KINGDOM OF TWILIGHT
MacLehose Press
An imprint of Quercus
New York • London
Copyright © 2014 by Secession Verlag für Literatur, Zürich
English translation copyright © 2016 by Jamie Bulloch
Jacket design © www.salu.io
First published in the United States by Quercus in 2018
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e-ISBN 978-1-63506-067-6
The translation of this work was supported by a grant from the Goethe-Institut.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Uhly, Steven, 1964- author. | Bulloch, Jamie, translator.
Title: Kingdom of twilight / Steven Uhly ; translated from the German by Jamie Bulloch.
Other titles: Königreich der Dämmerung. English.
Description: New York : Quercus, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017047019 (print) | LCCN 2017049746 (ebook) | ISBN 9781635060676 (ebook) | ISBN 9781635060683 (library edition) | ISBN 9781635060652 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781635060669 (pbk.)
Subjects: LCSH: Refugee camps–Fiction. | National Socialism–Fiction. | LCGFT: War fiction
Classification: LCC PT2723.H58 (ebook) | LCC PT2723.H58 K6613 2018 (print) | DDC 833/.92–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017047019
Distributed in the United States and Canada by
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10104
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Thanks to
Tsvi
Anat
Lilach
Israel (Izi)
Christian
Joachim
Achi
Avner
Naomi
Helmut
Nili
Matej
Helga
Walter
Hanno
Georg
Klaudia
Michel
Carsten
For Ricarda
The night will soon be ending;
the dawn cannot be far.
Let songs of praise ascending
now greet the Morning Star!
All you whom darkness frightens
with guilt or grief or pain,
God’s radiant star now brightens
and bids you sing again.
JOCHEN KLEPPER
(1903–42)
A glossary of historical characters referred to in this novel can be found here
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156<
br />
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
Chapter 162
Chapter 163
Chapter 164
Chapter 165
Chapter 166
Chapter 167
Chapter 168
Chapter 169
Chapter 170
Chapter 171
Chapter 172
Chapter 173
Chapter 175
Chapter 175
Chapter 176
Chapter 177
Chapter 178
Chapter 179
Chapter 180
Chapter 181
Chapter 182
Chapter 183
Chapter 184
Chapter 185
Chapter 186
Glossary of Historical Characters
1
He had followed a short, haggard man in shabby clothes, who seemed a nasty enough piece of work to betray a few of his fellow countrymen. They’d been hiding in the church, the Pole had said in his thick accent. But we searched every nook and cranny, not a soul there. The Pole just shrugged as if to suggest, It’s not my fault you didn’t find them. He knew that the German would follow him, even if he suspected that the Pole would try to lead him astray, stall him to stay alive himself, or try some other dirty trick. The German would follow him, lured by the prospect of more Jews, maybe even women, the short man had made vague mention of women as if to avoid overstating his promise. And he was right. The German followed him through the winding alleys, ignoring the fine rain that fell incessantly on the city like a cold, silk cloth, lending everything a silvery-gray sheen, the low, crooked houses, which were narrow and packed together so tightly as if unable ever to get warm. The steeply pitched roofs glistened like molten tar and the uneven cobbles were slippery. The Pole was wearing a pair of old, well-worn shoes, his footsteps made only a muffled scraping on the stones, which was drowned out by the hard pounding of the army boots following in his wake. The German strode past the furtive windows with the assuredness of an untouchable. Everywhere, greyed curtains and closed shutters precluded a glimpse inside the houses, but he knew that the clunk of his footsteps was being tracked by countless ears, their owners frozen in silence, as if remaining motionless could save them from his grasp. He relished this feeling of power, and he relished even more the routine of this pleasure. Two years previously, when he came to Poland with the first important assignment of his career, the sudden affirmation of his superiority had left him confused and unsure. He could scarcely believe that the people they had conquered really were so inferior, and in every aspect too. On the very first day the Obersturmbannführer had taken him to Turck, a washed-out town on the Bug, a narrow but long river that flowed into the Vistula fifty kilometers to the west. We’re going to set an example, the Obersturmbannführer had said. His name was Ranzner, a tall, harsh-faced man, whose narrow head was covered with leathery skin, which in old age would not be furrowed with deep wrinkles, but countless tiny scores on the surface, like dried-up rivulets running from his temples to his eyes, and in all directions from the corners of his mouth. Perhaps the lack of depth in his facial features was due to his static expression, or maybe the cause was purely physiological. Publicly, Ranzner never exhibited any hint of satisfaction at a victory or an execution, and all his other emotions appeared inhibited too, as if he were conserving his energy for the decisive moment. He saw himself as the tough alpha male, ruling a bloodthirsty pack of wolves with ruthless discipline. Only at first glance did his marked passivity and the small, round professor’s spectacles perched on his aquiline nose seem to contradict the mask-like nature of his face. In truth these were precisely the elements possessed by the man who knows that, rather than having but two hands at his disposal, he can call on a thousand, at any hour and for whatever purpose. And so Ranzner never came across as horrific or terrifying, but more like a walking statue, an allegory of power incarnate, more credible than the Reichsführer S.S., more Himmler than Himmler himself, as if the latter were a copy of Ranzner rather than the other way round.
