“What is it?” shouted Vasili.
Captain Hoxa screamed out one long word over the incoming explosions. “Infantry!”
The breech operators cranked frantically on the elevator controls. The heavy, steaming gun barrels edged slowly skyward and trained in on the approaching troops. “Ready,” each operator shouted in turn.
“Be ready to continue tracking them as we shoot!” Hoxa shouted. He raised his riding crop high. “Fire!”
The phosphorous rounds weighed less than the shorter high-explosive shells, allowing the handlers and loaders to shave a full second off their reloading cycle. Hoxa had given the other two companies orders to redirect fire any time they saw white phosphorous explosions, and as planned, larger white-and-yellow flashes sprang up around the first impacts.
“Up two degrees! Reload, fire! Up one! Fire! Up one!” It dragged on for what seemed hours as the tempest continued to rage in the valley. All the while Hoxa stood on a small mound between gun number two and number three, looking out through his binoculars, raising and lowering his riding crop like a bandleader each time a salvo screamed away.
The pitch of the barrels rose steadily, heralding the approach of the French infantrymen. The Cherna river had risen even higher, eliminating any idea of retreat. The gun angle rose from fifty degrees through sixty to seventy-five degrees. Each shell they fired exploded closer to their own position. The white phosphorous trails jumped out from the center like a blooming flower. Three and four at a time, the ghostly patterns leaped to life in front of them like giant white spiders, devouring everything caught underneath them.
Captain Hoxa continued to adjust fire while looking through the binoculars. “Up two degrees! Up one! Up one!” The operators raised the pitch until the guns were fully erect. Topped out, the shells arced a mile upward but landed a mere three-hundred yards away. Hoxa turned and looked up against the rain at the raised muzzles, disgusted that they would go no higher. He looked up to heaven as though he wished he could shoot the shells straight up.
“Ready!” shouted the four breech men at once. The hair stood up on the back of Vasili’s neck. His eyes locked with Hoxa’s just as a flash hit the number three barrel behind the captain’s head, illuminating everything. Hoxa’s face contorted as he mouthed the command to fire, his speech stolen. The deafening crash of thunder that immediately followed the lightning seemed to jump out of the captain’s open mouth. Vasili stood transfixed by the scene, studying every detail of Hoxa’s menacing face; the caked mud on his unwavering brow, the lean jaw of determination, the steady eye of wrath.
The blast knocked the breech operator and trigger man back several feet. The loader and ordnance handler were miraculously unaffected by the lightning strike. They stood stunned and confused about what hit them.
“Reload and fire at will!” Hoxa shouted before turning to monitor the exploding shells. “Hurry, boys! Hurry!” he shouted while looking through the field glasses. “It’s going to be close!”
The explosions held three hundred yards out for several minutes as the neighboring companies brought all guns to bear on those pitiful acres. The captain scanned the hellish horizon, slowly panning back and forth with the binoculars. Vasili looked up and noticed the captain’s attention had fixed on something. Hoxa dropped the glasses, whipped out his pistol, and took off running toward the curtain of fire, screaming and aiming with his pistol as he went. Vasili was the only one who noticed Hoxa leave. The other soldiers kept loading and unloading at the same feverish pace.
the storm eased just as dawn broke over the ridge. The rate of fire slowed due to sheer exhaustion, then stopped altogether. The soldiers that still had their earplugs in removed them. It was quiet, and the scent of gunpowder lingered in the morning air. Survivors silently milled around the camp surveying the damage and the dead. Several minutes passed before anyone spoke. “Where’s the captain?” asked a soldier. Hoxa was nowhere in sight.
“I saw him run that way,” Vasili said, pointing to the blasted heath in front of them. “About an hour ago.”
“We should look for him,” the slumping corporal said. He pointed to Vasili first, then three other men. “You, you, you, and you, come with me.”
The five of them fanned out and waded through the wet, knee-high grass and bushes. Vasili retraced Hoxa’s path as best he could. One hundred fifty yards out, the landscape began to change. The grass, where there was grass, was flattened and scorched. Large, open craters littered the ground. The mud became too deep to walk through at one hundred seventy-five yards. The shells had punctured the earth, pounding it into a soupy, brown bog all the way to the smoldering French camp. A light-gray haze hovered over the churned-up ground. Upon closer examination they spotted and pointed out different body parts that lay in twisted, unnatural positions, coated and camouflaged in mud. The only thing moving, the only sign of life on the entire ruined plain, was a wet, shivering dog hopelessly mired in the muck, licking at the blood and the mud on what remained of a severed back leg.
Vasili turned away and slogged back through the mud toward the camp, leaving the other four to search for their leader. He stopped at the base of the small rise beneath the tired guns and picked up Hoxa’s discarded binoculars. Reaching down and wiping the mud off the lenses, he draped them around his neck and trudged up into the remains of the encampment.
This “Shook his head yes,” passage is a subtle but interesting point. Bulgaria seems to be unique in Western culture in that they shake their heads side to side to indicate yes, up and down to indicate no. (Culture Shock! Bulgaria by Agnes Sachsenroeder, 2008.)
