The Keep. Part 6

Magda looked up sharply, then down again. How true. How true. "Perhaps." She felt a lump form in her throat. She didn't want to talk about this. "How's business?" "Perhaps." She felt a lump form in her throat. She didn't want to talk about this. "How's business?"

"Terrible." Josefa shrugged as she set the naiou naiou aside and picked up her tarot deck again. She was dressed in the mismatched, cast-off clothes common to Gypsies: flowered blouse, striped skirt, calico kerchief. A dizzying array of colors and patterns. Her fingers, as if acting of their own volition, began shuffling the deck. "I only see a few of the old regulars for readings these days. No new trade since they made me take the sign down." aside and picked up her tarot deck again. She was dressed in the mismatched, cast-off clothes common to Gypsies: flowered blouse, striped skirt, calico kerchief. A dizzying array of colors and patterns. Her fingers, as if acting of their own volition, began shuffling the deck. "I only see a few of the old regulars for readings these days. No new trade since they made me take the sign down."

Magda had noted that this morning as she had approached the wagon. The sign over the rear door that had read "Doamna Josefa: Fortunes Told" was gone, as was the palmar diagram in the left window and the cabalistic symbol in the right. She had heard that all Gypsy tribes had been ordered by the Iron Guard to stay right where they were and to "deal no fraud" to the citizens.

"So, Gypsies are out of favor, too?"

"We Rom are always out of favor, no matter the time or place. We are used to it. But you Jews..." She clucked and shook her head. "We hear things ... terrible things from Poland."

"We hear them, too," Magda said, suppressing a shudder. "But we are also used to being out of favor." At least some of us are. At least some of us are. Not her. She would never get used to it. Not her. She would never get used to it.

"Going to get worse, I fear," Josefa said.

"The Rom may fare no better." Magda realized she was being hostile but couldn't help it. The world had become a frightening place and her only defense of late had been denial. The things she had heard couldn't be true, not about the Jews, or about what was happening to Gypsies in the rural regions-tales of round-ups by the Iron Guard, forced sterilizations, then slave labor. It had to be wild rumor, scare stories. And yet, with all the terrible things that had indeed been happening...

"I do not worry," Josefa said. "Cut a Gypsy into ten pieces and you have not killed him; you have only made ten Gypsies."

Magda was quite certain that under similar circ.u.mstances you would only be left with a dead Jew. Again she tried to change the subject.

"Is that a tarot deck?" She knew perfectly well it was.

Josefa nodded. "You wish a fortune?"

"No. I really don't believe in any of that."

"To tell the truth, many times I do not believe in it either. Mostly the cards say nothing because there is really nothing to say. So we improvise, just as we do in music. And what harm is there in it? I don't do the hokkane baro; hokkane baro; I just tell the I just tell the gadje gadje girls that they are going to find a wonderful man soon, and the girls that they are going to find a wonderful man soon, and the gadje gadje men that their business ventures will soon be bearing fruit. No harm." men that their business ventures will soon be bearing fruit. No harm."

"And no fortune."

Josefa lifted her narrow shoulders. "Sometimes the tarot reveals. Want to try?"

"No. Thank you, but no." She didn't want to know what the future held. She had a feeling it could only be bad.

"Please. A gift from me."

Magda hesitated. She didn't want to offend Josefa. And after all, hadn't the old woman just told her that the deck usually told nothing? Maybe she would make up a nice fantasy for her.

"Oh, all right."

Josefa extended the pack of cards across the table. "Cut."

Magda separated the top half and lifted it off. Josefa slipped this under the remainder of the deck and began to deal, talking as her hands worked.

"How is your father?"

"Not well, I'm afraid. He can hardly stand now."

"Such a shame. Not often you can find a gadje gadje who knows how to who knows how to rokker. rokker. Yoska's bear did not help his rheumatism?" Yoska's bear did not help his rheumatism?"

Magda shook her head. "No. And it's not just rheumatism he has. It's much worse." Papa had tried anything and everything to halt the progressive twisting and gnarling of his limbs, even going so far as to allow Josefa's grandson's trained bear to walk on his back, a venerable Gypsy therapy that had proven as useless as all the latest "miracles" of modern medicine.

"A good man," Josefa said, clucking. "It's wrong that a man who knows so much about this land must... be kept ... from seeing it ... anymore..." She frowned as her voice trailed off.

"What's the matter?" Magda asked. Josefa's troubled expression as she looked down at the cards spread out on the table made Magda uneasy. "Are you all right?"

"Hmmm? Oh, yes. I'm fine. It's just these cards..."

"Something wrong?" Magda refused to believe that cards could tell the future any more than could the entrails of a dead bird; yet under her sternum was a pocket of tense antic.i.p.ation.

"It's the way they divide. I've never seen anything like it. The neutral cards are scattered, but the cards that can be read as good are all on the right here"-she moved her hand over the area in question-"and the bad or evil cards are all over on the left. Odd."

