The Linz Tattoo

by Nicholas Guild

  Faglin and Christiansen both turned to fire. The Guardsman who had dropped his hat went down, twisting around as if he had been pulled from behind. Even as he died he clutched the machine gun to him.

  His friend had better luck. A final sprint carried him to the mouth of the alley, where he found cover behind a trash barrel. There was no time to worry about him. There was only time to run. Christiansen, who was standing in the middle of the street, the biggest target anyone could ask for, emptied his pistol to give the others some cover, but it was too late. Within two meters of safety, Mordecai suddenly collapsed.

  There was no time for anything. Dessauer, who was directly behind him, nearly stumbled over Mordecai’s body. As soon as he caught himself, he reached down and took the old man under the armpits and began trying to drag him out of the line of fire. It was then that he saw the bullet hole in his side, just under the elbow. The blood was welling out in a thick, heavy stream. Dessauer looked back over his shoulder, hoping to see Christiansen, hoping for help. He hadn’t a doubt that Mordecai was dying. What he saw he wouldn’t have believed.

  The man was crazy. Christiansen, his hands empty, was charging down the cobbled street, straight at the Guardsman and his trash barrel and his gun. Suddenly he started to yell—not a word, just a sound, the sound of an animal in a blind rage. He had maybe twelve meters to cover. He would never make it. The Guardsman would kill him for sure.

  But he didn’t. He never even fired. He even stood up. He was in plain sight now; he looked as if he wanted to know which way to run. He never had a chance to do even that.

  Christiansen hit him hard, using everything—head, shoulders, arms, everything. The Guardsman went over backwards. They both disappeared into the alleyway and, a few seconds later, Christiansen came out, carrying the rifle. It hung in his hand like a club. He glanced around, his face dark. He seemed to be looking for someone else to kill.

  But there was no one—at least, no one else came running at them from the direction of the Guard station. Christiansen walked over, threw the rifle to Dessauer without even troubling to look at him, and scooped up Mordecai in his arms.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Faglin was already backing the car up toward them. Dessauer opened one of the rear doors, stepping out of the way so that Christiansen and his burden could get inside. Then he went around to the front. In a second the car lurched forward.

  “Don’t try to talk, Mordecai. You’ll be fine. Well get you to a doctor, and you’ll be fine.”

  Christiansen was crouching over the rear seat, cradling Mordecai’s head in the crook of his arm. There was a quality of pleading in his voice.

  “No time.” Mordecai licked his lips. He seemed to be struggling to keep his eyes open. “Stop the car. Finished with me. Listen. Stop the car.”

  “Do what he says, dammit! Faglin, pull over somewhere.”

  They had gone no more than half a dozen blocks, but no one was following them—it seemed they had killed every Guardsman with the misfortune to be on duty that afternoon. Faglin found the driveway behind a store marked Ferretería in flaking green paint. It didn’t seem to be very busy. Even before the sound of their engine had died away, Mordecai was looking up at the front seat, at Faglin, and making a vague beckoning gesture with his right hand. In that tiny space he had everyone’s complete attention.

  “Thanks,” he murmured, casting his eyes around to the three of them and smiling faintly. “I didn’t want to die in Syria.”

  He took a deep breath—at least his chest heaved, but he seemed to take very little benefit from it. There was a faint gurgling sound from his windpipe.

  “Amos, I saw him.” An excited look came into his eyes. He was looking at Faglin, but he put his hand on Christiansen’s arm. “He’s scared good—of our friend here. Our friend was right, all along. Do it his way now.”

  “It’s okay, Mordecai.” Faglin reached over the backrest and touched him on the face. “We’ll get you patched up. We’ll—”

  “No. No time. They’ve killed me, Amos”

  His gaze appeared to wander for a moment, and then he turned his head a few degrees and looked for Christiansen.

  “He’ll try for the girl now. No choice. He told me. . . He’s mad, Inar. Crazy. You’ll know what to do. You’ll know. . .”

