“Come in, my children. Come in—don’t just stand there. I was anxious to hear from you.”
Having just returned from Geneva, they were both on the brink of fainting. Lucas, as the senior party, gave his report as they’d agreed, saying that the brothers had come to an agreement and the youngest would be coming in a few weeks to sign it on behalf of the company. Their master blinked a couple of times, unusually slowly. His eyelids couldn’t close completely anymore, and a milky glow, like the insides of mussel shells, was always visible. When he opened them again, the translucent, rough, cataract-infused surface seemed to light up in a smile. His thin, dry cardboard lips separated to reveal empty gums trailing with saliva. He gestured to them that they could go. When Armando stood up, Stobert stopped him.
“Not you, my child. Not you.”
When they were alone, his happy grimace returned. “I have her. Fortune has finally smiled on me. One of the two is the girl.”
“Are you sure?”
“There won’t be any more girls. One of them is the answer.”
“I visited them before coming; they were still sedated.”
“I know. Of course I know that, you fool.”
Armando bowed his head, avoiding the old man’s eyes. He knew very well what Stobert was capable of. He’d seen men tear out their own tongues under the noiseless influence of those eyes. His master sat up in his seat and readjusted the rug he’d draped over his lap.
“What happened at the meeting?”
Armando hesitated. He gulped, knowing that whatever side he chose now would come at a price. But really he didn’t have a choice; he hadn’t had a will of his own for years.
“We . . . we’ve run out of time, sir. We’ve been betrayed.”
The skull fixed on a brugmansia, a bunch of orange flowers that hung down like bells, providing a frame for a spider’s web.
“How strange . . . fate usually seems to align itself one way, either for us or against us. But now some events appear to be affecting others that don’t seem related at all.” He pointed to the plant. “Remind me the name of that plant.”
“Angel’s bells or trumpets. My father called them the Queens of the Night.”
“A lovely name. They must be prepared and administered to the two girls.” For a moment the old man grew excited. “They visited each other in their dreams. Do you understand, my son? One girl found the other! They spoke to one another.” He laughed, emitting a cloud of mist. “After all these years I finally have an answer. One of them is the conduit, but we don’t know which one. We have to prepare them both. What do I care about these betrayals if I can make the transit? It might all be related after all. We must hurry. Who was at the meeting?”
“The . . . the brothers.”
“All four of them? The eldest too?”
“Yes, they were all there.”
“Then it’s true. Ingrates. I remember when they were children. Their grandfather and I were close. He built his empire. His son learned from him and respected me, but he died young, and the grandsons . . . they inherited it all but understand nothing. They’re just spoiled children, corrupted by capital. For shame!”
“We no longer have the support of the network. There are powerful figures willing to pay for you.”
“That’s nothing new. There have been for years. Stupid nouveau riche, arrogant apprentice sorcerers who think that they can obtain my powers if they lock me up like a freak. Bastards!”
“The Schwindts have taken on the job. The one they call the Jackal is coming for you.”
“Aha, the ritual of the true name. You see, my son? They mislearned that from their grandfather as well. A name must be earned by deeds, it must be given by a superior, and it must be kept secret. No one knows the name of the eldest.”
“I didn’t think he had one.”
“Of course he does! And that’s why he deserves it. The others are just nicknames: the Mastiff, well, just look at him . . . the Bloodhound—I doubt he deserved it if he got himself killed. And this one, the Jackal: I don’t think he even did anything to earn it. Do you know where it came from? From a fictional assassination attempt on de Gaulle! From a film! Ridiculous. When does he arrive?”
“We don’t know yet. If . . . if they find out that I warned you . . . if . . .”
“Fool! You know you have much more to fear from me. They won’t get to me! It’ll cost them more blood than they can possibly imagine. I simply need to make the transit. After that, I’ll be free . . . and so will you. I’ll give you your freedom. Now go.”
And Stobert was left on his own once more, surrounded by his ghosts.
Colônia Liberdade, 1964
Over the next decade, things settled down. After Stobert’s first sermon he found that his powers were increasing, and soon nobody would dare to challenge him. His path was set, and his word became law, but his temperature continued to fall, and the voice leaped out of his dreams to torment him as it saw fit, whenever he was least expecting it. Stobert knew that there were times when he wasn’t alone. There was nothing more frightening than that. Over eight years, Angela gave him two children, and her youthful, healthy body withered away, leaving her prematurely aged. She had been taught never to reveal her fear of her partner. Now nobody in the community seemed to see him for what he was.
After 1960, when the capture of Adolf Eichmann was reported internationally, Stobert began to pay special attention to youth movements. The Zionist influence was increasing, just as Marcelo had predicted. Even more degenerate music was being imported, and rumors of social change were spreading across the underground. Ever-larger groups of wealthy children were flirting with the counterculture and challenging the status quo while even in his own realm a group appeared that sought to support indigenous rights: they shared food, studied their farming methods, and even planned to build a school for them. Many of the faithful came to him in an uproar, but others sympathized. They spoke of the basic values of Christianity, equality, and sharing; they talked about returning the land to the original inhabitants, updating God’s message. But he knew that subversive ideas lay behind their reasonable-sounding arguments. Messages of love spread the disease of socialism like a virus.