"What does it mean?"

"I don't know. Let me ask Yoska." She called her grandson's name over her shoulder, then turned back to Magda. "Yoska is very good with the tarot. He's watched me since he was a boy."

A darkly handsome young man in his mid-twenties with a porcelain smile and a muscular build stepped in from the front room of the wagon and nodded to Magda, his black eyes lingering on her. Magda looked away, feeling naked despite her heavy clothing. He was younger than she, but that had never intimidated him. He had made his desires known on a number of occasions in the past. She had rebuffed him.

He looked down at the table, where his grandmother was pointing. Deep furrows formed slowly in his smooth brow as he studied the cards. He was quiet a long time, then appeared to come to a decision.

"Shuffle, cut, and deal again," he said.

Josefa nodded agreement and the routine was repeated. This time with no small talk. Despite her skepticism, Magda found herself leaning forward and watching the cards as they were placed on the table one by one. She knew nothing of tarot and would have to rely solely on the interpretation of her hostess and her grandson. When she looked up at their faces, she knew something was not right.

"What do you think, Yoska?" the old woman said in a low voice.

"I don't know... such a concentration of good and evil... and such a clear division between them."

Magda swallowed. Her mouth was dry. "You mean it came out the same? Twice in a row?"

"Yes," Josefa said. "Except that the sides are different. The good is now on the left and the evil is on the right." She looked up. "That would indicate a choice. A grave choice."

Anger suddenly drove out Magda's growing unease. They were playing some sort of a game with her. She refused to be anyone's fool. "I think I'd better go." She grabbed her folder and mandolin case and rose to her feet. "I'm not some naive gadje gadje girl you can have fun with." girl you can have fun with."

"No! Please, once more!" The old Gypsy woman reached for her hand.

"Sorry, but I really must be going."

She hurried for the rear door of the wagon, realizing she wasn't being fair to Josefa, but leaving all the same. Those grotesque cards with their strange figures, and the awed, puzzled expression on the faces of the two Gypsies filled her with a desperate urge to be out of the wagon. She wanted to be back in Bucharest, back to sharp, clear lines and firm pavements.

NINE.

THE KEEP.

Monday, 28 April 1910 hours.

The snakes had arrived.

SS men, especially officers, reminded Woermann of snakes. SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Erich Kaempffer was no exception.

Woermann would always remember an evening a few years before the war when a local Hohere SS-und Polizeifuhrer Hohere SS-und Polizeifuhrer-the high-sounding name for a local chief of state police-held a reception in the Rathenow district. Captain Woermann, as a decorated officer in the German Army and a prominent local citizen, had been invited. He hadn't wanted to go, but Helga so seldom had a chance to attend a fancy official reception and she glowed so when she dressed up, that he hadn't had the heart to refuse.

Against one wall of the reception hall had stood a gla.s.s terrarium in which a three-foot snake coiled and uncoiled incessantly. It was the host's favorite pet. He kept it hungry. On three separate occasions during the evening he invited all the guests to watch as he threw a toad to the snake. A pa.s.sing glance during the first feeding had sufficed for Woermann-he saw the toad halfway along its slow, head-first journey down the snake's gullet, still alive, its legs kicking frantically in a vain attempt to free itself.

The sight had served to make a dull evening grim. When he and Helga had pa.s.sed the tank on their way out, Woermann saw that the snake was still hungry, still winding around the inside of the cage, looking for a fourth toad despite the three swellings along its length.

He thought of that snake as he watched Kaempffer wind around the front room of Woermann's quarters, from the door, around the easel, around the desk, to the window, then back again. Except for his brown shirt, Kaempffer was clad entirely in black-black jacket, black breeches, black tie, black leather belt, black holster, and black jackboots. The silver Death's Head insignia, the SS paired thunderbolts, and his officer's pins were the only bright spots on his uniform ... glittering scales on a poisonous, blond-headed serpent.

He noticed that Kaempffer had aged somewhat since their chance meeting in Berlin two years ago. But not as much as I, But not as much as I, Woermann thought grimly. The SS major, although two years older than Woermann, was slimmer and therefore looked younger. Kaempffer's blond hair was full and straight and still unmarred by gray. A picture of Aryan perfection. Woermann thought grimly. The SS major, although two years older than Woermann, was slimmer and therefore looked younger. Kaempffer's blond hair was full and straight and still unmarred by gray. A picture of Aryan perfection.

"I noticed you only brought one squad with you," Woermann said. "The message said two. Personally, I'd have thought you'd bring a regiment."

"No, Klaus," Kaempffer said in a condescending tone as he wound about the room. "A single squad would be more than enough to handle this so-called problem of yours. My einsatzkommandos are rather proficient in taking care of this sort of thing. I brought two squads because this is merely a stop along my way."

"Where's the other squad? Picking daisies?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Kaempffer's smile was not a nice thing to see.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Woermann asked.

