by John Wray
—You can go, Pauli.
—What? Ah! Of course, Ryslavy murmured. He went out.
The coffin lay behind her under the window, the lid propped against its side. He looked down at her. In the light from the shaded lamp she glowed dully, as though cast in bronze. He reached out again to touch her face through the parted veil. Then he drew the veil closed again and left her.
—I mean to pay for all of this, he said, finding Ryslavy sitting on a low stool in the kitchen, staring at a bottle of beer.
—Ach, Oskar. Allow me this little thing.
—There was no need for any trimmings. She wouldn’t have wanted them.
—Trimmings? Ryslavy said, frowning.
—That casket. The cosmetics.
—This is her last time, Oskar. Allow me this one thing. I don’t think she would have minded.
—Goddamn it, Pauli. Look after your own goddamned business.
—I’d rather not, Ryslavy said, staring down at his feet.
They sat silently for a time. —She was kind to me, God bless her, Ryslavy said. —Kinder than all the rest of them piled together.
—I mean to pay you, Pauli. Voxlauer took a breath. —I’m set on it.
Ryslavy said nothing. He passed the bottle to Voxlauer and Voxlauer tipped it back.
—God knows she always did right by us, Oskar. God knows, Ryslavy said. —She was a goddamned saint in my eyes. He shook his head slowly. —Not that I have much use for saints, needless—
—Can’t you leave me alone a little while? Voxlauer murmured.
—All right, Oskar. Ryslavy stood. —I’ll come round in a bit.
—That’s fine.
After Ryslavy left he sat well into the night, cradling the empty bottle. There were more bottles in the cellar but he had no strength to get them. The house with all its rooms seemed far larger now without her in it. But she was in it, in the parlor, laid out in charcoal-colored silk. The thought came to him suddenly that he had never spent a night in the house by himself. He sat quietly on the stool, looking into the bedroom. He felt younger than he could ever remember feeling. A weak candle beam from the parlor played over the floorboards.
He woke early the next morning to footfalls on the stairs and the sound of women’s voices. He let them go around through the vestibule into the parlor, listening through the bedroom. —The candles have gone out, one of the women said. They whispered together for a time before reciting grace for the dead in a flowing mumble and stepping out again into the stairwell.
When they had gone Voxlauer raised himself from the stool and went in to see her. Her veil was parted and the window shade pulled partly up, letting sunlight fall in a broad, flat band across the floor. He pulled down the shades and closed her veil and sat down on the piano bench. Before long another set of footfalls carried to him from under the vestibule door. He let them come as he had the others, not minding the commotion of their voices. There were three this time, a gaunt, shambling man and two women, ancient and pale, dressed in the stern black silks and white bonnets of the preceding century. When they saw him there at the piano in the dark they stood still for a moment, then dipped their heads respectfully. The man stepped over to him and held out a pale and liver-spotted hand.
—Jürgen Schuffner, Herr Voxlauer, if you please. He paused. —You don’t remember me, I’m sure.
—I remember you, said Voxlauer. He smiled. —You work at the mill.
The man let out a little laugh. —Years ago, Your Honor. Years ago. I remember your visits, though, very well. Your Honor loved to visit that mill as a little Herr.
—You sifted the flour, said Voxlauer. —With a two-handed sieve.
—I did, and other things. The man paused, turning his hat brim thoughtfully in his hands. —She was the right kind, Your Honor’s mother. A lady in all cardinals. Of a different time, I always thought, if you’ll pardon my so saying. A different time altogether.
—She often said the same, said Voxlauer.
The women were moving around the body slowly, murmuring to themselves and setting down small, gilt-bottomed candles. That’s how they do it in the hills, thought Voxlauer. Even now. I wonder which valley they come out of. Dirt-poor, most likely. Look at his suit, their dresses. I’d like to touch them if I could. Watching the women and listening to the queer old-fashioned pleasantries of the man he felt transported suddenly into the sepia-toned flatness of a daguerreotype. The feeling was strange but not unpleasant, like a slow, warm immersion in muddy water.
—You’ll not see many like that anymore, if Your Honor pleases, the man was saying. —She was the right kind, was your mother. The grandest kind.
