Beneath the Universe

by Jennifer Gaskill Miller

  She was in the midst of the forest and the tracks had disappeared. Had she missed them? Had she even been following the right ones to begin with? It was so dark and even with the moonlight, everything looked different. She must have been on the right track. Only the path she had followed could have been made by her father. But then, why had the tracks stopped? She had neglected the trail. How could she have been so stupid? Her brother’s life was hanging by a thread and she had been distracted by her own pain. Was it too late, had the life already been smothered out of him? What then? Would she have to go home, wait for her father and face her future of silence and submission?

  She had always been a good little soldier, so obedient, so perfectly easy to ignore. Cora couldn’t imagine everything going back to the way it was before. Would she be more valuable to her father now? Would she be his favorite after all? Maybe now, with a shared secret, they could finally have the relationship she had always dreamed of. But she did not want it like this. She wanted to be loved and accepted, not for what she had; not her perfect limbs or sandy hair or high forehead, but because she was his child. Her brother deserved to be loved and accepted and allowed to live, not out of pity or charity, but because he was Blaz’ son. He was Cora’s brother. She loved him. And she needed him to love her. She needed her misshapen brother to make her whole. But right now, he depended on her. So she ran again, blindly perhaps, stupidly even, but at least she was running.

  CHAPTER 18

  October 1944

  Blaz

  The dull quiet was giving Blaz a headache as he stood beneath the trees. It was the painful, silent throb of someone about to faint or just waking from fainting. His peripheral vision was black and his ears felt warm and heavy as if too much blood had flowed there suddenly. He moved the blanket to one side to reveal the baby’s face. This was the first time he’d held his son. The walk here had calmed the child enough to sleep. It was a good thing. Blaz was certain it would make it easier if he had no eyes to look into.

  When he’d finally screwed his courage enough to go the nursery, Blaz had mulled over what he ought to wear. On one hand he thought he should dress in his uniform. After all, it was his duty as an SS man that he was upholding. On the other hand he wondered if he should dress plainly in civilian clothes. While it may have been his duty as an officer, it was out of love as a father that he would do it mercifully and privately. Ultimately he didn’t change into his uniform but he did take some time to straighten his shirt and comb his hair.

  The baby had still been naked save for the blanket and had messed himself in the crib. Blaz fetched a washcloth and filled a basin with warm water. He washed the baby with tenderness, careful of his wing. When the bath was finished he wrapped the baby in a fresh blanket. He had hoped to use the green one but it was filthy, so Blaz chose a thicker blanket from the closet. It was old, but it was clean and would suffice for its purpose.

  Downstairs, he laid the baby on the breakfast table in the kitchen as he put on his coat and hat. The pistol was tucked into his belt and nudged the small of his back, reminding him with every movement what he was about to do. As he was tugging on his gloves Theatrice appeared in the doorway.

  “So you’re really going to do it?” She asked icily.

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to her, even be in the same room with her after what had happened. But he felt stronger now, centered.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “And what’s to become of me?”

  “You can stay tonight, but I want you gone first thing in the morning. I’ll make other arrangements for Giselle’s care.”

  “I could help you do it,” she nodded to the baby, her arms crossed in front of her.

  “No,” he shook his head. “Just stay with Giselle until I get back.”

  Theatrice huffed a little sob, her final appeal to him before she turned and went upstairs to the bedroom. Blaz followed her, not out of kindness but to be certain she wouldn’t shut herself up in her room and neglect his wife. It occurred to him he might not be able to trust Theatrice alone with Giselle, but she wouldn’t dare hurt her. Right now being a nurse was her only option and as much as he had discovered about Theatrice he couldn’t imagine she would ever . . . he pushed the thought away. When she had gone in and shut the door, he turned back and didn’t stop but took the baby in his arms and promptly left the warmth of the house.

  The trek through the dark forest went quickly, even with the weight of his burden.

  He had walked to the clearing where he now stood without thinking as if guided by an unseen hand. The spot was perfect. The forest was mostly pine and spruce. But here was a small circle of silver birch. The winter had stripped them of their leaves, but their branches and bark remained a shiny white that glittered with every shudder of the wood. The snow inside the circle was untouched, although everywhere around it was covered in animal tracks and pine needles. It felt sacred in the circle. It’s an alter, Blaz thought. The baby was so quiet, Blaz wondered if he was dead already, frozen by the cold. He held the boy, just looking at him, wishing that beneath the blanket there was no wing, but a perfect body, a perfect boy. The minutes went by and Blaz felt himself stalling. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, a sign that he should stop; some sudden omniscient signal? Was there an angel to his Abraham? Abraham had no reason to sacrifice his son, only that God commanded it. But Blaz knew why he must sacrifice this child. It was the right thing to do, it must be. All his years of perfecting the race, of preserving the moral code . . . he must have faith.

