What I heard next frightened me more than anything: a moan of delight. My mother's. Her voice cooed with pleasure, oozed desire. She was nearby, quite close as if we were back in the Pension, separated by only a thin wall, and I were listening to her and some soldier kissing and more. No, I realized, she wasn't in danger. There was too much delight in what 1 heard. All that was missing was the crinkling of fresh white sheets and huffing of a downy featherbed. At first I couldn't move, but then I started following the groans as if they were a tantalizing scent wafting from a bakery. Tears were flowing from my eyes. My mother was a thief, a terribly clever burglar who'd slipped into my heart and stolen my youth.
Flashlight dangling from my hand, I made my way out of the hideaway, back outside, then right. They were in the neighboring ruins, Mother and some man. I heard his beefy grunts, his deep moans. Who? Who this time? Tiny beams of light squeaked through some boards. I peeked in, saw a lantern set on the ground of a large space. And mother. Coat dropped at her feet, she was locked in the embrace of some man, and her dress swirled and danced as she was pawed with passion. I moved past the boards, down a brick wall. I heard my mother's breathy words. I couldn't turn back, run away, pretend that I didn't see this when I'd seen it all. I couldn't be quiet anymore, either. I'd witnessed every one of them. I had to tell my whore-mother that, so I moved to a door, slipped in. Before me was a vast space, half cellar, half ground floor, now gutted by fire, walls charred, ceiling scaling with peely black scabs. And there in the middle, near a kerosene lantern, stood my mother, locked in the ravishing embrace of some man, his coat also thrown on the ground and his back to me. She tilted her head back, and he was kissing her neck, nuzzling down, lunging toward her breasts. I'd caught her just like I could have any number of times. Only now I'd let her know.
“Mama.”
Her eyes popped wide. She looked about, saw me standing there.
“Willi!”
She pushed him away. Broke his lock and shoved him and his wet mouth back. Despite her surprise at seeing me, I recognized the booze on her. It hung from her face like a thick haze, eyes droopy, cheeks flaccid. And the upper eyelids a little bit sleepy and not quite in control, pulled just over the top of the eyeballs like lazy window shades. Drunk again. I glanced at the floor, saw a bottle of something—brandy or cognac?
His back still to me, the man lunged for Mother, wrapped his arms around her. A desperate man, eager for love in a time of hate. But she twisted, would have none of him in front of me for she was embarrassed, her face having flushed white to crimson.
“Let go of her!” I shouted.
The light-haired marauder started shaking. No, laughing and swaying. More drunk than Mother, he roared from the bottom of his lungs, blasted this burned room with his glee. My body locked rigid while my heart seethed with fear. What did he know that I didn't? He turned. Full of pride, this man with the pinkish skin and sharp features shot his amusement right at me.
“Hallo, Willi,” said Heinrich. “Glad you could join us.”
My horror flicked from him to Mother and back. What was this? How could she? This was the man who'd dragged our Anton to another world! This was the man who'd been trying to kill my Joe!
“Shocked, little boy? Really?”
I muttered, “How… how did you find us?”
“Come on, don't look so shocked.” The victorious jokester, he cracked. “Your Mutti and I have met here lots of times.”
I charged right at him, flashlight held back like a huge club. I ran across that room and hurled myself at him, hitting and beating him with the flashlight. I was going to scratch his face to shreds, pull his tongue from his mouth and chop it to bits! I threw myself at him, and he grabbed me by the shoulders, tried to shove me away. My left hand locked on his belt, the other pelted him with the flashlight. I was screaming and kicking, and then I heard my mother begging, felt her trying to push me away.
“Willi, stop! Stop!”
More furious than ever, I kept on battling, even as an awful realization came to me. Mother was on his side. Right here, right now, I was the wrongdoer. That meant Heinrich was telling the truth. Mother was indeed this man's mistress, on call to his wishes. And that meant I'd been wrong. Mother wasn't an informant. At least not a very active one and certainly not a very good one. That's not how she obtained the booze for our bar. No, I thought, kicking and fighting all the harder. In exchange for wetnursing his desire, Mother was supplied with an unending flow of brandy and cognac, schnapps and Schultheiss beer and more, more, more. That was how he took care of her. Of us. I felt sickened. We'd basically been fed and clothed by this man? No. No!
