Jacob's Oath (23 page)

She felt herself sink into the sheet in relief. “Sweetie? What are you doing? Come
back to bed. Don’t be silly.”

“No, don’t worry, I’ve got to go somewhere.”

“Come back. Look.” She edged back the sheet to reveal her bottom. “Stroke me.”

“No, really, I’ll be back later on.”

“You aren’t still sulking, are you?”

“No, of course not.”

A faint smile came to Sarah’s lips as she drifted back to sleep. It really didn’t
matter if he couldn’t do it. Four days was enough anyway, she had waddled to the synagogue
like a duck and when she came home again needed a cold compress between her legs.
“Come back soon,” she managed to say. Behind her eyelids an outline formed and faded.
Oh … Hoppi, I know you don’t mind, I know you’re happy for me. Hoppi came back and
smiled and nodded and stretched out his arm; Hoppi, I love Jacob now; I’m so lucky;
I was so … unnecessary. And now, I’m so needed. I need him and he needs me. Oh, how
lucky we are. She sighed as she drifted and thought of Jacob, her lover, her friend,
oh, Jacob … She was almost fast asleep when she heard the door close. “What time is
it anyway?” she heard herself whisper from a faraway place.

Jacob reached Adolf’s apartment building at seven in the morning, expecting him to
leave for work around seven fifteen.

He walked in fast circles to keep warm, keeping the entrance to Adolf’s house in sight,
thinking of Sarah. Last night his body had failed him again. Each time he felt close,
the Rat intruded. Was it really him? He’d only seen his back, he could easily be wrong.
But he had that feeling, he just knew it was him. Maybe he had come for one night,
and he’d be gone, on the run, never to be seen again? But then, where would he run
to? No, if it’s him, he’ll stay at home and lie about being in the SS.

He had tossed and turned and squirmed, and when Sarah had wanted him again, he couldn’t
get Maxie off his mind. His face, all that blood, the squashed nose and the dent in
his skull. Even now, Jacob wanted to puke.

At seven fifteen, as he expected, Adolf came out, dressed in the same coat and hat,
walked through the little garden, and turned right along the street. Jacob caught
him within a minute.

“Good morning, Adolf, and how are you today? Bit more chilly than usual.”

“I am very well, how are you?” Adolf said with a smile to the stranger.

Jacob fell in step with Adolf as with an old friend. “And how is work at the hotel?
How are the Seelers keeping? They are such nice people.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Anything new?”

“No, business as usual.”

“Yes? And how is Hans? It must be nice to have him back.”

“Yes.”

“How is he?”

“He is all right. He was fighting in France and Italy. He is a hero.”

“Yes, I heard that. When did he come?”

Adolf calculated. “Two days ago.”

“How long will he stay?”

“I do not know.”

“What will he do?”

“He will work in the hotel.”

“Where will he live?”

“He is living upstairs in one of the suites.”

“Which one?”

“Number nine.”

“Do you keep the key downstairs? Behind the desk?”

“I have all the keys,” Adolf said proudly.

“Well, have a good day today, Adolf, I’ll see you again soon.”

“Good-bye.” Adolf walked on as Jacob took the next right.

That was easy, Jacob thought.

Now what?

Jacob walked to his café and ordered a coffee. He watched the hotel door and imagined
Hans “the Rat” Seeler sniffing around in suite number nine. He’d always been called
the Rat, even in school, because of those long, round stick-out ears. It was only
in Bergen-Belsen, though, as far as Jacob knew, that he had really earned the nickname.
If you’re called the Rat all your life, does that do something to you? What comes
first, the nickname or the person? Was Hans always a rat or did he become a rat?

And when did the rat become the Rat? And what’s wrong with rats, anyway, did Hans
give rats a bad name? He’d eaten many, they tasted quite good, a bit stringy and tough,
although you had to be starving to death to eat one. They had caught them by blowing
smoke from a fire, when they could make one, into rat holes and after an hour or two
the rats poked their heads out to breathe. As a matter of fact, they’d even boiled
the head and ears. It was better than dying of starvation. Protein. Very important.

Hard to catch, though. They’re smart and fast, and when cornered, they stand and fight.

