Children of the Dusk (5 page)

Come what may, he would spit in the Führer's eye. Whatever Hitler wanted he would get, but not the way he wanted it. He, Colonel Erich Alois, would see to that. At the top of the list was presenting the head of Major Otto Hempel on a stick. On the beach on a stick, turned toward the East, so the son-of-a-bitch could watch the sun rise each morning while the flesh rotted off his face. He would crush them all. All. Whatever it took.

Erich lit a cheroot and watched the match burn down. Deliberately, he let it singe the unfeeling flesh of his damaged left hand. He stared at the skin, fishbelly white ever since his fingers were caught in a falling sewer grate during childhood. Despite the lack of full use of his hand and by virtue of his unwavering regard for what it meant to be a soldier, he had risen in the world of perfect Aryan men; by unfaltering compassion for the animals that were his charges, he had ventured close to the heart and soul of Germany. Had it not been for that night on Peacock Island, he might have become Hitler's personal security. As it was, he had come so close that Himmler, fearing the heat of an encroaching new power, had named him head of the Madagascar Plan and shipped him off to Africa, hopefully to be forgotten.

Well, they would find out that he wasn't to be discarded that easily, but first he had to cure this weakness of his for compromise.

Thinking of the Jews,
his
Jews, as colonists, was fine in the long term, but perhaps not immediately expedient. Hempel must not know his larger design, or the major would be on the radio to Himmler. Then it would be Erich's head on the stick.

Along with those of all the colonists.

He and his trainers were all that stood between Hempel and the colonists' slaughter. The major had no more wanted an African assignment than he himself had. Why Hempel had not turned it down was a mystery.

Because he wanted to kill the Jews?

Ridiculous, Erich thought. Hempel could have done that much more conveniently in Sachsenhausen.

Erich came to the same conclusion he had come to each time he'd posed the question: Hempel was in Africa because of him. That and some other agenda which had not yet come clear. Meanwhile, Hempel would try to kill the colonists--for himself, for Hitler, for the Reich. For whatever sick reasons he gave himself. Like the good people of Oranienburg; Erich had watched them last April, spending Easter sunrise stoning Jews for Jesus.

With Hempel in charge, the killing here would surely include Solomon Freund. Include Miriam...and the child.

My
child, Erich thought.

Mine
!

Regardless of what Miriam claimed. What did it really matter if she said she was emotionally and spiritually married to Solomon Freund. She was legally
his
wife.

The child is mine, as is Miriam. As they all are.

Mine to save.

Mine to use.

Feeling a great deal better, he noticed Solomon coming toward him, threading past colonists carrying fence posts across their shoulders. Till then, he had tuned out the noise around him, a skill he had developed with some deliberation. He prided himself on his concentration. The lesson had been easily learned once he'd understood that it was merely a matter of priorities. Like a frog after a fly, or a dog sleeping while cabaret music blared from the Victrola, he tuned in only what was necessary.

Pity Solomon had never developed that trait, Erich thought, looking at the man whom, during his younger and impressionable years, he had considered his brother. Lanky nearly to the point of emaciation, despite Erich's having come to loggerheads with Hempel to assure the colonists had sufficient rest and food and fresh water. Large hands incapable of real work, only of holding books or of stocking shelves in the tobacco shop their fathers had co-owned. The mind of a philosopher or a fool, if those were not the same thing. Erich snorted, appreciating his own humor.

Solomon looked around the compound as if he were searching for the comedy. "You find something funny in all of this...Colonel Alois?" He tagged on the title as if it were an after-thought, yet quietly enough that it was clear that he remained fully cognizant of his place as a Jew in the Nazi hierarchy.

"You don't?"

"What could possibly be humorous about building an advance camp for what we both know to be a sham?"

"That's precisely what makes it so funny. All this effort for what Himmler will almost certainly never allow. Not unless we can convince Hitler himself of the wisdom of going through with the plan. It's like the old question: if six men can dig a hole in sixteen hours, how long does it take three men to dig half a hole?"

"There's no such thing as half a hole."

"I think that's why I liked you. You were always able to figure out my riddles. What a pity you seem unable to use that mind of yours for anything
important
. You're an enigma, Solomon. An enigma. This operation reminds me of when I was beginning my military training, back at Berlin
Akademie.
We'd dig a hole, the officer in charge would toss in a cigarette, we'd fill up the hole and have to dig up the cigarette. No shovels the second time, only our bare hands. Then we'd fill the hole again. Most of the other cadets took the exercise as hazing, but when I'd finished filling the hole I realized what an important lesson I'd learned: I'd arrived back where I had begun, but now I knew where I'd been...and who I was." He gazed off toward the rain forest, where a parrot was cawing. He had kept one of the cigarette butts. Kept it for a long time afterwards. Whatever had happened to it, he wondered.

He rubbed his chin and, feeling the stubble, realized he had forgotten to shave. "Did you want to talk to me about something in particular," he said, "or is this just a social visit?" Again he chuckled at his own cleverness.

"I've come to you with a..." Solomon lowered his voice, "a request from my people."

"What is it you want, vichyssoise and a fine Rhine wine for dinner? An evening at the Paris Follies?"

"This is a request for something that is likely to increase the men's productivity."

"Appeal to my Germanic sense of order and efficiency, is that it?"

"I too am German...Herr
Oberst
." An even lower voice.

Whatever was left of Erich's benign mood dissipated. Sol's arrogance in calling himself a German angered him. "You are a Jew, Solomon Freund.
 
A shopkeeper's son and a Jew."

"Yes, Herr Oberst. I am subhuman. I am feces. Offal that should be washed from the earth."

"Don't give me that Sachsenhausen crap, Solomon! This is
not
a concentration camp!"

