Thomas Ochiltree (6 page)

The door opened, and in came Lieutenant Pfitzerheim, the colonel’s aide.

“Servus,
Captain
.”

“Servus.”

“Playing with your revolver?” Pfitzerheim said, noticing the weapon on the desk. “Not planning on doing yourself in, I hope. At least not until you give me the chance to win back last month’s pay.” It was clear from his light, friendly tone that he had no idea of von Falkenburg’s desperate situation.

“I’ll put it in my will that you have the right to play one evening of tarock against my estate, such as it is,” von Falkenburg replied with a smile, hoping that Pfitzerheim would not notice the edginess beneath it. “Does the Old Man have anything for me?”

“Yes, he wants you to report to him at once.”

Von Falkenburg stood in front of his mirror and made sure that his uniform was in perfect order, and that his sword and sword-knot hung just right. In the Austro-Hungarian Army,
Adjustierung –
proper appearance – took precedence over everything, including an order to report at once, or a man’s eagerness to know whether his life would be over within fifteen minutes. Von Falkenburg sometimes thought that it would be given precedence in war over winning, but that was an opinion he had always kept to himself.

It was a long walk down the corridor to the colonel’s office, and as von Falkenburg heard his footsteps echo and felt his sword swing at his side, he wondered whether he wished it were shorter or longer still. Pfitzerheim was making small talk, and von Falkenburg said “indeed?” “really?” and “ah!” from time to time to conceal the fact that he was totally unable to follow what Pfitzerheim was talking about.

Then the moment had come, and he was in front of the colonel, his heels snapping together, his white-gloved hand sweeping up to the peak of his black képi.

The colonel sat behind his desk with a morose expression on his face that suggested indigestion, and really, von Falkenburg knew, indicated how much he wished that this troublesome captain would vanish in a puff of smoke.

“Well, von Falkenburg, when I talked to Military Intelligence, they didn’t want to hear a word of this crazy suggestion of yours.”

Did that mean it was death, then? Von Falkenburg felt his heart pound and the muscles in his legs twitch, although the latter might be due to the fact that the colonel had not told him to stand at ease. And was that because the colonel was about to pass what in effect was a death sentence on him, and felt he should be at attention to receive it, just as he would be at a court martial?

The colonel stared at him in silence. Was what the colonel had just said all that he had to say? Was his life to be dismissed with one sentence like that? Good God, surely he deserved more than that, whatever the colonel thought of him.

“They said it was outrageous for an accused criminal to try to make a deal like the one you suggested.”

Somehow, von Falkenburg knew that the colonel was going to say something more: the one sentence more which would tell him of his fate.

“Believe me, I had to argue hard for you.”

Von Falkenburg let out his breath – which he suddenly realized he had been holding – with an audible sound. That phrase “I had to argue” which the colonel had just spoken implied that the arguing had been necessary to achieve a concession
that had finally been granted.

“And in the end, I won them over.”

So he had a week of life before him! A week with Helena, and perhaps – although it was the longest of shots – a chance to prove his innocence.

“Thank you, Colonel, thank you,” von Falkenburg said, too overwhelmed in his relief for his gratitude to be diminished by the fact that the colonel had really been arguing with Military Intelligence on behalf of his own hopes of promotion rather than for von Falkenburg’s life as such.

“Hmmmphhh,” the colonel said, shoving a piece of paper forward across the top of his desk.

The sight of the paper brought von Falkenburg back to earth a good deal harder than he had hit it that time Resi’s saddle-girth had broken when he was out riding.

The paper was, of course, the text of the confession that he had to sign. In his joy at hearing that he had been granted a week’s life, von Falkenburg had momentarily forgotten it. Just as he had forgotten that even a week, after all, finally comes to an end.

“Did Major Becker draft this?” he asked as he read the statement.

Von Falkenburg was not the least surprised to hear that the answer to that question was yes. The confession was written with a perverse, vindictive thoroughness that reminded him well of the major. Every incriminating document that von Falkenburg had seen was mentioned, and others as well.

