Jacob's Oath: A Novel

by Martin Fletcher

  “U-boats.” Submarines. That’s what we are, she was thinking, as she lay in the dust, there were thousands of us. Once. Jews, submerged. Living underground, out of sight. Others, too: Gypsies, Communists. So-called enemies of the Reich, a subterranean subculture, hunted by the Gestapo, with no papers, no homes, where one false step, one miscalculation, one nasty neighbor, meant torture and death. It was worst in the winter, it was so cold. By day they rode the subway, the S-bahn or U-bahn, changing all the time so that inspectors wouldn’t notice them and ask for their ID cards, which had J for Jew stamped on them. By night they slept in the station toilets, locking the door, and had to wake early to leave before the cleaners came. In the summer it wasn’t so bad. They could sleep under bushes in the woods or the parks.

  Hoppi, remember in the Tierpark? Jews weren’t allowed but we sat on a bench without our yellow stars. And then we walked along the flower bed and your shoelace was untied and you kept treading on it and tripping up but you didn’t dare stop and bend down to tie it up in case people looked at us. And then, remember the new rule that the warden had to take the names of everybody in the bomb shelters, that was in Holzstrasse, with Peter and his wife, remember?

  So during the air raids we had to stay in the apartment, and we prayed. Oh, and remember that time we made love during the raid. Oh, it was so beautiful. As if it were our last time. We were mad. But what else was there to do? We could have been dead at any moment. And I know that was the time. As you finished, oh how you shouted in my ear, I said quiet! they’ll hear us. And you said, Don’t worry, there are too many bombs. We were on the floor, under the bed, I said to you, right then and there, We just made a baby.

  Our baby. Tears rolled down Sarah’s cheeks. Oh, our baby. So long ago, so very long ago. Hoppi, we were so young then, you and I.

  I was twenty-three and I loved you so.

  Sarah talked to Hoppi every day. Could he hear? Who was she to say no?

  She heard footsteps above. The lighter ones of Frau Eberhardt, who was the only neighbor to ever ask how she was; the heavier, more plodding steps of her older, frail husband. They aren’t so scared anymore, she thought. They’ve stopped tiptoeing. With so much of the ceiling missing, Sarah could make out their tiniest movement. She hoped they wouldn’t fall through the floor. Sarah wondered: Did they hang white flags? The Russians are right outside. Will they come in? They’ll have to. They’ll check the buildings for fighters, for guns.

  But she was too tired to move. She had survived. But what for? What’s left? Who’s left?

  It had been Hoppi’s idea. Right after the transport of … when? November? Was it 1941? It had been cold and raining; when they still had their papers and lived in their apartment on Flemsburgergasse. She’d been sewing uniforms at the tailor’s. The Gestapo and police had knocked on all the doors to give notice to the Jews: “You and your family are to report at eight a.m. Thursday to the Grunewald train station to go on labor assignment to the east.”

  Permitted to take one small bag of clothes and ten marks.

  Hoppi was so smart. They hid in the basement and as soon as the transport was over they came out of hiding and walked to the lake, the Grosser Wannsee, left a neat pile of clothes with a suicide note, and called the police, pretending to be shocked walkers out for a stroll. The police opened a file at the Kriminalpolizei, who hated the Gestapo, and sure enough, no questions, no search, the police simply wrote a report that two corpses had been found and buried. Josef Farber, Jewish male, aged 27, of Haspelgasse 12. Sarah Kaufman, Jewish female, aged 22, of Schlosstrasse 97. File opened and closed: Deceased. Suicide. The Gestapo stopped looking for them, and that’s when they became submarines.

  But it didn’t last long. Oh, Hoppi. Why did you go out that day? Wilhelm, yes that was who, Wilhelm Gruber. He saw it, he was hiding in a doorway. He told me. You ran, you fought, they beat you, and that was it. Once they have you, nobody gets away.

  Three years. Alone. It was almost a blessing to lose the baby. To be honest. What would I have done with a baby? Scurry through the streets at night with my yellow star and a bundle of tiny arms and legs? We’d both be dead. Sarah’s tears had stopped, and her body stiffened. And what life would he have had? Or was it a she? What life?

