Breath (9781439132227) (15 page)

The room goes totally silent. All of us in Hameln town and the area around feel a special bond with Saint Michael, for our own church priest has taken on the saint's name.

“What do you mean?” asks the judge.

“I was following Saint Michael's orders.”

“Saint Michael told you to kill your grandmother,” says the judge very loudly “Why?”

But Bertram can't answer because everyone's talking at once. They're saying Saint Michael is an angel, with a sword and scabbard. He's the avenging angel. He could tell someone to kill, yes, he could do something like that.

And now they're saying the potions Großmutter gave them against this terrible illness haven't helped in the least. Maybe they've even made it worse. Yes, they've surely made it worse.

Then I hear it: “She must have been a witch.”

My throat constricts so hard it hurts. It's unfair to malign the dead, who cannot even defend themselves.

But they've taken it up, like a flame passing
quickly from candle to candle at a festival, illuminating the night. They think they understand: She must have been doing the devil's work. Why else would Saint Michael have told Bertram to kill her?

“Quiet,” says the judge. “Bertram needs to speak.”

The crowd hushes.

“Did Saint Michael tell you to kill your grandmother because she was a witch?”

“No,” says Bertram. “Saint Michael didn't tell me to kill Großmutter.”

“What did Saint Michael tell you to do?” asks the judge.

“Kill Salz.”

The room goes wild again.

My guts constrict. I'm in agony. It's all I can do to stay standing. I knew Bertram was coming at me with the scythe, not her—what else could he have wanted but to kill me? Still, hearing him say it is so much more awful.

“Quiet!” shouts the judge. “Who is this Salz?”

“My brother,” says Bertram.

“Where is he?” asks the judge.

Someone spies me at the back of the room and points, and then lots of people are pointing and talking.

“Come forward, Salz,” says the judge.

Pater Michael pushes me ahead of him to the front of the crowd. I can't feel Ava behind me. Where is she? I stumble. My gut pain is the scythe that killed Großmutter.

“This is your brother?” asks the judge.

Bertram turns to me and I can see immediately that he's not clearheaded. His eyes look like Melis's when the ghost comes. Or when we used to think it was a ghost. Before Großmutter told us we were all sick. “Yes,” he says.

“Why would Saint Michael want you to kill your brother?”

“Killing the sick is an act of mercy,” says Bertram.

“Who's sick?” asks the judge.

“Salz. He has the rat illness. Killing him is the only responsible thing to do.”

I wipe the sweat from my brow. I try to look healthy.

But the eyes of the crowd aren't on me. They stare at Bertram; they grow glittery.

“Many are sick,” says the judge. “Does Saint Michael tell you to kill all the sick?”

The judge is right. Bertram has boxed himself in. No one can sympathize with what he said.

“No,” says Bertram, “just Salz. Salz is sicker than everyone else. Salz coughs. That's the next stage in this illness. We've all heard about it. Pater Frederick came and told us. We'll get sores on our bodies and heads, and we'll cough like Salz. If he lives, we'll all die.”

Now, inevitably, everyone's eyes turn to me. Bertram's words make a twisted sense. They corrupt ordinary thought. Corruption again, confusion again.

I press both fists into my belly to curb the pain. My body wants to double over, but I have to stand tall. I will myself not to cough. I must not cough. Do they remember that I coughed before—when the judge called Bertram to be interrogated? I want to scream. It's my fault Pater Frederick was called to town to inform us about the rat disease. It's my fault they know about coughing.

It's raining harder and harder. The room grows dark. Men hurry to light the candles in the wall sconces.

“This is an unacceptable defense,” says the judge at last.

“A boy can't be found guilty for following the orders of Saint Michael,” says Father.

Someone agrees with him. And another.

“If everyone who killed could claim a saint made him do it, we'd have chaos,” says the judge.

Hope comes again to my chest. This judge is fair minded. He reminds me of Pater Frederick, talking of the principle of order.

“Chaos,” moans a woman. “We can't ward off chaos. We have it every night in every home.”

