But his most characteristic feature—the one I remembered him by, long after the exact memory of his physiognomy had faded from my mind—had been defiled beyond recognition. By which I mean his hair. Like many another senior officer in the Prussian army, the general sported a style that had been popularised in the 1770s by the great King Frederick—a long rope of braided hair tied up at the end with a wide black ribbon. As I recalled, the snow-white tail of General Katowice’s dressed mane reached down his back and fell beneath his waist. Every caprice or change of mood of that fiery gentleman could be interpreted by his restless braid. It would dangle on his shoulder, or settle on his broad chest like a serpent lying in wait. With a sudden flick, he would send it flying out around his head; I had personally seen many brave men in Königsberg Castle shaken from their normal composure as they ducked, or stood back quickly, to avoid being lashed by it. That braid had disappeared. Roughly hacked away. Katowice wore his shame upon his person, like a scar that he wished to flaunt.
What could he want from this army of infants?
The general pulled his white charger up before the ranks, dominating the beast with his knees, gazing out earnestly over the sea of upturned infant faces. His hollow cheeks were red and raw that cold morning, his nose a crooked beak as sharp and curved as any screeching seagull’s, poised to snap and tear at any creature who dared to outface him.
‘Men!’ he thundered, and the boys seemed to stretch and grow before my eyes as they strained to match his generous description. ‘You have been in Kamenetz fortress for three weeks now. Today you will be leaving. It warms my cold heart to see you.’
Each sentence was an exclamation, short, sharp, essential.
‘Our nation has been wounded. The Prussian eagle’s wings have been clipped. But the offence is not mortal. Thanks to you! Return to your homes, but sleep with one eye open. The call to arms will come. One day, it will come! When it does, I’ll hear you hammering at my door. No Prussian warrior will be left outside. We are subject to a foreign power. How long can he hold us in chains? We’ll wash our wounds in Gallic blood before too long!’
He thrust his crippled wrist straight up into the air, and a great cry rose from the mouth of every child. The mounted officers swept their gleaming swords from their scabbards and waved them in the air, crying boldly: ‘Prussia! Prussia! Sword in hand!’
As the shout resounded all around, General Katowice jerked hard at the reins of his charger and jabbed with his spurs; the massive white stallion whipped smartly around, and the general galloped away through the gate, all eyes following his departure.
It was a fine piece of theatre, I thought.
At a shouted command the parade broke up. Suddenly released from the thrall of military duty, the boys shook each other by the hand, some of them embraced, and they began to make their way off the parade ground arm in arm. I watched in silent awe. I might have been attending a service in a Protestant cathedral: there was such weight, such solemnity in the proceedings.
A knock sounded on the carriage door.
‘He’ll see you now, sir.’
The stern young captain who had ordered me to sleep in the coach the night before was staring up at me, impressively turned out in full dress uniform. The silver stripes sewn across his chest looked disconcertingly like ribs. I climbed down, and fell into step beside this skeletal officer. He did not say a word as we made our way quickly on foot in the wake of the departing boy soldiers.
Five minutes later, at the end of a long, dank corridor, we entered a room so dark and dingy that it must always have been lit by candlelight, whatever the hour of the day or night. Three desks had been placed along three of the walls, with two tall cupboards and a long set of drawers in between. Two young officers were busily at work with files and documents, though they immediately dropped what they were doing and jumped to attention.
‘Wait here,’ he said to me brusquely.
Then he turned away and knocked softly on the only other door in the room.
The two junior officers picked up their quills and returned to their paperwork without a word. I took the opportunity to look around me. Some moments passed in silence, broken only by the scratching of nibs and the rustling of papers, when I realised that somebody was watching me. That is, a scraped bony scalp, the tips of two pointed ears, and a pair of small, close-set reddish eyes were glaring in my direction from behind the farthest desk. I took a step forward, and spotted a boy there. He was kneeling on the stone floor with a rag in his hand. A pair of long leather riding boots and a tin of beeswax were set out in front of him. He did not look away, but continued to stare fixedly at me as he raised the boot to his lips and spat.