  For years she had choked at the thought, wept as she still felt the kick of her baby, as one feels a lost limb.

  Eyes closed, almost asleep now, Sarah went back to that place, the worst of all, when she wanted to die, when her baby had dropped, alone in the cemetery, where she had been living, she was doubled up in pain and anguish, unable to cry or make a sound because of the curfew for Jews. There was blood and pain and mess and above all, pure terror. Terror at what was happening to her body, terror that someone would pass by, terror at what would happen if she was caught.

  Sarah froze. Each nerve screamed. She heard the scrape of material brushing against the door-frame, the crunch of a heavy foot settling on plaster, crackling as if treading on paper, followed by another. Even the air moved. Or was that her imagination?

  Someone is coming.

  Someone is here.

  Sarah tried to dissolve into the ground. Could he hear the thud in her chest? Her wall, maybe a meter high, separated her from the door of the basement room. She heard another crunch, lighter, like biting into a cookie, as a man shifted the weight of his feet. Her hair stood on end.

  One strange word, softly spoken, an inquiring kind of sound, came from the doorway. Russian.

  A soldier. She must not surprise him. He may be scared too. He may shoot. Sarah forced out a little sound, a weak baby sound, a whimper of fear, high-pitched, as nonthreatening as possible. There was an answering word in Russian, and another, louder, it pierced the little room, and Sarah whimpered a little more. Slowly she raised a hand so that he could see it, her little hand, and she whimpered again. She raised her head, bit by bit, and looked at the door.

  All she could see was dim light glinting on metal, long and sharp. A bayonet poked into the room. Behind it, a barrel and then a hand as the soldier leaned forward, followed now by his nose and his hair and his face. His cap perched to the side, covering curly blond hair, he was just a boy. She whimpered again, and now the soldier was standing above her as she sat up by the wall of debris.

  She looked at him and their eyes met. He stared at her, his mouth opening. He glanced around, taking in the room. It wasn’t really a room, just some kind of abandoned storage space with a partially collapsed ceiling. It was tiny and dim, barely lit by daylight through a small grill at street level. His gaze settled on Sarah.

  What did he see? A young woman with gray smudges of dirt on her face, and arms covered in dust like camouflage. From beneath a faded kerchief, her brown hair fell in knotted curls, with white plaster flakes clinging to them, as if trying to age her, to conceal her beauty. Wearing a ripped heavy wool dress, a man’s brown shirt, and a torn, stained jacket. Hands pulling her shirt closed at the neck, her eyes wide with fear.

  He saw it all but all he noticed was a young woman with bare legs.

  He looked around, keeping his gun on Sarah as he turned.

  And they were alone.

  Sarah pointed to her mouth, touched her lower lip with her right index finger. With her baby voice, her cowering voice, her nonthreatening voice, she said, “Wasser? Bitte. Haben Sie ’was zum trinken? Ich hab’ ein solcher Durst. Bitte. Wasser?”

  He lowered his rifle. Looked around again as if he couldn’t believe his luck. He smiled shyly. She almost smiled back. He can’t be more than sixteen. “Please. Water?”

  Now she heard heavy steps, confident steps. More crunching of plaster and another soldier elbowed by the first. He had a flashlight that he shone in Sarah’s face. His eyes lingered on her, looked her up and down. Sarah pointed to her lips and licked them. The second soldier gave an order and the younger one left.

  The older man lashed out with a black leather boot. The wall of debris, Sarah’s shelter, collapsed in a cloud of dust and whit
e plaster. He jerked his weapon. In Russian: Stand up. Against the wall.

  Now with a true whimper, Sarah, still holding her shirt closed with both hands, scrambled to her feet and obeyed, without understanding the words. The soldier slowly raised his gun and pointed it at her and kept it pointing at her stomach. Again, his eyes wandered across her body. He said something to her. It seemed that he was sneering. Sarah didn’t answer, her shoulders sank, she cradled her belly with her hands. Tears welled in her eyes. She felt naked.

