The Right Hand of Sleep

by John Wray

  The offices of the SS were in a peach-colored building off the Königsplatz, a short stroll from the center of town, and I found it without much trouble. I was nervous, oddly enough, coming to the gate, and I stood awhile looking up at the yellow roof and marveling at its cheeriness. After a time, a guard came out of the gatehouse and asked me in an unconcerned tone of voice what I was looking at.

  “Your building,” I answered. “It’s wonderfully put together.”

  “Oh,” said the guard. “Student of architecture, are you?”

  “Not exactly. I’m an Obersturmführer of Reichsführer Göring’s Grand Austrian Legion.” I clicked my heels as best I could in the low-cut spats I’d taken from the banker’s shoe closet. “I’m here for Brigadenführer Mittling.”

  The guard straightened immediately and stared at me. “You’d best come right inside then, Obersturmführer.”

  He took me through the gate, into the building through chipped fluted double doors, and up a broad unpainted staircase to a second pair of doors with a newly painted swastika-and-eagle-recumbent on each wing. He rapped once, waited, then rapped again and stepped back at attention. I fell in beside him, conscious suddenly of my rumpled suit.

  A small bespectacled man stuck his head out. “Well, Peter? Who is this citizen?” I recognized the marzipan voice immediately.

  “An Austrian, Brigadenführer. An Obersturmführer from the ‘Göring Legion,’ whatever in God’s name that is.”

  “Is that so?” said the man with a faint flicker of interest. He looked me over more carefully. “Are those policeman’s castaways you have on under your jacket, Obersturmführer?”

  “They are, Herr Mittling. Standartenführer Glass sends his regards.”

  “Does he,” said Mittling, not smiling anymore.

  I said nothing, unsure of myself suddenly. I’d thought for some reason that Glass’s name would be a welcome one in Munich in spite of the fiasco, that as oily as he was he’d naturally not be held accountable for any of it. But Glass was clearly in disfavor. I supposed I must be, now, as well. I cursed my luck.

  “Come along inside,” said Mittling, heaving a little sigh. He looked like nothing so much as an underpaid, exhausted file clerk, waddling ahead of me with his self-pitying air. In spite of my new-found worries, I found myself grinning as I followed him down a narrow unlit corridor to a cramped, cluttered suite of thick-walled office rooms subdivided into alcoves, coated uniformly with plaster flakes and dust. “We’ve only just moved in,” said Mittling out of the corner of his mouth, motioning me toward a chair. “Charming, isn’t it?” he said, gesturing to a small leaded-glass window giving onto a tree-lined courtyard.

  “It’s very charming in general, here in the Reich.”

  “We like to think so,” Mittling said blandly. He sat down at his desk and began rifling through a drawer. “Now then: who did you say you were? Forstner? Galicek? Bauer?”

  “Bauer, Brigadenführer.”

  “Do you smoke, Bauer?”

  “I do, Brigadenführer.”

  “That’s a nasty habit,” he said, his face creasing slightly. I’d forgotten his particularly joyless sense of comedy.

  “Yes. I suppose it is, Brigadenführer.”

  “Well.” He paused. “Suppose you tell me how you managed it, then. I’m very curious.”

  “Managed it, Brigadenführer?”

  “Yes, Bauer: managed it. Made it from the chancellery in Vienna all the way to my office without getting hanged, shot or, as far as I can tell from the admittedly brief span of our acquaintance, made in any way untidy. How you managed it.”

  I said nothing, thinking how to represent my part in the whole blessed farce. Mittling leaned forward, puckering his mouth.

  “Unclench yourself, for Christ’s sake, Bauer. Herr Glass taught you wonderfully bad strategy, I’m afraid, and even worse manners.” He sighed again, gently, and offered me a cigarette from a brown Bakelite case. “Indulge me, Bauer. You’re among friends. Let’s have the unabridged version.”

