Child of the Journey

by Berliner, Janet

  "And go where?" she asked.

  "Amsterdam. We'll make it there, somehow."

  "If we do, we'll have to keep running."

  "From Erich?"

  She held fast to his hand. "From Hitler. Eventually Holland will be as unsafe as Germany."

  "By then we--"

  "No, Sol." She had a new firmness in her voice. "This time we are going to South America...together. I have my own contacts now, in the underground, and Juan Perón has become a good friend. I will go to him myself. When we're safe, hopefully in Buenos Aires, then I'm sure he'll help us send for your mother and Recha."

  They sat side by side at the bottom of the staircase, bodies touching, but not embracing. "You seem so sure of this friend's help," he said. "Are you and he--"

  "We stand with one foot in the grave, and you cast innuendoes!"

  "I'm sorry. There has been so much pain...."

  Tears glistened on her face. "You're right," she said more quietly, relaxing the stiff set of her shoulders. "I've worked very hard to wrap Perón around my little finger." She lowered her voice. "Berlin is a perilous city, and I have been playing a perilous game. If I weren't such a good player, I could not be here talking to you. As it is, I'll be holding my breath the whole week. One word to Erich that I know you are free, and it's all over. He would guess at once where you are, and that we are making plans. We would lose our safe-house--and each other."

  "What would he do? Have me killed?"

  "I don't know. He's rising in the Party, but the way he hates them--"

  She stopped, cocked her head, and listened. Sol heard the soft echo of a whistle.

  "That's Konnie!" She stood up. "I have to go upstairs. I'll come down again before I close the shop. After that, I can't return until next Sunday, by which time I should have been able to contact Perón." She was talking fast, her voice insistent. "If I don't come, it means there's something I have to do with Erich, or that--"

  He cut her short. "What about food?" he asked.

  "There are supplies down there--enough for a week, if you're careful."

  "Fräulein Miriam!"

  "You see how things have changed." She snuffed the candle. Her voice held a hint of laughter. "Konnie is part of us now, so he allows himself to be much less formal...he no longer calls me Fräulein Rathenau!"

  Afraid he might never see her again once he returned to the stinking brick crypt, Sol stood too, and took her in his arms. How he wanted to keep her there, to make plans, laugh, make love.

  "I must go," she said, her voice strained.

  He released her and listened to her footsteps until they faded. Back in the sewer, he thought about all she had said. Her reasoning was sensible--but sensible was not what he had wanted. She could have agreed to stay with him, he told himself peevishly. There was the alternative of slipping out after dark to contact Perón while he waited here for her.

  Fool! He berated himself for thinking like a child. For the next seven days, he would be alone with his memories and his doubts. Such thoughts would not help him find the strength to live through the hours she was gone. He must manage as he had in Amsterdam, by reliving their lovemaking, pretending they were together with all the time in the world. Sometimes he had tried to understand why a makeshift marriage ceremony in a deserted cabaret, with God as their only witness, made him feel so tied to her, so hopeful that life would ultimately reward him for being a good man.

  Exhausted, he closed his eyes. Instead of sleep, the vision returned----

  ----"What does your Hitler propose to do with the Jews of Europe?" Emanuel asks.

  The woman bristles. "He is not my anything," she says angrily. There is an awkward silence between them. "He proposes to rid the world of them," she adds in a quiet voice, having apparently calmed herself.

  "How? By killing them all?"

  "If necessary."

  Emanuel turns his face to one side and spits into the sand. He rubs his arms, as if his flesh has suddenly become cold.

  "There is a ray of hope," the woman says. "A physician named Schmidt, under a doctor named Mengele, has developed a theory concerning the genetic passing of cultural attributes from one generation to the next. Hitler has offered a reward for each piece of tangible new evidence that furthers her research."

  "And what might that reward be?" Emanuel looks skeptical.

  "He has sworn to create a homeland for the Jews--in Madagascar. Each addition to Schmidt's research means a shipload of our people is sent to the Jewish homeland."

