Children of the Dusk

by Berliner, Janet

  With Hempel in charge, the killing here would surely include Solomon Freund. Include Miriam...and the child.

  My child, Erich thought.

  Mine!

  Regardless of what Miriam claimed. What did it really matter if she said she was emotionally and spiritually married to Solomon Freund. She was legally his wife.

  The child is mine, as is Miriam. As they all are.

  Mine to save.

  Mine to use.

  Feeling a great deal better, he noticed Solomon coming toward him, threading past colonists carrying fence posts across their shoulders. Till then, he had tuned out the noise around him, a skill he had developed with some deliberation. He prided himself on his concentration. The lesson had been easily learned once he'd understood that it was merely a matter of priorities. Like a frog after a fly, or a dog sleeping while cabaret music blared from the Victrola, he tuned in only what was necessary.

  Pity Solomon had never developed that trait, Erich thought, looking at the man whom, during his younger and impressionable years, he had considered his brother. Lanky nearly to the point of emaciation, despite Erich's having come to loggerheads with Hempel to assure the colonists had sufficient rest and food and fresh water. Large hands incapable of real work, only of holding books or of stocking shelves in the tobacco shop their fathers had co-owned. The mind of a philosopher or a fool, if those were not the same thing. Erich snorted, appreciating his own humor.

  Solomon looked around the compound as if he were searching for the comedy. "You find something funny in all of this...Colonel Alois?" He tagged on the title as if it were an after-thought, yet quietly enough that it was clear that he remained fully cognizant of his place as a Jew in the Nazi hierarchy.

  "You don't?"

  "What could possibly be humorous about building an advance camp for what we both know to be a sham?"

  "That's precisely what makes it so funny. All this effort for what Himmler will almost certainly never allow. Not unless we can convince Hitler himself of the wisdom of going through with the plan. It's like the old question: if six men can dig a hole in sixteen hours, how long does it take three men to dig half a hole?"

  "There's no such thing as half a hole."

  "I think that's why I liked you. You were always able to figure out my riddles. What a pity you seem unable to use that mind of yours for anything important. You're an enigma, Solomon. An enigma. This operation reminds me of when I was beginning my military training, back at Berlin Akademie. We'd dig a hole, the officer in charge would toss in a cigarette, we'd fill up the hole and have to dig up the cigarette. No shovels the second time, only our bare hands. Then we'd fill the hole again. Most of the other cadets took the exercise as hazing, but when I'd finished filling the hole I realized what an important lesson I'd learned: I'd arrived back where I had begun, but now I knew where I'd been...and who I was." He gazed off toward the rain forest, where a parrot was cawing. He had kept one of the cigarette butts. Kept it for a long time afterwards. Whatever had happened to it, he wondered.

  He rubbed his chin and, feeling the stubble, realized he had forgotten to shave. "Did you want to talk to me about something in particular," he said, "or is this just a social visit?" Again he chuckled at his own cleverness.

  "I've come to you with a..." Solomon lowered his voice, "a request from my people."

  "What is it you want, vichyssoise and a fine Rhine wine for dinner? An evening at the Paris Follies?"

  "This is a request for something that is likely to increase the men's productivity."

  "Appeal to my Germanic sense of order and efficiency, is that it?"

  "I too am German...Herr Oberst." An even lower voice.

  Whatever was left of Erich's benign mood dissipated. Sol's arrogance in calling himself a German angered him. "You are a Jew, Solomon Freund. A shopkeeper's son and a Jew."

  "Yes, Herr Oberst. I am subhuman. I am feces. Offal that should be washed from the earth."

  "Don't give me that Sachsenhausen crap, Solomon! This is not a concentration camp!"

  "I'm trying to find the route to your heart, Erich, assuming you still have one," Solomon said in a quiet undertone. "You hold all the cards, and we both know it."

  "That's how life is, Solomon," Erich responded. "Complicated, and not often fair. If you are expecting anyone to care--"

  "You care, Herr Oberst. You care whether or not this operation succeeds. And you care about us. Us Jews. Deep down, you care."

