"What does it really mean, this Madagascar business?" a voice asked, after Sol had finished repeating a Talmudic parable about a wanderer who had to learn to obey the unfamiliar laws of a strange land into which he had stumbled.
"I don't know. Perhaps a chance at freedom?"
"How will we break free of our Nazi captors?" another asked.
"Only God and fear are masters of men," Sol said with as much conviction as he could muster.
"We have no chance against their guns or their dogs."
"Chance is random, as at some points in time the universe is," Sol said, hoping his listeners would at least recognize the concept. "Unity must be our weapon. Only therein lies hope."
When no one responded, he felt lonely, set apart, as if his academic skills were somehow less valuable or manly than their physical ones. Few of the others were educated men, as if Hempel or Erich Alois, or whoever had done the selecting, had deliberately ignored other men of scholarship. He alone among them had attended a university. Each possessed specialized training of some sort, but their thoughts and responses were couched within the confines of job skills and religion rather than academe. They could all read and write, Sol thought proudly--surely no other culture could boast of such universal literacy--but the Nazis had obviously decided they had little need for men of gown and mortarboard. Or perhaps the Nazis were as afraid of scholarship, and other Jewish assets and abilities, as they were respectful and fearful of the mantic arts.
If Hitler were not a maniac, Sol reasoned, he was either stupid or possessed by his own dybbuk, in whom was vested the conscience of past German guilt...a guilt deepened by the terror and shame of the Great War. The Führer could own the world if he chose to ransom those Jewish assets and abilities, use them to his own ends, use such men and women as those who inhabited visions.
"Please, Reb," the man next to Sol whispered insistently. "Give me your blessing."
"I am not a rabbi," Sol said.
"You speak like a rabbi, and you have chosen to be our teacher. Are not all rabbis teachers?"
"Yes. But not all teachers are rabbis," Sol answered.
"Bless me, Reb," the man repeated.
Sol placed his hands over the man's head, and in his heart he felt the sadness of the man's soul. Though he told himself that such intimate knowledge came out of comradeship, he knew better. In some part of his being, he had always known better.
"I am Goldman," the man said. "Pray for me. Teach me. Teach all of us."
During the voyage, Solomon had resisted names and identities; he had wanted no more attachments like Hans Hannes and Misha Czisça--one dead, the other...
"I will tell you all what the beadle taught me." He lifted his voice. "More than that, I cannot do."
The lessons began in earnest. Mostly they dealt with emotional and spiritual survival. The voice and confidence of the teacher in him surfaced; passages and parables filtered through and began to flow. The world of action, the world of human existence, had two parts, he explained: the physical, where natural law and material things prevailed; and the spiritual world of ideas and ideals.
In language reduced to its simplest form, he described the existence of the world of angels, the world of formation or feeling according to the Zohar. The human soul, living as it did in the world of action, was multi-sided, capable of distinguishing between good and evil and equally capable of failure and backsliding. In contrast, the angel was unchanging, its existence fixed within the qualitative limits it had been granted upon its creation.
"Then an angel has no chance at self-betterment," someone said.
"That's right," Sol answered, pleased with his student. "On the other hand, humankind can better the angels."
Sensing that he was on the verge of passing on the beginnings of understanding, he continued with growing fervor. "We are the fathers and mothers, and midwives of the angels. Each sacred act we perform, each spiritual transformation we create, is part of an angelic essence." He let that settle in. "The angels we create must live in our world, the world of action, but they can influence the higher worlds, especially that of formation. In that manner, we can reach out for the Divine and, in a sense, direct it."
He paused to feel the effect of his words.
"I have heard that angels sometimes come down from the higher realms," a pleasant voice said from across the hold. "Also that a prophet or seer or holy man, sometimes even an ordinary person, can be visited by angels from the higher worlds."
"So it is said," Sol replied.
"Then I think you must have received such a visitor."
Whispered assent became clearly voiced approval and, finally, applause. Sol received the accolades in shocked silence. Was it possible? Had the visions from which he had tried so hard to divorce himself not been ones of evil, but rather keys to a higher kingdom beyond his understanding or interpretation?
"I--" he began, knowing a response was expected.
From far to his left came the clanking of metal. Light leapt into the room as the hatchway was thrown open by two guards with carbines at ready arms.
Lifting his hands to shield himself from the glare, Sol waited for his eyes to make the adjustment. At the bottom of the ladder well, crammed into the small space, were forms he assumed to be other guards.
"If they try to harm us, we must fight--with bare hands, if necessary," someone whispered.
"No more hells like Sachsenhausen," another answered.
A tall figure shouldered its way between the guards and blocked the opening. The amoeba tensed.
"Topside!" Otto Hempel bellowed. "Everyone!"
Wondering what new torture had been devised for them, Solomon followed the others up the ladder. The shock of emerging into the brilliance of a red-orange sun sent him reeling. His body felt weaker after disuse than it ever had during the arduousness of camp life, and the sun, glaring at him like the eye of flame at the end of a black tunnel, blinded him completely. Panicked, he shut his eyes and tried breathing deeply of the salty air. He choked on the humidity and opened his eyes.
