by Steven Conte
‘Mostly, yes.’
‘Come to think of it, I don’t believe I’ve noticed Metz or Ritter having problems with their spit. Just you then?’
‘The formula I’m taking differs from theirs. And theirs from each other’s, for that matter.’
‘Because? Pardon me, none of this seems particularly scientific.’
‘Bigger trials will follow. As for the need for different formulas, I would have thought that was obvious: it takes more than one type of man to win a war. Metz, for example, is a leader. I’m merely boosting his existing attributes.’
‘So he said. An ÜberMetz.’
‘If you like, yes.’
‘And Ritter? What are you doing to him?’
‘Ritter – how shall I put this? Ritter is a quintessential warrior.’
‘A brute?’
‘Maybe. But a useful brute, wouldn’t you say?’ Here he took off his spectacles and started jabbing them for emphasis. ‘Captain, we Germans must be harder, more ruthless than the other races. To that end we require a substrate of men who are tougher and more remorseless than the norm. If there were centuries to spare we could breed males of Ritter’s type with aggressive females. Your estate custodian, for instance,’ he said, and smirked. ‘Then in several generations we’d have the ultimate soldier. Only we don’t have the luxury of waiting that long.’
Bauer observed him steadily for a while then said, ‘So what sort of man are you, Lieutenant? A visionary? Is that what you think?’
‘That’s for others to decide,’ Drexel said modestly. He put his spectacles back on. ‘But I do think I see further than most. I recognise problems, analyse and solve them.’
‘And there’s a drug to help you do that?’
‘There is now.’
‘Well, frankly, Lieutenant, I think you’re unhinged – a danger to yourself, to Ritter, to Metz, and to anyone else foolhardy enough to let you near them with a hypodermic.’
‘You won’t be a subject, then?’ He seemed to be in earnest.
‘You’re enterprising, I’ll give you that. But no.’
‘Metz says you’re a good surgeon.’
‘That’s kind of him.’
‘With my help you could be better.’
Bauer couldn’t help but smile. ‘You’re not a visionary, Lieutenant, you’re a salesman.’
‘I’m not interested in money.’
‘What a pity, you’d make a fortune.’
‘You won’t help me, then?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Will you at least not stand in my way?’
‘I’ll do whatever’s necessary to protect the patients. If that means standing between you and Metz, I will.’
Drexel inhaled and visibly steadied himself. ‘Captain, please remember we’re talking about the future of the Reich. Very well, I understand you might be sceptical. I also admit that what I’m doing is not without risk – what worthwhile endeavour is? Don’t you see, though, that doing nothing is also full of risk? Let’s say Metz kills —’
‘Hey, you two,’ Molineux said, appearing at their sides bearing more mugs of the so-called schnapps, ‘why so grave?’
‘Drexel is telling me his prescription for winning the war.’
‘Élan!’ said Molineux. ‘What’s needed is élan.’
‘I agree,’ Drexel said. ‘Certainly that’s one ingredient.’
‘Ingredient be damned! Élan is all. Here, have a mugful and we’ll take on the world.’
So much for his conversation with Drexel. Not that it had been going anywhere useful, Bauer supposed. He accepted the mug that Molineux was offering and took a swig big enough to quell thought.
NINE
‘How cold will it get, Katerina Dmitrievna?’
‘Much colder.’
‘How cold?’
‘Too cold for you.’
When they crossed paths, Katerina and Molineux’s exchange never varied, and while Katerina’s tone was reliably frosty it bothered Bauer that she went along with a comedy that his comrades had noticed and started to relish. The expression much colder – viel kälter – became a catch-cry among them, then in the modified form Kälter and, before long, Frau Kälter, a nickname for Katerina herself. Katerina hadn’t objected to the name, which even Metz had taken to using, and Bauer suspected her of liking it. Soon he and Molineux were the only ones addressing her by name.
‘Frau Kälter is looking for you,’ Pflieger told him halfway through his morning rounds. ‘I didn’t let on where you were.’
‘Oh? Why not?’
