Children of the Dusk (9 page)

Uncomfortable beneath the lurid stares from the guards, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and looked apprehensively toward the knoll. While she was inside the mess tent, darkness had fallen with the rapidity of a stage curtain. She could just make out Erich half-striding, half-running toward the encampment. Over to one side, she noticed the ship's doctor and the unit corpsman, in earnest conversation, walk slowly in her direction.

"Don't worry about the delivery, Franz," she heard Tyrolt tell the corpsman in a hushed voice. "You'll do fine. I feel terrible having to leave her like this, but orders are orders. The
Altmark
must be gone by morning. Not that I'll be sorry to be away from this heat."

Leave? Miriam felt rising panic. The corpsman was pleasant enough, but he was no physician. She had thought--been told--that Tyrolt and the
Altmark
would still be around when she gave birth.

"She's more
blutarm
than I would have expected," the doctor went on, "but anemia is common under these circumstances. Make sure she eats red meat, and get rid of that man Pleshdimer. I know he's been helping out, but he has no business in a medical tent."

So the blood workups
were
more than mere precaution!

"I won't be able to bother the Herr Oberst unless it's an emergency. Even then one must be very careful unless it is a problem regarding the dogs."

Tyrolt looked around, and then replied quietly, "A fourth of this company treat dogs like humans, the rest treat humans like dogs. It makes me damn glad I'm navy. Your job, Franz, if you're half the humanitarian I think you are, is to bring what sanity you can to this craziness by giving the woman your utmost. She needs rest, proper food, and loving attention. Keep the Rottenführer and that goddamn syphilitic away from her. I saw them peering around the screen at her while she slept. Imagine waking to those two!"

He spotted her in the semi-darkness.

"How are you feeling, Miriam, and why aren't you resting?" he asked, in his gravelly voice. He smiled at her, and she returned his smile. She liked this tall, skinny man, with his Kaiser Wilhelm mustache and ever-present five o'clock shadow. He had made the long sea-voyage bearable for her, and along with Bruqah had helped her keep body and mind together following Erich's blow-up. Maybe Tyrolt did lack some of the experience and fancy academic training of a city physician, but he was gentle, caring, and obviously skilled. If only the
Altmark
were not sailing so soon, or if at least she had some guarantee that he would be on it when it returned with fresh supplies and, according to the plan, a new load of Jews.

"How do I feel? Hot, scared, irritable, and not a little terrified. What about you?"

"I feel...apolitical." He put an arm affectionately across her shoulders. "And more than a little philosophical. But then I usually do...which is doubtless why they've kept me so long at sea. I'd bore my patients to death if they didn't have to listen."

Releasing her, he stood back and looked at her carefully. "Your hair," he said. "What did you--"

"I cut it. It's
my
hair!"

Tyrolt chuckled. "Seems reasonable to me," he said. "I trust the Herr Oberst will not be too upset."

Miriam shrugged. She had bigger things to think about, like what it was going to be like giving birth here, with only Franz, an inexperienced corpsman, to help. The guards' stares drilling into her back made her feel all the less secure. Whom did they hate more, she wondered, the Jewish prisoners, or the Jewish wife of the colonel in charge of operations?

Not that she was Jewish anymore, according to the Reich. Hitler had decided that she had been "orphaned at birth and
stolen
by the Jews." She was a Rathenau, he said, only by name, not blood.

An unlikely charade, but not all that uncommon. One of Hitler's top generals had been Jewish, she was aware; his heritage had likewise been changed by official decree. Political and military need overruled prejudice when the situation warranted. She had consented to the decree, even to the making of a propaganda film in which she renounced Judaism "and all its evils," not only to save her own life and possibly Sol's, but also to put herself in a position where she might help other, less fortunate Jews.

Many of the prisoners did not consider her Jewish. "Better death than denial," she had heard whispered. And the guards, she was sure, considered her just some "Jew whore masquerading as a German."
     

