In the Land of Armadillos (26 page)

“I'll tell Haas. He's the new Chief of Employment.”

“One more thing. Mirsky delivered the flour earlier than expected.”

“Good. Excellent. What else?”

“Jasinski. He says his cow died.”

“Hm. Too bad. Tell him he has to bring it here before we can mark it off.”

The pallid face registered horror. “You want him to bring his dead cow? Here?”

“Tell him to leave it around the back. Near the stable or the rabbit hutches. It stinks so much already, a dead cow can only be an improvement.”

“Excuse me, Reinhart. But what do we want with Jasinski's dead cow?”

“How can I be sure it's really dead? For all I know, he sold it on the black market.” He went back to the books. “By the way, you're doing a spectacular job with these ledgers. I could never be this organized. Take an extra bag of sugar. Go on, you've earned it. Tell Manya it's from me.”

“Speaking of Manya, she sent you something special.”

Reinhart liked Drogalski's wife, a pale, freckled farm girl with apple cheeks and straight, sandy hair. She came now and then to bring the manager his lunch, accompanied by a cherubic flaxen-haired daughter. “What is it?”

“
Topielec.
Poppy-seed cake. Old family recipe.”

“How did she know? My grandmother used to make poppy-seed cake. Thank her for me, will you? And stop looking so anxious. You're making
me
worry.” This was a running joke between them, but today the manager wasn't smiling. “Come on, what is it? Money trouble? Girl trouble? Your secret's safe with me.”

The manager's prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He chose his words with care. “You remember Hahnemeier?”

“Sure. Volkdeutscher. Used to be the manager. Fired for stealing.”

Drogalski shifted from one muddy boot to the other. “Well, since I started here, he's been talking to people. To our farmers. When I see him, I tell him to leave. He says he's just visiting friends. But what I'm hearing, it's worrying me.”

Reinhart massaged his forehead. After spending a whole day in the manager's close office, reviewing ledger entries scrawled in a neat, upright hand, he had a piercing headache. Also, there'd been the letter from his wife today; she wanted him to come back to Breslau for summer vacation, the boys hadn't seen him in months, they needed to spend time together as a family, etc. etc. “What are you hearing?”

“Well . . .” He looked uneasy. “For years, Hahnemeier lied to the earl about how much the estate was bringing in. He would say this farmer had a bad year or that one came up short. Then he would sell the difference and pocket the profits. When I started here, that was the end of his business.”

“What does that have to do with you? He was a bad thief, he got caught. He should have been more careful.”

The Adam's apple bobbed up and down a couple of times before he spoke. “He says I'm taking food out of his children's mouths. He says something might happen to make me sorry I ever met him.”

Reinhart burst out laughing. Drogalski looked startled. Affectionately, he squeezed the younger man's shoulder. “Do you really think he would dare to hurt a hair on your head, you, Jozef Drogalski, manager of Adampol Palace, assistant to the Reich Regional Commissioner for Agricultural Products and Services? Come on. He'd spend the rest of his life in jail, if he wasn't shot! Sounds like tavern talk to me. He's just blowing off steam, trying to make himself look important. Now, cheer up. Have some of your wife's poppy-seed cake. And explain to me what happened to the rest of Walczak's potatoes.”

*  *  *

His vacation was planned for July, it couldn't be helped. He left Adampol with a heavy heart, turning around in the backseat of the Mercedes for a last glimpse of his glorious castle before it disappeared behind the curtain of trees, just in time to see Petra wave goodbye to him, heartbreakingly beautiful in the yellow square of light that was their bedroom window.

At the lake, he parceled out gifts, swam with the boys, lay in the sun, made dutiful, docile missionary love to his wife. While the boys quarreled, his wife bombarded him with mind-bendingly dull trivia; the neighbors were impossible boors, the cook had purchased the wrong roast, they were invited to Judge Koenigwasser's for a luncheon, she volunteers with Winter Help, he's a big shot in the local civil administration. In his heart, he was riding through his forest on the back of his beautiful Polish Arabian mare, Fallada.

On the fifth day, he received an official-looking telegram. Lotte, watching him read it, saw him pale and lean against a wall for support. Then he summoned the car, bid his family a hasty farewell, and sped back to Włodawa.

