The Violent Century

by Lavie Tidhar

  But that was a long time ago, he thinks, and the anger rises in him like the notes of a song and he laughs, and the fog rises around him, obscuring the world in a spectrum of grey. He launches himself forward but he can’t see the other, the white one, and the snow dances around him, trapping him. Then a punch, out of nowhere, catches him in the ribs, a fist sinks into his belly and he gasps, doubling over, and for a moment the fog fades and the world is dominated by pain and snow. He is aware then of eyes at the windows, of the silent watchers, those defeated old Germans, those tired survivors behind their flimsy walls; watching this silent re-enactment of the war, but they had already lost; and that knowledge gives him power, and he rises, twirling, indifferent to the pain, and raises up a being of fog, a simulacrum; and he can sense the hidden Schneesturm doing the same.

  Their avatars meet in the middle of that bombed-out street of East Berlin. Snowman versus fog creature, Fogg’s golem the more amorphous of the two. The snowman swings a great arm for a punch but it passes through the fog creature harmlessly and its own elbow, solidified by particles in the air, jabs into the snowman’s abdomen, and it raises a mighty blade of fog and dirt and swings it. It cleaves the snowman’s head clean off.

  – You think you’re a hero? Fogg screams, into the night. You think you’re a fucking hero?

  Somewhere, a cry of rage. The snowman’s head flops wetly to the ground. Fogg hears tiny sounds and turns, a moment before Schneesturm appears behind him. Fogg blocks the German’s arm, the blow glances off, then Fogg’s own angry attack pushes Schneesturm back, step by step, he loses his mocking smile and Fogg swings at him and catches him on the side of the head and Schneesturm falls to the ground and then Fogg is over him, leaning over the man’s fallen body, and somehow Fogg’s gun is in his hand and it is pointing directly at Schneesturm’s face, it is steady, Fogg’s hand is steady on the gun.

  – Don’t, the man on the ground says. He is very still. Fogg is breathing hard. Give me one good reason why, Erich, he says. Looks at him. Remembers Tank. Remembers Paris. A moment of silence, stretching. Then …

  – Sommertag, Erich Bühler says, quietly.

  Fogg blinks. The gun wavers.

  – Please, Erich Bühler says.

  Fogg’s hand shakes. The gun is light in his hand. He stares into the other man’s eyes, as if searching for something there, something he had lost long ago and can no longer find.

  – Sommertag, Erich Bühler says again. His face is pale, white, drained of blood. He is very still on the ground. Sommertag. Like a prayer. Like a magic word. Like a promise. Fogg stares into his eyes when he pulls the trigger.

  130. THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE the present

  – I had to do it, Fogg says. As if trying to explain. As if weighing, all those years later, the balance of events, and finding it curiously uneven, with something missing, a false weight where there should have been a balanced scale. He left me no choice.

  And again, into the Old Man’s waiting silence, feebly: It was payback. For Tank.

  But the Old Man seems mollified. Seems to dismiss it. Waves his hand, grandly. Quite, quite, he says. Closes the folder, in fact. Nods. Well, we couldn’t have had that in the written report, now could we, he says.

  Fogg squirms in the seat. The lateness of the hour and the relentless questioning getting to him. Just as the Old Man wants them to, no doubt.

  – What is this about? Fogg asks, again, and knows it is futile. For the Old Man has no intention of answering. Not yet. Not until the narrative of these long-ago affairs reaches its conclusion, to his satisfaction. Looks at Fogg through hooded eyes. Do you know, he says. There’s one thing that bothers me, Fogg.

  – Sir?

  – How do you think your informant – what was his name again?

  – Franz? Fogg says.

  – Right, the Old Man says. Franz. How do you think Franz found our Herr Schneesturm, Fogg?

  Fogg shrugs. Why bring this up now, he seems to say. What difference does it make? You know informants, they’re like rats, who knows where they go and what they hear. It is of no significance. That is what his shrug seems to silently suggest.

  – I don’t know, sir, he says.

  But the Old Man isn’t really listening. He opens another folder, reads through it.

  – Franz Schröder, wasn’t it, the Old Man says.

  – Sir.

  – That did trouble me at the time, the Old Man says, meditatively.

