The Kindly Ones

“Listen,” I stammered, “all this is a huge misunderstanding. I am innocent.”—“Innocent?” Weser curtly interrupted. “We’ll see about that.”—“We’re going to tell you how it happened,” Clemens began. The powerful light from the flashlights dazed me, his big voice seemed to emanate from this harsh light. “You took the night train from Paris to Marseille. In Marseille, on April twenty-sixth, you had someone issue you a pass for the Italian zone. The next day, you went to Antibes. There, you presented yourself at the house and they welcomed you as a son, as the genuine son that you are. That night, you dined with the family and afterward you slept in one of the upstairs bedrooms, next to the twins’ room, opposite the bedroom of your mother and Herr Moreau. Then it was the twenty-eighth.”—“Hey,” Weser interrupted. “It’s the twenty-eighth of April, today. What a coincidence.”—“Meine Herren,” I said, trying to sound confident, “you’re raving.”—“Shut your face,” Clemens roared. “I’ll go on. During the day, we don’t really know what you did. We know you cut some wood, and that you left the axe in the kitchen instead of putting it back in the storeroom. Then you walked into town and bought your return ticket. You were wearing civilian clothes, no one noticed you. Then you came back.” Weser went on: “Afterward, there are some things we’re not sure about. Maybe you talked with Herr Moreau, with your mother. Maybe you had words. We’re not sure. We’re not sure about the time, either. But we do know that you found yourself alone with Herr Moreau. Then you took the axe in the kitchen, where you’d left it, you returned to the living room, and you killed him.”—“We’re even willing to believe that you weren’t thinking of it when you left the axe,” Clemens went on, “that you left the axe there by chance, that you didn’t premeditate anything, that it just happened like that. But once you began, you certainly went all the way.” Weser continued: “That’s for sure. He must have been quite surprised when you laid into his chest with the axe. It went in with the sound of crushed wood and he fell gurgling, his mouth full of blood, taking the axe down with him. You put your foot on his shoulder for leverage and you pulled out the axe and swung again, but you got the angle wrong and the axe bounced back, just breaking a few ribs. Then you stepped back, aimed more carefully, and brought the axe down on his throat. It went through the Adam’s apple and you clearly heard the cracking when it crushed his spinal column. He vomited dark flows of blood in one last great heave all over you, it was gushing from his neck too and you were covered with it, and then in front of you his eyes went dull and his blood emptied out through his half-severed neck, you watched his eyes go out like those of a sheep whose throat’s just been cut on the grass.”—“Meine Herren,” I said forcefully, “you are completely insane.” Clemens took up: “We don’t know if the twins saw that. In any case, they saw you go upstairs. You left the body and the axe there and you went upstairs, covered in blood.”—“We don’t know why you didn’t kill them,” said Weser. “You could have, easily. But you didn’t. Maybe you didn’t want to, maybe you wanted to, but too late, and they’d run away. Maybe you wanted to and then changed your mind. Maybe you already knew they were your sister’s children.”—“We went by her place, in Pomerania,” Clemens grunted. “We found some letters, some documents. There were some very interesting things, among others the children’s documents. But we already knew who they were.” I let out a hysterical little laugh: “I was there, you know. I was in the woods, I saw you.”—“Actually,” Weser went on imperturbably, “we thought so. But we didn’t want to insist. We said to ourselves that we’d find you sooner or later. And you see, we did find you, in fact.”—“Let’s go on with our story,” said Clemens. “You went upstairs, covered in blood. Your mother was standing there waiting for you, either at the top of the staircase, or in front of the door to her room. She was wearing a nightgown, your old mother. She spoke to you, looking into your eyes. What she said, we don’t know. The twins listened to everything, but they didn’t tell anyone. She must have reminded you how she had carried you in her womb, then fed you at her breast, how she had wiped your ass and washed you while your father was chasing whores God knows where. Maybe she showed you her breast.”—“Not very likely,” I spat out with a bitter laugh. “I was allergic to her milk, I never breastfed.”—“Too bad for you,” Clemens continued without batting an eye. “Maybe then she stroked your chin, your cheek, she called you her child. But you weren’t moved: you owed her your love, but you thought only about your hatred. You closed your eyes so you’d stop seeing hers and you took her neck in your hands and you squeezed.”—“You’re mad!” I shouted. “You’re making all this up!”—“Not at all,” Weser said sardonically. “Of course, it’s a reconstruction. But it agrees with the facts.”—“Afterward,” Clemens continued in his calm bass voice, “you went into the bathroom and got undressed. You threw your clothes into the bathtub, washed yourself, cleaned off all the blood, and returned to your bedroom, naked.”—“There, we can’t say,” Weser commented. “Maybe you engaged in perverted acts, maybe you just slept. At dawn, you got up, put on your uniform, and left. You took the bus, then the train, you returned to Paris and then to Berlin. On April thirtieth, you sent a telegram to your sister. She went to Antibes, buried your mother and her husband, then she left again as soon as possible, with the boys. Maybe she had already guessed.”—“Listen,” I babbled, “you’ve lost your minds. The judges said you had no evidence. Why would I have done that? What would be the motive? You always have to have a motive.”—“We don’t know,” Weser said calmly. “But actually it’s all the same to us. Maybe you wanted Moreau’s money. Maybe you’re a sex fiend. Maybe your wound messed up your head. Maybe it was just an old family hatred, that’s pretty common, and you wanted to take advantage of the war to settle your accounts on the sly, thinking it would hardly be noticed among so many other deaths. Maybe you simply went mad.”—“But what are you after, damn it!” I shouted again.—“We told you,” Clemens murmured: “we want justice.”—“The city is burning!” I shouted. “There aren’t any more courthouses! All the judges are dead or gone. How do you plan on judging me?”—“We’ve already judged you,” Weser said in a voice that was so quiet that I could hear the water streaming by. “We found you guilty.”—“You?” I sniggered. “You’re cops. You don’t have the right to judge.”—“Given the circumstances,” Clemens’s big voice rumbled, “we’ll take that right.”—“Then,” I said sadly, “even if you are right, you’re no better than I.”