Child of the Light (22 page)

"Thank our revered Russian traitor, General Vlasov. That bastard saved Moscow, then switched sides. He's over at the hut--waiting to inspect his
troops!"
She turns her head and spits into the snow. "When he defected, he promised the Ukrainian Jews the return of their families and a homeland in Madagascar. If we fought for Hitler at the Russian Front, he said, the German forces would be free to finish taking London."

She tightens her jaw and fires three times. No one falls. Behind them, mortars begin to pop; far down the hill small fountains of snow and the roar of explosions confirm the shells.

The old man plugs his ears with his fingers. "You believed him?" he shouts.

She says no more until the firing has lessened. Pulling his hands from his head, she shouts, "I chose to believe!"

"Like you chose--" He stops in mid-sentence and stares down at her boots.

"I might have liked that soldier had he lived," she says softly. "But he didn't, and I will. Go back to the hut." Her blanket is flapping wildly in the wind. She tightens it around herself. "Warm your old bones at the brazier, Margabrook. Just don't throw out the meat I left to thaw in the hut. I don't want it to refreeze."

The old man recoils in horror. "God help us both."

He reaches out his hand. The woman seems to know what he wants. She reloads the rifle and hands it to him, then she follows him toward the hut. A man wearing the uniform and medals of a general stands in the doorway.

Margabrook falls to his knees in the snow.

"They will kill you, old man," the woman says, but she does not stop him when he lifts the rifle.

The shriek of incoming shells muffle the rest of her words and the sound of her carbine as it is fired again and again. The man in the doorway clutches his belly. He takes several steps into the snow, staggers, falls.

Margabrook drops the rifle. He is crying. The tears freeze instantly on his eyelashes.

"My eyes!" he screams---

"You'll tell no one!" Erich demanded, sitting up, his voice strong again.

Startled, Sol looked up. His headache had gone, along with the flashes of light and the eerie blue glow. "I...I think I just had a vision, Erich." He remembered what the beadle had said about Solomon ben Luria. "There was this--"

"The hell with your visions! I'm talking about Grace and about me. You'll tell no one what happened. Ever! Or that I cried and acted...weird!"

Gripping the javelin, he staggered to his feet and pointed the tip at Sol's chest.

"Whatever pleases you," Sol said. "Just put that thing down."

"Promise you won't tell!"

"Promise."

"Damn right, or you'll be one dead bar mitzvah boy." Eyes wild, Erich squatted and, still threatening Sol with the javelin, found the pistol.

"Look--you had a seizure. You're not yourself. Leave the gun alone. You might shoot yourself...or me."

A look of dismay gripped Erich's features as he checked the revolver. "The bullets! You stole them."

"I didn't steal them. I--"

"I never thought you'd do something like that!" Erich thrust the spear close to Sol's throat--and pulled back, eyes narrowed.

With a sick, sinking feeling, Solomon retrieved the cartridges from among the forest duff and handed them to Erich. There were soft clicks as Erich inserted the rounds.

"I
saw
you in that jungle clearing." With each word, Erich shook the pistol barrel as though scolding a child. "While I was having the seizure-thing. I
saw
you as clearly as I'm seeing you now!" He motioned with the pistol. "Come here,
bar
mitzvah
boy."

Erich stuck the javelin in the ground and, keeping the pistol pointed toward Solomon, stooped and rubbed his damaged hand in Grace's blood.

"Here!" he commanded.

Sol stepped forward fearfully. "You're acting crazy. I'm your friend, remember?"

Erich smeared blood all over Sol's cheeks. "That's why I'm doing this." He looked Sol straight in the eye. "I know you didn't
mean
to cause the...seizures, or make me see what I did."

Sol pulled away from Erich. He wasn't afraid anymore, just angry at himself for having submitted so readily to his earlier fear. "Cause them? How could
I
cause them? I'm not God!"