—I’d never thought of her as grand, Herr Schuffner. Formal-mannered, possibly.
—Well. Your Honor wouldn’t, being her son.
—Did you have far to come?
The man shrugged. —Down from In der Höll. Your Honor wouldn’t likely remember to place it.
—I remember it very well. That’s a fair piece of travel.
The man shrugged again. After a time he nodded. —She kept her contract with us long after Your Honor’s uncle had gone over to those stinking Yids in Ammern, he said finally, as though in answer to a question.
—Well. If it’s any consolation to you, he lived to regret it, said Voxlauer.
The man snorted. —He always was a weather-watcher, your uncle, if you don’t mind my saying.
—I don’t mind.
—He about?
—What?
—The uncle. Is he about?
—I haven’t seen him.
—He’ll get his bill, said the man, dropping his voice low. — His kind always have.
—Everybody gets their bill, Herr Schuffner, said Voxlauer. —We’ll get ours, too, before much longer.
—As you say, Your Honor. Well now. He inclined his head again and lifted his hat slightly as a signal to the women, who were rustling around the body. —If there’s anything you might be needing, we’d feel privileged.
—The burial is on Thursday, said Voxlauer.
—We’ll have to be going back up directly, I’m afraid. Thanks to the Herr, though, all the same. The women came up now behind him, beneficent and smooth-faced. They curtsied.
—Yes. Well, good-bye then, Herr Schuffner, said Voxlauer. —Good-bye the ladies. The women curtsied again, eyes downcast, and followed the man with a rustling of petticoats out of the room and down the stairwell.
The rest of the day people came in twos or threes, mostly quietly, up the stairwell and past him, moving stiff-jointedly around the body or sitting for a time on the bench he’d carried in from the verandah, moving their lips soundlessly and quickly. Most stayed only a few minutes, mumbling and bowing to him and moving on. And always more behind, the muted, sustained murmur of their voices, the steady bustle on the stairs. The men bowed as they passed him, most of them, and removed their hats. The women took him briefly by the hand. Ryslavy came in the early evening. —Well? he said, looking sideways at the casket.
—I’ve just been sitting here all day, said Voxlauer.
—Come on out of here. You look like you’re waiting your turn.
—Watch yourself, Pauli. I just might beat you to the ribbon.
—Scant chance of that. You’ve a good dozen more years of self-abuse ahead of you, little man. He took Voxlauer by the elbow. —Come along. You’ll be depressing me in another minute.
Voxlauer shook his head. —I’m waiting here.
—What for?
He waved a hand. —A state visit. Condolences.
—Else told me what happened last week. Scant chance of that either, I’d say.
—Yes. He got a shock, didn’t he, the Obersturmführer.
—I’ll say he did, you blessed idiot. Ryslavy grinned.
—Both of us did.
—Ach! Come off it, Oskar.
—Is it true what I hear?
Ryslavy’s grin faded. —What’s that?
—That you�
��ve finally dropped your pants to them.
—To hell with you. To hell with you, Oskar Voxlauer. Ryslavy’s face worked and stiffened. —You’re a damn fool. You think things through like a goddamned wet-assed baby. He bent low over Voxlauer. His breath reeked of wine. —You’ve let Kurt Bauer do your thinking for you. That’s what you’ve done.
—I’ve let him? said Voxlauer. —You’ve got things turned around a little, I’d say. You’re the one with his pants at his knees.
—There’s no talking to you, Ryslavy said, almost too quietly to hear. —There’s no good in it.
—Don’t talk to me, then, said Voxlauer, turning away. A few seconds later he heard the bright slam of the stairwell door.
I waited for the boys to lift the first of the bodies and start with them down the stairs, keeping my face expressionless. I’d decided to escape even before I saw the angel over Spengler’s shoulder but I knew now that it had to happen soon. I had no idea how to manage it, only that first impulse to send the boys down. I heard them grunting on the staircase, cursing as they missed their footing on the marble steps.
At the end of the corridor a tall leaded-glass window looked out over the Ring, and to the left of it, half hidden by drapes, a small open stairwell led to the topmost floor. Through the window I saw quivering, dark-edged shapes running together and dissolving silently in all directions. I couldn’t make any of the shapes out clearly but I knew their significance well enough. I pulled the drapes aside and ran upstairs.
