He shuddered, remembering the boiled thumb.
Think about something else.
Miriam.
He looked over at the framed photograph Erich had given him as his bar mitzvah gift, wrapped in a square of mauve silk. He still had not figured out how Erich acquired the photograph of Miriam, but he was glad he had it. He smiled, remembering how she had winked at him during the most serious moment of his bar mitzvah speech. Later, just before he intoned the blessing over the long Challah, the slightly sweet, plaited bread that looked like a woman's shining braid, she had pushed her way through to him and kissed his cheek. He had felt so benign about everybody that day, as if writing his speech and thanking them all for their love had been a tonic. Take one spoonful morning and night for three days and the world will look better.
He snuggled into his pillow. If he could just figure out how to feel that way every day, he thought.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Camouflaged with the green and brown facial pastes the Youth leaders had given them, Erich and some of the other boys from the group hid behind a hedge and spied on the last of the day's Wannsee picnickers. Night had long since fallen. Moonlight lay upon the lake, and still the people lingered, gathering their foodstuffs, folding blankets, and slipping into their clothes.
It was the boys' assignment to watch and report, though for what reason Erich could not figure out. There was all too much about the Youth group that he could not understand these days, though nothing as much as the experience near Lutherstrasse, which had spoiled things for him more than anyone would ever understand. Anyone, that is, except Solomon, who was the one person he could never tell about it. No more than he could ever again convince himself that Rittmeister Otto Hempel was his ideal.
Worst of all was what seeing the Rittmeister that night had done to his relationship with the other boys at the camp. He had never really been close to them, but he'd never felt completely felt estranged, either. Now he found it harder and harder to relate to them at all. Except for the stuff about the Jews, his belief in the original ideas of the Wandervögel remained unshaken. For that reason, he shut his mouth when they talked of the perfection of their hero, Otto Hempel, and when they downgraded Erich because of his friendship with Solomon--though with all his faults, Sol was a prince compared with these boys.
"I'm hungry," one of the younger boys said, staring in the direction of the nearest picnic basket. "You'd think they'd throw some of that food away."
"I'll check the garbage cans," a second boy said.
Erich put a restraining hand on his arm. "They're not supposed to see us. You're a soldier. You can go without food till later."
"We've been crawling around for hours just watching. It's boring. Aren't we supposed to do something to the people?"
The whine in the boy's voice was beginning to irritate Erich. He would have said something, but one of the older boys got in first. "Quit whining, kid. Good question, though. Anyone know why we're here?"
"We're doing what we were told to do. That's enough," someone answered.
"Says who?"
Another boy joined them in the underbrush. His eyes, accented by the ragged lines of paste, gleamed in the moonlight. "Come and look," he said. "They're dressing at the naked beach!"
Not naked beach, nudist beach, you idiot, Erich thought. He glanced through the woods toward the whitewashed fence that demarcated the nudist beach from the family picnic area. "Why would you want to watch people putting their clothes on?"
"When the women have their skirts but not their tops on, it makes their...," the boy cupped his hands over his chest, "stand out."
Though he had no interest in seeing unclothed people, Erich understood the boy's fascination. He had spied through and over the fence dozens of times. Everyone he knew had, even Solomon. The first times had been exciting, but the truth was that he found little erotic about assorted naked women lounging around, displaying their lumps and sags, or men with their penises flopping around like cooked noodles. What he did like was watching the women dress. That made his heart beat wildly in his throat. When a woman was naked, his interest waned within moments, but when she dressed herself, the result was just the opposite. He wondered if the other boys felt that way, but feared to ask, lest they laugh at him for being abnormal.
"They're hard, aren't they?" one of the boys asked.
"Titties?" The boy's friend sounded incredulous. "They're soft. Like pillows."
"They bleed, you know," one of the boys added. "Girls bleed. Women, too."
"Once a month," Erich said, feeling obliged to contribute. "Down here." He patted his crotch, proud to dispel the belief he knew some boys had--that the bleeding happened at the breasts, the reason for brassieres.
The possibility of the female phenomenon was debated, but Erich was not listening. A bitch's keening had floated toward him from their camp across the lake. Grace's voice. Crying in pain, her pregnancy bothering her again. He did not look around, as he once would have, to see if the other boys had heard her too. He had accepted long ago that he was attuned to the canine mind in a way that no one else was. He could feel not only the animals' thoughts, but their emotions. If he mentioned any of that to the other boys, all they would do was laugh at him, like the time he had asked, as circumspectly as possible, about the sexual habits of the Rittmeister, who was most of the boys' favorite leader.
Probably does it to lots of women, the boys agreed.
What about with...boys? Erich had asked.
Maybe you want to put a straw up your penis or a stick up your butt and let him watch, they had said, laughing uproariously. Maybe you want to kiss his wiener or put that in your butt!
Erich had flown in with his fists, but the others ganged up against him. He had grabbed a burning log and started swinging, and they had backed off. No one had challenged him since, but the laughter continued to haunt...and hurt. He could not abide being laughed at in the first place, but again, by the same boys, especially when he knew he was right...that was unthinkable. As for putting a straw up one's penis, supposedly the ultimate in sexual satisfaction, he could no more imagine himself like that than he could imagine willingly tolerating their derision.