  The things we do in the name of God, he thought. The things a man must do for his family, his conscience, his country. Obedience unto death. In another life he imagined his son could be perfect, an athlete with an immeasurable mind. Someone honest and hardworking who would have sons of his own and Blaz’ legacy could go on through the centuries. But this was not the time and this was not the son. This was a creature, an abomination. He peeked again at the baby’s face, trying to feel revulsion. But he was not revolted. His face softened without effort. The face itself was perfect and in it he could see all his hopes and dreams coming to life.

  It would be hard to do it. Of course it would be hard. Why should God make it easy? What strength could Blaz attain or humility would he learn? Of all the things that had ever been asked of him, this would be his greatest test. This was his chance to truly live up to his name, to be the “unwavering protector.” He would protect the purity of his house and family. He replaced the blanket that covered the frozen face and set the bundled child in the snow. He stepped back a few paces, three maybe four, he wasn’t keeping track. His mind was focusing now, clear and ready. He felt to the back of his belt with one hand, never turning his eyes from the blanket in the snow. His father’s pistol came out smoothly, despite the tightness of the belt or the heavy coat that covered it. This tiny detail of ease gave Blaz a surge of relief and enthusiasm. It was all so smooth, so prepared. Everything was going better now. No more doubt, no more anguish. His conviction was restored. The pistol cocked almost voluntarily as he thumbed it. The weapon knew what to do. Now, so did the executioner. His aim was steady. He didn’t need to close his eyes after all.

  He didn’t realize he had taken the shot, there had been no blast. But the pistol must have fired. The force of it had thrown Blaz back so hard, he must have been more unsteady than he realized. And he hadn’t eaten a good meal in days which made him lightheaded and easily overwhelmed. But what a kickback! He had fired a pistol a thousand times, but never had such a reaction. The blast had forced him onto his back, staring up at the dizzying maze of branches and filtered sunlight. He closed his eyes, unable to smile but relieved that it was over.

  But then a strange figure caught his eye, moving slowly somewhere around him so he had to tilt his head even further back into the snow to see it at all. A dark figure, its cloak flowed behind it as it moved. Had Death come to take this child in his presence? But the sound the figure made, not haunting or even deep. It
was a child’s cry, a sob really. And then a word, one that made him sit up suddenly.

  “Papa.” Such a small word, spoken by millions of different voices, from every corner of the world and in every language made him quake at his very core. He had read it in books and heard it at the cinema. He had spoken it and heard it spoken of him. The word he had fantasized hearing his son say now was changing everything as it came from his daughter, Cora.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  She did not answer. She looked at him, clutched the bundle to her. The baby. She had the body in her arms, cradled it as she looked at him through eyes that did not belong to her. This was not the Cora he knew. Cora was meek and silent and simple. But the child before him was none of those things. She was brave and strong and seemed taller in her nine year old body than he had ever stood in his life. She looked the way he wanted to look when he stood before his regiment giving orders. There was no question in her expression. What he saw was an accusation, a condemnation.

  “Cora, listen to me,” he whispered, “He was not one of us. He would not have survived in the world we are creating. He deserved to be at peace.”

  “You don’t believe that,” she said, her voice salty and rough, the voice of the sea. “You just couldn’t stand the humiliation. You won’t let anything touch you that isn’t perfect. Not a deformity, not an outcast, not even a daughter.”

  “Cora,” he moaned, “Is that what you think? You are my child. I love you.”

  “And him?” She held up the bundle.

  Blaz swallowed. How could he explain this to her? It seemed impossible.

  “Child, there are infections in this life that we must cut out to survive as a people. If we accept a sliver in our skin, it becomes infected. It can cause deterioration beyond the help of medicine. A limb can be lost, a life can be lost, if we do not cast out every small sliver.”

  “He is not a sliver! He is not a rodent or a disease! He’s a human being. He’s your son.”

  Blaz sighed, the weighted sigh of the bereaved. “Not anymore.”

  “We have to take him home. You can’t kill him. I won’t let you.”

  “Cora, it’s already done. I . . .” But it wasn’t already done. He hadn’t fired the pistol. He had been thrown back by . . . impossible. She was so small, so weak. And she wouldn’t have dared to . . . but she had. Cora, his own flesh and blood, the child he had taught about right and wrong, obedience and honor, had attacked him. Her loyalty to this thing had beaten her loyalty to her own father. The tenderness he had felt only moments before was lost. She had revolted and he would not stand for it.

  “Give me the baby,” he commanded.

  Cora stepped back and reached down, grasping a fallen limb.

  “Cora, you will give me that child or so help me God you will regret it.”

  She lowered her head like a cat in a dark corner. “No.”

  He aimed his pistol at her, “Give him to me. Turn around and go home and we will never speak of this again. Do you understand?”

  “I’m not going without my brother. If you kill him, you’ll have to shoot me, too.” She put down the bundle and stepped over it, moving closer until she stood in front of him.

  “I have . . .” she searched for the word. “Conviction,” she whispered.

  “You don’t know what that means.” He whispered, lowering the gun.

  “I know what you taught me.”

  Blaz let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in. But as Cora looked back at the baby, Blaz lunged at her and threw her aside into the snow as he advanced on the bundle once more.

