Murder's Art

by Christopher Nicole

  Tony saluted. He was as exhausted as anyone, didn’t even want to think of food until he had had a lie-down in Sandrine’s arms. But the apartment was empty.

  He went to the barracks where Anja and her women were resting. ‘Oh, Colonel!’ Anja greeted him. Like the others, she was down to her underwear, despite the chilling air, and drinking beer. ‘Sandrine found you, then. She was very worried about you.’

  An icy hand seemed to clasp Tony’s heart. ‘What do you mean, found me?’

  ‘Well …’ Anja looked puzzled. ‘When you did not come in this morning, she became worried, as I said. She said she would go and find you.’

  ‘Who went with her?’

  ‘No one. She just went off.’

  Tony left the barracks and stood on the street, utterly at a loss. All around him people were preparing for the battle, boarding up their windows, filling sandbags – as if either sandbags or a few sheets of plywood would keep out an aircraft bomb or a tank shell.

  He went to headquarters, where Tito regarded him somewhat wearily. ‘There is a problem?’ Tony told him. ‘She is very fond of you,’ Tito agreed. ‘We must hope that she has not got herself into trouble.’

  ‘I wish permission to take a squad and go after her, sir.’

  ‘I cannot permit that.’

  ‘With respect, sir …’

  ‘With respect, Colonel Davis. I know this woman is very important to you. But I have to consider her as just a single unit of all the many whom I, and you, command. It was very foolish of her to go wandering off by herself. She is actually guilty of desertion, and so close to the enemy.’ He held up his finger as Tony would have spoken. ‘We must hope that, having failed to find you, she will return, at which time you will no doubt discipline her. If she has come to some harm, there is nothing any of us can do about it now. I certainly cannot permit one of my senior officers to go wandering off at such a time as this. You have a regiment to command, Tony. Five hundred women, for whom you have as much responsibility collectively as for any one of them individually.’

  ‘She could have fallen and hurt herself, be lying helpless in some ravine.’

  ‘That would be unfortunate, but she is an experienced guerilla. She will know how to survive, and how to get back to us.’

  ‘She is out there looking for me. She will expect me, in turn, to go looking for her.’

  ‘I am sure she has more sense than to expect that at this time. I have said that I am sorry. And, I have to tell you, disappointed. I thought that she was reliable, a soldier first and a woman after. Now it appears that I was wrong. Dismissed, Colonel. And I expect to see you at the head of your regiment when we pull out.’

  Tony saluted, and left the office. He knew Tito was absolutely right. Sandrine had broken every rule in the book. The trouble was, Sandrine did not believe that any of the rules in the book – or any book – applied to her. As far as she was concerned, there was only her, and him. And now …

  Of course, he told himself, nothing could have happened to her. The Germans had been several hours behind them, and even if she had returned to the neighbourhood of Kragujevac, she would hear them long before they could have any idea she was in the vicinity. While if she had fallen and hurt herself, Tito was right in expecting that she was sufficiently experienced to cope with any injury. Besides, she knew this country so well, had traversed it so often, there was very little risk of that.

  He just wished she would come back.

  Brigadier General Leesing stood up in his command car, and gazed at the scene before him in utter consternation. The bridge having been reported repaired, he had just given the order to move out when he and his staff had been alerted by the firing. They had ignored the first couple of volleys, but when they had become continuous and unceasing they had to be investigated.

  Now he gazed at two rows of men, one of them lying dead on the ground, the other still alive and shuffling forward under the muzzles of the German rifles. He listened to the wails and screams of the women and children, who had been herded into the other side of the square, again kept under subjection by the pointed rifle barrels. He watched several of his men staggering past the command car, heads drooping, rifles trailing, unable to manage even a salute; to his horror he saw that one or two were in tears. German soldiers? ‘What in the name of God … ?’

  An officer clicked his heels. ‘I am sorry, Herr General, but they cannot stand it. After the second or third volley their hands start to shake. They are young, you see, and inexperienced …’

  ‘Who ordered this?’

