Stile Maus (30 page)

A half full glass of scotch lay on the cherry wood desk and the curtains were still drawn, blocking out the rising moon.  Klaus flicked on a lamp and his Grandfather’s study bloomed into full sight.  An uneven spill of shadows leaked across the floor.  Glints of light hit the corners of Klaus’ eyes as he moved into the middle of the room.  A picture leant upon the surface of the desk, flowing behind a musty film of travelling dust.  He felt at the wooden frame and turned the grey glass towards him.  It was something he hadn’t seen in a while. Mainly because when he visited the study in the past his Grandfather would be hunched in front of it.  It was a black and white memory, a young boy and his Grandfather.  The white haired boy sat upon the seat of a motorcycle while his Grandfather stood at his side, balancing him with a hug.  Joy beamed across their faces.  Fury suffocated his racing heart.  With a quick hand Klaus snatched at the picture and thrust it against the wall.  Sparks of glass and wood trembled across the floor.  Red faced he turned to the bookcase, grabbing at each neatly assembled volume and started hurling them towards the closed curtains without so much as a pause for breath.  His mind was distorted, a vortex of rage and confusion.  He swung a fist into the wall and then another and another until blood bubbled from his knuckles.  Exhausted he stumbled across to the desk where he fell against the surface, sitting on his elbows as he tried to gather his breath and regroup his thoughts.  A scream blazed from his simpering lips, a cry of desperation and unbearable heartache.  He slumped to the floor, dragging a stack of paper with him underneath a trailing hand.  The weightless sheets settled around his trembling legs.  He hung his head, taking in shallow breaths of air between a series of jittery sobs.  A smoky glaze fell over his eyes and he dabbed a sleeve carelessly below each brow. Klaus cast a look at the scatter of white pages that lay across the floor.  Nothing of interest.  A drawer had become dislodged in his anger and sat by his trembling hands.  A grey wink could be seen under the bustle of paper.  The Luger.  It met his palm and he curled his finger onto the smooth curve of the trigger.  He raised the handgun towards the light.  It was time to pay Luther Eichel a visit.   

Flash forward to the front door of Luther Eichel’s house.

Klaus stood on the porch, gun in hand.  Despite the wind and frequent bouts of surging pain he didn’t fluster, his fingers remained taut around the cold steel handle of his Grandfather’s Luger.  A murmur of light glimmered from beneath the doorway.  A shadow rattled within its yellowish glow.  Leaning upon one of the porch’s wooden beams Klaus peered through the living room window.  A pair of curtains had parted slightly and through the small gap Klaus could make out the bulky silhouette of a man sitting at a clustered dining table.  An arrangement of candles jittered around the room, lining the fireplace and tabletops.  Klaus didn’t have to look twice.  It was Luther Eichel, there was no question.  He retreated and quickly shot a look down the street.  Nothing.  Not the scatter of a stray fox.  With the toe of his shoe he kicked against the foot of the door.  Three gentle kicks…

Luther Eichel had just settled down when there was a knock at his door.  Letting out a hearty sigh he set down the cigarette that was on its way towards his lips and squeezed out from underneath the table. 

‘For Goodness sake,’ he croaked, shaking off the sudden anxiety that pinched at his heart.  He rubbed at his tired eyes and squinted towards the clock that sat on the mantelpiece before heading for the doorway, ducking down on the way to collect a coal poke from inside the fireplace.  His slippers padded loudly against the carpet as he strode into the hallway, peering through the window as he reached for the handle.  Once he had scanned the blurry mass of darkness Luther pulled at the door and stared into the cold night air.  The porch was empty and the stretch of greenery leading away from the front yard was still and silent.  Luther
retreated, edging his large frame around the closing door and clumsily throwing the coal poke down by the foot of the staircase.  His heart enjoyed a sigh of relief.  He sat back down at the table and wrapped his chubby fingers around a cigarette packet, huffing loudly as he realized the small box was now empty.  He patted against his shirt pocket and rummaged through his trousers. 

