Neil let out a breath and removed the single sheet of paper. It was covered on both sides in Jakey’s scratch, and its contents made Neil’s eyebrows go up.
July 2, ‘38
Barkie-Boy:
Do you still get mad when I call you that? Probably the last time you’ll hear it, especially if you’re reading this letter. But, as you and I know so well, the sun also rises again.
I need a giant favor. And after what you’ve been through, you’re just the man. I need you to go to the city I’ve been working in and move a few hundred children to safety. They’re well hidden but they will run out of food and supplies 75 days from the date I write this.
If this important envelope made it to you in S-F, it means my job isn’t done. It means I bought the farm. The whys and wherefores of the mission will be explained to you. Will you do it? I need you Pale Horse. We need you. These are innocent people: women and children. And after all you’ve been through, I thought you might like the distraction.
You must liberate them to the transport ship by September 15th. Not before and not after. It’s too dangerous to have them out in the open. All you need to do is find secure transport from→
The note obviously continued, but the subsequent page wasn’t there. “Where’s the next page?” Neil asked, flipping it over.
Meghan Herman dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “That’s exactly the way I received it.”
“But that’s the most important part. He was just getting to whatever it is he wrote me about,” Neil said, shaking the paper. “He was telling me where the children are.”
“Maybe someone removed the page,” Meghan said, shrugging. “Probably to ensure that you’d follow his wishes and travel to Innsbruck.”
“So, they’re in Innsbruck?”
“Maybe. They’re probably somewhere close by.”
Neil closed his eyes and massaged them with his fingers. “Look, I’m willing to bet that all of this has been handled by whoever took the pages from this note.”
“No.”
“No?”
“It hasn’t been handled.”
“Will you please stop speaking in circles?” he said at length.
“I’ll tell you what I know.” She took a deep breath. “Jakey’s been smuggling Jewish children out of Germany and Austria. He was in the process of getting a large group of children out when he was killed. Those children have no one to take them to their ship.” Meg motioned to the note. “He mentions the date the ship will sail, September fifteenth. You have to go and move those children.”
Neil looked away, considering this. “So, let me get this straight,” he asked, speaking deliberately. “You want me to go to Austria and move the children?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they being moved to?”
“Ultimately, Palestine.”
“Why Palestine?”
“So they can be adopted and cared for by people who will love them, I suppose. And also…” She hesitated.
“Go on.”
Meghan Herman took several steadying breaths. “Because many of us believe the rumors that the Nazis will try to eradicate our people.”
Neil had no response for that.
“Will you go?” she asked.
Despite Neil’s drinking, he couldn’t help but read the countless articles about the German annexation of Austria through the Anschluss. In addition, for several years now, Neil had read the news about the frantic Jewish flight from the Thousand Year Reich. They feared the worst after the passing of the Nürnberg Laws, and with good reason. It was because of the ever-increasing pressure on the Jewish people that Jakey had dedicated the final portion of his life to getting them—and obviously their children—to freedom. Unfortunately, it seems his final “shipment” was stuck in transit. Neil shut his eyes, trying to dissolve the images of starving children from his brain.
“Neil, will you go?”
“I can’t do that, Meg,” Neil said dismissively. “Maybe he was delirious when he wrote this. Besides, there are hundreds of people better qualified than me to get those kids out. Hire a good German to do it.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“This was Jakey’s passion—his life’s work. He left this note for you, Neil. If it couldn’t be him, it had to be you.” She leaned forward. “Do this for Jakey.”
Neil lowered his eyes back to the note. “This is insane.”
“It may be insane, but it’s what your best friend wanted.”
“But why me?”
“Indeed,” Meghan said with a note of disdain as she looked him up and down. “But I suppose my brother knew what he was doing. Neil Reuter, will you go?” she persisted. “For Jakey? For the children? For their parents and loved ones, who don’t deserve to grieve like you’ve had to?”
Neil felt the impact of her last words. “I don’t know, Meg.”