‘Didn’t dare to. She looked even colder than normal. I said to myself, “Better check with the captain whether he wants to be found.”’
‘And where is she now?’
‘In the outer office upstairs.’
‘Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘Take your time, sir. That’ll teach her.’
‘Thank you, Private. Just pass on my message.’
Completing his rounds took longer than he’d hoped. In the post-operative ward he was forced to argue with a patient, a hardened Nazi who had lost a spleen but not the will to fight and who was demanding to go back to the front. Then in the amputations ward he spoke for longer than was strictly necessary with an eighteen-year-old who had gone through basic training, taken a week to reach the front and within a day of arriving had lost an arm to a shell. He seemed not at all despondent, just proud to have served, though it occurred to Bauer that exposure to combat might have convinced him he was getting off lightly.
The burns ward was the last he visited. It contained a panzerman on whom he and Weidemann had tried every treatment they could think of, from powdered sulphanilamide, saline baths and now aniline dye, so far without stemming the oozing of plasma from his skin. The patient was unconscious and almost certainly dying, and the inevitability of this death both enraged Bauer and depressed him. Here was failure of the most demoralising kind.
Finding Katerina in the office startled him, so absorbed had he been by the cases on the wards. He apologised for making her wait, unhooked his stethoscope and asked what he could do for her.
‘Is there somewhere private we could speak?’ she asked.
The two clerks on duty exchanged a rapid glance. Bauer scowled at them and asked if there was an office free. Metz and Weidemann were both in theirs, the senior clerk replied, though Hirsch was out and the dental surgery was free. Bauer thanked him and ushered Katerina into Hirsch’s surgery, a narrow room with a single sash-window on the short northern wall. A stool and a wooden dental chair, both silhouetted in the wintery light. A tray of instruments on a trolley. A pedal-powered drill with a fly-wheel and wires. Switching on the room’s only lightbulb hardly lessened the gloom, so Bauer resorted to the examination lamp, all but blinding them.
‘Good grief,’ Katerina said, shielding her eyes, ‘I think I preferred it before.’
‘I’ll turn it off,’ Bauer said.
‘No, no, I’ll get used to it.’
‘Can I offer you the chair?’
‘Ugh. Is this where you torture people? No thank you. The stool.’
‘I’ll get us some chairs from the office.’
A minute later they were seated opposite one another, half in and half out of the cone of light from the lamp.
‘So how can I help?’ Bauer asked.
‘Medical supplies,’ Katerina replied. ‘Swabs, bandages, forceps, syringes, iodine, morphine, Novalgin. Oh, and two or three scalpels.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes, for now.’
‘And what do you plan to do with these supplies?’
‘Use them in the village as required.’
‘You have a doctor there?’ he asked, ashamed at not having asked this before.
‘Our doctor went into the army.’
‘Any nurses?’
‘No. But the people are resourceful. They’re used to making do.’
Bauer recalled how during the
French campaign the impracticality of treating civilians had so tormented him that he’d nearly come apart. In the Soviet Union he had by and large managed to ignore the issue.
‘Metz would never agree,’ he said. ‘He’d think you were handing it on to partisans.’
‘I don’t know any.’
‘I doubt he’ll take your word for that,’ Bauer said, unsure if he entirely believed her himself.
‘So don’t involve him,’ she said. ‘I’m not asking for much. No food, for example.’
‘Because you have enough?’ he asked.
‘No, we don’t, as it happens.’
Lamely, he said, ‘I’ve been meaning to check.’
‘It’s one of the reasons there’s sickness.’
‘What about your new sleeping quarters? You’re reasonably comfortable?’
‘I wouldn’t say comfortable, no. But it could be worse. The estate’s steward and his wife have taken me in.’
‘Tikhon Vassilyvich?’ he asked.
She tilted her head to one side. ‘That’s right. I’m surprised you remember.’
‘With your help he was memorably rude.’
‘He was? I don’t remember. I’m sure you deserved it.’
He examined her face – the slim, triangular chin; her cherubic lips; her large knowing eyes – and wondered how she got away with such antagonism.