  "This Hitler is like the god Apepi, who tried to stop the progress of the solar barque. They who trust in him, trust a serpent." He rises from the blanket and towers over her. "You have come here to provide their Schmidt with subjects for research." He pronounces each syllable with knifelike clarity. "Perhaps you can get the serpent to agree to one shipload per body!"

  "With subjects as unique as your tribe, I think Mengele could get Hitler to agree to one shipload per person."

  "Per body," he says.

  "The researchers want to examine the bodies of your ancestors, Emanuel. From the living, they want only blood samples. Blood. Nothing more. Your tribal whereabouts will remain a secret. Our meeting places will remain discreet."

  He looks down at her, his face a study in contempt. "For over two millennia no one knew or cared that we existed. We were better off." He takes the meat from his mouth and drops it onto the plate. "I will relay your request to my people. The decision must be theirs."----

  The vision faded. Sol covered himself with his coat and slept. He woke to the sound of Miriam's voice. Responding more quickly this time, he climbed from the sewer.

  "We only have a little while," Miriam said. "The shop is closed. Konnie has some errands to run. He'll be back in an hour."

  Without saying a word, Sol took her hand and led her to Kaverne. There, on the carpet, they made love. Concentrating, Sol experienced each place where they joined. He wanted to imprint the sensations on his consciousness so that he could savor them later. Instead, he flowed into her and they floated in a magical space and time where nothing existed except the rainbow of love that once had been two people.

  Afterwards, when he touched her, his love and desire for her seemed contained in a sheath of pride and of wonder that God had seen fit to bless him with such good fortune. He held her closely, trying to understand why the fog of self-doubt that he had lived with since Walter Rathenau's death was gone. Later would be time enough to examine that, he decided, pretending to be asleep so that Miriam would continue to lie quietly in his arms.

  "I love you, Solomon. I am your wife, and no one else's," she said at last, as if in answer to his earlier doubts.

  The words reverberated inside him, then etched themselves onto the deepest part of his soul.

  Your wife, they echoed.

  Your wife...

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Erich opened the long velvet box and examined the diamond bracelet he had bought for Miriam more than a week before, for no particular reason except that he thought it belonged around her wrist. He had been carrying it around ever since, hoping for a moment when she would seem receptive.

  For the last few days, she had been more distant, more preoccupied than ever. The longer he waited, the less benign he felt toward her--and the less inclined to give her something bought in a fit of tenderness and longing. He was sure she would find a way to denigrate his gift. Not crassly sarcastic, but subtly and, thus, more emotionally devastating. He had no way to fight her verbal choreographies, except to play the stoic soldier and swallow his rage.

  Worse yet, like a mother offering strudel because one's blocks were picked up, she would invite him to his reward between her legs--reminding him all the while that her hatred of anything Nazi or even vaguely military was being fueled by his weakness for her.

  What would happen then? Doubtless another erectile failure and the pretense that her satisfaction was all he wanted this night. Small wonder that the act which he had in the
past anticipated with pleasure now revolted him, as it had done ever since the business with Hempel and that poor prostitute. What had her name been? Toy.

  There was only one female with whom he could truly share his feelings, Erich thought. The one who had loved him unconditionally.

  Taurus.

  Slipping into his black silk robe, he poured himself a cognac against the November dawn, pocketed the bracelet, and went outside. By the time he reached the kennels, he had disposed of the brandy. He was about to set the glass under a tree, where he could find it later, when he saw that the duty officer was Krayller--a loner who would certainly not find the need for a cognac unbecoming of the conduct of his superior officer.

  "You weren't scheduled for duty tonight," Erich said.

  Though Erich's tone was conversational, Krayller reddened. "One of the other men." His reluctance to name the man stemmed, Erich knew, from an effort to avoid getting the other trainer in trouble. "I'm filling in."

  Erich tried to rearrange his features to reflect a stern demeanor in the face of the trainers again changing the duty roster without permission, but secretly the esprit de corps and self-sufficiency the trainers exhibited pleased him. He took pride in the fact that his men were different from so many German soldiers, with their rigidity and blind insistences. While his men certainly knew the value of following orders, he encouraged them to question. To think for themselves, unlike some of the so-called finest units-- who reminded him of the Communist insurgents of his childhood whose takeover had failed because they'd lacked proper tickets to board the train. One conductor, armed with nothing but a ticket punch, had stopped a coup.

