Fatherland

shocked and tried to hide it. "Your sister?" he asked.
    "She's still at school."
    "And your father?"
    "He runs an engineering business in Dresden now. He was one of the first into Russia in '41. Hence the uniform."
    March peered closely at the stern figure. "Isn't he wearing the Knight's Cross?" It was the highest decoration for bravery.
    "Oh, yes," said Jost. "An authentic war hero." He took the photograph and replaced it in the locker. "What about your father?"
    "He was in the Imperial Navy," said March. "He was wounded in the First War. Never properly recovered."
    "How old were you when he died?"
    "Seven."
    "Do you still think about him?"
    "Every day."
    "Did you go into the navy?"
    "I was in the U-boat service."
    Jost shook his head slowly. His pale face had flushed pink. "We all follow our fathers, don't we?"
    "Most of us, maybe. Not all."
    They smoked in silence for a while. Outside, March could hear the physical training session still in progress. "One, two, three . . . One, two, three . . ."
    "These people," said Jost, and shook his head again.
    "There's a poem by Erich Kastner—'Marschliedchen.' " He closed his eyes and recited:

"You love hatred and want to measure the world against it.

You throw food to the beast in man,

That it may grow, the beast deep within you!

Let the beast in man devour man."
    The young man's sudden passion made March uncomfortable. "When was that written?"
    "1932."
    "I don't know it."
    "You wouldn't. It's banned."
    There was a silence, then March said, "We now know the identity of the body you discovered. Doctor Josef Buhler. An official of the General Government. An SS-Brigadeführer."
    "Oh, God." Jost rested his head in his hands.
    "It has become a more serious matter, you see. Before coming to you, I checked with the sentries' office at the main gate. They have a record that you left the barracks at five-thirty yesterday morning, as usual. So the times in your statement make no sense."
    Jost kept his face covered. The cigarette was burning down between his fingers. March leaned forward, took it and stubbed it out. He stood.
    "Watch," he said. Jost looked up and March began jogging on the spot.
    "This is you yesterday, right?" March made a show of exhaustion, puffing out his cheeks, wiping his brow with his forearms. Despite himself, Jost smiled, "Good," said March. He continued jogging. "Now, you're thinking about some book, or how awful your life is, when you come through the woods and onto the path by the lake. It's pissing with rain and the light's not good, but off to your left you see something . . ."
    March turned his head. Jost was watching him intently.
    "Whatever it is, it's not the body . . ."
    "But—"
    March stopped and pointed at Jost. "Don't dig yourself any deeper into the shit, is my advice. Two hours ago I went back and checked the place where the corpse was found— there's no way you could have seen it from the road."
    He resumed jogging. "So: you see something, but you don't stop. You run past. But being a conscientious fellow, five minutes up the road you decide you had better go back for a second look. And then you discover the body. And only then do you call the cops."
    He grasped Jost's hands and pulled him to his feet. "Run with me," he commanded.
    "I can't—"
    "Run!"
    Jost broke into an unwilling shuffle. Their feet clattered on the flagstones.
    "Now describe what you can see. You're coming out of the woods and you're on the lake path—"
    "Please—"
    "Tell me!"
    "I... I see... a car..." Jost's eyes were closed. "Then three men . . . It's raining fast, they have coats, hoods—
    like monks... Their heads are down... Coming up the slope from the lake . . . I. . . I'm scared. ... I cross the road and run up into the trees so they don't see me ..."
    "Go on."
    "They get into the car and drive off _ I wait, and then
    I come out of the woods and I find the body . . ."
    "You've missed something."
    "No, I swear—"
    "You see a face. When they get into the car, you see a face."
    "No . . ."
    "Tell me whose face it is, Jost. You can see it. You know who it is. Tell me."
    "Globus!" shouted Jost. "I see Globus!"

4

    The package he had taken from Buhler's mailbox lay unopened on the front seat next to him. Perhaps it's a bomb, thought March as he started the Volkswagen. There had been a blitz of parcel bombs over the past few months, blowing off the hands and faces of half a dozen government officials. He might just make page three of the Tageblatt :