by Rik Stone
Halfway across the plaza, anxiety tingled over Jez’s skin as he brushed against a man. Perfumed and smartly dressed, he looked how a key official might. The stock of Jez’s AK had clipped the man’s arm, not hard, but enough for him to reach up and rub it. With face contorted, he stared at Jez in puzzlement, probably wondering how someone so much smaller than him could cause such pain with a minor bump.
Jez brought his hands together and bowed remorsefully. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, using the only Arabic he knew.
“Yes, sir,” Viktor added, “I’m sorry too. This is an idiot boy and I don’t know why I keep him.”
By the look on the man’s face, he hadn’t understood a word. Jez guessed that’s what Viktor thought too, which would be why he turned on Jez, swiped at his head, and pushed him across the square. He continued with the angry charade until they got nearer to the soldiers, he quieted, took Jez’s hand and returned to jabbering. They cleared the square and the handholding abruptly ended.
“That’s a relief,” Jez said. “I like you well enough, but not in that way.”
Viktor laughed warmly. “It’s not unusual for male Arab friends to hold hands. It doesn’t mean the same with them, and we need to blend in as much as possible.”
“Whatever you say.”
The sergeant shook his head and laughed as he took another swipe at Jez. His directions brought them to their first destination: a red sandstone house with off-white steps that led to a door on the first floor.
“Isn’t there someone here to meet us? You can’t just go in without knocking,” Jez said, as Viktor reached the top step and grabbed the door handle.
“Don’t worry, we have all the information we need, enough to get the job done. That way if we’re caught we can’t let anybody down.”
“What if the house is found after we’re done? Won’t that lead to our informant?”
“You ask too many questions. Me, I just get on with what I’m given. Truth is, I don’t know what cover has been set up. I only know what we have to do and how we have to do it.”
The windows were small, but inside was bright because a French door was positioned to catch sunbeams that reverberated on the stark white walls. A ladder to a trapdoor stood against a teak-colored ceiling beam. Jez slipped the kaftan off over his head and removed the rifle. “Oh,” he groaned, and stretched and arched his body. “I’m glad to get rid of that. When I bumped into that man, the gun moved and the stock was stuck between my shoulders.”
“Ah, such a sensitive little button,” Viktor baited.
Jez nearly rose to defend his words until he realized he was being sent up. They sat in underwear, tucking into the Feta cheese and bread that had been left out on the table.
“Right, Jez,” Viktor said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “We have a good hour before the fireworks begin. According to my information there are a good few rooftops to cross before reaching our position and it’ll be easier to get there while it’s light, so we should make a start right away.”
“That’s not a problem, but do we go in under-shorts and vest? Not a very dignified way to die if we’re caught.”
“Don’t worry about that, there’s no such thing as dignified dying – just dying.”
Maybe, but Jez would prefer it if he had a bit more on than a pair of underpants.
Chapter 6
The trapdoor opened out onto a flat roof that was a little higher than most of its neighbors. Up top, Jez crouched by Viktor’s side and surveyed the other rooftops for signs of life. He took off his sandals and slung the AK over his shoulder. Viktor went ahead and he followed.
Swiftly, they crossed from one building to the next, jumped over narrow alleys, and occasionally used the apex of a slant roof to get a broader view. On the streets below, the bluster of the working day had calmed. But closer to the town centre a man stood on a rooftop, smoking. A big man with too thick a black moustache, incongruous under a baldhead. He stared blankly into the twilight sky as he drew long on a dark cigarette, maybe a cheroot. A Levant kaftan cloak hung open, revealing a collar and tie from earlier toils.
“Shit,” Viktor exclaimed. “He would have to be on one of the roofs we have to go over.”
“Do we take him down?” Jez asked, and, hearing a voice that sounded a little tinny, was disappointed to recognize it as his own.
Viktor made no answer and Jez spun round to see what had happened to him. He’d gone, but then Jez spied him as he crept up behind the man to deliver a powerful blow to the back of his head. The cheroot blew from the man’s lips and he fell. Jez shook his brain, and tried to rationalize how Viktor had managed to get where he was without him noticing. Viktor waved him over.
