The Right Hand of Sleep

by John Wray

  “With all due respect, Hauptsturmführer, I’d not have taken you either,” I heard myself answer. I should have recognized it right away as an omen. Glass wrinkled his brow for the briefest of moments, then broke without warning into his infamous titter, poking me merrily in the ribs. Eventually he got himself into his uniform and we went down to look the rest of the boys over. We found them lounging along the cars, suited up and waiting—thirty in police blacks, sixty-five more dressed as foot soldiers in the Civil Guard. Glass glanced quickly down the line and turned back to me, his face flushed with pleasure. “There you are, Bauer,” he said, taking me by the shoulder. “Bastard sons of the Republic, to a man.” I spat demonstratively on the ground.

  Once the boys had been reviewed we walked slowly back across the courtyard. “By the way, Obersturmführer,” Glass said when we were almost to the stairwell, bringing out a roll of mimeographs: “Your partner in crime Spengler’s artistry. What’s your verdict?”

  I looked over the sheets, onto which a crude sketch of the Chancellery floor plan had been copied. Glass kept quiet, watching me. I felt a vague twinge of something like roadsickness while flipping through them, trying to make sense of the thickly traced diagrams and the dense chicken-scratches of script. “They’re a disaster, Hauptsturmführer,” I said.

  Glass let out another titter. “Nonsense! Just take them round, Bauer, there’s a boy. You’ll manage. You’re all fine soldiers.”

  “Listen to me, Hauptsturmführer. Spengler is not a fine soldier. Not at all. Spengler is a—”

  “We all know very well what Spengler is, Bauer. Spengler is the very type we need to bring our plan to fruition. Spengler is what we call a man of action.”

  “Spengler is a . . . a child, Hauptsturmführer. Surely you must—”

  “All the more reason for you to ride with him this afternoon, Bauer,” Glass said curtly. “We have absolute confidence in your judgment.”

  “What?”

  “Rolling in one quarter hour,” said Glass, no longer looking at me. He spun on his heels, clownish, dandylike. “Just keep Spengler on his hind legs, Bauer; the rest will follow.”

  He went into the stairwell then and waved me on about my business. I have a clear memory of him there, just inside the doors, the midday light glistening on his immaculate pomade. The next time I saw him he was tied to a chair with wire cord, pleading for his life as best he could through a blood-and-spit–soaked piece of rag.

  “Heil Hitler, Bauer,” Glass called out as he was halfway up the stairs.

  “Heil Hitler,” I answered, saluting his retreating backside.

  I found Spengler slumped against the hood of one of the trucks, nattering with Little Ernst, the driver. He was dressed, like me, as a lieutenant of the police, but the uniform was far too small for him and he’d left the shirt flapping open. He stood and saluted as I came up, shifting his weight uncomfortably like a field hand in his Sunday best, dense brown hairs pushing out through his open shirtfront. Recognizing me, he let out a grunt. “Well, I’ll be buggered,” he said, flashing his gap-toothed boxer’s grin. “I almost took you for the genuine article, Biddlebauer.”

  I smiled thinly, holding up the roll of mimeographs. “This your doing, Heinrich?”

  “Hup,” said Spengler, snapping to attention. “Straight copied from memory, officer.”

  “Is that so?” I turned to Ernst and smiled. “Is it your feeling, comrade, that a chimp with a runny ass could have done any better? If we’d handed him Dollfuss’s own prick for a fountain pen?”

  “I can’t say he would have, Obersturmführer.”

  “Ah! Very grand,” muttered Spengler. He looked me over slowly and appraisingly. “I believe you’re riding with us on today’s outing, paper jockey. Under our motherly protection.” His thick hand lolled against his pistol butt.

  I looked at Ernst again. “Is this man my mother, Ernst?”

  “Not to my knowledge, Obersturmführer.”

  Spengler let out a carefully timed belch. Whatever point Glass was making in choosing him to head the attack was lost on me entirely. In spite of his stupidity, or perhaps because of it, I was afraid of him, and I realized this clearly as I returned his stare. “Go ahead; have your cracks, Biddlebauer,” Spengler muttered. “You’re riding in my car today, just the same.”

  We stood a moment, looking at each other. “They’ll get us in, all right,” Spengler said after a time, jerking his chin toward the mimeographs.