His peripheral vision offered nothing.
By looking straight ahead, he was able to distinguish shapes. At first they were surrounded by bright haloes that dulled any detail he might otherwise have made out. As the auras dissipated, he grew more frightened. Those objects and colors he could see were etched almost too clearly. The gray of the ship, the whites and browns of the Nazis' uniforms, the compressed emotion glowering in the officers' eyes. They took on the clarity of a still-life seen through a keyhole.
His eyes had become a camera lens, able to see only the point of immediate focus; his vision was confined to a small circle. Beyond that, everything was black.
Just because I have eye problems is no reason to assume my eyesight has deteriorated permanently, Sol told himself, trying to arrest his panic. More than likely, all the others confined to the hold were having similar problems adjusting to the bright light.
Holding onto the shoulders of the man in front of him, he raised himself onto the balls of his feet and squinted at the horizon. The freighter was outside a small bay. He could make out land of some sort, a gently sloping brown breast spotted with greenery and with shapes that were either buildings or huge rocks. He tried to visualize the map of Africa he had studied briefly at school and again at the farmhouse. There were two fairly major ports of call for ships en route to the Cape of Good Hope: Walvis Bay, a British enclave, and Lüderitz, a German port of call. Both were in South West Africa.
He concentrated on the gathering assemblage of Nazi guards and sailors. The sailors stood to his right; the guards, some with dogs heeled at their sides, stood at attention at the rail in front of the contingent of Jews.
"Heil Hitler!"
Hempel's voice. As everyone responded, Sol turned his head to place the scene more in the center of the tube of his vision. The pederast stood on the bridge, to Erich's right. Ascending the flight of steps that led to the bridge was a spry, bearded naval c
aptain. Once on the bridge, he began to speak.
"Two days ago we received a wireless message from the Seekriegsführung." He held up a sheaf of papers. "It seems the Führer has given orders to the Wehrmacht to repel the Polish aggressors. As a result, we have changed course to avoid official shipping lanes and to prepare for a call to duty."
He cleared his throat and stood with stiff military bearing, eyeing his crew. After a theatrical pause, he went on speaking slowly and deliberately, hammering home each word.
"This morning, September 2, 1939, will be remembered in history as the day England and France declared war on the German Reich--a decision they shall come to regret."
Again he paused. "Now, let me acquaint you with the primary task the Führer has allocated to the Altmark."
So this was it, Sol thought. War--and a homeland for the Jews in Madagascar. Now all that was left to confirm the accuracy of his visions was for the Führer to hold a place in the homeland hostage against the use of Jewish assets and abilities to help him win the war.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
"Though we shall not have the privilege of entering actively into the fight," the captain continued, "the task the Führer has selected for us is indispensable, and we should feel honored. We are to act as the floating supply base for a German battleship destined to turn these seas into a graveyard for the enemy."
Standing rigidly, Erich felt rather than saw Hempel move up behind him. "The crates Fräulein Riefenstahl filmed for the witless Red Cross?" Hempel whispered sarcastically, "Did you really believe they contained farming equipment? The Führer would never waste cargo space on Jews! The supplies are for the battleship Graf Spee. Hear me? The Spee!" Then he added, "Except for my Storch, Herr Oberst. The plane's in the hold, all right, disassembled and waiting, but only for me."
In angry panic Erich clenched his fists at his sides but did not turn around. Hempel, the subordinate officer, made privy to top secret information, while he, in charge of the land operation, was told almost nothing! He had been biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to confront Hempel about the "death certificate." He would have to wait a little longer.
"And as for you scum!" Glaring, Dau pointed down at the Jews. "I would love an excuse to throw you all overboard!"
"The Führer might not like that!" one of the Jews called out.
Hands dexterously sliding along the rail to support his weight, Hempel flew down the stairs and bounded across the deck. Even without the added momentum he was a force to be reckoned with; his fist connected with the closest Jewish jaw, and the man crumpled.
Grinning, Pleshdimer separated himself from the other guards. Hempel nodded; the Kapo lifted the inmate and pitched him overboard.
The cold water of the Atlantic brought the man around, and he screaming for help.
"For God's sake, have someone throw him a line!" Perón said huskily, beside Erich.
Erich fought the urge to give the order. Pleshdimer stood between the men and the rail, a serene smile on his lips, and Erich was sure the Kapo would kill anyone who obeyed, regardless of the consequences. Life had no meaning for him. Murdered his whole family, someone had said, and hung them up like sausages.
Are you any better, standing here, Herr Oberst? he asked himself.
When we reach Mangabéy, he thought, I will be in charge. Then I will do something about the guards' sadism...and about Otto Hempel. There would be no punishment without a trial in his homeland. No more deceit.
He searched for Solomon, but was unable to distinguish him in the press of inmates huddled together in shock. His gaze swept Bruqah's and the sailors' faces, some of which were white as their starched uniforms. Not murderers either, yet they too did nothing. He was thankful that he had confined Miriam to their cabin, telling her that Dau did not want her on deck during muster, but in reality not wanting to risk her seeing Solomon. At least she was not witness to everyone's moral inertia.
