Volk

by Piers Anthony

  Ernst spread his hands. “As you wish. It is a matter of indifference to me.” Actually that was surely a simplification. He knew her, which might help, but she had not treated him kindly in America. Perhaps he felt alienated—or possibly he was protecting her from the stigma of being too close to a Nazi. He knew she would not lie about her work, or anything else, so he was willing to work with her.

  “We do have a friend in common,” she said. “I am ready to join you now.”

  She went with him to his car, and he put it in motion. “Had I known it was you, I would not have embarrassed you by such a request,” he said. “I want neither a quarrel nor a complication for you.”

  “If it were another person making this inspection, I might find it more awkward,” Quality said. “But though our politics are diametrically opposed, I do respect your integrity, Ernst. I know I can safely ride with you.”

  “On that much we can agree,” he said tightly.

  She cocked her head, almost quizzically. “We have one other thing in common.”

  He was momentarily blank. Then he remembered. “Guernica! We each lost friends there.”

  “Must this inspection be conducted on site, or will you accept my answers to your questions? We have nothing to hide.”

  “I fear you would not care to answer all my questions.”

  “If we played a game of truth?”

  He glanced at her. “I prefer not to discuss politics with you again.”

  “I have a truly odd idea. Could we drive to Guernica, to see what happened there?”

  “But that may be three hundred kilometers by road! We could not get there today, let alone return by nightfall.”

  “I do trust you, Ernst, and I want very much to see it. This may be my only chance, because the moment my truck is fixed I will resume my route. I think you could safely go there, as I otherwise might not.”

  His surprise was growing. “You would spend the night with me?”

  “I think it does not matter what others may think. You know that this is not a social encounter.” That was certain.

  He considered. “I would like to visit Guernica, and I could accept your answers. They are likely to be more informative than those of others I might question.”

  “Then go back to the office. I will notify them, and pack some things for a two day trip.”

  He drove her back, and waited in the car. Still surprised at her sudden audacity in proposing this excursion, she went to explain things to the director. She found it hard to believe that she was serious, but she was doing it regardless. She had never anticipated either encountering Ernst here, or traveling with him.

  She collected necessary things in a small suitcase and returned to the car. They started off. He followed her directions to get efficiently out of the city and onto a suitable road going west. The farther they drove, the more the signs of the recent war manifested. There were bombed out buildings and burned areas, and every so often a detour where the road was in rubble. But she knew the best route through, and they made good progress.

  “I must confess something,” she said. “Though we were not friends in America, we did know each other, and it has been some time since I have seen a familiar face from my past. You remind me of America, ironically.”

  “So do you,” he replied. “How is it you came to be here? I thought you were in college there.”

  “When I saw Lane off to the air training in Canada, I found I just couldn’t return to my prior life. So I joined the relief effort here. We are doing what we can to feed the children, who have suffered grievously from a war they did not make.”

  “War is not pretty,” he agreed.

  “I soon discovered how ugly it is. I had never expected to find myself in such a thing, but this is where the need was, and where the need remains. Unfortunately the Nationalist government is becoming increasingly uncooperative. The American Friends Service Committee left Spain at the end of 1939, and our British Friends Service Council is under increasing pressure.”

  “I respect the master you serve. I will do what I can to facilitate the acquisition of the parts you need.”

  “We appreciate that. Can you tell me anything of your activities?”

  He hesitated, and she realized that he could be engaged in secret work. Because she had recognized him, she could give away his original identity and interfere with his mission. “I must ask a favor of you.”

  “You are in secret work?”

  “Yes. If you tell others my true identity, my life could be in danger.”

  This was more serious than she had thought. “I suspected something like that. I asked the director not to talk to others of our encounter.”

  He glanced at her. “Is this not deception? You do not practice such.”

  “I have learned to compromise. I am not proud of it, but now I do practice deception when it seems necessary.” That was an unfortunate understatement.

  “Then I ask you to speak of me to others only as I was introduced to you, and not to mention our prior acquaintance, for the person I am supposed to be has not been to America.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I am with the SS, doing internal investigation.”

  “Then you have not been involved in killing or sabotage,” she said, relieved.

  “You exonerate me too readily. I have not personally killed or sabotaged, but I have helped formulate plans which involve these things. Poland, Norway, France—I am guilty.”

  “I should not have asked. Have you heard from Lane?”

  “Nothing. I have not tried to write to him. I think such a correspondence would bring only suspicion and perhaps discredit on us both.”

  “Yes, that must be true. I have maintained correspondence. He joined the RAF, and was in France. When the German invasion came. He—he surely has killed—has downed enemy airplanes. German airplanes.” She tried to mask her emotion.

  “It is a thing he must do. He fights for his side, as I must fight for mine. I can only support him in that.” Then he seemed to realize that he had misread the thrust of her comment. “But you— this is against your religion.”

  She was silent. He glanced at her, and surely saw that her face was wet with tears. She had been unable to stop them.