To see the monstrous lie set out in such exact and convincing detail made von Falkenburg’s skin crawl. It was utterly incredible that he, who had always served Emperor and army loyally, was going to have to put his name to such a document.

Grimmest of all was the last sentence: “I further acknowledge that in seeking to conceal the above, I perjured my word of honor as a gentleman, having given it solemnly to my colonel.”

It was absurd, he knew, that that clause stuck in his throat more than did the confession of having spied for Austria-Hungary’s mortal enemy, but it did, nevertheless.

“So I must sign this?”

“Major Becker said you were to copy the whole thing out by hand.”

“Major Becker is very thorough. Doubtless he will one day be a field marshal. Sorry I won’t live to see it,” von Falkenburg said. The colonel’s expression did not change.

Von Falkenburg sat down at a table and began to copy the document. When he came to the statement of having broken his word of honor he had a hard time forcing the pen forward.

He looked over the paper. Not very tidy handwriting, but at least it did begin four finger widths from the top, three from the left edge. Proper Austro-Hungarian margins for his own death warrant.

Then he took the pen up again and wrote across the bottom, “Captain Ernst von Falkenburg.”

So, it was done. Incredibly, as he looked down at the document he had the impression that the presence of his signature at the bottom made its contents at least half true. He handed it back to the colonel, along with the copy he had taken the text from, which the colonel put in the fire. The look on the colonel’s face was not the look of triumph Major Becker’s would have worn if he had been present, however. It was rather a look of embarrassment.

Von Falkenburg realized that this whole business with the confession – which was, of course, postdated by one week – made the colonel very uneasy. Presumably, in fact almost certainly, he believed its essence to be true, but the circumstances of its signing were hardly above board. For the colonel too, then, honor was not just a set of mechanical rules of behavior, for all his lack of imagination.

“Captain,” the colonel said slowly, “Military Intelligence wants this back at once. What you say now can do nothing to help you, because there is nothing I can do in that regard.” For the first time, there was almost a trace of sympathy in the colonel’s voice.

“Yes, Colonel, I understand.” Von Falkenburg sensed that the colonel was struggling with an unfamiliar situation.

“You confess in this document to having perjured your word of honor. But although, God knows, the proofs regarding the espionage seem clear enough, I know that you have
not
perjured your word of honor to me, because so far I have not asked for it.”

There was a pause, then the colonel went on, “I would like to ask you for myself, for my own peace of mind…do you give me your word of honor that you are innocent?”

“Yes, Colonel. I give you my solemn word of honor as the son of my father, and as the descendant of all the von Falkenburgs who went before. My word of honor as a gentleman, and as an officer in the Imperial and Royal Army.”

After the deceit of that hideous false confession, it was glorious to be able to speak the truth for its own sake.

It was obvious that his tone of voice – at once solemn and joyous – made an impression on the Colonel.

“If you are telling the truth, von Falkenburg…good luck.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“But if you fail to clear yourself – and for the life of me I don’t see how you can – will you,
even if you are innocent,
take the gentleman’s way out?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Word of honor?” the colonel asked, and added, “you have your week even if you refuse to give me your word of honor that you will shoot yourself, for a word of honor given under constraint is meaningless.”

“My word of honor, Colonel,” von Falkenburg said softly. That truly burned the last bridge behind him. He had known he would kill himself rather than face trial, had even attempted to do so. But
now,
now that he had freely given his word, a change of mind would mean betraying something which to his own surprise he found to be more precious than his life. The fearful threat to his outward honor presented by the false confession – the threat which he could only counter with success in his quest or with his own blood – just made him all the more aware of what his
real
honor was.

“You may go, von Falkenburg,” the colonel said, with a different tone in his voice than he had used the day before when he had said the same words.

