"And also because I want to know why he did it. Why he killed Franz. But the idiot speaks hardly any German. Mathias says he’s Hungarian, so you ask him. Ask him why he killed Franz.”
I crouched beside the prisoner, grabbed his arm, and pulled him to his knees. He was a sorry sight. One eye was bruised and on its way to swelling shut, and tears and snot were smeared all over his face. A wet circle on his lap told me he had wet himself.
The prisoner was hugging himself with both arms. I told him to move them away from his torso.
His eyes were wild and unfocused, and he was trembling like a drenched child.
I had to repeat myself and tug on his arms to get a clear view of his shirtfront. When I did, I saw a large rust-colored stain stretching all the way from his collar to the middle button. It was undoubtedly blood. A few days old, I thought. The amount was consistent with a spurting neck wound.
The Lageralteste loomed over my shoulder. He was practically vibrating with blood lust. “Go on, ask him already. I want to know why he did it."
I asked the prisoner his name. Through quivering lips, he stammered that he was called Pista.
"Well, Pista, why did you kill a boy here four days ago?"
Pista stared at me with huge wet eyes. “I... I... I know nothing about no boy. Nothing. Please tell them I know nothing.”
"His name was Franz," I said. "You stabbed him in the throat right here."
Pista shook his head. "No. No. I know nothing about no boy, I tell you. Nothing."
"What’s he saying?" the Lageralteste asked.
"That he didn’t do it."
The Lageralteste huffed. "Of course he did. Filthy, lying Jew. Tell him that if he doesn’t come clean, I’ll make his death especially painful."
I said to Pista, "There’s blood on your shirt. A good deal of it. How did it get there?"
Shrinking under the Lageralteste’s boiling fury, Pista gulped. “It happened four days ago. A member of my kommando, he didn’t jump to attention fast enough when an officer was walking by. The officer shot him with his pistol. I was standing right next to him and got blood all over me." He licked his lips. "I’ve killed no one. You got to make him believe that. Please. I swear. I don’t know anything about no boy."
I studied his terror-stricken, pleading face. And like sand through an hourglass, grain by grain, my relief drained away. Because, despite not wanting to believe it, my instincts were telling me Pista was being truthful.
"Well, what’s his story?” the Lageralteste asked.
"He says the blood got on his shirt when he was standing close to another prisoner who was shot by an officer. Says it happened the same day Franz was murdered."
"He must think we’re all fools if he believes we’ll fall for that. I’ll show him.”
"Wait a minute. Ask him where it happened; at what time of day." It was the man with the conjoined eyebrow.
"What the hell for, Rolf?" the Lageralteste said.
I didn't wait for an answer. I relayed the question to Pista.
"It was in late afternoon. On the other side of those blocks,” Pista said, pointing a shuddering finger at the row of residential blocks to the side of the latrines.
I translated the answer, and Rolf said, "I saw it happen. An Untersturmfiihrer. He was passing by a group of prisoners when he pulled out his pistol and shot one of them. No idea what provoked him.”
"Did the blood splatter any other prisoners?" I asked.
"Yeah. There was a lot of it."
The Lageralteste looked ready to burst. A bloated vein pulsed in his forehead. His face was changing color, the broken capillaries on his nose and cheeks standing out like tributaries of blood. "Did you see this man? Did you?"
"Well, no. I was behind the prisoners, so I didn’t see any of their faces. All I saw was one of them get shot and the blood spraying."
"So you don’t know it was this guy who got splattered, do you?" the Lageralteste shouted.
"No. I guess I don’t,” Rolf said, taking a step back. He looked scared for his life, and I didn't blame him. He was ruining the Lageralteste's moment—an action likely to result in severe bodily injury or worse. "I’m just telling what I saw. For all I know, the blood on his shirt is Franz’s, just like you think.”
"What do you think, Adam?" Mathias said. He was the only one who seemed calm about the whole business. "You think he’s the killer?"
I looked at Pista. He was still kneeling, eyes darting from one person to the next. The rest of us were speaking German, which meant Pista didn’t understand the bulk of our conversation, so he didn’t know what was going on. But he must have sensed that the atmosphere had shifted.
He was very thin, I noticed, his neck scrawny, and his color was terrible, a lackluster gray. He was also older than most prisoners—in his late forties, I thought. If he somehow survived the day, chances were he would perish from exhaustion or starvation in the next few weeks.
If I said that he did it, I’d be in the clear. I would have fulfilled my mission. Pista would die today, as he likely would anyway in the near future. Perhaps a bit more painfully, but dying of starvation was terrible as well. Who could say with certainty which fate was worse?
And I would live.
If I said that he was innocent, however...
"It’s not him," I said, pushing a long breath through my nose, feeling both incredibly foolish and incongruously happy with the decision I’d made.
"What?" The Lageralteste couldn’t believe his ears.
"He didn’t do it. He didn’t kill Franz.”
"How can you be sure? Maybe he heard about that business with the shot prisoner. Maybe he saw it happen and used it to explain the blood on his shirt. Franz’s blood. You said we should look for a shirt with blood on it. Well, there it is."
"I didn’t expect the killer to still be wearing it. Whoever killed Franz had planned it. He knew who he was. He knew you might get upset about it. He would have gotten rid of any bloody clothes."
"You don't know that for sure."
I did. Because I knew the killer hadn’t searched Franz’s body, which was why Vilmos had found bread on it. The motive was personal.
"Look at him," I said, gesturing at Pista. "You really think he's your killer?"
The Lageralteste's fists bunched and released, bunched and released. He so wanted Pista to be guilty; had already imagined what it would feel like to exact vengeance on him. He could still kill him, of course. He didn’t need a reason. But it wouldn't be the same.
"You understand what you’re saying, Jew? What it means? It means you still have to find this killer. And you have until tomorrow night to do it, or I kill you."
The Lageralteste locked eyes with me. His rage was turning his face into a roiling sea, his facial muscles twitching and jumping, the broken capillaries wriggling like snakes.
"I understand," I said, not breaking eye contact.
The Lageralteste nodded. "All right, then. But I’m not entirely convinced you’re right." He took a step toward Pista, fists balled.
"Let him go," I said. “He’s innocent.”
"Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t. It makes no difference to me."
Pista scooted away on his ass, raising his arms in a pitiful attempt to shield his head. I couldn’t let this happen. Couldn’t let the Lageralteste kill him. Because if he did, I had just sacrificed myself for nothing.
"Wait," I said, with enough force that the Lageralteste paused to look over his shoulder at me. "Listen, all right? Just listen. I'll find the killer, okay? I’ll do it by tomorrow. If I fail, make my death twice, no ten times, as painful and long as you planned on making it. Just let this man go. He’s not a part of this."