Children of the Dusk Read online

  "Halt or I'll shoot!"

  The boy patted his waistband to make sure the pistol was there and lifted his hands. The guard who had called out to him lowered his rifle and Misha went into headquarters, which he knew doubled as the colonel's sleeping area and the radio center. It was much smaller than he had expected, and very messy.

  Colonel Erich, seemingly fast asleep, lolled over a bottle.

  "So what'd ya come for," he said, opening unfocussed eyes. "Hempel send you to beat me with the dog leash?"

  He chuckled, and his head flopped around as though he could not control it. Then he lay down, stretched out, dropped the bottle, and began to snore.

  Standing there in the moonlight, Misha felt truly separate from Hempel for the first time in months. He felt a part of himself return, the way he had felt when, after his parents were taken, he had worked for Miriam in the underground. A message runner whose world was Berlin's alleys and sewers. He tried to remember how he had felt during those headlong flights through the city, threading through crowds, hearing his footsteps echo down deserted alleyways, his socks constantly down around his ankles. If only it hadn't been his mistake that had gotten Herr Freund arrested!

  Don't dwell on it, he told himself. Don't even think about it. He's not here, now.

  But the fear and the memory of pain caught in Misha's throat and stayed there. Hurrying, he placed the pistol beside Erich and picked up the bottle. It was almost empty. For a moment, he felt again as he had while working for Miriam and the underground, strong and invincible.

  Until Erich sat up, put both hands on his own forehead and, turning his face toward the ceiling, began to laugh. Loudly, with such drunken force that the sound sent Misha rushing from the tent.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "This," Hempel said with a calm that Erich knew belied his seething, "is an outrage."

  Erich placed himself between the major and the Panzer, jockeying slightly whenever Hempel tried to step around him and get to the tank.

  The major did not frighten him, Erich assured himself. Maybe years ago in Berlin, around those campfires on Lake Wannsee, when he had feared that the Freikorps-Youth leader might not like him; but no more. Fears of the likes of Otto Hempel had died when his boyhood died...whenever that was.

  Behind him, Goldman again fired up the arc welder, adding a shower of sparks to the brilliance of the morning. Erich did not turn to look. He smiled inwardly as Hempel flinched. Only from the welding light? Erich wondered. Or because Goldman--a Jew, no less--was cutting and welding on the major's toy.

  Putting on a blade. Turning a tank into a bulldozer.

  He thought of cutting off the tank's barrel, just to spite the major--like a proud soldier with his dick sawed off--but he dared not push the changes too far, too fast. There were the volatile guards to consider. The previous day had shown him how tenuous was his position with them--if indeed he had not dreamed the whole thing.

  Besides, who knew what Malagasy might attack Nosy Mangabéy once word spread of the German invasion, however small? Madagascar was French, and even those tribesmen who held no love for the Frogs--which, he assumed, would be most Malagasy--might not take well to any more foreigners on their beloved red-clay soil.

  "Next time you have some question about my orders, you will come to me, your superior officer, for your directive." Erich looked up into Hempel's cold gray eyes. "Is that understood?"

  Not a flicker of emotion showed in the eyes. The blankness unnerved Erich.

  "I will do my duty...Herr Oberst."

  "I will see that you do, Herr Sturmbannführer." Erich spoke slowly, articulately. "There is a stone gravesite atop the western hill, where the Jews are working. A crypt of some sort. Have one of the Jew...Jewish details open it up. I wish to determine the hill's potential as a pillbox to guard that flank. If the crypt seems appropriate, begin the fortifications. Send ten men. I shall join you later for the opening of the tomb."

  "Ten men? Or ten Jews?"

  "Ten total."

  "Then two men and eight Jews."

  "Whatever. Dismissed, Herr Sturmbannführer."

  Hempel saluted stiffly. Without emotion he stepped back and did a smart about-face. As he walked toward the Jews' sleeping area, he lifted an arm and snapped his fingers. Three guards, carbines in hand, came running from near their tents, at the other side of the compound.