  The soldier was a big older man, with graying hair and large hands, like a farmer. He stood with legs apart, relaxed, staring at her. He put a finger under a dirty field dressing over his left ear and scratched, keeping his eyes on her body.

  The young soldier returned, holding out a bottle and an olive-green water canteen. He handed them to the older soldier, who said something. The boy looked at Sarah, shrugged as if there were nothing he could do, turned and left.

  The soldier unscrewed the bottle and with a smile that showed broken yellow teeth handed it to Sarah. “Danke schöen, danke schöen,” she said as she lifted the bottle to her lips. The soldier acknowledged her thanks by showing his teeth again and with an upward jerk gestured with his rifle: drink.

  Sarah breathed out and took a deep swallow. It took a moment before she gasped and spat and shouted in surprise and disgust. The soldier threw his head back and roared with laughter till his body shook. “Vodka, vodka,” he said. His eyes sparkled, his stupid face was creased in a broad grin as he gestured as if to say, Funny, yes?

  He handed Sarah the olive-green canteen. She raised it and let a drop fall into her mouth. She tasted it, licked her lips, took a bit more, and then gulped down half the contents. She poured a little water onto her hand and wiped her eyes. Dirt smudged her forehead more, she looked as if she hadn’t washed in a week, which was true. She breathed in and out, a long draw of satisfaction, and drank another long swallow.

  “Danke schöen,” she said, passing the canteen back to the soldier, who remained, legs apart, gun up, contemplating Sarah.

  Now what? she thought, looking down.

  He said something in Russian, laughed, and gave the canteen back to Sarah with a gesture: Drink, it’s yours.

  He turned and left.

  * * *

  Sarah sank against the wall. She put the canteen to her lips, sipped and sipped again. No point in hiding anymore, she thought, I must get out of here. He’ll be back. But where to go? The Russians are everywhere. And if not them, the Germans. Oh, where are the Americans? That’s what everybody had hoped. That the Americans or the British would get here first. That’s where I must go, she thought. To the Americans.

  But I’m so tired, she thought, surrendering herself to the weight of her head, her arms, her back, which pulled her down. Hoppi. Her eyes closed as she laid herself flat on the floor and a drowsy cloud descended. “Hoppe Hoppe Reiter, Wenn er fällt da schreit er…” The nursery rhyme. Parents put their children on their knees and jiggled them up and down and said: “Hoppe Hoppe Reiter”—Hup Hup Rider—and the rhyme ended with a loud “Macht der Reiter Plumps”—the rider goes plumps—and the parents opened their legs and the baby fell through them with a happy shriek. Every German knew the rhyme.

  Sleep was taking her. A smile played on her lips as she remembered how Hoppi loved to hold her. With Sarah on his knees, her legs straddling him, he deep, deep inside her, hugging each other so they could hardly breathe, kissing for as long as it took, as they moved and slid and cupped each other’s bottom, it was so warm and loving and beautiful. Oh, Hoppi. He would jiggle her up and down and look into her eyes and with a wicked smile, just before he came, he would say, he was always such a joker, he would shout, “Hoppe Hoppe Reiter!” That made her the rider. So that made him Hoppi.

  And now he’s gone. Or is he? Could he have survived, somehow? Escaped? No, they killed everyone, don’t fool yourself. It’s been three years. Still, we promised each other. If ever we were separated, we would go home, find each other there. On the bench at the bottom of the steps by the river. We promised.

  Home. Sweet Heidelberg. Sweet Hoppi. Sweet dreams.

  Sprawled on the floor, with a sheen of perspiration on her face like a translucent death mask, drool escaping from the corner of her open mouth, Sarah slipped into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  The rumble now was Sarah snoring.

