Draw the Dark

by Ilsa J. Bick

  Could I take David’s place?

  You’ll never know if you don’t try, I thought. Stop dicking around and do it!

  I snatched up a pencil, more out of panic than because of any other emotion. Certainly, there was no thought involved. My hands were itching, my skin on fire, and then I was falling, the darkness swallowing me up and

  XXX

  The hayloft is dusty, but the air is crisp and bites my nose. Light seeps through gaps and seams in the wooden ꨀoor, and there is a bigger, brighter bolt of light shooting from the throat of the stairs leading from the basement. Beside me, David crouches, his brown eyes huge with terror, his skin paper white with fear. Does he see me; does he sense me? I don’t think so; I’m not there, after all, and even David is what I imagine him to be from this vantage point.

  Angry voices boil from below, and now I move, noiselessly, to the stairs. The floor should creak, but it doesn’t; David should notice what I’m doing, but he can’t. I throw one last look back, and he has not moved; he is frozen in his fear, like a mouse cowering in a corner, hoping that the cat won’t smell or sense him.

  As I descend, I smell horses’ sweat, nutty feed, and the scent of freshly churned earth. Along the north side of the barn, I see that the floor is incomplete: a rectangle running the width of the barn and easily ten feet wide. Bags of concrete and mounds of brick hunch in one corner.

  A mound of fresh hay is neatly heaped before two stalls near the stairs. The long hickory handle of a pitchfork that would have made Grant Wood proud protrudes from the hay.

  The ladder’s rungs have worn smooth over the years, and I slip and for a crazy instant, I think, Oh no, now they’ll see me, I’ve blown it.... But that won’t happen; all those men below— Charles Eisenmann, Mordecai Witek, and another man I instinctively know is Walter Brotz—they could run right through me. They will stare right at me, and I still won’t be there.

  I am a ghost in a land of phantoms and remembered nightmares.

  “And tell the truth, you’ve been lusting after her since that sunset painting, haven’t you?” said Charles Eisenmann, resplendent in the sulfur glow of the bare bulbs hanging from the barn’s ceiling. This evening, his suit is dark, the trousers neatly pressed, and when he gestures, the light winks off the thick gold of a monogrammed pinkie ring. He hooks his thumbs in his vest, and the gold links of his watch chain with their fobs gleam and sparkle. “Oh yes, you’re such a good married man, a man with principles . . . no wonder you jumped at the offer of a job in Winter. Take you far away from Milwaukee, yes? What must have gone through your mind when she arrived here and you found out that we were engaged? If anyone is the injured party, it is I.”

  By contrast, Mordecai Witek is small and brown in his plain coarse trousers and white workman’s shirt. Still, his eyes are bright with defiance and his cheeks are hectic with color. “My family suffers. We’re poor, we’re Jews . . . and now my daughter, she is already marked and now . . .” His face twists with anguish, and now tears start in his eyes. His fists bunch, and his lips are trembling. “She is my daughter....”

  Charles Eisenmann shows his teeth in a laugh. “And now your daughter has proven that even a Jewess makes some very bad choices.”

  “She was forced....”

  “Forced?” Eisenmann sneers. “That’s not what I heard. You think I missed how she hung around the gates every day with all the other girls? She wanted it, and you know it. The only difference between her and a whore is she thinks she’s in love. She just decided on a . . . well, universal language.”

  Witek flinches back as if he’s been struck. Even Brotz— goggle-eyed and slack-jawed—is surprised and shoots a worried look at Witek and then over his shoulder, toward the basement doors that open into the west barnyard.

  “Now be thankful you still have a job and a roof over your head. You’re lucky I don’t get Anderson to turn the lot of you onto the streets. If you’ll take my advice, Witek, you’ll go down the hill to your family and lay it out for them.”

  “Lay it . . . She’ll be ruined,” says Witek.

  “She’s already spoiled goods. But don’t worry. These are modern times. If you want my advice, afterward you can send her away. Doesn’t she want to be an interpreter? So send her to one of those special schools in Chicago or New York or maybe San Francisco where no one knows her and she can start fresh . . . if not exactly virginal.” Mr. Eisenmann’s voice turns brisk. “But we are done here.”

