Contract With God

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 
 
 

 
Contract with God

 

 
JUAN GOMEZ JURADO

 
 
Orion

 
First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Orion Books,
an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin’s Lane,
London WC2H 9EA

 
© Juan Gómez-Jurado 2007

 
English translation © A.V. Lebrón 2009

 

 
The right of Juan Gómez-Jurado to be identified as the author of
this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

 
‘How to Create an Enemy’ from
Faces of the Enemy
by Sam Keen
reproduced with the kind permission of the author.

 

 
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher.

 

 
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

 

 
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead,
events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

 
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library

 

eISBN : 978 1 4091 0724 8

 
ISBN 978 1 409 10076 8 (Trade Paperback)

 

 
Typeset by Input Data Services Ltd,
Bridgwater, Somerset

 

 
Printed in Great Britain by
C PI Mackays, Chatham, Kent

 

 
The Orion Publishing Group’s policy is to use papers that
are natural, renewable and recyclable products and
made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging
and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to
the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

 

 

 
orionbooks.co.uk

Start with an empty canvas
Sketch in broad outline the forms of
men women and children

 

Dip into the unconsciousness well of your own
disowned darkness
with a wide brush and
strain the strangers with the sinister hue
of the shadow

 

Trace onto the face of the enemy the greed,
Hatred, carelessness you dare not claim as
Your own

 

Obscure the sweet individuality of each face

 

Erase all hints of the myriad loves, hopes,
fears that play through the kaleidoscope of
every infinite heart

 

Twist the smile until it forms the downward
arc of cruelty

 

Strip flesh from bone until only the
abstract skeleton of death remains

 

Exaggerate each feature until man is
metamorphosed into beast, vermin, insect

 

Fill in the background with malignant
figures from ancient nightmares - devils,
demons, myrmidons of evil

 

When your icon of the enemy is complete
you will be able to kill without guilt,
slaughter without shame

 

The thing you destroy will have become
merely an enemy of God, an impediment
to the secret dialectic of history

 

from
Faces of the Enemy
by Sam Keen

I am the Lord thy God.
Thou shalt have no other gods before me
Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image
Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain
Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy
Honour thy father and mother
Thou shalt not kill
Thou shalt not commit adultery
Thou shalt not steal
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house

VIENNA

 

 

Arriving at the building where a large flag with a swastika was flapping overhead, the woman could not suppress a shiver. Her companion misinterpreted and drew her closer to him in order to warm her. Her thin coat offered meagre protection against the sharp afternoon wind, which warned of an approaching blizzard.

‘Put this on, Odile,’ the man said, his fingers trembling as he unbuttoned his coat.

She loosened herself from his grip and hugged the package closer to her chest. The six-mile walk through the snow had left her exhausted and numb from the cold. Three years ago they would have made the trip in their Daimler with a driver, and she would have been wearing her fur. But their car now belonged to a Brigadeführer and her fur coat was probably being shown off in a theatre box somewhere by some Nazi wife with painted eyelids. Odile composed herself and pressed the buzzer forcefully three times before answering him.

‘It’s not because of the cold, Josef. We don’t have much time before curfew. If we don’t return in time . . .’

Before her husband could reply, a nurse suddenly opened the door. As soon as she took one look at the visitors, her smile disappeared. Several years under the Nazi regime had taught her to recognise a Jew immediately.

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

The woman made herself smile, even though her lips were painfully cracked.

‘We want to see Dr Graus.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘The doctor said he’d see us.’

‘Name?’

‘Josef and Odile Cohen, Fräulein.’

‘The nurse took a step back when their surname confirmed her suspicions.

‘You’re lying. You don’t have an appointment. Go away. Go back to the hole you came from. You know you’re not allowed here.’

‘Please. My son is inside. Please!’

Her words were wasted as the door slammed shut.

Josef and his wife looked helplessly at the huge building. As they turned away, Odile suddenly felt weak and stumbled, but Josef managed to catch her before she fell.

‘Come on, we’ll find another way to get in.’

They headed over to one side of the hospital. As they turned the corner, Josef pulled his wife back. A door had just opened. A man wearing a thick coat was struggling to push a cart filled with rubbish towards the rear of the building. Keeping close to the wall, Josef and Odile slid up to the open doorway.

Once inside, they found themselves standing in a service hall leading to a maze of stairs and other corridors. As they proceeded down the hallway, they could hear distant muffled cries that seemed to be coming from another world. The woman concentrated intently, listening for her son’s voice, but it was useless. They went through several corridors without running into anybody. Josef had to hurry to keep up with his wife who, compelled by sheer instinct, moved forward swiftly, stopping only for a second at each doorway.

Before long they found themselves peering into a dark L-shaped ward. It was full of children, many of whom were strapped to their beds and whimpering like wet dogs. The acrid-smelling room was stifling and the woman began to sweat, feeling a tingling in her extremities as her body warmed up. She paid no attention to this, however, as her eyes raced from bed to bed, from one young face to the next, searching desperately for her son.