Child of the Journey (13 page)

Standing with his forehead pressed against the wall, he cursed the whole Weisser family--and himself, for ever having believed in them. He found himself wishing that the goon who had started the fire in the cellar would return and finish the job. Only the memory of his father kept him from dousing the shop in gasoline and putting a match to it himself.

How secure he had once felt in his beliefs! Secure and...virtuous. That was it! As if being part of Walther Rathenau's dream of God and good government made him better than he would have been as just Solomon Freund, a Jew with a yen for scholarship.

The New Order had taken care of that, all right. Stripped him of his virtue. Now Hitler's followers were the ones who felt purposeful and fired with moral rectitude.

He envied them.

Even in a Berlin given way to penury and pain, he coveted their sense of conviction...those beautiful couples, glad to give up their strolls through the Tiergarten. They knew--
knew!--
that devil-may-care lives were evil and there was beauty only in Nazi law and order. Now, Hitler Youth used sawed-off boards to practice maneuvers between manicured shrubs where the wealthy had walked. Today felt good to them and they believed in an even better tomorrow. Trivia did not trouble them; it meant nothing to them that theirs was a world where the premium on good cigars had been replaced by so pressing a demand for weapons that Berlin's stores had run out of toy guns.

From the Zoo Station came the rumble of the night train from Frankfurt, as always exactly on time, running with Teutonic precision. Now
there
was true virtue.

The sound of running footsteps outside cut through his thoughts. Instinctively he stepped into the shadows.

"Herr Freund?"

A small pair of hands planted themselves on the outside of the lowest window pane.

"Herr Freund?"

A boy's cap and dirty face poked into view. Feeling silly for his fear, Sol saw it was a youth eight or nine years old.

He made his way across the shop; the gaslight outside revealed the child, standing in filthy tweed cap, ill-fitting coat, and woolen knickers, while snow lightly swirled around him. One sock was down around a skinny ankle.

"I bring word from Miriam Rathenau!" The boy's mouth was so close to the pane that his breath made a small ragged circle.

Fearing to open the door, Solomon tugged at the window, trying unsuccessfully to open it a crack. "Tell me!"

The boy glanced anxiously up and down the street, then reached inside his coat. "You are Solomon Freund?"

"I am."

The boy drew in his cheeks as if he were biting the inside of them to lend him courage.

"You need food?" Sol set caution aside and inched open the door. "Shelter? I'd be glad to share what I have."

The child shoved a thick envelope toward him. "I have to go."

Sol moved closer and took the letter. Word from Miriam! His emigration papers?
Their
papers? He stared down at the envelope.

By the time he looked up, the boy had dashed across the street.

"Wait!" Sol waved frantically. "Come back!"

The boy reached the alley beside the apartment building that had been Sol's former residence. Stopping in the shadow created by a cornice, he turned around.

Sol stepped into the swirling snowfall, concerned more for the child than his own safety. The beadle had told him of a boy he had tried to take out of Berlin, the son of a rabbi whose parents were transported. The youth, determined to remain in the city to search for his mama and papa, had slipped away in the confusion and crowds at the train station, too quick and too late for Beadle Cohen to find him. Could this be that boy?

Looking petulantly at the ground, the youth shuffled toward Solomon, pigeon-toed and tentative. A blast from the station stopped him. The ground shook. There was a
chug-whoosh
of the engine and of airbrakes releasing as the night train pulled away.

"Come quickly!" Solomon shouted above the din.

Suddenly the unmistakable wail of a police car shattered the night. A Mercedes squealed around a corner, fishtailing on the icy asphalt. Like a roach surprised by light, the boy scurried down the alley.

Run!
Sol screamed at himself. Into the shop! Hide in the darkness and pray they aren't looking for you---

What kind of man was he becoming, he thought as he reached the door, that he could hope they were after anyone but him...even a boy--a child?

Asking forgiveness from the boy and from God, he closed the door of the shop and pushed the letter into his coat pocket.
  
Re-entering at this time of night could draw attention to himself, and running would be sheer stupidity. He must be like any merchant shutting up his place of business and strolling away--careful to hear and see nothing he was not supposed to.

Head down as though against the snow, he walked slowly but steadily toward the cabaret. When he could stand the tension no longer, he pretended to look at the watch he did not have, and tilted his head like any curious-but-respectful passer-by.

Overhead light flashing, siren blaring, the car had skidded to a halt in front of the apartment house. Two Gestapo agents in long black overcoats leapt out, pistols in hand. One of them, small and wizened--his hat had fallen off and Sol could see that he was bald--jumped the blue-spruce hedge and flattened himself against the wall of the apartment house like a combat soldier storming a pillbox.
 

"Halt where you are!"

The second agent, more youth than man, squatted at the alley entrance, pistol braced against his uplifted forearm as he aimed.

Paralyzed by the drama being played out before him, Sol stared through snowflakes gathering on his glasses.

The snap and whine of the bullet raged above the siren's scream. Sol tried to move, but his legs felt thick and heavy. His stomach heaved as he relived that moment he had witnessed Walther Rathenau's assassination...grenade spinning on the street...death shots hanging in the air.

Clutching his stomach, he forced himself toward the cabaret's stairs, gripped the handrail and swung himself down, slamming against the stairwell wall. Mustering what strength he still possessed, he peered over the edge of the sidewalk.

The men had disappeared down the alley.

He used his penknife to draw back the cabaret's jimmied deadbolt from its metal casing and eased himself inside. Standing on the wrought-iron landing, he rebolted the door. Sweating and shaking, he leaned against the wall.

Safe! Thank God!

He congratulated Miriam for having had the good sense to adjust the tumblers so the club would only
seem
to be locked. She had learned well from Erich and his lock-picks.