  “They just might, Heinrich. Seeing as how we’re going in through the big brass doors, just like every other enemy of the people.” Ernst did his best to suppress a chuckle. “See you in a quarter hour, brothers,” I said, stepping down to the next group of boys.

  When the cars were all lined up and idling, Glass leaned out of the office window to bestow his blessing. Our sedan was the first of seven, with five trucks following after. I glanced at my watch; it was fifteen minutes after three. Glass beamed down at us a moment, then made a shooing-away motion with his hands, as one might to a flock of pigeons, and we were off. We rolled around the block very quietly, then swung out onto the Ring and navigated through moderate traffic to the Ballhausplatz. On the way we checked our pistols and loaded them and Spengler fussed with the chest flap of his uniform. We took care to avoid the Hofburg-side façade of the chancellery and pulled up instead at the northwest corner, along the Church of the Minorites, parking well against the curb like model citizens. Our car and the six others carrying mock policemen emptied out onto the pavement. The boys dressed as Civil Guards were to wait another ten minutes before following us, locking the courtyard gates as they came in. Spengler reviewed the boys coolly. “You could use a shine, officer,” he said, glancing down at my boots.

  Staring into Spengler’s face, I saw a tiny insect, a gnat, perhaps, or a flea, crawl out of his hair. As I looked on, it made its way painstakingly across his forehead, found a deep, sun-battered furrow and vanished into it. The nausea I’d felt earlier looking at the mimeographs returned at once full force and I reached toward Spengler to keep from falling over. “I feel sick, Heinrich,” I whispered.

  Spengler laughed and stepped away from me. “Of course you feel sick, Biddlebauer,” he said, loudly and for the benefit of all present. “Best to wait here with the cars, I think. Try not to make any messes.”

  “Shut up, Spengler, for Christ’s sake.”

  “On my word, boys!” Spengler crowed, holding his rifle up. But instead of the promised word he simply raised the rifle above his head and let it fall.

  The sound of an engine laboring up the steep grade woke them early one morning at the beginning of August. —It’s your land-lord, said Else, drawing aside the window shade. She made a face.

  —I’ve gone to Italy, said Voxlauer, hiding his head under the sheets.

  —Not without me, you haven’t. Up and into your britches. She was rummaging through the clothes trunk, letting skirts and slips and stockings fall lightly through her fingers. He listened to the rustle of her nightshirt over the floor and the slap of her bare feet on the kitchen steps. He pulled the coverlet back and watched as she peered out the kitchen window. A moment later she undid the latch and a light breeze swept down to him.

  —Herr Ryslavy! Such a rare privilege.

  —Fräulein Bauer. Good morning. I’m sorry to disturb you.

  —Not at all. Else stood still for an instant, squinting. —What time is it?

  —I need to speak to Oskar. Is he here?

  She swung the door open. —Come inside.

  —Thank you, Fräulein.

  She opened a cupboard. —Have you had any breakfast?

  —Yes. Thank you.

  —Cup of tea?

  —No. You’re very kind.

  Else sat down and smiled flatly. Voxlauer could see only the back of Ryslavy’s head from the parlor. He was fidgeting with the drawstring of the blinds and humming to himself.

  —Would you like a drink, perhaps, Herr Ryslavy?
/>   —No, thank you. He looked about him all at once, remembering his manners. —Very pretty house you have here. Tranquil.

  —That’s right; you’ve never visited, Else said.

  Ryslavy didn’t answer. Else sat with her arms folded, watching him.

  —Hello, Pauli! said Voxlauer, stepping up into the kitchen. —Where’s the fire?

  Ryslavy grimaced and shifted in his chair. —I need you to come down, Oskar. Voxlauer looked back and forth between the two of them, buttoning up his shirt. —Something’s happened, he said stupidly after a moment.

  Ryslavy stood up and bowed to Else. —Sorry again for disturbing you, Fräulein.

  —Not at all. Could you tell us what’s wrong, please?

  —Is it my mother? said Voxlauer. —If it is, then—

  Ryslavy shook his head from side to side. —It’s nothing like that, Oskar.