‘Herr General is waiting.’
I followed him into the inner sanctum.
Juri Katowice was seated behind his desk in a large spartan room, hardly better lit than the anteroom, though this lofty cavern was enlivened by a huge fire which roared noisily in the grate, and by large maps draped over every wall, like dusty tapestries in an Italian palazzo. A large engraved silver tray was laid out before him, a relic of some ancient regimental glory, complete with china cup and saucer, and a matching plate of hard-tack biscuits. A rusty field kettle bubbled noisily at his elbow.
The general turned his gaze on me.
‘Stiffeniis?’ he said, without standing up. ‘This name is not new to me.’
‘We met, sir,’ I reminded him. ‘In Königsberg. Four years ago. You may recall that I was ordered . . .’
‘To catch a killer!’ he snapped with a sudden smile, and a concentrated knitting of his brow. ‘Of course. Procurator Stiffeniis! In Königsberg! Was there ever such a fine and glorious place? Prussia was still a nation to be proud of, then!’
‘I hardly thought to find you here, sir,’ I ventured.
‘Nor did I,’ he confided with a craggy smile. ‘But that is military life. We go where we are called. Or where we’re sent. In my own case, they decided to send me as far away from the danger as they possibly could.’
His blue eyes clouded over, and he stared at the wall, where one of the maps showed the most easterly territory of Prussia, and its contiguity to Russia. Kamenetz had been highlighted in large, red letters.
‘North-east Poland! Or what remains of it!’ he said, stretching out his hand and picking up a different sheet of paper from the table. ‘I wouldn’t last a month at court. Too much backbiting for my tastes. But what’s this all about? I can’t make sense of this note of Dittersdorf’s. It’s full of parlour talk. “The national interest,” “questions of vital importance,” vague rubbish of that sort. The old sycophant is still making up to the odious Frenchman, I do not doubt. Bureaucrats like him have little choice about the company they’re required to keep, but it makes my war-worn flesh quiver!’
‘There is a great deal of truth in what Count Dittersdorf says,’ I protested. ‘We are engaged in a daily tug-o’-war with the French military presence, and the confrontation takes many forms. What seems like a local incident of no importance can have reverberations that threaten to shake the foundations of our nation. Yesterday I was stopped on the road by Major von Schill. Just imagine the consequences if he had murdered a Prussian magistrate!’
General Katowice lifted up a hard-tack biscuit, soaked it in his beverage, popped it into his mouth. He did not offer one to me. Nor anything to refresh my thirst after a night spent sleeping rough in the coach.
‘But he did not do so,’ he observed laconically.
‘Fortunately for me,’ I replied, taken back by the general’s ironical lack of concern for the lawlessness of the region. ‘And for you, too, sir. He told me to tell you that all is quiet looking westward.’
Katowice looked fiercely up into my eyes.
‘The man’s a legend,’ he snapped. ‘Doesn’t exist, except in the broadsheets they sell on the streets in Berlin.’
‘But I met him, sir!’ I insisted. ‘Not a two-hour drive . . .’
‘Tell me precisely
what brings you here,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m sure you haven’t travelled all this way to catch a ghost.’
I had no intention of letting myself be intimidated. I waited a moment before replying. ‘I’ll sit down first, if I may?’
The general waved his hand, and the young officer brought a chair for me.
‘It is an extremely delicate matter,’ I began, without saying more.
General Katowice jerked his head at the junior officer, who clicked his heels, bowed from the waist, and left the room.
‘What is this extremely delicate matter of national importance?’ he asked sarcastically as soon as the door had closed. Despite the harping tone of his voice, he leant confidentially across the desk, as if expecting news from me, some communication which might hasten the day of national reprisal against the foreign invader he had been haranguing twenty minutes before on the parade ground.
