A light knock at the cabin door claimed her attention. "Come in, Bruqah," she called, knowing Erich would not have returned. "Is that Nosy Mangabéy?" she asked, without turning around. "That small island at the mouth of the bay?"
"Yes, Lady Miri...." He sounded as if there were more he wanted to say, but his voice trailed off. His hands, normally so relaxed, were clenched into fists at his sides.
"What's wrong, Bruqah?" Miriam asked.
After several moments, he mumbled, "They're back, Lady Miri."
"Who's back?" She was growing impatient with his reticence. When he shook his head, obviously reluctant to answer, she took hold of his wrists and looked at him insistently. "Who? Tell me why you're suddenly afraid. Who has come back to that little island?"
With a finger that was quivering slightly, Bruqah pointed to the island. "There is smoke rising from the first hill, Lady Miri."
Another interval of quiet.
"The ghosts," he said finally. "They have returned. They have come back to the island where the dead dream."
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Misha started the day with a sense of purpose. He was going to search for a gun. He had no idea how to shoot one, but he could learn. He had seen Sachsenhausen guards shoot them--shoot people with them--often enough. If they could do it, he could, too. He had to, that was all there was to it, because if he could kill some of the bad people on his thought-list, everything would come into balance, or even be weighted to the good.
He pictured the ledger sheet. At the top of the bad side of the list were Pleshdimer and Hempel who appeared over and over, once for every time they did something bad. He had done the same thing on the good side, like putting in each birthday separately and not just lumping them under 'birthdays.'
Fair was fair, so there was also one Hempel entry on the good side. Hempel had been nicer to Misha since the escape from the stateroom at Lüderitz. In his relief that the boy had not fallen overboard, the Sturmbannführer had given him the run of the ship.
He took full advantage of the concession, exploring the ship from one end to the other, but staying out of trouble and out of everyone’s way, especially Hempel’s, because nicer did not mean nice. He had not stopped doing the thing, just decreased its frequency.
Come nightfall, Misha had to go back to more of the same.
As the sun sank lower, each pitch of the ship became a clock, ticking him closer to confinement and pain; each toss made him remember the mental tally sheet.
On the one side were the good people of his life: Papa, Hans Hannes, Solomon Freund, Fräulein Miriam. The other side was filled with hunger and pain, with the Nazi men breaking into the apartment, and, over and over again, Pleshdimer and the strap, and Hempel doing the thing.
Free for the day, Misha found his way into the cargo hold where the military equipment was stored. He sensed that guns were in the metal and wooden boxes that were stacked within the hold, but his attempts to open them proved futile.
Behind the stacked boxes, as if mocking him by the show of strength he could not use, was an airplane. Its wings had been removed and wired to its sides. There was also a tank, not much larger than one of the armored cars that sometimes roamed the streets of Berlin. Tarps only partially covered them. He climbed on both, wishing, exploring. The tank had a machine-gun mount, but the guns was packed elsewhere.
"Rat-a-tat-tat," he yelled, imagining himself sighting down the weapon and firing bursts as Hempel, Pleshdimer, and the other Nazis charged toward him, falling like the dominoes Papa had taught him how to stack in long rows.
When he tired of his solitary game, Misha made his way on deck. To his surprise, the ship had anchored and, in the distance, he could see land. Could it be Madagascar, he wondered?
He stood at the rail and looked down. He could see movement in the water, dark shadows which he took to be sharks.
Setting aside all thought of swimming to shore, he wandered to the windlass room. He hid in the shadows, watching the soldiers come and go. He recognized some of them as dog trainers, yet he could tell by their uniforms that they were real soldiers. What a wonder that would be, he thought, carrying a gun and commanding a powerful animal! Would anyone dare hurt him again? Would he even need a tally list? He liked the trainers, and had thought about putting them on the good side of his ledger, especially after the one Colonel Alois called Fermi let him into the hold to pet the dogs. Once he even fed them, under the trainers’ watchful eyes.
He leaned out of the shadows and tugged at Fermi, who was the last to pass by him. "Could I visit the dogs?" he asked.
"Sorry, Misha. I don't have time to take you down right now," Fermi said.
