He was Jackal Man. He was one of them.
He gripped the rail and opened his mind, sending out what strength he had left. The dogs resisted. Pathetic, he thought. Pathetic. Like even the best of soldiers under the best of conditions, they needed kick-starting; a kick in the butt.
The dogs stood and shook themselves, as if determined to throw off the seasickness. Erich's stomach roiled. His mind pitched harder than the ship.
Rather than moving to their positions on the imaginary clock, the dogs remained in the middle of the room, close to one another as if for comfort, and looking back at the cages.
Erich concentrated harder, so hard that it was all he could do to maintain his grip on the rail.
The dogs, Taurus among them, turned their heads and looked at the cages as if for guidance.
No, not cages, Erich realized. Cage.
They were watching the wolfhound, which had gained its feet.
Erich recognized his error. The dogs were waiting for a signal. They followed Taurus' lead--absorbed Erich's commands through her. But the unit operated as a unit first, single-minded in its purpose, and the hub was its center, its headquarters. A spoken command went to the unit's center; a mental command went to Taurus--and likewise to the unit's center. Grog, by far the smallest of the dogs, had had final approval of all human commands, but had been loyal almost to a fault, forever happy to please.
The wolfhound had loyalty to none but itself.
The realization, combined with the dogs' seasickness, so wrenched Erich that he lost his grip and collapsed against the wall. Pain shot through his shoulder socket.
The door opened.
"You're not to!--" Erich started to say to whichever trainer dared enter before the exercise was over, but it was Otto Hempel who stepped inside.
"Captain Dau sent me down to see how you're progressing with the Jews," he said. "I had some of my men start bringing the cargo out into the ladder well, for easier shackling." He smiled slyly. "Not that you wouldn't have done it yourself."
Erich crowded by Hempel and, shoving past the trainers who were waiting to return to the dogs, went hand-over-hand along the corridor rail. The light from the nearest ladder revealed Jews huddled in the well, looking up as if both wanting to climb, and being petrified to do so. He squinted down against the dimness, but could not see Solomon.
He's watching me, Erich thought. Wishing me dead.
"At your call, my boys will come down and get started," Hempel said. "But you must give the order. Technically, they're still your Jews."
Throw them into the sea? Throw Solomon into the sea? If Dau gave the command, would he have any choice but to carry it out? Without the dogs' help, any resistance on his part could mean his own execution.
The intercom crackled.
"We have passed muster as a Norwegian vessel headed for Mozambique to exchange lumber for sisal and bauxite. Due to the storm, there will be no boarding. That is all."
"We shouldn't need an excuse to kill Jews," Hempel muttered as the trainers entered the windlass room.
Hempel shut the door and spun the handle, then turned and seized Erich by the lapels, shoving him against the wall. "When the Spee was here I saw your wife above decks, trafficking with your Jew friend. A man would throw him overboard."
Erich's mind was racing so fast that he had to fight to keep his anger directed wholly toward Hempel. Miriam...and Solomon. And she had said...nothing. "You're asking for a court martial," he blurted out.
"Am I? I don't think so. Save your threats for someone you can scare. I've nothing to fear from the likes of you...Oberst." He almost spat the word. "But don't worry. I won't report you--yet. Not until I have what I want." With another shove, he let go of Erich. "I intend to run my own show, with my boys, once we reach the island. Get used to the idea, or I'll have Dau notify the Seekriegsführung about you."
Erich tightened his left hand. His dead, stiffened fingers, shoved through an eye, would be as lethal as a dagger.
"A man would throw him overboard..."
Hempel's words echoed Erich's basest thoughts.
Laughing caustically, Hempel turned on his heel and walked toward the bridge. Filled with guilt, Erich followed him. Sailors and officers stood shoulder to shoulder before the starboard window, hands cupped against breath-frosted glass as they watched the British destroyer pass. Even with its outline broken by the fog, it loomed large, a gray behemoth closing on him with the relentlessness of a predator.
