Jacob's Oath: A Novel

by Martin Fletcher

  There was the smell of decay and death, limbs and feet stuck out from mountains of bricks and timber, broken staircases hung from ghost houses with caved-in roofs, and listless Germans sat on smashed walls, looking blankly at these strange rag-people picking their way past.

  Hundreds made their way through the streets, flowing over the smashed walls and piles of bricks like swarms of rodents. The closer Jacob got to the city center, the worse it grew. Smoke curled from a pulverized basement and rags were drying. Families must live down there. As he passed he saw German survivors, with their grimy, bleak faces and their limbs wrapped in filthy bandages. In the camp you didn’t feel human. Here you saw people you hoped weren’t human. It stank of excrement and death.

  Jacob walked by huge shell holes and craters filled with dirty water and the skeletons of dogs, picked clean for food. Unexploded shells the size of a small car were marked by colored tape and warning signs. A burned, rotting horse covered in flies lay tethered to the shafts of a wrecked cart. In one quarter every building was demolished bar one: the church, with a steeple that pointed to the sky, as if in gratitude.

  As he followed the rail tracks Jacob said his own prayer, that the trains would be running. It would take a miracle. Approaching the station, carriages lay on their sides, the rear of a locomotive stuck up with its front smashed, tracks lay at all angles, and shell holes pockmarked the shunting yard. Two antiaircraft guns lay on their sides, their barrels blown off.

  Jacob rested for a moment, leaning against the shell of a burned-out wooden crate. Taking in the devastation, it dawned on him: what a fool. He’d been counting on a train and now it was obvious. The railroad system would have been a key target for the bombers, so they won’t be able to fix the trains for months. He’d have to turn around, get back on the road, and quick. There had been so many detours and forced halts he’d only walked about fifty kilometers in five days. About four hundred more to Heidelberg. Jacob felt his forehead. No fever …

  He looked at his shoes, and had to smile. The left was a formal brown lace-up and the right was a dark green suede hiking boot. When the British had forced the local Germans to donate clothes and shoes to the survivors of Bergen-Belsen, nobody had thought to tell them to tie the pairs of shoes together by their laces. So when a mountain of shoes and boots had been unloaded at Harrods, the nickname for Camp 2’s clothes store, it was a rare survivor who walked off with a matching pair.

  They were comfortable, though. They had to be. They had a lot of walking ahead.

  There was one good sign. Where the tracks ran into a collapsed shed he saw crowds of people sitting on suitcases. As he approached he saw others sleeping on the ground, mothers cuddling babies, clumps of men talking, hugging themselves, and jumping on the spot to keep out the cold. They must be waiting for something.

  In a clearing of rubble there was a water truck with British soldiers in their khaki uniforms and garrison caps. A line of Germans stood patiently in single file with broken buckets, tin mugs, and dirty bowls for their turn at the tap. Jacob went to the back of the line until it occurred to him: Why should I wait? Am I still in the camp? Did a German ever wait behind me?

  On second thought, maybe a dirty ragged Jew proffering a stolen British army canteen to a British soldier wasn’t too smart, either. But Jacob was beyond caring. He was too tired and parched. He hadn’t drunk water for two days.

  The British soldier looked startled when a filthy young man in torn clothes came straight to the head of the queue, holding out his water bottle. The Germans liked to line up almost as much as the British. Who was this bloke? “The end of the line’s over there, mate,” he said. “And where’d you get that water bottle from?” Not that any of these Krauts spoke English.

  “A British officer gave it to me,” Jacob said, in English. “Because I have been in a concentration camp for the whole war. He said I had suffered enough. I haven’t had a drink in days, I’ve been walking. But if you like…”

  “How come? Jew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, to me you’re all Germans. To the back, like everyone else.”

  Now Jacob looked startled. He didn’t know what to say. The Germans in line didn’t understand the exchange but they got the message and began to mutter. A man behind pulled Jacob by the jacket, a woman said something like “Who do you think you are?”

  “But you don’t understand…” he began.

  “Oh, yes I do, mate,” the soldier said. “You lot are all the same. Always want to get to the front of the line. Always did, always will. Well, there’s plenty of water where this came from. Get in line like everyone else. And where’d you nick that canteen?”

