Jacob's Oath (5 page)

It wasn’t till he reached the edge of the town of Hanover that it began to strike
him that maybe his life in the camp had been a sanctuary of sorts. As a prisoner in
the Sternlager, the Star Camp, he had been spared the worst. Because of his English
mother and his relatives in England, he and Maxie had been chosen to live, they were
hostages, Jews of some value, if there was such a thing, to be swapped one day for
German prisoners of war in British hands. Despite everything, they had been better
treated than most, until the Rat had had it in for Maxie.

Every time they’d heard the drone of warplanes they’d prayed the Americans or the
British would bomb the SS guards, and cursed them when they didn’t. Now, in the suburbs
of Hanover, as he stepped around jagged metal beams and torn concrete boulders, passed
street after street without a house standing, just a sea of rubble, he at last understood
why the Allies hadn’t bombed the camps. Killing Germans was more important than saving
Jews.

There was the smell of decay and death, limbs and feet stuck out from mountains of
bricks and timber, broken staircases hung from ghost houses with caved-in roofs, and
listless Germans sat on smashed walls, looking blankly at these strange rag-people
picking their way past.

Hundreds made their way through the streets, flowing over the smashed walls and piles
of bricks like swarms of rodents. The closer Jacob got to the city center, the worse
it grew. Smoke curled from a pulverized basement and rags were drying. Families must
live down there. As he passed he saw German survivors, with their grimy, bleak faces
and their limbs wrapped in filthy bandages. In the camp you didn’t feel human. Here
you saw people you hoped weren’t human. It stank of excrement and death.

Jacob walked by huge shell holes and craters filled with dirty water and the skeletons
of dogs, picked clean for food. Unexploded shells the size of a small car were marked
by colored tape and warning signs. A burned, rotting horse covered in flies lay tethered
to the shafts of a wrecked cart. In one quarter every building was demolished bar
one: the church, with a steeple that pointed to the sky, as if in gratitude.

As he followed the rail tracks Jacob said his own prayer, that the trains would be
running. It would take a miracle. Approaching the station, carriages lay on their
sides, the rear of a locomotive stuck up with its front smashed, tracks lay at all
angles, and shell holes pockmarked the shunting yard. Two antiaircraft guns lay on
their sides, their barrels blown off.

Jacob rested for a moment, leaning against the shell of a burned-out wooden crate.
Taking in the devastation, it dawned on him: what a fool. He’d been counting on a
train and now it was obvious. The railroad system would have been a key target for
the bombers, so they won’t be able to fix the trains for months. He’d have to turn
around, get back on the road, and quick. There had been so many detours and forced
halts he’d only walked about fifty kilometers in five days. About four hundred more
to Heidelberg. Jacob felt his forehead. No fever …

He looked at his shoes, and had to smile. The left was a formal brown lace-up and
the right was a dark green suede hiking boot. When the British had forced the local
Germans to donate clothes and shoes to the survivors of Bergen-Belsen, nobody had
thought to tell them to tie the pairs of shoes together by their laces. So when a
mountain of shoes and boots had been unloaded at Harrods, the nickname for Camp 2’s
clothes store, it was a rare survivor who walked off with a matching pair.

They were comfortable, though. They had to be. They had a lot of walking ahead.

There was one good sign. Where the tracks ran into a collapsed shed he saw crowds
of people sitting on suitcases. As he approached he saw others sleeping on the ground,
mothers cuddling babies, clumps of men talking, hugging themselves, and jumping on
the spot to keep out the cold. They must be waiting for something.

In a clearing of rubble there was a water truck with British soldiers in their khaki
uniforms and garrison caps. A line of Germans stood patiently in single file with
broken buckets, tin mugs, and dirty bowls for their turn at the tap. Jacob went to
the back of the line until it occurred to him: Why should I wait? Am I still in the
camp? Did a German ever wait behind me?

On second thought, maybe a dirty ragged Jew proffering a stolen British army canteen
to a British soldier wasn’t too smart, either. But Jacob was beyond caring. He was
too tired and parched. He hadn’t drunk water for two days.

The British soldier looked startled when a filthy young man in torn clothes came straight
to the head of the queue, holding out his water bottle. The Germans liked to line
up almost as much as the British. Who was this bloke? “The end of the line’s over
there, mate,” he said. “And where’d you get that water bottle from?” Not that any
of these Krauts spoke English.

