Wolf Among Wolves (109 page)

Herr Richter was silent. His talk at an end, he was hoping that this shady Lieutenant had understood him. But he merely looked questioningly at God’s Pencil, who therefore had to make up his mind to go further—a disgusting business for a decent person.

“I have heard,” he whispered with a cautious look at the fat civilian who still stood nearby waiting for something, “I have heard that you have the possibility of finding out a few … hmm … secrets. You are supposed to have some sort of connection.…” The disgust in his voice was so obvious that a little crimson crept into the Lieutenant’s cheeks. But he said nothing, only regarded his superior attentively. “Very well, then,” said Herr Richter impatiently, himself flushing. “Why beat about the bush? I ask you in the interests of the cause to make use of your connections, so that we can know where we stand.”

“Now?” The truth was that the Lieutenant wished to ride past the hotel, see if the lordly Horch car was still there, and then go at once to the dump. If it was as he now almost expected it to be, then back to her at once and before her eyes do what he had promised. No, he wouldn’t touch her, but she should carry with her that picture—much worse than any other—throughout her whole life. She was so impressionable, she would never get over it; day after day with that picture, starting up at night from sleep—screaming—with that picture before her. Therefore the Lieutenant hesitated. “Now?” he asked.

The dark haggard man became almost angry. “When would it be, then? Do you think we have much more time to lose? We’ve got to know what’s going to happen.”

“I don’t think,” said the Lieutenant, retaliating for his blush, “that the young lady has time for me at the moment. She’s only a housemaid and will have to clean up now. And the cook bears me a grudge.” That’s the stuff, he thought. If they need me, let them stop being so genteel, and eat my dirt.

Herr Richter, however, had become quite cold and polite. “I am convinced, Herr Lieutenant,” he said, “that you can arrange the matter. I shall therefore expect your report here—inside an hour.”

The Lieutenant bowed, and Herr Richter was on the point of dismissing him when he caught a gesture from the fat man. “Oh, yes—one or two more questions, Herr Lieutenant, in another connection, with which this gentleman is dealing.”

The fat man advanced, with a curt greeting. He had been watching the Lieutenant during the entire discussion, but now he hardly looked at him. Without circumlocution, without a trace of politeness, he asked: “Neulohe is in your district?”

“Certainly, Herr …?”

“The arms dump in the Black Dale also?”

The Lieutenant threw an irritated questioning glance at Herr Richter, who with an impatient sign ordered him to reply.

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you inspected the dump?”

“Three days ago. Tuesday.”

“Everything all right then?”

“Yes.”

“Had you set up secret marks?”

“I could see by the state of the ground that it had not been dug up since.”

“Are your people trustworthy?”

“Completely.”

“Do you think that anyone could have watched you while the arms were being buried?”

“That—no. Otherwise I would have shifted the dump at once.”

“Did anyone come in the neighborhood of the sentinels during the concealment?”

The Lieutenant was trying to consider what reply would be helpful to him. But the questions followed one another so rapidly, the observant eye was so cold, that he replied hastily, without reflection or weighing the consequences: “Yes.”

“Who?”

“Herr von Prackwitz and his daughter.”

“Did you know them?”

“Only by sight.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I sent them on.”

“Did both go forthwith?”

“Yes.”

“They asked for no explanation of what was taking place on their land?”

“Herr von Prackwitz is a former officer.”

“And his daughter?”

The Lieutenant was silent. This is like the police, he thought. Only criminals are questioned in this manner. Is there a spy in our section then? I heard something of that kind once.…

“And the daughter?” persisted the fat man.

“Said nothing.”

“You weren’t otherwise acquainted with her?”

“Only by sight.”

That look, that damned penetrating look! If only he had an idea what the fellow really knew! But, like this, one was groping in the dark completely. A single reply might have exposed him as a liar. And then … And then? Nothing more!

“You are certain that neither of the pair spied on your dump later?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“Why?”

“I should have seen by the ground.”

For the first time Herr Richter joined in. “I think we can be certain of Rittmeister von Prackwitz and his daughter. As a matter of fact they are now in town. I saw them go into The Golden Hat.”

