by Tom Newton
15
They left at dawn as planned. Franz drove his brand-new hearse through the morning streets without hindrance from anyone. Two Point Seven was squashed in the box, a large, strange foetus. They reached the border in good time but once across it the situation deteriorated. The roads became clogged with traffic. Military vehicles, civilian cars, ambulances, wagons and carts were crammed into a knot, peppered with pedestrians and horses, all weighed down with bundles, large and small. Everyone was intent on getting somewhere but no one could be certain where that was. The standstill had an effect on time, a second became a minute and then an hour. Should this process continue, an hour would become a year and a year a century. Time as it had been imagined would cease. They were all in such a hurry, mired in confusion. Franz was in a hurry too. He was concerned that he would be late for his ’rendezvous’ with the Führer but when he thought about it he realised that no one had given him a specific time. It was unusual that such an important detail had been overlooked.
Every once in a while, a Luftwaffe fighter would fly in low and strafe the crowd. It was all part of the production. They must be getting aerial shots, Franz thought.
By now the road had become completely blocked and nothing was moving except people on foot. He decided to get out of the vehicle to see what was going on. He knew it was futile but he would stretch his legs and ease his frustration. He left Two Point Seven in the back. It was unkind but necessary. He squeezed his way between angry cars and then he heard the sound of engines in the sky. He looked up. More raiders were coming in. This time they were dropping bombs. He could see them exploding further down the road, they seemed remote. Then he felt grit on his face and was caught in a violent wind. He could not breathe, he was gasping but all the air had disappeared. He was pulled from his feet and hurled. He came down moments later with his head on the running board of a horseless cart.
Franz opened his eyes. The bombers were settling into the trees like crows. Then he realised he was watching them through the branches as they receded. He got up. His body still worked. He dusted himself off and felt the back of his head. No blood, just a bump. It was miraculous. Then he looked around for the hearse with a growing sense of panic. It could not be far off but he felt disoriented and could not make sense of what he saw. He sat back down, then stood up and tried again. There it was, with the long black rear end. He made his way towards it, stopping to suddenly vomit in the ditch. Afterwards, he felt more himself and was better able to take in his surroundings. The carnage was unbearable to look at and he had to keep his head turned to the side of the road. He could not believe that this level of destruction and pain had become acceptable in film production. It never used to be that way. Quite near the car he noticed a small side road, flanked with hedgerows. He would take that. He did not care where it led.
Franz climbed in and started the engine. Everything was functioning normally. He reached back and tapped on the coffin.
Are you all right?
He heard some muffled expletives and was satisfied, so he inched the hearse forwards and then drove with two wheels in the ditch, hoping that the tyres and exhaust pipe would survive. When he reached the road he had seen, he turned abruptly and began to feel some relief. The congestion grew lighter, the further he went, until eventually there was none at all. His map lay open on the passenger seat but he paid it no more attention. Where was he going? He found that he could not remember. It was a disconcerting feeling, knowing how to drive but having no idea where to. He felt unconnected to himself. Where was it? The harder he tried to remember, the more impossible it became. He should just keep driving and stop thinking about it. Where was it? Paris, that’s it. Paris. Thank God. But where was Paris? It did not matter. At least he knew where he was going. When he was completely clear of the mess behind him, he would find his way there on back roads and lanes.
The sun was getting brighter and the landscape was changing. It was growing more flat and arid. He decided to take a short break and parked at the side of the road. He let the stretching, groaning Two Point Seven out of the box, vehemently decrying his life as a corpse. Franz laid out a napkin on the ground and they picnicked in the dust on bread and cheese with two bottles of beer.
Tell me, what did you do to get sent to a concentration camp?
I painted a picture.
Is painting a crime?
I painted a face with an arsehole for a mouth and a cunt on its neck. Decadent art is damaging to the state. I also happen to be a Jewish homosexual with political leanings towards communism. My grandparents were all gypsies and I enjoy speaking Esperanto. And I’m an intellectual too. A clear-cut case. Now you tell me something. Have you been to France before?
No. This is my first time.
I see. You wouldn’t know then.
Wouldn’t know what?
We are not in France.
16
Good morning, Herr Doktor
He strolled smartly through the secretary pool, as was his custom when arriving for work, with only a slight limp. He greeted the girls as he passed, tasting each one with his eyes. He knew what women wanted. They adored him with good reason. He was a dangerously fascinating man, who gave them his full attention. An irresistible combination. He paused at the last girl in line.
Your correspondence and schedule for the day, Herr Doktor.
As he took the papers, he let his hand rest on her shoulder, gently feeling the flesh beneath her dress. He inhaled her scent.
Thank you, Ulrike.
