The Keep

When the throbbing subsided to an endurable level, he continued, his words coming in gasps.

"I spoke to him in Old Slavonic ... told him we were not his enemies... told him to leave us alone... and he left."

He grimaced in pain a moment, then looked at Magda with bright, glittering eyes. His voice was low and hoarse.

"It's him, Magda. I know it! It's him!"

Magda said nothing. But she knew it, too.

FIFTEEN

The Keep

Wednesday, 30 April

0622 hours

Captain Woerma

He awoke with a start, disoriented. For a moment he thought he was back in Rathenow, with Helga down in the kitchen cooking eggs and sausage, and the boys already up and out and milking the cows. But he had been dreaming.

When he saw the sky was light, he leaped from the chair. Night was gone and he was still alive. He had survived another night. His elation was short-lived, for he knew that someone else had not survived. Somewhere in the keep he knew a corpse lay still and bloody, awaiting discovery.

He holstered the Luger as he crossed the room and stepped out on the landing. All was quiet. He trotted down the stairs, rubbing his eyes and massaging his stubbled cheeks to full wakefulness. As he reached the lowest level, the doors to the Jews' quarters opened and the daughter came out.

She didn't see him. She carried a metal pot in her hand and wore a vexed look on her face. Deep in thought, she passed through the open door into the courtyard and turned right toward the cellar stairs, completely oblivious to him. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, and that troubled him until he remembered that she had been in the keep a number of times before. She knew of the cellar cisterns, knew there was fresh water there.

Woerma

At another time, in another place, she would have been in grave danger in similar company—five squads of women-starved soldiers. But these soldiers had other things on their minds; these soldiers feared the dark, and the death that unfailingly accompanied it.

He was about to follow her into the cellar to assure himself that she sought no more than fresh water for the pot in her hand, when he spied Sergeant Oster pounding toward him.

"Captain! Captain!!"

Woerma

"No one!" He held up a clipboard. "I checked on everyone and they're all alive and well!"

Woerma

"You're sure? Absolutely sure?"

"Yes, sir. All except for the Major, that is. And the two Jews."

Woerma

"I was saving the officers for last," Oster was saying, almost apologetically.

Woerma

It was with eager anticipation that he began walking toward the rear of the keep. If Kaempffer were dead, not only would the world be a brighter place, but he would again be senior officer and would have his men out of the keep by noon. The einsatzkommandos could come along or stay behind to die until a new SS officer arrived. He had no doubt they would fall in right behind him as he left.

If, however, Kaempffer still lived, it would be a disappointment, but one with a bright side: For the first time since they had arrived, a night would have passed without the death of a German soldier. And that was good. It would boost morale immeasurably. It would mean there was perhaps a slim hope of overcoming the death curse that blanketed them here like a shroud.

As Woerma

"For what?"

"For nobody dying last night."

Woerma

"Why do you say that, Sergeant? What could they have done?"

Oster's brow wrinkled. "I don't know. The men believe it... at least my men—I mean our men—believe it. After all, we lost someone every night except last night. And the Jews arrived last night. Maybe they found something in those books we dug up."

"Perhaps." He led the way into the rear section of the keep and ran up the steps to the second level.

Intriguing, but improbable. The old Jew and his daughter could not have come up with anything so soon. Old Jew ... he was begi

Woerma

"Ah! Klaus!" he said bluffly. "I thought I heard someone out here." Kaempffer adjusted the black leather strap of his officer's belt and holster across his chest. Satisfied that it was secure, he stepped out into the hall.

"How nice to see you looking so well," Woerma

Kaempffer, struck by the obvious insincerity, glanced at him sharply, then at Oster.

"Well, Sergeant, who was it this time?"

"Sir?"

"Dead! Who died last night? One of mine or one of yours? I want the Jew and his daughter brought over to the corpse, and I want them to—"

"Pardon, sir," Oster said, "but no one died last night."

Kaempffer's eyebrows shot up and he turned to Woerma

"If the sergeant says so, that's good enough for me."

"Then we've done it!" he smacked fist into his palm and puffed himself up, gaining an inch of height in the process. "We've done it!"

" 'We?' And pray tell, dear Major—just what did 'we' do?"

"Why, we got through a night without a death! I told you if we held on we could beat this thing!"

"That you did," Woerma

Kaempffer's self-congratulatory elation faded as quickly as it had bloomed. "Let's go see that Jew." He pushed past Oster and Woerma

"I thought that would occur to you before too long," Woerma