HS02 - Days of Atonement Read online

  ‘Your guests may have exchanged pleasantries in each other’s tongue this evening, ma’am,’ Helena replied, as she buckled her mantle, ‘but what they may have said between themselves, or thought in private, is anybody’s guess.’

  From the tone of her voice I realised that she was frightened by something.

  ‘Procurator Stiffeniis, may I wish you a good evening?’

  The voice was low, hardly audible above the general clamour, but I knew who it belonged to before I turned around.

  ‘Colonel Lavedrine, you may, indeed,’ I replied with a smile that was as cordial as I was able to manage.

  ‘Frau Stiffeniis, my most sincere compliments,’ he continued, placing his hand on his heart and bowing his shaggy head to my wife. Then he glanced back at me. ‘There are a thousand questions I would like to ask about the investigation you carried out with Professor Kant in Königsberg. As a criminologist, of course, I made a point of reading your report. It was flawless from a bureaucratic point of view, but I would rather hear the details from your own lips.’ He hesitated an instant, then added: ‘For the sake of my studies.’

  Helena took hold of my arm as if to warn me to be on my guard.

  ‘Unfortunately, I shall be leaving in a day or two,’ he continued, his German truly excellent. ‘I am not a soldier, as you will have realised. I hold the rank of a colonel, but the battles I fought in the back streets of Paris earned me that respect. I’ll be going eastwards soon, towards the Russian border. I must admit, that prospect worries me a little. Our hold on the border territories is still not entirely established.’

  ‘Is that why you are going there, monsieur?’ Helena proposed with a show of candour. ‘To secure the area?’

  ‘A country can be ruled without a French soldier sitting on every single clod of it.’ He laughed. ‘Besides, the explanation is simpler. There is a hospital for the insane which is of great scientific interest in Bialystok. I mean to speak to some of the “guests.” ’

  Helena relaxed her grip on my arm.

  ‘Bon voyage, monsieur!’ she said lightly.

  ‘Merci, Frau Stiffeniis,’ Lavedrine murmured with a smile that seemed to light up his face. But his mind was elsewhere. He stretched out his hand and laid it heavily on my shoulder.

  ‘You possess information that is precious to me, sir. I came this evening for no other purpose. I am interested in knowing Kant’s thoughts about murder. I feel certain that he must have left some detailed notes on the subject. You are one of the few people who might know.’

  I knew the writing he was searching for. I had torn the pages into shreds with my own hands, and thrown them into the mud-brown waters of the River Pregel in Königsberg. They swirled and sank again in my mind’s eye.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Professor Kant died suddenly,’ I said. ‘He had never shown the slightest interest in crime before.’

  ‘Yes, yes, so you said,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘And yet, I am convinced . . .’

  ‘Unfortunately, Hanno cannot help you, Colonel Lavedrine.’ Helena stepped between us. She smiled with captivating warmth, her hand on my arm, pulling me away. ‘I hope you may find more interesting material for research on your travels.’

  The road was thick with French soldiers as we made our way home.

  The sky was crystal-clear above our heads.

  The constellations shone in all their glory as we walked in the direction of our house. But the sight did not provoke my admiration, as it had once worked its magic on Immanuel Kant. On the contrary, that unsullied sky promised cold weather in the foreseeable future. If any more Prussians were hanged, their frozen corpses would shadow our days until spring.

  We were not alone as we walked through the night. Other guests were making their way home along the same path. We heard their comments in tinkling French and the low, guttural German of the coastal lowlands.

  Language had driven its wedge between us once again.

  3

  I SAT BOLT upright in bed.

  Wide awake, I turned to Helena, unable to see her in the darkness. Her breathing was deep and regular. Beyond her, the sleeping child let out a whimpering sigh.

  Was that the noise which had disturbed my rest?

  I listened attentively. Outside, not even the hoot of an owl breached the peace. But I felt no easier. War robs a man of his tranquillity. With exaggerated care, I pulled back the coverlet and slipped down off the high bed. Stepping to the window, the rough-hewn floorboards cold beneath my feet, I lifted back the curtain and looked out over the rear of the house. The garden was a formless black pit. The hazel trees marking the edge of our domain were a solid wall, the starless sky tinged an impalpable shade of violet. At the break of dawn, farmers’ carts would clatter past our gate on their way to market, men driving cattle to the slaughter with their dogs . . .

