Tempting Fate (42 page)

Nausea churned in Amalie and she tried to focus her eyes. Holy God, what had happened to her life? Five minutes—was it only five minutes?—and all was in chaos. “Dietbold?” Her breath was ragged and her vision shot with streaks of color. Looking down, she could not think how her baby came to be on the kitchen floor with a halo of blood around him. Uncomprehendingly she reached out for her son, and was restrained by a brutal grip on her arms.

“Did you see what she tried to do to Konrad?” the middle-aged man inquired of the others. He was out of breath but not entirely from running.

“Friedrich, you hold her,” Natter said, thrusting Amalie at the middle-aged man. “Careful. She’ll bite you if she can.”

Amalie was crying breathlessly, her thoughts in disorder. She tried to speak. “My baby,” she panted. “He’s … He needs me. Let me go … Let me go!”

Friedrich held her from behind, taking savage delight in holding her in a painfully twisted way. “What about the infant?”

Helmut Rauch pushed through the press of men, taking care that his fine suit not touch anything in the kitchen. He bent over the pitiful limp figure and poked at it three times with his finger, noticing with distaste the blood welling from mouth and ears as he pressed. He drew back, wiping his hand fastidiously on his pocket handkerchief, as if he feared contamination. “He’s dead, all right.”

“They kill their own children, the monsters,” one of the men shouted to the others. He was by far the most drunken, his face and neck florid from beer-and-schnapps.

“Dietbold!” Amalie howled as she saw Friedrich lift her child by his leg and hold him as if he were some obscene trophy. Sounds rumbled in her mind, shutting out the cheers of the men in the kitchen. She gathered all her strength and wrenched herself out of the grasp of the two men who restrained her now. Vaguely she was aware of sudden, debilitating pain, and the uselessness of her right arm, but it was not important. As if moving underwater, she reached for Friedrich to save her baby. The hand that she could move had already curved into claws which jabbed for his eyes before grasping her child. There were sounds in her throat that caused Helmut Rauch to gag.

The others shouted in the confusion, two careening into each other as they strove to hold back the raving woman.

“The shoulder!” Natter shouted as he caught her arm and was rewarded with an agonized screech.

“Dislocated,” one of the men said, awed in spite of himself.

“Stop her!”

It took three of them to bring her down, and by then she had gouged three deep runnels in Friedrich’s face. Her mouth was open and her hair was matted on the side of her face with Diet-bold’s blood. She felt herself tumbling through an enormous gulf, growing smaller and smaller. The pain from her dislocated shoulder went through her in volcanic waves.

“Hold her, can’t you,” Helmut demanded, stepping back from the pile of men.

“She’s insane! A devil!” the youngest man shouted as he tried to pin her thrashing legs to the floor.

Amalie flailed in the men’s holds, past thought. There was a sharp, searing pain, as light exploded in her head, and then darkness.

“That stopped her,” Natter said, rubbing his hands on the front of his jacket.

Helmut frowned. “Kicking her in the head…”

“It stopped her,” Natter repeated, his voice rising. “You saw what she did to Friedrich.”

The men on the floor got up slowly. The youngest of them cleared his throat as he looked back to Amalie. For a moment the kitchen was very quiet.

“Where’s the baby?” the most drunken man asked.

“I have it,” Friedrich said, staring down at the dead infant.

There were a few halfhearted cheers.

“We’d better leave here,” Helmut said after a moment. “She did say that her husband would be back.”

“We’ll do the same for him,” one of the others boasted.

“Don’t be foolish, Erich,” Natter snapped. “What if we were recognized? The Jews have bought off half the judiciary in the country. They’d do for us at once.”

“Then what now?” the youngest asked.

“We must not be seen here,” Friedrich said slowly, and as he spoke, he put Dietbold on the floor beside his mother. “This … got out of hand. It’s too soon.”

“Where is the rest of the family? Here?” Erich had changed color and his throat began to work convulsively.

“They would have done something.” Helmut sounded more confident than he felt, for the reminder that they might have been seen disquieted him.

“They’re cowards,” Natter dismissed the question.

Friedrich looked down at his blood-spattered clothes. “I can’t be seen like this.”

“There are scratches on your face,” Erich pointed out with distaste.

