"Yes. I, I saw." He was no better at sounding casual than she.
Miriam placed a hand on her belly as if troubled by its weight. "Get me on board, Erich. You know how I hate these films!"
He straightened up. "Mach schnell, Leni--or turn the cameras off!"
"Camera one!" Leni shouted.
"Ready."
"Camera two!"
"Ready."
"Sound!" There was a slight pause while a microphone attached to a long beam was rolled over to the limousine. "Sound!" she repeated, when it was in place.
"Testing," the sound man said. "Say something please, Frau---"
"What would you like--"
"That's enough. Ready with the sound."
"Most of you watching this film have seen Frau Alois before," Leni began, loudly enough to compensate for the whirring of the cameras and the clacking of the metal reels. "You know she is bearing the child of Oberst Erich Alois."
Erich watched Miriam compose her features. He knew what an effort of will this was taking, and he could not but admire her fortitude. This was the girl who'd won his heart that night in Kaverne. The inveterate performer. Not the other Miriam, the one whose attachment to Solomon made him doubt himself. Here were the traits he wanted passed on to his son. How could he bring himself to tell her that Solomon was aboard, and spoil everything?
She had taken the news of Solomon's death very hard. The death certificate must be a mistake, she had insisted. Knowing what he did about Solomon's perversion, he had found himself genuinely pitying of Miriam rather than being jealous of Solomon. He did not tell her about the jar, though he did send a corporal to check the camp's files--he could not bring himself to face the place in person. Besides, the risk was not worth it. He was likely to attack Hempel. Kill him, even. Ridding the world of that slime would probably mean a firing squad for him, and incarceration for Miriam.
The corporal reported back that prisoner 37704's papers were in order, and eventually Miriam had stopped grieving, at least openly. Perón had been a big help with her, though it irritated Erich to have him sniffing around so much, and that strange Malagasy, Bruqah, had also seemed a calming influence.
And now what to tell her! If she found out about his Amsterdam lie, she would keep on equating him with the rest of the Nazis, regardless of what miracle he might perform building the Madagascar colony...or what love he might show her and their child. So, what if she did not find out...what if Solomon died en route to the island? The world would be better off without another cock-sucking queer, wouldn't it?
Erich shuddered at the idea that he was capable of such thoughts--and yet--
"Cut!"
He had missed the rest of Leni's spiel. No matter. The only important thing was to get Miriam to the cabin so she could rest. He did not want to take risks with the child.
"Bruqah! Herr Oberst Perón! Please be good enough to escort Miriam on board."
He trotted to his car to get Taurus. By the time he went up the gangway, through several hatchways, and into the cabin that was to be home for the voyage, Miriam's escorts had left. She lay on the cramped lower bunk, looking around the tiny room which, Erich knew, was no match for the one she'd had on her return trip from America with her uncle. They had traveled in luxury aboard the Titanic's sister ship, the RMS Olympic. This was a metal cell smelling of diesel and thrumming from the engines.
He sat down on a metal pull-down seat opposite her, Taurus at his feet. "You must rest."
"Yes, sir." She saluted. "Herr Oberst!"
Telling himself she was teasing him, he rose and opened the cabin hatchway. Later, he decided. He would tell her the truth later, when she was rested. In fact, there was really no reason the whole thing could not wait until they reached Madagascar. Miriam would be spending most of the voyage in the cabin; Solomon would be in the hold. She would not see the Jews until they debarked, and the chances of her finding out that he'd known from the start that Sol was alive and among them--
Yes, he thought. That would be best for everyone. He clanged the cabin door shut behind him, exited the cabin area, and led Taurus across the deck. His heart was beating rapidly, and he was having difficulty concentrating. Just how much did Solomon know, and how much Miriam? Should he interrogate Solomon? He could hardly ask him about his sexual preferences; killing him would be easier than that. Besides, it made too much sense not to be true.
He would not question Solomon yet, he decided. Whether he had gone specifically to Stuttgart or had been arrested on his way to Berlin was irrelevant. He had never made it back to Miriam, that was clear. She was a fine performer, but not that good. She might delude an audience, but not the man she lived with...not over the long term.