At the top of the stairwell a high, mansard-roofed passage began, bounded on either side by mesh enclosures filled to the rafters with unmarked, gothic-looking crates. A dull brackish light filtered down through skylights. I walked along the passage to a soot-stained window the size and shape of a bicycle wheel and pushed it open very gently. It turned smoothly on cross-hinges and through it I saw the lieutenant general of the gendarmerie, on the chancellery steps, give the order to storm the building.
The window was tucked high into the façade, just above the main set of double doors, and I was able to watch as they were battered open with a small wooden ram by a group of six men without the slightest trouble. An instant later a swarm of gray-shirted Home Guards poured in. There was a sudden wave of sound, smooth at first, then breaking into facets, and a puff of black smoke rose slowly up the façade toward me. Through the smoke came the steady chatter of gunfire. I looked across the Ring at the crowd that had gathered along the margins of the park, and marveled at its utter lack of fear; any stray bullet could have reached it. I smiled at this thought for a moment, feeling for a few seconds invisible and cunning, then ducked my head in and ran down the passageway.
At the other end, by the stairwell, was a second window, identical to the first except that it was locked and painted over. I could hear shouts and gunshots echoing up the stairwell and the sound of more doors being battered in. I slipped furtively down the stairs and rearranged the drapes in an attempt to hide the stairwell, then ran full speed back up to the window. Its cross-hinges were caked with rust and clotted greenish-yellow paint, cracked and ancient. I looked around for a loose brick or some other thing to smash the lock, then stopped myself all at once and stared up at the skylights.
There were twenty of them running the length of the passage; they were narrow and deeply recessed, but looked as though they might let a man through if he was desperate enough. The walls of the enclosures came within an arm’s length of the roof beams. I went from one enclosure to the next, testing each gate. Reports of rifle fire came from time to time through the floor, often seemingly right below me, but the large-scale fighting appeared already to have ended. The sixteenth or seventeenth gate swung inward unprotestingly and I stepped into the enclosure and tested the strength of the wire mesh with my boot. It bent sharply under my weight, leaving the perfect impression of a toehold. I cursed and bent the mesh back carefully.
By now I was beginning to feel the first stirrings of panic. I knelt and examined the crates more closely. They had red stenciled numbers on them and were made of a light, waxy wood, but looked as though they might support my weight if I stepped very lightly. I lifted the nearest by its corners and was overjoyed to find it less heavy than I’d expected. I stacked them quickly and quietly into a column under the skylight, glancing down the passageway every few seconds, whispering little chants of encouragement to myself as I worked.
When I was nearly done, I heard the sound of footfalls on the stairs; it passed after a moment and I kept on with my work. At one point I dropped a crate that must have held cutlery or tuning forks or some other horribly clanging, metallic things; I crouched down behind the column and waited a long time without so much as taking a breath. But no one came after all and I finished the stack, pulled the gate shut, threw the latch with my fingertips and climbed carefully to the skylight. It opened easily and I stuck my head out a moment later into the drizzling gray air.
The next morning three men came from the diocese and nodded to Voxlauer and laid the body in the casket and arranged its unwilling limbs and fastened the lid down with screws. They carried her through the middle of town to the cemetery chapel, a bare, plank-roofed, whitewashed little room, open along its townward side like a box at the opera. Thirty or forty people were gathered in front in long dark coats and bustled dresses. Most of them were very old. Gustl was there. Ryslavy was there, looking pale and weather-beaten. Six or seven SS were there in their parade finery but Kurt Bauer was not among them. The priest hobbled meekly around the little stage swinging his copper censer. Voxlauer recalled his shallow docile face dimly from childhood services. He sang in a flutter of reedy, false notes at the casket.
—Odore celesti pascat animam tuam Deus.
When the singing was over a muted chorus of amens rose up from the assembled and the service began. It went on a very long time with everybody staring down at the ground in front of them. —Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus, said the priest at the end of it. —Amen.
—Amen, the crowd repeated. The SS remained quiet.
The priest then turned to Voxlauer. —If anyone should like to say words at this time, he said.