“That’s easily explained,” Friedrich said impatiently. “The clothes are another matter. This was done badly, gentlemen.” He walked around the two bodies on the floor. “We must not act foolishly now. This was rash, but we can salvage it, I think.”

“How?” Helmut asked, going to the far corner of the room.

“We must make it seem that it was the work of … oh, one of the dissident leftist groups will serve. A few slogans scribbled on the walls, and ripped upholstery, and it will remind the police of the vandals who wrecked so much in this area three years ago.” He looked around the kitchen as if seeking inspiration. “Heisel, Erich, you two take one of the butcher knives and cut up the chairs in the front rooms. Pull books off the shelves and slash a few paintings. Make it look wild.”

“Friedrich, how long…” Heisel began, his drunkenness fading as he spoke.

“Thirty minutes at the most. Twenty would be better.” He dismissed them with a wave. “Konrad, find some paint and put slogans on the wall. Don’t be too particular about your spelling.”

“Thirty minutes?” Natter asked.

“Fifteen, I think.” Friedrich was already directing his attention to Helmut. “The Bruderschaft is not going to be pleased with us, I fear.”

Helmut nodded. “Nor the Gesellschaft.”

“Oh, they mean little. They’re useful for many things, but there is no power in them, and very little philosophy. It is the Bruderschaft that is the heart of Thule, and its real strength. For Erich and the rest it is enough that they can give financial aid and social acceptability to all of us. In time, thought will change and the people will see that we have been right all along.” He stared down at the bodies again, then made a click with his tongue. “There’s blood on my shoes. Yours, too.”

Helmut reacted with greater disgust. “Be damned to her.”

The remaining man, who had been silent, chuckled now. “Most certainly she is. Christianity and the Bruderschaft agree on that.” His clothes were rumpled from his part in the battle with Amalie, and his hard Nordic features were marred by a bruise over his left eye. “You must do something about those marks on your face, Friedrich.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Friedrich said. “Gott im Himmel, it stinks in here. It’s as bad as the trenches were.” He held the edge of his sleeve to his face. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yes; at once,” Helmut said with relief. He was afraid if he remained in the kitchen much longer he would become physically ill. It was bad enough having to be near Jews, but sharing the room with a Jewish corpse was intolerable.

Friedrich looked at the third man. “What will you tell the Bruderschaft, Martin?”

“About today, do you mean?” The man considered. “For one thing, this was ill-conceived. I’ve already said so. You should not have allowed the others to drink so much. It probably wasn’t wise to kill the woman, or if it had to be done, it should have been more methodical. But you have made a good recovery, Friedrich, and your initiate standing should not be endangered in any way. In your case, Rauch, I haven’t yet made up my mind. When I have given the matter some thought, I will tell you my conclusions.” He glanced down the hall. “From the sound of it, Heisel and Erich are enjoying themselves.”

As if to confirm this, there was a second splintering of glass followed by an enthusiastic whoop.

“That’s the sort of behavior we should not encourage in one another. It is well enough for the people to comport themselves so recklessly, but those aspiring to the Bruderschaft need more discipline.” Martin gestured to the two men. “Come. We’ll have to see what’s been done.”

In the hallway they found Konrad Natter with a jar of children’s paints. He was tracing words and designs on the walls. There was an unpleasant gleam in his eyes and he wielded the brush as if it were a weapon.

Martin and Friedrich stared at his work, and then Martin turned to him, controlled fury making his voice shake. “I told you,
leftist
slogans! This is NSDAP. Paint it out, you idiot!”

Natter glared at Martin. “What right have you to—?”

“If you do not know that, you have no business in the Thule Gesellschaft,” Martin cut him off sharply. “Do you want to bring the police around, asking questions, interfering? If these words are read, that is what will happen. And it will be the worse for you, Herr Natter.”

Natter’s bluster faded under this scathing attack. “Communists, then. I’ll make a hammer and sickle. That should be satisfactory.” He turned back to his work, red creeping up his neck by his collar.

Five minutes later the six men were out of the house and on their way back to the Hirsch Furt in Hausham. They were boisterous at first, then grew sullen and quiet as Martin gave them his first evaluation of their activities. By the time they drew up at the tavern, most of the men wanted drink badly, and two of them were cold with fear.

