Pale Horse Riding

by Chris Petit

‘No. I was keeping an eye out for her. I fancied doing her myself. Droit du seigneur. Some jobs you do better than others. It’s quite personal and totally detached at the same time. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’

  ‘If she was brought into the yard and not shot what happened?’

  ‘I said. Someone sent her back.’

  ‘Who was in charge of the yard?’

  ‘Grabner was down there that morning, when he doesn’t usually bother.’

  ‘So if Grabner recognised the commandant’s seamstress and thought the commandant had sneaked her in among those to be shot . . .’

  ‘He would pull her out, to spite the commandant.’

  ‘No more motive than that?’

  ‘Of course, Grabner may have plans of his own. If she now falls under his protection it is a calculated insult to the commandant.’ Palitsch grew philosophical. ‘I know it happens all the time, but it is not actually that easy to have someone killed in the case of someone like the seamstress, unless she can be inducted into a process.’

  ‘Lethal injections are used pretty freely.’

  ‘Don’t you see what I am saying? The commandant is in the business of administration. He doesn’t have access to the killing machine. He can’t just turn up in the infirmary with a gaggle of people he wants rid of. There are trials, medical assessments.’

  ‘Don’t you kill for the purse?’

  ‘I get paid but I kill as an executor of the law.’

  ‘Why do you do it?’

  ‘For the extra money and because I am good at it.’

  ‘No stuff off the books?’

  ‘Why should I? It’s not worth it. I can shoot all the people I want.’

  ‘Do others do it?’

  ‘Ask them.’

  ‘Did you kill Tanner?’

  ‘No reason to, man. I’d already had her and was done.’

  ‘You just said about Fritz how easy it is to pay to have someone killed. Why not the commandant?’

  ‘Because he is the commandant! He is too isolated. The doctors aren’t going to do him any favours, nor are the security police.’

  ‘And is it a killing machine that they run?’

  ‘Sanctioned. It’s not personal or even that ideological.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s not about kikes or frogs or Polaks or Ivans in the end. Punishment block: x number of cells, y number of prisoners. Punishment repeats and punishment grows. There is always a surplus. Old gives way to new. Thirty into twenty-five won’t go, so five are surplus to requirements. What do you do with them? How do you solve the problem? That’s all it is here, problem-solving, and don’t let anyone tell you different.’

  That night it rained. Schlegel decided to investigate the bar mentioned by Ilse, in the hope she might be there. It was about a twenty-minute walk from the garrison. The steady downpour was such a relief after the arid days that Schlegel did not bother to shelter and let himself get soaked, delighting in the rain and wet road magically reflected in the dim headlights of the occasional passing vehicle.

  A long footbridge took him over the railway tracks. The bridge was up from the station and crossed the goods area, which was much larger than he was expecting. At the time of their arrival it hadn’t been apparent how big the junction was.

  He could just make out a train was in and being unloaded. With the arc lights blurred by the rain and the steam from the standing engine, he had little more than an impression of a shadowy crowd. Everything looked orderly, with silent queues. The only chaotic element was the suitcases and bundles being chucked anyhow into huge piles. Otherwise everything was methodical.

  He supposed the contents of Tanner’s locker would once have been part of similar baggage collections. Once he reached the other side of the footbridge, he realised nothing was stopping him from going over. There was no fencing. All attention was on the gathering of luggage and the procession, which took place in near silence, other than children crying. Schlegel crossed back over the tracks and passed a junction box near where the engine stood, hissing and billowing smoke. He emerged level with the head of the queue, which was being divided by a tall officer standing under an umbrella, flanked by two men in civilian raincoats, also with umbrellas. Schlegel was surprised by how close they were. He could see the needles of rain hit their umbrellas. The tall man looked familiar and when he turned to speak to his companion Schlegel saw it was Dr Wirths. The two conferred for a moment and Wirths took the man’s elbow and drew him aside, which was when he looked up. It was no more than a moment – like a snapshot for future reference, Schlegel thought – and the doctor made no acknowledgement, in fact seemed deliberately to ignore him, were it not for a change of expression from professional detachment to the look of a haunted man.