“Well, read his note again and think long and hard about it. I’m in town, staying at the Whitcomb down on Market.” She stood and smoothed her skirt, looking down at him as she placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. “Those children need you, Neil.”
“I’m not good enough for this,” he answered, lowering his eyes to the floor.
“Jakey thought you were. And he’s left you with time.”
“Where’s the ship supposed to sail from?”
“Jakey had contacts in Innsbruck. They’ll give you all the details.”
“Who?”
“His lady friend, and a doctor. They’ll help you.”
“Meg, for the last time, why can’t someone else do this?”
“Who, Neil? Our ships are being turned away by even the United States and Canada,” she replied, her voice strained. “These are Jewish children we’re talking about. They’re in Austria, of all places. There’s no one there to help them, and even if there were, they’re too scared to do it. Jakey wanted you.”
Neil looked up at her. “And what happens if the children aren’t escorted away by September fifteenth?”
“From what I’ve heard, their caretakers will bring them out of hiding if the deadline passes. And once they’re found, and they will be, they’ll all be sent to a camp.” Her cheek twitched. “They might as well be shot on sight.”
Neil closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry I was rude to you. But you need to snap out of it.” Meghan Herman leaned down, kissing him on the cheek as her gloved hand ran back through his dark hair. “Just do what Jakey has asked of you. It’ll be good for you.” With that, she turned and made her way out, exiting just as Agnes reappeared.
Agnes Gentry, Neil’s maid of ten years—she of the drawn, saturnine face—stood at the entry to the reading room and covered her mouth with the back of her hand, watching the front door as it was pulled shut. Short and slightly overweight, in her trademark blue uniform, she pointed to the door.
“Did that woman wake you?”
Neil didn’t hear the question. He held the edges of Jakey’s incomplete note, staring at it, his mind racing.
“Mister Reuter, who was that lady?” Agnes demanded after a period of silence. Her tone turned motherly. “And is that lipstick on your face? And you, wearing only your robe and pajama pants, in here alone with her. My goodness.”
Since Emilee’s death, Agnes had grown to be a surrogate mother to Neil. However, she was far too embroiled in the radio soaps she favored, and to her, any drama between a man and a woman probably denoted something lurid and scandalous.
“What on earth just happened here?” Agnes demanded.
“If you want to be useful, mix me a damned drink.”
She walked to the front of the foyer and peered out the window.
“Did you hear me?” Neil asked.
As Agnes huffed loudly on her way to the bar, Neil moved to his leather office chair and reread the note.
For the next three hours he sat there, drinking. Drinking and reading the note.
And remembering.
FOUR SOLID DAYS OF DRUNKENNESS ENSUED. During each day of his bender, the position of the sun or the moon meant nothing to him. Neil would drink until he passed out. When he came to, he would usually vomit before resuming the binge.
Drink; puke; rally; nibble a biscuit; wander the gardens; the periwinkle makes a helluva bed; ant bites aren’t as bad as people say; bee stings are, though; ankle’s the size of an old telegraph pole; stagger up the stairs lit by the architect’s oculus, whatever the hell oculus means; hate Latin; there’s a damn good reason it died as a language; people oughta quit trying to act so smart and let it rest in peace; more fever dreams; Lex Curran again; no, please; not that evil bastard; wake up and he’s gone; again; gotta get that sonofabitch out of my mind; sort of hungry; even thirstier; well then, Aggie, hand me my pajama pants if seeing one bothers you so much; and put my damned drink by my bed; why? because I’m thirsty, that’s why; awake again; stagger down the street; sorry mister, dogs do it wherever they like, why can’t I?; need a drink…time to head on back; and when did this hill get so steep?; so tired; haven’t slept well in months; now here’s a good spot; blackness; blackness; blackness; someone shaking me; damn it Agnes, every time I find sleep you have to wake me; I don’t care if the gardener uses manure or not, it’s damned comfortable; up to the bath; tub’s slippery; ouch; no big deal; is that my tomato juice in the water?; but why is Agnes screaming?; oops…blood…not tomato juice; bah, just a superficial scalp wound; it’s nothing; well, I slipped because the damned tub is slippery, that’s why; am not that drunk; hand it to me; oops; okay, see Aggie? now that’s tomato juice; refill me and, yes, I’ll hold the damned towel on my head; a long sip; ahhhh…good old Agnes; back to bed, bandage wrapped around the head like back in the mustard-gas trenches; sleepy time; damned fever dreams; Lex Curran, staring at me; pointing; mocking; bastard;
“Bastard!”
