The Second Victory, page 20
Then the door opened and Mark Hanlon came in—with Rudi Winkler’s housekeeper.
In a long bare room at the top of the Pfarrhaus, Father Albertus was dining with Johann Wikivill.
It was a meal the like of which had not graced the presbytery table for many long years: Rindsuppe, a trout fresh-caught and stuffed with mushrooms, a roast of chicken, Apfelstrudel and fresh whipped cream. There was a Nussberger for the meats and a Muscatel with the sweet, and a long Dutch cigar to match the coffee. The old man had coaxed the ingredients out of the local shopkeepers and handed them all to his grumbling housekeeper, hoping that her skill might not be atrophied after years of ascetic cooking. He had made no secret of the identity of his guest, but had cautioned her to silence and sent her back to the kitchen.
When Wikivill had arrived, furtive and panicky, he had made him bathe and change his clothes and settle himself in a small bedroom with a view over the town and the valley. By the time dinner was served the visitor was calm again and they dined in leisurely fashion, by candlelight, like men remote from disaster.
Father Albertus steered the talk into harmless channels, and his guest responded gratefully, as to a forgotten pleasure. He talked well but with detachment, as if he, like the priest, were no longer part of the world which they discussed. His hands were steady and his eyes were clear but sombre like those of a man accustomed to the contemplation of immense distances, treeless and barren.
It was not until the last of the wine was gone, and the last drops of coffee had been poured, that he asked the critical question:
“You have brought me here, Father. I’m grateful. But what do you hope to do with me?”
The mild, deep-set eyes looked out on him from the luminous face. The grave voice answered him:
“You have come—as every man comes sooner or later—to the end of a road. Behind you is a wreckage. In front, blankness. It is the beginning of despair.”
“It is despair.”
“No.” The priest’s voice was gentle but very firm. “Despair is the loss of hope.”
“I have no hope.”
“I want to try to give you one.”
“Can you?”
It was a clear challenge, but, strangely enough, the old man did not rise to it. He said simply:
“If I promised it to you, my son, I should be lying. Hope springs from faith. At present you have no faith. You do not believe in God—you cannot believe in yourself. I cannot give you faith—it is a gift of the Almighty. The most I can do is bring you to desire it, help you to prepare yourself for it.”
“I desire it,” said Johann Wikivill heavily. “I need it, as I need love and passion and a whole body—all the things I can never have.”
“You need it more than these, my son. Because the soul endures even after the body is destroyed.”
“If there is a soul.”
“If there were, and if you could believe it, would you bear more easily the maiming and the loss?”
“I—I think so.”
“We begin from there.” The fire seemed to leap up behind the transparent face. “We reason together. We meditate together. We pray together.”
“I cannot pray. How can I, not believing?”
“You pray as a great Englishman once prayed—he who came from faith to unfaith, and back again, and came to wear finally the dignity of a prince of the Church: ‘O God—if there be a God—give me light!’”
The sombre eyes of Johann Wikivill were downcast to the table. The candle flames threw strange shadows on his lean, bandaged face. After a while he said softly:
“It is a long journey, Father. I doubt I have courage to make it.”
“There is light at the end of it. And you will not be walking alone. I shall go with you, all the way.”
“You may not be able to. The Englishman wants my head.”
“He shall not have it, unless you choose to give it to him.”
There was so much strength and conviction in the old man’s voice that his guest looked up in sharp surprise.
“You can’t promise that, Father 1”
“I can. I do.”
“You can’t. Behind the Englishman is a whole nation—four nations! You cannot fight them all.”
“Not I, my son.” Father Albertus held up his gnarled and broken hands. “But God Almighty who lifts up the humble and topples the mighty from their seats…”
Suddenly the telephone rang, its sound shrill and shocking in the bare room. Father Albertus got up to answer it and his guest sat, tense and upright, listening. He heard nothing but the disjointing answers of the priest.
“…No, I had not heard of it…a shocking affair.…Yes.…I understand that.…No.…I should prefer to leave it till the morning.…I shall be there without fail.…Yes, I guarantee that.…Auf Wiedersehn.”
He replaced the receiver carefully on the cradle and turned to face his guest. He said quietly:
“That was Colonel Hanlon, Occupation Commander. Winkler was murdered this afternoon. Your uncle has been arrested. Hanlon knows you are with me.”
“No…!” The sound came out on a long-drawn breath of horror. He pushed back his chair and struggled out of it, shattering a wineglass as he did so. “I’ve got to leave. Get out of here!”
“No!” The deep voice snapped like a thunderclap. Fire leaped up in the old man like lightning. His frail body seemed to grow in stature, dominating the room and the tense crouching figure of his guest. “I made you a promise. I shall keep it. They shall not have you, my son. Trust me—in the name of God!”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“Then believe in me.”
Slowly, inexorably, the seconds ticked by; the candle flames flickered and the silence crackled with the tension between them. Then, quite suddenly, Wikivill’s taut body relaxed and he sat down, resting his trembling hands on the edge of the table. His mouth twisted into a strange smile, half resigned, half despairing. His voice was almost a whisper.
