Blood Ties

by Warren Adler

  The guns were quickly warehoused by the Estonian workers, after carving the "VK" symbol into the base of each weapon. At first he had been surprised at his own reaction to these events. He had been determined, once he had assessed his grandfather and those qualities which he held important, to show little emotion. Cold courage was the unvoiced filial demand. Charles sensed that his grandfather was always testing him, and he was determined that he should confirm the old man's choice.

  The great Russian retreat of 1915 was an unforgettable lesson. The Germans, as predicted, had butchered the underequipped, poorly trained and unmotivated armies of the Czar. It was a staggering defeat, marked by desertion and suicide and a massive loss of weapons, many of which found their way into the von Kassel warehouses, although with less drama than the original cache. They could not build warehouses fast enough to house all the weaponry. Even some of the German materials found their way into the warehouses. In many cases, the weapons of both sides were made by the same manufacturers.

  It was no surprise to see the Russian ordnance officers beat a path to the von Kassel estates.

  "We are re-equipping our reserve units," they would say, still arrogant. The Czar himself had come to the front to rally his forces and they were reassembling for additional slaughter.

  "We will sell the asses back their own weapons," his grandfather chuckled as he saw them strutting in the family reception rooms. Charles would be present at serious negotiations around the large table in the chandeliered dining room.

  "We will accept gold only."

  "Gold? That is impossible."

  "Then no sale."

  "We could seize your warehouses."

  "Seize them, then."

  The men could not fathom such boldness. Von Kassels could never be intimidated. The men fumed with exasperation, but, in the end, they agreed. They had been ordered to get arms wherever they could. It would not be politic to destroy one of their few sources.

  "That, Charles, is the business of arms," his grandfather would say. It had not changed since.

  As his grandfather had predicted, things were different after the Russians accepted a truce. The Bolsheviks exploited the Russian defeat and soon the Czar had resigned to make way for a more democratic government. The upheaval made the Estonians increasingly restless and divisions formed to fight the Czar became the cadre of a local army. The country was in turmoil and many of the German nobility were selling their lands and getting out. The handwriting was on the wall.

  Even in his memory, the events of those years merged into fuzzy confusion. His sister Karla, who had been sent off to a German school in 1914, had got word back that she was about to be married to a German Count, a pilot. Wolfgang had proved to be the disappointment everyone had expected. He had left the country estate for Tallinn, where he had allied himself with the burgeoning Bolshevik movement agitating for making Estonia a Bolshevik state. Because Wolfgang's actions merely fulfilled his grandfather's expectations, they did not create much of a trauma in the family.

  "What could one expect," his grandfather had said when he heard the news, dismissing it with contempt. Wolfgang was, after all, his father's son.

  In Charles' mind, events marked time. The demise of the Czar and the ascension of the Bolsheviks to power in Russia was associated with the decline of his grandfather's health. He had been vigorous, ruthless, pulsating with power and strength. With each new day, he seemed to shrink, look inward, his spirit ebbing with his physique. Evenings, when they lived on the estate, he would be driven in the open coach, swathed in blankets, to the family cemetery where he could be seen for hours, brooding, huddling in a corner, the vapors of the cool evening misting from his mouth, looking at the stone-studded tract under which lay the bodies of countless von Kassels.

  Occasionally Charles would join his grandfather on these nightly excursions. At the beginning, his grandfather would not speak and he would sit beside him for the better part of an hour listening to the familiar sounds of the country, the quiet naying of the horse, the cough of Serge, the old driver, who would clear his throat and spit in the direction of the horse's tail.

  Only on one occasion did his grandfather reveal his innermost thoughts to the grandson who sat beside him in the coach. Charles would always remember that moonless night. The first hint of early winter had rolled in on a biting icy breeze, although it was only late October. Because even the stars were covered by a heavy canopy of clouds, they could barely make out the outlines of the gravestones. Despite an occasional whistle of the wind through the sparse trees that surrounded the high iron-spiked fence of the cemetery, sounds carried clear in the night. His grandfather's breathing was labored, indicating the first sign of the pneumonia that was to kill him a few weeks later.

