HS02 - Days of Atonement (22 page)

‘One glance,’ he warned as he pulled, ‘then douse that flame.’

The lid came up, I looked inside, and my head began to spin.

Suddenly, the light went out. The smell of
aqua vitae
was overwhelmingly strong. Doctor Korna had blown out the flame none too soon. ‘The whole place might explode,’ he hissed.

Still, I had seen what I had seen.

‘Heads?’ I breathed.

‘The private collection of General Katowice. Frenchmen, for the most
part,’ he whispered. ‘An occasional Prussian traitor. Now you’ve seen them, let’s get out of here.’

I reached for his arm in the dark, and held him back.

‘What does this mean, sir?’ I asked.

‘It means that we are in the hands of maniacs, Herr Procurator. The general pays von Schill a bounty for each French body that he brings in. Then I am required to do the dirty work.’

‘Major von Schill comes to Kamenetz?’

The threat that the major had pronounced as he robbed me took on new meaning: ‘Betray the general,’ he had snarled, ‘I’ll search you out in hell and have that head off your shoulders!’

‘He is an honoured guest whenever he brings a trophy of war. For fear of being branded a traitor, I have been obliged to use my surgical instruments on numerous occasions. I must escape from here!’

‘Did Gottewald know?’ I asked.

‘So close to Katowice? Of course, he knew. And he approved. The Prussia they want will be a fearsome place. A better place, or worse, I do not know. But it will be free of the French and their sympathisers.’

‘Is this why you wrote to Berlin? You thought I’d come to investigate?’

‘Exactly,’ Korna replied. ‘But I was wrong. No one will come. Katowice will build a vat that’s big enough for all the French in Prussia. And I will probably join them. Help me, sir. For the love of God, help me leave this mad-house. I pray at night that the enemy will come and end this nightmare.’

T
HE
B
URAN WAS
howling like a dirge the following morning.

Flakes of snow flew like scraps of paper in wild flurries.

Though relieved to be going home, I prepared myself to face the dangers of the road, the risk of meeting Baptista von Schill and his brigands again. I took a final look back, wondering what had happened to the boy. I had expected to find Rochus waiting outside my door that morning, but he was not there. I thought to see him standing in the yard as we boarded the vehicle. There was no sign of him. As Egon Eis cracked his whip and the horses pulled away, I almost hoped that he would run to curse me out of the fortress.

But even there, I was disappointed.

As the coach rolled down the hill and into the woods encircling the fortress, I spotted flames among the trees. I wiped the condensation from the window with my glove, but the rapid motion of the vehicle made it difficult
to see what was going on. A group of figures stood in a circle holding torches, with two more in the centre—one very tall, the other short, face to face. A man, and a boy.

I opened the window and leant out, but the scene had already disappeared behind the trees. Suddenly, a strangled cry broke the silence of the woods. It was not unlike the howling of a wolf, but I was certain that the voice was human.

I pulled the window up to avoid hearing more, and felt guilty as I did so.

I could not shake the boy soldier from my thoughts.

Was that the vision I would carry away from Kamenetz?

Rochus being whipped for his failure to watch over me through the long, cold night?

 17 

W
E HAD BEEN
travelling in a frozen daze since dawn on the second day.

A rose-coloured sky and the pale lemon ghost of a winter sun heralded my approach to Lotingen. But long before the coach entered town, the wind blew up a gale and a mass of dark storm-clouds came charging in from the coast, wiping out the changeling beauty of that brittle winter evening.

The church bells were chiming six o’clock as the carriage pulled up outside the shadow of the Rossbach Gate. Night had fallen like a heavy curtain over Lotingen. As I took off my gloves to lower the window-sash, my fingers seemed to attach themselves to the brass frame. Thrusting my head out of the coach, looking for the guard, eager to be admitted, the cold nipped viciously at my nose and ears. A knot of French soldiers were huddling around a brazier outside the guardroom. The fierce wind toyed and tugged at the raging flames, forcing the men to pull their hands away for fear of being scorched.

I was so relieved to be home, I smiled at the gendarme who grudgingly left the warmth and the firelight and came across to inspect my papers. That Frenchman stared at me with bulging eyes from beneath the visor of his sweat-stained
shako
, growling something that was not intended to be welcoming as he pulled a percussion pistol from his belt and cocked the hammer, snatching the travel documents rudely out of my hand.

‘Where are you bound?’ he growled.

I wanted to say that I was going home, but decided against this in an instant, and gave him a different address. He nodded sourly, thrust the papers back into my hand, and looked at me with evident mistrust.

‘One hour, Herr Magistrate, then get off the streets. You’ll find yourself locked up in a cell if you don’t.’

Egon Eis cracked his whip at the horses, and the carriage passed noisily beneath the medieval gate and onto the cobbled streets of town. Looking out as the vehicle made its way along Frederikstrasse, I was suddenly struck by the oddness of everything. Not one single shop was open. All the houses
were closed and shuttered, too. There was no sign of life, no hint of commerce, though we were passing through the heart of Lotingen. I tried to dampen down my fears: the wind was freezing, the curfew almost upon us, and heavily armed French patrols on every corner were not good for trade. Even so, something was out of kilter.

‘Can you go no faster?’ I shouted up to Eis.