  Schlegel could hear the music from outside. Inside was hot and wet and steamy and crammed with people, most in sodden clothes. The place was so packed Schlegel could not see the walls. He moved into the crowd. It was like Berlin rush hour. He found himself dancing by default in the sweaty squirm. The band was playing on a raised platform too low to see anything more than the top of Broad’s head. The music was wild and loud: guitars, wailing violins, thumping tambourines and Broad’s accordion. Everyone was drunk. If there was a beer table Schlegel couldn’t see it. He struggled his way through the crowd, thinking about sex with Ilse and how he found it thrilling and unsettling. The band played on like men possessed, apart from Broad, relaxed in the middle, improvising his accompaniment. Schlegel gave himself up to the music and jigged around with a succession of women, one of whom shouted, ‘Happy New Year, darling!’ He sweated into his damp clothing like he was in a Turkish bath.

  Only when the evening broke up did Schlegel find Ilse, who wrapped her arms around his neck and said she was drunk. They left together with a crowd, including Broad, who mopped his brow with a large handkerchief.

  ‘Phew!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Hot work!’

  ‘Is this the Arabian Nights?’ asked Schlegel, in bemused wonder.

  ‘More Sodom and Gomorrah.’

  The rain had stopped. The air was heavy and damp. Ilse clung to Schlegel’s arm. Her usual joking mood had a bitter edge. ‘The men all take what they want when they want. Now so do we. You count as fresh blood. When I am done with you I will pass you on.’

  She laughed weirdly.

  They crossed over the bridge. The train was still in the siding, with everyone gone; the luggage in even larger piles was being loaded onto carts.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Schlegel asked, curious to know what they said.

  ‘Just a train,’ said Broad.

  There was talk of going on somewhere for more drink. Schlegel said he needed one.

  Ilse squeezed his arm and whispered, ‘Take me to Canada.’

  V

  Morgen arrived back at the garrison wild-eyed and smelling of drink, after travelling all night on a slow goods train. He told Schlegel, who was still in bed, to get a move on; a taxi waited.

  The driver was the one who had taken Morgen around the square on their arrival. Morgen gave their destination as the new camp guardroom. He said nothing during the short journey, about his absence or anything else, yawning so much that his cigarette fell out of his mouth and he stared in disbelief until Schlegel retrieved it.

  Schlegel looked out of the window and thought how sex with Ilse had become complicated in ways he found arresting and unsettling. The previous night she said she was having her period. She used a colloquial term he hadn’t heard before. She changed her dress for one of the smart ones lying around and told him to rub himself against her; she showed him the spot. Against the dress, he was thinking; that was the thrill for her, contemplating the implications of soiling the borrowed clothes of an unknown woman, probably dead. Ilse had a handkerchief ready. She seemed entirely practical and guilt free. Only fools get caught, she said, changing back into her dress.

  Juppe was waiting under the arch by the guardroom, grumbling about h
aving been so summoned. Morgen announced he was there as legal prosecutor on the authority of the Reichsführer-SS. He intended a full inspection of the guardroom and a crematorium.

  Juppe’s Adam’s apple jumped.

  The guardroom was a shock. They were traditionally functional spaces but this more resembled a hotel lobby, with a huge stove and armchairs, on which soldiers sprawled drunk, uniforms in disarray, being waited on by exotic female prisoners wearing a haphazard array of fine clothing that looked like it had come from a dressing-up box. One of the women was cooking potato pancakes, which the others served to the men, who fondled them as they passed.

  Morgen stared. Their arrival made no difference, other than one man raising his bottle in salute. Even the stickler Juppe appeared indifferent to this breach of protocol. Morgen told him to dismiss the women and have the men line up. Juppe sounded apologetic as he carried out the order. The men took their time, not bothering to fix their dress, making a point of insubordination.

  Morgen asked a soldier why he was drunk on duty. He answered that he was not technically as they were off-duty now. Where was the present guard? asked Morgen. Late, he was told. Someone sniggered. Juppe made sideways eye contact with the men, to say it had nothing to do with him.

