Текст книги "The Second Son"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

It was nearing sunset when he heard the grenade. Hoffner opened his eyes. He was still sitting, his back to the bed. The gunfire had drawn closer. Sascha’s body was heavier, his face paler. A second grenade exploded, and Hoffner turned toward it. His neck was stiff. He wondered if he had slept.

Hoffner’s hand was still under the boy’s head. He moved it to the shoulder and tried to lift. Down in the street a man talked about the smell of pigs. Hoffner heard laughter. He got to his knees and hoisted the body up. He stood and brought the boy up onto the bed.

Hoffner looked at the face, the way the hair had matted against the ear. He smoothed it back. There was no texture, no heat in his hand.

He turned from the boy and saw the pistol on the floor. He leaned over and picked it up. He held it in his hand and heard more of the shouting, a single shot from a rifle, laughter. He felt the weight of the gun and slid it slowly into his belt.

Hoffner turned to the bureau. Inside, he found a brush and a razor, worn-through clothing, and a collection of pins. They were small, each with the swastika or SS insignia. Hoffner closed the drawers. He looked around the room and saw the bag Sascha had brought. He stepped over and placed it on the bed.

It was a tunic and pants, and when Hoffner laid them out, he recognized the uniform of a Waffen-SS Oberleutnant. The shoulder boards held one gold pip each, the collar the usual dark blue-green felt, with sewn-in boards of its own. They were a deep Bordeaux red, and the white braiding was frayed at the edges. The breast eagle showed bleach on the left wing. Hoffner smelled the lye and realized the wool had recently been washed. There were signs of repair in the lower pockets and on the French cuffs, and the third button down was a slightly darker gray than the rest.

Hoffner began to undress the boy.

It was rough bringing him down the steps. Hoffner held Sascha over one shoulder, the boy now in full uniform. He leaned him against the wall when they reached the bottom floor, and then carried him to the door. Hoffner listened. The gunfire was more sporadic now, and deeper into the heart of the city. Yague’s men were going street to street, house to house. Hoffner waited and pulled open the door.

At once the smell of gunpowder and blood filled his nose. There was a smoky residue in the air, and the windows along the street were smashed in jagged lines of glass. By some miracle, the horses were still tethered to the post. One of them was on its side, dead, its eye shot through. The other was bucking from exhaustion, pulling at its reins. Hoffner placed his hand on the animal’s nose and waited until it began to calm. He then hoisted Sascha onto its back, took the reins, and began to walk.

Bodies lay in pools of blood in the doorways and along the street. There were screams and shouts and the sound of glass shattering in the distance behind him. Hoffner continued to walk toward the plaza and the southern gate. He kept his pistol in his belt. If this was how he was to die, so be it.

He saw a pair of legs, stretched out and moving in a doorway. They were sliding back and forth. He heard a woman’s stifled moan and a man’s laughter and drew closer.

The man was on top of the woman, her legs pulled high, her face bloodied. The man continued to drive himself into her. Hoffner kicked at the man’s feet, and the man turned. Hoffner pulled out his pistol and shot the man in the face. He then pulled the body off the woman, turned away, and continued to lead the horse.

If there were other such moments, Hoffner never remembered them. All he knew was that he found himself at the southern plaza, where the wall had been blown to rubble, and where bodies lay stretched across the stone and earth like packed rolls of soiled newspaper. The sun had gone, and there were long poles with white lights perched at the top of them. There was no gunfire here. Yague had taken the square.

Hoffner saw a group of uniforms standing by a door. He moved toward them.

One of the soldiers turned, and Hoffner said in German, “I have the body of a lieutenant. Waffen-SS. He was protecting the guns sent in from Morocco. He’s dead. I was sent by Captain Doval from Coria.”

The man stared at Hoffner. Hoffner repeated what he had said, this time in Spanish, and the man continued to stare. The man called another soldier over. Hoffner spoke the same words a third time, and the new man said, “You’re the German.”

Hoffner said nothing.

“We have orders not to touch you. We have your woman.”

Hoffner handed the reins to the first man. “Leave the body as it is,” he said. “He’s not to be moved.” Hoffner looked at the other. “Take me to the woman.”

The man led him across the plaza to a building where the doors had been blown off. The front wall was pockmarked from machine-gun fire, the windows above all but gone.

