“Come on, it’s beautiful,” Jacob called out, splashing his face and sinking to his knees. Sarah had kept on her bra and panties. She looked around again with an air of desperation. She pulled her bra around to the front to unclip it, leaned forward and shrugged herself loose, and placed the bra on Jacob’s pants. She took a step into the water until Jacob, whose eyes were devouring her, said, “Not yet. All the way. There’s nobody here anyway.”
Sarah shook her head and rolled her eyes as if to say, boys will be boys, and not giving herself time to think, in one swift motion pulled her panties down and stepped out of them, tossing them onto the pile of clothes. She laughed as the water chilled her to the crotch. “You see,” Jacob called as he waded to her and held her. They kissed on the lips and were warmed by the sun. They sank into the river until it reached their necks and Sarah felt Jacob’s urgency against her. “No, no, not here,” she said, and swam away to hang on to the tree trunk. “You’re insatiable,” she said.
“You’re irresistible.”
“You’re a sex maniac.”
“Thank you.”
He waded to her again and they stood near the bank where the water reached their knees. They embraced and kissed, watching their naked reflection breaking and reforming as one body in the windblown water. Jacob brushed Sarah’s wet hair from her mouth as she began to kneel when:
“Yo, give ’er one from me!”
“Move over Fritz, Alabama’s here!”
“Oh, man, check those boobs!”
“Look, he’s Jewish!”
“What an ass!”
“Not his, hers.”
“Cap’n, throw anchor!”
“Stop the boat, I want to get off!”
And just as quickly the swift-flowing river swept the G.I.s on the rubber pontoon past the lagoon and out of sight.
Jacob and Sarah couldn’t stop laughing until they sank into the quiet water and she curled her leg around his waist and drew him to her, and they grew silent and breathless and they were laughing no more as the waves lapped around them.
That evening they strolled hand in hand along Hauptstrasse, lost in the maelstrom of citizens on the evening circuit, and stopped for a drink with five hundred others in University Square. The beer was cold and pleasing and Jacob sighed in satisfaction. They seemed to have regained their place among the ranks of the townsfolk. They were home.
Jacob enjoyed pointing out who was who. The best-dressed were the Nazis who had kept their homes and jobs and wardrobes in their pristine town. The scruffiest were the foreign slave workers who sought transport to their homes in the east. And in the middle were the homeless German refugees who refused to leave town because however bad it was in Heidelberg, it was better than anywhere else.
A slim man in a long gray coat, pinstripe trousers, and a well-brushed black homburg sat next to them. In his lapel he wore a Red Cross pin. When an American officer walked by, the man stood to rigid attention and saluted. The officer didn’t acknowledge him.
Jacob looked at Sarah. She had noticed too. “Times have changed,” she said.
Had they ever. They held hands across the table. For days they had hardly left the room together. Now they wanted to be out and seen as much as possible. At any moment Jacob could need an alibi.
TWENTY-NINE
Heidelberg,
June 8, 1945
By curfew at nine thirty, streets were deserted, the moon’s dim light glistened on damp cobbles, and in the cozy dining room at the Schwartzer Bock guests sipped ersatz coffee, drained their Schwindelcognac, and signed their exorbitant bills. Business was good. From his table where he sat alone by the huge ornate ceramic stove, adorned with azure and emerald-green tiles, Ari watched Hans and his parents finishing their beers at the Stammtisch and wishing each guest a loud good night. The swing doors creaked as they passed through to the staircase leading to their bedrooms. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Ari signed his bill and walked in the steps of an elderly couple. He nodded good night as he passed the Seelers but Frau Seeler beckoned him with a wave.
“You will be leaving in the morning, Herr von Schuhmacher?”
“Yes, that is right, Frau Seeler, thank you for a wonderful stay.”
“It is our pleasure. Would you like a packed lunch? What time will you be leaving? Checkout time is noon.”
“Oh, I’ll be gone by then, thank you. No need for a packed lunch.”
