The Fortunes (39 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, but do you ever think you might not be so impartial after all?”

“I'm sorry, sir,” Rotheram said tightly. “Even if I were Jewish, I'm not sure why it should make me any less impartial than a Frenchman or a Russian.”

He heard Hawkins take a sip of something, and then another. Finally he asked, “Tell me, my boy, honestly now, don't you ever think about your family? Your grandparents made for Paris, you say. Don't you wonder where they are, what's become of them?”

Rotheram was momentarily taken aback. He began to say no and stopped, unsure. Hawkins had taught him to recognize the pause before answering as a lie. It came to Rotheram that whatever he said now would seem false. So he was silent, which as Hawkins had taught him might mean a man was holding something back, or simply that he didn't know.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he whispered now. “You'll have my report Monday morning.”

There was a long sigh at the other end of the line, and Rotheram felt how he'd failed Hawkins. But when the CO spoke again he sounded brusquely hearty.

“No need to hurry back, my boy. There've been some new orders, as a matter of fact. The POW department want someone to visit their camps up in North Wales. Something to do with screening and the reeducation program. Denazification and all that. Thought you'd be just the fellow to liaise. Anyhow, the orders should catch up with you there later today, or tomorrow at the latest.”

“What—?” Rotheram began, and stopped, silenced by the sound of his own cry in the still house as much as by Hawkins's steely jocularity.

Gripping the receiver, Rotheram told him stiffly that he understood, and he did, although dully, as if his head were still ringing from the blow. The CO had been flattering him with this mission, he realized; more than that, it was a consolation prize. The decision
had
already been made, but not by Rotheram. Hess would be going to the trial, but Rotheram wouldn't. The closest he'd come to Germany, any time soon, was the image on the screen.

“You will be missed,” Hawkins said. He was the one whispering now. “It's just that there's a sense that Jews ought not to be a big part of the process. To keep everything aboveboard, so to speak. To avoid its looking like revenge. Can't stick a thumb on the scales of justice and all that. And really, that stunt at Dover.” He laughed ruefully. “That's what you get for playing silly buggers.”

Rotheram was silent and the CO filled the pause by asking, “By the way, how is Rudi, the old bastard?”

“Probably as sane as you or I,” Rotheram said, and Hawkins laughed again.

“Well, that's not saying much, dear boy. That's not saying very much at all.”

ROTHERAM HELD
the receiver long after it had gone dead, reassured by the weight in his hand, until he heard a floorboard creak overhead, and finally set it gently back in its cradle. He wondered who else might be awake, whom he might have woken. Hess's room was on the second floor, and suddenly he hoped the Nazi might appear, escaping, any excuse for Rotheram to take him by the throat. On the landing, he peered down the corridor. There was Hess's guard, the corporal who'd served them Scotch, slumped in his chair, giving off a series of soft, flaring snores. Rotheram only meant to wake him, but as he stood before the guard, it seemed as easy to step over his outstretched legs and lay an ear to the door.

Nothing. Rotheram wondered if he was listening to an empty room, if Hess had already fled (but no, the key was still in the lock) or thrown himself from his window (surely it was barred). Still nothing, except Rotheram's own pulse, like a wingbeat in his ears. Perhaps all he'd heard before was a particularly stentorian snore from the corporal. And yet he couldn't quite shake the conviction that the room was empty—not as if Hess had left it, precisely, but as if he'd never been there. Rotheram must have leaned closer, shifted his weight, for the floor beneath him gave a dry groan. He stifled his breath, counted the seconds. Nothing stirred, and yet the silence seemed subtly altered now, the silence of another listener, as if Hess were behind the door or under the covers or crouched in a corner listening to him, Rotheram, wondering about his intentions.

Rotheram felt his legs start to tremble, as if a chill had risen from the cold floor through his bare feet, and he stepped away. He was halfway to the stairs before he thought to turn back and aim a kick at the sleeping corporal.

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P
ETER
H
O
D
AVIES
is the critically acclaimed, award-winning author of
The Welsh Girl
(long-listed for the Booker Prize),
The Ugliest House in the World
, and
Equal Love
. Davies was chosen by
Granta
as one of the Best of Young British Novelists in 2003. He teaches at the University of Michigan and lives in Ann Arbor.