Children of the Dusk (33 page)

Though he could still not enter the cave, Bruqah felt better. That which he understood rarely caused him fear, and he understood this. The Zana-Malata had left the Kalanaro to guard the entrance to the crypt. Lady Miri could not see them because she did not understand how they could be fossas and men and fireflies, metamorphosing as the whim took them. But he understood. Was he not able, in his own way, to do the same thing? Was he not a traveler's tree for some, capable of giving sustenance, while for others he was at best a man?

Raising his voice but careful not to make his tone in any way threatening, he shouted at the Zana-Malata through the cave opening, asking to be allowed to enter. There were times, he thought, to forego anger. This was clearly one of those times.

"Why is he here, Bruqah?" Miriam asked, making her way slowly toward him.

"He waits for the child he thinks will be the vessel of the soul of Queen Ravalona."

"My child? Oh come now." Miriam laughed. "I've been willing to accept a lot of things you have said, Bruqah, but this is ridiculous."

"Do not laugh, Lady Miri. We must watch him very careful when the birthing time comes. He wishes to be there so that he can take the afterbirth."

"And do what with it!"

Bruqah hesitated before he answered her. He did not want to tell her too much, yet cared too much for her to tell her nothing. In the end, albeit an end that still lay in the far future, the child was what counted--to him, to the Zana-Malata, to Madagascar, and to whatever other future the child's life led her into.

He looked up at the sky and guessed it to be around three or four in the morning. The pains Miriam had experienced were not the real thing. He had induced them to ensure her safety. The actual birth of the child would not happen until the sun had come up and gone down again at least once, which left plenty of time for talk and more than enough time to rid themselves of the Zana-Malata's presence. Soon much would happen to change life on the island. For now, there was little reason why he and his old adversary could not, for a short while at least, declare a tenuous peace.

"I think that you had better answer me, Bruqah," Miriam said. Judging by her tone, curiosity and anxiety were becoming anger.

"He believe," Bruqah said, weighing his words carefully, "that if he eat the afterbirth he will gain power over the soul the child." Which, he thought but chose not to say, was the soul of Ravalona, the soul of Madagascar. He deliberated whether or not to continue. "He believe," he went on, having made the decision, "that same give him power over life and death."

R
eleased by the nudge from Hempel's boot, Misha wandered around aimlessly for a while, simply enjoying his freedom. Usually when he was not at Hempel's side, he made sure that he stayed within view of the compound, and of the activity around the shack. This time, he played on the beach in the moonlight, built a sand castle, caught one of the tiny sandcrabs that peeked out at him from a pinprick of a hole near the water's edge. He even dared a swim until the proximity of a small barracuda drove him out of the water.

Ultimately, he returned to the Storch to await Hempel, certain that the major would leash him to it like a guard dog. He had grown so accustomed to Hempel's sexual abuse and to Pleshdimer's cruelty, that he at first felt almost neglected. But as the hours passed, he began to enjoy his freedom from pain and to dread its return.

Comforted by the night breeze, he fell asleep under the wing of the plane. When he awoke, dawn had begun to lighten the sky. He lay on the sand until the sun rose, lazily contemplating the recent past. Most of all, he thought about how much Otto Hempel had changed since his, Misha's, voluntary return to the collar and the leash, leaving the boy pretty much to his own devices. He hadn't done the
thing
to him for days, nor had he given Pleshdimer permission to hurt him. This despite the Kapo's constant request that he be allowed to "...beat the little shit."

Rapidly, the sun heated up and crawled under the wing. Misha stood up and brushed himself off. Pretty soon, he figured, Hempel would come to the plane for his morning inspection. What better time than now to do what he had sworn to do, and kill the major? As far as Misha could tell, no one would miss Hempel, except maybe the Zana-Malata and Pleshdimer. Herr Alois would be happy, especially after yesterday. So would Miriam and Solomon. Maybe Bruqah would too, though it was hard to tell what he cared about.

