Empty Ever After (33 page)

WHEN HE WAS certain that the baker’s daughter was well into the tunnel beneath the shul
,
Pavel twisted the hand grenade fuse and pulled Herr Ernst
,
the Gestapo man
,
close by his black leather lapels
.
First
,
confusion washed across the crystalline azure sea of the Nazi’s eyes
,
then fear like a raging storm roiled the waters
.
Herr Ernst pounded his fists against the Russian’s chest
,
but to no avail
.
Pavel simply smiled
.

In that brief second
,
he was as at peace as any man who had ever lived
.
He could see his mother’s weathered face set against the swaying field of golden wheat
,
her red and blue babushka snapping in the wind
.
He smelled the sweet aroma of onions frying in chicken fat and the fragrant steam rising from the boiling buckwheat
.
When he was certain there was no turning back
,
Pavel released Ernst’s lapels
.
He pressed his fingers softly to his mouth
,
remembering the feel of Esther’s lips against his
.
Then nothing
.

When the old baker heard the explosion from the street outside the shul
,
he smiled and pressed the stolen Luger to his temple
,
his tears pouring into the mother yeast
.
He would not survive to knead the next batch of dough
.
That would be for new hands
,
but he and his wife would live on
,
their souls bubbling up together as long as the new baker fed the yeast
.
Perhaps they would live forever
.

 

Becker closed the tattered notebook.

It was time for the dance of bees to begin, but it did not. When Becker looked up, he noticed tears streaming down Kleinmann’s cheeks. In that moment Becker felt a level of revulsion and hate for Kleinmann, for his own writing, for himself that he never imagined possible. How, in this place where the worst atrocities were perpetrated by one human against another on an hourly basis, could his story make Kleinmann weep? He had witnessed Kleinmann execute prisoners for the mildest perceived slight, even for slipping on the heap, sometimes simply for sport. Nor was Becker blind to the teenage girls Kleinmann had brought into his office. The crocodile was hungry for more than stories.

“Bravo, Becker. Bravo!” The lieutenant raved, wiping away tears between claps. “Thank you. Thank you.”

At last, Kleinmann uttered the words Becker had longed to hear.

“There will be meat for you tonight, Isaac Becker. Triple rations.”

In his head, Becker heard Weisen’s voice.
Triple rations. The smoke grows more dense. The heap grows taller still.

The SS man smiled. “Or maybe you would prefer some companionship instead? Man does not live by bread alone, eh, Becker?”

Now Becker wanted to rip his own eyes out of their sockets. “That is most kind, Herr Lieutenant Kleinmann, but the rations will be fine.” On the verge of tears himself, Isaac Becker stood to go.

“I have not dismissed you, Becker. Here, bring me your book, that magic book of yours.”

Becker’s body clenched in fear. “The magic is in me, not the book.”

“The book, Becker! Now!”

What choice did he have really? He slid the book across the desk to the SS man. The Nazi stroked the book, patted it, picked it up and caressed it. Then, when he opened the book, Becker had to prop himself against the desk for fear of fainting. The scowl on Kleinmann’s face did nothing to improve Becker’s equilibrium.

“What is this, Becker? What language is this?” he growled at the storyteller.

Becker sighed silently, thankful for the lieutenant’s lack of language skills. He got some string back in his legs and said, “Hungarian, sir, Magyar.”

“Hungarian! The Magyars were once Aryans, but are now inbred pigs. Why don’t you write in German or even Yiddish? Is this some kind of trick, Jew?”

“I don’t dispute you about the Hungarians, Herr Lieutenant Kleinmann, but their language sings to me. Learning the language has occupied my mind here and it helps me with my writing. Even you, sir, have said that one’s mind must be occupied in such a place as this.”

The scowl evaporated. “Yes, I have said this. Whatever helps you with your magic. I suppose the language in which you write is irrelevant, so long as when you read to me ...” Kleinmann again became emotional. “You are dismissed. Go to the rear of Building Five. Your rations will be waiting.” Becker stood his ground. “What is it now? I said you can go.”

“But my book, Herr—”

“You have no possessions here, Becker, only the illusion of possession. That illusion is solely dependent upon me. Savor your meat. Take the night off from your writing. Tomorrow, I will keep you off the ash heap and I will have a new notebook for you and pens, the best pens.”

Becker dared not show his anger. He bowed, turned, hurried through the door, and, for the first time in his life, sought out the company of Jacob Weisen.

 

“DO YOU KNOW what they will do to you if you are caught, Becker? For this, it won’t be anything as gentle as the gas and that’s no treat,” Weisen warned. “It would be better if they shot you.”

“No. You must see it happens as we discussed it.”

Weisen shook his head. “All this for a book of tales. If I had known you were such a fool, I wouldn’t have despised you quite so much.”