  "Someday we will all rest here," Charles had said. He had not meant to be profound, only to hear the reassuring sound of his own voice.

  "They will try to take it from us," his grandfather said, lifting a bony hand from under the blankets and waving it toward the cemetery. "They will take our land. Our fathers will lie among strangers." He turned toward Charles, his old eyes searching the boy's face in the darkness.

  "I will not let them," Charles said, feeling pride in his own bravado.

  "I have been wondering if I have been worthy," his grandfather had said, ignoring his answer. "If I have been true to the good brave Knights. Was it my courage that failed?"

  "Your courage, Grandfather?" The idea seemed preposterous.

  "I come here looking for answers. And I see only death, the end of everything." His grandfather looked into the black sky. Tears were running down his cheeks.

  "Why us?" he cried.

  "I will never let it happen, Grandfather. They will never destroy us. Never. I promise you." He had grabbed his grandfather's gnarled hand and put it to his lips. The grandfather did not remove his hand.

  "Of all of them, your legacy is the most painful," his grandfather said. The words were to ring in his ears all his life, goading him.

  His grandfather died a few weeks later and they buried him in the family cemetery, another von Kassel laid to rest in the ground they had earned with their blood. At his grave, Charles reiterated the promise he had made that night.

  "I will not let them."

  His grandfather had not been dead a week and the house was still in mourning. His sister Karla, pregnant now, had returned for the funeral, staying on to be with the family. It was as if the spirit of the household was snuffed out with his grandfather's death. Even his father, who might have found freedom at last in his father's demise, seemed subdued. He made his daily rounds of the lands and the warehouses, transacted business listlessly. Nothing seemed to capture his interest.

  They came with torches in the middle of the night. Every man, woman and child in the villages in their lands seemed to have risen up and filled the snow-covered grounds around the main house. The front row carried banners, an odd concoction of symbols of Estonian nationalism and the hammer and sickle. By then the Bolsheviks had assumed power in Russia and the Estonians were demanding independence led by their own native Reds.

  "My God, they have come to burn us down," his father said as he viewed the procession approaching. He had carried his clothes downstairs and was dressing quickly. "Get dressed," he ordered Charles, who had come running downstairs in his bedclothes. He pulled a gun off one of the gun racks and filled the chamber with a clip of bullets. "Get the women and the servants in the basement."

  Actually, the servants were nowhere to be found. Petrified with fear, the women moved quickly to the basement. His mother was hysterical, but Karla, with her customary coolness, kissed him, whispering.

  "Keep calm. They are pigs."

  Standing beside his father, rifle in hand, Charles waited on the porch in the glare of the torches observing the procession approach. The crowd seemed loosely organized. Spokesmen had apparently been chosen. These stood in the front rank, their faces bathed in the firelight, two men and a woman. The
ir voices were harsher, louder above the din of the crowd. One of the men began to speak and the crowd settled to listen. The speaker addressed Charles and his father.

  "It is the end of the von Kassels. The tyranny is over. The people are awake now. We are holding your warehouse for the provisional army. It is over. We demand that you leave without your possessions. Your day is over, von Kassels." There was a roar of approval from the crowd.

  In the deafening sound, the blinding torchlight, Charles was surprised at his lack of fear. He turned toward his father and smiled, as if to offer the comfort of his own strength. Surprisingly, his father was also smiling, showing a pose of courage that might have earned him his own father's approbation. When the roar subsided, the man began again.

  "You will leave this land now," the man demanded. "Now. Or we will burn you out." Again the crowd roared with approval.

  He heard his father clearly. One word. "Never." And then the crack of the rifle and the spokesman fell like a stone at the feet of the crowd, a bullet in his head. The sudden crack, the shock of seeing their spokesman fall, momentarily quieted the crowd. They seemed paralyzed. The sudden turn of events also froze Charles, except that his head had turned in his father's direction. His father's eyes were shining. There was a look of serenity on his face. But the tableau disintegrated like broken glass as people pressed forward and seized him. The crowd moved as one. His father was thrust into the forefront, in the center of the porch entrance.

