Читать книгу Officer Factory - Hans Hellmut Kirst - Страница 13

“Fräulein Bachner,” said Lieutenant Bieringer, the General's A.D.C., “we’ve known each other quite a time now, I think?”

Sybille Bachner looked up from her work. Bieringer pretended to be preoccupied with the notes he was putting in order. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“What could be wrong here?” cried the A.D.C., with an expansive gesture. “But I'm worried about your private life again.”

“I haven't any. You know that!”

“Exactly!” said the A.D.C. “No one can live by work alone.”

“Except the General.”

“Fräulein Bachner,” said Lieutenant Bieringer, “the General is married to the army. He's not a normal man at all—he's a soldier. And you're a woman, not just a secretary.”

Sybille Bachner smiled, but there was a serious look in her eyes. She sat up straight and pushed her chair back. Then she asked outright: “What are you getting at this time?”

“Well,” said Bieringer rather hastily, “I was wondering what you might be doing this evening, for instance.”

“Are you offering to take me out?”

“You know I'm a married man,” said the A.D.C.

It seemed to Bieringer only right to point this out occasionally. For though he and his wife lived together in barracks, in the guest house, few people knew her. She was expecting a child, and never appeared at an official function. She hadn't once been into the staff headquarters building where her husband worked, and had never once telephoned him during working hours. She simply might not have existed. And it was not least on account of this very strict reserve that Bieringer loved her dearly, though only after working hours, of course.

“All right then,” said Sybille pleasantly, “I’m doing nothing this evening, but why do you want to know?”

“You could go to the cinema,” said Bieringer. “There’s a comedy of some sort on there, people even say it's quite funny. Or perhaps you could go for a walk. I know at least forty officers who'd be delighted to escort you.”

“What’s all this about?” said Sybille resentfully. “I just haven't arranged anything. Anyway the General may need me—he's got a whole pile of work to deal with.”

“The General only needs you if you're not otherwise engaged. I'm to make that explicitly clear to you.”

“Good,” said Sybille Bachner, “you’ve made that clear. Now what?”

Bieringer shook his head, and this gesture could have been interpreted in a number of different ways. He cleaned his spectacles carefully, looking at Sybille as he did so with his gentle watery eyes, and said finally: “So you're prepared to work overtime again?”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” said Sybille briskly.

Bieringer felt a certain misgiving about this keenness of hers. For Sybille Bachner was said to have had something of a past. Between her and the previous commanding officer there had been something more than a mere working relationship.

But then Major-General Modersohn had been made commanding officer of Number 5 Officers' Training School, and Bieringer had confidently assumed that Bachner's days in staff headquarters were numbered. But it wasn't long before an unexpected development took place: Sybille Bachner proved herself a first-class worker. And she didn't seem to make the slightest effort to extend her influence beyond the General's ante-room. The General therefore tolerated her and said nothing, though the A.D.C. remained on the alert.

“The General would like a talk with Judge-Advocate Wirrmann at nineteen hundred hours. Also with Lieutenant Krafft. Also at nineteen hundred hours.”

“Both together?” asked Sybille in astonishment.

Lieutenant Bieringer took care not to look at her, for he could not have helped conveying a certain reproach. His order had been clear enough; any expression of private opinion was unnecessary. He was the best possible A.D.C. the General could have had.

Sybille Bachner dropped her eyes. Her long, silky hair hung down each side of her face like a curtain. She reminded Bieringer of some tender portrait by Renoir in which the streaming tresses caught by the rays of the sun told of a voluptuous indolence. Bieringer found this combination of thoughts rather unsettling. For he was on duty, after all, and a happily married man and expectant father into the bargain.

“I rather think, Fräulein Bachner,” he said cautiously, “that you should try and get yourself a slightly more severe hair style.”

“Has the General been complaining about my hair?” she asked with a flicker of hope.

Bieringer looked at her reproachfully, pityingly. “Fräulein Bachner,” he said, “you’re not a soldier—why should the General show any interest in your hair?”

“Order and cleanliness,” declared Captain Kater, “are what I set store by. And in that I'm second to none.”

