The Master Sniper (27 page)

A Jew, thought Shmuel. A living European Jew: the first he’d spoken to in months. It came as a shock. He’d been so long among the Gentiles. Not Germans, but still Gentiles. They didn’t
know;
they couldn’t
share
. Earnest, apologetic, efficient men: decent. Intelligent even,
but it was as if a different kind of brain filled their skulls. They worshiped a man skewered by his hands on a lumber cross: pain and blood at the very center of it. Shmuel preferred this eternal sufferer, pathetic yet dignified, who leaned on him as they neared the guardhouse, the entrance to the compound.

When they reached it, a flashlight from an American sentry beamed onto them. It seemed to halt at their prison stripes as if those said enough and then blinked out.

“Go on,” said a voice.

They walked on through the familiar geography, across the roll-call plaza, down the street between the barracks.

“It’s over there,” said the old man, pointing.

“I know,” said Shmuel.

Shmuel helped him to the building.

“You needn’t come inside.”

“No, you helped, now I help you. That’s how it should be.”

“You, a Jew, a yeshiva boy, you are helping them fight the Germans?”

“A little. There’s not much I can do. They’ve got machines and guns. They really don’t need me. But I can do little things.”

“Good. We should have fought. But who knew?”

“Nobody knew. Nobody could have guessed.”

“Maybe so,” said the old man. “Maybe so.”

They went into the building. Faces peered down from the tiers of bunks and voices hummed. The smell was almost blinding; Shmuel remembered through the tears that welled into his eyes. There was room for the old
man near the stove. He took him over and helped him lie down. He was light and dry and fell quiet quickly. But his hand groped out once, snatching at Shmuel’s wrist.

Shmuel drew back as the man’s breathing deepened into regularity. He was aware that a dozen gaunt faces stared down at him, death masks, and he didn’t care for the sensation. An undertang of DDT, from a recent de-lousing, hung heavy and powdery in the close air, causing his nostrils to flare.

Shmuel stepped to the door and out. Cool air flooded him, smooth and sweet. Above, an abundance of stars rose in their tiers, like the eyes of the men in the bunks.

There: a metaphor, drawn from the camps. “Like the eyes of the men in the bunks.” Only a Jew would see stars blurry and infinite in bands from horizon to horizon and think of the white eyes of men at the point of death. Would he continue to draw on the camps for metaphors, was that how deep they’d been driven into him? Did the Germans own his imagination, a final, subtler purchase, one that would seal him off from human company, the metaphorical
Mussulman
, forever?

Yet as he in despair realized the answer was Yes, he realized also that the problem was as much literary as psychological. And from that there followed immediately the recognition that he was, for the first time in many long years, thinking of literature again. He thought he ought to write about the camps, and that sometime, perhaps in a year or so, when one would not confuse zeal with excellence, passion with brilliance, he might in fact, if only as a private exercise.

As he walked down the street, between the mute rows
of barracks, he realized what an awesome task he’d so slightly just evoked; perhaps even an impossible one. It was enormous in a thousand ways: had any man the right to try and spin stories from a tragedy so huge? What of people of ill spirit who would read such accounts purely for the extreme sensations they caused, which of course was not the point at all? What was the artist’s responsibility to the gone, the lost, the unheard, the forgotten? And he saw also that in a certain way the imagination had been forever altered. The boundary of evil had been pushed back beyond the horizon on the one hand, but on the other, the capacity of the individual to withstand and triumph over the murderous intentions of the State had also been pushed back. A new form would have to be found, something that would encompass these new boundaries and at the same time convey the immensities of the act of Murder: a new esthetic for the post-atrocity world. Again, the problem of metaphor thrust itself upon him. In the camps, metaphor was everywhere: life was a metaphor, death was a metaphor. How could art be spun from a reality already so charged with elemental symbolism, the vision of hell the Germans had labored so mightily to construct on this earth: satanic sparks, the flames, the awful stench, the dogs straining on their leashes, fangs glistening? Perhaps it was beyond the reach of the artist.

You’d have to concentrate on something small: a parable; panoramas were incomprehensible. Concentrate on one man: how he lived, with as much dignity as the times permitted, and how he died, senseless perhaps, one more sliver of ash in a whirlwind dank with clouds
of ash, but convinced somehow that his life had had some meaning.