‘A crime has been committed in Lotingen,’ I said. ‘I’ve been appointed to investigate it. The matter concerns one of your men, sir.’
‘One of my men?’ he repeated slowly, his eyes widening, his crooked nose rising, nostrils flaring as he spoke.
‘Before he came to Kamenetz, this officer was stationed for a very short time in Lotingen,’ I replied. ‘But when he left that town, his wife and three children remained behind. He . . .’
‘I am not surprised,’ the general said, sitting back comfortably in his high-backed chair, his left hand reaching for a black cheroot from a large wooden thermidor on the table next to the tray. Again, common politeness did not lead him to offer me one. He lit his cigar from a candle on the table and blew an enormous cloud of aromatic smoke more or less into my face.
‘There are no women in the fortress,’ the general announced blandly. ‘By my orders. We take the monastic approach here, preparing young men for what the future holds. From crack of dawn to last light, they are busy working together for the common cause. If they do have any energy left by the time we finish drilling them—that is, if any man needs a woman, and most of them seem to go exploring—there’s the usual tribe of sluts selling their wares outside the gate.’
The unsavoury light of lechery shone in his eyes, and I knew I ought to extinguish it before going any further. ‘The children of this particular officer were massacred three nights ago, sir. The throats were slit, the bodies mutilated, and their mother has disappeared. That’s why I am here. The gentleman needs to be informed. He will be required—as Count Dittersdorf should have made clear—to accompany me to Lotingen at once. I cannot guess how long he may be absent. Everything will depend on the speed with which we . . . that is, with which I can resolve the question and bring the murderer to justice.’
I had almost let slip the fact that I was cooperating with Lavedrine and the French. It would certainly have been a tactical error. If he were to learn how deeply the French authorities were involved in the investigation, he might assist me even less than he had been doing up to that moment. My only desire was to inform Gottewald of the tragedy, climb into the coach with him, and order Egon Eis to set our sights for home.
‘The French would love to blame a Prussian for the crime,’ I added, ‘which would lead to further repression. They seem to think we’re little more than animals.’
He let out a groan.
‘French troops may be responsible for the killing,’ I added, baiting the hook of national pride. ‘I hope to prove their complicity with the help of this officer. Every minute is valuable. Rather than waste more time, I wonder if I might be allowed to speak to the man?’
General Katowice looked intently at the lighted end of his cheroot, blowing hard on the tip until it glowed.
‘What is the name of the man?’
‘Gottewald, Herr General,’ I said. ‘Bruno Gottewald.’
General Katowice stared coldly at me, his broad brow a crusty and ferocious barricade. ‘You’ve come too late,’ he said suddenly, flicking his head to one side, sending the phantom braid flying.
He stood up without another word, dropped his cheroot on the table, picked up a polished half-cannonball which fitted neatly into his hand, and squashed the thing dead. As he did so, his elbow caught the samovar, which rocked on its base, then rolled onto its side, spilling its yellowish contents onto the table top. The letter from Dittersdorf began to soak up the liquid. It was not an intentional gesture, but he did not attempt to salvage the paper from the mess. Instead, he strode towards the door.
‘Herr General,’ I called after him, ‘I am not sure that I understand you.’
‘There is nothing to understand,’ he said, half turning, looking back as if he had already forgotten why I was there. ‘Bruno Gottewald is dead. Accidentally killed while out on exercises. He can no longer help you, I’m afraid.’
No word of compassion escaped from his lips. No praise for the officer who had served under him. No expression of sympathy for the fate of his family.
‘Herr General,’ I protested, ‘I need your help.’
I started from my seat and took three paces across the room towards him.
Perhaps he interpreted my behaviour as insubordinate. When he spoke, his tone was arrogant, dismissive. ‘This is a military outpost, Procurator Stiffeniis,’ he replied. ‘The man you wish to see is dead. You have no further motive for remaining here.’
