Jacob's Oath (3 page)

Now she heard heavy steps, confident steps. More crunching of plaster and another
soldier elbowed by the first. He had a flashlight that he shone in Sarah’s face. His
eyes lingered on her, looked her up and down. Sarah pointed to her lips and licked
them. The second soldier gave an order and the younger one left.

The older man lashed out with a black leather boot. The wall of debris, Sarah’s shelter,
collapsed in a cloud of dust and white plaster. He jerked his weapon. In Russian:
Stand up. Against the wall.

Now with a true whimper, Sarah, still holding her shirt closed with both hands, scrambled
to her feet and obeyed, without understanding the words. The soldier slowly raised
his gun and pointed it at her and kept it pointing at her stomach. Again, his eyes
wandered across her body. He said something to her. It seemed that he was sneering.
Sarah didn’t answer, her shoulders sank, she cradled her belly with her hands. Tears
welled in her eyes. She felt naked.

The soldier was a big older man, with graying hair and large hands, like a farmer.
He stood with legs apart, relaxed, staring at her. He put a finger under a dirty field
dressing over his left ear and scratched, keeping his eyes on her body.

The young soldier returned, holding out a bottle and an olive-green water canteen.
He handed them to the older soldier, who said something. The boy looked at Sarah,
shrugged as if there were nothing he could do, turned and left.

The soldier unscrewed the bottle and with a smile that showed broken yellow teeth
handed it to Sarah. “Danke schöen, danke schöen,” she said as she lifted the bottle
to her lips. The soldier acknowledged her thanks by showing his teeth again and with
an upward jerk gestured with his rifle: drink.

Sarah breathed out and took a deep swallow. It took a moment before she gasped and
spat and shouted in surprise and disgust. The soldier threw his head back and roared
with laughter till his body shook. “Vodka, vodka,” he said. His eyes sparkled, his
stupid face was creased in a broad grin as he gestured as if to say, Funny, yes?

He handed Sarah the olive-green canteen. She raised it and let a drop fall into her
mouth. She tasted it, licked her lips, took a bit more, and then gulped down half
the contents. She poured a little water onto her hand and wiped her eyes. Dirt smudged
her forehead more, she looked as if she hadn’t washed in a week, which was true. She
breathed in and out, a long draw of satisfaction, and drank another long swallow.

“Danke schöen,” she said, passing the canteen back to the soldier, who remained, legs
apart, gun up, contemplating Sarah.

Now what? she thought, looking down.

He said something in Russian, laughed, and gave the canteen back to Sarah with a gesture:
Drink, it’s yours.

He turned and left.

*   *   *

Sarah sank against the wall. She put the canteen to her lips, sipped and sipped again.
No point in hiding anymore, she thought, I must get out of here. He’ll be back. But
where to go? The Russians are everywhere. And if not them, the Germans. Oh, where
are the Americans? That’s what everybody had hoped. That the Americans or the British
would get here first. That’s where I must go, she thought. To the Americans.

But I’m so tired, she thought, surrendering herself to the weight of her head, her
arms, her back, which pulled her down. Hoppi. Her eyes closed as she laid herself
flat on the floor and a drowsy cloud descended. “Hoppe Hoppe Reiter, Wenn er fällt
da schreit er…” The nursery rhyme. Parents put their children on their knees and jiggled
them up and down and said: “Hoppe Hoppe Reiter”—Hup Hup Rider—and the rhyme ended
with a loud “Macht der Reiter Plumps”—the rider goes plumps—and the parents opened
their legs and the baby fell through them with a happy shriek. Every German knew the
rhyme.

Sleep was taking her. A smile played on her lips as she remembered how Hoppi loved
to hold her. With Sarah on his knees, her legs straddling him, he deep, deep inside
her, hugging each other so they could hardly breathe, kissing for as long as it took,
as they moved and slid and cupped each other’s bottom, it was so warm and loving and
beautiful. Oh, Hoppi. He would jiggle her up and down and look into her eyes and with
a wicked smile, just before he came, he would say, he was always such a joker, he
would shout, “Hoppe Hoppe Reiter!” That made her the rider. So that made him Hoppi.

And now he’s gone. Or is he? Could he have survived, somehow? Escaped? No, they killed
everyone, don’t fool yourself. It’s been three years. Still, we promised each other.
If ever we were separated, we would go home, find each other there. On the bench at
the bottom of the steps by the river. We promised.

