"Silence! Tonight two more of my men were found dead in the cellar, their throats torn out like the others!"
Cuza had a fleeting image of the two dead men. After viewing the other cadavers, it was easy to imagine their wounds. He visualized their gory throats with a certain relish. Those two had attempted to defile his daughter and deserved all they had suffered. Deserved worse. Molasar was welcome to their blood.
But it was he who was in danger now. The fury in the major's face made that clear. He must think of something or he would not live to see Saturday night.
"It's now evident that you deserve no credit for the last two nights of peace. There is no connection between your arrival and the two nights without a death—just lucky coincidence for you! But you led us to believe it was your doing. Which proves what we have learned in Germany: Never trust a Jew!"
"I never took credit for anything! I never even—"
"You're trying to detain me here, aren't you?" Kaempffer said, his eyes narrowing, his voice lowering to a menacing tone as he studied him. "You're doing your best to keep me from my mission at Ploiesti, aren't you?"
Cuza's mind reeled from the major's sudden change of tack. The man was mad ... as mad as Abdul Alhazred must have been after writing the Al Azif ... which lay before them on the table...
He had an idea.
"But Major! I've finally found something in one of the books!"
Captain Woermann stepped forward at this. "Found? What have you found?"
"He's found nothing!" Kaempffer snarled. "Just another Jew lie to let him go on living!"
How right you are, Major.
"Let him speak, for God's sake!" Woermann said. He turned to Cuza. "What does it say? Show me."
Cuza indicated the Al Azif, written in the original Arabic. The book dated from the eighth century and had absolutely nothing to do with the keep, or even Romania for that matter. But he hoped the two Germans would not know that.
Doubt furrowed Woermann's brow as he looked down at the scroll. "I can't read those chicken tracks."
"He's lying!" Kaempffer shouted.
"This book does not lie, Major," Cuza said. He paused an instant, praying that the Germans would not know the difference between Turkish and ancient Arabic, then plunged into his lie. "It was written by a Turk who invaded this region with Mohammed II. He says there was a small castle—his description of all the crosses can only mean he was in this keep—in which one of the old Wallachian lords had dwelt. The shade of the deceased lord would allow natives of the region to sleep unmolested in his keep, but should outlanders or invaders dare to pass through the portals of his former home, he would slay them at the rate of one per night for every night they stayed. Do you understand? The same thing that is happening here now happened to a unit of the Turkish Army half a millennium ago!"
Cuza watched the faces of the two officers as he finished. His own reaction was one of amazement at his facile fabrication from what he knew of Molasar and the region. There were holes in the story, but small ones, and they had a good chance of being overlooked.
Kaempffer sneered. "Utter nonsense!"
"Not necessarily," Woermann said. "Think about it: The Turks were always on the march back then. And count up our corpses—with the two new ones tonight, we have averaged one death a night since I arrived on April 22."
"It's still..." Kaempffer's voice trailed off as his confidence ebbed. He looked uncertainly at Cuza. "Then we're not the first?"
"No. At least not according to this."
It was working! The biggest lie Cuza had ever told in his life, composed on the spot, was working! They didn't know what to believe! He wanted to laugh.
"How did they finally solve the problem?" Woermann asked.
"They left."
Silence followed Cuza's simple reply.
Woermann finally turned to Kaempffer: "I've been telling you that for—"
"We cannot leave!" Kaempffer said, a hint of hysteria in his voice. "Not before Sunday." He turned to Cuza. "And if you do not come up with an answer for this problem by then, Jew, I shall see to it that you and your daughter personally accompany me to Ploiesti!"
"But why?"
"You'll find out when you get there." Kaempffer paused a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "No, I believe I'll tell you now. Perhaps it will speed your efforts. You've heard of Auschwitz, no doubt? And Buchenwald?"
Cuza's stomach imploded. "Death camps."
"We prefer to call them 'Resettlement' camps. Romania lacks such a facility. It is my mission to correct that deficiency. Your kind, plus Gypsies and Freemasons and other human dross will be processed through the camp I will set up at Ploiesti. If you prove to be of service to me, I will see to it that your entry into the camp is delayed, perhaps even until your natural death. But if you impede me in any way, you and your daughter will have the honor of being our first residents."
Cuza sat helpless in his chair. He could feel his lips and tongue working, but he could not speak. His mind was too shocked, too appalled at what he had just heard. It was impossible! Yet the glee in Kaempffer's eyes told him it was true. Finally, a word escaped him.
"Beast!"
Kaempffer's smile broadened. "Strangely enough, I don't mind the sound of that word on a Jew's lips. It is proof positive that I am successfully discharging my duties." He strode to the door, then turned back. "So look well through your books, Jew. Work hard for me. Find me an answer. It's not just your own well-being that hangs on it, but your daughter's too." He turned and was gone.
Cuza looked at Woermann pleadingly. "Captain...?"
"I can do nothing, Herr Professor," he replied in a low voice full of regret. "I can only suggest that you work at those books. You've found one reference to the keep; that means there's a good chance you can find another. And I might suggest that you tell your daughter to find a safer place of residence than the inn ... perhaps somewhere in the hills."
He could not admit to the captain that he had lied about finding a reference to the keep, that there was no hope of ever finding one. And as for Magda: "My daughter is stubborn. She will stay at the inn."
"I thought as much. But beyond what I have just said, I am powerless. I am no longer in command of the keep." He grimaced. "I wonder if I ever was. Good evening."
"Wait!" Cuza clumsily fished the cross out of his pocket. "Take this. I have no use for it."
Woermann enclosed the cross in his fist and stared at him a moment. Then he, too, was gone.
Cuza sat in his wheelchair, enveloped in the blackest depression he had ever known. There was no way of winning here. If Molasar stopped killing the Germans, Kaempffer would leave for Ploiesti to begin the systematic extermination of Romanian Jewry. If Molasar persisted, Kaempffer would destroy the keep and drag him and Magda to Ploiesti as his first victims. He thought of Magda in their hands and truly understood the old cliché, a fate worse than death.
There had to be a way out. Far more than his own life and Magda's rested on what happened here. Hundreds of thousands—perhaps a million or more—lives were at stake. There had to be a way to stop Kaempffer. He had to be prevented from going off on his mission ... it seemed of utmost importance to him to arrive in Ploiesti on Monday. Would he lose his position if delayed? If so, that might give the doomed a grace period.
What if Kaempffer never left the keep? What if he met with a fatal accident? But how? How to stop him?
He sobbed in his helplessness. He was a crippled Jew amid squads of German soldiers. He needed guidance. He needed an answer. And soon. He folded his stiff fingers and bowed his head.