*  *  *

“How did he die?”

The doctor bent over the body. “Clearly, he was badly beaten. You can see for yourself, there's massive bruising on the chest and stomach.” He pointed to the blackened marks mottling the thin, sunken chest. “And, of course, there's the large wound here, on the side of the head. It looks to me like he was hit with a shovel.”

For a moment the only sound in the room was the accusatory buzz of busy flies. Someone thought to bring in an electric fan; the reek of decomposition in the small hot room was almost overwhelming. By the time Reinhart had the body exhumed, it had been in the earth for a week.

With shaking hands, he took out his handkerchief, held it over his nose and mouth. He'd been wrong about Hahnemeier, terribly, irredeemably wrong. The Volkdeutscher had confronted Drogalski on Sunday, right after church. In front of his wife and daughter and a whole host of farmers, he'd promised to kill him in such a way that no one would ever know, and no one would ever find the body.

The doctor was examining the wound, black with earth and clotted blood. “The trauma to the head is bad, but it wasn't enough to kill him. See his hands, the way he's holding them over his chest?” He sighed, stroked his little pointed beard. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Kommandant. These men, whoever they were . . . in my opinion, when they buried him, your friend was still alive.”

*  *  *

It was late in the afternoon when Reinhart's Mercedes pulled up in front of Soroka's shop. The worst heat of the day was over, the sunset was painting the gables of the Great Synagogue across the street in shades of jade and tangerine. Emerging from the back of his car into Włodawa's market square, Reinhart felt like he was swimming through swamp water.

He dragged off his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. He should eat something, he thought dully. When was the last time he'd eaten? He didn't remember. The droning of flies in the saddlemaker's yard reminded him of Drogalski's corpse, and he was almost sick right there on the doorstep.

Inside, an adolescent girl was rocking the baby. He was crying, a thin, reedy sound. She rattled a halter trimmed with sleigh bells, but it wasn't working. Even in his current state of distress, Reinhart still noted her soft-looking mouth, her high breasts, the simmering mass of hair.

“Why is he crying?” he said.

“He's sick.”

“Maybe he should see a doctor.” Reinhart took a step toward her. She paled and clutched the baby tighter. He knew why. There were too many terrible stories about SS men and crying babies. “Kitchy-kitchy-koo,” he crooned. The baby gripped the proffered finger in his little fist and regarded him with dark, serious eyes.

“He's warm,” he said to her. “Where's your father?”

She was so surprised that she forgot to answer. Soroka materialized in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Haskel,” said Reinhart. He was having trouble controlling his voice. “You probably already know. My manager, Drogalski . . . someone killed him.”

The saddlemaker's eyes were red. “His father is one of my oldest friends,” he muttered. “Jozef was a good boy. A very good boy.”

They were quiet for a moment. Reinhart spoke first. “I know you, Haskel,” he said heavily. “People tell you things. What do you know about this?”

Soroka hesitated, then bobbed his head. A forester, going through the woods on his regular rounds, had seen it all from start to finish. Drogalski, already bleeding as he stumbled over roots and stones. Drogalski, sobbing as he dug his own grave. Drogalski, on his knees, begging for his life. And right behind him, Hahnemeier, drinking and laughing, delivering the final blow.

Perspiration rained down Reinhart's back, and the world began to go out from under him. One Soroka fetched him a chair, another Soroka laid a cold wet cloth on his forehead, a third Soroka passed him a glass of something clear and fortifying.

“He needs air,” someone murmured, and opened the shutters with a bang. A shaft of light streamed into the room. It fell across his face, warming one side with an amber glow.

He had to save them. All of them. His workers, their families, their friends, people he'd never met and would never know. Too many decent, unremarkable folks were losing their lives, destroyed by men committing unforgivable crimes in the name of his Fatherland. Why the war in Eastern Europe turned men into monsters, he couldn't say. What he did know was this: Someday the frenzy of killing would end, and the rule of law would return. Until then, Willy Reinhart would save everyone he could.

The baby started to fuss again. Soroka's wife took him in her arms, clucking to him in a silly singsong voice. But nothing worked; the little red face was screwed up tight, and his tiny fists were white-knuckled as they pumped the air.