Home. Sweet Heidelberg. Sweet Hoppi. Sweet dreams.

Sprawled on the floor, with a sheen of perspiration on her face like a translucent
death mask, drool escaping from the corner of her open mouth, Sarah slipped into a
deep sleep.

*   *   *

The rumble now was Sarah snoring.

Fields of flowers glow in the early sun, a haze of pink and yellow, and rustle in
the gentle breeze like a sea of glinting sun-washed waves. Lush low green hills with
meadows of golden wheat rise and fall like the sea breaking on a yellow sandy beach.
It is harvest time and boys and girls in Lederhosen are working hand in hand and humming
and singing, and the sound of youth and joy is a low murmur across the bountiful land
gifting hay and sunflowers and trees laden with heavy fruit. Shafts of light through
the dense branches make the white almond and apple blossoms that smell so sweet and
dainty and fragrant explode in luminescence. It is a farm, a farm of love. There,
over there. See? The tall boy with long brown hair flopping over his eyes, laughing
so gayly. Is that Hoppi leaning down, picking the red flower, putting it to his nose,
breathing deeply, smiling and handing it to a baby, who laughs and tries to eat it?
A baby? Lying on the ground, cooing, waving its little fists? Now the picture is fading,
receding, like a street drawing in chalk washed away in the rain, storm, hail. Now
the delicate fragrance is changing, it is stained with a different aroma, edgy, sickly,
becoming bitter. Are the almond blossoms already rotting? Is the wheat old and dry?
Is the sun going down? It is dark, and chilly. The smell. It is sharp, yet suffocating.
What is it?

Sarah’s eyes fluttered as she moaned and drifted out of her dream and sniffed. Beer.
Alcohol. She opened her eyes and could barely see in the gloom. She heard breathing.
Not her own.

Sarah looked up.

His few teeth glinted in the dim light. He smiled and said something. A whiff of alcoholic
stink, like rotting potatoes, made her snap her head aside and gasp.

“Viktor,” he said, stabbing his finger into his chest. “Viktor.” He said something
else and stuck out a bottle. “Wasser?”

He gave her his canteen. Bleary and giddy, she sat up and took a tiny sip as if tasting
a fine wine, and when she was sure it was water all but drained it.

Feeling pressure on her bladder, she rose to her feet. Viktor stood with her. He didn’t
have his rifle with the bayonet. He had his bottle with a pistol. He pulled the gun
from its holster, pressed it sharply into the back of Sarah’s head, behind her right
ear, prodded her to the door and into the corridor. With his free hand he pointed
to the doorway leading to the yard.

Sarah was pale, trembling and nauseated. But she had to pee. Unable to communicate
beyond simple gestures, humiliated, she went behind a wooden crate in the yard. She
gathered her dress about her, squatted, pulled down her knickers, and felt release
and heard the flow and sensed the warmth as her urine flowed into the earth around
her.

The soldier faced the door with his pistol raised, as if protecting his spoils. He
looked like an ogre guarding its cave. As she finished she looked up. His body half
faced her but his head was to the other side. As she pulled up her knickers and began
to stand her heart raced. She was thinking, This is my chance, it’s now or never.
She prepared to spring, to run. But the yard was sealed on all sides, it was an inner
courtyard at the back of the building with rows of earth once used to grow vegetables
and flowers. These had been pulled out by the roots long ago, replaced by grass and
weeds, which would soon also go into a pot of soup. Now she was standing. Maybe I
can push him aside and run, she thought. But where to? The street is full of Russian
soldiers. They’ve put up a roadblock. And he’s so big and strong.

Sarah felt small and weak. Which she was, in body. In mind, she had been through so
much. And now this. All the talk of the women at the water pump, at the clothes line—Sarah
couldn’t join them at the shops with their ration cards because she didn’t have one—was
of what would happen if the Russians came. There were no real German men to protect
them; all the males were very young or very old. The soldiers had long since fled
and the Young Guards were either killed or captured.

The street was peopled by the sick, the helpless, and the women. And it was controlled
by drunk Russian peasants in uniform, who had been at the front for years.

So what did you expect?

There is no point fighting or screaming, Sarah said to herself. Nobody will help.
It will only make it worse. With a resigned sneer she adjusted her dress and walked
past him, back into the gloomy room.