Chuckling, some of the seamen told him how the destroyer had signaled them to be careful of the Spee, adding that, being from a neutral country, the Sogne would probably not be a target.
Their joviality made him feel all the more isolated. They were together, and he on the outside, set apart because of Miriam and Solomon, and his own stinking conscience. The thought of his weaknesses made him feel as if he were suffocating. What power did he have over anyone as long as he was on Dau's ship! Hempel was Dau's kind of man. He was not. Never would be.
He looked up again at the oncoming destroyer and was filled with dread as though she were a premonition from God, for suddenly he was certain of the depth of Miriam's deceit. No proof except the weakness in his gut. Their...child. His boy. He felt sick to his stomach.
On impulse he shouldered open the door to the flying bridge. The storm whipped his head and shoulders.
"Close that!" Dau bellowed.
Salt spray beat against Erich's cheeks and clothes. Slipping and sliding, he stepped out and lunged toward the rail. Around him, balls of St. Elmo's fire jittered and danced like phantoms.
Dau opened the door. "Get in here, God damn you!"
Erich shook his head. The gesture was enough to send him off-balance. He fell to his knees and slid toward the rail, conscious of the ship's creakings and clankings and the howl of the wind. One arm looped through the rail, he fought against the waves that sluiced up from below bridge and washed over him.
Dau shut the door.
The destroyer was now directly opposite the Sogne. The thought of its power roared in Erich's blood and head. She sounded her stacks in mournful greeting. He shivered with cold and fearful delight as a sliver of moon broke through the clouds and played across her camouflage, revealing her war mast and guns.
And her name. Glowworm.
That goddamn music box! No wonder she listened to it so much. Because all this time...she knew!...
The ship began to fade behind the fog. Trying to see, Erich batted at the spheres of St. Elmo's fire, now less than a meter from his face. A fiery edge of the sphere brushed the rail, and an electrical shock surged through him. Surf and froth slammed against the bridge. His feet went out from under him and he slid helplessly toward the stairs that led to the main deck.
His head smashed against metal. He heard a crack but felt nothing. His head was pounding, and his hold on consciousness as tenuous as his grip on the slippery deck. He tried to stand up, reeled, felt something seize his brain with a force he had not known since his two grande mal episodes during childhood. Teeth chattering, he tumbled onto his knees and into blackness....
The lights in the cabin were bright, Dr. Tyrolt's stethoscope cold against Erich's naked chest. Erich pushed the instrument away and shielded his eyes. He had dreamed that he was centered in the bright lights of Leni's cameras.
And what strange images had haunted him, he thought, closing his eyes. He could remember crawling from Caligari's cabinet and into a jungle twisted with lianas and tendriled with mists reeking of fishflies. Tree frogs croaked, and parrots and magpies cawed. A flush of orchids bloomed beneath the dense green canopy; their beauty mocked him, and something seemed to wish his death--a black form that came toward him, leaping from tree to tree, closing quickly. Trumpeting. Wailing. Sending him fighting for purchase on the mud and moss. He dropped to all fours and crawled wildly, not caring which way the tangle turned him as long as it was away from the black manform's caterwauling. Then he was crouching, naked and on all fours,
on a cone-shaped hill blackened by fire. Heeled near him on the blackened breast were his dogs. Night had fallen, and the jungle below was a green and silver sea. In the light of a melting moon, chameleons and frilled geckos skittered across his flesh, their rust-red eyes ogling him, their tongues darting out to taste the sweat that meandered down the sides of his nose....
He blinked several times, arched his back against the tremendous fatigue that suffused him, and looked around Tyrolt's cabin. The door was open. In the corner, Bruqah strummed his valiha. He plucked one of the twenty-two strings and a soft sound, amplified by the valiha's resonating bamboo tube, floated through the room.
"Doctor Tyrolt!"
"I am here," Tyrolt answered from the passageway. "We have all been very worried about you."
"My head is killing me. Is there any reason why he must play his goddamn music at this particular moment?" Erich pointed at Bruqah.
"We thought it might soothe you," Tyrolt said, entering the cabin.
