Pursuit (25 page)

“As soon as possible,” Ben-Levi said. He took some money from his pocket, peeled off some bills, and handed them to Grossman. “I want to thank you. We all want to thank you. We'll take you back to the house, get our things, and be off. You can stay there tonight—they'll feed you, if the old lady doesn't poison you—and tomorrow the old man will drive you to Tortona. I'll tell him on the way back. And good luck.”

“Thanks. And good luck to you.”

“I'll say good-bye to you here,” Wolf said. “Max will bring my things.” He grinned. “I don't want to risk another trip in that truck if I can help it.” He held out his hand; Grossman shook it. He was surprised to think he would miss the little man.

“This time I'll tell you what you told me once,” Grossman said, smiling. “Wolf—I hope you know how to swim.”

Wolf stared at him. “A sense of humor?” He looked around the ship, then sighed. “Well, maybe not.”

The darkened car was stationed on the shoulder of the main road, deep in the shadow of a notch cut in the mountainous road to allow room for the passage of trucks. Inside the car the two
carabiniere
spoke in whispers, although there was nobody within the sound of their voices.

“We should have found out where the boat was, and taken them all at the same time. The old lady said she heard them talking; she said there were hundreds of them. The British would have paid—!” He snapped his fingers to indicate how much the British would have paid.

“Except the old lady had no idea where the boat was,” the second one said. “All she knew is that it's somewhere south of here. What good is that?”

“Then we should have taken them in the house.”

“And have them jumping out all the windows? And we end up with nobody?”

“If we had more men—”

“We would have had to divide the money more ways.” The second
carabiniere
frowned at his companion in the darkened car. “This way is better. We know they have to pass here. This way we'll get the leaders; the British will find out from them where the boat is, all hundreds will be picked up, and we'll still get paid for all of them. Relax.”

They waited in silence. A car came roaring up the highway from the south; they leaned forward and then back again. Their description of the truck was complete; surely in the Genoa area there couldn't be two 1931 Chevrolet half-ton stake-body trucks painted purple.

One of the
carabiniere
reached for a cigarette; he had it to his lips before it was suddenly plucked from his mouth.

“No smoking! They see a lit cigarette in a parked car without lights—”

“They'll think we're lovers.” The first man chuckled and took the cigarette from his partner's hand, putting it back in his mouth. And then froze before he had a chance to light it. The headlights of a small truck had come wavering around the curve ahead of them, one lamp pointing up and the other down. Even at that distance they could hear the clanking of the old engine.

“It's them!”

The driver put the car in motion and drove slowly out into the highway without turning up his lights. His car effectively blocked the road.

The old man saw the shadow move into the road and stood on what was left of his brakes, fighting the wheel, screaming curses. He managed to swing the wheel to one side, running the truck slightly up the hillside to stop it. He flung open the door and got down, fuming.

“Ignorante! Stupido! Girando un automobile nelle strada senza badare! E senza luce!”

“Sta'zitto!”

The voice roared out of the darkness; lights suddenly flared from the car. The two
carabiniere
got down and advanced in the glare of their headlights, their batons swinging from their belts. The two came to stand beside the truck and motion to the three men in the back.

“All down!”

The three climbed down and stood beside the old man, who was muttering. “This is the work of my old lady! I'll bet! When I get home—”

“Quiet! Your papers!”

The old man wet his lips, putting down his fury, smiling a bit, cringing subserviently.

“Who carries papers just to go for a little ride with friends? Look, sir, we're only poor fishermen. Look at us, sir, you can see. We stopped for a glass of
grappino
—”

“Your papers!”

The old man sighed and dug into his pocket. He brought out a worn wallet, opening it and thrusting it before the policeman nearest him. The man took it and bent it toward the lights from the police car. He looked up, smiling grimly.

“You said you had no papers.”

The old man shrugged diffidently. “I'm sorry, sir, I forgot. I thought I had left them home in my other pants. But they're all in order. May we go now?”

