John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

Once the boys had been reviewed we walked slowly back across the courtyard. “By the way, Obersturmführer,” Glass said when we were almost to the stairwell, bringing out a roll of mimeographs: “Your partner in crime Spengler’s artistry. What’s your verdict?”

I looked over the sheets, onto which a crude sketch of the Chancellery floor plan had been copied. Glass kept quiet, watching me. I felt a vague twinge of something like roadsickness while flipping through them, trying to make sense of the thickly traced diagrams and the dense chicken-scratches of script. “They’re a disaster, Hauptsturmführer,” I said.

Glass let out another titter. “Nonsense! Just take them round, Bauer, there’s a boy. You’ll manage. You’re all fine soldiers.”

“Listen to me, Hauptsturmführer. Spengler is not a fine soldier. Not at all. Spengler is a—”

“We all know very well what Spengler is, Bauer. Spengler is the very type we need to bring our plan to fruition. Spengler is what we call a man of action.”

“Spengler is a. . a child, Hauptsturmführer. Surely you must—”

“All the more reason for you to ride with him this afternoon, Bauer,” Glass said curtly. “We have absolute confidence in your judgment.”

“What?”

“Rolling in one quarter hour,” said Glass, no longer looking at me. He spun on his heels, clownish, dandylike. “Just keep Spengler on his hind legs, Bauer; the rest will follow.”

He went into the stairwell then and waved me on about my business. I have a clear memory of him there, just inside the doors, the midday light glistening on his immaculate pomade. The next time I saw him he was tied to a chair with wire cord, pleading for his life as best he could through a blood-and-spit — soaked piece of rag.

“Heil Hitler, Bauer,” Glass called out as he was halfway up the stairs.

“Heil Hitler,” I answered, saluting his retreating backside.

I found Spengler slumped against the hood of one of the trucks, nattering with Little Ernst, the driver. He was dressed, like me, as a lieutenant of the police, but the uniform was far too small for him and he’d left the shirt flapping open. He stood and saluted as I came up, shifting his weight uncomfortably like a field hand in his Sunday best, dense brown hairs pushing out through his open shirtfront. Recognizing me, he let out a grunt. “Well, I’ll be buggered,” he said, flashing his gap-toothed boxer’s grin. “I almost took you for the genuine article, Biddlebauer.”

I smiled thinly, holding up the roll of mimeographs. “This your doing, Heinrich?”

“Hup,” said Spengler, snapping to attention. “Straight copied from memory, officer.”

“Is that so?” I turned to Ernst and smiled. “Is it your feeling, comrade, that a chimp with a runny ass could have done any better? If we’d handed him Dollfuss’s own prick for a fountain pen?”

“I can’t say he would have, Obersturmführer.”

“Ah! Very grand,” muttered Spengler. He looked me over slowly and appraisingly. “I believe you’re riding with us on today’s outing, paper jockey. Under our motherly protection.” His thick hand lolled against his pistol butt.

I looked at Ernst again. “Is this man my mother, Ernst?”

“Not to my knowledge, Obersturmführer.”

Spengler let out a carefully timed belch. Whatever point Glass was making in choosing him to head the attack was lost on me entirely. In spite of his stupidity, or perhaps because of it, I was afraid of him, and I realized this clearly as I returned his stare. “Go ahead; have your cracks, Biddlebauer,” Spengler muttered. “You’re riding in my car today, just the same.”

We stood a moment, looking at each other. “They’ll get us in, all right,” Spengler said after a time, jerking his chin toward the mimeographs.

“They just might, Heinrich. Seeing as how we’re going in through the big brass doors, just like every other enemy of the people.” Ernst did his best to suppress a chuckle. “See you in a quarter hour, brothers,” I said, stepping down to the next group of boys.

When the cars were all lined up and idling, Glass leaned out of the office window to bestow his blessing. Our sedan was the first of seven, with five trucks following after. I glanced at my watch; it was fifteen minutes after three. Glass beamed down at us a moment, then made a shooing-away motion with his hands, as one might to a flock of pigeons, and we were off. We rolled around the block very quietly, then swung out onto the Ring and navigated through moderate traffic to the Ballhausplatz. On the way we checked our pistols and loaded them and Spengler fussed with the chest flap of his uniform. We took care to avoid the Hofburg-side façade of the chancellery and pulled up instead at the northwest corner, along the Church of the Minorites, parking well against the curb like model citizens. Our car and the six others carrying mock policemen emptied out onto the pavement. The boys dressed as Civil Guards were to wait another ten minutes before following us, locking the courtyard gates as they came in. Spengler reviewed the boys coolly. “You could use a shine, officer,” he said, glancing down at my boots.

Staring into Spengler’s face, I saw a tiny insect, a gnat, perhaps, or a flea, crawl out of his hair. As I looked on, it made its way painstakingly across his forehead, found a deep, sun-battered furrow and vanished into it. The nausea I’d felt earlier looking at the mimeographs returned at once full force and I reached toward Spengler to keep from falling over. “I feel sick, Heinrich,” I whispered.

Spengler laughed and stepped away from me. “Of course you feel sick, Biddlebauer,” he said, loudly and for the benefit of all present. “Best to wait here with the cars, I think. Try not to make any messes.”

“Shut up, Spengler, for Christ’s sake.”

“On my word, boys!” Spengler crowed, holding his rifle up. But instead of the promised word he simply raised the rifle above his head and let it fall.

The sound of an engine laboring up the steep grade woke them early one morning at the beginning of August. — It’s your land-lord, said Else, drawing aside the window shade. She made a face.

— I’ve gone to Italy, said Voxlauer, hiding his head under the sheets.

— Not without me, you haven’t. Up and into your britches. She was rummaging through the clothes trunk, letting skirts and slips and stockings fall lightly through her fingers. He listened to the rustle of her nightshirt over the floor and the slap of her bare feet on the kitchen steps. He pulled the coverlet back and watched as she peered out the kitchen window. A moment later she undid the latch and a light breeze swept down to him.

— Herr Ryslavy! Such a rare privilege.

— Fräulein Bauer. Good morning. I’m sorry to disturb you.

— Not at all. Else stood still for an instant, squinting. — What time is it?

— I need to speak to Oskar. Is he here?

She swung the door open. — Come inside.

— Thank you, Fräulein.

She opened a cupboard. — Have you had any breakfast?

— Yes. Thank you.

— Cup of tea?

— No. You’re very kind.

Else sat down and smiled flatly. Voxlauer could see only the back of Ryslavy’s head from the parlor. He was fidgeting with the drawstring of the blinds and humming to himself.

— Would you like a drink, perhaps, Herr Ryslavy?

— No, thank you. He looked about him all at once, remembering his manners. — Very pretty house you have here. Tranquil.