“Where to next?” asked Mr. Seeler. He had a surprisingly high voice for such a big man. “Oh. Just to Mannheim.” Mr. Seeler opened his mouth to say something else but Ari wouldn’t let him. “Well, it’s late for me, early start in the morning. Good night, everyone, and thank you again.” Hans Seeler studied him without moving a muscle. It was the closest Ari had come to him and one glance told him enough. Seeler’s elbows were on the table and his hands rested beneath his chin. His jacket sleeves were creased at the biceps. Thick fingers, big hands. Strong and fit. One less Nazi bastard, Ari thought.
In his room, Ari waited for the yellow band of light beneath the door to indicate Seeler had entered his room. To see it more easily, he had turned his own light off. He was ready but to be sure went through his gear once more. With light, or in the dark, it was all the same to him. Left trouser pocket. Flashlight. He turned it on and off. A strong beam. Battery’s good. He replaced it with a fresh battery anyway, putting the old one in his bag. Hard to come by. Right pocket. Seven-inch dagger. Right leg strap, the backup ten-inch. He took his Enfield pistol and moved the hammer from safe chamber to loaded. Five bullets in, twelve more in the belt pouch. Just in case. His holster was on his left hip.
His overnight bag was packed. He’d paid for the room upfront on arrival. Now he just had to lie back and wait.
It was eleven fifteen when the light went out in Hans’s room and Ari allowed himself to doze. He heard the scratching of mice, or rats, and the persistent sighing of wind through the window-frame. Footsteps above, the flushing of a toilet, a door quietly closing until soon the hotel was silent and dark. Every twenty minutes he looked at his watch, and he waited for two hours to pass. He breathed lightly and easily, and with twenty minutes to go, he took out his knife. He looked out of the window. He was ready.
Outside, it was a cool night with a quarter-moon and a slight drizzle, perfect for a not uncomfortable wait in poor visibility, to see and not be seen.
Omri hid in the dark recess of the café entrance. In his pocket his right hand played with a sock stuffed with dirt, which he would stick in Seeler’s mouth as soon as he opened it. In his left hand he held a wooden cosh, just in case. And if all hell broke loose, his Sten gun was strapped to his chest, beneath his German army jacket.
Farther up the street, with the hotel and the café in view, Yonni waited at the wheel of the jeep; he looked at his watch and turned the engine on.
He was thinking. That cake Ari brought was really good. Maybe they could get some more on the way out. He checked the gasoline gauge. Handled the pistol on the seat. Looked over his shoulder and back toward Omri. Even though he knew he was in the awning, he couldn’t see a hint of him. That Omri: He was like a snake, he could wait all night and nobody would see him till he slithered out. And by then it was too late.
Just a few minutes to go until the killing.
Curfew. The street should be empty but … movement caught his eye. Leaning forward, he looked tensely into his near side mirror.
Behind him a lone figure had appeared and was running toward the jeep. He was growing bigger in the mirror. Yonni’s hand closed on his gun. He felt the adrenaline racing. Thoughts chased each other: Could be nothing to do with us, a guy running away from something. He’s not army or police, if he was he wouldn’t be alone. Coincidence?
No such thing.
He released the safety catch. One of us? Only two people know. He depressed the handle, leaned against the door, opened it a fraction, ready to burst out if needed.
The man was waving.
; Yonni left the jeep and crouched on the sidewalk, behind the open door. He held his gun in firing position, arm out, body twisted to reduce the target.
Ten meters away the man halted, bent from the waist, hands on knees, heaving.
“Yon … Yonni?” he panted. He could hardly breathe.
“Password,” Yonni said.
“The rat.” The man tried to raise himself, said it again, “The rat.”
“What day is it?” Yonni said, lowering his gun.
“Hanukkah.”
“Okay. So what is it?”
“Call it off. Now. Immediately.” He was leaning on the jeep, every breath a gasp. “Don’t do it. Word from Blue. And Red.”
“Quiet, you’ll wake the whole street,” Yonni said, climbing back into the jeep seat. He flashed the headlights twice short, followed by one long. He did it again. Omri would know now: it’s off. “Why didn’t you drive here?”
