Hempel lurched backwards against the pilot's window. His head thudded twice against the pane and the Storch veered sharply left, bringing Erich fully inside the cockpit. He landed crossways over the seats, legs in Hempel's lap, and snapped his left knee up against the major's chin. Hempel sighed, and slumped in the seat.
The plane nose-dived.
As the ground slanted closer, Hempel came-to with a groan. He squinted through the window beneath his feet, paled--and pulled back on the wheel. The plane began a roller-coaster climb.
Hempel reached for the loop of black wire that ran along the top of the front window and out to the bombs.
Erich seized him by the shoulders, twisting and wrenching as he dug his nails into the man's flesh.
Hempel pawed at the air, trying to grab the wire loop, but Erich shoved him back, hard, into the pilot's seat, driving his full force into him. Without thinking, he leaned forward and sank his teeth deep into the man's neck.
The major gurgled and slammed his fists against the back of Erich's head. "Bastard! You bas...!"
The sound ceased. The resistance stopped.
Erich felt the plane bank--too far. The blue of the bay was framed in the passenger window and the moon showed silver on the bottom front of the nose.
So be it! he thought. Damn them all!
Hempel hit him again but it was like a friend chucking another on the shoulder in greeting. His arms slid down Erich's back and sagged to his sides. His mouth was open and he was staring blankly.
When Erich pulled the Iron Cross from his pocket and put it around Hempel's neck, the major did not resist.
Erich patted the medal once against the man's chest, and smiled. With one hand, he took hold of Hempel's neck, and twisted. The major's eyes protruded. A blood bubble formed on his lips, popped, and meandered down his chin. He slumped in the seat. Erich spat out Hempel's blood and flesh, and laughed again, a cackle that seemed to emanate from outside himself.
The plane had begun to spiral, but Erich made no attempt to gain the controls; control, he realized, was the last thing he wanted.
He lay with the crown of his skull against the window as the plane dipped. The only thing that mattered to him now was the redolent green of the Antabalana River region below. He thought he could hear the voices of thousands of Jews as they unloaded from ships, their cries in his honor like the adulation of tribesmen, hurrahs spilling like tumbling jungle waters into the bay.
He could see the moon, a silver wafer on a velvet sky. Perhaps, he thought, the Bushmen were right and that really was where the soul went. Leni had told him that one parched night as they sat on the edge of an African desert.
He laughed again and the moon spun, melting into madness.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Chaos reigned in the encampment. In the melee, which he had started, Sol admitted to himself freely, it was hard if not impossible to tell who was winning and who was losing. The compound was no longer guarded against incursion from within or attack from without. The generator had been rendered useless by the collapsing water tower, the fences were for the most part shredded, and the searchlights were no longer operable.
Which meant that Sol no longer had even the vaguest idea of which targets he was hitting.
Having acknowledged all of that, he ceased firing and climbed down from behind the breastworks. His intent was to go down the south side of the limestone chimney, sprint through the clearing that Miriam called the grotto, and emerge well past the camp and the carnage.
From there, a reasonably short and not all that unpleasant run up the next hill would take him to the crypt.
A surge of pleasure reminded him that for the first time in his adult life he would be running to and not from--not away, not between sewer walls, not along the well-laid-out hell of the Sachsenhausen shoe-testing course that he'd had to endure for weeks on end.
Seeing the boy fall near the water tank and not get up had changed that plan. Misha lay somewhere down there, among the shots and the screams and the growling of both men and dogs.
Keeping as close as possible to the limestone chimney, Sol descended the front of the chimney rather than its rear, and climbed down into the camp. Once he was inside the compound, he found that most of the fighting was concentrated in the area near the main gate. He moved between the tents with comparative ease, as long as he kept his head down when he ran to avoid the natural traps of the tent lines. With the exception of tripping once, over a dead guard, he reached the boy without mishap.
Misha lay where Sol had last spotted him, crumpled in a small heap near the water tank. Sol turned him over carefully. Blood had welled up in a wound on the boy's forehead. Sol spat on his fingers and wiped it away. It was no more than a graze.