This was indeed Bulgaria’s highest combat honor at the time, but stating that Captain Hoxa won the First Class of this Order is almost surely an exaggeration as classes for this Order were segregated by rank, with junior officers being assigned III or IV grades. (World Orders of Knighthood and Merit by Guy Stair Sainty and Rafal Heydel-Mankoo, 2006.)
14
“. . . Reaching down and wiping the mud off the lenses, he draped them around his neck and trudged back up into the remains of the encampment.”
I could tell my story had gotten their attention. No one wanted to speak and break the silence that punctuated the end of the tale. I turned my head and saw Poppy looking at me with the same transfixed look on her face as the members of the panel. I continued.
“We fell back on foot that morning. The company’s draft horses that had been tied up by the river were gone. We knew we wouldn’t be able to pull anything, so we left the equipment and joined the first company. Luckily, news of the armistice came later that week.”
“What became of Hoxa?” Ramsay asked.
“The other four came back covered in mud. They had searched for over an hour. There was no trace of him. Hoxa became a legend after that, even into the Second World War. They used to say that whenever a Bulgarian unit was pinned down, that Captain Hoxa’s ghost would—”
“I’m familiar with the ghost stories surrounding Captain Hoxa,” Ramsay interrupted.
“There was something said earlier about you living in exile in Turkey. Tell me about the events that led up to you leaving Bulgaria,” the professor ordered.
“I stayed on the family farm with my wife through the Second World War until the communists took over and nationalized everything. We were arrested after we refused to surrender our farm. I served a year and a half in prison. She died shortly after she started a similar sentence. I escaped to Turkey the same year I was released and lived in Istanbul until my death.”
“What was the name of the prison where you served?”
“It didn’t have a name, it had a number: State Prison Number Four.”
“When were you interned exactly?”
“December 1946 until June 1948.”
“Where was State Prison Number Four located?”
“On the outskirts of Sofia.”
&n
bsp; “How did you escape to Turkey?”
“I walked.”
“What did you do to earn money in Istanbul?”
“I found work in the open-air vegetable markets carrying crates.”
“What did Vanya die of?”
“I don’t know, I was in prison.”
Silence.
“She was interned at the same time as you?”
“It was about the same time, within days probably.”
The old man in the center leaned forward deliberately. The other members of the panel deferred their attention to him. “It’s late,” he said. “Let’s stop here and take tomorrow night off. We’ll pick it up the night after.” The members of the gallery stood up and spoke softly among themselves as soon as the old man leaned back.
poppy walked ahead of me up the stairs. The smoke from the torches was slightly thicker at the top. “Why did they want to take tomorrow night off?” I asked.
“They are probably using the break to verify the information you’ve given. It’s to be expected.”
“How can they check all that information in one day?”
“They can’t. They will just get started on it tomorrow. The Cognomina keeps dozens of people at the ready to help with the required research.”
“Is that how you had my medical records checked?”
“Exactly.”
“What happens if someone goes to the police or calls a Crime Stoppers tip line once they learn about my arson activities?”
“Evan,” Poppy said in a sigh. “Look around you. Do we look like individuals that would ever want the authorities involved in anything?”
“I’m not doubting you, I’m just careful, that’s all.”
“Don’t worry, your past is safe with us.” She opened the door at the top of the stairs. I walked around her quickly as she closed it behind us.
“I was wondering,” I said cautiously, “if we could get together tomorrow, since we both have the night off. I miss you.” I blurted out the last words.
Her eyes showed a genuine warmth I hadn’t seen before. “Yes, let’s get together tomorrow. Dinner is usually out on the town on off nights, so I’ll have to catch up with you after that. Why don’t you come up to my room? I should be in by midnight. My room is number seventeen,” she said, stepping closer to me. “You were wonderful down there tonight.” She sprung up on her toes and kissed me. “Get some rest, Evan, you look tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“good afternoon,” diltz said as i walked down the hall in search of breakfast.
I smiled at him. “I’d like to get a ride to Lake Zurich if there’s a driver available.”
“There is, are you planning to take a day cruise?” he asked. I nodded. “You’d better hurry, the last day ship leaves at three p.m. It’s a quarter till two now. You can just make it if you hurry. I’ll prepare a quick breakfast for you to take with you.”
“Perfect. Tell the driver I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
the same driver was waiting in the car at 11 p.m. by the ramp when the ship pulled up next to the dock. I arrived back at the hotel by eleven forty-five.
“How was it?” Diltz asked at the door.
“Very scenic. Is Poppy here?”
He hesitated. His eyes darted quickly and nervously as he searched to find an answer. “Yes,” he said finally.
“Great. I’m supposed to go up and see her,” I said, stepping to the side to move around him. He shadowed my movement, purposely blocking me with his arm. We were inches apart. I could sense his discomfort at being this close.
“I don’t think she should be disturbed right now,” he said quickly, now unable to look at me.
I looked at him sternly until his eyes caught mine. “Did she tell you to tell me that?”
