The Right Hand of Sleep (30 page)

I found Spengler in the anteroom talking to the Brown Shirts on
the telephone. “We’ve taken the radio!” he said to me gleefully, his
hand covering the receiver. “South Station! The barracks! Everything!” This was a lie, of course, but neither of us knew it then.
Right away I felt a tremendous surge of relief. We weren’t alone.
There were others, higher authorities, in command. The highest. We
were their willing agents, no more than that, but no less, either.
Even Spengler, lunatic that he was. I reached out a hand and patted
him tentatively on the shoulder. He beamed at me an instant longer,
then brought the receiver back to his face and began chattering
away at it. Through the propped-open doors I could see the guards
still lying facedown on the tiles, whispering to each other. “I’m
going for a walk,” I said. “Sieg Heil to those brave hearts.”

“Hold on, Seppl,” said Spengler, laying the receiver against his
shoulder. He waved me back toward the conference room. “Go in
and turn that radio on, Bauer. They’re going to announce us soon.”

I said nothing.

“Go on!”

“I have to piss.”

Spengler sighed. “Pick any corner then, but be quick about it.
Dibbern went over there, I think. On some old entente protocols.”

I stepped over to the heap of files he had pointed at and undid
the pants of my uniform. I sniffed. “Dibbern did this? On his own?”

Spengler hung up the receiver. “He had help. Halberstadt and
three or four others. Get on with it already, for the love of Christ!”

I leaned back and closed my eyes. “Could you give us some privacy, Heinrich?”

Spengler laughed. “You’re a funny fish, aren’t you, Biddlebauer. Glass did tell me to keep you in my sights. I’m not sure I
could leave you here in good conscience.”

“All right, then, Spenglerchen. Watch closely. This is how we
do it in the Schutzstaffel.”

Spengler got up from the narrow desk, showing the gaps in his
teeth again. “I’m going, Bauer, I’m going. But don’t be too long, little fish.” He went out and shut the door.

I relaxed and let the piss trickle down the side of the filing
cabinet, onto the thick-piled carpet that ran from one wall to the
other. It mixed with the overall musklike reek of the anteroom and
dampened it a little. Through the partition I could hear the buzz
of the conference room’s immense radio. Gradually as I listened
another sound rose up behind it, a low rumbling vibration that ran
up my spine from somewhere under the floor. I pulled up my
policeman’s pants and listened.

The noise grew higher and higher in pitch, then stopped altogether. I stepped into the corridor: the guards on the floor had felt
it too and looked up at me. A boy I knew only vaguely was there,
keeping watch. “Did you feel any of that rumbling just now,
Willi?” I asked him.

He looked at me blankly. “No, Obersturmführer.”

I knelt down by one of the guards and tapped him on the back.
“What was that just now, citizen?”

The guard only shook his head. I stood up and turned back to
the boy. “In case Herr Spengler happens to ask for me, I’ll be
downstairs. Watch this crew carefully, now. No gossiping.”

I went downstairs cautiously, as if Spengler might yet call me
back, and crossed the lobby to a small barred window with a view
of the Ballhausplatz. I glanced out the window once, shut my eyes
tightly a moment, then looked again, this time letting out a
quiet groan. Directly outside the courtyard gate four khaki-colored
armored cars stood idling, ringed by three full Home Guard battalions, a Civil Guards unit and what looked to be the entire police
force of the city. Gray-shirted underofficers moved through the
waiting rows like prize drones in a beehive, buzzing purposefully
together for a moment wherever their paths happened to intersect. Across the square a small civilian crowd had gathered, gaping
at the cars and pointing up at the chancellery windows, laughing and calling things out in small, shrill voices to the soldiers. I
stepped back from the window, stood still a moment, then ran
down another short flight of steps to the lobby. Civil Guard shirts
were everywhere, milling aimlessly about; no one seemed the least
bit troubled by the circus going on outside. Just then a cadet of mine
wandered by and I grabbed him by the collar. “What’s the matter
with you, Klintzer? Haven’t you looked out the window lately?”

