Alphabet House (15 page)

James was still plagued by the nausea and discomfort caused by the blood transfusions. With it came anxiety. Voices merged and confused him. His strength had deserted him.

Unconsciousness had stolen his time and his daydreamings suffered.

The aftermath of all the shock treatments, the heavy-handed care and the blood transfusions played tricks on James’ memory. Most of the films and books had vanished or merged into one. Only the greatest literary and film classics remained. And, of course, the fear.

James felt terrible. He felt sick in body and soul. Exhausted, alone and drained of tears. Around him lurked impotence and madness. Dejected faces, suppressed mania and weird, depressed behaviour. Then there were his oppressors, and finally – Bryan.

James let things be, now that the malingerers had selected a new victim, and pretended most of the time to be lost to the world.

He didn’t find this difficult.

It was the malingerers who had stopped Bryan’s escape attempt. ‘Take him alive,’ Kröner had growled, as they grabbed him. ‘Wash the blood off the storeroom wall and replace the shelf.’ It was remarkable how promptly they’d obeyed. In the ward, only the remaining Siamese twin appeared uneasy, his gaze dancing from the floor to the bell-cord over his head. Kröner hissed at him like a wildcat until the twin started squeaking and curled up under his blanket in the fetal position.

Bryan let them escort him back to the ward without a struggle. His hands were bleeding. The malingerers bent over him, raining questions down on him as the first faint rays of morning light penetrated the shutters. Were there any others faking it? Had he any co-conspirators? How much did he know?

But Bryan remained silent, leaving the malingerers in doubt. Was he indeed simulating? Had he been trying to escape, or commit suicide?

Bryan survived the next morning’s trials as well. But his desperation was obvious.

The cleaning woman had discovered marks on the wall. She sounded the alarm and shook the loose shelf without making any appreciable impression on the ward nurse.

The morning ablutions were over long ago. The malingerers had scowled at Bryan with an odd mixture of relief and malice as he went out to the bathroom, stiff in all his limbs, and removed every trace of the previous night from his arms, hands, shirt and body.

But he hadn’t been able to remove the scratches on his fingertips he’d received while struggling to squeeze through the window. One of the orderlies noticed the little cuts on his fingers and confided his suspicions to his replacement as he pointed at Bryan.

And James saw that Bryan was aware of it.

The security officer finally turned up later that morning. As he was inspecting them one by one, the orderly pulled Bryan’s hands out and thrust them accusingly towards the officer. Bryan just smiled and nodded. Countless tiny wooden splinters stuck out of the bloody fingertips. They looked like porcupine needles. The orderly frowned and shook Bryan’s arms like the neck of a naughty puppy. Then Bryan pulled his hands free and struck them several times against the bomb shutter behind him as he closed his eyes in euphoria.

The officer’s authority manifested itself so audibly that it gave everyone a start. He grabbed Bryan’s shirt angrily and forced him to the floor. ‘I’ll teach you to make fun of us!’ he spat, forcing Bryan to stand up. He stood with drooping shoulders, face to face with his fate.

James knew he was fighting for his life.

In a feverish struggle against time, Bryan had managed to drive the splinters into his fingertips prior to inspection by rubbing them against the rough bomb shutters. At first the malingerers had found it amusing. But they weren’t laughing now.

The officer investigated every inch of Bryan’s body. The nightshirt was crumpled and greyish, still a bit damp after his thorough morning bath. The orderly shrugged his shoulders. ‘It looks like he didn’t take it off before his bath,’ he said.

Instead of letting go of the shirt, the officer pulled it further up. Softly, almost caressingly, he took hold of Bryan’s testicles and looked him kindly in the face. ‘Were you feeling a bit homesick,
Herr Oberführer?
Don’t worry, you can confide in me. No harm will come to you.’ He stood still for a moment, looking Bryan in the eyes without loosening his grip.

‘And of course you don’t understand what I’m saying, do you,
Herr Oberführer?
’ The pain reflected in Bryan’s face as the officer started squeezing couldn’t hide his helplessness and confusion from James. The questions were just as incomprehensible to Bryan as to the crazy Arno von der Leyen he was presumed to be. In moments like this, being able to understand was not nearly as important as not being able to. His passivity irritated the officer. But it also made him unsure of himself.