Removing his cap and coat, Kaempffer threw them on Woermann's desk, then went to the window overlooking the village. "In a minute, you shall see."

Reluctantly, Woermann joined the SS man at the window. Kaempffer had arrived only twenty minutes ago and already was usurping command. With his extermination squad in tow, he had driven across the causeway without a second's hesitation. Woermann had found himself wishing the supports had weakened during the past week. No such luck. The major's jeep and the truck behind it had made it safely across. After debarking and telling Sergeant Oster-Woermann's Sergeant Oster-to see that the einsatzkommandos were well quartered immediately, he had paraded into Woermann's suite with his right arm flailing a "Heil Hitler" and the att.i.tude of a messiah.

"Seems you've come quite a way since the Great War," Woermann said as they watched the quiet, darkened village together. "The SS seems to suit you."

"I prefer the SS to the regular army, if that's what you're implying. Far more efficient."

"So I've heard."

"I'll show you how efficiency solves problems, Klaus. And solving problems eventually wins wars." He pointed out the window. "Look."

Woermann saw nothing at first, then noticed some movement at the edge of the village. A group of people. As they approached the causeway, the group lengthened into a parade: ten village locals stumbling before the proddings of the second squad of einsatzkommandos.

Woermann found himself shocked and dismayed, even though he should have expected something like this.

"Are you insane? Those are Romanian citizens! We're in an ally state!"

"German soldiers have been killed by one or more Romanian citizens. And it's highly unlikely General Antonescu will raise much of a fuss with the Reich over the deaths of a few country b.u.mpkins."

"Killing them will accomplish nothing!"

"Oh, I've no intention of killing them right away. But they'll make excellent hostages. Word has been spread through the village that if one more German soldier dies, all those ten locals will be shot immediately. And ten more will be shot every time another German is killed. This will continue until either the murders stop or we run out of villagers."

Woermann turned away from the window. So this was the New Order, the New Germany, the ethic of the Master Race. This was how the war was to be won.

"It won't work," he said.

"Of course it will." Kaempffer's smugness was unbearable. "It always has and always will. These partisans feed on the backslapping they get from their drinking companions. They play the hero and milk the role for all it's worth-until their friends start dying, or until their wives and children are marched off. Then they become good little peasants again."

Woermann searched for a way to save those villagers. He knew they'd had nothing to do with the killings. "This time is different."

"I hardly think so. I do believe, Klaus, that I've had far more experience with this sort of thing than you."

"Yes ... Auschwitz, wasn't it?"

"I learned much from Commandant Hoess."

"You like learning?" Woermann s.n.a.t.c.hed the major's hat from the desk and tossed it to him. "I'll show you something new! new! Come with me!" Come with me!"

Moving swiftly and giving Kaempffer no time to ask questions, Woermann led him down the tower stairs to the courtyard, then across to another stairway leading down to the cellar. He stopped at the rupture in the wall and lit a lamp, then led Kaempffer down a mossy stairway into the cavernous subcellar.

"Cold down here," Kaempffer said, his breath misting in the lamplight as he rubbed his hands together.

"It's where we keep the bodies. All six of them."

"You haven't shipped any back?"

"I didn't think it wise to ship them out one at a time ... might cause talk among the Romanians along the way... not good for German prestige. I had planned to take them all with me when I left today. But as you know, my request for relocation was denied."

He stopped before the six sheet-covered figures on the hard-packed earth, noting with annoyance that the sheets over the bodies were in disarray. It was a minor thing, but he felt the least that could be done for these men before their final burial was to treat their remains with respect. If they had to wait before being returned to their homeland, they ought to wait in clean uniforms and a neatly arranged shroud.

He went first to the man most recently killed and pulled back the sheet to expose the head and shoulders.

"This is Private Remer. Look at his throat."

Kaempffer did so, his face impa.s.sive.

Woermann replaced the sheet, then lifted the next, holding the lamp up so Kaempffer could get a good look at the ruined flesh of another throat. He then continued down the line, saving the most gruesome for last.

"And now-Private Lutz."

Finally, a reaction from Kaempffer: a tiny gasp. But Woermann gasped, too. Lutz's face stared back at them upside down. The top of his head had been set against the empty spot between his shoulders; his chin and the mangled stump of his neck were angled away from his body toward the empty darkness.

Quickly, gingerly, Woermann swiveled the head until it sat properly, vowing to find the man who had been so careless with the remains of a fallen comrade, and to make him regret it. He carefully rearranged all the sheets, then turned to Kaempffer.

"Do you understand now why I tell you hostages won't make a bit of difference?"

The major didn't reply immediately. Instead, he turned and headed for the stairs and warmer air. Woermann sensed that Kaempffer had been shaken more than he had shown.

"Those men were not just killed," Kaempffer said finally. "They were mutilated!"

"Exactly! Whoever or whatever whatever is doing this is utterly mad! The lives of ten villagers won't mean a thing." is doing this is utterly mad! The lives of ten villagers won't mean a thing."