The man took him inside. “You wish to meet General Yague?”

Hoffner felt the darkness of the place; he smelled the stench of cigars. “No,” he said. “I don’t wish to meet him.”

The man looked momentarily confused and led Hoffner down the hall.

Mila was sitting on a stool in a small room lit by a lamp. There was an alleyway through the window. She was leaning against the wall, staring out, her hands limp in her lap.

The soldier left them, and Hoffner heard heavy footsteps on the floor above, the sound of men’s voices. Mila continued to stare out.

She said, “They had use for a doctor.” It was a false strength that masked her pain. “They had use, until the wall fell.”

Hoffner watched as she stared out. She began to rub her thumb across her open palm.

She said, “They knew who I was. They shot the rest.” He saw her thumb dig deeper in. “Did you find him?”

It took Hoffner a moment to answer. “Yes.”

“Is he dead?”

Again Hoffner waited. “Yes.”

She nodded quietly. She released her hand and turned her head to him. There were black streaks of gunpowder residue across her cheeks and neck, and her eyes were red from the crying. She showed no feeling behind them.

Whatever comfort they had hoped to find in each other was no longer possible here. Hoffner waited and stepped over. She seemed incapable of helping herself, and he cupped his hand under her elbow. He brought her up. He started to move them to the door and she stopped.

“I don’t want to see any of them,” she said. “I don’t want to see their uniforms, their faces.”

Hoffner looked into her eyes. He thought he saw the unimaginable.

“No,” she said. “It wasn’t me they touched.” There was no relief even in that.

He brought his arm around her. She laid her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes, and he took her out into the square.

The sound of gunfire echoed from somewhere up on a hill, and Hoffner moved them across to the men. Sascha was still on the horse. A small car was waiting with them.

One of the men said, “The road to Coria is secure. The guard posts have been informed.”

The man nodded to two of the others, and they stepped over to Sascha.

“Don’t touch him!” Hoffner shouted.

The men stopped and stared. Hoffner stared back, filled with rage at his own helplessness. His throat was suddenly raw. He moved Mila to the car and placed her inside. He opened the rumble seat and went to Sascha. As he pulled him down and onto his shoulder, he stumbled momentarily. One of the men moved to help him, and again Hoffner shouted, “Don’t you touch him!” The man stepped back, and Hoffner carried Sascha to the car and placed him in the seat.

The man from behind him said, “Follow the truck out.” There was an open-back truck with bodies laid across it. “It goes as far as the river.”

Hoffner nodded without turning. He got in behind the wheel, fixed his eyes on the tires in front of him, and drove.

* * *

Beyond the river the road climbed through scrubland and brush, the sounds of Badajoz faded, and the moon kept itself hidden behind the clouds.

The night’s darkness brought pockets of scampering figures, men and women with frantic stares, darting in front of the headlights and vanishing into the blackness. Trucks appeared from every direction, their lights blinding, with the stench of men still fresh from battle. Echoes of gunfire drew closer, then drifted. Hoffner stopped again and again at makeshift barricades, showed his papers, and drove on.

All the while, Sascha sat perfectly straight in his seat. A guard at one of the posts asked him for a light, then saw he was dead and stepped away.

Mila woke just before daybreak. She said nothing and took Hoffner’s hand. It was resting on the seat, and she laid it on her lap and unwound the gauze that had grown tight around his palm. He felt the air across the wound, as she dabbed at it with his handkerchief. She stared along the lines of the cut. It seemed a very long time before she rewrapped it, set it on the seat, and placed her hand on his.

Hoffner said, “It’s not so far from here.”

She nodded as she stared out.

He said, “It feels better.”

“Good.”

They found the priest in Coria, and a man with a spade. He brought his brother, and they dug a good grave by the side of Georg’s. Hoffner watched as the spades moved through the dirt. He saw the pile rise higher and the men grow wet under the first light of the sun. He let them take Sascha from the car and watched as they lowered him on a white sheet and then pulled the sheet up and rolled it into a ball. The priest read and spoke. It was simple and without time, and when the priest had finished, he walked away, and Hoffner and Mila watched as the men covered Sascha with earth. Hoffner gave them money and they nodded their thanks before moving off.