“I believe in you, Father. I don’t know why, but I do. I’ll stay.”
CHAPTER 15
“FOR GOD’s sake, Mark! Have you gone crazy?” Hanlon had hardly finished his conversation with Father Albertus when Johnson exploded into shocked anger.
“You’ve been griping for months about this fellow. You’ve turned the town upside down to get him. Now, when he’s in your hands, you leave him free—to spend the night with a bloody priest I What do you expect him to do—make his confession or something? Walk in here tomorrow morning and hold out his hands for the bracelets? God Almighty! By tomorrow morning he’ll be over the hills and far away. And how are you going to explain that to Klagenfurt?”
“Finished, Johnny?” Hanlon turned a bleak, unfriendly eye on his subordinate.
“I’m finished, yes. And so will you be if you carry on with this crazy comedy. I know you’re a Catholic. I know there’s some connection between you and the priest. Fine! It’s none of my business. But this is. I don’t like it. Burn your own fingers if you like, but not mine.”
“Finished now?”
“Yes, and be damned to you!”
“Then sit down and listen.”
Johnson hesitated a moment, then lowered himself into a chair and sat glaring across the desk at Hanlon. Hanlon reached for a cigarette, lit it and tossed the case over to Johnson. Johnson caught it and put it back on the desk unopened. Hanlon smoked for a few moody moments, then he began to talk, crisply and irritably:
“Item one, Johnny. I’m in command here. If there are orders, you obey ’em. If there are kicks, I take ‘em. Right?”
“Right,” said Johnson sullenly.
“Item two. There was a second murder this afternoon. It was committed by people under our protection—the DPs. I don’t know how to deal with them until I get a clear directive from Klagenfurt. It’s high policy, political dynamite. Which brings us to item three. If I arrest Johann Wikivill tonight, I’ve got to put him through the hoops, immediately! I have to charge one man and let fifty others go free. How’s that going to look? What are the people going to say to our protestations of democracy and justice?”
“I—I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Item four. The fact that Father Albertus has taken our man under protection means there’s more to the case than you or I know about. I don’t want to make any move until I get the score.”
“By then it may be too late.”
“I’m taking Father Albertus’s word that it won’t be.”
“Why do you put so much stock in him?”
“I’ve known him a long time, Johnny. He’s a bigger man than you and I will ever be, and a wiser one. I trust him.”
Johnson sat quietly for a few moments considering the proposition. Then he said apologetically:
“The only item that carries any weight with me is number two. I see we’re in a jam. It could be your way is right, though I’m still not convinced. Anyway, I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK, Johnny. Forget it.”
“What are you going to do about Fischer?”
“Hold him till I can see where we’re heading on the whole business.”
“What if he screams for a lawyer?”
“He hasn’t yet. I don’t think he will.”
Johnson reached for the cigarette case and lit up. Through the spiralling smoke rifts he studied the lean, intelligent face of his commander, noting the deepening carelines and the new grey hairs and the ugly scar along his temple. He said seriously: “You puzzle me, Mark.”
“Why so?”
“You’re too subtle for me. You think off-centre. I don’t say it’s a bad thing. In a situation like this it’s probably the approach we need. I find you hard to follow, that’s all.”
Hanlon nodded thoughtfully and began to worry the thought aloud.
“It’s fair comment, Johnny. I think it’s a difference of approach, of attitude. You see this job one way, I see it another. We think about it in different terms. To you it’s a military operation to be handled according to a certain set of rules. Fair enough. To me it’s…it’s a human enterprise, a problem of people—more than people, persons. You’re detached from it, I’m involved. I’m not sure that’s a good thing either, but it’s a fact and I’ve got to start from that fact. Can you see that?”
“I can see it, yes. But you’re not involved right down the line.”
“How come?”
Johnson smiled a little shamefacedly.
“Take the rest of the officers. Take Wilson, James, Hanneker. We’re involved in a different way. They’ve got their girls and a place to take ’em and a nice cosy domestic setup. I’m playing the field in a half-hearted sort of way. You’re still playing the celibate. You’re involved with Fischer and the priest and Holzinger, and even Traudl doesn’t get a tumble in the hay, much as she wants it. I’d be happy to give it to her myself, if I thought I had half a chance.”
Hanlon shrugged indifferently.
“Don’t let me stand in your light, Johnny.”
Johnson’s face creased into a puzzled frown.
“That’s what puzzles me, Mark. You’re more detached than I am, yet you’re risking more than I’d ever risk.”
“Maybe that’s it, Johnny,” said Hanlon with a crooked grin. “Maybe that’s why I don’t want to be involved with a woman. I’d risk more than you and profit far less. Now get to hell out of here. I want to go to bed!”
Johnson made no move to go, but sat back, grinning at him with the old jaunty impudence.
“You need a change, sonny boy. You need to get out on the town once in a while. I’ve got a date with a girl at the Zigeuner Café. Why not ring Traudl and have her along? It’d do you good. You’ll be dead a long time.”
“Too damn long!” said Mark Hanlon; and, after a moment’s hesitation, he reached for the telephone.
