Jacob's Oath (36 page)

“He’ll drown,” somebody shouted.

“He’s dead anyway,” another voice said.

“No, he isn’t, look,” a woman screamed, “someone help him.”

Isak watched the body go limp in the current. He glanced at Sarah. She had thrown
herself to the ground. Their eyes met. Hers were wide with shock. He looked back at
the floating body until there was a scream through the dark, “Hilfe, hilfe.”

Isak tore his jacket off and pulled off his shoes. “I’ll save him,” he yelled, before
anybody else could. “Call for help.”

With powerful strokes the big Russian swam out and turned downriver and quickly caught
up with Hans, whose head was lolling to the side, half submerged. He had been shot
just above the heart. Hans croaked and gasped for breath, kicking to keep his head
above water while one arm floated uselessly, and with the other he tried to fight
off Isak. The current swept them out, they hit a sudden cold stretch, it was too much
and Hans’s head sank as his legs weakened. Isak came at him from behind, like a lifesaver,
and took hold of Hans’s head, cradling it with one arm as he struck for shore with
the other, kicking his legs. A wake of blood trailed them, dark in the gloomy orange
light.

“What are you doing?” Hans gasped, unable to understand. Was he saving him? After
he shot him?

Now a crowd of people were running along the road above the river, pointing and shouting
at the drifting men. They ran faster but there was no way down the high wall to the
river to help until the ruins of the next bridge, half a kilometer away. They shouted
encouragement to Isak as they raced.

Sarah was sobbing on the bench. It was dark now, as a crowd of people comforted her.
An elderly woman held her to her breast. “There, there, dear,” she was saying, “we
all saw it, him hitting you like that.” Two policemen pushed through the crowd.

And in the water, as the current pulled them downstream, a dark blot on the darker
waters, Isak Brodsky, kicking with his legs to stay up, put his mouth to the ear of
Hans Seeler and breathed, as water washed over Hans’s face and covered his terror-stricken
eyes, “Can you … hear me?”

“Yes,” Seeler gasped, coughing, spluttering. “Save me … please.”

“Save you?” Isak said into his ear, in a calm, clear voice, as if he were standing
on the road, not swimming backward in the dark Neckar, night setting upon them. “Save
you? SS-TV Unterscharführer Hans Seeler … in the name … of the … Jewish people … I
sentence you … to death.”

With that he shifted his weight until he loomed above Seeler’s face and pressed his
chest down, and the weight of Isak’s body kept the Rat’s head underwater until the
frantic threshing and flailing died and Seeler’s body went limp and the bubbles stopped
rising and it was all over.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Heidelberg,
June 13, 1945

That’s strange. What’s different?
From the door Jacob surveyed the room: crumpled sheets on the unmade bed, clothes
strewn on the chair as if she’d been trying everything on, the bedside table with
a cup of water and some toilet paper rolled into a ball, the sink full of dirty dishes.
That’s unlike Sarah, he thought, she must have left in a hurry. He lingered on the
cheap oil painting of Heidelberg Castle at dusk from across the Neckar; there must
be one in every rented room in town. He closed the door behind him, took off his clothes,
threw them on the bed with Sarah’s, and went into the shower.

He let the water run over his body and felt the relief wash over him, felt the dust
and the grime of the alley wash away. There was hot water again. He turned the tap
down to leave some for Sarah, too.

He watched the water course along his arms and drip from the hairs of his chest onto
his belly and to his feet. There was something different. He had put on weight since
Bergen-Belsen, but not much. He had always been thin, and as he soaped himself he
could feel it. In the camp his skin had hung, it was like a loose shirt, and now it
was tight, he had filled out with muscle.