Hoffner let Mila take his hand. He stared at his sons’ graves.

“I cried for the wrong one,” he said. There was nothing in his voice. “He was so small, so thin. How does a man become like that?”

He felt her draw his hand up. She kissed it. It was strange to feel so much life standing here.

The door to a house at the edge of the field opened, and a woman stepped out. She didn’t notice them. She continued around to the other side and was gone.

Hoffner looked back at the graves. “I brought them to this.” He felt almost nothing, saying it. “I brought my sons to this, and there’s no coming back from it, is there?”

Mila waited. “It depends on what you come back to.” She let go of his hand and started to walk. “You come when you want.” She continued toward the houses.

Hoffner closed his eyes and let the sun settle on his face. He crouched down and placed a hand on the earth. If there were words he was meant to say, he didn’t know them. Instead, he clutched at the earth and felt it squeeze through his fingers. He had no rage, no despair, no need to ask forgiveness. It was an emptiness without end. He turned and saw Mila moving slowly past the houses.

Hoffner opened his hand and let the earth fall away. He then stood and followed behind her.

Vollman had waited. The aeroplane was fitted with enough gasoline to get them to Barcelona. He would refuel, then go on to Berlin.

They slept for the three hours of the flight, and when Vollman brought the plane low they both woke and looked out to see Barcelona as they had left it. The stories of Badajoz had yet to reach this far east; news that the armies of the north and the south had joined hands would wait another few hours. For now, the city stretched out contentedly under the sun.

Mila and Hoffner stood in the short grass of the runway and watched from a distance as Vollman tipped canister after canister of gasoline into the fuel tank. A car would come for her. They had telephoned her father.

“The wife and the little boy,” she said. Her arms were across her chest as she stared out at the plane. “You have to go. To Berlin. You have to tell them, make arrangements. I understand.”

Hoffner nodded. He hadn’t asked her to come. He knew she wouldn’t. Anywhere else, he would have given himself over to this kind of will. He would have acquiesced or backed away or fallen silent in her presence. But that’s not what this was.

“And what is it you understand?” he said, as he turned to her. He forced her to look at him. “You think there’s something for me to find in Berlin? What Berlin? There isno Berlin, at least nothing in it I know. So I go for the wife and the boy. I go to destroy what life they have left. What is there to understand in that?”

“You go because you love them,” she said. “You go because nothing else matters. Why is it so hard for you to see that?”

Hoffner tried to answer, and she said, “You go for the same reason you’ll come back to Spain.”

Hoffner saw his own need in her eyes. He saw a way beyond a life lived in the shadow of those two graves, beyond the dampness of the earth still on his hands and in his nails.

She said quietly, “I’m not asking you to stay.”

“I know that.”

“I’m not asking you to come back. I’m telling you what’s here. What more is there?”

The buzz from the propeller cut through, and they both turned to see Vollman walking to the ladder. She waited for Hoffner to speak. Finally she said, “You have to go.”

Hoffner stared across at the plane. He watched as Vollman slipped on his goggles.

Hoffner turned to her. He took her in his arms and he kissed her, her body pressed against him. She pulled back and brought her lips to his ear. She whispered, “Then love them, Nikolai. Love them and know it’s enough.”

He held her. Her body shook, and he knew it would never be enough.

Hoffner let go and started toward the plane. He let the sound of the propeller draw him. He reached the ladder, climbed up, and stepped into the seat. The plane began to move, and he felt the air against his face. He waited for the speed, and the plane lifted.

Somewhere below, the sea crashed against the rocks and the sun played havoc on the surf, but Hoffner kept his eyes on the blue of the sky. To look back, even for a moment, would have made living beyond this an impossibility.

7

Forever From His Grasp

The city lay beneath clouds, and Vollman banked the plane low to cut his way through. The rain was colder here and fell across Hoffner’s face with the sour taste of wild turnips. It was familiar enough, and he breathed in and tried to remember Berlin in August.

The plane touched down easily. A gray dusk covered the fields and runways. Vollman cut the engine, and the two got out and walked toward the hangar.

“I have a car,” Vollman said. “I can take you into town.”

