Tempting Fate (35 page)

The Russian had finished filling the wheelbarrow beside him. He shoveled one last load of earth and then turned to get the wheelbarrow in hand. As he did so, he glanced in the direction of the lantern and faintly burning headlights of the Benz.

Ragoczy leaned forward at the wheel, his dark eyes suddenly intent.
“Rozoh,”
he whispered.

The Russian began to trundle his load down the slope. Aching fatigue showed in the strain of his shoulders and the wavering progress of his steps. Then without warning, the wheelbarrow sloughed to the side and Rozoh went sprawling.

The guard sprinted forward at once, his lantern swinging, his rifle raised in his right hand like a club. There were confused shouts, and three of the other prisoners rushed to defend the fallen man.

“Halt! All prisoners to stay at attention!” another guard from the far end of the slide shouted. “You three! Back to your shovels. Schnell!”

The three men hesitated, then made their way back up the slope, their eyes now averted from the Russian.

Nikolai Ivanevich Rozoh lay in the mud, his blistered hands pressed to his sides, his garments soaked through. He murmured a Russian prayer and waited for the blows to fall.

“Get up, you foreign pig!” the guard with the lantern ordered, prodding Rozoh’s shoulder with the butt of his rifle.

“Do not abuse him,” Ragoczy said quietly. He had got out of the Benz and come up behind the guard. “Let me speak with him.”

“Surely, Mein Herr, this is no concern of yours.” The arrogant manner was back, and the sureness of the man irritated Ragoczy.

“You told me that he was without friends. He is not without friends now,” Ragoczy told him, and as if unaware of the damage of his fine wool coat, went down on his knee beside the fallen man. “Major Rozoh,” he said, speaking in Russian. “Major, you must get up.”

Dazed and weary to the core of his bones, Rozoh did not respond at first. He drew his knees up and let his misery engulf him.

“Major Rozoh, if you do not get up, I will not be able to keep the guard from hurting you,” Ragoczy persisted, seeing the other man’s suffering. “Major, open your eyes and look at me.”

How much Rozoh wanted to shut out that voice! He pressed the backs of his hands over his ears, but keeping them there was too difficult, and he let them fall again, wincing as the mud splattered on his injured palms.

“Rozoh, get up,” Ragoczy repeated. “Get up at once.”

Dimly, Rozoh realized that he was being addressed in Russian, and although he was too tired to be surprised, he was curious. His eyes opened a bit. There was also something about the voice, something familiar. For some reason, he thought of the monastery near Krasnoye Selo, He struggled to brace himself on his elbow as he peered through the rain at the dark figure beside him. “What?”

“That’s better,” Ragoczy said, rising to his feet. “I will pay your debts, Rozoh. I believe I owe you that much.”

“Owe me?” Rozoh repeated, getting to his knees.

“Were it not for you, I doubt I would have been able to get out of the Monastery of the Victory, except to face a firing squad.” He started away from Rozoh and said to the guard, in German, “I don’t want this man to work anymore. He is hurt and ill. Inform your warden that I will make arrangements through the court to pay his debts and secure his release. I also guarantee him employment.” He paused a moment. “If I should learn that any of my instructions were disregarded, it will be the worse for you.”

The guard did not quite salute, but he made a sort of compromise gesture that showed he would do as he was commanded. “But, Mein Herr,” he said nervously, “who shall I say … what name do I say?”

“Ragoczy. Franchot Ragoczy, of Schloss Saint-Germain.” He had spoken loudly enough for Rozoh to hear him.

“You!” the Russian shouted as all his fragmentary impressions rushed together in recognition.
“You!”

“Yes,” Ragoczy replied with a short ironic bow before starting back to his automobile and his two baffled companions.

Text of a letter from Helmut Rauch to the schoolteacher Pasch Garbe.

19 Hautpenprinz Strasse

München

January 12, 1921

Pasch Garbe

Vorschule St. Sixtus

Landsberied Strasse

Fürsten-Feldbruck

My dear Herr Garbe:

Your name was given me by Frau Carola Hofmann, who said that you and she had discussed at length the problems confronting our poor country, particularly the lack of discipline and direction among our people as well as the scandalous depredations of the French, who every day abuse the rights of the Treaty of Versailles. Frau Hofmann has said that her late husband often discussed with you the great concerns he felt, and which still beset his widow.

