorway.
‘Sir?’ Hirsch called to him. ‘Do you have any advice? You know, about which . . . ?’
‘You ought to read? That would depend on your interests,’ he said.
‘My interests?’
From Katerina came a noise that might have been a snigger.
‘What have you tended to read in the past?’ Bauer asked.
‘Textbooks. Some magazines.’
Bauer went over to him, squatted and perused the books’ spines. Goethe, Hoffman, Hölderlin, von Kleist, Mörike, Novalis, Schiller. Hegel, Herder, Kant, Marx, Nietzsche, Schlegel, Schopenhauer, Weber. There was a German translation of another of Tolstoy’s novels, The Death of Ivan Ilyich, which Bauer had read as a medical student for its portrayal of terminal illness. ‘From the pen of our host,’ he said, passing the book to Hirsch. ‘The dead one,’ he added in Katerina’s direction, hoping to draw her into the conversation.
Hirsch looked doubtfully at it. ‘Is there a more German one?’
‘There are books by Germans, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I’ll be reading in my room, that’s all. In front of Hans.’
‘And you think a Russian novel will offend him? Good God, Zöllner reads the Bible and that was written by Jews.’
From Katerina there came a stifled laugh. Bauer put Ivan Ilyich back on the shelf and handed Hirsch The Sorrows of Young Werther. ‘Here, have this one instead. You should be safe with Goethe.’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ Hirsch said, examining the book. ‘He’s important, isn’t he?’
‘There’s no doubt of that.’
‘Then I’ll read him,’ Hirsch said.
‘Very good. Now come on, we should leave Katerina Dmitrievna in peace.’
EIGHT
The generator, normally only distantly audible, was thunderous in the shack in which it was housed.
‘Well?’ Bauer shouted at Molineux, still unclear why they were here.
Molineux shone his torch past the generator, revealing in the corner a zinc or steel tank the size of a barrel, linked by copper tubes to a pair of smaller copper canisters. A still. ‘Beautiful, isn’t she,’ Molineux yelled. ‘Two Red Army laundry tubs. Riveted, soldered.’
‘Clever,’ Bauer yelled back. ‘By whom?’
‘Our Sepp. The da Vinci of improvisation.’
How Winkel had found time to build Molineux a still, or for that matter to recondition a limousine for Metz, struck Bauer as so remarkable that finding fault with either project seemed beside the point. It wasn’t as if the corporal’s regular duties had suffered. The man was propellor-driven, a conscientious machine.
‘Where’s your product?’ Bauer asked.
‘Somewhere safe. Want a sample?’
‘What I want is to get away from this racket.’
Outside, the noise and the temperature dropped. The sky was inky, the snow dark blue only metres from their feet.
‘Look sharp,’ Molineux said to the guard on duty, the company cook Waldo Pabst. ‘You haven’t moved from that spot since we got here.’
‘It’s more sheltered on this side, sir,’ said Pabst, who was huddling on the leeward side of the shack, his helmet, neck and shoulders wrapped in a blanket, his boots trussed and bundled in cloth.
‘That won’t do you any good, Waldo, if the partisans come. They’ll fillet you faster than you would a fish. Then see how cold you get.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pabst said.
‘It’s for your own good.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And for mine. How could I possibly survive without your goulash?’
Pabst brightened at this. About his cooking he was touchingly vain, a weakness ruthlessly exploited by Molineux, who now clapped him on the back. ‘Good man.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘When do you get off duty?’
‘At midnight.’
‘Excellent. In the men’s common room you’ll find a glass of something waiting for you. A little fire to go in that belly of yours.’
‘Why, thank you, sir,’ Pabst said. He saluted them and shuffled off around the shack.
They were safely out of earshot when Molineux said, ‘Always stay on the right side of the cook, I say. Your cook is the most important man in the unit. Upset him and he’ll spit in your food, or worse.’
They reached the lane that led back to the Tolstoy House, but instead of heading towards it Molineux went to the right in the direction of the Kusminsky Wing.
‘Organising a drink for Pabst?’ Bauer asked.
‘Organising a drink for you,’ Molineux said. ‘Come along or we’ll freeze to death.’
This was literally true, a drowsy phrase jerked awake by the cold. Bauer considered returning to his room to read, but even a good routine could grow stale, and so instead he followed Molineux, a man-shaped blot in the jolting light of the torch, until they arrived at the Kusminsky Wing. There they went directly into the common room, where as many as fifty corpsmen – a good half of the company – were talking and carousing around the captured ping-pong table. There was a match in progress, and from the noise Bauer guessed there was money at stake, though as men noticed their arrival they came to attention, the players included, and the noise fell away. Unparried, the ball bounced onto then over the floor.
‘As you were, gentlemen,’ Molineux said. ‘This is an informal visit.’
Most knew Molineux knew well enough to take him at his word, and before long the room was as loud as it had been when they entered. Norbert Ritter appeared with clusters of enamel mugs in each hand and, like some beefy barman at Oktoberfest, began handing them round.
