The Right Hand of Sleep (36 page)

There were twenty of them running the length of the passage;
they were narrow and deeply recessed, but looked as though they
might let a man through if he was desperate enough. The walls of
the enclosures came within an arm’s length of the roof beams. I
went from one enclosure to the next, testing each gate. Reports
of rifle fire came from time to time through the floor, often seemingly right below me, but the large-scale fighting appeared already
to have ended. The sixteenth or seventeenth gate swung inward
unprotestingly and I stepped into the enclosure and tested the
strength of the wire mesh with my boot. It bent sharply under my
weight, leaving the perfect impression of a toehold. I cursed and
bent the mesh back carefully.

By now I was beginning to feel the first stirrings of panic.
I knelt and examined the crates more closely. They had red stenciled numbers on them and were made of a light, waxy wood, but
looked as though they might support my weight if I stepped very
lightly. I lifted the nearest by its corners and was overjoyed to find
it less heavy than I’d expected. I stacked them quickly and quietly
into a column under the skylight, glancing down the passageway
every few seconds, whispering little chants of encouragement to
myself as I worked.

When I was nearly done, I heard the sound of footfalls on the
stairs; it passed after a moment and I kept on with my work. At
one point I dropped a crate that must have held cutlery or tuning
forks or some other horribly clanging, metallic things; I crouched
down behind the column and waited a long time without so much
as taking a breath. But no one came after all and I finished the
stack, pulled the gate shut, threw the latch with my fingertips and
climbed carefully to the skylight. It opened easily and I stuck my
head out a moment later into the drizzling gray air.

The next morning three men came from the diocese and nodded to Voxlauer and laid the body in the casket and arranged its unwilling limbs and fastened the lid down with screws. They carried her through the middle of town to the cemetery chapel, a bare, plank-roofed, whitewashed little room, open along its townward side like a box at the opera. Thirty or forty people were gathered in front in long dark coats and bustled dresses. Most of them were very old. Gustl was there. Ryslavy was there, looking pale and weather-beaten. Six or seven SS were there in their parade finery but Kurt Bauer was not among them. The priest hobbled meekly around the little stage swinging his copper censer. Voxlauer recalled his shallow docile face dimly from childhood services. He sang in a flutter of reedy, false notes at the casket.

—Odore celesti pascat animam tuam Deus.

When the singing was over a muted chorus of amens rose up from the assembled and the service began. It went on a very long time with everybody staring down at the ground in front of them. —
Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus,
said the priest at the end of it. —Amen.

—Amen, the crowd repeated. The SS remained quiet.

The priest then turned to Voxlauer. —If anyone should like to say words at this time, he said.

Making Gustl out to the left of the stage, Voxlauer spoke his name.

Gustl nodded with an air of highborn detachment and shuffled up the stairs. Once beside the casket he stood solemnly a moment, eyes raised toward heaven, then gave a melancholy little sigh. —Fellow mourners, he began.

The priest stepped back from the casket and dropped his head. His narrow pale chin pressed against his wattled neck and his eyelids fluttered. —Fellow mourners, said Gustl again, clearing his throat.

Voxlauer sought out Ryslavy’s face in the crowd and winked at him. Ryslavy looked away. Gustl’s sad mild voice stirred like a dying summer breeze through the assembled. Voxlauer watched him bobbing on his short legs, spreading his arms out as he spoke and bringing them in again a moment later like some sort of flightless bird. After a time he looked more closely at the mass of faces, none of which he seemed to recognize. Ryslavy stared morosely ahead of him, muttering to himself, scratching the back of his neck and tugging at his collar. Occasionally a nervous smile would crimp his mouth along its left side. He glanced at Voxlauer, raised an eyebrow, then dipped his head to stare again at nothing.

—. . . and commend her soul into a more placid harbor, said Gustl quietly. —Amen.

—Amen, said the priest, opening his eyes but leaving his head bowed low against his windpipe. Gustl bowed gravely and stepped away from the casket. He patted Voxlauer encouragingly on the shoulder as he passed. A brief, expectant silence followed.

—Paul Ryslavy, said Voxlauer carefully.

Ryslavy looked up, startled. A murmuring rose among the crowd.

