Children of the Dusk

by Berliner, Janet

  There was another enthusiastic round of applause. Sol, who had shut his eyes, opened them a slit. He could see only watery blues and yellows, for tears of mourning had obscured what sight the disease had not affected.

  "But first, a little sport," Hempel continued. "We work hard enough teaching the Jews to work that we certainly deserve a little play!"

  He moved toward Sol. The dogs edged forward, sniffing at Sol's legs and growling. He forced himself to stand his ground and not to look at them.

  "That's it, my shepherds." Hempel reached down to pat a dog on the head. "Get a good whiff of Jew stench. Remember it." He took hold of Sol's shoulders, and his lips broke into a fatherly grin. "What the dogs don't eat, my little Jew boy will," he said softly. "We're aware you've a soft spot for him, so we'll save him...."

  He seized Sol's genitals, and tugged. Groaning from the pain, Sol lurched forward.

  "This will be less satisfying than hanging your father was," Hempel said, letting go. "But then we must take our pleasure where and when we can."

  Sol was so filled with hatred at the confirmation of what, in his heart, he had always known, that he felt no more physical pain. He rocked back on his heels.

  "This one likes to run at the mouth!" Hempel looked over his shoulder toward the guards, and grinned broadly. "Well, let's see how fast the rest of him can run! Any bettors among you?"

  Within moments, he outlined the rules of his game. Sol would have about a hundred-meter head start. Bets were placed according to how far the men thought he would get before the dogs brought him down. The edge of the forest various distances down the path, or the beach below. The savoka had the lowest odds at even money, the beach the highest at a-hundred-to-one. At the men's insistence, side bets were also placed according to how many hours they thought Sol would live once the dismemberment began.

  Hempel turned his grin toward Solomon. "We'll take your ears and nose--but not your eyes--then carve you down to head and torso before we cut off your jewels and feed them to Misha. Perhaps that will serve to improve his performance."

  If Sachsenhausen had taught Sol anything, it had given him the ability to distinguish between truth and idle threat where the Nazis were concerned. He had no doubt that the major fully intended to do exactly as he said. Only by refusing to fight his fear and letting his shoulders sag was he able to remain upright at all.

  Hempel pushed his face close to Sol's, his breath hot and rank. "Ever been attacked by a dog?" he screamed.

  The ferocity caught Sol by surprise. He started to shake his head and then managed, "No, Sturmbannführer."

  "I can't hear you, Hundescheiss!" Hempel stabbed his index finger against Sol's voice box.

  The attack knocked Sol back a step. Only power of will kept him from grabbing his throat and dropping to the ground. He tried to blurt back the answer, but retched. Hans Hannes had told him about how Hempel had arranged his own Olympics, on the Oranienburg grain fields. A hundred prisoners condemned to death for trivial offenses had been lined up single file while the major stood a quarter-kilometer away, pistol in hand. The men had been made to sprint, tearing off their clothes as they ran. Arriving at the "finish," the naked man would fall to his knees and kiss the major's boots as Hempel checked his stopwatch. The reward for a good run was that Hempel shot the man immediately. A poor time, or failure to treat the major's boots with proper respect, meant the flogging bull followed by death by slow-hanging.

  "No, Sturmbannführer. I have never been attacked by a dog."

  "How about by ten, then?" The major turned his head slightly and nodded to acknowledge the guards' roar of laughter. "No need to worry, though." He drew a pair of leather gloves from his hip pocket and began sliding them on, the rolled-up paper tucked in his left armpit. "If you fight well, I may even order the dogs away quickly. Lie there like the cowardly Jew you are and I may not be so humane." He touched Solomon's shoulder, almost tenderly. "Run well! Make the Fatherland and our odds-makers proud!"

  Sol lifted his chin. If the Nazis expected him to plead or physically ready himself in some way, they were mistaken. He leaned forward slightly, one hand on his forward knee. Eyes keened, he peered into the darkness, his tunnel vision defining for him a running lane to the rain forest. Everything outside that avenue was insignificant. Dodging would waste precious steps and seconds, given the shepherds' ability to change direction instantly. His only hope was to gain enough lead before they were loosed. If he could make it into the water, he might have a chance.