My wife and children had been left alone in a city where a massacre had taken place. I had abandoned them.
Just like Gottewald
 . . . The thought struck home with force. In Kamenetz I had been so busy, I had not had time to think of private concerns. Now, I was anxious to conclude the business and hurry home. In the meantime, I could only pray that Lavedrine had kept his promise to look out for the safety of my family.

As the hooves of the horse clattered loudly, echoing off the dark walls in the tomb-like silence, I realised that the only light in the whole street was our carriage-lamp. None of the lanterns had been lit that night. As I gazed out of the window, mentally urging Eis to go faster and faster, the shadow of my driver rippled along the walls in a broken silhouette. He might have been the only soul left alive in the entire town. Then again, I thought, he might have been the Angel of Death, scurrying from house to house, striking down the first-born.

Had there been another murder? Had another family been massacred?

The carriage skidded violently, turning left, then speeded up again.

After a quarter of a mile, the holly hedge and kitchen garden of my home appeared. All closed, all shuttered, not a single light was shining to welcome me. Then again, they did not expect me, and I was not going home. Not yet. I looked the other way with pangs of regret as the house fell behind.

At last, the carriage wheels crunched along familiar gravel, then drew to a halt.

The building was steeped in darkness. Eight graceful Corinthian columns and a triangular pediment above, a broad flight of shallow stone steps below. As I glanced out of the window, I noticed that not all of the shutters had been closed. There was a glimmer of light in one of the rooms on the ground floor.

‘Give me your lamp,’ I said as I jumped to the ground.

‘Stopping long, sir?’ Eis asked wearily.

His voice was hoarse, weak with exhaustion. He had set his sights on a hot meal, strong ale, and a warm bed.

‘I won’t keep you much further,’ I replied.

The iron knocker was cast in the shape of a Prussian eagle. I let it fall three times on the front door. My attention was caught, as it always was, by
signs of rude entry which a French axe had left in the oak panels the year before. Like every other inhabitant in the town, I puzzled over why the damage had never been set to rights. The householder was not short of money. Our more malicious neighbours claimed that the damage had been left untouched to remind the world that the victim of this outrage was a Prussian. That scar was meant to prove that he was not a traitor, but was only doing his duty as a public figure.

I knocked again, wondering whether General Katowice would be taken in by Dittersdorf’s damaged door.

‘What do you want?’ a voice cried from beyond the splintered panelling.

There was such a pitiful tone to it, I asked myself once more if something terrible had happened while I had been so far away from home. In a rising panic, I shouted my name and struck the eagle against the door again.

Bolts were drawn and chains rattled. The door opened a trifle, and a pale servant looked out. I raised my lamp to show my face.

‘I must speak with the count,’ I demanded.

A shadow cut across the rhombus of pale yellow light that fell on the tiled floor of the entrance hall. Someone was watching from the doorway of the reception room.

‘Let him in, Hans.’

I recognised the voice, but when I stepped inside, crossed the hall, and found myself face to face with the man himself, I was shocked. He was, in truth, the haggard ghost of the Count Dittersdorf that I had left in Lotingen six nights before. He looked more like a wrinkled bloodhound than ever—his long, jowly face was lined, tense and drawn, his eyes sagging, red-rimmed, as if he had not been able to sleep for one single instant since the day that I set out for Kamenetz.

‘I did not expect you so soon,’ he said, crossing the hall to meet me. Then, remembering himself and what he was, he retreated into his habitual shell of formal hospitality. ‘I am pleased to see you safe and well, Hanno.’

‘What has happened, sir?’ I demanded, fearful of the reply.

‘Shouldn’t I be asking you?’ he replied, taking my arm, leading me towards the lighted room. Suddenly, he smiled timidly and turned to me. ‘I know what you intend, of course. Much has happened while you’ve been away. None of it is good, but at least no more innocents have been murdered.’

‘Thank the Lord for that!’

Those words did not come from my mouth. Nor did the doleful sigh that accompanied them. Count Dittersdorf and I had barely set foot inside a large room illuminated by a single candle in a brass mount. It flickered above the mantlepiece, where a log fire crackled and blazed, throwing up a shower of sparks. A large, winged armchair was set squarely in front of the
fire, as if whoever was sitting there was unwilling to share the warmth and light with any other person.

‘Indeed, my dear,’ Count Dittersdorf replied, bowing in that direction, as his wife peered out from behind the high back of the leather chair. She was wearing a large woollen bed-bonnet, and held a white handkerchief to her eyes, as if she had just been weeping.

‘I apologise for disturbing you, ma’am,’ I said with a tilt of my head. ‘I have just returned to town. I thought it best to inform the count.’

The countess made no answer, but raised the linen square to her eyes again to stifle a sob as she turned back to face the fire.

I glanced at Dittersdorf, hoping that he might offer some explanation for his wife’s state, but all I received was a raising of his bushy eyebrows and a sagging of the bags beneath his eyes. Like a bloodhound that had lost the scent. ‘There, there,’ he cooed, in what was meant to be a soothing manner. ‘Why don’t you go up to bed, my love? I won’t be long, I promise you. Hans will stand outside the door until I come to you. I must speak to Procurator Stiffeniis. It should take, what . . . five minutes, no more.’

Dittersdorf went to the door and called for his servant. I stood watching in respectful silence while the lady was escorted from the room. The instant the door was closed and we were alone, Dittersdorf blew out a loud sigh.