The cadet gaped at me. “We’d heard negotiations were under
way, Obersturmführer . . .”

“Why has no one informed me of this? Or Comrade Spengler?”

“We have, Obersturmführer,” he said, looking at me strangely
now.

Else and Voxlauer walked arm in arm across the square, past the darkened shopwindows, under the cracked stucco wall of the cloister and out over the arched stone bridge and the reflectionless water of the canal. At the edge of the mill field they stopped, searching in the tussocked grass for the path across. Soft white clusters of light drifted quietly above the grass, resolving themselves into groups of sheep before drifting slowly off again into the dark. —I can hear the mill wheel, Else said.

Voxlauer stepped forward into the field and felt for bare ground with his boot soles. The lights of St. Marein glittered like scraps of tinsel at the edge of the plain. He moved carefully toward the silhouetted willow trees, waiting now and then for her footfall behind him in the grass. —What’s St. Marein like? he said when they were halfway across the field.

—I haven’t spent much time there, Else said, catching hold of his hand.

—I thought you’d lived there.

—You must be thinking of Resi. Resi lives there now.

—With her father’s family?

—Come along now, Else said, running ahead into the trees.

Voxlauer hung back a moment, squinting along the ground, then followed cautiously after her. —Can you see? he called. The sound of the mill brook came very loudly now and under it was the creaking and rumbling of the wheel.

—They’ve left it going! Else yelled.

Voxlauer made for her voice in the dark. —Do they ever turn it off?

He was close beside her suddenly. —Have you never been to a mill before, Oskar? she said.

—Of course I have. He smiled. —But never at night.

She took his arm and led him up a narrow ramp clogged with debris to the steps of the mill. The huge dark wheel turned massively on its hub and drew up cords of light with a noise like the creaking of a ship at sea. It seemed to Voxlauer as he stood above it an ancient, almost prehistoric thing.

—I practically lived here for a time, said Else.

—Here?

She nodded. —In love with the miller’s boy.

—Ah, said Voxlauer. He reached for the slick wooden handrail. —What happened?

—Resi.

—And the boy?

—He left when Kurt left. She shrugged.

Voxlauer looked down at the water. —No bad blood between them?

—The Cause, Oskar! You’re forgetting the Cause. It’s what makes them fanatics, remember. You’ll never understand them without it.

—I don’t want to understand them.

—But they want to understand
you,
Herr Voxlauer. Kurt Bauer does. Terribly. She stepped forward and kissed him on the chin. —What makes you such a gloomy citizen? Why aren’t you more civil? Didn’t your Maman teach you any manners? Are you a Bolshevist? A secret agent? A Jew-lover? She dropped her voice low. —Do you fancy the little boys?

—No, no, no and no, said Voxlauer, leaning in to kiss her.

—That’s only four of five.

—Say that again about my mother, he whispered.

They crossed back over the weir and walked along the river-bank to the toll road, then turned and followed it out to the station and the long ramp of earth where the rails came down from the gorge at the northern end of the plain. A train loaded high with timber was just passing through the station when they reached the tracks. As it came toward them it rose magisterially above the plain, canting and rumbling, its red and blue hitch lights swaying and clanking from side to side. They watched it make the slow curve to the mouth of the gorge and vanish into it one car at a time. —Are we getting our timber from Italy now? said Voxlauer.

—Kurt says they’re our new Reichs-partners.

—Ah, said Voxlauer. —They’ll be Fascisti at Monte Veritas, then, before too long.

—There’ll be Fascisti everywhere. We’ll be Fascisti, too.

—I don’t care anymore. I’m tired. That sounds lovely.

The last lights of the train disappeared into the trees. They walked toward the station. —He’d sign on, wouldn’t he? said Voxlauer after a time. —If it came to that?

—Who?

—Piedernig. Don’t you think he would?

—Without a doubt, Else said, taking his arm. —You’re sweet to worry about that old con artist.

—I’m not worried about him, exactly, said Voxlauer. —Just wondering what it would take.

