by Mark Tiro
I never heard them.
Before they ever reached the ground, the deafening roar of the guns opened up.
And then came the bullets, kicking up the sand as they landed all around me until I could see no more.
6
Six
“I can’t breathe!”
“Stay down!” It was the psychologist. He was lying on top of me now, shielding me.
The sand kicked up by the bullets filled the air. After a couple choking breaths, I pulled the towel over my mouth. That made breathing easier.
Finally, the bullets stopped.
The guns stopped too, replaced by the shouts of commanders issuing orders, and then feet—running in all directions.
A moment later, he got up, then reached out a hand to help me up as well. As soon as I stood up, I saw. The gun was an anti-aircraft gun. The soldier behind it scanned out into the distance as a soldier next to him scanned the sky through binoculars calling out numbers I couldn’t make out.
In the water, I saw the fuselage of a small plane, with oil or fluid or something leaking out of a propeller. Still clear on the side were the unmistakable markings.
RAF. This was an RAF plane.
Wiping the sand off, the psychologist took a long, almost philosophical look at the remnants of the thing as they floated silently off on the tides.
“As long as… no—whenever—that hole is open, this kind of thing happens. Things will come through.”
“Has that ever happened before? A plane… a fighter plane?”
“A plane? No, it’s not the first time for a plane. But a fighter plane?” he said with the faintest of smiles. “Well, there’s a first time for everything now, isn’t there? You and I are very fortunate that someone in the army considered this possibility, though, and made sure to bring a couple anti-aircraft guns here. Just in case.”
“Just in case,” I repeated, as I stood up and wiped the sand off me.
“So, you’ll send it back then?”
“The ship, the people—yes. It all has to go back through that… wormhole or whatever, before it closes. Before the sun comes up tomorrow. Nothing that stays here after that will survive. Not here, at least. Not if it doesn’t go back. None of these people have a chance of making it to lunchtime alive…. Not, that is, unless they go back through that wormhole from where they came. Everything—everyone—that stays here dies here. It all gets incinerated when that thing closes up in the morning when the sun comes up. Everything that goes back through—well, at least it has a fighting chance.”
“Which is why…”
“Which is why we have a military operation going here, to load up that ship with food, and fuel, and communications equipment, and…”
“And those crates of Sten guns?”
“And those crates, yes. But those crates—they’re not exactly Sten guns.”
“What do you mean? Of course they are. I saw them. You think I don’t know what a Sten gun looks like?”
“Thank you. A lot of people worked very hard to get the retro design. I should hope they look like Sten guns on the outside.”
“What do you mean ‘look like’?”
“See, we kind of… improved them. Ours have twice the range. And they never jam.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“They’re waterproof, up to five meters, under ordinary conditions. But yes, on the outside, they look exactly like fifty year old Sten guns. In case one of them is ever lost, or captured.”
“And are they ever? Have they ever been? Surely, you must have a way to know.”
“We do. And no—they’re not. As far as we can tell, none of the guns we sent back have ever been used.”
“How do you know?”
“Because those guns always end up at the bottom of the ocean. Tomorrow—our time—we check the history, the newspaper archives and so on to see what became of the ship. And then we send a team of our own, to find it.”
“At the bottom of the sea? That’s where the ship ends up?”
“Always. Every time.”
“And the people? What happens to all the people?”
He looked at me quietly, with kind eyes. But he didn’t say anything.
“They all died?” I blurted out. “How could you let them all die?”
“No. Not all of them. And also—we don’t just let anyone die. We draw conclusions, and apply the lessons. Whatever happened, we make sure it does not happen a second time.”
“But if you can simply read the newspapers tomorrow to find out what happened, why don’t you do something to try to prevent it?”
“But we do. Every time—we do. The first time, we read that the ship was sunk by a torpedo. So what do you think we did? We installed technology on this ship to defend against that, to avoid that—that’s what we did.”
“And? If the ship ends up at the bottom the sea every time, what does your technology help?”
“No—it helps a lot, actually. The next time, that little ship of… well, it actually ended up sinking a U-boat itself. How’s that for technology? Not bad for a ship that could barely keep itself afloat a day—well, fifty years and a day—before, right?”
“But you said it still ended up sunk? How did it sink?”
“That next time, it was German aircraft that sank it. And so the next time, what did we do?”
“You added anti-aircraft guns to the ship?”
