His fingers, injured when the grate came down, throbbed. As though needing something physical to alleviate the memory, he pulled down the shawl.
Remembering when he had last seen it, that night of the cabaret's pre-opening celebration, he buried his face in the cloth. The effect of its scent, of Miriam's perfume even after all these years, was immediate: he was instantly aroused.
Her thighs, her armpits, the line of her jaw--each place her colognes and perfumes touched--had their separate scent which lingered with him long after it should have dissipated. Of the senses, his sense of smell and hearing were the keenest.
He put the shawl over his shoulder like a beach towel and ascended the stairs, thinking about how the place would make a wonderful club for soldiers stationed in Berlin. Where officers and enlisted could mingle and drink without the distraction of women and with only minimal talk of the Party and the Führer. He would have to find out who owned the place and get permission for such an establishment without inviting suspicion that he was seeking to rescue Rathenau assets. But stopping now and again on the stairs and drinking in the smell of the shawl, he vowed not only to attempt the endeavor, but to succeed.
As he reached the top of the stairs, barking began, then a frenzied growling.
Seized with fear for Taurus' safety, he slammed through the door, locked it, and raced up to the sidewalk, almost in one motion.
Gregor stood in the street, both hands on the pistol, which was aimed at the dog. The youth's eyes were engorged, the veins in his neck corded from anger. "She's a danger to the Reich," he said, not taking his gaze off the animal.
Gall rose from within Erich as though Satan's hand had reached into his intestines and squeezed, bringing forth his bitterest, most terrifying memory: Hitler forcing him to shoot Achilles, Taurus' mother, for chasing a prized peacock.
"Put the gun down," he said, "and I will forget you were ever here."
He would acquiesce to anything, anything, but knew better than to attempt to bargain with the young crazies the Hitler Youth attracted.
"Do you know what this bitch took from me?" The boy's voice was shrill. "Do you think I'll be able to perform my duties, once word gets out? The whole neighborhood will laugh! Bertel will never stop laughing!"
Erich moved forward so stealthily and smoothly the boy probably did not realize he was advancing. Years learning woodsman's skills and two months with Otto Braun, the German martial arts' expert who had fought alongside Mao Tse Tung, had taught him well.
"The next time you fuck your Bertel, your face will be in the pillow and you'll think she's coming," he said, seeking to dull the youth's mental edge. "But she'll just be laughing at you. Laughing."
The boy swung the pistol, and fired.
But he was too late. Erich had already launched feet-first into a baseball slide. The bullet zinged over his head, knocked a shard of glass from a window, and then his right foot snapped up, connecting with the youth's groin. Years of training and a lifetime of anger went into the kick. Air whooshed from the boy's mouth. He dropped the gun, doubled over, and collapsed to his knees as he fought for breath.
Erich lifted himself up, calmly brushed off his pants--his knee was scraped and bleeding, but he pretended not to notice--and picked up the pistol. He unloaded it and, after holding a cartridge between forefinger and thumb, dropped the bullets down the sidewalk drain. They clinked as they hit. Lovely as church chimes, he thought.
He knelt beside the boy, clenched the youth's chin in his hand, and jerked the face his way. "Which do you want me to break first, your arms or your legs?" he asked, carefully modulating his voice. "Or would you rather I let Taurus loose so she can chew off your balls?"
The face, already bedsheet-white with shock, whitened still more.
"Answer me," Erich said, "or both Taurus and I will go to work on you. We're a team, you know."
The boy's tongue worked spastically, but no sound emerged.
Erich threw the pistol down the street. It hit asphalt with a clatter.
"You tell your girlfriend that the next time I stop for sausages, she better be ready for me. I'm going to have her every way I can think of. Right there in the sawdust, if I feel like it, with her butt propped up on a flank roast." He pressed an index finger against the youth's nose as though pushing a button. "You don't tell her that, I'm coming after you and..." A phrase occurred to him, part of a hit song the Georg Haarmann scandal had inspired. "Mach ich Pökelfleisch aus dir," he paraphrased to the boy. "I'll make smoked meat out of you."