"I'm trying to find the route to your heart, Erich, assuming you still have one," Solomon said in a quiet undertone. "You hold all the cards, and we both know it."

"That's how life is, Solomon," Erich responded. "Complicated, and not often fair. If you are expecting anyone to care--"

"
You
care, Herr Oberst. You care whether or not this operation succeeds. And you care about us. Us
Jews
. Deep down, you care."

"If that's your assumption, by all means continue to delude yourself. It's your right as a Jew." Erich had begun to tire of the game. "Just tell me what you want, and I'll consider it."

"Thank you."

"I said
consider
it," Erich said sharply. "Now what is it?"

"Sundown tomorrow begins Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. We wish to hold a short Service at sundown, at the start of our High Holy Day, and an even briefer one at sundown the following day. We would need the Torah--"

"You're asking for permission to hold a religious Service, a
Jewish
religious Service, during a German military operation?" Erich started to correct himself to
Nazi
military operation, but decided he did not want to give Solomon the benefit of knowing that he made the distinction. "This joke of yours is less than funny, Solomon. First you fuck my wife, and now you want to fuck up my colony.
With
my permission, no less."

He watched with pleasure as the blood drained from Sol's cheeks, his face suddenly as white as when he'd emerged from the hold of the
Altmark
and into the tropical sun.

"This is not about you and me," Sol said at last. "It is not about Miriam or the child. This is about the men. This is about finishing the building of the compound exactly the way you want it. And on time. My people will work better if they are shown some humanity."

Erich tried to stem his rising fury. Almost unconsciously he found himself unsnapping his holster and folding his fingers around the clean, hard feel of the Walther's walnut grips. It took considerable will to let loose of the pistol and resnap the holster. "You ever touch Miriam again, I'll kill you." His gaze burrowed into Sol's with an intensity he could not control. "The child is mine, Solomon. Do you understand that?"

Sol looked at the ground, not replying.

"Do you understand that!"

"Yes. Oberst."

"Now get back to work. I don't care how you do it, you and your Jews, but get my compound built!"

With an expression of defeat and exasperation, Sol executed an about-face and strode off. Like it or not, you will learn who is king here, Solomon, Erich thought. You will have to acknowledge that, as you will finally have to acknowledge the true parentage of the child.

In an effort to set the incident aside, at least for the time being, Erich reassessed the state of the encampment. He told Pleshdimer, who was overseeing the completion of the headquarters tent, to make sure that the Jews bladed the deck evenly; he didn't want everything lopsided--his bed and operations table, especially--in what would be his command post and his home for God only knew how long. Pleshdimer saluted but Erich didn't return the gesture. He would not waste the recognition on someone not truly a soldier, particularly one whom Hempel had illegally made a corporal because the fat Kapo had a knack for finding succulent boys for the major to bugger. As far as Erich was concerned, Pleshdimer should have a machine gun shoved up his ass and the trigger pulled.

The man gave him the creeps. Slit the throats of his two young daughters, people said. Hung them from a rafter so that they would bleed into pans, which blood Pleshdimer fed to his prized sow. For that he had been sentenced to Sachsenhausen and placed in charge of honest, hard-working men whose only crime was that they had been born Jewish. Come to think of it, he saw why Hempel appreciated the Kapo. They were two of a kind.

Where was Hempel, anyway? He should be supervising all of this. "Kapo! Where is the major?" Erich called out at the fat man's receding back.

Pleshdimer glanced furtively at the Zana-Malata's hut, just beyond the perimeter of the camp. "I don't know, Herr Oberst."

Idiot, Erich thought and headed toward the hermit's shack. Halfway there it occurred to him that perhaps he had not been entirely wise in instructing the Kapo to tell the prisoners to do
anything
. Who knew
how
he would go about enforcing the command.

By now, Erich was no more than a dozen meters from the hut. He could see Hempel's boots, resting against the outside wall. Suddenly he did not wish to venture closer. He hadn't seen the Zana-Malata since their arrival, and didn't want to. The syphilitic had made a fool of him and the dogs, no denying that.

"Major Hempel!"

After several moments the major emerged, pushing through the zebu-hide door and descending the three shallow steps. He did not bother to salute, or to excuse his lack of boots. He was chewing vigorously.

"I am giving the Jews permission to hold a religious Service," Erich said. "It will boost their productivity." He felt instantly annoyed at himself for rationalizing his actions. "Tell your men not to interfere with the proceedings."

To Erich's surprise, the major offered no objections. Not even a look of disdain. His face remained bland, as unruffled as his silver hair. Erich found himself glancing from the major's forehead to the armpits of his army blouse. The man never seemed to sweat, despite the withering humidity.

"My men have been without fresh meat for weeks," Hempel said. He pulled a piece of cartilage from his mouth, examined it, and tossed it away.

"There was plenty of meat aboard the
Altmark
--"

"I said
fresh
meat," Hempel interrupted. "Aboard ship, everything was canned."

To emphasize his remark he lifted a brow and gazed over Erich's shoulder--he was more than a head taller--toward the edge of the rain forest, where one of the zebu was tied to a stake. The animals had drifted in and out of the meadow, but Erich could not recall having seen one tethered.

He weighed the request. "Am I to take it that the beast belongs to your syphilitic friend?"

Hempel shrugged, as if he either did not know or did not care.

"Go ahead," Erich said, "but any ownership problems are your responsibility. If you know who owns the animal, arrange for some kind of payment."

Not that he really cared, Erich thought. The Zana-Malata had embarrassed him; taking the man's cow--or whatever--would be just punishment.

With two fingers, Hempel signaled to a guard who was lounging, a rifle in hand and a straw in his mouth, beside three prisoners installing metal bands on poles. The soldier pulled the weed from between his lips and started running.