ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some stories just get under your skin. Some individuals are remarkable precisely because, although they appear quite ordinary, they prove to be capable of extraordinary things. Georg Elser was just such an extraordinary, ordinary, man… as was Donald Schwarz.
I would like to extend special thanks to the librarians at the East 67th Street and Webster (York Ave.) branches of the New York Public Library (Don’s home away from home where the lion’s share of the research was done). They had the patience and tenacity to deal with my dear friend’s changeable demeanor.
Also I extend many thanks to Peter & Sandra Riva for their valuable assistance throughout the arduous process of editing tweaking and finally getting this work out there.
I owe so much to my husband, Aristophanes Kondos. Not only did he understand and encourage Don’s and my inexplicable yet bizarrely creative friendship, he also encouraged me when my confidence was at its nadir and supported my insanity even when that resulted in privations.
Lastly two great books by two great historians:
THE FUHRER AND THE PEOPLE by J. P. Stern. and
HITLER’S PERSONAL SECURITY by
Peter Hoffmann
NOVEMBER 8TH, 1939
THE STIFF SUSPENSION OF THE R-35 motorbike jolted the spine of the Corporal astride it at every rut along the empty Munich streets. The dense fog caused the light to bubble around the street lamps and had filled the Corporal’s goggles with sooty smears. He had tried negotiating his way without them but the gooey air had caused his eyes to sting. The limited visibility had made his progress frustratingly slow so he perked up a bit when the illuminated entrance of the BürgerBräuKeller came into view … that was until he recalled why he was going there. ---
Meanwhile, at a forlorn border crossing, two guards sat playing cards and taking turns glancing out the windows while they waited for the Führer’s speech to begin. The particular crossing was on the outskirts of a sleepy berg called Konstanz located at the tip of a promontory, which, if seen from the air, resembled the scrotum of Germany nudging the northern border of Switzerland. It was banked on either side by two bodies of water: the smaller Untersee to the west, and the Obersee Bodensee to the east and south. It was never quite clear to which country the bodies of water rightfully belonged and as such was one of those unnatural borders that should have led to war long before as had happened in Danzig, the problem with Konstanz was that no one was interested. That inevitably made it the best possible place to sneak out of Germany.
The city’s economic ties were with Switzerland and most of the locals had been commuting across the border for the greater part of their adult lives. In the ’20s Konstanz had been a tourist trap, but by 1939 the tourists were gone and the only available jobs were in the towns that ringed Basel and Zurich. People commuted to work during the day or to their lovers at night or smuggled undisturbed. The traffic was too heavy for customs checks to be more than random. Even the border police had lost interest.
The night of November 8th however was unusually cold and traffic had died off before 9:00 p.m. The night was very black and white. No snow had fallen yet, but the moon was close to full and the pine and fir trees on the hills stood out blacker than the sky, sucking up the light around them. The thin wind off the lakes had given up once the temperature had shifted and the branches of the fir trees hung down heavily in the cold, wet air waiting to freeze.
---
Back in Munich SS officer Christian Weber, the Führer’s chief of security for the event, listened without expression as the Corporal relayed the message. Yet another change in the program … this particular appearance had come to resemble one of those British drawing room comedies, the sort of theatre that was utterly incomprehensible to a practical people like the Germans. Weber was secretly elated at the prospect of the evening’s activities winding down early and thus the weight of the entourage leaving his shoulders and returning to Berlin, but he had a solemn duty to show his underling that he was inconvenienced, lest the chain of command be threatened. Personally he found the “Old Guard” a tiresome “pride” of toothless lions, to whom the only pleasure that remained was hearing themselves roar. There were times when the amount of sentimentality that permeated the Reich baffled him, but alas… orders were orders.
---
Outside Konstanz the night was almost dead. The only movement was a solitary man walking through the trees moving relentlessly toward the Swiss border. Georg Elser was so completely ordinary that he was difficult to describe. There was no feature or gesture that summed him up. There was a strange lack of anything personal; even his women had always had trouble remembering what he looked like. Men rarely ever noticed him at all and that was the only reason he was still alive. He was of less than average height and very thin, swallowed up in a cheap black overcoat. With the moonlight full in his face his eyes shimmered like silver.
One hundred meters from the border he gave up any attempt at concealment and walked dreamily toward Switzerland. He was unarmed. He’d heard that in America every worker carried a weapon, but that was because in America work had a quality of adventure to it, a sense that all possibilities were open. In Germany they weren’t; work was just boring and hopeless and you lived your life without interest, like it was a dead-end civil service job.
Back in Munich, Weber approached the entourage. He scanned the faces, searching for the next appropriate link in the chain of command, and speculated as to who they would finally appoint to inform the Führer at the podium. The din seemed to be nearing crescendo, that shrill voice reaching a feverish pitch while enthusiastic bellows emitted from the hall below. Weber dutifully singled out his immediate superior and passed the “hot potato” on.
---
Georg flexed his hands in his pockets, the thick tendons creaking in the cold; he was reminded of his strength and comforted by it. In the thin coat he hunched his shoulders against the cold and the darkness gave him the deformed shape of a factory worker: shoulders narrow, face unnaturally large, torso scrawny yet muscular as a chimpanzee’s with the thick overdeveloped forearms of a
carpenter. When he worked they swelled up to twice their size and the thick blue rubbery veins stood out hard as bone. Inside pockets, his hands were clenched against the cold, the fingers pressed to the palms and the hands pressed against his body the way a young child would hold them. Outside of the childish awkwardness there wasn’t much to him, he was hardly there at all—the reason women had often found him attractive. He was like the faceless, strictly functional male figure in a feminine fantasy and women were able fit him into their current daydream without the slightest difficulty.
The sound of Hitler’s voice pummeled its way into his consciousness. The Führer was working himself into a rage fit and somewhere in his subconscious Georg realised that he wasn’t imagining it … he was actually hearing it, but he still didn’t pay any notice.
At the border crossing the two guards were now smoking and watching the checkpoint from the open window of their post which, as the sign said, had once been a school for “Defective Children.” They listened to the insect drone of Hitler’s voice coming from their radio and the Austrian accent was murderous, you had to listen carefully to understand what was being said and the radio was turned up so loud that you couldn’t tell the static from that screaming, scratchy voice. Georg heard it as clearly as the guards saw him, but it didn’t register; it was indistinguishable from the other voices raging inside his head.
So, as he reached the checkpoint, the two guards seemed to appear out of nowhere and cut off his escape front and back. …
“Papiere,bitte!”
Papers, please … the one essential German phrase. The guards seemed more disgruntled than anything else, aggravated at having had to leave the comparative warmth of their post. Georg handed his papers over and smiled.
“Johann Georg Elser …,” said the guard who was holding his papers, “… your travel permit is five years out of date.”
“My apologies, I should have had it renewed.”
He smiled again as he said it and the guards, not being complicated men, thought as clearly as if it had been written in
cartoon balloons over their heads. … “He’s harmless so we should just let him pass.” The best way to deal with a breach of routine since the dawn of time has always been to ignore it, and Georg was helping them with his innocent smile. But the guards were annoyed by the need to make a decision. Clearly, he was not a deserter so the simplest thing would be to let him go. He’d be let go anyway and there would be a stack of paperwork to make out in quintuplicate and all for nothing. …
But then, they noticed that he had no luggage. You do not travel to a foreign country, even one so close, without luggage, without even a tooth brush or a tool box. Again the balloons as they thought: “He’s a young man so perhaps he’s visiting hisgirlfriend!” So, one of the guards gave him a meaningful look.