Neil Reuter sat straight up in the bed and shouted for two minutes straight. He bellowed until he eventually coughed blood from his abraded vocal cords. Agnes rushed in after hearing him from her quarters across the yard. She quieted him, insisting that he allow her to call Dr. Walsh. Neil shook his head, slinging the wet sheets aside as he shivered feverishly.
“But you’re not well,” Agnes persisted. “Worse than normal, even.”
Neil’s voice was a ragged whisper. He asked her to prepare some coffee and take the entire day off.
“It’s nine in the evening.”
“Then just make strong coffee and, please, leave me.”
She placed her hands on her hips, unmoving.
Neil couldn’t shake the image of Lex Curran, wearing his trademark zoot suit and sneering at Neil. In the dream, Lex wore boots with the suit, cowboy boots, made of snakeskin. Neil rubbed his eyes, trying to rub the haunting image away. “Please just put on the coffee and go to bed. Give me until the morning and check with me before you call the doc. I’ll be fine.”
“Should I…should I prepare another drink?”
Neil balled the damp white sheet and coughed into it, leaving a Rorschach spattering of blood. “No,” he rasped. “Pour it all out. Every damned bit. Just pour it out and make the coffee.” He was still drunk, if that was even the right word, but even through that haze of the deepest inebriation, there was a clarity Neil had only felt a few other times in his entire life. It wasn’t unlike standing atop a tall mountain on the clearest of days, staring down at every little detail of the earth below and plotting your route home.
Neil could see his path. Turn, by turn, by turn.
Agnes stood there. “I really think you should allow me to ring—”
“Just pour it all out, Agnes,” Neil said, cutting her off. He paused, patting the hand that gripped his shoulder, forcing a drawn smile. “And sleep well.”
Agnes’s eyes were wide as she stared at him in disbelief. She reluctantly left his room.
It took Neil a full hour to make his way down to the dining room. He sat at the end of the long table, sipping black coffee and smoking cigarettes. The so-called superficial wound on his head was a clean gash to the skull, and it throbbed like a bass drum. After rewrapping it, Neil found a photo of him and Jakey in Paris, recalling a few of the assignments they’d completed together during the War. He thought about the European trips they had taken afterward, before Emilee, when, between jobs, they would steam back to France, spending a month carousing and telling stories. The intention had always been to collect as many girls as they could but, in the end, they wound up simply enjoying each other’s company, the way best friends often do when they don’t get enough time together.
Sitting there, the thick sepia image pinched between his fingers, Neil tried to imagine what had happened to his old friend at the end. And, as he pondered and reminisced through the silent nocturnal hours, he brewed two more pots of coffee and nibbled on a full loaf of soft white bread. By the time the tangerine sun brushed long strokes across the eastern edge of Hillside, Neil had eaten half of the bread, consumed twelve cups of coffee and smoked thirty-one cigarettes. His insides were wrecked. Dr. Walsh arrived at ten in the morning, at Neil’s behest, and used nine stitches to close the cavernous gash in Neil’s scalp. Neil sat there, placidly smoking, never once flinching from the needle. He ate a proper lunch and spent the next three days on a routine schedule, rising early, swimming in the heated pool, actually going to the office, then retiring early to bed at night.
Without alcohol, despite the tremors and the shakes.