Hans Seeler. Jacob didn’t really remember much about him before the camp. Only that
he was about five years older and went to a different school. He hadn’t had many friends,
or belonged to any of the drinking or student clubs. The townies had their own sports
and social clubs and bars, no fancy duels and polite scars for them. They mostly involved
getting shit-faced and shouting at students and fighting with them in the street.
Jacob remembered Hans at the edges but never being a leader or even particularly liked.
It was only when he joined the Nazi party that Hans had become a bit of a figure in
town, strutting and saluting and conniving, but even then he kept mostly to himself.

He didn’t know Jacob. Jacob was too young to be noticed. That was what had saved him
in Bergen-Belsen. He knew Hans but Hans didn’t know him, or Maxie. If he had, it would
have been worse, far worse, for Hans wouldn’t have wanted witnesses from home.

Hans was the worst of the worst, he was a sadist and a pig and a maniac. He couldn’t
pass a Jew without whipping him, and as there were thousands of Jews, that was a lot
of whipping. He had a special whip that he kept in his boot. It had a thick leather
handle with eight leather thongs and at the end of each thong were smaller thongs
with half a dozen tiny metal balls each. He could eviscerate a man with three lashes.
Jacob remembered his harsh laugh when he saw prisoners flinch as he approached. It
was a snort, like a pig’s, full of scorn and contempt. Every mealtime he decided who
would miss food that day, and taunt them like a dog, leaving a plate of food just
out of reach. And then he’d make the victim of the day carry the heaviest loads, stand
outside in the ice, try to break them, one by one. They heard the stories about the
Rat and his two women. They were his slaves. All the SS officers had sex slaves. But
the stories of what the Rat did … who knew what was true? If he was a sexual sadist
the same way he was a sadist to everyone, well, then it probably was. Hans the Sadist
Rat. He should write a musical one day. Good title.

Jacob sipped his coffee, and shook his head. Two months earlier, his life was in the
Rat’s hands. A month before that, the Rat had killed his little brother. Now … well,
now … we’ll see. Jacob looked at the hotel door.

Jacob still didn’t have a real plan, but he had dreamed of this moment for so long
he knew he’d work it out.

He turned his collar up. The day was gray with a biting south wind. Jacob pulled down
his hat and, leaning back in his chair, eyes on the hotel door, he plotted …

Suite nine. Easy. I wait for Hans and his parents to go out. I go in, get the key
somehow from Adolf, or just take it when he’s not looking, when he’s delivering a
drink. What if Adolf notices the key is missing? He won’t. I’ll take another key and
hang it on the Rat’s hook. Then I’ll leave the door open a bit and return the key
when Adolf isn’t around, and go back upstairs and wait in suite nine. When he comes
in I’ll shoot him in the face. I’ll need a gun. No problem on the black market. Too
noisy, though. Smother the shot with two pillows? Find a silencer?

Or a knife. Wait behind the door and when he comes in cut his throat from behind.
That may be tough, he’s much taller, I’d have to reach up and that would make me lose
leverage. Hit him first with a hammer and then cut his throat?

Yes, a hammer to the head first. Knock him out. Or stab him in the back. Where? The
kidney? Keep him quiet or I’ll be caught.

As he put his cup to his lips he noticed his hand was trembling. He held up his left
hand and it held still. Strange, just the right one. The cup clattered as he put it
back on the saucer. He steeled himself by thinking of Maxie when he was young, when
they played together in the staircase. Maxie’s lifeless eyes when he closed them with
his fingers. They looked like wet gray stones.

The Rat. What if he comes in with someone else? His mother? What if two people come
into the room?

Could be best not to do it in the hotel. Too many people may hear, get caught.

Maybe in an alley at night. Follow him and beat him over the head with a club? Or
stab him with a knife? When he’s alone. A gun would be best, in the head, two shots
to be sure, but too loud, could be caught. Can’t walk through the streets with two
pillows. Can I get a silencer?

Hit and run with a car? Too messy, uncertain, and anyway, no car. A hunting accident
in the woods? Does he go hunting? Push him off a cliff? Drown him in the Neckar?

How about getting some help? Kidnapping him? Torturing him. But who? And where? Somebody
with a car. In the woods, outside town.

What will the Rat do, anyway? Stay inside? Go out with old friends?

Or will he leave, go somewhere else? But where? There’s nowhere to go. No, there’s
time, thought Jacob, he’s not going anywhere.