Von Falkenburg had a hard time restraining himself from running back to his room. Not a second was to be lost. When he got there he took out a piece of notepaper and scribbled on it, “Dearest Helena, I adore you! Please let me make my apologies in person for taking my leave so brusquely this morning. Death has deferred collection for a week.” He thought of adding, “and may even cancel my debt completely,” but decided against it. There was no point in tempting fate.

He sent Schmidt off with the note. Then he telephoned Lieutenant Field Marshal von Pritterberg. Getting through to him was difficult enough, but not impossible: the old man was due to retire in a few months, and despite his lofty rank did not have terribly much to do. He had been his father’s best friend ever since cadet school, and had always told von Falkenburg to come to him for help if he ever needed it. Not that he would have been able to suppress the charges against him, or would have wanted to, if he had known of them and seen the evidence. But there was one important service he could render.

“
Herr Feldmarschalleutnant,”
von Falkenburg explained, “there is a man under arrest on serious charges….”

“Not a friend of yours, I hope, young fellow.”

“No, no, not at all.”

“Glad to hear it. You young officers sometimes get yourselves into some pretty scrapes. I remember when I was your age….”

Von Falkenburg bit his thumb with impatience.

“Anyway,” he finally got a chance to say, “it’s very important that I see this man. He’s at the military prison on charges of espionage.”

“You interested in spies and jailbirds, young fellow?”

“Not usually,
Herr Felmarschalleutnant,
but my honor is involved.”

“Ah, honor,” the old man said. “An officer can’t be too careful of his honor, I always say. I hope you young fellows haven’t started overlooking that. Say, you haven’t done anything dishonorable, have you?”

“No. I give you my solemn word as an officer.”

The word of his late best friend’s son was sufficient for the old man, particularly since it could literally never occur to the old officer that the younger von Falkenburg – with whom he had played when the latter was a small child – could possibly do anything wrong.

“Well, young fellow, your word of honor is good enough for me any time of the day,” Lieutenant Field Marshal von Pritterberg said. “I’ll do what I can to help.”

* * *

Honor. As von Falkenburg rode in a cab out to the military prison, he reflected how even though von Pritterberg had been his father’s best friend, the old man would have refused to lift a finger to help him if he had dishonored himself, just as he would not sit down at the same table with a dishonored man, or shake his hand. For a man of their social class, to be without honor was to be nothing. An untouchable – and rightly so.

As it was, von Pritterberg had quickly obtained the authorization. He normally had nothing to do with military prisons and military justice, but his godlike rank carried the needed weight with a prison commandant caught by surprise.

“You were wise to have the War Ministry phone to tell me you were coming, Captain,” the major commanding the prison said as he greeted von Falkenburg, “since my instructions were that Lieutenant Röderer was to have no visitors. Not that I think he would want to receive any.”

The contempt with which the commandant pronounced Lieutenant Röderer’s name showed, by its contrast with the cordial tone he used for von Falkenburg, that so far he did not have any inkling of the charges against the latter. So far, von Falkenburg realized, he was ahead of the pack.

Lieutenant Röderer. The man who for some unaccountable reason was willing to give perjured testimony to destroy the life of someone he had never met. It was fortunate, von Falkenburg realized, that there was only one person being held in the prison on espionage charges, as von Pritterberg had learned on calling. Fortunate, but not surprising, for espionage was hardly an everyday occurrence in the Austro-Hungarian army.

The soldier who had led von Falkenburg down a long, dreary corridor flanked by stout doors stopped in front of one and opened it with a large key.

“Thank you,” von Falkenburg said. “Now please leave me alone with the prisoner.”

Röderer looked the part. The traitor. The ruined officer. The congenital no-good who was finding his own level again.

He was both handsome and intelligent-looking in a way. But even the matte, listless manner in which his hair fell across his forehead suggested weakness. As did his overly-delicate hands. And the way he sat on his bunk. Von Falkenburg looked him in the eyes, expecting the characteristic to be most evident there, but strangely enough, it was not. Instead, the eyes had a curious, wild intensity, a look of agitation and excitement, and a peculiar glitter.