The Pale House (49 page)

He lifted his head, seeing Neven walk quietly over to Bunda, his uncle's heavy butcher's blade in his little fists. The boy paused behind the bunched strain of Bunda's legs, and then with both hands he stabbed and swept the knife across the Ustaša's left hamstring. Bunda gasped, jerked sideways, and Neven drew the blade across the other. Bunda's legs bent, quivered, and red lines opened across them. Thin, at first, then suddenly wide, blood sheeting out. The Ustaša grasped the table for support, and Neven drove the knife into his back, beside his spine.

Bunda howled, one arm swinging back as he arched himself around, searching for the source of the agony that tore at him. His fist caught Neven across the head and the boy was dashed to the floor, but Bunda's legs were going, going, and the giant toppled like a falling tree, bellowing, and his hand grasped for the knife where it stood proud from his back.

Heaving himself forward against the agony of his hand, Reinhardt hooked his fingers over Bunda's brow and dug as hard as he could for the eyes. Bunda bellowed again, his hands coming up, squeezing and tearing at Reinhardt's fingers, but Reinhardt pressed tighter, dug deeper, hauled harder than he had ever done as
staggered back from the table, dipped to the floor, and rose with Bunda's club in her hands. A step, two, and she swung the club down into Bunda's groin. The giant went rigid, his scream cracking against his throat as his hands flailed wide and
screamed in counterpoint as she sawed and heaved at the club, back and forth, as if loosening a stake from the ground. She ripped it free, as if from the grudging earth, flung it away, and collapsed to her side, reaching for the still form of Neven.

Blood pumped from between Bunda's legs. Reinhardt felt him weaken, the life flowing out of him, and then Reinhardt tipped slowly to his side, bile rising in his throat, and he vomited weakly. His breathing came high and hoarse but that primeval gibber in his mind began to calm and he lifted his head, wiping his hand across his mouth. Never. Not the trenches. Not the darkened streets of Berlin. Not the shattered battlefields of this war. He had never felt like this, fought like this, but the creature at the mouth of the cave was gone.

“The keys,” he whispered to
. “Please . . .”

She moved after a while, then dragged Bunda's jacket to her and pushed it over to Reinhardt. He found the key, holding his hand to his chest a moment after he freed it, then crawled over to
.

“Suzana,” he whispered. He touched her arm, and she shuddered up and away, a frozen angularity to her. Her eyes were wild, her mouth wide, but then she focused, her gaze clearing as she stared at Bunda's body. Reinhardt turned and saw that Bunda was still alive, looking at them, his eyes dark pits in the pallor of his face. Bunda looked down in incomprehension at the carnage of his groin, and then the thread of his breath went taut, stopped, and the blackness of his eyes fell in and away.
sighed out, and she relaxed slowly into Reinhardt's arms, the two of them clinging to each other as Neven stirred, and the sound of battle filtered in from outside.

“It seems . . .”
trembled, her arms tightening spasmodically around Reinhardt as she looked at Bunda's body, “it seems like forever that he was there. Always there. Always looking . . . at . . . me. I knew . . . I felt . . .”

“We cannot stay here.”

nodded, rose unsteadily to her feet, smoothing down the twisted folds of her clothes. Neven rose with her, holding hard to her side. “A moment,” she whispered, taking the boy out of the room with her. Reinhardt twisted one knee underneath him, tugged Neven's knife free, and pushed himself up. He paused, then lifted Bunda's jacket. He laid it over the table and dug through its pockets, his fingers closing around something smooth. He paused again, then took out a
soldbuch
. He stared at its tan cover, swallowed, then opened it, letting out a long, slow breath.

A picture of Bunda stared up at him, a profile in angle, the head turned to the right. His hair was combed, his face serious. On the facing page were all the particulars of a soldier named Carl Benirschke, from Marburg in Slovenia.

“I am ready.”

Reinhardt turned.
stood with her coat on, Neven close beside her. She pointed her eyes at the
soldbuch
as Reinhardt put it into his bag.

“Part of what
needs to hear,” he said as he wiped the knife on Bunda's shirt. He looked at Neven, then offered him back the knife, but the boy shook his head, and Reinhardt put it carefully on the table, then holstered his pistol. He picked up the StG 44 from the hallway, then led them downstairs. She froze at the entrance at the sight of the armored car, shied back as Benfeld jumped down, his face narrowing as he took Reinhardt in.

“
Fucki
 . . . bloody hell, sir. What the hell happened?”

“Never mind, Frenchie. We've got two passengers.”

Benfeld's mouth worked, but he nodded. “It'll be a squeeze, but we'll manage.”

“I must ride in the turret,” said
. She shook her head as both Reinhardt and Benfeld made to protest. “I must. If the Partisans see me, they will not fire. And we must hope any Germans or UstaÅ¡e will be too surprised to open fire immediately.”