Neil was determined to prove to himself that he wasn’t a drunkard. The alcohol had served its purpose, blunting him from his daily pain. He’d first begun to use it to obscure the visions from his past, and then the business with Emilee turned him into a hard-core drinker. But through it all Neil knew, deep down, his dependence was not an addiction. Regardless, his body had come to depend on the alcohol, leaving him occasionally sick as he dried out.
Neil didn’t care—he soldiered through.
As a few visitors came and went, word of Neil’s newfound sobriety got out. And that’s when the boys from the War Department began to call. First, it was the local contact, then that sonofabitch Preston Lord rang. Neil ignored both calls. He also decreed that he would see no more visitors. As far as Neil was concerned, this unfortunate chapter of his life was finished.
By the fourth day, Neil’s shakes had finally abated. He arose with the sun glaring through his picture window, the starched sheets of his bed crinkling as he pulled himself to a sitting position. Neil inventoried his body and mind, sitting there for a full fifteen minutes, trying to reach a decision. Finally, feeling lucid for the first time since before his wife’s murder, Neil felt much of his old self had returned. The grief was there, of course, but pressed backward by a newfound calling.
He went into his bedside table, finding the tiny key concealed under the ledge. Neil walked to the dresser and, using the key, opened the drawer, staring at the contents. He lifted the piano wire and walked outside on the balcony, slinging the coil like a discus, watching it land in the ivy bed on the eastern edge of the house. Neil took the small vial of cyanide into the bathroom, dumping it into the sink and running water behind it to ensure its dilution. He went back to the drawer where he removed the hollow-point bullet from the revolver, dropping the bullet into the tub drain, sliding the now-empty revolver under his mattress. Neil walked back to the drawer and, in place of the items he’d discarded, placed a photo of Emilee. He touched the picture, allowing his fingers to linger there for a moment. With a nod, he closed the drawer.
In the bathroom, Neil filled the sink with warm water. After sharpening his straight razor and soaking his overnight beard, he lathered the porcelain cup with face soap and shaved slowly and deliberately, staring into the mirror, into his fraternal eyes, one blue and one sea green. That done, he brushed his teeth before taking a steaming shower. His mind raced the entire time—raced with excitement.
Breakfast consisted of a grape
fruit and plain toast with strong black coffee. Neil retired to his study, opening the drapes to take in the beauty of the flower garden as he again studied Jakey’s incomplete letter. After rereading the note for the umpteenth time, he considered the mementos in his study. Items from his German father: a camera, a pocketknife, a hand-carved pipe. His mother’s Shoshone keepsakes rested safely behind vitrine glass: her adult necklace, a baby’s rattle, an earth pigment painting of her parents. In the past, whenever he’d been close to opening the drawer, Neil would come to the study and stare at his physical memories, remembering his parents, hearing their words.
Their words had settled him each time.
He crossed the room, reaching behind a stand of books, retrieving a long knife. He unsheathed it, running his finger over the nicked blade, his mind crossing continents. He smelled the sulfur, heard the screams, felt the slick warm blood. The recollection of that night caused him to perspire. This was the bolo knife, from Gallipoli. Years later, Jakey Herman had used it to gut a German soldier, a German soldier who would have killed Neil otherwise. Neil twisted the blade, catching light from the window. His cheek twitched as he catalogued the memory of Jakey for the moment, placing the knife back into its hiding place.
Neil had decided, concretely, to acquiesce to Jakey’s request. Neil knew he could stay here and die. Or he could go to Austria and die. Or, perhaps, he would go there and live. Either way, if he stayed here he might as well go retrieve his bedroom pistol, find another hollow point, and end it now. Life in San Francisco was over. The game he’d played, which was once stimulating, was now a distant and haunting memory.
It disgusted him. Neil needed to cleanse his soul.
He lifted the letter, twisting it without reading it. There was something peculiar about it, other than the fact that it was missing a page. Neil had known Jakey long enough to be certain he had, indeed, written it. But there was just something about the contents of the first page, an inconsistency of some sort, niggling at a corner of Neil’s mind.
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 3