Captain Kater was inspecting number one kitchen in his capacity as commander of the headquarters company. All kitchens in the barracks area came under his jurisdiction.

Parschulske, the kitchen corporal, accompanied him on his round, respectful and attentive. His conscience was never wholly clear, and his fingers were in almost every pie. Astonishingly enough he was as thin as a rake.

“I’ve taken the liberty of laying the table as usual, sir, so that you can check the rations and sample the quality of the food.”

Kater nodded. He went into the store-room, prodded one or two sacks and satisfied himself as to the contents. Then he pulled open a drawer or two—and suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, for he had caught a glimpse of something pink hidden in the semolina.

Captain Kater pushed his hand deep into the semolina and felt about in it. And there he found three lengths of sausage. Three large, fat, juicy lengths of sausage, each weighing about six pounds.

Kater said nothing for the time being. He removed his hand, let his eyes sweep over Parschulske, the kitchen corporal, who was standing stiffly to attention by his side, and moved on into the kitchen, where the table was already laid.

Here he sat down and examined the food in front of him: cold roast beef, fat sausages, creamy portions of cheese. All this was there to be sampled for quality, taste, freshness, general condition, and whatever else served as an excuse. Kater cut himself a slice or two here and there. It was his principle never to act precipitately. There were always considerable advantages in keeping people guessing, and he was, he thought, a master of such tactics. He had left the kitchen corporal completely in the dark as to whether or not the pilfered sausages had been spotted—as to whether or not they would have to be accounted for.

For the time being, the wretched Parschulske didn't know where he stood, and felt distinctly uncomfortable. He therefore rounded on the cook for stealing the rations.

But the cook wasn't going to lie down under that: he immediately laid the blame on the various kitchen assistants. “What if a few sausages have been whipped?” he said. “It could have been anybody, or is there a label on them saying who took them?”

“But in the last resort,” said the kitchen corporal, “it’s my responsibility!”

“Doesn’t worry, Captain Kater will allow an extra helping or two to confuse his memory?”

But Captain Kater just thoughtfully ate on. He was still trying to decide what he ought to do about the sausages. A short note to the General, perhaps. In this way he would be able to demonstrate both correctness of approach and a certain skill in detection. But there were also advantages in putting the kitchen corporal under an obligation to him.

And while Captain Kater thus turned over various possibilities in his mind he let his glance sweep across the kitchen —over kettles and coppers and tables to the female kitchen personnel. Strapping, buxom girls, most of them. They might have been specially fattened for the job. Not his type. One of them caught his attention, though, a new girl who looked at him with large inquiring eyes. Presumably, thought Kater, it's a surprise for her to find her superior officer here.

Affably he beckoned her over, still holding his knife in his right hand. The girl hurried across at once. Obviously there was nothing she had wanted more than to be noticed. This delighted Kater.

“Name?” asked the Captain, affecting a sympathetic, paternal expression.

“Irene,” she said. “Irene Jablonski.”

“Stationed here in barracks?” asked Kater, observing with increasing interest the splendid curve of her bosom. This feature was all the more remarkable, since in every other way her figure could be described as neat.

“Yes, sir, in barracks,” said Irene looking at him hopefully. “I’m in a room with a number of other girls, but none of them works in the kitchen.”

“How’s your stenography?” asked Kater. “Can you type? Know shorthand?”

“I can learn anything,” Irene assured him, beaming at him as if he had been her rescuer. “I learn very quickly—really. I can be taught anything. Really anything.”

“Well,” said Kater, “we’ll see.”

Lieutenant Bieringer, the A.D.C., hung up and stared thoughtfully in front of him for a few seconds. Then he said: “The General wants you, Fräulein Bachner.”

“I’ll go right in,” said Sybille.

Bieringer did not look up at her. There really was something suspiciously keen about her. She was a good worker and he didn't want to lose her, but he would most certainly lose her if she were to try and break through the barrier of reserve with which the General surrounded himself He adjusted his spectacles, picked up a bundle of papers and left the room. The A.D.C. was on his way to the routine weekly conference with the course commanders, at which the training plans for the following week were settled.