‘The supplies,’ he said. ‘I wish I could say yes. But the Wehrmacht doesn’t take kindly to thieves.’
‘Then don’t get caught,’ she replied. ‘You’re a doctor. Just spirit things away. A little here, a little there – no one would notice.’
He made a show of considering this, bitterly aware he would have to say no. ‘I’m sorry. The kind of items you mentioned, we’re running low on them ourselves. I just can’t help you. I wish I could, but I can’t.’
‘Because you’re low on supplies or afraid of getting caught? Which is it?’ Seeing him hesitate, she went on, ‘Or is it neither? Oh God, don’t tell me – it’s your honour, isn’t it? Your German sense of rectitude. You people make me sick – helping yourselves to most of Europe but baulking at pilfering a few of your own supplies.’
‘I’m sorry. In time there ought to be a ration system for civilians. Some kind of medical care.’
‘Excuse me if I’m sceptical, Captain. You can’t clothe yourselves adequately, that’s obvious, and now you tell me you’re running low on medical supplies. Personally I think you’re deliberately trying to starve us, but even if you’re not I doubt we can rely on you for food, let alone medical care.’
‘Look,’ he said quietly, ‘let me see what I can do.’
‘Not good enough, Captain. Should I tell Metz you called him a coward?’
So this was how things stood, he thought. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he repeated. He was fairly sure he hadn’t described Metz as a coward, but even if Metz disbelieved it the accusation would cause trouble.
‘And there’s another thing,’ she said.
‘God, who’s torturing whom? Should I get in the chair?’
‘It’s your Corporal Winkel.’
‘What about him?’ Bauer asked, taken aback, the name Winkel not one he normally associated with trouble.
‘He’s been making a nuisance of himself with one of my housekeepers.’
‘Ah, I see. Daria Grigorievna.’
‘You know about it then.’
‘I know he’s become fond of her, yes.’
‘I can’t have it.’
‘Why? Because Daria doesn’t like it?’
‘On the contrary. That’s the problem. Your stay here is limited, as I keep trying to explain, and any woman who’s gone with a German . . . well, she’ll likely face retribution.’
Bauer thought of saying something cutting about Soviet justice, but if the situation were somehow reversed he had no doubt his own people would be vengeful in just the same way. ‘You seem very sure we’ll lose this war.’
‘I’m certain of it. But even if I weren’t, the risk to Daria would be unacceptable.’
‘It sounds as though she disagrees with you.’
‘I’m sorry to say that Daria isn’t particularly bright. She’s unmarried. Has never married. So she’s vulnerable. Also, she has a drinking habit.’
Bauer couldn’t help laughing. ‘You want me to tell all this to Winkel?’
‘Tell him what you like, just make him desist. Metz vowed that his men would leave my female staff alone. Harassing them was forbidden, he said.’
‘For racial reasons, yes.’
‘If your ludicrous prejudices protect my staff, then I’m all in favour of them.’
‘Winkel is a good man – have you thought about that? Daria Grigorievna would be lucky to have him. Aren’t you novelists meant to see things from other points of view?’
‘For a start, I’m no longer a novelist. As for your corporal, his goodness won’t matter a damn if he’s in Germany and Daria is on the end of a rope.’
‘Maybe he could take her with him.’
‘Captain, don’t be ridiculous. In the midst of a retreat? If you had Stalin on the run I might have gone along with this sweet little romance – endorsed it, even. But you haven’t, so I have to be sensible, for Daria’s sake. You should do the same for your corporal.’
‘All right then,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll do my best. Though in my experience the heart is a tricky organ to police.’
‘I would have thought you Germans were experts at it.’
‘You’d be surprised, Katerina Dmitrievna. Occasionally even our hearts rebel.’
* * *
Bauer ligatured the ulnar artery, half attending as he did so to his assistants’ conversation. Metz’s limousine was fixed, Winkel said. To get it running again he’d had to machine a new carburettor out of scrap.
Pflieger gestured at their unconscious patient. ‘Could you do the same for this poor sod?’
