Children of the Dusk (20 page)

Their beloved Führer Himself had defined her as Aryan. Even on a remote Madagascar island they could not obviate His orders and live without fear. She was safe, surely.

"When, Solomon, will we find a way to live together in some semblance of normal life?” she whispered.

Perhaps, she thought hopefully, she could watch the Service from a distance, yet close enough to put herself among the prisoners should Hempel and his ilk decide to interfere. Were she in danger, Erich would be more likely to intercede on behalf of the Jews.

She shook her head, chiding herself for her assumptions and angry with her self-centered attitude. She had the baby to consider, she reminded herself.

Besides, what right had she to think herself welcome in the company of a congregation of men who had survived Sachsenhausen!

T
eruah
.

The third note of the Shofar sounded--sharp, staccato, expressing the pride and the pain and the hope of Solomon's people. This time, the forest animals replied as if in counterpoint.

Looking over the bowed heads of the huddled Jews, Solomon remembered the last important time he had stood at the
bimah
. His bar mitzvah.

What an event that had been for him and for his family.

Now, he stood before the others near the narrow spring that ran over the cliff from the embankment. Standing to one side were the few men who no longer believed that their God listened when they prayed. Above him, pointing down at the piece of cloth he was using as a
yarmulke
, was a machine gun. Beyond the prisoners, two of Erich's dog trainers held Krupp machine pistols, while half-a-dozen others stood beside their dogs, fingering the choke chains nervously.

In obedience to Erich's orders, Hempel's men kept their distance.

"
Baruch Ato Adonoy, Elohaynoo Melech Ha'olom
," he intoned after Goldman, serving as cantor, lowered the Shofar.
May the Lord make His countenance to shine upon you and bring you peace. Amen
.
 

Sol kept his voice hushed. No sense waking the dead--or at least those who, priding themselves on spreading death, were morally so.

"For obvious reasons, I'm going to keep this brief," he began. "We are here today to honor a beginning. For us, this Rosh Hashanah is more than a New Year and a time of remembrance and judgment. As Jews we must examine our past wrongs, where in deed and thought we have failed our Father...
land
," he added, glancing uneasily toward the men with the dogs. "We stand here beneath the eyes of He who created us; our actions and conduct must serve not only as an example for those who follow us, but also as the springboard--the base camp--for the fact that they
will
follow...
if
we not only obey"--
our consciences
, he wanted to say--"but work as men possessed."

He continued with the sermon, keeping it short yet striving to ensure that his fellow prisoners understood his message, both explicitly and implicitly. On this Holy Day, his people prayed to be included in the book of the righteous who would live one year more. Even the dead, it was written, prayed for the living. This holy day was when the Jew reviewed his history and prayed that he would find contentment and hope in Jerusalem. Such was the dream of all Jews since the Diaspora. So this wasn't Jerusalem, but it also wasn't Sachsenhausen. How bittersweet that they had reason to give praise to Adolph Hitler.

Sol had carefully thought out the sermon. He wanted to be certain that a subtle but clear message underlay his words, one conveyed by inflection and nuance. The fact was that ultimately each of them would have to decide in his own heart whether he should work with the Nazis--compromise with evil--to build a sanctuary here for European Jewry. He, Solomon, knew of Hitler's plans to transform Madagascar not into a homeland for Jews but a ghetto where he might pen up Jewish assets and abilities for his own ends. The Führer wanted to rid the world of Jews, but keep at hand what they could give him. The list of Jewish achievements, especially in industry and science, was endless; even a madman such as he would not be so foolish as to give that up. A Nazi-dominated Jewish island off the east coast of Africa would guarantee ongoing use of the ideas and human energy the Jewish people possessed; it would also protect Fascist oil interests in the Gulf states, ensure Italian imperialism in Ethiopia, and break up British shipping lanes between India and South Africa.

The notion of a Jewish homeland on Madagascar had not originated with Hitler. Napoleon had considered it; Bonnet, France's Foreign Minister, had supported such a plan; the Poles had sent a contingent to Madagascar to study the matter. But Hitler clearly had a greater design, if he intended to go through with the project at all. Hadn't he said as much to Rathenau way back in '18?...
pen the Jews on Madagascar, and use them like dogs.