Eventually, in 1964, Marcelo came to see him. It was time to call in a favor: “Do you remember my warning? You’ve seen them with their guitars and protests, undermining society. They’re becoming a problem. No one wants another Cuba. Everything’s ready. Now is the time to get involved.”
Stobert accepted his role and solemnly prepared for what he believed was the most important sermon of his life. Thus far, he’d managed to control his flock, but never before had he forced them to violate their moral compass. He started by praising the work of the new arrivals.
“We have all heard that these visitors have come on a charitable mission to help the unfortunate. I have heard that too. And I also see, my children, because nothing must escape the eyes of the pastor. And I am pleased. I am pleased to see goodness with no ulterior motive. Commitment with no expectation of reward. Our Christian duty is to help the needy, to give water to the thirsty and food to the hungry. That is charity, my children. It is not simply just but necessary in the eyes of God. But who are we to say what else is necessary? I ask you, what books does he who works with his hands need to read? What books can help him more than the sacred book, which has always shown us the way and must always be provided? I ask you: What other philosophy does one need to work the land? What thinking other than the true way must be imprinted upon the souls of our children at school? Is it not arrogance dressed up as charity to impose one’s thinking upon others? I say to you: How does the savage benefit from the harsh gift of studies that only corrupt their happy innocence? What new enlightenment can strange ideas, which are focused on undermining the established order, an order created under the auspices of our Father, possibly offer? These false promises of equality cannot conceal their origin, which is none other than envy! Envy of what our bountiful God has granted
to us in his infinite generosity and what we have earned in accordance with his teachings. Envy that makes them long for what they have no right to. I know that well, my children. I know them.”
His congregation started to mumble in protest. Several eyes glared at him, trusting that they wouldn’t be detected in the crowd.
“And what is the source of that envy if not pride? To declare oneself a possessor of something that can only be handed out by divine grace. Only the Holy Ghost may determine the established Celestial Order! Or are you curious about these different ideas, these strange teachings?”
He pointed his finger at his accusers, forcing some to look away in shame. “Avarice! Their only goal, concealed behind their flowery words, is not to share but to take away your possessions for their own benefit. Or have your Indians returned the help you have given them by loaning them your land?”
Now he pointed at those who had been most involved, until the rest of the congregation began to stare at them accusingly.
“Anger! They can only achieve their objectives through confrontation. Have not rifts opened up among you? Has not the seed of discord been sown among you?” He addressed the elders who arbitrated the arguments caused by this new movement. “Lust! You have seen them live in sin, even if you prefer not to mention it. And what do you think the consequences will be if their demands are met? They’ll set up house with your daughters . . .”
He looked toward the mothers, who crossed themselves or even covered their ears. “Without the holy sacrament! They will be damned!” He repeated the word until the upset mothers started to nod. “And sloth! None of the ends they pursue are sought with the sweat of their backs. They want to take them from the good flock. From you, my children.”
He stopped to catch his breath, offering brief respite to his terrified congregation. “These are all capital sins. A doctrine based upon the capital sins!”
His voice echoed around the silent hall. “We know what their ideas will lead to, the damage caused by their slander, the lies that have, as I well know, deceived several of our brothers, taking advantage of their trusting hearts.”
He sought out those who had most fallen under the sway of the peaceful revolutionaries. But no head was raised. Below him there was only shame and fear. Another war had begun, and war did not allow for dissent.
“We know what it is that they truly want. Shall we allow their teachings to continue to pollute the simple spirit of these indigenous peoples? Shall we allow them to poison their childish minds? Not only must we protect our possessions, not only must we defend the natural order of things; it is also our duty to protect innocent happiness. It is time to speak of both our good and theirs, that of all the communities of the children of God. It is time to denounce the dangers that stalk us, hiding under the cloak of false goodwill. Our enemy is not the freedom or justice they hypocritically promise, my children. Our enemy is not their school, because we are committed believers in education: it is not for nothing that I have been your teacher. Our enemy hides behind terms such as reason and science, which they pervert to their own ends, for there is no reason but the word of God and no science without his will. Who is our true enemy, my children? Communism!”
A large number of the congregation crossed themselves at the mere mention of the word.
“This is the ignominy that lurks behind these generous words! Deceit! And the only way to combat it is to treat it as the weed that it is, to rip it out from the ground by the roots!”
Commotion spread throughout the crowd, but Stobert quieted them with raised arms.
“Now is the time to act, I tell you! It is time to work with the forces of order however we can! And to commune with God’s truth just as he has taught us. That is why in the difficult tests to come, we cannot sit on our hands. That is why as part of our humble service to the Almighty, we must change the name of this community, giving ourselves up to the task that God the Father demands of us, declaring the goodness that shall be required during the sacrifices to come. And so, in his divine bounty, we shall be renamed Colônia Liberdade!”
