A shot rang out like thunder. A scream rose and collapsed.
Fast-moving clouds, their shapes changing constantly, filled the fragment of visible sky. The shooting stopped after ten. A strange sense of torpor set in. A quarter of an hour later the automatic rifles chattered again, the ensuing silence filled with the howling of the sick and the raucous voices of the Germans.
At noon the doctors heard heavy footsteps moving around the building; a dog barked and a woman squealed briefly. The door suddenly opened and the Ukrainian soldier came in.
“Everyone out! Fast!” he shouted in Ukrainian from the doorway. A German helmet appeared behind him.
“Everyone out!” he repeated, shouting at the top of his lungs. Dust and sweat were mixed on his face; his eyes looked drunken, trembling.
The doctors filed out. Stefan found himself next to Nosilewska. The corridor was empty except for a heap of crumpled bedding right outside the door. Long black streaks on the floor led to the stairs. A great mass lay propped against the radiator at the bend in the corridor: a corpse bent double, a black icicle protruding from its smashed skull. A gnarled yellow heel stuck out from under the cherry-colored robe. Everybody stepped over it except the German bringing up the rear, who kicked the foot with his boot. The shapes walking ahead of Stefan danced before his eyes. He took hold of Nosilewska’s shoulder. He was still holding on when they reached the library.
Piles of books had been thrown to the floor from the two bookcases nearest the door. The pages fluttered as the doctors stepped over them on the way in. Two Germans waiting by the door entered last. They sat down on the comfortable sofa, upholstered in red plush.
Everything seemed to waver in Stefan’s eyes. The room throbbed and turned gray, then collapsed like a burst blister. He fainted for the first time in his life.
When he came to, he realized that he was lying on something warm. His head rested on Nosilewska’s knees; Pajpak was holding his legs up.
“What happened to the nurses?” Stefan asked distractedly.
“They were all sent to Bierzyniec this morning.”
“What about us?”
No one answered. Stefan stood up, staggered, but felt that he would not faint again. Steps approached from outside; a soldier came in.
“Ist der Professor Lonkoski hier?” he asked.
There was silence. At last Rygier whispered, “Dean. Your Excellency.”
The dean, slumped in his chair when he heard the German’s call, slowly straightened. His large, heavy, expressionless eyes moved slowly from face to face. He grasped the arms of the chair, raised himself up with an effort, and reached into the upper pocket of his coat. He felt for something with a movement of his flattened hand. The priest, in his black cassock, stepped toward him, but the dean gestured categorically and walked to the door.
“Kommen Sie, bitte,” said the German, and graciously allowed him to go first.
The rest sat in silence until two shots roared thunderously in a closed space very nearby. Even the Germans, talking as they sat on the couch, fell silent. Kauters, bathed in sweat, stretched his Egyptian profile into a notched line and wrung his hands until his joints cracked. Rygier twisted his mouth childishly and bit his lip. Only Nosilewska—bent forward, elbows on her knees, her chin resting on her fists—seemed calm. Calm and beautiful.
Stefan felt something swelling in his stomach, his whole body seemed enormous and slick with sweat, a hideous trembling crept over his skin, but he thought that Nosilewska would be beautiful even in death, and he took a perverse satisfaction in the thought.
“It seems that… that we, too…” Rygier whispered to Staszek.
All of them sat on the red chairs except the priest, who stood between two bookcases in the darkest corner, Stefan rushed over to him.
The priest was whispering.
“They’re killing…” said Stefan.
“Father, it’s not true!”
“You’re wrong, Father, it’s a lie,” Stefan whispered. “There’s nothing there, nothing! I understood it when I fainted. This room, and us, everything, it’s only our blood. When that stops flowing and the heart stops beating, even heaven dies! Do you hear me, Father?”
Stefan pulled at his cassock.
“There’s nothing, no color, no smell, not even darkness…”
“It is this world that does not exist,” the priest said quietly, his ugly, pained face looking back at Stefan.
The Germans burst out laughing. Kauters suddenly stood up and went over to them. “Excuse me,” he said in German, “but Herr Obersturmfuhrer took my papers away. Would you happen to know whether…?”
“Be patient,” answered a stout, wide-shouldered German with red-veined cheeks. He turned back to his comrade and spoke. “You know, the houses were already on fire and I thought everyone inside was dead. All of a sudden this woman comes running out through the flames, heading right for the woods. She’s running like a madwoman, holding onto a goose. Unbelievable! Fritz wanted to take her out, but he was laughing so hard he couldn’t shoot straight.”
They both laughed. Kauters stood motionless in front of them, then suddenly his face twisted up strangely and he forced out a reedy “ha ha ha!”
The storyteller’s expression darkened.
“What are you laughing at, doctor?” he asked. “There’s nothing for you to laugh at.”
White spots appeared on Kauters’s cheeks.
“I…” he croaked. “I am German!”
The German looked up at him carefully.
“Are you now? Well in that case go ahead and laugh.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, powerful and hard, instantly recognizable as German.
“Father, do you believe?” Stefan asked with his last ounce of strength.
“I believe.”
A tall officer they had not seen before came in. His uniform fit as if it had been painted on, and a dull sparkle showed on his epaulets. His bare head was long, with a noble forehead and chestnut hair speckled with gray. Light flashed in his steel-rimmed glasses when he looked at them. The surgeon approached him, tensed, and held out his hand.
“Von Kauters.”
“Thiessdorff.”
“Herr Doktor, what has happened to our dean?” Kauters asked.
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll take him to Bieschinetz in my car. He’s packing his things now.”
“Really?” Kauters exclaimed.
The German blushed and shook his head. “Mein Herr!” Then he smiled and said abruptly, “You must believe what I say.
“Why are we being held here?”
“Come now. You were in real trouble before, but Hutka has calmed down now. You’re under guard so our Ukrainians can’t do you any harm. They go for blood like hounds, you know.”
“Really?” asked Kauters, amazed.
“Oh yes, they’re like falcons: you have to feed them raw meat,” the German psychiatrist said with a laugh.
The priest came over and spoke in broken German. “Herr Doktor, how has this come about? Man and doctor and patient, the people who have been shot. Death!”
At first it seemed the German would turn away or raise a hand to shield himself from this black-clad interference, but he suddenly brightened.
“Every nation,” he answered, his voice deep, “is like an organism. Sometimes the body’s sick cells have to be