  CHAPTER 19

  Cora

  He was coming at her. Cora had been prepared for him to be angry, to threaten even. But she didn’t realize he would actually try to hurt her. She had been thrown aside, but the soft snow caught her and she stood up, grabbing the closest branch she could. It was heavy, so very heavy. But if she could hit him with it, it might slow him down enough that she could take the baby and get away.

  His pistol was aiming again. She held the branch behind her and swung with all her force. It hit Blaz full against the side of his head and he dropped into the snow. Cora was shaking all over, so violently she was certain she was suffering a fit. Her father’s body sprawled out before her, his blood creeping onto the snow and collapsing the ice crystals with its weight and heat. She was still holding the branch, though now one broken end rested on the ground, her frame too slight to hold it up by herself anymore. And she was indeed herself again. Since she had left the clearing where the footprints disappeared she had only been an observer, watching as her body chased ghosts through the forest. She watched as this strange version of her tackled her father, pushing him backward with all the force of a grown man, watched as she lifted the tiny bundle. She had watched, dazed, as the little girl stood up to her father, fearless and steadfast. And she had seen through terrified, child’s eyes as the same little girl picked a branch out of the snow and struck her father’s skull. But that girl was gone, and only Cora remained. Just her and the baby.

  The baby.

  Cora released the branch and looked around for the blanket. There he was, only a few feet from where her father’s hand lay still clutching the pistol. She picked him up and pulled back the blanket to see his face. He was perfectly still. She tried to bounce him gently, but he did not wake.

  “Baby boy?” she cooed, fighting the tears that threatened in the corners of her eyes. “Please wake up, little brother.”

  She cradled him against her frail shoulder, rocked him as she would her bear. The lullaby came out softly, a hum that became her plea to him. She didn’t know what to do. She wanted her mother, someone else to be there to take him. She was afraid of what she had done, what she had witnessed herself do. She hadn’t wanted to hurt her father that badly. She’d only wanted to stop him. What if he was dead? But there was no turning back. And all that mattered for the moment was the tiny, still person in her arms as she left the circle of trees and walked away from her father’s still body.

  She walked slowly through the trees, her exhausted limbs moving independently from her mind. She held the baby close to her, trying to warm him, waiting for some spark of life. The trail was lost again, the sun rising higher in the early morning. When the trees finally opened up to the town it was not by her house. She was somewhere else, further east. But she recognized the school and realized she could find her way home from there. No one stopped her. What few people roamed the streets at this early hour were too busy preparing their wares or stumbling drunkenly home. Besides, to anyone looking she would just look like a girl with a bundle. For all anyone knew it might have been bread or sausages, even books. But who would suspect it would be a disfigured, frozen infant?

  When Cora finally reached the house, two women were talking upstairs. Cora’s heart burst with relief. Her mother was awake! She ran up the stairs as quickly as her exhausted limbs would allow her, clutching the baby to her all the way. But it was not her mother that talked with Theatrice in the bedroom. It was Zelda. She turned when she saw Cora come in. Her face was drawn into grief. For a moment, Cora thought Zelda knew what had happened in the woods. But then Cora looked past her to the bed where her mother lay. Something was different.

  “Cora,” Zelda cautioned. “Darling, I’m so sorry.”

  Cora went to the bed and laid the baby between her and her mother.

  “Look, mama,” she was crying. “Look, I saved him. Everything is going to be okay. Mama, wake up. Look at him. Isn’t he beautiful?” But Giselle did not move. The last light in Cora’s world had gone out.

  Theatrice was talking frantically, asking Cora about the baby and her father. But Cora barely heard her. She just cried and held her mother’s lifeless hand. The baby mewled weakly. Cora stopped crying. She sniffed and touched his face. He was alive.

  Zelda stepped closer and reached for him.

  “Let me take him,” she said. Cora didn�
�t stop her as she lifted him into her arms and cradled him. All that could be seen was his cherubic face. Anyone would want to hold him. But what would she do when she saw his arm? As Zelda cooed softly, the baby grew louder and was soon crying out loud and thrashing its body with hunger. The corner of the blanket slipped to one side and Zelda saw his arm. Cora held her breath. Theatrice stopped chattering and stared.

  “Theatrice,” Zelda asked carefully. “Who else knows about this?”

  “No one,” Theatrice answered.

  “Don’t worry, Cora. I’m going to handle this. Where is your father?”

  Cora could feel herself trembling, wishing for a miracle, that her mother would wake up and claim the baby. But Cora was alone. She had saved her brother only for him to be seized anyway.

  “He’s gone,” was all she could say.

  “What do you mean? Where did he go?” Theatrice demanded, suddenly alert again.

  “I just wanted my brother back.”

  “Cora,” Zelda asked, holding a hand up to keep Theatrice at bay. “You were protecting him?”

  Cora nodded dumbly.

  “I see,” Zelda was thinking. “And your father is gone? Do you know where?”

  “He’s lying in the woods,” Cora admitted.

  Theatrice’s eyes widened. She looked at Cora bewildered for a moment before fleeing, running down the stairs and into the cold. Cora didn’t know if she would find him, but she was afraid of whatever came next.