NEUMANN looked around the table. The dessert had come and gone – the coffee, such as it was, had been drunk, and things had gone well – considering the slow start to the evening. It was late now and many of the guests had gone to their rooms – including all of the women. He didn’t blame them. The remaining officers were drunk and, the majority of them, boorish. One of them had been sick in the entrance hall, and the white-jacketed SS waiters from the camp were nowhere to be seen.
There were eleven men still at the table, although one of the doctors – Heller – was slumped on top of it, snoring, using his crossed arms as a pillow. Ten, then. They had moved so that they sat together in the middle of the table, close to the Commandant. Neumann knew he was drunk, but he was behaving as an officer should behave. He was certain of it. The others laughed and swore, slapped each other’s backs and beat the table with their fists. Only he and Heller weren’t behaving like buffoons. He looked at Heller – the doctor’s face was pale and saliva had darkened the grey sleeve beneath his half-open mouth but his lips were shaped by a cupid’s smile.
Neumann understood it was almost the point of these evenings – that they needed to behave disgustingly, these men. Not all of them, of course – some had gone to bed precisely to avoid this part of the evening. Everyone had drunk heroically, even the women, but now was the dangerous time. The ones that were left, like him, sought oblivion or a means to vent their self-disgust.
With luck, there would be no violence – although he could feel the hunger for it running through the room like something electric. For half an hour, even he’d wanted to pick up one of the candlesticks and brain that smug rascal Beltz from the accounts department. Why had he sat the fool across from him? Always stroking his plump stomach or rubbing his thick fingers over his close-shaven, fat-padded scalp – Beltz had an unnaturally moist mouth and eyes that filled with tears when he laughed. He was laughing now. His teeth yellow against his purple lips – his tongue a quivering pink snake’s head. He would like to rip that snake’s head out. That might shut him up.
‘Can I help you, Neumann?’
Neumann could only imagine what expression his face must have held. He mustered a smile.
‘I was wondering what you were laughing at, dear Beltz.’
‘Just something Jäger said.’
Neumann turned his attention to Jäger. The tanker wore a crooked smile. His weary grey eyes twinkled like cracked beads in the candlelight.
‘What did he say?’ Neumann asked, holding Jäger’s gaze.
Beltz thought about it for a moment.
‘I can’t remember.’
Beltz couldn’t help himself. He laughed again, dabbing at his eyes with a corner of the tablecloth as he wheezed for breath.
‘I’m thought to be very witty, in my own way.’ Jäger’s smile looked as if it had been painted on. ‘I think it was something about death. Something humorous. Death is a very amusing subject, don’t you think?’
‘I’ve spoken enough about death,’ Neumann said, conscious that the edges of his vision had begun to swirl. ‘I’d prefer to talk about women. Or the hunt tomorrow. The last film you saw, perhaps. Or music.’
A twitch of Jäger’s thin lips.
‘What is your favourite piece of music, Neumann?’
Neumann looked away, a thick belch forcing itself into his mouth. The black-jacketed tanker seemed to be a great distance away even though he could reach out with his arm and touch him. What had he asked? Ah yes. He remembered now. He would play along.
‘I don’t remember the tune’s name. Da, da, da. Something like that. Uplifting. A dance of some sort. Classical. Do you know it?’
‘I think I do,’ Beltz said, putting his hands over his ears as if that might help him hear it. The fool.
‘Don’t be confused by his version, Beltz,’ Jäger said. ‘It goes quite differently.’
Beltz looked troubled, as though considering whether he should be offended or not, and when Jäger began to laugh, it didn’t help matters. Now Neumann felt sorry for Beltz. He wanted to take the round little accountant into his arms and reassure him. What a rat Jäger was – to make fun of such a fine fellow.
The Commandant was sitting to Neumann’s left and Neumann watched his superior’s hand inch across the table. The Commandant placed it on top of Neumann’s. As if in slow motion, Neumann saw the Commandant’s kindly blue eyes approach until they were only a few centimetres in front of his own. If they came any closer their noses would touch.
‘Neumann? You’re white as a ghost – white as a sheet of paper.’
His superior’s breath smelled like rotting flesh.
‘I do feel a little unwell.’
‘Don’t give in to it, old friend. The night is still young.’