  – Sir?

  The Old Man sighs. Perhaps it is to express displeasure with Fogg’s inability to give him the answer he seeks. Perhaps he is tired. Or perhaps it is calculated, like every other thing he ever bloody does.

  – A few things bothered me at the time, the Old Man says. And, all those decades later, they still do, Henry.

  The use of his name doesn’t escape Fogg. Sir? he says again.

  – You have gone very monosyllabic, Henry, the Old Man says.

  – Sir?

  The Old Man glares at him.

  – I mean, what is this all about, sir? Fogg says.

  – I was rather hoping you’d tell me, Henry, the Old Man says – rather disapproving of Fogg’s innocent tone, if truth be known. For instance, this Franz Schröder of yours. He turned up the next day, as it happens. Near Potsdam, of all places.

  – I wasn’t there, sir, Fogg says.

  – No, the Old Man says thoughtfully: it makes Fogg uncomfortable. No, you weren’t, Henry.

  131. CECILIENHOF 1946

  Schloss Cecilienhof is a strange sort of palace, a Tudor English country house in the heart of the German countryside, outside Berlin, on the banks of the Jungfernsee lake. Its grasslands are maintained even now, and coming along the sweeping driveway one encounters numerous vehicles parked on the grounds, and armed soldiers guarding the place, for this is where the Potsdam Conference is taking place.

  Although that cannot be, we suddenly realise, that couldn’t have happened, not this way, for Potsdam was in summer, not winter, and the previous year, and Fogg distinctly remembers snow; but he wasn’t there, was he, that was the whole point of it, and it was only by accident that—

  Perhaps this is the Old Man’s memory, then, or Oblivion’s … but memory plays tricks on us all.

  Potsdam, then: and the conference is in full swing, the greatest meeting of world leaders ever seen: and we zoom along the sweeping path and into the conference room where crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling and the armchairs are leather and the table is round, like in some mythical time of chivalry; and the smell of expensive cigars hangs in the air, and the sound of clinking glasses, and the taste of velvety smooth whisky from across the Channel:

  And there’s Churchill, rotund and flushed, a cigar in his mouth, the bald dome of his head shining softly in the light; there on the British side of the round table, this island empire now, we all know, can all feel it in that room, declining; and next to Churchill, of course, is the Old Man; and beside him, in his army uniform, is Oblivion; and also, beside him, with a cup of tea by her side, is Mrs Tinkle in a flowery dress.

  And then there’s the American side, and Harry S. Truman with that combed-over hair and the round glasses and the lips that always seem to curl upwards in a smile, clean shaven and with a neat tie, this President of a rising global superpower, the U S of A; and on either side of the President, and sitting comfortably, seeming, in fact, to lay claim to this room, this meeting, are Tigerman, and Whirlwind and the Green Gunman – a lone black face in that room of white men and Over-Men – and behind each team their secretaries and spymasters and advisors and viziers—

  And facing the two teams in this Mexican stand-off, at last, the man with the beautiful, thick hair, luxurious, luscious, combed back like a cockerel’s crown, and that moustache, thick and vibrant, tapering only at the ends, and those eyes that miss nothing, Comrade Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin himself:

  And beside him, almost as impressive, the Red Sickle, genuine Hero of the Soviet Union, in that dist
inguished red uniform that stretches over his well-toned muscles, those soulful eyes and there, on his chest, the unmistakable crossed-sickle-and-fist legend of the Russian Sverhlyudi, these guardians and protectors of Mother Russia and her colonies (soon to embrace many lands liberated from the Nazi fiend); and beside him Rusalka, in her uniform of blue foam-white and her own legend of the fist and sickle and her long wet black hair and her large startling eyes, this water creature, this deadly nymph, this Sverhzhenschina, this great heroine of the Battle of the Baltic.

  Here the map of Europe is studied across the round table and drawn on, measured, new borders marked, it is argued over, but it is all a formality. Runners come and go, minutes are typed, and there is a sense that, in fact, this is not an end but a beginning; Churchill, puffing on his endless cigar, seems apprehensive, Stalin ebullient, Truman quietly confident.

