He nodded to himself, as if his rhetoric pleased him. ‘Harm me, or mine, and I will murder you, and yours, Herr Stiffeniis. I speak the truth. You’ve been to Kamenetz. You know what we are doing there. You kept your mouth shut then, I’ll give you that. In future you will keep it shut. Do I speak plain enough?’
He sat back, waiting for me to answer.
‘You do, Herr General.’
He rested his head against the stump of his hand, as if to remind me what he had lost in the name of Prussia. ‘Now, what did you want with Korna?’ He opened his arms wide in an extravagant theatrical gesture. ‘I am here in his place en route to Berlin. Go on. Don’t be shy. Ask me.’
He seemed to take pleasure in my perplexity.
‘I want to know about Gottewald,’ I said at last.
‘Gottewald again,’ he muttered angrily. The name might have been a curse. ‘Haven’t you found the man who killed his brats yet?’
‘You did not help when I was in Kamenetz. You avoided me, Herr General,’ I said sullenly. Then, I made a decision. After all, what did I have left to lose? ‘Since you have come, sir, tell me why you abandoned Bruno Gottewald. He was your favourite once.’
Katowice stared at me, and a smile played upon his lips.
‘Have you ever been deceived, Herr Procurator? Have you ever suspected that your wife was attracted to another man?’
The intimacy of his question disturbed me. Lavedrine loomed large in my thinking. Should I tell the truth, and spite myself, or lie to spite the general?
‘I have suffered disappointment,’ I replied at last.
‘There,’ Katowice snapped, sitting forward, resting his arms upon my desk as if he owned it. ‘Then you know what I am talking about.’
I was lost by this unexpected appeal to shared experience.
‘You talk in riddles, sir. What do I know?’
He was silent for some moments. ‘Soldiers are the scum of the earth. They protest their wrongs from dawn till dusk. They fail to see the road ahead of them. They are blind to the greater truth, blind to their sworn duty. But in the end, they obey.’
A light dawned.
‘And Gottewald did not?’ I quizzed him. ‘Are you suggesting that he was not what he seemed?’
‘What he seemed?’ he mimicked. ‘What do you know? I raised that boy as my right arm!’ He held up the mutilated stump, and waved it in my face. ‘Bruno was the perfect officer. He followed my orders to the letter. He was merciless. Do you understand me? As deadly cruel as a soldier must be. As so few really are. He was born without a heart. If Prussia had a thousand like him, I used to think, we’d conquer the world. But there was betrayal in him . . .’
I tried to absorb the enormity of what I had just been told.
‘Did he dare to betray you, sir?’ I asked flatly.
He laughed, a throaty grumble of a laugh. ‘You won’t catch me so easily,’ he growled.
‘Did he seduce your soldiers, then? Did he try to steal their love away?’
‘No man gets the best of Juri Katowice!’ he barked in reply.
‘Gottewald did,’ I said. ‘Though he thought of you as a god . . .’
He laughed so hard that he began to cough. ‘God? Which god are you talking about? Not mine, or yours. The man was Jewish. Jewish! A man who will serve two gods, will serve two masters. I should have realised. He’ll turn to the one who promises the most.’
My heart began to race.
‘Jewish?’ I echoed in astonishment. ‘Gottewald was born a Jew?’
‘A circumcised Jew,’ he replied with fierce satisfaction. ‘I knew it from the start. And I didn’t give a damn. He was a natural. Born to be a soldier. At the age of ten he was fierce, violent, trusted no one. I let him sleep on the rug before my fire. I treated him like a son. No man is born a general, Stiffeniis. They are nurtured. I coached Bruno for high office. He knew how a general thinks, how a general acts, the hundred strategies passing through his mind in the instant that he makes a decision. Gottewald could have been my heir. Instead, he deceived me.’
Go on, go on, I encouraged silently.