“I did. Damn jeep broke down.”
“See the corner café? The first door past the turning?” The man nodded. “Go there. It’s Omri. Tell him. Make sure.” The man threw his head back, took in a deep breath, and ran to the café.
When Ari opened the door for Omri he already had the key to suite nine in his hand. His face was covered with a black commando mask and the streetlight glinted on the blade of his dagger. He handed Omri the pillow. Omri whispered: Won’t be needing that.
Even beneath his mask Omri could see Ari’s jaw fall as he told him the hit was off: The cloth clung to his open lips. He nodded, crept back to his room, collected his small bag, hung the keys on their hooks, and quietly closed the hotel door behind him.
By dawn, driving south, after a quick briefing from Red, who they met for the first time, and a coded radio talk with Blue, they had the full story.
They were hunted men. The U.S. army was looking for them. They needed to get to the British zone yesterday.
The service numbers and names they had given the foot patrol in Stuttgart were now confirmed as false, the mess they had left behind needed a culprit, and they were known to be in Mannheim heading for Heidelberg. They were one step away from serious jail time for murder. So don’t make things worse, call off the hit, keep calm, and get back to base.
Moreover, Red told them, the Jewish Brigade had new orders; they were to be reassigned to Holland, all five thousand men. The assassination campaign was bad enough, but much worse from the British point of view was the Bricha, the smuggling of Jews from Europe to Palestine carried out secretly and against all orders by Jewish Brigade soldiers via the Italian coast. The solution, the British had decided, was to move the entire brigade out of temptation’s way, to Holland, about as far from the Mediterranean as they could be sent.
So they should report back to base as quickly as possible and be prepared for fresh orders. Needs were changing. The killing season was over. It was more urgent to beat the British blockade: to bring the Jews home.
“Told you,” Yonni said at the wheel. “Killing Nazis makes you feel good but it does more good to bring the Jews to Palestine.”
“Yeah, that’s why the Brits won’t let us,” Omri said.
“They can’t stop us,” Ari said. “Not forever.”
“So you’re right this time, then, Yonni,” Omri said. “But what about that evil rat bastard?”
“Fuck him,” Yonni said, slapping the steering wheel. “The one that got away.”
THIRTY
Heidelberg,
June 10, 1945
Midday. Lauerstrasse, a narrow cobbled street. Dark green ivy wrapping the painted houses trembles in the river breeze, wooden window shutters slowly swing and creak. At the open door of number 13, Frau Bohrmann pours water from a bucket into the pot of geraniums on her yellow windowsill, while an ancient dog with hanging teats slumps at her feet in the sun. Two boys in shorts play hopscotch, hopping from square to square. A horse and cart clatters by, piled high with branches and firewood for sale in the market. A wooden wheel lurches into a jutting stone and a long branch falls to the ground. The two boys grab it and flee. Gazing from the attic window of a sky-blue house, old Herr Glas contemplates it all, and listens to the bold tones of the great bell in the Catholic church tower, jutting above the rooftops, chiming twelve times.
A serene and balmy day. Outside.
While inside the love nest at number 9, it is stormy weather.
Jacob stomped to the table, back to the bed, got up again, and fell on a chair. Back to the bed, where he threw himself onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Back to the table.
“For God’s sake, sit still,” Sarah hissed.
“I promise you, so help me God, I will do it. So stop it now. It’s no good.”
Sarah closed her eyes and pressed her lips together and breathed in, trying to control her fury. She emphasized each word. “Jacob, please, consider it isn’t just you now, it’s both of us, together.”
“I have, you know I have. Look, for two days, two whole days, we thought they’d do it. Okay, now they can’t, I understand, it was too good to be true. But that doesn’t mean it’s all over. What, all of a sudden all my promises, everything I have lived for since the camp, I’m going to throw it all away…”
“What do you mean throw it all away? That’s exactly what you’re doing, throwing all this away, all we have found together, all we mean to each other, that’s what you’re throwing away…”
“That’s not what I mean, you know that. I mean I can’t throw away all my plans, my promise. I must…”
“Oh, stop it, for God’s sake, what plans? Who are you fooling? You couldn’t kill him any more than I could. Let him go, let it all go, it’s the future that counts, our future, not the past. Don’t you realize, he ruined your life and now he’s ruining you again. He killed your brother, now he’ll kill you. You’ll get caught, and then…”
“No, I won’t. I know what to do. I know exactly how to do it.”