He touched the carotid artery and, to his great relief, found a pulse.
"Misha," he said in a hoarse voice. "It's Herr Freund. Open your eyes and speak to me, young man."
The boy's eyes fluttered open and he took a shallow breath. "Don't make me go back to the hut," he mumbled. "I don't want to go back any more."
Sol glanced up at what was left of the shack. "I don't think that you need worry about that." He ruffled the boy's hair. His fingers came in contact with a lump. "Try to sit up, Mishele," he said.
Misha sat up with no trouble, but his hand shot to his head and he scrunched up his face.
"Head hurt?" Sol asked.
Misha nodded gently, as if to minimize the movement. "I thought I was dead."
Sol chuckled. "You must have hit your head when you fell, but I am happy to be able to tell you that you are very much alive. Now let's see if we can get you out of here that way."
He started to bundle up the boy in his arms, but Misha shook him off. "I can walk myself, Herr Freund," he said, though he did reach for Sol's hand.
In that way, man and boy together, they walked between the tents and headed for the front of the camp. Everywhere Sol looked there were bodies, many of them dead or almost dead, others being attended to by their friends as best they could. Those guards whom he had seen earlier running for the forest had apparently not returned, nor had the dogs who had chased them. Nevertheless, there were enough of Hempel's men alive and around that the occasional shooting broke out. Hempel and the tank were gone, and Erich was nowhere to be seen.
Worried about Miriam's safety, he hastened his steps. There was no real reason now not to exit through the gate, but it would make him and the boy easy targets for any sniper who might be hiding and waiting.
Apparently sensing Sol's hesitation, Misha tugged at his hand. "We could go out the way I came in," he said.
Sol followed the boy, and soon he was arching his back as he crawled beneath the fence, which was amazingly intact on that side. Misha was already under the wire. They ran hand-in-hand for several meters before machine-gun fire burst from one of the sentry towers. The boy stumbled. This time brooking no argument, Sol swept him into his arms. He did not stop running until they were well up the western track.
He set the boy down and turned to look at the encampment. Dawn had begun to lighten the sky. The hut was little more than a pile of embers, the compound a shambles.
Beside him, the boy began to cough.
Sol crouched down and removed the dog collar from Misha's neck. He pitched it into the bushes and placed his arm across the boy's narrow shoulders. They stayed motionless for a moment, surveying the man-made chaos below. They leaned against each other as if for support--though whether for physical or emotional support, Sol was not sure. He had the feeling that he had escaped not only from the Nazis, but from a life of dread lived on a predetermined road. His belief that everything happened for a reason was unshaken, for God, unlike man, did not roll dice. But how much of a part he was expected to play in God's plan? And how much of that was predetermined?
He stood up, brushing off his knees. There was a great sadness in him for those of his fellow Jews who'd had to lose their lives in this battle, but his overwhelming feelin
gs were of gratitude that he was alive, and pride that he had helped to free his people.
"I think that you should tell me a story, Herr Freund," Misha said, once more taking Sol's hand. "Rabbi Freund." He seemed to be testing the words. "I think that you are a much better rabbi than you know."
Solomon laughed. "Better yet," he said, "let us sing."
Misha looked startled. "Sing? Someone will hear us."
"I do not think there are many left who care what we do. But perhaps you are right, so we shall sing softly. "Da-da-yenu," he began. "Da-da-yenu, Da-da-yenu, Da-yenu, Da-ye-nu,"
The boy grinned and joined in and they sang the song which, traditionally, was heard at Passover and was everyone's favorite because of its optimism and its happy beat.
Dayenu. Enough. We are slaves no longer. We are free.
When they had stopped singing, Misha tugged at Solomon's hand. Sol wiped away the tears that had formed as he'd remembered sitting at the Seder with his parents and his sister, Recha, vying for who could sing the song with the most ferocity.
"What is it, Misha?" he asked. "Another song?"