  A low moan sounded somewhere in the house.

  I moved towards the door, grabbing the first garment that came to hand, throwing it around my shoulders against the icy cold, as I stepped out onto the landing. I looked down the stairwell, where a figure in a white shawl was hovering in the hall, holding up a candle, as if transformed into a pillar of salt. Nothing moved, except the flame. Then, that strangled sound escaped once more from lips that I could not see.

  A hand brushed by my ear, and came to rest upon my shoulder.

  ‘What is it, Lotte?’ my wife called in a whisper.

  Like an imp, her bare feet and slender ankles stretching forth from beneath the hem of her nightgown, Helena skipped down the stairs. The wild thicket of her untied hair bobbed before me as I followed in her wake.

  Lotte turned, her eyebrows arched, eyes wide.

  ‘Soldiers,’ she hissed, causing the flame to flicker.

  Edging Lotte aside with my shoulder, I raised the brass thaler and exposed the hole that I had drilled in the oak the day the news of the defeat at Jena reached Lotingen. At the time, I had convinced myself that this spyhole would provide an advantage against any unwelcome caller armed with evil intentions. But hard as I tried, all that I could see outside was as black as pitch, and the cold air streaming in caused my eye to water. As I peered out from my fragile fortress, I prayed that Lotte had been mistaken.

  Just then, the garden gate swung open with a creak, pushed back too hard on its ancient hinges. There was a click, and a lantern was raised. Three men huddled on the path in a tight group. I recognised the uniforms: two privates in trenchcoats, an officer wearing a black leather képi with a tall white plume, their faces etched in stark chiaroscuro by the lamplight. They were consulting a piece of paper.

  This is the moment, I realised with a start. If Lotte took the baby in her arms, and Helena led Süzi and Manni out by the back window, I might be able to hold them off for a minute or two.

  ‘Don’t think of it!’ Helena had read my intentions as surely as if I had shouted them out at the top of my voice.

  ‘They seem uncertain,’ I said, my eye glued to the spy-hole. ‘Perhaps they are seeking a fugitive . . .’

  The officer swung around and took a pace forward, his face filling the spy-hole. The shock of recognition flashed upon me. I had seen the man at Dittersdorf’s feast. I had argued with him. Was that why he had come? There was a determined set to his face, the number ‘7’ writ large in gold lettering on his képi above the peak.

  Helena’s voice was amazingly calm.

  ‘Open the door,’ she said. ‘We have no choice.’

  Her face was close to mine, our noses almost touching. She seemed so cool and calculating, as if some scheme had formed in her mind. Pulling the mantle from off her shoulders, she twirled it around and held it out to me.

  ‘You wouldn’t wish to be seen like that,’ she said.

  I was wearing her lemon-coloured dressing gown, the first thing that had come to hand in the dark. Whatever was about to happen, Helena had decided that I must face it with the dignity befitting a true Prussian. She thrust the mantle into my hand
s, stretching out to remove the feminine garment from my shoulders.

  ‘Lotte, run upstairs. Anders will sleep, but the other two will wake. I will hold the candle, Hanno. You remove the bar and open the door.’

  I shifted the wooden bar, slid the well-oiled bolt, and pulled back the door with such rapidity that it seemed to stop the soldiers in their tracks. All three took a step backwards, eyes wide, mouths open. The squaddies pointed their muskets, but did not shoot.

  Cold air rushed into the hallway.

  ‘Are you looking for me?’ I asked, surprised by the firmness of my voice.

  The officer’s eyes flashed. He had recognised me.

  ‘I know you,’ Helena said. ‘We met last week at dinner.’

  ‘Lieutenant Mutiez, madame. Seventh dragoons,’ the officer said in heavily accented German, touching the peak of his cap.

  I took a deep breath, and held his gaze. Nothing induced me to relax my guard. These foreigners were dangerous. More dangerous, now that the door was open wide.

  ‘Le papier, vite!’ he urged, turning to one of the privates. His eyes dropped to the paper in his hand: ‘Procurator Stiffeniis . . .’

  Helena gasped out loud.

  This was how the military behaved when instructed to take up a man who was destined to disappear. The time was right, the hour before dawn, when human resistance is at its lowest ebb. The physical and mental capacities of the condemned man were reduced to a minimum by terror, and the unexpected interruption of sleep.