“You may not.” He shoved the old man's wallet into the breast pocket of his uniform. “We'll attend to you later. You!” He swung around to Ben-Levi. “Let's see your papers.”

“Papers. Yes …” Ben-Levi reached into his pocket. His fingers fumbled there a moment and then came out with several folded bills. He held them out. “Will these papers do?”

The policeman counted the monev and then sneered.

“Two ten-dollar American bills? You must be joking!” He tucked the bills into his pocket and stared at Ben-Levi. “All right, now! Let's see your papers!”

“If you insist,” Ben-Levi said, and reached into another pocket. He brought out a folder and snapped it open, holding it at arm's length. The
carabiniere
moved to see it; Ben-Levi brought his other hand up and down in a vicious chop, smashing the man to the ground, unconscious.

“Run!”

The second policeman started to blow his whistle and Brodsky tore it from his lips, threw it as far as he could in the darkness, and knocked the man to the ground. The old man snatched his wallet from the pocket of the policeman on the ground, jumped into his truck, reversed it, and disappeared back toward Nervi without waiting for the others. Brodsky and Ben-Levi were running into the darkness along the cliff, beyond the scope of the fixed beams from the police car. Grossman tried to go the other way, back toward Genoa and the safe-house, but the second policeman staggered to his feet, his baton in his hand, swinging it viciously. He brought it up and smashed it across Grossman's head, knocking him unconscious, and in the same motion stepped over his fallen victim to the
carabiniere
on the ground, dragging the whistle loose from around the other's neck, and blowing upon it madly, furiously. If they had taken a regular police car instead of his partner's own car, just so the other could collect expenses, he could be radioing for help now, instead of blowing his head off like a maniac!

Brodsky paused, panting, looking back. In the light of the car headlights he could see Grossman stretched out on the ground, unmoving. With a muttered curse, he turned back. The policeman was blowing the whistle at the top of his lungs, turning his head frantically in the direction of the city, looking for help. Brodsky came out of the darkness and felled the man, clubbing him in the head with all his force. The whistling stopped abruptly as the man collapsed in a heap over his fallen companion. Then Brodsky picked Grossman up in a fireman's hold and was trotting with him as fast as he could back into the darkness.

There was the high thin sound of a siren rising and falling eerily in the distance, its shrill keening approaching. Someone must have telephoned, Brodsky thought, and slid over the edge of the cliff, hoping the slope at this point would be gentle. He tried to feel his way, bent over with Grossman a dead weight on his back; and then he was sliding, and then tumbling, and Grossman had been lost. Brodsky tried to brace himself, skidding, digging in his heels, trying to stop his precipitous descent with his fingers. He struck the bottom with a jar and then started to feel around for his friend, hoping the noise of his fall had not been noticed by anyone. Where was Grossman? He tried to look back up the cliff but the shadow there was complete. Could he have been caught on a bush or a tree? And how long would it be before the car with the siren had arrived and the cliffs would be swarming with men with flashlights? He went back the way he had come and then stumbled over something soft. It was Grossman. He bent over the still figure, putting his ear to the chest, listening for a heartbeat. It was there, strong and steady. He pulled the flaccid body closer to the base of the cliff and waited, sweating in the darkness.

The siren had paused at the site of the car blocking the road; the car was apparently being moved, and then the spotlight of the police car could be seen weaving about in the night, sliding from side to side of the road, searching for the fugitives. Men were now walking along the edge of the cliff, peering down, their strong flashlights bobbing as they walked and stopped and walked on again. Brodsky waited, pressed into the shadow of the cliff, hiding Grossman with his body, trying to control his breathing, positive his panting would be heard from above. The flashlights lit up the cliffside momentarily and then passed on; there was the sound of a car accelerating. The spotlight disappeared in the distance ahead. The foot searchers had apparently gotten back into the car, but Brodsky took no chances. It was a long time before he moved, and Grossman was still unconscious.