A thick black object tumbled from Heinrich's waist and landed with a thud in the dirt. A pistol! Desperate, I lunged to the side but couldn't reach it. He had me by the right arm, was shaking me and beating me on the head. I reached out with my left hand and my fingers just grazed the barrel. Please! But then Heinrich saw what I was begging for and as quick as a bolt of lightning he jerked me up. He caught me with both arms, cocked me back, and then sent me hurling like a human cannonball. I screamed out as I spun through the air, saw Mama reaching, crying after me, those big, sad eyes of hers opened wide and scared.
“Willi!”
But she'd switched sides too late. I went tumbling through the air until I struck a column, my shoulder hitting it first, then my head smacking it with a bright, sharp crack. Like a bird that had flown into a window, I dropped to the ground, stunned and unable to see. I lay there, eyes open, nothing but blackness before me. Too shocked to cry out.
“Blödes Gör!” Stupid brat, snapped Heinrich.
Behind him, Mama's wail came big and round. I blinked, saw an edge of light encircling a large spot of darkness. Then suddenly behind me, from the street, I heard desperate steps, a board being ripped and hurled aside. And heavy breathing. I looked toward the opening, could only make out the shape of a big, strong figure, but knew it was my never-acknowledged father. I blinked again, my sight daring to seek more, and in his hand I spied a gun. Dieter's gun.
“Joe, no!” screamed my mother. “Get out of here!”
He stood there, unmoving. “This is like old times, isn't it—just the three of us.”
I twisted on the ground and noticed Heinrich eye the gun that lay only a meter or so from his foot.
“And it looks like,” Heinrich said, “we're about to finish what we should have back then.”
With that, Heinrich dove forward and scooped up the gun, racing on toward me.
“Joe!” I cried.
Mother screamed.
As Heinrich charged closer, I looked over, saw Joe trying to take aim on the running figure, saw his gun pointed right over my head. Shoot, Joe! Shoot! I curled into a ball. I wasn't in the way, he wouldn't hit me! Heinrich ducked behind me, then emerged on the other side of the column, taking fast sight of Joe and firing his weapon. Quick and sharp, a noise blasted the room and magnified with each second.
My mother's voice cut the night: “Nee!”
I looked across the chamber, saw Joe thrown backward, struck by some invisible, deathly force. He looked at Mother, disbelief gripping his face, and then he started crumbling. The gun dropped from his hand, and he collapsed to his knees, a red circle rapidly spreading across his chest.
“Joe!” I cried.
“Oh, mein Gott, mein Gott!” sobbed my hysterical mother, biting her own hand and not moving.
It had happened so fast, and I was up and running, my hands out, begging for Joe's life. He glanced at me, eyes open and sad. No, sorry. He looked so sorry, and then he tumbled over, landing right on his face.
“Joe!” I shouted, rushing to him.
I dove to the ground, brushed aside Dieter's gun and grabbed Joe's hand. His fingers tightened on mine, clutching desperately, then weakening just as quickly. Piercing his back was another hole, this one uglier and cruder, the place the bullet had burst from his body. I stared helplessly at him, saw blood, so much blood, pouring
from him.