  The glass-fronted awning was gutted and splayed open and the window boxes facing the square hung down in all directions like the leaves of a fire-wilted bush. Crushed glass covered the foyer and curled in from each charred, battered window frame in sparkling arabesques. The bar was blistered and discolored and each stool lay hacked into sections and scattered across the floor. A wide dark stain ran from the bar into the kitchen. —Whose blood is that? said Voxlauer.

  Ryslavy shrugged. —I don’t know. Not a person’s, I don’t think.

  —Where’s Emelia?

  —A friend’s in St. Marein.

  Else stood in the vestibule, looking around her. —Who would do such a thing?

  Ryslavy glanced at Voxlauer. —I’m sure I wouldn’t know, Fräulein.

  —But I would, Herr Ryslavy? You’re perfectly right. She walked past them and stepped carefully behind the bar. —There’s more blood back here, she said.

  —An even trade, Ryslavy said, grinning crookedly. —The blood of a sheep for everything I own.

  —Where were you? said Else.

  —Trying to keep the kegs from boiling, said Ryslavy, pointing to the cellar door.

  —Nobody came down after you?

  —No, Fräulein. I had a pistol.

  Voxlauer looked at him. —You had a pistol?

  —As far as anybody knew. Ryslavy leaned back against the bar. —They weren’t trying to murder me, Oskar. Just the business.

  —What was it, Pauli? Weren’t you paying your fees?

  —Ach! What fees, Oskar? No one’s paying any blessed fees. He paused, passing a hand across his eyes. —I was open an hour or two on Sunday. A few people came.

  Else came round from behind the bar. —I found one lonely old beer.

  —We’ll be drinking from the bottle, I expect, said Voxlauer. Ryslavy shot him a wounded look.

  —Who was it? Did you see? said Else.

  —Rindt, Maier, Kroyacher, Fuchs. There were more outside. Breischa, I’m fairly sure. Welinek.

  —Welinek? The schoolteacher?

  Ryslavy nodded.

  —Might as well have been red injuns, said Voxlauer.

  —How did you put the fire out? said Else, turning the bottle back and forth on the top of the bar.

  —Werner Hirt came and brought his sons. Old man Herbst came. The fire wagon too, after a little while.

  —People actually came?

  Ryslavy smiled. —They’re decent, civic-minded citizens at bottom, Fräulein. And their houses stand flush up next to this one.

  They were quiet for a time. —Old man Herbst’s still alive, that gassy bastard? said Voxlauer. Ryslavy didn’t answer.

  They spent the afternoon sweeping the glass into burlap sacks and nailing quartered crates over the windows. At six o’clock Else came back with lye powder for the floor and a pot of warm pastaciutta and poppy rolls. Ryslavy went down to the cellar for wine. Voxlauer and Else righted a table and brought three stools from the kitchen. —I went and saw Kurt, she said furtively. —He says he knew. But he wasn’t part of it.

  —You’ll have to explain that to me sometime, Fräulein, said Voxlauer. —When we’re both of us feeling patient.

  After dinner Ryslavy brought out a pack of cards and a second and a third bottle of wine and they played Pagat by the light of a gas lantern set on the bar. A window at the far end of the room was open and through it the lights of the square threw the shadows of passersby onto the ceiling. The shadows began near to life size at the far corner but grew huge and grotesque as they passed overhead. Voxlauer was convinced he could recognize some of them. He felt light-headed. —Lots of people out strolling tonight, he said.

  Ryslavy nodded, staring down at his cards.

  —You should charge half a schilling admission, said Voxlauer. He turned to Else. —You might mention it to your cousin.

  —Oskar has to have his jokes, said Else.

  —I know it all too well, Fräulein, said Ryslavy, slurring a little as he spoke.

  —Don’t call her Fräulein like that, said Voxlauer.

  —You’re drunk, said Ryslavy, eyes still on his cards.

  —Pagat! announced Voxlauer, dropping the card face upward onto the table.

  Ryslavy shook his head. —These are troubled times, Fräulein.

  —We’ll have our satisfaction yet, Herr Ryslavy. A little patience.

  Voxlauer shuffled next and dealt. They studied their hands in silence.

  —I’ll call out a three-game, said Ryslavy. He raised a finger. —The Jew stands alone. Semper solo.

  —It’s you and me, then, Fräulein, against the undesirable, said Voxlauer. —We have society’s mandate.

  —Shit-eaters! Ryslavy yelled, lunging up from the table. —Shit-eating sons of bitches!