“Purpose of visit?”
But Georg remained silent. He had never actually given it any thought so he actually had no idea. Spontaneous improvisation was not in his nature, and it had never occurred to him to rehearse something he had done so many times in the past.
“This is a routine inquiry…” said the guard holding his papers, “… but since your papers are not in order, we must conduct a body search.”
Georg put his hands on top of his head and smiled again, but the guards had stopped watching his face. Their search was as slovenly as his attempt to cross the border. They were violating standard procedure. One searched him while the other stood looking over his colleague’s shoulder with polite interest. That man should have been at a distance of five meters, covering Georg with a pistol in case he attempted to run, but they seemed to be inviting him to try or, maybe they were just sure he wouldn’t.
The guards found nothing sinister, but what they did find was irritatingly pointless: some finely machined pieces of shiny metal, a dog-eared copy of Brecht’s Die Dreigroschenoper or “The Threepenny Opera” with the name Celia Peachum scribbled across the top and a souvenir postcard from the BürgerBräuKeller, a beer hall in Munich. To complicate things further, the postcard showed the Führer speaking in the ballroom, face contorted, sawing at the air
with fists clenched in rage between two rapt looking nerds with Hitler mustaches; a strange thing for a man trying to slink his way out of the country to be carrying. Clearly, as noted, the man was not a deserter. But no luggage and no girlfriend, that was very irregular and the guards did not like irregularities. Finally, they walked back into the school house for defective children and called for a PolizeiKubelwagen to take him back to Konstanz, five kilometers from their post. They didn’t say what to charge him with, that was never a problem as there were plenty of unsolved crimes in search of culprits.
Georg was driven back to Konstanz by one tired, old cop who kept him handcuffed in the front seat and didn’t ask any questions. Being a police car, the kubelwagen had a radio. It was tuned to the Führer’s broadcast; it had to be, it was on every station and the Führer raved on and on, chanting himself into a trance. He’d been talking for almost an hour and by now the staccato delivery was so fast that the words were unintelligible. It didn’t matter, the bright giddy meaning was clear and the crowd clapped and stamped and shouted.
The Führer was still at it when the cop put Georg in a detention cell and began to itemize his belongings on a wooden table of an indeterminate color. The cop noted them down carefully as if he were signing a peace treaty, bearing down on the pencil to mark his way through all four carbons. The radio was still tuned to the Führer’s speech, but it wasn’t clear if it was Hitler or some party hack, they all sounded alike anymore. The same kind of hoarse grating voice straining beyond its range, the voice breaking then coughing itself clear and then starting again with a whoop and a shriek, rampant.
The cop’s brows furrowed as he read the title of the play and he hissed between his teeth, “Entartetekunst…”—degenerate art. Then he came to the postcard from the BürgerBräuKeller. His shoulder badge announced that he was an Anwarter, an apprentice patrolman, though he looked like he was over seventy. All the ablebodied men were in the SS, preparing to defend the world from civilization. The “leftover” Anwarter glared at Georg suspiciously.
“Right now, at this very moment we are listening to the Führer speak from the BürgerBräuKeller.”
The radio made a bang and a shrieking whistle and then went dead silent. The Anwarter looked at Georg with his face out of gear, as if he were asking himself a vague question. Georg gave him his most beautiful smile and said, “The applause sounded almost like an explosion.”
---
The BürgerBräuKeller in Munich was a 300-year-old structure that had been built to last 100 years. It half supported the buildings leaning against it like a group of drunks that somehow managed to prop each other up. Under the force of the explosion the building swayed and shifted, trying to find a new point of balance. The gas lines to the kitchen had ruptured and were blowing flames into the ballroom. The ancient wood, dry as paper, was burning out of control and the stamped tin ceiling had come down like a massive fly swatter.
Within minutes the street outside was crawling with firemen and police. Access should have been easy because parts of the walls had blown out, but the tin ceiling was too big and wedged too tightly to be moved and they had no tools except the usual fire brigade axes and pry bars. An acetylene torch was suggested but, even if one could have been found, it would have cooked the wounded trapped underneath. Tin snips were suggested, but it would have taken hours to cut the ceiling into manageable pieces and they had minutes at best. Those who had thought to bring the manual rapidly thumbed through it to make sure they were following the authorized procedure for the situation, only to find that the manual did not cover such a situation. There were no rules to guide them, they were entirely on their own and would be judged by the success or failure of their decisions. It was completely unfair and absolutely terrifying. Someone suggested propping up the ceiling, but that would have required heavy machinery and they didn’t have that either. Police, SS, SD, Gestapo, and Nazi party officials were in tight
groups and shouting at each other. No one was listening, not even to themselves; it wasn’t communication. The shouting seemed to serve some other utterly egoistic function for self preservation.
Each of the distinct interest groups represented had its own hierarchy. Distinguished-looking gentlemen were clinging desperately to procedure in an attempt to disguise their own terror while simultaneously trying to bully their underlings into taking as much responsibility as possible. It could be said that the stiffer the upper lip, the greater the sense of imminent doom. By far the stiffest upper lip on site belonged to Baron Karl von Eberstein, Munich Polizei Prasident, whose unenviable responsibility it had been to oversee security—albeit unofficially—for the Führer’s appearance. The “official” responsibility had belonged to SS officer Christian Weber, who no one could locate at the moment and who, as such things usually went, would probably never be seen or heard from again.
Over the years, von Eberstein’s title had afforded him certain privileges and a diverse social circle; however, it could by no means shield him from political fallout. To keep himself from becoming the Gestapo poster boy, he had to provide them another alternative immediately, and the shoe would have to fit more perfectly than Cinderella’s. He scanned the various huddles of authority seeking out an ally; if not an actual ally then at least someone he could intimidate or manipulate sufficiently to save himself. The chosen would have to be high enough on the food chain to be effective, yet not high enough to sell Eberstein out to save their own future.
Artur Nebe had initially chosen a career in criminal investigation because he found it pleasantly diverting. It was one of few fields in which you could work as an individual, yet have access to functionaries who could relieve you of tedious errands. The political changes of the last few years had become more and more troubling. Anytime you looked over your shoulder somebody was always staring back, somebody who of course also had somebody else looking over their shoulder and so on. Personal loyalty and professional loyalty had given way to party loyalty, which basically meant you couldn’t trust anybody anymore. Nebe gazed over the beer hall wreckage grimly. Whatever the motive had been, the result
was purely political and would be exploited as such, serving the perfect pretext for nervous party climbers—people whose only insurance was the obliteration of all competence in the ranks below them. In five days, he would be forty-five years old; too old and too poor to enjoy life in exile, yet too young for any hope of retirement. Amidst the rubble he spotted his personal functionaries dutifully collecting physical evidence, photographs, and measurements, and he wondered for how long they could be counted on even for that.
A voice like shaved ice, the timbre almost but not quite effeminate, whispered in his ear.
“Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
Nebe turned to gaze directly at the man’s Adam’s apple; he had to look up to meet the eyes. Von Eberstein had intentionally stood upon a section of broken wall to gain a height advantage. However ridiculous that might have made von Eberstein appear, Nebe responded formally, he was after all a civilized man.
“Baron! How might I be of service?”
The use of his civilian title as opposed to his SS rank caused von Eberstein’s rib cage to expand noticeably and an expression of benevolence to soften his upper lip.
“Artur, I consider you to be among the very few members of the Polizei possessed of intelligence, imagination, and integrity”.
Nebe’s given name followed by three flattering epithets all beginning with the same vowel. … The situation was far worse than he could have possibly imagined. A sudden vision of Pontius Pilate caused him to struggle somewhere between mirth and dread.
“Rest assured, Baron, that you will be the first to learn of any and every development.”
“I greatly appreciate your dedication. Herr Mueller has suddenly expressed an unusually personal interest in the outcome of this particular investigation. I’m sure you understand.”
The steel gray eyes were most adept at conveying the abyss awaiting both men in the event that the outcome should disappoint.
Nebe remembered Heinrich Mueller, he had abandoned the ranks of the regular police in order to accept an appointment to some Gestapo Special Department, aside from being an obvious example
of extreme bad taste, it was a sign of insane ambition—nothing sacred and no-holds-barred ambition.
“No sense in wasting time then. Am I to contact you directly?”
“Day or night, without exception.”
Von Eberstein proceeded with as much dignity as one possibly could while stepping over corpses. Nebe watched him go with grim stoicism, comforted only by the affirmation seeking glances he received from his functionaries.
In the ballroom, the dead lay in awkward positions with their hair burnt away. Normally, the dead are so relaxed that they seem to be suffering only from sexual exhaustion. But the increased heat had caused muscles to tighten; the dead had shifted and crouched, faces hardened, and they slowly extended their arms toward each other. The movement was so gradual that it was impossible to say when it stopped. The firemen tried to pull the victims from the wreckage, but all they got were pieces that came off in their hands. At either end of that horrific tableau, transfixed and appalled, were Baron von Eberstein and Artur Nebe. Like a lot of people that night they had taken to wondering exactly how far it was to the Swiss border. The smell of roast meat was in the air. Many realized they were hungry.
N
OVEMBER 9TH, 1939
BACK IN KONSTANZ, GEORG ELSER was dreaming.
In his dream, Georg was back in that dingily furnished room that had been grimly scrubbed clean. He was in bed twitching in his sleep like a cat dreaming of mice. He’d been sleeping with the girl he’d met the night before; A tall, ugly girl with a bad face but good legs.
It was her room and she was already up. Her name was Hannah and although it sounded Jewish, it was short for Hannahlehr, an ultimately German name. Still there was something Jewish in the angular face and sorrowful eyes. She watched the man in her bed with a motherly expression that had nothing to do with her feelings. She was determined to save the situation, no matter what, and she forced the expression onto her face to reassure herself that there was nothing wrong. It was her room and that gave her an animal confidence, but that situation had gotten her scared. She had always enjoyed feeling vulnerable as long as it had to do with sex, but this was sickness. The man jerked and twisted in her bed, arms and legs twitching all at the same time, a sure sign of a first-rate nightmare, if it wasn’t epilepsy.
Then he jerked himself awake and snapped into a sitting position, wide-eyed and staring, he shouted. …
“I didn’t do it!”
She reached for him professionally with the frank confidence of a nurse in her hard, narrow hands. She sat down beside him, took him by the wrists and pulled herself forward, leaning over him nose to nose.
“Of course you didn’t …”
She said it carefully.
“You didn’t do anything.”
Georg didn’t answer. He squinted into space, seeing something happen somewhere else. He seemed likely to remain that way for the moment and, while she waited for him to snap out of it, she walked to the window and looked at the dawn sky. It was dingy too, gray over the town of Heidenheim.
Like every small German town, it looked like a fairy tale gone wrong. In the easy days of the republic, arson had been popular among the landlords. In the 1850s, everything had been declared a national monument. To put up a new building, you had to first burn down the old one. It was the only way to get rid of it.
Hannah glanced back at the man in her bed, another fairy tale gone wrong.
“Bad dreams?”
Her question was conclusive, like a doctor delivering a prognosis. Georg didn’t answer.
“That bad!?”
He was still silent so she stomped over to the closet and threw it open. There were three white uniforms, a black worsted suit for funerals, and a cheap print dress. She reached behind them all to pull out a negligee that had cost her three months’ salary. She put it on and Georg woke up a little. It was much too frilly for her, very sad, but kind of sweet.
“Morning after horrors?”
It wasn’t actually a question but when Georg didn’t respond she spat out, “I’m not that ugly!”
Her voice had risen to a shriek but Georg had only heard the last part of it.
“What are you talking about?”
He had said it very quietly.
“I asked if you’ve ever been kicked down a flight of stairs before.”
“I’d better go …”
He started to get dressed but it was a complicated process. He had his pants under the mattress to maintain the crease. His coat and shirt were on the back of a chair. His shorts and under shirt
were on a hanger in front of a partially open window. His shoes were lined up under the bed with the socks tucked inside. His shoes had been lined up under the bed every night of his life.
The inexplicable pressure he felt made him wildly uncomfortable. He scrambled out of bed and began skipping from one part of the room to another. Hannah turned on a hot plate and put on an Italian espresso pot.
She intervened gracefully.
“I think you had better sit down and have some coffee. A man is never responsible for anything he says in the morning before he’s had coffee.”
Georg was sitting on the bed with his right shoe on and the left one in both hands. To remove the right one would have insinuated a level of intimacy well beyond his emotional range. Being the sort of person who, having initiated an action found it impossible not to complete it, he really had no alternative but to put on his left shoe as well before tucking in his shirt.
“Did your mother tell you that?”
He sounded like he felt compassion and that annoyed him.
“As a matter of fact, yes!”
Her enthusiasm was not as comforting as he had hoped it would be. Georg fastened his belt and walked over to the small breakfast table. He sat down.
“You’re very hard not to like.”
Even as he said it, he simultaneously wondered if he should have.
He simply wasn’t equipped with the social filters most of us take for granted, perhaps that was another reason women were drawn to him, it gave him an inexplicable vulnerability that made them feel empowered.
“Good.”
Hannah’s tone was imperious. … Check and mate. Georg smiled competently and his eyes checked the distance to the door. She decided to push her luck.
“What did you dream?”
She still seemed worried that it might concern her.
“I really don’t remember.”
He examined the tabletop while Hannah smiled shyly and ducked her head, watching him through her false eyelashes. She had made a decision as to what the dream must have been about: something sexual, something shameful.
“I do things too … like leaving with you. Yesterday, I was ashamed. But today I’ve reached the giggling stage. What about you?”
Her giddiness was obvious enough but Georg couldn’t think of anything to say and it was his turn to speak. He still had the taste of her on his tongue. She had perfumed her bush in preparation for love. That had been a mistake, but he couldn’t tell her. Her confidence was shaky enough as it was. She had told him she had finally found something she couldn’t do without. Now he had her, but what was he going to do with her? It was only complicated because he liked her for some unfathomable reason.
“Coffee ready?”
He had asked politely, and that had seemed to reassure her.
Georg woke up back in the detention cell in the two-room jail in Konstanz. He knew he’d been dreaming, if only it could have all been a dream. As an escape attempt, it hadn’t worked and it had finally occurred to him that he had given no thought whatsoever to what would happen next. He has simply resorted to a routine he had followed time and again—walking away from responsibility.