Sybille Bachner, however, went into the General's room without knocking, in the usual way. She saw Modersohn sitting at his desk exactly as she had seen him sitting there every day of the week for the last six months—in the identical position and the identical uniform, practically motionless.

“ Fräulein Bachner,” said the General, “ I'd like you to take a shorthand note of my conversation with Judge-Advocate Wirrmann and Lieutenant Krafft, and to type it out immediately afterwards. No carbon—no one else to see it.”

“Very good, General,” said Sybille. She stood there waiting, a picture of devotion.

“That is all, Fräulein Bachner,” said the General, bending over his desk again.

Sybille's eyes shone darkly. She turned to leave, but hesitated for a moment at the door, then stopped and said: “General, I don't expect you'll have time for dinner this evening, shall I get something for you?”

Slowly the General raised his head, with a cool lack of surprise. He stared at Sybille as if seeing her now for the first time. And with a flicker of a smile he said: “No, thank you.”

“Not even a cup of coffee, General?”

“Thank you, no,” said Modersohn. And the flicker of a smile quite suddenly disappeared. “If I need anything like that, Fräulein Bachner, I will inform you at the time.”

And with that, this semi-private conversation—the first in six months—was quite clearly at an end. The General was already at work once again surrounded by that wall of reserve, like a wall of bullet-proof glass, which so unnerved his colleagues.

Sybille withdrew, neither perplexed nor surprised. She had grown used to Modersohn's idiosyncrasies over the course of time.

There had been much she had had to get used to. The General's predecessor here had been a jovial, condescending sort of man of the world, who knew what he wanted and got it—a boisterous, benevolent despot, an uninhibited, demanding character with whom she had finally been on intimate terms.

With the advent of Modersohn everything had changed overnight. The officers of his entourage froze in the icy atmosphere with which he surrounded himself, and either kept out of his way or crawled round him like eager watchdogs.

In this way Sybille Bachner got to know each of them pretty well, and saw all her illusions scattered like balloons in a storm.

“May I break in on this idyll?” asked a remarkably friendly voice from the door.

It was Captain Kater. He smiled through the half-open doorway—warily, benevolently, confidentially. For Sybille Bachner was alone in the room, a fortunate coincidence which enabled him to demonstrate what a jovial, good-hearted fellow he was.

“It always gives me pleasure to see you,” he declared, extending a hand towards her. This too was something he only did when no one else was present.

“What can I do for you?” asked Sybille Bachner with some reserve.

“Your very existence makes all other needs superfluous,” Kater assured her exuberantly. He had worked out this phrase some time before. This Bachner girl was important, she had to be flattered.

“Is there any information I can give you, Captain? I'm afraid Lieutenant Bieringer isn't here at the moment. But if you have a message for him, I can take it for you.”

“I have a problem, my dear Fräulein Bachner, which may in the end prove somewhat complicated—I wouldn't like to say yet.”

“You wish to speak to the General, Captain? I don't think that's possible just now.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Captain Kater with visible relief.

This was probably the best solution, for the time being. It saved him from having to make a decision. It was in fact a development on which he'd been reckoning.

“If it's something particularly urgent ... “

“No, no, not at all!” the Captain hastened to reassure her. “I really can't say that. It will be enough, my dear Fräulein Bachner, if you could simply confirm if necessary that I have been here.”

Sybille Bachner saw at once what was up: the Captain wished to cover himself a familiar situation. Types like Kater were always wanting to cover themselves—by little memos, by pushing responsibility on to others, or by pretending that they had made every effort to deal with some matter, though alas in vain.

“I’ve an uncommonly high regard for you,” Kater assured her, winking confidentially. “It’s a real pleasure to work with you. And I'm certain the General knows how to appreciate you.”

This was a clumsy piece of insinuation. For what Kater meant was that after all the General was a man too. But Captain Kater—so his wink conveyed—was a gentleman and knew how to keep his mouth shut so long as it seemed politic or profitable to do so.

“Captain,” said Sybille Bachner coolly, “I shouldn't like to think I've given you occasion for the slightest misunderstanding.”