They had driven in an open-top military car along bumpy country lanes, where the impressions left in the mud by hooves, boots and tanks had molded into a chaotic relief.
Two rows of motorcycles ahead of them, two rows of motorcycles behind. The sun shone and he had sweated beside Ranzner in the back seat, wondering what to expect. From the start the Obersturmbannführer had treated him with that relaxed indulgence of the higher-ranking officer, a manner he had grown up with and was adept at nurturing. Superiors liked him, and not exclusively on account of his physical appearance, his thick, straw-blond hair, his perfect Aryan features with their youthful mien. They immediately felt that he would accept them for what they wanted to be, irrespective of what it was. This reassured them and stirred paternal feelings. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at the gently rolling countryside, the fields ripe with corn and the dark-green, lush woodland in the distance, while Ranzner chatted to him about his future tasks. As Sturmbannführer he would translate Ranzner’s orders into concrete plans.
“You’re to find Jewish hideouts,” he said casually, as if discussing berries that needed picking in the woods. “I don’t care how you go about it. But you have to find all of them. A single hideout you fail to unearth could be the breeding-ground for a new plague, just bear that in mind.”
A single hideout. The slight Pole in front of him knew this too. The man had hunched his shoulders to shield his neck from the cold drizzle, clutching with his left hand the lapels of his worn leather jacket.
“Almost there,” he said to the German, who from his Aryan height regarded him indifferently, as one might glance at a dog scurrying past. This Pole was the necessary means to a necessary end. No more and no less. The wretch would do all he could to stay alive; right now, here between the eavesdropping houses, in front of the blind, dripping windows, which were crammed with eyes and ears, he could give the man the order to drop his trousers and start masturbating, and he would do it. Just like the Jews of Turck, back in the first year of the war, who sang as they crawled alongside the pews in their synagogue, while having their bare buttocks whipped, just like the Jew who had been so scared he shit himself, then wiped his excrement over the faces of the other Jews. Because he had been given the order, because the execution of even the most perverse order harbored the promise of life like an encrypted message that only the recipient could understand. Ranzner had registered the disgust and fascination on the face of his new Sturmbannführer with apparent impassivity, he had briefly tapped him on the shoulder to bring him round again, while the Jews, their faces smeared with shit and their backsides spattered with blood, danced ring-a-ring-o’roses to the laughter of their tormentors, before being summarily stabbed to death.
“Why don’t we shoot them?” he had asked Ranzner when the Jews were just bodies collapsed on top of one another in the middle of a slowly expanding red puddle.
“Too loud in here,” was Ranzner’s terse reply. “Bad for the eardrums.” They had left the synagogue so it could be set alight. From somewhere deep inside had come a voice insisting that a dreadful deed had taken place, an utterly terrified voice that he had not heard since childhood. But unlike in his childhood, now in Turck he managed to overpower this fearful, feeble voice with the one he had appropriated over the years, like an antidote secretly purloined.