Others agree.

The judge raises one hand high and shakes his head. For an instant he poses like Jesus in the middle stained-glass window of the lords and ladies' church. “Whatever problems we have in our homes, in this room we must rise above them.” He lowers his arm and points at the crowd, moving his finger in an arc across them. “All of you know the law must stand firm against chaos.”

“But this was not murder; it was an accident,” says Father. “He meant to kill Salz.”

“Exactly. The Magdeburg city codes don't allow such a defense. So neither should we. Bertram intended death, and he brought about death.”

Magdeburg has such codes? If I really do live to my birthday, Ava and I must go to that rational place.

“He intended life,” says Father. “Saint Michael made him do it. Hameln is in danger.” He turns to
the crowd. “We're all in danger. Bertram tried to save us.”

I hear Father's words and I realize he's saying I'm a danger. Does he realize he's saying that? Is he willing to trade one son for another?

Voices of agreement come from all around the room. People move restlessly. They've heard enough.

“Saint Michael is going to arm the healthy,” says Bertram. He looks across the crowd and his eyes fix on Johannah.

She hangs from one of her brother's shoulders. She can't stand alone, her feet are so swollen. I've heard the stories, but seeing it like this is different. I had no idea, not really. A quarter of the people in this room are as lame as Johannah. I shake. This is what Ava's mother must have looked like.

“They'll go knocking from door to door, killing the sickest, the ones who cough. To spare the rest of us.” Bertram speaks as though reason is completely on his side. “It's the only way.”

“The only way” goes around the room like a chant.

“Quiet!” shouts the judge. “I heard Pater Frederick too. He talked of rat disease in lands far away from Germany, far away from Europe.
We have no knowledge that this is the same rat disease.”

“If that's how rat disease progresses in other lands, why shouldn't it happen the same way here?” says Father. “Christ preaches all people are the same before God, does he not?”

Murmurs of approval. Someone slings a congratulatory arm across Father's shoulders.

“Christ also preaches that we embrace the sick,” says the judge. “Fear of the sick is rooted in pagan heresy. The sick are victims.”

“Then, why do we shut the lepers in hospitals outside town?” asks Father. “Why do we ban them from using public wells? Isn't someone in the last stages of the rat disease as dangerous as a leper?”

And everyone's debating that question.

A cat yowls.

Melis holds Kuh up high. It's he who made the cat scream. “Look,” he says.

“Whose cat is that?” calls the judge above the noisy room.

Kuh spies me and jumps free. He runs and climbs me like a tree, straight to my shoulder.

And now the word “heresy” is repeated all around, and I hear that most dreaded word again: “witch.” Then it switches to “warlock.” They're
talking about me now, not Großmutter. “Witch” and “coven” and “familiar.”

“Is this your familiar?” asks the judge.

My intestines cramp. I can't stand any longer. I squat and rock back and forth on my heels. Kuh yowls. Sweat runs into my eyes, so I can barely see all the legs around me. They blur into a wall. I miss Großmutter. I have no protection.

And I can protect no one. Ava. Where is Ava, my Ava?

Someone is yelling.

Father says Kuh is indeed my familiar.

I am hated. Father hates me. Bertram hates me. Everyone blames me.

The judge shouts for order. I hear him speak as if from far away. He's saying, “Bertram is free. Salz goes into the
Hundeloch
.”

“Step back,” the guard barks through the bars at the top of the door.

There's nowhere back for me to go. I'm pressed into the corner. Alone, but for the crawling creatures that move indiscreetly over me, even inside my clothing. My shoulder stings from where Kuh gripped me when they pulled him off.

The guard opens the door and puts a wooden bowl on the dirt floor. “Don't say a word,” he warns. I understand: Heretics' words are dangerous. Heretics' tongues are cut out. I look at my feet until he leaves.

The
Hundeloch
stinks. My own waste is in the far corner, on a pile of waste from past prisoners, all of it aswarm with bugs. But at least moving my bowels rid me of the pain.

