by Lavie Tidhar
Later, they lie in the bed, drowsy. The snow beats against the window, it makes Fogg think of Schneesturm, and of Tank, and that shame and hatred rise in him again. He realises he barely knows Klara. Barely knows who she is, what she likes and dislikes. She is different things all at once, she is both changed and unchanged. How do you explain what he feels? It isn’t rational, not something you can quantify or study in a lab.
Or can it? Can love, too, be distilled, explained away, used as a weapon?
– Hold me, Henry, she says. He draws her close, she is so warm, so real. It is the war that is make-believe, it is the Luftwaffe and Hitler, the whole damned thing. He holds Klara until they both fall asleep, and in the morning she is gone, and the door to the room is left just slightly ajar, letting the sunlight through, and he fo—
79. DR VOMACHT’S FARMHOUSE then
—llows, into that other place.
But later, much later:
– I have to go back, Fogg says.
– You could stay with me, here. Forever.
– You know that’s not true. You belong in the real world too.
– I could withdraw, seal the door, she says. I can! This moment is mine but I can make it yours, too.
– You are going back to Germany, he says. And I must go back to England.
– I don’t want you to. England is cold and the Führer says we will soon win the war. And then what will happen to you, Henry? she says with a cold, childlike logic.
– You’re not like them, Fogg says, you’re not one of them, you could come with me, you could help—
– My father needs me. Her voice is small when she says it. Henry, she says. If we lose …
– Yes?
– Will you find me?
He holds her tight; he never wants to let go. I will find you, he says.
– I do not want it to be over, she says, and for a moment he doesn’t know if she is talking about their being there, together, or about the war; and a shudder runs through him.
– Promise you will find me, she says.
Fogg strokes her hair, there in that place where it is always a summer’s day.
– I will find you, he says.
NINE:
THE LOST DECADE
LONDON
1954
GERMANY SURRENDERS
May 7, 1945
* * *
REIMS Following the death of Adolf Hitler on April 30, by suicide, and the fall of Berlin to Soviet forces on May 2, on this day in Reims, France, General Alfred Jodl, Chief of Staff of the German armed forces, has signed the unconditional surrender document on behalf of all extant German forces, thus ending the War in Europe.
ATOMIC BOMB DROPPED ON JAPAN
August 6, 1945
* * *
WASHINGTON American President Harry S. Truman has announced today that an atomic bomb has been dropped over the city of Hiroshima, in Japan. The President was on board the cruiser USS Augusta in the mid-Atlantic. He said the device was 2,000 times more powerful than any conventional bomb ever before deployed. Hiroshima is one of the chief supply depots for the Japanese army.
The bomb was dropped at 08:15 local time from a B-29 airplane nicknamed the Enola Gay. A vast, mushroom-shaped cloud engulfed the city of Hiroshima and it is currently impossible to assess the damage caused by the blast. ‘If they do not now accept our terms,’ the President said, ‘they may expect a rain of ruin from the air the like of which has never been seen on Earth.’
Speaking in London, British Prime Minister Clement Attlee, who has replaced Winston Churchill at Number 10, read out a statement prepared by his predecessor to MPs in the Commons. He said, ‘By God’s mercy, Britain and American science outpaced all German efforts. These were on a considerable scale, but far behind. The possession of these powers by the Germans at any time might have altered the result of the war.’
President Truman said the atomic bomb heralded the ‘harnessing of the basic power of the universe.’
ELIZABETH II CROWNED QUEEN
June 2, 1953
* * *
LONDON Following the death of King George VI, ending his reign after sixteen years on the throne, the crown has passed to his 25-year-old daughter Elizabeth. The young Queen served as an ambulance driver and mechanic during the War. She was crowned by the Archbishop of Canterbury at a coronation ceremony in Westminster Abbey. Eight thousand dignitaries and heads of state attended the ceremony, while thousands of Her Majesty’s subjects lined the streets to catch a glimpse of the new monarch. Millions more watched the ceremony around the world in a special broadcast by the BBC.
80. BATTERSEA POWER STATION, LONDON 1954
The machines hum inside Battersea Power Station, behind the dull brown bricks the coal never stops burning, the steam boilers humming with suppressed energy, the barges along the Thames docking at the jetties, this endless song of the loading and offloading. The lights always shine over Battersea Station, the steam turbines never cease. Out of the tall chimneys their smoke rises into the night.
Oblivion waits in the shadow of the station. A new moon. A new Queen. Prime Minister Churchill on his way out, again.
The Nineteen Fifties. The post-war years. Powdered eggs, how he hates the taste of them. The Bureau wrapped in shadows. Spit somewhere in Kenya, a Mau Mau uprising. Oblivion turns his head, sharply. The moonlight catches his pale cheekbones. Footsteps on gravel. The fog makes it hard to see who it is.
– Oblivion.
– Fogg. I didn’t think you’d come.
– I almost didn’t.
They hug, awkwardly.
– They told me you’d left. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for the service.
– I got a medal, Fogg says. From the King. Before … he makes a gesture. You know.
– You retired from the Retirement Service.