Soap and water. Hot water. Oh, God! Maxie smiled, those impish eyes. How old? Six?
Seven? When they had stopped having baths together? He wished he could see his mother’s
face but he just couldn’t fit together the pieces. She leaned over the bath and rubbed
them with soap, first Maxie standing up and then him. Maxie would splash him and the
water ran over the floor and Maxie had to mop it up himself. He would always pull
the top of the mop so that Maxie couldn’t clean up, and they’d chase each other naked
through the house, with Mutti running after them shouting, “You’re dripping, you’re
dripping, you’re making a mess.” They’d had a fight and he’d hidden Maxie’s duck.
Or was it a cow, a rubber cow? Maxie was always a crybaby.

Often they’d get into the same bed and Maxie would say, “Tell me a story.” He made
them up. About things he had done in school, with the older boys, in which he was
always the hero. Maxie soon nodded off, and he’d get up and fall asleep in his own
bed.

In Bergen-Belsen they had shared a wooden board all night because he didn’t have another
one to go to. He didn’t have any stories to tell and Maxie didn’t fall asleep, he
babbled and the open sores made him shift and toss so that Jacob couldn’t sleep either.

Maxie had been semi-delirious for weeks as the typhus took hold. The beating from
the Rat had only killed him quicker. It was probably a relief.

Jacob turned off the shower and wandered into the room, drying himself. He knew now
it wasn’t the room that was different. It was him. He felt lighter. He was floating.
If I were walking outside, he thought, there would be a spring in my step.

All the way home he had thought of Maxie. His oath hadn’t been worth much, as it turned
out. What did that say about him? The thought of revenge had given him a will to live,
brought him home even, and then, when it came to it, he couldn’t do it. In his heart
he knew he didn’t even want to. There was no revenge that justified throwing away
his own life, and certainly not if it harmed Sarah, too. What’s the proverb? If you
seek revenge, dig two graves. Maxie would have wanted him to live, have a family with
Sarah, that would be the true revenge. He sighed. They could adopt, there would be
many Jewish orphans. And others.

Just not blond and blue-eyed.

*   *   *

Nine thirty came and went and Jacob stood by the door, looking up and down the deserted
street. It was dark and the rooftops gleamed dark blue in the moonlight. In the houses
lights were turning off one by one, as his mind began to race.

The most likely explanation was that Sarah had missed the last tram before the curfew
and had to stay over in the restaurant. Probably the owners lived upstairs and they
had a spare room, or she was sleeping on a sofa in their living room. There was no
way to let him know. Yes, that must be it. Or could she be stuck in the street after
curfew? No, it wasn’t like that anymore, it wasn’t a shooting curfew. At most they
would arrest her. Could something have happened to her? Could she be in the hospital?
An accident? The tram crashed?

Jacob paced in the small room. Just when he was looking forward to holding her, telling
her how much he loved her and how right she had been, that all his talk of revenge
and killing was all pointless, it was all vanity, that nothing mattered more than
their life together. She would be so happy. He had so many plans. Where was she? He
imagined every terrible possibility, while telling himself to calm down.

At eleven fifteen his heart stopped. There was a knock on the door. He looked at it.
If it was Sarah, she would just come in. Who could it be? The police? What had happened?

Jacob got up from the bed, where he had been lying fully clothed. His pulse was running
away, he tried to control his breathing. He collected himself and walked slowly to
the door, staring at it, trying to see through it. With his hand on the handle he
froze, and tried to swallow. He couldn’t. There was no point delaying this. He stepped
back and swung the door open.

An old man with shaven gray stubble for hair and a white beard stood in the door-frame.
His face was deeply lined and his cheeks seemed to hang from his jaw. His eyes were
sunken and dark, and bloodshot. He wore a new coat that was too big and hung from
his shoulders.

A shock of disappointment ran through Jacob. He managed to say, “Hello, can I help
you?”

The man stared at him and his mouth moved, his teeth showed, an attempt at a smile,
before a word came out: “Jacob.”

A sob came so suddenly and from so deep that Jacob had to catch his breath.

“Papa?”

“Good luck, then,” a voice said, and a policeman walked away.

The two men stared at each other, mouths open. Jacob was rooted to the spot as his
father brushed past him. For a moment he continued to stare into the deserted street.

