Major Kelly, standing in the middle of it all, sweating profusely and methodically destroying his hat, thought that this was like some complex game of chess in which real men were the pieces. Clearly, the rules were elaborate.
Having lighted his pipe, puffing calmly on it, the warm bowl gripped in one hand so tightly that it betrayed his studied nonchalance, General Rotenhausen said, “Father Picard, with your kind permission, I will have my aide start a fire in the kitchen stove and heat some water for my bath.”
“Certainly! Be my guest, General, sir,” Kelly said in mediocre French. “But first—” He sighed. He knew this might precipitate disaster, but he said, “My people will be wanting to get back to their beds. Could you tell me when you will want to search the village?”
Rotenhausen took his pipe from his mouth. Smoke rose between his lips. “Search the town, Father? But whatever for?”
Kelly cleared his throat. “I am quite aware that not all Frenchmen are as uncommitted in this war as those in St. Ignatius. I would understand if you wished to search for partisans.”
“But you have no partisans here, do you?” Rotenhausen asked, taking a few short steps from the stone fireplace, halving the distance between them.
“This is chiefly a religious community,” Kelly said. Remembering how convincing Maurice could be when he was lying, Kelly clutched at his heart. “God forbid that the Holy Church ever take sides in an earthly conflict of this sort.”
Rotenhausen smiled, stuck his pipe between his teeth again. He spoke around the slender stem. “You call this village St. Ignatius?”
“Yes, sir,” Kelly said.
“And how many people live here, did you say?”
Beckmann sat on the sofa, watching, face expressionless.
Major Kelly could not see the purpose in Rotenhausen's asking questions to which he already had the answers. But he responded anyway. “Less than two hundred souls, sir.”
“And the town is built around a convent of some sort?” Rotenhausen asked, smiling and nodding encouragingly.
He did not look like a man who would lead a backwoods French priest into a deadly admission and then blow his head off with four shots from a Luger. Nevertheless, he must be dealt with cautiously.
“The convent was here first,” Kelly said, cautiously. “The deaf came to be taught. Then the mute. Then deaf-mutes. Other sisterhoods established nunneries here to help with the work. The church was built. Then the store. A few of the laity moved in, built homes, seeking the calm and peacefulness of a religious community.” Kelly felt that his knees were melting. In a minute he was going to be writhing helplessly on the floor.
Rotenhausen took his pipe from his mouth and thrust it at Major Kelly. “To tell you the truth, Father, I would like to search your village.”
Kelly almost swayed, almost passed out.
“However,” the general continued, “I believe it would be a waste of time and effort. My men are weary, Father Picard. And they will soon be expected to fight the Allies. They need what rest they can get.” He put the pipe in his mouth and spoke around it. “Furthermore, the Reich is currently in no position to make an enemy of the Catholic Church. If we were to pry through nunneries and church schools looking for partisans, we would only help to force Rome into taking sides, and we would buy even more bad publicity for the German people.”
Behind Rotenhausen, Standartenführer Beckmann had gotten to his feet. Lantern light caught the polish on his leather belt, glittered in the death's head insignia on his cap and shoulders. He was an evil, black Frankenstein, his white face slightly twisted, half cloaked in shadows.
Kelly felt sure that Beckmann was going to disagree with the general. He was going to say the search should be held. Then everyone would die. Bang. Bang, bang, bang. The end.
But that was not what Beckmann had in mind. “Perhaps General Rotenhausen has given you the impression that Germany has, in the past, done the wrong thing and that, as a consequence, our country now suffers from a poor image in the rest of the world. I must set you straight, Father. Germany follows the dictates of the Führer, and it makes no mistakes.” He smiled at Rotenhausen. “There is no need to search St. Ignatius, because the Catholic Church is no enemy of the Reich. Oh, at times, a few of your bishops have acted unwisely. But for the most part, you people have remained neutral. Why, even Himmler is of your faith, Father. Did you know?”
“I didn't know,” Kelly murmured.
Standartenführer Beckmann's voice rose as he spoke. “Whether or not a search of St. Ignatius would generate bad publicity for the Reich is purely academic. The main reason we need not hold a search is that — you are all Catholics here. Christians. And that means you are not Jews.” Beckmann's voice had taken on a strange, chilling urgency. His face was strained, his eyes wild. “The Jews are Germany's only enemies, Father Picard. The Jews, Mischlingen, and subhumans are the threat to the race's perfection. When the world is Judenrein, then this war will end, and everyone will see that the Führer was correct!” He was breathing heavily now. “Free of Jews! How good the world will then be! And your great church recognizes this, Father Picard. It remains neutral. It is no ally of the Reich, but neither is it an enemy.”
Clearly, Rotenhausen found Beckmann's mania offensive. He turned away from the Standartenführer and ordered his aide to heat the bath water.
“Father Picard,” Beckmann said, even as Rotenhausen was speaking to his man, “how many griddles on the stove?”
“Four,” Kelly said. He was aware that the danger had passed, but he was slightly confused.
“My aide will heat water for my bath on two of the griddles, if that is all right with you, Kamerad,” Beckmann told Rotenhausen.
The general did not like that. But Beckmann's display of Nazi psychosis was enough to make him wary and, in fact, somewhat afraid of the SS colonel. “I suppose that will be fine,” he said.
The aides rushed for the kitchen, nearly colliding in the narrow hall.
“Dear Father Picard,” Rotenhausen said, “I believe we will not need you any more tonight. You may sleep in your own room. Tomorrow, please offer my apologies to your junior priests for our having had to put them out.”
“I will do that, General,” Kelly said. “Sleep well,” he said, nodding his head vigorously to both of them and bowing in an oriental fashion as he backed toward the stairs.
That was when he fell over the chair. When he backed into it, he thought he had somehow bumped into one of the soldiers, though there were no more men in the room. The knobs at the top of the backrest felt like gun barrels in his kidneys. He cried out, staggered forward, tripped, and fell.
Rotenhausen and Beckmann rushed over and helped him to his feet. “Are you hurt, Father?” the general asked, solicitously.
“No, no,” Kelly said. He was so relieved to find that he had backed into a chair instead of into a gun that he could hardly control his tongue. “It was merely a chair. Nothing but a chair.” He turned and looked at the chair. “It is one I have owned for years. A chair cannot hurt a man. A chair can do nothing to a man unless he wants it to.” He knew he was babbling, and his French was not good enough to trust to babbling, but he could not stop. For a moment, he had been sure they saw through him and were going to shoot him. But it had just been the knobs on the back of the chair.
“Be careful,” Beckmann said as Kelly backed away from them again. “You're walking right into it, Father.”
Sheepishly, Kelly looked at the chair. “I'm so stupid,” he said. He patted the chair. “But this is an old chair in which I have sat many times. It cannot hurt me, eh?” Shut up, you idiot, he told himself. He reached the stairs and started up.