He lifted his hand abruptly and went into his office, closing the door with a snap. His office was tastefully decorated. It was large and comfortable, full of light. On the back of the door was a full-length mirror. He studied himself for a few minutes and was pleased with what he saw. Look at him. A man crisp and handsome in his uniform, exuding confidence and power. Just forty-three years old and head of The Ministry of Propaganda and Enlightenment. He had the most advanced communication technologies in the world at his fingertips. One could barely notice the crippled foot any more. In his youth it had been a source of misery and shame but now he saw it as a blessing. It had kept him apart from a normal life with other boys his age and had led him instead to books and knowledge. It had allowed his genius to flower and had raised him from peasant to Reichminister. He cut his musings short as it was time to begin the day’s work. He glanced at the schedule – an 11:00 AM meeting with Speer, the Führer’s new pet. He distrusted Speer. The man was an opportunist, not a true National Socialist, though he was not without talent. His use of lighting at Nuremberg transcended the purely material forms of architecture. He should have thought of it himself. He made a mental note. Of course, he did think of it himself, he would have to let Speer know.
Next. A talk at the ship workers guild - run of the mill. He turned to his correspondence. There was a letter from his sweet sister Maria. He put it aside, he would read it when he got home. And what was this? A message from Himmler. How he despised that little man. So small-minded that he did not even recognize the banality of his own dreams. The note was brief: ’Any news of Leis?’
There had been no news. Leis seemed to have disappeared. He had never reached Paris. The Führer had been justifiably apoplectic. But then again, plans had not quite gone as imagined.
As head of this ministry, it was his responsibility to oversee the editing of the Führer’s film and he took direct control. The idea had come to him to release individual scenes as newsreels. The film in its entirety would be assembled later as more footage came in. In the meantime he had a stunning source of ready-made propaganda available to him.
The Doctor put down his papers and went over to the phonograph he kept in his office and chose a jazz record from among his collection. It was forbidden music of course, but then he was the one who had forbidden it. He found it relaxing and it helped him to clear his mind. He loved music, as did the Führer. They were two sides of the same coin. The Führer was the Nationalist and he the Socialist
. Together they had forged the Third Reich from nothing.
17
Franz wiped the knife and folded the napkin in four because he liked to keep things neat. He walked down the road to urinate. When he returned, buttoning his fly, he called out to Two Point Seven to get back in the box. There was no answer. Two Point Seven had gone. He opened the back and looked into the coffin. Empty. He scanned the horizon. Everything was flat. There was not a bush or tree to hide behind, not a hollow or a hill. He called out again. He was alone.
He sat in the driver’s seat and wondered what to do. His certainty about things was falling away. He started the car and drove off. He kept driving for several hours and the landscape never changed. He seemed to be going nowhere but eventually the road widened and he entered a small town, or at least a small town square. There was a colonnaded building to his right that looked like a shady respite from the stark sunlight. In the middle of the road was a large rock, a rectangular cube, four times the size of his vehicle. He parked and got out to look around. He walked up and down the road. Beyond this hamlet was an expanse of empty desert in both directions. Something was not right. There were no people. Could it be a film set?
He walked around the rock and noticed that there was an incomplete carving of a woman’s face at one end of it. It was strangely beautiful and white. He went back to the car and took his revolver from the glove compartment and hid it in his waistband. He also took the gold sovereigns which the Ministry of Propaganda and Enlightenment had provided him and wandered over to the building. The covered terrace under the arches looked like a restaurant or café, as there were chairs and tables with cloths. A man sat at one of them with his back to Franz. After his experience with the crowds earlier in the day, he had forgotten what a relief it was to see another human. It came as a shock to him, as he mounted the steps, that the man was Two Point Seven, drinking coffee from a small cup.
What are you doing here?
You ask a lot of questions, Franz, which implies ignorance. Perhaps the answers you seek are the questions you ask. I have one for you – are you familiar with the paintings of De Chirico, metaphysical period?
He put his cup down, brushed past Franz on the steps and loped off into the desert with his lanky stride. Franz watched him get smaller and smaller until he disappeared.
Come in. Please sit.
He turned. There was an old Chinese man in the doorway with an apron around his waist.
You would like food and drink? Sit down.
I would. Thank you.
Franz slumped into a chair. He had not realised how tired he was. The old man went inside.
A long time later he reappeared carrying a tray, from which he pulled a glass and a cold bottle of water. The condensation slid down its neck and left a faint ring on the table. He produced a basket of bread and a bowl of yogurt. Lastly he set down a half carafe of wine. Then he went back inside.
Franz was no longer in a hurry. He sat and enjoyed his food. It was good. He wished he had someone to talk to or at least a newspaper to read, anything that would connect him to the world. He stared into the empty square. The Chinese man came back with a black woman. They seemed to be married. She looked him over unselfconsciously.
If you are interested in staying the night, we have rooms. Clean and well priced. Come in when you’ve finished.
It was appealing, especially as he had no idea where he was. He had driven enough for one day. He needed to stay still a while. He wasn’t sure about De Chirico. Who was Two Point Seven anyway? What did he mean by likening questions to answers?
18
What was the quotation that ended “...let the copulation begin” ? He racked his brain but could not place it. Purvis was out looking for night life. His life had become boring lately. This Cretan venture was a non-starter. They had searched the entire liberated zone but the Teutons had been too efficient in their demolition and the elements had done for the rest.