No, he thought, I could never write that. I simply am not good enough. Face it, as a writer you weren’t much, a few pitiful essays in long-forgotten Yiddish journals in a city that no longer existed. What positions had he attacked, what had he defended? He could not even remember.

Had he been a Marxist, a poet, a historian, a novelist, a philosopher, a Zionist? No, not a Zionist, not even in the last days before the war had come, that hot August of ’39 when Zionism flared like a contagion through the Quarter, and even the richest of them, the most assimilated, had been consumed in its vision. But that had been dreams, absurd, out of scale, the problems so immense. Next year in Jerusalem! Insane! The British, the Arabs, thousands of miles to travel. He hadn’t bought it then—just more dreamy Jews getting on with their own destruction.

But now he saw the dream wasn’t so outsized. It was prosaic, a necessity. For where else was there to go?
Eretz Yisrael
, the land of Israel. Home of the Jews. Now that would be something, wouldn’t it? That would be worth—

An immense pleasure spread through him.
Look at me
, he thought,
I am thinking again
.

He did not see them until they were quite close and then he had not time to display surprise. They seemed to materialize from nowhere, though in a splinter of a second he realized he hadn’t been able to make them out against the looming bulk of the guardhouse. And yet there was a familiarity about them, as though old
fears had taken on a familiar guise, and so he absurdly was not frightened and if there was to be any mercy in the next several seconds it was that one: that Shmuel was not frightened as the rushing forms closed on him and held him down.

“SS shit,” he heard in Polish, “SS shit.”

“I—” Shmuel started and then something enormous crashed into his skull. He felt his head inflate in pain and it seemed the abundance of stars had come down to crush him and they hit him again and again and again.

H
e expected trouble at the
Rheinbrücke
and hid in a stand of trees a few hundred yards down the road. The guards on the bridge appeared to be regular Army troops, not Waffen SS men, loafing in the sun. Repp studied them for some time, wishing he had binoculars to bring them up, see their procedures and moods. He tried to keep himself calm and his mind clear: only the bridge, its sentry post, and three lazy soldiers stood between him and safety. Once across, he had only a few blocks or so through the city to negotiate.

He’d feared a massive jam-up here, a refugee column, farmers’ carts heaped with furniture, frightened children; officers’ staff cars honking, the wounded hanging desperately on the backs of tanks; grim SS men patrolling for deserters. Instead, only this pleasant still scene, almost traffickless—occasionally a truck crossed, and once a sedan, but mostly farmers’ wagons heaped with hay, not furniture, and pedestrians. From his vantage point, Repp could also see the Bodensee over the rail of the bridge, stretching away, glinting in the May sun, its horizon lost in a haze: the Lake of Konstanz, a true inland sea. There seemed no war here at all. Was he too late? Since Tuttlingen, he’d traveled mostly by night,
staying away from main roads, moving south, always south, across fields and through scraggly forests: out of touch, on his own, fugitive from his friends now as well as his enemies.

The sergeant in the sentry booth watched him come, but said nothing. Repp recognized the type, tired veteran, laconic of speech, economical of gesture, face seamed with hard knowledge. No need to yell when Repp was already approaching.

“Say, friend,” the sergeant finally said, unlimbering himself from the stool on which he sat. He picked up his MP by the sling, toting it with the easy motions of over-familiarity.

“And where might you be headed? Switzerland, I suppose. Don’t you know that’s for big shots, not little fishies like you or me?”

Repp smiled weakly. “No, sir,” he said.

“Then what’s your sorry story? Running
to
, or running
from?”

Repp handed him his papers.

“I was separated from my unit,” he explained as the sergeant scanned them. “A big American attack. Worse than Russia.”

“And I suppose you think your unit’s on the other side of the bridge?” the sergeant asked.

Repp had no answer. But then he said, “No, sir. But my mother is.”

“You’ve decided to go on home then, have you?”

“I’ll find an officer to report to after I’ve seen my mother,” Repp said.

The sergeant chuckled. “I doubt there’s a sober one left. And if you find one, I doubt he’ll give a damn about
you. Go on, damn you. To mother. Tell her you’re home from the wars.”