  Jacob stiffened. Every insult he had suffered, every humiliation, every blow, every kick, and every Nazi face that had ever loomed into his with a fist and a club and a rifle steamed up inside him like a boiling geyser. Enough! He felt his face go red, clenched his fist, knew that what he wanted to do would be a terrible mistake. But for once, for once …

  “Don’t be a tosser, mate,” he heard a voice say, “give him a drink for Gawd’s sake.” A soldier elbowed the first away, saying, “He’s on our side, you twat.” The second soldier, with red hair and a sunburned face, took Jacob’s canteen and held it under the stream of water till it overflowed. “Don’t mind him,” he said, “bit soft in the head, cooks are all the same. Let them out of the kitchen and they think they’re Monty.”

  “Mosley, more like,” a third soldier, a mountain of a man, said. “Here, come with me,” he said to Jacob.

  Grateful to have been spared from his own violence, and with a glare at the cook, Jacob followed the broad back past the station waiting room, which was mostly intact. He stopped dead, his mouth open, hardly hearing the soldier’s question. Surrounded by upended carriages and torn tracks was a locomotive with five carriages waiting in a siding. The tracks it stood on were intact and stretched into the distance until they disappeared around a bend.

  “Bergen-Belsen,” Jacob answered.

  “Heard about that. Poor show. Those swine. Here.” He took Jacob to his Bergen bag, which lay among a pile of canvas army bags stacked against a wall. He rummaged around and pulled out biscuits, bread, a little jar of marmite, and half a bar of chocolate. “Here. You need these more than me,” the soldier said. “And good luck, mate.”

  Jacob laid his hand on the big soldier’s arm, wanting to thank him, but all that came out was half a sob. He bit his lip. He couldn’t find any words.

  The soldier nodded and walked away.

  FIVE

  Berlin,

  May 6, 1945

  Frau Eberhardt from upstairs wrung out a rag and reddish water dripped into the bucket. She had heated a pot of water over a wood fire and when the rag was as dry as possible, she screwed the edge up into a point, wet it again with clean, hot water, spread a little of her precious soap on the end, and slowly massaged Sarah’s inner thigh and groin, dabbing at the bruises and cleaning the scratches. It stung but Sarah surrendered. The smarting pain had gone, replaced by an ache that seemed to stretch from her groin to her heart.

  Frau Eberhardt tutted as she worked. “Really,” she said for the tenth time, “we must find you a doctor.”

  Sarah lay back, her legs apart. She was exhausted, she felt empty, hopeless, and worst of all, helpless. For this she had survived? To be a prize for the eastern peasants? “What we must do,” she said, “is get me out of here.”

  “He’ll be back for sure, the big pig,” Frau Eberhardt said. “There’s less blood now, mein Liebchen, a lot less.”

  “I should hope so, it’s been three days,” Sarah said. “Those apples, you can take them.”

  Viktor had come by the next day with two bottles of vodka, had seen the state she was in, tut-tutted, kissed her forehead, and dropped off a bag of apples and some bread and cheese.

  “No, no, you eat them. Well, all right, maybe I’ll take one. Two, one for Stefan as well.”

  Every few moments F
rau Eberhardt glanced at the door. She strained to hear any sound. Her husband was standing guard at the entrance to the house and would whistle if any soldiers seemed to be approaching. They were nervous. Petrified. Frau Eberhardt couldn’t stop talking. If she was caught downstairs by any of those Russian swine, she’d get it too, she said. They didn’t care if she was old and dry and wrinkled, as long as she breathed they’d do it, and probably if she didn’t breathe, too. They’d raped half the women in the street and the only reason they hadn’t raped the other half was because they hadn’t found them. At least Sarah only had one. She should count herself lucky. They hunted in packs, those curs, those dogs. Trust me, enjoy the war because peace will be hell. Poor Ilse Stanger at number fifteen, the dog was so drunk he couldn’t get it up so he’d used a bottle and it broke inside. And there was no anesthetic when they went in to get the bits out. Blood everywhere. And not a sound. In shock, you know. Frau Schmidt next door had hid her twins, they’re only fifteen, in the water barrel in the attic, there was no water anyway. It’s so unfair, how the Russians abuse them, she hadn’t supported the Nazis anyway, never had, she wasn’t like everybody else, she was just as much a victim as the Jews, and now they were all being treated the same, for no reason, oh, that Russian dirt, just because they kicked the Nazis out they think we owe them.