  ‘Yes?’ I prompted him.

  ‘You must come with me, sir,’ Lieutenant Mutiez responded.

  ‘God save us!’ Lotte cried from the top of the stairs, her shrill voice echoing in the hallway.

  ‘What do you want with my husband?’ Helena demanded, stepping in front of me, facing them with a ridiculous show of bravery. ‘Has the victorious French army nothing better to do?’

  I placed one hand on my wife’s shoulder, and told her roughly to be quiet. My other hand reached down and grabbed her wrist, holding her back. Fear or frustration seemed to have taken possession of her senses. If Helena insisted on spitting venom in their faces, those men might slit every throat in the house. No one would punish them for it.

  ‘Lieutenant Mutiez,’ I said quickly, ‘what brings you here? If some false charge has been brought against me, knowing what it is, I’ll be better able to defend my name.’

  ‘Herr Stiffeniis,’ Mutiez replied, his voice softer than before, ‘it is cold out here, very cold. For the sake of these ladies and yourself, sir, allow us to step inside.’

  I stepped back two paces.

  The Frenchmen advanced to the same degree. To my surprise, Mutiez removed his hat, an expression of relief, or something similar, stamped clearly on his face.

  ‘This is for you, sir,’ he said, holding up the paper. ‘See for yourself, it is an order.’

  I took it from him, glanced at the contents. There was very little written there. My name, my address, and another address that I did not recognise. No mention was made of an arrest.

  ‘You must come with me,’ he repeated. ‘I have my instructions, sir.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  Helena snatched the note from my hand.

  ‘I’m going with him!’ she cried as she tried to make sense of it.

  Lieutenant Mutiez turned on her quickly. ‘Do you have children?’ he asked, his mouth moving energetically as he forced his tongue around the foreign words.

  Helena stared at him, then nodded.

  ‘It would not be wise,’ he added, glancing at Lotte, who was halfway down the stairs, ‘to leave them alone in the house with just this person to protect them.’

  ‘Why not?’ Helena demanded.

  He did not reply, but turned to me. ‘Be quick, sir. Get dressed to face the cold. It’s a night for wolves . . .’

  ‘The only wolves in Lotingen wear uniforms like yours!’ Helena hissed.

  I held my breath. This insult must be the final straw.

  Instead, a smile began to form itself on the lips of Lieutenant Mutiez.

  ‘Believe me, madame,’ he said with a polite, ironic bow, ‘I would rather be in my own warm bed. And in my own home town. We have no wolves, and the winter is warmer in Arles. The sooner we leave,’ he added more gently, ‘the quicker the business will be done.’

  ‘Helena, would you help me find my clothes?’ I said to break this deadlock.

  Then I turned to Lotte. ‘Please, show these gentlemen into the day-room.’

  As the intruders made their way into the parlour, Helena and I returned upstairs. Tight-lipped and nervous, my wife made haste to lay out my clothes. I rinsed my hands and my face with cold water from the ewer. One thought was racing through my mind. I ought to hold her, kiss her, assure her of my love. The sight of little Anders sleeping in his cot on the far side of the bed, the knowledge that Manni and Süzi were safe in the next room, brought a lump to my throat. I longed to hold them all. But even that small comfort was denied me. Helena would interpret such a gesture as a final farewell.

  She handed me my shirt, my heaviest trousers, a thick woollen over-vest, knee-length boots, seal-skin jacket, and woollen cape.

  And not a single word was said.

  I left the house, believing that I would never see her and the children again.

  4

  IF BONAPARTE BROUGHT anything new to Prussia, it was fear. That night I prepared myself for a good dose of it.

  A black carriage was waiting out in the lane, the horses giving off clouds of steam, as if they had been driven hard. Mutiez followed me down the path, urging me to climb aboard. He jumped up and took his place on the bench without saying a word to explain himself. The privates were obliged to brave the cold outside: one at the front, driving the pair of horses, the other standing guard behind.

  As the vehicle pulled away, I noted the direction that it took.

  We began ominously, driving towards town. The road was icy, and the horses would not be rushed, despite frequent cracking of the whip. Whenever the vehicle approached a bend in the road, met a rise, or followed a dip, the animals would slow down of their own accord, much to the anger and irritation of Lieutenant Mutiez, who rapped fitfully on the wooden roof, urging the soldiers and the horses on, shouting, ‘Vite! Vite!’ as if it were the only phrase he knew.