“Right, he’ll be out for some time.”
They navigated over more rooftops until Viktor stopped and looked around.
“This is it,” he said, and gripped Jez’s arm, getting him to lie low at the peak of the slanted roof. Viktor swung the AK-47 round from his back. “Ready yourself, it shouldn’t be long now.”
The only thing left from a dimmed evening was a remnant of blood orange on the horizon, and Jez could see all around from the elevated rooftop; someone had chosen well.
Viktor took the compass he’d clipped to his waistband and worked out his position. “Ah, there, see?” he said. “The roof lights have just come on and a couple of officers are already there.” He pointed about 600 meters to the north.
Jez stared intently. “Funny party, they’re still in uniform.”
“Of course, you haven’t met with that sort of conceit. They could never allow anyone to forget their rank. Doesn’t matter that they’re partying.”
Jez’s eyes narrowed as he noted the cynicism. People filtered in and he counted nine men on the roof of the two-storey adobe structure, while three more leant against a criss-crossed fence on the veranda below. That made twelve officers, but with about seventeen women milling around there could be more due, or inside; or else they were plain greedy.
“Lie back and relax,” Viktor ordered. “There’s nothing to do now until the KooKooEh party begins, and it will fire up from that direction.” He gestured west and looked at the compass. “When the distraction starts, I want you to concentrate on those on the right half of the roof. I’ll take the others. Wait for my first shot, then fire at will. Try not to hit the women, or at least give them time to get out of the way. Are you comfortable with the situation, Jez?” Viktor gave him a soul-searching gaze.
“Yes, no problems,” came his answer, but his heart had moved into his throat. To become the soldier both he and the colonel wanted, he knew this played a big part… but it didn’t hold down the nausea.
“Good, when it goes off, take out as many as you can in twenty seconds, and then we’re away.”
The faint orange sun on the horizon changed to a thin red line, but not for long. An onslaught of firepower blew up from the west and daylight was resurrected. Jez followed his sergeant’s lead and rolled onto his front, watched, waited for the first round from the AK to spit out. When the shot came, he winced to see flesh and bone torn away from the top half of an officer’s skull. The head separated, the brain was exposed, and before he’d even hit the ground he had to be dead.
Jez was overawed. At 600 meters, a good distance, but he could have sworn he’d heard the bone break, and thought for sure he could feel the warmth of blood spray. Viktor released a second round, and another officer fell. Still, Jez didn’t respond. The activity from the party crowd seemed to have almost slowed to a stop, but then animation returned. Women screamed, unable to work out how to get to an exit. They scurried about in panic, occasionally stopping and looking down at their blood-splashed dresses.
Viktor busied himself with his own work, but Jez knew that if he didn’t get on with the job he would’ve failed. He tried to get his thoughts together, but light-headedness had taken command. He stared numbly through the sights and held a finger snugly against the trigger. But surely he was
n’t gazing down that barrel at his chosen target; and surely he wasn’t the one who gently squeezed the trigger?
People ran, frantically searching for shelter, but all too late for the target he’d singled out. It was the officer with the swagger stick, the one he’d seen in town earlier. The bullet flew and pierced the center of his forehead. A gaping hole opened… but not much blood followed. He thudded onto his back and his body writhed and wriggled. Jez watched without emotion – because still it wasn’t he who’d rapidly fired the AK? He’d been no more than a presence who’d watched from afar.
Twenty seconds passed. Viktor tapped his arm and Jez set his weapon to automatic. They sprayed the roof with the remainder of the magazines and, as far as Jez could make out, each of the targets took a hit. But the women who hadn’t made an exit also lay dead or wounded. The blonde from the limousine crawled on her belly and her blood-soaked hand reached upward. She screamed for mercy, beckoned for help – but none came. He imagined Anna lying in the woman’s place and his insides shriveled. The mission had succeeded and anyone on the outside would have seen him as a true veteran; but he felt no sense of victory, only an empty hollowness at what he’d done.