  Herr Eberhardt wouldn’t allow her to take Sarah upstairs, where at least there was a proper bed she could lie on. “He’s afraid that big Russian will come looking upstairs if he can’t find you here. I’m so sorry, my dear, but there you have it. If he doesn’t find you then we’ll all be in for it. When Herr Eberhardt puts his foot down there’s nothing I can do.”

  She left a pillow for Sarah and two blankets to lie on. She was sorry. That’s all she could do. “I’ll come back in the morning, my dear, see how you are. I’ll bring some more water. Here’s some in the pan, and a cup.”

  Sarah, limbs heavy, murmured, drifting off to sleep, “Thank you so much, Frau Eberhardt. You’re very kind.”

  * * *

  That evening he did come back for more, and not alone. Another man, even bigger, younger, in a gray Soviet army coat, which he kept buttoned up, entered the room with him and stood, looking at her, while Viktor laughed and introduced them and unrolled a bundle with bread and cheese and a whole smoked fish. He placed two bottles of vodka on the floor, and lit two candles. “It’ll be dark soon,” he said to his friend in Russian, and grinned. “Take your coat off, there’s hot work here.”

  Sarah whimpered for a moment but was too scared to form a word. Her face puckered with despair as she looked at the new man. She shrank against the wall, her hair falling across her smudgy face, matted and dirty. She looked at the dried brown blood on the floor and the man followed her gaze. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

  He spoke and turned to leave. Viktor threw out his arm and held him by the sleeve. The man barked something, an order, and Viktor dropped the sleeve and stood up straight. He answered, quietly. The man looked at Sarah, said something else to Viktor, who took a slice of sausage and gave it to her. She refused to take it. The man, maybe an officer, laughed at Viktor, said something, and turned to the door.

  Viktor glared at Sarah, anger in his eyes. A sob rose in her throat, a cry, he would kill her, this brute, she couldn’t do it again, she just couldn’t, she wasn’t ready, and seeing her last chance, desperate, she cried out, “Bitte, helfen Sie mir, helfen Sie mir!” Please, help me, help me. The man seemed to pause, but she heard his footsteps continue up the stairs.

  Later Sarah said she didn’t know why, it had been many years since she had said the prayer, even part of it, what good did it ever do her or her family? But at the thud of those steps nearing the top of the staircase, knowing that she might not survive the night with that monster pig, she cried out in sheer panic, and from the bottom of she knew not where came those words, those holy words, those words of Jewish prayer.

  “Bitte, helfen Sie mir, helfen Sie mir,” she had cried in German, help me, and then she screamed, directly to God, “O, Shema Yisrael, Adenoi Elohenu, Adenoi Echad,” and then again in German, “Hilfe, hilfe, um Gotteswillen, hilfe!” For God’s sake, help!

  The steps paused again.

  She collapsed in loud sobs and fell across the pile of bricks. No, she couldn’t go through it again! Her hand fell on a jagged chunk of cement. It closed on it. I swear to God, she thought, that bastard won’t rape me again, I’ll kill him with this or die trying.

  The new man must have jumped, for she could hear him crashing to the ground. He cursed, he almost twisted his ankle in the gloom.

  He appeared at the door, he filled it with his bulk. Crumpled on the floor, Sarah saw him through her tears and dropped the cement and stretched her arm toward him, pleading. “Please, don’t leave me here, please.”

  “Sind Sie Jüden?” he said in German. Are you a Jew?

  “Ja, ja.”

  “There are Jews left in Berlin?”

  “Apart from me? I don’t know. I’ve been hiding for years. Oh, please, help me.”

  “Verschwind!” the officer barked at Viktor, turning on him. “Sofort!” He realized he had spoken in German. “Out of here! Now!” he shouted in Russian.

  Viktor’s mouth fell open. He thrust out his chest and began to shout back but thought better of it. He was angry and spoke quickly, arguing. The younger man said something back, punching his words, emphasizing each syllable, and he moved half a step forward. Anyone in any language could have guessed his meaning. His hand was on his pistol butt. Viktor leaned down to gather up the food and the man said something else. Viktor shrugged. He took the two vodka bottles in one hand and walked out, without looking at Sarah, leaving the food.

  “Bitte, stehen Sie auf. Wenn Sie können,” the man said to Sarah, offering her his hand. Please, stand up, if you can.

  But she couldn’t. She was panting. She looked at him and shook her head. She swallowed twice. Her hand flew to her mouth, her chest heaved, and suddenly she threw herself toward the corner and vomited. Nothing came out but a guttural shriek. She was kneeling, sweating, gasping.

  Between short deep breaths she said, “Entschuldigung.” Sorry.

  “Please,” he said.

  “It’s horrible.”

  “Please,” he said again. He looked around and saw a pan of water, with a chipped cup by it. He half filled the cup and held it out to Sarah. He took her by the elbow, helped her to sit, gave her the cup. She sipped, once, twice, handed it back.

  “Are you Jewish?” she asked, when she got her breath back.

  “Yes.” He had been standing until now. With a loud sigh he lowered himself onto the little table of bricks and pulled his knees up next to her. He was tired too. He drew his long coat over his legs. It was damp and chilly.

  She drew her sleeve across her forehead, wiping away the perspiration. “How do you speak such good German?”

  “We spoke German at home. My grandparents were from Germany. I’m from Balakovo. It’s on the Volga. There are many Germans there.”

  “That disgusting man,” Sarah said, looking at the door, turning to the tall man in the gray coat of the Red Army. She felt a weight lifting, hope rising. He cares, she thought. When was the last time she saw a Jew? Two years ago? A proud Jew, unafraid? Years before that. Could he look after her? Was it over, the long nightmare, the horror? The years of hiding like a rat in the cellars of Berlin. Hungry, thirsty, dirty. Her life in the hands of strangers, waiting to be betrayed.

  “He won’t come back. I’ll make sure of that.” The man began to pour himself some water when the building shook, plaster fell to the ground. It was the first explosion in days. He didn’t spill a drop. They heard running feet and shouting, which faded away and it was almost quiet again. In the distance there was the faint pop of gunfire. He drained his cup.

  “What’s happening outside?” Sarah asked.

  “It’s almost over. A last bit of resistance. Hitler is dead. In his bunker. The Nazis ha
ve collapsed, they’re running. A few holdouts still have weapons but we’re going street-to-street, house-to-house. It’s over. We’re expecting a surrender today, tomorrow, this week.”

  “What day is it today?”

  “Monday. May the seventh.”

  “Thank God it’s over.”

  “You can say that again. Three years I’ve been away from home.”

  “At least you have a home,” Sarah said, sitting up properly. She smacked the dust off her shirt and dress, wiped herself down. She shook her hair. “God, I must look terrible.”

  “Actually, yes,” he said, with a laugh. “We’ll have to find you a shower.”

  “Or a bath.”

  “Hot water.”

  “Soap. Real soap.”

  “That may take a day or two. How do you feel? Do you need to see a doctor?”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah said, as he refilled the cup and gave it to her. “I think I’m all right. I need to rest. I need to get out of here. But you, tell me, who are you?”

  “Me? My name is Isak Brodsky, I am from Balakovo on the Volga, as I said to you. I am an intelligence lieutenant attached to the Fifth Shock Army of Colonel General Nikolai Berzarin, who is the Soviet commander of Berlin.”

  “Huh,” Sarah said. “So how can you let your men behave like that beast?”

  He shrugged and poured some more water. “We have a proverb. Send a beast to Rome, he’s still a beast. To be honest, we can’t stop them. Most of them are animals. They’ve been fighting for years, with no women, that’s war. They are sex-starved. If we tell them to stop, they tell us that’s what the Wehrmacht did to our women. You think the German soldiers in Russia were any different? The only difference is we won and you lost.”