Bruqah pointed an elegant finger at his own forehead and smiled. His wrinkles deepened. "You bruised your bejesus pretty bad, Herr Oberst!"
Moaning, Erich felt the lump on his head. He lay back down and stared at the upper bunk.
"Take it easy." Tyrolt placed a weather-hardened hand on Erich's chest.
"I'm fine. Just a little dizzy."
"You took quite a beating. Whatever possessed you to go out there, anyway?"
Erich blinked but did not answer. He looked toward the porthole. It was still dark outside. Black and dark.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Miriam glanced out of her cabin porthole, the binoculars Juan had given her within easy reach. In the background, the last slowed-down notes of Paul Lincke tinkled on her music box, working its magic. To her disappointment, the storm was abating. She had enjoyed the increased motion of the ship and the sense of danger--a change from the boredom that had set in since Leni and Juan disembarked. The HMS Glowworm had long since vanished. The coincidence neither escaped nor surprised her, not that she wanted to interpret its meaning. Life had a way of proving to her that coincidence was a synonym for serendipity.
The cabin door opened; she snapped shut the music box.
"Brought you a patient, Miriam," Dr. Tyrolt said as he helped Erich to her bunk. "Went out on the bridge without permission, and took a nasty fall. Should be fine, though. Call if you need help."
"A little childish to go out there, wasn't it?" she asked in a tight, controlled voice. "You might have drowned."
"My devoted little wife. Would you have shed a tear if I had drowned?"
I wish you had, Miriam thought, watching him stretch out his foot and kick the door shut as Tyrolt exited.
Erich ducked his head to clear the upper bunk and rose unsteadily to his feet. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. "I believe we have some talking to do."
His touch was gentle, but something in his eyes warned her that she was in trouble. Whatever had driven him out onto the deck in the storm had not been pleasant; instinct told her that it had something to do with her.
"You should rest." She forced herself not to back away.
"You should rest," he mimicked. "Sweet mother-to-be Miriam Alois, epitome of caring and virtue! But we know that's not the real Miriam, don't we! We know the real Miriam Alois is all subterfuge and lies! How long have you been lying to me, Miriam?"
She tried to pull away. "You're hurting me, Erich! Let go!"
"How long have you been lying to me, Miriam?" He tightened his grip. "How goddamn long! Lying about that queer!"
"You're talking to me about lying? You must be joking!" she yelled, letting go of her carefully maintained controls. She visualized Erich dead, killed by her pity and loathing. She should have killed him with the wine bottle when she had the chance, that day at the flat, instead of thinking better of it. How stupid to believe that he might help her--help Solomon--unless he could profit by it.
"You want me to tell you that Sol is a homosexual? You really want to believe that, don't you? And that I stayed with you out of love and never loved Solomon. Well, I won't. I won't!"
Damn him. He could convince himself of almost anything, like that night...believing that, under the circumstances, she had wanted to give him a wine massage!
Before she could speak, Erich's face went white, then flamed to red. "You and Hempel!" he shouted. "Toying with me! Lying to me!"
And Juan, she thought, as Erich raised his hand. With a deliberate motion, he hit her across the face. She was unprepared for the force of the blow.
"Erich--" She sank to the floor and leaned against the cabin wall.
"Get up!" He raised his hand as if to hit her again. Instead, he walked over to the porthole and stood with his back to her, absent-mindedly cracking his knuckles, but otherwise silent.
With effort, she rolled onto her hip, too hurt to speak.
"Tell me the truth about us," he said without turning around.
"You want me to make it easy for you?" she said at last, sure now that he would not hit her again. "You want me to admit that I've lied to you? About Solomon? About the baby?"
"Your guilt is your affair," he said quietly. He sighed, and let his shoulders slump. "I'm only interested in my own guilt in this. That's why I'm going to do things my way once we reach Madagascar. Hempel may try to sabotage the project. Every success will be his, each failure mine. I must confound him." He made a fist. "Beat him at this game. Confound them all."