‘The French are famed as tombeurs des femmes. Women fall to them like flies to honey,’ he leered. ‘They used to promise pleasure. Now, they promise freedom. Their revolution has done more than kill a king. Republics are made of men who are equal. The colour of their skin is nothing. The colour of their souls means less where religion counts for nothing. The Jews are free men in France. Did you know that? Emancipation, they call it! A Jew may sit in the Assembly. A Jew may wear a judge’s toga. A Jew may call himself a Jew, yet aspire to be a general,’ he ranted.
‘Is that what Gottewald wanted?’
‘He wanted everything. He wanted to be Prussian. He wanted a career in the army. He wanted to raise his litter of Jewlets, and call himself by his real name.’
I sat as rigid as a rock.
‘Is Gottewald not his true name, then?’
Katowice smiled as if some private joke had tickled his fancy.
‘I gave it to him,’ he confided. ‘With his Hebrew name, he could never be an officer. Unsuitable, I wrote on his discharge. But one week later, as I had instructed him to do, he shaved off his curls and came back again, calling himself Bruno Gottewald. A boy is a boy in the Prussian army. No officer looks at them twice. They are cannon fodder. They have no face, no name. But Bruno was special. I kept him away from the others, I gave him a room to himself. No one would know the truth. No one would see the Jewish slash of his sex. No man would ever dare to question him. His violence was extraordinary. For twenty-odd years he followed me, and I promoted him. Then France invaded Prussia. Before Jena there was no other world for him: the army, his commander. But the national defeat destroyed all that. And Tilsit made it worse. He was a changed man. It grew like a worm in his guts. It poisoned his brain. If Napoleon’s laws took root in Prussia, he could proclaim his religion, and still be what he was. God in Heaven, he was my second-in-command!’
And so you had him murdered.
Katowice’s face contorted in a spasm of disgust. The flickering flame of the oil lamp made him monstrous to behold. A pitiless bigot, the last representative of a dying breed. His white hair, his wrinkles, his severed hand provoked no sympathy. He seemed to me to be hideously old, without dignity or grace.
‘The deer hunt,’ I prompted. ‘Why would an officer submit himself to such an exercise? A test for raw recruits . . .’
He seemed to swell with evil pride.
‘A simple matter, Magistrate,’ he sneered. ‘I ordered it. Gottewald was the prey. I sent four able men to catch him. They were younger, fitter. Bruno Gottewald was no longer the beast he used to be. He could not escape them. They led him where they wanted him to go.’
My blood froze at the calculating coldness of it. They had sent him running off the cliff, falling to his death. My silence seemed to unbutton General Katowice.
‘His letters were intercepted,’ Katowice clarified. ‘I made sure that word got out. Gottewald had been trafficking with France. He was a Jew. I let it be known that he had lost my trust, and had to be eliminated.’
Was this the link between Kamenetz and the massacre in Lotingen? Had the death of her husband guided Frau Gottewald’s hand?
‘Did you menace his family, Herr General? Did Gottewald believe that you would punish them because he was a traitor?’
He looked up and laughed humourlessly. ‘I did not know that he was married until you came to Kamenetz. He never told me about them. Of course, I understand what lies behind your question, Magistrate. The answer is no. I did not kill his children. Nor did I have them killed.’
Had I not been present at the Gottewald cottage that afternoon, had I not read the letter which Sybille Gottewald had buried in the garden, I would not have believed him. But I had no option.
‘Very well,’ I said, pressing on, determined to settle all the unresolved questions that the investigation had raised. ‘Two Jews were murdered years ag
o in Korbern. Is there any connection between them and Bruno Gottewald?’
General Katowice did not reply. He let out a spluttering sigh, as if that question did not merit an answer.
‘Does the name Gubermann mean anything to you? That name . . .’
He didn’t let me finish. ‘Why ask me about Jews? The only one who ever crossed my path was Gottewald.’
He shrugged, a malignant smile on his lips.
‘When you promoted him in Marienburg fortress,’ I continued, ‘you specifically mentioned that he had executed an order in every single detail. What was that order, Herr General?’
