Amerikan Eagle (36 page)

Sam thought for a moment, not sure he could trust this fellow prisoner. “Just thinking aloud, that’s all.”

“Then think about this, my friend. If someone escapes from our barracks, everyone is sent to the cooler for punishment. Water only, no food for a week. And then one man from the barracks, he is chosen by lot and shot. For it is thought by the guards—helped by the Germans, of course—that shooting one from a barracks will discourage the others. It works. Most time.”

Sam kept quiet, stopped eating.

“So I ask you, my new American friend, is that what you will do? Try to escape? To sentence me or one of my bunkmates to torture and then death?”

Sam said, “I don’t know what I’ll do, but I need to get out and—”

“We all need to get out.” The voice was harsh. “We all want to leave. But where to go, eh? To be a Jew in this world now … there are no longer any safe places. None!
So we live to live another day, and that is what we do. And here we are reasonably safe. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t,” the Dutchman shot back. “Here. I will tell you a tale. Mmm, no, not a tale but a true story. In the South, cutting trees, I knew a schoolteacher from a village in Poland. His name was Rothstein. One day, months after the invasion, special German police units came to his village and took out all the Jews and brought them to the town square. There, in the hot June sun, they made them sit still. No water. No shade. No food. And the Germans laughed. And they took photographs. They told the Jews, ‘You move, you will die. Understand?’ An old man, he couldn’t help himself. He tried to stretch his cramped legs. They shot him. A woman screamed. They shot her. Near Rothstein, his two-year-old nephew, he squirmed out of his mother’s arms, tried to run away, and the mother cried and a German policeman, he picked up the boy by his ankle, dangled him before everyone, and put a pistol to the child’s head and shot him. Rothstein, he was splattered with his nephew’s blood and brains. That happened in a place where Jews had lived for hundreds of years in safety and sanctuary. Now … nothing. Even here, in your America. We are no longer safe. So tell me, are you going to have me killed? Or one of my bunkmates? Are you so important that this will happen?”

Sam didn’t reply. Otto said, “And about your Jews. They have moved themselves to ghettos, haven’t they, afraid of what might happen to them. We know that news as well. Your Jews have not been rounded up, eh, not yet
the pogroms and the arrests. But will their time come? Like ours?”

A whistle blew, sending them all back to work, ensuring Sam didn’t have to come up with an answer, for he had none to give.

The afternoon dragged by, monotonous and backbreaking work, splinters from the shovel handle digging into his palms, blisters breaking into blood and pus, keeping his head down, just shoveling, trying not to breathe in the stone dust kicked up by the drilling and cutting. When the whistle blew again, he trudged back to the barracks with his new bunkmates, and he understood the look of those prisoners he had seen. It was the look of hopelessness, of giving up and knowing one’s place. What was real was what was before one’s nose, and nothing else. To live was to get through a day without being beaten, without being shot, and to eat as much food as possible, all to live one more day.

That was the life inside the wire.

And to get out, to successfully escape, was to doom some stranger in his barracks to death. Up ahead was Barracks Six, and the line of men moved in. A Legionnaire he recognized from yesterday was standing by the door; he crooked a finger at Sam’s direction.

“You, cop.” The Legionnaire’s face was pockmarked from old acne scars. “Time to finish some business.”

The Legionnaire grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled him out of line. Sam’s bunkmates cast their eyes down, as if afraid that by paying any attention they, too, would be dragged away. Sam shook off the man’s arm and the man laughed easily. “All right, pal, just come along and there won’t be no problem.”

He walked with the Legionnaire, each step heavy and painful, seeing a wooden and wire gate ahead of them open up, with watchtowers on every side. Now they went to the right, to a small concrete building that stood next to yesterday’s processing facility. Inside it smelled of chemicals and sweat, and an older man in a white coat and with wavy gray hair sat at a wooden table, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Nearby were bottles of ink and shiny instruments. The old man looked up and asked in a German accent, “He’s not a Jew, is he?”

“Nope,” the Legionnaire answered. “But he’s a guest here, just the same.”

The old man laughed. “Knew he wasn’t a Jew. Can always tell. All right, bring him over.”