  Erich marveled at their loyalty, but wondered how effective they would be as real soldiers. Herding and clubbing Jews at Sachsenhausen was hardly equal to fighting the French and British in the trenches. Not that he himself had done any real soldiering, or that fighting for the Nazi Reich could ever be an honor. The height of my life was my time in the trenches, Adolph Hitler had written. Erich would fight, and well, he assured himself; and willingly. But not for Hitler. He would fight in the hope that the past would return, that a new Kaiser would be proclaimed.

  He remembered Solomon's pewter Hessian soldiers and a sense of nostalgia filled him. How courageous each had seemed, lined up on his bedcovers around the hills of his knees. When he'd played with them with Solomon, he would lift a cuirassier or foot soldier and peer at it so intently that the uniform would appear to take on color and the face, expression. How could the farm boys and city toughs who followed Otto Hempel possibly compare? How far Germany had descended!

  "Herr Oberst Alois? Ready for your inspection, sir!"

  Goldman stood at attention, his welding mask crooked in his arm, the look in his eyes--or so Erich thought--one of respect. Or was he deceiving himself, he wondered. One could never tell with Jews.

  Now I'm sounding like Hempel.

  He moved around the machine, pretending to inspect the welds but unsure what he should look for. Who but a master welder or engineer could determine without testing if the blade arms, made from two of the tank's side plates, would not buckle at the first full load? He would need a whole motor pool of machinery to create a full-fledged landing facility on the mainland, once base camp was well-established here on Mangabéy, but for now the converted Panzerbefehlswagen would do. It would have to.

  He stepped back as more men gathered. Jews on in-compound duty, mostly, and a couple of trainers with their dogs, which sat panting against the morning heat, watching curiously. The guards avoided the converted tank, walking out of their way to keep from crossing too close.

  Erich caught himself on the verge of praising the Jew, and sliced short the near compliment by declaring, "See to it that it's perfectly maintained. I'm holding you personally responsible!"

  "Yes...sir!" Goldman all but smiled.

  Erich relented. "Good job," he said. "Is there some small favor I can grant you to show my...the Reich's...gratitude."

  "The Torah, sir," the man said without hesitation. "We need it for the Service tonight."

  "I will see to it," Erich said, remembering that Sol had asked for it when he'd requested the Service, but without the vaguest idea where it had been placed.

  As if Goldman had read Erich's mind, he said, "I believe it is in the black man's hut...sir."

  "Where?!"

  "You kick the bejesus out of jungle with this, Mister Germantownman!" Bruqah said, popping his head out of the turret. He grinned and slapped the machine.

  As I would like to kick the bejesus out of you for perturbing my land, Erich thought he saw the Malagasy's eyes say. He wondered if Bruqah had been inside the tank the entire time Goldman was welding, but that too became secondary as the Panzerbefehlswagen rumbled into life, spitting blue exhaust.

  "I drive you!" Bruqah shouted.

  Erich leapt onto the machine, ready to tear the Malagasy's head off, but no sooner was he close than Bruqah clutched his wrist. The African had amazing strength for one so thin, Erich realized. The grip was near to cracking his bones.

  "I good driver," Bruqah said in a voice just loud enough for Erich to hear. He gave the guards, emerging from beneath the mess canopy, a broad, theatrical grin.

  Erich pried the Malagasy's
fingers from his wrist. "Where on Earth did you learn...?"

  Bruqah continued to grin at the guards. "German Southwest Africa, where I learn to speak German. War with South Africa. Many, many battles."

  Erich knew about Bruqah's having lived in the German protectorate where he had earned or was given a trip to Berlin. Botanical study at the university, or some such thing; until now, Erich assumed it had been political, an excuse to train another African operative. How and why Bruqah had left Madagascar, Erich was uncertain. He made a mental note to try and find out. Perhaps Miriam would know. She and the Malagasy had been close aboard ship. Too close, in Erich's estimation.

  "I take you...how the North Americans say? Around the blockhead. We take Lady Miri, too, maybe? Or does Mister Germantownman plan to lazy around here all day like a pet lemur?"

  Erich stood on unsure legs as Bruqah dropped back into the turret and drove the machine toward the gate, the soldiers parting like a sea. "Pretty good ride, eh Germantownman?" the Malagasy shouted from inside.

  The tank lumbered around the compound, kicking up dust and grass.

  "We go back for Lady Miri, like I say?" Bruqah asked. "Ride she and baby?"