‘A prosthesis?’ Winkel asked.
‘I meant knock something up in flesh and blood.’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Pflieger.’
Bauer asked for the bone saw. Demchak passed it to him, and immediately Bauer set to work on the bone.
‘In fact, that’s not so absurd,’ Hirsch said from his seat at the top of the table. ‘It could happen one day.’
Even focused as he was on the task at hand, Bauer was aware of the others turning their attention to Hirsch, who normally said little during surgery, especially since the Swabian’s death. Hirsch blushed scarlet and pressed the bridge of his spectacles to his nose. ‘A knocked-out tooth can survive if reattached. Why couldn’t an arm?’
‘Maybe,’ Winkel said, sounding sceptical. ‘But Pflieger’s talking about a replacement limb. That will never happen.’
Bauer got through the bone, leaving just tricep and skin.
‘Why not?’ Hirsch replied. ‘The first step is to imagine it. Then, when techniques are more advanced, someone is bound to make it happen.’
Bauer finished the cut and Pflieger picked up the severed limb, but instead of binning it straight away he held it up and, by slapping his spare hand against the amputated one, gave Hirsch a limp round of applause. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant, for your generous support. See, Sepp: I’m a genius.’
‘Put it down,’ Bauer ordered him. ‘Jokes, yes, but no maltreatment of body parts. That could be you lying there.’
‘That’s right,’ Winkel said. ‘Then we’d have to build you a brain.’
* * *
That evening they finished operating late. Bauer felt tired but elated, adrenaline-sluiced, and to calm down he lit a cigarette before settling in to review his notes. Next the wards; then, knowing that sleep was out of the question, he hurried through the snow to the delousing station, meaning to take a sauna. On the hooks inside the door hung a corporal’s uniform, which from its size and tidiness was obviously Winkel’s. This was disappointing; he’d hoped to have the place to himself. Evidently Sepp had come here straight fro
m their shift, no doubt also seeking solitude, and since NCOs were entitled to use the sauna during morning hours he was within his rights, as it was now after midnight. Bauer considered retreating, not only because he preferred to be alone but also on account of his obligation, if obligation was the correct term, to caution Sepp about his friendship with Daria Grigorievna. However, the idea of lying in bed listening to Molineux snoring was unappealing, and so he undressed, hurrying to escape the icy air, making plenty of noise to warn Winkel of his presence.
The sauna, when he entered, not only felt hot but looked it, firelight shining through a sooty glass panel in the stove. Sepp was seated on the upper bench furthest from the door, arms slung about his knees, his slight but muscled frame somehow birdlike and vulnerable. Immediately he leaned forward and offered to leave, but Bauer motioned him to stay. ‘It’s morning, Sepp. I’m the one who’s intruding.’
‘You’re sure you don’t want me to go, sir?’
‘Certain. You’ve saved me the trouble of lighting the fire. I can hardly turn you out into the snow now, can I?’
‘I don’t mind,’ he insisted.
‘No, stay. You deserve it. You worked hard tonight.’
‘I should see to the fire,’ Winkel said but didn’t move, such passivity so unlike him Bauer sensed something must be wrong – illness, or even an insubordinate erection. Wordlessly he refuelled the stove himself, ladled water onto the stones, then, averting his eyes, sat lengthways on the bench seat opposite Winkel, resting his back on the warm timber wall. The under-ceiling air was scorching, which felt heavenly, and consciously he relaxed. It had been a hard day. A hard week. A hard campaign. A hard few years, come to that. If feeling cold half the time made heat more rewarding, it followed that life’s hardships ought to intensify its joys; though this presumed there were joys available, which on the eastern front was doubtful. He should be satisfied, he supposed, with the gift of this super-heated air, which at this instant possibly made him if not the happiest then at least the warmest man in the war.
Winkel, on the other hand, was looking awkward and tense, his arms still clasped about his knees. Bauer would never have picked him as a physically bashful man – in fact he recalled that in July, when they had reached the Dnieper River, Winkel had been one of the first men to strip off and wade in. Bauer sat up.