  The captain licked his lips. ‘The SS major, Herr General.’

  ‘Wassermann? Where is he? Have him brought to me immediately. And stop this murder.’ The captain hurried off, and Leesing sat down to take off his cap and wipe his brow with his handkerchief. His aides followed his example. But the rifle firing and the chain of shuffling men continued.

  ‘You wished to see me, Herr General?’ Wassermann appeared beside the car. Even he was looking a little pale.

  ‘I wish to know what the devil you are doing, committing mass murder like this. Why hasn’t the firing stopped? I commanded it to be stopped.’

  ‘I am acting under orders, Herr General.’

  ‘Orders? Orders? Whose orders? I have given no such orders.’

  ‘An order was given by General von Blintoft personally, Herr General.’

  ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ Wassermann unbuttoned his breast pocket, and handed him the written order. Leesing gazed at it in consternation. ‘This is an open order. It does not authorise anything like this.’

  ‘It instructs me to make an example of the people who attacked you, Herr General. This I am doing.’

  ‘These were not the people who attacked us. They were guerillas. Partisans.’

  ‘And do you suppose these people are not Partisans, simply because they have hidden their weapons?’

  Leesing glared at him, but Wassermann would not lower his eyes. ‘And my men? Some of them are in tears. They are in no condition to fight a battle.’

  ‘I agree with you, sir. I am very disappointed in them. Hopefully they will improve with experience. I would recommend that no disciplinary action be taken against them.’

  Leesing looked as if he might burst a blood vessel. Then he said, ‘I will make a full report of this incident, Major.’

  ‘Of course, Herr General. May I have my order back?’

  Leesing looked very inclined to tear the paper up. But it had been signed by the commanding general, and he did not doubt there was a copy at headquarters. He handed Wassermann the paper. ‘Let us leave this place,’ he told his driver.

  The bridge was crossed, but very slowly. As there was at least a twelve-hour march beyond it, there was no possible hope of Leesing arriving at Uzice before well into the night at the earliest, by which time the attack would be in full swing, and if the Partisans decided to pull out there would be nothing to stop them, at least on the south-west. Leesing would be in for a reprimand, which should occupy him for a while, Wassermann reflected. Not that he was the least concerned for the future. His orders had been explicit, and while Blintoft might very well feel that he had been overzealous, he would have to accept the situation.

  He withdrew his men from the town when the last male had been killed. ‘You may bury your dead,’ he told the women, who appeared to be in a state of collective shock. ‘Although I would say it makes more sense to burn them.’ The unit then moved along the road some two miles, and there pitched camp. ‘Double sentries,’ Wassermann told Ulrich.

  ‘You think they will seek revenge? Women?’

  ‘It was women who attacked the brigade,’ Wassermann pointed out.

  ‘Uncanny,’ Ulrich commented. ‘How long must we remain here?’ He was obviously anxious to be away.

  ‘Until the assault on Uzice has been completed. We will hear the firing. Then we will move out to clean up the pieces. So we may have a restful day. Join me for lunch. Albrecht
is a very good cook.’

  ‘I am not hungry, Herr Major. And I am very tired. If you will excuse me …’

  Wassermann waved his hand. The poor fool was another would-be critic. He had, in fact, turned quite green during the mass execution. He was a faithful subordinate, but he would never be anything more than a subordinate; he lacked the stomach for command, for taking the necessary and often ruthless decisions that went with responsibility. Neither he nor Leesing could see that on this day the guerillas had been dealt a blow from which they would never recover.

  He had small faith in a German triumph tonight. Oh, it would be trumpeted as a victory, as the Partisans would undoubtedly have to abandon Uzice and withdraw into the mountains. He did not doubt that some of them would accomplish that, even if they had to fight their way through the Cetniks. But no matter where they went, where they now sought shelter, people would think twice about helping them. Because they would remember Kragujevac.