“Exactly. We made sure to install anti-aircraft tech on her decks before we sent her back through so she could fight back against the planes.”
“And?”
“The anti-aircraft weapons? They worked great against the planes. But against the hurricane that came out of nowhere after that—they didn’t help quite as much.”
“Wait—what? A hurricane? In the Mediterranean? That’s ridiculous.”
“I know, right?”
“That’s how she sank? A hurricane?”
“That time, yes. But the ending—it never changes. No matter what we do, it never changes. This ship always goes down, every time. Only the way it happens changes. What happens never does. It’s like that past doesn’t want to be changed. And so whatever we do, the past, it… adapts. Still, we do everything we can to give the people a fighting chance. And—”
“And what! If everyone dies, what are you doing here? What does any of this matter?”
“I didn’t say everyone dies. We have never found all the bodies, so we don’t know that for sure. There are always a couple we have never found.”
“The same couple?”
“Yes.”
“So what? So, they ended up as dinner for some hungry fish? How can you do this? How can you just send them away?”
“They’re not supposed to be here. This ship, these people—they don’t belong here. And as long as that gateway remains open—until they go back, the Nazi past has a portal to threaten everything we’ve built here. We survived their evil once. We do not need to give them a second chance to exterminate us.”
“But at the cost of sacrificing all these innocent people here?”
“We sacrifice no one! We do everything we can to give them a fighting chance.” He took a deep breath, then slowly added, “As I said before, there is always the hope…”
“The hope?”
“The hope that this time, the outcome will be different.”
7
Seven
Off in the distance, the first passengers started shuffling back towards the pontoon pier that led back to the ship.
The pier bobbed up and down in the stillness of the water. A group of men walked out of a tent-turned-classroom where they’d been learning and drilling on the ship’s newly-installed anti-aircraft guns and anti-submarine weapons. Heading towards the gangway, and silhouetted in full of the moonlight, I could make out the guns slung over their shoulders where none had been before.
After that, I saw a group of women heading back. As they reached the ship, the moonlight gently bathed them in its
calm light as well. Many of them also walked with their shoulders loaded up full. These precious packages were the babies and young children. Unlike when they had arrived in the noise of excitement and joy, now most of these young ones were experiencing their last moments in the promised land in the quiet sleep of dreams.
Soon, there were more passengers trudging back towards the ship, many of them carrying the last boxes of supplies. The teens among them—boys and girls alike—proudly carried their new guns towards the ship. Those wide-eyed, wide-awake youth betrayed something beyond mere determination. There was an eagerness to fight, obvious even in the quickly passing darkness. Soldiers not more than a few years older than they were (plus the intervening fifty years) had spent the overnight hours inculcating them with stories of the state that would rise just a few years into their future out of their willingness to fight back.
If they ever survived the growing list of perils of the sea, these would be the ones who would make a stand. These young people were the ones who would fight, to refuse to go to their deaths like sheep to a slaughter. If only they would have the chance….
As the line of passengers slowly wound its way down the pontoon bridge and back towards the ship, a young officer made ticks, one by one, on a clipboard. Once the last had passed and the passengers were aboard the ship, the officer looked down at his clipboard. Puzzled, he looked up, then quickly back to the clipboard, obviously counting. He looked up again, this time more nervous. Scanning the distance, he looked down one more time. Then he looked up, and back towards the command tent on the beach.
“One is missing!”
Hearing no response, he shouted again, “We’re one short. One of the passengers is missing! Does anyone know where he is?”
“It’s okay,” came the answer a moment later. It was an older officer, calmly answering the soldier with the clipboard. “Give me a moment, okay?”
That’s when I noticed he was walking towards us. He looked towards the psychologist.
“Ben Zev—is that you over there?”
At that, the psychologist turned slowly towards the officer. When he did, I was able to see the officer clearly… and the officer clearly saw me.
He did not say a word to me, however. As soon as he saw me, the officer turned back toward the psychologist, in a soft voice.
“Moshe, it’s time,” he said.
“Already? We have a little more time until the sun rises, no?”
“I’m sorry. Anyway, didn’t I order you not to talk to him?”
“You ordered me not to tell him, which, of course, I did not.”
“I know, I know. You never do.” The officer took another step forward, laying his hand gently on his shoulder. “You make this hard on yourself, Moshe. You more than anyone, should understand that.”