So here’s the plan. Wait. Follow him. Decide. Do it in his room or in an alley. In
the meantime, get a gun, maybe a silencer, and a knife. And a hammer.

Jacob knew where to go for a knife. The Amis loved German bayonets, commando knives,
hunting knives, SS daggers and swords. On the road to the castle Germans sold dozens
of them to American soldiers looking for souvenirs. These were the support troops.
American combat soldiers had captured more weapons than they could carry but the cooks,
the drivers, and the cable layers paid through the nose for anything warlike. Jacob
had seen an Ami pay twenty-three dollars for a ceremonial SS fighting knife with the
words “Blut und Ehre” engraved on the blade—Blood and Honor. It didn’t even have its
sheaf. Germans weren’t allowed to sell guns but everyone knew they were for sale too.
They’d sell their sisters if they could, and many did.

After three hours waiting for Hans and a quick purchase in a general hardware store,
Jacob walked to the castle, where he bought a seven-inch Wehrmacht fighting knife
with original sheaf for a hundred Reichsmarks. “It’s a TS-136-A,” the seller had begun,
hoping to get top dollar from Jacob, “it’s worth more than the 137 because—” But Jacob
interrupted, “I couldn’t care less, no dollars, a hundred marks, take it or leave
it.”

Jacob was almost home when it suddenly occurred to him that Sarah might ask why he
had bought a fighting knife, so he took off his jacket and hid it carefully in the
sleeve.

Sarah, who was chopping vegetables, looked over her shoulder as he came in. “It’s
freezing outside, why aren’t you wearing your jacket?” she said. “And what’s that
you’ve got wrapped up in it?”

Jacob looked at his jacket in surprise. “Oh, nothing. Just something I got cheap,
I can make ten dollars on this.”

“Whenever you say it’s nothing, it’s something. What is it?”

“Oh, just a military souvenir, Amis collect them.”

“But what is it?”

“Just a little knife.”

Sarah stretched out her hand. “Can I see it? This one is so blunt.”

With a sigh, Jacob unfurled the sleeve and pulled the seven-inch dagger from the sheaf.

“Goodness,” Sarah said. “What is it?”

“Just a knife, what does it look like?”

“It’s like a razor,” she said. “And the point, be careful, you can kill someone with
that. Take it back. I don’t want to touch it.”

Jacob slid the knife back into the sheaf and put it under the bed. He waited for the
right moment when Sarah wasn’t looking to take the hammer from the other sleeve and
hide it next to the knife.

He smiled as Sarah placed two plates of hot food on the table. “It smells so good,”
he said, slapping her bottom. “The perfect Hausfrau.”

They had fried potatoes and onions, two fried eggs, and cucumbers, and drank ice-cold
water. They ate in silence until Sarah said, “Jacob?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you buy a hammer? And why did you hide it with the knife?”

“I didn’t hide it.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then why did you look so guilty and wait till I wasn’t looking to put it under the
bed with the knife?”

“What do you mean? I wasn’t hiding anything.”

“You were, I’ve never seen a man look so guilty.”

“Anyway, if you weren’t looking, how do you know I looked guilty?”

“I saw you in the mirror.”

“Oh.”

“So?”

“I honestly wasn’t hiding it. I just forgot I had it and then had to put it somewhere
so I put it under the bed too, that’s all. Is there any pudding?”

“Rice pudding. With milk, or rather, milk powder. And there are more breadcrumbs than
rice. Rice pudding sounds so much better than breadcrumb powder. But it’s really good.”

And it was. By now it was three o’clock in the afternoon.

“Bedtime,” said Jacob. “I’ll do the dishes later.”

“Oh, thank you. The dish.”

“Did anyone tell you that you are quite a cheeky girl?”

“No, never.”

“Well, come here and let me whisper it into your ear.” Jacob took off his shirt and
sat on the bed to remove his trousers and underpants. “Don’t look.”

Sarah placed her hand over her eyes with her fingers wide apart.

“I’m not looking,” she said.

“Oh, good. Because we’re not married.”

“That reminds me. Will you marry me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.”

“You did. Did you ask me to marry you?”

“No, of course not. I would never say that, a girl never says such a thing. That would
make me a very forward girl.”

“Oh, right, of course, I forgot, you are a shrinking violet.”