The Zigeuner Café was neither a café nor a resort of gipsies. It was a two-storeyed log house, about a mile from the town, perched on the lower pine slopes and looking out across the valley. It took the afternoon sun and was sheltered from the winds at night. There was a terrace in front, planted with blossom trees, and the lower floor was occupied by a kitchen and a long dining-room with a log fire at one end and a big porcelain stove at the other, and half a dozen small guestrooms.
Its proprietor was a long-headed Carinthian with a stout peasant wife and a quartette of bouncing daughters. They lived on the upper floor, and gave the lower one over to the entertainment of the Occupation troops and their local escorts.
When the proposition had been presented to him, Hanlon had been dubious, but Johnson had sponsored it with enthusiasm. It was quiet, remote from the town. If the boys got drunk there’d be no local disturbance and they would have time to sober up before they came back into the built-up area. It was a useful place for local leave. There were the guestrooms, the fishing, the mountain walks.…
Finally Hanlon had approved. The permit was signed and the Carinthian went away, waving his ration cards, while the more conservative townsfolk muttered unhappily about influence and interlopers.
When the officer staff had been expanded, Johnson had proposed a shrewd amendment. Three nights weekly the place should be private to officers. The rest of the time it should be open to other ranks. This too Hanlon had approved, and the Carinthian was quick to adapt his service and his prices to the different needs of the military castes.
From the official point of view it was a good arrangement. There was privacy for presumptive gentlemen and freedom for those of lower degree. The ladies who accompanied the former could enjoy their seduction in comfort. The soldiers’ girls could relax in a more rowdy prelude. The tipple for the troops was tapped from a big cask in the kitchen. The officers’ wine came in bottles at double the price. And the bouncing daughters were instructed to keep their mouths shut and their virginity intact, while their father raked in the currency tokens and cashed them at a premium rate.
When Hanlon and Johnson arrived with the girls it was already late. There were half a dozen couples on the floor, dancing to the music of the zither player, a tall blond fellow in Lederhosen and a bright peasant shirt. They nodded a perfunctory greeting and settled themselves in a corner near the fire, while the daughters of the house bustled up to light the candles and pour out the wine and lay the table for a meal.
They drank and talked and ate and smoked and laughed and fell silent, watching the dancing couples, while the music played on and on and lost itself in the shadowy, carved beams of the ceiling.
They were restless at first, selfconscious and uneasy with one another. Their talk concealed their thoughts and their laughter had a metallic ring to it. They were lonely, yet not prepared for intimacy. They courted one another yet dared not think of the consummation. But, as the drink relaxed them and the music beguiled them and they watched the hypnotic leaping of the fire, they drew closer to each other and talked more quietly and smiled in the candlelight, but did not laugh any more.
These were the gentle moments: the prelude to passion that had no passion in it; the beginning of love in which there was no thought of love at all.
Then Hanlon took Traudl’s hand and led her on to the dance floor. The zither player changed his rhythm to a slow plaintive waltz that swept them into each other’s arms in a symbolic surrender.
They danced cheek to cheek, breast to breast, lapped in a mutual harmony of sound and movement. Their lips brushed sometimes, then parted again to whisper small words of satisfaction and endearment.
The other couples fell away from them, then sat down to watch, while they danced on, unconscious of their solitude, of everything but the music and the slow, mounting beat of desire.
Then, abruptly, it was finished. The music stopped. A small clapping broke out. They looked around them in surprise, then walked selfconsciously back to the table, where Johnson and his girl were waiting for them.
The room was uncomfortably warm now, heavy with the smell of pine smoke and cigarettes and food and spilt wine. Johnson suggested a walk in the garden before they went home. They paid the bill and strolled out into the sharp, scented air under the blossom trees. Then they parted and walked, two and two, into the shadows under the lacing branches.
The moon was riding high over the sleeping valley. The peaks were silver with it, ghostly battlements looking down on the black march of the pines. The river wound brightly through the grey, sleeping meadows, its sound a muted counterpoint to the nostalgic tinkling of the zither.
Hanlon and Traudl Holzinger stood together by the low stone wall looking down over the bright emptiness and upward to the soft scattering of stars, round the fringes of the moon-field. The air was cold, but full of the scent of blossoms that brushed their faces as they turned to kiss and cling to each other.
When the first long kiss was over they drew apart and looked at one another. Their voices were a soft whisper.
“Du bist so schön, meine Liebe…”
“Und du, Schatz…so schön…”
They were both passionate, both ripe for this moment of starlight and perfume; but neither was ready to make the first demand nor the first surrender. Their passion was strong enough and frank enough, but each, for a different reason, held it in curb. For Hanlon the curb was his marriage and his proconsular status. For the girl it was the age-old admonition of the Sisterhood: ‘Give them everything, yet give them nothing until you have the ring and the promise. We are still unconquered, remember. We must make them pay for our surrender.’
So regretfully they retreated from one another, and after a moment Hanlon said gently:
“Where do we go from here, dark one?”
He looked away from her across the valley and she saw the line of his jaw, tight and stubborn, and his eyes, distant and brooding in the grey moonlight. Her answer came back lightly enough:
