Child of the Journey (34 page)

"You don't belong here," Erich told Hempel. "Neither you nor Goebbels, with his starlets and whores. But especially not you."

"I never liked this place anyway. I
rejoiced
when I was given Sachsenhausen. There, we know how to eradicate the stench of Jews."
 
Hempel stooped to pat the wolfhound, who accepted the affection without returning it. "But where either of us live, or with whom we work or socialize, is not our decision to make. We are soldiers, are we not?"

"Only
you
would call yourself that."

"It seems, Herr Oberst, that others do not share your opinion, so it is best that you keep silent concerning your feelings about me." A slight, wry, almost seductive smile creased his lips. "As you already know, we will be working together,
closely
together, at least for the foreseeable future. Herr Reichsführer Himmler himself has placed me in charge of security on the Madagascar expedition. What you may not yet know is that my Boris," again he patted the wolfhound, "will be replacing that insult the bleeding corporal over there calls a dog."

 
The wolfhound, at the hub of the shepherds, Erich thought. My God. My God. It took every effort of his being not to protest. Hempel was awaiting that protest, would revel in it. And it would be futile. For an instant, he saw the jungle of Madagascar with startling clarity. In the distance, a dog howled. The moon, pale and heartless, felt like a cold hand upon his bare shoulder.

"Do you hate me because my friends are Jews?" Erich asked abruptly, unable to contain himself. "Or because I stayed away from you when I was in the Freikorps Youth."

"You would have enjoyed my...company."

"Did the other boys?" Erich asked angrily.

"Those who did not at first--learned to."

"You are...despicable."

"And you, Herr Oberst, are too close to our Führer."

Then Erich understood. The realization startled him, made his mouth dry. What had brought him such despair, such hatred of himself and of Hitler--the Führer's order to shoot Achilles--had caused others to assume a closeness they found threatening.

"We will never allow your dog into the Zodiac," he said.

The captain was stroking the wolfhound's head. In the two years Hempel had lived at the estate, Erich had never seen him show affection toward any animal. The transparent turnabout sickened him.

"I don't know whose boots you licked, but you can unlick them," Erich continued. "You have no place in my corps."

"Reichsführer Himmler might think otherwise," Hempel said.

"The Reichsführer might like to know about your little episodes with Goebbels' whores," Erich said. "You think Toy didn't tell me how you ordered her not to wash after Goebbels humped her? Out of his bed, down to your room...." He stuck his hands in his pockets and started away. "As you can tell, Herr Sturmbannführer," he said over his shoulder, "Toy gave me more than a smoking jacket before you relegated her to the docks."
   

He was past the garage before Hempel's voice, surprisingly articulate, buffeted him. "And I have the transfusion papers, Herr Oberst. They have sat on my desk for a year," he said. "Strange how I keep forgetting to send them to
Medizinalrat
Schmidt so your dear wife can be scheduled."

Erich continued walking, afraid that if he stopped and turned around his horror would be visible. All the favors he had called in to stop the transfusions...all for naught. Fool that he was, he had thought his own best efforts had halted the insanity."

"I will leave Boris chained here at the gate," Hempel called out after him. "Treat her well."

Erich walked around to the dog-runs behind the mansion. The shepherds followed him, moving with a heaviness that told him that his mood of despair had transferred itself to them.

"Herr Oberst?" a sad voice called out to him from the bushes.

Krayller stepped into his line of sight. There was bloodied gauze wrapped around his throat and he held Grog in his arms. "It will happen, won't it?" he said without preamble.

"I'm afraid so. We will find you...another place."

"I have no other place," the corporal said. "We both know that. It's back to the Wehrmacht for me...unless Hempel sees fit to have me court-martialed and shot." He appeared on the verge of tears as, with a hamhock-sized hand, he stroked the terrier's head. The affenpinscher tried to lick his wrist. "What stupidity, pointing my carbine at an officer!"

"You should have shot him," Erich said.

The corporal's gaze leapt up--surprised and hopeful.

"I would have helped you dispose of the body."

Krayller looked toward the west end of the estate. "But not now," he said. "It's too late."

Erich nodded. Yes, it was too late, he thought. Hempel would waste no time making arrangements for the implementation of the papers, should he not return to Sachsenhausen.

The corporal pulled up his massive chest and slowly released a breath. His shoulders sagged. Sorrow seemed to pervade his very being. His eyes were moist. "I can't leave Grog," he said. "And I won't fight in the trenches. Not for Hitler. Certainly not for the likes of Hempel." He eyed Erich's holstered pistol. "You might as well shoot me now."

"Such talk is foolishness, if not insanity," Erich said. "You can have my motorcycle," he told the corporal.

Krayller narrowed his eyes, not comprehending.

"It's yours," Erich said, "if you will do what I should do. Take your dog and my cycle," he reached to pet the affenpinscher, who appeared to enjoy the attention and was, amazingly, none the worse for wear after the incident with the wolfhound, "and ride to Switzerland. Don't even think about looking back."
 

M
isha and Sol were looking out of the window when the staff car pulled up to the end of the road. Pleshdimer, who was driving, stayed behind the wheel while the Sturmbannführer walked to the farmhouse.

"Bruqah said I would be safe here," Misha said.

"And so you have been," Solomon said. "But not even he could guarantee that it would last forever. Besides, you don't know that he has come for you."

"Yes, I do," Misha said, looking around desperately as if for a hiding place. "The alcove," he said. "The one Bruqah uses. It must lead to the outside. I could run away."

"We are due to leave the farmhouse within twenty-four hours. Why risk being shot by one of the guards? That would not be wise."

As if staying here and waiting for
him
is
wise
, Misha thought, but he stayed where he was.

