Children of the Dusk (13 page)

"Our revered Herr Oberst has struck an enlisted man," he said. "Calm the dogs, my friend. You men are dismissed. We have won."

You have won nothing yet, Erich thought. What he needed was more manpower. A guerrilla force. The Kalanaro, perhaps, who were forever popping up with that bird-shit on their faces like targets in a shooting gallery. But he wanted mercenaries who would act like soldiers, he thought, not like a bunch of gibbering monkeys.

The "sit and wait" military order, he figured, was not a Führerbefehl--a direct order from Hitler, not to be questioned--but had come from Goebbels. As a field commander, he had a certain latitude. The guards were young and, in their demented way, idealistic; they wanted to do battle, not oversee Jews creating a matriculation center in the middle of nowhere. Promise them that they could march on Antanarivo, the capital nestled in the country's cool, central highlands, and they would abandon Hempel like fleas from a dead dog. The take-over of Madagascar with a handful of untested German troops and support from local tribes, that would appeal to them.

He burst into his headquarters tent and grabbed the submachine pistol.

A few of his trainers and their dogs--all of whom were to be trusted since they were Abwehr--could stay behind to maintain the island base camp, with its superior radio and secure position. They would also provide protection for the corpsman and Miriam and the child. Erich would take Taurus and the rest of the trainers and shepherds.

As he turned to leave he spotted the bottle of schnapps, not quite empty from the previous night.

One drink, to settle his nerves. As he poured the amber liquid, it occurred to him that playing the hothead was what Hempel wanted of him. Well, he wouldn't fall into that trap. Otto Braun had taught him to disappoint his enemies. The secret of guerrilla warfare, Braun had said, was to out-think your adversary.

He sat down and put his feet up on the desk. Drinking the alcohol he had poured, he reached out, drew aside the tent flap, and saw that the compound was clear. The Jews had settled down again, the dogs were back in the kennel area, the guards had dispersed. Hempel was surely stewing in his own juices right now, upset that the young colonel had proven too cool-headed to rise to the major's bait.

He settled back again, chuckling at his wisdom, and closed his eyes, imagining his troops marching into Antanarivo, the windows of the city's whitewashed buildings open, women waving flowers and men cheering.

M
isha pretended he was somewhere else, not on a log beside a fire pit outside the Zana-Malata's hut, but on his father's knee in an easy chair in the tiny apartment off the Ku'damm.

In his imaginings, his father, a rabbi, was reading to him again about how Abraham did not hurt his son but prayed to God, and about how Abraham knew Sarah and also knew things about Hagar who had a son named Ishmael and slept by a well. He told himself that when the story ended it would be bedtime, and his father would shut the book with a dramatic snap and kiss him goodnight. Misha would be ushered off to bed by his mother, happy that life was good.

The boy could only sustain the illusion for a short while before reality intruded. He shifted position, straddling the log and using his hand to tug at the leash so that he would have more room. With his other hand he pulled bark from the log, wondering what he could do to cause something bad to happen to Hempel, like a fire to consume the hut while the major slept.

When they were in the hut together, the Zana-Malata dawdled at similar things, using roots and sticks and powders and impressing Hempel with the uses he found for them. Surely
something
could happen if he, Misha, kept working at it.

The Zana-Malata was only the second black man he had ever known. He didn't like him, but not just because he was ugly. His papa had taught him that no man was ugly unless his heart was evil. Ugliness, like beauty, papa had said, was something that lay beneath what was visible.

How unlike Bruqah the Zana-Malata was, the boy thought. Hempel said the Vazimba was just another nigger African, no more trustworthy than a hyena, but he was wrong. Bruqah was wonderful.

The Zana-Malata eased from his sitting place and, leaning forward, seemed to pull a thimble from midair. He passed it three times around the perimeter of the smoke, eyes closed serenely, appearing to savor the smell. He put his face into the smoke and slowly slurped from the thimble, then offered it to Hempel, who had squat-crawled forward, his hand on the black man's back. The thimble was still full. Hempel took it and looked at the Zana-Malata with solemn eyes before he drank, tipping his head back and tossing the liquid toward the rear of his throat, like Misha had seen his real father do sometimes with schnapps.

