A car from the Wehrmacht took me back to the Sonderkommando. I found Weseloh and Reinholz there still in midconversation, Reinholz arguing in favor of a Turkish origin of the Bergjuden. He paused when he saw me: “Ah, Hauptsturmführer. We were wondering what you were doing. I’ve had some quarters prepared for you. It’s too late for you to go back.”—“In any case,” Weseloh said, “I’ll have to stay here a few days, to continue my investigations.”—“I’m going back to Pyatigorsk tonight,” I said in a flat voice. “I have work to do. There aren’t any partisans around here and I can drive at night.” Reinholz shrugged his shoulders: “That’s against the Group’s instructions, Hauptsturmführer, but do as you please.”—“I’ll entrust Dr. Weseloh to you. Call me if you need anything.” Weseloh, her legs crossed on her wooden chair, looked perfectly at ease and happy with her adventure; my departure left her indifferent. “Thank you for your help, Hauptsturmführer,” she said. “By the way, could I see this Dr. Voss?” I was already on the threshold, shapka in hand. “No.” I didn’t wait for her reaction and went out. My driver seemed rather unhappy at the idea of driving at night, but he didn’t insist when I repeated my order in a sharper tone. The trip took a long time: Lemper, the driver, drove very slowly because of the black ice. Outside the narrow halo from the headlights, half covered because of enemy aircraft, we couldn’t see anything; from time to time, a military checkpoint rose up out of the darkness in front of us. I fiddled distractedly with the kinzhal that Shabaev had given me; I smoked cigarette after cigarette, and looked out at the vast empty night without thinking.
The investigation confirmed what the villagers had said about the death of Leutnant Dr. Voss. In the house where the tragedy occurred they found his notebook, bloodstained and filled with Kabard consonants and grammatical notations. The girl’s mother, hysterical, swore she had not seen her husband again since the incident; according to her neighbors, he had probably fled into the mountains with the murder weapon, an old hunting rifle, to turn abrek, as they say in the Caucasus, or to join a band of partisans. A few days later, a delegation of elders from the village came to see General von Mackensen: they solemnly presented their apologies in the name of the aul, reaffirmed their profound friendship for the German army, and set down a pile of carpets, sheepskins, and jewelry, which they offered to the dead man’s family. They swore they would find the murderer themselves and kill him or hand him over; the few able-bodied men remaining in the aul, they asserted, had left to search the mountains. They feared reprisals: von Mackensen reassured them, promising there would be no collective punishment. I knew that Shadov had talked about this with Köstring. The army burned down the guilty man’s house, and promulgated a new general order reiterating the prohibitions of fraternizing with mountain women, then promptly closed the case.