  I said nothing for a moment. Then, to my great surprise, I gave it to him, more or less in its entirety. I made no attempt to condense events or cast Spengler or anyone else in any particular light. Suspicious as he was of unadorned truth, Mittling was sharp enough to sense a lie three times out of four, and besides I felt for some reason at that particular moment like giving him exactly what he wanted. It took me less than an hour to tell it all. When I’d finished, Mittling fished out a cigarette for himself and lit it. “That’s quite an epic,” he said, exhaling. He looked at me expressionlessly for a time. “Some would call what you did desertion, Bauer. Most would.”

  I returned his look as calmly as I could. “What’s to become of Spengler and the other boys?”

  “What’s to become of them? They’re already dead by hanging, boy. This very morning, coincidentally, at six o’clock. With all attendant pomp and ceremony.” His eyes twinkled briefly. “A far better question, I’d say, is what’s to become of you, Kurt Bauer. Don’t you agree?”

  We sat in silence again for perhaps half a minute. Mittling drummed on the desktop with his fingertips.

  “Let them call it desertion then, if they like,” I said.

  Mittling smiled at this. “That’s right. Let them call it desertion, Bauer,” he said quietly . “If they like.” He took a telephone from another drawer of his desk and leaned over to plug it into a socket. “Would you mind stepping into the hall for a moment, Obersturmführer?”

  “Not at all, Brigadenführer.” I stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind me. I stood just outside, feeling light-headed, listening to the indecipherable buzz of Mittling’s voice and the sound of typing echoing from some other room, trying to form a theory as to what might happen to me. I was nervous at first, leaning uncomfortably against the wall, but my nervousness soon passed. I hadn’t yet had a chance to ask Mittling about the Führer’s disavowal and I had a premonition that chance might never come, but that didn’t matter any longer. When the door opened and Mittling waved me in I knew that chapter was a dead one for me now, my questions about it irrelevant, even morbid. A new chapter was beginning.

  Mittling stood at the window, looking into the courtyard. “We’re in a bit of a predicament over you, Bauer, as I’m sure you can well imagine. You’re not a fool, clearly enough, whatever else you may be.” He dug a finger into his nose, held it there a moment, then drew it out, examining it absently. “The Führer has denied any complicity in the Dollfuss business, and therefore any connection to you.”

  “I know that, Brigadenführer.”

  Mittling appraised me coldly. “Do you? All the better.” He paused a long while, staring at a package of unopened stationery to the left of his folded hands. “We’re sending you to Berlin tonight on the nine-o’clock express.”

  I swallowed hard to keep back my surprise. “I have no clothes but these, Brigadenführer—”

  “They’ll do,” said Mittling, busy at his desk.

  “Is there no uniform or clean shirt for me here?” I swallowed again.

  Mittling arched his eyebrows. “You’re not going there to meet the Führer, Bauer, if that’s what you’re dirtying your pants over.”

  Coming down from the reliquary in the failing light Voxlauer saw them, lolling at the edge of the spruce plantation in the high unbending grass, looking for all the world like a sketch from an album of country reminiscences. That they’d been lying in wait for him for some time he had no doubt. They were sprawled in the grass, caps tipped forward over their eyes, passing a wineskin back and forth between them. Voxlauer bowed to them as he went by. The younger brother took the skin and looking at Voxlauer took a long, calculated draft, letting the wine spray noisily against the back of his throat. The older one wasn’t looking at him at all but gazing instead back up the valley, scratching his bare and sunburnt belly in deliberate, lazy circles, as if hoping somehow to provoke him. Their rifles lay beside them in the grass. Voxlauer passed with
in a meter of where they lay and looked them both full in the face but they seemed suddenly not to see him. A few moments later he’d left them behind him to wait in the even, indifferent dark.

  —Something’s going to happen, said Voxlauer, stepping into the kitchen.

  Else looked up from the table. —Has Kurt been up to see you?

  —Just now. Was he here, too?

  She nodded. Her eyes were small and red. —I’m frightened now, Oskar. I can’t not notice any longer.

  —Something’s happened to Pauli. Or is about to.

  —Who’s Pauli? said Resi, coming up from the bedroom.

  —No one, mouse. Go to sleep.

  —He is someone, said Voxlauer sharply.

  —Hello, Oskar, said Resi, letting out a yawn. She stood between them sleepily, leaning against the counter. —Can I sit?

