Magda shivered in the draft from below. "I think it's too cold for you down there, Papa."
"We're certainly not going to bring the bodies up here for his inspection," Kaempffer said. He gestured to the two enlisted SS men who again lifted the chair and carried it and its frail occupant through the hole in the wall. Captain Woermann had picked up a kerosene lamp from the floor and lit it. He led the way. Major Kaempffer brought up the rear with another. Reluctantly, Magda fell in line, staying close behind her father, terrified that one of the soldiers carrying him might slip on the slimy steps and let him fall. Only when the wheels of his chair were safely on the dirt floor of the subcellar did she relax.
One of the enlisted men began pushing Papa's chair behind the two officers as they walked toward eight sheet-covered objects stretched out on the floor thirty feet away. Magda held back, waiting in the pool of the light by the steps. She had no stomach for this.
She noted that Captain Woermann seemed perturbed as he walked around the bodies. He bent and straightened the sheets, adjusting them more evenly around the still forms. A subcellar... she and Papa had been to the keep again and again over the years and had never even guessed the existence of a subcellar. She rubbed her hands up and down over her sweatered arms, trying to generate some warmth. Cold.
She glanced around apprehensively, looking for signs of rats in the dark. The new neighborhood they had been forced to move into back in Bucharest had rats in all the cellars; so different from the cozy home they'd had near the university. Magda knew her reaction to rats was exaggerated, but she could not help it. They filled her with loathing ... the way they moved, their naked tails dragging after them... they made her sick.
But she saw no scuttling forms. She turned back and watched the captain begin to lift the sheets one by one, exposing the head and shoulders of each dead man. She was missing what was being said over there, but that was all right. She was glad she could not see what Papa was seeing.
Finally, the men turned back toward Magda and the stairs. Her father's voice became intelligible as he neared.
"... and I really can't say that there's anything ritualistic about the wounds. Except for the decapitated man, all the deaths seem to have been caused by simple severing of the major vessels in the neck. There's no sign of teeth marks, animal or human, yet those wounds are certainly not the work of any sharp instrument. Those throats were torn open, savaged in some way that I cannot possibly define."
How could Papa sound so clinical about such things?
Major Kaempffer's voice was surly and menacing. "Once again you've managed to say much yet tell us nothing!"
"You've given me little to work with. Haven't you anything else?"
The major stalked ahead without bothering to reply. Captain Woermann, however, snapped his fingers.
"The words on the wall! Written in blood in a language nobody knows."
Papa's eyes lit up. "I must see them!"
Again the chair was lifted, and again Magda traveled behind to the courtyard. Once there she took over the task of propelling him after the Germans as they headed for the rear of the keep. Soon they were all at the end of a blind corridor looking at the ruddy brown letters scrawled on the wall.
The strokes, Magda noticed, varied in thickness, but all were of a width consistent with a human finger. She shuddered at the thought and studied the words. She recognized the language and knew she could make the translation if only her mind would concentrate on the words and not on what their author had used for ink.
"Do you have any idea what it means?" Woermann asked.
Papa nodded. "Yes," he said, and paused, mesmerized by the display before him.
"Well?" Kaempffer said.
Magda could tell that he hated to depend on a Jew for anything, and worse to be kept waiting by one. She wished her father would be more careful about provoking him.
"It says, 'Strangers, leave my home!' It's in the imperative form." His voice had an almost mechanical quality as he spoke. He was disturbed by something about the words.
Kaempffer slapped his hand against his holster. "Ah! So the killings are politically motivated!"
"Perhaps. But this warning, or demand, or whatever you might wish to call it, is perfectly couched in Old Slavonic, a dead language. As dead as Latin. And those letters are formed just the way they were written back then. I should know. I've seen enough of the old manuscripts."
Now that Papa had identified the language, Magda's mind could focus on the words. She thought she knew what was so disturbing.
"Your killer, gentlemen," he went on, "is either a most erudite scholar, or else he has been frozen for half a millennium."
FOURTEEN
"It appears we have wasted our time," Major Kaempffer said, puffing on a cigarette as he strutted about. The four were again in the lowest level of the watchtower.
In the center of the room, Magda leaned exhaustedly against the back of the wheelchair. She sensed there was some sort of tug-of-war going on between Woermann and Kaempffer, but couldn't understand the rules or the motivations of the players. Of one thing she was certain, however: Papa's life and her own hung on the outcome.
"I disagree," Captain Woermann said. He leaned against the wall by the door, his arms folded across his chest. "As I see it, we know more than we did this morning. Not much, but at least it's progress ... we haven't been making any on our own."
"It's not enough!" Kaempffer snapped. "Nowhere near enough!"
"Very well, then. Since we have no other sources of information open to us, I think we should abandon the keep immediately."
Kaempffer made no reply; he merely continued puffing and strutting back and forth across the far end of the room.
Papa cleared his throat for attention.
"Stay out of this, Jew!"
"Let's hear what he has to say. That's why we dragged him here, isn't it?"
It was gradually becoming clear to Magda that there was a deep hostility between the two officers. She knew Papa had recognized it, too, and was surely trying to turn it to their advantage.
"I may be able to help." Papa gestured to the pile of books on the table. "As I mentioned before, the answer to your problem may lie in those books. If they do hold the answer, I am the only person who—with the aid of my daughter—can ferret it out. If you wish, I shall try."
Kaempffer stopped pacing and looked at Woermann.
"It's worth a try," Woermann said. "I for one don't have any better ideas. Do you?"
Kaempffer dropped his cigarette butt to the floor and slowly ground it out with his toe. "Three days, Jew. You have three days to come up with something useful." He strode past them and out the door, leaving it open behind him.
Captain Woermann heaved himself away from the wall and turned toward the door, his hands clasped at his back. "I'll have my sergeant arrange for a pair of bedrolls for you two." He glanced at Papa's frail body. "We have no other bedding."
"I will manage, Captain. Thank you."
"Wood," Magda said. "We'll need some wood for a fire."
"It doesn't get that cold at night," he said, shaking his head.
"My father's hands—if they act up on him, he won't even be able to turn the pages."