An hour after the men had departed, the pony cart from Schloss Saint-Germain rattled up the drive toward the Schnaubels’ house. The three children in the back were singing one of the Russian songs Laisha had taught them, with Nikolai joining them on the chorus and occasionally correcting their pronunciation. Bruno held a large bouquet of hybrid poppies and peonies in his hand, and Emmerich carried half a dozen roses. Olympie’s hands were empty but there was a small basket at her feet.

“There now, we’re here,” Nikolai said as he looped the pony’s reins around the brake as he had done as a boy in Russia. He got down from the driver’s box and let down the steps for the three children. “Be careful with your flowers, Emmerich.”

The boy wiggled impatiently. “It was silly to bring the flowers. We have flowers here,” he told his older brother.

“They’re nothing like the Graf’s,” Bruno said wistfully and truthfully. “Mother likes them. I heard her say so.”

“It’s silly,” Emmerich persisted, but held the roses with care as he descended to the pebbled drive.

“Your mother won’t think so,” Nikolai said to the younger boy.

Olympie extended her hand to be supported. “If you’ll bring in the basket,” she said grandly to Nikolai.

“Oho, quite the little Czarina, aren’t you?” But he lifted the basket out of the cart and followed them to the door, where the two boys waited.

“What’s keeping her?” Bruno wondered aloud when he had knocked a third time.

“She’s probably in the nursery with Dietbold. She might not hear us.” Emmerich reached out and gave the door a hearty blow.

Olympie was looking about absently, her mind on the supper she and her brothers had shared with Laisha. She liked the Swedish tarts the cook always made for her, and wished she had been able to eat another. Her glance strayed across the windows of the drawing room, and she stared, puzzled. “See. The window’s broken.”

Both of her brothers scoffed at this, but Nikolai, standing a little behind them, looked where Olympie pointed. “They
are
broken,” he said, a coldness settling into his spine. In a quiet voice he said, “Bruno, try the door. Slowly.”

Bruno scowled at the Russian driver but obeyed, and was worried when the door opened for him. “Mother always keeps it locked.”

“Bruno…” Emmerich whispered. “I don’t want to go in.”

“That’s stupid,” Bruno said, but with little conviction.

Olympie had stepped into the hall, and as her eyes adjusted to the afternoon dusk of the hall, she gasped. “The walls!”

Nikolai stepped through the door, moving the children aside. His pulse was suddenly heavy in his head as he looked at the scrawled letters and symbols on the wall. Images of the bloodiest days of the Revolution pressed in on him.

“The chairs are all cut up!” Emmerich called indignantly from the living room. “And the pictures are broken.”

“Where’s Mother?” Bruno asked quietly, looking to Nikolai for help.

“The nursery?” Olympie suggested.

“Mama!” Emmerich yelled. “It’s us! Come out!”

“I’ll look in the nursery,” Bruno said, and went cautiously off in the direction of that room.

“Rozoh,” Olympie said, uncertainly, “where are they?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find them.” He tried to smile, but his mouth only grimaced.

“Mut-ter!” Emmerich cried out, standing at the foot of the stairs. He still held the bouquet of roses in his hand, but the blooms had been forgotten and were battered now, dropping petals in a fragrant wake behind the frightened boy.

“She’s not in the nursery,” Bruno announced solemnly from the end of the hallway.

“Where’s Hedda?” Olympie said.

Emmerich pushed past Nikolai and his sister, starting to run toward the kitchen, calling for his mother. He had dashed halfway into the room before he saw what was on the floor, and the smell struck him.

Nikolai had started after the boy, and was almost to the kitchen door when he heard Emmerich’s shrill scream. Nikolai did not pause; he was in the kitchen before the sound had ceased to reverberate through the house. His years of soldiering steeled him, so that he was able to lift Emmerich into his arms and close the door on the terrible sight, but his mouth tasted of bile.

“Was that my mother?” Bruno asked, trying to get into the kitchen.

“Yes,” Nikolai answered, attempting to hold the kicking, screeching Emmerich in his arms. “Don’t go in, Bruno.”

Olympie’s teeth were chattering. “Shouldn’t we help her? Rozoh?”

The Russian’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

Emmerich’s renewed shrieks were answered by a wail from the floor above them.