by Chris Petit
She slipped off one shoe, then the other, using Schlegel’s arm to steady herself, and stood barefoot. Her feet were surprisingly big.
She jigged in time to the gramophone music and asked, ‘Are you familiar with Hörbiger’s world ice theory?’
‘I am not,’ said Schlegel, with what he hoped was a straight face.
Morgen was quick to add, ‘It explains how Atlantis was destroyed by a great flood caused by the collision of an ice moon with the earth, and the ancient survivors founded a great civilisation in Central Asia, the capital of which was called Urbe.’
She leaned forward and whispered, ‘Tibet. You must stay until the end. I shall be putting on a little show that reflects my love of the legend.’
Schlegel scrutinised his beer bottle, wondering how the hell Morgen knew this nonsense.
Food was announced and everyone stopped to eat. Schlegel didn’t fancy Sepp’s offerings and carried on drinking, availing himself of passing trays of beer.
He wandered around on his own, not bothering to talk to anyone. The commandant was dancing with a woman on the patio, desperate to keep everything jollied along. Several couples were in the bushes. A man lay on the lawn, asleep or passed out. A voice in Schlegel’s ear said, ‘The background stink of shit and burning bodies and disease and the pall of smoke and the ashes that fall like the finest snow on the roses in this, the commandant’s garden, how does the newcomer get used to that?’
Schlegel looked into the man’s dark eyes. Again the mystery of whether he remembered him; Krick was comfortably drunk when many were staggering.
‘Quite,’ he said, after Schlegel’s silence. ‘No answer really, except for my jaded explanation that however appalled the novice is it is soon forgotten because everyone gets sick upon arrival, vomiting and shitting until nothing is produced but mucus and water, so by the time you get better all that once looked and smelled horrible now feels almost normal and “almost normal” is everyone’s operating mode.’
True, thought Schlegel. Guests making a show of having a good time. Children running around pretending to kill each other. Awkward conversations, even as everyone got smashed. A drunk dog.
‘Have you been sick yet?’
‘Ingeborg Tanner,’ Schlegel ventured in return.
Krick said, ‘Too pleasant an afternoon to talk about that. Come and see me. I am told we know each other. I don’t remember.’
‘My hair wasn’t white then.’
‘Does that make you albatross or harbinger?’
Krick smiled at his cleverness, and was gone.
Palitsch, drinking alone nearby, raised his bottle and strolled over.
‘I am still drunk from yesterday. Or was it the day before?’
He was friendly but Schlegel wasn’t sure if Palitsch recognised him. He reeked of sex. His fingers were nicotine-stained. Schlegel mentioned Tanner.
Palitsch looked blank and eventually said, ‘I tend to avoid garrison women. Too clingy. Who are you fucking?’
Schlegel, feeling a prude, said he had only just arrived. Palitsch gave him a dig in the ribs.
‘Everyone’s wiping their dick on someone, don’t tell me you’re any different. Morphine and Jewish cunt, that’s a good combination. Slav cunt best. Gypsy cunt good too. The women are wild and grateful for any chance.’
Palitsch’s eyes were puddled, wistful and faraway. Schlegel sensed a floating distance between them and mentioned the name of the wife supposed to have been his lover. Palitsch stared uncomprehending.
Schlegel said, ‘She was garrison.’
Palitsch squinted and asked, ‘Are you on my case?’
Schlegel said, trying to flatter, ‘Women obviously gossip about you.’
The man nodded, briefly sober. ‘It’s bust at the moment but the Palitsch tool is a friend to many women.’
His donkey laugh filled the garden, coinciding with Frau Hoess clapping her hands.
Krick was gone, as was Schulze. So was Morgen. Schlegel hadn’t seen him leave; always expert at the unnoticed departure. Wirths stood near the front, with an ingratiating smile of expectation. The commandant sat on the patio, smoking, knees crossed, his children around him, leading the applause for his wife.
The now very drunk dog wandered around in unsteady circles.
