Free Famous Last Words by Timothy Findley Page A

Mister Hugh Selwyn Mauberley, traitor and
    propagandist, can teach you a thing or two about storytelling.
    Yes?”
    “Sir,” Quinn began.
    And Freyberg reddened. “No,” he said. “No, Quinn. No.
    This—” he gestured at the walls “—whatever story it tells, will end with an apology. I absolutely guarantee it. Tell us, he may, the truth—the whole truth—and nothing but the
    truth—but in the end, he will apologize. And in the end.
    because he has apologized, you and twelve million others will all fall down on your knees before these walls and you will forgive him.” He held up his hand to prevent Quinn
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    from speaking. “You will forgive him, Quinn. And once
    you’ve forgiven him, you will forgive all the others too. And that, my bamboozled friend, is what I mean by propaganda.”
    “Damn it all, sir,” said Quinn. “You don’t even know
    what’s written there.”
    “Don’t I?”
    “No, sir—you do not.”
    “Okay. All right,” said Freyberg at last, as if conceding defeat. But then he grinned and added; “just as you don’t know what I found in the bathroom, back across the hall.”
    “What’s that?”
    “The bathtub is full of ashes.”
    “So,” said Quinn. “He was freezing to death. There wasn’t any heat. He made a fire.”
    “No,” said Freyberg. “It’s not that simple, much as I’m sure you’d like it to be. In fact, Lieutenant, I’m sure you’d like it very much if everything but what you approve of here would go away and leave you alone. Then we could all get down to the proper business of a eulogy…burial and martyrdom.
    Yes? Well, that isn’t going to happen. Not while I’m
    here.”
    Quinn began to panic. The Captain, after all, had developed his own procedures, based on his own priorities and
    prejudices. Freyberg’s whole existence, ever since Dachau, had been a search for clues. He had seen so many ashes.
    Sifted them. Blown them off the backs of his hands. Kept them in packages. Knew what they had been. “He burned
    some handwritten notebooks in there,” he said. “A great many handwritten notebooks, in fact.” He walked in closer to the walls and gave the words a glance. “You know—I
    have to wonder why a man would burn so many books if
    what they contained was essentially the same as what he took so many pains to lay out, oh so very carefully, here on these walls.”
    Quinn fumbled for excuses.
    “They were notes.” he said. “And what he’s written here is larger. Expanded.”
    “Maybe,” said Frevberg. “Maybe. But then. why burn
    them?”
    “I told you. He was freezing to death. He wanted fire.”
    “Wanted fire—and did not burn this table? And this chair?
    This desk?”
    Quinn said; “well—he needed the chair to stand on. Look how high he’s written.”
    Freyberg actually laughed. “You don’t know what’s written here, either,” he said. “But you’re already holding up
    his arm to help him write it. Jesus Christ, I bet if I introduced you to Hitler, Quinn, you’d call him sir. I’ll bet you’d even bow.”
    “Captain,” said Quinn. “The war is over.”
    Rudecki was relieved to hear it.
    Freyberg regarded the small white thing he had made with his hands; crumpled it tight and let it fall open.
    Then he turned and began to walk away from the room.
    At the door, he stopped. “I’m giving you a job,” he said to Quinn. “I want you to read every word of this. And I want you to keep me abreast of what you’re reading—just so I can check it against a little research I’ll be doing on my own. But do, please do be careful; and if you hear it whirring and ticking, just be sure you stand well back and warn the rest of us. I don’t want to be buried in rubble like that. and I don’t think you do either. Anyone found in a garbage heap is suspect, I always think. Don’t you?”
    Annie Oakley’s Crystal Saloon was beginning to fill up.
    The bodies—five from the courtyard, one from behind the counter in the lobby and one