He leaned forward and fixed me with his gaze. Like a wizened tomcat, he stared me out, as if to demonstrate that he was stronger, more resilient than I would ever be. I am the master here, he seemed to say. Decades of unquestioning command, of instant obedience to his every whim, glared out at me. Any man who disobeys me dies. That was his message. Play with me, and you will suffer. It was the powerful bluff of an old man. How many officers had bent beneath that stern, unwavering front? Had I been able to look into my father’s eyes, I would have seen the same implacable malice.
‘It was a test,’ he replied calmly. ‘I wished to see how far he would go. How deeply rooted was his ambition, how absolute his obedience, how pure and remorseless his cruelty. Before I sent him out to die, before I set the hounds on him, I revealed to him how diabolical a creature he had become. Gottewald’s hell began on earth.’
He stared at me in silence for some moments.
‘He betrayed me. He betrayed Kamenetz. He betrayed every single thing that he had become.’
The air whistled out of my lungs. I felt weak and faint. I tried to speak, but words would not come.
‘I saw a handbill in a tavern over the way,’ he went on, heedlessly. ‘It accused the Jews of the Gottewald murder.’ He laughed, and shook his head. ‘Now, wouldn’t that be ironical? The Jews killing those children, thinking they were Christians, drinking Jewish blood in error?’
He stood up with some effort, using his mutilated wrist to help himself.
I watched, but I made no effort to assist him.
‘This interview is at an end,’ he said, coming around the desk. He stopped before me, towering over me, his right arm raised, as if to strike. ‘Now, you know everything. Take my advice. Forget Kamenetz. Forget me. Forget Bruno Gottewald.’
He walked past me, stiff and mechanical in his movements, stopping only to retrieve his scarf, hat, and cloak. As he dressed himself to face the cold, he turned and looked back at me.
‘Doctor Korna couldn’t come,’ he said. ‘My surgeon wanted to escape. And he did attempt it, soon after you left us. But he didn’t get very far. There is no safe refuge for a traitor in my world.’
‘You killed him, too,’ I murmured.
He laughed again, but shook his head.
‘How little you understand of Prussia!’ he sneered. ‘The peasants hate us. We steal their children, and try to turn them into soldiers. A pitchfork is as lethal as a sword, Herr Procurator. They knew who he was. They got to him before we did. They silenced him for me. He was found near the fort, half buried in the snow. Dead, of course.’
He stared at me for some moments.
‘Kamenetz keeps its secrets, Magistrate,’ he hissed. ‘The French know nothing, they leave us well alone. Thanks to the interest of true Prussians, our work goes on. But you will hear of us soon, I think. The minute Bonaparte makes the mistake of trying to invade Russia, we will tear his rear end to shreds. Remember that!’
He did not close the door.
I heard the thunder of his boots upon the stairs as he marched off into the night.
I cannot say how long I sat staring at the empty chair on the far side of my desk.
General Katowice had gone, but his malign spirit lingered on, clogging the air.
At last, I rose and closed the door. The room seemed immense and empty, but a burst of new determination took hold of me. I returned to my desk, sat down in my own chair, took paper from my drawer, primed my quill with ink, and began to write the section of the report that Lavedrine had left to me.
To His Excellency, Gottfried von Schultze, Magistrate General, Berlin
Duplicate copy to:
His Excellency, Field Marshal Lannes, French Commander in the canton of Königsberg
Sir,
As the Prussian magistrate entrusted with the investigation of the massacre of three children in Lotingen, I hereby present my conclusions.
By way of preamble, it should be stated clearly that I was obliged to look far beyond the immediate family circle in Lotingen for the true cause and motive behind the killing. The father of the murdered children, Bruno Gottewald, was born a few . . .
I wrote with rapidity and conviction.
Knutzen had found the time to sharpen my pens, and replenish the ink. I took it as a good omen. The words came with surprising ease. It would take an hour to finish. Then I would make a copy, which I would leave at the general quarters. The Procurator’s office in Lotingen was functioning with an efficiency it had not displayed since the dark night on which Lieutenant Mutiez came knocking on my door, and Serge Lavedrine walked into my life. As I signed my name, and set my seal in red wax on the original and the faithful copy, I felt a grim satisfaction.
