"Forget it."
"Your loss." Erich picked up the candle and, apparently unconcerned that he was leaving his friend in darkness, hoisted himself onto the two-by-twelve and struggled up through the drain. He looked down at Solomon from outside the sewer; the candle cast shards of light across his face, and to Sol's surprise there was hurt in his eyes. Then he was gone.
Sol leaned against the damp wall and felt the darkness suffuse him. Exiting the sewer required only a grope and a quick climb, but the events of the past twenty-four hours had sapped his energy. He closed his eyes, painfully remembering the hope for his future--God and good government--that had fluttered in his imagination like a small bright bird as Rathenau ushered him along Wilhelmstrasse. Now the Foreign Minister and his niece were gone from him, probably forever. And the Weissers...would things ever be the same between the two families?
And what about Erich? Had he lost his best friend, too?
Oh God, let me die. A woman's voice. I did not know...I did not know.
Sol lurched away from the wall, flailing his arms in search of the two-by-twelve. He clutched at the plank, too distraught to scramble up, and peered around desperately in the dark. "You did not know what?" His words emerged as a strained croak.
My mother dug ginger roots with her bare hands.
An old man's voice, and a woman's, a different one, heavy with accent. Looks like sweetbreads, eh Margabrook? Hungry enough to eat it?
Lice, the old man said quietly. Lice. Let the dead dream their dreams in peace.
"Who are you!" Sol yelled in frustration, his voice resounding through the sewer. As it died away, the infant shrieked at him from the sewer's far reaches, followed by laughter and a low growling.
Snarling and snapping, something moved toward him.
A chill crept up his back and turned into a trickle of sweat. Spurred by terror, he fought to get up on the plank, kicking wildly in an effort to boost himself. His feet found the side of the sewer but failed to gain purchase on the slick bricks.
The breathing drew closer.
He gained the plank. Below him the breathing resonated strong and regular as a bellows.
His hands beat at the darkness. "Get away from me!"
Gripping the plank he frantically arched his back, straining to reach the drain. Somehow he found the power to stand. Balancing precariously he slid his hands up along the slime of the wall toward the edge of the hole and pulled himself through with an ease and strength he did not know he possessed. Then he slammed down the grate and pushed his sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead.
The creature was caged. He was safe...but from what? Would he ever understand?
What is the price of five sparrows, Solomon?
"Erich?" Sol whispered.
Laughter answered him--Erich's laughter.
The sound flooded the sub-basement with a horror far more terrifying in its familiarity than whatever unknown thing lurked beneath the grate. In some deep-down part of him that made no sense, he knew with absolute certainty that the laughter was Erich's--and that it was not human.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A ginger cat meandered from the shadows and into the amber light the street lamp cast on the cracked sidewalk. Arching its back as if trying to gain warmth from the lamplight, the cat cocked its head slightly and waited as though expecting to be petted.
After glancing around to assure himself that no one would witness his avoiding the animal, Erich crossed the street and did not look back to see if the cat were still watching. Much as he loved dogs, he mistrusted cats. He had never been able to reconcile his pleasure in their sleekness and independence with their lack of loyalty.
After pulling up his shirt collar against the unexpectedly damp wind that caught him as he left the lee of the buildings, he rubbed his neck, trying to work out his exhaustion and tension. He glanced at his watch. Half past six. He had been walking for over an hour. If only he had taken Hawk, his bicycle, he would be in his camp bunk by now, dreaming of roller-skating with Miriam in the Grünewald or of sitting with her in the Schauspielhaus, watching her while she watched Rudolph Valentino play The Sheik--though he could not understand why she thought his effeminate looks so wonderful. As far as he was concerned, only dog and horror movies were worth seeing.
Except with Miriam.
So what, he thought, if he'd only seen her twice! He knew what he wanted, and he would take her anywhere...not that he had much chance of ever seeing her again after Papa's outburst. If only the Foreign Minister had taken him to luncheon too, none of this mess would have happened! What made Solomon so special? Like Papa said: Jews of a feather...