There was operatic shouting around him. A cop was holding a telex report and reading from it in a steady scream.
“A terrorist attack in Munich … the BürgerBräuKeller. The border is closed.”
Another cop opened his mouth and worked his jaw, but no words came.
“Why?”
“It doesn’t say…” screamed the cop with the telex report and then stared at Georg with speculation. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
He said it and strode out, having found a purpose. Meanwhile another picked up a new string of news and shouted, “Any and all suspicious individuals are to be sent to Munich!”
After that, things were a blur for what seemed like a very long time. First Georg was in a car, then he was in a black Mariah and then he was in Munich, in the Marienplatz jail, in a long line of prisoners being processed. A turnkey was shouting:
“Criminals to the right, political criminals to the left, relatives of political criminals 2nd floor to the right. Administrative detainees: 2nd floor to the left. Anonymous denunciations: straight ahead to the door at the end of the hall. Repeat: Criminals to the right. …”
Georg stopped, holding up the line. He seemed uncertain which way to go. A turnkey grabbed him and threw him into the cage of political prisoners on the left. In the opposite cell block, in the common prisoners’ cage, the wall was covered by a poster: “Jointhe Reicharbeitdienst” it said. It was a public works program, but mostly they spent a lot of time marching up and down. The poster showed a worker of heroic proportions carrying a shovel, his face lit with deadpan rapture. He was wedged between SS and Wehrmacht privates carrying slick art deco weapons. They were shown from a low angle looking up and they appeared to be over seventeen meters tall. As Georg was looking at it, a hand reached up and tore off a corner of the poster. A fat man who was squatting on the pot used it to wipe his ass. A political discussion about that ensued, but the fat man took a single-edged razor blade from under his tongue while a lean tattooed man pulled a sharpened bicycle spoke out of the hem of his coat. As they proceeded to murder each other, Georg looked away.
The political cage was full, the bunks and even the corners were taken. Georg lay down in the middle of the floor. In the dim light he started to fondle himself because that at least helped pass the time, but he couldn’t stay awake. He curled asleep like a cat.
There was the sound of booted feet running and everyone was yelling, but he didn’t seem to notice.
NOVEMBER 10TH, 1939
CHIEF DETECTIVE INSPECTOR NEBE SAT down behind his cigarette-scarred walnut desk—the Führer’s picture looming above—and made a show of studying an 8x10 matte photograph of the wreckage of the BürgerBräuKeller. There wasn’t much to it, just the burnt-out ballroom. The print showed the two pillars behind the Führer’s podium. The one on the right had been blown half away but it had held. Not much of a bomb, so it was surprising how much damage it had caused.
“Talented …”
Nebe said and looked around for a reaction. Inspectors Brandt and Nolte were displaying worry in their usual ways. Nolte sat with his elbows on his knees feeling sorry for himself; he’d been handsome once and still used his face theatrically. Brandt was standing, chin-up and looking dedicated. Nebe hated both of them quite cordially. They had known each other too long and, like most old friends, had too much to get even for. He envied the easy friendships of American gangster movies where no one seemed to have any memories. He summoned his authority and drew an X on the hole in the right hand pillar. He held up the print and asked:
“What’s the scale on this?”
“The pillars are one meter thick.”
Brandt answered, but Nolte didn’t want to be outdone.
“Some of them … The building was put up at different times. The ballroom was added in the 1850s.”
He was trying to impress as usual, but if Brandt said that it was one meter thick, then he had actually measured it.
“Just so …”
Nebe took out a pair of calipers and began measuring. He slid a draftsman’s rule out of the middle drawer of his desk and held the calipers against it, writing down the numbers on a yellow pad.
“You want to go back down there and take another look?” asked Brandt.
“Evidence you have to get that way isn’t worth the trouble.” Nebe picked up the slide rule and did a quick calculation, then came out from behind the desk, holding the ruler and scowling triumphantly. He measured a height from the floor against the desk and marked it with a stub of chalk.
“Kneel down.”
He said it to Brandt as he wiggled the ruler and smiled.
“What for?” asked Brandt in high voice.
“You are chiseling a hole in the side of a brick and concrete pillar.”
Brandt knelt down and began to pantomime hammer and chisel. Nebe crossed his arms and waited. Brandt was genuinely stupid, which made him a pleasure to command. Nebe thought about Heinrich Mueller; that brilliant yet crude man, so brutal and tasteless that he had left the police and was now head of some Gestapo department or other. This should have been a Gestapo case; it was political and yet the Gestapo wouldn’t touch it. Something was wrong and if they knew that when the case was but hours old then they had known about it in advance. Meaning what? The men gathered there had been Alte Kampfer, old fighters who had been with the Führer since the beginning, men to whom he owed an enormous debt but who were no longer useful.
Killing them off would have been an elegant solution … But, were that the case, then why then had the Führer bothered to show up at all? He had originally cancelled and then changed his mind, why? Again the answer came: so he could have one more miraculous escape. Goebbels was already claiming divine intervention. However, it still didn’t make sense. The Führer was a brave man, certainly, but to trust his life to an infernal machine ticking away in the pillar behind him, that was an insane and pointless risk; unless there had been no risk.
Nebe shrugged it off, analysis wasn’t getting him anywhere. If it were a Gestapo plot, that would be the best reason for keeping the investigation to themselves. A Gestapo plot would have the fall guy ready and waiting, as they had done at the Reichstag fire. Yet again an answer came to him: so that whoever might try to actually solve it could be brought down. He and his colleagues were middle-aged police inspectors and as apolitical as hedgehogs. Discrediting the police to the benefit of the SS? The police were now part of the SS. He himself was now Sturmbannführer. Having received his commission in the mail, he’d even had to go out and buy a new uniform. Having his measurements taken had been humiliating. He hadn’t realized that his waist had crept up to 40 inches; his old pants were conveniently stretched out.
He shook his head. Discrediting the police to the benefit of the Gestapo? The police would fail, the case would be handed to the Gestapo and they would solve it. The case was obviously political so it rightfully belonged to them anyway. Why wouldn’t they touch it? He needed a drink. He needed a bottle. He needed to stay drunk for three days. Perhaps he was trying to get more information out of this than there was in it. The investigation manuals specifically warned against that: stick to the facts, don’t try to make sense out of human motivation or you’ll drive yourself crazy. One thing was clear: he had to get out of this fast. Perhaps he could find a doctor under indictment for insurance fraud who could recommend a drug that would mimic the symptoms of a heart attack. Insurance fraud was which department? Bunko squad? At least that would be a place to start. It would require some tact and if he moved fast he might actually get out of this alive and with his pension, which was basically the same thing.
He was panicking, which was perfectly fine so long as he was the first one to do so. He would, of course, have to convince Brandt and Nolte that they were in no danger; that would be the only way to remain above suspicion. That could be a problem though because Nolte wasn’t stupid. Nebe peered out the window at the moon. It wasn’t there.
“Almost full, what is it. … Two days past?”
Brandt reached for a pocket calendar but Nebe stopped him.
“No, you keep digging.”
Nolte got up and went to check the wall calendar.
“It’s November 10th.”
Nolte tore off two sheets and squinted at the phases of the moon in the upper right hand corner.
“No. A week past, full moon was on the third.”
“Shame. Less to explain if it had happened on a full moon,” Nebe said.
Nolte’s face was indignant, which gave him a dowager’s prissiness
“This wasn’t a loon.”
Nebe murmured evasively …
“Even so, there was that attempt last year, that Swiss theology student.”
The Gestapo had asked him his name and then cut off his head. No one had needed any theories about it. Nebe expounded.
“No one had been interested because he was just another ditsy amateur who had waded into a crowd with a little shit pistol. This attempt however is too good, too scary to live with. So, there must be some ironic trick interpretation that says that in some sense it doesn’t really count.”
“You read too much.”
Nolte was pushing, but Nebe was feeling philosophical.
“Those might be the truest words you’ve ever said.”
Brandt had no idea what they were talking about. Nolte, though, always felt the need to flaunt. …
“Was that… Hegel?”
Nebe shook his head. …
“Kierkegaard’s TheConceptofIrony.”
Nolte conceded.
“So, why are you a cop?”
Nebe smiled,
“Because I’m a sadist.”
At least that part was true. He had all of the classic German books on flagellation: thousands and thousands of pages just classifying
different kinds of asses. It was the most boring shit imaginable. Nebe turned to watch Brandt playing hammer and chisel. He’d keep at it until he hemorrhaged or someone told him to stop.
“How’re you doing?”
“My knees hurt. …”
There was a childlike whine in Brant’s voice, brought on by the childish game. The man was pathetic. Nebe smiled at him.
“Good.”
Brandt continued to dig away at the empty air then asked hopefully:
“Can I try this sitting down?”
Nebe was magnanimous.
“Of course you can.”
Brandt’s face lifted.
“May I?”
Nebe nodded. …
“Yes, actually it’s an order.”
Brandt sat down and began to claw the air double time.
“Much more comfortable; I’d have done it this way.”
“Shit! He wouldn’t have!”
Nolte said and he stood up and paced the center of the room intent on imposing his deductive superiority.
“Yeah? Why not?”
Brandt breathed out heavily. Nolte elaborated. …
“He would’ve had to hold his arms out straight, and they’d have tired far more quickly. If he had worked on his knees, he’d have been able to use some of the strength of his legs. We are talking about long, hard work, even for a strong man. Days, weeks … He could only work a few hours a night while the place was closed.”
Nebe gave Nolte a paternal smile he had theretofore been unable to find a use for. He flicked his eyes to Brandt. The man was still hammering at the air; teeth gritted and sweat dribbling off the end of his nose.
“You can stop now.”
Brandt got up, brushing himself off and looking peeved. Nebe inspected his two assistants.
“Either of you ever seen a scrubwoman’s knees?”
“No, thank God!” Nolte said.
“What if he had used a pillow?” Brandt asked.
Nebe pulled up Brandt’s pant leg demonstratively; Nolte raised an eyebrow noting the redness even after such a short time. Nebe smiled.
“They’d still be calloused, and if not, they’d be scarred. Come on gentlemen, maybe we’ll get lucky.”
And they set off for the holding pens in the second subbasement.
They got the political prisoners out of the tank and into a ragged formation in the corridor; lining them up against the bars of the cages. These were faces out of a political cartoon: Lenin beards and Bakunin haircuts, watery pleading eyes and chinless quivering mouths. There were a surprising number of round-lensed spectacles with gold-wire frames. These were men who knew what they were and they were trying hard to look like it. Nebe smiled at them; he liked stupid people. There was one demented character in a WWI cavalry uniform. He was standing stiffly erect, which couldn’t have been easy; the heels of his boots were so worn they were almost perpendicular to the floor. There were also several normal-looking people, either pros or there by mistake. Nebe held up his hands.
“Everybody drop your pants. Yeah, I think I’m in love. Drop your pants!”
He said that doing his best Jimmy Cagney imitation. He loved American gangster movies.
They all dropped their trousers, shuffling and humiliated as his eyes ran along the line of knees. Knees like eggs, knees like goat skulls, knees scalloped with knobs of tendon. There was one without a kneecap. The leg was stiff. That let him off. Then Nebe’s eyes stopped on a set of knees that were heavily scabbed. He looked up slowly to meet the wonderful smile of Georg Elser. Nebe found himself smiling too.
“Nothing personal …”
After having said that he wondered what he had meant by it.
“Alright … Solitary, suicide watch, continuous surveillance.”
Another random document with no related content on Scribd:
[486] xxxix 3 gree 1609
[487] 7 Squire 1596
[488] xli 2 there] their 1596
Cant. VI.
The Hermite heales both Squire and dame Of their sore maladies: He Turpine doth defeate, and shame For his late villanies.
No wound, which warlike hand of enemy i Inflicts with dint of sword, so sore doth light, As doth the poysnous sting, which infamy Infixeth in the name of noble wight: For by no art, nor any leaches might It euer can recured be againe; Ne all the skill, which that immortall spright Of Podalyrius did in it retaine, Can remedy such hurts; such hurts are hellish paine.
Such were the wounds, the which that Blatant Beast ii Made in the bodies of that Squire and Dame; And being such, were now much more increast, For want of taking heede vnto the same, That now corrupt and curelesse they became. Howbe that carefull Hermite did his best, With many kindes of medicines meete, to tame The poysnous humour, which did most infest
Their ranckling wounds, and euery day them duely drest.
For he right well in Leaches craft was seene, iii And through the long experience of his dayes, Which had in many fortunes tossed beene, And past through many perillous assayes, He knew the diuerse went of mortall wayes, And in the mindes of men had great insight; Which with sage counsell, when they went astray, He could enforme, and them reduce aright, And al the passions heale, which wound the weaker spright.
For whylome he had bene a doughty Knight, iv As any one, that liued in his daies, And proued oft in many perillous fight, Of which he grace and glory wonne alwaies, And in all battels bore away the baies. But being now attacht with timely age, And weary of this worlds vnquiet waies, He tooke him selfe vnto this Hermitage, In which he liu’d alone, like carelesse bird in cage.
One day, as he was searching of their wounds, v He found that they had festred priuily, And ranckling inward with vnruly stounds, The inner parts now gan to putrify, That quite they seem’d past helpe of surgery, And rather needed to be disciplinde With holesome reede of sad sobriety, To rule the stubborne rage of passion blinde: Giue salues to euery sore, but counsell to the minde.
So taking them apart into his cell, vi He to that point fit speaches gan to frame, As he the art of words knew wondrous well, And eke could doe, as well as say the same, And thus he to them sayd; Faire[489] daughter Dame,
And you faire sonne, which here thus long now lie In piteous languor, since ye hither came, In vaine of me ye hope for remedie, And I likewise in vaine doe salues to you applie.
For in your selfe your onely helpe doth lie, vii
To heale your selues, and must proceed alone From your owne will, to cure your maladie. Who can him cure, that will be cur’d of none?
If therefore health ye seeke, obserue this one. First learne your outward sences to refraine
From things, that stirre vp fraile affection; Your eies, your eares, your tongue, your talk restraine From that they most affect, and in due termes containe.
For from those outward sences ill affected, viii
The seede of all this euill first doth spring, Which at the first before it had infected, Mote easie be supprest with little thing: But being growen strong, it forth doth bring Sorrow, and anguish, and impatient paine
In th’inner parts, and lastly scattering Contagious poyson close through euery vaine, It neuer rests, till it haue wrought his finall bane.