"The Kapo," Misha said. "He wasn't dead down there on the beach. I...I tripped over the brazier and started the fire--"
"Slow down, Mishele."
The boy took a deep breath. "I went back to the hut to steal the Zana-Malata's magic. When I was leaving, he...the Kapo...he came after me. I was so scared, Herr Freund. He was blocking my way and then he saw the knife lying there--" He shuddered.
"You don't have to talk about it," Sol said.
"I want to tell you," the boy insisted. "He reached for the knife. That was when I ran. I tripped over the brazier and the coals spilled all over. I knew they were burning, Herr Freund. I did. I knew they would start a fire." The boy was silent for a moment. "But I'm not sorry. I'm glad he's dead."
"I'm glad he's dead, too, Mishele. He was a very bad man."
"I wish I could kill the Sturmbahnführer, too," Misha went on.
Sol squeezed the boy's hand. "Who could blame you for feeling that way? Not even God, I think."
"I love you, Herr Freund," the boy said suddenly. "Not as much as I love Papa, but I do love you."
His thin little face was serious, his eyes held a hint of tears. Sol picked him up and hugged him. "And I love you, too, Misha. Very much."
They had stopped walking and were halfway up the hill that led to the crypt. Sol looked out over the trees toward the eastern edge of the lagoon, trying to keep himself from crying. He heard the thrum of the Storch, and hugged the boy tighter. In an instant the plane appeared, its spray like an elaborate headdress as it moved at a rapid rate past the spit and toward open water. He could see a figure, recognizable only because it was a man dressed in dogskin, running along the sand.
Erich.
Like a champion swimmer he dove, flat out onto a float as the plane passed. The aircraft lifted. Erich dangled for a moment, but quickly pulled himself up.
The Storch came around in a sharp turn and flew overhead, not much higher than the trees. Erich threw himself into the machine through the hatch door.
The plane sputtered twice, banked, and flew on, completing the arc and heading toward the mainland, its drone diminishing as it grew smaller.
Not wanting to lose sight of it, Sol cupped a hand above his eyes. Then he spied its silhouette against the moon.
The Storch fell, spinning like a ride at Luna Park. At first Sol thought that it would pull out, that Hempel--who was surely the pilot--would right the craft and swoop in for an effortless landing.
But the angle of descent was too steep and he watched helplessly as the plane disappeared into the trees.
The boy was looking up at him, knowledge that the plane had crashed evident in his young face.
"I do not think that Otto Hempel will ever hurt you again," Sol said.
Nor Erich, me, he thought, staring at the place where the plane had gone down.
Misha kicked a stone. Smiled. Kicked another. Sol tried to return the smile, but his heart was too filled with tears.
"Dayenu," he said softly. "Goodbye, old friend. May you rest in peace."
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Miriam let out a slow breath and chewed down hard on the leaf that Bruqah had placed in her mouth to help her through labor. She could see the pre-dawn sky through the open doorway, cobalt-blue and studded with stars. She could not recall having seen a sky that color, but then she had never really spent much time looking at the sky, she thought, especially not one so early in the morning, especially not during the throes of labor.
"Soon, Lady Miri." Bruqah wiped her forehead with a damp cloth.
"Soon!" Miriam shouted. "I'm tired of hearing you say that. Can't you find something else to say?" She lowered her voice. "I'm sorry, Bruqah. I shouldn't be shouting at you. It's not like you did this to me, and if it weren't for you--"
She gasped as another round of pain tore at her. Bruqah signaled the Zana-Malata to hold her by the ankles to steady her until the wave passed. When it had, she swore silently at the sky and everything that walked the earth beneath it. The God who condemned women to this was certainly male and had no sense of humor whatsoever; of that she was damn sure.
"Solomon!" she hissed between gritted teeth, not knowing if she wanted to kill him or have him at her side supporting her.
"We will find Mister Sollyman!" Bruqah said. "As soon baby is here. Chew the leaf, Lady Miri. It will help. It is the way of our women."
