Pale Horse Riding

by Chris Petit

  Morgen dismissed the question as naïve. ‘With me she has a choice, that is the point.’

  He would arrange for her to keep her present identity and transfer to a camp near Munich, which had a VIP section, for diplomatic prisoners, prior to moving her to a nunnery in Bavaria.

  Schlegel thought: A Jewish seamstress in a nunnery! He was under the impression most church institutions had been shut down and, anyway, she probably would not be welcome.

  ‘There is a military hospital attached, so this one is allowed to continue. She can train as a nurse. She will be safe. Her identity will be protected. Not a bad deal, considering.’

  Distasteful nevertheless, thought Schlegel.

  Morgen said there were only two reactions to what they had learned: horror, which precluded any action – the route Schlegel had taken – or cynicism, which at least allowed for the possibility of action.

  ‘Better than nothing,’ said Morgen, wearily. ‘We must use all methods at our disposal.’

  The commandant sat in the summerhouse and slugged back half a bottle of brandy. He could smell his wife in there. As if he didn’t know. He would return to the marriage bed and insist.

  The speed of the drink pitched him back to his profoundest collapse: Brandenburg penitentiary, 1924 to 1928.

  He kept a Bible hidden, to remain acquainted with the enemy. His father had wanted him to be a priest; so he had in his way; the shepherd guiding his flock through a cruel world. He lived among the downcast and condemned. If he was hard it was because he wished they learn from him. Low as he had fallen, he had climbed from the pit to walk the narrow path above the eternal void.

  He read from his Bible: ‘For the whole house of Ahab shall perish: and I will cut off from Ahab him that pisseth against the wall, and him that is shut up and left in Israel.’

  Yea, he thought, I shall slay seventy persons, put their heads in baskets and send them to Jezreel.

  He had arrived at his Gethsemane, that drowning dissolving into nothingness, and always the terror: that the love that called him was not blessed but the anti-word of the serpent. He despaired as one not loved, his lovelessness a measure of his journey from God. He had worshipped false idols, set his tent in a cold and empty place, far from God’s mystery, surrounded by death, in flight from dying, in a land where all lost meaning and meant nothing. He was but a distant sinner. Goodness impossible. Evil irrevocable. But God was eternal forgiveness.

  He told the two grooms: three horses, his western saddle, both to ride out with him, two canvas bags and two male corpses to put in them, for one shall be king of the Jews; he the forgiven thief.

  They scurried like ants while he contemplated the helplessness of his charge, seen as master by all save himself. For the damned there was only one way: that of the prodigal son – a return to the father.

  The grooms returned trundling a cart, four bare legs sticking out the back. If they were curious they dared not show it.

  ‘The servant does not love the master,’ he told them. ‘The servant lives in the reflection of his master’s dignity and in return the master grants him freedom to exist in the state of non-dying.’

  The boys stared.

  ‘How can we not be afraid of death?’ he asked.

  He laughed at their fear and said he wasn’t going to shoot them.

  They rode out through the troubled evening, canvas bags slung over the grooms’ horses. He ordered them to ride ahead. The mare settled his mood. He drank from the bottle and measured the grooms’ backs and thought perhaps to shoot them after all. He undid the flap of his holster. The third bullet for the mare, the last for him. Temple, mouth or under the chin?

  In Dachau he had taken charge of the firing squad, usually men too trembling to shoot straight, leaving him to walk among the dead and pick off the botched jobs: pistol behind the ear, coup de grace, the jolt of the passing bullet, the last register of the eye of the now dead man. He imagined the moment his, curious not afraid. Each shooting was a step back from the abyss, knowing any moment the ground could open before him. He had subscribed, loyal, unloved and loveless servant, serving his masters as the grooms now served him. He confided to no man that secret world of interior puzzle, which led to the destructive impulse and breakdown. The empty terrain of his life a forsaking of God. Fencing. Borders. Rota. Serried ranks.

  He stopped, not understanding where he was or whom he addressed. The grooms had dismounted, dragging the bodies down.

