Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (28 page)

“There's wine,” she offered.

He grunted, unable to talk.

She struggled with the cork. Heinrich would have opened it, she thought. Crumbs stuck in his throat and he coughed an ugly sound.

“How well do you know my husband?” she asked.

Sure of herself, she had always been able to conjure a demanding arrogance, remembered Kurnov. He was eating slower now, knowing he would have to control himself to digest the meal. He sipped the wine, arranging the story he had prepared while she was in the kitchen. It was perfect, he had decided.

“Very well,” he asserted, swallowing. “His best friend.”

The sausage tasted stale, he thought. And the ham was dry, too.

“How …?”

“Poor Heinrich,” said Kurnov, surely. “He's suffered very badly. Very badly indeed.”

Immediately Gerda's attitude faltered, as he had known it would.

“Tell me …”

“At the end we were captured, a group of us, by the Russians …”

“Did they discover what …?”

“No,” said Kurnov, immediately. “No, we managed to get away from the camp so there was no link. There were months of being moved from camp to camp. They never bothered with a trial or anything like that. They just used us all as slaves …”

“Heinrich … a slave?” She shuddered.

Kurnov nodded, happy at the effect his story was having.

“We've been shuttled everywhere, over the years. East Germany first, then Poland … even the Ukraine …”

She sat heavily in a sagging chair opposite, head down. She was very near to tears, he thought.

“My poor darling,” she said, almost to herself.

“Then they began to break up the camps,” he continued, easily. “We were back in East Germany by then. Suddenly, for the first time in years, the authoriies started taking greater interest in our backgrounds … something to do with resettlement … official inquiries were opened …”

She looked up, concentrating. Her eyes were wet, he saw.

“It was obvious from the questions what was happening. And that, after all these years, there was a risk of our being exposed. Thank God the camp was on the point of disbandment. Security was lax …”

“So you escaped?”

Kurnov nodded and Gerda smiled. That sounded like Heinrich. No matter how much hardship or deprivation, his spirit would not have been broken.

“Tell me,” she prompted, smiling in anticipation of a story that would prove her husband's courage.

Kurnov shook his head. A good liar told no more lies than were necessary. Thank God she was so stupid, he thought. The account didn't sound as convincing as he had planned.

“It's too long,” he avoided. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“But where is he?”

Kurnov sighed. She was so malleable, she would accept anything, he decided.

“Still behind the Wall,” he announced.

Her face contorted angrily, and the words burst out.

“Why? Why didn't you bring him with you? He could be caught, imprisoned again …”

He raised the limp hand, trying to quieten her.

“No,” he said. “No, he's quite safe.”

She shook her head, refusing the assurance.

“Heinrich is frightened he would be recognized, even after all these years,” said Kurnov. Still she looked unsure.

“He's actually safer, where he is. He sent me across to contact the Party … we had addresses …” he added.

“But not the name of Herr Muntz?” she intoned, suddenly suspicious.

“Is it likely that we would be provided with the identity of the leaders, until we had been thoroughly checked?” he fenced, easily. She nodded, satisfied.

“When can he come across?” she asked.

Kurnov shrugged, his eyes closing despite the conscious effort to stay awake.

“Herr Muntz,” declared Gerda, positively. “He'll know what to do. I'll to go Herr Muntz, immediately.”

“No,” Kurnov jerked awake, nervously. He'd handled it badly, he thought.

“Please … a moment …” he faltered on. “I need rest. I cannot answer the questions they would want satisfied now. I've spent three days, without sleep or food, trying to reach here to help Heinrich. Let me rest, a few hours. A bath, perhaps …”

“I'll tell Herr Muntz not to come for several hours,” offered Gerda.

“Do you think they could wait, knowing one of the heroes of the Third Reich was so near?”

He was putting forward a poor argument, he knew, but it was impossible to assemble his thoughts. She was looking at him uncertainly, unsettled by his attitude. Soon doubts would begin. She offered more wine and he accepted, even though it would accelerate the sleep that was washing over him.