CHAPTER TEN
Sol extracted a brown egg from his pocket. He held it up to the moonlight filtering through the cigar shop's plate-glass window and turned it this way and that, wondering at God's artistry for having made something so simple, so perfect. "If I sat on you long enough, would God turn you into a chicken?" he asked aloud.
The egg was the last of a dozen he had found in the sewer--together with cheese and bratwurst, a box of chocolates, candles, a pencil and notebook, and a supply of books--his.
He patted his coat pocket. The biography of Isaac ben Solomon Luria, the mystic, was there, as always; he carried it around like a symbol of life, as if having it on his person ensured his survival.
Aside from the small supply of food, the sewer contained a canteen and two bottles filled with water, plus a bottle of cognac which, judging by the quality, had been lifted from the wine cellar of the estate. There was also a blanket, a pillow, and a box of first-aid items--including, to his initial amusement, a snake-bite kit. He had felt less amused when he realized the kit was probably meant to be used in the event of a bite by a sewer rat seeking food and warmth.
Cracking the egg, he lifted it to his mouth and sucked out the insides. It slid easily down his throat. He crunched the shell in the palm of his hand, looked around for somewhere to discard it, then put it in his pocket. "Bless you, Miriam Freund," he said, feeling a surge of energy.
One more night, Sol thought, looking around--one more long, damp night, and we will be out of here. For six days and nights he had lived a reverse existence. During the day, so as to make as little noise as possible, he slept. At night--like a vampire bat--he emerged from the sewer to wander around the basement and the deserted cabaret. Sometimes, like now, he came up to the shop, but mostly the memories here were too painful.
Once, a few hours before dawn, he actually had the temerity to go into the street. Hat pulled down low like that of an American film gangster, he wandered the streets. But he did not look enough like a derelict to fit in with the alleyway vagrants, and he was certainly not elegant enough to blend with the wealthy nightclub set; he was neither SS nor Wehrmacht, and the middle-class--scholars and merchants alike--were tucked safely in bed.
He pulled a pencil stub out of his pocket, licked the point, and crossed Saturday off his calendar. He had found the calendar that night, on the sidewalk, after watching the owners of the furrier shop above the cabaret throw what remained of their inventory into a beat-up lorry and leave as if the very devils of hell were chasing them. Doubtless they feared an SS witch-burning for their former Communist sympathies. The calendar had blown from the heap of litter they had left behind. From what he had seen in his brief wanderings, it was the same all over the city: piles of discarded belongings defied the image of flawless organization and a perfect society.
He stared at the picture of a leggy blonde in a white bathing suit. She stood on a balcony that overlooked Lake Geneva, leaning against the railing to support herself and displaying an ermine coat which hung casually from one of her tanned shoulders, its silk lining exposed. The Alps lay behind her.
FURS BY HELVETIA--SURROUND HER WITH SILVER LININGS
He imagined Miriam wearing the fur; imagined the two of them strolling together along the shore of the lake. He had found himself smiling. The sooner he could leave the claustrophobic atmosphere of the sewer forever, the better he would feel. He felt trapped down there, panicked, obsessed with ticking off the minutes, the
seconds, till Sunday.
He ran a hand over his scraggly beard and grimaced at his image in the teak-framed mirror that had miraculously remained intact on the cigar-shop wall. His beard had grown in patches and was mottled underneath with scaly brown blemishes. He was gaunt and haggard. There was no heat during the night. Though he wore his coat all the time, he had developed a dry hacking cough which could well be symptomatic of TB or something equally deadly. Typhoid perhaps?
Angry at himself for being so morbid, he thrust the calendar and a fist into a pocket of his coat and surveyed the shop. The windows and door had been replaced or repaired, but the store still had a dark, oppressive quality that could not be explained away merely because the lights were off. The sewer held its terrors, but the shop depressed him--and in a large way that was worse, much worse, for in here he had known love and happiness and his father's bright eyes and bad jokes.