The late afternoon light made everyone look like cutouts of themselves. Frau Hoess addressed the guests from the verandah, proposing for their cultural edification a series of tableaux vivants based upon the race of ancient Canarians whose islands formed the only remaining part of the ancient kingdom of Atlantis.
‘Until the European settlers came; the conquering of the Canary Islands by the Christian Spaniards remains one of the most appalling examples of the poisonous effects of Jewish-Christianity on the soul of the European people.’
A trio of musicians had taken up positions at the side of the summerhouse. One was Broad, accompanied by a violin and the third with a flute and tambourine. Broad looked casual, smoking as he played, his skills obviously superior to what he had been asked to provide.
Frau Hoess announced each tableau. ‘A tribal society of prosperous farmers who painted their bodies green, yellow and red.’
Small groups of what Schlegel supposed were prisoners posed as ancient, noble natives, wearing straw skirts and appropriately daubed.
‘Golden locks, rosy cheeks, white skin,’ Frau Hoess intoned.
Each display was greeted with a smattering of barely polite applause.
The whole thing was a staging of enormous miscalculation, amateurish and barely competent despite the best efforts of its components. The poses were appropriate, the musicians more than adequate. It was just the last thing the end of a not very successful drunken party needed.
Schlegel watched the commandant enjoy his wife’s humiliation, though she was thick-skinned enough not to see it as that.
‘They mummified the bodies of their elders. On islands some sixty miles off the coast of northwestern Africa, they had long lived in relative isolation.’
Those posing as islanders were joined by others dressed as conquistadores, who took up aggressive poses.
Frau Hoess ploughed on. ‘During the thirteenth century, European navigators began to frequent their ports, carrying news of the islanders back to Europe. Eventually Spanish ships arrived to begin baptising the Canarians by the sword.’
The tableau threatened to get out of hand as the struggle gave way to pushing and shoving.
‘The inhabitants fought tooth and nail but they could not long resist European muskets and European germs.’
The sound of Palitsch vomiting by the summerhouse was audible from where Schlegel stood. Palitsch emerged wiping his mouth, hugely pleased, and was studiously ignored by Frau Hoess.
A musical interlude came as a relief. People started to sit on the lawn. Palitsch lay down and slept. The woman with the black eye winked at Schlegel. Children were shouting in the house. The commandant sat alone on the patio, crouched forward, staring intently at the pond.
When Schlegel next looked he was standing in the water, up to his calves, then bent down to fish something out. No one else appeared to notice. Schlegel couldn’t see what it was but the spasm of disgust was unmistakable as the commandant stepped out, the bottom of his soaked trousers clinging to his legs.
Again no one watched as he crossed the lawn. By the far garden wall he stood for a moment, then made an overarm throw.
Schlegel turned to find himself facing Dr Wirths, who was also following the commandant’s unsteady progress. Evidence of the abandoned party lay all around – litter and discarded bottles and glasses on the lawn, passed-out bodies and pools of vomit.
‘Excessive drunkenness is encouraged as a form of safety valve. I recently had to attend to the commandant after a riding fall and the man was drunk before nine in the morning.’
The commandant marched past, oblivious. Wirths lowered his voice. ‘This place is enough to drive anyone to drink but in the case of the commandant I would su
ggest it impairs his judgement.’
Schlegel excused himself. Manners prevailed in that he chose to thank the commandant’s wife for her hospitality.
Before he could speak, Frau Hoess hissed sotto voce, ‘Did you see what he threw over the wall?’
She swept by, telling him to follow. She took him through the garden door and asked where he thought the commandant had been on the other side of the wall. They were ankle deep in ivy. Frau Hoess now had flat shoes on. She suggested they search.
A trail of ants led them to a severed finger.
‘I would rather you got rid of it,’ said Frau Hoess with a shudder.
Schlegel dug a depression in the loose soil with his heel, kicked the finger in and covered it.
The woman was there to do her own digging too, he was certain, and sure enough she asked how he found her husband.