The drive passed in silence. Dusk slipped into evening, and the oncoming headlights flashed across the windscreen like the sudden flares of a match. Hoffner kept his window down and let the rain slap at his face. The chill and the quiet seemed foreign. Cars raced by, the streets grew brighter with lights and people, and Hoffner wondered if there was anything to recognize in these lives lived so carelessly.

Vollman pulled up in front of an old repair garage. There were two large rooms above, furniture, a telephone. The lights were on.

Vollman said, “This is it?”

Hoffner continued to stare up at the rooms. He nodded.

“You’ll be all right?”

It was a pointless question. Hoffner turned to Vollman. There was nothing more to this; still, he asked, “You’ll fly back to Spain now? Or Moscow?” Vollman said nothing. “We won’t be seeing each other again, I imagine.”

Hoffner waited. Vollman stared through the windscreen and Hoffner opened the door. He stepped out.

Upstairs, the last of the Berlin he knew trundled along as it always had. A table stood at the far end of the room, large Rolf behind it, with a line of men winding its way back to the door. Rolf was writing out slips of paper and handing them to Franz, who entered them in a ledger. The men were a ragtag bunch-pickpockets, swindlers, thieves-each with a little something to show for a day’s work. Most carried a battered cigar box, the tools of the trade smelling of old Dutch tobacco. Hoffner recognized the son of a man he had sent to the gallows fifteen years earlier. There had never been any hard feelings. The father had beaten the boy’s mother to death. The boy had been happy to see him hang.

Radek was in the second room, lounging on a long sofa and reading through one of his papers, when Hoffner stepped through the line.

“Pimm always did this at daybreak,” Hoffner said. “Kept them on their toes.”

Radek looked up. He tossed the paper to the side and nearly sprang up. He did nothing to hide his delight. “About time.” He pulled Hoffner in for a hug. Hoffner tried to return it. A few men looked over. The rest knew not to take notice.

Radek pulled back and smiled. “You found a plane.” He was already moving to a small cabinet where glasses and bottles stood in disarray. He uncorked one. “I had to bring Mueller back,” he said as he poured. “Couldn’t be helped, but I gather it all worked out.”

“Yes.”

“He said you met Gardenyes. Lunatic, even by my standards. You weren’t around when he got shot, were you?” He handed Hoffner a glass.

“No,” Hoffner said.

“Good.” He raised his glass. “ Salud.”

Hoffner watched as Radek drank. He watched as the eyes peered across at him. And he watched as the glass slowly came down.

Radek stared for several moments. Finally he said, “Georg didn’t make it, did he?”

“No.”

“Christ. I’m sorry. How?”

Hoffner waited, shook his head. “The usual way. What you’d imagine.” He handed back the glass. It was untouched. He glanced into the other room. “Business seems good.”

Radek set the glasses down. “Have you told the wife?”

Hoffner watched the men. He followed the slow movement of the line, the great care Rolf was taking with his penmanship. Hoffner shook his head.

Radek said, “She has the mother and the father in Berlin. And the boy. That should make it easier.”

A man was sitting at the far end in a chair by himself. He had bruising around his eye and cheek. He had been crying. Hoffner had no idea why. He turned to Radek. “It’s all gone, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“This. The city.”

Radek knew to tread carefully. “You should have that drink.”

“She won’t be finding her way back, will she?”

Radek recorked the bottle. There was no point in fighting it. “And what would you have her go back to, Nikolai? Berlin wouldn’t know herself, even if she went looking.” Radek stared down at Hoffner’s glass of whiskey. He picked it up and tossed it back.

There was nothing real to this, thought Hoffner, nothing he could touch. “Sascha’s dead,” he said.

Radek brought the glass down. He waited before saying, “Is he?” He lapped at what was left and set the glass on the cabinet. “I’m sorry for that.” He refused to look at Hoffner. “We’ll go out. Rucker’s, the White Mouse. Last night of the games. Everyone wants to have a drink the last night of the games.”

Hoffner saw Radek’s face grow tighter, and Hoffner said, “You enjoy the drinks, Zenlo.” He turned toward the door.

Radek said, “They weren’t yours to save, Nikolai.”

Hoffner might have heard him say something else, but he chose to ignore it.

The house was dark, all but Lotte’s bedroom window. Hoffner stared up at it. He had been standing like this for the better part of an hour. The street was quiet. A car drove by, and Hoffner saw a figure peer through the curtains. He stepped out under the streetlamp, and the curtains fell back. Hoffner walked to the front steps.