Lifting Taurus into his arms, he climbed down through a hatch and into the windlass house, where the other dogs were kenneled. Ten of the other eleven shepherds, seeing their feeder, began to whimper and whine and pace. Hempel's wolfhound ignored him; Aquarius, apparently disturbed by being penned inside a room, lay listlessly in his cage.
Holding Taurus by her leash, Erich stood in the middle of the room and looked at the cages with wonder and satisfaction. A master could be deformed or diseased, yet you would still love him, he thought, feeling closer to the dogs than usual. What he had once felt for his parents, even what he felt for Miriam, paled by comparison. All else was superficial. Ephemeral. Surely no other friendship could rival this loyalty and devotion.
He took down an army folding-stool from a nail near the huge green refrigerator which stretched across the other end of the windlass house. Sitting down before Taurus' cage, he released the dog and opened the door. He patted her squarish head.
She wagged her tail, eyes keen and dark and mirroring the light as she pressed her muzzle against Erich's thighs. He scratched behind her ears; she nuzzled closer, murmuring deep in her throat.
He ran his hand down her back, reveling in the stiff, silky coat. As he rubbed her hindquarters, her foot thumped the floor spasmodically. She looked dismayed, as if she had no idea where the sound came from.
From the corner of his eye Erich saw movement among the other dogs, but when he stopped stroking Taurus and looked around, the dogs seemed still--almost docile. Grinning, he bent and hugged his favorite. He glanced uneasily at the others, expecting the usual jealousy when a feeder paid attention to one and not the others.
The dogs appeared strangely quieted by the scene; they lay chewing their cage wire, a look of insensate ease in their eyes.
He went to give Taurus a final scratch--and then he saw the movement again. He scratched Taurus vigorously. Her leg began to thump, and all but Hempel's elegant wolfhound took up the movement, thumping their legs like a line of chorines.
Erich stopped scratching Taurus. The feet stopped moving.
He tried it a third time, a fourth. Each time was the same. At first it was merely amusing. He lifted Taurus' head and stroked the animal's throat, and again watched the others. They ceased to chew the cage wire and raised their heads, eyes brightening as though in enjoyment.
So that's how Zodiac works, he thought. I communicate my instructions to Taurus, and she passes them on to the other dogs.
The other trainers were simply that: trainers; Taurus did the rest. She was the hub of the emotional wheel, the leader of the pack. No matter if the response were purely imitative, or if a true empathy existed among the twelve shepherds--she was the catalyst for the unit. The leader. Without her, his dogs were rabble, as a crowd without a leader was a mob.
He gripped the animal's head and held it close, thanking her for the lesson he had just been taught. Shutting his eyes, he saw a beach studded with Nazi skulls, like the icons of Easter Island, and beyond it, a homeland. He would be the catalyst that made the seemingly impossible happen; he would leave a legacy for Miriam and Solomon and the other Jews, one that would earn him forgiveness.
And admiration.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
For Sol, the close, dark confines of the Alt
mark's hold was like a sewer inhabited by a giant, sweating, sentient amoeba made up of men's bodies. Each time a body crawled to the open 55-gallon drum that passed as a toilet, the amoeba changed shape. When the hatchway's circular handle spun and the door creaked open on its huge hinges, it tensed with fear. When the opened door meant only that it was time for those nearest the door to transport the sacks of drum slops up the ladder or bring down jerry cans of soup, water, and bread, the mass breathed a sigh of relief.
As with the other sewer, the darkness destroyed any accurate sense of time. Try by whatever ingenious methods they invented, the inmates could not gauge how much time elapsed between each opening of the hatch, nor was there any pattern to when the jerry cans could be acquired.
Not knowing, the inmates invented fictions and served them up in the darkness like succulent dinners. Those who had gone up to dump the slops overboard or to pick up the cans from the kitchen reported sighting cliffs through the fog or the sun setting starboard. This led to speculation and story-telling, both of which helped pass the time. Once, a man returned to report that the ladder had thirty-nine steps, as in the American spy film. Even those who had seen the film listened like eager children to its retelling.