Making Gustl out to the left of the stage, Voxlauer spoke his name.
Gustl nodded with an air of highborn detachment and shuffled up the stairs. Once beside the casket he stood solemnly a moment, eyes raised toward heaven, then gave a melancholy little sigh. —Fellow mourners, he began.
The priest stepped back from the casket and dropped his head. His narrow pale chin pressed against his wattled neck and his eyelids fluttered. —Fellow mourners, said Gustl again, clearing his throat.
Voxlauer sought out Ryslavy’s face in the crowd and winked at him. Ryslavy looked away. Gustl’s sad mild voice stirred like a dying summer breeze through the assembled. Voxlauer watched him bobbing on his short legs, spreading his arms out as he spoke and bringing them in again a moment later like some sort of flightless bird. After a time he looked more closely at the mass of faces, none of which he seemed to recognize. Ryslavy stared morosely ahead of him, muttering to himself, scratching the back of his neck and tugging at his collar. Occasionally a nervous smile would crimp his mouth along its left side. He glanced at Voxlauer, raised an eyebrow, then dipped his head to stare again at nothing.
—. . . and commend her soul into a more placid harbor, said Gustl quietly. —Amen.
—Amen, said the priest, opening his eyes but leaving his head bowed low against his windpipe. Gustl bowed gravely and stepped away from the casket. He patted Voxlauer encouragingly on the shoulder as he passed. A brief, expectant silence followed.
—Paul Ryslavy, said Voxlauer carefully.
Ryslavy looked up, startled. A murmuring rose among the crowd.
—Customarily, at this time, the son might say a few words, offered the priest. A few of the mourners made a show of beginning to button up their coats.
—A family time, Oskar, Gustl whispered.
—Yes, Uncle. We’d like to ask
Paul Ryslavy to speak, said Voxlauer, more loudly. —There he is. Come up, Herr Ryslavy, if you would.
Ryslavy stepped out of the crowd and moved haltingly up to the casket. A number of mourners, the younger men especially, had put on their hats and stood ready to leave. The SS remained perfectly at attention, their eyes fixed on a point slightly to Voxlauer’s left. Let them stand at attention for him, thought Voxlauer, watching Ryslavy straighten himself and cough a little into his sleeve. He looks terrible, he thought, glancing from Ryslavy back out at the crowd. So much the better.
Ryslavy stood at the casket surveying the fidgeting assembly. —Fellow mourners, he began, sucking in his breath. —We are gathered together today to . . . ah . . . say good-bye now and forever to a beautiful spirit . . .
Voxlauer looked from one to another of them all the while. They were staring at Ryslavy and the priest with awkward, disappointed faces. The SS were looking at Voxlauer almost fondly. They must have come for this, he thought. Well then, let them enjoy it. Let them do what they came here to do.
—We cared for her . . . ah, each of us in different ways. Each in keeping with our particular, ah, relationship . . . Ryslavy looked from one to another of them, breaking into a grin. —As for me, I loved her something like a stepson.
Loud murmurs arose. —That makes some of you piss your pants, I know, Ryslavy said. He looked over at Voxlauer and guffawed.
—This man is drunk, the priest said, stepping forward.
—This man paid your fee, grandfather, said Voxlauer, taking the priest’s arm. —You let him alone.
—. . . like a cherished aunt, Ryslavy was saying, untroubled now by the priest or the mourners, slurring his words together. —Better yet, a governess—
—That’s enough, said Gustl violently. Five SS were behind him. Ryslavy stopped in mid-sentence and stood half turned, regarding all of them with calm disdain.
—You’ve had your turn to speak already, Uncle, Voxlauer said.
—That’s as may be, Oskar. That’s as may be—
—A disgusting misuse of the occasion, all considered, the SS officer behind Gustl interrupted, stepping forward impatiently. Voxlauer recognized him now as the towheaded clerk from his visit to the Polizeihaus. —A pretty little Jew speech, he said shrilly, turning to address the crowd. He stood parallel to Ryslavy, just at his shoulder; the two of them might have been joint speakers at a lecture. Ryslavy was leaning away from him now, watching him, the expression on his face set and unchanging.