  His servant had pitched his tent, and placed a folding chair and table in front of it. Wassermann sipped his lukewarm wine – what he would give for a bottle of good, cold hock – and watched five people approaching. Two walked in front. One was a lieutenant carrying a drawn pistol; the other wore a khaki uniform and was unarmed. They came quite close before he could recognise the guerilla. Then he said, ‘Good God!’

  ‘This man came to us under a flag of truce, Herr Major,’ the lieutenant said. ‘He says he has something of the greatest importance to tell you. He has been searched.’

  ‘Thank you, Dittring. You may leave us.’

  ‘Ah …’ Dittring looked apprehensive.

  ‘I assure you, Dittring, this man is not going to attack me. Are you, Matovic?’

  ‘No, Herr Major.’

  ‘So you may leave us, Dittring.’ Wassermann waited for the lieutenant to withdraw. ‘What have you got for me?’

  ‘What would you like, Herr Major, more than anything else in the world at this moment?’

  Wassermann gazed at him for several seconds, then looked past him to where the other three people had remained standing. They were still some distance away, but they were close enough for him to see that only two of them wore German uniform. The other … ‘You are not claiming to have Davis?’

  ‘The next best thing, Herr Major.’

  Wassermann stood up. ‘Approach!’ The soldiers marched Sandrine forward. Her wrists were bound behind her back, and she had lost her cap. Her hair was untidy, and her clothes were dishevelled and torn; several buttons were missing from her blouse, and the blouse itself was out of her pants, flopping open to expose her breasts – she wore no brassiere. But otherwise he was looking at perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, a woman who made a schoolgirl like Angela look just like … a schoolgirl.

  ‘She is quite unharmed,’ Matovic assured him. ‘The bruises are superficial. She attempted to resist when she was informed that she was going to be handed over to you.’

  Wassermann gazed at Sandrine’s face for several seconds; she returned his stare without a blink, her expression coldly impassive. Then he slowly looked up and down her body. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘I must confess, Herr Major, that she walked into our arms, literally.’

  ‘Can she not speak?’

  ‘Is there anything to say?’ Sandrine asked in a low voice.

  ‘I think there is, Fräulein. I think there is a lot you will have to say. Has she been searched?’

  ‘Yes, I have been searched,’ Sandrine snapped.

  ‘But I think I will do it again. One cannot be too careful. Thank you, Matovic. You have done very well.’

  ‘There is the reward …’ Matovic reminded him.

  ‘Of course. But I do not carry ten thousand Deutschmarks about in my pocket. You will receive the reward; I will contact you when it is suitable for us to meet again. In the meantime … Sergeant, this man has safe conduct out of our camp.’

  The sergeant clicked his heels. Matovic looked at Sandrine. ‘I will wish you good fortune, mademoiselle.’

  ‘I hope God will have mercy on your soul,’ Sandrine said. ‘Because I will have none.’ Matovic hesitated for a moment, then walked away.

  ‘I think you would do better to consider your own soul, mademoiselle,’ Wassermann said. ‘But do you mind if I call you Sandrine? We are going to get to know each other so very well, you see.’

  Not for the first time that day, Sandrine had to resist a strong temptation to scream. In fact, for all her tendency to give little shrieks when surprised, she was not given to screaming, or to extreme fear. For the past six months she had lived in the shadow of imminent death, as had all the Partisans, and, indeed, most of the inhabitants of Yugoslavia – and that included the Germans. Her awareness of being alive had centred entirely upon Tony, on his survival and his well-being. Thus even at this extreme moment she could feel relief that he was clearly safe; were he not, either Matovic or the Germans would know of it. But while she had known she was living on borrowed time, and accepted it, she had always assumed that she would go out in a blaze of gunfire, like Elena Kostic, shouting defiance and shooting at the enemy to the last, vitally aware of being alive until the fatal bullet swept her into oblivion. Just to walk into the arms of the enemy because she had assumed they were friends was not only stupid, but criminal.