In its place, though, came hunger. I crawl to the bowl in a race with the bugs. When the guard opened the door into the cellar, a bit of light came into this prison room, but now that he's gone, it's dim again. Still, I know the bugs are going for the bowl, because there are so many of them they form a solid black line on the gray of everything else.

The bowl holds a handful of beans and hemp. I eat the beans quickly and chew on the stringy greens. Just the act of eating makes me think of Großmutter and all the meals we prepared together.

She lay on the floor bleeding and gasping. Her body spasmed in crazy ways. And she looked at me. She died looking at me. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't stop the bleeding. No matter what poultice I used. I tried.

Like Bertram was trying when he swung the scythe.

My grandmother died, oh.

We will never talk together or eat together or work together again. She is dead. This woman that I loved so fiercely. This woman that loved me just as fiercely. She is dead.

A bug cracks between my teeth. I fight a gag. I mustn't let disgust empty my stomach now. I'll need energy.

For what?

I'm crying.

But I stop myself. This is not how to survive—dwelling on things I can do nothing about. I learned that lesson before. I learned after Gertrude's death and Mother's death. After Hilde and Eike were sold.

Großmutter is dead.

But Ava is alive. My sister is alive.

Not my real sister. But she may as well be. She doesn't belong to anyone else. And we all need to belong to someone.

I have to be strong for Ava. That's what it means to deserve a child.

There is no room for tears; crying takes energy. I have to think strategically, act smart. I have to be ready for what is to come.

I have no idea what that may be. No one has told me anything.

No one speaks of Ava.

Can I put my faith in Pater Michael? I don't care anymore whether his hypocrisy is the result of weakness or practicality. All I care is that he be true to his word to me. Has he taken Ava in?

I have the sensation of being watched. I stand and look through the bars of the door. There is
another prison room across from mine. The rest of what I see is barrels. The
Rathaus
basement holds not just the dungeon, but the wine and beer cellar of the town.

“Hello,” I call.

No one answers. The other prison room may be empty. I pray it is. I wouldn't wish these cells on anyone.

I return to my corner and squat with my back against the wall. I close my eyes and wait. I'm getting very good at waiting. It takes all my concentration to keep from falling asleep. I must never fall asleep. I must never dream.

I am desolate.

I don't allow my head to sink forward.

I am awake.

The smallest noise comes from somewhere. I open my eyes. “Is someone there?” I call. I get to my feet, but I don't leave my spot. “Who's there?” I close my eyes again and listen hard for gnawing and the clicking of little claws—predictable noises.

Instead, I hear voices. I recognize Pater Michael's.

“Step back,” says the guard. Soft light comes through the open cellar door.

I press harder against the rear wall.

My cell door opens.

Pater Michael comes inside.

I rush to him.

“Hold out your arms, Salz.”

What could he mean? I hold my arms stiffly in front of me.

Pater Michael pulls up the sleeves and brings his face close to my skin. He brushes a roach off the inside of my elbow. He turns me around, inspecting in his inept way. “Come along.”

I follow him past the guard. “Where's Ava?”

“I don't know.”

No.

I breathe out and hold that moment, that nothingness between time that sometimes protects me from pain. I hold it long; I won't let time go on. I won't let Ava be lost somewhere, with no one to help her, lost and alone and small and vulnerable.

But the air can't be denied. It's unfair how it won't come when I want it to and it forces itself into me when I don't want it to. “Unfair,” I charge. “You said we could take refuge with you. You said that. She needs someone to take care of her.”

“She'll show up, Salz. Right now yours is the life at stake. Stay quiet and pray.”

I let him pull me.

We go up the stairs, back to the courtroom. I blink against the light of day. I hold my hands over my ears, fending off the assault of so many voices after the quiet of the prison cell.

It is even more crowded than it was this morning, if that is possible. Every face I make out contorts into ugliness. A man with no teeth bares his blackened gums in a grimace. A sick woman who seems to have trouble even holding her head up waggles her tongue at me.