Two Graves

“And so you think you’re better than he is.”

“Of course I’m better. Everyone here is created for his place and knows it from the begi

“Supported by a camp of slave laborers.”

“You speak from ignorance. They have a purpose. They have all they need or want—except, of course, we can’t let them reproduce. Some people are simply better than others.”

“And you, being the best of all, are an Übermensch. The final, the ultimate Nazi ideal.”

“I accept the label proudly. The Übermensch is the ideal human being, creative and strong, beyond the petty considerations of good and evil.”

“Thank you, Alban,” said Fischer. “That was most eloquent.”

“The Übermensch,” Pendergast repeated. “Tell me: what is the Kopenhagener Fenster? The Copenhagen Window?”

Alban and Fischer exchanged glances, obviously surprised and, perhaps, alarmed by the question. However, both men quickly mastered themselves.

“It is something you shall go to your grave in ignorance of,” Fischer replied briskly. “And now, auf Wiedersehen.”

A silence fell in the room. Pendergast’s face was the color of marble. Slowly, his head drooped, and his shoulders sagged—a picture of despair and resignation.

Fischer regarded his captive for a moment. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Herr Pendergast.”

Pendergast did not look up.

Fischer nodded to Berger and began walking toward the door of the cell. After a moment, Alban turned as well to follow him.

At the door, Fischer stopped, glanced back at Alban. A look of mild surprise came over his face. “I would have thought you’d like to witness this,” he said.

“It makes no difference,” Alban replied. “I have better things to do.”

Fischer hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged and exited the room, followed by Alban. The door clanged shut heavily behind them and the guard stepped over to take up position before it, submachine gun at the ready.

67

THERE WAS A BRIEF CHATTER OUTSIDE. THEN THE DOOR opened again. Three more guards came in: two bearing various chains and manacles, and another with an acetylene torch. Berger looked around. Now there were seven in the room: the four soldiers, himself, the prisoner—and the dead body of Egon.

Berger glanced at the corpse, its face still frozen in a ridiculous expression of agony, limbs stiff and angular, tongue protruding, thick as a kielbasa, streams of blood ru

The soldier walked over and unshackled the iron clasps from Egon’s wrists and ankles. Freed of the restraints, the corpse collapsed heavily to the ground. The soldier reached down, seized one raised claw, and hauled the body to a corner of the chamber, kicking it up against the wall.

Berger nodded at the prisoner named Pendergast, shackled to the wall. “Soften him up a bit,” he told the soldier in German.

The soldier gave a slow, cruel smile. He approached Pendergast—his arms and legs pi

At last, Berger nodded his approval. “Cover him,” he said. The guard, breathing heavily, stepped back, picked up his submachine gun, and returned to his position near the door.

Following Berger’s orders, the other three soldiers now approached. They freed Pendergast from the wall clasps, and the man fell to the ground. While the soldier with the machine gun kept a careful eye, two of the guards dragged Pendergast back to his feet, then fitted him with wrist manacles, a belly band, and leg hobbles consisting of two ankle cuffs. These were all welded in place by the guard wielding the acetylene torch. Finally, two six-foot iron chains were threaded from the manacles to the foot hobbles. When the restraints were all in place and the welds completed, the men glanced at Berger for further instructions.

“You may go,” Berger told them.

The three turned toward the door.

“Just a minute,” Berger said. “Leave the torch. I have a use for that.”

The third guard placed the rucksack containing the acetylene torch and its two canisters on the floor. Then they left. The soldier with the submachine gun closed the door, then took up his position before it.

Berger pulled a short, metal-tipped quirt from his bag, then took a moment to observe the prisoner, take his measure. He was tall and thin, and clearly weak, his arms weighed down by the chains. His head hung down listlessly, his blond hair limp, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. His skin was gray and translucent, his spirit clearly broken. No matter: Berger would make him lively before the end—very lively.

“Before we begin,” he said, “there’s something you need to know. I was chosen for this task because you killed my brother on the Vergeltung. In our society, victims are always given the satisfaction of carrying out justice on the perpetrator. It is my right, and my duty, to punish you, and I accept the challenge with gratitude.” He nodded at the body of Egon, crumpled up in a far corner like an oversize spider. “You will wish for a death as pleasant as his.”

The man didn’t seem to hear him, which raised Berger’s anger a notch.

“Bring him forward,” he told the soldier.

The soldier, propping his Sturmgewehr 44 rifle against the wall, approached Pendergast and pushed him roughly toward Berger. Then he moved back toward the door, picked up his rifle again, and resumed guarding the prisoner.

“Pendergast,” said Berger, tapping Pendergast’s chest with the quirt. “Look at me.”

The bedraggled man raised his head. His eyes focused on Berger.

“First, you dig your grave. Then, you will suffer. And finally, you will be buried in it, perhaps alive, perhaps not. I haven’t quite decided yet.”

No sign of comprehension.

“Get that pick and shovel.” Berger gestured toward the corner of the room.

The soldier underscored the order with a wave of his gun. “Beweg Dich!” he barked.

Slowly, the prisoner shuffled toward the far corner, the hobbles clanking awkwardly, the chains dragging.

“Dig here.” Berger took his heel and scraped it along the floor, outlining a crude rectangle in the volcanic dirt. “Hurry! Spute Dich!”

As Pendergast began digging, Berger kept a safe distance, well beyond the swinging range of the tools. He watched the man lift the pick and bring it down painfully into the dirt, again and again, until he had broken up the top layer. He labored awkwardly, heavily encumbered with steel, and the short length of the chains greatly restricted the movement of his arms. When he slowed, Berger stepped forward and gave him a few brisk lashes with the quirt for motivation. Gasping with effort, the prisoner switched to the shovel and removed the loose dirt. At one point he laid the shovel down and mumbled that he needed to rest; Berger responded to that request with a kick that sent the man sprawling. That woke him up a bit.

“No stopping,” Berger said.

The grave made slow progress. The prisoner worked doggedly, chains rattling against the cuffs, his face a mask of mental apathy and physical exhaustion. Here, thought Berger, was a man who knew he had failed; a man who wanted nothing more than to die. And die he would.

An hour dragged by, and finally Berger’s impatience got the better of him. “Enough!” he cried. “Schluss jetzt!” The grave was only two and a half feet deep, but Berger had grown eager to move on to the next stage. The prisoner stood there, at the edge of the grave, waiting. Turning to the soldier, Berger said in German: “Cover me while I work on him. Take no risks. If anything happens, shoot him.”