Hannibal Rising (2 page)

Grutas showed his teeth when that big bastard of a cook came into view. Now the cook’s wide back was to the door as he worked over the table. A rustling of paper.

Grutas flattened himself against the wall in the shadow of the steps.

The cook wrapped the painting in paper and wrapped it in kitchen string, making a parcel like the others. With a lantern in his free hand, he reached up and pulled on an iron chandelier above the tasting table. A click and at the back of the wine cellar one end of a wine rack swung a few inches away from the wall of the room. Cook swung the rack away from the wall with a groan of hinges. Behind it was a door.

Cook went into the concealed room behind the wine cellar and hung one of his lanterns back there. Then he carried the parcels inside.

As he was swinging the wine rack closed, his back to the door, Grutas started up the steps. He heard a shot fired outside, and then the cook’s voice below him.

“Who’s that!”

Cook came behind him, fast on the stairs for a big man.

“Stop you! You were never to come here.”

Grutas ran through the kitchen and into the courtyard waving and whistling.

Cook grabbed a stave from the corner and ran across the kitchen toward the courtyard when he saw a silhouette in the doorway, an unmistakable
helmet shape, and three German paratroopers with submachine guns came into the room. Grutas was behind them.

“Hi, Cookie,” Grutas said. He picked up a salted ham from the crate on the floor.

“Put back the meat,” the German corporal said, pointing his weapon at Grutas as readily as he did at the cook. “Get outside, go with the patrol.”

The trail was easier descending to the castle, Berndt making good time with the empty wagon, wrapping the reins around his arm while he lit his pipe. As he approached the edge of the forest he thought he saw a big stork taking off from high in a tree. As he got closer he saw the flapping white was fabric, a parachute caught in high limbs, the risers cut. Berndt stopped. He put down his pipe and slid off the wagon. He put his hand over Cesar’s muzzle and spoke quietly into the horse’s ear. Then he moved forward on foot, cautious.

Suspended from a lower limb was a man in rough civilian clothes, newly hanged with the wire noose well into his neck, his face blue-black, his muddy boots a foot above the ground. Berndt turned back fast toward the wagon, looking for a place to turn around on the narrow trail, his own boots looking strange to him as he found footing on the rough ground.

They came out of the trees then, three German soldiers under a sergeant and six men in civilian
clothes. The sergeant considered, drew back the bolt of his machine pistol. Berndt recognized one of the civilians.

“Grutas,” he said.

“Berndt, goody Berndt, who always got up his lessons,” Grutas said. He walked up to Berndt with a smile that seemed friendly enough.

“He can handle the horse,” Grutas said to the German sergeant.

“Maybe he is your friend,” the sergeant said.

“Maybe not,” Grutas said, and spit in Berndt’s face. “I hung the other one, didn’t I? I knew him too. Why should we walk?” And softly, “I’ll shoot him at the castle if you will lend me back my gun.”

BLITZKRIEG, HITLER’S
lightning war, was faster than anyone imagined. At the castle Berndt found a company of the Totenkopf Death’s Head Division, Waffen-SS. Two Panzer tanks were parked near the moat with a tank destroyer and some half-track trucks.

The gardener Ernst lay facedown in the kitchen yard with blowflies on his head.

Berndt saw this from the wagon box. Only the Germans rode in his wagon. Grutas and the others had to walk behind. They were only
Hilfswillige
, or Hiwis, locals who volunteered to help the invading Nazis.

Berndt could see two soldiers, high on a tower of the castle, running down the Lecters’ wild-boar pennant and putting up a radio aerial and a swastika flag in its place.

A major wearing SS black and the Totenkopf skull insignia came out of the castle to look at Cesar.

“Very nice, but too wide to ride,” he said regretfully—he had brought his jodhpurs and spurs to ride for recreation. The other horse would do. Behind him two storm troopers came out of the house, hustling Cook along between them.

“Where is the family?”

“In London, sir,” Berndt said. “May I cover Ernst’s body?”

The major motioned to his sergeant, who stuck the muzzle of the Schmeisser under Berndt’s chin.

“And who will cover yours? Smell the barrel. It’s still smoking. It can blow your fucking brains out too,” the major said. “Where is the family?”

Berndt swallowed. “Fled to London, sir.”

“Are you a Jew?”

“No, sir.”