  Into that hushed atmosphere of business being conducted, a business nothing and no one must interrupt, there comes an MP, a captain, making for the British side of the table. He kneels down and speaks quietly in the ear of the Old Man, who nods and dismisses him. Churchill is speaking now, drawling in that famous voice of his, and the Old Man turns quietly to Oblivion and speaks equally quietly and it is Oblivion’s turn to nod. He gets up and walks to the doors and goes out of the hall. He makes his way outside, where the MP is waiting for him.

  132. CECILIENHOF 1946

  Beyond the manicured lawns lies the Havel River, and it is to its banks that the military policeman now takes Oblivion.

  – This is a bit of a potential embarrassment, to tell you the truth, old boy, the captain says. Lights up a cigarette. No rush, he seems to say. Offers one to Oblivion, who declines. Yes, bit of an embarrassment, I suppose, the captain says, thoughtfully. Lucky I was around when the Russians found him.

  Oblivion seems equally oblivious. Russians? he says, with a sort of languorous, disinterested affectation.

  – Yes, routine patrol along the riverbank, the captain says. Well, we can’t have anything disturbing the conference, now can we.

  – Why don’t you just show me? Oblivion says.

  The captain nods. Leads, and Oblivion follows. Down to the river, the ground sloping, Russian soldiers standing guard over a package lying on the wet grass.

  No, not a package, Oblivion notices, coming closer. A corpse. He comes closer still and kneels beside the dead body. It lies in a pool of cold water on the ground. The man’s thinning hair is wet. His eyes are pale and watery. His skin is white and clammy-cold.

  – A Franz Schröder, sir, the captain says. Waves a small paper booklet in Oblivion’s face. His ID book was in his pocket, sir, he says.

  – So? Oblivion says.

  The ID book is sodden.

  – It’s only, it’s this, sir. You see—

  Almost apologetically, the captain kneels down, lifts up the man’s right hand. It is closed into a fist which somebody had partially forced open. A piece of cloth clutched still in the hand. A piece of cloth, in fact, of a British insignia, with the letters B and S just visible.

  Missing the A.

  The only designation the British otherwise give to their special operatives in order to distinguish them from regular army personnel.

  BSA.

  Bureau for Superannuated Affairs.

  Übermenschen.

  Oblivion seems to consider the implications. Then shakes his head. I’m afraid I don’t see … he says.

  – Sir?

  Oblivion removes a glove. Gestures for the ID book. His fingers are long and slender. The captain hands him the book but, when it touches the tips of Oblivion’s fingers, it simply disintegrates into nothing. The captain looks a bit shocked. Oblivion next reaches for Franz’s hand, that strip of implicating cloth. When he touches it there is a hiss of water becoming steam. Then the cloth, too, is gone. Oblivion puts his glove back on. Straightens up.

  – An unfortunate drowning. Please make sure to remove him before they break for tea, will you, Captain?

  – Yes, sir.

  Oblivion nods. Good, he says. He turns and walks away, back to the palace, leaving the captain, the bored Russians, and the nameless dead man behind him.

  133. THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE the present

  – Potsdam, the Old Man says. We were carving up the world like a cake at tea time and serving it up. At least, the Russians and Yanks were. We were just grateful for the crumbs.

  Fogg inches his head. It was a shame about Franz, he says. Still, what can you do.

  The Old Man seems to give his statement some consideration. You know what bothered me, Fogg? he says at last.

  – Sir?

  – What bothered me, Fogg, is that it was all so bloody neat.

  – Neat, sir? Fogg says. His face is a perfect blank, a study in innocence.

  – Neat, the Old Man says, then shrugs. Letting it go, it seems. I had more important things to deal with at the time, of course, he says. After all, what did I care for one dead informant?

  – I would think not very much, sir.

  – No, the Old Man says. And equally, how much attention could I pay to one missing Übermensch.

  Fogg stirs. Sir? he says, as if not quite understanding the Old Man’s change of subject.

  The Old Man leans back in his chair. Because no one reported they had found a body, you see, Fogg.

  – A body, sir?

  – After you shot Bühler.

  – I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir, Fogg says. The Old Man shrugs again. At the time we put it down to simple Russian obstinacy, he says. They never did like to share information.