His mind made up, Misha looked around for a weapon. The stones near the mangrove roots were either too little or too heavy. A stick, he decided. If he kept one hidden and at hand, he could plunge it into the major's black heart.

He picked up several sticks and tested them by stabbing them into the sand. The first two broke; the third bent into a bow.

Too tricky, he decided. If he chose the wrong stick, he'd end up not doing the job properly. He was going to have to find something more sophisticated. Something that couldn't miss, like a gun, or Pleshdimer's knife.

He found some shade under the second wing, lay down again, and looked up at the morning sky. He could see a rain cloud approaching rapidly, bringing with it the day's first cloudburst. He didn't mind, in fact he rather enjoyed the momentary coolness that the sudden showers brought in their wake. But a gust of wind diverted the cloud, and it dropped its weather just to the right of him, onto the water.

With no other cloud in sight to distract him, he turned his thoughts to his list. He had neglected it of late because, truth to tell, it had grown a little confusing--what with Hempel racking up points on the plus side just by leaving him alone. That the major deserved to die hadn't changed, only the urgency of it.

The same was not true of Wasj Pleshdimer.

In his mind's eye, Misha walked through multiple possibilities: death by knife--a small boy might not get it through the fat; by bullet--he had no gun. By fire--now there was something to contemplate. Better yet, he would set fire to the Zana-Malata's hut while the two of them were asleep. That way the fat Kapo and the syphilitic could fry together, like the grasshoppers on the fence yesterday--

"You think you can hide from me?"

Misha jumped at the sound of the Kapo's voice, so alive for someone who, in Misha's imaginings, was at that very moment being reduced to ashes. Not only was he very much alive, he held Taurus by a leash, which he slung over one of the plane's struts.

Knotting it firmly, he knelt down and leaned over Misha, his face so close and his breath so acrid that it alone made the boy sick. Misha turned his head to avoid the stench.

With one hand, Pleshdimer turned Misha's face back toward him; with the other he gripped Misha's crotch and twisted.

The boy cried out and the Kapo smiled with pleasure. "Think you can fly the plane and get away, that it?" He released Misha and laughed heartily at his own humor.

Misha crouched in a ready position, determined to make a run for it if the Kapo came near him again. To his right and slightly behind him, Taurus growled and strained at her leash. If he could release the dog quickly enough, he thought, maybe Taurus would attack Pleshdimer and tear off his balls. Despite everything, he grinned at the image.

Then all notion of immediate revenge flew away as Pleshdimer's boot struck hard and accurately into the small of his back.

"I hate you!" Misha screamed, unwilling to control his fury and unable to control the pain. "Hate you, hate you, hate you."

Pleshdimer smiled benignly and let out a satisfied sigh, as if Misha's hatred had momentarily sated him. Then, eyes filled with renewed ugliness, he advanced upon the boy.

"Move it!” Otto Hempel's voice floated up from the beach that ran alongside the lagoon. “I don’t have all day for this."

Pleshdimer stopped in his tracks.

Misha looked beyond the Kapo in the direction of the sound. He could see three figures walking along the beach. The major was in the lead. Behind him two men dragged their feet with the apparent weight of the wooden crate they were carrying. As they drew closer, Misha recognized Herr Alois and Herr Freund. The crate, about the size of a small coffin, was marked
MUNITION
" in large black print.

"Over there," the major instructed, pointing at Misha. "Put it down in the shade. Be careful with it, or we'll all blow up."

Sweating profusely, the two men carried the crate the rest of the way and laid it gently on the sand. Herr Alois' face was scrunched up in pain.

"You, Jew, return to the compound. Gefreiter, you stay here."

Solomon's gaze caught Misha's and they nodded slightly at each other in greeting before Sol turned and headed toward the foliage at the edge of the sand. Misha watched him stop once and turn to stare at the group near the Storch. Then, apparently seeing that their attention was focussed on the crate, Herr Freund moved quickly sideways into the greenery.

E
rich stared incredulously at the bomb racks that had been rigged up underneath the Storch's wooden wings.
      