Still, it was not Solomon's fault, so he should not be angry at his friend--especially since Sol had come down to the sewer, at night yet, to make sure he was all right. Rathenau and Papa, they were the ones who had caused the problem. A rich fool and a stupid hamster. No wonder Herr Freund treated Papa like an underling.
He clamped his lips together and clenched his fists, fighting to harden himself against the squirrelly feeling that always formed after a fight with his father. Go home, Erich, it said. Forget what your father did and take your punishment like a man. You're smart and tough even if he isn't. You will find a way to fix things with Miriam.
The next realization followed just as inevitably. His father would not punish him. Too many hours had elapsed. The time for yelling was over; by now Papa was bound to be sleeping off a sherry sulk. Awakened, he would listen silently as Erich stammered an apology, then with a sluggish wave of his hand send him to his bedroom. After an hour or two he would come in to say he understood. And would accept. And forgive.
Who did he think he was--God?
Anger rose in Erich again, like a pot of frustration boiling over a stove whose flame would not go out. If he tried to remove the pot, his fingers would burn; if he did not, it would boil over. Again.
Abruptly, he cut through an alley toward Lutherstrasse. He would walk past the rectory and see if a light were on. Not knock or anything. But maybe Father Dahns would be outside watering the tulips before morning Mass. He would know what to do. After all, was not that what real Fathers were for--to fix things?
Once Mass began he could slip down the back stairs and nap for an hour among the pews stored in the basement. He knew the building well, catechism classes having been a mix of piety and hide-and-seek while Father Dahns--elderly, always smiling--alternately scolded and blessed.
Erich had loved the Mass, with its colors and mysticism, but had stopped attending two years ago. How could he confess that he adored the pageantry more than God, if indeed there were a God? After Papa's shouting, Mama's tears, and Father Dahn's questioning, amid the smiles, about Herr Weisser's own absence from church, there had come Papa's mute, angry acquiescence...and, for Erich, Sundays in the stockroom.
No. On second thought, he had better not talk to Father Dahns; it was just too complicated. Besides, he was not going back, no matter what Father Dahns said, not even if Papa found him and begged or beat him.
He felt in his pocket and discovered a few coins, enough to take a tram to Wannsee and the Youth camp. If only he had enough to go really far away, someplace where Papa would never find him. Munich, maybe--the camp leaders called it Heaven. Or maybe hike and camp all over Germany, as the Wandervögel had before the war.
I am as much to blame as anyone, he thought, stumbling along and blinking bleary eyes at the neon lights of the El Dorado nightclub. Always trying to be the big shot.
In the half-light of the overcast morning, he could see people lounging near the infamous club, smoking and laughing, waiting for the doors to open. Inside, it was said, men danced with men and kissed each other right in the open and, in darkened corners, rubbed each other's penises. Why would men do such things? Nah, it was nonsense--rumors concocted to draw people away from the Tauentzienstrasse, where women with whips and laced-up boots turned good German men into sex slaves. Like in that movie he had sneaked into--Goddess,
Whore, and Woman. Not even Sol knew he had seen it.
Well, maybe not actually seen it, but almost. The usher had found him soon after the opening credits, so he had not really seen much and, truth to tell, he had not been sorry to be thrown out. Ugh! No wonder the papers called the film "criminal, sensational, erotic, sadistic." Erotic was one thing. He liked that word--liked how it made him feel warm inside. But the sadistic stuff--did human beings honestly do those things?
Erich avoided the figures outside the El Dorado as if they were alley cats. Afraid to turn his back on them, he moved in a wide semi-circle, fighting an urge to run as some of them looked his way and smirked. Clear of them, he swiveled and, fear chilling his exposed back, started to hurry away.
"Want a lesson, Schatzie?" A blowzy blonde leaned out of the shadows. She sucked deeply on a silver cigarette holder as long as a reed and blew a stream of smoke his way. "What do you say, baby-face? I'll make bacon and eggs for breakfast." Apparently mistaking his shock and curiosity for interest, she held out a languorous arm, gloved in elbow-length white lace.
Erich shook his head and, knapsack slapping against his back, dashed down one alley and rounded a corner. Bacon and eggs sounded awfully good, but thanks to Solomon he was not starving. Slowing, he licked the vestiges of Frau Freund's double chocolate icing from his fingers. That damn Solomon! Getting mad at him was easy; staying mad was impossible. He was always so nice.