  As a member of the Abwehr, the military-security branch of the armed forces, he had visited many units and often been on assessment teams. What others applauded made him shudder. He had asked himself: what would become of those units if the officers were killed, or if the commander were a Judas goat? What would become of the country?

  "I've no problem with changes. Just make sure the paperwork's proper," Erich said, nodding at Krayller. "Oberschütze Müller visiting his sister again?"

  The man hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, Sir," he said. "And thank you, Sir." He adjusted his carbine on his shoulder.

  Erich thought about Ursula Müller, remembering the time when, both of them barely into puberty, she had tried to goad him into probing her with his damaged fingers. She was ready for something new and different she had said. His fearful refusal had triggered her sarcastic laughter and made him so angry that he had lied to the other boys--Solomon among them--bragging about something he hadn't done.

  Now where was she, with her weak IQ and strong libido? A depressive, institutionalized by the New Order and forced to service the officers under threat of involuntary sterilization.

  "You're forever filling in," Erich said. "Volunteering in an emergency I can understand. But you seem to make a career of it."

  The corporal scooped up the affenpinscher, his constant companion, and held the black monkey terrier against his huge chest, playing with the forelegs. "The other men have families, Sir. Me...I'm a loner, a sort of...clown."

  "Clown?"

  "Like Grog, Sir." Krayller puffed up his corpulent cheeks, as if expecting Erich to join him in Sch-ö-ö-n, the clown routine the real Grog had made famous. When Erich did not respond, Krayller said, somewhat awkwardly, "Always smiling--always alone." He quickly added, "Except for Grog Junior, here." He patted the terrier.

  "Fine, but don't let your generosity interfere with your regular duties," Erich said, ambling down the ramp that led to the garage underneath the mansion. "I don't want anyone falling asleep during drills."

  "No Sir. I'll sleep after I'm dead. Nothing to do then but lie around anyway," Krayller called after him. "Just so they bury me with my smile painted on--Sir."

  Until he pulled the chain of the dangling bulb, Erich was unsure why he had entered the garage, with its two rows of army and civilian vehicles lined up like troops awaiting inspection. Then he noticed Hawk, his bicycle since childhood, and thanked the impulse that had brought him down here. Someone--Konnie, perhaps--had washed the bike and polished its considerable chrome to a high shine.

  Sch-ö-ö-n, he thought. Beautiful.

  Pulling off his robe, he exchanged it and his empty glass for the military blouse he kept in his garage locker. Without thinking, he transferred the bracelet from the pocket of his robe to the pocket of his shirt. Then he snapped off the light and walked Hawk clear of the garage and up into the breaking dawn, aware that the feeling of oppression was draining from him.

  Some of the shepherds whined or whimpered pitifully when he unchained Taurus from her dog-run. Others performed a retinue of tricks or simply, shamelessly begged. To no avail. Tonight, he wanted no other companion than Taurus. He hooked up her leash and led dog and bike past Krayller's post.

  Older than any of the other dogs by half a dozen years, Taurus lifted her head like a princess and pranced along, basking in her master's affections. The corporal saluted smartly, and Erich returned it left-handed, a bit of occasional military irreverence the men seemed to enjoy.

  Then he was off, dawn flooding the streets, Taurus's claws clicking against pavement as she trotted alongside. He rode slowly, both to savor the moment and in respect for the dysplasia that had invaded Taurus' hips and likely would eventually cripple her. She moved easily this morning; her pain seemed far away, no more than a dark cloud on a horizon. He opened his mind to her, exulting in her sense of smell and purpose. Her happiness at roaming and being beside him beat against his consciousness as colorfully as the wings of a lunar moth against a window screen. He was a boy again. He wondered if he had ever, really, grown up. Everyone else seemed so much older, so much more mature. Did they feel like boys, too, or was he the only one who felt forever boy, his dog beside him, clothespinned-on playing cards fluttering against his spokes?