‘Where has that gone?’ he said with irritably.  He began lifting up papers and pushing aside glasses and cutlery in search of the last cigarette.  Pushing the chair away Luther bowed underneath the table and inspected the carpet, prodding a hand blindly across the dimly lit floor.  A click sounded behind him and the cold nub of a pistol was nudged gently into the back of his neck. 

‘Hello Luther Eichel,’ a voice said, ‘you look like you could use a hand.’

‘Get up,’ Klaus whispered, ‘slowly.’  Luther obliged, raising both arms as he struggled from his knees to the cushioned seat of the chair.  The pistol dug deeper into his neck.  A gloved hand came into view.  A thin cigarette sat pinched between two fingertips.

‘Take it,’ Klaus hissed.  Warily stretching out a hand Luther took the cigarette and placed it between his quivering lips.  A pack of matches dropped onto the table.  With quaking hands Luther scratched each match against the box, failing to light any in three attempts.

‘Take it easy.’  Luther could only muster a succession of shallow breaths in an effort to try and calm his raging nerves as he struck at the box again.   A warm flame fizzed to life and he leant towards it until a trail of smoke began to cloud the air. 

‘Hands on the table,’ Klaus urged, easing the pistol away from Luther’s sweat beaded neck. 

‘What do you want?’ the hostage puffed. 

‘I want to know who murdered him, Luther,’ Klaus retorted hastily, ‘who murdered Felix
Kalb?’ 

‘What?’ Luther replied with a frown, ‘I… I don’t…’  The pistol jabbed fiercely into his neck once more. 

‘Enough.’  A spring twanged inside the gun.

‘You have five seconds.’  Sweat drenched Luther’s palms.  He could feel the pools forming underneath his flat hands.  The cigarette burned rapidly in between his locked fingers.  Steadying his breath he opened and closed his eyes before raising the cigarette to his lips.  The number four entered his throbbing mind. 

‘W-What is it you want to know?’

‘Are you having trouble hearing?’

‘No?’

‘Then you heard. 
Who killed Felix Kalb
?’ 

The cigarette rolled out from Luther’s frail grasp, scorching his skin as it trickled across the bottom of his fingers and onto the table. 

‘What’s it to you?’ he stuttered with the rarest form of pathetic bravery.  Klaus took away the pistol and began to circle the table, pulling out a chair as he reached the opposite end.  He fumbled at the teal green silk bandana that bridged his nose and pulled it away.  A whirlwind of pity rose through Luther’s stomach. 

‘Klaus… Is that you?’ 

‘So you recognize me?’ 

‘What happened to you, your face?’ 

Klaus gritted his teeth, feeding his index finger slowly across the trigger of the handgun. 

‘Where were you Luther?  Where were you this morning?’ 

A whimper travelled through the air. 

‘Klaus I…’ 

‘
WHERE?!
’

Klaus raged, slamming a gloved fist down upon the table top.  Tears fought to tumble from his eyes. 

‘Klaus please, let me call someone.’

The young gunman grinned.

‘You want to call someone Luther?  How about one of your friends? 
How about your friends from the cafe this morning?’

‘Look,’ Luther gasped, ‘it was all part of his plan, there was nothing I could do, you have to believe me, Klaus please.’

‘Who’s plan?’

‘Klaus...’

‘You have very little time left Luther I suggest you fill every last breath with words.’

‘Okay,’ Luther stammered, struggling to swallow a heavy gulp of air, ‘three days ago, the Nazis came to my store.  They were lead by a straight talking uniform, real heavy handed.  He began saying that the name above my shop wasn’t pure, that it wasn’t German.’

Klaus proceeded to circle the table, his Luger aimed at the whimpering midriff of Luther Eichel.   

‘He said that a Jewish store had no place in Germany.  That I was a disgrace to my fellow countrymen.’

‘What has this got to do with my Grandfather?’

‘Please,’ Luther urged. 

‘I explained that my wife’s cousin had left the jewellers to us when she had passed but they didn’t care.  They began taking things, prying open the display cases and helping themselves to whatever was in sight.’ 