“Nice,” his father said. He walked to the bed and sat down, testing the springs. He
looked up and smiled and shook his head in wonder.

Jacob’s jaw hung open. When he could, he said, “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please.”

Jacob could not fill the kettle. He was shaking too much.

“Let me,” his father said, “you were never much good in the kitchen. Sit down.” He
took the kettle and filled it and lit a match and put it on to boil. Jacob couldn’t
take his eyes off him.

Solomon Klein found the tea and put a spoonful of sugar in a cup and looked at the
kettle, waiting for it to boil. He’s shrunk, Jacob thought, and he wasn’t tall to
begin with. As he gave the cup to Jacob, Solomon said, as if his son were late from
school, “Where is Maxie?”

Jacob took the cup and felt the tears heating his eyes. His eyes met his father’s.
He shook his head and felt himself shiver.

Solomon looked away. “Do you know what happened?”

Jacob nodded.

“Were you with him?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Bergen-Belsen.”

Solomon took his cup and sat heavily on the bed. He gazed slowly around the room until
he noticed Sarah’s shoes by the bed, and the pile of her clothes that Jacob had put
on a chair. He glanced at Jacob and nodded in approval.

*   *   *

Jacob told his father all about Sarah.

He told him about Maxie.

He told him about Dr. Berger and Schmutzig and the house.

He showed him his money and told him about his plans for the future.

He never mentioned the Rat.

When he asked Solomon, his father talked a little about Gurs, less about Auschwitz,
and nothing about the rest. Why burden the boy?

They held hands while they spoke and neither said the half of it. At one o’clock in
the morning Jacob offered his father the bed. “Sarah will probably come in the morning,”
he said.

“You sleep here too,” Solomon said.

“Yes, we were used to two in a bed, me and Maxie.”

“What? You had a bed?”

“Not exactly.”

*   *   *

Solomon was snoring before Jacob came back from brushing his teeth. Air escaped from
his nose like exhaust from a tank. Jacob pushed him onto his side until he sounded
merely like a motorbike. Is that an improvement? he wondered. He lay on his back,
his head on his hands, listening to his father with a smile on his face. He could
hardly believe it. As for Dr. Berger, he couldn’t wait to see his reaction when his
father went home. He would take him there tomorrow. “We thought you were all dead,”
indeed. His father was a tough old cookie, he had never known it as a child. He’ll
have the good doctor out by the scruff of his neck in no time. His smile spread. He
was thinking of Sarah, how happy she would be when she came back in the morning. His
father alive, him choosing a future with her instead of that mad fantasy of revenge.
The Rat would get his due eventually, he’d make sure of that. Let the Americans handle
it. Or God will intervene. Maybe he’ll get run over by a bus.

Jacob breathed in deep and let the air out long and slowly, an extended sigh of satisfaction,
as if his heart were smiling, and felt himself settle in the homely darkness. His
eyes were heavy. He turned onto his side and, dreaming of Sarah, drifted into a quiet
dark place, clammy, damp, that held him tight. It was an underwater cavern. He was
suspended beneath the water, hanging in the comforting gloom, there was a shaft of
light and it glowed and sparkled on the brilliant orange gills of ten thousand goldfish
darting in waves and swells around him. He stretched his open fingers to reach out
in the water and golden specks of light shot through them and welled around him and
shifted together like dunes of golden sands in the dry desert wind. He curled into
a ball and felt warm and good as he floated in the womb.

Far, far away, an engine’s quiet rumble, the snap of a carefully opening door. A gentle
draft, cool on his ears. He moved as the womb wall closed in on him and he shifted
to make room and the wall was soft and warm and nestled against him and put an arm
around him. He was drifting and turned and her lips met his and as the misty veil
rose he heard Sarah breathe into his ear, “Jacob? Darling? There’s a man on my side
of the bed.”

In 1939 eleven hundred Jews were living in Heidelberg.

In July of 1945 there were eighteen.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR