HS02 - Days of Atonement (39 page)

There was nothing new or startling in such news. Only God could know how the Jews managed to survive in the countryside, where thoughtless violence against them by their neighbours was the order of the day. Still, I felt an uncomfortable shiver as I read of the manner in which they had been murdered. Like the Gottewald children,
their throats had been cut from ear to ear.

I turned over the page, and carried on with my reading.

The next mention of Gottewald was in an undated regimental memo which might well have referred back to the night-training exercise in Korbern.
I am always pleased to hear that my orders have been carried out in every single detail. You will be rewarded.
The note was signed by General Katowice.

Which detail was the general referring to?

Two months later, I read on, Katowice had been despatched, together with his troops, to command the more troublesome fortress of Königsberg. Hardly another quarter passed—we were now in January 1796—before the general sent the following despatch to Berlin:

In view of meritorious services in the line of duty, immediate promotion and increase of pay and pension has been recommended in the following cases:

1. Aloysio Munz—1st company trumpet-major;

2. Oswald Trieschkel—3rd company sergeant-at-arms;

3. Bruno Gottewald—staff, 2nd lieutenant . . .

I sat back and stretched out my arms, easing the cold ache in my shoulders.

Outside, the cathedral clock struck again. It was three o’clock and I was
only halfway through the mountain of documents. The winter sky was already growing dark, and I had to turn up the lamp.

Königsberg . . .

I must have seen Bruno Gottewald. I had probably met him! The regiment had moved to Königsberg, and they were still garrisoned there in February 1804, a year and month that I would never be able to forget. I had been called to the city to investigate a series of murders. Obliged to live inside the fortress, I had met General Katowice on a number of occasions. With the expert help of the aged Professor Kant, I had solved the crime, but . . .

My mind flew back.

While waiting for permission to examine a corpse which was being held in the castle, I had spoken to General Katowice. He had been attended by a group of junior officers. One of them must have been Gottewald. But which one? What did the man look like? How did he behave? I racked my brains, but could remember nothing that was useful.

I shook these thoughts from my head, turned back to the folder, and continued to read the reports. The years that Gottewald had spent in Königsberg had been relatively uneventful, as the papers revealed. Still, he had been promoted again—to first lieutenant, that is, fifth or sixth in the order of command under General Katowice. His discourse with the general was established on a daily basis. If Katowice had an order to give, then it would come at first or second hand to Gottewald, and there was little reason to doubt that he would carry out his duties with admirable precision. But no details were available.

What did this long silence mean? Did it mean anything at all?

With the outbreak of war between France and the united forces of Austria and Russia in 1805, and the catastrophic defeat of the unlikely allies at Austerlitz, Prussia found herself in an impossible position. King Frederick William III’s much-discussed
Thoughts on the Art of Government
amounted to nothing less than a plea for peace and neutrality for Prussia. But Napoleon had other plans. He struck hard and fast, and every available Prussian soldier had been drawn into the defence of the country. Including Senior First Lieutenant Gottewald; he had fought with remarkable courage at the battle of Jena. While travelling to Berlin carrying despatches for Katowice, he had been swept up in the events, and had discharged his duties with such élan that he had been awarded the King’s Own, the gold medal for bravery. As the battle drew to its close, and the French invasion of the country began in earnest, he had made a swift escape and withdrawn to Königsberg, bringing news of the national disaster to the fortress. He had then taken an active part in the defence of the garrison, and had distinguished himself again:
General Katowice took chain-shot to the arm, and lost his hand. 1st Lieutenant Gottewald made a tourniquet with his sash, and carried the general to the company surgeon at great risk to his own life.
He had, of course, been rewarded. Within three months, he was made up to second major, to replace
Second Major Hans Krantz, who had died of wounds in the defence of the fortress.

Gottewald had marched out of Königsberg bearing arms, and led half of the troops to Kamenetz. As the report of the ordered withdrawal stated,
Herr General Katowice was in no condition to do so.

I did a quick calculation. In the course of twenty-four years of military service, Gottewald had risen to third in command. This amounted to a fairy tale. How many men of uncertain birth had gone so far in such a short measure of time? How many men of noble extraction had gone less than half that distance in twice that number of years? Had he signed articles for another nine years of service, who could say how far he might have risen?

Gottewald was dead—he would make no further progress in the army.

But what if he had lived?

If Prussia revolted against France, if Katowice led the revival of national pride from Kamenetz, if Gottewald had been alive and fighting at his general’s side, what might the future have held in store for him?

The report of Gottewald’s death was too recent to appear in those files, of course, but the details of the report that I had read in Kamenetz were engraved on my mind:

. . . extensive bruising of the right side of the head and the body, multiple cuts and abrasions of the arms, hands, and upper half of the trunk. A deep laceration crossing diagonally from the right temple to the left-hand corner of the mouth has destroyed the face . . .

