I changed my life. I went among the prisoners taken to the camp for labour purposes. I wanted to make certain; I wanted to get inside; I knew the language. I wanted to learn more, suddenly. Where I might not have understood two words, I got used to their slang and abbreviations. My work was in that place. I began to study murder. I made plans. A few feet between us, the open country beyond. Success depended on whether I could reach the open country afterwards. I studied maps. The plan was complicated: there were roads to be watched; speed was essential; there were two main roads leading to the town – they formed a junction a mile north of the camp.
I watched the driver – his hair was white – he was my man. All the rest were prisoners – he was not. The others wrote to their families – he did not. I examined the identity of this man, I lived with him. He talked – he had no suspicions: he talked about his family, he discussed his girl, showed me her photograph; there was little I did not know about him. He was very particular about his food – he spent hours planning meals – he had trained to be a cook. “I got work which entitled me to a room with furniture, and then I sold the furniture. I bought these trousers and a fur-lined coat. That’s how I got this job. I looked the part.”
I was no longer myself, but him. I wore his best black trousers; I squeezed into his coat. I could not bring my arms to my sides; my head was too large for the cap; it was hot; the sun hit my head; I was not good-looking enough. I met the commander walking along – I never showed my face; he did not know I had passed. I noted the shape of the commander’s thin fingers, felt the texture of his palm. His palm smelt of sweet gas. I knew the time for his death. He was to follow those who had disappeared at his word. I was the person in the crowded courtyard who knew the date of his death. I did not tell him anything. I often walked close to him with my gun; there would have been time – he was in easy range. This time he was larger, bolder, more conspicuous – I happened to catch sight of him crossing the road; I had a clear view of the small person, a fleeting glimpse – he was a tremendously fast walker: always in a hurry, he preferred the open roads to the densely crowded courtyard; he was most careful where he walked.
I did not know that I was being watched. I was stopped by police; a bomb had been thrown. The police closed in. Their caps made them taller; guns on either side; their hands held sticks. I was knocked down by a sergeant of police, my arm crushed by his boots against the wall. He ordered me out of the camp within one hour. A lorry was leaving in forty minutes.
I gave up my plan. I needed to know him better. I threw away my loaded gun – the barrel was hot; it was painful to touch the metal. Then came shots. The pain from my arm underlined the reality of what was happening. The sound of the clump of metal on the floor – a man without legs, false legs and metal feet, carried on a wooden board; I heard a clatter, the driver lit his pipe, he fell dead; I could not prevent the blunder – he was hit by five bullets. The driver, not the commander – a mistake had been made. I learnt the meaning of a gun. He stumbled, he didn’t move; figures came towards us, loudly calling his name; they wandered aimlessly – they didn’t expect to find him in the mist; they were a long way away – he was beyond reach. Not hearing anything, I thought of wild plans, the gun I had hidden; I wasn’t sure – I got up and brushed my clothes, tired, uncertain. In the shouting and panic I dragged the body through a doorway, carried the load up two flights of steps. Every door was locked.
I was overtaken by medical officers. “You should not have touched the body.” “I could not find anyone to help. I’ve been wounded.” My arm was soaked with blood. The officer insisted that I cease work, led me away, ordered me to hospital. “This man has worked well.” He demanded my name, which I had to give; he promised me a decoration; I was to be taken to hospital for treatment for shock. I had been an idiot – I had not followed the agreed plan; now I was being taken to hospital.
The doctor treated my arm. I had done useful work. I was put to bed. I slept for an hour. I woke, stared at the man standing over me: it was the sergeant of police. I had to think of some excuse. He wanted to know why I had not done as he had ordered. I told him I had lost my way; the lorry had left without me. There would have to be a fuller explanation – he was obviously suspicious. Maybe he was waiting for my brain to clear. He waited too long. The doctor returned; I showed him my letter of recommendation; he allowed me to go. There may have been suspicion, but the disaster had been an accident. At that moment a telegram was handed to me, inviting me to attend the funeral of a man cruelly assassinated by a fanatic. I was still wearing the uniform of the tall handsome man. The trousers were stained with blood – I had to wear my own trousers; they squeezed me into the coat, which gaped wide open in front; the hat would not stay on – I had to carry it under my arm.
In the morning the lines formed in the streets leading to the ground; the approach to the lines of cars led past houses; we were watched from the gardens – the people watched in long lines behind the gates of their houses. He had been a young man, greatly liked. Protected by the neutral flag flying before it, my car drove with the others, surrounded by mourning crowds, to the desolate gardens. The commander was attended by men in magnificent uniform – they wore gorgeous dark blue and gold. I was introduced to the presence; he shook hands and talked with me. Encircled by death, walking the path between the stones, a long walk in a lovely forest, the daughter passed, walking slowly; at the sound of my voice she tipped the funeral flowers she carried to one side, using the leaves to screen her face, so that I saw the thick plaits but not her face. I went on as if I did not know she had passed. Opposite the wall the tall pine stood; the shooting had dealt a blow – he had fallen victim: the bullet had been wasted; the bullet had waited from the hour of his birth; he had been unable to protect himself.
A crowd had gathered to read the funeral notice posted in the entrance hall. I felt her hand. “Lean against me – it’s cool.” “I want to tell you…” She spoke in slow, carefully articulated words: “A mistake. The wrong man. You find it strange?” She said her father’s men had fired the shots at random – part of their war of nerves – they were not concerned with whom they killed, as long as they killed. Her father had his own methods: the assassination was meaningful – the work of his brain – an excuse to wage sensational war. But she was trusted by the commander, and she would deal with him in her own way. “Get him in bed and stick scissors in his back. That’s the method. We shall make sure of him this time.” She took me to his room – she knew her way about – she showed me where they slept; she behaved like a wife; she said I could stay – I would not have to hide – I could sleep in their room.