  “No.” Witek takes a step forward, hesitates. “Please. Wait.”

  Eisenmann’s not listening. He gives an imperious snap of his fingers. “Brotz, have them bring the car around....”

  “Wait.” The urgency in Witek’s voice cracks like a whip, and Brotz stops dead in his tracks. “This isn’t the end of anything. They’re Nazis, for God’s sake!”

  “So?” Eisenmann regards Witek with a coolly contemptuous expression. “Get a hold of yourself. They are soldiers. True, they are German soldiers, but they are not Nazis. None of them were members of the Party....”

  “You think they’ll admit that?”

  “And if they were, they would certainly not be here. Most of these men were conscripted into the military just as our soldiers were. You can’t hold them responsible for the actions of their superiors.”

  “But they’ve killed my people, my parents.... !” Witek’s voice balls with fury. His tears are ones of rage now.

  “And that didn’t seem to stop your daughter, did it? Think of it, Witek: she opened her legs for the enemy, and you’re about to be the proud grandfather of a German bastard. Fitting, don’t you think?”

  Brotz is taken aback. “Mr. Eisenmann . . .”

  Eisenmann whirls on the smaller man. “What?” He bites the word off. “You have something to add? Why are you still here? Get the damn car!”

  “Ye-yes, yes, uh-uh-of course, s-s-sir,” Brotz stammers, “b-b-but I really, really don’t think it’s wise . . .”

  Charles Eisenmann’s face is wine-colored and glistens with rage. “I am not interested in what you or anyone else thinks! Now get the damn car!”

  The air has grown thick and poisonous. In their stalls, the horses are stamping and nickering their alarm. The mood is so charged, I can practically hear the crackle of Eisenmann’s hatred and disdain and of Witek’s shame. And I can only stand, rigid, shaking. I am helpless to do anything but watch and witness, and yet I feel every word as the blow Eisenmann intends. I think of the old man I know now—that gargoyle with his gold watch fobs—but what I see now is far, far uglier.

  Witek says again, “Someone has to be responsible!”

  “And who that someone is remains within my purview, not yours,” says Eisenmann. “Go ahead. Make a fuss, create a scandal. You’ll accomplish nothing, and your reputation will be ruined. I will win, and I will do what I want when I want. Whom I choose to hold responsible is my choice, not yours and . . .”

  With a wild cry, Witek uncoils like a panther, hurling himself at Eisenmann. The other man is caught completely off-guard, and then Witek has him by the neck. Witek’s fist is a blur as he smashes Eisenmann’s face. There’s a smart crackling sound like the crunching of eggshells under a boot, and the other man’s head snaps back. Blood spews in a brilliant claret curtain from Eisenmann’s nose. He staggers back, but Witek goes with him, his blood-smeared fist cocked for another blow. The horses are going berserk, whinnying and bashing their hooves into their stalls. Eisenmann sputters and blows a bloody froth, choking: “Brotz ... Br-Brotz, help ... hel ...”

  With a snarl, Witek hammers Eisenmann again. This time, the sound of his fist is sodden, and he lets Eisenmann drunk-stagger backward, his arms windmilling, until Eisenmann smacks up against a stall. The horse inside brays and snorts, and there is another sharp BANG of hooves against wood, accompanied by the squeal of overstressed wood.

  Brotz breaks out of his paralysis. He scurries for the open basement doors: “Help, help!”

  Gory fists still bunched, Wi
tek stands over Eisenmann as if he can’t quite believe what’s just happened. Moaning, barely conscious, the foundry owner’s face is a mask of blood; blood oils his clothes. Eisenmann begins to choke, and Witek jerks free of his paralysis.

  “My God.” Witek bends over the fallen man. “Oh Marta . . . Mr. Eisenmann, Mr....” He hooks his arms over Eisenmann’s body and rolls the fallen man toward him as Eisenmann makes a gargling sound. A moment later, Eisenmann vomits onto the brick floor—

  And I think: Mordecai Witek—David’s father—just saved his life. Eisenmann would’ve choked to death on his own vomit. . . .

  There’s a commotion of voices and men running, and Witek looks up as Brotz reappears with two other men in tow. One carries a crowbar; the other, a flashlight.