  ‘And gave them for the potter’s field, as the Lord appointed me,’ he recited. Sin was a free deed. There were no extenuating circumstances. Temptation was the pleasure of abandon, release from the bonds to wallow like a pig in shit, in the guilt he had grown to love through fear. Daily horrors brought no consolation compared to the thrill of that within, to be visited sparingly. The field of blood, unto this day.

  The grooms looked at him, waiting. He was still mounted. Now they had come to Golgotha he saw what he had in mind was not possible. The poles were too far apart. He could have sworn there was a section where they were more grouped. A train passed in the distance. A plane went by overhead. ‘Why is it all a fucking mess?’ he asked. They had no answer; sensible boys. Any would see them shot. They hung their heads; that’s right, eyes down.

  ‘Where are the nails?’

  There were none. He could see both boys calculating whether to speak up.

  ‘Dumb animals get shot too,’ he said.

  No nails. No hammer either.

  ‘And where are the fucking crosspieces?’

  The grooms cast around in consternation.

  ‘Then answered all the people,’ he told them, ‘and said, His blood be on us and on our children.’

  He directed them to place the two bodies on either side of the pole. It was obvious what they were meant to do but they had not a clue.

  ‘Facing up, at more of an angle to the pole. Not that much! Now with their arms outstretched, feet folded.’

  He saw he had got it wrong and told them to place the body on the right before the pole, then that was wrong. He told them to leave them as they were. It didn’t matter. The unholy mess was in his head.

  He told them to go. They hesitated.

  ‘Get out or I will chase you with my whip!’ As they made to mount he said, ‘The love of the master imprisons, it does not set free. The master who holds the slave does not grant him dignity. That dignity must be given away in order to increase the dignity of the master. Now go.’

  The grooms mounted and hesitated again, too stupid, their brains addled.

  ‘You are free to leave, by which I mean free. I absolve you of all duties. Go where the wind listeth and if anyone asks, you ride with my blessing.’

  They rode past uncertainly, in the direction of the camp. The commandant watched their backs, calling after, ‘Verily I say unto thee, today shalt thou be with me in paradise.’

  By the end of the afternoon the contraband cage was full, with a backlog. Wirths and Grabner were being held in cells in the commandant’s office along with other major cases. Lesser offenders had their identity papers confiscated and replaced with temporary passes. Most of the Gestapo men looked comfortably drunk. Their leader regaled them with stories of how unpopular Wirths was, his bleeding heart causing more trouble for everyone than it was worth.

  They were standing around drinking and smoking, waiting for the last strays.

  The Gestapo man was saying it was more or less official sport to be invited by the security police to come and make rogue selections where it hurt the doctor most, particularly carting off nearly-well prisoners from recovery sections.

  He said he had spoken earlier to Grabner, who was so incandescent with rage at his arrest he could barely speak.

  ‘And it’s not as though he finds it easy putting one word in front of another at the best of times. He wishes – and I interpret loosely – one last raid be carried out, which both kicks Wirths in the nuts and raids the jewel in his crown.’

  �
��Which is?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘His cancer treatment ward. So you know.’

  The man looked like he was testing the water.

  Morgen said, ‘Your decision,’ as though inviting him to step into trouble.

  ‘We have one final task this afternoon,’ he said. ‘The commandant’s wife.’

  Schlegel thought the cupboard was probably already bare. The woman would have had a day’s due warning. Now Morgen had the commandant cornered, he suspected the raid was for show. He sensed deals going on all around him. Having turned over everyone else, including all staff lockers – where the most bizarre trophy turned out to be a stuffed elephant’s foot – they could hardly not inspect the commandant’s house.

  Frau Hoess and Morgen seemed almost rehearsed in the procedure. She said, ‘If you must.’

  Morgen went down to inspect the cellar, came back up a moment later and told her he had been misinformed.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘No harm done.’

  ‘Really nothing?’ asked Schlegel, incredulous.