At the fifth question he squeezed so hard that Bryan’s screams were stifled by his vomit. Uttering gurgling sounds he fell clumsily backwards, crashing his abdomen into the side of the bed and striking his head against the bomb shutter. The officer instinctively released his hold and stepped aside in order not to mess up his uniform. Then he yelled until a nurse came rushing in to wipe up the floor around his boots.

Some vomit landed on the neighbouring bed. One of the patients got up and walked past the soiled bed, pointing the whole time at the wall.

James didn’t know much about the patient. His name was Peter Stich and he always had red eyes.

Now he was also the one who saved Bryan’s life.

The security officer was about to knock his hand away, when he looked to see where the finger was pointing. Behind Bryan, who was still drooping beside the window, the bomb shutter had slid half open. Long brown lines were seeping into the grain of the wood along the edge of the shutter frame. The officer went closer, felt along the rough wood and looked again at Bryan’s fingers. He turned abruptly on his heel and charged out of the room, knocking the red-eyed man over.

Then they gave Bryan a shot to calm him down and replaced the shutter cover.

The shelf in the storeroom was never replaced.

For a while the nightly whispering increased.

The gnome-like Dieter Schmidt was convinced that
Oberführer
Arno von der Leyen knew all about them and their plans for the future. He demanded they take action.

But the Pock-Faced Kröner insisted that in the future they should avoid scenes in the ward. Their situation would soon change. The fortunes of war were on the side of the Allies. The war could be over before they knew it.

If Arno von der Leyen were found liquidated, the interrogations would never cease. Both he and Lankau knew what it was like to be interrogated. No one would be able to keep quiet and no one would be let off.

Themselves included.

‘If you want to find out something, poke him in the eyes a little, pinch his uvula or press hard inside his auditory canal,’ he recited. ‘But be sure you don’t make any marks that are visible, and that he doesn’t make any noise. Understood?’

During the nights that followed Bryan wept and his throat rattled. But they never got him to say anything. The malingerers were perplexed. James could do nothing. But their cat-and-mouse game would come to an end. This he knew from his own experience.

Kröner stuck out his lower lip and looked from Bryan to James. ‘Mad or not, as long as they understand we’ll kill them if
they don’t behave, I could care less about what else they don’t understand!’

The skinny Schmidt shook his head. ‘Arno von der Leyen knows everything, believe me. The Postman will want him liquidated. That’s what I’m trying to tell you!’

‘Really? And how’s that to be done?’ Kröner enquired sarcastically. ‘By telepathy?’ He wasn’t smiling. The Postman was like a phantom with all the odds on his side. ‘Don’t you think he’s hightailed it long ago? Don’t you think he’s forgotten all about his faithful little squire? And what would that make you,
Herr Haupsturmführer?
Aren’t you just a fool, you little Jew-plunderer? Isn’t that what we all are?’

‘Wait and see!’ There was a special glint in Dieter Schmidt’s eyes.

‘David Copperfield
! Today I’ll take
David Copperfield.’
James leaned his head back on the pillow. The room was quiet. Ever since childhood, James had regarded this book as Dickens’ greatest. Victor Hugo, Swift, Defoe, Emile Zola, Stevenson, Kipling and Alexander Dumas had also chiselled their works into James’ memory. But above them all sparkled Charles Dickens and
David Copperfield
.

He recalled the comforting tale during the afternoon peace and quiet when the nurses had plenty to do.

And these re-creations demanded peace and quiet. Confusion and diffuse thought processes had become his worst opponents. The pills, that disgusting chlorine compound, were gradually muddling his memory more than the shock treatments.

Already as he began the story, James realised he couldn’t complete it. The names in
David Copperfield
had vanished.
Who was Copperfield’s second wife, his childhood friend?
James pondered for some time.
The first wife’s name was Dora.
Was the other one Emily? No, that wasn’t right. Was she called Elizabeth? Rubbish!

James was interrupted in the middle of this unhappy realisation and the growing anxiety over his memory having suffered permanent damage. Two orderlies clapped their hands, flipped up the charts and pulled out the case notes. ‘You patients are leaving! Collect your things, you’re going upstairs!’

Following this announcement the men were herded outside into the passageway and new ones were led into the ward in their place. Sister Petra smiled at James. She blushed a trifle.

It was Vonnegut’s job to lead the way. It was a terrible constellation, seven men in all. The three tormentors, himself and Bryan, Red-Eye and Calendar Man. Five malingerers in one and the same room.