He followed her. She sat on the floor against the wall, drew up her knees, and wrapped
her arms around them, chin down, looking at her feet. Her hair fell over her face
and she closed her eyes. It was a pose of utter dejection.

He crouched and arranged some bricks into a flat shape, as if to sit. He put his hand
inside his bulky jacket. Sarah heard the rustle and looked up. Oh, no, she thought.
A knife? A rope? A gag? What will this disgusting man do? She felt the bitter tang
of bile.

He took out two candles and a match. Now there was light and flickering shadows and
a smoky smell. She felt herself detaching, ephemeral, observing this shadowy space.
Her soul rose to see the outline of a stranger with this Russian brute. Candles? Is
he wooing her? Is he mad?

All was quiet. The neighbors were hiding in their homes. Outside, the Russians must
have been resting or guarding or whatever they did. Probably this little scene was
being played out all across Berlin. She thought: To the victors go the spoils.

Still on his haunches, from inside his jacket the soldier Viktor pulled out a little
bundle and spread it across the stack of bricks that Sarah now realized was a table.
The bundle was a towel, and he spread it to reveal a loaf of fresh-smelling bread,
a jar of herring, and a large chunk of white cheese. From a side pocket he took a
bottle of vodka and set it next to the loaf. From another pocket, a sausage and a
red apple. She hadn’t seen so much food for years. I’m being wined and dined, she
thought. Does he think I’m his girlfriend?

She caught a whiff of stale sweat as Viktor took off his jacket and laid it across
some bricks. He arranged other bricks into a low stool. He perched on it, took out
a deadly-looking knife with a squat serrated edge, and cut a slice of bread, cut more
slices of cheese and sausage, which he laid on the bread and offered to Sarah. Her
stomach juices churned, her mouth watered as she stared at the offering.

“Here, enjoy it,” Viktor said in Russian.

“No, thank you,” Sarah said in German, shaking her head. They communicated by hand
movements. He offered it again, waving it, he teased her by holding it under her nose.
She was dying to eat it. “Eat, bitch,” he said in Russian. “Eat, get strong, and then
I’ll have you.” He laughed at her. Holding out the sandwich, with his other hand he
took a long swig from the bottle.

Sarah pulled her head away. On the wall she saw the shadow of her head jerk back.

“You need strength,” he said, and pushed the sandwich against Sarah’s mouth, brushing
her lips. Again, she pulled back. “So you’re not hungry?” he asked, and put half the
sandwich into his own mouth, pushing a few stray bits in with his fingers. As he munched
he smiled at her, teasing her again, opening his mouth to show the half-chewed food.
He nodded his head, smacked his lips, licked them, rubbed his stomach. He took another
long swig of vodka and burped. He took his time cutting some more cheese and sausage.
The sausage he ate by itself, the cheese he smeared with his knife over a slice of
bread, which he raised to his mouth. He looked at Sarah, looked down at his supplies,
mimed surprise as if he had just discovered the jar of herrings, and unscrewed the
top. He speared one, crimson and dripping and sweet-smelling, sniffed it, licked it,
put it in his mouth, and took a bite of bread and cheese. Sarah, still leaning back
against the wall, felt she could faint with hunger. Her mouth was open and she breathed
quickly. She stopped her tongue from licking her lips. She looked away.

But it was too much. When Viktor held out another slice of bread with everything on
it, succulent herring, aromatic cheese, and spicy sausage, she fell on it, bit into
it, chewing like a crazy woman. She had never tasted anything so good. She had been
living on scraps rejected by the neighbors, their leftovers. She drank some water
and tried to eat some more; but she couldn’t, her stomach must have shrunk. She lay
back, sated, hands on her belly, closed her eyes, and sighed.

Until terror rose within her and she opened them.

Viktor was standing, his thick fingers unbuttoning his trousers. His shadow flickered
up the wall and across the ceiling. He looked a monster. He slid out his leather belt
with its metal buckle, let it hang from one hand, and snapped it like a gunshot. With
his other hand he drank from the bottle. He flicked the belt again and pointed at
Sarah. Up, he said, with the bottle at his lips.

Off, he gestured, pointing at her shirt. Off, pointing at her dress. Off, he panted,
pointing at her knickers.