“I do,” the psychologist answered.
“Anyway, you know how it goes. It’s time now.”
The psychologist turned back to me. I could see a tear form in the corner of his eye, but no words came out of his mouth. Then he stood up, came around the side of the table to me, then helped me, giving me a hug while he did.
“What is it?” I asked. “I should go home, I suppose.” Then I picked up the radio and turned towards the city to leave.
“You can’t go that way,” the officer’s voice rang out. Still calm, but firm enough to cause me to turn around.
“What do you mean I can’t go that way? It is the way home…”
“It’s time for you to get back on the ship,” he told me. “Mr. Wolfson—it is time for you to go back.”
“There?” I shuddered, pointing at the ship as I clutched the towel and the radio. “But… I think you must be confusing me with someone else. With one of the passengers. I belong here, in this land. I’m not one of…” I protested, pointing at the ship and its ready passengers. “I’m not one of them. I won’t go back. I mean, I belong here…”
“Answer me something,” the officer said. “What year is it?”
“Why, it’s 1939, of course,” I told him confidently. “Everyone knows that.”
“Of course, and for you—it is. And that—then—is where you belong. You may belong here as well, but not now. Perhaps in the future, yes. But of course, that future is something you will have to fight for. For now, you must go back. It’s time, and we need you to get back on your ship.”
“But I’m not one of them!” I blurted out, as everything started to swirl. “I am from here! Do you know how bad it is there? Do you know what it’s like?”
The officer and psychologist both looked at each other, sharing a knowing, sad look. Then almost in unison, they both answered softly, “Yes, we know.”
“So you see, it’s certain death if I go back. I don’t want to go—I won’t go!”
“You have to go, because it is certain death if you stay,” the officer said. “Anyone that came on that ship will not make it past the sunrise. For you—and very shortly now—it is a death sentence if you do not go.”
I turned pleadingly to the psychologist. “Please, I don’t want to die.””
“You won’t die—”
“Enough!” the officer barked at the psychologist. “Don’t say another word”
“It is not certain death you are returning to,” the psychologist said, ignoring him. “There are two who we don’t think will die. Two who have a chance to live. You are one of them. But please—you must fight. Resist—every step of the way. You have nothing to lose…”
“I said, enough.” Then the officer barked again, cutting off the psychologist mid-sentence. Looking down, his eyes stopped on the radio I was holding. “Who gave you that radio?” he asked, taking it from my hand. “We’ll, I’m glad we caught it. We couldn’t have that going back with you now, could we?”
Two soldiers who had hurried over at the commotion, now flanked me on both sides. I had no choice but to start walking back with them, towards water… towards the ship. It was now ready to depart, waiting only on one last passenger.
Me.
I turned my head, back to the psychologist as the soldiers led me away.
“Goodbye Moshe Ben Zev…” I said.
We had now reached the edge of the beach and the beginning of the makeshift pier. The winds were starting to kick up now, and the ship’s engines had roared alive, ready to resume the journey.
And so, I didn’t hear him answer me. Not really. I could barely hear, and it didn’t make sense.
But as I turned around, I did see.
And what I saw was a man who had tears streaming from his eyes. I saw him break down, as he shouted back. “Goodbye Mr. Ben Zev,” he said. “Be strong…”
The wind and sea, the hum of the engines—it all filled the air now, engulfing his voice, swallowing his last words as I turned to walk up, onto the ship. “Be strong, grandpa…”
I did not hear the words. Not that night.
The anchor rose up as well, and our ship began to move away from the land.
We pulled away, toward the horizon… toward that place from where we had come. The wind and the sea and the tides rose up once again. Where we were going, we knew they engulfed the entire world.
As the sun rose and day broke over the land, we slipped silently back, fifty years before and one instant later. And then, at last, we were swallowed up into the never-ending night.
The story continues…
You can read THE ARTIST, Book Two of INTO THE NIGHT: Stories Between Darkness and Dawn here.
THE ARTIST
An aging rock star. An empty piano bar.
His last night in Las Vegas.
Ever.
An aging rock star sits down to a piano in a bar just before closing time.
A mysterious woman requests a song he’d written long ago, for a girl long gone.
Both—he buried long ago.
Both—he vowed never to speak of again.
Now, he has no choice. Now, his life depends on it.
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Mark Tiro, Somewhere in the Mediterranean