“Then it is a fool’s errand and I will pay for the folly, not you.”

“Very well.”

Becker grabbed Weisen’s forearm. “You will give the book to the Gypsy and he will get it out of the camp.”

“You have my word.”

 

JACOB WEISEN HAD explained how it was possible to get back to Kleinmann’s office without drawing unwanted attention. This part of the camp was dark and not well patrolled. No need, really. On those rare occasions when prisoners got loose, they did not run to the ash heap. They knew they would get there soon enough without helping their murderers. Now Isaac Becker, the teller of tales, lay face down in the mud, waiting. For nearly an hour he had listened to Kleinmann forcing himself on one of the blank-faced girls.
Bitch!
the pig would call her, slapping her hard as he grunted. Then there was silence. A few minutes later, two guards showed up at his office door.

“She looks like she could use delousing,” one of the guards joked.

“Yes, a shower would do her well,” said the other.

“No, not this one, not tonight. I am in high spirits tonight. Clean her up and send her to the enlisted men’s brothel,” Kleinmann said, as if he were a genie granting the girl her first wish.

Shortly after the guards left, the lieutenant headed to his quarters.

 

HE HAD UNEXPECTED company.

“Becker, what are you doing here? Are you mad? You know this isn’t permitted. You could be shot and there isn’t a thing I could do about it. Come, walk in the shadows with me.” He looped his arm through Becker’s and pulled him into the dark.

“My book, please, Herr Lieutenant Kleinmann.”

“What did you say, Becker? Did you again call it
your
book? You Jews are a stubborn race. I—”

Pushing the SS man against the side of an empty hut, Isaac Becker covered Kleinmann’s mouth with his muddied hand and plunged a sharpened wedge of glass—the other end padded with a stolen sock—into the SS man’s liver. When he was certain it was in very deep, Becker snapped the glass off so there would be no hope of removing the makeshift blade. Just like in his story, there was confusion in the blue eyes of the victim, then fear. Death came soon enough and more mercifully than it would come for Isaac Becker. The storyteller took back his precious book and retraced the path Weisen had laid out for him.

 

IT TOOK BECKER three days to die on the cross. They had tortured him first and then let him heal enough to make the crucifixion worth their trouble. The cross had been centrally placed so the prisoners would be forced to pass by the dying man while going to and from their barracks. Those prisoners who lacked ringside seats had been marched over to watch the long spikes driven into the storyteller’s body.

“You got the book out?” Weisen asked the Gypsy, both staring out at the cross.

“This morning in a bag under the ashes for the local farmers. They use it for fertilizer, you know, the ashes. One of the farmers is a Polish Resistance man.”

“Where is the book going?”

“An address in Budapest somewhere, I think.”

Weisen turned to the Gypsy. “Did you look in the book?”

“I can’t read. Did you?”

“No. Becker gave it to your man before the guards came for him. I wonder what was in it.”

“Nothing worth that, I can tell you,” the Gypsy said, pointing to the crows pecking at the storyteller’s body.

“It was to him.”

The Gypsy laughed. “No it wasn’t. The first time they jolted him with electricity or burnt him with lit cigarettes, I can tell you, he stopped thinking it was worth it.”

“Then it was a good thing there was no turning back. Still, I wonder what was in that book.”

“Enough! Wondering won’t feed us or keep us alive in this place,” the Gypsy said. “I’m hungry.”

So both men turned their backs on Becker and went behind the barracks to divide up the extra rations Weisen had received for turning in his old nemesis.

Somewhere a crocodile closed his eyes and fell into a deep asleep.

Called “a hard-boiled poet” by NPR’s Maureen Corrigan, Reed Farrel Coleman has published twelve novels, including two under his pen name Tony Spinosa;
Tower
, co-authored with Ken Bruen; and his newest Moe Prager book,
Innocent Monster
. He has been twice nominated for the Edgar Award and is a three-time winner of the Shamus Award. Reed is the former executive vice president of Mystery Writers of America and was the editor of the anthology
Hard Boiled Brooklyn
. His poems, short stories, and essays have appeared in
Indian Country Noir, Damn Near Dead, Wall Street Noir, The Lineup, Crimespree Magazine,
and several other publications. Reed is an adjunct professor in creative writing at Hofstra University and lives with his family on New York’s Long Island. Visit him online at
www.reedcoleman.com
.

Originally published in 2008 by Bleak House Books

 

This edition, Busted Flush Press, 2010

This edition copyright © Reed Farrel Coleman, 2010

Foreword copyright © S.J. Rozan, 2010
Afterword copyright © Reed Farrel Coleman, 2010
“Feeding the Crocodile”
copyright © Reed Farrel Coleman, 2010

 

 

This a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

 

eISBN : 978-1-935-41534-3

First Busted Flush Press paperback printing, October 2010

 

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