HS02 - Days of Atonement (4 page)

He raised his glass and held it up to the room.

‘To the memory of Immanuel Kant!’ he cried.

All present lifted their glasses to the toast.

I waited a moment longer. I wanted Lavedrine to understand that although I had not been taken in by his fine words, I was willing to accept the olive branch of peace that he was holding out to me. Helena’s hand tugged fitfully at my sleeve. I raised my glass, and added my voice to all the others.

‘Very well, Monsieur Lavedrine,’ I said, as the cheering died down, sitting back, resting my elbow on the table, as if I might be prepared to listen to whatever he wished to tell me. ‘I wonder what Immanuel Kant might have been able to teach to an expert such as yourself? Which door, exactly, did he open?’

‘The door marked “Affection”.’ Lavedrine’s eyes flashed, his voice was heavy, intense. ‘Love, if you like. All of us fight for the things we love most dearly. We fight, and we die, if necessary. Or we kill to defend them. Sometimes, too, we kill what we love.’

He narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow, as if involved in a private process of the most serious reflection. ‘Professor Kant had something specific in mind, I think, because he asked me whether I had ever come across a crime that was motivated by sincere affection. He wanted to know what might be the
modus operandi
chosen by a person who kills for such a reason. He was interested in details.’

I was speechless.

If I had deceived myself into thinking that no correspondence between Kant and Lavedrine concerning the question of murder could possibly exist, I was now obliged to accept that it did. Lavedrine suggested that they had been in touch in 1793. That year I had made a pilgrimage to Königsberg. That year I had sought the philosopher out, confessing my tangled feelings as I watched my brother die, unwilling and unable to save him. Was Professor Kant thinking of me when he spoke of motives which might lead to the death of a loved one? Had he asked this ‘scientist of crime’ to explain
my
unnatural behaviour?

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the voice of Count Dittersdorf thundered, ‘the moment has arrived for us to sample the first pressing of this season’s cider!’

All those who were ‘in the know’ expressed their enthusiasm. The newcomers, many of whom had never tasted Prussian cider, were curious, carefully watching every move that Count Dittersdorf made, as he stirred the contents of a huge silver salver, then served out a helping of this nectar, which gave off a smoky vapour as it settled heavily in the waiting cut-crystal goblets, and was handed out to the assembled guests. Everyone turned excitedly to his or her neighbour, commenting on the fine colour of
the liquid, and the delicious aroma that began to settle like a perfumed cloud over the long table.

When Dittersdorf held up his glass, inviting us all to drink to the Fruits of Autumn, a second cry went up, and I believe that it was first heard from the lips of my wife: ‘Long live dear Count Aldebrand!’

As I drank to both these toasts, looking around the table, intent on sharing my appreciation of the cider with the other guests, my eye settled on Colonel Lavedrine. He was staring at me, oblivious to the feast.

‘I hope that we will have the opportunity to speak further,’ he murmured, taking a brimming jug of cider which the waiter brought to our end of the table. ‘More cider, Herr Stiffeniis? Hold up your glass, Henri! And for you,
madame?
’

Helena thanked him graciously, but a vein was pulsing nervously in her temple.

We rose from the table shortly afterwards, the faces of the men inflamed by the final glass of Bischoff’s cordial that our host had pressed upon us to ward off the cold. The Dittersdorfs took their customary places by the door to thank their guests, an air of satisfaction clearly stamped on Count Aldebrand’s large face. His habitual expression of stern severity had been replaced by a milder one. He appeared to consider the evening a sort of personal triumph, as if the ‘reconciliation’ of Lotingen were no longer just a hope, but a fact. I prayed to God that he was correct, only too well aware that the rebels of our own defeated forces had not been invited to the feast. They were still capable of causing untold damage.

‘Thank heavens no blood was spilled,’ I heard him whisper to Helena as he bowed to kiss her gloved hand.

She turned to say goodbye to the Countess, who seemed more evidently relieved that the evening was over, and that nothing worse had come of it. ‘Sometimes the fact that we speak our different languages is a blessing in disguise,’ our hostess said with a nervous smile.

‘Your guests may have exchanged pleasantries in each other’s tongue this evening, ma’am,’ Helena replied, as she buckled her mantle, ‘but what they may have said between themselves, or thought in private, is anybody’s guess.’

From the tone of her voice I realised that she was frightened by something.

‘Procurator Stiffeniis, may I wish you a good evening?’

The voice was low, hardly audible above the general clamour, but I knew who it belonged to before I turned around.

‘Colonel Lavedrine, you may, indeed,’ I replied with a smile that was as cordial as I was able to manage.

‘Frau Stiffeniis, my most sincere compliments,’ he continued, placing his
hand on his heart and bowing his shaggy head to my wife. Then he glanced back at me. ‘There are a thousand questions I would like to ask about the investigation you carried out with Professor Kant in Königsberg. As a criminologist, of course, I made a point of reading your report. It was flawless from a bureaucratic point of view, but I would rather hear the details from your own lips.’ He hesitated an instant, then added: ‘For the sake of my studies.’

Helena took hold of my arm as if to warn me to be on my guard.

‘Unfortunately, I shall be leaving in a day or two,’ he continued, his German truly excellent. ‘I am not a soldier, as you will have realised. I hold the rank of a colonel, but the battles I fought in the back streets of Paris earned me that respect. I’ll be going eastwards soon, towards the Russian border. I must admit, that prospect worries me a little. Our hold on the border territories is still not entirely established.’

