Pale Horse Riding

by Chris Petit

  Sepp lisped to deliberately irritating effect.

  ‘We?’ asked Schlegel.

  ‘Say hello to Baumgarten on the way out. He will be delighted to see you. We were talking about you boys only the other day.’

  Baumgarten had been the foreman of a gang of Berlin butchers, a man of frightening size and violence.

  Juppe wanted to know how they knew each other. Morgen told him to fuck off and marched out.

  Schlegel thought: First Sybil; now Sepp and Baumgarten. All once part of the same case.

  He walked out with the queasy impression that he had arrived at the place where nightmares relocated.

  They wasted the rest of the morning being driven back out into the countryside. Morgen sat in the front and chain-smoked while Schlegel tried to process how the garrison seemed to have a habit of combining moments of sharp shock with an otherwise utter eventlessness. It had started with Fegelein. He wondered who next.

  They drove to a nearby garrison village where they saw a crocodile of kindergarten children.

  Morgen said he was surprised it was a family posting.

  ‘We’re part of the General Government, so of course.’

  It was blindingly hot. There was the market garden. The huge transparent buildings Schlegel had seen earlier were industrial-sized greenhouses, cathedrals of glass, designed by a famous Polish prisoner architect. A staff woman wearing a lab coat and sunglasses told them the bulk of the crop was devoted to cultivating a dandelion from central Asia whose sap was being used to produce latex rubber. Morgen yawned. The woman took it for rudeness.

  On it went. The new hygiene institute. The weather station. The herb farm, a special project initiated by the Reichsführer-SS.

  Where Morgen had previously been sarcastic, he could no longer be bothered. Juppe seemed oblivious to insult.

  Schlegel wondered whether to risk approaching the commandant’s wife with some excuse to speak to Sybil.

  They were shown where marshland had been drained and the river levels regulated to prevent flooding. The big fish farm was closed for stock replenishment, otherwise Juppe would have shown them.

  ‘Now there’s a pity,’ said Morgen, rallying briefly.

  Lunch, which Juppe insisted on calling luncheon, was taken in the officer’s mess. It was silver service, elaborate and pointless. Schlegel thought about the futility of colonial enterprise, out on the edge, pretending everything worked the way it did at home. He supposed all pioneers felt like that, with their thin hopes and the battle against homesickness.

  Juppe asked how they knew the butcher in the abattoir. Morgen told him, in unsparing detail, how Sepp had been part of a secret counter-insurgency campaign in the east, devoted to bestial and barbaric acts that were blamed on the local population, and how they had brought the killing virus home and used the Berlin slaughterhouse to carry on their work.

  With Juppe present, Schlegel and Morgen had little to talk about. They ate in silence until Schlegel said, with a show of false bonhomie, ‘Actually, Juppe, there is something useful you can do for us.’

  Juppe looked unsure. Morgen’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘We might have to subpoena an employee of the commandant’s household and take her back as a witness.’

  Juppe looked uncertain, Morgen even more so.

  Juppe said, ‘I will have to ask the commandant, of course.’

  ‘In the meantime, what can you tell us about her?’

  He gave a physical account of Sybil as Morgen tried to work it out.

  Juppe recognised his description. He said she hadn’t been there long and she was a favourite of the commandant’s wife.

  ‘What’s her name?’ Schlegel asked, curious to know how Juppe would answer.

  Juppe was dismissive. He didn’t learn prisoner names.

  ‘Is it Sybil?’ asked Morgen, having worked it out. The question was addressed more to Schlegel, who nodded, than Juppe, who ignored it.

  ‘But you know who I mean.’

  ‘Yes. The seamstress.’

  ‘Have you met her?’

  Juppe contemplated, deciding how to answer, then said, ‘Once. The commandant’s wife asked me to pass on several items of furniture on their behalf.’

  ‘So she is quite well looked after?’

  ‘She has her own room. Most don’t.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ asked Morgen, who continued to give Schlegel quizzical looks.

  ‘Top-end luxe. VIP stuff.’

