The Second Victory, page 12
“Where did you learn German, Major? “Liesl Holzinger’s voice surprised him, as it did all strangers, with its depth and smoothness.
“I was a student in Graz years ago.”
“Then you know our country well, and understand the people.”
“I like to think so.” Hanlon smiled in careful deprecation. “Much has changed of course, since I was here.”
“Most Englishmen never speak as well as you.”
“I’m half Irish, perhaps that explains it.”
“Perhaps.”
He had the feeling that she was weighing him, measuring his reactions, listening for the undertones in his voice, watching for any significance of gesture. The women were the strength in this house, he decided, the shrewdness too. He wondered vaguely whether Holzinger was happy with his dark-eyed daughter and his blonde Valkyrie of a wife.
The drinks were brought and they toasted each other.
“Prost!” said Mark Hanlon.
“Prost!” said Max Holzinger.
“To peace,” said his wife.
The dark girl said nothing at all.
Holzinger laid down his glass and began to talk.
“The Major was telling me, Liesl, that he was very touched by our burial service this morning.” He said it eagerly, almost defensively, as if anxious to affirm his good standing with the Occupying Power.
“It was the least we could do,” said his wife emphatically. “A thing like that involves us all, even those who were not involved before. Have you found the murderer yet, Major?”
“No. It will take time.”
“The sooner the better,” said Traudl casually. “Then we can all start living normally.”
Holzinger and Liesl looked at her sharply, but her eyes and her smile were innocent of malice. Hanlon grinned and said gently:
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t begin now, Fräulein. The war’s over. After a while the rhythm of life will start to pick up again. It always does, you know.”
“Easy to say—for the winner,” said the girl bluntly.
“Traudl!” Her mother turned on her with a sharp exclamation of anger.
“It’s all right, “said Hanlon with a smile. “It’s fair comment. It’s the young ones who inherit the mess. “He turned back to the girl. “Don’t get the wrong idea about us, Fräulein. The only reason I’m here is to keep order and try to start life moving again. After that I go home—I’d like to be there now.”
“Then why is everybody afraid of you?”
“Are they?”
“You know they are!” She tossed it to him in smiling challenge. “Everybody, including Father here.”
Holzinger flushed and began to protest, but Hanlon cut him short with a gesture, and answered the girl with sober gentleness:
“We’re all a little afraid of strangers. Nobody likes a policeman camped on his doorstep. You get used to them in time, then you forget them, and after a while they go home.”
He got up, walked over to the piano and sat down. As the others watched him, curious and vaguely worried, he began to play, stiffly at first, then with fluid grace, the ‘Kärnter Heimatlied’, which is the tenderest of all songs of the motherland province of Austria.
The music seemed to take possession of him, smoothing the lines from his face, relaxing the stiffness in him, so that the drab uniform seemed to sit oddly on his shoulders. The melody flowed from his hands, supple and golden, singing of snow-peak and waterfall, of blossom trees and green meadows, of birdsong and the sparkle of mayflies, and the hunger of an exile for the good land that nurtured him. Its pathos tugged their heartstrings so that they left their chairs and came to him, moving quietly, lest the tenuous magic break. Hanlon neither saw nor heard them. He had surrendered to the memories that flowed out from his fingertips, old folk tunes, snatches of Schubertlieder, wisps of Mozart and Haydn, a monastery chant, a Tyrolese yodel—scraps and shreds of forgotten happiness stitched into a bright patchwork of melody. Somewhere between the monk and the soldier there had been a musician too, a fellow with a song in his heart and talent in his hands, but he had been thrust into the background, to emerge at this unlikely moment.
Holzinger stood in the background, fighting down a small rush of emotion, but the women stood close to Hanlon, so that the warmth of their bodies went out to him and their perfume was all about him, heady as the music. When his playing faltered, they prompted him, taking up the melody with soft voices, their faces bent to him, their white hands fluttering to the beat. He closed his eyes and played on, surrendering himself to the sound and perfume and the rhythm of his stirring blood.