‘Is that why you are going there,
monsieur
?’ Helena proposed with a show of candour. ‘To secure the area?’

‘A country can be ruled without a French soldier sitting on every single clod of it.’ He laughed. ‘Besides, the explanation is simpler. There is a hospital for the insane which is of great scientific interest in Bialystok. I mean to speak to some of the “guests.” ’

Helena relaxed her grip on my arm.

‘
Bon voyage, monsieur
!’ she said lightly.

‘
Merci
, Frau Stiffeniis,’ Lavedrine murmured with a smile that seemed to light up his face. But his mind was elsewhere. He stretched out his hand and laid it heavily on my shoulder.

‘You possess information that is precious to me, sir. I came this evening for no other purpose. I am interested in knowing Kant’s thoughts about murder. I feel certain that he must have left some detailed notes on the subject. You are one of the few people who might know.’

I knew the writing he was searching for. I had torn the pages into shreds with my own hands, and thrown them into the mud-brown waters of the River Pregel in Königsberg. They swirled and sank again in my mind’s eye.

I shook my head.

‘Professor Kant died suddenly,’ I said. ‘He had never shown the slightest interest in crime before.’

‘Yes, yes, so you said,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘And yet, I am convinced . . .’

‘Unfortunately, Hanno cannot help you, Colonel Lavedrine.’ Helena stepped between us. She smiled with captivating warmth, her hand on my arm, pulling me away. ‘I hope you may find more interesting material for research on your travels.’

The road was thick with French soldiers as we made our way home.

The sky was crystal-clear above our heads.

The constellations shone in all their glory as we walked in the direction of our house. But the sight did not provoke my admiration, as it had once worked its magic on Immanuel Kant. On the contrary, that unsullied sky promised cold weather in the foreseeable future. If any more Prussians were hanged, their frozen corpses would shadow our days until spring.

We were not alone as we walked through the night. Other guests were making their way home along the same path. We heard their comments in tinkling French and the low, guttural German of the coastal lowlands.

Language had driven its wedge between us once again.

 3 

I
SAT BOLT
upright in bed.

Wide awake, I turned to Helena, unable to see her in the darkness. Her breathing was deep and regular. Beyond her, the sleeping child let out a whimpering sigh.

Was that the noise which had disturbed my rest?

I listened attentively. Outside, not even the hoot of an owl breached the peace. But I felt no easier. War robs a man of his tranquillity. With exaggerated care, I pulled back the coverlet and slipped down off the high bed. Stepping to the window, the rough-hewn floorboards cold beneath my feet, I lifted back the curtain and looked out over the rear of the house. The garden was a formless black pit. The hazel trees marking the edge of our domain were a solid wall, the starless sky tinged an impalpable shade of violet. At the break of dawn, farmers’ carts would clatter past our gate on their way to market, men driving cattle to the slaughter with their dogs . . .

A low moan sounded somewhere in the house.

I moved towards the door, grabbing the first garment that came to hand, throwing it around my shoulders against the icy cold, as I stepped out onto the landing. I looked down the stairwell, where a figure in a white shawl was hovering in the hall, holding up a candle, as if transformed into a pillar of salt. Nothing moved, except the flame. Then, that strangled sound escaped once more from lips that I could not see.

A hand brushed by my ear, and came to rest upon my shoulder.

‘What is it, Lotte?’ my wife called in a whisper.

Like an imp, her bare feet and slender ankles stretching forth from beneath the hem of her nightgown, Helena skipped down the stairs. The wild thicket of her untied hair bobbed before me as I followed in her wake.

Lotte turned, her eyebrows arched, eyes wide.

‘Soldiers,’ she hissed, causing the flame to flicker.

Edging Lotte aside with my shoulder, I raised the brass thaler and exposed the hole that I had drilled in the oak the day the news of the defeat at
Jena reached Lotingen. At the time, I had convinced myself that this spyhole would provide an advantage against any unwelcome caller armed with evil intentions. But hard as I tried, all that I could see outside was as black as pitch, and the cold air streaming in caused my eye to water. As I peered out from my fragile fortress, I prayed that Lotte had been mistaken.

Just then, the garden gate swung open with a creak, pushed back too hard on its ancient hinges. There was a click, and a lantern was raised. Three men huddled on the path in a tight group. I recognised the uniforms: two privates in trenchcoats, an officer wearing a black leather
képi
with a tall white plume, their faces etched in stark chiaroscuro by the lamplight. They were consulting a piece of paper.

This is the moment,
I realised with a start. If Lotte took the baby in her arms, and Helena led Süzi and Manni out by the back window, I might be able to hold them off for a minute or two.

‘Don’t think of it!’ Helena had read my intentions as surely as if I had shouted them out at the top of my voice.

‘They seem uncertain,’ I said, my eye glued to the spy-hole. ‘Perhaps they are seeking a fugitive . . .’

The officer swung around and took a pace forward, his face filling the spy-hole. The shock of recognition flashed upon me. I had seen the man at Dittersdorf’s feast. I had argued with him. Was that why he had come? There was a determined set to his face, the number ‘7’ writ large in gold lettering on his
képi
above the peak.

Helena’s voice was amazingly calm.

‘Open the door,’ she said. ‘We have no choice.’