‘You gentlemen are on the mend, according to the Professor,’ said Vonnegut, although doubt was painted on his face. ‘You’re being separated from the others. Then you’ll be sure to recover, he says. There’s a room that’s become vacant upstairs. It’s quite empty.

‘They’ve all been sent to the front!’

The first thing that happened was that Calendar Man stuck his little calendar up on the wall behind him. It said 6th October 1944.

The room was far smaller than the previous ward. Sounds were muffled, the insanity of the lower floor rendered invisible.

James’ bed stood in majestic solitude against the short-end wall. The view from his window was seductive. To the right of him lurked Dieter Schmidt and his broad-faced confederate, Horst Lankau, with Werner Fricke, the Calendar Man, in between. The door at the far end of the room rattled in the draft.

James regarded Bryan’s placing between the red-eyed man and Kröner listlessly. When he returned from shock treatment in a few hours’ time, unconscious and dulled, Bryan, like himself, would be at the mercy of the malingerers. The days ahead might take years to live through. Every joint in James’ body protested. His internal organs were at a low ebb. He was emptied and weak.

I’ll get you out of here, Bryan
, he thought, apathetically.

But in the meantime he’d have to get well.

Kröner had already waved a warning hand several times in response to Horst Lankau’s talkativeness. James noted for the first time that Kröner could sweat. The man’s gaze searched the room minutely. It was as though he felt spied upon.

It wasn’t until after the evening rounds that Kröner dared voice himself freely. They weren’t being monitored by sound sensors.

Army Surgeon Thieringer was apparently satisfied with his treatment results. From now on their care would be intensified. Perhaps it was only a question of months before they again would be considered fit enough to serve the
Führer
.

‘Thieringer doesn’t suspect anything,’ Kröner began softly, looking at Lankau and Schmidt in turn. ‘But prospects aren’t
good. We’ll be back at our old posts before we know it. How do you suppose that’ll be? Does the Postman have a solution to that problem as well, little Schmidty?’

‘As for myself, I’m making goddamn sure I’m not sent to the front. You can, too!’ Lankau growled, dropping his voice. ‘We have worse problems, in my opinion!’ He got up and calmly faced Calendar Man.

‘Up you go, Fricke. You’re lying over here,’ he said, slapping his bed. At first Calendar Man didn’t take the broad-faced man seriously and made no attempt to move. After the third slap Lankau clenched his first and held it threateningly in front of Calendar Man. ‘Next time it won’t be with the flat of my hand, understand? It’ll be with this! Are you gonna move now?’

‘How do you think the nurses will feel about all this shifting around? Are you deciding which is your own bed now?’ Kröner looked weary.

‘They won’t notice it as long as the right case notes are in the right pocket. That’s all!’ Lankau turned up the case-note holders and turned towards Dieter Schmidt, who was once again his neighbour. ‘So we’re a happy little family once more, you gnome! And you’re going to answer our questions, comrade, so spit it out: where’s the Postman, and what the hell do you know about his plans? After that, you can tell me what we’re going to do about
those
two bastards!’ The broad-faced man pointed at Bryan’s empty bed and jerked his thumb in the direction of James without taking his eyes off Dieter Schmidt. ‘Those two devils know too much, I agree. They’re our biggest problem right now.’ He glanced briefly at James, who lay with his eyes closed, breathing lightly. ‘What would happen if that stupid von der Leyen tried to run away again? You think the Postman can tell me that too?’

‘Naturally.’ Dieter Schmidt stared at him coldly.

‘Then I think you should bloody well tell us!’

Footsteps in the corridor warned Lankau. All of them were lying apathetically when Sister Petra looked in on them. She
didn’t appear to notice Lankau’s new place. She only had eyes for James.

That night the malingerers continued bickering about the Postman and the valuables in the goods wagon. And about Bryan.

Things had taken a turn for the worse. James could scarcely move. His nausea seemed to be chronic and he’d begun feeling feverish. Bryan had never been away so long for treatment. Everyone in the ward was worried, though the reasons were totally different.

On the one hand, James wished fervently that Bryan would return soon, safe and sound. Normally a shock treatment only took this long if the patient got cramps. Then it could easily take a couple of hours longer. But on the other hand Bryan might have been moved to another ward. And even though that meant separation and uncertainty, it would definitely be best for Bryan in the long run.