“We could question them,” said the fat man thoughtfully, not removing his ice-cold glance from the Lieutenant.

“Certainly, question them! I’ll come with you at once. Come along, we’ll go,” almost shouted the Lieutenant. “What’s up? Am I a traitor? Have I blabbed? Come with me, you, Herr Policeman! Yes, I’ve just come from The Golden Hat; I was sitting there at a table with the Rittmeister and his daughter; I have—” He broke off, looking at his tormentor with hatred.

“Yes, what have you?” asked the fat man, quite unmoved by this outburst.

“I beg you, gentlemen,” cried God’s Pencil imploringly. “Don’t misunderstand the situation, Herr Lieutenant. There is no desire to offend you, but we have reason to believe that an arms dump has been betrayed. A car from the Entente Commission has been seen there. As yet we don’t know which dump is in question; we are inquiring of all the gentlemen to whom one has been entrusted. There is always the possibility that this is the reason for the peculiar behavior of our comrades opposite.”

The Lieutenant drew a deep breath. “Inquire, then,” he said to the other; and yet he felt that even that breath had been seen.

“You were speaking of The Golden Hat,” said the fat man impassively. “You said ‘I have’ and stopped.”

“Is that really necessary?” exclaimed Herr Richter in despair.

“I had some port with the Rittmeister, perhaps I was going to say that. I don’t remember now. Why don’t we go there?” he cried again, this time not desperately but in defiance, carrying on that game with death which had already been decided, however, as he well knew. “I’ll be pleased to go. It doesn’t matter to me. You can question Herr von Prackwitz in my presence.”

“And his daughter,” said the fat man.

“And his daughter,” repeated the Lieutenant, but in a low voice.

There was a silence, oppressive and lengthy.

What do they want, he thought in despair. Do they want to arrest me? They can’t do that. I am not a traitor; I have not lost my honor yet.

The fat man, without any embarrassment, whispered in Herr Richter’s ear, on whose face was seen once more, but intensified, an expression of disgust. He appeared to be in disagreement, to be rejecting something. Suddenly the Lieutenant remembered a former comrade from whom the colonel had torn the epaulettes in front of the regiment. But I don’t wear epaulettes, he thought forlornly; he can’t do that to me.

He looked across the room—it was ten paces to the door and no one stood in the way. Hesitatingly he took a step in that direction.

“A moment,” commanded the fat man roughly. His ice-cold eye saw everything, even when it was turned away.

“I answer for the dump with my honor,” cried the Lieutenant, beginning to tremble. The two men turned their faces to him. “And with my life,” he added, not so firmly.

It seemed as if the fat man made a slight negative gesture with his head, but Herr Richter said briskly: “Good. Good. Nobody mistrusts you, Herr Lieutenant.” The fat man was silent. No muscle of his face moved, but it nevertheless said: “I mistrust you.” I don’t want to be judged by you, thought the Lieutenant, not your way.

“May I go now?” asked the Lieutenant.

Herr Richter looked at the fat man, who said: “A couple of questions more, Herr Lieutenant.”

Hasn’t the fellow any shame? thought the young man in despair. I wish to God I was on the street. But he did not move and replied: “By all means”—as if it were of no consequence to him.

And it started again. “You know a farm bailiff, Meier from Neulohe?”

“Slightly. He was proposed. I turned him down.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t like him. I thought him unreliable.”

“Why?”

“I can’t remember. That was my impression. I think he had a lot of affairs with women.”

“Oh, affairs with women … You thought he was unreliable because of affairs with women?” The unbending cold glance rested on the Lieutenant.

“Yes.”

“Could this Meier have observed the concealment of the arms?”

“Absolutely impossible!” declared the Lieutenant quickly. “He had been gone from Neulohe a long time then.”

“Oh! Gone away? Why had he gone?”

“I really don’t know. One would have to ask Herr von Prackwitz.”

“Do you think there is anyone in Neulohe who is still in touch with this Meier?”

“I have no idea at all. Perhaps one of his girls.”

“You don’t know them?”

“I beg you!” said the Lieutenant heavily.

“It might be possible, don’t you think … that you know the name of one or another?”

“No.”

“So you can form no conjecture how this Meier might have heard of the arms dump?”