  ‘VIP like on the outside?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘Yes. We speak the same language here,’ said Juppe, with his own attempt at sarcasm.

  It sounded like Sybil was protected. Schlegel didn’t know whether that depressed him, given the inevitable favours that would be demanded in return.

  There was no chance to discuss anything with Morgen. When they adjourned to the washroom they were joined by Juppe, and stood pissing three in a row, with Juppe forced to take the middle.

  As Morgen washed his hands, he said, ‘I wish to inspect the post office.’

  Juppe looked unsure. Morgen said it was up to Juppe whether he came. They were going anyway.

  They sat in the post office for an hour, waiting for the dentist. Horn said the fellow was usually as regular as clockwork. Schlegel thought the man must have been been forewarned, as part of the general runaround they were being given. Morgen told Horn to telephone the dentist’s surgery. Horn reported that he wasn’t in and was on his course.

  ‘So-called,’ said Morgen, and Horn admitted coursework and truancy were indistinguishable.

  Juppe gave Horn a fussy look that said he was being indiscreet. Horn shrugged. Schlegel recalled Horn saying how they all hated each other.

  After an hour and a half Morgen gave up.

  He stood outside, smoking, fed up.

  Juppe said, ‘The commandant is very keen you see the recreational centre in the hills.’

  ‘Do you ever give up?’

  ‘No,’ said Juppe, matching Morgen’s truculence.

  Morgen asked what each garrison building was for. He seemed to be deliberately testing Juppe’s patience. Juppe dutifully recited: commandant’s office; administration block – which they were standing outside; garrison hospital – which also contained the officer’s mess where they had just eaten; and over the road the crematorium and next to it the security police block.

  ‘Why a crematorium?’ asked Morgen.

  Juppe recited, ‘Death certificates are the responsibility of the security police not the civil administration and the Poles bury their dead, so there are no local cremation facilities.’

  Morgen was already marching off. Juppe asked where he was going. Morgen said he wanted to introduce himself to the security police.

  The only person in the large unmanned reception was a young man sitting in the waiting area, tootling on an accordion. It was hard to say what he was doing there as he wore civilian clothes, yet he looked quite at home. He was pencil-thin, with dark, lustrous hair and bottle-thick glasses, and the knowing air of one amused by the foibles of the world.

  He started by telling them no one bothered saluting officers outside their own departments.

  Morgen asked who he was. He said his name was Broad. He was minding the desk until the guard got back.

  Morgen asked why he wasn’t in uniform.

  Broad said it was optional in his department.

  Morgen asked his rank. Schlegel was surprised by the answer – junior for a man with such an assuming manner. The accent was one Schlegel couldn’t place. He asked.

  ‘They call me the Brazilian.’

  Born in Rio to a German mother and English father. He was studying to become an interpreter on account of his languages. He continued to play as he talked.

  Morgen asked irritably, ‘What’s with the squeezebox?’

  Schlegel saw he was annoyed by Broad treating them as a captive audience.

  ‘Accordion,’ said Broad lightly. He stopped playing and flipped a cig
arette from a packet, offering it around.

  Morgen accepted.

  ‘Ibar, the Yugoslav choice,’ Broad said in a deep voice, like he was advertising the brand. ‘My father’s definition of a gentleman was a man who can play the accordion but chooses not to.’

  He winked at Schlegel. He seemed to know who they were. Who didn’t? wondered Schlegel.

  Morgen asked Broad the name of his boss.

  ‘Grabner. Everyone calls him Chief.’ He added that the chief was busy. ‘Court assizes tomorrow. Can I help?’

  The casual initiative was the opposite of anything Schlegel had encountered so far, as was the droll manner.

  ‘What do you know about gold smuggling?’ asked Morgen.

  Broad laughed. ‘You mean Bock the dentist.’

  It was one of the rare occasions on which Schlegel saw Morgen speechless.

  Broad went on. ‘He’s being held in the punishment block as we speak.’

  He said it as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘On what charges?’ asked Morgen, still flabbergasted.

  Broad continued to look amused. ‘Gold smuggling.’

  ‘We need to talk to him.’