For that beastes teeth, which wounded you tofore, ix
Are so exceeding venemous and keene, Made all of rusty yron, ranckling sore, That where they bite, it booteth not to weene With salue, or antidote, or other mene It euer to amend: ne maruaile ought; For that same beast was bred of hellish strene, And long in darksome Stygian den vpbrought, Begot of foule Echidna, as in bookes is taught.
Echidna is a Monster direfull dred, x Whom Gods doe hate, and heauens abhor to see; So hideous is her shape, so huge her hed,
That euen the hellish fiends affrighted bee
At sight thereof, and from her presence flee: Yet did her face and former parts professe
A faire young Mayden, full of comely glee; But all her hinder parts did plaine expresse
A monstrous Dragon, full of fearefull vglinesse.
To her the Gods, for her so dreadfull face, xi
In fearefull darkenesse, furthest from the skie, And from the earth, appointed haue her place, Mongst rocks and caues, where she enrold doth lie
In hideous horrour and obscurity,
Wasting the strength of her immortall age. There did Typhaon with her company, Cruell Typhaon, whose tempestuous rage
Make th’heauens tremble oft, and him with vowes asswage.
Of that commixtion they did then beget xii
This hellish Dog, that hight the Blatant Beast; A wicked Monster, that his tongue doth whet
Gainst all, both good and bad, both most and least, And poures his poysnous gall forth to infest
The noblest wights with notable defame:
Ne euer Knight, that bore so lofty creast, Ne euer Lady of so honest name,
But he them spotted with reproch, or secrete[490] shame.
In vaine therefore it were, with medicine xiii
To goe about to salue such kynd of sore, That rather needes wise read and discipline, Then outward salues, that may augment it more.
Aye me (sayd then Serena sighing sore)
What hope of helpe doth then for vs remaine, If that no salues may vs to health restore?
But sith we need good counsell (sayd the swaine)
Aread good sire, some counsell, that may vs sustaine.
The best (sayd he) that I can you aduize, xiv Is to auoide the occasion of the ill: For when the cause, whence euill doth arize, Remoued is, th’effect surceaseth still.
Abstaine from pleasure, and restraine your will, Subdue desire, and bridle loose delight, Vse scanted diet, and forbeare your fill, Shun secresie, and talke in open sight: So shall you soone repaire your present euill plight.
Thus hauing sayd, his sickely patients xv Did gladly hearken to his graue beheast, And kept so well his wise commaundements, That in short space their malady was ceast, And eke the biting of that harmefull Beast Was throughly heal’d. Tho when they did perceaue Their wounds recur’d, and forces reincreast, Of that good Hermite both they tooke their leaue, And went both on their way, ne ech would other leaue.
But each the[491] other vow’d t’accompany, xvi
The Lady, for that she was much in dred, Now left alone in great extremity, The Squire, for that he courteous was indeed, Would not her leaue alone in her great need. So both together traueld, till they met With a faire Mayden clad in mourning weed, Vpon a mangy iade vnmeetely set, And a lewd foole her leading thorough dry and wet.
But by what meanes that shame to her befell, xvii And how thereof her selfe she did acquite, I must a while forbeare to you to tell; Till that, as comes by course, I doe recite, What fortune to the Briton Prince did lite, Pursuing that proud Knight, the which whileare Wrought to Sir Calidore[492] so foule despight;
And eke his Lady, though she sickely were, So lewdly had abusde, as ye did lately heare.
The Prince according to the former token, xviii Which faire Serene to him deliuered had, Pursu’d him streight, in mynd to bene ywroken Of all the vile demeane, and vsage bad, With which he had those two so ill bestad: Ne wight with him on that aduenture went, But that wylde man, whom though he oft forbad, Yet for no bidding, nor for being shent, Would he restrayned be from his attendement.
Arriuing there, as did by chaunce befall, xix
He found the gate wyde ope, and in he rode, Ne stayd, till that he came into the hall: Where soft dismounting like a weary lode, Vpon the ground with feeble feete he trode, As he vnable were for very neede
To moue one foote, but there must make abode; The whiles the saluage man did take his steede, And in some stable neare did set him vp to feede.
Ere long to him a homely groome there came, xx That in rude wise him asked, what he was, That durst so boldly, without let or shame, Into his Lords forbidden hall to passe.
To whom the Prince, him fayning to embase, Mylde answer made; he was an errant Knight, The which was fall’n into this feeble case, Through many wounds, which lately he in fight[493] Receiued had, and prayd to pitty his ill plight.
But he, the more outrageous and bold, xxi
Sternely did bid him quickely thence auaunt, Or deare aby, for why his Lord of old Did hate all errant Knights, which there did haunt,
Ne lodging would to any of them graunt, And therefore lightly bad him packe away, Not sparing him with bitter words to taunt; And therewithall rude hand on him did lay, To thrust him out of dore, doing his worst assay.
Which when the Saluage comming now in place, xxii Beheld, eftsoones he all enraged grew, And running streight vpon that villaine base, Like a fell Lion at him fiercely flew, And with his teeth and nailes, in present vew, Him rudely rent, and all to peeces tore: So miserably him all helpelesse slew, That with the noise, whilest he did loudly rore, The people of the house rose forth in great vprore.
Who when on ground they saw their fellow slaine, xxiii And that same Knight and Saluage standing by, Vpon them two they fell with might and maine, And on them layd so huge and horribly, As if they would haue slaine them presently. But the bold Prince defended him so well, And their assault withstood so mightily, That maugre all their might, he did repell, And beat them back, whilest many vnderneath him fell.
Yet he them still so sharpely did pursew, xxiv That few of them he left aliue, which fled, Those euill tidings to their Lord to shew. Who hearing how his people badly sped, Came forth in hast: where when as with the dead He saw the ground all strow’d, and that same Knight And saluage with their bloud fresh steeming red, He woxe nigh mad with wrath and fell despight, And with reprochfull words him thus bespake on hight.
Art thou he, traytor, that with treason vile, xxv Hast slaine my men in this vnmanly maner,
And now triumphest in the piteous spoile
Of these poore folk, whose soules with black dishonor And foule defame doe decke thy bloudy baner? The meede whereof shall shortly be thy shame, And wretched end, which still attendeth on her. With that him selfe to battell he did frame; So did his forty yeomen, which there with him came.
With dreadfull force they all did him assaile, xxvi
And round about with boystrous strokes oppresse, That on his shield did rattle like to haile In a great tempest; that in such distresse, He wist not to which side him to addresse.
And euermore that crauen cowherd Knight[494] Was at his backe with heartlesse heedinesse, Wayting if he vnwares him murther might: For cowardize doth still in villany delight.
Whereof whenas the Prince was well aware, xxvii He to him turnd with furious intent, And him against his powre gan to prepare; Like a fierce Bull, that being busie bent To fight with many foes about him ment, Feeling some curre behinde his heeles to bite, Turnes him about with fell auengement; So likewise turnde the Prince vpon the Knight, And layd at him amaine with all his will and might.