‘We should sing songs.’ Jäger’s voice was slurred. He appeared surprised by his own suggestion. The Commandant turned towards the tanker and Neumann took the opportunity to lean back and breathe in sweeter air, reaching as he did so for the glass of brandy on the table in front of him. The movement almost unbalanced him. There were howls of amusement from the other end of the table – but not because of him, he didn’t think.
‘Songs you say, Jäger?’ The Commandant was enthusiastic. Neumann, on the other hand, was wary. ‘What song should we begin with?’
‘“It Was an Edelweiss”?’ Jäger suggested. ‘I like that song.’
‘Do you know all the words?’
‘Of course. Holla-hidi hollala, hollahi diho.’
‘That’s not singing.’ His voice sounded strange to Neumann – like a poor recording, played too slowly. ‘It’s yodelling.’
It transpired that yodelling was a sticky word, one that clung to the teeth. Care had to be taken that the word didn’t trip up on itself.
‘It’s part of the song,’ Jäger said, slipping slowly under the table. ‘It’s part of the chorus.’
One moment Jäger was all there, brow crinkled by concentration. Then there was a bit less of him, his frown now one of irritation. Then his elbows gave way and he disappeared altogether.
‘Where’s Jäger gone?’ the Commandant asked.
Jäger’s voice came from beneath the table.
‘Just a moment, I dropped something.’
‘Let us know if you find it.’ The Commandant beamed as if he’d made the finest of jokes. Beltz’s head rolled back, his mouth like a cannon’s muzzle ready to fire. When Beltz finally let his laugh out he beat his hands on his chest as if his heart might be in danger of stopping. Neumann wished it would.
‘I found what I was looking for,’ Jäger’s voice sounded amused. Neumann took a grip on the table and leant down to see what it might be. He found Jäger sitting cross-legged, bent forward, a small black pistol in his hand. Pointed at Neumann. The tanker’s finger was on the trigger, a smile on his face.
‘I know what we should do,’ Jäger said. ‘We should play Russian roulette.’
‘With an automatic?’
‘Maybe you’re right. Too easy. I was going to take the first turn, of course. But you’re right – no point in shooting yourself if there are others happy to do it for you.’
Jäger put the gun back in his pocket, then turned to pull himself back onto his chair.
‘What’s he up to down there?’
The Commandant’s expression was quizzical – his voice gentle.
Neumann felt more sober now. Jäger who had regained his seat and lifted a finger to his lips as if to say, ‘Our little secret.’
‘Excuse me, comrades,’ Neumann said, standing to his feet. ‘I need to relieve myself. Too much drink. I’ll be back, don’t worry.’ Nobody was listening to him and his words were so quiet, they wouldn’t have heard him if they had been. It was just as well. He needed to hold on to the table with both hands to stand upright. He felt precarious. When he felt more secure, he leant down to whisper in the Commandant’s ear.
‘Herr Sturmbannführer?’
‘No ranks, Friedrich. Not between us, anyway. What is it?’
‘Can we speak? Not now, but tomorrow? About the situation?’
The Commandant’s mouth pursed but he gave a single sharp nod.
‘Tomorrow. At the shoot. We’ll take a walk.’
‘Thank you.’
The Commandant looked up at him – his eyes golden in the firelight. His mouth relaxed into a sympathetic smile. He took Neumann’s elbow and squeezed it.
‘Go to bed. Don’t worry about this warrior band – I’ll keep them in check. Get a good night’s rest. This evening has been a great success, thanks to you.’
Neumann didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded and somehow, with a tottering momentum, walked to the far end of the table. There he steadied himself on one of the chairs. Breathed deeply. None of the officers was looking at him. It was as though he were invisible. At least until Brandt stepped forward, the camera in his hand. He heard the click as the steward took his photograph.
Neumann leaned forward and took Brandt’s arm.
‘No more pictures. That’s enough,’ he said, as calmly as he could.
‘As you wish, Herr Obersturmführer.’
‘Go home.’
‘Of course, Herr Obersturmführer. And the women prisoners? In the kitchen?’
‘Do I look as though I care what happens to them?’
‘No, Herr Obersturmführer.’
Neumann saw the sullen anger in Brandt’s eyes and considered, for a moment, dealing with it. But the evening was going well. And his eyes were heavy. He let it go, satisfying himself with a hard push to the steward’s shoulder as he passed him.