“Heinrich and I devised a plan,” he ad-libbed, desperately. “We didn't know how long it was going to take for me to make contact. He isn't going to appear at the meeting point for another three days. It would be pointless, contacting Herr Muntz tonight. We could achieve nothing.”

It was a vacuous argument, he accepted. The sudden change in the woman's attitude disturbed him. It wasn't going to be so easy after all.

“Who are you?” she asked abruptly.

She
was
suspicious, he determined.

“Reinhart,” he said, immediately. The name had provided good protection for a long time, so why not utilize it again? It was a background upon which he could easily be questioned. “Klaus Reinhart.”

She frowned, searching for a memory, then nodded. An utterly lonely woman, Gerda was more aware of the events and people in her life of thirty years before than she was of the preceding day.

“I recall the name,” she admitted. Immediately, she added, “But I don't recollect your being a friend of my husband. Rather the reverse.”

Oh God, another error. He'd forgotten telling her about Reinhart, all those years ago. Why the hell should she have remembered, anyway?

“At Buchenwald I was a doctor, nothing more,” agreed Kurnov. “It's only been since then … forced to live for so long as we have … that we've come so close …”

Still she looked doubtful, he thought. To talk further would only create fresh questions. He struggled toward the edge of the chair. His body felt heavy. Every movement was a conscious effort.

“Frau Köllman …” he said, respectfully, anticipating she would respond to such an approach. “I've traveled for so long without sleep. Or the facilities even to wash my face. Perhaps a bath …”

She nodded, indicating the nearest door.

“I'll get towels.”

Too quick, he judged. She wanted him out of the room, so she could contact that bloody Nazi. As she went into the bathroom, he looked toward the door leading into the hallway. Thank God. There was a key in the lock. As quickly as he could move his leaden body he went over, securing the door and putting the key into his pocket. He moved away, appearing to greet her as she returned from the bedroom. He was aware of her close attention. She was examining him minutely, looking at his hair, then his face, going over his body and even looking closely at his hands when he reached out for the towels. He grabbed them quickly, trying to avert the examination.

“I'll only be a few minutes, Frau Köllman,” he said, moving toward the bathroom. “Perhaps it would be possible for another coffee when I'm finished?”

She nodded, head still to one side, her face blank.

Inside the bathroom he pressed against the door, listening. Her footsteps receded and he heard the muffled clatter of crockery again.

He turned on the taps and started undressing, gratefully. His smelling, stained clothes felt like another skin. They even seemed difficult to divest. He stared into the mirror, shocked by his appearance. He looked like a madman, he thought, a disheveled, glaring-eyed madman. A night's sleep. That's all he needed, a good night's sleep. His body was numbed with fatigue so there was no feeling in his legs. It was like walking on cotton wool. The bath would help, he thought, groaning at the pleasure as he lowered himself into the water. The woman worried him. The suspicion was building up, he knew, like a snowball rolling down a hill. He looked around the cramped cubicle, seeking a weapon. There would be no way he could sleep without subduing her first. The idea of harming his wife came quite dispassionately, without any remorse.

There was nothing heavy enough to render her unconscious, he realized sadly.

In the kitchen, Gerda tidily stacked the plates in the drainer frame, then wiped her hands.

There was something wrong, she knew. She couldn't isolate it, but she could not lose the feeling that the man's account was untrue. She shuddered, suddenly frightened. Heinrich had hated Reinhart, she remembered. A bad German, he'd called him, a traitor, and he'd had to discipline the man a hundred times. She frowned, regressing along familiar paths, trying to recall. He'd even demanded Reinhart's arrest and trial, she thought. Yes, she was quite sure of it.

Herr Muntz should know. Determinedly, she went back into the living room, but moved softly, so the man would not hear. By the bathroom, she listened, intently, hearing the sound of the water. She smiled, moving on into the bedroom to get her frayed cloth coat from the cupboard. The door creaked slightly and she looked back, hesitantly. Still just the sound of someone bathing. She put the coat on as she went across the room, walking fast, needing to quit the apartment even though she could not identify her fear.