  “I can not comfort you,” he said awkwardly. “I am of the other side, in this respect also.”

  “Yes, you are the enemy,” she murmured, oddly comforted despite this.

  They drove on in silence.

  But later he spoke again. “I must urge you to do something, for no stated reason. Return to America.”

  “But there is still so much work to do here!” she protested.

  “Still I think it would be better for you to get out of Spain.”

  That meant that the Germans might invade Spain! He might be an advance spy for that. “I appreciate the nature of your warning, but I can not. Not while the children remain hungry.”

  “It was the answer I expected. Perhaps it will be all right.”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed. “But I thank thee for thy concern.”

  It took her a moment to realize that she was now using the plain talk. Her attitude toward him had changed, though it was not clear to herself in quite what manner.

  It was not safe to drive after dark. They came to a suitable town and sought lodging in a hotel. “I have money,” Ernst said. “I will obtain a separate room for you. But—”

  “I know,” she said. “It will be safer if we are together. Take one room, in thy name. They will not question it.”

  So it was done. They found themselves sharing a somewhat spare chamber on the second floor. There was no hot water, and there were roaches under the single bed, and the bathroom was down the hall, to be shared by all the rooms, but it would do.

  They went to a restaurant to eat. Quality ordered water to go with her meal. Here they discovered that water was more expensive than beer. But Quality would not touch alcohol in any form other than externally medical.

&nb
sp; “You could have milk,” he said. “I will pay—”

  “No. Milk is for children. I would feel guilty.”

  So Ernst paid the price for water, for them both.

  “I apologize for embarrassing you,” she said in Spanish. They had agreed to speak only Spanish when in public, so as not to attract attention. Her plain talk did not manifest in this language. “I did not think of this beforehand.”

  “Please, no discussion,” he said. “It is all right.”

  But after the meal, when they were on their way back to the hotel, she brought it up again. “I’m afraid I acted too much on impulse. I did not think through the complications. Had I done so—”

  “May I speak plainly?”

  She was taken aback. “Of course, Ernst.”

  “I treat you with diffidence because you evinced objection to me in America. You are correct in this, because I am what you take me to be. I am an enemy national, and I am carrying a gun. But this is not my impression of you. I have no objection to what you are. Rather, I respect it, the more so now that I have discovered that you are actively implementing your beliefs by putting yourself at risk to help others. I regard you as a fine woman who need never apologize for her consistency or behavior. I did not know that I would encounter you here, or that you would choose to travel with me, but I am extremely pleased that both occurred.”

  She was silent for a moment, her feelings in disarray. “That was a bit more candor than I anticipated.”

  He smiled. “I believe in the truth. Yet I live a life of deceit. I have no need to practice deceit with you.”

  “A life of deceit,” she echoed. “I hate myself for ever deceiving another person, yet at times it seems I have to. I feel degraded, yet I alone am responsible.”

  “I am sure Lane feels similarly about killing. He does not like it, but circumstances compel him.”

  “My understanding is growing. But not my ease of conscience.”

  “War is not kind to conscience.”

  They were at the hotel. They went to the room. Ernst checked the closet and found extra blankets there. He laid these on the floor, and set his bag on them. “I will accompany you to the bathroom and check it before you enter,” he said. “Then I will wait outside it until you are done, and see you back to the room. I will lock you in, and then use the bathroom myself.”

  “Yes.” She understood why. In this war-devastated region it was necessary to be extremely cautious. There could be a man hiding in the bathroom, or ready to jump out on a single woman passing in the hall, or to enter her room while her man was away.

  When he returned and unlocked the door, she was already in the bed. He turned out the light and she heard him get into his blanket-bed on the floor, and heard him set the gun beside his head. He settled down to sleep.

  “I thank thee, Ernst.”

  “Welcome, Quality.”

  • • •

  Next morning Quality surprised herself again. “Thy gun—I have not seen one. Only the damage they do.”

  He was surprised. “I mentioned this only in passing, not to cause you distress.”

  “I am embarrassed to confess this, but the knowledge that thee has it makes me feel safer. May I see it?”

  “If you wish.” He brought it out. “This is a Walther P-38, the HP model—Heeres Pistol. One of the finest service pistols available in Germany. It has an eight round magazine and automatic reloading.”

  She stared at the thing. It seemed huge and menacing, like the German army. “May I—?”

  He reversed it, holding it by the muzzle and extending the butt to her. She took it, and was impressed by its weight; it was over two pounds. What a terrible instrument!

  She quickly gave it back. “I hope the day comes when no things like this exist, anywhere in the world.”

  “I have never used it in action,” he said. “Only in target practice. But I can not claim innocence, because I would use it if the need arose.”

  They said no more about it, but the matter remained in her mind. She felt as if she had done something forbidden, yet she was not penitent. What was in her mind?

  They reached the town of Guernica. Most of the bomb damage had been cleaned up, and it was now much like any other town. But not in their eyes.

