“Of course, Lieutenant,” said Sybille briskly.
Bieringer felt a certain misgiving about this keenness of hers. For Sybille Bachner was said to have had something of a past. Between her and the previous commanding officer there had been something more than a mere working relationship.
But then Major-General Modersohn had been made commanding officer of Number 5 Officers' Training School, and Bieringer had confidently assumed that Bachner's days in staff headquarters were numbered. But it wasn't long before an unexpected development took place: Sybille Bachner proved herself a first-class worker. And she didn't seem to make the slightest effort to extend her influence beyond the General's ante-room. The General therefore tolerated her and said nothing, though the A.D.C. remained on the alert.
“The General would like a talk with Judge-Advocate Wirrmann at nineteen hundred hours. Also with Lieutenant Krafft. Also at nineteen hundred hours.”
“Both together?” asked Sybille in astonishment.
Lieutenant Bieringer took care not to look at her, for he could not have helped conveying a certain reproach. His order had been clear enough; any expression of private opinion was unnecessary. He was the best possible A.D.C. the General could have had.
Sybille Bachner dropped her eyes. Her long, silky hair hung down each side of her face like a curtain. She reminded Bieringer of some tender portrait by Renoir in which the streaming tresses caught by the rays of the sun told of a voluptuous indolence. Bieringer found this combination of thoughts rather unsettling. For he was on duty, after all, and a happily married man and expectant father into the bargain.
“I rather think, Fräulein Bachner,” he said cautiously, “that you should try and get yourself a slightly more severe hair style.”
“Has the General been complaining about my hair?” she asked with a flicker of hope.
Bieringer looked at her reproachfully, pityingly. “Fräulein Bachner,” he said, “you’re not a soldier—why should the General show any interest in your hair?”
“Order and cleanliness,” declared Captain Kater, “are what I set store by. And in that I'm second to none.”
Captain Kater was inspecting number one kitchen in his capacity as commander of the headquarters company. All kitchens in the barracks area came under his jurisdiction.
Parschulske, the kitchen corporal, accompanied him on his round, respectful and attentive. His conscience was never wholly clear, and his fingers were in almost every pie. Astonishingly enough he was as thin as a rake.
“I’ve taken the liberty of laying the table as usual, sir, so that you can check the rations and sample the quality of the food.”
Kater nodded. He went into the store-room, prodded one or two sacks and satisfied himself as to the contents. Then he pulled open a drawer or two—and suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, for he had caught a glimpse of something pink hidden in the semolina.
Captain Kater pushed his hand deep into the semolina and felt about in it. And there he found three lengths of sausage. Three large, fat, juicy lengths of sausage, each weighing about six pounds.
Kater said nothing for the time being. He removed his hand, let his eyes sweep over Parschulske, the kitchen corporal, who was standing stiffly to attention by his side, and moved on into the kitchen, where the table was already laid.
Here he sat down and examined the food in front of him: cold roast beef, fat sausages, creamy portions of cheese. All this was there to be sampled for quality, taste, freshness, general condition, and whatever else served as an excuse. Kater cut himself a slice or two here and there. It was his principle never to act precipitately. There were always considerable advantages in keeping people guessing, and he was, he thought, a master of such tactics. He had left the kitchen corporal completely in the dark as to whether or not the pilfered sausages had been spotted—as to whether or not they would have to be accounted for.
For the time being, the wretched Parschulske didn't know where he stood, and felt distinctly uncomfortable. He therefore rounded on the cook for stealing the rations.
But the cook wasn't going to lie down under that: he immediately laid the blame on the various kitchen assistants. “What if a few sausages have been whipped?” he said. “It could have been anybody, or is there a label on them saying who took them?”
“But in the last resort,” said the kitchen corporal, “it’s my responsibility!”
“Doesn’t worry, Captain Kater will allow an extra helping or two to confuse his memory?”
But Captain Kater just thoughtfully ate on. He was still trying to decide what he ought to do about the sausages. A short note to the General, perhaps. In this way he would be able to demonstrate both correctness of approach and a certain skill in detection. But there were also advantages in putting the kitchen corporal under an obligation to him.
And while Captain Kater thus turned over various possibilities in his mind he let his glance sweep across the kitchen —over kettles and coppers and tables to the female kitchen personnel. Strapping, buxom girls, most of them. They might have been specially fattened for the job. Not his type. One of them caught his attention, though, a new girl who looked at him with large inquiring eyes. Presumably, thought Kater, it's a surprise for her to find her superior officer here.
Affably he beckoned her over, still holding his knife in his right hand. The girl hurried across at once. Obviously there was nothing she had wanted more than to be noticed. This delighted Kater.
“Name?” asked the Captain, affecting a sympathetic, paternal expression.
“Irene,” she said. “Irene Jablonski.”
“Stationed here in barracks?” asked Kater, observing with increasing interest the splendid curve of her bosom. This feature was all the more remarkable, since in every other way her figure could be described as neat.
“Yes, sir, in barracks,” said Irene looking at him hopefully. “I’m in a room with a number of other girls, but none of them works in the kitchen.”
“How’s your stenography?” asked Kater. “Can you type? Know shorthand?”
“I can learn anything,” Irene assured him, beaming at him as if he had been her rescuer. “I learn very quickly—really. I can be taught anything. Really anything.”
“Well,” said Kater, “we’ll see.”
Lieutenant Bieringer, the A.D.C., hung up and stared thoughtfully in front of him for a few seconds. Then he said: “The General wants you, Fräulein Bachner.”
“I’ll go right in,” said Sybille.
Bieringer did not look up at her. There really was something suspiciously keen about her. She was a good worker and he didn't want to lose her, but he would most certainly lose her if she were to try and break through the barrier of reserve with which the General surrounded himself He adjusted his spectacles, picked up a bundle of papers and left the room. The A.D.C. was on his way to the routine weekly conference with the course commanders, at which the training plans for the following week were settled.
Sybille Bachner, however, went into the General's room without knocking, in the usual way. She saw Modersohn sitting at his desk exactly as she had seen him sitting there every day of the week for the last six months—in the identical position and the identical uniform, practically motionless.
“ Fräulein Bachner,” said the General, “ I'd like you to take a shorthand note of my conversation with Judge-Advocate Wirrmann