The door opened before he could knock, and Lotte stood in the vestibule, her face pale, her hair fighting against the pins. Hoffner saw her father and mother-Edelbaum and his wife-standing by the stairs. There was nothing to hide the age and the fear in their faces.

Lotte looked at Hoffner. She saw the swelling around his eye, the gauze on his hands. Her breath grew short and she stepped back. Hoffner reached for her, but she was already sliding to the floor, her back against the wall, her legs tangling in her apron and skirt. She sat there and began to weep, and Hoffner crouched down. He heard her mother crying.

Arms limp at her sides, Lotte began to slap the back of her hands onto the tile, one after the other. Her weeping became moans, and Hoffner took hold of her and brought her close into him. He lifted her and carried her inside. He set her on the couch, and her mother quickly moved to her. Hoffner stepped back. He stood by the father.

“How?” said Edelbaum.

They both stared across at Lotte. She had nothing but memory now, stripped of hope and more desperate by the minute. How easy to shatter a life, thought Hoffner, drain the strength from it, and make courage something only vaguely remembered.

“Wilson never came?” he said.

It took Edelbaum a moment to answer. He watched his daughter and said absently, “Who?”

“The man from Pathe Gazette. He never came by?”

Edelbaum tried to think. It was too much. He shook his head, and Hoffner wondered if this had been kindness or cowardice on Wilson’s part.

Edelbaum said, “Two SS came, or Sipo, I don’t know which. I had to sedate my wife after.”

Hoffner heard the fear, and Lotte became quieter. Her head was in her mother’s lap, and she stared out across the carpet. Hoffner said, “How soon could you go?”

Edelbaum turned to him. There was genuine hurt in his eyes. “Go? This is my daughter.”

“Out of Germany,” Hoffner explained. “All of you. How soon?”

Edelbaum struggled to understand.

Hoffner said, “You need to get out. You know it. You need to take Lotte and the boy and get out.”

Edelbaum began to shake his head, and Hoffner said, “This is what it will be every day from now on. This fear. And it will get worse. I have friends. They can do this for you. You get your affairs in order, and you go. You understand what I’m saying?”

Edelbaum stared at Hoffner. He waited before saying, “Leave Berlin?”

Hoffner realized it was a broken man who now gazed up at him.

“I’m giving you my grandson,” Hoffner said. “I need to know you understand that.”

Hoffner saw Lotte raise her head from her mother’s lap. She was staring across at him, her eyes no longer lost. She began to push herself up.

Hoffner said, “She needs to sleep.”

Edelbaum turned and saw Lotte. He began to nod. “Yes, of course.” He spoke to his wife, “Keep her still. I’ll get my bag.”

Edelbaum moved toward the hall, and Hoffner followed. He then walked to the stairs and headed up. The boy was known to sleep through anything. Hoffner pushed open the door and saw the small lamp at the edge of the room, its glow making it just to the skirt of the bed.

Mendy was on his back, one arm tossed above his head and resting on the pillow. His knees were splayed and high, and his body lay absolutely still. He never moved in sleep. Hoffner had spent hours watching him, staring at the little shape in all its contortions. He leaned over and picked up the books that were strewn across the sheets. He stacked them and laid them against the wall. Mendy was known to sense when a book had gone missing from his bed, an eye quickly opening, then closing. Hoffner set them within arm’s reach and pulled the blanket up over the waist.

This was a perfect boy, he thought, quiet and still, and untouched by anything beyond that doorway. Hoffner wondered how such things were possible. He imagined they had always been possible-even with his own-but why try to understand that now? It was never enough to want to protect, or to recognize the frailty. It was only in the doing, and that had always been just out of reach. He stared down at this living boy and knew there was no way to remedy that. Hoffner placed a hand on the boy’s cheek. He felt the warmth and the smoothness of it, and he let himself believe he could hear the tiny voice. Here, he had no need for anything else.

He pulled his hand back and saw paper and pen on the small table. He sat on Mendy’s stool, took a sheet, and wrote in the dim light.

The note was folded, with Lotte’s name written across it, when Hoffner heard her behind him. He turned and saw her in the doorway. How long she had been there was impossible to say.