  —I know he’s somebody, Oskar. Christ in heaven, remember who you’re talking to. Go on back to bed, Resi, Else said, half turning toward the counter. —Go on. She turned back to Voxlauer, taking his hand and squeezing it. —I want to leave. I want to leave tomorrow.

  —A few more days, Else. A little while longer. Let me find out about Pauli.

  —Who’s Pauli? said Resi again, looking back at them hopefully from the top of the stairs.

  Else spun angrily in her chair. —You go to sleep this instant! This instant, Fräulein! Go!

  Resi went. They sat silently at the table. Resi was humming to herself as she dressed for bed and the sound of her humming carried faintly up to them. —I had a terrrible talk with Kurti today, Else said.

  —He brought Resi?

  She nodded. —He talked about you as though you were dead, she said, running her hands along the edge of the table.

  Voxlauer was quiet for a time. —Where would we go?

  —I don’t know. She smiled weakly. —Tyrol?

  —Tyrol would be all right. Except for the Tyroleans.

  —Where, then?

  Voxlauer shrugged. —Not Italy. Not east, either, if we can help it.

  —It doesn’t matter, really, does it? said Else.

  —No. I suppose it doesn’t.

  One half hour later they went down the steps and crossed on tiptoe to the bed. Resi was curled on the parlor couch, whistling tunelessly. Voxlauer leaned over tiredly and unlaced his boots. Else ran her fingertips along his scalp, over his forehead and his eyes. —Thank you, he said in a whisper.

  Else gave him a light kiss on the neck. He drew in a long and grateful breath. Opening his eyes he saw Resi watching from the couch.

  —Aren’t you a peach? he said, smiling at her crookedly.

  —Leave us alone for a little while, mouse.

  —What for? said Resi, giggling.

  —Evil spoilt child, said Voxlauer.

  —Suffer the little children, Oskar, said Else. —Suffer them. The Good Book tells us to.

  —Damn the Good Book, said Voxlauer, falling back onto the bed.

  Resi’s eyes widened. —Mama!

  —Shh, mouse, said Else. —Don’t bother us just now. The springs chirped sweetly as she lay down next to him. He felt the shifting of the mattress as she turned onto her side and the unbelievable fineness of her hair against his face and neck. —Good night, Voxlauer, she breathed into his ear.

  In Berlin I found myself quite the celebrity for a time. Mittling had friends very high up in the brass and they took to me at once. I was put on display that very week at all the most exclusive cocktail parties.

  “The Bolshevists have their pet subversive movements, of course, in every nest,” one bird-faced general with hair the color of dirty wool said to me, waving his sherry glass in my face like a baton. “Spain, Italy, the Argentine. Now, by God, we have ours!” He held on to my arm tightly, teetering a little.

  “I’m sure you’re right, General.”

  “That Dollfuss affair was regrettable. But you’ll have your time yet, son. Your golden moment. What do you say?”

  “I hope to, General. Watch yourself.”

  “Thank you, my boy. Very kind. Blood of Christ! If we had fifty more like you . . .”

  It was the same everywhere I went, particularly with the drunks. Himmler never came to these parties but I received a brief note from him through Schellenberg, the Brigadenführer for foreign intelligence, instructing me to work closely with both of them in preparation for “the intersection of public policy with what is dearest on the international front to all our hearts.” The only work I seemed to be doing, however, was to go to six or seven endlessly dull cocktail parties every evening.

  The purported need for secrecy in smuggling me from one salon to the next worked on everyone like an aphrodisiac. I was moved about the city like a theater prop those first few weeks, gawking at everything from the wings. Here at last was a great city, a German city, fully ecstatic over the Cause. People addressed me by my full title of Obersturmführer, Austria SS, although it was now of course meaningless, and flattered me in a thousand other ways. There was some talk from Schellenberg and certain others of actually forming an Austrian Legion, unifying the various bands of illegals that had fled across the border in the weeks following the putsch, but I quickly realized that greener fields lay elsewhere. Already it was too crowded in the middle brass, too many ambitious young officers and not enough room for them in the Reich bureaucracy. Expansion was inevitable. When the annexation happened it was clear enough it would be Reichs-Germans, not Austrians, filling the posts. Positions would be open to Reichs-Germans and to Reichs-Germans only. So, with help, I became one.