  Morgen inspected the room, leaving the guard to stand. He turned on Juppe and asked why he shouldn’t have the lot of them cashiered.

  Juppe swallowed hard and said the men had been working all night on two transportations.

  Morgen insisted on a locker inspection and the men grew nervous.

  Their contents reminded Schlegel of Ingeborg Tanner’s, except the range of goods was much wider.

  Among the hoard were several jars of fleshy material floating in liquid.

  Morgen asked what on earth they were.

  Bulls’ testicles, he was told.

  An astonished Morgen asked why.

  Because they were an aphrodisiac, one finally said, and the rest laughed.

  Morgen’s anger was evident as he turned on Juppe and demanded he summon the security police to confiscate the lot and take the guards’ names.

  Outside, the new camp appeared vast in its sprawl: row after row of wooden barracks, a few brick. Its flimsiness made no pretence to be anything other than the grimmest residence for those with no choice. Huge crowds gathered standing in several compounds for roll call. The stink of unwashed humanity befouled the air so much Schlegel had to wind up his window as Juppe drove them down the long main street past watchtowers like crows’ nests.

  Compared to the lunar appearance of the compounds, denuded of all natural growth, the top end of the camp was softer and more wooded. They stopped outside a high-security area, hidden by high brushwood, behind which stood two resting chimneys. Away to the right a column of smoke rose above the trees.

  Juppe questioned the extent of his authority in what he could show them.

  ‘Full inspection,’ Morgen insisted.

  Apart from the immediate guard, which let them in, the place appeared deserted. Inside, a large compound doubled as a sports field. Schlegel saw goalposts and a football pitch laid out with white lines. In the distance, two young men kicked a ball.

  Even more unexpected was an elaborate formal garden, next to where they stood, with a tree at its centre and four intersecting paths. Sofas and armchairs lay scattered around outside the main entrance, another bizarre touch.

  The building appeared solid compared to all the streets of sheds. Apart from its stubby chimney, it looked more collegiate than medical, Schlegel thought. He didn’t know why they were there. Nor could he read the atmosphere between Morgen and Juppe. Morgen appeared both incandescent and apathetic. Where was Ingeborg Tanner in all of this? Schlegel wondered.

  Juppe declared himself unfamiliar with the building and seemed uncertain what to do. Morgen lost patience and walked over to the footballers.

  Schlegel was aware of Juppe standing stiffly next to him. ‘What is going on?’ Juppe asked. Schlegel said he didn’t know.

  Morgen came back with one of the men, who bounced the football as he walked. He was probably no more than twenty but had an air of spectral detachment. He wore flannels that looked like the bottom half of a suit and a canvas shirt. Morgen said he had keys. The young man spoke only when addressed. His accent was Austrian. Schlegel supposed Morgen had bribed him with cigarettes.

  They went into the building, the young man still bouncing the football, and stood in a tiled corridor, with fire extinguishers and noticeboards. Morgen said he wanted to inspect the furnaces.

  The man took them to a large, functional expanse with a bank of incinerators, all spotlessly clean. It was like a factory, Schlegel thought, compared to the tiny crematorium in the garrison.

  Why were the furnaces resting? asked Morgen. Because a shift had just ended, said the man. They would be fired up later that day. Morgen asked if he worked there. The man said he did. The warm room was like a slumbering giant.

  Morgen asked what else was in the building. The man said just a medical section, including a dissecting room. Morgen asked what was upstairs.

  It was where they slept.

  There was a lift. Morgen asked where it went. To the basement. What was down there? Morgen asked. Changing room and showers.

  ‘Why a lift?’ asked Morgen.

  The man said he hadn’t designed the building. At Morgen’s look of caution, he said he had heard the basement was once intended as a mortuary.

  Morgen said nothing, then asked why changing rooms.

  It was part of the doctors’ delousing programme, the man said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Juppe interrupted. ‘Dr Wirths insists everything is fumigated.’