She breathed rapidly, hyperventilating as the next contraction rolled from her womb. Arched in agony, she wondered why sex had been invented in the first place--and why she had been so foolish as to partake.
Bruqah put a hand against her cheek. The coolness of his flesh startled her, and for a moment she looked up without pain at his white teeth and shining eyes.
"We have a saying for such times," he whispered, running his hand up across her forehead and gently pushing her hair back, "'Where childbirth blooms, the indri watches.'"
"What's that supposed to mean!"
"Mean, Lady Miri?"
She shook her head in exasperation. "You and your goddamn sayings." Another contraction was coming on; she prepared herself for its fury. "Your people are as bad as..." She released a slow groan, "...the Germans. A saying for everything."
He grinned. "We have one for that too, Lady Miri."
Sitting up, she seized his shoulder. "Solomon!"
He pressed her back down. "In good time. For now you have the baby to worry you about."
"There!"
Sol and Misha stood framed in the doorway, as if by a horseshoe of sky. Fireflies winked around their heads like sequins.
"Miriam!"
She chewed down on the leaf.
"You and the boy stay outside, please, Rabbi," Bruqah said.
Before Miriam could argue, another wave of pain rose through her. She gasped and bit down hard. The leaf tasted slightly bitter, like dried coffee.
"Push!" Bruqah said.
"I am pushing, damn you!"
"Not hard enough. Bite on the leaf."
She bit down again. Suddenly light-headed, she drifted down a stream into a realm where pain existed, real, but apart from her. Solomon and Bruqah stood behind a shimmery curtain, smiling and speaking to her in soundless voices. She attempted to return the smile, to assure them that everything was all right, that she was quite adept at delivering this baby or any other, but her facial muscles refused to respond.
It did not matter. Nothing was important except the child. They knew that, surely; even men could understand such things.
She heard a woman thanking and praising her; and for an instant she was certain she saw several dozen natives, naked and coated with white mud, cheer and lift gleaming spear blades into the air--but it was only a trick of the breeze and the breaking dawn.
And she saw fireflies.
Glowworms...was that Lincke's melody tinkling across her mind? She glanced up at Bruqah. He was c
ranking her music box, cradled in the crook of his arm. He raised a eucalyptus branch and shook it above her head, then executed an abrupt turn and shook the branch toward the door.
"Only a moment more."
The voice was Judith's. Miriam reached out for her hand.----
----"I can't help you, Miriam. You must do this on your own. When you see me again, it will be in the flesh. For now, we belong to the child, the others and I."----
----One more time, the pain intruded. Miriam braced against the rough surface of the rock wall with her hand and bore down until it seemed as if she would turn herself inside out. Three quick breaths, and she pushed down again. She tried for more breaths but the waves of pain were too close, each one greater and rolling over its predecessor. The agony seemed to rip her groin asunder.
"Solly! Misha! Come! She is here, the baby."
"A...what? You mean the baby's here already? I..."
Bruqah wrapped the infant in a lamba. A layer of blue-veined flesh veiled the upper half of baby's face. Plastered from the top of the totally bald head to the nose, it looked like a bandit's mask.
With infinite care, Bruqah cut the umbilical cord and slipped the caul from the child's head. She could see the Zana-Malata behind him, hear him babbling something unintelligible.
"What is he saying?" she asked.
"He praise the spirit child of Ravalona." Bruqah handed the child to her and placed his hand over hers. She felt his sincerity. "Though he praises true, he seeks the afterbirth. He wishes to eat it, for strength--and seeing face of death."
"He wants to die?"
"He wishes to recognize she face so to dance out of she path."
At any other time Miriam might have chuckled at Bruqah's convoluted language. "The man helped me," she said simply. "Give it to him."
"No can do," Bruqah said.
At that, the Zana-Malata darted forward. Grabbing the caul, he began to stuff it hungrily into his mouth. When Bruqah lunged for him, the syphilitic sidestepped neatly and darted out of the crypt.
Children of the Dusk Page 30