There were four wire-and-bracket clips on each side. A silver, crenellated cable ran the length of them and connected to eyehooks where each bomb would reside. The intent was clear: as the cable was engaged, the bombs would fall in sequence, beginning with the outermost ones.

Apparently, with forty barely pubescent camp guards, poorly trained for battle, less than a dozen dog handlers who would probably bolt the moment they regained mastery over their charges, and a bunch of Kalanaro who seemed more monkey than human, Major Otto Hempel meant to take the war in Europe onto the mainland of Madagascar--without orders or proper ordnance, and with over a hundred and forty Jews itching to get their fingers around his neck. What could drive even a megalomaniac like Hempel to attempt something so extreme?

It took Erich only a moment to guess the answer.

What better way to hope to have one's ashes enshrined in one of Himmler's holy urns than to almost single-handedly attempt an invasion? Erich would have laughed aloud were it not for the larger picture: he was supposed to be in command; he, not Hempel, would be blamed when the attempt failed. Goebbels would portray Hempel as a hero willing to sacrifice himself for the Reich's Greater Good--and would make scapegoats of the Jews.

He felt as if he were about to explode and clenched his fists, furious at his helplessness. Stripped of his rank, a private, a servant...forced to hand-carry bombs for Otto Hempel. He was hardly in a position to stop this, and yet stop it he must.

A muzzle touched the nape of his neck, making his hairs stand on end. "Straighten up, Gefreiter. You may be a private, but you are a still soldier in the German army."

Hempel stood on the seaward side, next to a growling Taurus. Erich stepped toward his animal, testing her response. The shepherd advanced to the end of her leash, savage-eyed, lowering her head in menace, the muscles along her back evident beneath her coat.

"In a few minutes, Gefreiter, the rest of my men will arrive. You will help them affix the bombs in this crate onto the apparatus we have rigged to the bottom of the wings. Is that clear?"

Erich continued to stare at Taurus.

"Answer me, Gefreiter."

"It is quite clear...Otto."

"Otto?" Hempel's face filled with rage. "
Otto
!"

His features smoothed and he smiled, the old feral smile Erich knew so well. "This is a private moment, so to speak," he said, pleased at his cleverness, "so I will allow your impudence to pass." He took a handmade pipe out of his pocket, tamped it, and lit it. "Not bad, these island leaves," he said, emitting a cloud of foul-smelling smoke.

He puffed for a while, then handed the pipe to Pleshdimer for safekeeping. The Kapo stared at it longingly but did not put it to his lips.

"I have often wondered, Weisser, whether you had any notion of the real mission of this contingent of Nazis and Jews. Did you really think that the Reich would allow Jew and Malagasy to live side-by-side? Are you that naïve?" Hempel looked at Erich with utter disdain. "Do you know what an affront a black Jew is to God? Why do you think the Führer so passionately supported Mussolini against the Ethiopians?"

Erich said nothing.

"We are here to test the effectiveness of tabun nerve-gas on isolated villages," Hempel said. Without waiting to judge the impact of his words, he went on. "As the Madagascar Homeland is implemented, the indigenous population will be eliminated rather than moved. This time, we will operate with real efficiency, against civilian populations, not just against soldiers--as was the case during the Great War."

He gazed dreamily across the water.

"Once I demonstrate how well the nerve gas works in warfare, I will at last, at the age of fifty-eight, realize my goal of becoming one of Himmler's Twelve Lieutenants. I intend to test the weapon on mainland villages immediately, and to use the dogs as perimeter guards to kill anyone attempting escape."

Erich could not even hazard a guess as to why Hempel had grown so expansive. He felt as trapped by the monologue as by the loss of the compound, and stupid for not having guessed that Himmler had intended from the start to sacrifice the Madagascar operation to the good of the Reich by making a martyr out of Hempel. That the Reichsführer had every intention of turning the Jews into scapegoats was no surprise. His method of doing so, however, filled Erich with renewed shock at the depths to which the Reich would descend to achieve its ends.