‘Over here!’ Molineux yelled, and Ritter made his way towards them. ‘Dankeschön,’ said Molineux, seizing the last two mugs and handing one of them to Bauer. He frowned. ‘But this is no good,’ he said to Ritter. ‘You’ve none for yourself.’
‘I’m up next,’ Ritter said in his corroded voice, and thumbed backwards at the ping-pong table. ‘There’s a helmet full of Reichsmarks on offer.’
‘My God,’ Molineux said, ‘don’t let that hold you back. Drink anyway! Add some oomph to your swing.’
Ritter smiled but excused himself and went over to the table. He was a man who knew what he wanted, Bauer thought, and also how to get it – a trait that in someone else he might have admired.
Bauer took a sip from his mug.
‘So what do you think of the schnapps?’ Molineux asked.
‘
Is that what you call it?’
‘You can call it what you like. What matters is the taste.’
‘I taste Red Army underwear.’
‘Splendid. Drink up. There’s plenty more.’
At the ping-pong table the spectators were two or three deep, though above their heads Bauer could make out the gangling figure of Karl Pflieger performing star jumps, limbering up to play. ‘Shall we watch?’ Bauer suggested, and Molineux agreed, and together they found a vantage point in the crowd.
Pflieger’s opponent was Joachim Knoll, Metz’s chief operating assistant, a strikingly redheaded man of medium height, though in comparison to Pflieger he looked short. Waiting for Knoll to serve, Pflieger dropped into a half-crouch and swayed from side to side, a praying mantis observing its prey. He had bragged of being good at the game, and from the first ball it was clear he hadn’t been exaggerating; along with his extraordinary reach he was a magician of spin, curving the ball in flight and wildly skewing its bounce.
Quickly Knoll began to lose and, growing bored, Bauer turned away. It was then that he noticed the presence of a third officer, Fabian Drexel, seated at a table in the corner. The pharmacist was watching a game of chess, his fingers interlaced behind his squarish head. Since seeing him with a syringe plunged into Metz’s arm, Bauer had been waiting for a chance to ask him what the hell he believed he was up to, and though there were others at the table he went over and sat down. All the seated men rose, and when Bauer waved them down again Drexel stayed standing. It was time he watched some table tennis, he announced, and immediately slunk away – a sign of shame, Bauer supposed, or at the very least discomfort.
The chess players were Corporal Ehrlich and Yuri Demchak, Bauer’s operating assistant. Demchak, playing black, had captured most of Ehrlich’s pieces and corralled the rest into one corner of the board. Ehrlich was twiddling his king by its crown, muttering as he rehearsed the few available moves.
‘You could concede,’ Demchak said, his voice accented and grave.
‘Go to hell. I might still force a stalemate.’
‘In theory, yes.’
As sometimes happened, Bauer found himself staring at Demchak’s cleft-lip and wishing that the surgeon responsible for repairing it had done a better job, as the scar was not only wide but tugged Demchak’s philtrum into a permanent sneer. Ordinarily the aesthetics of surgery didn’t bother him very much – he was too busy saving lives – but Demchak’s otherwise classical countenance made the scar annoying, though it occurred to Bauer this possibly reflected badly on him. Like everyone else in Germany he had for years been subjected to images of the regime’s Nordic human ideal, in both its male and female forms, and now it struck him that he might have absorbed not only an association of blondness with perfection but also the fantasy of human perfection itself.
‘Checkmate,’ announced Demchak.
‘What?’ Ehrlich said. ‘Are you sure? Oh, screw it, yes.’
‘Play again?’
‘No fear,’ Ehrlich said, then looked to the other end of the table where Winkel was sitting alone with a pencil in one hand and, in front of him, an army guide to Russian. ‘Hey, Sepp, you up for chess? We need someone to beat Zip Face here for the sake of Aryan pride.’
‘I’m busy,’ Winkel answered, keeping his eyes on his books.
‘Sepp’s learning Russian to sweet-talk the housekeeper,’ Ehrlich explained, his usual hostility gone, his tone in fact affectionate and warm. The Sepp effect, Bauer thought. Not only was it impossible to dislike Sepp Winkel, around him even a man as spiteful as Ehrlich was ambushed by goodwill for all.
‘Is that true?’ Bauer called out to Winkel. ‘About you and Daria Grigorievna?’ Winkel gazed at him like Caesar at Brutus. Feeling abashed, Bauer went on, ‘Because if so you should forget about that phrase book. She’ll think you want to take her prisoner.’
‘He does,’ Ehrlich said. ‘A prisoner of love.’
‘Borrow my dictionary instead,’ Bauer said.
‘Could I?’ Winkel asked, sounding touchingly pleased.
‘Of course. I’ll give it to you tomorrow.’
From the ping-pong table there were cheers – Pflieger defeating Knoll. Ehrlich excused himself to go and watch the next match.
‘What about you, sir?’ Demchak asked, indicating the chess board. ‘Would you like a game?’