  He insisted on looking himself and found an empty cellar. It was all stacked in the tunnel, he was sure, but the steel door was locked. He went upstairs intending to demand the key to make a proper inspection, even if he did make a fool of himself. When the doorbell rang Frau Hoess was quick to answer and exclaimed, ‘You came!’

  She embraced the newcomer, a big man, resplendent in uniform, its lapels decorated with oak leaves.

  Such a senior officer could only be Pohl, and not there by chance. Schlegel presumed whatever Morgen’s bargain with the commandant’s wife, it hadn’t included her summoning Pohl.

  Morgen’s thunderous expression seemed to confirm that. He and the newcomer stared at each other with open hostility.

  ‘Your house is corrupt, sir,’ Morgen said.

  Frau Hoess contributed a strategic bout of weeping.

  Pohl said, ‘You have no proper brief here. It’s all subterfuge. Who are these men?’

  The Gestapo man gave his name and rank. Schlegel didn’t bother to answer. Morgen said, ‘My assistant,’ and Pohl turned away.

  ‘Suspend the operation as of this minute. Morgen and your bruised and lanky friend, follow me. The rest of you out.’

  He marched from the house and took them across the garden to the summerhouse.

  Pohl had the overbearing manner of a graceless upstart. Schlegel knew his type from social functions hosted by his mother before her downfall, men inflated into loud braggarts by the fanciness of their uniforms. Pohl could claim to be more physically impressive than most, with an aggressive Roman profile of the sort seen on ancient coins.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Let me remind you that you are on my territory, without my permission.’

  Morgen said, ‘You would have only refused it. I am here on a point of law.’

  ‘Take the commandant off your list for a start. His tenure is my business.’

  Morgen said he had already prosecuted the former commandant of Buchenwald for corruption, implying Pohl’s authority counted for nothing.

  Pohl pushed his face into Morgen’s. ‘After which I set up our own internal review of all camp commandants. Many are in the process of being replaced. The case here is pending.’

  Morgen stood staring at a chair leg, kicking it with the toe of his shoe. He said it had come to his attention that the commandant and his wife were part of a smuggling ring which went all the way to Berlin.

  ‘Particularly jade,’ he said as he stopped kicking the chair.

  Schlegel spoke up. ‘There is a mine too, probably operating illegally.’

  ‘What good little detectives you are,’ said Pohl with overplayed sarcasm. ‘What do you know of the Reichsführer’s affairs? Does he give you the time of day?’

  Morgen said he was operating to a brief when Schlegel thought he probably wasn’t.

  ‘Yes, but how well do you know the Reichsführer?’

  ‘He asked me to act as his conscience.’

  Morgen had a hard job sounding like he believed it. Pohl looked doubtful. Schlegel thought Heini wouldn’t lift a finger if Pohl locked them up.

  ‘Listen, boys,’ said Pohl, downshifting, treating them to the largesse of his confidence. ‘The Reichsführer has his fancies. Herbal medicine one year, and all the camps had to grow acres of the stuff, reflector lights on bicycles, mineral water. We indulge him, as we do with jade.’

  Morgen looked like a man outplayed.

  Pohl went on. ‘He wishes to create a market by making it more valuable. He wants it adopted as the official stone of the organisation, except the white jade he craves is proving hard to find.’ Pohl made a show of his empty hand. ‘I have no personal interest in jade other than it concerns the Reichsführer . . .’

  He let the sentence trail. Suddenly it was all man-to-man, the rueful confession, all splendidly insincere for being so blatant. It was also clever. For a big man Pohl was a graceful mover; a good dancer, Schlegel suspected, on the floor and in the office.

  Pohl addressed Morgen. ‘Take Wirths and Grabner and whatever small fry, but you know their cases will take months to come to trial. There are more urgent matters to attend to. Yes, yes, the law, you will tell me.’ Pohl stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and asked, ‘Has either of you a cigarette?’

  Morgen was obliged to offer. Pohl leaned into the light held. He waved away his first exhalation and said, ‘You would make life a lot easier for everyone if you got down off your high horse. I know what goes on here. People help themselves. There are grey areas. The rewards are few. The pay is lousy. Stuff goes missing.’