Then slowly the pleasure spent itself and the music died in a low minor cadence that lingered a long while in the quiet room. The women moved away, reluctantly, and Hanlon swung round on the stool to face them. His mouth was puckered into a self-conscious grin and he made a little diffident gesture of apology.
“That’s all, I’m afraid.”
“Wunderschön!” said Liesl Holzinger softly.
“A great kindness,” said Holzinger awkwardly. “We all appreciate it.” The girl said nothing. She had already turned away to light a cigarette, but her body was alive with the music and with desire for the man who had played it.
“You see,” said Hanlon, mocking her lightly. “We’re not all monsters, Fräulein. Some of us are quite sympathisch when you get to know us.”
Even as he said it he remembered that Franck had played Chopin in the butchery of Warsaw, and fiddlers had played Brahms outside the doors of the gas chambers. But Irmtraud Holzinger was unconscious of such ironies. She raised her head, so that he saw the passion in her eyes and the frank invitation.
“I’ll remember it now, Major. I hope you’ll play for us again.”
“I hope you’ll ask me,” murmured Hanlon, and cursed himself for the easy gallantry.
“You are welcome at any time, Major,” Holzinger assured him with formal courtesy.
“The Major is a busy man. We must not make demands on him,” said Liesl Holzinger, who was still the wisest of them all.
A little while later he took his leave. The women stood in the porch to watch him go, but Holzinger walked down the steps with him to the garden gate. He held out his hand and said in his sincere, uneasy voice:
“I’m glad you came, Major. I hope this may be the beginning of an understanding between us.”
“I hope so too,” said Hanlon politely. “I’d like you to call on me in the morning. There’s a lot to discuss.”
“No more trouble, I hope?” asked Holzinger unhappily.
“No more than usual. Don’t let it spoil your rest, Herr Bürgermeister. Goodnight. And thank you for the hospitality.”
“Goodnight, Major. Come safely home.”
He stood a long time at the gate, watching the shadowy figure striding out along the promenade, then he too turned away and walked back to the house, where his women were discussing an important question: whether Mark Hanlon was married or single.
CHAPTER 9
WHEN HOLZINGER presented himself at the Sonnblick at nine-thirty the following morning, he found to his surprise that Fischer and Father Albertus were already there. The three of them sat uneasily in the big room, under the unfriendly eye of Captain Johnson, each wondering why the others had been summoned. Hanlon, it seemed, was busy with the briefing of the search parties and Johnson was content to let them wait and wonder.
Twenty minutes later Hanlon arrived, made a brief apology and plunged straight into business. Cool, detached, he sat behind the big desk with its mountains of paper and read them the official directive on the arrival and reception of displaced persons from the concentration camps. When he had finished he laid down the manuscript and looked at the three faces in front of him. He said calmly:
“There it is, gentlemen. I’d like your comments. You may speak as freely as you want.”
There was a long pause. The three men looked at each other, then back at the official mask of the man behind the desk.
“It’s—it’s a surprise,” said Holzinger carefully. “I can’t pretend it’s a pleasant one.”
“There’ll be trouble,” said Fischer bluntly. “As there has been in other places. Disorder, attempts at rape and murder. I have not the staff to handle them. The Occupying Power must assume the responsibility.”
Hanlon said nothing. He looked down at the backs of his hands and waited. Then Father Albertus spoke. His deep voice was full of conviction.
“We have a debt to these people. Whatever we do will be too little to repay it. Whatever trouble we have is not too much.”
Hanlon looked up. A small sardonic smile twitched the corners of his mouth.
“Well, gentlemen?”
Holzinger shrugged helplessly.
“We—we can’t quarrel with the principle. We shall do what we can.”
“I do quarrel with it,” said Fischer stubbornly.
Hanlon answered him, mildly enough:
“I’d like your view, Fischer.”
The small head jerked forward on the long neck. The bird-like eyes were bright with anger. The hands made jerky, emphatic gestures.