  It wasn’t until his hand slipped from Christiansen’s arm that they knew for certain he was dead. For a long time no one said anything, and then Christiansen reached across with his right hand and closed Mordecai’s eyes. When he spoke, his voice was thick but calm.

  “Take care of the body,” he said. “Find somewhere quiet and bury him. You’ll know what’s needed. Don’t let the Guards. . .”

  “Where will you go?” Dessauer asked. There were tears in his eyes, but he couldn’t. help himself.

  There was a pistol lying on the floor in front of the back seat. Christiansen picked it up and hid it under his coat. He didn’t look at anybody.

  “I’ll be at the hotel, with Esther. Hagemann can come for us there.”

  21

  As soon as the car was out of sight, Christiansen started on his way back to the hotel. It wasn’t far—nothing was far in this little town—but he had to be careful. He had killed probably half the Civil Guard contingent for the whole of Burriana, and they could hardly be expected to take a thing like that in stride. They would be looking for him.

  But he had to get back to the hotel and Esther because now Hagemann would be looking for her. Right now there was no one keeping watch on her except Hirsch, and Hirsch might have all kinds of other things on his mind.

  In an hour and a half, two at the outside—how long did it take to get rid of a corpse?—Faglin and Itzhak would be back, and then they would decide what to do next. They would have to decide. There was no more Mordecai to call the shots for them, just a corpse in the back of a borrowed car.

  Christiansen decided he would just as soon not think along those lines anymore. He would confine himself to the problem at hand and save the regrets for later. Mordecai was dead. For the time being they would all be better off simply to leave it at that.

  Hagemann would have to make his try for Esther now. Mordecai had said so and it was the logical, even the necessary move. Hagemann was running out of time, just like the rest of them.

  He would kill Hagemann now. He promised himself that. He would kill the bastard twenty times over and it still wouldn’t be enough. But he would try to make it enough. He would square things the best way he could.

  But first he had to get back to the hotel, and avoid being arrested—if there was still anyone left alive to arrest him.

  Would that guy in the alley be one of the ones who haunted him? If the poor son of a bitch hadn’t panicked. . . Why hadn’t he fired? What had he seen that had made him want to run? Christiansen didn’t know—he had hardly realized what was happening until he found himself on his knees, his hands around the Guardsman’s neck, staring into those wide-open, dead eyes. The poor monkey was as limp as a rag doll. He didn’t even know how he had killed him.

  But for dumb luck, it would have been the other way round. Christiansen figured he had probably used up that day’s supply of dumb luck.

  He had to get this business settled today—tonight at the latest. He would probably be able to keep from getting arrested or killed that long, but not any longer. Tomorrow the whole area would be crawling with police. Four, maybe five more hours of daylight, and then the covering darkness, and it had to be finished. Either Hagemann died or he did. There wasn’t any third choice.

  . . . . .

  Esther was taken to Jerry Hirsch’s room for lunch, which was delivered on a covered tray by a waiter in a starched white jacket. Since Jerry was an employee of the hotel, as well as a foreigner who spoke English, could talk to the guests on more or less equal terms, and was not required by his position to touch money, he was treated with some deference by the rest of the staff, and the meal was quite good. There was even win
e, but it did nothing to improve the atmosphere. Esther was to regard herself as no more than a pampered prisoner—a role, it was implied, to which she should long ago have grown accustomed. It might be protective custody, but Jerry Hirsch was still her jailer.

  They were on a first-name basis. He was one of those men who always called women and children by their first names. He wasn’t being friendly; it was merely habit. He wasn’t in the least friendly.

  “What will you do when all this is over,” he asked, a faint, contemptuous smile on his lips, as if he already knew the answer. “Are you expecting Christiansen to take you back to Norway with him? Do you think you can get him to marry you? Do you plan to turn into an Aryan?”

  “He will never go back to Norway.”

  “No?”