“No, you don’t. You said so, you’ve got no idea.”
Jacob lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily. She was right. He had no idea. No idea at all, and if he was right, the Rat was leaving in four days. Four days. The only way to do it now is just to follow the bastard and club him on the head till he’s dead.
“I know how to do it,” he said.
“How?”
“I know how.”
“How, then?”
“Trust me. I know.”
“But I don’t trust you!” Sarah shouted. “I don’t trust you, all right? I don’t want you to get caught. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want any of this.” She clung to him. “Oh, please, Jacob, please stop it now. You’re not a murderer. It will ruin you. You’ll get caught. I can’t lose you, I can’t.” She threw herself onto the bed. “For God’s sake, don’t I mean anything to you?”
Jacob sank onto the bed next to her and took her hand. “Sarah. Oh, Sarah.” He pressed her fingers to his lips. “Don’t you think I care? Of course I do. But listen, please listen. You didn’t go through what I did. Believe me, I know you went through hell, but it was a different kind of hell. I don’t even really know what happened to you. But if I tell you just one percent of what this man did, and he wasn’t the only one by a long way, you’d feel the way I do. I can’t kill them all. But this one man, I can kill. Just one. I swore I would. It kept me alive. I’m nothing otherwise. If you had been there…”
“Oh, shut up already. You think I can’t imagine? You think you’re the only one who got hurt? But that isn’t the point. I understand, okay, I get it! But that doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice your future, our future, because of what happened then. Don’t tell me Maxie would have wanted that. He’d want you to live, to marry me … to…” She burst into tears. She had tried not to, she didn’t want to, but she did.
She had been about to say “… to have a baby, to start a family,” but that was something she could not say. And it hurt so. Her soul could not bear the weight of her loss. She had be
en ruined for ever. She could never give him what he wanted, even if he agreed, even if they lived together, married …
Jacob looked at Sarah, crumpled on the bed, her cheeks damp with tears. He sat next to her, placed his hand on her shoulder, which rose and fell as she wept.
Was she right? No. Or yes? Was it worth it? He didn’t know. He took his head in his hands. He felt nauseated. It was a choice between two evils. But then, what in life is not? Everything has its opposite. Whenever you take something, you give up something too. Every scrap of food he had begged or stolen or hidden in Bergen-Belsen was a scrap of food someone else could not have. Every breath of life he had taken was taken from someone else. If he was alive now it was because so many others had died. And now: To kill Hans was to risk it all.
What to do? He didn’t know. He didn’t know!
He sighed, and stared at the wall. But if he did do it, then how? Every way he looked at it, he would get caught. But he had to. He just had to do it, and he had to escape, too. He’d work it out. But when? No time.
He’d had enough. Without thinking, he said, “Sarah, stop it now. I have something to do. I’ll be back soon.” He hated to leave her like this, but his legs seemed to carry him out the door. He stooped to pick up his jacket and hat.
He walked toward the Schwartzer Bock, thinking of Isak Brodsky. The Russian hadn’t explained why, but it was over. Strangely, he trusted him. He said it was all planned, it was about to happen, and then it had got called off. Well, that left it up to him now. It always had been.
If he asked himself what was left over from Bergen-Belsen he could only say this: nothing. They had stolen every reason to live. They had all hung on to life, not because life was worth living but because that was what one did. It is what has kept the human race alive despite the greatest of odds. Species come and go, they grow, they weaken, they die. Only we have gone from strength to strength. Why is that? Because we want something, that’s why. We don’t just live for the moment, to eat, sleep, procreate. We have things to do. We may not all agree on what they are, but we all have something to do.
Jacob's Oath: A Novel Page 23