“But of course not!” cried Kater with an expansive gesture. “Quite the contrary! There's no question of any misunderstanding.”

“May I once again assure you,” said Sybille Bachner, “that I am not in a position either to take any decision or to influence one. My job here is simply that of secretary.”

“You’re made of sterling stuff!“ cried Kater with enthusiasm. “You must stay like that. Don't you think we ought to be friends? And if there's any little wish you should have, no matter how private—come to me.” And in the next breath he added: “What did you say the General was doing?”

“He’s expecting Herr Wirrmann and Herr Krafft,” explained Sybille, caught off her guard. The next moment she was appalled by what she had revealed.

Delighted with his cunning, Kater said quickly: “Well, if you should want someone you can really trust—don't hesitate to come to me. You can rely on Kater, you know.”

“You’re keeping me from my work, Captain,” she said coldly.

Kater didn't take offence. He drew a little closer and smiled at her. “I knew a girl once,” he said, “a fine girl she was, all you could ask for. And she had an affair with a lieutenant colonel—a really splendid fellow, one must concede that. The two of them got married later. They had no alternative. There had been too many witnesses, you see. There's not much one can do about that.”

“How awful! “ said Sybille Bachner indignantly.

“You can't really go wrong if you're clever about it. I know a thing or two. And if you should need any advice, my dear young lady, you always know where to find me.”

“Herr Judge-Advocate Wirrmann,” said Major-General Modersohn, “I should like a report please on the progress of your investigation into the death of Lieutenant Barkow.”

The General stood with Judge-Advocate Wirrmann and Lieutenant Krafft before him. At the back of the room at a little table of her own sat Sybille Bachner with a shorthand notebook in front of her.

Wirrmann began evasively: “Might I be allowed,” He said, “to draw the General's attention to the fact that I consider it inadvisable just now to make such a report in the presence of a third party?”

“I note your point,” said the General. “Would you kindly begin your report?”

Sybille Bachner took down every word in shorthand, including all the various flowery turns of phrase. As far as possible she kept her eyes on the three men before her as she worked: the upright figure of the General, the court-martial expert, wily and tense, and Krafft, relaxed almost to the point of slovenliness. For Krafft imagined himself unobserved, and felt superfluous there, though he was wrong on both counts. Sybille Bachner saw that the General was noting every one of the Lieutenant's reactions carefully.

“As far as any investigations into the matter are concerned, General,” Wirrmann began, choosing his words carefully, “I’m inclined to think they can be regarded as closed. Apart from the preliminary summary of evidence against person or persons unknown, drawn up by yourself, General, I had the following relevant material at my disposal: a sketch map and three photographs; a store inventory; the doctor's postmortem; three affidavits from experts, including those of two officers who had concluded their pioneering training and had had practical experience of explosives at the front. In addition, nine personal statements, two of which came from officers on the teaching staff of the training school, the remaining seven from cadets who can be regarded as eyewitnesses.”

“I’m familiar with the documents in the case,” said the General. “What interests me is the result of your investigations, Judge-Advocate.”

Wirrmann nodded. It was plain from his expression that he felt offended. Once again the General had obviously intended to humiliate him.

“Well, General,” he said, “ after an exhaustive study of all the available documents, and after a thorough examination of all doubtful and -debatable points, or points that were from my own point of view obscure, I have come to the following conclusions. Lieutenant Barkow died a violent death. It was caused by the selection of a fuse for the charge which was not only a fast-burning one but of insufficient length. The only real point to be decided was how this fast-burning fuse, of insufficient length, in fact came to be employed. Now here a number of alternatives present themselves. First: a fuse of insufficient length was selected through inadequate expert knowledge. This alternative is excluded because Lieutenant Barkow was an officer of considerable experience in this field. Secondly: the correct and properly selected length of fuse was replaced by another which detonated the charge prematurely. In this case the only possibility is that one of the cadets was responsible. By the very nature of things, however, this too, it seems, can be excluded or at least regarded as extremely improbable. For the cadets' statements all tally. Moreover there seems no indication of what must always be the decisive factors in such cases: motive and opportunity. From which, thirdly, the final and only logical conclusion that presents itself is that it was an error, a mistake, an accident, which caused Lieutenant Barkow's death. Ergo: his death was accidental.”