He was quite enjoying the war. There had been some narrow scrapes and prangs but his sporting disposition had pulled him through unscathed. He liked being out of England, and for a packet or two of cigarettes he could dip his wick to his heart’s content. Of all the starving people he had encountered, most would choose cigarettes over food. His work as an interrogator was certainly more interesting than the career as a schoolmaster he had just started, in the same institution he had attended as a boy. He had been taken on as a German teacher when the war broke out and knowledge of the language had led him straight to CSDIC. He had originally been a classical scholar but seemed to have a natural aptitude for the German tongue.
Purvis was content with himself. He did a good job and his conscience was clean. He liked to hit his target. He should have been a fighter pilot. They had all the luck with the girls. There was a fairness to that, he supposed, as most of them went west. Here he was – from public school to the island of Crete, in the company of Noyes. Life was an odd thing. So was Noyes. He had known him for some time without ever really knowing who he was, a complicated fellow, a container of unspoken continents.
He remembered the time in North Africa when Noyes had vanished into the desert for ten days. He had been reported ’missing in action’ and given up for dead when he showed up in his Jeep at HQ, his demeanour unruffled, though something in him had changed. He would not say what it was. He never discussed his feelings. Then there was the German pilot officer’s uniform that he had with him. He had squirrelled it away and it was not to be seen again.
As he walked he kept his eyes open for a suitable establishment. There was a paucity of choice in that regard but he thought he might have found one. It was an ouzo bar, a big open room full of tables at which men were playing backgammon. There were skirts in there too, he noticed, and that was good enough for him. The customers turned and stared as he entered but forgot about him when he sat down. A waiter arrived and he ordered an ouzo. It came with a saucer of sunflower seeds. He emptied the glass. It tasted like horse piss. He had two more and began to feel its tendrils.
Ariadne sat watching from a table in the corner. She observed the sandy-haired man cracking seeds between his teeth and knocking back ouzos. One of the newly arrived British officers. She wondered where the other one was. She enjoyed making a rapid analysis of the people she came across. It was an entertaining game and sometimes proved quite useful. Handsome, reasonably intelligent, generous but competitive, not too complicated and a womaniser. She knew he would be over soon and five minutes later, he was.
I say, mind if I join you? Hate to drink alone, you know.
Without waiting for a reply, he pulled out a chair for himself.
Flight Lieutenant Edward Purvis RAF, at your service. What’s your poison?
She ordered a raki. She wouldn’t fuck this man if you paid her.
Where’s your boyfriend?
He looked confused.
Excuse me? Oh, you mean Noyes.
He grinned at her. He knew from the experience of his work to be careful about what he divulged.
He’s otherwise engaged. War work you know.
Purvis was not averse to using attractive women for purposes other than his own needs. He had a reputation as an accomplished procurer, of which he was secretly proud. They had cracked a few Huns that way. He was looking at a good candidate, however it turned out.
And what may I call you?
Dimitra.
Cigarette?
He extended an open packet and lit one for her when she accepted. She sipped her raki and waited.
How would you like to go dancing, Dimitra? It seems a trifle dull here. Do you know of a place? She did.
19
Strange stood naked in his dressing room. He practised an economy of movement and remained quite still. Strange was not his name. He was in fact Guy Walsingham, but he had almost forgotten that. Over time he had systematically erased any history of himself, which had freed him from his memories and allowed him to engage in what he liked best. He had a prod
igious intellect and an imagination to match. He used both of these attributes to examine the lives of people around him. As he had abandoned his own banal memories, he had a greater capacity to store those of others. He passed his time indulging in this lifetime project. It was something always enlarged upon, that could never be finished, an experiment with infinity. He was building a maze, and had been for many years. It was not the type of structure that occupied the physical world. It existed solely in his brain and was constructed from the life-trajectories of others. He visualized it as a diagram of dissecting lines that reached into eternity. Such was the power of his mental faculties, he was able to see it clearly and add to it as his fancy commanded. He plotted every move. Sometimes in order to please his aesthetic sensibilities, to make a passage turn in a certain direction or to build a staircase, he needed to influence events in the outside world. He had a keen sense for weaknesses in people and how to exploit them. He had created and maintained a wide network of social connections for this purpose. He had not a trace of empathy. The work obsessed him. It was the food that kept him alive. In that parallel existence, regarded by the majority as reality, he ate sparingly and had almost cured himself of the need for sustenance. The means to live this way were endowed to him from a station of birth he chose to forget.
His thoughts were interrupted by a violent rapping on the door. The knocking continued as he dressed, without hurry, and only ended as he opened the door, leaving a fist in mid-air. Outside stood a powerful, wiry man who looked annoyed, as if the act of opening the door had taken something away from him.
He was dressed in traditional Cretan male attire: knee-high boots, breeches, black waistcoat over loose shirt and a fringed black kerchief drawn tightly round his skull. He was adorned with weaponry.
Alexis, what a pleasant surprise. We have not met in a long time. What brings you here?
I’ve come for the girl, sir.