—Customarily, at this time, the son might say a few words, offered the priest. A few of the mourners made a show of beginning to button up their coats.

—A family time, Oskar, Gustl whispered.

—Yes, Uncle. We’d like to ask Paul Ryslavy to speak, said Voxlauer, more loudly. —There he is. Come up, Herr Ryslavy, if you would.

Ryslavy stepped out of the crowd and moved haltingly up to the casket. A number of mourners, the younger men especially, had put on their hats and stood ready to leave. The SS remained perfectly at attention, their eyes fixed on a point slightly to Voxlauer’s left. Let them stand at attention for him, thought Voxlauer, watching Ryslavy straighten himself and cough a little into his sleeve. He looks terrible, he thought, glancing from Ryslavy back out at the crowd. So much the better.

Ryslavy stood at the casket surveying the fidgeting assembly. —Fellow mourners, he began, sucking in his breath. —We are gathered together today to . . . ah . . . say good-bye now and forever to a beautiful spirit . . .

Voxlauer looked from one to another of them all the while. They were staring at Ryslavy and the priest with awkward, disappointed faces. The SS were looking at Voxlauer almost fondly. They must have come for this, he thought. Well then, let them enjoy it. Let them do what they came here to do.

—We cared for her . . . ah, each of us in different ways. Each in keeping with our particular, ah, relationship . . . Ryslavy looked from one to another of them, breaking into a grin. —As for me, I loved her something like a stepson.

Loud murmurs arose. —That makes some of you piss your pants, I know, Ryslavy said. He looked over at Voxlauer and guffawed.

—This man is drunk, the priest said, stepping forward.

—This man paid your fee, grandfather, said Voxlauer, taking the priest’s arm. —You let him alone.

—. . . like a cherished aunt, Ryslavy was saying, untroubled now by the priest or the mourners, slurring his words together. —Better yet, a governess—

—That’s enough, said Gustl violently. Five SS were behind him. Ryslavy stopped in mid-sentence and stood half turned, regarding all of them with calm disdain.

—You’ve had your turn to speak already, Uncle, Voxlauer said.

—That’s as may be, Oskar. That’s as may be—

—A disgusting misuse of the occasion, all considered, the SS officer behind Gustl interrupted, stepping forward impatiently. Voxlauer recognized him now as the towheaded clerk from his visit to the Polizeihaus. —A pretty little Jew speech, he said shrilly, turning to address the crowd. He stood parallel to Ryslavy, just at his shoulder; the two of them might have been joint speakers at a lecture. Ryslavy was leaning away from him now, watching him, the expression on his face set and unchanging.

—The love of Yids and Gypsies for our wives and mothers is well known, the officer said. Someone in the crowd began to jeer. Voxlauer stood still one brief instant longer, looking from one face to the other. No one seemed to be laughing yet, or even smiling. Ryslavy had fallen back into the crowd, watching with the rest of them. Those who had made a show of leaving during his speech had returned and now crowded in on all sides, craning their necks to see. There seemed to be many more of them than before. The older mourners stared at the stage in simple disbelief. Gustl was nowhere to be seen. The officer had just taken a breath and was about to go on.

Voxlauer stepped over to him. The officer checked himself and looked up into Voxlauer’s face, smiling. Vaguely Voxlauer was aware of the other men pressed close around him.

—If you say one more word over my mother’s body, I’ll kill you, Voxlauer said.

The officer’s smile widened. He wants me to do this, thought Voxlauer, looking into the narrow face, reddening subtly along the jawline. He wants me to do this and I will. I will do what he wants.

—Herr Wiedehopp! Herr Wiedehopp! Please! It was Gustl’s voice, close at hand, sycophantic. Voxlauer could see nothing but the flush-cheeked face in front of him. The face turned slightly.

—Since when have you called me by that name, little comrade? the face said, not smiling any longer.

I will hit him, thought Voxlauer. Let it happen now. He saw the events of the last five months running together like rails dovetailing into a station, converging inevitably toward the moment and the act, concrete and inescapable. —Go away, Gustl, he said.

Gustl ignored him. —Please, Herr Oberführer. Look at all the people. The officer glanced grudgingly about him. —I’ll stop this now. This minute. Please. Move the boys away, Herr Oberführer. I’ll put an end to it.

