Fatal Lies

76

Drexler was lying in the infirmary, thinking over the day's events. It had been a miracle, surely. God had interceded in order to give him a second chance. He must use the rest of his life wisely, as the deity rarely acted without purpose.

Dr. Kessler had left more than an hour ago. He was a kindly old fellow and meant well but, in Drexler s estimation, had spoken a lot of nonsense: You were perhaps very… close to Perger? He was your friend? It is indeed upsetting when we lose the company of one for whom we have developed a bond of deep and sincere affection…

Drexler had listened patiently. As far as he could gather, it seemed that the good doctor was proposing that Pergers precipitate departure had had the effect of placing his mind in a state of disequilibrium. Drexler was willing to concede that this was true, in one sense, but also recognized that it was entirely inaccurate in another. He had subsequently agreed to take some pills that were supposed to calm his agitation, but as time passed he was forced to conclude that they were largely ineffective.

Now he was bored.

He wanted to read something, and the book of military anecdotes provided for him by Nurse Funke was decidedly dull. He remembered that he had left his volume of E.T. A. Hoffmann short stories in the lost room, and considered that there would be no great risk associated with retrieving it.

“Nurse Funke?” he called.

The nurse appeared at the door and rested her hand against the jamb.

“Nurse Funke, may I collect a book from the dormitory? Some Hoffmann?”

“Dr. Kessler said you should sleep.”

“But it's too early for me to sleep. And I find it easier to sleep if I read first.”

“What about the book I brought you?”

“I do not wish to seem ungrateful; however, to be perfectly honest, Nurse Funke, I've already read it.”

“Very well,” said the nurse. “You can go. But you must come back immediately.”

“Of course.”

Drexler put on his uniform and set off on a circuitous tour of the school that took him-unseen-to the trapdoor.

When he dropped down into the lost room, he discovered that it was already occupied. Steininger was sitting in the wicker chair, smoking a cigarette, with his feet up on a stool. The Serbian boy, Stojakovic, was kneeling before him, vigorously cleaning his shoes. Freitag and another stocky boy called Gruber were standing close by.

When Drexler landed, Stojakovic stopped brushing. Steininger immediately lashed out and delivered a blow to the side of his head.

“Who told you to stop?” Steininger barked.

Stojakovic reapplied the polish and resumed his Sisyphean labor.

“Where's Wolf?” asked Drexler.

“Gone,” said Steininger, stroking his downy mustache. “His parents came and collected him today. I don't think he'll be coming back.”

“Poor Wolf,” said Freitag. “An excellent fellow-but prone to getting big ideas. Too big, eh? He was bound to overstretch himself one day.”

“What did he do?” said Drexler.

“I managed to speak to him just before he left, while he was packing his bags,” Steininger replied. “Apparently he was blackmailing Sommer and the police found out!”

“Is that why Sommer killed himself?”

“Who knows?” Steininger nonchalantly flicked some ash onto Stojakovic's hair. “So… where the hell have you been?”

“In the infirmary.”

“What! We'd heard that someone had gone mad and the headmaster had called Kessler. My God, it wasn't you, was it?”

Freitag and Gruber were amused by the jibe and burst out laughing.

“Yes-it was,” Drexler replied calmly.

The laughing died down and Steininger glanced uneasily at Freitag.

“Get up, Stojakovic,” said Drexler. He reached down and pulled the boy to his feet. “Go on…” He jerked his head toward the trapdoor.

“What in God's name do you think you're doing, Drexler?” Steininger cried. “Can't you see? I ‘m in command now! I ‘m giving the orders!” He jabbed his finger at the Serbian boy. “Stojakovic- you try to leave and you'll regret it!”

Drexler pushed Stojakovic, who stumbled away from Steininger.

“Take no notice of him. Go.”

The boy was too frightened to leave. He stood, rooted to the spot where he had come to rest.

Steininger caught Freitag's eye and nodded.

“You really have gone mad, Drexler,” said Freitag.

“Yes, quite mad,” echoed Gruber.

The two lieutenants moved forward.

“Don't you understand?” continued Freitag, pushing his unfinished canine face into Drexler's. “We're tired of all your nonsense.”

“And I'm tired of you!” said Drexler.

Without warning, he brought his knee up sharply into Freitag's groin. As the boy buckled over in pain, Drexler delivered an upper-cut to his heavy chin, which sent him reeling over onto the floor. Drexler then thrust his elbow back into Gruber's face, knocking out several teeth. Steininger attempted to jump up, but Drexler placed both hands against his chest and pushed him back down.

Gruber retreated, his hand over his mouth, blood streaming through his fingers and splashing onto the floor. Freitag was rolling from side to side, moaning and clutching his genitals.

“Stojakovic,” said Drexler calmly, “if any of these imbeciles pick on you again, let me know. Now, for the last time, will you please go.”

The Serbian boy jumped up onto the box and pulled himself up through the trapdoor. His accelerating footsteps could be heard crossing the floor above.

Drexler went to the old suitcase, opened the lid, and took out his volume of E.T.A. Hoffmann short stories. He slowed as he passed Steininger.

“Now that Wolf's gone, things are going to change around here,” he said.