  ‘Show me,’ said Morgen.

  ‘We have to go back outside,’ the man said.

  Juppe added, ‘A lot of them turn up filthy as it is.’

  A wide flight of steps led down to a basement. The man switched on the lights and bounced his football. Each echoed slap sounded like a punch. Juppe gave the impression that the man’s behaviour was somehow distasteful. Schlegel saw benches and pegs and signs in different languages, all orderly, but the space was oppressive with the ceiling being not much higher than he was.

  Dr Wirths had made no mention of this aspect of his health programme.

  ‘And the showers?’ asked Morgen.

  Down the other end, said the man.

  Schlegel thought of the shame of strangers forced to stand naked. Morgen lit up and offered the young man a cigarette, excluding Juppe. ‘As long as you stop bouncing that football.’

  Schlegel watched them exhale. The space reminded him of an indoor rifle range: the same sort of low sealed room and distance. He had once watched a man being blasted to pieces in one.

  Morgen asked, ‘What’s supposed to happen after this?’

  The man gave him a look of incredulity and said in the same neutral way, ‘They’re promised a hot drink.’ He bounced the football.

  Morgen told them to wait and walked down towards the showers. They stood in silence until he came back after a few minutes weaving like a drunk struggling to remember how to put one foot in front of the other. He said he had seen enough.

  Morgen didn’t care to travel back with Juppe after the main gate and they had no transport. He asked how long to walk. Juppe had no idea, never having done it. It was still early, not yet hot. Prisoners were preparing to march to work.

  The road was long and straight. The dust trail from Juppe’s departed vehicle lingered. Schlegel listened to the scrape of their shoes. They squabbled about Morgen going off without telling.

  ‘Where were you, anyway?’

  They came to a large old tree. Morgen said he needed to rest. They sat under the spreading branches. Schlegel could see nothing of where they had been, only road, ditch, field, unrelenting sky.

  Morgen told how he had been to investigate the scandal of a Jewish wedding feast being allowed to take place in a camp further east.
Not only did it turn out that the authorities had given permission, they had paid for it too and done nothing to stop proceedings from degenerating into an orgy with Jewish women.

  He recited this in an automatic way as though it were not the point.

  ‘I was inclined to dismiss it as far-fetched until the man in charge admitted everything. Every word true. Drink, debauchery, soldiers joining in, and the bill picked up.’

  ‘Are there disciplinary charges?’

  ‘There are no witnesses. The Jews are all dead.’

  Schlegel supposed they had been shot.

  ‘No. They have special camps.’

  Schlegel was confused. ‘Like here?’

  Morgen seemed reluctant to say. ‘There’s no work there.’

  Schlegel stared at the blank landscape. ‘Do I need to be told this?’

  ‘It won’t make the slightest difference. The man in charge insisted everything is sanctioned at the highest level. His authority is the Chancellery. I saw the payslips.’

  From anyone else, Schlegel would have dismissed it.

  ‘No,’ said Morgen. ‘This man talks to Bormann in the Chancellery. He said there is nothing I can do. It is beyond the law.’

  ‘Are you saying the same is going on here?’

  Morgen didn’t answer at first.

  ‘It’s the old euthanasia programme, re-dressed. Same crew, new rules, not just the sick now – everybody: men, women, children. All over.’

  Schlegel supposed he understood. He couldn’t be sure. A breeze rustled the leaves. As rare as hen’s teeth, he thought. Everything was parched; the rain as though it had never happened, not even puddles after the downpour. Then he thought: I know now.

  ‘The man I spoke to was disparaging about the commandant, called him an arriviste – dismissed him as the Zyklon-B boy – not one of the old gang.’

  ‘Zyklon-B?

  ‘A cyanide. The others use carbon monoxide. He was quite frank and drunk beyond caring.’

  A gang of prisoners marched past at double time, their leader shouting the pace. The guards slouched and jogged to catch up, their weapons rattling.

  Schlegel watched them go and spoke of what he had seen the night before, the train, Wirths pointing, splitting, dividing and separating.