I understand that you are not sympathetic to the National-sozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, believing them to be a rabble, composed of nothing but discontents and failures who brawl in taverns and make inflammatory speeches that do nothing more than cause alarm among the responsible citizens of München. Yet you must comsider more deeply. The NSDAP is only a small part of the plan that has been developed by men who chafe at the unreasonable demands of the French and the English, who feel that each maneuver by the French and English is a calculated insult that must be avenged if Deutschland is ever to regain its rightful place as the leader of Europe.

You realize that in making their vindictive decisions, the French forgot that only we stand between them and the expanding power of Russia. Poland is as good as lost, no matter what you may hear to the contrary. Deutschland and Österreich are the only barriers left that can successfully prevent the Communists from advancing into the cities of Europe to despoil not only our homeland, but all the other countries of the West as well. Depend upon it, in another three or four years the French will come as much to their senses as they are able to, and at that time, you will find that we will be on much different footing, and with a little skill, the NSDAP will be well-placed by that time to influence policy.

It is not the fault of General von Seeckt that we find ourselves in this disgraceful position, and those who point to him do not see clearly how he is as much a victim as any honorable officer in the army who fought bravely to preserve Deutschland. Rest assured that those who are in a powerful office who do not deserve it will not be able to remain there long. As I have already intimated, there are those who will be guiding the country through the men of the NSDAP, and they are influential and farsighted men. They envision a much more sweeping change than what has been outlined by the NSDAP so far, and they will strive to bring it about as soon as may be. They are not reckless, they are not impulsive, but men of great esoteric learning and patriotic devotion who have added their considerable occult skills to a keen perception of the political situation to their determined thrust to regain our trampled honor.

Your very objection to the NSDAP is what prompts this letter, for you and those like you, who instruct our children, can be of great benefit to our country, helping to restore the sense of worthiness which has been so undermined. The Zeitgeist is changing, and now is the perfect time for those who would help to shape the destined future of Deutschland to gather under the banner of the NSDAP, bringing it the social position it must have in order to fulfill the aims not only of that party, but of the Thule Bruderschaft. You can aid us in transforming our beloved country from a broken one, wallowing in defeat, to a shining example to the entire world. It must begin with the young, for it is they who will carry on the dream when you and I have left the earth behind.

I am aware that the Thule Bruderschaft has been accused of Zauberkunst, but this is nonsense, not unlike saying that the biochemists in our universities are practicing alchemy. Do not let these malicious lies influence you in your thinking, for it is just such statements that give succor to our enemies and keep Deutschland on its knees. Let me invite you to join a few of us for supper next Tuesday. We will be dining at an inn in Starnberg, which, I must tell you, serves excellent Kalbsbeuscherl and Leberknödelsuppe as well as fine Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte. The wines are good, the selection is reasonable and the beer is made by the landlord himself, and even the most demanding palate will be pleased with it. I think you will find that Herr Eckart and Herr Doktor Krohn will have a great deal to say to you that will interest you very much, and in such a setting, with a convivial atmosphere to add its benign influence, you will become as eager as I am to aid these good men in their work.

I will look forward to hearing from you in the next three days. If you wish, you may telephone me at my work, at the Bayerisch Kreditkörperschaft, and a message will always reach me there. Remember that you, as a schoolteacher, are in an enviable position to influence the youth of our country, and it is a station you ought not to take lightly. Consider your answer in that light, and then let me hear that you are with us. This brings you my cordial good wishes.

Most sincerely yours,

Helmut Rauch

6

Gudrun Ostneige descended from the Hispaño-Suiza and looked up at the shining front of the See Jewul Hotel overlooking Starnbergersee. Thousands of electric lights glittered on the facade and the sound of a dance band came through the door, accompanied by the susurrus of conversation and an occasional well-bred laugh. Gudrun hesitated, her skirt lifted for the ascent of the eight broad stairs to the terrace.

“Go on, Rudi,” Otto coaxed from the driver’s seat of the automobile. “They’re waiting for you. I’ll be here at one in the morning. Go on.”