‘A military exercise?’ I interrupted. ‘What exactly was he doing, sir?’
The general stared at me for some moments.
‘Never been a-soldiering, Stiffeniis?’ he asked, a thin challenging smile forming on his lips. ‘Never been out manoeuvring in the field? Accidents happen. They happen all the time. There is nothing strange, or incomprehensible in that. Men die as the result of carelessness, or crass stupidity.’
‘Quite possibly,’ I said, never lowering my eyes from his. ‘But circumstances alter cases, General Katowice. I know that an official report must be submitted when a man dies in the service of his king and country. I would remind you, I am a Prussian magistrate, sir. I need to see the file relating to Officer Gottewald. Then, and only then, will I draw my conclusions.’
His smile did not falter, but there was a new, hard, unforgiving glint in his eye as he replied. ‘You will see it, Herr Procurator. Then, you will leave this fortress with all possible haste.’
‘I am not concerned merely with what happened here,’ I fired back. ‘I need to know more about Gottewald. The details of his career, who he was, what he was like . . .’
‘You are looking in the wrong place,’ he snapped. ‘This is a border outpost, not a literary salon. The only information we can provide relates to the circumstances in which he met his death. During a banal military exercise. You say the French intend to exploit the massacre of his family for political purposes. Go back to Lotingen then, Herr Magistrate, fight them on their own ground, rather than wasting your energies in Kamenetz. Do not throw suspicion on true Prussians!’
The door crashed shut, and I ran to salvage Dittersdorf’s letter from the sodden catastrophe on the general’s table. Without that document I would have a hard time getting home again.
12
I LINGERED IN the smoke-scented room, waiting for the death certificate of Bruno Gottewald to be brought to me. But half an hour passed, and no one came. Did General Katowice intend to leave me there all day? Was this the way that visitors were treated in Kamenetz? My patience evaporated in a flash, and I stormed into the outer office.
‘Where is General Katowice?’ I asked, my temper up.
One of the scribes looked up. ‘Gone, sir,’ he mumbled, then his head dropped to his work again.
‘Will he be coming back?’
The men exchanged a glance, then spoke in unison. ‘No idea, sir.’
I bounced nervously on my heels for a moment.
Should I meekly bow to the general’s indifference?
Neither man looked up as my footfalls rang out on the stone flags. Neither man said a word as I approached the door. No voice called ou
t to stop me as I left the room. If Kamenetz had done with me, I had not yet done with Kamenetz. I determined to go exploring.
General Katowice might instruct his men not to talk to me, but how long would it take for every soldier in the fortress to receive that order? If I moved quickly, I might be able to learn something. Even the very lowest of the low would have something to say about the death of a senior officer. It might be barracks talk and nothing more, but I would still know more than General Katowice had been prepared to tell me. Then, if and when I did eventually lay my hands on the official report, I would be in a better position to form an opinion of what had happened.
The official report?
If a death certificate was issued, a doctor had to sign it. That was the law in Prussia. The physician of the garrison would have been required to examine the body. Rather than read what the doctor had been obliged to write, possibly under pressure from his commanding officer to gloss over the details, I would try to search him out and question him about the fatal accident.
I set off down a long, dark corridor, a slender loophole at the far end the only form of illumination. Freezing draughts raced and darted up and down the length of the passage. It was colder than on the Heights of Górowo the day before, but the sound of a voice shouting orders dimly reached my ears, and it seemed to come from the other side of the wall.
Just then, I thought I heard a sound behind me.
I looked back, but there was no sign of any person in the gloom.
At the end of the corridor there was a newel staircase, and I began to spiral down the stairs, edging slowly forward in the dark, stepping off each stair as if a bottomless void stretched out beneath me.
Again, I thought I heard a sound.
‘Is anyone there?’ I called up into the darkness.
There was no reply, no sound, except for the sibilant wind.
HS02 - Days of Atonement Page 11