  ‘I told you, court assizes tomorrow. Everyone busy.’

  He started playing again, a professional, refined piece. Seeing Schlegel curious, he said it was Bach.

  Morgen asked Broad if they were being led a merry dance.

  Broad switched to a polka and said, ‘We are here to help, we really are, but you can’t question your man now as there has to be a member of the security staff available and none is. It’s the rule book.’ He looked at Juppe. ‘He knows.’

  ‘Why don’t you sit in with us?’ asked Morgen, still friendly.

  ‘Only too happy to, but I am manning the fort here.’

  ‘What about him?’ Morgen asked, meaning Juppe.

  Juppe said he was the commandant’s office, not security.

  Schlegel decided the whole thing was a stitch-up. He could tell Morgen thought the same.

  Broad played a flourish on his accordion, as though he had just thought of something. ‘Come to the punishment barracks tonight. Block eleven, in the far left-hand corner as you go through the side gate opposite here. I am on duty from seven, and will see what I can do.’

  ‘Why was Bock arrested?’ Morgen asked.

  ‘A tip-off, I expect.’ He stopped playing and stood. ‘Tell me one thing.’

  ‘What?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘People are worried someone is going to come one day and start taking names. That’s not you, is it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The hot story going around is there is a regime change and things are about to get a lot more Soviet.’

  Schlegel asked, ‘How Soviet?’

  ‘Lining everyone up against the wall.’ Broad made a pistol of his finger.

  Juppe looked agitated. Schlegel saw that Broad wasn’t bothered. He had the feeling Broad was soliciting them somehow and wondered whether he was Kammler’s man.

  A klaxon sounded. Broad said, ‘Another block fumigation, courtesy of Dr Wirths.’ He turned to Schlegel. ‘Remember to keep my name off your list, as a friend of the revolution.’

  Schlegel revised his previous estimation of those in the garrison being easy to read. Broad seemed to make a point of unpredictability.

  ‘What do you think about Bock’s arrest?’ Morgen asked Broad.

  ‘I am not important enough to think.’

  ‘I am sure you do yourself a disservice.’

  Schlegel was inclined to like Broad, though Morgen was not.

  ‘Studying to be an interpreter in what?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘English and Portuguese. I have some Russian too.’

  ‘Do we have grounds for such international skills?’

  ‘Not yet but when we rule the world somebody is going to have to tell the untermensch.’

  ‘Ha-ha, very good,’ said Morgen flatly.

  Outside, Morgen said to Juppe, ‘Take us to your wretched recreational hideaway; anywhere so long as it is not here.’

  It would take about half an hour, said Juppe.

  To get out was a relief. Schlegel stared at the passing countryside, rural and peasant-like, with the occasional cart and oxen. Having found Sybil, he was in a funk: if she was protected, crashing in could do more harm than good.

  They drove alongside a depleted river, moved into hillier wooded territory.

  The retreat was set on a hillside with fine views. Schlegel could see why the spot had been chosen. It looked like home.

  Juppe explained it had been built as a staff getaway during the quarantine. There were plans to turn it into a country club.

  The location was idyllic in a picture-postcard way, with handsome firs and tumbling streams, the air fresh. A large main building was in a rustic alpine style, with a broad sun deck on which people lounged in deck chairs. Private cabins in the woods gave an impression of an exclusive holiday retreat. Paths took them over little bridges, through glades with naked sunbathers, men and women, taking advantage of the softer late-afternoon light. They were ignored, apart from one lithe young woman, lying alone on her front, who looked up and smiled, catching Schlegel’s eye. Her skin was so soft and honeyed he wanted to reach down and touch it.

  Broad was waiting for them in the punishment block guardroom.

  It was their first time in the prisoner compound. The barracks looked identical to those in the garrison, with little hanging lamps announcing the block number, except it all felt deader and more threatening. Schlegel hadn’t realised how big the prison was. A few prisoners hung around outside, the more privileged, he supposed, smoking and wearing their own clothes.

  Only the roll-call parade ground, which they crossed, gave any indication of the numbers that must gather there; it was dominated by a long gibbet with hooks.