  If.

  If sharks weren't present--or hungry. Or if the dogs did not elect to follow him into the sea.

  "Prepare to release the dogs," Hempel said. Then to the animals, "Mahlzeit! Eat hearty! Now run, Jew. GO!"

  Sol leapt forward, powered by desperation. For a time, all thought was gone. There was a dreamy quality to his running--an effortlessness despite the terror that squeezed at his diaphragm, draining him of oxygen. His legs pumped in fluid motion as he ran on feet made iron-hard by daily forty-kilometer agonies on the Sachsenhausen shoe-testing site. His breaths soughed from lungs strengthened and expanded by the Altmark's hellish heat. Though his awkwardness and Erich's jeers had kept him off the track team at Goethe, he was naturally blessed with a runner's lithe limbs.

  On the wings of adrenaline, he headed for the jungle. Behind him, the dogs were barking, begging to be released, anxious for the chase and the kill. Once, he slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder. The guards and dogs were clustered together, within a blaze of searchlight. It surprised him somewhat that the searchlight was not attempting to track him, not that the dogs needed that kind of help. Other than his hope for the sea, he had no idea how to fool them or escape them, let alone defeat them.

  With luck and a stick or stone, he might be able to fight off one or two, but eventually an animal would break through whatever makeshift defenses he might muster, and take him down. That would be the end of it, he thought, trying not to imagine what would come next.

  If he only had time, a stone could be turned into a mace, a strip of branch a spear, a length of liana a garrote.

  If...

  He ran.

  The jungle loomed, an upsurge of bamboo and palm trunks intertwined with lianas.

  Then came the dogs. Their excited yelps hammered at him, spurring him, his running no longer smooth. He began to claw the air. His breathing raged like a bellows in his ears. When he glanced back over his shoulder, dark shapes with dark eyes bounded out of the light. Thorns tore at his calves and brambles ripped across his abdomen and chest as he raced onward, dodging sideways to skirt the larger, darker clumps, and using his arms to slash and bat away thinner shadows.

  The dogs were right behind him, barking as they threw themselves through the stickers.

  Sol squinted against the darkness and saw he would not make the forest edge before they were upon him. They would drag him down--here at the edge of the rain forest.

  He spun, hoping he could fight hard enough that they would seize him by the throat and kill him. Not such a terrible way to die, he told himself. Hadn't Erich said that a dog bite could be so painful that it caused a form of paralysis?

  The lead shepherd bounded out of the brush and leapt, sleek as an onrushing storm, its eyes dark-scarlet as the belly of a black widow. Sol stood his ground and prepared himself for the impact.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Erich had smelled Solomon before he had seen him, even amid the scent of fear and blood that came from the compound, odoriferous as old peat moss.

  Drawn to the meadow by Goldman's voice, he had seen everything from a hunkering position amid ferns in the savoka-- heard the pistol fire from near the tanghin tree, watched the shepherds leap and tear at the hanged man. What was left of his humanity was sickened, yet the scene increased the hunger in his belly.

  Then a silhouette came charging out of the spotlight. He ducked instinctively, only to pull up his head again as the dogs, barking wildly, set off after the running m
an.

  With an odd feeling of emotionlessness, he watched Solomon run toward him and the jungle. It all seemed to be happening outside himself, to some species with which he no longer felt close kinship. Solomon was nearly at the savoka, his breaths thundering through Erich's skull, before the dog-man reacted.

  Prey, he thought.

  A desire for blood coursed through him, along with a vague memory of teeth sinking into a whore's wrist, and his mouth was filled with a hot taste.

  He gripped his knife and waited.

  The figure came on, legs threshing through the grass. The dogs, released by the guards, bounded after him.

  "Sol," Erich whispered, as Solomon stumbled forward several steps, caught himself with one hand as he started to fall, and staggered further into the shadow of the rain forest. He glanced back just as Sagi, first of the dogs, crossed the remaining meters and leapt into the air.

  Erich moved.

