Child of the Light (20 page)

"Why did we come here?" Sol asked.
 
"I mean,
really?"

"I
told
you. I heard her calling. Also, I want one of her pups," Erich answered truthfully.
 
"If we're there when she gives birth, they'll never know."

"What if they catch us stealing?" Sol sounded scared.

"They'll scream at me, discipline me--threaten to cut my nuts off and feed them to the squirrels." He looked at Sol. "With you they might not just threaten."

"Because I'm Jewish?" Sol narrowed his eyes in anger.

"Because you're not Freikorps."

Sol backed away but Erich grabbed him. "Just kidding." He knew his voice lacked conviction. "That's where Grace is supposed to be." He pointed to a tiny hut whose front was covered with chicken wire. "But I know she's not there. She...escaped. When that kid watching her fell asleep."

"Maybe she's resigned from the Freikorps," Sol said.

"I'll find her." Erich led Sol behind the other huts and along the far side of the camp until they reached the biggest hut. The outside of its rear wall looked like the heavily decorated chest of a general; nearly a hundred sports medallions hung alongside four javelins. Beneath them, sheltered from the weather by an overhang, were shelves cluttered with badminton rackets and nets, soccer balls, shot-puts, medicine balls, and an array of black track shoes.

"That's mine." Erich pointed at the longest javelin. It was white, with two red stripes taped near the center. The chrome tip was honed to a gleaming point. "Isn't she a beauty?"

"Yes, but where's the
dog?"

Feeling more than a little hurt by Sol's quick dismissal of his javelin, Erich concentrated. Suddenly he bounded away from the hut and toward an enormous weeping willow on the west side of the camp, its canopy so full it touched the ground. He waited for Sol to catch up before he held the branches apart.

He was shocked at what he saw.

Though Grace could not have chosen a more pastoral sanctuary, she looked anything but the consort of a German champion. She raised her head to see who had intruded upon her. Then, as if the action had completely enervated her, she laid her head back down on the ground. Her head appeared abnormally extended, her ribs were prominent, her abdomen sagged. Moonlight, seeping through the willow, mottled her coat, which looked gray and lifeless. In the lee of her belly, their eyes closed to slits, their tiny paws curled and vulnerable, lay two pink hairless pups, covered with bloody mucous and forest duff.

A third pup lay to one side, swaddled in a bluish membrane and still attached to its mother.

Feebly Grace wriggled her mouth closer to the umbilical cord so that she could chew through it. As she moved her head her throat spasmed. She gagged and jerked in what was obviously terrible pain.

"Erich?"

"She's going to die." Erich felt a lump in his throat, and tears were right near the surface.

Again the dog picked up her head. This time she held it rigid; her eyes bulged, her throat convulsed. A stream of bloody vomit gushed from her mouth. Her head slumped and she lay staring, through sad dark eyes, at the willow trunk.

Erich wanted to rush to Grace, stroke her, comfort her; at the same time, he was afraid to touch her--afraid, and nauseated. She used to be so beautiful. He pictured Miriam lying there, pregnant and...ugly. When they were married he would tell her,
no children!

"For God's sake, Erich, what is
that?"

Sol clutched Erich's shoulder and pointed at a distended sac that lay on the dog's hind side. Pink and quivering and slicked with blood, the sac looked like an oversized fleshy larvae--an oval reddish mass stippled with spongy-looking knobs.

Shaking, Erich knelt to examine the sac. Grace looked at him, and shivered.

"What's happened to her?" Sol whispered.

"I think this came out of her." Erich pulled a face.

"Ugh! What
is
it?"

"I don't know," Erich said slowly, "I have this feeling...I think...she wants us to put it back in."

"No!" Sol's face was ashen. "We'll kill her. We don't know anything about that stuff."

Carefully, Erich lifted the membrane-covered pup and pulled off the film. His stomach clenched and he had to breathe deeply to keep from throwing up. "We should go for help, but we can't. If I bring back a leader and he finds out you're a Jew, we're both in
bad
trouble--"

"And if the others find out about Grace being here, you'll never get a puppy," Sol said, a cynical tone in his voice.

Erich gently set the whelp next to its mother. "Remember what I told you about some of the camps?"
 
He paused, wanting Sol's full attention. "There's no guessing what they would do to you."

Sol huddled next to Grace. "So what do we do now?"

"We'll need hot water, clean towels--like in the films."
 
Erich rose to his feet. "Here, guard yourself with this." Acting a lot more casual than he felt, he threw his father's gun on the ground near Sol's feet. "I won't be long."

He hurried through the tall grass. Behind him he could hear Sol speaking to Grace in the soothing tones his parents used when he was ill. What, he wondered, had really made the leaders bring hatred into the camp?

What was so bad about Jews, anyway?

Take Sol--he'd never had a problem with Sol being a Jew. But then Sol was different. He was just...Sol.
Spatz.
A sparrow.

The leaders had said that Germans should follow Martin Luther's suggestion. Seize all Jewish property and send the Jews to mines and quarries and logging camps.

Now there was a stupid idea. The Jews
he
knew weren't exactly the most
physical
people in the world.

Dismissing the subject, as he usually did, he crept around the camp looking for things he needed or might need. He found a pot and poured in water from the drinking barrel, letting the liquid run over his hand so it would not ting against the metal and wake someone up. The top bunk of the empty hut nearest the willow turned out to be strewn with bedcovers and camping gear--some cry-baby who'd had second thoughts about staying the night, Erich figured. He flung two blankets and a couple of dirty towels over his shoulder; he got lucky and found a flashlight, which he put in his hip pocket together with a sewing kit and a fishing leader. Then he sprinted back to the willow.