Right now, on tiny Mangabéy island--an area of land almost as small as the infamous Alcatraz, in the United States--the plan was but a seed. Solomon and the other prisoners could help assure the survival of European Jews, in a world grown insane with hate; but in building what Hitler wanted, they would run the risk of supporting what he might do on Madagascar. Should they attempt to create a sanctuary--or sacrifice themselves and sabotage the mission?

His personal history drove him toward the latter course, which was not surprising after his many years of studying the texts of the great Kabbalist, Isaac Luria. Luria had believed that
galut
, the exile of the Jewish people, was a reflection of the self-imposed exile of God Himself, who withdrew to make room for the world.

How much simpler it would be, Solomon thought, to believe as many Kabbalists did that
galut
was a condition of a universe in need of redemption, rather than a circumstance imposed by man. So firm were they in that belief, that many of them went into exile by choice, both seeking expiation and in order to participate in what was thought of as the divine exile.

He spoke of that in his sermon. With enemy ears trained upon his words, he could not talk much about their present reality. Had he been able to do so, he would have said that if Hitler lacked a destination to which to send European Jewry, he would be forced into compromise, however self-serving. For how else might he deal with the millions of Jews with which he must contend now that he had invaded Poland and annexed Austria and Czechoslovakia? And he would not stop there. It hardly seemed possible that even he could hope simply to kill them all.

The prisoners kept their heads down as Solomon spoke. Not only in reverence and to avoid arousing suspicion, but also because each mulled the questions, considered the ramifications--and remembered home and loved ones. Dare they throw away whatever chance they had to see those loved ones again, in exchange for the pitifully small reward of
possibly
keeping Madagascar out of Nazi hands? Even if the project failed, should Germany attack France it was likely that Madagascar, though nominally French, would side with Hitler. There was considerable Nazi sympathy here, as there was in South Africa. Solomon knew there was another variable, one each man could not avoid considering, though none would ever admit having thought about it: Solomon Freund, whom they had chosen to act as rabbi, was or had been involved with Miriam Rathenau Alois. Misha, who had worked for her before his capture, had told them that. She was
here
. The women they loved were...where?

If they were even alive.

Nearing the end of the Service, Sol signaled Goldman to take over the reading from the Torah. That night they would share in the eating of the head of a fish, so that they would all be heads and not tails in the year to come; tomorrow, singly because they had not dared to ask permission to gather again as a group, each man who still believed would cast away his sins against God beside the stream.

For now, he must ready the bread they had saved and the honey they had gathered--symbolic of their joy and gladness in the Lord.

Deep in thought, he did not immediately see Miriam standing near the outer fence. Seconds later, panic rose in him, though not at the sight of her there, or of the half-a-dozen Kalanaro armed with spears who danced, and glowed, in the dusk.

What caused his pulse to quicken was the sight of Dr. Judith Bielman-O'Hearn, standing large as life at Miriam's side. He could see her clearly in the sentry tower's spotlight.

Sol blinked and tried to focus with weak eyes, wondering if this could be another of the visions that had plagued him since childhood, the visions that had become so much more terrifying after he had witnessed the assassination of Miriam's uncle.

But there had been no cobalt-blue light to presage this vision, as there had always been before; and, despite the shadows and his eyesight, the woman's figure had a clarity to it that had never been true of his amorphous ghosts.

The Kalanaro leaped and cavorted and spun in silence, brandishing their weapons, their heads like hairy coconuts, their eyes charcoal-rimmed and too big for their faces. Mouselemur eyes.

Forcing his focus, it became apparent that the Kalanaro were covered with a white substance that appeared to pulse and wink--

"You all right,
Reb
Solomon?" the man next to him asked, placing a light hand on Sol's arm.

"May you be written down for a good year," Solomon said, choosing to use the traditional Rosh Hashanah greeting in the hope that it would lend him strength.