Hempel handed back the thimble to the Zana-Malata, sat on the ground, and laid his head against the log. He looked up at the stars and sighed contentedly. "Do you know," he said to no one in particular, "that I once stood in a sleet storm all night at parade-rest, without a coat, just because I knew that Reichsführer Himmler would sometimes look down from his window? There must have been a hundred of us, men of all ages, and we kept up the vigil without ever planning it among ourselves or debating whether we should continue once we'd started. It was during a winter solstice celebration, at Wewelsburg Castle. After a book burning. God what a night that was!"

He stretched out his arms, seemingly lost in thought. Misha watched him. He didn't know what to think about Hempel anymore. He remembered hating him, but lately he didn't feel anything at all except shame. He had learned to separate himself from the pain and hatred that had at first overwhelmed him when the major did the
thing
.

"Bring me some wine, boy," Hempel said, letting go of the leash attached to Misha's collar. "On second thought," he picked up Erich's Walther from where it had been lying in the grass, emptied out the bullets, and placed the gun between Misha's teeth, "the Oberst is certainly asleep in a drunken stupor by now. Sneak this into his hut and bring back whatever's left of that good schnapps he's been drinking."

Misha dropped the gun, which was far too heavy for him to carry in that manner. "Pick it up and carry it," Hempel conceded. "If he wakes up while you're in there, don't speak to him. And be quick about it."

Obediently, Misha set off through the tall grass that bordered the hut site. "I said be quick," the major called out, and threw a rock at him.

He wouldn't go any faster, Misha thought. If it meant more rocks and worse, which it surely would, that was the way it was. He knew it was a small rebellion, but it was enough to lend him the courage to stop en route to the compound and dig up the zebu horn the guards had left after they hacked up the animal. It had looked so much like the Shofar that the cantor had used at his father's High Holy Day Services that he had buried it at the base of the tanghin tree, hoping to get it to Solomon in time. That way, though he couldn't be there himself, he'd be there in a kind of way.

He tucked the Walther into his waistband, and holding the Shofar in his hand headed around two prisoners who stood between him and the HQ tent.

"That damn leash and collar. We should take it off," one of the prisoners said, reaching for Misha.

The other man grabbed his friend by the wrist. "Don't be a fool!" he said. "You think it would make things better for any of us? You think it would make things better for the boy?"

Misha held up the horn. "A Shofar," he said, coughing, his voice hoarse from disuse. "For Herr Freund."

The first man took it from him. "I'll make sure it gets to the rabbi," he said.

Misha saw tears glisten in the man's eyes. He made a weak attempt at a smile and went on his way, guided by the quarter moon which hung in the sky like a grin and shone down on the Panzerbefehlswagen which Goldman and Bruqah were working on. He remembered Hempel saying that it should be used to blow the hell out of the devils they would encounter on the mainland, and Colonel Erich saying...he could not remember what the colonel had said.

"Halt or I'll shoot!"

The boy patted his waistband to make sure the pistol was there and lifted his hands. The guard who had called out to him lowered his rifle and Misha went into headquarters, which he knew doubled as the colonel's sleeping area and the radio center. It was much smaller than he had expected, and very messy.

Colonel Erich, seemingly fast asleep, lolled over a bottle.

"So what'd ya come for," he said, opening unfocussed eyes. "Hempel send you to beat me with the dog leash?"

He chuckled, and his head flopped around as though he could not control it. Then he lay down, stretched out, dropped the bottle, and began to snore.

Standing there in the moonlight, Misha felt truly separate from Hempel for the first time in months. He felt a part of himself return, the way he had felt when, after his parents were taken, he had worked for Miriam in the underground. A message runner whose world was Berlin's alleys and sewers. He tried to remember how he had felt during those headlong flights through the city, threading through crowds, hearing his footsteps echo down deserted alleyways, his socks constantly down around his ankles. If only it hadn't been his mistake that had gotten Herr Freund arrested!