At the man’s elbow was an open thick leather-bound ledger, and Sam saw rows of names and numbers. It was as if icicles were tracing themselves up and down his back. He knew what was planned for him. He was about to be branded as a hunk of meat, like the poor bastards around him, like his homicide victim.

“Hey, now,” the older man instructed. “Hold your wrist out. And be quick, I’m late for my supper.”

Sam didn’t move.

The Legionnaire slapped him. The pain shot through him. The Legionnaire urged, “Now, boy, hurry up!”

Sam glared at the Legionnaire, then rolled up the sleeve on his left arm. He held his wrist out, the man pulled a humming metal instrument close, a tattooing needle at the end of a handle, brought it down to Sam’s wrist, and he felt the harsh sting as the painful marking began, branding him forever as a prisoner—

Sam balled his other hand into a fist, punched upward, caught the old man under the chin. The old man grunted in shock, and Sam heard the Legionnaire call out. Sam grabbed the needle, seized the man’s right hand, pulled it forward, took the needle, and slammed it into the hand. The man howled and then the Legionnaire was on him, beating him, and Sam hurt as he punched and kicked, and through the pain, it all felt good.

He had fought back.

Hours later, Sam lay on his side, breathing shallowly, his ribs hurting. He had been dragged from the tattoo room to a place called the cooler, and damn, that was a good turn of phrase, because it was fucking freezing. It was a concrete cell block without a mattress pad, blanket, or pillow, just a covered bucket in the corner for shit and piss, and right now, even though his bladder was screaming
for release, he couldn’t drag himself the four or five feet to the bucket.

But he was smiling. Even through the blood and the bruises and the throbbing pain, he was smiling. He had fought back, had caused the German tattooist some serious pain. Sure, maybe someone else would be along eventually to finish the tattoo, but at least Sam Miller, Portsmouth police inspector, hadn’t been completely branded like some barnyard animal.

He tried to shift again, groaned as something stabbed in his side. So, in under two days as a prisoner, what had he learned? A lot. In remote areas of the nation, Jewish refugees were at work, clearing wood, mining ore, cutting stone. Among these refugees, one Petr Wowenstein—aka Peter Wotan—had lived and worked until successfully escaping.

The refugees—how and why did they end up here?

Another intake of breath, another moan.

Yet Sam smiled, for even though he didn’t have all the answers, he had found out a lot. He wondered if ol’ Marshal Harold Hanson would be proud of his probationary inspector. After all, not only had Sam properly identified the city’s latest homicide victim, he had also uncovered a national secret.

Damn, if that wasn’t worth passing probationary status, what would be? Maybe even help him in the Party. Who knew?

He coughed.

Damn, he hurt.

* * *

Somehow he had managed to doze, and when he woke up, he stumbled over to the bucket, aimed into it. Daylight coming through a high barred window allowed him to see that his urine wasn’t stained with blood, which was a good sign. He held up his left wrist. There. A blue numeral three. A permanent reminder of the horror he and so many others were living in. Sam lowered the sleeve and replaced the cover to the bucket and sat down, grimacing at the thudding pain in his ribs.

He looked around the small cell. Something was near the bottom of the wall. He looked closer, saw a set of initials—
R.S
.—and a Star of David carved in the stone.

A noise, a slight thump.

Something was on the floor. He crawled over, saw it was a hunk of bread with a string wrapped around it. He undid the string, saw the bread open up, and among the smears of margarine was a note:

From O. Good luck
.

Otto. The Dutch businessman from Barracks Six. Be damned.

He ate the bread, wincing as his sore jaw worked, and then he tore up the note and ate that as well. The piece of string went into his bucket.

He sagged against the wall, feeling just a bit better, trying to think of what he could possibly do next.

Survive, he decided. Do what the Jews here were doing. Stay alive. Somehow get out and get back to Portsmouth and—

Condemn a man to death, then? Is that what you’re thinking? To escape and condemn someone, hell, maybe even Otto, who befriended you? Is that what you’re going
to do? Kill him on the off chance that you can get through the fences and wire and past the guard towers and—

The door was being unlocked. Two Long’s Legionnaires came in, staring at him, wooden truncheons pulled from their belts.

