Another Green World (37 page)

Well, since he was offering. The liquid glowed like it had a fire inside, and it felt much the same in Ingo's throat. He looked around the room, mostly in shadow except for a half-circle in front of the big hearth. It was
odd that Germans, of all people, this race of sun-worshippers, had been reduced to living in semi-darkness for want of lamp oil. He looked at his companions, but neither returned his gaze. The clock clunked out the minutes.

Precisely at
halb acht
Cheruski appeared in the doorway. Wordlessly they followed him into a long dining room with a row of windows running down one wall. Here, at least, candles had been lit to supplement the hearth fire; their burning tips were reflected in the windows against the black of night like dull, flickering stars. Cheruski took a seat at the head of the table and Ingo settled into the only chair left unclaimed, directly across from Albert.

If he had expected a comradely meal—breaking bread among fellow soldiers, all ranks sharing Magda's excellent rabbit stew like social equals— that notion was laid quickly to rest. The dinner conversation took the form of a monologue by Cheruski, punctuated at intervals by obsequious questions posed by Jaekl and the occasional mutter from Albert, who wanted Ingo to pass the rolls. The Professor's topics ranged over history and literature to the lamentable state of popular cinema—” In their eagerness to
divert
, these people at Ufa forget that their duty, first and foremost, is to
entertain”—
and it would have been easy, half listening as Ingo was, to believe Cheruski was not aware that a war was in progress. Now and then the old man would drop some revealing phrase or lapse into a sort of reverie, his eyes seemingly fixed on a scene conjured out of the candlelight.

“I had rooms in Göttingen,” he said in a dreamy tone, “which Hölderlin himself was said to have used. There was an old desk and people said, You know that was Hölderlin's desk. That's why they hung on to it, for it was nothing but a piece of junk. Had it been Heine's desk, it would long since have become firewood.”

He paused, smiling at the image: the Jew
Dicter'
s desk being fed piecemeal into the flames, spreading a cheery warmth through the room. Jaekl stared at his master as if sharing the same happy thought. Ingo got an inkling now of the sort of professor Cheruski must have been: encircled by his acolytes, a following bound by love of their master and vying jealously among themselves for his favor. It was easy to imagine Jaekl among that crowd. Albert was another matter.

Ingo had time now for a closer look at the young driver, whose own attention was concentrated on nothing more complicated than his dinner plate. If Magda struck him as good peasant stock, Albert seemed a different but related sort: the farm boy given to indolence, too lazy to rise at cock's crow, too eager to nap in the hay, always with an eye out for the road
to an easier life. He was well mannered enough, and pleasant-looking with his clear eyes and sturdy shoulders and cropped, straw-colored hair. Over the years he would grow heavy, like Ingo. But that was over the years— meanwhile, he had landed a safe and comfortable posting, while his peers were being sacrificed
en masse
to the Red Army so that the Reich might endure a few more months.

Dinner ended when the Professor set down his fork. The four of them moved back to the great hall, where Magda had heaved fresh logs on the fire. Over the past couple of hours the wind had risen. On its hilltop perch the old house caught gusts that had sailed for miles unobstructed over treetops; now they whispered at the windows and sometimes came puffing down the chimney, forcing a gout of smoke back into the room, where it drifted slowly toward the ceiling. Everyone sat in the frail-looking chairs a safe distance back.

“Those are nice boots,” Albert said unexpectedly. His tone was petulant. He stared at Ingo's feet. “When I went for training they didn't have boots to fit me. I kept getting blisters. Finally they got a new shipment from somewhere and they said, Here, try these. So I got this pair that fits, only the leather's too thin. My feet are cold all the time. I bet they came off some schmutziger Jude who sat indoors all day, counting his money. I wish a had a pair like yours.”

There followed an uneasy silence during which everyone seemed to be looking at Ingo's boots. Were they waiting for him to offer some explanation?

After several moments the Professor said, “Jaekl, why don't you pour us some brandy.”

The thin man stirred himself, crossing the room to a sideboard.

“Why can't we have beer?” said Albert. “It's been an age since I've had a beer.”