With a sigh the big man finally came to his feet and lifted his friend once again. He realized he was not familiar with the shore line and hoped he could reach the cove with the
Naomi
in it without having to climb the cliff again, hoped the beach did not run out into the sea, but continued giving footroom until the cove and the ship.

So close, he thought! He stumbled blindly through the coarse sand, holding Grossman in his arms, a dead weight, struggling through the beach in the deeper shadow at the base of the cliff. So close, and now this! That miserable old lady! Still, they had escaped, which was the main thing; and he was suddenly sure that Davi BenLevi had also evaded the search. His knapsack and the other things they had at the house were unimportant; what was important were people, and they were free. He glanced down at the man in his arms, unable to see anything but a bulking shadow in the darkness.

He smiled grimly. If this was God's way of getting them an engineer, then Wolf was probably right. It seemed an awfully haphazard manner of fulfilling the assignment, no matter what!

Chapter 12

He was on a moving object, his head was splitting with pain, and the world was uneasy about him; he felt clammy and cold and he knew in a moment he would have to vomit. He rolled onto his side, slowly opened his eyes, and then felt a surge of relief. It was only a nightmare, and he had had plenty of those before. He was back in Belsen on one of the narrow plank tiers, in the same semidarkness with the same smell of feces and urine and unwashed bodies, only this time Belsen was swaying from side to side. An earthquake, maybe, or possibly the camp was being bombed, although he could not hear the blasts of the explosions nor the roaring of the planes dipping down as they had at Celle. Still, being bombed in silence would not be inconsistent in a dream. But could it really be a dream when the pain and the nausea were so real? He turned his head and felt relief again; it really was a nightmare and he was really back in Belsen in it, for Pincus the pharmacist was sitting beside him, smiling at him. He closed his eyes, willing himself to waken from the terrible dream, wondering what happened when you vomited in a dream.

He discovered quite soon, for the camp and the barrack rolled once more and he found himself with his head hanging over the edge of the bunk, retching uncontrollably, his head pounding. The typhus was back, or the nightmare of it. Pincus was holding a basin for him; his other hand was pressed tightly against Grossman's forehead. Grossman wondered where Pincus had gotten the basin; usually they used an old can if they were lucky enough to have anything at all.

The spasm passed and he lay back weak, breathing raggedly, fighting the continuing nausea, staring up at the wooden tier over him, listening to the eerie creaking of the ship's timbers, remembering. This was no dream! He was on that damned ship! They had shanghaied him, taken him against his will. Oh, the bastards, the miserable bastards! This was their thanks for his having repaired their engine for them, for getting them started. He should never have done it. Oh, the miserable ungrateful Jew bastards!

The little light from the narrow companionway was blocked, and Brodsky came down the steps and walked over to stand beside his bunk, bracing himself against the rolling of the ship, looking down at him with concern.

“How do you feel?”

Grossman turned his head away. Brodsky turned to Pincus; Pincus shrugged.

“How should he feel? He's seasick, he's got a lump the size of I don't know what back of his ear—like a goose egg—he didn't want to come and here he is. How does he feel? That's how he feels, I imagine.” He tipped his head toward the makeshift medicine cabinet he had rigged up on one side of the bunks. “When he can hold them down I'll give him a couple aspirin; it's about all we got for what he's got.”

He got up to empty the basin; Brodsky took his place.

“Ben—”

Grossman glared. “Go to hell!”

“I had no choice, Ben. You were lying in the road, unconscious. They would have put you in a camp.”

“I'd rather be in a camp! A thousand times!”

“Except they wouldn't put you in a camp right away,” Brodsky said quietly. “First they would have beaten you half to death. Here they had four nice prisoners, almost sure to get some lire from the British for them, and a minute later all they have is you, and both of them dumped on their ass and looking foolish. You think they would have given you the keys to the city? They would have beaten the shit out of you, and then handed you over to the British. I had to try to save you.”

“You call this saving me?”