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They came out of the trees then, three German soldiers under a sergeant and six men in civilian clothes. The sergeant considered, drew back the bolt of his machine pistol. Berndt recognized one of the civilians.
“Grutas,” he said.
“Berndt, goody Berndt, who always got up his lessons,” Grutas said. He walked up to Berndt with a smile that seemed friendly enough.
“He can handle the horse,” Grutas said to the German sergeant.
“Maybe he is your friend,” the sergeant said.
“Maybe not,” Grutas said, and spit in Berndt’s face. “I hung the other one, didn’t I? I knew him too. Why should we walk?” And softly, “I’ll shoot him at the castle if you will lend me back my gun.”
3
BLITZKRIEG, HITLER’S lightning war, was faster than anyone imagined. At the castle Berndt found a company of the Totenkopf Death’s Head Division, Waffen-SS. Two Panzer tanks were parked near the moat with a tank destroyer and some half-track trucks.
The gardener Ernst lay facedown in the kitchen yard with blowflies on his head.
Berndt saw this from the wagon box. Only the Germans rode in his wagon. Grutas and the others had to walk behind. They were only Hilfswillige, or Hiwis, locals who volunteered to help the invading Nazis.
Berndt could see two soldiers, high on a tower of the castle, running down the Lecters’ wild-boar pennant and putting up a radio aerial and a swastika flag in its place.
A major wearing SS black and the Totenkopf skull insignia came out of the castle to look at Cesar.
“Very nice, but too wide to ride,” he said regretfully—he had brought his jodhpurs and spurs to ride for recreation. The other horse would do. Behind him two storm troopers came out of the house, hustling Cook along between them.
“Where is the family?”
“In London, sir,” Berndt said. “May I cover Ernst’s body?”
The major motioned to his sergeant, who stuck the muzzle of the Schmeisser under Berndt’s chin.
“And who will cover yours? Smell the barrel. It’s still smoking. It can blow
your fucking brains out too,” the major said. “Where is the family?”
Berndt swallowed. “Fled to London, sir.”
“Are you a Jew?”
“No, sir.”
“A Gypsy?”
“No, sir.”
He looked at a wad of letters from a desk in the house. “There is mail for a Jakov. Are you the Jew Jakov?”
“A tutor, sir. Long gone.”
The major checked Berndt’s earlobes to see if they were pierced. “Show the sergeant your dick.” Then, “Shall I kill you or will you work?”
“Sir, these people all know each other,” the sergeant said.
“Is that so? Perhaps they like each other.” He turned to Grutas. “Perhaps your fondness for your landsmen is more than you love us, hem, Hiwis?” The major turned to his sergeant. “Do you think we really need any of them?” The sergeant leveled the gun at Grutas and his men.
“The cook is a Jew,” Grutas said. “Here is useful local knowledge—you let him cook for you, you would be dead within the hour from Jew poison.” He pushed forward one of his men. “Pot Watcher can cook, and forage and soldier too.”
Grutas went to the center of the courtyard, moving slowly the muzzle of the sergeant’s machine pistol tracking him. “Major, you wear the ring and the scars of Heidelberg. Here is military history of the kind you yourself are making. This is the Ravenstone of Hannibal the Grim. Some of the most valiant Teutonic Knights died here. Is it not time to wash the stone with Jew blood?”
