Six Graves to Munich - Mario Cleri [46]
Then had come the days when he heard Christine’s screams from the next room. On those days von Osteen had not arrived early in the morning, had always arrived last. And then there was that terrible day when they had let him into the next room and showed him the phonograph and the spinning record that preserved Christine’s agony. Von Osteen had said smilingly, “She died on the first day of torture. We’ve tricked you.” And Rogan, hating him at that moment with such intensity, had become ill, bile spilling out of his mouth onto his prison clothing.
Von Osteen had lied even then. Genco Bari said that Christine had died during childbirth, and Rogan believed Bari. But why did von Osteen lie? Why did he wish his people to seem more evil than they actually were? And then Rogan, remembering, realized the brilliant psychology behind von Osteen’s every word and deed.
The hatred he felt for those who had killed his wife had made him want to stay alive. He wanted to stay alive so that he could kill them all and smile down at their own tortured bodies. And it was this hatred, this hope for revenge, that had crumbled his resistance and in the following months made him start giving his interrogators all the secret codes he could remember.
Von Osteen started coming early again, the first one in the interrogation room. Again he began to console Rogan, his voice magnetic with understanding. After the first few days he always unshackled Rogan’s arms and legs and brought him coffee and cigarettes for breakfast. He kept assuring Rogan that he would be set free as soon as the codes were completed. And then one morning he came in very early, closed and locked the door of the high-domed room behind him, and said to Rogan, “I must tell you a secret which you must promise not to reveal.” Rogan nodded. Von Osteen, his face grave and friendly, said, “Your wife is still alive. Yesterday she gave birth to a baby boy. They are both doing well, they are both being well cared for. And I give you my solemn word of honor that the three of you will be united when you have finished giving us all the information we need. But you must not breathe a word of this to the others. They may cause trouble, since I am exceeding the bounds of my authority by making you this promise.”
Rogan was stunned. He searched von Osteen’s face to see if the man was lying. But there was no doubting the kind sincerity in the German’s eyes, the gentle goodness that seemed to be the very essence of his facial bones. Rogan believed. And the thought that Christine was alive, that he would see her beautiful face again, that he would hold her soft slender body in his arms again, that she was not dead and under the earth—all this made him break down and weep. Von Osteen patted him on the shoulder, saying softly in his hypnotic voice, “I know, I know. I am sorry I could not tell you sooner. It was all a trick, you see, part of my job. But now it’s no longer necessary and I wanted to make you happy.”
He made Rogan dry his tears, and then he unlocked the door to the interrogation room. The other six men were waiting outside, coffee cups in their hands. They seemed angry at being shut out, angry that their leader was in some way allied to their victim.
That night in his cell Rogan dreamed of Christine and the baby son he had never seen. Oddly enough the baby’s face was very clear in his dream, fat and pink-cheeked, but Christine’s face was hidden in shadows. When he called to her she came out of the shadows, and he could see her, see that she was happy. He dreamed of them every night.
Five days later it was Rosenmontag, and when von Osteen