A memory. His son Matthias, the sweet smell of him after a bath, swaddled in a downy yellow quilt. “May I try?” said Reinhart. “I used to do this with my boys.”

Gently, she deposited the youngest Soroka on his shoulder. The bramble of soft black curls tickled Reinhart's nose. After a very few pats, the baby gave a loud, satisfying
braaaaaaaaaap!
His eyes flew wide open, as if he had surprised himself.

He didn't know who started laughing first, maybe it was him. But then Haskel joined in, and then everyone was doing it, they laughed and laughed until the force from their laughter shook the walls, rattled the dishes in the cupboard, pushed against the ceiling.

Carefully, he handed the wiggling baby to the lovely daughter. Got to his feet, passed his hand over his hair, dropped his hat back on his head. Tipped it just so. And then he climbed back into his Mercedes and drove away.

*  *  *

There was no trial. The police went to Hahnemeier's house, picked him up, and threw him in jail. After two weeks, he was out again.

Reinhart had to shout over the orchestra. “Perhaps there's been a mistake. This man is a murderer.”

“Really? They gave him two whole weeks?” Streibel burst out laughing, pink and effusive on Reinhart's brandy. “Come on, Willy, he killed a fucking
Polack!
”

In the ballroom of Reinhart's castle, corks popped, jewels sparkled, women laughed, couples danced. Someone's girl sang sentimental pop songs. There was a buffet of boar and venison, goose and wood pigeon, shot earlier in the day by the guests and prepared to perfection by the palace chef. On all counts, the hunting party was a smashing success. They'd bagged two boars, a bear, a timber wolf, an enormous stag with antlers half the width of the room, an entire aviary of game birds. More important, his beloved Fallada had performed magnificently, sure-footed, always a lady, soaring effortlessly over gates and streams. Soroka's saddle was such a sublime fit, it was as if horse and rider were fused into one supreme mythical being.

“Who painted those murals?” said Haas. Thorough and humorless, behind his back the others called him “The General of the Jews.”

“I don't know. It was done in the twenties, I think.”

“I could use a good housepainter,” he mused. “I'd like something like that in my dining room.”

“Are you married, Haas?” asked Falkner from across the table. Younger than Reinhart by ten years, he had a topknot of dark hair, a pale elongated face, and soft, surprised-looking brown eyes. He was the brains behind the drainage project, a massive network of scaffolding and canals meant to turn the swamps around Włodawa into fields of waving grain.

“Yes. To the most wonderful woman in the world. She's joining me here in two weeks.” Haas's eyes shone.

“A lovely idea,” agreed Lina Falkner. Her voice was polite, but her grave gaze lingered disapprovingly on Petra's décolletage. She didn't approve of the way Reinhart flaunted his mistress in public.

A fire crackled in a medieval fireplace big enough to roast an ox on a spit. Reinhart drew a gold cigarette case from his dinner jacket, lit one for himself and one for Petra. She was a knockout tonight in a bouffant of silver silk the color of moonlight.

There would be no justice for Drogalski, he knew that now, not as long as the Nazis were in power. To replace him, Soroka recommended a big, steady fellow named Wysocki to oversee the farming, and a Jew named Friedman to handle the books. Reinhart liked the Poles, and he could tell they liked him. Conscientious, respectful, hardworking people, a thousand times more honest and dependable than the psychotic pigs he served with. After the atrocities he'd witnessed, he had no illusions left about the superiority of the German character.

Just yesterday he'd visited the gristmill, a real jewel of a business, a marvel of efficiency, run by an orphaned-brother-and-sister team. The boy, so young he didn't have a beard yet, told a story he'd heard last at his grandmother's knee. One dark and stormy night, a midwife was called to deliver a demon's baby. An incredible coincidence, the demon's wife turned out to be a stray tabby cat the midwife had been feeding. Though the demon's cave sparkled with gold and jewels, the cat advised the frightened woman not to accept any food or presents no matter how hard she was pressed. Taking the cat's advice, she was led safely home. Upon waking the next morning, she found piles of treasure heaped in every corner.