  Without understanding why, he launched himself between Solomon and the dog, taking Sagi's charge full-force, then rolling with the animal and hitting its head with the haft of his knife. The dog pawed desperately, but Erich clung on. The man's mine! he wanted to say.

  "Erich?" Sol asked as Sagi rolled off Erich and lay panting.

  The other shepherds neared, slowing, sniffing, pacing.

  Sol crawled through the savoka, reaching out to Erich. For an instant Erich started to back away, as if he were fearful of the man. Then the man's hands were on his back, clutching the fur, and Erich felt like whimpering with relief. He felt the pain where Sagi had bitten his hand and licked the wound, the desire for blood sated not by the taste of it, but by the hands of a friend.

  "Erich?" Sol asked again.

  The name sounded foreign, not a part of him at all. Sagi lay with paws outstretched, whining. He nuzzled his head beneath Erich's hand, also searching for comfort. The other shepherds moved closer, sniffing the dogskin, pressing their noses against Erich's bare chest.

  He put his arms around their heads.

  Home, he thought.

  A spotlight, sweeping the area, found them. The dogs lifted their heads and looked into the glare, as if questioning what vile light dare disturb their gathering.

  Erich looked between the animals to see Hempel and several guards coming slowly toward them, joking among themselves about how unfortunate it was for the dogs to be dining on a Jew.

  He gripped Sol's wrist. "Go, Spatz!"

  Even his own voice sounded strange to him.

  For a moment, Sol did not move. Then the spotlight found him again, and he clutched Erich's wrist. A memory deeper even than the taste of blood seized Erich. He blinked and looked down at their joined hands, clasped in a way he had not experienced in decades. The Wandervögel handshake, he realized in a kind of dull comprehension that left him open-mouthed and brought his gaze up to meet Sol's.

  "Keep Miriam alive," he found himself saying. Sagi nudged him, again seeking affection. "Keep her safe." He handed Sol the knife, haft first.

  Sol took it, half-rising as the Nazis approached.

  "Brothers in blood," Erich said.

  Sol leaned over to touch Erich's cheek with the back of his hand. "Blood brothers," he said. He reached beneath the waist of his pants and drew out the Iron Cross.

  "Here," he said, handing it to Erich. Then he was gone, lurching into the darkness of the jungle.

  Let's go! Erich communicated the command empathically to the other shepherds. He darted into the foliage, reveling in the freedom from pain in his hip, the dogs hard at his heels. He could hear Sol crashing through the brush, working his way downhill toward the beach.

  You make damn sure she's safe, Erich thought toward the retreating figure, as he worked his way east, along the forest edge.

  Spotlights and flashlights lanced amid the jungle. He kept at a crouch, moving with an effortlessness that made him giddy with excitement, sensing his way more by smell than sight. With the other dogs close behind him, he passed the path that led down the steepest part of the hill and up again to the valavato. He could smell the odor of sweat--human sweat, the stench left from hours or perhaps even days ago.

  Running freely, they explored the island's secret places.

  He was one with the pack.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  "I play your glowworm song for you on valiha, Lady Miri?" Bruqah asked from his perch at the opening of the crypt. "You look too sad since you hear Farmer Goldman song."

  Miriam walked toward him with difficulty. "I am sad, Bruqah," she said. "I should have been down there with Solomon tonight. It is Yom Kippur, a very special time for my people." She smiled at him, and he could see the effort that it took for her to do so. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful--"

  "You not that," he assured her. "You want to speak to Bruqah of this Yom Kippur."

  "You said that very well." She smiled again, more easily now. "But no, I don't really want to talk about it."

  "I think you have been with me too much. You hold things inside like Bruqah."

  She took enough steps forward so that she could see the encampment. "I heard shots. Now the dogs have gone crazy. What is happening, do you think?"

  Bruqah hesitated. He did not have to be down there to know that there were great happenings afoot. The Zana-Malata had rarely left his post inside the crypt, and then only for minutes at a time. They had exchanged no more than a few brief words, yet Bruqah knew that the syphilitic had abandoned his game with the major for things of far greater consequence to him. Soon, Otto Hempel would feel the results of no longer having the sorcerer as his help-mate. As for the dogs, he could hear by their sounds that they were being governed by the smell of blood.