As the hours passed, the malingerers became more and more intent on doing away with Arno von der Leyen as soon as he was brought back. Their whispering got on James’ nerves. He, too, was the object of their quiet discussions, but for the time being they seemed confident that he was under control. Red-Eye and Calendar Man they ignored entirely.

For once Kröner was the most cautious. Lankau suggested tying a sheet around Bryan’s neck and throwing him out the window. Kröner grunted and shook his head. It was only a few hours since they’d been moved. A ‘suicide’ in this little ward would be risky business.

‘Then we’ll only be six when it comes to the interrogation,’ he finally said. ‘Are you two really sure you can manage being cross-examined?’

Then Kröner stiffened. The answer came from an unexpected quarter.

‘I can!’ The voice in the dark was new, authoritative and icy cold. Its effect practically lit up the room. ‘Whether you others
can is probably more doubtful.’ The words came from the insignificant, sharp-featured man with bloodshot eyes, Peter Stich.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you gentlemen after such a long, one-sided acquaintanceship.’ The sounds coming from Kröner and Lankau’s beds indicated they were probably already sitting up. James didn’t take his eyes off Stich. ‘Stay where you are,
Herr Sturmbannführer
!’ Addressed by his well-deserved title, Dieter Schmidt stopped in his tracks in front of James’ bed. ‘You have done excellently. I’m very satisfied with your loyalty and silence. You’ve brought us a long way towards our goal. Now go back to your bed. As for you, gentlemen,’ he said, taking note of the attention he was attracting, ‘having got thus far, let me introduce myself. As you have doubtlessly already figured out, I am the one who’s been haunting your thoughts for such a long time as the “Postman”.’

The effect of the words was unexpectedly slight. The muttering from Horst Lankau’s bed was instantly interrupted by Kröner. ‘Well, well, how about that! What an exclusive, little society we’re becoming.’ Kröner nodded to Red-Eye with no trace of astonishment. ‘The leader himself has shed his skin. And an interesting disguise, too, one might add. Highly effective!’

‘And so it shall continue.’ The Postman silenced Kröner’s irony. ‘But, as you say: an exclusive society. Do I need to remind you that the man you gentlemen are thinking of dispatching to the next world is the highest-ranking officer in the ward? Naturally I share your opinion, gentlemen. Arno von der Leyen does not behave as a madman should. In fact, I, too, am pretty convinced he’s just as healthy as you gentlemen and myself. I’ve seen him doing things he shouldn’t. Hiding pills, for example! But there’s another snag about this von der Leyen we need to bear in mind. I doubt whether you gentlemen are as familiar with
Oberführer
von der Leyen’s merits as I.’

Lankau snorted. ‘He’s a wimp, he is! One of those good boys who stands by while we others go into action and then takes all the credit.’ Lankau’s ridicule applied to anyone with a higher
rank than himself. Here in the ward Arno von der Leyen was the only one. ‘He was easy to catch, the wimp. Like a flustered lap dog!’

‘Possibly. But you should realise he’s also an opportunist with a history. Apart from being a natural ass-licker, he’s utterly loyal. A true Nazi. And not least of all he’s one of Hitler’s confidants. One of the Berlin saints. But despite all the outward glamour, I think you should be damned glad he was so easy for you to catch,
Herr Standartenführer
Lankau. Because the Arno von der Leyen I know is not merely a wunderkind but also an extremely efficient killer.’ Red-Eye looked around slowly, nodding affirmatively. Lankau’s expression was doubtful and disapproving. ‘Yes, indeed, my dear
standartenführer
. How do you imagine that guy has got as far as he has? I can assure you that Arno von der Leyen had scarcely begun growing down on his chin before he earned himself a worthy place among our
Führer’s
bodyguards. With death’s head and everything. It’s not everyone who gets as far at so young an age. The epitome of youth, indeed! But also a war hero. There’s blood on his medals, as there should be. He’s being given special treatment because of his status. Without him, I doubt any of us would have landed up here. We’re the ones who are the small fry and he’s the one who’s important. We are merely his roommates, his backdrop! Do you understand that, gentlemen?’

James was terrified by the Postman’s cold, monotonous voice. During the months of silence this man had been assessing both his enemies and his friends. He was their puppeteer. James shuddered at the thought of how he might have given himself away to him.

‘But it’s not only Arno von der Leyen’s history and merits I’m familiar with,’ the Postman emphasized. ‘I also saw his face once, though it’s a long time ago. At the time I scarcely noticed him.