One said, “Get your ass up, come with us, or we’ll beat you somethin’ awful. Got it, boy?”

Sam got up, hurting but happy he could hide his pain from these two thugs.

* * *

They escorted him to a building set apart from the rest, a wooden cottage that wouldn’t look out of place at a lake resort. About him were the sounds of the quarry at work, the growl of the cranes, the thump of the drills, the whine of the cutting tools, and—underneath—the shouted voices of the guards and overseers.

At the cottage, both men stopped. One pointed to the front stoop. “You go on up there, boy, and there’s someone to see you. You step lively, and if you run out by yourself, jus’ so you know …”

The man jabbed an elbow into Sam’s ribs, making him gasp. The man went on, “Up there, at the southwest guard tower, there’s a man with a scoped rifle, and if you come out of that there cottage by yourself, he’s gonna blow your head clear off. You understand?”

Sam said nothing, shook off the other guard’s grasp, and went up the steps. It was cold, and he could feel shivering starting in his legs and arms. He took hold of the doorknob, wondering what was on the other side.

He opened the door, stepped into a tiny foyer with
stained Oriental carpeting and a bureau and lamp. Through an arched opening was a living room with a thick couch and two easy chairs, the arms covered with dainty doilies. A picture window gave a view of the distant fence line, and way beyond that, the tree-covered peaks of the Green Mountains. A man in a military uniform—it looked to be army—was standing with his back to Sam, looking out, his hands clasped behind him.

“Well,” the military man said, and turned around.

Sam stood stock-still, as if someone had nailed his feet to the floor.

Before him, in his Army National Guard uniform, was his boss, Marshal Harold Hanson.

“Sam,” Hanson said, shaking his head. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

Sam closed his eyes, then opened them right up. “I … I was doing my job.”

Hanson stood there, hands on his hips. “Look at you. Christ, how in hell did you end up here?”

“The dead man … by coming here, I found out who he was—”

“Dammit, Sam, you were told several times to leave that case alone. You know it belongs to the FBI and the Germans.”

“Still my case, sir. No matter what you say or what
the FBI says. It’s still my case, and I found out where he came from. I know his real name, and—”

“Do you have any idea the problems you’ve caused?” Hanson interrupted. “What kind of trouble you’re in?”

Sam ran a hand over his shorn head. “Yeah, I guess the hell I know what kind of trouble I’m in. Sir.”

Hanson’s face flushed. “That’s enough of that, then.”

“What else did you expect me to say? Or do?”

“I expected you to be smart, for one,” Hanson said. “And you’re lucky I’m here.”

Sam said, “How did you know where I was?”

His boss said, “Allow me some intelligence. One reason I became marshal is because I keep my ears and eyes open. You don’t think I knew about the deal you cut with Kenny Whelan to get a false FBI ID? He called me just after you left his apartment. Pat Lowengard sold you out, too, the minute you went out the door. That’s our world. Spies and snitches everywhere. It was a simple matter of tracking you from Portsmouth to Boston and then to Burdick, Vermont. Knowing what’s in Burdick, I knew you were going to get into serious trouble.”

Even in this pleasant room, Sam could still hear the thudding of the stonecutting equipment, could still smell oil and stone dust. “Why are they here? All these Jews? Here and New Mexico and other places across the country? There must be thousands, am I right?”

Hanson said, “You don’t need to know what’s going on here.”

Something sharp sparked inside of him. “The hell I don’t!”

“Sam, look—”

“No,” Sam insisted, “I’ve been beaten, stripped, and
worked as a slave. I came close to getting a tattooed wrist like the rest of the poor bastards out there. I’ve got a right to know, and you’ve got to tell me. I demand it.”

Hanson folded his arms over his uniform. “You don’t look like you’re in a position to demand anything.”

“Maybe so, but I think this would prove embarrassing for you, sir. After telling people in the Party you’re sponsoring me for bigger and better things, having me imprisoned in Burdick wouldn’t look good for you. But tell me, and you’ll be thrilled at what I’ll do for the Party and you if I get out.”

Hanson stared at him, and Sam wondered what was going on behind those evaluating eyes. Then the marshal said, “What makes you think I know anything?”