The Kingdom of Shadows (20 page)

“Get him out of here.” The guards scrambled to carry out Ritter’s orders. The drunken man was dragged out of the room while the
Scharführer
righted the fallen camera. Ritter’s expression changed to one of exasperated disgust. “Cable the
Ahnenerbe
offices in Berlin; tell them we’ll need another photographer sent out. He’ll have to have the same security clearances as this last one . . .
Scheiß!
” Ritter ground his teeth together. “There’s no telling how long that will take.”

Another voice, one that had not spoken before. “Sir . . .” One that was neither a guard or an officer. “Excuse me, sir . . .”

All eyes, those of the uniformed men and the Lazarenes alike, turned toward Pavli, making him feel even more naked and exposed.

“Get back in line!” The
Scharführer
gestured angrily at him. “Speak when you are spoken to!”

“Pavli . . .” His brother’s whisper hissed behind him, Matthi grabbing at his elbow to pull him back with the others.

He shook off his brother’s hand. “Sir, I can operate the camera. Any camera – I can do it –”

“Silence!” The
Scharführer
slammed the heel of his hand against Pavli’s shoulder, knocking him back a step.

“Wait.” Ritter laid the tips of his fingers on the
Scharführer
’s arm, forestalling another blow. He turned a bemused smile toward Pavli. “Who is this, who volunteers his services so eagerly? What is your name, boy?”

“Iosefni, sir – my family name. Pavli . . .”

“Ah, yes.” Ritter nodded. He took his hand from the
Scharführer
’s arm and touched Pavli’s wrist. “Our
rara avis
, our oddity, the unmarked Lazarene.” His fingertip traced the path along the underside of Pavli’s arm, where the tattoo of Christ’s wound should have been. “Perhaps you are a surprising creature in more ways than one.”

“Sir . . .” The
Scharführer
tried to butt in. “I’ll take care of this interruption. This impertinence –”

Ritter ignored him, continuing to gaze straight into Pavli’s eyes. “Do you claim to know something of photography, boy? You might be bluffing about that, for all I know. Or perhaps you overestimate your skills. What is required here is a technique suitable for a rigorous medical and scientific investigation. Not the snapping away of a few holiday shots with a cheap box camera, while on holiday on some sunny lake shore.” The needle of Ritter’s examination shifted from Pavli’s right eye, the golden-brown one, to the left eye, the blue. “What is the source of your supposed expertise?”

Inside Pavli’s head, he heard two voices, the one of the SS doctor murmuring questions almost at his ear . . . and the false gypsy’s whispered advice and warnings.
Make yourself useful to them. That is how to survive
 . . .

He found his own voice. “My uncle owned a camera shop . . . back in the city. It was the best one in all Berlin.” He knew that would sound like boasting, but it had been true. “I worked there, with my uncle. He showed me everything. People came from far away, to buy, or with cameras that needed to be repaired. My uncle taught me how to do that, how to fix them, how they worked –” Pavli bit his lip, to keep the words from rushing out so fast. “I know these things.”

Herr Doktor
Ritter nodded slowly. “Iosefni . . . yes, of course, the Josefsohn premises. A pity your uncle is no longer alive; I’m sure we would have found his expertise to be of value.”

“I know as much as he did, sir. He showed me.”

“Oh?” One of Ritter’s eyebrows lifted. “This is specially designed equipment, boy. Crafted for military requisition. I doubt if you ever saw its equal in your little shop.”

The false gypsy’s words, the whisper in his memory, prodded Pavli forward. “All cameras are alike, sir. They work on the same principles.”

Ritter smiled. “Very good –” He nodded in satisfaction. “If you are as much a craftsman in the darkroom as you are a budding scientist, you will serve well.” He crooked a finger at the
Scharführer
. “Take him back out and get him his clothes. We can’t have him standing behind the camera completely bare-assed.”

Under the gaze of the
Scharführer
, Pavli quickly drew on his trousers and shirt. He only had a moment to check the lining of his boots – the precious objects were still tucked safely there – before he was ordered to hurry up. He finished tugging on the boots and stood up, away from the little piles of the other Lazarene men’s belongings against the wall. Buttoning his jacket, he ran to catch up with the
Scharführer
’s long strides.

The camera hadn’t been damaged when it had been knocked over by the drunkard. He’d been worried about that, that the camera would turn out to be inoperable, and that he would have to tell the SS officer that;
Herr Doktor
Ritter would accuse him of being a liar and a time-waster, a useless creature. But there had only been a spot of black enameling knocked off a corner of the case, exposing the bare metal beneath, and a dent in the folding bellows that Pavli was able to straighten between his thumb and forefinger.

“
Bist du fertig
?” Ritter used the familiar mode of address, the way one would speak to a child. “I hope you
are
ready, that you’re done fiddling around with that device. We’ve all waited long enough.”