Who when he once his dreadfull strokes had tasted, xxviii
Durst not the furie of his force abyde, But turn’d abacke, and to retyre him hasted Through the thick prease, there thinking him to hyde. But when the Prince had once him plainely eyde, He foot by foot him followed alway, Ne would him suffer once to shrinke asyde But ioyning close, huge lode at him did lay: Who flying still did ward, and warding fly away.
But when his foe he still so eger saw, xxix Vnto his heeles himselfe he did betake, Hoping vnto some refuge to withdraw: Ne would the Prince him euer foot forsake, Where so he went, but after him did make. He fled from roome to roome, from place to place, Whylest euery ioynt for dread of death did quake, Still looking after him, that did him chace; That made him euermore increase his speedie pace.
At last he vp into the chamber came, xxx Whereas his loue was sitting all alone, Wayting what tydings of her folke became. There did the Prince him ouertake anone, Crying in vaine to her, him to bemone; And with his sword him on the head did smyte, That to the ground[495] he fell in senselesse swone: Yet whether thwart or flatly it did lyte, The tempred steele did not into his braynepan byte.
Which when the Ladie saw, with great affright xxxi She starting vp, began to shrieke aloud, And with her garment couering him from sight, Seem’d vnder her protection him to shroud; And falling lowly at his feet, her bowd Vpon her knee, intreating him for grace, And often him besought, and prayd, and vowd; That with the ruth of her so wretched case, He stayd his second strooke, and did his hand abase.
Her weed she then withdrawing, did him discover, xxxii Who now come to himselfe, yet would not rize, But still did lie as dead, and quake, and quiuer, That euen the Prince his basenesse did despize, And eke his Dame him seeing in such guize, Gan him recomfort, and from ground to reare. Who rising vp at last in ghastly wize,
Like troubled ghost did dreadfully appeare, As one that had no life him left through former feare.
Whom when the Prince so deadly saw dismayd, xxxiii He for such basenesse shamefully him shent, And with sharpe words did bitterly vpbrayd; Vile cowheard dogge, now doe I much repent, That euer I this life vnto thee lent, Whereof thou caytiue so vnworthie art; That both thy loue, for lacke of hardiment, And eke thy selfe, for want of manly hart, And eke all knights hast shamed with this knightlesse part.
Yet further hast thou heaped shame to shame, xxxiv And crime to crime, by this thy cowheard feare. For first it was to thee reprochfull blame, To erect this wicked custome, which I heare, Gainst errant Knights and Ladies thou dost reare; Whom when thou mayst, thou dost of arms despoile, Or of their vpper garment, which they weare: Yet doest thou not with manhood, but with guile Maintaine this euill vse, thy foes thereby to foile.
And lastly in approuance of thy wrong, xxxv
To shew such faintnesse and foule cowardize, Is greatest shame: for oft it falles, that strong And valiant knights doe rashly enterprize, Either for fame, or else for exercize,
A wrongfull quarrell to maintaine by fight[496]; Yet haue, through prowesse and their braue emprize, Gotten great worship in this worldes sight. For greater force there needs to maintaine wrong, then right.
Yet since[497] thy[498] life vnto this Ladie fayre xxxvi I giuen haue, liue in reproch and scorne; Ne euer armes, ne euer knighthood dare Hence to professe: for shame is to adorne
With so braue badges one so basely borne; But onely breath sith that I did forgiue. So hauing from his crauen bodie torne
Those goodly armes, he them away did giue And onely suffred him this wretched life to liue.
There whilest he thus was setling things aboue, xxxvii
Atwene that Ladie myld and recreant knight,
To whom his life he graunted for her loue, He gan bethinke him, in what perilous plight
He had behynd him left that saluage wight, Amongst so many foes, whom sure he thought
By this quite slaine in so vnequall fight: Therefore descending backe in haste, he sought If yet he were aliue, or to destruction brought.
There he him found enuironed about xxxviii
With slaughtred bodies, which his hand had slaine, And laying yet a fresh with courage stout
Vpon the rest, that did aliue remaine; Whom he likewise right sorely did constraine, Like scattred sheepe, to seeke for safetie, After he gotten had with busie paine
Some of their weapons, which thereby did lie, With which he layd about, and made them fast to flie.
Whom when the Prince so felly saw to rage, xxxix
Approching to him neare, his hand he stayd, And sought, by making signes, him to asswage: Who them perceiuing, streight to him obayd, As to his Lord, and downe his weapons layd, As if he long had to his heasts bene trayned. Thence he him brought away, and vp conuayd
Into the chamber, where that Dame remayned With her vnworthy knight, who ill him entertayned.
Whom when the Saluage saw from daunger free, xl
Sitting beside his Ladie there at ease,
He well remembred, that the same was hee, Which lately sought his Lord for to displease: Tho all in rage, he on him streight did seaze, As if he would in peeces him haue rent; And were not, that the Prince did him appeaze, He had not left one limbe of him vnrent: But streight he held his hand at his commaundement.
Thus hauing all things well in peace ordayned, xli
The Prince himselfe there all that night did rest, Where him Blandina fayrely entertayned, With all the courteous glee and goodly feast, The which for him she could imagine best. For well she knew the wayes to win good will Of euery wight, that were not too infest, And how to please the minds of good and ill, Through tempering of her words and lookes by wondrous skill.
Yet were her words and lookes but false and fayned, xlii
To some hid end to make more easie way, Or to allure such fondlings, whom she trayned Into her trap vnto their owne decay:
Thereto, when needed, she could weepe and pray, And when her listed, she could fawne and flatter; Now smyling smoothly, like to sommers day, Now glooming sadly, so to cloke her matter; Yet were her words but wynd, and all her teares but water.
Whether such grace were giuen her by kynd, xliii
As women wont their guilefull wits to guyde; Or learn’d the art to please, I doe not fynd. This well I wote, that she so well applyde
Her pleasing tongue, that soone she pacifyde
The wrathfull Prince, and wrought her husbands peace. Who nathelesse not therewith satisfyde, His rancorous despight did not releasse, Ne secretly from thought of fell reuenge surceasse.
For all that night, the whyles the Prince did rest xliv In carelesse couch, not weeting what was ment, He watcht in close awayt with weapons prest, Willing to worke his villenous intent
On him, that had so shamefully him shent: Yet durst he not for very cowardize
Effect the same, whylest all the night was spent. The morrow next the Prince did early rize, And passed forth, to follow his first enterprize.
FOOTNOTES:
[489] vi 5 faire 1596
[490] xii 9 secret 1609 passim
[491] xvi 1 the] th’ 1596
[492] xvii 7 Calidore] Calepine corr. Hughes rightly
[493] xx 8 fight, 1596, 1609
[494] xxvi 6 Knight, 1596, 1609
[495] xxx 7 gound 1596
[496] xxxv 6 fight] right 1596
[497] xxxvi 1 since] sith 1609
[498] thy] this 1609
Cant. VII.
Turpine is baffuld, his two knights doe gaine their treasons meed, Fayre Mirabellaes punishment for loues disdaine decreed.
Like as the[499] gentle hart it selfe bewrayes, i In doing gentle deedes with franke delight, Euen so the baser mind it selfe displayes, In cancred malice and reuengefull spight. For to maligne, t’enuie, t’vse shifting slight, Be arguments of a vile donghill mind, Which what it dare not doe by open might, To worke by wicked treason wayes doth find, By such discourteous deeds discouering his base kind.