Seen within the context of all the rest, the behaviour of Bruno Gottewald was both strange and inexplicable, and made his sudden death seem even more striking. What was he doing leading a deer hunt? What excess of zeal had pushed him to take such a risk? If every other recorded act in his military career suggested the calculation of a man who meant to shine, what dim light had drawn him on that day? What was he trying to prove? And who was he trying to prove it to?

I huddled inside my cloak, as these questions rattled inside my brain. I could have added a dozen more. Why was Gottewald held in such low regard by his fellows? Why had his career slowed down before it was brought to an abrupt and bloody halt? Was it true that he had shown leanings towards the French? Could he have been a spy? And what about Sybille Gottewald? There was no mention in those files of a wife or children. Had he
failed to ask the general’s permission to marry? Was that why they had
both
been punished?

I stacked the files together on the desk, and stood up.

A moment later, I sat down again. I picked up a quill, and chewed on the end for quite some time. Finally, I came to a decision. There
was
one person who could tell me more. The only person who had made an effort to assist me in Kamenetz. A man who was desperate to escape from the fortress. I had met the garrison surgeon, Doctor Korna, in great secrecy, and I had promised to help him. But before doing anything on his behalf, he must help me a great deal more. Though I had found nothing in those documents to support my opinion, I was still convinced that the motive for the massacre lay in Kamenetz.

I penned a brief request to the Minister of Justice, to be sent on my own initiative. Without telling Count Dittersdorf. Without referring to any authority, except my own.

Then, I took up the key that Dittersdorf had left on his way out.

The street was deserted. The hour of curfew was drawing near, and the dismal weight of that long day crushed heavily down upon me. Now, another thankless task awaited me. I would have to speak to Lieutenant Mutiez and tell him what I wanted for the following day. Without Lavedrine at my side, I was not sure how far my power would stretch.

What would I do if he refused?

To bolster my courage, I tried to imagine that things had ended differently on the battlefield of Jena, and that I, a victorious Prussian, was about to impose my will upon one of the defeated Frenchmen.

In this belligerent frame of mind, I marched across the square to face the enemy.

 28 

L
IEUTENANT
M
UTIEZ KEPT
his pledge.

A hooded barouche was waiting in the lane outside my door at seven o’clock the following morning. The fields were a crusty carpet of frost, the sky a startling shade of blue, the colour of a robin’s egg. I had not seen such a beautiful start to the day in over three months.

I climbed up, and closed the carriage curtains.

No man would see me leaving town in a French vehicle, or ask himself where I might be going.

The driver cracked his whip, and the vehicle rattled along the rutted lane that follows the west bank of the River Nogat in the direction of the sea.

With the town well behind, I threw back the curtains.

The blue sky had vanished. A pale orange glow hung low over the invisible far bank of the estuary. Thick fog rolled in off the dark tidal waters like an invading army, wiping out everything in its path. On the landward side, close beside the carriage, the head-high sandstone levee glistened dull and black with moisture. The light seemed to flicker, as if a total eclipse were pressing darkness down upon the morning. Then, the sun went out altogether. The rippling water faded to opalescent grey beneath the encroaching mist. Every sign of life seemed to dissolve away. All forms lost shape and substance, and were blotted out by the time we reached the coast.

I had not been out along the coast road in the past year. The area was heavily guarded. French troops patrolled the quay and the wooden doors that ranged raggedly along the sandstone cliff-face in all shapes and sizes. I remembered visiting the bay the summer before last with my family, driving slowly, passing these irregular openings in the rock, peering into the deep, dark caverns that lay beyond. Manni was curious to see what went on there. In one vast lock-up, fires burned languorously, damped down with hay and sea-wrack, throwing up huge aromatic clouds of dense smoke that made us cough. Lines of charcoal sparkled dully on the ground. Rows of gutted herring hung from hooks in the roof. The fish were being smoked inside, the
useless innards tossed out onto the quay, where petrels and larger solan geese squawked and scrambled, fighting over the pickings.

In another shed we watched them making ropes, winding the different strands into massive cables. I remembered standing hand in hand with Manni, watching the work. The torques let out almighty creaks and terrible groans as the hemp was wound ever tighter. The little boy laughed, then clung to my legs as the noise grew fiercer. It was a glimpse into hell—the black-faced labourers, the thick smoke rising up to facilitate the twisting of the heated cord.

All this had gone.

The basic trade of the place had always been fish. Fresh fish, live fish, fish just caught, their tails slapping and thrashing in shallow tanks of seawater. Dead fish were gutted, then stored in barrels, packed down with salt. Fish of every shape and size laid out in boxes on the stones. This bounty had been sold in the Old Fish Market. But now, it, too, was closed. The fishmongers, ropemakers, coopers, and all the rest had been pushed out by the French. The masters and their labourers had moved to the area closer to the town, the new port, where Leon Biswanger had his workshop. Meanwhile, the estuary had been requisitioned for the use of the invaders.

‘I discovered the place myself,’ Mutiez confided triumphantly. ‘You won’t be troubled there, Herr Procurator. When we held the bodies of the children in Bitternau, there was a riot in the square. But there, they’ll stop a bullet if they try anything.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I hope you’ll find it to your liking, sir.’