“A Gypsy?”

“No, sir.”

He looked at a wad of letters from a desk in the house. “There is mail for a Jakov. Are you the Jew Jakov?”

“A tutor, sir. Long gone.”

The major checked Berndt’s earlobes to see if they were pierced. “Show the sergeant your dick.” Then, “Shall I kill you or will you work?”

“Sir, these people all know each other,” the sergeant said.

“Is that so? Perhaps they like each other.” He turned to Grutas. “Perhaps your fondness for your landsmen is more than you love us,
hem
, Hiwis?” The major turned to his sergeant. “Do you think we
really need any of them?” The sergeant leveled the gun at Grutas and his men.

“The cook is a Jew,” Grutas said. “Here is useful local knowledge—you let him cook for you, you would be dead within the hour from Jew poison.” He pushed forward one of his men. “Pot Watcher can cook, and forage and soldier too.”

Grutas went to the center of the courtyard, moving slowly the muzzle of the sergeant’s machine pistol tracking him. “Major, you wear the ring and the scars of Heidelberg. Here is military history of the kind you yourself are making. This is the Ravenstone of Hannibal the Grim. Some of the most valiant Teutonic Knights died here. Is it not time to wash the stone with Jew blood?”

The major raised his eyebrows. “If you want to be SS, let’s see you earn it.” He nodded to his sergeant. The SS sergeant took a pistol from his flap holster. He shucked all the bullets but one from the clip and handed the pistol to Grutas. Two storm troopers dragged the cook to the Ravenstone.

The major seemed more interested in examining the horse. Grutas held the pistol to the cook’s head and waited, wanting the major to watch. Cook spit on him.

Swallows started from the towers at the shot.

Berndt was put to moving furniture for the officers’ billet upstairs. He looked to see if he had wet himself. He could hear the radio operator in a small
room under the eaves, both code and voice transmissions in heavy static. The operator ran down the stairs with his pad in his hand and returned moments later to break down his equipment. They were moving east.

From an upper window Berndt watched the SS unit passing a backpack radio out of the Panzer to the small garrison they were leaving behind. Grutas and his scruffy civilians, issued German weapons now, carried out everything from the kitchen and piled the supplies into the back of a half-track truck with some support personnel. The troops mounted their vehicles. Grutas ran out of the castle to catch up. The unit moved toward Russia, taking Grutas and the other Hiwis. They seemed to have forgotten Berndt.

A squad of Panzergrenadiers with a machine gun and the radio were left behind at the castle. Berndt waited in the old tower latrine until dark. The small German garrison all ate in the kitchen, with one sentry posted in the courtyard. They had found some schnapps in a kitchen cabinet. Berndt came out of the tower latrine, thankful the stone floors did not creak.

He looked into the radio room. The radio was on Madame’s dresser, scent bottles pushed off on the floor. Berndt looked at it. He thought about Ernst dead in the kitchen yard and Cook spitting on Grutas with his last breath. Berndt slipped into the room. He felt he should apologize to Madame for the intrusion. He came down the service stairs in his
stocking feet carrying his boots and the two packs of the radio and charger and slipped out a sally port. The radio and hand-cranked generator made a heavy load, more than twenty kilos. Berndt humped it into the woods and hid it. He was sorry he could not take the horse.

Dusk and firelight glowing on the painted timbers of the hunting lodge, shining in the dusty eyes of trophy animals as the family gathered around the fireplace. The animal heads were old, patted bald years ago by generations of children reaching through the banister of the upper landing.

Nanny had Mischa’s copper bathtub in a corner of the hearth. She added water from a kettle to adjust the temperature, made suds and lowered Mischa into the water. The child batted happily at the foam. Nanny fetched towels to warm before the fire. Hannibal took Mischa’s baby bracelet off her wrist, dipped it in the suds and blew bubbles for her through the bracelet. The bubbles, in their brief flight on the draft, reflected all the bright faces before they burst above the fire. Mischa liked to grab for the bubbles, but wanted her bracelet back, and was not satisfied until it was on her arm again.

Hannibal’s mother played baroque counterpoint on a small piano.

Tiny music, the windows covered with blankets as night fell and the black wings of the forest closed around them. Berndt arrived exhausted and the
music stopped. Tears stood in Count Lecter’s eyes as he listened to Berndt. Hannibal’s mother took Berndt’s hand and patted it.