"Couldn't get
hot
water. This'll have to work." He tried to sound confident. This birthing business was awfully complicated.
C'mon, Grace,
he begged silently.
Tell me what to do.

"What are we going to do?" Sol asked, echoing Erich's plea to the dog.

Erich hoped Grace would commune with him, but--nothing. "She's too weak. We'll have to decide as we go. If only I could remember what the Rittmeister wrote about whelping!"

They spread one blanket on the ground, maneuvered the animals onto it, and covered them with the other. Grace did not resist. There was a dead weight and a rank wet odor to her, and her skin felt clammy and coarse.

"She's feverish," Erich said. "Feel her nose--it's hot and dry." He drew the blankets around her, forming a cocoon for the pups. "Hold her still!" He folded part of a blanket forward to expose her hindquarters. "This is going to hurt her."

Sol cradled the dog's head in his lap and leaned over to brace the torso with his hands. Erich turned on the flashlight and wedged it in the crook of the willow. It cast a weak circle of light over the dog.

Kneeling beside Grace, Erich plunged his hands and then a towel into the water pot. "Don't even breathe, Solomon." He began to clean the sac. "Just hold her."

The dog's eyes were filled with apprehension and pain; she was shivering slightly, but she did not struggle.

"I've got her," Sol said.

"I know. I know. We have to be careful. I think it's her uter-in." He felt sick as he softly put his fingers on the 'thing.'

Think about something else.
 
He glanced at Sol, whose face was set in a stoic expression. Bet he's thinking about something he read in a book. That's his answer to everything.

As gently as he could, Erich continued to work. He pictured his own bookshelf at home. Though he pretended he never read--mostly to annoy Sol--he owned many books about dogs and uniforms and Imperial history. He could quote passages verbatim from lots of them. His favorite was
The German Shepherd Dog in Word and Picture
by Rittmeister Max von Stephanitz, the "father" of the German shepherd. Through controlled breeding, he had produced a master-breed based on efficiency
and
beauty. According to him, the German shepherd was not a means to an end but an end in itself.

"You got her, Sol?" Erich tentatively patted the uter-in with the dry towel. Why had none of his books taught him what to do in a situation like this? With the back of his wrist he wiped away the sweat that beaded his forehead. "Here goes. It can't be that different from stuffing a chicken. I've seen my mother do that plenty of times."

Taking a deep breath he began to ease the organ inside. It had come out of her, so it had to fit back in, but it seemed too big--awkward and shapeless, like a pile of raw sweetbreads.

"Steady," Sol told him.

"I'm doing the best I can!"

"Sorry."

Sol stroked the dog, as if hoping to relax her tense muscles.

"That's my lady." Erich tried to keep his voice quiet and gentle but the dog stirred beneath his touch. "Oh God." He lowered his head and examined the part of the organ that remained in his hands, though he had no idea what he was looking for. "I must have done something wrong."

"Careful!"

Raising his gaze but not his head, Erich glared at Sol. "I
am
being careful. Just hold her! If something goes wrong it's
your
fault."

"My
fault?" Sol glared back, then looked away.

Watch yourself, Erich thought. All you need now is for Sol to leave.

Whining deep in her throat, the dog shivered, trembled, and began to whimper.

"There." Erich sat back and wiped his forehead again with a blood-covered hand. "I think it's in."
 
He took the large needle and a loop of transparent leader from his breast pocket. "This was the thickest stuff I could find." He held up and scrutinized the loop before threading the needle.

"What's that for?"

"To sew her up, stupid."

"You'll kill her."

"Just hold her and keep quiet. If I don't sew her up, the ...the...
thing
--it might come out again."

Sol bent his head.
"Baruch ata Adonai
..." he whispered, gripping wads of her shoulder muscle in his hands. "Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who knows and does good things--"

"Now
what are you jabbering about!"

"A prayer. For the dog."

Erich adjusted the flashlight so the beam was truer, hunkered down behind the dog, and began to work the needle. "You people have prayers for dogs?" He hoped Sol's God would hear even if Grace were not Jewish.

The animal's breathing became raspy and ragged. Growling she tried to bring her head around and scrunch her backside away from the pain. She fought to rise as Sol held her down. "Papa says there are prayers for everything," Sol said, "but it's okay to make them up, too, long as you don't
ask
for things--just give praise and thanks, and believe."

"Finished." Erich exhaled loudly, arched his back and stretched. Maybe a little more praying wouldn't hurt, he thought, too embarrassed to say as much. He washed his hands. "Let's clean the pups." Folding aside a blanket corner, he picked up the tiny mewling creature he'd handled earlier and scratched it gently behind the ear. Grace lay unmoving, her head in Solomon's lap. Erich reached over and stroked her muzzle. "You're okay now," he said. "Uncle Erich saved you."

"I helped." Sol maneuvered his elbow so Erich would have trouble petting the dog. "I did a lot!"

"In an emergency,
Spatz
--" Erich pushed Sol's arm aside-"you're about as useful as a blind man on a battlefield."

Sol looked darkly petulant. "You always do that," he said in an injured voice. "Insult me. Take all the credit when things go right and blame me when they don't."

Erich set down the pup and lurched to his feet. He clenched his fists. Sol was right, he thought, feeling foolish. He lowered his guard and put a hand on Sol's shoulder. "Just kidding. You know I didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did. Go ahead--you might as well hit me."

Erich looked down at his mangled hand. Despite it, he was an expert boxer; his friend never stood a chance against him in a fist fight. Yet when it came to words, Sol was the expert. He was like a conscience, Erich thought. Too quick with questions, too accurate and truthful with analyses. No wonder the other boys at school avoided him.

"You said it yourself, remember?" Sol jerked his head up angrily. "You said, 'She's going to die'!"