"It's because of you and your ghosts," Erich said angrily. "I saw a jungle and heard a baby crying. There was a kind of scroll and big rocks...like gravestones."

Sol wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and looked at the streak of blood he had wiped off. With his tongue he tasted a salty tear as it reached the corner of his mouth. Something was terribly wrong with his friend, but what?

"Something was snarling," Erich said. "I couldn't see what it was. But I could see you. You were there, watching." He leaned closer to Sol and squinted, an artist admiring his work. "We're on the warpath now. Just like in the movies. Whatever it was, we'll fight it.
Together
. But no more seizures. You got that? Now--your specs."
 
He took the glasses off Sol's face and smeared them with the dog's blood. "There, I've cleansed
them
too."

He handed them back and Sol put them on. He squinched up his nose, forcing the glasses down enough so he could see a little, albeit poorly. The world was a blur of light and shadow. Vaguely he saw Erich stoop and, bloodying his fingers again, make circles on his own cheeks and forehead.

"Now help me bury Grace," Erich said, "and if you know what's good for you, you'll keep your crazy visions to yourself."

Grace was big and the ground was hard. Digging a shallow grave for the puppies with his hands was one thing; this was another. Erich, on his hands and knees scraping at the ground with the pistol handle, apparently came to the same conclusion. After a few minutes, he stood up.

"Let's just cover her." He piled the bloodied blankets and one of the towels on top of the dead dog.

Gratefully Sol stood up. Soon all traces of the dog were buried beneath a dense pile of undergrowth, topped off by some branches and twigs that Erich found a few feet away.

"I think I should say a prayer," Sol said softly, pushing his anger and confusion aside.

"Why?" Erich wrapped the live puppy in the remaining towel and put it in Sol's rucksack. He slipped his arms through the rucksack straps. "Dead is dead."

Erich could not remember ever having felt so tired and thirsty, not even after long hikes with a heavy pack or running multiple wind sprints in preparation for his first javelin competition, near Oranienburg. Had he suffered a grand mal seizure? Did it affect everyone like this--first a sense of enormous strength, as though he could conquer the world, then debilitating fatigue?

The closest he had come to the aftermath of this seizure was the way he had felt after wandering around the city that night before someone had the good sense to shoot that power monger, His Highness Herr Rathenau.

He glanced over at Sol--stumbling half-blind toward the boat, tripping over rocks and limbs--and felt bad. Funny how he could think things like that when Sol was not around, and feel no hint of conscience. Never mind conscience; when he was with the other Freikorps boys, thoughts like that gave him status.

Happy to wait for Solomon to catch up, he untied the boat, dropped in the javelin and climbed in. He had not meant to hurt Sol physically or emotionally, he thought, so why had he done it?
 
Because Sol made it so easy for him?
I blame Sol every time something happens that I cannot control, because Sol always forgives.
One day he would go too far; Sol would declare him a fool and move on and there would be no apologizing, no understanding.

Erich sighed and shook his head. "Rinse off your glasses and get in," he said when Sol was within earshot.

Sol peered at him over his smeared spectacles and took hold of the boat's gunwale.

"Go on--rinse them," Erich said.

"Don't know if I want to." Sol climbed into the boat. "It's a pleasure not to have to see your ugly face." He swished his glasses in the water, dried them off on his shirt and tried to adjust them. They ended up even more lopsided than before.

"Take off your war paint too, if you want," Erich said. "I'm leaving
mine
on."

Solomon leaned over the boat to wet his face, sat up without washing, and squinted curiously at Erich through the dripping lenses.

"Here." Erich pushed the oar handles toward him.

"Me? Row?"

Erich nodded. "You row well."

Sol positioned himself on the middle seat, his back to Erich. "You were crazy back there, you know," he said over his shoulder.

Erich slipped off the rucksack, put it in his lap and lay back, head on the bow as he gazed at the moon. Sol did row well, he thought, pushing the memory of the seizure away. The boat moved straight and true, leaving a wake in the moon's reflection.