He had learned, all his life he had learned how to be a man. Now he wished to be equal to his task, no other desire should have a place in his heart, and he understood that it was not by chance that Ranzner had brought him along. The example had been made for his sake, the whole thing had been a performance for a single individual, to ensure that man understood from the outset what stage he was on here.
It was raining harder now, the cold silk had unexpectedly turned into a heavy curtain that obscured their vision. At this point the alley was even narrower and
the houses seemed to lean forward to allow their gables to touch. The area looked poorer, the houses were in disrepair. Sludge had oozed up between the cobbles, forming viscous puddles that forced them to stay close to the house fronts. He felt cheerful for the first time since they had left the camp. The Pole in front of him had transformed into a dark-gray specter, a kobold leading him through a town which was no longer above ground, but subterranean. As he continued along the tapering street he reprimanded himself for entertaining such unmasculine feelings. They had been walking for two minutes at most; the church must be just around the corner. He drew his pistol from the holster on his right hip, quietly, so the man ahead would not notice. The weight of the gun in his hand was like an anchor he was tossing at reality to prevent fear from hurrying him on. He was a tall, strong Aryan, born to rule over other peoples, and with a weapon to hand nothing and nobody could vanquish him. The Pole stopped, half turned toward his companion and stretched out an arm in a brief, feeble gesture. To the right he could see a church at the end of a gently sloping street. Like all the other buildings in this town it was short and squat, it cowered there humbly, as if pressing itself into the earth rather than standing on it. The short, wide tower housed two bells, one small, the other of medium size—he had noticed them during the first search.
The street was ten meters long at most. Muddy water ran down the slope along the cobbles. The German took a deep breath, the church was a marker by which to orient oneself in the confusing web of the old town. Without realizing it, he had acquired a little more trust in the Pole, and when they entered the short street he began to walk beside him rather than behind. To their left a small front door opened. A young woman came out. She was wearing a long, heavy dress, which may once have been red but was now a pale gray-pink. Her head and upper body were wrapped in black scarves, it was impossible to say how many, but it seemed to be an inordinate number, for the shape of her body was entirely hidden beneath the clothes. Only her face was visible, a long, pretty face with a narrow nose and full, perfectly curved lips, which quivered oddly. She had broad brown eyes set at a very slight angle, lending her an Oriental air. As she approached the officer she fixed these eyes on him with an intense stare. An aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the front door. The Pole stopped and made another feeble gesture toward the woman, who now stood before them.
“This is Margarita Ejzenstain.”
His voice betrayed no emotion, it was decidedly indifferent, as if he were introducing two people who meant nothing to him. From beneath one of Margarita Ejzenstein’s many black scarves two hands appeared, clutching an unlikely looking revolver. It appeared so old that the German fancied it must be from the last century. She grimaced as she cocked the gun with both thumbs, and the German thought the weapon must be terribly stiff. He had forgotten altogether the pistol in his own hand, he could no longer feel its weight, only the weight in the girl’s hands, so young did she look when she grimaced and pulled the trigger with her index fingers that he concluded she must still be a girl. When the bullet hit his eardrum and the echo chased through the streets like a wild animal, the German was swung round to the left and now stood directly in front of the Pole. He wanted to yank up his pistol and shoot the Pole dead, but instead his arm fell to his side and his fingers released the gun, which clattered as it hit the ground. No matter, he thought, he had not released the safety catch anyway. A second shot thundered in his ears, knocking him off his feet and sending him crashing against the house behind, then onto the cold, wet cobbles. Lying on his back, he watched as the Pole and the girl bent over him. The Pole crouched and picked up the pistol. He saw him release the safety catch and fire at him several times. Now the girl’s face appeared before him once more. Her beautiful, full lips were still trembling and rain, or were they tears?, ran down her cheeks. He saw her say something he could not understand, then curl her lips and spit in his face. He saw the Pole pull the girl up and drag her away. The last thing he saw was an unending succession of raindrops falling straight on top of him through the dark-gray crack between two shadowy gables, on they went until the chink turned black and the raindrops white, as when looking at a photographic negative or pressing your fingers down onto your closed eyes. He could still smell the tang of freshly baked bread and feel the cold stealing through his body, quietly and quickly like an army in the dark.