How much better, he thought, if Die Zigarrenkiste were still like the other Jewish shops he had passed on his night of wandering, the exterior walls grimed with swastikas and excrement. At least then it would still belong. To his people. And thus to him.
Standing with his forehead pressed against the wall, he cursed the whole Weisser family--and himself, for ever having believed in them. He found himself wishing that the goon who had started the fire in the cellar would return and finish the job. Only the memory of his father kept him from dousing the shop in gasoline and putting a match to it himself.
How secure he had once felt in his beliefs! Secure and...virtuous. That was it! As if being part of Walther Rathenau's dream of God and good government made him better than he would have been as just Solomon Freund, a Jew with a yen for scholarship.
The New Order had taken care of that, all right. Stripped him of his virtue. Now Hitler's followers were the ones who felt purposeful and fired with moral rectitude.
He envied them.
Even in a Berlin given way to penury and pain, he coveted their sense of conviction...those beautiful couples, glad to give up their strolls through the Tiergarten. They knew--knew!--that devil-may-care lives were evil and there was beauty only in Nazi law and order. Now, Hitler Youth used sawed-off boards to practice maneuvers between manicured shrubs where the wealthy had walked. Today felt good to them and they believed in an even better tomorrow. Trivia did not trouble them; it meant nothing to them that theirs was a world where the premium on good cigars had been replaced by so pressing a demand for weapons that Berlin's stores had run out of toy guns.
From the Zoo Station came the rumble of the night train from Frankfurt, as always exactly on time, running with Teutonic precision. Now there was true virtue.
The sound of running footsteps outside cut through his thoughts. Instinctively he stepped into the shadows.
"Herr Freund?"
A small pair of hands planted themselves on the outside of the lowest window pane.
"Herr Freund?"
A boy's cap and dirty face poked into view. Feeling silly for his fear, Sol saw it was a youth eight or nine years old.
He made his way across the shop; the gaslight outside revealed the child, standing in filthy tweed cap, ill-fitting coat, and woolen knickers, while snow lightly swirled around him. One sock was down around a skinny ankle.
"I bring word from Miriam Rathenau!" The boy's mouth was so close to the pane that his breath made a small ragged circle.
Fearing to open the door, Solomon tugged at the window, trying unsuccessfully to open it a crack. "Tell me!"
The boy glanced anxiously up and down the street, then reached inside his coat. "You are Solomon Freund?"
"I am."
The boy drew in his cheeks as if he were biting the inside of them to lend him courage.
"You need food?" Sol set caution aside and inched open the door. "Shelter? I'd be glad to share what I have."
The child shoved a thick envelope toward him. "I have to go."
Sol moved closer and took the letter. Word from Miriam! His emigration papers? Their papers? He stared down at the envelope.
By the time he looked up, the boy had dashed across the street.
"Wait!" Sol waved frantically. "Come back!"
The boy reached the alley beside the apartment building that had been Sol's former residence. Stopping in the shadow created by a cornice, he turned around.
Sol stepped into the swirling snowfall, concerned more for the child than his own safety. The beadle had told him of a boy he had tried to take out of Berlin, the son of a rabbi whose parents were transported. The youth, determined to remain in the city to search for his mama and papa, had slipped away in the confusion and crowds at the train station, too quick and too late for Beadle Cohen to find him. Could this be that boy?
Looking petulantly at the ground, the youth shuffled toward Solomon, pigeon-toed and tentative. A blast from the station stopped him. The ground shook. There was a chug-whoosh of the engine and of airbrakes releasing as the night train pulled away.
"Come quickly!" Solomon shouted above the din.
Suddenly the unmistakable wail of a police car shattered the night. A Mercedes squealed around a corner, fishtailing on the icy asphalt. Like a roach surprised by light, the boy scurried down the alley.
Run! Sol screamed at himself. Into the shop! Hide in the darkness and pray they aren't looking for you---
What kind of man was he becoming, he thought as he reached the door, that he could hope they were after anyone but him...even a boy--a child?