He hesitated again. “Well, ah . . . I wouldn’t . . . No, she didn’t . . . it’s just that . . . Well, I think it would be a good idea if you waited until tomorrow to call on her, sir.”
“I’ve been invited,” I said, losing my patience. I nudged my way around him.
“But sir, sir,” he called out behind me as I walked down the hall toward the stairs. I looked back when I placed the cane on the first step. His impotent, tuxedoed figure stood in the middle of the corridor. He stammered uncontrollably as though he wrestled with words he couldn’t bring himself to utter and seemed completely unlike the man I’d come to know in the past three days.
I turned away from him and walked up the stairs, eager to see what the rest of this new home looked like. The stairs opened perpendicular to a corridor that ran the length of the hotel. A long, narrow Persian rug covered the floor to each end of the hall, and small crystal chandeliers hung above every set of opposing doors. The faint sound of classical music drifted from down the hall to my right. I walked toward the music, looking for Poppy’s room as I went. The silver-plated roman numerals that were affixed above each door had no order about them; XI, XX, IV, XV, XXVI, II. The music came from XXVI at the very end of the hall. I found XVII halfway down the other end. I stood in front of the wooden door for a moment, then knocked lightly. The lingering music seemed to intermingle with low voices. My heart quickened when the doorknob turned, then sank as the door swung open.
A well-built, dark-haired man wearing a red soccer jersey opened the door. He was naked from the waist down, and his hairy legs were covered in random scars, scabs, and abrasions. I looked away from his erection and eyed the room beyond. It was different than mine. A large square bed dominated the room. The red felt wallpaper matched the luxurious bedspread. The headboard was a large, hand-carved wooden half sun that looked as if it rose out of the crimson bed. At least a dozen red-and-black pillows propped up Poppy’s naked body as she lay on the bed. Another man, dressed only in a similar red jersey had his head buried between her thighs as two more kneeled on either side of her on the bed stroking themselves. She looked up at me as she zipped the brown syringe case closed. Her almond eyes were completely calm.
“I wondered when you would show up. Come in, we’re just getting started,” she said, breaking into a sly smile.
I felt the blood drain from my face. I thought I might collapse and probably would have if not for the rigid cane under me. My hand was shaking when I reached for the knob to pull the door closed in front of me. I closed my eyes tight and kept a firm grip on the door handle for some time, not wanting to take the chance that it might open again.
“Can I buy you a drink?” asked a deep voice behind me in the hall. I opened my eyes and turned toward him. Classical music still floated through the air. It was the rotund man from the gallery that I’d met. “I said, can I buy you a drink, friend? You look like you could use one.”
I nodded slowly, not letting go of the doorknob.
“Come with me. I know just the place,” he said, putting his large arm around me, escorting me away from Poppy’s door.
“red wine, please,” he said to the waitress standing by our booth. “And you?” he asked me.
“A bourbon and a beer.”
The waitress walked off without speaking. The Fraumunster Inn looked much the same as it had two nights ago. She brought the drinks back and took the ten-franc note he’d laid on the table.
“Thank you,” I said, raising my glass. “You were right. I needed this.”
“To us,” he said, clinking glasses with me.
I smiled.
“We haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Samas,” he said, offering his hand.
“And at the end of the Ascension, you will tell me your real name, right?” I said sarcastically.
“No. Samas is my real name, my name within the Cognomina.”
I cocked my head and looked at him. “Why are you sharing it with me. I was led to believe the names were secretive, and that I would know them only after I was accepted.”
He wave
d off my comment. “That’s the normal procedure, but I look at that as a formality. I know what you are, and I know you belong here with us. It was obvious after the session last night.”
His candor and openness were a refreshing surprise. His disarming personality was a welcome change. “Evan Michaels,” I said, taking his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
“And you, Samas. How did you come by that name? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“It was my father’s name.”
“Your father?”
He nodded. “Samas was my father in my first incarnation.”
“When was that?”
“1026.”
My amazement must have shown on my face.
“Yes, I know, I’m an old man,” he said, smiling. “But I feel I’m just entering my prime.”
“Do you mind telling me more about yourself?” I asked.
He laughed heartily, his voice booming through the tavern. “On the contrary, it’s my favorite subject. And, after all, it’s only fair. I’ll end up knowing everything about you by the time your trial is over.”
The more I spoke with him, the less I thought about Poppy. I was feeling better. “Good. I feel like talking.”
“Me too,” he said, signaling the waitress for another round of drinks.
“Where do you live?”
“I live in the most beautiful place in the world, Morocco, by the sea. My home is right on the beach.”
“Sounds nice. I’d like to see it sometime.”
“You are welcome as my guest anytime you like, for as long as you like. Do you like Moroccan cuisine?”
“I’ve never tried it.”
His eyes lit up. “Ah, my wife is an excellent cook. Her specialty is the native cuisine.”
“You’re married?” I asked, surprised. I never thought anyone as abnormal as I would ever enter into something so normal and everyday as marriage.
“Yes, I’ve been married to Zohra for thirteen years.”
The Reincarnationist Papers Page 21