‘Why not,’ he replied, though it was months since he’d played. Against occasional players like himself, chess was a game he could win, but quickly it became apparent that Demchak was an expert, and too late Bauer wondered how wise it had been to go into mental battle with a subordinate whose obedience he relied on in theatre. To excuse the likely loss, he thought of feigning distraction, perhaps by striking up another conversation with Winkel, but this would be ignoble, he decided, and so he gave the game his full attention, aiming to stave off defeat for as long as possible. Forty-five minutes later he was still alive, but only just, when Molineux brought news from the ping-pong table that Pflieger was about to take on Ritter in the final. Bauer toppled his own king. ‘Time to concede, I think. Well played,’ he told Demchak. ‘We ought to go and cheer on Pflieger.’
Demchak thanked him. Possibly he was pleased, but as usual his face gave nothing away. It was good to know that his competence in theatre was backed by a keen intelligence, something also hinted at by his excellent German. For that matter, it was good to be reminded of the talents of the young, who in time would run the world and, one hoped, make a better fist of it than those who were currently in charge.
The table-tennis final was a contest of strength versus guile: Ritter repeatedly smashing the ball at speed, Pflieger returning it with spin. Both styles were in their own way unplayable, making for speedy rallies and, though the match was close, a fast result, with Ritter victorious. From those who’d bet on the outcome, curses or cheers. With a thin smile Ritter collected the Reichsmark-laden helmet, while for his part Pflieger looked far from downcast, making Bauer wonder if he’d thrown the match, or alternatively was just enjoying the attention. Molineux was handing out more drinks, and as corpsmen rushed to refill their mugs Bauer spotted Drexel in the corner, rolling a cigarette. Bauer strode straight over to him. ‘What are you administering to Metz?’
Calmly Drexel sealed his cigarette with his tongue, leaving a shred of tobacco on his wet lower lip. ‘You must know I can’t tell you that, Captain.’
‘Why not?’
‘Patient confidentiality.’
‘Rubbish. You’re not a doctor.’
‘All the same, it wouldn’t be ethical,’ Drexel said, the fleck of tobacco bobbing as he spoke.
‘Don’t lecture me about ethics, Lieutenant. You’re on very weak ground.’
Drexel gestured at the cigarette he’d made. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘I do,’ Bauer said, annoyed by an instant need for nicotine. ‘Mostly Pervatin, Metz told me.’
‘He told you that? Actually, Pervatin is a fairly minor ingredient.’
‘So what are the major ones?’
‘I can’t say.’
Bauer regarded him steadily. Drexel straightened his spectacles. ‘Is that all?’ he asked, feigning boredom, and looked away. Involuntarily Bauer followed his gaze to where Molineux was cheerfully dispensing schnapps.
‘Lieutenant, when did you join the battalion?’ Bauer said, making Drexel look at him again.
‘May last year, the French campaign.’
‘Shortly after me, then. We’ve both known Metz for eighteen months – long enough to realise that he’s not himself, not the same Metz who went into France.’
‘Of course he’s changed; we all have,’ Drexel said – a version, Bauer realised, of something he’d said to Katerina.
‘Yes, but the lieutenant colonel has deteriorated. You must know that. At the very least your concoction isn’t doing him any good. More likely it’s doing him harm.’
‘Look, with respect, sir, can I go now?’
‘No, you cannot
.’
‘You should raise this with him, not me.’
‘I have done,’ he admitted.
‘And what did he say?’
‘That it was none of my business,’ Bauer said, conscious that here was the vulnerable point in his position.
‘There you are then.’
‘He was wrong. Impair Metz’s leadership and you undermine us all. Not to mention the safety of the patients.’
‘As far as I can see, sir, you’re the underminer here. Of Metz. The battalion. The Reich, come to that.’
‘The Reich?’
‘You think I’m exaggerating?’ Drexel asked, and thrust out his chest and chin, which along with his swarthy complexion made him faintly resemble Mussolini. ‘For more than six months I have been working on various compounds designed to sharpen soldierly performance. If they prove successful – and already it looks as though they are – I believe these drugs could deliver us absolute victory, not just over the Soviets but also the English. In due course, the Americans.’
‘We’re not at war with the Americans.’
‘Oh, but we will be. And I mean to ensure that we win.’
‘All this by drugging Metz?’
‘Not only Metz.’
‘Jesus Christ, who else are you doping?’
‘Not doping.’
‘Who else?’
‘The Sergeant Major. Indeed, we may have just witnessed some encouraging results.’
‘The table tennis? You see Ritter batting back enemy grenades?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Just myself, at this stage.’
‘You’re taking this stuff while experimenting on others?’
‘Naturally I began with myself. To do otherwise would have been unethical.’
On a sudden hunch Bauer said, ‘Hence the salivation?’
Drexel swiped a floret of little bubbles from the corner of his mouth and at last dislodged the stray bit of tobacco. ‘That’s nothing.’
‘You don’t find it inconvenient?’
‘There’s no such thing as a drug without side effects, Captain.’
‘Metz believes otherwise. You’ve circumvented them, he says.’