“If you really believe that,” said the General sharply, “you’re incompetent. But if you only pretend to believe that, then I must regard you as a liar.”

Sybille Bachner looked up from her note-taking in amazement. Never before had she heard Major-General Modersohn use such strong words, so deliberately designed to cause pain. Even his most extreme and devastating disapproval had always been expressed with relative restraint. Sybille Bachner took a deep breath. Her hand trembled slightly—but she went on writing, as she had been told to.

Lieutenant Krafft, however, sat up with a start, and began to listen intently. He looked from Modersohn to Wirrmann with secret delight. And gradually it began to dawn on him that what he was watching was an extraordinarily thrilling and potentially dangerous drama. It was as if he were honored with a special seat in a box.

The Judge-Advocate blushed as red as a beetroot. His composure was astonishing. An expression of deep distress appeared on his face, to be replaced by one of bitter reproach. What he seemed to want to convey was that he had been lamentably misunderstood. More than that: he felt as if he had been treated as a mere insignificant subordinate.

“General,” said Wirrmann in a choked voice, “may I be allowed once again to draw your attention to the fact that I consider it hazardous to make this report in the presence of a third party. Particularly with respect to the points which it now seems cannot avoid being discussed.”

“I repeat: I take note of your suggestion, but I do not accept it. Kindly come to the point.”

“The General really doesn't wish to rest satisfied with my conclusion? Even when I assure him that it represents the best and indeed the only acceptable solution in the circumstances?”

“Even then not.”

The Judge-Advocate mopped his brow with a large red-and-white-striped handkerchief. The General stood there immobile as ever. Krafft now leant forward slightly, and Sybille Bachner hastily grabbed another pencil—her first one had broken.

“Naturally,” said Wirrmann ponderously, “it is possible to draw other conclusions from the documents before us than those which have led me to the final assessment of my investigation. In fact, as the General may have presumed or indeed known, there is a motive of a sort, which could exclude the possibility of an accident or at least render it doubtful. Yet I dare not examine this motive, General—or rather it would involve more than mere daring to do so, it would be a fatal mistake!”

“And why, Judge-Advocate?”

“General, I'm not quite clear what was the exact nature of your relationship with the deceased Lieutenant Barkow ...' “I was his commanding officer—that suffices.”

“Very good, General—whether that suffices or not is of course not for me to decide. But if the General should compel me to look for a possible motive, then this might be found in the abundant and indisputable proof that Lieutenant Barkow repeatedly made subversive remarks about the war effort, and that he used expressions hostile to the Führer and Supreme Commander of the Wehrmacht which could be categorized as high treason. These, General, are crimes which inevitably incur the death penalty. It could be said that this violent death of his saved him from one more shameful.”

“So that's it,” said the General almost inaudibly.

Then Major-General Modersohn slowly turned round, went over to the window, parted the blackout curtains, and flung the windows wide. It was a clear blue ice-cold night outside —moonless and starless. The darkness glowed strangely. It was almost as if this little square of artificial light were the only window viewing the whole world—a world which froze in icy rejection of all things human. The people in the room shuddered at the cold draught of air.

After a while the General swung round and faced his visitors. His complexion seemed to have turned a shade paler. But this could have been explained by the eerie light reflected from the snow which poured in _through the wide-open windows.

“Thank you for your remarks, Judge-Advocate,” said the General. “I note the fact that you regard your investigations as closed. Your duty in my command is thereby concluded. You will report back to the headquarters of the Inspector of Training first thing to-morrow morning. I hope you have a pleasant journey, Judge-Advocate.”

Wirrmann stood up. He saluted and left the room. Both pride and satisfaction were evident in his gait. He felt confident now that victory was his. Casualties had been heavy, but victory was his! And he felt sure that next time he would not only beat this dangerous opponent but destroy him altogether.

“Fräulein Bachner,” said the General after Wirrmann had gone, “please hand me your shorthand note.”