Fogg laughs, without much humour. Yes, he says. I suppose I did.
Oblivion looks at him but, of course, Fogg is unchanged. Why did you leave? he says.
– You know why.
Oblivion takes out a hip flask. Unscrews the top and takes a gulp. Passes it to Fogg. It’s over, Fogg, he says. It’s over. The Old Man doesn’t know—
– Don’t, Fogg says. They stare at each other.
– Come back, Oblivion says, at last.
– We don’t grow old, Fogg says. We don’t forget. The past never dies, not entirely. Not for us, Oblivion.
– You can’t bury yourself in the past, Henry!
– Somewhere it is always summer, Fogg says, and drinks. He hands the flask back to Oblivion.
– Don’t come back to see me again, he says, quietly.
But a vengeful spirit seems to take over Oblivion. One day I might have to! he says, and hates the sound of his own voice. Fogg, turning to leave, stops. He looks at Oblivion and his face is agonised.
– I know, he says.
He turns his head away. Goodbye, Oblivion, he says. He walks away and Oblivion does nothing but stand there, and watch him go.
– Damn it, Fogg, he says, but softly, to himself. Behind his back the steam turbines growl and hiss and burp.
An account, Oblivion thinks. Words they daren’t say. But there must always be an account.
81. LONDON 1954
Oblivion walks away from the power station, walking along the south side of the Thames, crossing the river at last at London Bridge. It’s late but there are people about and Oblivion misses the comfort of the fog. On the bridge he stops. He takes out a coin, newly minted, a penny with the young Queen on its face. Turns it and turns it in his fingers. Berlin, in forty-six. The thing they can never talk about. So many things one cannot talk about, he thinks. He flicks the coin up and watches it arc over the railings. The moonlight catches the Queen’s youthful face. Oblivion watches the coin tumble down to earth, down towards the dark surface of the river. It falls in with a tiny splash and is swallowed by the water. He makes a wish; we suppose he makes a wish.
He walks on. A col
d night but he welcomes it. Past the Tower of London where the ravens stand guard over the Empire, crying fiercely into the night. A lone prostitute calls to him but he shakes his head and hurries on, into the night, the dark twisting streets of the East End.
The fog grows around him. Rubble in the streets. Houses still demolished by the bombings, not yet rebuilt. A dismal decade. Things moving in the abandoned houses. He doesn’t quicken his pace. Let them come, he thinks, with savage anticipation. It isn’t like him. But he feels angry, and lost. Fogg’s damned selfishness!
Walks on. The river on his right, the city on his left. A pub ahead, lights inside and laughter, a figure lurches drunkenly out of the door and into the street, near colliding with him. He growls, Watch where you’re going, old timer!
– Sorry, son, sorry. Hands pat him, the drunk steadies himself. His beery breath on Oblivion’s face. Say, aren’t you—
– Aren’t I what – tries to push the old man but he won’t budge. The old man’s eyes open wide. Mrs Cable’s boy, he says. From down that way – he jerks a thumb at the opening to a narrow lane. From up by Stepney, he says, Mrs Cable, the midwife.
– I’m afraid you are quite mistaken, Oblivion says, coldly, and the man takes a step back and looks him up and down, the Savile Row suit and the cane, and shakes his head, I’m sorry, sir, he says, You look the spitting image of her boy, but he would be much older now, and not …
– Yes?
– A gentleman, begging your pardon. She was an honest woman but her boys, none of them were gentlemen.
– Push off! Oblivion says with sudden vehemence, and his fist rises, pale and menacing, and the old man shrinks from him. He raises his hands up defensively, palms open, and Oblivion, as though ashamed, lowers his hand.
– What happened to her? he asks. The midwife.
The old man lowers his hands, which are shaking. The look that he gives Oblivion is queer. Died in the war, didn’t she, he says.
– How?
– Bombing raid. Didn’t make it to the shelter in time. The old man spits on the ground. Lost my wife the same way, he says.
– I’m sorry.
The old man shrugs. Well, there you are, he says.
Oblivion just stares. The old man looks back, uncomfortable. Here, Oblivion says. Reaches into his pocket. Comes back with a shilling. Take that, for your troubles, he says.
The old man takes it haltingly. Thank you, he says. But still looks at Oblivion’s face with that puzzled expression.
– Go! Oblivion says and the man, startled into action, walks hurriedly if unsteadily away. Oblivion stares after his retreating back.
82. LIMEHOUSE, LONDON 1954
A restless spirit animates him. He walks with long strides. Along the river, the docks, the ships coming and going. The sight and smell and sound of empire. The call of sailors, porters, the lights. The lights attract him like a moth.
The pub is called Charlie Brown’s, from outside you couldn’t even say if it were open or not. A dockyard pub, a seamen’s pub. Oblivion hesitates outside. There are fancier places, now. The Royal Vauxhall Tavern. The Spartan Club. But they are in the light. This place is all in shadow.
He goes inside.
