Child of the Journey (36 page)

A hefty sailor, sensing trouble, stepped from the rail and raised a fist. Grateful for the chance to reassert authority, Erich held up a hand to warn the sailor away. "The free laborer lost his balance, is all." He glanced down at the camera crew, hoping the filming had stopped. He had to be careful not to cross the fine line between acceptable behavior and favoritism.

"I thought you were being threatened, sir," the sailor said.

"Thank you, but there really is no problem." Erich could feel Solomon staring at him. "This man and I are old...knew each other as children. When he came on board and saw me at the rail, he became emotional and lost his footing."

He turned to face Solomon, wanting to say something more, but all he could see was Solomon's back as his friend followed the other Jews down through the hatch.

T
he Rathenau limo pulled up at the end of the tarmac. Barely able to think or feel after seeing Sol, Erich returned to the rail. Bruqah climbed from the car and watched Perón help Miriam out.

A cameraman closed in.

"No!" Erich raced down the gangway, stuck a hand over the lens.

The cameraman blanched and backed away.

"Be reasonable, Erich," Leni said. "The story of Miriam Alois, stalwart German wife accompanying her husband on so arduous a journey despite her pregnancy, will make them cry with happiness out there. We can't bypass such an opportunity. Bruqah is much too colorful a character to pass up, and Perón would not forgive me if I did not get him on camera!"

"Then wait!" Erich replied brusquely. He ran toward Miriam. "How are you feeling?" he asked, still too affected by his encounter with a live Solomon to think clearly.

"Are the...free laborers on board yet?" She was making an effort to keep her voice light, but her unmistakable earnestness set him further on edge. "You saw them?"

"Yes. I, I saw." He was no better at sounding casual than she.

Miriam placed a hand on her belly as if troubled by its weight. "Get me on board, Erich. You know how I hate these films!"

He straightened up.
"Mach schnell,
Leni--or turn the cameras off!"

"Camera one!" Leni shouted.

"Ready."

"Camera two!"

"Ready."

"Sound!" There was a slight pause while a microphone attached to a long beam was rolled over to the limousine. "Sound!" she repeated, when it was in place.

"Testing," the sound man said. "Say something please, Frau---"

"What would you like--"

"That's enough. Ready with the sound."

"Most of you watching this film have seen Frau Alois before," Leni began, loudly enough to compensate for the whirring of the cameras and the clacking of the metal reels. "You know she is bearing the child of Oberst Erich Alois."

Erich watched Miriam compose her features. He knew what an effort of will this was taking, and he could not but admire her fortitude. This was the girl who'd won his heart that night in Kaverne. The inveterate performer. Not the other Miriam, the one whose attachment to Solomon made him doubt himself. Here were the traits he wanted passed on to his son. How could he bring himself to tell her that Solomon was aboard, and spoil everything?

She had taken the news of Solomon's death very hard.
 
The death certificate must be a mistake, she had insisted. Knowing what he did about Solomon's perversion, he had found himself genuinely pitying of Miriam rather than being jealous of Solomon. He did not tell her about the jar, though he did send a corporal to check the camp's files--he could not bring himself to face the place in person. Besides, the risk was not worth it. He was likely to attack Hempel. Kill him, even. Ridding the world of that slime would probably mean a firing squad for him, and incarceration for Miriam.

The corporal reported back that prisoner 37704's papers were in order, and eventually Miriam had stopped grieving, at least openly. Perón had been a big help with her, though it irritated Erich to have him sniffing around so much, and that strange Malagasy, Bruqah, had also seemed a calming influence.

And now what to tell her! If she found out about his Amsterdam lie, she would keep on equating him with the rest of the Nazis, regardless of what miracle he might perform building the Madagascar colony...or what love he might show her and their child. So, what if she did not find out...what if Solomon died en route to the island? The world would be better off without another cock-sucking queer, wouldn't it?

Erich shuddered at the idea that he was capable of such thoughts--and yet--

"Cut!"

He had missed the rest of Leni's spiel. No matter. The only important thing was to get Miriam to the cabin so she could rest. He did not want to take risks with the child.
 

"Bruqah! Herr
Oberst
Perón! Please be good enough to escort Miriam on board."

He trotted to his car to get Taurus. By the time he went up the gangway, through several hatchways, and into the cabin that was to be home for the voyage, Miriam's escorts had left. She lay on the cramped lower bunk, looking around the tiny room which, Erich knew, was no match for the one she'd had on her return trip from America with her uncle. They had traveled in luxury aboard the
Titanic'
s sister ship, the RMS
Olympic.
This was a metal cell smelling of diesel and thrumming from the engines.

He sat down on a metal pull-down seat opposite her, Taurus at his feet. "You must rest."

"Yes, sir." She saluted. "Herr Oberst!"

Telling himself she was teasing him, he rose and opened the cabin hatchway. Later, he decided. He would tell her the truth later, when she was rested. In fact, there was really no reason the whole thing could not wait until they reached Madagascar. Miriam would be spending most of the voyage in the cabin; Solomon would be in the hold. She would not see the Jews until they debarked, and the chances of her finding out that he'd known from the start that Sol was alive and among them--

Yes, he thought. That would be best for everyone. He clanged the cabin door shut behind him, exited the cabin area, and led Taurus across the deck. His heart was beating rapidly, and he was having difficulty concentrating. Just how much did Solomon know, and how much Miriam? Should he interrogate Solomon? He could hardly ask him about his sexual preferences; killing him would be easier than that. Besides, it made too much sense not to be true.

He would not question Solomon yet, he decided. Whether he had gone specifically to Stuttgart or had been arrested on his way to Berlin was irrelevant. He had never made it back to Miriam, that was clear. She was a fine performer, but not
that
good. She might delude an audience, but not the man she lived with...not over the long term.

Lifting Taurus into his arms, he climbed down through a hatch and into the windlass house, where the other dogs were kenneled. Ten of the other eleven shepherds, seeing their feeder, began to whimper and whine and pace. Hempel's wolfhound ignored him; Aquarius, apparently disturbed by being penned inside a room, lay listlessly in his cage.

Holding Taurus by her leash, Erich stood in the middle of the room and looked at the cages with wonder and satisfaction. A master could be deformed or diseased, yet you would still love him, he thought, feeling closer to the dogs than usual. What he had once felt for his parents, even what he felt for Miriam, paled by comparison. All else was superficial. Ephemeral. Surely no other friendship could rival this loyalty and devotion.

He took down an army folding-stool from a nail near the huge green refrigerator which stretched across the other end of the windlass house. Sitting down before Taurus' cage, he released the dog and opened the door. He patted her squarish head.

She wagged her tail, eyes keen and dark and mirroring the light as she pressed her muzzle against Erich's thighs. He scratched behind her ears; she nuzzled closer, murmuring deep in her throat.

He ran his hand down her back, reveling in the stiff, silky coat. As he rubbed her hindquarters, her foot thumped the floor spasmodically. She looked dismayed, as if she had no idea where the sound came from.

From the corner of his eye Erich saw movement among the other dogs, but when he stopped stroking Taurus and looked around, the dogs seemed still--almost docile. Grinning, he bent and hugged his favorite. He glanced uneasily at the others, expecting the usual jealousy when a feeder paid attention to one and not the others.

The dogs appeared strangely quieted by the scene; they lay chewing their cage wire, a look of insensate ease in their eyes.

He went to give Taurus a final scratch--and then he saw the movement again. He scratched Taurus vigorously. Her leg began to thump, and all but Hempel's elegant wolfhound took up the movement, thumping their legs like a line of chorines.

Erich stopped scratching Taurus. The feet stopped moving.

