by Julian Noyce
“Nosey old hag….” he said again, most of his anger fuelled by the alcohol, aimed at the old lady who lived below.
“Mrs Drescher is a dear old lady. Did you know her son died in the first world war?”
“Pity she hadn’t gone too!”
“Otto that’s a horrible thing to say.”
“Well it’s true,” he pointed his index finger of the hand holding the glass, “you’ll see. Adolf Hitler has said that there is no room for people like her in our society. If only she was Jewish,” Otto said the drink taking him now. Elsa was afraid but didn’t show it. Now he was unpredictable.
“You’ve got her wrong. She’s just a sweet old lady who would never wish anyone any harm….”
He rounded on her.
“Why are you defending her? Has the old witch put a spell on you or something? Or maybe she’s the devil!”
“Otto, please, I don’t want to fight,” she kissed him on the cheek “It’s good that you’re home. I’ll get dressed and we can go out.”
He simmered slightly.
“You looked like you were just going out when I arrived or you were going downstairs for a tea party perhaps.”
“Never mind her. Take me shopping Otto.”
“Haven’t you got enough clothes?” he asked her poking about in the wardrobes.
“A girl can never have enough.”
She disappeared into the bathroom again. He noticed the new stockings that Koenig had bought her half in and half out of a drawer. He picked one up and sniffed it.
“These are new,” he called out to her “and expensive.”
She came out of the bathroom to see him holding her stockings.
“What are you doing with those?”
“They’re new.”
“Yes.“
She took them from him and stuffed them into the drawer.
“How can you afford those?”
She slammed the drawer shut with irritation.
“My father gives me an allowance every month.”
“Your father?”
“Yes because you’re never here to support me. You’re always away with your friends and never home.”
He felt himself getting angry again and he crossed the room to her like lightning.
“That’s because I’m working hard for us.”
She came back at him now wanting the fight.
“Working hard?” she scoffed “that’s a joke. All you do is….”
“Shut up Elsa before you say something you may regret.”
It worked. There was a history of violence in their relationship. She always being on the receiving end. The last time he had hit her he had given her a black eye. She had packed her bags and moved to her parents. After four days he had begged her to come back promising to change.
“Or what?” she said “you’ll hit me again.”
“I’ve said a hundred times that I’m sorry.”
She smiled and blew him a kiss.
“I know you have.”
He was about to lay on the bed when he noticed his photographs.
“Why are my pictures facing the other way?”
Back in the bathroom Elsa cussed herself for not having put them right after Koenig had left. She sat on the toilet and tried to sound calm.
“Because if Mrs Drescher sees them it upsets her. Apparently you looked a lot like her son.
“Do I?” he said turning a large photo of himself around. He picked it up and held it flat and gazed at himself. He liked what he saw.
Proud, strong, arrogant. The deaths head insignia glittering on his lapels.
“I suppose there is no harm in her liking the old woman,” he said to the face that stared back at him. He put the photograph back and threw himself onto his back on the bed fully clothed.
“I’m being sent away Elsa.”
The words went through her and she felt excitement at the prospect.
‘While the cat’s away,’ came into her mind ’maybe I can persuade Hans to stay now.’
She quickly thought about the situation. She found she really liked the idea of her husband away from her, hopefully away from Berlin. She would be safe then, safe from him, his drinking, his temper.
“Where?“
She tried to sound interested but when the answer came it made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.
“North Africa Elsa.”
She suddenly felt a terrible foreboding. She stood in the doorway of the bathroom.
“North Africa! I didn’t think the SS were involved in the fighting.”
“We can be sent anywhere. I am going to oversee an archaeological expedition. Herr Himmler has appointed me. It seems that the Fuhrer has a dream,” Otto said knowing that he should not be discussing it with anyone, not even his wife but he couldn’t help it, caught up in it.
“This could be my big chance to impress Elsa. I will be serving under Rommel. This could be my one chance to make Colonel Elsa. Just imagine it. The first of my family.”
“I’m pleased for you Otto,” she shouted trying to sound enthusiastic for him.
He put his hand under his head and stared at the ceiling. After a while he turned on his side to face the window. His eyes focused on the bedside table. Slowly he lifted his head off the pillow. He had a puzzled look on his face.
By the bed on the table were two glasses. One clearly had lipstick on it, the other didn’t. He swung his legs off the bed and stood up. The glass he had been using was on her dressing table. He picked the other two up. They smelled of cognac. There was a tiny amount of it in the bottom of each glass. He inspected the one with the lipstick first. It was definitely hers, her shade.
When she came out of the bathroom she was confronted by him standing in the middle of the room with a glass in each hand. His expression one of questioning. Instantly she tried to cover up, to speak first, to try to gain an advantage.
“I wanted a fresh glass.”
He shook his head at her.
“No only one has lipstick on it.”
Then it dawned on him. The photographs facing the wrong way. Two glasses used, lipstick on one. The new stockings in the drawer.