Klaus raised his tear puffing stare and shook his head.

‘What did they want from you Luther?’

‘An agreement.’

His words were suddenly hollow and he ran a hand over the curve of his sweat tarnished forehead.

‘They said I had to help them with something, a plan.  They said that it had to involve your Grandfather.’

‘Keep going.’

‘Instead of burning my business to the ground the chief officer proposed a trade, an agreement.  He said he was from the Gestapo and had been sent to send a message to Germany.  Well, I had no idea what he was implying at first.  But then he mentioned Felix.  He said Felix was the message... the push the people needed.’

Klaus looked on, the trigger now jittering under his heavy clasp. 

‘The superiors had had enough of the people opposing the Nazis and wished to put an end to it all.’

His lips were desperately dry and he looked down at the empty glass sitting before him, wishing that an amber liquid would suddenly swell over the glittering brim. 

‘Your Grandfather was the plan,’ he continued, ‘it was supposed to look like an attack on Germany by a Jewish mercenary group.  It was a propaganda stunt, a way to convince the nation to join the Nazi’s.  Felix believed that he was following a rebellion.  A movement created by myself and my contact in Berlin, a contact which never existed.’ 

‘You used him.  You used him to endorse the Nazis?’

‘No,’ Luther sprang from his seat but Klaus gestured him back down with the Luger’s spherical point. 

‘You have to understand, Klaus, they were going to harm my family, my children.’

‘Why him?’ said Klaus, restraining the urge to pull at the moist trigger.

‘He was a hero,’ Luther snorted, as if the question had been poorly constructed or was in some way naive, ‘he didn’t have an enemy in the world.’

‘Except his country,’ Klaus whispered. 

‘And you, the betrayer.’

Luther stared into the young man’s eyes.  The light from the lamp wasn’t kind and offered very little exposure yet Luther could still make out a glare of complete malice. 

‘Please understand Klaus, I did this for my family.  I did this so that they could have a life after this wretched ordeal, freedom to…’  Luther’s words were lost in a muddled symphony of sobs and howls.

‘What about my Grandfather’s future,’ Klaus spat, ‘what about mine?’

Luther slid away from the seat and fell to his knees.  There he begged and groaned.  Soft shuddering grunts that hurried his falling tears.   

‘Enough,’ Klaus murmured.  He thought for a moment.

‘Since you are in the habit of making deals I am going to propose one of my own.’  Luther fidgeted anxiously, staring at the pistol pointing at him from across the table. 

‘A name,’ Klaus said, ‘a name in exchange for your life.’  Again Luther budged, staring deeper into the barrel of the gun. 

‘Who’s?’ he stuttered. 

‘Not long ago a man was visited by a friend,’ Klaus began, combing away a fallen strand of hair, ‘with him the friend brought good news, a solution to a problem that disturbed many.  What the man didn’t know however is that the friend was hiding behind a mask of lies and false smiles.’ 

Luther snivelled at the wrist of his cupped hands.

‘Meanwhile, men sat and plotted the demise of the man, the
hero
.  They planned a great bravado that would fool him into believing he was helping his fellow countrymen and when he had fallen into their trap, they would kill him.’  Luther glared at him and pondered over the veil of cruel scars that masked the young boy’s face.

‘One sits in an office somewhere, a leading figure of the military no doubt, perhaps the Gestapo?  That leaves the other, a subordinate who trembles within the giant shadow of his superior.  The man who visited your store and this is only an assumption but something tells me he was also the man sitting across from my Grandfather, moments before he killed him.’

A chill of confusion trailed down Luther’s spine.

‘Why one name, why not the other?’

Klaus leaned onto the table, his glare ripe with fire.

‘Because Luther, the name is right here, right before your sniffling nose.’

Klaus moved his finger away from the table.  He had pressed his glove against the shallow scrawl of a signature.  A latch of inky letters had been leafed across the bottom of a pristine sheet, the top half buried under a heap of ash strewn papers.  Luther looked on as Klaus snatched it away and folded it gently into his pocket.