There was a brief pause. Gustl still stood between them. The other four SS were nothing now but a circle of starched black cloth and silver buttons. Voxlauer peered out between the uniforms, looking for Ryslavy. He felt calm in that moment, almost content. Ryslavy seemed to have gone. Gustl and the officer were talking together quietly, their heads almost touching.

After a time the officer looked up and moved away from Gustl. —Disperse this crowd, he said, stepping past Voxlauer indifferently.

The three men from the diocese remained behind, waiting for Voxlauer beside the casket. Voxlauer moved tiredly to his corner and took hold of it and they began to walk. They walked measuredly, entirely alone now, down the canting rows of headstones with the casket heavy and awkward between them. At the grave it was laid on joists of unvarnished yellow wood looped together with canvas strips. After a perfunctory pause the joists were pulled away and the casket lowered. One end touched bottom before the other and made a soft thump, like the jostling of a boat against a pier. Sliding on the cushions, Voxlauer thought. The priest appeared again and made a slow baroque sign of the cross over the opening.

—Dora Anna-Marie Voxlauer, said the priest with his reedy voice. —
Pulvis es, et in Pulverem revertaris.
Amen. He lowered his hand and left without glancing once at Voxlauer. The three attendants lingered, waiting for the customary schilling, then finally left as well, grumbling to each other.

Voxlauer looked down at the casket with the canvas runners still trailing onto the cemetery lawn. —Far away from here, he said.

A few minutes later Gustl came puffing down the row. Passing the grave, he glanced down briefly, then took Voxlauer by the shoulder. —Come along now, you godforsaken lunatic. Let’s you and I find us a mug and a table and sit down behind it and have ourselves a conference. A little meeting of the minds.

Voxlauer blinked. —Haven’t you given up on me yet, officer?

Gustl didn’t answer but steered him quickly down the row and out the cemetery gate. Voxlauer let himself be pulled along by the crook of his arm like a truant schoolboy, past the lumberyards and the mill and across the mill brook and the canal, past a long row of lumber trucks idling on the road above the gymnasium. —Where could those trucks be heading, I wonder? Voxlauer said.

—Great plans are afoot, Gustl said, tapping the side of his nose. —There’ll be great work to be done soon. Man’s work, Oskar.
Construction
.

—I see. Voxlauer was quiet for a time, looking over at the trucks. —What is it we’re to be constructing, Uncle?

—The future, said Gustl, beaming.

—The future, said Voxlauer. —Who would have guessed.

—Don’t play the innocent, Oskar. It’s not attractive in a man of middle years, this coyness.

—I’m not playing at anything, Uncle. I don’t have the spirit for it.

Gustl looked at him crookedly. —Not still waving the Red flag, are you, nephew?

—The Red flag? said Voxlauer, smiling in spite of himself.

—
Nobody thinks your way anymore, do you understand? Not a soul. You must see that yourself. Today, at least, you must have seen it. You nearly got yourself plucked and gutted.

—They didn’t think my way back in Cherkassy either, if it makes you feel any better, Uncle. Nobody has ever thought “my way,” as you put it so nicely. Not even in Red Russia. I’d be a bigger fool than even you think to expect anybody to start now.

—I like to think
I’ve
thought your way, said Gustl slowly. —I’d like to think I have some notion of your take on things.

—Would you, Gustl? Voxlauer stopped short in the middle of the road. —What exactly would it get you, you old arse-licker?

Gustl reddened. —Go on! Have your fun with me, a tired old man. I know how you think. You think like your father, that goddamned tea-sipper. A man of the people, are you, because you made faces at your French tutors? Not for one minute. You’re another would-be lord of the manor without a house and stables. Another bed-wetter. Another holy martyr. He spat passionately onto the curb. —Know what the people want, do you? You don’t know any more than he did, with his blessed goddamned Kaiser and his tailored pants.

—You can think what you like about it, said Voxlauer.

—He wanted a private peace, too, remember. Above everybody. Nobody was good enough to change
his
knickers, either. Not even your mother, God rest her. And where did it get him? Where did it get him, after everything?