“You’ve had someone here. Another man.”
“No I…. I haven’t.”
“Don’t lie to me,“ he shouted.
He rushed over to the dressing table elbowing her out of the way. He yanked the drawer open and held the stockings under her nose.
“He bought you these didn’t he?”
“No. No I told you my father….”
“Lies. Lies.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Who was it? Who?” he yelled.
“No one I….”
Suddenly he was rushing for the door.
“If you won’t tell me maybe the old bag will.”
“Otto stop! I’ll tell you everything,” she said desperate for the old lady’s safety now.
Then a thought struck him. He came back into the room.
“It was him wasn’t it.”
She was lost now. Not sure as to who he was referring.
“Him. The Colonel I passed in the lobby. The Colonel in the Wehrmacht. It has to be. Who else could afford such gifts?”
Now she knew she was fighting not just for her but for her lovely Hans as well. She had little doubt that her husband would track him down and kill him.
Otto Wurtz began pacing up and down the room with his hands on his head.
“I’m so stupid. I thought it was safe to leave you here all by yourself . I thought the little rich bitch was happy and all the time I’m away you are screwing every Tom, Dick and Harry.”
While he was talking she grabbed a large pair of scissors and held them in both hands behind her back. She vowed that he’d never beat her again. He would never humiliate her like that again.
Then he did something unexpected. He went to the telephone.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m ringing your precious fath
er to tell him what a whore his daughter is.”
“Please Otto don’t. Leave my father out of this.”
He slammed the receiver back.
“Who is he? What’s his name?”
“You think I’d tell you!”
He picked up the receiver again.
“He’s a Colonel. Higher rank than you,” she sneered “He eats Majors for breakfast.”
“You think his rank frightens me. We the SS fear no one.”
She could see that he meant it. Could it be that her Hans was doomed?
Suddenly he slammed the receiver down again and in a rage he picked the telephone up and threw it at her, missing her by inches.
“You’re a filthy fucking slut! I’ll fucking kill him!”
Something snapped inside her and suddenly she was rushing at him scissors held high. It took him by surprise but even so he was able to avoid her downward slash. He twisted and chopped her with the flat of his hand across the back of her neck. It increased her momentum and she tripped over a rug, her body out of control now, and crashed heavily into her dresser, the force of the collision knocking it over and breaking the mirror.
There followed utter silence.
Elsa Wurz lay face down amid the furniture and items that were scattered. Otto stood staring unsure as to whether she was acting or not.
“Elsa,” he called gently.
No reply.
“Elsa.”
Again nothing.
Slowly he approached her afraid of what he might discover. The scissors were still clutched in her hand and he took them out of her grasp and threw them out of reach across the floor.
“Elsa.”
He gently stroked her hair. She looked as though she was sleeping. He wanted to wake her softly. Slowly he turned her over. Her eyes were open. A purple bruise was already forming on her forehead. When he touched it, it felt spongy, almost as if there was no bone beneath it.
She was dead.
He picked her inert form up and cradled her for a moment. His beautiful wife. Perhaps she would be all right. He put her down gently, her head bumping the floor slightly.
Otto Wurtz went into the bathroom and leaned on the basin. He looked at himself in the mirror for a moment then put the plug in and ran the cold water tap until the basin was half full. He cupped both hands and splashed the cold water over his face. With his eyes closed the unexpected shock of the coldness made him gasp. He looked at himself in the mirror again, his fringe dripping. Then a thought struck him. This would finish his career. There would be no North Africa now. No promotion. All because she couldn’t keep her knickers on. And what about him? Whoever he is. He’s gotten away with it.
’Should I wait for him to return to her? If they are having an affair he won’t be away for long. But I don’t have the time. I’m leaving in a few days. I’ve got to get away from this apartment if I’m to survive this but what to do about her?
He stepped back a few paces and peered around the bathroom door. She was still laying there motionless. He returned to the basin splashed more water on his face, dried it with a towel, looked at himself in the mirror yet again and smiled.
“I’ll make it look like she was murdered.”
He went to the door and locked it and put the chain across . Next he went to the windows and peered out briefly before drawing the curtains. This made the room dark so he put a bedside light on. He emptied every drawer he could find, tipping the contents on the floor to make it look like an attempted burglary. He took one of the new stockings and lifting her head pulled it tight around her throat. So tight it should cause bruising.
Next he wiped the glass he had used with a cloth to eliminate his fingerprints. Then he picked up the telephone. The wire had been yanked out and he repaired it with a screwdriver. He set it down and picked up the receiver. After a moment there was a click and then a dial tone. He rang the police, gave the address, refused to give his name and told them that there had been a disturbance above his mothers flat.
“What is your mother’s name please?”
“Frau Drescher.”