  —Time for bed, said Voxlauer, rising. He caught up with Ryslavy at the door to the kitchen and shepherded him in a loose wobbling arc past the bar to the foot of the stairs.

  —Good night, dear Fräulein. Dear dear Fräulein. Ryslavy made a halfhearted attempt to climb the bottommost step and looked sideways at Voxlauer. —Oskar, he muttered. —You have a beautiful wife.

  —And you have very pretty trout, said Voxlauer. —Up.

  —Take any room, said Ryslavy, lurching forward. —Take the bridal suite.

  —None of these units qualify, I’m afraid, said Voxlauer, guiding him up to the landing. —Do you need me to make a light?

  —Get back to your Pagat, old kid. Get back, you old billy goat.

  —Good night, then, you drunken ass. Dream something about Christmas.

  —I like Good Friday better, Ryslavy shouted. —Tell that to those sons of whores and donkeys! Tell them that!

  —Most likely they’ve heard already, said Voxlauer, dragging him by his collar up the stairs.

  —You should have let him rant, said Else as Voxlauer came down the stairs. —He has a right, poor bastard. She was sitting at the bar, looking out through the ruined foyer. She straightened herself slightly as he came near.

  —You’ve certainly changed allegiances suddenly.

  —Allegiances?

  —You can’t have it both ways, Fräulein.

  She frowned. —Why are you saying this?

  —You can’t be for Pauli and your cousin both. That’s all.

  —Did I say I was for either of them? I said Pauli had a right. No more than that.

  —They can’t both of them have a right. Can they?

  She didn’t answer for a time. —I want to go back to the valley, Oskar, she said.

  The glow of the streetlamps fell in pale wavering rectangles across the bar. Voxlauer stood in the dark drunkenly, watching her.

  —Let’s get out of here, at least, she said, slipping down from her barstool.

  “Remember,” I said to the boys as they filed past me. “You’re policemen.” No one paid much attention. They trooped without a word around the corner to the wide-open brass doors of the chancellery, their badly fitted uniforms sagging and billowing as they went. They were all of them young boys, good at following orders and strong and dumb as posts. I followed them as qu
ickly as I could around the corner.

  We had no trouble getting past the first brace of guards. There were seven of them in the courtyard, all together in a huddle, smoking cigarettes by an iron rack for bicycles. One of them asked me the time as we came in. Spengler immediately stepped over to him.

  “Where’s the cabinet room, brother?”

  “What cabinet room?” the guard said, frowning.

  “A little joke,” I said, moving between the guard and Spengler.

  “What’s this about?” another guard said curiously, coming over.

  “You’re all under arrest,” said Spengler, ramming his rifle into the first guard’s ribs. “Urnngh,” groaned the guard, bending over. The rest laid down their rifles immediately and raised their hands. We left ten boys there and went in with the rest, Spengler looking down at his floor plan all the while with a puzzled expression, turning it this way and that like a French postcard. “Give me that thing,” I snapped, snatching it away from him. To my surprise he shot me a grateful look.

  “A left here, then,” I said, moving past him at the top of the stairs.

  “Maybe we should ask another guard for directions,” said Little Ernst, coming up behind us.

  “You shut your mouth, Ernst,” Spengler muttered. “Where to, Bauer?”

  “Past those,” I said, pointing down the corridor to a cluster of guards in bright red uniforms with panicked expressions on their faces. Spengler lowered his rifle and fired into them without slowing. The second from the left spun hard into the wall, clutched his stomach and slumped over without making the slightest sound. I had never seen anyone shot before and I remember looking at the back of Spengler’s head with sudden envy. The other nine guards laid down their guns and knelt as one man wordlessly onto the carpet.

  “There’s patriotism for you,” Spengler crowed. Ernst and the other boys collected the rifles, moved the guards to one side of the corridor and shoved their faces against the tiles. Spengler was already at the leather-padded doors behind them. He glanced back at us, gave a stiff-necked little nod and kicked them open. Behind the doors was a cluttered anteroom and beyond it three men in uniforms of state at a long oaken table. Dollfuss sat on an elevated chair between the other two. He raised his hands with deliberate, self-conscious dignity and they followed suit. “On your feet,” said Spengler, fiddling with his rifle’s safety catch.