As for Hempel's opinion of her, she thought, seeing the major walk into view, that could doubtless fill a book. He was flanked by Captain Dau from the
Altmark
on one side and by Misha on the other. Slapping his billy club against his palm, he ambled across the compound. Immediately, some of the guards formed behind him. They were Totenkopfverbände--members of the Death's Head Unit--and the ugly looks on their faces showed they wished to live up to their name.

"Disgraceful," Hempel said. "I have never seen such behavior in an officer. Babying
Jews
. Pandering to their every demand. A religious service! What next?"

"Alois told me, 'A holy Jew is a happy Jew,' whatever that's supposed to mean," the ship's captain replied. "Well, I've washed my hands of it. I've no authority here over how he trains his animals, two or four-legged, but it won't go unnoticed in my report, I can assure you of that. I tell you, it borders on treason!"

"He crossed that line a long time ago," Hempel said stiffly.

Almost involuntarily, Miriam linked her arm through Tyrolt's and put her head against his shoulder. She needed someone strong to keep her from lashing out at Hempel. Yet she could not help but continue to wonder what motive really lay behind Erich's orders that the Jews be treated humanely--as long as the work progressed on or ahead of schedule. She wanted to credit him with compassion, but she could not quite convince herself that he hadn't long since shed whatever modicum of it he might once have had. Could he think it possible that she would give her heart to him if he demonstrated some newfound ability to love?...or had he transcended that particular need and replaced it with some new conceit?

Maybe it was much simpler than that. Perhaps he had become afraid enough of the wrath of
his
God that he was willing to go to any lengths to obtain forgiveness, even if it meant infuriating Hempel into killing them all. Or could
that
be his purpose? To make
certain
that Hempel killed all of them?

"I can't stand this a minute longer," Miriam said. "I want to join Sol and the others."

"You can't, my dear, and you know it," Tyrolt whispered to her, looking down at her seriously. "No matter how much you'd like to." Casting a furtive glance in Dau's direction, he added, "Forgive me for saying so, but of late your feelings have become transparent."

He was right of course. She could no more join the other Jews than Erich could renounce the Party. For Sol's safety, the child's, her own, she must remain in Erich's custody for...how many more months--or years?

Hempel and Dau strode past them. Tyrolt left Miriam's side and faced the two officers, causing them to pause.

"You should not judge Herr Oberst Alois too harshly." Tyrolt lifted a brow, as if to indicate to the two officers that he wished his words to be given careful consideration. "People with the hope of freedom outwork slaves at a ratio of something like five to one."

Dau looked at him blankly. "Is this a medical opinion? If not, keep your heretical ideas to yourself, Herr Doktor." He turned to Hempel. "I shall take my farewells, Herr Sturmbannführer. I look forward to hearing that you have the encampment running and a good water supply secured. No doubt I will be one of the first to know, since once you have fulfilled the initial part of the plan I'll be ordered back here with new supplies and," he laughed, "old Jews. Funny, isn't it, how they all look old to me."

Hempel flipped his half-smoked cigarette toward Tyrolt's shoe and, advancing, glared as he ground it out with the toe of his boot.

"Rottenführer Pleshdimer!" he yelled.

The Kapo hurried from the kennel area. "Heil Hitler!"

"The Oberst said the Jews would be allowed their filthy rites provided each day's work is completed up to then, is that not correct?"

The Kapo smirked. "Ja, Sturmbannführer!"

"The area was not properly policed." With the toe of his jackboot Hempel pointed toward the cigarette butt.

The Kapo saluted and lumbered off toward the Jews. The men took no notice, but from the gloom of the rain forest, a dozen eyes reflected the waning light. Probably lemurs, Miriam thought, her heart pounding with anger at Hempel. If the forest creatures weren't careful, their curiosity would earn them the stewpot.