He promptly hung up. They may try to trace the call but he doubted it very much. He quickly went round the apartment and took what he wanted. He found some cash amongst her underwear and left closing the door quietly after wiping the handles. He tiptoed silently past the next floor and once clear he hurried to the lobby. Once outside he took a deep breath. It was late afternoon now, the sky grey still from the rain that had just stopped. He got to the corner of the street when he heard the first of the police cars approaching. Three of them. They sped past him, painted black with the bells ringing. No one paid him any attention. He watched as the men in leather coats jumped out of the cars and rushed inside the apartment block. He would get his friends to give him an alibi for this afternoon. He hadn’t actually told them he was going home to see his wife.
’I’ll tell them I was with another woman,’ he said to himself.
After a minute he saw the curtains of his wife’s apartment open and faces peered out of the windows. Seven storeys straight down to the street. No escape there for the assailant. He had to have gone down the stairs. The Drescher woman would be taken in for questioning.
’Hopefully they’ll be a bit rough with her.’
He hadn’t thought about where he was going to go next. He decided to call on an old friend.
’Will I recognise that bastard of a Colonel again?’ he asked himself.
Otto Wurtz continued watching the windows of the apartment for a few minutes more from the street corner. He could see shadows moving within the room. Then he turned away and headed off as the air raid sirens began sounding across the city.
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWO
ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT, 2nd OCTOBER 48 B.C.
Small waves lapped at the Roman fleet as it lay at anchor half a mile offshore from the city. Apart from guards and a handful of officers patrolling, the decks appeared deserted. Marines and legionaries were in their bunks getting much needed rest or playing dice. A common source of entertainment for the many hours, days or weeks at sea. The slaves chained to their oars slept where they sat.
Admiral Menenius Agrippa was patrolling his ship. He stopped at the stern and watched as men, his men, clad in only loincloths tied ropes around their waists, put knives in their mouths and dived over the rail cleanly into the sea. He peered down and watched as they broke the surface of the water, took a deep breath and dived. Their job was to clear the hull and steering oars of barnacles and any other parasites clinging to them. Each man carried a small very tightly knitted mesh net and they would work feverishly to be the first to fill their own net. It was a personal competition amongst them.
Agrippa admired these men. The way they held their breath for minutes at a time. The way they showed no fear as to what could lurk beneath the waves. He had been a sailor all of his adult life. He had been overboard twice in his career, once in a storm and it was a miracle he’d survived both times and he’d never lost respect for the power of the sea.
He reached into his tunic and pulled out his small leather purse and reached in and extracted a fairly large coin. He gave it to the supervising officer.
“This to the winner.”
“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”
Pleased he moved on, leaving the officer watching the lifelines for any signs of trouble. He stopped a short way away and bellowed at a sailor coiling ropes.
“These knots are not tied correctly. Do them again.”
The sailor dropped what he was doing and rushed to the admiral.
“If I see sloppiness like this again you’ll take your place at the oars with the slaves. Do I make myself clear.”
“Yes sir. Sorry sir.”
Agrippa watched until he was satisfied the knots had been re-tied correctly then continued on his round. At the Corvus he met General Marcus Marcellus and Centurion Falco. Agrippa nodded towards the shore.
“Everything seems quiet no
w.”
“Yes,” Marcellus replied, “The crowd that had gathered at the dock this morning has now gone.”
“And probably just as well. They seemed to be quite angry.”
“Angry at us sir, but why?” Falco asked.
“Who knows what Pompey has told them?”
“If he even landed here.”
“He did Falco. he must have,” the Admiral replied, “There is nowhere else he could have fled to, to get help.”
“But will they help him?” from Marcellus.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Agrippa replied.
The men looked at the city for a few moments before Falco said.
“I didn’t realise Alexandria was so big, is it as big as Rome?”
“Almost certainly. A population of at least one million. A mix of Greeks, Egyptians, Arabs and Jews.”
“And one wonder,” Marcellus added.
“Yes,” Agrippa gazed at the lighthouse on the nearby island of Pharos. At four hundred and fifty feet tall. It’s fire could be seen for miles.
“It is truly remarkable what men can achieve.”
They all turned as an Egyptian war galley passed on the port side. On its bow and sail a brightly painted Egyptian eye. The five banks of oars pulling her along in perfect unison. The sound of the drumbeat drifting across to the Romans. The ship was returning from a two week patrol of the Egyptian coastline. On her deck the Egyptian sailors and warriors stood and stared stonily across at the Romans. The last marine on deck grinned at them and then drew his thumb across his throat from ear to ear. Anger flushed through the Romans at the implied threat. Marcellus’ hand went down to the handle of his sword. For a moment he was tempted to draw it and brandish it.
Agrippa grabbed the hand.
“Easy lad. Easy,” he said to the much younger General.
“You saw that. Deliberate provocation,” Marcellus replied taking his hand off his sword.
“I did. But don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they riled you.”
The marine cocked his head and winked at Falco who just stared back, studying the face, memorising it. Hopefully one day soon their paths would cross again.