  I gasp. I recognize them at once. I even know one man’s name because I’ve seen it written in a sketchbook in Witek’s very own hand.

  “My God, you’ve killed him!” cries Brotz. He takes a short step back. “What have you done?”

  With all the blood and now lying so still, Eisenmann does look dead, but Witek says, patiently, “No, but we need to get him to a hospital. Come on, if you’ll help me, we can load him into your car. Then we need to see Sheriff Cage.... ” He frowns at the other men who haven’t moved at all. “Did you hear me? Mr. Eisenmann needs medical attention. Here, Brotz, come help me.”

  Reluctantly, Brotz shoots a glance at the other men and then moves to squat behind Eisenmann. The other two are still as statues; they only look at each other, and then the one whose name I don’t know—but that face, now that I’ve seen him, I understand why David kept calling him Gemini—says in his flawless English, “So, he’s still alive?”

  Witek gives a curt nod, and I see how he struggles against his next impulse—and fails because, above all else, he is an honorable man. He pushes to his feet and says, quietly, “This is, ultimately, at your doorstep. I won’t say that it’s your fault because I did strike that man. I will bear the consequences. But you compromised my daughter, a girl so easy to take advantage of, and this is the result. I should never have gone to Eisenmann but directly to your camp commander, and I still intend to do so. I will go to jail, but I’ll see that you are punished....”

  “I wish you hadn’t said that,” says the other man, too easily, and I see what he’s about to do an instant too late.

  “Look out!” I take a step forward. “Mr. Witek, the crowbar... !”

  Of course, no one hears me. I’m not there.

  The air whistles as the crowbar whips around in a vicious cut. Witek has no chance, and I try to console myself with the thought that he probably never saw it coming.

  The crowbar hits with a meaty kunk, the metal smashing Witek’s skull just below the left ear. Witek grunts: Guh! Then he simply drops in a loose-limbed tumble, dead before he hits the bloody, vomit-spattered brick.

  I scream.

  This time, the men’s backs go ramrod straight. For a crazy instant, I freeze with fear. Are they reacting to me? But no, their heads jerk up toward the ceiling. I follow their gaze, and then my heart stutters: God, no....

  There, perfectly framed in the stairwell, is the twisted, horrified face of David Witek.

  “Papa!” he screams again, a child’s high cry. “Papa!”

  The one who’s killed Mordecai Witek barks a short command in German, and the second man—one with a crescent scar over his left cheek and a bit of a lazy eye—sprints for the stairs.

  “Run!” I shout, even though it’s no use. “Run, David, run!”

  As if he’s heard, David’s face disappears. I hear his feet scurrying across the haymow, heading for the north ladder and then the heavier thuds of the man—of Daecher—as he chases him down.

  “What are you doing?” Brotz has been kneeling by Eisenmann, but now he’s on his feet, backing away. “What have you done?”

  “Relax, Brotz,” says the other man. As he takes a step, Brotz backs up, and the other man laughs. “What, the crowbar makes you nervous? There.” He tosses the crowbar aside to clatter against the bricks. “I’m just taking care of a few problems for the boss.”

  “But...But you killed...”

  The other man spreads his hands. “And he would’ve killed our boss, no?” He looks toward the stairs as Daecher reappears. Daecher has David, who is kicking and flailing, tucked under one massive arm like a sack of wheat. The other man turns back to Brotz. “Anyway, so sorry you had to see this.”

  Blinking, Brotz runs a hand through his hair. “I—” he begins, but that is all he manages.

  The other man moves just as fast as before. Without taking his eyes from Brotz, his right hand shoots out, wraps around the pitchfork, and then he has the pitchfork in both hands. He charges, driving forward like a jousting knight with a lance.

  The tines spear Brotz right through his breastbone. Brotz gets out one sharp scream, and then the tines are all the way through, and the other man is grunting, still driving forward. His momentum propels Brotz back. The tines dig into the horse stall behind Brotz with a solid thunk, tacking the man to the wood slats like a bug on cardboard.

  Brotz is still alive, his eyes bulging, his hands wrapped around two of the tines. His mouth opens, and a fountain of blood pours out, and then he twitches a few seconds. Then he dies.