“But he can’t know anything about it!” shouted the Lieutenant, bewildered. “It’s weeks since he left Neulohe.”

“And who does know about it?”

Silence again. The Lieutenant shrugged his shoulders furiously.

“Well, it has been stated,” said Herr Richter placatingly, “that this Meier was sitting in the car of the Control Commission this morning. But it’s not certain that it was he.”

For the first time the fat man betrayed annoyance, and glanced at the too-talkative God’s Pencil with irritation. The other, however, made an end. “We’ll let that be enough of questioning now. It doesn’t seem to me that much has come out of it. You know your instructions, Lieutenant. I shall expect you back in a hour’s time, then. Perhaps you can learn what we haven’t found out here.” He made a sign of dismissal; the Lieutenant gave a slight bow and went to the door.

I am going to the door, he thought, remarkably relieved. Yet he was trembling lest the fat man, that terrible person, should say a word and detain him again.

But no word was spoken behind him; the uncomfortable chilliness in his back vanished, as if distance weakened the icy power of that glance. He saluted his comrades right and left, and by a great effort of will stopped at the door to light a cigarette. Then he seized the handle, opened and closed the door, crossed the taproom—and at last stood outside on the open street.

He felt as if he had been restored to freedom after a long excruciating imprisonment.

VI

Standing there he knew that never again would he return to Herr Richter in that room, would never make the awaited report, nor say comrade to comrade again. Honor lost, all lost! Yes, honor, which belonged to him in common with the other officers, had been lost. He had lied like a coward to escape the judgment of his comrades. But not because he feared death—he had already awarded himself death—but because he wanted to die in his own manner, so that she shouldn’t forget him.

Hands in his pockets, cigarette in mouth, he sauntered in the gently drizzling midday toward that outlying part of the town where were the officers’ villas. When he considered the matter, it was utterly foolish to take on himself this further humiliation of finding out from the maid Frieda what her employers had been saying, since he would never convey to Herr Richter the results
of his investigation. Let them see how they would manage their
Putsch
themselves; he was only going to bother about his own affairs now.

As, apparently carefree and unbound by time, the Lieutenant strolled through the streets in his shabby clothes, entering a shop once and buying fifty cigarettes of a very much better kind than usual, there was a deep crease between his eyebrows, just above the bridge of the nose—a crease of intense brooding. It was, for a young man who throughout his life had preferred action to reflection, not very easy to understand what was really the matter with him, what he wanted and what he did not want.

Very surprising indeed was the thought of how indifferent he had now become toward that
Putsch
for which he had worked so many months, almost without money, denying himself everything that young men otherwise desire. Equally surprising was it how indifferent he felt at leaving his comrades, to whom he no longer belonged, and whose society had always been more important for him than the love of any girl.

He had had to endure a lot that morning, things he would normally never have borne, things which would have rendered him frantic: the wine thrown at him by the Rittmeister, the apprehensive queries of the contemptible Friedrich, Herr Richter’s hardly-concealed disgust, and, to cap all, the shameful examination by the fat detective. But all this too had lapsed from the mind of one who otherwise could not forget an injury for years, but who now had to coerce himself if he wished to remember anything at all of these recent happenings.

It is strange, he thought; I feel as if I am quite out of things already, as if I have really nothing more to do with this world, like a dying man when all fades round him. Yes, now I remember again. When people die, there hands begin to move restlessly about their bedclothes. Some say the dying try to dig their own graves; others that they are trying to find something to hold on to in this world. Is that what’s happening to me? Is everything withdrawing from me, and can I find nothing more on earth to hold on to? But I am no dying man; I am not the least bit ill. Is it that the cells in my body already know they must perish? Can death not only be annihilation through illness, but also the destruction of the body through thought? In that case am I really a traitor?

He looked around as if waking from a bad dream. He was on a large dismal ground stamped hard by the boots of many hundreds of soldiers, a yellow expanse of cheerless clay where hardly a weed ventured to grow. At the far end were the crude yellow barracks, surrounded by a high yellow wall topped with broken glass. The great iron gate, painted a dull gray, was shut; the sentry in steel helmet and with slung carbine was marching up and down to warm himself a little.