That well appeares in this discourteous knight, ii The coward Turpine, whereof now I treat; Who notwithstanding that in former fight He of the Prince his life receiued late, Yet in his mind malitious and ingrate He gan deuize, to be aueng’d anew For all that shame, which kindled inward hate.
Therefore so soone as he was out of vew, Himselfe in hast he arm’d, and did him fast pursew.
Well did he tract his steps, as he did ryde, iii Yet would not neare approch in daungers eye, But kept aloofe for dread to be descryde, Vntill fit time and place he mote espy, Where he mote worke him scath[500] and villeny. At last he met two knights to him vnknowne, The which were armed[501] both agreeably, And both combynd, what euer chaunce were blowne, Betwixt them to diuide, and each to make his owne.
To whom false Turpine comming courteously, iv To cloke the mischiefe, which he inly ment, Gan to complaine of great discourtesie, Which a straunge knight, that neare afore him went, Had doen to him, and his deare Ladie shent: Which if they would afford him ayde at need For to auenge, in time conuenient, They should accomplish both a knightly deed, And for their paines obtaine of him a goodly meed.
The knights beleeu’d, that all he sayd, was trew, v And being fresh and full of youthly spright, Were glad to heare of that aduenture new, In which they mote make triall of their might, Which neuer yet they had approu’d in fight; And eke desirous of the offred meed, Said then the one of them; Where[502] is that wight, The which hath doen to thee this wrongfull deed, That we may it auenge, and punish him with speed?
He rides (said Turpine) there not farre afore, vi With a wyld man soft footing by his syde, That if ye list to haste a litle more, Ye may him ouertake in timely tyde.[503]
Eftsoones they pricked forth with forward pryde, And ere that litle while they ridden had, The gentle Prince not farre away they spyde, Ryding a softly pace with portance sad, Deuizing of his loue more, then of daunger drad.
Then one of them aloud vnto him cryde, vii
Bidding him turne againe, false traytour knight, Foule womanwronger, for he him defyde.
With that they both at once with equall spight Did bend their speares, and both with equall might Against him ran; but th’one did misse his marke, And being carried with his force forthright, Glaunst swiftly by; like to that heauenly sparke, Which glyding through the ayre lights all the heauens darke.
But th’other ayming better, did him smite viii
Full in the shield, with so impetuous powre, That all his launce in peeces shiuered quite, And scattered all about, fell on the flowre.
But the stout Prince, with much more steddy stowre Full on his beuer did him strike so sore,
That the cold steele through piercing, did deuowre
His vitall breath, and to the ground him bore, Where still he bathed lay in his owne bloody gore.
As when a cast of Faulcons make their flight ix
At an Herneshaw, that lyes aloft on wing,
The whyles they strike at him with heedlesse might, The warie foule his bill doth backward wring; On which the first, whose force her first doth bring, Her selfe quite through the bodie doth engore, And falleth downe to ground like senselesse thing, But th’other not so swift, as she before, Fayles of her souse, and passing by doth hurt no more.
By this the other, which was passed by, x Himselfe recouering, was return’d to fight;
Where when he saw his fellow lifelesse ly, He much was daunted with so dismall sight; Yet nought abating of his former spight, Let driue at him with so malitious mynd, As if he would haue passed through him quight: But the steele-head no stedfast hold could fynd, But glauncing by, deceiu’d him of that he desynd.
Not so the Prince: for his well learned speare xi
Tooke surer hould, and from his horses backe
Aboue a launces length him forth did beare, And gainst the cold hard earth so sore him strake, That all his bones in peeces nigh he brake. Where seeing him so lie, he left his steed, And to him leaping, vengeance thought to take Of him, for all his former follies meed, With flaming sword in hand his terror more to breed.
The fearefull swayne beholding death so nie, xii
Cryde out aloud for mercie him to saue; In lieu whereof he would to him descrie, Great treason to him meant, his life to reaue. The Prince soone hearkned, and his life forgaue. Then thus said he, There is a straunger knight, The which for promise of great meed, vs draue
To this attempt, to wreake his hid despight, For that himselfe thereto did want sufficient might.
The Prince much mused at such villenie, xiii
And sayd; Now sure ye well haue earn’d your meed, For th’one is dead, and th’other soone shall die, Vnlesse to me thou hether bring with speed
The wretch, that hyr’d you to this wicked deed.[504] He glad of life, and willing eke to wreake
The guilt on him, which did this mischiefe breed, Swore by his sword, that neither day nor weeke He would surceasse, but him, where so he were, would seeke.
So vp he rose, and forth streight way he went xiv Backe to the place, where Turpine late he lore; There he him found in great astonishment, To see him so bedight with bloodie gore, And griesly wounds that him appalled sore. Yet thus at length he said, How[505] now Sir knight? What meaneth this, which here I see before? How fortuneth this foule vncomely plight, So different from that, which earst ye seem’d in sight?
Perdie (said he) in euill houre it fell, xv
That euer I for meed did vndertake
So hard a taske, as life for hyre to sell; The which I earst aduentur’d for your sake. Witnesse the wounds, and this wyde bloudie lake, Which ye may see yet all about me steeme. Therefore now yeeld, as ye did promise make, My due reward, the which right well I deeme I yearned[506] haue, that life so dearely did redeeme.
But where then is (quoth he halfe wrothfully[507]) xvi
Where is the bootie, which therefore I bought, That cursed caytiue, my strong enemy, That recreant knight, whose hated life I sought?
And where is eke your friend, which halfe it ought? He lyes (said he) vpon the cold bare ground, Slayne of that errant knight, with whom he fought; Whom afterwards my selfe with many a wound Did slay againe, as ye may see there in the stound.
Thereof false Turpin was full glad and faine, xvii
And needs with him streight to the place would ryde, Where he himselfe might see his foeman slaine; For else his feare could not be satisfyde. So as they rode, he saw the way all dyde
With streames of bloud; which tracting[508] by the traile, Ere long they came, whereas in euill tyde
That other swayne, like ashes deadly pale, Lay in the lap of death, rewing his wretched bale.
Much did the Crauen seeme to mone his case, xviii
That for his sake his deare life had forgone; And him bewayling with affection base, Did counterfeit kind pittie, where was none: For wheres no courage, theres no ruth nor mone. Thence passing forth, not farre away he found, Whereas the Prince himselfe lay all alone, Loosely displayd vpon the grassie ground, Possessed of sweete sleepe, that luld him soft in swound.
Wearie of trauell in his former fight, xix
He there in shade himselfe had layd to rest, Hauing his armes and warlike things vndight, Fearelesse of foes that mote his peace molest; The whyles his salvage page, that wont be prest, Was wandred in the wood another way, To doe some thing, that seemed to him best, The whyles his Lord in siluer slomber[509] lay, Like to the Evening starre adorn’d with deawy ray.
Whom when as Turpin saw so loosely layd, xx He weened well, that he in deed was dead, Like as that other knight to him had sayd: But when he nigh approcht, he mote aread Plaine signes in him of life and liuelihead. Whereat much grieu’d against that straunger knight, That him too light of credence did mislead, He would haue backe retyred from that sight, That was to him on earth the deadliest despight.
But that same knight would not once let him start, xxi
But plainely gan to him declare the case
Of all his mischiefe, and late lucklesse smart; How both he and his fellow there in place