He looked around to get his bearings, then tried another alley. It proved to be a dead-end littered with garbage and peopled by rats. Maybe he should take a tram back to the flat and forget the whole thing like Papa would--or at least he could pretend to. He ran back to the main street and found he had circled back to the alley corner, near the prostitute. He turned in another direction in the alleys' maze.
When he saw the blinking of the El Dorado neon toward the end of the next alley, he congratulated himself on how cleverly he had circumnavigated the woman. He could see three figures swathed in shadow near the nightclub's back door, but could think of no way to avoid them. With renewed bravado he decided to walk by and pretend not to notice them or what they were doing--whatever that turned out to be.
Whistling softly, he plunged his hands into his pockets and started forward. He had taken no more than a few steps when a man called to him.
"Over here. Join us--there's always room for one more."
Gorge rising in panic, Erich stopped in his tracks. He stared in the direction of the voice. Otto Hempel was slurring his words slightly. Like Papa, when he's had too much to drink, Erich thought. Nonetheless, there was no mistaking the voice--or the silver hair.
Run, he told himself. Get away.
But the same combination of fascination and horror he had experienced in the movie theater kept his feet planted as firmly as if he had taken root on Lutherstrasse.
"A shy one, huh? Rather just watch, would you?" The Youth-group leader laughed softly. "Well, that's all right too. But why not move closer? I'd like to see your face."
Leaning against the building, Hempel placed one hand against the back of the head of a blond youth kneeling in front of him. His other hand held what appeared to be a riding crop. A uniform jacket lay crumpled on the sidewalk, beside his feet. Near the jacket, head lowered and bare to the waist, was a second boy about Erich's age.
Raising his hand high in the air, Hempel whipped down hard on the youth's bare shoulder. The boy whimpered but did not cry out.
"Don't!" Erich's shout emerged as a gargled whisper through the bile in his throat. Finally able to move, he started toward the youth and held out his hand to help him to his feet.
The boy shook him off. "Get away!" He stared up at Erich, his eyes filled with hatred. "Find your own. This one's ours!"
"More! Beg for more." Hempel's voice was husky.
"More!"
Even in the half-light, Erich could see thick red welts forming where the crop had bitten into the boy's skin, crisscrossing each other as again and again the crop came down. Then Hempel groaned loudly and, tossing the whip aside, pressed down on the blond head with both hands. He moved against the boy's head with short, purposeful jabs.
Crawling forward, the second youth joined his friend and knelt at Hempel's feet.
Feeling sicker than he ever had in his life, Erich turned and ran blindly down Lutherstrasse. Where he was going did not matter--home, Munich, the camp--as long as he put distance between himself and what he had just seen.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Solomon. Wake up."
"It can't be time." Sol groaned. He had tossed and turned until well beyond daylight, hopelessly trying to make sense of Erich's overreaction and of the horrible voices and sounds in the sewer. He felt as if he had only just closed his eyes. "Erich hasn't--"
He started to say that Erich had not banged on the floor upstairs the way he did every morning so they could walk to the Gymnasium together. Then he remembered it was Saturday--Shabbas--the day Erich went to school without him. He had slept right through his friend's morning noises.
"Must I go to synagogue?" Sol asked, knowing full well what the answer would be, especially so close to his bar mitzvah. "I hate missing school."
"Hate is not a word to be used so lightly," his father said. "Besides, there are schools and there are schools. At times one becomes more important than the other. If we allowed you to go to school on Shabbas, it would make trouble for those Jewish children whose parents forbid it." He opened the curtains and stared out the window. "Already it's too late for us to get to the morning study group. You were sleeping so soundly, your mother and I decided not to wake you. Now get a move on. I intend to be there in time for services. These days, fewer and fewer people come to shul--they will need me to make a minyan for morning services."
"Are Mama and Recha coming?"
"Mama has a headache. Recha must stay with her."
Pushing aside his eiderdown, Sol swung his legs over the side of the bed. It gave him a sense of pride to think that once he had been bar mitzvahed, he could help make up the minyan--the ten men needed before a service could be conducted. For now, though, he counted only as the son of Jacob Freund.