The Kapo grinned, showing his teeth, then spat into his hands, wiped them on his pants, and returned to the ranks.
In the water, the prisoner was still screaming.
Leni Riefenstahl signaled for her crew to stop filming, and stepped toward the bridge. "Someone do something," she said. "Your little melodrama bores me."
Otto Hempel walked casually to the rail, drew his revolver, and fired two shots into the sea. The man in the water went silent.
Dau turned toward Perón. "I apologize for this disturbance, but as military attaché in the embassy of our Italian friends, you must surely understand the value of discipline."
Lifting the megaphone, the captain again addressed the men. "We are outside the port of Lüderitz. We will wait here for the Graf Spee to arrive. Captain Langdorff and the rest of the Spee officers may wish to inspect our ship. Should that occur, Fräulein Riefenstahl will film the event. It is therefore imperative that the Altmark be clean."
His glance sought out Hempel's. "Proceed."
The major snapped heels together and saluted. "Shower detail!"
Erich noticed Leni gesture to her crew to stop filming as four barefoot sailors in rolled-up pants and striped undershirts stepped from the shadows beneath the bridge. Each held a fire-hose nozzle.
"Jews strip! Everyone else out of the way!" Dau commanded.
Once the Jews were isolated, valve wheels squealed, and water roared at them from the twisting hoses. Arms flailing, they fell before the onslaught; water tore at skin, splashing off it into the sunlight and creating a rainbow water-dance that lasted until they all lay on the deck in a tangled heap of arms and legs.
"Shut off the water! Free laborers, on your feet!"
Soon, very soon, Erich promised himself, he would teach Dau and Hempel that "free laborer" did not describe slaves but rather men who labored in freedom for their own good and that of their community.
"Jews--to the windlass room for shaving! Head and groin!" Dau boomed through the megaphone. "There will be no lice aboard my ship. You will return with buckets, brooms, and rags. Every centimeter of this ship will shine...and if so much as a rivet is ruined, the sharks will feed on that saboteur's hands. Heil Hitler!"
"SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Erich looked tanned, vigorous...young, Solomon thought, looking down as his own nakedness as he stood in line waiting to be shaved. The surge of hope that touched him in the hold was gone, a delusion of the darkness. Being thrown overboard seemed suddenly not so terrible a fate.
"Next!"
Sol stepped forward and stood at attention. The ship's doctor had selected three Jews with barbering experience to do the shaving. Sol stared straight ahead and tried not to think about the man on the stool who lathered Sol's groin, turned the penis to the left and right, scraped the razor along the skin.
The doctor looked up from his clipboard and extended a hand toward Sol. "Tyrolt," the doctor said, introducing himself. "You must be the linguist I've heard about."
Shocked, unused to courtesy unless it preceded a beating, Sol hesitated. Dare he respond? Dare he not respond? "Freund. Solomon Freund," he said finally, purposely not saying his camp number and trying to forget the man working at his groin as he shook the doctor's hand.
"Relax. And--don't worry. They cannot force me to cut off your family jewels." Tyrolt put a gentle hand on the barber's shoulder, and smiled at Solomon. "Freund? Friend. Perhaps we will be. Friends, I mean."
"I am a Jew," Sol said simply.
"And I am a doctor." Tyrolt checked his list again. "Says here you are to go back to the hold while the rest of your friends swab the ship." He looked at Solomon carefully. "Is there a reason for such preferential treatment?"
"I was not aware I had been singled out, Medizinalrat."
"Tyrolt will do nicely, thank you. Is that clear?" The doctor's warm smile belied the arch to his voice.
"Yes, Herr...Tyrolt."
"Others may command this ship and its cargo but I am in charge of the health of those aboard
. You need exercise and sunshine and air. Is that understood?" Before Solomon could open his mouth to reply, the doctor added, "You will report to the galley. Tell one of the cooks that I said you are to be given duty outside."
He patted Solomon on the shoulder, then moved down along the line of Jews, talking quietly, offering encouragement and checking eyes, ears, and teeth, and leaving Solomon to wonder if the doctor truly possessed compassion or was merely deranged.
An hour later, about to hoist the last of five huge garbage cans onto his shoulder to dump it aft, he was still considering Tyrolt's response. The doctor should be warned that his aberration was dangerous, Sol thought, scooping congealed grease from the bottom of the fourth can. Removing the thick elastic cord that secured the lid, he sloughed off the grease into the fifth can, the last one he would have to dump, after which he must shine all five with steel wool. Not that he minded; the labor was satisfying after the confines of the hold.
Potato peelings lay atop sodden newspaper. Sol watched a seagull hovering overhead; gourmet dining really was in the eye, or stomach, of the beholder. Then a sound like the whimpering of a puppy drew him to his knees. He squinted into a small metal alcove behind the cans, where oily rags and other flammables were kept until disposal, and made out a small figure pressed into a foetal ball.
"Herr Freund."
"Misha! What on earth!"
"Help me, Herr Freund! Throw me overboard! I tried to jump, but I got scared. The sea looks so deep. But I can't go back in there. To him. I...can't!"
Child of the Journey Page 27
