trampling young Beckermann’s body as they went.
The Englishman let go of Hummel. Hummel flopped to earth, raised his head to look at Trager. Trager did not meet his look, shouldered his rifle and walked off in the opposite direction to the
Nazis.
The glass on the shop front pinged and shattered – a crystal rain around Hummel. He felt a hand on his shoulder, heard the Englishman saying, ‘You can’t stay here.’
Then the copper: ‘Yes he can. It’s you who must leave.’
The shop was well ablaze, the heat blasting out across the cobblestones.
‘Troy. For God’s sake. We must go now.’
Hummel felt the Englishman finally let go, heard the clatter of feet as the policeman bundled him off down the alley. Then he was alone. He curled into a foetal ball and wished for the world to
end, for the earth to open up and swallow him like Jonah into the belly of the whale. Down the street a dog was barking, but all the noise of the night now seemed so far away. As though he had
lived this night in another place and another time. He felt as though he could sleep now, in the cold early light of morning, exactly where he was on the cold, cold stone, under the hot, hot breath
of his burning shop.
A soft sound, near at hand, nearer than the wretched dog, crept into his senses. Somewhere a man was weeping. Hummel opened one eye, at ground level. Down the street old Beckermann was hunched
over the broken body of his grandson, the pool of blood seeping outward, ever nearer Hummel. The boy’s words at Passover came back to Hummel.
‘God has gone deaf. Either that or he is dead.’
Down the street a dog was barking.
§ 33
Siebert was hunched over the basin in the bathroom of Rod’s suite at the Meissl und Schadn, rinsing the blood out of the matted hair on the back of his head.
Rod looked at the wound, said, ‘Doesn’t need stitching. It’s quite a lump though. You were lucky you weren’t out cold.’
‘I was,’ Siebert said, his face still in the basin. ‘Did you think I’d let you escape if I were conscious?’
‘Come through when you’re ready. I ordered lunch as soon as we got in.’
Rod went back into the sitting room.
‘Lunch? What happened to breakfast?’
Rod called back, ‘The night ran away with you . . . it’s past noon.’
Rod lifted up the silver domes to look at the meal. Siebert came in, head buried in a hotel towel, rubbing at the wound on his skull. The sound of a cork popping made him flip up the towel and
look.
‘Champagne?’
‘Champagne, blue trout, black truffles.’
‘Good God, do you always eat like this?’
‘If at all possible. Otherwise what’s the point of staying in a joint like this?’
Siebert dropped the towel and accepted the glass of champagne.
‘Well . . . it can hardly be the company.’
‘The Germans stay here for the food . . . makes it the right place to eavesdrop. Bad company, good food. Let’s eat.’
Siebert was surprised, pleasantly, at how hungry he was. They ate and chatted. Afterwards he realised he’d kill for a fag, only to find that the Englishman had read his mind and flipped a
napkin off an unopened packet of Astas.
‘My God . . . you think of everything. Tell me, have you thought what you’re going to write about the night’s . . . what shall I call them . . . happenings . . .?’
A waiter with a pot of coffee interrupted any answer for a moment or two, but when the Englishman sat down it was obvious to Siebert that he was going to answer.
‘Yes. Of course. In fact I think I’m going to write two pieces at rather differing speeds. One I’ll get down to as soon as we’re through here, and it’ll be in the
morning edition tomorrow if I can get it out. In black and white . . . everything we saw. I’ll file from Berlin. I’m leaving on the sleeper tonight. The other . . . something for the Sunday Post. More of an essay . . . something on the nature of mob mentality . . . the instinct to survive . . . to survive by
The Englishman let go of Hummel. Hummel flopped to earth, raised his head to look at Trager. Trager did not meet his look, shouldered his rifle and walked off in the opposite direction to the
Nazis.
The glass on the shop front pinged and shattered – a crystal rain around Hummel. He felt a hand on his shoulder, heard the Englishman saying, ‘You can’t stay here.’
Then the copper: ‘Yes he can. It’s you who must leave.’
The shop was well ablaze, the heat blasting out across the cobblestones.
‘Troy. For God’s sake. We must go now.’
Hummel felt the Englishman finally let go, heard the clatter of feet as the policeman bundled him off down the alley. Then he was alone. He curled into a foetal ball and wished for the world to
end, for the earth to open up and swallow him like Jonah into the belly of the whale. Down the street a dog was barking, but all the noise of the night now seemed so far away. As though he had
lived this night in another place and another time. He felt as though he could sleep now, in the cold early light of morning, exactly where he was on the cold, cold stone, under the hot, hot breath
of his burning shop.
A soft sound, near at hand, nearer than the wretched dog, crept into his senses. Somewhere a man was weeping. Hummel opened one eye, at ground level. Down the street old Beckermann was hunched
over the broken body of his grandson, the pool of blood seeping outward, ever nearer Hummel. The boy’s words at Passover came back to Hummel.
‘God has gone deaf. Either that or he is dead.’
Down the street a dog was barking.
§ 33
Siebert was hunched over the basin in the bathroom of Rod’s suite at the Meissl und Schadn, rinsing the blood out of the matted hair on the back of his head.
Rod looked at the wound, said, ‘Doesn’t need stitching. It’s quite a lump though. You were lucky you weren’t out cold.’
‘I was,’ Siebert said, his face still in the basin. ‘Did you think I’d let you escape if I were conscious?’
‘Come through when you’re ready. I ordered lunch as soon as we got in.’
Rod went back into the sitting room.
‘Lunch? What happened to breakfast?’
Rod called back, ‘The night ran away with you . . . it’s past noon.’
Rod lifted up the silver domes to look at the meal. Siebert came in, head buried in a hotel towel, rubbing at the wound on his skull. The sound of a cork popping made him flip up the towel and
look.
‘Champagne?’
‘Champagne, blue trout, black truffles.’
‘Good God, do you always eat like this?’
‘If at all possible. Otherwise what’s the point of staying in a joint like this?’
Siebert dropped the towel and accepted the glass of champagne.
‘Well . . . it can hardly be the company.’
‘The Germans stay here for the food . . . makes it the right place to eavesdrop. Bad company, good food. Let’s eat.’
Siebert was surprised, pleasantly, at how hungry he was. They ate and chatted. Afterwards he realised he’d kill for a fag, only to find that the Englishman had read his mind and flipped a
napkin off an unopened packet of Astas.
‘My God . . . you think of everything. Tell me, have you thought what you’re going to write about the night’s . . . what shall I call them . . . happenings . . .?’
A waiter with a pot of coffee interrupted any answer for a moment or two, but when the Englishman sat down it was obvious to Siebert that he was going to answer.
‘Yes. Of course. In fact I think I’m going to write two pieces at rather differing speeds. One I’ll get down to as soon as we’re through here, and it’ll be in the
morning edition tomorrow if I can get it out. In black and white . . . everything we saw. I’ll file from Berlin. I’m leaving on the sleeper tonight. The other . . . something for the Sunday Post. More of an essay . . . something on the nature of mob mentality . . . the instinct to survive . . . to survive by
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