The KKE battle continued on the west edge of town, but the surprise here had gone and the conservative troops who guarded the partying officers had responded to the attack. They inched forward, pulled wounded to safety and fired indiscriminately at the higher rooftops.
“Okay, Jez, that’s enough. They’re still not sure of our position. Let’s go.” As Viktor spoke, the occasional wild shot whizzed over Jez’s head and he ducked lower.
“Leave the rifle. Bend the barrel in the drain-off holes in the corner of the roof. Speed is important, but we don’t want to leave good weapons behind.”
Jez damaged the gun as instructed, and was glad to be rid of it. For that moment, the carnage had been the gun’s fault, not his.
It was much quicker going back over the roofs, until they came upon the smoker Viktor had subdued earlier. He’d regained consciousness. Up on one knee, he rubbed the side of his head, but then he turned and saw Viktor loom over him. He jerked back. “Oh,” he said timidly.
Viktor shook his head wearily and delivered a close-fisted blow to the man’s temple. “You can believe me when I tell you, Jez: this man has great recuperative powers.”
They made it back to the house without further incident.
“It will be safer to travel during daylight, so we stay here tonight,” Viktor said. “Put the kaftan on and bed down on the floor. Tomorrow shed all clothing other than the kaftan. If we’re stopped and stripped, the nakedness under the cloaks might win our freedom.”
Sleep didn’t come easily. Jez had killed without provocation. Maybe the death of the officers could be justified. But the women... How could he rationalize the killing of innocent women? What would Anna think if she knew about this: would she judge him? And what about his sister Miriam? She would never have encouraged him to join up if she’d known this could happen. But that wasn’t it; the truth was that he couldn’t cope with taking life. Tiredness teamed up with delirium, and memories drifted to his childhood.
*
Back in 1941 Jez was still 8 years old. The Germans had invaded Moscow and he’d fled to the safety of the forest with his family. Poppa taught him about survival on what the earth had to offer and the art of living in dug-out bunkers. The experiences added fuel to an already determined military ambition and he loved every minute.
“Come, Jezer,” Poppa said one day, “I’ll take you out near to the edge of the woods and teach you about the roots that can be eaten.”
Snowflakes fell lightly and were yet to lie thick, but they would soon enough. “Stay inside the thicket,” his father said, “we don’t want to leave footprints.”
The sun fell and spread the last of its golden glow over the edge of the forest, weaving silk threads through bare branches and casting a reddened flush over those still waiting to shed leaves. His father suddenly jumped back from the edge of the thicket and Jez’s eyes bulged as Poppa’s hand clamped his mouth and dragged him from the boundary. He pulled his son to his knees and whispered a barely audible “shush” in his ear. He removed his hand and pointed. Jez’s heart beat double time.
He tiptoed to the edge of the woods, and expected to see a wild animal. But no, it was a German rifle squad of maybe fifteen soldiers preparing a makeshift camp. He still gaped, as Poppa hauled him away deeper into the thicket.
“Maybe,” he whispered, “they only want a place to sleep overnight and will go on tomorrow. But whether they will or no, we need to play safe and move over to the other bunker on the far side of the forest.”
They raced silently through the woods, exhilaration charging through Jez’s veins. They reached the dug-out and he was proud to have made it without being seen – but a soldier had gone ahead of them.
Jez stood and stared grimly at his captives. His brothers and sisters huddled around Momma, who cowered on the forest floor. The soldier’s Mauser rifle straddled horizontally across the middle of his winter uniform. Jez hated him, but couldn’t help admiring his military bearing.
An oakleaf-camouflaged bonnet covered a hard helmet strapped down and secured by a snood-like scarf. The muffler part swathed his head down to his shoulders and left only a letterbox gap where ice-blue eyes glowered mercilessly. His camouflage trousers were tucked into green and brown leather boots, and an over-tightened ammunition belt nipped the waist of his tunic. The huge digits in his padded gloves had barely enough room to tuck into the rifle’s trigger guard. Still mesmerized, Poppa’s hand again clasped over Jez’s mouth and pulled him back to deeper cover.