  None of this was he willing to tell Miriam, for he knew equally well that within a few hours she would be in labor.

  "Come, Lady Miri," he said, wanting to draw her back from her view of the compound. Solomon was in danger, he knew, and he did not want her to catch so much as a glimpse of him. If she guessed that he needed help, she would insist that Bruqah leave her and go down there.

  Much as he would have liked to help Solomon, his duty--to himself and his people, as much as to Miriam--was to remain here at her side until the baby was born. He had left her twice since bringing her up here, the first time at her request to inform Solomon of her whereabouts, the second to take a sea bath and change into a fresh lamba and to fetch the gold earring which he wore upon ceremonial occasions.

  Standing at Miriam's side, he watched the searchlights sweep the compound. Along the edge of the forest, three German guards with pistols ranged the area, as if they were searching for someone--or something. Leaving her, he walked to the edge of the cliff and peered down.

  Below, a large pirogue with a lantern attached to a spar on the front was moving toward the island. He could make out half a dozen men, rowing steadily.

  "Who are they?" Miriam asked, coming up behind him and clutching his arm.

  "Fokolana," Bruqah explained. "Big council from tribe at southern part of bay. When Malagash king say, 'All to shave heads smooth as baby's butt to mourn son's death' those peoples say no. Many blood spill because of so, but those peoples keep hair and independence. Bruqah live with them sometime."

  "Are they members of your tribe?"

  "Vazimba no tribe, as I tell you. One here, one there, one there. So on." He made little gestures as if to indicate places on a map. "We special persons." He put his fist proudly against his chest. "No one walk in Vazimba shadow."

  She glanced back toward the compound. "Look!" she said.

  He followed her gaze. A Kalanaro appeared, then another and another, moving up the hill and halting behind the valavato totems as if they were trying to hide, even though the posts did little to conceal them.

  Bruqah chuckled and turned back toward the sea as another shot resounded through the night. The guards had caught sight of the canoe. The second guard fired, and the oncoming lantern winked out. Now the pirogue was only a dark form on th
e water.

  Both guards took aim. "No," Bruqah said quietly.

  As he had that day, when Misha fell prey to the pitcher plant, he bowed his head and mumbled words Miriam could not comprehend. As if obeying a command, the guards relaxed and lowered their weapons. One of them lit a cigarette. When Bruqah lifted his head, they moved off toward the compound.

  "How did you do that?" Miriam asked. "You stopped them from shooting. Sometimes you frighten me, Bruqah. You're as much a sorcerer as the Zana-Malata."

  Bruqah nodded. "I tell you before, Africa she magical. You see. You believe. I am mpanandro-Vazimba. Zana-Malata takes power for self and punish people for making him alone. I wish only to preserve my people and she history. She die, I die, for never to return. With Vazimba, so long Germantown men behave, they need be only afraid of smell." He craned his neck around and sniffed an armpit. "Phew! Bruqah stink!"

  He was happy to hear Miriam laugh.

  "You may play 'Glowworm' if it pleases you," she said, "but I must lie down. I’m very tired. Tired of waiting for this baby, I wish it would come, already."

  Bruqah looked at her seriously. "Deborah come soon, Lady Miri. We are all children of the dusk on this island, but she will be child of the dawn.” He took her arm to help her inside.

  She pulled away from him. "I thought you could not pass by the guardians of the crypt," she said.

  "Not alone, Lady Miri. They will not harm me if I am with you."

  They walked inside together and he helped her onto her stone bed.

  He ignored the Zana-Malata who, as usual, was seated in a cross-legged position, smoking and staring expectantly beyond the entrance to the crypt.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sol fought to still his noisy breathing and glanced over his shoulder to make certain that the dogs had stayed with Erich.

  In front of him, splashed by moonlight, four large rubber dinghies floated on the bay. A fifth boat, half covered with planking that would form a floating dock once the Madagascar project moved to the mainland, was beached on the sand. On it, his back to Sol, sat a guard, his Mauser across his lap. His head lay forward against his chest, but from within the foliage Sol could not tell if the man were sleeping...and, if so, how deeply.