  "He is a murderer," a woman shouted. She had stood beside the man who had been killed. Charles, who was held tightly by two burly arms, still calm and fearless, watched the woman's face in the flickering light. "There is enough Estonian blood on their hands. This Teutonic butcher is no better than the rest. I demand his execution in the name of the new Estonia." The crowd howled. A rope emerged and one of the crowd jumped onto the porch and displayed the noose. The crowd cheered. The woman raised both her hands to quiet them. A man appeared with another noose. The crowd roared again. Watching his father, Charles noted his composure.

  Then the nooses were thrown over the wooden crossbar supporting the porch roof. Hands moved the circles of rope over their heads, tightening them. Charles gasped for breath, but his father's composure never wavered. Then the woman produced a knife; she grabbed a nearby torch and turned one side of her face to the crowd, the light etching the crossed scar embedded in her cheek. Petya! For the first time he felt fear. But it was the old fear, the boy's fear. Then the knife flashed and the woman carved a cross in his father's cheek. He did not utter a sound. The blood oozed out of the cuts. He seemed to be welcoming the moment, relieved at last. Even when the crowd pulled the rope and his father's feet left the ground, the spasm of death did not contort his features. He simply expired, his head twisted to one side as if in repose, the body swaying peacefully in death.

  Perhaps it was the lack of any reaction that quieted the crowd. Their revenge was a disappointment. It was his father's one great moment. His grandfather would have been proud. By the time Petya turned her attention to Charles, the spirit of the crowd had ebbed. He did not lower his eyes when she looked at him. Her face was hard, the features thickened by age and bitterness, but in the eyes he caught something of the old Petya, the nursemaid, the protector. Watching him, she said nothing, moving the torch towards his father's lifeless body. The flames licked at his clothes, igniting them. Mesmerized, the crowd watched the body dancing in the flame as if it were alive.

  His father's body was quickly consumed by the flames, and when they spread to the crossbar and the roof of the porch a great cheer went up in the crowd. They began to rush around, putting the torch everywhere, outhouses, carriages, the lattice work of the garden, everything. Watching the madness, he continued to maintain his calm, as he struggled to loosen the rope around his neck. But it was still stuck on the crossbar and the flames were moving fast, igniting the rope. Then, suddenly, the pressure was relieved. A knife blade flashed. Petya had cut the rope.

  "Go," she hissed, her eyes flickering briefly.

  "Fool," he said quietly. Quickly he moved into the house.

  The women were still huddled in the basement room. They had heard noises, but could make no sense out of them. Seeing him, his face blackened by smoke, his mother became hysterical and he slapped her into silence. Then he led Karla and her up the stairs.

  "My God, they are burning us down," Karla cried as he led them through the flames to the rear of the house. Holding his mother and sister by the hand, he led them to the tree line, then through a path in the forest that led upwards to a small clearing. From there, he could see the flames of their burning house lighting up the sky.

  "We are finished," Karla said, tightening her hand in his. Their mother seemed dazed, struck dumb by the shock of it.

  "They will never finish us. No one can finish us," he had answered. But, in his heart, he knew that they would come soon.

  He was nineteen years old.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dawn sprawled on the four-poster bed, staring at him. Her hair fell awry over half her face and one strap of her gown had slipped off her shoulder and lay on her forearm. She was drunk.

  He pitied her. Tonight was further confirmation that she did not matter to him anymore. Again, he cursed himself for bringing her to this reunion.

  Luckily, the Baron's strength had given out and the party had quickly dissipated before she could make a further fool of herself. She had employed the ultimate weapon of a scorned woman. She had thrown herself at another man hoping to injure him. It was ludicrous. But Siegfried would be alert to any opportunity that came his way. Oddly enervated, his mind was crowded with thoughts of Olga.