  Thus she had had to endure. Although they had not actually raped her, in the dictionary definition of the word, they had stripped her naked and amused themselves with her body. She had only been able to reflect that she had been in this position before, when she had been captured by the Ustase, and she had survived, and been able to avenge her mistreatment. But then she had had Tony and Elena at her side. Now she would have to endure this man, and she had a suspicion that he was going to be a tougher proposition than even Ante Pavelic.

  She had never met Wassermann, had never even seen him before – apart from that brief glimpse of him at the railway station the day Frau von Blintoft had been shot – but she had heard of him, of what he was capable of, and on their way here they had passed close to Kragujevac, and heard the moans and the wails of the women burying their dead. She had to conclude that the people of the town had been presumed guilty of assisting the Partisans, if only by not attempting to prevent them from laying the ambush, but there was really nothing they could have done to stop it, and to shoot every male adult in revenge … The man who could have carried out such a crime against humanity had to be a monster. Who was now smiling at her.

  ‘Do you not wish to call me Fritz?’

  ‘I will call you anything you wish, Herr Major,’ Sandrine said. ‘If I can also call you anything I wish.’

  ‘Then we have a deal. I enjoy it when women call me names. It inspires me to do things to them. And you … Do you know that you are far better-looking than I had expected, or hoped? That photograph does not do you justice. Dismissed,’ he told the waiting sentry; the sergeant had gone off with Matovic. The sentry saluted, and left. ‘Come over here,’ Wassermann invited. Sandrine, her wrists still tied behind her back, approached him and stood next to the table, on which Albrecht had placed a fresh bottle of wine.

  ‘Another chair,’ Wassermann commanded. ‘But first …’ He stepped up to Sandrine, put his hands inside her blouse, grasping each breast in turn to give it a gentle squeeze, then stooped to do the same to her thighs and between her legs, caressing her buttocks. Sandrine stayed still, and kept her breathing under control. ‘Very good,’ Wassermann said. ‘Now, I am going to release your hands. You will like that, eh? When I have done that, you will sit down and lunch with me. We shall be very civilised. But I must warn you that should you attempt to use your combat skills – I am sure you have many combat skills – I will hurt you very badly. I have combat skills as well, you see. More than you, I would say. And I also have the support of Albrecht.’

  Sandrine waited while her wrists were freed, and she massaged them as the blood flowed back into her hands with exquisite pins and needle
s. Wassermann gestured her to a chair, and she sat down, for the first time realising how tired she was. As for what was happening, and what was going to happen, he was clearly enjoying himself, living out some fantasy which had happily, for him, come true. Her only business was surviving for as long as possible, in the hopes that Tony would eventually rescue her. That could not be a hope – it had to be a certainty.

  Albrecht had produced another glass. Wassermann sat beside her, and poured. ‘What shall we drink to?’

  ‘Your damnation, and that of all your friends,’ she suggested.

  He chuckled. ‘I think it would be better to drink to us. Our relationship.’

  ‘Are we going to have a relationship?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, I have said this.’

  ‘You mean I am not to be shot, or hanged, immediately?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. I would not dream of it.’ He waited while Albrecht served the meal. ‘We will first of all establish the relationship of which I spoke. You will then be handed over to the Gestapo for interrogation. But as I both command and control the Gestapo in Yugoslavia, this will only serve to further our relationship. You will then be required to confess to the murder of Frau von Blintoft, as well as quite a few other crimes against the Reich that you are known to have committed …’

  ‘I did not murder Frau von Blintoft.’

  ‘Oh, I know you did not pull the trigger. But you were there. You were part of the murder squad. You are as guilty as anyone. But no doubt you will tell us the name of the man who actually fired the shot.’ He paused, and Sandrine stared at him. ‘Oh, well, as it happens, we know it already. But when we have questioned you for a while, you will be put on trial with various accomplices of yours who are in our possession already. I’m afraid it will have to be a show trial, with camera recordings and all that sort of nonsense. This is what General von Blintoft wants, and what he will have. And then, when you have been found guilty, you will be hanged in the public square in Belgrade. Sadly, there will not be a trap. You will be hoisted by a rope, slowly. Your hands will be bound, but not your legs. You will be able to kick.’