Now Jez could only see the soldier’s back, but he heard him mumble and then shake his head and reach to his belt. A bayonet, he took out a bayonet and fixed it to the Mauser. He was going to kill Momma, and his sisters and brothers. Poppa mouthed that Jez should be silent, and motioned with his hands for him to wait. Without further ado, Poppa sprang to his feet and rushed the soldier. Momma’s face lit up in recognition and the soldier turned to see what had caught her attention. Though bigger and stronger than Poppa, no doubt, he didn’t have the speed to turn and keep hold of the rifle at the same time. He cast the gun aside, spun round and threw a punch that glanced off Poppa’s cheek.
Poppa fell to the ground; the soldier dropped on top of him and groped for the rifle, but it had fallen out of reach. He took a knife from his belt. Terror grew in Jez. He rose from his crouched position and piggy-vaulted onto the German’s shoulders, wrapped his legs tightly around the man’s neck, clasped arms around his face, and pulled the snood up over his eyes.
The German struggled as he tried to get his thick padded fingers under Jez’s wrists, but Jez evaded the offensive and dragged his arms back and forth over the soldier’s face, clearly aggravating him. The soldier dropped his knife, worked his fingers under Jez’s arms, and levered them apart.
Even in recollection, Jez couldn’t figure why the soldier went about it the way he did. He should’ve used the knife to end the arm-hold, not drop it. And he’d forgotten about Poppa. He climbed to his feet and held Jez’s arms out as if he’d won a great battle, but in an instant his head jerked down. The grip on Jez’s wrists eased and he plucked up the courage to peer over the top of the helmet.
Arrogance had lost out when Poppa picked up the Mauser and speared the soldier. He twisted the bayonet and gouged a wide hole in the man’s torso. The German remained motionlessness as Poppa pulled the weapon and skewered him again. The soldier dropped to his knees. Warmth covered Jez’s legs as red gore spluttered from the enemy’s spewing mouth. Then his lifeless form fell forward and rolled over onto its back.
*
The death hadn’t evoked pity in Jez, even as a child. At home in the cabin, he’d watched chickens die as they hung by their feet from the veranda roof. Poppa killed in the kosher tradition and suspended the fowl above the buckets until their sliced throats drained the
m of life’s blood. The blood dripped into the buckets while the almost lifeless bodies twitched. Jez had always sympathized with them, but had no such feelings about the soldier. Now he knew why: it was because the German was the enemy. But more importantly, Jez hadn’t killed him, Poppa had. Only on this night could he understand what killing meant to the killer.
Jez’s thoughts haunted him, and more than once panic jerked him upright. But by morning he’d relived the event so many times that his sensitivity had dulled. Even his worries about what Anna might think had changed. She was a soldier, so of course she’d understand. And Miriam, well, Miriam would never know.
Viktor jolted him from thought. “How did you sleep, Jez? Are you still comfortable with the situation?”
“Yes, I’m good, and I rested well,” he said, not wanting Viktor to know how he’d agonized over how he felt about the killings.
“I’ve looked around while you slept, and KooKooEh had left humus and pitta bread in the larder cupboard. Here, get that inside you.”
Viktor handed him a half share and Jez ate greedily, but not without surprise. He would’ve sworn he’d been awake all night.
“Time to make a move. Are you sure you’re happy with the situation?”
“Yes, Viktor, I’m good.” And by now, fully awake, he wondered why the sergeant fussed.
Around mid morning, they left the safe house holding hands again. They made their way through alleyways and main streets. Troops popped up everywhere, hammered on doors, barged past whoever opened them. Jez relaxed: no one had so much as looked at them. They reached the suburbs and walked hand in hand towards the open mountains, as dusk invaded.
“So far so good,” Viktor said, as they arrived back to where they’d left the uniforms. “But I think it’ll be safer to stay in kaftans. The troop search is amateurish, but anyone can get lucky.”
“I don’t care what we wear, Viktor, as long as we don’t have to hold hands.” Jez grinned for the first time since the killings, and Viktor laughed.