‘And now comes the interesting part: I cannot connect the Arno von der Leyen I saw with the man lying over there. I’m
not even certain I’ve ever seen that face before we arrived in this hospital! I have my doubts, you see.’

He shushed Kröner, who was about to interrupt. James was trembling all over. The sheet was already clammy with sweat. The situation could scarcely be worse. Bryan’s identity was getting shaky and even Kröner could be made to shut up.

The fact that Kröner let this happen was disquieting in itself.

‘We must think rationally and take all possibilities into consideration. And now you must listen extra carefully, gentlemen. For which is worse? That he commits suicide with our modest help and thereby departs from our lives, possibly meaning torture for us as a consequence, or that one day he is revealed as a deceiver, a malingerer? If we let him live and he is the real Arno von der Leyen, then everything is fine, apart from the fact that he knows too much about our plans, thanks to the great need of you gentlemen to whisper at night. And should he not be Arno von der Leyen, he would still know too much. If it turns out one day he’s faking it, the security people would almost certainly suspect us as well. They would dig into our past. That’s why I had to come to his rescue with the bomb shutter! I’m certain he would have avenged himself on you gentlemen for spoiling his escape if he’d been found out. There too, our fates could inadvertently have been linked to his.’ He glanced around. His audience looked grim. ‘Yes, indeed. It’s definitely a dilemma worth thinking over.

‘I’ve been studying him since the day we arrived. I consider him to be unstable, young and confused. It’s hard to determine whether he’s Arno von der Leyen or not. But if he’s not the real thing, I don’t think he’ll be able to carry out his deception to the bitter end.’ He scrutinized each of them in turn. ‘For me, pain is a titillating dance of new sensations, I might add. A way of investigating the outer elements of the body. But not everyone need see things the way I do.’ Dieter Schmidt shrugged his shoulders. He was pale. The Postman rounded off with, ‘Am I right?’

It was clear that Dieter Schmidt’s respect for the Postman was not shared by Lankau. Kröner accepted the situation. ‘Shut up, Lankau! We know what’s on your mind,’ Kröner admonished, as Lankau’s grumbling increased. ‘From now on we stand together! Got it?’

‘Then let us agree,’ said the Postman dispassionately, ‘that
Herr Standartenführer
Lankau, man of action that he is, would also be the right man to dispatch the so-called von der Leyen from this miserable world.’

Practically all the plans were ready for Bryan’s liquidation by the time he was brought back to the room. ‘You can’t use his own sheet, Lankau! They’ll see it when they put him to bed. Use yours, if you insist on getting ready now,’ Kröner spluttered. ‘You can always switch it later.’

‘Let’s wait until he returns. Then we can take his sheet anyway.’ The Postman smiled across at James. ‘Isn’t that true,
Herr Standartenführer
Peuckert?’ James didn’t react, but continued staring into space as his blood turned to ice in his veins.

‘I don’t like him seeing what we do.’ Lankau looked hatefully at James.

Red-Eye nodded. ‘I know, but he won’t report us. I don’t know why, but he won’t. You gentlemen have got him well under control.’

James looked out towards the fir trees and began counting them unconsciously. When he finished he counted them again. The calm he was so badly in need of was not forthcoming.

As anticipated, Bryan had got cramps following his shock treatment. He had been under observation all night. It would take a long time before he could defend himself. James was at his wit’s end. Exhausted and hard-pressed in both mind and body.

While the nursing aides were dealing out lunch rations further down the hallway Lankau wrung out Bryan’s sheet in the washbasin. It was now as thin and taut as a length of hemp rope and
lay ready under Bryan’s blanket, fastened at one end to the head of the bed.

The nurses had already made up his bed. They would leave Arno von der Leyen unattended until he woke up.

‘Is that the right way to do it? Suicide, that is? Shouldn’t we just toss him out?’ Lankau asked uneasily. ‘It would look like an attempt to escape. It’s not far to the firs on the other side of the fence. With a good jump from the windowsill it would be possible to land over there.’

‘And …?’ The Postman didn’t seem to want an answer.

‘And then his “jump” would fail, of course!’

The Postman sucked in his cheeks. ‘In other words, there will have been an escape attempt in our ward and we’ll have the investigations again. Not to mention them bolting the windows. Then that route would be barred for us should the situation demand it. And what if he were to survive the fall? Nope, we’ll hang him when it gets dark.’