  They went up the Kurfurstendamm and down Mauerstrasse. When they reached Ananas, to which he realized he had unconsciously been heading the whole time, he was inordinately thirsty--and hungry for human camaraderie. He chained the bike to a pole outside the nightclub and threaded the leash around the handlebars. Almost paradoxically, in contrast to its wilder, cabaret days, the place was now an officers' club and never closed.

  He glanced up at the spread-winged Nazi eagle on the marquee, remembering with nostalgic regret how the nightclub had once flown on wings of creativity and artistic verve. Once, when Miriam was the star; once, when Werner Fink's deadly humor was applauded even by those who feared its edge, and the likes of Bertoldt Brecht drank nightly at their regular tables.

  Once, when there was hope.

  Guard the bike, he mentally told Taurus, almost in afterthought as his depression returned.

  Inside, in the foyer, a stolidly bosomed hat-check girl wearing a severe suit took Erich's officer's cap, eyeing him appreciatively. He wished she were one of the chorines from the old days, dressed only in feathers and flesh, then hoped she wasn't. Some changes he could not abide.

  The atmosphere in the cabaret proper was subdued and smoky, not the usual gaiety and toasting by men coming off duty. Soldiers of all ranks meandered among the tables, beer mugs in hand, but conversations were quiet. There was a tension in the air in counterpoint to the atmosphere of gemütlichkeit he had sought. Many men just sat and stared at the pineapples that served as table centerpieces. Someone had painted them green, so that they looked like grenades--hardly the exotic, erotic symbols that once could buy a man a night between almost any woman's legs if not a lifetime in her heart.

  But that change was not new, not since his last visit. There was something else odd, something he could not determine much less name. He looked around, trying to figure out what had changed.

  The stage was darkened except for a tiny light above a drum set and a tuba cradled on a stand. It seemed almost funereal, the antithesis of the delightful exhibitionism of just a half-dozen years ago. Gone were acts like kohl-eye
d Mimi de Rue--Miriam's stage name; she had dropped "Rathenau" in the hope of obtaining work--the professionally trained dancer who sang like a seductress. Gone too, though who knew where--Erich had heard that, miraculously, Fink had not been arrested--were conférenciers like Werner Fink, whose outrageous comedy had been like a Hitler salute right up the nearest Nazi's ass. Now, when there was a revue, Nazi comics about as interesting as beer left in a mug for a week introduced the acts.

  Abruptly, Erich realized what had changed since his last visit. Except for one woman near the bar, clad in expensive black nylons and what looked like a pink house-robe, all the waitresses were gone. He was about to ask the nearest soldier about the change, when he noticed one of the trainers, Corporal Hans Müller, sitting in the corner, smoking, the back of his head against the wall.

  "I heard you had gone to the, um, hospital," Erich said, ambling over to him.

  The corporal nodded for Erich to sit down but did not in any way acknowledge his rank. "I went to the nuthouse," Hans said. "You can say it, Herr Major. It doesn't bother me."

  Müller thumped out his cigarette against the ashtray, swirled the wrong end in his mouth to make sure it was dead, and replaced it in his pack. Habit, Erich knew, borne of the Depression days that Hitler's military regime had ended.

  "They released her," Müller said. "She was gone by the time I got there. Left. On her own. No money. No family with her. The doctor told me they needed the bed for someone useful. Someone who might return to society and produce strong Nazi babies." He looked around as if to make sure that they were not being overheard. "Nazi bastards," he added in a low voice. "There's no room left in the Reich for old-fashioned sentimentalism, for compassion."

  "I'm sorry," Erich said, at a loss for words. "Where is she now?"

  Müller shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Probably at the bottom of the Elbe. I wouldn't know where to begin to look. Aren't we all siblings in the eyes of the State? I'll just find another sister."

  Erich stared at the grain lines in the table top. Had he contributed to her downfall by refusing her, he wondered. Getting as bad as Solomon, he thought. Shrouding myself in conscience. Only real difference between a goddamn Jew and a goddamn Catholic is the degree of guilt. Has little to do with Jesus.