  "No," Erich said. But an image of Miriam as a young girl, riding with him on the Ferris wheel at Berlin's Luna Park, induced him to change his mind. Soon Miriam was propped as comfortably as possible on the Panzer.

  Standing in the turret, Erich directed the driving. It was a heady feeling, as though he were leading an armored charge. His headache, lately a regular morning event, became a tolerable throb, and he did not let the sight of Solomon being marched off with a detail of woodcutters spoil his festive mood. Everyone merely had to be patient, himself most of all, he decided. Things would work out for the best, if the Panzer was any indication. Who but a Jew could see a plowshare in a sword? That, if for no other reason, was why the Madagascar Experiment would succeed!...because he, unlike blind fools such as Hempel and Hitler, understood the value and purpose of the Jewish people.

  They had three months to secure Mangabéy as a base of operations and build a dock and receiving station on the mainland, at the mouth of the Antabalana River. If they failed, Goebbels would send no more Jews.

  Well, he'd meet the deadline with weeks to spare.

  He leaned nonchalantly against the turret as Bruqah drove the machine across the compound yard, and signaled for the gate to be opened. Then they were in the meadow proper, spewing chaff and dirt as Bruqah ran in the savoka stubble alongside the forest.

  Erich motioned straight ahead, feeling like the commander of an armored division going into battle.

  They neared the Zana-Malata's hut.

  In an inspiration born of hate, Erich banged his fist against the turret to get Bruqah's attention. "There!" He pointed toward the hut. "Go there! Knock it down!"

  The tank stopped. Bruqah ground the gears, but the machine only wheezed and sat still.

  "What's the meaning of this!" Erich yelled.

  "Zana-Malata protect his home." Bruqah cranked up the engine again and jammed the tank into gear. Within meters it stopped again.

  Erich grabbed the Malagasy by the edge of his lamba and, surprised by his own strength, fairly yanked him from the driver's seat. Bruqah arose choking, flailing his arms ineffectually against his assailant. Erich jumped into the driver's seat and positioned himself. How to begin? he wondered. It angered him that, despite his years in the military, he had no working knowledge of armor. As a member of the Abwehr, the intelligence sector, he'd had less opportunity for combat training than did a line officer, and even most of them lacked specialized skills regarding most weapons, but it infuriated him that he knew so little. He hit the accelerator. The tank ran in reverse. He braked, left the machine in idle, and climbed from the turret.

  "Take us home," he said to the Malagasy, who was reclined across the top plating.

  The words were scarcely out of Erich's mouth when, from inside the hut, there came a piteous screech of terror so penetrating that it rose even above the noise of the tank. At first he thought it was a dog, or one of those fox-lynxes that intermittently emerged from the rain forest. Fossas, it had said in one of the books he'd brought. He had a footlocker full of books. Madagascar, tactics, The German Shepherd Dog in Word and Picture by Rittmeister Max von Stephanitz. The one book he’d had since boyhood.

  A moment later Misha's small form hurtled from the hut, rose to all fours, and crawled toward the smoking ashes of the fire pit. A simmering anger displaced Erich's sense of bravado.

  Jumping down from the tank, he stalked over toward the boy. The child swiveled and backed up, bare feet stepping through the fire pit, face distorted with such terror that one might have thought the tank was chasing him. The taste of bile swilled into Erich's mouth--residue of last night's drinking, he assured himself; as a soldier he could stomach anything.

  Except for a dog collar and a pair of ragged, cut-off pants, the boy was naked. Furious, Erich flashed back to his own youth and his years in the Freikorps, with Otto Hempel as the youth group's leader. He remembered the night he ran away from home and came across Hempel and two boys who were no more than children. He remembered the man's grunts, and the snap of a whip against one boy's fleshy pink buttocks in that Ku'damm alleyway.

  "Come here, Misha," Erich said, his hatred of Hempel rising to new heights.

  So terror-filled a moment before, the boy's face became suddenly, inexplicably blank. He ceased backing and bowed, mechanical as a tiny wooden monkey held between two sticks. "I am a filthy Jew not fit to kiss your feet," he said. The dog paws danced against his chest. Tears brimmed and began trailing down his cheeks. "Filthy and not fit!" he said again. Coughing, he lowered his face, striking the top of his head with angry fists, as if attempting to beat his own brains in.