Repp drew in a deep gulp of the cool air and tried to keep himself calm as he walked across the great Romanesque bridge between the Lake of Konstanz’s two basins, the vast Bodensee to the east, and the Untersee, the more picturesque with its steep wooded shores, to the west. At the end of the structure, he passed under a medieval tower and stepped into the old city. It was a holiday town, cobbled and quaint, exactly the kind of place Repp didn’t care for. It had no purpose beyond pleasure, with its casino and boat tours and green lakeside park. It had never even been bombed and seemed uneasy in a military role, as if it were wearing an outlandish costume. The soldiers who clustered in its narrow streets seemed wildly out of place against the cobbles and arches and turrets and timbers and spires. Repp slid anonymously among them; they paid him no attention, shouting instead at women, or lounging about drunk before the Basilica of the Münsterplatz. Even the officers were in bad shape, a sullen, loutish crew; clearly they’d already surrendered.
Kübels
and trucks had been abandoned around the Platz and Repp saw rifles already piled in the square. Repp felt himself filling with anger as he pushed through them but he kept it to himself, one straggler adrift in a crowd of stragglers.

Repp turned off the Münsterplatz and headed down Wessenbergerstrasse. Here, in the residential sector, there were no soldiers, only an occasional old woman or man whose questioning eyes he would not meet. He turned up Neugasse, where the houses were shabbier still, looking for No. 14. He found it soon, a two-story
dwelling, dirty stucco, shuttered. Quickly, without looking up or down the street of almost identical houses, and without hesitating, he knocked.

After a time, the door opened a sliver.

“Yes?”

He could not see her in the shadow. But he knew the voice quite well. She sounded tired. Unlike the other times.

“It’s me.”

The door closed, a chain was freed, and then it opened.

He stepped into the shadowy foyer, but she was not there. He went into the living room beyond. She stood against the wall, in the dark.

“Well, at last I’m here,” he said.

“So I see. They said a man. I should have known.”

“Ah,” he said, haltingly. The truth was, he felt a little unsure of himself.

“Sit down, sit down,” she urged.

“I’m filthy. I’ve been sleeping in barns, swimming rivers. I need a bath.”

“The same Repp: so fastidious.”

“Please—a bath.”

“Yes. Of course.” She led him through a shabby living room, hushed in draperies and blinds, flowers grimy on the wallpaper, and up some decrepit stairs. The house stank mildly of must and disinfectant.

“I’m sorry it’s so awful. But they said it had to be a house, definitely a house and this is all that was available. It’s outrageously expensive. I rented it from a widow who’s said to be the richest woman in Konstanz.
It’s also said she’s a Jew. But how can that be? I thought they took all the Jews away a long time ago.”

“They did,” Repp confirmed. “You’ve got the documents?”

“Of course. Everything. You needn’t fear. Tickets to Switzerland.”

They walked down a short hall into the bathroom. The tub stood on claws like a beast. The plaster peeled off gray walls and the plumbing smelled. Also, the mirror was flaking off and there were water spots on the ceiling.

“Not the Grand, is it?” he said.

But she seemed not to remember. “No.”

She had been ahead of him all this time and now, in the gray bathroom, she turned and faced him fully.

She searched his eyes for shock.

He kept them clear of it.

“So?” he finally said. “Do you expect me to say something?”

“My face isn’t like it was, is it?” she asked.

“No, but nothing is.”

The scar ran vividly from the inside corner of her eye down around her mouth to her chin, a red furrow of tissue.

“I’ve seen far worse in the East,” he said. “They’ll fix you up after the war. Make you pretty again. Make you prettier, I should say. You’re still quite attractive.”

“You’re trying to be kind, aren’t you?”

Yet to Repp she was still a great beauty. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her blond hair was short now, but her body had that same suppleness and grace to it; she was thin, rather unlike the ideal
Aryan woman, her hips too narrow for easy childbirth, but Repp had never been interested in children anyhow. She wore a pinstriped gray skirt and a flower-print blouse and had dark stockings on, which must have been very old, and high-heeled shoes. Her neck was long and blue veins pulsed visibly under her fair skin and her face seemed porcelain or some equally delicate thing, yet fragile though it appeared her eyes were strong and rather hard.