  Fields of flowers glow in the early sun, a haze of pink and yellow, and rustle in the gentle breeze like a sea of glinting sun-washed waves. Lush low green hills with meadows of golden wheat rise and fall like the sea breaking on a yellow sandy beach. It is harvest time and boys and girls in Lederhosen are working hand in hand and humming and singing, and the sound of youth and joy is a low murmur across the bountiful land gifting hay and sunflowers and trees laden with heavy fruit. Shafts of light through the dense branches make the white almond and apple blossoms that smell so sweet and dainty and fragrant explode in luminescence. It is a farm, a farm of love. There, over there. See? The tall boy with long brown hair flopping over his eyes, laughing so gayly. Is that Hoppi leaning down, picking the red flower, putting it to his nose, breathing deeply, smiling and handing it to a baby, who laughs and tries to eat it? A baby? Lying on the ground, cooing, waving its little fists? Now the picture is fading, receding, like a street drawing in chalk washed away in the rain, storm, hail. Now the delicate fragrance is changing, it is stained with a different aroma, edgy, sickly, becoming bitter. Are the almond blossoms already rotting? Is the wheat old and dry? Is the sun going down? It is dark, and chilly. The smell. It is sharp, yet suffocating. What is it?

  Sarah’s eyes fluttered as she moaned and drifted out of her dream and sniffed. Beer. Alcohol. She opened her eyes and could barely see in the gloom. She heard breathing. Not her own.

  Sarah looked up.

  His few teeth glinted in the dim light. He smiled and said something. A whiff of alcoholic stink, like rotting potatoes, made her snap her head aside and gasp.

  “Viktor,” he said, stabbing his finger into his chest. “Viktor.” He said something else and stuck out a bottle. “Wasser?”

  He gave her his canteen. Bleary and giddy, she sat up and took a tiny sip as if tasting a fine wine, and when she was sure it was water all but drained it.

  Feeling pressure on her bladder, she rose to her feet. Viktor stood with her. He didn’t have his rifle with the bayonet. He had his bottle with a pistol. He pulled the gun from its holster, pressed it sharply into the back of Sarah’s head, behind her right ear, prodded her to the door and into the corridor. With his free hand he pointed to the doorway leading to the yard.

  Sarah was pale, trembling and nauseated. But she had to pee. Unable to communicate beyond simple gestures, humiliated, she went behind a wooden crate in the yard. She gathered her dress about her, squatted, pulled down her knickers, and felt release and heard the flow and sensed the warmth as her urine flowed into the earth around her.

  The soldier faced the door with his pistol raised, as if protecting his spoils. He looked like an ogre guarding its cave. As she finished she looked up. His body half faced her but his head was to the other side. As she pulled up her knickers and began to stand her heart raced. She was thinking, This is my chance, it’s now or never. She prepared to spring, to run. But the yard was sealed on all sides, it was an inner courtyard at the back of the building with rows of earth once used to grow vegetables and flowers. These had been pulled out by the roots long ago, replaced by grass and weeds, which would soon also go into a pot of soup. Now she was standing. Maybe I can push him aside and run, she thought. But where to? The street is full of Russian soldiers. They’ve put up a roadblock. And he’s so big and strong.

  Sarah felt small and weak. Which she was, in body. In mind, she had been through so much. And now this. All the talk of the women at the water pump, at the clothes line—Sarah couldn’t join them at the shops with their ration cards because she didn’t have one—was of what would
happen if the Russians came. There were no real German men to protect them; all the males were very young or very old. The soldiers had long since fled and the Young Guards were either killed or captured.

  The street was peopled by the sick, the helpless, and the women. And it was controlled by drunk Russian peasants in uniform, who had been at the front for years.

  So what did you expect?

  There is no point fighting or screaming, Sarah said to herself. Nobody will help. It will only make it worse. With a resigned sneer she adjusted her dress and walked past him, back into the gloomy room.

  He followed her. She sat on the floor against the wall, drew up her knees, and wrapped her arms around them, chin down, looking at her feet. Her hair fell over her face and she closed her eyes. It was a pose of utter dejection.

  He crouched and arranged some bricks into a flat shape, as if to sit. He put his hand inside his bulky jacket. Sarah heard the rustle and looked up. Oh, no, she thought. A knife? A rope? A gag? What will this disgusting man do? She felt the bitter tang of bile.

  He took out two candles and a match. Now there was light and flickering shadows and a smoky smell. She felt herself detaching, ephemeral, observing this shadowy space. Her soul rose to see the outline of a stranger with this Russian brute. Candles? Is he wooing her? Is he mad?