Bach-Zelewski at the buffet table, tablecloth flapping, piled with cakes and pastries, pulls a cream puff from the top of a tall layer cake and lifts the light pastry into his mouth, considering me with indifference. I am still soaked from the bucket of water Michael threw in my face.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry …’
Manfred lifts his cigarette hand to his mouth, tilts his head slightly to the side.
He looks right through me.
Bach-Zelewski stamps out his own cigarette.
‘Bloody coward,’ he spits. ‘Kripos are such bloody cowards …’
‘He’s not used to it, that’s all,’ says Manfred, stepping closer, smiling into my face. ‘You should have seen him in the puszcza … afraid to get his socks wet.’
He puts his hands on my shoulders.
‘But what can be done? He’s my friend.’
_ _ _
Manfred has called the car forward.
‘I don’t know what got into me,’ I say.
He turns towards me, stands for a second with his hands in his pockets, produces a packet of Efkas and sticks a cigarette between my lips.
‘Forget about it,’ he says. ‘I spoke to the camera crew, they got it all on film. You could end up famous, your coup de grâce … if he’ll have it, that is …’
‘The Führer?’
‘No, not on the cards, so I’m told. Maybe Himmler, though. Kaltenbrunner, at least … I mean, Hubert got a state funeral, for Christ’s sake! You don’t think it was too much, do you?’
‘What?’
‘All this. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it was too bizarre.’
The car pulls up and I get in. One of the Schwabenland brothers, Michael, is behind the wheel, reeking of booze. The car doesn’t move. Manfred knocks on the glass. I roll the window down.
‘Heinrich?’
‘Yes?’
‘Look at me …’
‘What?’
‘What did he say to you?’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t say who, Heinrich …’
He holds my gaze.
‘I really wish you hadn’t said that …’ he says.
‘He spoke German, Manfred …’
‘And?’
‘He did say something, of course he did.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He begged, for God’s sake … what the hell do you expect?’
He straightens up, slaps his hand on the roof of the car.
‘You know how much I love you, don’t you?’ he says.
The Opel pulls away.
Gold
The Opel lingers as I unlock the door of my house.
I draw back the curtain slightly in the drawing room. The car is still there.
Michael has his arm hooked through the windscreen, he leans out to pick something up from the pavement.
‘Herr?’
Masja stands in the doorway, she looks frightened.
Her sleeves are rolled up, her hands still wet.
I must have screamed.
‘Here, I’m sorry,’ I say.
I take out my wallet and count the notes, slap the coins down on the coffee table. A little more than twenty marks. A pittance.
‘Wait …’
I find two fifty-mark notes in the bureau and go over to the desk.
‘Take this and get away from here.’
‘Herr?’
‘Pack some things … or is there nowhere you can go?’
Her cheeks blush.
‘Gospodin, are you angry? Have I done something wrong?’
‘What? No.’
I write out a note to the Hotel Vogel, the place is Nur für Deutsche, but officers use it to hide away their local mistresses, they call it the Hotel Vögeln – Hotel Fuck. No one will look for her there. I sign my name, Oberleutnant Hoffmann, tear the page from the pad and hand it to her.
‘Go there and wait for me.’
She reads, looks up at me. She is crying now. I press the money into her hand.
‘There’s no need to be afraid, just go.’
She nods, but remains standing.
I yell: ‘Go through the garden. Come on, hurry. Get a move on, NOW!’
But still she hesitates.
I watch her scurry through the garden. She looks both ways then disappears down the path behind the hedge. When again I look out at the road my eyes meet Michael’s as he puts his foot down and speeds away.
I sit down in the rocking chair and rock, PPK in my lap.
Steiner had the gold.
He told me to get it out of him.
Manfred …
_ _ _
A creak in the hallway.
I am out of the chair in an instant, but there is nothing there. I stand and sway on the balls of my feet, the floorboards beneath me creaking, silence, creaking. But there is something, down in the basement, the rattle and turn of a handle. I hold the pistol out in front of me as I creep down the stairs, straining to listen. Nothing. Or rather: a muffled oscillating sound from the floor above, like the heavy ticking of a clock. I steal back up the stairs, edge my way along the wall to the drawing room, release the safety catch from the PPK and pounce into the open doorway. Again, it is nothing: the rocking chair, still in motion. I walk forward, place my hand on its back to stop it. Only it won’t stop, for my hand is trembling. And then, behind me: footsteps, halting abruptly as I spin round.
‘Masja!’
She stands with her coat over her arm.
‘I forgot my Passierschein,’ she says quietly.
‘For God’s sake, Masja! I could have shot you!’
‘I will go now.’
‘No. It doesn’t matter. Just stay.’
‘What?’
‘No, go!’
‘What does Herr want me to do?’
‘Go. No. I don’t know, Masja. I need to think. Bring me the cognac.’
Then, as she turns:
‘And Masja. Check and see if anyone’s watching us from the street.’
‘Herr?’
‘A car. Suspicious persons, anyone hanging around, the same car again … take down the registration numbers and see if any recur. Do you understand?’
‘Herr?’
‘Just go, for God’s sake!’
_ _ _
In front of me on the desk: the Hungarian cognac, a box of 7.65s, the PPK.
I have replaced the missing cartridge and filled an extra magazine.
I hold my head in my hands. Be methodical. Deep breaths. Relax. Think.
The seconds before I fired.
I jot down the sentences from memory.
Goga said:
Steiner had the gold.
He told me to get it out of Steiner …
The one who spoke before …
He must be Manfred. Manfred spoke, he spoke before …
I tap an Efka from the packet and light up, inhale the smoke deep into my lungs as I stare at my notes.