  "If that's your assumption, by all means continue to delude yourself. It's your right as a Jew." Erich had begun to tire of the game. "Just tell me what you want, and I'll consider it."

  "Thank you."

  "I said consider it," Erich said sharply. "Now what is it?"

  "Sundown tomorrow begins Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. We wish to hold a short Service at sundown, at the start of our High Holy Day, and an even briefer one at sundown the following day. We would need the Torah--"

  "You're asking for permission to hold a religious Service, a Jewish religious Service, during a German military operation?" Erich started to correct himself to Nazi military operation, but decided he did not want to give Solomon the benefit of knowing that he made the distinction. "This joke of yours is less than funny, Solomon. First you fuck my wife, and now you want to fuck up my colony. With my permission, no less."

  He watched with pleasure as the blood drained from Sol's cheeks, his face suddenly as white as when he'd emerged from the hold of the Altmark and into the tropical sun.

  "This is not about you and me," Sol said at last. "It is not about Miriam or the child. This is about the men. This is about finishing the building of the compound exactly the way you want it. And on time. My people will work better if they are shown some humanity."

  Erich tried to stem his rising fury. Almost unconsciously he found himself unsnapping his holster and folding his fingers around the clean, hard feel of the Walther's walnut grips. It took considerable will to let loose of the pistol and resnap the holster. "You ever touch Miriam again, I'll kill you." His gaze burrowed into Sol's with an intensity he could not control. "The child is mine, Solomon. Do you understand that?"

  Sol looked at the ground, not replying.

  "Do you understand that!"

  "Yes. Oberst."

  "Now get back to work. I don't care how you do it, you and your Jews, but get my compound built!"

  With an expression of defeat and exasperation, Sol executed an about-face and strode off. Like it or not, you will learn who is king here, Solomon, Erich thought. You will have to acknowledge that, as you will finally have to acknowledge the true parentage of the child.

  In an effort to set the incident aside, at least for the time being, Erich reassessed the state of the encampment. He told Pleshdimer, who was overseeing the completion of the headquarters tent, to make sure that the Jews bladed the deck evenly; he didn't want everything lopsided--his bed and operations table, especially--in what would be his command post and his home for God only knew how long. Pleshdimer saluted but Erich didn't return the gesture. He would not waste the recognition on someone not truly a soldier, particularly one whom Hempel had illegally made a corporal because the fat Kapo had a knack for finding succulent boys for the major to bugger. As far as Erich was concerned, Pleshdimer should have a machine gun shoved up his ass and the trigger pulled.

  The man gave him the creeps. Slit the throats of his two young daughters, people said. Hung them from a rafter so that they would bleed into pans, which blood Pleshdimer fed to his prized sow. For that he had been sentenced to Sachsenhausen and placed in charge of honest, hard-working men whose only crime was that they had been born Jewish. Come to think of it, he saw why Hempel appreciated the Kapo. They were two of a kind.

  Where was Hempel, anyway? He should be supervising all of this. "Kapo! Where is the major?" Erich called out at the fat man's receding back.

  Pleshdimer glanced furtively at the Zana-Malata's hut, just beyond the perimeter of the c
amp. "I don't know, Herr Oberst."

  Idiot, Erich thought and headed toward the hermit's shack. Halfway there it occurred to him that perhaps he had not been entirely wise in instructing the Kapo to tell the prisoners to do anything. Who knew how he would go about enforcing the command.

  By now, Erich was no more than a dozen meters from the hut. He could see Hempel's boots, resting against the outside wall. Suddenly he did not wish to venture closer. He hadn't seen the Zana-Malata since their arrival, and didn't want to. The syphilitic had made a fool of him and the dogs, no denying that.

  "Major Hempel!"

  After several moments the major emerged, pushing through the zebu-hide door and descending the three shallow steps. He did not bother to salute, or to excuse his lack of boots. He was chewing vigorously.

  "I am giving the Jews permission to hold a religious Service," Erich said. "It will boost their productivity." He felt instantly annoyed at himself for rationalizing his actions. "Tell your men not to interfere with the proceedings."