There was a strangled, frightened sound as she tugged at the locked door. Unable to understand what had happened, she kept pulling until it rattled in the frame. Then the fear came up like a solid feeling in her throat, blocking her lungs. Finally, she backed into the room, staring at the door, disbelievingly shaking her head. Why lock it? It was pointless. Nothing made any sense. She turned to the bathroom, eyes staring, trying to pin the thoughts that butterflied through her mind. Who was he? And why had he locked her in? Who on earth, apart from Herr Muntz, knew her name? The Jews? Could it be the Jews, come to get her after all this time?

His carelessly constructed story unwound in her mind, but this time the faults glared. No one, she decided. No one at all. Well, almost no one … but not even the Jews …

She began moving slowly, head erect, hypnotically drawn toward the closed door, from behind which she could still faintly detect the sound of his movements. It couldn't be, she thought. Again she was reminded of the similarities that had occurred to her as she had emerged from the bedroom thirty minutes before, handing him the towel. She felt faint, as if the band were being slowly tightened around her chest, like the feeling she had experienced in her meeting with Herr Muntz. It wasn't possible.
He
wouldn't have treated her so cruelly. At the door, she stopped, not knowing what to do. Feeling suddenly foolish, she stooped, trying to squint through the keyhole. In her fear, she almost giggled. He had his back to her, leisurely drying himself. His skin was old and sagging, like a lizard, she thought, but there was an odd line around his throat, almost like a collar. He turned, twisting to dry his back and she screamed, unable to stop herself. She saw him stop at the sound, but then she was falling, going backwards, helplessly, her mind locked on the distinctive scar that Heinrich had carried on his thigh since the Hamburg car crash, and which she remembered so well. The door opened and he stood there, unclothed, staring down at her. His face, the face she didn't know, was entirely without expression.

“Heinrich …” she mumbled, bewildered. “… My darling … what …?” she stopped, listening to her own voice. My darling …? Was that so? But she didn't know the man who stood over her … he was as strange as his face.

“… Help me …” she pleaded. “… I don't understand …”

The thoughts rushed into her head, like water filling a hollow on the seashore. It
was
Heinrich. He was back. There would be a reason for the surgery. It didn't matter. The explanation could come later. She would learn to live with that face. What did a face matter? He'd come back. That was the important thing. She wasn't going to be alone any more. Back. At last. No mora loneliness. No more poverty. Perhaps even dresses again.

She reached out, imploringly, smiling up at him. Kurnov looked down at the old woman. How ugly, he thought. Stupid. And ugly.

He moved forward and she offered her hand, to be pulled up, but he spread the towel he held, like a cloak. She frowned, unable to comprehend, and then everything went black as he threw it over her face and she felt the weight and dampness of his body. She tried to hold him, thinking it was an embrace, and then felt the chain he had torn from the hand-basin looping around her neck and realized for the first time how the air was cut off by the towel over her head. She tried to scream, but the sound choked away. He was so heavy … so heavy … why … why was he doing it … she loved him … it didn't matter about the new face … really it didn't …

“… Please …” she tried, but the sound was smothered and a few seconds later she lapsed into unconsciousness.

Kurnov lay on her, utterly exhausted, long after she had ceased struggling and he knew she was dead. At last he got to his knees, then finally upright, drained by the brief fight. Her body was covered in the towel, so that only her legs showed, exposed where her skirt had ridden up. He freed one arm and jerked her toward the bathroom. She was very heavy and it took a long time. He moved in short spurts, Everything took so much effort. He wedged her against the side of the bath, knowing he was very near complete collapse. Stumbling, unable even to see properly, he half fell from the bathroom, grabbing a chair in the living room. It didn't stop the collapse. He couldn't stand now, he knew. On his hands and knees he crawled into the bedroom. As he went past the wardrobe, his back hit the suit Gerda had bought but never worn. The plastic gripped at his dampened, warm skin and it fell off, on top of him. He gasped, frightened, throwing it off in a heap. He knelt for several moments by the bed, concentrating his ebbing strength, then lurched up, throwing himself over it. He was asleep before his body settled.