The Germans began at once to refer to Lithuania as Ostland, a German minor colony, which in time could be resettled with Aryans after the lower Slavic life forms were liquidated. German columns were on the roads, German trains on the railways carrying artillery east.

Russian fighter-bombers bombed and strafed the columns. Big Ilyushin bombers out of Russia pounded the columns through heavy flak from the anti-aircraft guns mounted on the trains.

The black swans flew as high as they could comfortably go, the four black swans in echelon, their necks extended, trying for the south, the roar of airplanes above them as dawn broke.

A burst of flak and the lead swan crumpled in mid-stroke and began the long plunge to earth, the other birds turning, calling down the air, losing altitude in great circles. The wounded swan thumped heavily in an open field and did not move. His mate swooped down beside him, poked him with her beak, waddled around him with urgent honks.

He did not move. A shellburst in the field, and Russian infantry were visible moving in the trees at the edge of the meadow. A German Panzer tank
jumped a ditch and came across the meadow, firing its coaxial machine gun into the trees, coming, coming. The swan spread her wings and stood her ground over her mate even though the tank was wider than her wings, its engine loud as her wild heart. The swan stood over her mate hissing, hitting the tank with hard blows of her wings at the last, and the tank rolled over them, oblivious, in its whirring treads a mush of flesh and feathers.

THE LECTER FAMILY survived in the woods for the terrible three and a half years of Hitler’s eastern campaign. The long forest path to the lodge was filled with snow in winter and overgrown in spring, the marshes too soft in summer for tanks.

The lodge was well stocked with flour and sugar to last through the first winter, but most importantly it had salt in casks. In the second winter they came upon a dead and frozen horse. They were able to cut it up with axes and salt the meat. They salted trout as well, and partridges.

Sometimes men in civilian clothes came out of the forest in the night, quiet as shadows. Count Lecter and Berndt talked with them in Lithuanian, and once they brought a man with blood soaked through his shirt, who died on a pallet in the corner while Nanny was mopping his face.

Every day when the snow was too deep to forage, Mr. Jakov gave lessons. He taught English, and very bad French, he taught Roman history with a heavy emphasis on the sieges of Jerusalem, and everyone attended. He made dramatic tales out of historical events, and Old Testament stories, sometimes embellishing them for his audience beyond the strict bounds of scholarship.

He instructed Hannibal in mathematics privately, as the lessons had reached a level inaccessible to the others.

Among Mr. Jakov’s books was a copy bound in leather of Christiaan Huyghens’
Treatise on Light
, and Hannibal was fascinated with it, with following the movement of Huyghens’ mind, feeling him moving toward discovery. He associated the
Treatise on Light
with the glare of the snow and the rainbow distortions in the old windowpanes. The elegance of Huyghens’ thought was like the clean and simplified lines of winter, the structure under the leaves. A box opening with a click and inside, a principle that works every time. It was a dependable thrill, and he had been feeling it since he could read.

Hannibal Lecter could always read, or it seemed that way to Nanny. She read to him for a brief period when he was two, often from a Brothers Grimm illustrated with woodcuts where everyone had pointed toenails. He listened to Nanny reading, his head lolling against her while he looked at the words on the page, and then she found him at it by himself, pressing his forehead to the book and then
pushing up to focal distance, reading aloud in Nanny’s accent.

Hannibal’s father had one salient emotion— curiosity. In his curiosity about his son, Count Lecter had the houseman pull down the heavy dictionaries in the castle library. English, German, and the twenty-three volumes of the Lithuanian dictionary, and then Hannibal was on his own with the books.

When he was six, three important things happened to him.

First he discovered Euclid’s
Elements
, in an old edition with hand-drawn illustrations. He could follow the illustrations with his finger, and put his forehead against them.

That fall he was presented with a baby sister, Mischa. He thought Mischa looked like a wrinkled red squirrel. He reflected privately that it was a pity she did not get their mother’s looks.

Usurped on all fronts, he thought how convenient it would be if the eagle that sometimes soared over the castle should gather his little sister up and gently transport her to some happy peasant home in a country far away, where the residents all looked like squirrels and she would fit right in. At the same time, he found he loved her in a way he could not help, and when she was old enough to wonder, he wanted to show her things, he wanted her to have the feeling of discovery.