  To Erich's surprise, the major offered no objections. Not even a look of disdain. His face remained bland, as unruffled as his silver hair. Erich found himself glancing from the major's forehead to the armpits of his army blouse. The man never seemed to sweat, despite the withering humidity.

  "My men have been without fresh meat for weeks," Hempel said. He pulled a piece of cartilage from his mouth, examined it, and tossed it away.

  "There was plenty of meat aboard the Altmark--"

  "I said fresh meat," Hempel interrupted. "Aboard ship, everything was canned."

  To emphasize his remark he lifted a brow and gazed over Erich's shoulder--he was more than a head taller--toward the edge of the rain forest, where one of the zebu was tied to a stake. The animals had drifted in and out of the meadow, but Erich could not recall having seen one tethered.

  He weighed the request. "Am I to take it that the beast belongs to your syphilitic friend?"

  Hempel shrugged, as if he either did not know or did not care.

  "Go ahead," Erich said, "but any ownership problems are your responsibility. If you know who owns the animal, arrange for some kind of payment."

  Not that he really cared, Erich thought. The Zana-Malata had embarrassed him; taking the man's cow--or whatever--would be just punishment.

  With two fingers, Hempel signaled to a guard who was lounging, a rifle in hand and a straw in his mouth, beside three prisoners installing metal bands on poles. The soldier pulled the weed from between his lips and started running.

  Pandemonium ensued. Within seconds half-a-dozen guards were galloping, yelling, toward the zebu. Befuddled, it simply stood and watched them come on, swinging jouncing carbines off their shoulders. Behind them trundled Pleshdimer, belly flopping, eyes glistening like huge fat globules.

  He and the guards formed a semi-circle around the animal, which stood without moving, apparently torn between attack and an attempt to break her tether and make a run for it. When none of the men moved closer, she returned to cropping the nearly barren ground on which she was hobbled.

  Hempel checked the action on his Mann, glanced at Misha, who had thrust his head out of the door of the hut, and holstered the weapon. He looked as if he was about to stalk toward the zebu, but instead he went back to the steps and called the boy to come to him, using the same tuneless whistle with which he had commanded his wolfhound.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Misha heard Hempel's whistle, but he did not move. Despite having watched the Zana-Malata and Hempel dine on the wolfhound the night before, and again today, he had not come to terms with the fact that he was expected to act as Boris' replacement.

  "A mongrel like you should consider this an honor," Hempel had said, placing the dog's collar around the boy's neck. "Boris was every bit a thoroughbred, presented to me by Himmler himself. He would consider you a poor replacement."

  Misha tugged at the collar. His fingers came away with several dog hairs stuck in the cracks of his broken nails. He pulled the hairs out and blew them away.

  Coughing the dry, hacking cough that had started almost from the moment Hempel put the band around his neck, though the collar didn't feel all that tight, Misha wiped his hands on the sides of his raggedy pants. From his crouched position, he could see through the gap between the zebu hide and the door frame. He had heard the conversation between Hempel and Erich, and knew what was to come. He could only guess at what the major's mood would be afterwards.

  Though the hut was dark and stank of food, the fact that he was alone provided a few moments of relief from the constant expectation of bad happenings. The only other time he could think was at night, when Hempel slept and Misha lay awake, going over the list of good things and bad things that had happened to him in his life, making sure the balance was still all right. Some nights he went over his plans for killing Pleshdimer; others, he mapped out in exquisite detail several alternative plans for killing Hempel. And he had added the Zana-Malata: alive, on the bad side; dead, on the good side. Not that the Zana-Malata had done anything bad to him. Yet. He must be waiting, like Pleshdimer had done. When Misha was at the camp, Pleshdimer had treated him like the other prisoners. Better, maybe, once Hempel adopted him. That hadn't changed until they were out of the camp. Then the major started to reward Pleshdimer by allowing him to hurt Misha.