Behind me I heard booted steps. Heinrich had done this. He'd shot my father and… and killed Anton, too, and… and… my fingers wormed through the dirt, encircling the handle of Dieter's gun. I felt the still warm grip in my hand and spun. Heinrich was tromping toward me, Mother now right behind him, and he froze the instant I pointed the gun at his hated face. He was shocked, I think perhaps even confused, because he smiled. Little boys weren't supposed to do this kind of thing, but I would and I did. Real quick, almost without thinking. There was an explosion in my hands, a burst of fire so strong that it sent me hurling back on top of Joe. He groaned beneath me but didn't move, and in the same instant I saw the right side of Heinrich's face expand and burst into a cloud of liquidy red. His hands clawed out, and he screamed long and hard like one of the animals at the firebombed zoo. He stumbled back, screeched. Then caught himself and turned toward me. The shattered cheek of Heinrich seemed to dissolve right before me, yet he continued toward me, tromping in hate, blood spurting everywhere. Above it all Mother screamed. But Heinrich didn't stop. If only the monster had, but he didn't! I knew that he would leap upon me, rip my heart from my body and bash me to pieces. I lifted the burning-hot gun again. I wasn't even thinking. Just reacting. I swung the gun around, I had to stop him before he killed me. I lifted the weapon up, pointed it at his face again and started squeezing the trigger. And only then… it was too late… but only then did I see my mother, grabbing him from behind, sinking her hands into him, jerking him to the side. My mother—she was like a crazed lioness protecting her cub. Protecting me! She was trying to keep him away from me, to save me but… but instead she threw Heinrich out of the way and the bullet that was supposed to kill Heinrich and stop him forever instead struck my mother, hit her right in the forehead, and I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to! I thought I'd wanted her dead, but I really didn't! I didn't mean to shoot my mother!
“No!” I cried.
It was an accident because she pushed Heinrich out of the way and the bullet hit her and burrowed its way right into her and killed her almost instantly. She tumbled forward, staring at me as she fell—her two blue eyes and that red jewel of death I'd sunk right in her forehead! She toppled onto Heinrich, and the two of them landed just short of my feet. I sat there unable to breathe. Mother dead. Dead because I shot her! I gasped for air. I couldn't move, the horror clutching me so tightly, twisting my heart and mind. And then I noticed something squirming. Fingers. Curled appendages clawing in the dirt. I followed the hand to the arm to the body of Heinrich. His face all muddy and drippy with blood, he strained to push himself upward. As if returning from the grave, he then heaved himself from beneath my mother's body, lunging out and grabbing my ankle.
“Get away!” I screamed.
I kicked myself free, snapped my ankle out of his weak grasp. I bolted to my feet, tore a glance over my shoulder. The right side of Heinrich's face was hidden behind a pulpy flow of red, but he had his gun, was taking flimsy aim. He fired. A bullet exploded just to my side. I tripped, fell on my hands. In the dirt was a sliver of a mirror, and I saw my murderous image.
“No!”
Mama was dead and Joe would be soon, and I wanted only to stop, run to them, curl up and die with them, but the disfigured, blood-drenched Heinrich was sitting up. Now struggling to his feet. So I ran. I ran as fast as I could, as far as I could, leaving my parents back there, escaping that horrible Heinrich and that horrible nightmare. Then finally the air raid began. The huge one that Joe had been promising all along. The Allies came, thunderstorming Berlin with bombs and ribbons of fire, and I crawled in a hole while the world exploded around me. Me, wishing, hoping that just one bomb would land right in my lap. I sobbed and shrieked, but nothing came to kill me, and I lay there in the dirt while everything was blasted from me, I mean the memory of what happened back there. I think I lay there for several days, actually, until someone came along and peeled me up like a piece of rubber. I couldn't talk. I didn't speak, not for the rest of the war. They said it was shell shock, but it wasn't really.
“Ten. Nine…”
I just couldn't talk because I was afraid to remember, afraid that it would all come pouring back out. And that's really why I didn't speak when I came to America. It wasn't because German was banned in the house. I just didn't mutter a word—
“Eight, seven. With each count you feel yourself returning to the present.”
I didn't speak a syllable until one day I realized I could pretend that Willi Berndt of Berlin was dead at last and that Will Walker now existed. I became someone else and imagined that I'd never seen how dark a world it really was.
“Six, five. It's all right, Will. You're going to be all right. Four . . ” Long pause. “Three. When you open your eyes, you will be in Chicago. You will be your adult self, able to recall all that you have seen. And you will find strength in my presence and in the knowledge that I will help you process all you've remembered.” Deep breath. “Two.”
Suddenly I was out of Berlin and at the bottom of a mucky pond, hooked and being tugged to the surface. I was fighting it, my mind twisting and flopping. God, I didn't want to come back. I just wanted to sink in the dark mud and never rise again. But this thing, this voice, kept yanking at me, pulling me up and up. It was all so lusciously, gravelike black before, but now my world was growing lighter. 1 pinched my eyes shut. Keep me in the dark, don't let me rise to the top!