  “I have made a certain study of this situation,” Ernst said as they drove, seeking the address of Quality’s former friend. “In America it was represented as an innocent hamlet with no strategic or military value. They said it was obliterated during a market day when it was swollen with country people. That it was an experiment in terror bombing by the Kondor Legion.”

  “Yes, I saw those reports,” she agreed tightly.

  “But in fact the Basques were rugged fighters. They gave ground grudgingly. It required a lot of force to make them retreat. So air power was necessary, to avoid unnecessary sacrifice of lives.” He glanced at Quality. “I am speaking tactically, not morally.”

  “I understand.”

  “By late April, 1937, the main Basque defensive line had been turned. Guernica was one of the two principal routes of retreat for the Basque forces. It was a communications center. There were three military barracks and four small arms factories there. So it was a legitimate target. That particular raid was given no special importance by the units involved. The primary objectives were a nearby bridge, and any transportation and communications facilities. The town itself was bombed as well, to block any possible retreat of Basque troops.”

  “And some outlying residences.”

  “The assault was carried out by three Italian medium bombers, that dropped approximately two tons of explosives, and twenty one German bombers, eighteen of which were obsolescent JU 52’s, which dropped thirty tons of explosives. The German contingent amounted to only a third of the Kondor Legion’s force, and only one bombing pass was made. It was not fully effective; they failed to take out the bridge. But many bombs struck the town, where fires spread rapidly because of wooden construction, narrow streets, loss of water pressure and the lack of fire-fighting equipment.”

  “But what of the human cost!” she exclaimed.

  “It was just one small, routine action. It is coincidental that we know some of that human cost. I do not think my friend was even listed among the casualties; I learned of it through mutual friends. The cost was great, to us personally, but small in terms of military matters.”

  “And that human cost is echoed all over the world,” she said bitterly. “Wherever there is war.”

  “Wherever there is man,” he said.

  They searched, but could not find where her friend had lived. There were several similar outlying residences, deserted; some were in rubble. There was no sign of the downed airplane; the remnants had probably been scavenged for other uses.

  They started back. “I can’t even say I am disappointed,” Quality said. “I just wanted to see whether there was anything to see. To pay my respects to my friend, in my fashion.”

  “I, too, to mine.”

  “It is so hard to believe that this is God’s will.”

  “According to Nietzsche, the Christian conception of God is corrupt.”

  She glanced sharply at him. “Nietzsche?”

  “Friedrich Nietzsche, a German who lived from 1844 to 1900, but was said to be insane in 1889 until his death.”

  “I should think so!”

  He smiled. “No, he was an able philosopher, and is held in high regard in my country. I understand that his writings influenced the Führer.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Perhaps you should read him. It is said that it is impossible for a person to read him carefully and remain a Christian.”

  “Then why should I want to read him?”

  “Perhaps merely to test your faith. Perhaps to ascertain whether the God you serve truly exists. If he does not, then you have your answer: this destruction is not God’s will.”

  “Why is he so certain that God does not exist?”

  �
��He shows how the Christian God has been adapted from the Jewish God, but refined to make man feel sinful even when he has done nothing wrong, and to give man hope for an afterlife where justice shall be done. Thus man both needs the priest, and has no chance of fulfillment in this life. His hope in the beneficence of the afterlife is vain. Thus it is hope which is the evil of evils—the one thing left in Pandora’s box.”

  “Hope is evil? And what of love?”

  “God was made a person so that it would be possible to love Him. The saints were made as handsome young men or beautiful young women, to appeal to the romanticism of the worshipers of either sex. Love is the state in which man suffers great illusions, seeing things as they are not. Thus when man loves God, he deludes himself, and tolerates much more evil than otherwise.” He paused. “Or so Nietzsche says.

  “Does thee believe that, Ernst?”

  “I got in trouble for declining to abandon the Church! But I must say that was because I did not like having my faith or lack of faith dictated to me. I have encountered people of faith who are good. People like you. I do not know what my belief may be, other than my faith in the power of my swastika.”

  “Thy swastika!” she exclaimed, appalled. She had forgotten that he wore it as a silver icon, his most cherished possession. No matter how nice he seemed, he remained a Nazi.

  “For me it is an object of veneration. It has helped me, perhaps as your faith helps you.”

  “What a parallel!”

  He shrugged, not arguing, and she felt ashamed for her narrowness. She might disagree with him, but she had no right to disparage his faith. “Now we must go to Madrid.”

  “Madrid?”

  “Where I can seek a contact, and facilitate the shipment of your parts.”

  “But I haven’t even answered thy questions about what we are doing here!” she protested.

  “Surely you will, before we return.”

  So it turned out. They drove to Madrid, where she waited in the car while he saw some people and shopped for some fruit to eat along the way. In due course he brought her back to Barcelona, and the shipment of the necessary parts was being facilitated.