The Vengeance of Rome
- Автор: Муркок Майкл
- Серия: Between The Wars #4
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Vengeance of Rome». Краткое содержание книги:
Sturmführer Schnauben enjoys my mind, he says. Perhaps he desires it for himself. He has an interest in preserving it, he says.
I look at the violet banner on my sleeve. ‘What crime have I actually committed? I have never been told. Why would they put me in Dachau?’
His eyes catch the glare from the match as he lights another cigarette. As if he burns from within. He leans towards me. He is suddenly inspired.
‘I think of Dachau as the palace of truth, Herr Pyatnitski. This is the home of illumination. Here, we are free from secrets. There is no room for lies in Dachau, the very citadel of freedom where all masks are banished. Here, the human soul knows unquestioning rest.’ He grins and smoke curls from his lips. ‘Not so, the human body. Strange. It is nearly a year since the blood purge.’ He relaxes. He turns away.
I am free from fear. Full of calm, I speak directly. ‘Why do you torture me?’
He is dismissive. ‘You know this is not torture. You know what goes on in the Politische Abteilung.’
‘Why do you question me?’
Turning, he frowns. ‘Because circumstances permit it. Our roles are chosen for us. Our only responsibility is to play them out.’
‘You do this for pleasure?’
‘I suppose I do. Could it be that I like you, Herr Pyatnitski? Could I have a “soft spot” for you? For hours I take you away from that hut where you are exposed to every kind of wretchedness and horror. I remove you from the company of criminals and lunatic zealots, the bellowing blows of the guards with their dog whips and rifles. I provide you with relative peace. Do you prefer to shuffle along in the work-gangs? Or kneel before the capos? Do you prefer burial duties? Or work at the Plantage? Would you like to help the experiments in the medical wing?’ He knows the answer. ‘Perhaps I feel a kinship with you? Temperamentally we are the same, are we not? Is that how I know you so well? Like you, I am a visionary. Like you, I am a gambler. Like you, I am disposed towards shadows. I take advantage of accidents. Twilight and dawn, the hours of risk, are my favourite times of day.’
Twilight and dawn are when the interrogations always begin. The hours of risk.
‘There are no accidents here?’
‘Very few. Very few.’ Back and forth he walks. ‘I wonder if it is not my job to produce more.’ He smokes. ‘Still, Dienst ist Dienst und Schnaps ist Schnaps.’ Sometimes he offers me a cigarette but I refuse. These days they give me headaches. But I accept the coffee. Our own is always ersatz. ‘As in war, here the world simplifies to a remorseless code. It is why our camp was created. To sanitise the national kitchen. Don’t you feel safe here?’
‘Safe?’
‘And happy, Herr Peters? Your mouth affords me so much pleasure.’
‘It is my good fortune, Herr Sturmführer, to have become your duty.’
‘Duty? You misunderstand me. What possible duty is involved with you? I have a duty to myself, perhaps. What you observe is my passion for control. A frustrated passion, I should add. Here, because the overall system is so perfect, I can control very little. Too many people arrive here. Those numbers are beyond our authority. Commandant Eicke does his best. He is a conscientious man. He feels his responsibility. We have national programmes to maintain. We have to deal with the numbers. But they are only numbers. I would rather talk to you than talk to my colleagues about numbers. Numbers obsess most of them.’
He drops his head in reflection. The silver skull on his cap grins at me. The runes of his insignia glare. What is it that reminds me of Wagner? Of Parsifal in particular? He believes himself to be part of a holy order.
‘We are also a training facility. I am a lecturer here. So I work with what I am given. And I have been given you, Herr Pyatnitski, Herr Peters, Herr Gallibasta. Three in one, eh? A bonus. And if occasionally you reveal something of use to the Reich, then everything is justified, at every level. But will that happen? What do we need to know? You are here for your masquerading. For your deceptions. For your folly. For being a Jew. Thanks to you, I have a busy schedule. I am here to instruct and to learn. You must hope I do not become bored with you. All your life you have had value only as an entertainer. Once I do become bored with you, you will join the living dead. You know that Jews don’t have a very long life expectancy here? Shorter than ever. One way or another, whether you continue to walk or not, you will join the ranks of the dead.’