“And one.”
Chapter 25
Alecia said, “You can open your eyes now, Will.”
Despite every effort of my own, my lids rolled back and my eyes were blasted with horrid fluorescent light. I blinked, shielded my face with my left hand. Shit! I was back. Through my fingers I saw the outline of Alecia, beautiful Alecia, sitting there surely hating me.
“Do you know where you are, Will?”
“Chicago!”
“Are you all right?”
I shook my head. My right hand groped down the side of the La-Z-Boy, jabbed the lever back and forth until the contraption folded back into itself with a quick swish. End of trip. End of trance. I threw myself forward, head in my hands, elbows on my knees, so I wouldn't have to look at her. Oh, Christ. Now I not only knew the truth, but someone else did as well. Tears streamed from my eyes, slithered down my wrists, slid down my nose, fell and splattered on the floor. How could I be back here? How?
“I killed her!”
“I know,” she calmly said. “I've thought that's what happened.”
“What?” My chest heaved. “But I didn't mean to. It was an accident! Heinrich was coming after me and I wanted to stop him. I had to! He'd killed Joe and… and…” A sob plunged me under, pulled me down. “Jesus Christ, I'm sorry! If only she hadn't been trying to push him aside, then she wouldn't have gotten in the way! Mama, Mama, Mama! I didn't mean to!”
I heard the rustling of clothes, several soft steps, and then Alecia was kneeling down next to me. Gently, she lifted my hand from my head, took it in both of hers. As if she were plugging into me, a surge of energy shot through my body. I looked up. Her eyes were red, her cheeks streaked with tears.
Alecia said, “I know you didn't, Will. I know it.”
“But… but… I wished her dead! I thought about killing her! And then… then I did it! I shot her, put a bullet right in her forehead!”
Alecia clutched my hand, squeezed it, tried to press everything she knew into me.
“There's a difference, Will. Believe me, there's a fundamental difference between the two.”
I stared at her. A difference? What was she talking about? Dead was dead. I'd killed my mother!
She caught her breath. “At some point every child gets so mad that they wish their mother or father would die. They… they get so angry they think they could kill them. My God, I even said it to my own father. I said, ‘I hate you! I could kill you!’”
“And that's exactly what I did!” I breathed in, smelled that alcoholy breath. Saw those hooded eyes of my mot
her. “She drank so much!”
“I know it. She hated the war and how it had ruined her life and everything she'd dreamed of. Booze was how she coped with that. Your mother was an alcoholic, Will, during a time when people didn't see that truth.” Alecia rubbed my knuckles in her hand. “Will, you have to understand that that's the part of her you wanted to kill because it was not only killing her, but you, too.”
“I loved her.”
“Of course you did. Otherwise you wouldn't have cared what she did with herself. Otherwise you would have run away and left Berlin months earlier.”
I blurted: “I just wanted her to hold me in her arms and rock me and sing to me.” I shook my head. “Instead I—”
“That was an accident. Can you see that?”
There was something right out in front of me, taunting and teasing me. Shrouded in a cloak, it danced around just out of arm's length.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean you've been very confused by two separate things—the frustrations and needs of a boy, and a horrible accident. It's completely understandable that you're so upset. Anyone would be. In fact, I don't know if I would have had the strength to cope as well as you have.” Her tone soft and almost admiring, she said, “Will, you survived the war and a number of awful things, and you need to give yourself great credit for just that.”
But I wished I hadn't survived. Living was a curse, Anton's curse. I looked up at beautiful Alecia. Couldn't she see that I wanted to be blessed with death?
Alecia added, “Will, every child has had the same thoughts that you did about your Mother. But these thoughts are just frustrated musings—irrational feelings and impulses—and they hardly ever come true. That yours did is a tragedy almost beyond comprehension.” She smiled. “We'll work this out. Believe me, you hurt terribly now, but you can overcome this and leave that pain behind. This is what we'll be working on. It's going to take a while, but trust me, Will, you'll make it.”
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