  – Quite, sir, Fogg says, as if that should put an end to the matter. The Old Man smiles. Do you know, Fogg, he says, in music, one listens for the silences between the notes.

  Fogg, with a sudden hint of anger: I don’t even know what that means. Adds: Sir.

  The Old Man lets it go. The notes were all there, he says. But the silences troubled me.

  Fogg sighs. Silences?

  – Unanswered questions, the Old Man says. And again, like a man unable to stop picking at an old, scabbed-over wound: Such as, for instance – who killed Franz Schröder?

  Fogg opens his mouth. Perhaps to refute. Perhaps to argue. Oblivion’s chair scrapes against the floor and both Fogg and the Old Man turn their eyes to the source of the sound.

  – What? Oblivion says.

  But both men, perhaps each for his own reasons, shake their heads. Oblivion settles back, Fogg rubs his eyes with tiredness, the Old Man looks restless, almost annoyed.

  – Well, never mind all that, the Old Man says, and for a moment both he and Fogg look to Oblivion again, and then back. Let us return to the matter at hand, Fogg. You say you shot Schneesturm. What happened then?

  Fogg once flew in a DC-9 – what they called a ‘vomit comet’. It was a name given to those planes that rise, in a parabolic arc, high into the atmosphere, before plunging downwards at speed, creating, for a precious twenty-five seconds or so, the sensation of free falling: of zero gravity.

  The sensation he feels now, sitting there in that too-quiet, too-warm room.

  Of course the Old Man knows, he thinks. He wouldn’t ask unless he already knew.

  And – could he have known all along?

  134. BERLIN. THE SOVIET ZONE 1946

  The snow evaporates like mist, leaving the quiet street clear, but already fog is rising, instead. Fogg looks at the man at his feet, then reaches down. Schneesturm clasps his hand and Fogg pulls him to his feet. They stand there, staring at each other. There’s still a hole in the snow where Fogg had fired, and the smell of gunpowder is still dispersing in the air.

  – It was Sommertag, the German says. She wants to make a deal. He laughs, quickly. His face is bruised and there is blood on his cheek. How do you think you found me? he says. I made sure you’d know where to look.

  – Franz.

  Schneesturm shrugs. Fogg says, Where is she? but the other shakes his head. Not yet, he says
. He nods towards the boarding house’s door. Let’s go inside, he says. Fogg nods. They walk up to the door. We can talk in my room, Schneesturm says.

  The old woman lets them in. The same smell of cabbage, maybe a few pieces of meat in there, not too fresh. The same two children hiding behind the old woman’s dresses. Her face is impassive. She does not acknowledge their presence. They go up the rickety stairs to the upstairs landing and the smell of defeat, the smell of cabbage and bad meat, follows them up there. At the end of a dark corridor, a door. Schneesturm pushes it open and they go in.

  No electric light. Schneesturm, with an embarrassed air, reaches for a box of matches on the bedside table. Takes three attempts to light a match and, when he does, he sets it to two candles, one on the table, the other on the windowsill. In their wan light Fogg sees the room: the single cramped bed, the mattress as thin as any survivor; the dresser, a pre-war marvel of Teutonic engineering, and the side table, and some clothes on the floor, the clothes of a refugee, a far cry from Schneesturm’s white Übermensch uniform that he still wears, even now, but it is no longer white, Fogg notices, it is a faded grey, holes have formed in the material, it is held together by nothing much more than desperation. Tiny black droppings on the floor, rats, or mice, they look like question marks. Schneesturm shrugs. Sit down, he says, awkwardly. Fogg sits down on the bed, next to Schneesturm. There is nowhere else to sit. Schneesturm reaches for the bedside table and pulls open a drawer. He brings out a bottle, half full, and two grimy glasses. Puts the glasses on the table, opens the bottle. Vodka. He pours. Stoppers the bottle. Places it back on the table. Picks up the glasses, hands one to Fogg.

  – This war, he says. This fucking war.

  They clink their glasses and drink. Erich, Fogg says.

  – Do you think I asked for this? the other says. To be this … this Schneesturm? Germany for the Übermenschen. Ja. The Master Race. Look where it got us.