Don't dwell on it, he told himself. Don't even think about it. He's not here, now.

But the fear and the memory of pain caught in Misha's throat and stayed there. Hurrying, he placed the pistol beside Erich and picked up the bottle. It was almost empty. For a moment, he felt again as he had while working for Miriam and the underground, strong and invincible.

Until Erich sat up, put both hands on his own forehead and, turning his face toward the ceiling, began to laugh. Loudly, with such drunken force that the sound sent Misha rushing from the tent.

"T
his," Hempel said with a calm that Erich knew belied his seething, "is an outrage."

Erich placed himself between the major and the Panzer, jockeying slightly whenever Hempel tried to step around him and get to the tank.

The major did not frighten him, Erich assured himself. Maybe years ago in Berlin, around those campfires on Lake Wannsee, when he had feared that the Freikorps-Youth leader might not like him; but no more. Fears of the likes of Otto Hempel had died when his boyhood died...whenever that was.

Behind him, Goldman again fired up the arc welder, adding a shower of sparks to the brilliance of the morning. Erich did not turn to look. He smiled inwardly as Hempel flinched. Only from the welding light? Erich wondered. Or because Goldman--a Jew, no less--was cutting and welding on the major's toy.

Putting on a blade. Turning a tank into a bulldozer.

He thought of cutting off the tank's barrel, just to spite the major--like a proud soldier with his dick sawed off--but he dared not push the changes too far, too fast. There were the volatile guards to consider. The previous day had shown him how tenuous was his position with them--if indeed he had not dreamed the whole thing.

Besides, who knew what Malagasy might attack Nosy Mangabéy once word spread of the German invasion, however small? Madagascar was French, and even those tribesmen who held no love for the Frogs--which, he assumed, would be most Malagasy--might not take well to any more foreigners on their beloved red-clay soil.

"Next time you have some question about my orders, you will come to me, your superior officer, for your directive." Erich looked up into Hempel's cold gray eyes. "Is that understood?"

Not a flicker of emotion showed in the eyes. The blankness unnerved Erich.

"I will do my duty...Herr Oberst."

"I will see that you do, Herr Sturmbannführer." Erich spoke slowly, articulately. "There is a stone gravesite atop the western hill, where the Jews are working. A crypt of some sort. Have one of the Jew...Jew
ish
details open it up. I wish to determine the hill's potential as a pillbox to guard that flank. If the crypt seems appropriate, begin the fortifications. Send ten men. I shall join you later for the opening of the tomb."

"Ten
men
? Or ten Jews?"

"Ten total."

"Then two men and eight Jews."

"Whatever. Dismissed, Herr Sturmbannführer."

Hempel saluted stiffly. Without emotion he stepped back and did a smart about-face. As he walked toward the Jews' sleeping area, he lifted an arm and snapped his fingers. Three guards, carbines in hand, came running from near their tents, at the other side of the compound.
     

Erich marveled at their loyalty, but wondered how effective they would be as real soldiers. Herding and clubbing Jews at Sachsenhausen was hardly equal to fighting the French and British in the trenches. Not that he himself had done any real soldiering, or that fighting for the Nazi Reich could ever be an honor.
The height of my life was my time in the trenches
, Adolph Hitler had written. Erich would fight, and well, he assured himself; and willingly. But not for Hitler. He would fight in the hope that the past would return, that a new Kaiser would be proclaimed.

He remembered Solomon's pewter Hessian soldiers and a sense of nostalgia filled him. How courageous each had seemed, lined up on his bedcovers around the hills of his knees. When he'd played with them with Solomon, he would lift a cuirassier or foot soldier and peer at it so intently that the uniform would appear to take on color and the face, expression. How could the farm boys and city toughs who followed Otto Hempel possibly compare? How far Germany had descended!