  An old Junker heiress took me into her house in the first glow of my celebrity and outfitted me in the clothes of her late husband, whom she fancied me to resemble. Maria von Lohn was a well-preserved sixty-five; I slept with her only once, after which she sent me away in a fit of melodrama and self-reproach. I took up with her daughter-in-law, Lotte, and occasionally with Liesl the chambermaid, who came from the Rhineland and was obliging and very generously put together. I stayed in the von Lohn house three years. The arrangement had something of the bedroom farce about it that kept me, by and large, in very high spirits. I’m not sure where else I could have gone after the novelty of my story faded, and it faded quickly enough.

  Lotte, the daughter-in-law, was married to Gustav, a high-ranking general in the Waffen-SS who was often away from Berlin. It was through him, or through her, to be more accurate, that I became a citizen of the Reich. Through the indulgence of certain fortunately placed friends of the family, a plea for asylum was made on my behalf. My dearest hope, it was explained, was to become a German. This, of course, was absolutely true.

  “Like our Führer,” Lotte would say, wrinkling her nose at me. “A fugitive from your Austrianhood!” Lotte was not a great patriot. “I’m sure he had a woman behind him, too, the sly bastard.”

  “He only has his secretary, darling. Fräulein Braun.”

  “Pah, Kurtchen! Secretary. Pah!” She made an obscene gesture with her hand and let out a giggle.

  “Please, Lotte.”

  Lotte sat up at once, frowning. She’d been lolling at the edge of the bed, watching me dress in front of her heavy pier glass. “Look at yourself, Herr Bauer! Another tight-lipped citizen of the Reich. I liked you better when you were from the territories.” She laughed to herself in that high, sparrow-like way she had. I can still hear it, dry and chittering and unhappy, girlish and middle-aged at once. A drinker’s laugh. When I try to remember her face now it escapes me, fittingly enough. But that laugh I remember very well.

  “I have a meeting with the Reichsführer-SS today, not that you’d care,” I said, straightening my tie.

  “Little Heinrich Himmler, of the pince-nez?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “He’ll have need of you to ‘off’ someone or other,” said Lotte, falling back onto the bed. “That’s what murderers say in America. It’s from a picture, not that you’d care. Edward G. Robinson.”

  “You and
your America,” I said, still looking myself over in the glass.

  “You’re being exceptionally peacock-like today, Kurtchen,” said Lotte, twisting her mouth disapprovingly.

  I smiled patiently at her reflection. “I’ve waited for this for an eternity, darling. You know I have.”

  “You look silly in Papa’s clothes.”

  “Mama doesn’t think so.”

  “Mama is a senile old cow.”

  I looked at her again and saw that she was glaring at me. I turned around. “I’m not going to ‘off’ anybody,” I said. “Honestly, Lottchen.”

  “Promise?”

  I raised my right hand in solemn oath. Lotte cursed me and slid back under the covers. She always looked much younger than she was, I remember, in spite of the fact that she was near to permanently hungover. She had freckles across her cheeks like a girl of seventeen; in fact she was nearer to forty. “Get out of here, peacock!” she clucked at me, already beginning to smile. I bowed and took my hat up from the floor.

  The Schutzstaffel High Command was housed during that time in an unobtrusive gray building down the avenue from the newly built Air Palace. The boys at the gate knew me well by then and waved me through without ceremony. They think I’ve come here to see old Schellenberg, I thought, and the idea filled me with a deep and secret happiness. One of the clerks at the lobby desk, a nephew of Lotte’s who passed the time dropping a bewildering variety of innuendos about my connection to the von Lohns, smiled at me as I passed, and I was sorely tempted to inquire as to the location of the Reichsführer’s new suite of offices, but of course I knew exactly where they were. Passing the desk and turning without hesitation to the left-hand of the two stairwells, I had the satisfaction of feeling everyone’s eyes on me, widening, or so I imagined, with growing astonishment as I stated my business to the sentry at the top of the stairs and was wordlessly allowed to pass. The doors closed on all of them a moment later.