The best he managed was that he seemed under a lot of pressure.
Frau Hoess folded her hands demurely and said, ‘I wish to be frank on my husband’s behalf because he is the last one to speak up for himself.’
Schlegel wondered what levels of intrigue they were embarking on.
‘I am in no doubt you and your friend are here to clean the place out and we do want Grabner gone, and Palitsch. On that my husband and I agree but I am in a dilemma.’
Schlegel, drunker than he thought, couldn’t see where she was going with this.
‘I do worry for him that the pressure of the job is too much. Best all round would be if you could arrange a sabbatical.’
He looked at her in astonishment. ‘Who would run the place?’
She snapped, ‘The garrison can take care of itself.’
‘What would you do?’
‘Stay, of course.’
She wouldn’t dream of disrupting the children’s education. ‘My eldest has had difficulties but he is settled now.’
Obviously the monster’s problems were not seen to extend to getting the dog drunk.
Frau Hoess looked at him on the verge of tears and said, ‘It’s not normal to walk into a pond in the middle of a garden party, however drunk.’
‘And the finger?’
‘It seems to be some terrible twisted way of drawing attention to himself. The more charitable interpretation would be a cry for help.’
‘Would it be so bad if he stepped down? He has had a distinguished career. I am sure he would be well looked after.’
‘Then I would have to leave too. It would break my heart. I know you have a job to do. I expect it is more dangerous than you imagine. Be that as it may, my husband has a secret project, very close to our hearts, and were we to be posted we would not be able to carry on with it. If he remained it might be detrimental to his health but if he was sent to recuperate for six months while I stayed, then I could still supervise for him. The project is highly confidential but has the backing of very senior figures.’
Schlegel felt he had entered another dimension. Mystified, he asked, ‘Can you say what it is?’
‘That would be telling. Now can I rely on you?’
He could only say of course, calculating that the woman’s influence may yet prove useful with Sybil.
After watching her return to her garden he walked back through the garrison. He hadn’t gone far when he became aware of Broad’s accordion and spotted him sitting on the grassy bank beneath the chimney. Compared to what he had been asked to produce for Frau Hoess’s show, he was playing something complicated.
Schlegel had the feeling Broad was waiting for him. Was it enticement or was he currying favour? Schlegel could not tell.
‘Tanner had a reputation as a party girl. The big secret here is there are only two things people are interested in. Drinking and fucking.’
‘Enough to get her killed?’
‘She was keen on a gippo prisoner. Maybe even to the extent of going full horizontal. Doubly verboten. Not so clever. As an unsullied vessel of German womanhood that counts as racial defilement, whereas if Palitsch fucks Gypsy Vera it doesn’t, sort of, but he may yet get his comeuppance.’
Schlegel thought of Palitsch saying everyone was wiping their dicks.
‘But Tanner and her Romany lover,’ Broad went on, ‘totally out of order, crosses the line, and if you have someone super-zealous about these things he might take exception. Tanner was considered too much of a good-time girl anyway, oh-la-la. We’ve had the commandant banging on about the epidemic of prisoner homosexuality and the epidemic of prisoner lesbianism and now it’s the epidemic of garrison promiscuity.’
Schlegel realised gossip was currency, as much as any black market. He wondered what Broad was trying to sell him and about the price.
The next day they experienced the full deadness of a garrison Sunday.
Schlegel told Morgen of his strange encounter with Frau Hoess and her even more unlikely proposal.
‘Special project? What can she mean?’
Schlegel had no idea other than it being, according to her, authorised. He passed on what Broad had said about Tanner and garrison promiscuity.
Morgen grunted and said there was a difference between having information and being able to act on it.
Morgen thought a long time before saying, ‘I think this is a place where you consider very carefully what is under your nose and do not look up. Our priorities remain the same. Do what we must to get out in one piece. In the meantime find out what you can about Sybil. We can always try the same trick and subpoena her.’