—Fresh fillet of trout. A little flattery.

—I don’t think our friends are the flattering kind.

—Of course they are. They’re
all
the flattering kind.

—I hadn’t noticed.

—You have to give them some sort of encouragement now and again, that’s all.

A boy in tar-blackened overalls walked up the tracks toward them, stopped, bent down and began hammering at a rail switch. A watery blue light flickered on the platform. Two more boys, slightly older than the first, leaned sleepily against the station wall cradling automatic rifles. —Children’s hour, said Voxlauer, sticking his thumb into his mouth.

—Shh! Let’s go up to the road.

On the way back to the square they went around the canal and passed Maman’s orchard and the old house. A light was burning on the verandah.

—Care to face the jury? said Voxlauer.

—Not at two in the morning, thank you. I’d be sure to get death by hanging.

—Not at all. She’ll be relieved we’re not in bed.

—I wish I were, said Else, yawning. —Does Ryslavy have a room for us?

—You’ll be happy to know we’ve been promised the newlywed’s suite.

—I am. I’m very happy to know it.

—There’s a catch, of course. There isn’t any.

Else sighed. —Well. I can’t imagine what we’d be doing in one, anyhow. I’m safeguarding my virtue for the Heavenly Host.

—Is that so?

—It is. Or the Lamb of God, possibly.

—Ah. The Lamb.

—Or the Red Army. Whichever happens to come first.

—The Red Army has arrived, Fräulein, said Voxlauer, catching her by the waist.

—Saints protect us! The times we live in.

—Sweet times, said Voxlauer. —Glorious times.

—We have our own town, don’t we, Oskar.

Voxlauer nodded. —Our own city-state. Our own republic.

They walked on, keeping alongside each other in the dark. —I’m still afraid, she said, running her hand up and down his arm as if to comfort him. —I’ve just decided not to pay attention anymore.

—That’s very wise, said Voxlauer, drawing her closer.

I ran back upstairs as fast as my legs would carry me. I found Spengler in the conference room with fifteen of the boys, swaying boorishly to the radio. Through the crackle and hiss a light polka was
audible. “They announced it!” he said grandly. “Then we sang the
Horst Wessel.” He looked around him from one to another of the
boys, making as if to wipe away a tear. Gradually his eyes drifted
back to me. “Where have you been hiding yourself, Biddlebauer?”

I stood looking at him, speechless. “Are you drunk?” I got out
finally.

Spengler’s huge head bobbed busily to the polka. “What’s
that?”

“There’s bulls and Home Front everywhere,” I said slowly,
stressing every word. “There are four tanks on the front steps,
Gruppenleiter.” I spread my arms wide. “Tanks, Heinrich—”

“We’ve phoned in our demands,” Spengler said tranquilly. “Sit
down already, Bauer, for heaven’s sake. You’re making everybody
antsy.”

With that he turned back to the radio. The boys stood around
the room in various attitudes of uneasiness, looking from him to
me and back again. “Could I have a word, Gruppenleiter?” I said.

Spengler straightened, his back still turned to me. “I thought
you wanted to be left alone.”

“I’m done pissing now, Gruppenleiter. Come and see.”

“Would you like that?” he said, winking at the boys. “All right
then, Obersturmführer. Let’s go have a look.” He stood up, cracked
his back and switched off the radio, to the loud objections of all
present. We went into the little anteroom where the sour reek had
very much intensified.

Spengler leaned back comfortably against a desktop, arms
folded. “Now then. What is it you want, exactly, Bauer? A hall
pass? A pardon? A change of drawers?”

“Where’s the army, Heinrich?” I said, very quietly.

Spengler raised his eyebrows. “The army?”

“They were supposed to be here by now, if you remember. The
army. And the Brown Shirts, Heinrich. Where are they? Weren’t
they supposed to put in an appearance?” I could feel my voice rising to a squeak. “Have they decided to stay at home, Heinrich? Is it
the ninety-six of us now, versus the Republic?”