  Moving out of her field of vision, he went to the sitting room and lit a cigarette, looking out of the window into the star-filled night, exhaling clouds of smoke against the glass. Olga in his arms, gliding over the dance floor, was a fixed image. That, and the coolness of her eyes behind high cheekbones, the delicate curve of her lips as they opened to express some observation. Had something inside of her called to him or was he merely romanticizing some yearning in himself? A dark wave of doubt swept over him. In disgust he smashed his cigarette against the pane. Was returning to the bosom of his family, that gallery of freaks, actually what she desired for her son? He deliberately ignored the obvious economic factor.

  "I made a damned fool of myself," Dawn said suddenly from behind him. The words were slurred, but apparently she had regained some of her poise. He turned. She stood in the bedroom doorway, supported by the doorjamb. She had combed her hair, smoothed her dress and replaced the shoulder strap.

  "It's hardly worthy of discussion. Go to bed."

  She started to obey, then checked herself.

  "I had good reason," she said.

  "There is no good reason to get drunk. My family must have thought you were an idiot."

  "I don't care what they think," she said, her belligerence rising again. She paused. "That's not really true you know. I wanted to make a good impression. You know that, Albert. I really wanted to."

  "Then why didn't you?" Why am I responding? he wondered, searching for some clean way to send her off. What do I owe her? He was appalled by his own reticence. In business he could be totally ruthless, dissimulating, without mercy. Pity, like guilt, was a destructive emotion.

  "I have eyes, Albert," she said. "You and Olga. Sparks."

  "That's absurd."

  "Women know."

  "That old cliché." He was not ready to admit the accuracy of her observation. "And what about you and Siegfried?" It was unworthy of his maturity. He felt petty, foolish. Siegfried had been only a device.

  "He was at least attentive. He wanted to be with me. I felt ... alone."

  He wanted to ignore her. He was hardly in the mood for her drunken insight.

  "Goddammit," her voice rose. The carefully modulated tone became a shriek. "What the hell is going wrong, Albert?"

  "Go to sleep." Again he had postponed it. />
  "You're not being fair." He saw her coming closer. When she reached him, he backed away.

  Once he had loved her, had felt the need for her. Now she was merely a stranger. There was a long pause. He lit another cigarette.

  "All right, Albert." She seemed to be taking a new tack. "I'll stop being a harridan. I simply had too much to drink. You know I can't drink. I became jealous. Let's say it was without cause. You were merely being polite. She is your aunt, you know." Her drunkenness seemed to have faded. "I'll admit I made a fool out of myself with Siegfried."

  "Let's talk about it in the morning," he sighed. He had not turned to face her. Don't wait, he told himself. Tell her now.

  "Let's forget it, Albert. Okay?" she pleaded. "Forgive me. I made an ass of myself."

  "I forgive you," he said. His tone was mechanical.

  "So you're going to be rotten." He knew he had hurt her by not allowing her to regain her pride.

  "Go to sleep, we'll talk about it in the morning. I have things on my mind."

  "Like her."

  "Really, Dawn..." he began, turning, checking his. anger. The extent of his indifference shocked him. The anger was directed inward.

  "I'm just not very good at accepting humiliation," she said quietly.

  "You're exaggerating."

  "Am I?"

  "Well then." He hesitated. "Perhaps it was a mistake to come."

  "I was asked, remember. I did not volunteer."

  He could sympathize with her confusion. He had brought her for his own comfort, a kind of private insulation from the terror of his family, a private place of refuge. He had not expected such a fierce onslaught of emptiness.

  "I'm sorry," he stammered. He sighed and turned again to the window, searching for images in the night.

  "You're torturing me, you know."

  He didn't answer. She had come upon a kernel of truth. It was another complexity to be deciphered. It was the truth. With an effort of will he tried to lose her, ignore her. Words came, loudly. But he shut them out. Only the tone made sense. Such a reaction could be expected in a scorned woman. It was only natural, he told himself calmly. He heard the clicking of her heels along the floor, the opening of a door, slamming. Then, as he listened, the sound of the elevator and silence.