Grace's mental cry for help came again, less urgent now but equally disquieting. She was a beautiful shepherd, or shepherdess, as he preferred to say. He spent as much time as possible with her, often to the detriment of learning woodsman skills or practicing his javelin throwing, at which he had become adept. Whenever the leaders began deprecating the Jews, or praising the contributions of the Storm Troopers or the National Socialists, he would sit stroking her, staring into the campfire and listening to her voice, her inner being. Or he would put his head against her silky coat, pretending to look for fleas and concentrating on her so hard that he heard the minds of her unborn pups.
"Let's find some food or go see the naked people," the smallest boy said, careful to eliminate the whine from his voice.
After minor discussion about whether they should leave their present posts, the boys set off, spreading out among the trees as they had been taught. Erich looked back once at the traditional picnickers departing the park, envious of family outings that were pleasant, fun, concluded without battles that inevitably took place when he and his parents spent any time together. Then he moved forward with the others.
When the boys reached the fence, they found the nudist area empty. They gathered to decide whether to raid the garbage cans, as was customary, or simply to return to camp.
Then, drifting out from the edge of the lake came a woman's laughter, musical, tinkling. A young man and woman ran from the shadows, a gray French poodle prancing alongside them on a leash. The man put his arms around the woman's waist and pulled her off the ground, twirling once as, her arms around his neck, he kissed her, the dog struggling to keep up with the choreography.
Back on her feet, the woman tied the end of the leash to a sun-umbrella post, pulled off her sweater, and unhooked her brassiere. The
man stripped off his shirt and trousers and placed them neatly in a pile next to her tumble of clothing. The moonlight bathed his white back and buttocks. Sitting down, she shed her white shorts and reached up as if to tug on his penis. He dodged her hand, laughed, and pulled her to her feet.
"I know him," the oldest boy said. "His name's Stein. A stinking crop-crippled Jew."
Erich cringed at the boy's use of one of the Rittmeister's favorite phrases. With a sense of impending disaster, he watched the couple race hand-in-hand toward the beach and plunge into the water, leaving the dog to yip sadly at having been left alone.
"Just look at them," the same boy said. "Dirtying our lake. If only the Rittmeister were here. Bet he'd teach them a thing or two!"
The boys looked at one another expectantly. The sudden quiet chilled Erich. "Let's steal their clothes," he said, to alleviate the tension and prevent some worse idea from taking form.
He grabbed hold of the fence, pulled himself over, and stood on the other side for a moment, wondering if this was such a good idea. Before the other boys had a chance to huddle and decide on a more dangerous plan, he snatched up the clothes and sprinted into the trees. He tossed the things among the branches--the boyfriend would have a scratchy climb among rough bark and needles, but could retrieve everything--and, feeling the brassiere's satin lining, turned to watch the others coming toward him, ready to show them his trophy.
They were fanned out amid the shadows. The poodle increased its yipping, warning its owners instead of begging to be let loose, but the couple was too busy splashing each other and kissing to hear the change of tone in his bark.
The youngest boy seized the leash and tugged the poodle after him. The dog, its legs splayed, tried desperately to pull away. Another boy ran over, holding a garbage can lid like a shield, and slammed it down against the animal. The dog squealed and collapsed, its legs kicking. Fear and pain raced up Erich's neck and down to his ankles.
"Hey there!" the man yelled as he came tearing toward them from the water. "Stop that!"
The smaller of the two boys grabbed the poodle by the tail and pulled it beneath the trees. The one with the lid slammed it down again. Erich and the poodle shrieked simultaneously with the pain of the impact. For a moment Erich felt too dazed to react. Then he stumbled toward the animal and its attacker, aware in his peripheral vision that two of the other boys were hurling rocks at the man, who was running naked from the lake. Through stunned senses, he saw him halt, arms raised against the stones, while the woman huddled in the water, trying to cover herself.
He was almost at the poodle's side when one of the boys yanked another garbage lid from its can and hold it up, blocking Erich's way. "We all know how you feel about Jews!" the boy said. "Are you with them or with us?"
Erich pushed against the lid, but his strength, like the poodle's, had ebbed. He felt defenseless against the boy and his two rock-throwing friends who had raced over to join the fight.
"He's a Jew dog, Erich!" one of them yelled.
Another boy spat on the ground. "A French Jew dog!"
A rock bounced off a tree trunk as the man returned the rock-barrage, but the boys had lost interest in him and were concentrating on Erich and the dog. One held the dog's collar, another the hind legs, while a third continued to beat down with the lid.
"Cut the damn mutt's legs off!" someone shouted. "That's what the Rittmeister would do!"
A jackknife blade snapped open, glinting in the moonlight, and the boy with the knife knelt over the poodle. Though the boy had his back to him, Erich could see the blood-hunger in his eyes.
I'm seeing through the dog's eyes! Erich thought.
Knowing that the action was not going to increase his popularity with the other boys, yet having to defend the dog--and thus himself--he picked up one of the lids that had been dropped nearby. Lunging, he pushed it against the face of the boy with the knife, so startling him that he dropped the weapon. Erich tried to get it, but he was too late. Someone picked it up and slashed down at the dog. The poodle howled, and pain sliced through Erich, sending him reeling.
