NEUMANN watched Brandt leave, his tunic loose around his shoulders, one sleeve folded up to the elbow. There was no reason to feel proud, but he did feel a little pleased with himself. Of course, giving the man the job had been no more than his duty as a decent German. He was sure that behind Brandt’s scarred face he was the same decent sort he’d always been. Perhaps not exactly the same – these things changed a man – but similar in many ways, at least.
The mayor interrupted Neumann’s thoughts with a cough. Neumann waited. He knew this cough. The mayor was preparing to ask something of him. He wondered what it would be this time.
‘He’s not a bad fellow, Brandt,’ the mayor said. ‘His humour may be a little different than we’re used to here – but he is only just back from the Front. It was the same in the first war. We always had that black humour. It’s understandable, I suppose.’
Neumann examined the mayor. It was clear he was regretting his endorsement of the cripple. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow and his mouth looked unsteady, uncertain whether to smile or scowl. The man was nervous. He needn’t be, for once.
‘He’s a soldier who has given his all for his country. I’m certain he’ll fill the role more than adequately. If not, he will be let go. It needn’t concern you. I won’t hold you responsible, if that’s what you’re concerned about.’
The mayor relaxed, and his mouth risked a crooked smile.
‘I’m pleased to hear you say it. That you’re sure about him.’
Neumann didn’t necessarily want to smile, but the man needed reassurance. It would be unkind not to.
‘Was there anything else we needed to discuss?’
Brandt had arrived in the middle of a conversation about the local farms’ need for labour to bring in their crops. Weber wanted additional workers from the camp – an extension to the arrangement they’d already reached. Neumann didn’t think it would be a problem but there would have to be something in exchange.
‘You’ll do what you can for us?’
‘I’ll talk to the Commandant. There is a possibility – I can’t say any more than that. There will be some logistical problems.’
‘If it’s a question of payment.’
‘I understand – you are happy to pay the organization.’
‘We’ll pay whoever we have to – just to make it clear. I could mention a figure.’
As bribes went, it wasn’t too bad an effort and the Commandant wasn’t averse to such things. Not averse at all. But Neumann didn’t deal with bribes – Schlosser did.
‘I’ll let the Commandant know. I’m sure Obersturmführer Schlosser will be in touch.’
‘We are in real need – if you could suggest anything that might sway the Commandant’s mind in our favour.’
What was he going to offer now? The farmers’ womenfolk, perhaps? Their firstborn children?
‘It’s not always easy to obtain dairy products, for example – we could help with those. There will be other things our people can provide to the hut and to the camp as well. Over and above what we contribute already. All the Commandant has to do is ask. We have to get the harvest in, you see. Soon. We need the manpower. Urgently.’
‘Schlosser will call you this evening, Herr Weber. I feel certain the response from the Commandant will be positive. Particularly in light of your previous generosity.’
Weber’s smile was like a small boy’s – joyful almost. He said his farewells, made the customary salutes and protestations of loyalty to the leader to whom they must all be loyal and then marched off down the lane, shoulders widening as his confidence returned. Neumann knew how the scheme worked – the farmers paid the mayor, the mayor paid Schlosser and Schlosser made sure the Commandant was taken care of. If there was enough money involved some of it might even be sent to Berlin. Everyone would be happy – except the prisoners, of course.
Neumann’s fingers went to the twin silver shapes on his collar. They were smooth to the touch. The source of his authority. If it weren’t for the runes, of course, Weber wouldn’t fear him. But they worked as a disguise as much as anything. A way for the world to perceive the wearer and one that was often quite different from the truth. The fact was Neumann felt more and more, with each day that passed, like an impostor. There was more similarity between him and Brandt than the mayor knew.
There was a rustle in the bushes behind him. The sound of a body thrusting itself through the low-lying vegetation, brittle leaves crunching under a paw. He held out his hand and Wolf came to him, his wet nose pushing at his fingertips.
‘Good boy.’
The dog sensed his mood and pushed once again – he looked down at the hooded almond eyes, intense with devotion, the tongue pink against the white teeth.
‘Come on, then. We’ll go to the reservoir.’
The dog understood him, he thought. Understood when each step, however brisk and efficient Neumann might force it to be, felt like it forced its way through sand.
§
Brandt found that he was whistling. It wasn’t a cheery tune or even recognizable as a particular piece of music. His lips were no longer full enough or soft enough for that and he was out of practice. Whistling wasn’t something he’d done for a very long time. A passerby might think he was pleased with himself, but he wasn’t. After all, tomorrow morning he would be going to work for the SS and he would also find out for certain whether the woman was who he thought she was. Tomorrow was likely to be a difficult day. Yet, all the same, here he was, whistling.
He wondered why.