To all this Solomon made no contribution, not because he was miserable but because he preferred to spend the time in introspection. Avoiding thoughts of the present or future for fear of sinking into despair, he re-examined the fragments of his past, with the thought that nothing happened without purpose. First he concentrated on language: Jacob Freund's homespun philosophy, Beadle Cohen's scholarship, Walther Rathenau's eloquence.
Then, knees drawn up and eyes closed, he let himself drift into happy familial memories. His father behind the cigar counter. Mutti and Recha after a recital, taking down the Passover dishes. Miriam waltzing with him, holding him, kissing his eyelids.
When he slept, his unconscious extrapolated from his memories. His dreams were, for the most part, such as all men dreamed. He took pleasure in their substance, finding even the occasional nightmare tolerable because it was based in a reality he could track down and understand. He began to experiment, deliberately turning his thoughts to events in his past and challenging his mind to make of them whatever interesting dream-fiction it could.
To a small degree, he succeeded.
Once, having dredged up what facts and memories he recalled about the Berlin zoo, he dreamed of taking Miriam there. His muse created pastel images worthy of Watteau or Renoir. She in ruffles and lace on a warm, hazy day; he in flannel trousers, his straw hat set at a carefully careless angle. Arm-in-arm, they strolled between the cages. Lilacs were in bloom. He plucked a white sprig and tucked it in her chignon.
"Wenn der weisse Flieder, wieder blüht," she whispered.
Hoping to repeat the dream, the next time he was ready to sleep he again dipped into his memories of the zoo. This time his muse placed her next to the monkey section. She wore a drab brown raincoat. The sky was slate-gray. A lemur similar to the one he had seen at the zoo as a boy pushed its long ebony arm through its cage bars and, screeching "Indri! Indri!, Behold!" dug its nails into the side of Miriam's neck.
Sol awakened to a pounding headache and to cobalt-blue light. Trying to ward off a vision so close after a nightmare, he pressed his palms against his temples, but succeeded only in increasing the ferocity of the pain in his head----
----a girl of about eight fights against thin ropes that bind her, naked, to a carved wooden post almost twice her height. She runs her fingers along its chipped designs.
Perhaps thirty other intricately carved posts are grouped behind her, each topped with the skull of an ox. In the background, beyond a flickering fire, stand monoliths and menhirs that evoke Stonehenge.
"This is no dream." The voice comes from the girl, but her lips do not move. "Your father is gone and you stand in aloala, the shadow of death. This valavato was built by the Antakarana as a dwelling for restless souls whom they sought to honor and console with sacrifices.
"Human sacrifices, Jehuda?" This time the girl's lips move, the voice frightened, girlish...hers. "Are you to be my alo when the Nazis sacrifice me to their god? Are you to mediate between my family and my ancestors?"
"You have no family left and they have no god but Hitler." Tough, older, masculine, the voice comes from somewhere inside her.
"Father said the Antakarana believe in Zanahary, the Creator, and in Andiamanitra, the Fragrant One," she tells the voice.
"The Antakarana are gone; dog-men now own the valavato."
"Does that mean that I am not to be sacrificed?"
"It means I believe you will be given a choice between torture or staying alive in the dog-men's service. You will need all the strength and hope you can gather, Deborah."
"You chose life!" the girl shouts. "You chose to survive no matter what the cost to your soul--or to mine!"
"To choose survival was a sin only because I did so out of fear," the inner voice answers.
"Will you help me overcome my fear, Jehuda?"
Laughter floats among the stones. "I cannot help you," the voice answers. "This is the time for your gift to me."
The girl strains at the ropes. "Help me!" she calls. "I'm over here!"
Here, her voice echoes against the stones. Here----
Solomon awoke to tumbling sensations. He did not know the girl or understand the vision, but from Bruqah's lessons he recognized the totems, fashioned to celebrate the death of an island nobleman, someone whose social standing also warranted the water buffalo horns that guarded the burial area.
"Madagascar." He let the word roll from his mouth. It echoed behind his residual headache like the obscure music of a calliope. Mad-a-gas-car. He said it again, louder; it seemed to hang in the darkness like a banner.
