Trembling with excitement that increased with each article placed on the table, Papa muttered under his breath between calling out the titles as he saw them.
"The Pnakotic Manuscripts, in scroll form! The duNord translation of The Book of Eibon! The Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan! And here—Unaussprechlichen Kulten by von Juntz! These books are priceless! They've been universally suppressed and forbidden through the ages, so many copies burned that only whispers of their titles have remained. In some cases, it has been questioned whether they ever existed at all! But here they are, perhaps the last surviving copies!"
"Perhaps they were forbidden for a good reason, Papa," Magda said, not liking the light that had begun to shine in his eyes. Finding those books had shaken her. They were purported to describe foul rites and contacts with forces beyond reason and sanity. To learn that they were real, that they and their authors were more than sinister rumors, was profoundly unsettling. It warped the texture of everything.
"Perhaps they were," Papa said without looking up. He had pulled off his outer leather gloves with his teeth and was slipping a rubber cap onto his right index fingertip, still gloved in cotton. Adjusting his bifocals, he began leafing through the pages. "But that was in another time. This is the twentieth century. I can't imagine there being anything in these books we couldn't deal with now."
"What could possibly be so awful?" Woermann said, pulling the leatherbound, iron-hasped copy of Unaussprechlichen Kulten toward him. "Look. This one's in German." He opened the cover and flipped through the pages, finally stopping near the middle and reading.
Magda was tempted to warn him but decided against it. She owed these Germans nothing. She saw the captain's face blanch, saw his throat working in spasms as he slammed the book shut.
"What kind of sick, demented mind is responsible for this sort of thing? It's—it's—" He could not seem to find the words to express what he felt.
"What have you got there?" Papa said, looking up from a book whose title he had not yet announced. "Oh, the von Juntz book. That was first published privately in Düsseldorf in 1839. An extremely small edition, perhaps only a dozen copies..." His voice trailed off.
"Something wrong?" Kaempffer said. He had stood apart from the others, showing little curiosity.
"Yes. The keep was built in the fifteenth century ... that much I know for sure. These books were all written before then, all except that von Juntz book. Which means that as late as the middle of the last century, possibly later, someone visited the keep and deposited this book with the others."
"I don't see how that helps us now," Kaempffer said. "It does nothing to prevent another of our men"—he smiled as an idea struck him—"or perhaps even you or your daughter, from being murdered tonight."
"It does cast a new light on the problem, though," Papa said. "These books you see before you have been condemned through the ages as evil. I deny that. I say they are not evil, but are about evil. The one in my hands right now is especially feared—the Al Azif in the original Arabic."
Magda heard herself gasp. "Oh, no!" That one was the worst of all!
"Yes! I don't know much Arabic, but I know enough to translate the title and the name of the poet responsible for it." He looked from Magda back to Kaempffer. "The answer to your problem may well reside within the pages of these books. I'll start on them tonight. But first I wish to see the corpses."
"Why?" It was Captain Woermann speaking. He had composed himself again after his glance into the von Juntz book.
"I wish to see their wounds. To see if there were any ritual aspects about their deaths."
"We'll take you there immediately." The major called in two of his einsatzkommandos as escort.
Magda didn't want to go—she didn't want to have to look at dead soldiers—but she feared waiting alone for everyone's return, so she took the handles of her father's chair and wheeled him toward the cellar stairs. At the top, she was elbowed aside as the two SS soldiers followed the major's orders and carried her father, chair and all, down the steps. It was cold down there. She wished she hadn't come.
"What about these crosses, Professor?" Captain Woermann asked as they walked along the corridor, Magda again pushing the chair. "What's their significance?"
"I don't know. There's not even a folk tale about them in the region, except in connection with speculation that the keep was built by one of the Popes. But the fifteenth century was a time of crisis for the Holy Roman Empire, and the keep is situated in an area that was under constant threat from the Ottoman Turks. So the papal theory is ridiculous."
"Could the Turks have built it?"
Papa shook his head. "Impossible. It's not their style of architecture, and crosses are certainly not a Turkish motif."
"But what about the type of cross?"
The captain seemed to be profoundly interested in the keep, and so Magda answered him before Papa could; the mystery of the crosses had been a personal quest of hers for years.
"No one knows. My father and I searched through countless volumes of Christian history, Roman history, Slavic history, and nowhere have we found a cross resembling these. If we had found a historical precedent to this type of cross, we could have possibly linked its designer with the keep. But we found nothing. They are as unique as the structure which houses them."
She would have continued—it kept her from thinking about what she might have to see in the subcellar—but the captain did not appear to be paying much attention to her. It could have been because they had reached the breach in the wall, but Magda sensed it was because of the source of the information—she was, after all, only a woman. Magda sighed to herself and remained silent. She had encountered the attitude before and knew the signs well. German men apparently had many things in common with Romanian men. She wondered if all men were the same.
"One more question," the captain said to Papa. "Why, do you think, are there never any birds here at the keep?"
"I never noticed their absence, to tell the truth."
Magda realized she had never seen a bird here in all her trips, and it had never occurred to her that their absence was wrong ... until now.
The rubble outside the broken wall had been neatly stacked. As Magda guided Papa's wheelchair between the orderly piles, she felt a cold draft from the opening in the floor beyond the wall. She reached into the pocket behind the high back of the wheelchair and pulled out Papa's leather gloves.
"Better put these back on," she said, stopping and holding the left one open so he could slip his hand in.
"But he already has gloves on!" Kaempffer said, impatient at the delay.
"His hands are very sensitive to cold," Magda said, now holding the right glove open. "It's part of his condition."
"And just what is the condition?" Woermann asked.
"It's called scleroderma." Magda saw the expected blank look on their faces.
Papa spoke as he adjusted the gloves on his hands. "I'd never heard of it either until I was diagnosed as having it. As a matter of fact, the first two physicians who examined me missed the diagnosis. I won't go into details beyond saying that it affects more than the hands."
"But how does it affect your hands?" Woermann asked.
"Any sudden drop in temperature drastically alters the circulation in my fingers; for all intents and purposes, they temporarily lose their blood supply. I've been told that if I don't take good care of them I could develop gangrene and lose them. So I wear gloves day and night all year round except in the warmest summer months. I even wear a pair to bed." He looked around. "I'm ready when you are."