“A British officer gave it to me,” Jacob said, in English. “Because I have been in
a concentration camp for the whole war. He said I had suffered enough. I haven’t had
a drink in days, I’ve been walking. But if you like…”

“How come? Jew?”

“Yes.”

“Well, to me you’re all Germans. To the back, like everyone else.”

Now Jacob looked startled. He didn’t know what to say. The Germans in line didn’t
understand the exchange but they got the message and began to mutter. A man behind
pulled Jacob by the jacket, a woman said something like “Who do you think you are?”

“But you don’t understand…” he began.

“Oh, yes I do, mate,” the soldier said. “You lot are all the same. Always want to
get to the front of the line. Always did, always will. Well, there’s plenty of water
where this came from. Get in line like everyone else. And where’d you nick that canteen?”

Jacob stiffened. Every insult he had suffered, every humiliation, every blow, every
kick, and every Nazi face that had ever loomed into his with a fist and a club and
a rifle steamed up inside him like a boiling geyser. Enough! He felt his face go red,
clenched his fist, knew that what he wanted to do would be a terrible mistake. But
for once, for once …

“Don’t be a tosser, mate,” he heard a voice say, “give him a drink for Gawd’s sake.”
A soldier elbowed the first away, saying, “He’s on our side, you twat.” The second
soldier, with red hair and a sunburned face, took Jacob’s canteen and held it under
the stream of water till it overflowed. “Don’t mind him,” he said, “bit soft in the
head, cooks are all the same. Let them out of the kitchen and they think they’re Monty.”

“Mosley, more like,” a third soldier, a mountain of a man, said. “Here, come with
me,” he said to Jacob.

Grateful to have been spared from his own violence, and with a glare at the cook,
Jacob followed the broad back past the station waiting room, which was mostly intact.
He stopped dead, his mouth open, hardly hearing the soldier’s question. Surrounded
by upended carriages and torn tracks was a locomotive with five carriages waiting
in a siding. The tracks it stood on were intact and stretched into the distance until
they disappeared around a bend.

“Bergen-Belsen,” Jacob answered.

“Heard about that. Poor show. Those swine. Here.” He took Jacob to his Bergen bag,
which lay among a pile of canvas army bags stacked against a wall. He rummaged around
and pulled out biscuits, bread, a little jar of marmite, and half a bar of chocolate.
“Here. You need these more than me,” the soldier said. “And good luck, mate.”

Jacob laid his hand on the big soldier’s arm, wanting to thank him, but all that came
out was half a sob. He bit his lip. He couldn’t find any words.

The soldier nodded and walked away.

FIVE

Berlin,
May 6, 1945

Frau Eberhardt from upstairs wrung out a rag and reddish water dripped into the bucket.
She had heated a pot of water over a wood fire and when the rag was as dry as possible,
she screwed the edge up into a point, wet it again with clean, hot water, spread a
little of her precious soap on the end, and slowly massaged Sarah’s inner thigh and
groin, dabbing at the bruises and cleaning the scratches. It stung but Sarah surrendered.
The smarting pain had gone, replaced by an ache that seemed to stretch from her groin
to her heart.

Frau Eberhardt tutted as she worked. “Really,” she said for the tenth time, “we must
find you a doctor.”

Sarah lay back, her legs apart. She was exhausted, she felt empty, hopeless, and worst
of all, helpless. For this she had survived? To be a prize for the eastern peasants?
“What we must do,” she said, “is get me out of here.”

“He’ll be back for sure, the big pig,” Frau Eberhardt said. “There’s less blood now,
mein Liebchen, a lot less.”

“I should hope so, it’s been three days,” Sarah said. “Those apples, you can take
them.”

Viktor had come by the next day with two bottles of vodka, had seen the state she
was in, tut-tutted, kissed her forehead, and dropped off a bag of apples and some
bread and cheese.

“No, no, you eat them. Well, all right, maybe I’ll take one. Two, one for Stefan as
well.”

