Peter Rabe - A Shroud for Jesso

The driver wore an orderly’s uniform but he looked more like a butcher. He had the rear door open, and then he almost stumbled, he was that confused.

“Reach,” said Jesso, but the butcher didn’t understand English. Or perhaps he was stupid. One hand came up chest-high, groped for the gun there, so Jesso shot him in the shoulder. The man spun and dropped.

There was a penetrating odor of wet pine in the air and Jesso breathed it in deeply They had parked off the road, where the dark-green trees came together in a thick curtain. The soil looked sandy white, soft underfoot, and not too far away there was an open space where stone and sand made a shallow dip. Jesso noticed that the butcher had brought a shovel along. It was leaning against the side of the ambulance, ready and waiting.

Then Jesso waited. The guy in the car hadn’t come around yet and the butcher was slowly rolling himself over the sandy ground. He had dropped his gun on the way, but only his shoulder interested him. Each time he rolled over he cringed with pain, but he kept rolling back and forth just the same. He was stupid, all right.

It had been close quarters in the bumping ambulance, so Jesso straightened his new shirt, new tie, new suit, and draped the big trench coat so it wouldn’t bunch up in the back. He hadn’t bothered with the beret. Then Jesso lit a cigarette and waited.

After a while the guy with the shot-up shoulder stopped rolling around and sat up. There was a big red stain on his orderly’s uniform and it looked medical as hell. Jesso walked over to him and said, “How’s the arm?” But the guy didn’t understand, so Jesso waited for the other one.

When he came around he sat up with a start, but right away he lay down again. He lay that way for a while. Then Jesso didn’t want to wait any longer.

“Hey, you.” He prodded the man’s foot. “Understand English?”

The man got up and raked his long hair back over his head.

“Come on out.”

He did understand English, because he crawled out of the ambulance. He had also seen a lot of American movies, because he raised his hands over his head and waited to be shot in the belly.

“Put your hands down. Your underwear don’t scare me.”

The man lowered his hands and plucked at his shorts.

“What’s your name?”

“Fritz.”

“I should have known. And the thinker over there? What’s his name?”

“Hans.”

“Of course, what else? Now tell Hans to sit over there by the tree.”

Fritz told Hans and then they waited for Jesso’s next word.

There was a long, webbed strap on the bed in the ambulance. Jesso took it off, threw it at Fritz, and told him to tie up Hans. After that was done he waved for Fritz to come back.

“Now I want some answers. Where is Kator?”

“Ich versteche nicht”

“Where’s Kator?”

“I understand not.”

“Look Fritz, you’re getting me mad.” He was going to say more when Fritz kicked up his foot and a spray of sand hit Jesso in the face. Fritz didn’t follow it up because Jesso was still holding the gun, but there was no shot. Jesso couldn’t see well enough to put his shot where he wanted. For a man in his underwear, Fritz certainly had guts. He rushed to the side of the ambulance, and while Jesso blinked blindly the shovel came into view and slammed down at Jesso. It missed the head but glanced across Jesso’s hand so that the gun flew down. Fritz stooped to reach for it, which was fine with Jesso. The sand trick could work both ways, and the cloud hit Fritz straight in the face. But Fritz fired just the same. With his eyes burning blind he shot way off the mark, so that nothing happened except that Jesso got mad. A flying tackle took him under the firing line into Fritz’s middle. One hand tore at the gun and then the two men rolled on the ground. There was one more shot, which tore through Fritz’s own foot, and then Jesso let fly. Fritz was never going to look the same. He was screaming and burbling now, and when Jesso jumped up he was out of breath.

“Enough?”

“Genug! Genug!”

“All right, Schmeling. Sit up.”

While Fritz sat up, Jesso found the gun in the sand. He also found the one that Hans had dropped. One was an automatic; the other was a revolver. The sand interfered with the action of both of them, but Jesso was able to work the revolver free. The automatic was useless. He took the clip out, ejected the shell in the chamber, then tossed the gun far into the brush. There were shells for the revolver in the trench-coat pocket and Jesso reloaded.

All this had taken time, and Jesso figured that Fritz was ready now.

“Fritz, can you see me?”

“Yes.”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Kator?”

“Ich verstehe — “ He didn’t get any farther because Jesso’s fist caught him where it hurt. The broken nose started to bleed again.

“Where’s Kator?”

“He goes home. Home.”

“Where’s home?”

“He lives in Hannover.”

“Fritz boy, this is like pulling teeth. Give me all of it, and all at once.”

“Hannover on the Leine. You drive the same road we came on and go south. Perhaps six hours’ driving. In Hannover he lives in the von Lohe villa. The house is on the Herrenhauser Allee.”

“He lives there, or it’s his place of business?”

“He lives there and also has his business. He has his business all over.”

“Fine. Get up and turn around.”

He did and Jesso stepped close. The gun butt came down hard and Jesso caught the man before he hit the ground. He dragged him to the tree where Hans was, tied him up with the same webbed belt, and went back to the ambulance. After he’d slammed the back doors shut he picked up the shovel and turned to the men.

“While you’re waiting for me to come back, Fritz, dig yourself something,” and he tossed the shovel toward the tree.

It landed close to Hans’s leg and he moved his foot over, dragging the shovel along. Jesso saw it. He was grinning when he walked over to the tree. Hans wasn’t so stupid, after all. The shovel had a sharp edge and with a few gymnastics the blade could be worked against the strap. Jesso picked up the shovel and tossed it far into the brush.

“Dig this,” he said to Hans, but Hans didn’t.

Jesso figured that Hannover was probably a fair-sized town. There were road markers after every little village he passed. Except for the villages, there wasn’t much variety on the drive. The land was flat and wet-looking, with wide potato fields and pastures where fat Holsteins were grazing. And along the road the eternal apple trees. By Jesso’s habits, it was a slow drive. The highway was narrow and there were a lot of potholes. When he met a car or one of the slow teams of horses that dragged heavy wooden wagons, it helped to be driving an ambulance. Jesso cut loose with the siren and the road was his.

Still it was nighttime before he was even close to Hannover. There had been money in Fritz’s pants, so Jesso stopped at a bakery in one of the towns and bought a square loaf of dark bread. He couldn’t find a place that sold milk. He finally bought a bottle of beer where a sign said, “Gasthof,” and took it into the cab. He drove into the country and parked behind a barn in the middle of nowhere. After beer and bread he got into the back, let the ambulance bed down, and went to sleep.

It was maybe nine in the morning when Jesso hit the town. The sun had come up cold and white, never quite making it through the wet haze in the air. He drove through empty streets with bombed-out shells of houses on both sides, neat straight ruins, because the Germans were such tidy people. After a while it got busier. The streets got narrower, traffic was a mess of bicycles and tiny cars, and after several crazy corners and intersections Jesso figured he was in the heart of town. He pulled the ambulance to a curb and left it there. Let Kator worry about the ticket.