"And Solomon? What of him?"
"The only hope you have for your safety, and that of the child, is to stay with me."
Pain seized her and she clutched her belly as the ship rolled. "My God! See what your brutality's done? The baby's coming!" She clawed at the smock as though tearing it off might relieve the pain. "God, please. Not here. Not now!"
"I'll get the doctor."
"Promise you won't harm Solomon!"
He looked at her with a scorn he had in the past reserved only for the likes of Hempel. "I won't kill him, if that's what you mean. I wouldn't think of it. I'm going to let him get as close to you as he can, and then," his eyes brightened, "and then I'm going to take you away from him. Forever. I can live with the fact that you don't love me. I can live with a marriage of convenience. The only thing I can't live with is being made a fool of!"
"If you don't keep your word, I'll tell them--"
He leaned down, grabbed her wrist, and twisted. "Tell them what!"
"That I was..." She stopped to allow another wave of pain to pass. "That I was already married to a fellow Jew when you...when you...'saved' me!"
He swung at her again, the back of his hand coming toward her cheek, and abruptly withdrew. "I'll find Tyrolt," he said coldly.
Almost as suddenly as they had started, the pains were gone. In a few days, four or five at most, they would be anchored in Antongil Bay. The baby would not be born on board, after all. She put a hand on her belly; the child kicked, harder than usual--as if it were trying to voice its objections to what had just happened. She felt a surge of love. Funny, she thought, the myriad shapes and forms love can take. She would give her life for Sol, yet if he ever laid a hand on her the way Erich had done, she would leave without a backward glance. And there would be no forgiveness. Yet she knew she would, eventually, forgive Erich, who had raped her, lied to her, beaten her.
Why?
Because, it occurred to her, she did not love him--but pitied him for his weakness. Because he did not have her, and never would.
And the child's father?
Thanks to the Christmas rape, she did not know which man that was, and she was tired of wondering about it. Better to think of something else, like the fact that, in a few days, it would be the start of the Jewish New Year. Rosh Hashanah. Normally a time of forgiveness, of celebration, hope, prayer, thanksgiving.
Normally.
Nothing about her life was normal. She had never felt more abandoned. The burden of pretense had been a
heavy one; its removal should have been sufficient compensation for her loneliness. It wasn't. There was too much was still unresolved.
She returned to the porthole, her watching post, and stared into the fog. The storm was diminishing. She could no longer hear the wind. The next few days would be long, and even lonelier than before. She had read everything on board, including all of Erich's books about Madagascar, except the one he kept locked in the brass-hinged sea trunk. She missed Perón's company, especially since she respected him so completely. How very much he had done for her...for them--she, Solomon, Erich, the baby. She even missed Leni, Nazi or not, for her dry sense of humor and interest in the world of dance.
But Juan and Leni were gone, and she was left with her own company and Bruqah's. During the next few days he brought in her meals, massaged her aching back, and spoke of all manner of things in a fascinating mix of innocence and wisdom, as if infant and sage had conspired to occupy the same body. Erich continued sleeping in the cabin, but their uneasy truce did not include conversation. He crept into his bunk late at night, when he was sure she would be asleep, and was gone before daylight. On the few occasions she had awakened before he left, she turned awkwardly to face the wall--and remained silent.
Today, convinced they must be closing in on their destination, she had spoken to him--pleasant words, despite her need to scream; words that eased their truce a little.
The cabin door opened. She turned, smiling; she expected to see Bruqah.
It was Erich. He avoided her eyes. "We've dropped anchor. Get ready to leave ship. Bruqah will help you."
He left the cabin and she returned to the porthole. The usual fog had shrouded the sea since dawn. As she stood there, it began to lift. An orange sun shone through a halo of clouds, highlighting a green saddle of hills, thick with vegetation and laced with mist, as if a trillion caterpillars had woven a webbed shawl to protect the slopes from the morning. Along the shoreline, she could make out wavelets shuddering against a mangrove-flat whose red, scalloped edge was overhung with interlocking roots and veils of moss.
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