Pavli nodded quickly, as he rotated the take-up spool until the film had tautened snug inside the camera body. He made the adjustments to the lens and shutter, estimating the brightness of the overhead windows’ light by the edge of the shadows cast upon the floor. One of the guards shoved the first naked Lazarene into place.

“Hands at your side,” instructed Ritter. “Turn your wrists outward so the markings may be seen.”

The Lazarene complied, maintaining his dignity by the lack of expression on his face. In the camera’s mirrored viewfinder, Pavli adjusted the upside-down image until it was precisely centered, then cocked and triggered the shutter. He breathed a small prayer, hoping that his skills hadn’t left him, that he’d remembered all his uncle had taught him. That the picture would come out perfectly exposed and in focus, and precisely what
Herr Doktor
Ritter wanted . . .

“Turn and face the other wall.” Ritter’s voice sounded behind Pavli. “Raise your arm above your head.”

The stigma of Christ’s wound, the cut of a Roman centurion’s lance rendered in blue ink, was revealed upon the Lazarene’s ribs. Pavli advanced the film and took another shot.

“Bring the next one forward.”

His hands, his fingers, became things separate from him. Clever things, that went about their business as he watched from a greater and greater distance. They would serve him well; they would save him.
They
were useful, at least;
Herr Doktor
Ritter would see that.

“Turn . . .”

The line of naked men shuffled forward, their bare feet making tiny noises against the slick floor. In silence, without protest, as though their cooperation were the price of the contract into which they had entered. They merely had to do as they were ordered, and a thread of hope was extended to them.

“The next one . . .”

Pavli didn’t hope. He dreamed as he let his hands go on automatically with their tasks. He dreamed even as his brother’s face, inverted, appeared in the camera’s viewfinder. His thumb tripped the shutter.

Hours later, he saw his brother’s face again, the image of Matthi standing unclothed and somber-faced, slowly emerging in a shallow pan of chemicals in the darkroom. When the photograph had finished developing, Pavli lifted it out with a set of wooden tongs and hung it on the thin line with the others.

In the room’s red light,
Herr Doktor
Ritter inspected the photos. He nodded with satisfaction. “These will do very well indeed.” He turned to the
Scharführer
beside him. “As soon as the boy is finished, take him down to the men’s dormitory. He’s earned his rest.”

The hallway outside the room had been kept completely dark. Ritter paused as he opened the door, directing his thin smile back to Pavli at the workbench. “You’ve saved me the trouble, and the delay, of having another photographer sent to this project. Your continued efforts will not go unappreciated.” He stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Pavli put the developing chemicals back onto the darkroom’s shelves, working carefully and taking his time. Until he could delay no longer, and he had to let the single remaining guard take him back to where the other Lazarene men were sleeping.

He heard a key turn in the lock behind him, and the echoes of the guard’s heavy boots retreating down the corridor. His fatigue and the thin cold light of stars and moon sliding through the high, barred windows told him that the time was well past midnight. All he could see were rows of bunk beds, each with a human form beneath thin blankets. Snoring, muttering, the protests and entreaties of those mired in dreaming. Despite those sounds, he knew that some of them were awake; he could feel their unseen gaze turning toward him, heads lifting from pillows to study him, to mark the one who had fallen even farther from their number.

“Pavli . . .” His brother’s whisper slid through the low noises. He saw a hand silhouetted in moonlight, beckoning to him. Silently, he made his way through the narrow spaces between the beds.

“Here.” Matthi reached out and took hold of his forearm. “You can sleep next to me.”

He sat down on the edge of a thin, hard mattress and rubbed his legs. His muscles ached from standing so long behind the camera and in the darkroom.

Matthi raised himself, wrapping an arm around Pavli’s shoulders. “It’s all right.” He brought his whisper close to his brother’s ear. “Everyone understands. It’s why you weren’t brought into the faith. If this Ritter and all the others should be lying . . . if the worst should happen . . . you might at least have a chance.”

Nodding, Pavli slowly began unbuttoning his shirt. He wasn’t so tired that he couldn’t wonder about the things of which Matthi spoke. “But why?” He kept his voice low. “Why would it matter? If all the rest of you were gone, and I was left behind . . .”

The words were like a kiss, breath against the curve of his ear. “If our blood survived . . . even just a little bit of it . . . then perhaps
He
would still come someday. Even without the marks of His suffering, without the knowledge of the true faith . . . still, one would be waiting for Him. You would still be waiting, and bearing your people’s blood.”

Perhaps that was true. He didn’t know; he’d like to believe what Matthi told him, but he couldn’t think about it now. The weariness claimed him, dragged him under its slow, dark waves. Half-undressed, he lay down on the hard, narrow bed. With the last of his strength, he bent his knees and pulled his boots from his feet. He rolled to the other side, toward the wall, so that even his brother couldn’t see what he was doing.

His fingers pried apart the leather at the top edge of one boot, and pulled out the treasure hidden within. The papers, a few newspapers clippings, and a glossy photograph. Bent and wrinkled, but in good shape otherwise.