"I could go in by myself."
"Never, ever go near the animals alone," Fermi warned. "They might chomp you in half."
The dogs were better now, he said, except for Aquarius who was still terribly seasick, and Taurus, who had a fire in her hip.
"Why don't you put out the fire," Misha asked, imagining smoke and flame.
Fermi laughed, and tousled his hair. As the trainer walked away down the corridor, Misha thought about putting him separately on the good-side of the tally sheet, and the dogs, too.
Noticing that Fermi had failed to rotate the door handle behind him, Misha crept from his hiding place by the ladder well that led to the hold. He put a shoulder against the door and shoved. It clanged open against the wall.
All but three dogs--the two sick ones and Boris, the wolfhound--came to the front of their cages, trying to thrust their noses through the wire. He went to the front of the cages, pretending he was passing in review, much as he and the other inmates had done back in Sachsenhausen whenever Hempel had wanted, the other men said, to be admired. He kept his hands carefully at his sides.
Several dogs wagged their tales. "Don’t be fooled by the tails," Fermi had told him. "Means nothing, with these dogs. We taught them that trick. Wag and bite, wag and bite."
The wolfhound perked up its ears, but did not look at him. It stood and shook itself, gazing toward the left wall. Misha had lain awake often enough at night, listening to the creaks and groans of the ship, and to the scurrying of rats and roaches in the hollow walls. He supposed that to be what the dog was doing.
The dog whined and pranced as much as the cage would allow, increasingly nervous and animated. Maybe it's the island that's making him nervous, Misha thought, remembering what Bruqah had told them at the farmhouse about dead spirits on the island, and how animals could hear them. Maybe that was Madagascar he had seen out there.
As if they had been triggered by the wolfhound's nervousness, the other dogs--all but Aquarius and Taurus--followed Boris’ example. Their nervousness transferred itself to Misha, who began to think that he, too, was sensing something very strange and mysterious outside the ship
"Good boy," he told the wolfhound, and released the latch. The dog instantly pushed open the cage door and, ignoring him, dashed toward the eastern wall where he stood whimpering.
Is that how Major Hempel feels about me when I ignore him, Misha wondered. He fell to his knees and, heart pounding from the sense of danger, put his arms around the dog’s thick, warm neck. The animal did not resist, so intent was it on the wall. Did the dog not realize there was a door, at the opposite side of the room?
As if it had heard him, the wolfhound shook itself free and went to the door.
"No," Misha said softly, crawling after him. "You can’t go. Whatever it is you want, you have to stay here with me."
He stood up, took hold of the dog's collar, and walked the animal back and forth. The wolfhound appeared to relish the pacing, as if it partially relieved his anxiety. The other dogs watched, whimpering. "Good boy," Misha kept saying. "Good, good boy. Just like me."
We are friends now, Misha decided. He scratched the dog behind the ear. The wolfhound pressed its head forward in pleasure.
Then Misha heard footsteps in the corridor. The dog looked toward the east wall, whined deep in its
throat, and let itself be maneuvered into the cage without resistance.
After relatching the cage, Misha secreted himself behind some crates of dog food. He would watch the trainers carefully from now on, he decided. He would learn how they handled the dogs. These dogs were special, Fermi had told him. Smart, tough, trained to kill.
With your help, Misha thought, eyeing the silver-blue tag that said "Boris" on the cage door and fingering the collar around his own neck, the bad side of the list will grow shorter.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
"We have stopped moving forward," Solomon said. "They will be coming for us."
He sensed Goldman turn toward him in the dark of the hold.
"Moving. Not moving. What difference does it make?" Goldman said. "No one has been down here for days. They have probably decided to let us die in our own filth."
No one had been allowed above decks since Lüderitz. The storm had turned the hold into a hell-hole, and the question of whether or not they would die of disease before they reached Madagascar was never far from anybody's mind. Guards had brought food of sorts and drinking water, but the prisoners had none to spare for cleaning themselves or the floor, which was slick with a sour combination of vomit and the swill that had sloshed from the latrine-drum during the ship's relentless pitching and tossing.
