Officer Factory. Hans Hellmut Kirst

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СКАЧАТЬ He opened it with a certain 'solemnity, and eyed Lieutenant Krafft keenly.

      “Lieutenant Krafft,” said the General, “you know that the last officer in charge of Section H for Heinrich was Lieutenant Barkow?”

      “Yes, sir,” said Krafft.

      “And you know that Lieutenant Barkow met his death accidentally in the course of pioneer training?”

       Yes, sir.”

      “Do you also know how this accident occurred?” No, General.”

      Modersohn drew himself up and leaned back very stiffly in his chair. He placed his hands and his forearms flat on his desk and his fingertips touched the thin red file in front of him.

      “What happened was this. At fourteen hundred hours on the twenty-sixth of January Lieutenant Barkow was down for pioneer work with Section H for Heinrich at the sound-locator post. A ten-pound charge was due to be exploded. Lieutenant Barkow was unable to reach cover before the charge was detonated. He was almost completely torn to shreds. What do you make of that, Lieutenant Krafft?”

      “I hardly knew Lieutenant Barkow, General.”

       I knew him better,” said the General with a slight huskiness in his voice. “He was an excellent officer, dedicated to his work, and, in spite of his youth, an extremely sensible man. He was an expert on all types of equipment, and particularly on explosives. He had already carried out a number of complicated bridge demolitions on the eastern front.”

      “In that case, General, I don't understand how this accident could have happened.”

      “It wasn't an accident,” said the General. “It was murder.” With a quiet gesture of finality the General had played his trump card.

      “Murder, General?”

      There seemed no place for such a word in the sober atmosphere of that room. It didn't go with the General's face. It simply didn't belong here.

      “I wish it hadn't been necessary to use such a word,” said the General. “You’re the second person I've used it to. The only other person who knows what I think is Judge-Advocate Wirrmann. I had the Inspector of Training Units second him here to carry out a full investigation.”

      “And does the Judge-Advocate agree with your theory, General? Does he think it's murder, too?”

      “No,” said the General. “But that doesn't alter the fact that it was. Cold-blooded murder. I know this indirectly from Lieutenant Barkow himself, because before his death he was dropping unmistakable hints which I dismissed at the time as utterly impossible. But all his conjectures have been borne out by the facts. Right, then, you will concern yourself with this affair, Lieutenant Krafft. I will put all the relevant documents at your disposal, and you will examine all the evidence. You will be able to discuss anything you like with me. And of course I don't need to emphasize that the whole matter is entirely confidential.”

      “Why are you telling me this, General?”

      “So that you can search for and find the murderer,” said Modersohn. “He can only be in Section H for Heinrich, that's to say in your own section, Lieutenant Krafft. And I shall expect you to complete your task successfully. You can count on my support. That is all for to-day.”

      INTERMEDIATE REPORT NO. 2:

       The Curriculum Vitae of Captain Eric Feders, or

      Patterns of accident

      Born on 17^th July 1915 in Aalen, Württemberg. My father was Constantine Feders, a Protestant pastor. My mother was Eva Maria Feders and her maiden name was Knotek. I grew up in Aalen.

      The first thing I can remember clearly is a pair of folded hands, and a voice that always seems to be intoning. The words of this voice are full of beauty and meaning. This is my father: dark clothes, snow-white linen, a solemn, dignified face. A strong smell of tobacco comes off him making me feel slightly sick. But then, on Sundays, the smell of sour wine as well. A full, rich laugh when I am touched and looked at.

      Organ sounds all about me—triumphant, tempestuous, rumbling ominously. A continuous assault on my eardrums. Finally a muffled, high-pitched whistle, a stifling yell, a rasping rattle. Father holds me up against the air valves of the organ. “Splendid!" he cries. “Isn’t that splendid!" And I cry too, wildly, desperately, continuously. “A pity," says my father with disappointment. “He isn't musical."'

      Mother is like a shadow, very soft, very quiet, very gentle, even when she cries. But Mother only cries when she thinks she is quite alone. And she is rarely alone, because I am there most of the time, behind the curtains, in the corner' by the cupboard, under the sofa. And then I come out and ask, " Why are you crying, Mother?" and she says, “But, my boy, I'm not crying." Then I go to my father and ask, “Why is Mother crying?" and my father says: “But my boy, Mother isn't crying! Are you crying, Mother?" “Of course not," she says. And I say, “Why do people tell lies here?" And then my father beats me, because I have broken the Fourth Commandment. There isn't a commandment which says thou shalt not lay hands on children.

      The son of Hörnle the manufacturer always wants to play with me because he's not allowed to play at home in the factory. At Hörnle's place they roll and cut sheet metal, and every now and again, a finger and a hand get chopped off as well. In church, of course, nothing like this can happen. Besides there's no one to keep an eye on us here except when a service is in progress. But Hörnle always wants to climb up into places, preferably into the tower where the bells are and where he likes hanging out of the little belfry windows—first with one foot, then with both, and finally with his whole body. “You do the same," Hörnle says to me. “If you don't you're a coward!" “I don't know whether I'm a coward or not," I say,” I only know I'm not an idiot." And this is true. Because Hörnle loses his balance and breaks every bone in his body.

      “How could such a thing happen?" cries my father. “Why didn't you watch out?" “Why should I watch out?" I ask, “I wasn't hanging out of the window myself." “My God!" says my father, “what sort of a son have I brought into the world?" And I ask myself the same question.

      In 1921 I went to the primary school in Aalen and in 1925 to the secondary school, where I finally matriculated in 1934, one year late. Apart from getting a year behind in this way there was nothing exceptional about my schooldays.

      In the church jumping competition I manage eight feet six. This is in fact a local record, but then along comes a fellow from Göppingen who's staying here for the summer holidays and does a whole two inches higher—though only after a good deal of training. These church jumps are performed on the end of the bell ropes. You pull at the rope and let yourself swing up with it. The person who pulls hardest reaches the greatest height and incidentally produces the finest peal. Bets are laid too, and my friends almost always win. “You little blasphemers!" my father shouts at us, when he discovers why his bells are always ringing so merrily.

      Schnorr, an assistant master at the secondary school, is a frequent visitor to our house. “He’s a highly educated man," my father tells me,” and you must show him respect. Besides, he's a friend of mine, and later when you go on to secondary school he'll be your teacher. So see you treat him with respect!" But I can't stand this СКАЧАТЬ