  Pleshdimer wasn't allowed to do the thing, but that didn't mean much because it wasn't what the Kapo wanted. Tying Misha down and hurting him with the edge of his knife, that was what he wanted. Being mean. Threatening him. Making him scared.

  How he hated all of them, Misha thought, edging outside because he had no other option. He couldn't pretend to be asleep, because Hempel had seen him glancing through the doorway. If he tried to stay inside, Hempel would come to drag him out, or worse yet send Pleshdimer to get him. Besides, the Zana-Malata would be back soon, and just looking at the syphilitic made Misha want to vomit. He sensed that the black man was evil, not just ugly.

  There was hating and hating, Misha decided. The one kind was for a reason, like the way he felt about the people who had taken away his parents. And Pleshdimer and Hempel. Anything about them was automatically on the bad side of the list.

  Then there was hating like the way he felt about Boris, which had little to do with the wolfhound and almost everything to do with its owner. True, he had never especially liked Boris, but he knew that was from how he felt about Hempel and not from any particular dislike of the dog. Perhaps, had the animal been properly trained like Taurus and the other shepherds, it might have been more receptive to children; it might even have communicated with him, or he with it. He had certainly felt sorry for the dog when the boar gored it. To hear Boris' roar of pain followed by a cry of helplessness and then silence had chilled him.

  And to end up being cooked and eaten!

  He couldn't really hate Boris after that, Misha decided, as he pushed through the zebu hide and blinked in the light.

  "I was calling you, Misha," Hempel said. "Come. I want you to be present for the first flowing of island blood."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The entire series of events was staged and un-military, Erich thought as he watched Misha come out of the hut in a half-crouch. Hempel motioned for the boy to follow as he strode toward the zebu and its would-be killers.

  Erich started after the major but was stopped in his tracks by the trainer he had nicknamed Fermi. The man approached him, holding a closely choke-chained Pisces at heel at his side. The dog kept glancing toward the zebu and the guards but made no attempt to pull his trainer in that direction. His obedience pleased Erich, after the display of insubordination with the Zana-Malata when they had arrived.

  Fermi looked down at the red dust on his boots. "The guards have been talking all morning about killing the zebu," he said in a quiet tone of respect. "Fresh meat would be fine, especially after the weeks on the ship. I would like to make certain there will be portions for us and for the dogs."

  "What m
akes you think I would neglect my animals or my trainers?"

  "You have a lot on your mind, sir."

  Erich was flabbergasted at the intimation that he could overlook his primary responsibility. His primary love. "You and the dogs will be taken care of," he said, somewhat more angrily than he had intended.

  Fermi glanced up. "Thank you, sir." He saluted and made his way toward the kennel area.

  Removing his cap, Erich wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. In this heat it was no wonder the dogs were suffering, he thought. But suffering was one thing, brain fever another. Though they didn't have that, the danger of its happening was real. Already they were irritable and uncoordinated, not at all the fine corps of healthy animals he had loaded onto the ship. He could only pray that they would make the adjustment soon, or he would find himself in charge of a ghost unit.

  "Does it really take that many men to kill a tethered animal?"

  Erich turned, startled to find Miriam behind him and annoyed that he had not heard her approach. He prided himself on being aware of what was going on, not only around him, but anywhere nearby. Of thinking like a dog, he had told people when he was young. "Don't you start in on me as well," he said.

  "Oh yes, by all means, let the boys play. Maybe you should dust off your javelin and join them."

  My javelin, Erich thought, wondering what had become of that. He'd been so proud of his skills with it as a youth, had even fantasized about participating in the Olympics, and he'd come close, too. Miriam walked toward the doomed animal. He wondered if she expected him to follow. He did so. He would not join in the sport, as she called it. He had never killed for sport. In fact, he had never actually killed anything. Except Grace, Taurus' grandmother, who was nine-tenths dead by the time he'd used his javelin to put her out of her misery. And Achilles, of course. Taurus' mother. He had killed her. But that wasn't by choice, either. Not his choice. That was Hitler's doing. Erich was merely following orders, as any good soldier must.