  Juppe’s usual running commentary had dried up.

  The sun at last had lost its strength. Schlegel was aware of his weak shadow in the dirt.

  Unlike other barracks, the space between the punishment block and the next was sealed by a high wall with a large gate. They had to ring a bell to gain entry. A slouching guard eventually answered and showed them to where Broad sat waiting, in uniform now, still tootling on his accordion, with his air of suppressed amusement.

  ‘It seems like your dentist has checked out,’ he said laconically.

  Morgen glared. Schlegel saw he had been naïve thinking there would be an end to the runaround.

  ‘It seems he didn’t like the food,’ said Broad.

  Seeing Morgen’s barely suppressed anger, Broad snapped at a guard to produce Bock’s registry details.

  The card showed theft as the reason for custody. There was a note in a different hand recording his transfer to Block 10 (medical) after being ‘taken ill’. Transfer time was given as 6 p.m., an hour before Broad came on duty.

  ‘Why wasn’t he admitted to the staff hospital?’ Morgen asked.

  ‘Garrison men taken ill under arrest are always sent here. They have doors with locks.’

  ‘Taken ill?’ Morgen repeated sceptically.

  ‘He could order food in. He was staff. He could send out to his mess kitchen. Maybe someone spiked it.’ Broad seemed entertained by the idea.

  Schlegel wondered if it was always this casual.

  Broad said he had to remain on duty and Juppe could take them over. It was only next door. The three of them trooped out, with Morgen muttering.

  The entrance to the medical block was not locked but no one was around. Unlike in garrison barracks, there were no signposts. Schlegel saw the vein in Morgen’s temple pulse as he turned on Juppe and told him to find someone.

  Juppe came back looking not pleased, accompanied by a stout middle-aged woman. Her white coat was badly in need of a wash, her grey hair scraped back in an untidy bun. The reason for Juppe’s irritation was the woman was a prisoner doctor and not entitled to deal w
ith staff cases, but she was all he could find.

  The woman confirmed no one else was available. The garrison staff had gone home. She spoke with a heavy central European accent.

  She took them up to the corridor where police prisoners were kept. Behind an unattended desk hung a board with numbered keys.

  The woman said she wasn’t entitled to show them the rooms. Morgen told her to wait.

  Morgen made Juppe open the doors. The windows were sealed with metal plates, turning each into a claustrophobic space, made more stark by a dim central lightbulb. The rooms were all empty with made-up cots, apart from one with the bed in disarray, but no sign of occupation.

  Juppe’s look said Morgen should recognise he was beaten. Morgen was about to walk out when he said, ‘There’s a shoe under the bed.’

  He found a uniform hanging on the back of the door, hidden with it open. He went through the pockets until he found an identity card.

  ‘Bock, the dentist,’ Morgen said flatly.

  The photograph showed a rabbity man, anonymous, as Horn had said.

  ‘Maybe he is in the washroom,’ said Juppe unhelpfully.

  Morgen went back to the woman and asked what else was in the building.

  Medical research blocks, she said, and the prisoner brothel.

  Morgen pulled a face to say he had heard everything now and turned away impatiently, saying they could probably discount Bock going off for a girl. He asked the woman what else.

  There was only the temporary morgue in the cellar, she said.

  Morgen sighed and said, ‘Take us down.’

  She led the way to a winding staircase, dimly lit. The sharp smell of disinfectant failed to mask the underlying odour of decomposition. At the bottom, Schlegel sensed a dark space stretching ahead. He could make out little more than blocked shapes in the sparse security lamps. Only when the doctor switched on the main lights was the horror revealed.

  Under a nauseous green glow lay what Schlegel could think of only as a huge bathroom of corpses.

  He didn’t know where to begin. Perhaps as many as fifty baths, each filled and containing a body, in the case of children sometimes more. Each corpse was stripped naked.

  The woman said, ‘It’s the only way to keep them from decomposing in this heat.’

  Even Juppe looked as though he had no idea such a world existed. It made a mockery of the dreary positives of his endless tour.