Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

Reinhardt breathed long and slow, feeling a flush of anger creeping up his back, and that light-headedness that presaged something reckless. ‘A bit harder than putting on a black uniform and pretending it makes you German.’

Stolic’s face tightened. ‘Don’t piss me off any more than you’ve done already, Reinhardt.’

‘Heaven forbid.’

The light in Stolic’s eyes hardened, then lightened. ‘What’ve you got there in your pocket? Not fiddling with yourself, are you?!’

Reinhardt had not realised he was holding the Williamson, and held it up. Stolic stepped closer and peered at the inscription on the casing. ‘What does it say?’

Reinhardt did not have to read it. He knew the words by heart. By feel. ‘It says, “ To Lieutenant Terence Blackwell-Gough, 5th Somerset Rifles, from his father, Michael Blackwell-Gough. November 1917 ” . ’ He realised as he spoke them that he rarely said them out loud. They took on a different rhythm and weight, he realised. He looked at the old watch, as if seeing it anew.

‘I didn’t know you spoke any English.’

Reinhardt shrugged noncommittally. ‘A few words.’

‘Tell me its story.’

‘Why?’

Stolic grinned. ‘Something to pass the time. Break the ice. ’Cause I’m asking nicely. Take your pick.’

Reinhardt shook his head. ‘I took it off a dead Englishman. That’s all you need to know.’

‘The only Englishmen I ever met in Spain weren’t worth all that much. Most of them finished up on the end of this,’ Stolic drawled, sloughing through Reinhardt’s memory, his eyes focusing on the tip of his knife.

‘Most Englishmen I came up against would have snapped you in two without thinking about it.’ Stolic put the Bowie’s point back on Reinhardt’s Iron Cross, pushed. It slipped, caught up against the medal’s edge. ‘What is with you and the knife?’

Stolic smiled at it. ‘Part of an Ustasa’s holy triptych, Reinhardt. “Knife, revolver, bomb.” The most effective and suitable means to an end. You know, we took our oaths in front of a crucifix, a knife, and a revolver.’

‘Except now you’re SS. And you’re still playing with boys’ toys like knives?’ Stolic pushed hard again on the Cross, but this time Reinhardt took a quick step back, let Stolic’s weight pull him forward. ‘And what is it with you and medals? You want one?’

The Standartenfuhrer’s face went white, then red. ‘Tell me, Reinhardt, have you actually killed anyone in this war? Or have you spent it behind your desk while others did it for you?’

‘I’m sure my body count’s not as high as yours, but most of the ones I killed could shoot back.’

Stolic snorted. ‘Why have them shoot back? An unfair fight’s a fair fight by me.’ He flipped the knife, caught it by the handle. He grinned, yellow teeth like filthy nails. ‘It’s like a drug. All this.’

‘And I did my killing with a clear head.’

‘What?’

‘How long have you been addicted to Pervitin?’

‘What?’

‘You’re addicted to Pervitin, Stolic. Addicted to speed. I saw the pills in your car. I can see the signs of addiction all over you.’

‘Wha… ?’

‘It takes more than popping pills and butchering unarmed men to make you a brave man, Stolic.’

Stolic’s face creased into a snarl. ‘I don’t need any fucking pills to make me -’

‘You take them because you’re weak, Stolic. Because they make you feel better about yourself. About missing out on all the action in Russia. About not being more like Grbic,’ said Reinhardt, remembering the name of that Croatian Army colonel Stolic seemed to despise so.

‘ Grbic? What do you -’

‘Did you kill Marija Vukic?’

A flush crept up Stolic’s neck, the planes of his cheeks going red. ‘You arrogant little shit,’ he hissed. ‘You accuse me… ?’

Reinhardt felt cold and focused, but a part of him gibbered at the risks he was taking. He pushed that part away, the weak part, the part that had cowered in the corner of Meissner’s house all those years ago, the part that had run away from his life as it was then instead of trying, however futilely, to make it right. He forced himself to smile at Stolic and then found that it felt right, and he did not have to force it after all. ‘Vukic was really something.’ Stolic’s face went blank. ‘She’d have got an Iron Cross if she were a man. That drove you mad, didn’t it?’

Stolic made a sound, as if he were gagging. ‘You don’t -’

‘She was more of a man than you’ll ever be,’ Reinhardt slashed across Stolic’s words.

Stolic hefted the knife, holding it out in front of him in his right hand. ‘I don’t care what Becker said,’ he muttered, seeming to talk to himself. ‘I’m going to cut you up, you miserable turd.’ He stopped, frowned. Reinhardt drew his baton and extended it. Stolic sniggered. ‘What the fuck is that? A magic wa -’ Reinhardt flicked the baton at Stolic’s fist. The tip flexed and slashed into Stolic’s knife hand. He squalled in surprise and pain, and the knife flashed and clanged to the floor. Reinhardt whipped the baton up and slashed it down into the junction of Stolic’s neck and shoulder. The Standartenfuhrer slumped to his knees with another cry.

‘You piece of shit ,’ Reinhardt snarled, hoarsely, as he smashed the baton into Stolic’s upper arm. ‘I ate people like you’ – he struck him again – ‘for fucking’ – he struck him again, across the ribs – ‘ breakfast ’ – again, across the thighs, the knees – ‘in the trenches.’ The rage encompassed him, filled him. He was ice all through. Stolic rolled into a ball on the floor, his breath rasping. Reinhardt stood over him, the baton raised in his quivering fist. ‘You prick !’ he rasped. ‘You think I got this Iron Cross by being a fucking choirboy ?!’ He beat Stolic again across the back of his thighs.

Stolic whimpered, raised his arms over his head. ‘ Stop , please. No more.’

As fast as it came, the anger flowed out of him. He felt it recede, from his fingers, up through his arms. He blinked once, twice, and it was gone. He pulled Stolic’s arm down from where he had wrapped it around his head. Stolic cried out, turned his head down into the ground. Reinhardt grabbed his ear and twisted, turning his head back up towards him. Stolic’s eyes were wild and rolled back like those of a cornered animal, and his breath gusted up, fetid and sour. Reinhardt lifted his fist up, the baton held high. Stolic fastened his eyes on it as if it were some kind of salvation.

‘Don’t look at that, look at me. At me , you shit,’ he hissed. Stolic rolled his eyes on him. ‘Did you kill Marija Vukic?’

Stolic shook his head. ‘No. No, I don’t…’ His eyes turned back to the baton.

‘At me , Stolic. Look at me. That’s right. You don’t what?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘What?!’

‘I don’t know if it was me.’

‘What do you mean, Stolic?’

‘I don’t… blood. There was…’ He trailed off, his eyes folding away. Reinhardt struck him across the side of his thigh, above his knee, on his hip, his ankle. Stolic shuddered with pain, curling up tighter.

‘There’s always blood. Who killed her?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ He hit him again on the knee. ‘I know you were there that night. Tell me about it.’

‘Wha… ?’ Reinhardt raised the baton, and Stolic’s eyes fastened onto it. ‘ Yes , yes! All right. Yes, I was there.’

‘ Where , Stolic?’

‘The hotel. At the hotel. But I didn’t kill her. I didn’t. Please. Tell me I didn’t.’