"Again!" the boy at the collar said. The dog twisted savagely. "Cut him again, Albert!"
The knife slashed down and Erich collapsed to his knees. Bite! his mind cried out to the dog. Bite, for all you're worth.
Something warm filled his mouth.
"It bit my hand!" one of the boys wailed. "The son of a bitch bit me!"
The others abandoned their attack on Erich and turned to look. One of them stepped forward and kicked at the dog with his hiking boot. Erich felt the kick in his ribs. Just as he thought he would faint from the pain, two cars pulled up. A party of loud merrymakers exited the cars, heading their way. The pounding stopped. He staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the fence. Knowing he was too weak to climb, he sat down in the grass and fought to catch his breath as he watched the last of the boys scatter, hooting, into the deeper shadows. The man and woman were kneeling over the dog, she shrieking.
Sobbing with equal parts of pain and shame, Erich crawled to the lake. He washed the taste of blood from his mouth and, using handfuls of sand as soap, cleansed the paint from his skin. He was ready to leave, when he felt another dog call to him, this time from across the lake.
"Grace," he whispered.
She too was in pain, though not from death but from birth. He must go to her. The problem was, if she were in desperate straits, he would need help, and he would sooner die than ask the leaders--or certainly the other boys--for anything tonight.
Which left only Solomon.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Something clunked against the window frame.
Sol was immediately wide awake and terrified. He pulled the edge of his eiderdown close to his throat and waited for a face to appear, plastered against the pane and framed by the night--Rathenau's perhaps, a bloodstained Reichsbanner handkerchief covering his shattered jaw as he demanded to be led to the sewer where the dead lived.
Moving as little as possible, Sol crept his fingers along the night table in search of the lamp. Not that he really wanted to flood the room with light and turn himself into an icon, unable to see out while the night saw in.
"Solomon!" A loud hoarse whisper.
Erich.
Shaking, Sol threw off the covers and padded to the window. Cupping his hands against the sides of his face to reduce the glare of moonlight, he squinted toward the scrawny blue-spruce hedge that demarcated the lot of the apartment building from the sidewalk. Erich crouched near the hedge corner where they had played in the days before they had found their sewer hideout.
Wondering fleetingly what had become of the toys they'd had then--his war ambulances, specially ordered from Planck's in Frankfurt, Erich's hand-carved hook-and-ladder, the miniature human figures he and Erich fought over--Sol opened the window and thrust out his head.
Erich waved furiously. "Come down!" He went over and shut the apartment building door--evidently he had just come from within--then jumped over the hedge and grabbed up his bicycle, which was lying on the sidewalk. Mounting, he motioned again for Sol to join him.
"What is it? Tell me!" Sol cursed under his breath. He sensed trouble. Erich seemed to be less and less the boy with whom he had grown up. Everything might have been so different if he had come along to the Adlon, Sol thought sadly and with a renewed pang of guilt at not having tried harder to persuade Rathenau to include Erich in the invitation.
"We're still blood brothers, aren't we?" Erich raised his wrist in the old gesture. "Come down. It's important!"
Sol pulled himself into his trousers, a corded sweater, and a pair of old shoes. He put on his cap and took a rucksack from the crowded shelf that held his schoolbooks and his pewter Hessian soldiers. Tucking his jacket under his arm, he poked his head into the hall and stared at his parents' door.
No, he decided, returning to the window; if his parents heard him, this adventure would be over before it started. He was tired of kowtowing to Erich'
s demands, yet he felt flattered when his friend insisted on including him in his unlikely adventures.
The sill was wide and he was able to balance in a squat while he shut the window behind him. Tossing down the rucksack and jacket, he launched himself two meters to the ground and landed briefly on his feet before his knees gave out and he tumbled onto the dirt.
"Hurry!" Erich stood with one leg in the hedge, urging Sol forward. "It's Grace. She's about to have her pups--and there's no one to help her. I heard her crying. Something's gone wrong."
"You heard her? All the way from Wannsee?"
"You have to help, Spatz. Please, Sol."
"You want me to go with you to Wannsee? To the camp?"
"I don't really understand the Jew-hating and the awful things they say, honestly I don't."
"If you don't understand, why parrot them?"
"I'm going to change things, Sol!" Erich's voice was tense. "When I'm a leader I won't let them do those things. Our group used to be different. We weren't like those others who do things--"
"Things?"
Sol had heard about those "things"--the initiation rites, like the older ones peeing on the younger ones to delineate authority; like demanding that they give up loyalty to everything but the group.
"Come on! Please!" Erich trundled the bike onto the street and, one foot on the curb for support, kept it steady.
Sol mounted the handlebars. Erich's bike was a second-hand Machnow Herr Weisser picked up at an auction over on Muhldamm. Erich had painted the bike red and black, the new colors of his Freikorps unit. Sol had no bike of his own. His mother felt they were too dangerous in a city.
Erich shoved away from the curve. The bike wobbled as he fought to balance it, and Sol.
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