Absently she scratched a mosquito bite on her arm. When she stopped, there was blood under her nail. "These damn bugs," she said. "No matter how I arrange the netting, they find a way inside. If you are still worried about my iron count.... And they'd better keep that fat Latvian Pleshdimer away from me," she said irritably. "I can't stand the sight of him. Last night I heard him outside the tent, mumbling about
Kalanaro
coming. God knows how long he stood there, staring at me. He and that hideous Zana-Malata."

She wanted to add, but did not, that Pleshdimer reminded her of Hitler's personal physician, that revolting Doctor Morrel who had performed the conception-date tests. Even Eva Braun, who doted on the Führer's every word about who and what were excellent, had told Miriam she found Morrel dirty and disgusting.

"Let's go over to the medical tent," Tyrolt said. "I want to give you a thorough examination. Tomorrow...." He paused. "I have duties that will keep me aboard the
Altmark
for a while."

"I overheard you," Miriam told him. She took a deep breath to quell her rage and the threat of tears, and wondered why God could not keep Tyrolt on the island for a few more days.

"I
examined Miriam as thoroughly as I could under the circumstances," Tyrolt said, speaking quietly to Erich as they headed toward the compound gate. "She should be able to manage. Physically. Just keep Pleshdimer and that syphilitic away from her, or she's likely to have a nervous breakdown." He hesitated. "And be sensitive to her condition when you see what she's done to her hair."

"Her hair?"

"She chopped it off. I can't say that I blame her, in this heat."

"What about Taurus?" Erich asked, almost as if he hadn't been listening. He had sat with his dog during Tyrolt's examination of Miriam.

"I am not a veterinarian, Herr Oberst. I have told you that before. You know the animal has dysplasia. You also know that there's little help in such cases. I could try a shot of morphine, but the results would be temporary, at best...."

They had reached the compound gate. Tyrolt put out his hand. "I almost forgot," he said. "Captain Dau sends his greetings."

"And I mine." Erich shook the man's hand. "Heil Hitler!"

"
Zieg
Heil!" The doctor smiled wryly.

Erich watched the physician head down the broad path that wended to the beach. Not a veterinarian. Then what good was he?

He caught sight of Pleshdimer strolling toward the mess tent. "Rottenführer!" he called out.

The corporal glanced anxiously toward the medical tent, and Erich saw the Zana-Malata scuttle like a beetle toward the concertina-wire fence. Maybe Tyrolt was right. He'd have to keep a closer eye on those two, and on Hempel as well. Worried about Taurus, he'd neglected a primary rule: In the chess game of life, stay at least six steps ahead of an adversary. He had already allowed Hempel too many moves since the wolfhound's death.

He increased his pace to catch up with Pleshdimer. "I could use a cup of good German coffee," he said as pleasantly as he could, falling into step with the corporal.

"Shall I bring you one--sir?" Pleshdimer avoided his eyes.

They reached the opening to the mess tent. Erich watched the men toss tin plates and army-issue cutlery into a large cast-aluminum tub. The clang of metal against metal was the only sound in the mess; gone was the usual raucous laughter of camaraderie between guards and crewmen. The guards stood in line on one side of the tent, the trainers at the other, each group glaring. "I'm sorry to have missed the farewell dinner for the
Altmark
," Erich said in a slightly too-loud voice, trying to relieve the tension.
 
Pretending to ignore the men's antagonism toward one another, he used a hot-pad glove to lift the lid of the largest pot. "So that's how zebu smells. Gamier than a cow, but still beef."

"Shall I dish some up for you, sir?" the cook asked.

"I'm not hungry," Erich answered. "Whatever is left is to be split between the dogs and the Jews."

Hempel's men stiffened and a few of the trainers smiled.

"Do you have a problem with that?" he asked the guard closest to him. The man stared stonily ahead. "Good. And while you're about it, make sure the Jews' netting is in place. We have no need to deal with a mass outbreak of malaria."

"The Sturmbannführer will object, sir," Fermi said.

"To what, the food or the netting? I will inform him of my orders myself. I suppose I will find him with his new friend--"