"Prisoner three-seven-seven-zero-four!"

Hearing his Sachsenhausen number, Sol jerked his attention to the left, moving his whole head rather than his eyes to compensate for his lack of peripheral vision. Pleshdimer, his fat carp mouth downturned in a sneer, stood beside the spring.

"I'm talking to you, Jew!"

Solomon shoved the bowl and bread into the nearest man's hands, raced toward Pleshdimer, and snapped to attention. Erich had ordered the Kapo not to speak to the prisoners in a derogatory manner, but Sol knew that beneath Pleshdimer's fat was a strength that could break a man's neck like a twig. Erich's orders or no, it was life-threatening to treat the Kapo with anything but the greatest show of respect.

Sol saluted. "Yes, Herr Kapo Pleshdimer!"

"Herr Kapo Rottenführer Pleshdimer!" the man bellowed into Solomon's face. "I'm army now, you know."

"Yes Herr Kapo Rottenführer Pleshdimer!" Were the pygmies still there? Sol wondered. Were they watching? Was Judith?

He glanced from the corner of his eye; as usual he saw only dark gray where his eyesight failed him. He turned his head, slightly. The dancers were gone.

Judith was gone.

Pleshdimer hit him.

The punch came from the side. Sol heard a cartilaginous crackling in his left ear even before he felt the pain. Then something roared through his head and he slumped sideways to his knees, struggling to hold himself up with his right hand.

Pleshdimer kicked him beneath the chin, snapping Sol's head backward and catapulting him onto his shoulder blades. He lay there, schooled by the terrible lessons of Sachsenhausen into knowing he had to arise immediately or face further punishment.

"You will look at me when I speak to you, scum!" Pleshdimer boomed from above.

He squatted and stuck a cigarette butt between Sol's lips, then scooped up red mud from beside the spring and mashed it against Sol's mouth, rubbing hard with the heel of his hand.

Solomon managed to rise to his knees and struggled to stand, careful not to spit out the cigarette nor wipe off the mud. Let no man refuse what gifts Wasj Pleshdimer gave; Solomon had learned that the hard way, too.

"Yes...Herr Kapo...Rottenführer...Pleshdimer, sir," Sol forced himself to say. He felt blood coming from his left ear, trickling down beneath his collar.

"What's going on here!"

He looked up through eyes half-shut in pain to see Erich striding toward him, pistol in hand. He's going to shoot me, Sol thought. So be it. He would not again endure what he had been through in Sachsenhausen. He would not.

"This Jew scum...disrespectful! Disobedient!" Pleshdimer lowered his voice toward the end, as if suddenly less sure of himself. "I found this!" He pointed, shaking with anger, at the cigarette butt hanging from Sol's lip.

Erich took the butt and flipped it away in disgust. He cocked the pistol, glared at Sol--and abruptly swung the barrel toward Pleshdimer. "I don't care what you found! You ever touch one of my Jews again without my consent, I'll tear your eyes out and stuff them down your throat."

"Rottenführer Pleshdimer did not find the offensive item." Major Hempel ambled into Sol's tunnel vision. "I did. Captain Dau and I discovered it days ago near the mess tent--obviously, and probably purposely, overlooked by your
colonists
." The major said the last word as though it made him want to spit.

"Are you saying that the Jews improperly policed the area?" Erich asked.

"I have yet to see them maintain
any
part of this camp to
my
satisfaction," Hempel replied.

"We both know what your standards are, Herr Sturmbannführer." Erich spoke with equal animosity. "Jew blood to fertilize the flowers. Jew flesh as fodder for pigs. Except this isn't Sachsenhausen. We have no prize hogs here on Mangabéy." Erich barely came up to the major's lapels. Without tilting up his head, he looked into Hempel's eyes with a withering glare that made the major look small. "A Jewish child to warm your bed," Erich continued. "
That
you have had here, and at the boy's insistence will have again." Erich holstered his gun. "That is my one concession to you," he said. "Watch yourself, Herr Sturmbannführer, or you'll be left without any concessions."