"Why a homeland there?" someone asked.
"Why not?"
True to tradition, Solomon answered the question with a question. There was laughter in recognition of the rhetoric.
As silence resettled, Solomon could sense each man mull the word, allowing it to absorb strength and texture, like moist terra cotta under the touch of a blind child.
"Madagascar," someone said.
Leaning against the hold's metal wall, Sol relaxed into the familiarity of his old haunting-ground, darkness, and took comfort in it. Like the Jews after their Babylonian exile, like Moses' followers, the prisoners must come to terms with another Diaspora, he thought. Like those other times, the end was in God's hands, but daily survival was in their own. Meanwhile, he was ready, at last, to think of the present--about Erich; and Misha, now Otto Hempel's cabin boy; and Miriam. At the farmhouse, Colonel Perón had told him she was well. And pregnant.
Whose child! he had wanted to ask. Mine or Erich's? Instead he chided himself. Why should it matter? "At Sachsenhausen there are more learned men than I," he had said to Perón. "Ones far more deserving of being given a second chance at life."
"Thank Miriam's obsession with getting you out. She talked me into engineering this. You may not be able to thank her in person until you arrive in Madagascar--"
"Miriam is going?"
"Miriam and Erich. But how could you have known? Your old friend is in charge of the expedition."
Later, Bruqah also brought word of her; they had even managed to exchange a few notes, cryptic and hopeful--
A man across the hold shouted in his sleep. What kinds of nightmares, Sol wondered, haunted him? Did he dream of people he would never see again, and times he would never relive? Did Miriam? How he longed to hold her--
Patience, he told himself. You are alive, she is alive, and you are headed in the same direction. The rest is up to God, mazel, and our inventiveness.
To calm himself he let his mind roam over his lessons in the Kabbalah. How happy the times had been when he and Beadle Cohen explored the cosmos and the eternal!
"Nothing is random," the beadle had told him. "Before the beginning of time, when light had not erupted from its
shell and our universe was miniscule, then--then!--chance ruled the cosmos. And God was that universe. Everything, opposite of nothing, is not random, and everything is now the universe. Therefore, the cosmos as we know it is no longer miniscule--and this cosmos is also God."
The discussion had ended there, only to be taken up again a week later, when Sol had had a chance to try to understand what the beadle was saying:
"We are the mind of God or, more exactly, a single thought in the mind of God. The universe will continue to expand while this thought continues, and when the thought dwindles and dies, the universe will again contract to that tiny nothingness, and randomness will again prevail. The process of the beginning, expansion, and death of the cosmos may take a hundred billion years, yet all that time is but one thought in the mind of God."
"So everything is God," Sol remembered saying. "Everything, and nothing."
Many Gentiles, the beadle explained, limited God through their belief that man existed in His image. Jews conceded only that the soul of man might exist in God's image. Still, he said, there was a time when man was one with God, and true ecstasy lay in knowing that we contained in our hearts a microscopic memory of that unity.
Sol thought about that now, as he had then. It led, as always, to a re-examination of ayin.
According to the beadle, God directed everything, while nothing by definition could not be directed--there was nothing to direct. Humankind was the mind of God or, more exactly, an anomaly in the mind of God. God was the universe, which meant the universe was itself sentient. When He ceased to think that thought, the universe would contract and, at least as we knew it, cease to exist.
The correlation excited Sol as much now as it had the first time he had come to that conclusion. He felt a need to talk. Since he could not expect the others to be interested in the complexities of chaos versus order, he spoke to them of his meeting with Walther Rathenau and of how he had walked with pride in the Foreign Minister's shadow. He spoke of the Adlon, and of the assassination. Later, urged on by the others, he warmed to other tales: lunch in Luna Park, the morning Recha tried a cigar, the smell of potato pancakes, evenings on an astrakhan rug strewn with tinsel and pine needles. At first, he spoke only of Berlin and of his own experiences, but increasingly he found himself digressing into the Talmud and the Kabbalah. The more he talked, the more his voice, whose timbre had so embarrassed him in his teens, took on a power that enthralled his listeners, and the more he found he could comfort the others with his rich images.
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