She said, “You can tell me what it says now, if you want.”

Hoffner looked up at her. He shook his head. “Better to read it.”

“We’re going. It’s been decided. My father says you’ll come with us.”

Hoffner waited. “I’ve tried the going, Lotte. It doesn’t much work for me.”

“Mendy won’t understand.”

“No, he probably won’t. You’ll help him with that.”

“Did he die in peace?” She spoke with no trace of empathy.

“Yes,” he said. “I think he did.”

There was no reason to tell her how much Georg had loved her, or how the boy had been his life. She knew. She would find that comfort. What she could never know was the unimagined horror and emptiness of his death.

Hoffner stood and moved across to her. He held out the note.

“It’s nothing too important,” he said. “The names of people who can help you, where there’s a bit of money. Something for Mendy. You’ll read it after I go.”

She stared up at him. She had always been able to see so quickly through to the heart of things. “And where is it you’re going, Nikolai?”

He tried a quiet shrug. “Just out. Find a drink.”

He saw the first break in her otherwise flawless stare. “Is that it?”

Hoffner had spent a lifetime showing nothing. It came so easily. “There are plenty of places to find a drink tonight. I’ll make my way.”

He needed her to believe the lie. He needed her to give him this, here at the end. But her own sadness was too much to leave any kindness for others.

She said, “I would never forgive you for that, Nikolai. Neither would Mendy.”

Hoffner looked into her face. So much pain, he thought, and so much more to wait for. He tried a weak smile. If nothing else, he had to save them from that.

“Mendy needs to be safe. You need to be safe. Safe no longer exists here.”

“And you couldn’t find that safety with us?”

Again Hoffner waited. “He won’t always be a boy.”

She stared up at him, and he brought his arms around her. Her eyes were wet when she let go. She wiped them with her handkerchief.

Hoffner took a last glance at Mendy and headed for the stairs.

The deep of night came more quickly than Hoffner expected. This far west the trees were more sparse, the sky a churning of clouds and stars.

The sound of water against stone beat out a quiet rhythm. He stared down into the canal and saw the strength of the current. He remembered how quickly it had taken little Rosa Luxemburg, a minute or two, a sudden swirling, and then gone.

Hoffner had imagined he would feel more at this moment, a chance to regret or despair. Instead, he stared with a kind of childlike wonder at the coal black of the water, and thought, It isn’t much of anything to stop a life. It isn’t much to know what has come before, and to know how it must weigh on what is to come. And it is only then, in that absolute silence, that a man can say, This is enough. No matter what longing or hope live on and elsewhere, that silence cannot tell him to step back. It can only weigh on him all the more deeply. Hoffner stepped closer to the embankment. He looked out into the darkness. He imagined the water would be cold.

There was a popping overhead, and he looked up to see the sky filling with lights. They were sending the games off with fireworks. How easy to imagine Berlin covered in light. How easy to watch the lights fade and convince himself to embrace the chill of his own cowardice and fade away with them.

But not tonight, he thought. Not when he knew which life it was that had come to an end. There was nothing here. Nothing. And there was no reason to mourn it.

Hoffner stepped back. Out by the trees, a second set of lights flashed. Car lights. Hoffner stared out across the water for a moment longer and moved toward the car.

Inside, Radek was smoking.

“We need to go,” Radek said. “He’ll fly with or without you.”

Hoffner got in, and Radek put the car in gear. He said, “You saw what you needed?”

“You have the papers?”

There was a tinge of frustration in the answer. “Yes, Nikolai. I have the papers. They’re still in my pocket.”

Radek would get them out-Mendy, Lotte, her parents. Radek would do this for him.

“You know I could set you up as well,” Radek said. “Paris. London. You’re sure about this?”

The car emerged from the trees, and Hoffner stared out as the city flickered and pitched above him. He closed his eyes and let Berlin slip forever from his grasp.

A lifetime later a dying sun lingered across the water as the old Hispano-Suiza ground its way along the coast road. Mueller slept, Hoffner drove, and the first glimpse of Barcelona’s Montjuic appeared on the horizon.

Hoffner felt the heat. He felt the damp from the sea. And he felt a rush of life that, if not entirely his, lay just beyond that horizon in the waiting arms of the only faith he had ever known.