  She didn’t smile at him. She discovered she had the power to look him straight in the face without feeling either ashamed or frightened. It was something new for her. She didn’t care what Jerry Hirsch thought of her—it simply wasn’t important.

  “Then what is your plan?”

  “I’ve given up having plans. I’ll do whatever Inar wants. I’ll trust to that.”

  “Maybe you should have stuck with Itzikel. You could have been sure he’d marry you. That’s the way his mind works.”

  He set down his coffee cup and picked up the pack of cigarettes that was lying on the table next to his plate. There was something almost satirical in the way his fingers managed the book of matches, cupping around the tip of the cigarette as he lit it, almost as if he were parodying someone.

  “Itzikel would take you to Israel—and it will be Israel, very soon. You could be a Jew there.”

  All at once Esther had an impulse to laugh. She couldn’t help herself. She put her hands in front of her face and laughed.

  “Oh yes,” she said finally. She still had to laugh a little, because it was all so funny. “I could be a Jew there, but what else? Do you know when I found out I was a Jew? When the Nazis told me. Suddenly it was the most important fact about me: I was a Jew. You’re just like them, Jerry. You despise me, and not because I’ve led a bad life but because I’m Jewish and have led a bad life. I’m a little Jewish tramp, and you feel insulted because Jewish women aren’t supposed to be like that. Is that what would happen to me in Israel? Would I become so Jewish that there wouldn’t be room for anything else? If it’s just the same to you, I’ll stick with Inar. I don’t know whether he cares for me or not, but at least it’s a woman he takes to bed with him and not a cause.”

  “Are you finished?”

  Yes, he really did despise her—she could see that in his eyes, and in the tight little lines around his mouth. With another man it might have been merely an amused contempt, as if she were some kind of incarnate dirty joke, but it went deeper than that with Hirsch.

  “Is it so bad if I just want to live like other people?” she asked. She really wanted to know.

  “Yes. For us, yes. I don’t believe in God—to hell with God. But we’re the Chosen People anyway. They chose us—the goyim, people like Hagemann and your friend Inar. You’re a little fool if you think you can ever make yourself into one of them. You’ll always be a Jew, whether you like it or not.”

  “So maybe it’s enough that Inar doesn’t care that I’m a Jew. Maybe I can be a Jew and he can love me anyway. . You think maybe that’s possible, Jerry? You think maybe they’re all just like Hagemann, without any heart?”

  She stood up, the tears brimming in her eyes. She wouldn’t cry—she would force herself not to cry.

  “I’ll go back to my room now,” she said, her voice only a little choked. “Inar will be back soon.”

  “Inar and all the rest of them are very probably dead by now, don’t you know that?”

  “Don’t say it! Don’t you ever say it!”

  “Have everything just your own way, Missy.”

  He smiled again, this time an uncomfortable, unhappy smile. No, he wouldn’t be glad if they all died. He didn’t wish for that.

  Jerry Hirsch’s room was on the first floor, so he took her up the stairway to the third-floor landing and then brought her to her door.

  “I’d better wait with you,” he said. It was part of the routine.

  “No. I’ll be fine by myself. All I need do is pick up the telephone.”

  That was even true. Jerry’s room was next to the switchboard—if he left his door open he could hear the ringing, and there were little red lights to indicate the room. She would be safe enough, and she really did want to be alone for a while.

  “Okay. Fine.”

  It was the room she had shared with Inar last night. One of his shirts was hanging in the closet, and his shaving things were still resting on the shelf above the sink. No one had been in yet to make the bed, and when she sat down on it she passed her hand in under the sheets, as if to see if she could still feel the heat of his body. There was nothing, of course. All at once she felt terribly lonely.

  It had been easier when she had had no one. Her loneliness then had been something of an abstraction, a window between her and the world. It was one thing to miss the parents who had died at Chelmno five years ago, but it was quite another, she was discovering, to miss a man who might come back in ten minutes or never. The luxury of that uncertainty made her heart seem to twist inside her.