In this last part of the journey, he made no attempt to stop himself from thinking about Miriam and the child she carried. He thought about their lovemaking in the cabaret and convinced himself that out of that had come the child. No matter what, he knew he would love the child, as he would always love Miriam.
And Erich.
Though with Erich, the love was tainted. Veiled in the confusion of wanting to hate him.
Finally, on this day when the ship's movement stopped, he thought about this so-called homeland. Berlin, the only home he knew, would never be his home again; now Jerusalem was the only homeland he wanted, not this ersatz place called Nose Mangabéy which Hitler and Hempel and, more than likely Erich, would turn into another camp or, at best, a ghetto.
What, he asked himself, had he really learned, on this long journey from boyhood to manhood? That he could see into the lives of strangers, and not into his own, and that the only constant in life was change?
If that was all, was it enough? Would he ever understand why the German people needed to suck at the breast of the beast of riot, the beast that was the manifestation of their guilt?
Nothing, he told himself again, happens for no reason. In some lifetime, if not this one, then another, he would learn the meaning of all that had passed...of the dybbuk, and the voices, the cruelties and the joys.
"Put your hands on my head," Lucius Goldman said to him, in a voice filled with fear. "Bless me before I die. Speak my name among the angels."
"I'll be sure to do that," Sol replied, though he wanted to suggest that no self-respecting angel would enter the Sogne's hold.
As Sol reached for Goldman, the door was flung open. Sturmbannführer Otto Hempel, standing in the doorway, smacked his billy club against his palm. "Deckside! On the double! Move, you swine!"
Sol watched his fellow prisoners squeeze toward the door, all but the one next to him.
"Bless me by name, shakkid," his friend said urgently.
Shakkid? I am no teacher, Sol thought, let alone a great one. I have too much learning yet to do.
Goldman gripped Sol's arm. "Tell the angels the farmer from Juterbourg planted well, even though this is what he reaped!"
"The Nazis did not bring us all this way to kill us."
"Ha! Isn't that what life is all about? The child learning to walk so he can reach the grave? You go along. I will stay here."
"You will not!" Sol said under his breath, taking Goldman's arm and pulling him to his feet.
Unresisting as a child, Lucius Goldman allowed himself to be led up the ladder's thirty-nine steps. Together they emerged, tottering, from the ladder well and joined the Jews who were struggling to form ranks on the steaming deck, Misha among them. Seeing him, alive if not well, Sol said a quick prayer of thanks and dispelled the image of the boy jumping overboard.
"You're all going into the boats!" Hempel shouted. "You would be rowing if we thought you wouldn't row in circles."
Shading his eyes, Sol squinted toward an orange sunrise broken by low clouds. Looking down at the glassy aquamarine sea, he watched a sea-cow bob a welcome to the newest Jewish exodus. After the dark of the hold, he was surprised and pleased at how clearly he could see the mammal. It played in the corridor of his vision, cavorting around as if the Sogne were its bathtub toy.
He saw hills beyond, lush with greenery, seated beneath a plume of smoke. But something felt wrong.
Pushing away encroaching panic, he focussed on the shore. Gnarled roots lay curled like giant sleeping snakes. He could see them clearly. Too clearly. As if centered in a telescope lens.
He could see nothing else. What little had been left of his peripheral vision the last time he was in the light was gone.
"Move!" Hempel pushed him. "Think we have all day? You're to get in the lead boat with that Rathenau bitch." Raising his voice, he said, "Eight Jews in the lead boat. You other swine into the dinghies, and count yourselves lucky you don't have to swim with the sharks. Welcome to your home sweet home!"
Hempel kicked Solomon in the small of the back. Sol stumbled and went down, fighting to suck air into his lungs. He was vaguely aware of Hempel nudging him with a boot toe and of hands helping him to his feet.
"I'm all right." Sol shoved away the hands that reached to help him. "Look after yourselves."
He found his way onto the Jacob's ladder, took two hurried steps down the ropes, and stopped. Dangling, unable to move up and afraid to look down, he thought of Erich hanging in the sewer.