“There is a debt—we admit it. There is a problem of rehabilitation—we admit that too. But we do not solve the problem by dumping these people in the middle of a small community like this one which has no protection against…”
“Against what?” Hanlon shot the question at him.
“Hate,” said Fischer bluntly. “And revenge! Don’t tell me they don’t want it. You know what happened when the camps were thrown open—bloody murder! Not only of guards and executioners, but of local villagers. These people know they’re protected. Put a DP in the dock against a German or an Austrian. Who wins? Who must win? How do you keep order in a situation like that? Don’t mistake me. I know what was done in the camps. I know what happens when you brutalise a man so much that you turn him into a beast. But they weren’t all martyrs. There were rapists and perverts as well as Jews and politicals. Do you let those loose on us—our women and children? I can’t look at the big issues. I’ve lived and worked here all my life. Why dump all this—this corruption on us?”
“Because all of us had our part in it, Karl,” said Father Albertus sombrely. “All of us co-operated by silence, by cowardice, by eating the fruits that were manured by millions of dead. You say you know what went on. You could never know, unless you had been there and endured the horror in your own body. You talk of vengeance, murder, rape. Wait till you see these people. They have no heart left for hate—or love either. In many of them even the will to live is dead. You are afraid of them, you say? What is to be feared from a skeleton? You fear for our women. Is there lust in a starving body, whose strength is consumed by the feeblest motion? I will tell you what you are afraid of—what we’re all afraid of—our own guilt staring at us from dead eyes, our own shame stalking in the sunlight of this town!”
There was a long silence in the ornate room, so that each man was conscious of his own pulsebeat, the small, crepitant rustle of his clothing against his body. Even Hanlon, who had brought the old priest for this very reason, was awed by his eloquent condemnation. After a while he said very quietly:
“It seems we’re all agreed on the main issue, gentlemen. There are some practical matters I’d like to discuss with you. First is the requisition of a suitable building. I’d like your recommendations, Holzinger. Then we’ll inspect it together before I make the order.”
“I’ll let you have them tomorrow morning, Major.”
“Good. Next is the question of staffing. The medical nucleus will be supplied by International Red Cross—doctors, nurses, trained orderlies. We’ll need wardmaids, cleaners, staff for the laundry, the kitchen, the boiler room, clerical assistants…How do we raise them?”
“You’ll have to conscript them,” said Fischer sourly. “Nobody in his right senses would volunteer for work in such a place.”
“You underrate our people, Karl,” said the old priest calmly. “They have at bottom a Christian conscience. If this proposal is presented to them in the right fashion, they will respond—many of them anyway. I shall preach about it on Sunday. If those in authority give the example…” He shot a quick, quizzical glance at Holzinger, “…if their families offer voluntary service, the others will follow. We have time to prepare them. We should make use of it properly.”
“If you can do that,” said Hanlon, without emphasis, “you’ll make it easier for me and for yourselves.”
Holzinger nodded, but said nothing. He was wondering what Liesl would say, and his daughter, when he asked them to take the lead, for an example to the citizens.
The first ground gained, Hanlon led them carefully through a discussion of details: rates of payment, the provision of transport from the station to the hospital, entertainment, recruiting methods. The tension slackened gradually, and at the end of an hour he ordered coffee to be sent up and passed round cigarettes. The morning was going well and he wanted to take advantage of it.
The next question was a ticklish one: the status of Party members and the sequestration of their estates. He saw Fischer and Holzinger tense suddenly when he raised it.
“Understand me, gentlemen. I have a certain latitude in time and action on this matter. I am as anxious as you are to avoid injustice, which profits nobody. The only true balance will be achieved when the first free elections are held and the wish of the people is made known. However, you must understand that I am under the general pressure of policy. I must be able to justify to higher authority my action—or my delay in taking action. Do I make myself clear?”