  Inar was strong and hard—the muscles in his arms were directly under the skin and were just as smooth and unyielding as steel. But he was a man and any man could be killed by any other man. Inar knew it, she knew it, even Hagemann knew it. It was the great lesson that the war had taught each of them, the reasonableness of fear. But if Inar was ever afraid he never let it show. That was his armor—his massive indifference to death. That was why they were all just a little afraid of him, even Hagemann. Even Jerry Hirsch.

  And she was more afraid than any of them because she loved him. Inar made her feel as if the war had never happened—with him everything was innocent, as if it were for the first time.

  If he died, she had no idea how she would support it.

  But she would not cry. She had had all done with tears a long time ago. Even if she could love, she had not yet learned how to grieve.

  The room was cold. Someone had left the window slightly open, and the damp cold had gotten inside. She rose from the bed and closed the window, still feeling half numb after her conversation with Jerry Hirsch. He was so brutally sure of himself that she—

  The bed was unmade. No one had been in to attend to the room. So who had left the window open?

  All at once fear rushed at her like darkness. She couldn’t think at all, and then she could only think of escape.

  Then she remembered the telephone. All she had to do was to pick up the telephone.

  It stood on the night table beside the bed, two steps away. She almost stumbled as she crossed over to it. She picked up the receiver and pressed it against her ear, listening for the familiar crackling buzz, but there was nothing. The line seemed to be dead.

  No. It wasn’t that. Someone had anchored down the cradle prongs with heavy black tape so they couldn’t spring up when she lifted the receiver.

  She mustn’t panic. She kept telling herself that she mustn’t panic. She had to do something. She could try pulling the tape up, but there was too much of it to manage easily and her hands were shaking. She might even drop something and make a noise. She had to try to get out of the room as quietly as possible.

  She put the receiver back on its cradle, trying to remember the plan of the room. Had the bathroom door been open when she came in? Yes, it had—no one could be hiding in there. Perhaps they were out in the corridor. Perhaps she had been wrong about the bathroom. There was nothing except to try to run away. Even if they caught her in the hallway, perhaps if she screamed loud enough someone would hear.

  “No, Esther, it wouldn’t do you any good to scream.”

  She spun around so fast that if she hadn’t caught herself on the edge of the night table she prob
ably would have fallen down. A man had stepped out of the closet. He had been waiting there the whole time. He was wearing a pair of blue worker’s coveralls, and there was a pistol in his right hand. He was tall and slender and smiled at her. He was Hagemann.

  . . . . .

  The door that the hotel’s kitchen help used was off a side alley, almost hidden behind a row of huge trash barrels that smelled like the devil and were emptied only once a week, winter or summer. But one couldn’t very well use the fire escapes in broad daylight, and at least Christiansen could come in this way without having to worry about the police. No one would notice him. Delivery men, the fellow who repaired the pipes, and one or another kind of crook or huckster were always streaming through here. Besides, it was the short cut to Hirsch’s room and Christiansen wanted a word with him before he saw Esther. There were a few things to get settled.

  It was the last of the big lunchtime rush, when everybody was too busy with their sinks full of dirty dishes to notice an unfamiliar face or two. No one even looked at him as he brushed through to the staff quarters. Hirsch was at the desk in his room, sorting through a stack of registration cards.

  “It didn’t go very well. We got him out, but he took a bullet along the way. He didn’t make it.”

  “Anyone else killed?”

  Hirsch looked up at him with blank eyes, as if they were discussing the laundry count. His manner suggested nothing except a certain impatience.

  “Everyone else is fine. I was under the impression Mordecai was a friend of yours.”

  “He was. I’ve worked with him for nearly three years. So what? Is it any of your business?”

  “No. Sorry.

  “Forget it.”

  Christiansen sat down on one of the flimsy little wicker chairs that one found everywhere in the hotel. He lit a cigarette, realizing for the first time how tired he was. He felt like hell. He didn’t blame Hirsch a bit for not liking him.