Morgen expressed an interest in extending their discussion with Wirths to include the dead dentist.
‘I suspect the doctor’s real quarrel is with cynicism. I got waylaid by him again and he was saying the garrison treats death as a casual thing, barely worth note and meaningless, in that proper records were not only not kept, they were scoffed at. I think for Dr Wirths death is an extremely meaningful and serious business.’
As for the day’s other entertainments, various events were advertised on the bulletin board, including a football match, a classical recital in the garrison gymnasium and a visiting variety show with comedians and dancing dogs.
Dr Wirths saved them the business of seeking him out by turning up for lunch and inviting them to join him.
They were politely reprimanded again for not coming to see him. Morgen said all his shots were up to date. Schlegel couldn’t remember but nodded.
‘Prevention is always better than cure,’ Wirths warned. ‘The garrison has no history of planning, only of reacting to crises.’
It wasn’t that he was unlikeable, Schlegel thought. All his gestures and mannerisms were those of a considerate, decent man – the way he held himself, the thoughtful incline of the head, the considered delivery. Unlike the rest, he seemed not to be trying to tell them anything other than what he was saying, but given a captive audience he was incapable of shutting up. He bombarded them with details of his improved healthcare programme with new prisoner disinfection centres, and his dream of a huge garrison field hospital.
He possessed just enough self-awareness to add, ‘Strange to use the word dream in such a context, but unless we teach each other to share a vision of the future then we will be lost.’ He looked at them. ‘I can see you are not like others. It’s important to understand before you become inured. Indifference is the real killer here.’
Morgen, terse, merely asked, ‘What is the death rate in this place?’
‘Still nothing to write home about.’
‘How important are accurate medical statistics?’
‘Essential for curbing disease.’
‘And accurate postmortem records?’
Schlegel looked around, curious to know if anyone was listening. Most of them were well on the way to being Sunday drunk. No one gave a hoot for the doctor and his sanctimonious lectures. If anything, they were getting the odd look of sympathy.
Wirths said it was of no use if a fall was listed as the cause of death when it was typhus.
‘Does that happen
?’
‘The medical records have been appalling.’
‘Whose fault was that?’
‘No one’s as such. It was more of a culture.’
‘That one didn’t bother with prisoners?’
Wirths looked depressed. Morgen leaned forward.
‘A dentist we were supposed to question was taken mysteriously ill while in custody and has since died.’
Wirths looked shocked.
‘Of a seizure.’
Morgen pointed to above his heart.
‘What does the death certificate say?’ asked Wirths.
‘I am sure it won’t say lethal injection.’
It was Wirths’ turn to look around.
‘Phenol,’ said Morgen.
Wirths hung his head.
Schlegel asked, ‘Phenol?’
‘A cheap disinfectant,’ Morgen said, ‘which causes cardiac arrest. In Buchenwald they used it to get rid of my star witness. I suspect Bock was similarly dispatched.’
Morgen made to leave.
The doctor, aghast, asked, ‘Can you do nothing to help?’
Morgen said, ‘Give me something to prosecute! Your doctors may be ethically wild, but they can claim they were acting within general guidelines, preventing the spread of disease with emergency measures.’
The doctor wrung his hands, saying his own staff placed him in an impossible position.
‘Get rid of them, man!’ said Morgen.
‘The worst offenders have been transferred but they delegate to orderlies to carry on their work. They come in the middle of the night.’
Schlegel said, ‘Take the case of our dentist . . .’
Morgen carried on. ‘If the security police has a practice of referring to doctors for lethal injection, on initiative, and unauthorised, we have grounds for prosecution.’
Still the doctor dithered. ‘The security police pick off my supervisors. They wreck my cure programme. Yes, they refer on to my staff and there are plenty still willing to do the job. I am not without courage but I am vulnerable and isolated and there are only two of you.’
Morgen struggled to keep his temper. Wirths accompanied them out of the dining room, now nervous and grateful, saying he was glad to feel they were making progress.