  "Stop it!"

  "...to kiss your...feet!"

  "Stop it, I say!" Erich seized the boy by the shoulders and shook him.

  "...to kiss your feet...sir!"

  The boy's eyes rolled up and he slumped sideways. Erich caught him by the waist, and the child doubled over like a sandbag. Lifting him up, Erich started for the hut, then changed his mind and carried the boy to the tank. Hempel's property or no, the child was not going to endure again whatever had just transpired in that shack. The hell with Hempel: a man who did not own his own soul had no right to own anything else.

  Then he remembered the Torah.

  He handed the boy to Bruqah and strode quickly toward the hut. As he drew near, a pungent odor of overripe oranges hung in the air. He saw one of the Kalanaro creep up to peer beneath the doorway's tanhide and watched him retreat, whispering and pointing, as another joined him, nodding excitedly. Seeing Erich, they skittered away behind the tanghin tree--pygmies with heads like hairy coconuts and mouselemur eyes too big for their faces, shining black as boot polish. Their lurking and scuttling along the edge of the savoka gave him the creeps, but he renewed his intention to find out if they were trainable.

  Wrenching aside the zebu hide, he entered the hut, squinting against the smoke rising from the brazier. As his vision cleared, he saw the major seated on a mat and bent over the Torah that had been carried aboard ship and used in the documentary being made by Leni Riefenstahl, Hitler’s favorite propaganda-film producer. The silver scroll-caps had been pried off. Hempel held one; the Zana-Malata, the other. The syphilitic was wearing a breast-covering of crocodile skin trimmed with tufts of bright feathers. He sat in a crude raffia chair, legs apart, his breechcloth lumped in his crotch.

  He cackled as if in response to something Hempel had done, and bent to slurp a mouthful of sea urchin that overflowed his other palm, gumming the soft meat like a toothless crone. After licking his fingers, he raised the scroll-cap and chortled.

  "Prosit!" Hempel toasted, lifting the second silver cap. With his other hand, he picked up a stick and stirred the contents of a large cast-iron pot that sat among the brazier's coals. Steam and an aroma reminiscent of Grand Marnier d
rifted from the pot.

  Hempel inhaled deeply. "Flavored with fruit bat. At first I found the idea revolting, like something out of the Middle Ages, but it's delicious."

  Smiling, he looked up at Erich through bleary eyes that reflected the brazier's glow, and lifted the liquid-filled scroll cap. "Rano vola," he said. "The national drink. They add water to the leftover rice that sticks to the bottom of the cooking pot, and boil it."

  He sipped, then with forefinger and thumb lifted out a sauce-covered wing. Popping it into his mouth, he crunched down on the tiny bones, smacking his lips. "Just what we should do to your Jew friends. Use them as flavoring. Do you know how sweet human fat smells?"

  He laughed and, closing his eyes, flared his nostrils in mock anticipation. "But pardon my manners, Herr Oberst." He gestured for Erich to sit down. "Pull up a mat. Luncheon in Madagascar is a delightful event."

  Finishing the drink, Hempel put down the scroll cap and, ducking his head to the Zana-Malata's lap, used the edge of the breechcloth to dab his lips, which sent the syphilitic into renewed gales of laughter.

  Straightening, Hempel held up a hand as if to halt an accusation before the senior officer had a chance to speak. "No, Herr Oberst. Not drunk. I have never in my life been drunk, nor shall I ever be. I am merely contented."

  He stretched up an arm and ran his fingertips along the Zana-Malata's dark, chaffed cheekbones, like a photographer sensing the spirit in his model before a session. "He's shown me my dreams."

  Erich's stomach turned, and he fought to contain his anger. The major needed a straight jacket, he thought. Insubordination was no longer the issue; evidence for a firing squad lay at his feet. Taking the Torah could be construed as theft, a capital offense on a combat mission.

  Looking from the Torah's de-jeweled sheath to the tiny pyramids of sapphires and pearls that gleamed in the sockets of the water buffalo skull in the corner, Erich asked, "By whose authority have you stolen and desecrated Party property?"