  ‘There is a difference between pilfering and looting on a grand scale.’

  ‘I will deal with that. Now direct me to a telephone.’

  Morgen said the nearest was in the commandant’s house.

  They trooped back. Pohl flicked the butt of his cigarette into the pond. The telephone was in the hall. Pohl ordered Morgen to call the adjutant’s office and request an armed escort immediately. Morgen, seeing what Pohl intended, refused until Pohl produced a silver-plated pistol from his holster.

  Frau Hoess came from the kitchen, wearing an apron. Pohl said they were just waiting to clear up some business. She asked if he would be staying for supper.

  ‘I might. They won’t,’ said Pohl.

  Juppe came, accompanied by two guards with rifles.

  Pohl told him, ‘Escort Morgen from the premises. Hold him under guard and put him on the night train. If he turns up again shoot him and I will happily sign any release to say he was resisting arrest.’

  It threatened to be an inconsequential ending until Frau Hoess rounded on Morgen like a harpy, beating his chest with her fists, shouting over, ‘Why did you come?’

  Her eyes glittered the way they had in the hospital. Schlegel was unconvinced by her outburst. He had been watching throughout. Her previous expression had been one of complete relief.

  She stopped as suddenly as she had started.

  Schlegel had no opportunity to speak to Morgen, who nodded curtly and was gone.

  Pohl turned to Schlegel. ‘Twenty-four hours to wind up your affairs, then out. Any unfinished business you hand over to Kattowice.’

  Schlegel gave his most lackadaisical salute and slouched off like a beaten dog.

  He stumbled around with no clue what to do. No one would let him near Morgen. He had no idea what the man’s plans were for getting Sybil out. He presumed some arrangement had been made with Broad, but her safety looked precarious with the latest turn of events.

  Broad wasn’t at the contraband cage. The stashed goods reminded Schlegel that money was the one language they all understood, and the only way was somehow to buy Sybil out.

  He tried talking his way into the cage, in the hope of pilfering whatever he could, only to find himself undone by Morgen’s instructions, which demanded all pockets be emptied before entering, and searched on leaving.

  He went to the office looking for Schulze,
who wasn’t there. He considered her more level-headed than he was. He sat down trying to think, his brain racing uselessly until it gave up and he fell into a stupor.

  He was woken by Schulze, who asked if he was all right.

  ‘Not really.’

  She said it was all over the garrison how Pohl had chucked Morgen out.

  Schlegel said, ‘They are putting him on the night train.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  He said he didn’t know, other than run around like a headless chicken.

  She asked if he would go with her.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I will show you my allotment.’

  He looked at her, confused.

  She said, ‘I want to talk to you. It won’t take long.’

  They walked through the garrison towards the river. Everything felt briefly normal to Schlegel. There was nothing he could do for the moment. He would think of something. He couldn’t tell if he was sick or in some heightened state of anxiety, which amounted to the same thing.

  They crossed into countryside. Schulze said the allotments were about a ten-minute walk.

  ‘Have you the time?’

  ‘I need time to think,’ he said.

  She struck him as preoccupied, the way she had in the hospital.

  She said, ‘I am looking for a father for a child.’

  Not sure he had heard correctly, he asked whose.

  ‘Mine. The one I mean to have. Then I can leave. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘What about Krick?’

  ‘The man’s far too vain to contemplate one. He would refuse to acknowledge it was his, and you need the father to sign off proof of paternity.’

  Schlegel thought back to their first encounter and his impression of paths crossing. Was this what was meant by his premonition? He didn’t ask whether she had in fact come to his room that night because knowing would spoil it. He had no idea what to think. She wasn’t part of the easy crew he frequented and he had considered her accounted for.

  ‘I want a tall child,’ she said, and he realised she was serious.

  She repeated that Krick wasn’t around.

  ‘I am not sure I want any offspring of mine to inherit his untrustworthiness.’