The hours that followed were, at best, a blur. He was instructed to pack what clothing he had been given since his arrival at the farmhouse in a small sea-bag. Then he was escorted by the Sturmbannführer to the car. Pleshdimer was asleep and snoring in the back seat, a bottle of alcohol loosely in his hand.

Hempel placed Misha in the passenger seat and took the wheel. Misha was within easy reach of the man's groping fingers. In desperation, he thought about the list, going over and over it in his mind as the fingers pushed and pulled--

The next thing he actively remembered was spreading his legs as he lay on a bunk bed in a small cabin on board a ship. Hempel had apparently told Pleshdimer to wait outside.

The Sturmbannführer leaned against the wall and waited. Knowing what he had to do, Misha took off his clothing, folded everything, and piled them neatly on a small dresser that was built into the corner of the cabin. Then he lay down on the bunk.

Hempel drew two pairs of nylons from his pocket. He wrapped them around Misha's wrists and ankles and tied each one tightly to one of the metal posts that anchored the top bunk to his. At once Misha's hands and feet began to swell.

"A half hitch followed by a clove hitch," Hempel said, standing back to admire his handiwork. Having done that, he did
The thing
to Misha.

"I have a present for you," Hempel said, when, for the moment, he'd had his fill of pleasure.

Misha stared up at his own reflection, distorted in the sea-green metal of the upper bunk, and tried to obey Bruqah's instructions. "Think of yourself as a dolphin," the Malagasy had said. "Let his words and his acts wash over you like sea water." It had seemed like a wonderful idea at the time, but it didn't work now.

Not that Misha was surprised.

How could anyone be a dolphin if, as Bruqah claimed, they stood on their tails and chittered, and played tag around ships, and led lost sailors to safety through dangerous waters and sharks and everything. Besides, he didn't have a tail or fins, nor could he hold his breath for very long at all.

But he wished he could.

He wished he could hold his breath until he died.

"Get dressed," Hempel ordered, untying Misha's bonds.

Misha did as he was told. When he was fully dressed, Hempel held a package out to him. The boy looked down at the blue wrapping paper and the bow that littered the package like a tangle of curls.

"You must earn it, of course," Hempel said, pulling the package away. He was already breathing heavily again.

Misha lay back down. His gaze returned to the top bunk. Mechanically, he began to unbutton his trousers. "Skip that part," Hempel ordered, putting a restraining hand over the boy's.

Misha shut his eyes.

"Don't close your eyes," Hempel said. "I would hate to have to order
him
," he nodded his head toward the closed door, "to slit your eyelids so that you will be forced to watch." He unsnapped his stiletto from the wrist attachment within his sleeve. "Have you ever seen someone with his eyelids cut off, Misha darling? Have you ever seen eyelids fried in a pan? They jump around like squid. It's quite fascinating to watch."

Misha said nothing, not even when, using the stiletto, Hempel flicked the buttons from Misha's shirt. He lowered his face and licked each nipple before cutting the shirt the rest of the way off and starting on Misha's trousers.

I am a dolphin, Misha thought. I am free as a dolphin.

Except he was not a dolphin.

He lay looking at his distorted face in the sea-green metal.

"Do you like what I do to you?" Hempel asked huskily. "Does it make you feel warm inside?" He out the package down on the bed and pressed both hands against the insides of Misha's groin, making the genitals mound up. "How do you want it tonight? How would you like me to do it to you.

God help me, Misha thought, saying nothing.

If there is a God.

If there are dolphins.

"Tell me," Hempel insisted, "or must I cut you? I once sliced off a boy's penis for less insolence than this. Is that what you want?"

Misha searched for words, but thought itself stopped as Hempel slid a finger inside him. He heard Hempel sigh. Even hating him as he did, he knew that the Sturmbannführer was somewhere else, on a ship and a sea of which Misha had no part.

"How could any man want a woman, or even another man, when there is such tightness available," Hempel said. "Except you must talk to me..." his voice turned even huskier, "my love."

He rested the tip of the stiletto against Misha's testicles, and sat back. Fear and pain raced through the boy's every muscle, up his every nerve.

Hempel reached for the package, tipped it onto its side, and pulled the ribbon. The lid fell off, revealing white tissue paper. He reached inside and pulled out a black chocolate-brown turtle-neck sweater and a flat, smaller box, such as might hold a woman's bangle.

He shook out the sweater, held it in over the boy as if to see if it was the right size, and laid it aside. "Open it," he said, handing Misha the smaller box.

Diffidently, Misha did as he was told.

Inside the box, curled into a bed of cotton, lay a heavily jeweled dog collar.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Hempel removed it from the box and leaned down to kiss Misha. "Lift your head."

Again, Misha obeyed. Hempel fastened the collar around the boy's neck. "Fits perfectly," he said with satisfaction. He stood up. "Regretfully, I must leave you now, but I shall return in a matter of hours." He bent to stroke Misha's hair. "Rest. You will be a good boy while I'm gone, won't you?" He patted Misha's side. "We will talk when I return." He retied Misha's hands and put the stiletto, which had fallen onto the sheet, back against Misha's testicles. Then he adjusted his uniform, and opened the cabin door.

Pleshdimer entered as he left.

"If the knife falls, you know what to do," Hempel said.

The door had barely closed behind the Sturmbannführer before a new round of terror began for Misha. While Hempel was the sexual aggressor of the perverted two-man team, and as such caused physical pain, that was not his primary intent.

For Pleshdimer, however, the thrill lay in the causing of pain itself.

Now, dropping to the floor, surprisingly agile despite his heft, he knelt at the side of the bunk. With a flick of his finger, he knocked away the knife.

"Look at what you've done," he said, leaning over Misha. He stank horribly of cheap liquor and body odor. It was a point of honor with him never to bathe, lest, he said, the water wash away his man-smell. Women liked that, he said, and his daughters had liked it even better.