  Soon, we would be passing through the market square, taking a left turn after the cathedral, aiming for the high tower of Bitternau, the medieval stronghold where the French authorities had installed themselves. All the dangerous prisoners were held in the dungeons, which was where the interrogations took place. I was convinced that Mutiez had played a more courteous role than the situation required, in the hope that I would offer no resistance. His tense silence was clear proof of the cowardly trick that had been played on me. And he seemed studiously to avoid catching my eye. No doubt, when we reached our destination, I would be arraigned, then thrown into a prison cell. Physical torture was a possibility, though I was not so frightened at the prospect as I ought to have been. I was more concerned about the safety of my wife and children. How would they survive without me?

  Suddenly, I was thrown hard against the coachwork as the vehicle swung left onto the Pieniezno highway and began to race southwards into the countryside, leaving Bitternau fortress and Lotingen behind.

  What did this change of direction signify?

  Did they intend to murder me without a trial?

  We had not gone a mile when the horses drew to a slithering halt. Lieutenant Mutiez threw open the door, kicking down the folding step. He jumped out, then turned back to face me.

  ‘They are waiting,’ he announced.

  I climbed down in the violet penumbra of the dawn.

  The coach had stopped in the open countryside. Armed soldiers were milling around in the half-light, each with a long musket and his bayonet fixed. They seemed to be protecting two more black carriages which were parked hard up against a stand of trees, where
a narrow lane disappeared into the wood.

  Something had happened. Or was about to happen.

  ‘You must enter that carriage, monsieur,’ Mutiez ordered, pointing to the vehicle on the left.

  The fear was physical, debilitating.

  I wanted, more than anything else, to relieve the weight pressing down on my bladder. I had been abducted for reasons unknown; now I was to be interrogated in an unmarked coach on an isolated country road.

  The blinds of the vehicle were down. Even in stronger light it would have been impossible to see the occupants. The French soldiers clustering around seemed tense, wary. It made a harsh contrast with their usual air of contemptuous unconcern. They held their firearms as if they meant to use them. As I mustered my courage and took my first step, all eyes turned towards me. Some of the men shook their bayonets in the direction of the waiting carriage. Lieutenant Mutiez growled something angrily in French that I did not comprehend, then suddenly darted ahead and pulled open the carriage door.

  ‘Procurator Stiffeniis is here,’ he announced.

  I paused for an instant, then quickly stepped up into the coach.

  ‘What in heaven . . .’

  I did not finish. Mutiez pushed me hard in the small of the back. ‘Get in, sir. There’s no time to lose.’ Climbing in behind me, he slammed the door, and sat down on the bench-seat at my side.

  ‘Good morning, monsieur. I don’t suppose you thought we’d meet so soon?’

  Lavedrine’s voice was drained of the ironic good humour that had marked him out at the autumn feast. His intense gaze, and the concentrated faces of Count Dittersdorf and Lieutenant Mutiez, suggested something very serious.

  Dittersdorf was the first to speak, his face set, avoiding eye contact, as if to suggest that I should keep my own counsel, and listen without interrupting.

  ‘What I have to say is intended for the ears of Colonel Lavedrine as much as for your own, Hanno. You have both been summoned here for a precise purpose. He arrived five minutes ago. Like you, he knows nothing of the circumstances. There is a house at the end of the lane’—Count Dittersdorf pointed quickly over his shoulder with his gloved thumb. ‘A crime has been committed there tonight, a most peculiar and, I do not hesitate to call it, a most horrific crime. Lieutenant Mutiez was informed of the fact at two o’clock this morning. He hurried here at once, and, seeing the immensity and the gravity of the event, he had the good sense to touch nothing and seal the house. He then notified the French authorities. General Giroux realised at once that the cooperation of the Prussian authorities was essential. At that point, I was advised of the situation, and I sent for Colonel Lavedrine, whose name had been put forward by the French general staff as a suitable person to lead the investigation. Then, appreciating the complexity of the question, Colonel Lavedrine decided that you should be brought in to assist him. He is a criminologist of recognised ability; you are an experienced magistrate with intimate knowledge of the local situation. You will work together to throw light on what has happened. Do I make myself clear?’