Asking forgiveness from the boy and from God, he closed the door of the shop and pushed the letter into his coat pocket. Re-entering at this time of night could draw attention to himself, and running would be sheer stupidity. He must be like any merchant shutting up his place of business and strolling away--careful to hear and see nothing he was not supposed to.
Head down as though against the snow, he walked slowly but steadily toward the cabaret. When he could stand the tension no longer, he pretended to look at the watch he did not have, and tilted his head like any curious-but-respectful passer-by.
Overhead light flashing, siren blaring, the car had skidded to a halt in front of the apartment house. Two Gestapo agents in long black overcoats leapt out, pistols in hand. One of them, small and wizened--his hat had fallen off and Sol could see that he was bald--jumped the blue-spruce hedge and flattened himself against the wall of the apartment house like a combat soldier storming a pillbox.
"Halt where you are!"
The second agent, more youth than man, squatted at the alley entrance, pistol braced against his uplifted forearm as he aimed.
Paralyzed by the drama being played out before him, Sol stared through snowflakes gathering on his glasses.
The snap and whine of the bullet raged above the siren's scream. Sol tried to move, but his legs felt thick and heavy. His stomach heaved as he relived that moment he had witnessed Walther Rathenau's assassination...grenade spinning on the street...death shots hanging in the air.
Clutching his stomach, he forced himself toward the cabaret's stairs, gripped the handrail and swung himself down, slamming against the stairwell wall. Mustering what strength he still possessed, he peered over the edge of the sidewalk.
The men had disappeared down the alley.
He used his penknife to draw back the cabaret's jimmied deadbolt from its metal casing and eased himself inside. Standing on the wrought-iron landing, he rebolted the door. Sweating and shaking, he leaned against the wall.
Safe! Thank God!
He congratulated Miriam for having had the good sense to adjust the tumblers so the club would only seem to be locked. She had learned well from Erich and his lock-picks.
What am I thinking? A child's life was being threatened, perhaps for the very crime of having delivered him Miriam's message. He should be overcome with grief--and gratitude. But what if they captured the boy alive? Dragged him from the alley, what would he tell them? What could he tell them?
Slowly, as if the self-infli
cted delay were punishment for his emotions, Sol took the letter from his coat's inner pocket. Using his penknife, he slit the edge of the envelope and, trembling, took out the single sheet of paper, folded many times. He recognized the handwriting at once as Miriam's:
DEAREST, THEY MOVE INTO K TOMORROW--A PERFECT PLACE TO WARM THEMSELVES, PLAY CARDS, DRINK. STAY OUT OF SIGHT UNTIL I COME--WHICH MAY NOT BE AS PLANNED. LOOK AFTER THE BOY.
All my love.
MRF
Sol let the paper slip from his hands. It floated down among the tables, catching the dusty moonlight that slanted through the stained-glass windows.
K--Kaverne; MRF--Miriam Rathenau Freund.
If only he had insisted Miriam leave with him at once! Surely they could have bribed their way out of the country...but with what? Erich's money?
Outside, the siren stopped. On tiptoes, Sol peered through a hole made by a rock tossed at the window. The Gestapo emerged empty-handed from the alley. "Thank you, God," Sol whispered, with renewed shame and relief. "Now please send them away."
The men crossed the street and stood outside the cigar store. The bald one lit a cigarette, exhaled a mix of smoke and steaming breath. He said something to his companion, laughed loudly, and took hold of the door as if to check its security.
My God, I forgot to lock it! How could I have been so stupid!
Looking concerned, the man ground out his cigarette on the sidewalk and went inside, the other man surveying the street suspiciously. The lights went on. Sol cursed himself for his stupidity in dallying at the window; the cabaret was bound to be next. He must hurry, silently, to the sewer's comparative safety.
He started down into darkness. The first step squeaked and the metal spiral staircase echoed, amplifying the sound. He back stepped onto the landing and checked outside. Mopping sweat from his brow, he picked up the note from Miriam and descended the stairs with catlike caution. He crept across the dance floor and down into the sub-basement. Remembering the light, he felt around for the chain and pulled it on. The bulb popped and died.
Child of the Journey Page 9
