The sight had served to make a dull evening grim. When he and Helga had passed the tank on their way out, Woermann saw that the snake was still hungry, still winding around the inside of the cage, looking for a fourth toad despite the three swellings along its length.
He thought of that snake as he watched Kaempffer wind around the front room of Woermann's quarters, from the door, around the easel, around the desk, to the window, then back again. Except for his brown shirt, Kaempffer was clad entirely in black—black jacket, black breeches, black tie, black leather belt, black holster, and black jackboots. The silver Death's Head insignia, the SS paired thunderbolts, and his officer's pins were the only bright spots on his uniform ... glittering scales on a poisonous, blond-headed serpent.
He noticed that Kaempffer had aged somewhat since their chance meeting in Berlin two years ago. But not as much as I, Woermann thought grimly. The SS major, although two years older than Woermann, was slimmer and therefore looked younger. Kaempffer's blond hair was full and straight and still unmarred by gray. A picture of Aryan perfection.
"I noticed you only brought one squad with you," Woermann said. "The message said two. Personally, I'd have thought you'd bring a regiment."
"No, Klaus," Kaempffer said in a condescending tone as he wound about the room. "A single squad would be more than enough to handle this so-called problem of yours. My einsatzkommandos are rather proficient in taking care of this sort of thing. I brought two squads because this is merely a stop along my way."
"Where's the other squad? Picking daisies?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes." Kaempffer's smile was not a nice thing to see.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Woermann asked.
Removing his cap and coat, Kaempffer threw them on Woermann's desk, then went to the window overlooking the village. "In a minute, you shall see."
Reluctantly, Woermann joined the SS man at the window. Kaempffer had arrived only twenty minutes ago and already was usurping command. With his extermination squad in tow, he had driven across the causeway without a second's hesitation. Woermann had found himself wishing the supports had weakened during the past week. No such luck. The major's jeep and the truck behind it had made it safely across. After debarking and telling Sergeant Oster—Woermann's Sergeant Oster—to see that the einsatzkommandos were well quartered immediately, he had paraded into Woermann's suite with his right arm flailing a "Heil Hitler" and the attitude of a messiah.
"Seems you've come quite a way since the Great War," Woermann said as they watched the quiet, darkened village together. "The SS seems to suit you."
"I prefer the SS to the regular army, if that's what you're implying. Far more efficient."
"So I've heard."
"I'll show you how efficiency solves problems, Klaus. And solving problems eventually wins wars." He pointed out the window. "Look."
Woermann saw nothing at first, then noticed some movement at the edge of the village. A group of people. As they approached the causeway, the group lengthened into a parade: ten village locals stumbling before the proddings of the second squad of einsatzkommandos.
Woermann found himself shocked and dismayed, even though he should have expected something like this.
"Are you insane? Those are Romanian citizens! We're in an ally state!"
"German soldiers have been killed by one or more Romanian citizens. And it's highly unlikely General Antonescu will raise much of a fuss with the Reich over the deaths of a few country bumpkins."
"Killing them will accomplish nothing!"
"Oh, I've no intention of killing them right away. But they'll make excellent hostages. Word has been spread through the village that if one more German soldier dies, all those ten locals will be shot immediately. And ten more will be shot every time another German is killed. This will continue until either the murders stop or we run out of villagers."
Woermann turned away from the window. So this was the New Order, the New Germany, the ethic of the Master Race. This was how the war was to be won.
"It won't work," he said.
"Of course it will." Kaempffer's smugness was unbearable. "It always has and always will. These partisans feed on the backslapping they get from their drinking companions. They play the hero and milk the role for all it's worth—until their friends start dying, or until their wives and children are marched off. Then they become good little peasants again."
Woermann searched for a way to save those villagers. He knew they'd had nothing to do with the killings. "This time is different."
"I hardly think so. I do believe, Klaus, that I've had far more experience with this sort of thing than you."
"Yes ... Auschwitz, wasn't it?"
"I learned much from Commandant Hoess."
"You like learning?" Woermann snatched the major's hat from the desk and tossed it to him. "I'll show you something new! Come with me!"
Moving swiftly and giving Kaempffer no time to ask questions, Woermann led him down the tower stairs to the courtyard, then across to another stairway leading down to the cellar. He stopped at the rupture in the wall and lit a lamp, then led Kaempffer down a mossy stairway into the cavernous subcellar.
"Cold down here," Kaempffer said, his breath misting in the lamplight as he rubbed his hands together.
"It's where we keep the bodies. All six of them."
"You haven't shipped any back?"
"I didn't think it wise to ship them out one at a time ... might cause talk among the Romanians along the way... not good for German prestige. I had planned to take them all with me when I left today. But as you know, my request for relocation was denied."
He stopped before the six sheet-covered figures on the hard-packed earth, noting with annoyance that the sheets over the bodies were in disarray. It was a minor thing, but he felt the least that could be done for these men before their final burial was to treat their remains with respect. If they had to wait before being returned to their homeland, they ought to wait in clean uniforms and a neatly arranged shroud.
He went first to the man most recently killed and pulled back the sheet to expose the head and shoulders.
"This is Private Remer. Look at his throat."
Kaempffer did so, his face impassive.
Woermann replaced the sheet, then lifted the next, holding the lamp up so Kaempffer could get a good look at the ruined flesh of another throat. He then continued down the line, saving the most gruesome for last.
"And now—Private Lutz."
Finally, a reaction from Kaempffer: a tiny gasp. But Woermann gasped, too. Lutz's face stared back at them upside down. The top of his head had been set against the empty spot between his shoulders; his chin and the mangled stump of his neck were angled away from his body toward the empty darkness.
Quickly, gingerly, Woermann swiveled the head until it sat properly, vowing to find the man who had been so careless with the remains of a fallen comrade, and to make him regret it. He carefully rearranged all the sheets, then turned to Kaempffer.
"Do you understand now why I tell you hostages won't make a bit of difference?"
The major didn't reply immediately. Instead, he turned and headed for the stairs and warmer air. Woermann sensed that Kaempffer had been shaken more than he had shown.