  The other man lets go of the pitchfork. He’s breathing hard. The stink of blood is very strong, and the horses are snorting. Daecher’s standing behind David, hanging onto the boy’s arms. The boy weeps; moans dribble from his lips, but he’s not fighting anymore.

  On the floor, Eisenmann lets go of a long groan.

  The sound is startling, almost unearthly, and makes the other man snap to. He looks over at Daecher, then flicks a finger at David. “He’s the only one?”

  Daecher nods. “We should . . .”

  “No.” The other man shakes his head. “A little boy, we would have a hard time explaining.”

  “But the women in the house, all this commotion, they’ll hear...”

  “No, they won’t. They can’t.” The Gemini squats before David. Reaching forward, he grabs the child by the chin. “Look at me,” he commands. “Look at me and stop that crying.”

  David does. He goes absolutely still. Huge tears roll down his cheeks, but not a single sound bleeds through his lips.

  “This is how it will be,” says the second man. “If you ever say one word of what you’ve seen here to anyone, then I will kill your mother, and I will make you watch. I will kill your sister, and I will make you watch. And then I will gouge out your eyes and cut off your ears and slice out your tongue, and then I will kill you too. Do you understand me? Not . . . one.... word.”

  ( . . . don’t take my mouth . . .)

  And that, I think, is precisely when David went mute. Still weeping, the boy nods.

  Daecher growls, “I think it’s a mistake.”

  “No.” The other man straightens. “The mistake will be if we don’t seize the opportunity.”

  I know then, at that instant and a blaze of intuition, what that opportunity is. Even if I had not seen what happened next, I could have guessed because David had seen it himself: the Gemini twins, one immortal and the other not.

  The second man bends over Eisenmann, who is coming around; I see that in the feeble movements of his arms and legs.

  “Be quick,” says Daecher.

  “Of course,” says the second man. He stands, strides to the tool closet I’d seen earlier, steps inside and then, after a few moments, reappears.

  And he has a corn knife.

  The blade is a good foot and a half long, like a machete, but with a squared end. The wood handle is dark from skin oils after years of being used to chop stalks.

  David freezes when he sees the second man come toward him with the knife. But the second man smiles, almost beatifically. He actually reaches out and tousles David’s hair.

  “Don’t you worry,” he says, with a chuckle. “This isn’t for you.”

&n
bsp; Turning his back on the boy, the second man squats over Eisenmann and goes to work.

  I can’t do anything but watch. I watch it all happen, and then I feel the earth moving beneath my feet, as if a chasm’s opening. I remember what Dr. Rainier has said about private hells, and I think, surely, that if this is David’s private hell, the torment he is fated to relive for the rest of his life, I share it.

  Then the earth yawns open, the ground splits, and I fall; the blackness rises up and closes around, and I am falling.

  Mercifully, I pass out.

  XXXI

  After what seemed like a long time but must be only minutes, I became aware of something cold and hard along my back. Then someone was shaking me: “Christian, Christian, come on, wake up.

  ”I cracked open my eyes, squinting against the glare of fiashlights. My right shoulder throbbed, and my right hand was cramped. My face felt sticky, and I put my left hand up. The fingers came away glistening with blood, and my cheeks felt wet, my eyes gritty like I’d been crying. “Wh-what . . . what ha-happened?”

  “You fainted,” said Dr. Rainier, sounding immensely relieved. “You were drawing like there was no tomorrow, and then you started screaming, and you got a nosebleed, and then, well, it looked almost as if you’d had a seizure....”

  “Can you sit up?” A gruff voice, deeper, male. A hand reached from behind a glare of flashlight and cradled the back of my head. “You took quite a tumble there. You need to go slow.”

  I hung onto Uncle Hank’s arm as he and Dr. Rainier helped me sit up. Uncle Hank handed me a kerchief to wipe my face. I smeared away blood; my head felt as if someone had taken a hammer to it. “When did you get here?”

  “About ten minutes ago. Hel . . . Dr. Rainier called soon as you went into some kind of trance, and I got here fast as I could.” He turned to Dr. Rainier. “What were you thinking? Taking a chance like that with my boy, what were you thinking?”

  “No,” I said, “I was the one who came up with the idea.”