The sheep clapped. They assumed the name as their own and rejected the creed of those who were now their enemies, unaware of the true extent of the concessions they were making.
A week later there was a coup d’état in Brazil, and when the first executions were announced, no one raised any objection or asked any questions. Within just a few weeks the building that the first colonists had built as a hospital would be repurposed as an illegal detention center. Stobert was now powerful enough to remold the religious community in his own image. The isolation of the young was agreed so as to prevent contamination from the outside world; fences were put up, followed by barriers and eventually walls with a guard put on the gates. Dissidents from across the nation were taken to the compound in windowless vehicles. After interrogation, they were buried in the cellars.
Soon, militia, patrols, and private security would follow. Angela, who was the first to suffer from Stobert’s so-called heat diet, died in 1968. She was spared the worst of it: the militarization, disappearances, and discipline. Stobert’s strict regime was combined with his experimentation on children, who grew up living in terror of his punishments, especially what would become known as his “cold hugs.”
In 1976, he was overseeing the construction of his greenhouse when he got the most unsettling news he’d received since arriving in South America.
“Excuse me, master. A gentleman has been asking for you. He arrived in a Mercedes. He looks very rich.”
“And he hasn’t introduced himself? Let him wait!”
“We told him that you couldn’t see him, but he just laughed. He said that he had no idea who Fausto Aspiazi was, and he didn’t care. He’s come to see Walter Stobert. He said that his name was Helmut Schwindt. Apparently you were friends many years ago.”
Stobert’s stomach turned a somersault. “What did you say?”
“He says to remind you of Vienna 1935. He says he has answers.”
The silvery belly of the plane became a mirror reflecting the glaring sunlight. Andrés was going home, pleased that everyone had finally left. A vague melancholy settled inside him. It was just the void left by absent friends and family. As he left the terminal thinking about his ruined family, the likelihood of his niece being found alive, and the light the girl had always given off, he knew that he regretted nothing. All the suffering had been worth it. She would do more for humanity than the two people who’d been killed for selling her out would have done combined. They were just like Judas and his thirty pieces of silver. He was beset by doubt about this line of thinking, wondering whether it was compatible with his beliefs. Who was he to decide who was worthy of life and who wasn’t? Who decided who was wise or righteous, who was better? Better in what way? Better because they were good, he said to himself, but deep down he knew that such definitions were relative. Even his rote answer to everything, “It’s in God’s hands,” seemed insufficient given what had happened over the past few weeks. People made choices, and they were often bad ones. He knew that if he asked anyone he knew, they’d establish priorities: family first, the people I love, then those who are like me . . . That was it, he thought. Life had taught him that that was where it always began: with people who were similar to oneself. He’d spent enough time as an immigrant to understand that. It didn’t matter where you went—that was the heart of it, as though we were nothing but a herd, a pack, or a pride.
Then he smiled to himself: I think I know who can decide; the person who sacrifices himself can make the decision. When you give your life on behalf of the most deserving, then you have nothing to lose. There can be no deceit, lies, or selfishness. That was what our Lord did on the cross. From the cross he showed us who must live and die, and if I follow him, my choice shall always be the right one. More relaxed now, at peace with himself, he parked the car in its usual spot and went to visit his most recently opened store, knowing that he’d done the right thing. And although h
e felt terrible for his wife and children, they were well prepared. He had paved the way for them while little Michelle’s life was only just beginning. The girl still had to learn, but she could do good—he knew that she would do good. Beto and Jonathan had embraced evil and would be punished for their sins. Play with fire . . . he, meanwhile, may have tried to do good, but he hadn’t lived well enough, not enough to earn forgiveness, and that was what gave him most satisfaction about what he was doing. His final act had been to make things right, to help the needy and follow his conscience. Now that it had been made, he rejoiced in his choice. He had secretly called Don Adrian and found out about the plans of the evil horde known as the Mara: they would make his sister and niece pay; that much had been decided. If they couldn’t touch Ethan, then they’d go for the people close to him. Their wrath was implacable, and they never forgot. He knew this, and he couldn’t allow it. Even Calvo hadn’t been sure what he was offering: it had taken him a long time to catch on and even longer to accept it.
Sometime later, the door to the shop opened, and a pair of girls dressed in gang clothing, youngsters no older than fifteen, came in. It upset him to see them starting so young, innocents dragged down into their pit of hatred and pain. Who had decided that he must die? A kid their age or an adult who had only known death for his entire life? A villain who chose between life and death depending on who was most like him or maybe, when it came to his fellow gang members, on just a passing whim. Filled with a sudden bout of empathy for these sheep in wolves’ clothing, Andrés got up from his chair and walked over to them, raising his right hand as a symbol of forgiveness and mercy. “You still have time to reject Satan.”
Shadows Across America Page 40