When they neared the other shore, Erich put a hand on Sol's shoulder. "It was because of the seizure," he said. "Shake?"

They gripped hands and gazed into one another's eyes, but Erich remained unsatisfied. He grabbed Sol's arm and rubbed his wrist against Sol's. "We're brothers in blood now."

"We've been blood brothers for ages, remember?"

Erich stood up. Despite the boat's sudden rocking, he jumped deftly into the lake, holding the rucksack above his head. The cold thigh-high water refreshed him. He felt a new surge of energy and heaved the javelin toward the sandy beach. "Now," he said, sloshing toward the shore, "we're also brothers in blood."

While Solomon nosed the boat to the dock and tied up, Erich found the spear, jogged over to the bike and waited impatiently for his friend to cross the beach. Deciding Sol was fine and he had done enough penance, he hopped onto Hawk. Yelling, "Race you back home!" he took off with such power that the front tire lifted off the ground. The seizure and Grace's death seemed like a bad dream. He was feeling good again.

Whooping loudly he hoisted the javelin like a spear.

"Wait for me!" Sol shouted.

Erich glanced back. Laughing he rode in circles around the oaks and birches--then pedaled off into the shadows.

"Damn you, Erich!" Sol yelled. "Where are you!"

Erich walked the bike out from behind the foliage. Remounting with a kind of insolent ease, he leaned over the handlebars and thrust his face directly in front of Sol's. "Start running. We're brothers all the way now. That means
you
have to get in shape, like
me."
He lifted a foot onto the higher pedal as if to ram the bike into Sol, who backstepped rapidly, turned, and made for the street.

"Are you or are you not going to give me a ride home!" he demanded as Erich rapidly caught up with him.

"Home?" Spear lifted, Erich let out a loud war-whoop, like the ones in Wild West films.

Glowering, Solomon trudged off toward the Kurfurstendamm. "Some friend you are."

"Some friend you are,"
Erich mimicked, making made another whirlwind circle. Then he steered down the street and returned at high speed, skidding to a halt at Sol's feet. "
I
don't want to go home yet!"

His friend kept walking resolutely, not looking back even when Erich nosed the front wheel up behind him. "Don't go," Erich said.

"Why not? You can manage fine without me!"

"I'll let you ride the bike home if you'll stay around a little longer." Erich made his voice sound low and contrite.

Sol turned and smiled as if in disbelief.

The reaction did not surprise Erich in the least; he knew he guarded his possessions somewhat too jealously. "Honest--you can ride Hawk all the way back," he said.

"We really should go home, Erich. I'm tired, you've been...ill and," Sol glanced at the rucksack, "that puppy's probably dying of hunger."

Oh Lord, Erich thought. He had forgotten all about the puppy. He had an idea. They were not more than minutes away from the Rathenau estate. Miriam and her grandmother were living there. This was as good a time as any to sneak in. The old lady would be fast asleep. He would give Miriam the puppy and....

Sol mounted the bike. "We'll do whatever you want for a little while longer and then go home, okay? Get on."

"I'll run." Erich glanced at his biceps with satisfaction. "That way!" He pointed in the direction of the estate.

"Bet we're headed to Miriam Rathenau's," Sol said.

"Very good, Solomon." Javelin in hand Erich glided along with the fluid ease of a warrior. "Only took you a year and a century to figure that out."

He fell silent and looked back over his shoulder. Sol was frowning, as if trying to solve an obtuse mathematical problem.

"Erich, what really happened that night before Herr Rathenau...when you ran away?"

Erich did not answer. He was not ready to talk to Solomon or anyone else about that night.

"Mind your own business." Erich clenched his fist. "I told you. I slept at the camp and went to see Miriam the next day to get the photograph for your bar mitzvah present." And she let me in for all of ten minutes, Erich thought angrily, keeping that information to himself.