He tried it a third time, a fourth. Each time was the same. At first it was merely amusing. He lifted Taurus' head and stroked the animal's throat, and again watched the others. They ceased to chew the cage wire and raised their heads, eyes brightening as though in enjoyment.

So that's how Zodiac works, he thought. I communicate my instructions to Taurus, and she passes them on to the other dogs.

The other trainers were simply that: trainers; Taurus did the rest. She was the hub of the emotional wheel, the leader of the pack. No matter if the response were purely imitative, or if a true empathy existed among the twelve shepherds--she was the catalyst for the unit. The leader. Without her, his dogs were rabble, as a crowd without a leader was a mob.

He gripped the animal's head and held it close, thanking her for the lesson he had just been taught. Shutting his eyes, he saw a beach studded with Nazi skulls, like the icons of Easter Island, and beyond it, a homeland. He would be the catalyst that made the seemingly impossible happen; he would leave a legacy for Miriam and Solomon and the other Jews, one that would earn him forgiveness.

And admiration.

F
or Sol, the close, dark confines of the
Altmark
's hold was like a sewer inhabited by a giant, sweating, sentient amoeba made up of men's bodies. Each time a body crawled to the open 55-gallon drum that passed as a toilet, the amoeba changed shape. When the hatchway's circular handle spun and the door creaked open on its huge hinges, it tensed with fear. When the opened door meant only that it was time for those nearest the door to transport the sacks of drum slops up the ladder or bring down jerry cans of soup, water, and bread, the mass breathed a sigh of relief.

As with the other sewer, the darkness destroyed any accurate sense of time. Try by whatever ingenious methods they invented, the inmates could not gauge how much time elapsed between each opening of the hatch, nor was there any pattern to when the jerry cans could be acquired.

Not knowing, the inmates invented fictions and served them up in the darkness like succulent dinners. Those who had gone up to dump the slops overboard or to pick up the cans from the kitchen reported sighting cliffs through the fog or the sun setting starboard. This led to speculation and story-telling, both of which helped pass the time. Once, a man returned to report that the ladder had thirty-nine steps, as in the American spy film. Even those who had seen the film listened like eager children to its retelling.

 
To all this Solomon made no contribution, not because he was miserable but because he preferred to spend the time in introspection. Avoiding thoughts of the present or future for fear of sinking into despair, he re-examined the fragments of his past, with the thought that nothing happened without purpose. First he concentrated on language: Jacob Freund's homespun philosophy, Beadle Cohen's scholarship, Walther Rathenau's eloquence.

Then, knees drawn up and eyes closed, he let himself drift into happy familial memories. His father behind the cigar counter.
Mutti
and Recha after a recital, taking down the Passover dishes. Miriam waltzing with him, holding him, kissing his eyelids.

When he slept, his unconscious extrapolated from his memories. His dreams were, for the most part, such as all men dreamed. He took pleasure in their substance, finding even the occasional nightmare tolerable because it was based in a reality he could track down and understand. He began to experiment, deliberately turning his thoughts to events in his past and challenging his mind to make of them whatever interesting dream-fiction it could.

To a small degree, he succeeded.
 

Once, having dredged up what facts and memories he recalled about the Berlin zoo, he dreamed of taking Miriam there. His muse created pastel images worthy of Watteau or Renoir. She in ruffles and lace on a warm, hazy day; he in flannel trousers, his straw hat set at a carefully careless angle. Arm-in-arm, they strolled between the cages. Lilacs were in bloom. He plucked a white sprig and tucked it in her chignon.

"Wenn der weisse Flieder, wieder blüht,"
she whispered.

Hoping to repeat the dream, the next time he was ready to sleep he again dipped into his memories of the zoo. This time his muse placed her next to the monkey section. She wore a drab brown raincoat. The sky was slate-gray. A lemur similar to the one he had seen at the zoo as a boy pushed its long ebony arm through its cage bars and, screeching "
Indri! Indri!
, Behold!" dug its nails into the side of Miriam's neck.