Cheruski studied him for a moment—an expert, a specialist, making a cool and detached observation—and Albert stared back. At last Cheruski said, “I believe there is beer in the cellar. Go ask Magda to fetch you some. And drink it upstairs, why don't you?”

Albert stood, pleased with himself, failing to understand, or not caring, that he'd been dismissed. Jaekl served brandy to the others and Cheruski began speaking before Albert had left the room, as though the boy had ceased to exist.

“And so”— raising his glass—” I should like to say how pleased I am by the appearance of our guest from America. This seems to me more than simple coincidence. Does it not, Jaekl? I feel there must be some deeper
meaning here—that Müller's appearance must be taken as a kind of omen. Or, if you will, an affirmation. For those inclined to doubt the fundamental premise of my research.”

Ingo couldn't help noticing—nor did Jaekl make a particular effort to hide—how Cheruski's words caused him to fidget in his seat. As lightly as possible, Ingo said, “You mentioned you were doing some kind of special research? Something for the Reichsführer?”

Cheruski's eyes twinkled. Clearly this was something he longed to talk about. His eyes flicked over toward Jaekl, who sat glowering. “I work, of course, at the Reichsführer's direction. But I may say, with no false modesty, that the project I am now engaged in derives purely from my own research, conducted over many years now. When I put it to the Reichs-führer at Posen last spring, he was most enthusiastic. It tallied quite nicely, so he told me, with a certain urgent undertaking of his own.”

Jaekl could not contain himself. “Do you really feel, sir, we should be speaking of such matters in front of this stranger?”

“What do you imagine?” He spoke sharply, as in a household quarrel. “Do you suppose this man is an American spy? Tramping about like a Wandervogel on the chance that some high-ranking person might give him a lift? Snooping into rear areas our own General Staff does not see fit to defend? God in heaven, Jaekl, the man is SS, like ourselves. He comes from America, which means that he has
chosen
to join us in our time of national struggle. Unlike the traitors of 20 July, who were, every one of them, native-born.” He tightened his lips.

Jaekl fell into a surly, resentful silence.

“It can be no secret,” Cheruski resumed, pointedly now speaking only to Ingo, “there are those in our government, including persons I shall not name, quite close to the center of power, who would like to make a separate peace with the Anglo-Americans. For some, this is purely a tactical matter. Concentrate our defenses on a single front. But for many of us—I speak here of persons at the
very
highest level—this war with the Anglo-Americans is a regrettable lapse, on everyone's part. I do not exempt Germany itself from this error! For do we not, on both sides, share the same Northern heritage? Does not the same Aryan blood flow through our veins? Are we not equally opposed to the evil of Bolshevism that has arisen among the yellow-skinned people of the East?” He paused, but only for effect: the classroom rhetorician. “The hour has arrived when we must end this awful bloodshed. Our great nations ought rightly to see themselves as cousins. Any quarrel among us must be resolved in a manner that spares the blood of our youth, while preserving the national honor.”

Ingo tried to keep his expression blank and attentive. Cheruski drained his brandy in a long swallow.

“Unfortunately,” said Jaekl, leaning in to pour another, “there is the
slight
problem of unconditional surrender, upon which the Allies now insist.”

Cheruski snatched his glass away. “Anyone with the least understanding of diplomacy—let alone the shades of meaning in even the simplest phrase—should understand this is a question of semantics, of a political utterance that need not be taken literally. Naturally there must be some pretense of an Allied victory, to satisfy the public over there. But I tell you—and I have seen the reports on this myself—the British people have no wish to drag this war out. They are sick of it, of having their cities bombed, cowering behind blackout curtains. And it goes without saying they are terrified of our new V-weapons. I assure you, they are eager to make peace. Still, it is a delicate matter. It is the same as any other proposition—an offer of marriage, for example. Both parties are ready to agree. Yet the question must be put forward very carefully. One false word, a misjudgment in timing, and everything falls apart.”

Jaekl gave his master a sullen look and rose stiffly from his seat. “Unless you have further need of me, sir, I shall retire now. It has been a most wearying day.”

“Yes, yes.” A wave of assent. “Good night, then.”