Every few moments Frau Eberhardt glanced at the door. She strained to hear any sound.
Her husband was standing guard at the entrance to the house and would whistle if any
soldiers seemed to be approaching. They were nervous. Petrified. Frau Eberhardt couldn’t
stop talking. If she was caught downstairs by any of those Russian swine, she’d get
it too, she said. They didn’t care if she was old and dry and wrinkled, as long as
she breathed they’d do it, and probably if she didn’t breathe, too. They’d raped half
the women in the street and the only reason they hadn’t raped the other half was because
they hadn’t found them. At least Sarah only had one. She should count herself lucky.
They hunted in packs, those curs, those dogs. Trust me, enjoy the war because peace
will be hell. Poor Ilse Stanger at number fifteen, the dog was so drunk he couldn’t
get it up so he’d used a bottle and it broke inside. And there was no anesthetic when
they went in to get the bits out. Blood everywhere. And not a sound. In shock, you
know. Frau Schmidt next door had hid her twins, they’re only fifteen, in the water
barrel in the attic, there was no water anyway. It’s so unfair, how the Russians abuse
them, she hadn’t supported the Nazis anyway, never had, she wasn’t like everybody
else, she was just as much a victim as the Jews, and now they were all being treated
the same, for no reason, oh, that Russian dirt, just because they kicked the Nazis
out they think we owe them.

Herr Eberhardt wouldn’t allow her to take Sarah upstairs, where at least there was
a proper bed she could lie on. “He’s afraid that big Russian will come looking upstairs
if he can’t find you here. I’m so sorry, my dear, but there you have it. If he doesn’t
find you then we’ll all be in for it. When Herr Eberhardt puts his foot down there’s
nothing I can do.”

She left a pillow for Sarah and two blankets to lie on. She was sorry. That’s all
she could do. “I’ll come back in the morning, my dear, see how you are. I’ll bring
some more water. Here’s some in the pan, and a cup.”

Sarah, limbs heavy, murmured, drifting off to sleep, “Thank you so much, Frau Eberhardt.
You’re very kind.”

*   *   *

That evening he did come back for more, and not alone. Another man, even bigger, younger,
in a gray Soviet army coat, which he kept buttoned up, entered the room with him and
stood, looking at her, while Viktor laughed and introduced them and unrolled a bundle
with bread and cheese and a whole smoked fish. He placed two bottles of vodka on the
floor, and lit two candles. “It’ll be dark soon,” he said to his friend in Russian,
and grinned. “Take your coat off, there’s hot work here.”

Sarah whimpered for a moment but was too scared to form a word. Her face puckered
with despair as she looked at the new man. She shrank against the wall, her hair falling
across her smudgy face, matted and dirty. She looked at the dried brown blood on the
floor and the man followed her gaze. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

He spoke and turned to leave. Viktor threw out his arm and held him by the sleeve.
The man barked something, an order, and Viktor dropped the sleeve and stood up straight.
He answered, quietly. The man looked at Sarah, said something else to Viktor, who
took a slice of sausage and gave it to her. She refused to take it. The man, maybe
an officer, laughed at Viktor, said something, and turned to the door.

Viktor glared at Sarah, anger in his eyes. A sob rose in her throat, a cry, he would
kill her, this brute, she couldn’t do it again, she just couldn’t, she wasn’t ready,
and seeing her last chance, desperate, she cried out, “Bitte, helfen Sie mir, helfen
Sie mir!” Please, help me, help me. The man seemed to pause, but she heard his footsteps
continue up the stairs.

Later Sarah said she didn’t know why, it had been many years since she had said the
prayer, even part of it, what good did it ever do her or her family? But at the thud
of those steps nearing the top of the staircase, knowing that she might not survive
the night with that monster pig, she cried out in sheer panic, and from the bottom
of she knew not where came those words, those holy words, those words of Jewish prayer.

“Bitte, helfen Sie mir, helfen Sie mir,” she had cried in German, help me, and then
she screamed, directly to God, “O, Shema Yisrael, Adenoi Elohenu, Adenoi Echad,” and
then again in German, “Hilfe, hilfe, um Gotteswillen, hilfe!” For God’s sake, help!

The steps paused again.

She collapsed in loud sobs and fell across the pile of bricks. No, she couldn’t go
through it again! Her hand fell on a jagged chunk of cement. It closed on it. I swear
to God, she thought, that bastard won’t rape me again, I’ll kill him with this or
die trying.

The new man must have jumped, for she could hear him crashing to the ground. He cursed,
he almost twisted his ankle in the gloom.