What am I thinking?
A child's life was being threatened, perhaps for the very crime of having delivered him Miriam's message. He should be overcome with grief--and gratitude. But what if they captured the boy alive? Dragged him from the alley, what would he tell them? What
could
he tell them?

Slowly, as if the self-inflicted delay were punishment for his emotions, Sol took the letter from his coat's inner pocket. Using his penknife, he slit the edge of the envelope and, trembling, took out the single sheet of paper, folded many times. He recognized the handwriting at once as Miriam's:

DEAREST,
THEY
MOVE INTO
K
TOMORROW--A PERFECT PLACE TO WARM THEMSELVES, PLAY CARDS, DRINK. STAY OUT OF SIGHT UNTIL I COME--WHICH MAY NOT BE AS PLANNED. LOOK AFTER THE BOY.

All my love.

MRF

Sol let the paper slip from his hands. It floated down among the tables, catching the dusty moonlight that slanted through the stained-glass windows.

K--
Kaverne
; MRF--Miriam Rathenau
Freund.

If only he had insisted Miriam leave with him at once! Surely they could have bribed their way out of the country...but with what?
Erich's
money?

Outside, the siren stopped. On tiptoes, Sol peered through a hole made by a rock tossed at the window. The Gestapo emerged empty-handed from the alley. "Thank you, God," Sol whispered, with renewed shame and relief. "Now please send them away."

The men crossed the street and stood outside the cigar store. The bald one lit a cigarette, exhaled a mix of smoke and steaming breath. He said something to his companion, laughed loudly, and took hold of the door as if to check its security.

My God, I forgot to lock it! How could I have been so stupid!

Looking concerned, the man ground out his cigarette on the sidewalk and went inside, the other man surveying the street suspiciously. The lights went on. Sol cursed himself for his stupidity in dallying at the window; the cabaret was bound to be next. He must hurry, silently, to the sewer's comparative safety.

He started down into darkness. The first step squeaked and the metal spiral staircase echoed, amplifying the sound. He back stepped onto the landing and checked outside. Mopping sweat from his brow, he picked up the note from Miriam and descended the stairs with catlike caution. He crept across the dance floor and down into the sub-basement. Remembering the light, he felt around for the chain and pulled it on. The bulb popped and died.

He dropped to his knees, found and lifted the sewer grate.

After the night's crisp air, the sewer's stench billowed up like a tangible force. He held his breath, lowered himself onto the two-by-twelve and stretched upward to pull down the grate. It clanged shut. He groped for the boxes of provisions, wanting to touch them not so much for reassurance as for a focal point of existence. They were the immediate essentials of life, though how long a life was anyone's guess. He felt certain only that, for now, the sewer was the one refuge left to him in Berlin.

M
iriam had thought of Sol incarcerated in a camp for so long that it had become habit, like a bitter pill she'd had to swallow daily. Now that he was here, beneath her feet, she found herself tiptoeing around the shop. It was as if she were walking on his head and feared that she was causing him physical pain.

Every now and then she would forget for a moment and return to the images she had called forth over the years: Sol being beaten, starved, worked like a laborer. Then a board would creak beneath her soles, or the wind would whistle through the space between the shop door and the floor, and she would start guiltily, as if by forgetting she had somehow let him down. Again.

She had much to think about. She would have to be careful not to let Erich see a change in her. She would have to contact Perón. Most importantly, she would have to find a way to go down and see Sol--impossible unless both of the Weissers and not just Herr Weisser took the day off. She had been instructed to come in today because, he had said, a friend was unexpectedly coming into town and he wanted to be free to spend time with him. With any luck, his wife, Inge, would develop a headache, or remember a commitment to play cards, and Miriam would be left alone in the shop. By now, Sol would need food, water, possibly even medicines of the damp had make him ill.

Whatever it took, Miriam thought, she had to persuade him to go back to safety, to Amsterdam. And, if possible, she would send young Misha there with him. Though he might not agree with her at this moment, outside of finding his parents--a next-to-impossible task--reuniting the boy with the beadle would be the best thing she could do for him. She had been happy to find him a temporary haven with the underground group led by the furrier's son, but that was over now. She felt guilty about having been the person whose message had placed him in danger. On the other hand, they had already made Misha a message runner by then, and it had been only a matter of time before he would have taken it into his head to begin once more the futile search for his parents. All in all, he was better off where he was now, in Baden-Baden.

"Why are you staring into space? Is there no work to be done?"

  
The bell signaling her entry into the shop coincided with Inge Weisser's first criticism of the day. She had determined from the start to turn Miriam into
Aschenbrödel
, and Cinderella Miriam stayed. No matter what she did--not so much to please the woman but to keep the peace--Erich's mother felt obliged to spew venom whenever her husband was in earshot. Since he had entered behind her, this was one of those times.

She shed her fur, threw it at Miriam with a brusque instruction to handle it carefully and hang it up, and emplaced herself at the end of the counter. Her husband entered behind her, followed closely by none other than Deputy Commandant Otto Hempel.

"Sit, sit," Herr Weisser said, pulling out one of the chairs at the corner table. He pushed a box of cigars toward the man. "Help yourself. How about a schnapps to go with it? You are, after all, on holiday."

Hempel shrugged off his coat and smiled a feral smile. "A schnapps? In the morning? Why not. It's cold enough out there to freeze a nun's tits."

Weisser brought forth the bottle of cognac--his second best, Miriam noted. "How are things at the camp?"

"Tiring. Tiring. Those stinking Jews will never learn their place. I, for one, will be delighted when we have rid ourselves of all of them. And here? How is business?"