Holzinger and Fischer nodded. The priest watched him with gentle, perceptive eyes. He went on:
“The first thing I propose is the impounding of documents—city records, Party lists, police files, electoral rolls, registers of births, deaths, marriages; all papers relating to property in the Quellenberg area. Captain Johnson and his men will take possession of these immediately and issue appropriate receipts. The documents will be returned to you after scrutiny and collation.”
Holzinger shifted uneasily and the chair creaked loudly. He flushed and mopped his face. Fischer sat bolt upright, his eyes filmed over like a bird’s, unwinking, inscrutable.
“It will be necessary for me to issue a proclamation, which I have already drafted,” he tapped the manila folder at his side, “making it clear to all citizens that they are free to apply to me with any information of previous misconduct or misappropriation by Party officials. Information may be submitted in the form of charges or as simple requests for inquiry. Its source will be kept secret and a full investigation will be made before legal action is taken. I’m sure you will understand the need for this free access. Many people have lived in fear for a long time. The course of justice has been perverted for many years. I’m sure you are all anxious to redress the balance.”
“You won’t do it this way,” said Fischer in his bald emphatic fashion. “Most of us are condemned out of hand.”
“By opinion perhaps,” snapped Hanlon, “but not by the law. For the present I am the law. The fact that you are still in office is proof of my impartiality.”
Father Albertus permitted himself a smile behind his broken hand. His old pupil was showing up well. Holzinger said awkwardly:
“Many of the records were destroyed before the surrender.”
“We expected that,” said Hanlon easily. “We’ll make do with what is left. Military records, especially those relating to arms and ammunition dumps, are specially important. It will make your job easier, Fischer, if these can be found.”
Fischer nodded and said irritably:
“You’d better issue a new order on the surrender of firearms. It’s like prising out teeth to get ’em now.”
“I’ll do that,” said Hanlon. He relaxed and leaned back in his chair, smiling at them amiably. “That’s enough for today, gentlemen. We’ve covered a lot of ground. We’ll get round to the rest of it in time. Any questions before we break up?”
“One,” said Fischer. “It’s small enough, but the people would like to know. The feasts are coming on—St Nicholas the day after tomorrow, Christmas, New Year, the Three Kings. There are the old customs—St Nicholas and Krampus visit the children, you know how it goes. Do you want them stopped, or do I let them go on?”
“Let them go on. We want to interfere as little as possible with the local life. We thought that…if the people cared…we’d invite the children here to the Sonnblick for a Christmas party. We’ll supply the food and the presents.”
“It would be a good thought,” said Father Albertus. “They haven’t eaten well for a long time.”
“Leave it to me, then.” Hanlon stood up. “Thank you, gentlemen. Captain Johnson will go with you to arrange about the documents. I’ll telephone you before our next meeting.”
They rose, bowed stiffly and walked from the room, Johnson first, then Holzinger and Fischer, with Father Albertus bringing up the rear. At the door the old man stopped and looked back. His transparent face was lit with a gentle smile:
“Authority sits well on you, Brother Mark. I believe you will do good for us here.”
The door closed on him and Mark Hanlon was left alone chewing the butt of a new, disturbing thought…
Fischer had started it—the small furtive doubt that lurked behind an apparently simple statement.
‘The feasts are coming on…The people will want to know.’ Fischer was not a man to be interested in feasts or in the people. The question was irrelevant, yet strangely obtrusive among all the big issues they had discussed. Who cared, now, about Father Christmas and his attendant devil? The answer was simple. Fischer cared. But why?
He puzzled about it for an hour before he found the answer.
On the sixth of December the goatmen came down from the mountains. They wore huge, grotesque wooden masks carved by forgotten craftsmen. They had six horns and jagged teeth and twisted mouths and leering eyes, lit sometimes by torch batteries so that they winked horribly in the darkness. From neck to ankle they were clothed in goatskins. Their cinctures were rattling chains and on their backs they wore great balls of hollow iron that rattled and drummed as they walked. They came shouting and howling in a curious reverberant chant that filled the valleys and echoed dully against the mountainsides.