Ingo said, “Sleep well, Herr Untersturmführer.”

With a cold nod Jaekl slunk off into the shadows. Cheruski swallowed more brandy. He was drinking now, not sipping.

“So, this project of yours.” Like warming a pitcher up, Ingo thought; just keep tossing the ball back. “It has to do with the British?”

Cheruski gave a conspiratorial glance around the room. The stag's blood on the tapestry had turned black in the firelight. “I went to Posen last spring,” his voice pitched low, “to hear an address by the Reichsführer to his higher SS and police leaders. It was quite a distinction, to have been summoned there. In those weeks, we were expecting at any time the Allies to launch their invasion. Meanwhile there were problems in Hungary, the Red Army was preparing its summer offensive. Everyone was anxious to hear what the Reichsführer would say.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, any number of things. The need to stiffen our resolve. The heroism of the ordinary German people, our duty to protect them from the Asiatic hordes. He assured us that this time around, there will be no stab in
the back, as there was in 1918. Because this time the backstabbers have already been gotten rid of. He meant, you see, there are no more Jews to betray us. So the Reich is safe from the enemy within, all that remains is to deal with the enemy at the gate. At last he alluded to peace, the sort of peace he hopes to attain.”

“A separate peace in the west.”

“He did not say this directly! No—he only alluded. It was not until afterward, when I spoke with him in private…”

He paused for another swallow. The brandy was making him expansive, but before long it would make him groggy. Ingo could read the signs.

“I spoke with him after the address,” Cheruski went on. “The Reichs-führer was of course familiar with my work. He took me aside, just the two of us, and he said to me, ‘Herr Professor, I wish to ask you a question.’ “He paused, savoring this prized memory. A cozy chat with Heinrich Himmler. “‘ Herr Professor,’ he asked me, ‘what is the key to understanding a people—to knowing how they think, why they choose to act or not to act in a given situation?’ I replied without hesitation: It is their literature, Herr Reichsführer. The stories they tell of themselves. Above all, the very oldest ones, the stories that have no author. The tales that seem to have sprung from the depths of their folk-soul.

“Upon hearing this, the Reichsführer grew very thoughtful. ‘Now I ask you this, Herr Professor. If one were to examine closely the literature of, shall we say, the English—if, that is, an expert were to do so, a man such as yourself—might one discover perhaps some formula, a sort of code, an equation, something scientific, that would make it possible to communicate with these people in absolute sympathy? So that, should one make them a proposal, an honorable proposal, presented in good faith, they could not fail to agree?’

“Well, by this time, putting one thing with another, I understood what the Reichsführer was asking of me. He was saying, ‘Can you find a way to make the British accept my peace offer?’ “

Ingo waited out the melodramatic pause.

“‘ Yes,’ I told him. ‘Yes, my Reichsführer, in principle, one can do this. One can discover such a formula, such an equation.’ What I did not tell him was ‘If one has time enough to look.’ Because you know, people in such positions are accustomed to giving an order and,
knick
, the task is done. But I assured him that every tool of modern philologic science would be placed forthwith at his disposal. After that, we had no more time to talk. Such a man naturally has many demands upon his schedule.”

Ingo did not care to hear about the busy life of Heinrich Himmler. “So you went back to Prague”— nudging harder, the old man's eyes were starting to glaze—” and got down to work.”

“I was already
down to work.”
The voice became briefly mocking. “Our task in the Race History Department—this may not be generally appreciated—is to correct the many errors that have accumulated over the centuries concerning the role of the Germanic people in shaping Western culture. How many great accomplishments, how many works of art and literature, how many scientific advances, have wrongly been attributed to other peoples? To the Romans, for instance, or the French—even the Italians. Scholars like myself have worked for years to set the record straight. My own contributions have been, I say with modesty, solid but unspectacular—my specialty is ancient texts, and this is felt to be rather an out-of-the-way line of inquiry. Now suddenly, I found myself thrust into a timely, indeed historic, situation. My Leader had called upon me for a vital mission. I had been asked, if I may put it so, to provide him with a new weapon, a Wunderwaffe of the mind. I assure you, my friend, I got
down to work.”