Picking up Sol's glasses, which lay lenses down on the night stand, Jacob breathed on them and rubbed them vigorously with the edge of Sol's sheet. "Still angry with me about that spanking I gave you last weekend?" He handed Sol the glasses.
Sol put a hand on his behind.
Jacob Freund smiled sadly. "Some lessons can only be learned when pressure is brought to bear. You will have to make many more...painful, shall we say...decisions in your life. Teaching you cause and effect is part of my job."
"But--"
His papa silenced him with a wave of the hand. "But? There are no buts. We both did what we had to do--you felt you had to help your friend, I felt you were doing yourself and his family an injustice by encouraging the estrangement between Erich and his papa. Now get dressed. It will do us good to sit together under the eyes of God."
As he was getting ready, Sol replayed the events of the week. His being with Herr Rathenau. Erich threatening his papa. The monster snapping at his heels in the sewer and the inhuman laughter that, somehow, incomprehensibly, was Erich's. Except for his luncheon with the Foreign Minister, the events seemed less like reality than the ghoulish, neo-Gothic movies playing all over Berlin: Dr. Caligari--and The Golem, which had Judaic implications.
Erich had been acting very peculiarly the whole week. His moodiness was nothing new, nor was his quick temper, but at least he had shared things before. This week, he had been uncommunicative, refusing to talk about where he had gone after he left the sewer, not answering when Sol why he had not gone to live at the camp after all. He had not even talked about Miriam and, if that were not strange enough, he had stayed in his room listening to music, and reading. Erich, reading!
Half an hour later, Sol and his father were on their way to the Zoo Station to take the S-Bahn to the Grünewald--a concession to the late
hour, since they usually obeyed the Sabbath law and walked all the way. Even from the station, it was a fair walk to the synagogue, which lay nestled among the oaks and chestnut trees that proliferated in the lush suburb. Berlin's most affluent citizens, including Walther Rathenau, had villas there, and Erich's camp was only a couple of kilometers away, a short rowboat ride across the Wannsee.
What if Erich had played truant from school, as he often did, and they came across him strutting down the road in his uniform?
The idea was enough to make Sol genuinely anxious to get to shul. Anything was better than the possibility of having to explain Erich's uniform to Papa. Even if he would soon be considered a man in the eyes of God, the contemplation of such a thing sent his stomach going into the kind of loop it did on the roller coaster at Luna Park. Perhaps if he gave himself up to the sense of peace that pervaded the synagogue, God would see fit to send him some rationale for the events of the past week.
"We should hurry, Papa, or we'll be late."
His father smiled and increased his pace. Minutes later they were in the foyer of the synagogue, greeting the beadle at the door and donning their yarmulkes. Skullcaps in place, they slipped into their assigned seats near the bimah, the pulpit.
Sol craned his neck and looked upstairs where the women sat, just in case Miriam had come to services. There were rarely women at morning services, even on Saturdays. They came mostly on Friday nights and holidays, when services were as much a social as a religious event. As Papa had often explained, even an Orthodox temple like this was not designed simply for prayer; it was a gathering place for Jews, a center of safety where they could exchange ideas--a meeting place. While the men did their socializing on the steps of the temple, in the community room, and on the grounds, many of the women--restricted from the acts of ritual in the synagogue, though not less dedicated to God--were not quite as disciplined. Like most boys, until he had begun his bar mitzvah studies Sol had prayed upstairs with his mother and sister. He did not quite understand why the men and women were separated, but he had rather liked it up there in the balcony, where he could watch the sunlight on the stained-glass roof of the tiny shul and look down proudly on the congregation of men wearing hand-embroidered skullcaps and wrapped in tallis, silk shawls that covered the shoulders of their Shabbas suits. They bent over prayer books and sang in deep and varied voices to their God and the God of their fathers. While the men repeated the ancient words that gave them such extraordinary comfort, he would listen as the women quietly gossiped, commented on each other's hats, decried the behavior of their children, and defended themselves against the shushes of the more devout women who had come to pray.
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