The case was closed.
At last, I could, I must, go home.
I knew that the curfew would slow me down. I would be obliged to stop and show my papers to every Frenchman that I met. But I would be there soon. I prayed that Helena was in the front room, sitting comfortably before the fire, busily engaged in pleasant conversation with Lotte. The children would be safe and sound upstairs, sleeping sweetly in their cots. Lotte’s bread would be rising fast, spreading its warm perfume through the house. I wanted to find the house in a perfect state of order and tranquillity. I yearned for a warm hearth and a bright welcome when I arrived.
The peace would soon be shattered.
I knew what I would have to do the instant I took off my cloak, and sat down beside Helena in front of the fire. I would have to tell her what had been discovered that day. The blood-soaked rags in the cottage garden. The bloodstained letter. The death of Gottewald in Kamenetz. Then, I must tell her what his wife had done to their children.
Every word would bring horror smashing down upon our heads.
But Helena would feel it the most.
40
THE DOORBELL TINKLED once.
Someone had pulled on the rope, then decided against it.
Helena grasped at my arm, but I was already on my feet. I threw back the curtains. The sky was a translucent creamy yellow laced with wisps of purple cloud. Frosted patterns like embroidered lace had traced themselves on the window-glass. A clinging ground-fog smothered every plant and bush in the rear garden, the trees solid black against the pale light.
‘Who can it be?’ Helena whispered, half out of bed.
I strained my ears, but heard no sound of movement on the loose gravel path at the front of the house, nothing but the predawn warbling and chattering of birds in the black pit of the garden.
‘Stay here,’ I hissed, reaching for my pistol.
I had learnt my lesson the night that Mutiez came to carry me off.
I set off quickly down the stairs. In the hall, the doorbell glistened in the dark like a grenade that might explode at any instant. Edging closer, I rested my ear against the cold oak.
A low, raucous gurgle sounded.
I drew back the bolt, removed the bar, and threw open the door, expecting to find a wounded Prussian fugitive on the mat.
Instead, I found a wooden cage.
Bright eyes stared out at me. An imprisoned cat. A magnificent specimen with a long silvery coat, and pointed ears. More like a lynx than a mouser. As we gazed into each other’s eyes, that low moan became a fearsome howl, and the cat showed his teeth.
‘I did not mean to wake you, Stiffeniis.’
L
avedrine was sitting on the rustic bench in the garden, wrapped up in a military cloak. He was wearing trousers with a regimental stripe and leather riding boots. His silver curls were covered by a forage-cap with flaps that hid his ears.
‘I was just about to write you a note,’ he added.
‘A note?’ I asked, uncertainly.
He raised his hand in a nonchalant wave. ‘Do not concern yourself, Herr Procurator! There’ve been no more massacres in Lotingen. I was about to ring the bell, then reproached myself for having contemplated it. I’ll wait a while, I thought. But the Prussian cold is too penetrating even for Lionel’s fine fur coat. Will you invite us in for a second?’
I stepped aside without speaking, trying to comprehend what had brought him to my door at such an hour, and in such unexpected company.
The Frenchman pulled off his hat, and shook out his hair as I led him into the hall. He dripped humidity all over the place in much the same way that his strange long-haired friend in the cage might have done. They were of the same colour, more or less, the luxuriant fur of the cat, the silvery curls of the master.
‘You won’t judge me bold if I ask for a drop of something strong to drink. Another five minutes out there, you’d have found two rigid corpses on your doorstep.’ His smile was open, winning, his voice low. His glance darted nervously to the door, as if in search of something. Or someone.
‘All sleeping, I suppose?’
‘They were asleep,’ I corrected him. ‘Come into the kitchen. I can offer you cider, or aqua vitae.’
‘Cider, please.’
While I threw a log on the ashes, and lit the lamp hanging above the table with a spill, he sat himself down at the table, raised the wooden cage, and placed it on his knees. ‘I have spoken to you of Lionel, I think? Do you mind if I set him free?’
HS02 - Days of Atonement Page 42