“But,” she said uncertainly, “I don’t know. I hadn’t realized it would be so big a party.” In her right hand she held a beaded evening bag, and this she clutched as if it were her only source of rescue. “With Jürgen so ill, for me to appear at such a gala is … inappropriate. I thought it would be much smaller, but this is so grand.”

Otto chuckled indulgently. “You are not a flighty woman, and your devotion to your husband is well-known in the neighborhood. It’s not as if your family was of minor importance, or had only been here a generation or so. The Altbrunnen house has been at Wolkighügel for more than three hundred years, and their standing is assured.”

“If Maxl were here…” She gave a restless twitch to the lace overdress that covered her gown of silver satin.

Privately, Otto agreed with Gudrun: Maximillian ought to be here to escort his sister instead of attending yet another of those secret meetings with Eckart. He gave her a tolerant smile. “You’re as bad as a girl just coming out. You’re not a child anymore, Rudi, you’re a respected matron of a distinguished family. You are doing nothing incorrect.” He looked at her neatly-cut hair and lamented the loss of her braids for this more fashionable crop, and thought it Unfortunate that her face was indeed showing signs of age. Not very long ago, she had been fresh and lithe, lovely as a birch tree, and now she was faded in spite of the modish dress and haircut, and artfully-applied makeup could not change this.

“Yes. If only the Baron were from this neighborhood, I would know what to do. Since he is a foreigner, it is more difficult. Strangers…” Her voice trailed off as she thought suddenly of Graf Ragoczy, who had asked that she call him Saint-Germain. His foreignness was so intriguing, and he at once so enigmatic and gallant. She started up the steps with a sigh. If there were those who disapproved, no doubt she would hear of it soon enough, but with winter beginning to fade, surely this one evening would not be too reprehensible, with spring coming on and the snows beginning to melt.

One of the hotel’s staff was standing by the door in formal livery. He gave her an acknowledging half-bow and asked whose name he should announce.

Gudrun lifted her head. “Frau Ostneige,” she said with the touch of arrogance that marked the hochgebornen.

“Frau Ostneige,” the man announced to the room, and motioned Gudrun to enter.

As she crossed the threshold, her smile concealed her dismay. There were more than a hundred people at the hotel, all of them in evening clothing, many of them quite recognizable and much-admired figures in Bayern. Suddenly she felt a dowd, though she knew she was properly attired, that the antique blue-white lace she wore over; her silver gown was as acceptable as any other woman’s dress in the room, that the diamond-and-pearl necklace was elegant without being ostentatious, and her long white gloves were spotless. In confusion, she opened her beaded bag to find the little vial of scent she had tucked into it, and almost spoiled her glove by reaching for the tube of lip rouge which had lost its cap. She felt herself about to burst into tears.

“Pardon me,” a man said as he pushed by her, his tucked shirt a little disarrayed. He turned and looked back once at Gudrun with a speculative expression, then blundered on through the crowd.

Gudrun looked about wildly, wishing now that she had not come. She could see none of her neighbors, although she was certain some of them must be here. Of course, the Schnaubels would not be invited, and she doubted that Ragoczy would be, as he was a foreigner. The host, however, was Hungarian, and she hoped that perhaps she would encounter him in the midst of all these impressive guests. At last she noticed Konrad Natter standing at the long bar at the far end of the ballroom. There was a balloon snifter in his hand and his profile was reflected several dozen times in the facets of the mirrors behind the bar. On most occasions, Gudrun abhorred the man and avoided him, but now she was anxious for familiar company, even if it was such a person as Natter. She started across the room toward him, threading her way through the genial clusters of chattering guests.

“Ah, Frau Ostneige,” cried a voice behind her, and she glanced back to see Baron Istvan Tiborkraj bearing down on her, his old-fashioned white mustaches quivering. “How good of you to come. I was so much afraid that you would not attend because of your husband’s poor health. Where is that scapegrace of a brother? Has he left you alone already?” The Baron was tall and rangy, and dressed in full diszmagyar. His dolman was of heavy red silk, thickly embroidered with a pattern of leaves, studded with peridot and tourmalines, and laced with gold. His dark green trousers were close-cut and embroidered with gold. His boots were high, of red leather with a pattern of leaves stitched into them. The Order of Saint Stephen hung around his neck, dangling almost to his waist. He took Gudrun’s hand and kissed it.