Dim lights and cigarette smoke, the smell of wine and beer. Men only, in this pub. A gramophone playing, Doris Day singing, ‘Secret Love’. Oblivion finds a chair at the bar and orders a pint. Drinks as if to wash away the night, the dusty streets. Half turns in his seat. A couple of dockers standing by the men’s loos – one makes eye contact, Oblivion turns away. Drinks his beer. Turns again. One of the dockers has disappeared, the other stands there still, their eyes meet, an understanding. Oblivion drowns the last of his drink as though steeling his courage. Stands up.
83. LIMEHOUSE, LONDON 1954
Their lovemaking is a chiaroscuro of light and dark, hurried, furtive, the other man pressed against the wall, their naked skins, Oblivion licks the sheen of sweat off the other man’s upper lip. When it is over they exchange no words, they go their separate ways, Oblivion adjusts his belt and his cufflinks, when he steps out onto the docks the sky is overcast. And a wild hunger takes flight in him, a form of nostalgia, for what has been, and gone, and is no more.
COMICS CODE ESTABLISHED
September 23, 1954
* * *
NEW YORK Following the public hearings before the United States Senate Subcommittee on Juvenile Delinquency in April and June this year, on the subject of graphic crime and horror ‘comic books’, the Comics Magazine Association of America (CMAA) has been established to self-regulate its members’ publications. The new Code states, in part, that good ‘must triumph over evil’; that the criminals must always be punished; and that ‘scenes of horror, excessive bloodshed, gory or gruesome crimes, depravity, lust, sadism, and masochism’ will not be tolerated.
In addition, ‘profanity, obscenity, smut and vulgarity’, as well as illicit sex relations, must be neither portrayed nor hinted at. All romance or love stories must ‘emphasize the value of the home and the sanctity of marriage.’ Quite rightly, too, the new Code states that ‘passion or romantic interest shall never be treated in such a way as to stimulate the lower and baser emotions.’
Finally, stories which take as their focus the issue of evil must only be published ‘where the intent is to illustrate a moral issue’. Evil must never be presented in a glamorous fashion or in any way ‘as to injure the sensibilities of the reader.’
It is this newspaper’s sincere wish that all other publications, be them the lowly form of the ‘comic book’ or the more lofty form of the novel, follow similar guidelines in future.
TEN:
THE TRIAL
JERUSALEM
1964
ADOLF EICHMANN EXECUTED
June 1, 1962
* * *
JERUSALEM Convicted Nazi war criminal Adolf Eichmann, widely considered one of the main architects of the Jewish genocide initiated by the Nazi regime, was hanged last night in Ramla, Israel, in the prison in which he was incarcerated. Eichmann, who carried the rank of SS-Obersturmbannführer, had been one of the prime movers of the ‘Final Solution of the Jewish Question.’ He had attended the Wannsee Conference, in which the Nazi policy of genocide was set down, and was appointed in charge of the transportation of the Jews to the death camps. He was convicted of crimes against humanity in the Jerusalem District Court on December 11, 1961. The three judges handed down a unanimous verdict.
Eichmann’s body was cremated. His ashes were scattered in the Mediterranean Sea, beyond Israel’s territorial waters, ‘to ensure that there could be no future memorial and that no country would serve as his final resting place.’
Eichmann had lived for some years in Buenos Aires, Argentina. It has been suggested he is but one of many high-ranking Nazis to have escaped to South America under new identities, and that many more remain in hiding.
84. JERUSALEM 1964
The Old Man arrives in Tel Aviv on a British Airways flight, and a man from the Consulate picks him up.
– Hot, isn’t it, the man from the Consulate says.
– Is it always like this? the Old Man says.
– Most of the year, the man from the Consulate says, apologetically.
They drive up to Jerusalem, through a landscape that changes rapidly, from the coastal plains to low-lying hills to sudden mountains, a sharp incline. The Old Man checks into the King David Hotel, on the edge of Jerusalem’s Old City, on the very armistice line dividing the city between Israel and Jordan. The King David is packed full, international visitors arriving for the trial, and the hotel bar is thick with cigarette and cigar smoke, hard-drinking newsmen and, of course, the Übermenschen.
– This is the largest gathering of Übermenschen ever assembled, an excited anchorwoman for CBS says to the camera. All but unheard of, for that day and age: a woman reporting the news.
She is standing just outside the hotel, the camera pans over guests arriving or leaving. A man steps
out, an impressive physique, muscles like a body builder’s, all packed into tight multicoloured Lycra. He has a bare chest, wild blond hair, flashing eyes, a flashing grin—
– Tigerman! Over here! Tigerman!
The man turns, that lazy grin following the lens of the camera. Something animalistic, magnetic about him. It seems to draw us, the viewers, we notice the anchorwoman is a little flushed. We might, if truth be told, be feeling a little flushed ourselves.
– Hello, Theresa, Tigerman says.
– Tigerman, are you here for the trial? Are you representing the State Department? Would you like to comment on—
– Thank you, Theresa, Tigerman says. He sweeps back his blond mane. His nails, we notice, are long and sharp. I am here, Tigerman announces to the camera, as a private citizen. I am here out of one simple desire: I want to see justice done.