"Have a problem, Jew?" Kapo Pleshdimer's voice floated up from below. "Afraid of heights? Jump and I'll catch you."
Clutching the rope-ladder with both hands, Sol lowered himself.
"Do you hold your seasons dear, Solomon Freund? Is this your season of madness?"
He missed his footing, sprawled headlong into the lifeboat assigned as a tender to carry them ashore...
And looked up he see Miriam's face, ghastly pale in the center of his tunnel vision. He crawled painfully toward her.
"So much as breathe hard, Jew, and I'll see to it the dogs tear out your throat." Pleshdimer grinned amiably and, stepping over Solomon, settled himself on the seat. Leaning down until he was close enough for Sol to smell his rancid breath, the Kapo opened his mouth and clicked a fingernail against his upper and lower front teeth. "What flesh the dogs don't rip away, I will."
Sol brought his feet up beneath himself and lay still. Miriam turned toward the sea, her back toward Bruqah, who was massaging the back of her neck with long brown fingers. "I don't know what I would do without you," she said to him. "Thank you, my friend."
He rose and, stepping across, lifted Sol's elbow. "Lady Miri says--come."
"I want him right where he is." Pleshdimer pushed the man away and spat in Miriam's direction, then jabbed Sol with a foot.
Bruqah steadied himself. "Herr Oberst Germantownman say--"
The Kapo drew himself aside and allowed Solomon to be helped to his feet and led forward. "Go to hell!"
"No--go to Hell-ville!" Bruqah laughed heartily and slapped his thigh as if at a private joke. Leaning close to Sol, he whispered, "Hell-ville Britishman town--northwest side of Ma'gascar, on Nosy Bé!"
"Wherever it is, I wish you'd go there and stop babbling," one of the sailors said. He picked up his oar and patted Sol on the butt as if the Jew were a recalcitrant child.
Pleshdimer and the other sailors roared with laughter. "Come on, come on, let's go!" The Kapo motioned like an orchestra leader.
The boat pulled through the water. Swaying, Bruqah helped Sol onto the seat next to Miriam and placed himself at their feet.
"Shana Tova, Solomon," Miriam said. "Happy New Year."
She looked down at the brown man. "Again I have reason to thank you, Bruqah."
"Help me, Bruqah! I don't want to die!"
That phrase again! Involuntarily, as when he had been a child in the sewer, Sol clamped his hands over his ears. "Help me, Bruqah," he whispered. Tentatively, as if touching her would restore his sense of reality, he placed his hand on Miriam's blanket-wrapped shoulder.
"Shana Tova? Is it really--"
"A few more days."
"Are you well?" He avoided the traditional, hopeful response of Next year in Jerusalem. Trembling, he wiped a trickle of sweat from her temple.
She put her hand to her face where Solomon had touched it. "If it weren't for the baby, I'd be dead. We'd both be dead."
"What?"
"There is hope for us," she said. "Erich is determined to turn Nose Mangabéy into a settlement...a homeland." She lowered her head. "No matter what happens, we must stay alive. For the sake of our child."
"Our child?"
"Biologically? God knows. But you are my husband in His sight. This is our child."
Solomon sat in silence as the boat moved shoreward. He watched the saddle of hills loom larger and higher, and was almost grateful that his head ached with so many questions; it relieved his physical pain. Could the child really be his? What was his connection with this man Bruqah? And what of the island ahead? Was survival possible there? For him, Miriam, the child, the other Jews?
"Antongil Bay," Bruqah said, letting a hand dangle in the water. "More fish here than rays in the sun! Good shark, too."
He stared thoughtfully across the water. When at last he looked at Sol, his eyes were glazed, their expression hard. "Nosy Mangabéy not a good place, I think. Full of the dead."
Solomon looked up at the approaching jungle. The strengthening sun was burning off the mists; they rose from the interior like smoke from the nostrils of dragons, curling from roots and branches and tall, pale, skeletal tree trunks. The closer the boat drew to the wall of greenery, the louder came screeching and cawing from the jungle. Fruit bats hung from branches like dark linen, as undisturbed by the gulls and paradise flycatchers that wheeled in and out of the mists as they were by the approaching humans.
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