He suggests that I am worthless. But I will not become a Mussulman. I will triumph over my captors. I do not believe they exist except in my imagination. I created them, and so they have no power over me.
‘I am not a Jew. I am an engineer. An inventor. An actor. I have played many races.’
‘You are mixed up, Herr Peters. Mixed-up blood, mind, reality.’ He seems almost sympathetic. ‘You say you are an American. Then you say you are a Spaniard. Yet Captain Petroff knows you to be Russian. We have such a good dossier, so many witnesses. No secrets here, Herr Peters.’
‘You have the word of Reds or Red fellow-travellers. Why can’t you hear me? You have only Count Petroff’s word? And Brodmann’s?’ Mentioning this last is a risk. I have already compromised myself too often.
‘Brodmann the Jew? The Soviet agent? What can you tell me about him? This would help me in Berlin. And that would let me help you. Where did you last see him?’
‘I saw him in Paris. In New York. Perhaps Cairo. Tangier. Rome. He followed me here. I might have seen him in Berlin. In Munich. He is my nemesis. He hates me. He is implacable.’
‘He is Cheka?’
‘He reports directly to Stalin.’
‘About you?’
‘No doubt.’
It is clear to me he thinks Brodmann is my invention. But Schnauben is himself my invention. Through him I survive. He is the phantasm I create to facilitate my journey into the future.
‘And he followed you to Tangier?’
‘He is a bloodhound. I told you.’
Holding a small, leather-bound notebook, Sturmführer Schnauben jots a memorandum with a slender silver pencil. I disguise my triumph. My trick is to make my file so huge it will become impossible to organise.
‘Brodmann tells me you are a cocaine addict. Is that how you came by these delusions?’
He frequently makes this suggestion. Before Brodmann, he credited Prince Freddy with the calumny. Then it was Kitty. Then Kolya. Even Mrs Cornelius has been summoned to support his tricks. I reply as I have always replied.
‘I am addicted to nothing but the truth. To science.’
‘You were naturally suspicious, eh? Naturally given to sweating day and night, raving in your sleep?’
‘You know nothing of this. Given my conditions, Sturmführer Schnauben, it is not surprising. I have been here for — for how long?’
‘You have been here for almost five months. I would guess that you have a powerful patron, Herr Peters. Oh, yes. Some old fan of yours in Berlin is looking after you. Someone with the Führer’s ear, I’d say.’
Mrs Cornelius! ‘I’ll be released?’
‘No, but you will not be shot. I have had no instructions. Not yet, at any rate. Who is it? Some old lover? We are a sentimental people. You should be grateful. Such a thing would not save you in Russia.’
It occurs to me that Brodmann and Schnauben are negotiating an exchange. Am I to be sent back to Moscow? In return for a captured German spy? I have no means of escaping such a fate. Yet what can be worse than this? When I first arrived the stink gagged me. Only I appeared to notice it. I am too refined for this life. The striped prison uniform and cap were not clean. I had to stand before the SS, holding my cap before me, at attention. Yes, sir. I understand, sir. I had to march at a run. Into the barracks. The straw of the palliasse was becoming rancid, even then. There was a brute with a badge on his uniform. He was the hut capo. To prove himself, he behaved worse than the SS. For the first few days I had a blue and yellow star on my sleeve. It was supposed to be violet. I was shocked. This branded me a Jew. When I was taken in to Schnauben, I begged to have this removed. He made a joke. ’Blue and yellow make violet, don’t they?’ But he saw the justice of this. The yellow star was replaced with a blue triangle, which meant ‘emigrant’. My crimes were still numinous, but my status was improved. Only weeks later, after I had suffered the most vicious and humiliating treatment, did I eventually get my violet armband.