Contract With God (10 page)

The Cohen family entered their living tomb one December night in 1938, believing that the war would last only a few weeks. There wasn’t enough room for all of them to lie down at the same time, and their only comforts were a kerosene lamp and a bucket. Food and fresh air came at one in the morning, two hours after the judge’s maid went home. At about half past midnight the old judge would slowly begin to push the bookcase away from the hole. Because of his age, it could take almost half an hour, with frequent rests, before the opening was sufficiently wide to allow the Cohens through.

Together with the Cohen family the judge was also a prisoner of that life. He knew that the maid’s husband was a member of the Nazi party, so while he was constructing the hideout, he sent her on holiday to Salzburg for a few days. When she returned he told her that they had had to replace the gas pipes. He didn’t dare find another maid because it would have made people suspicious, and he had to be careful about the amount of food he bought. With rationing it became even more difficult to feed an extra five people. Jora felt pity for him since he had sold most of his valuable possessions to buy black market meat and potatoes which he hid in the attic. At night, when Jora and the Cohens came out of their hiding place, barefoot, looking like strange whispering ghosts, the old man would bring down the food from the attic for them.

The Cohens didn’t dare stay outside their hiding place for more than a few hours. While Jora made sure that the children washed and moved around a little, Josef and Odile would talk quietly with the judge. During the day they couldn’t make the slightest noise and mostly spent their time sleeping or in a state of semi-consciousness, which to Jora was like torture until she began hearing about the concentration camps at Treblinka, Dachau, and Auschwitz. The smallest details of daily life became complicated. Basic needs, drinking or even changing the baby Yudel, were tedious procedures in such a restricted space. Jora was continually amazed by Odile Cohen’s ability to communicate. She had developed a complex system of signs that allowed her to carry out long and sometimes bitter conversations with her husband without uttering a word.

Over three years went by in silence. Yudel didn’t learn any more than four or five words. Luckily he had a calm disposition and hardly ever cried. He seemed to prefer being held by Jora rather than his mother, but this didn’t bother Odile. Odile appeared to care only for Elan, who was suffering the most from being locked up. He had been an unruly, spoiled five-year-old when the November 1938 pogroms exploded and after more than a thousand days in hiding, there was something lost, almost crazy, about his eyes. When it was time to return to the hideout he was always the last to go in. Often he refused, or would remain clinging to the entrance. When that happened, Yudel would go over and take his hand, encouraging Elan to make the sacrifice once more and return to the long hours of darkness.

But six nights ago, Elan couldn’t take it any more. He waited until everyone else had gone back into the hole, then slipped away and out of the house. The judge’s arthritic fingers only managed to brush the boy’s shirt before he disappeared. Josef tried to follow him, but by the time he was out on the street there was no trace of Elan.

The news came three days later in the
Kronen Zeitung
. A young mentally disabled Jewish boy, apparently without family, had been placed in the Kinderspital Am Spiegelgrund. The judge was horrified. When he explained, the words catching in his throat, what would probably happen to their son, Odile became hysterical and refused to listen to reason. Jora felt faint the moment she saw Odile go out the door, carrying that same package they had brought to their hideout, the one they had taken to the hospital years before when Yudel was born. Odile’s husband accompanied her, despite her protests, but as he left he handed Jora an envelope.

‘For Yudel,’ he said. ‘He shouldn’t open it before his
bar mitzvah
.’

Two terrible nights had passed since then. Jora was anxious for news, but the judge was more silent than usual. The day before, the house had been filled with strange sounds. And then, for the first time in three years, the bookcase began to move in the middle of the day and the judge’s face appeared in the entrance hole.

‘Quick, come out. We haven’t a second to waste!’

Jora blinked. It was difficult to recognise the brightness outside the hideout as sunshine. Yudel had never seen the sun. Frightened, he ducked back in.

‘Jora, I’m sorry. Yesterday I found out that Josef and Odile have been arrested. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to upset you further. But you can’t stay here. They’re going to question them, and no matter how much the Cohens resist, the Nazis will eventually find out where Yudel is.’

‘Frau Cohen won’t say anything. She’s strong.’

The judge shook his head.

‘They’ll promise to save Elan’s life in exchange for revealing where the little one is, or worse. They can always make people talk.’

Jora began to cry.

‘There’s no time for that, Jora. When Josef and Odile didn’t return, I went to see a friend at the Bulgarian embassy. I have two exit visas in the names of Bilyana Bogomil, tutor, and Mikhail Zhivkov, son of a Bulgarian diplomat. The story is that you’re returning to school with the boy after spending the Christmas holidays with his parents.’ He showed her the rectangular tickets. ‘These are train tickets to Stara Zagora. But you won’t go there.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Jora said.

‘Stara Zagora is your official destination, but you’ll get off at Cernavoda. The train stops there for a short while. You’ll get out so that the boy can stretch his legs. You’ll leave the train with a smile on your face. You won’t carry any luggage or have anything in your hands. As soon as you can, disappear. Constanta is thirty-seven miles to the east. You’ll either have to walk or find someone willing to take you there by cart.’

‘Constanta,’ Jora repeated, trying to remember everything in her confusion.

‘It was Romania before. Now it’s Bulgaria. Tomorrow, who knows? The important thing is that it’s a port and the Nazis don’t watch it too carefully. From there you can take a ship to Istanbul. And from Istanbul you can go anywhere.’

‘But we don’t have any money for a ticket.’

‘Here are some marks for the trip. And in this envelope there’s enough to book passage for the two of you to somewhere safe.’

Jora looked around. There was hardly any furniture left in the house. Suddenly she understood what the strange noises the day before had been. The old man had hocked almost everything he owned to give them a chance of escaping.

‘How can we ever thank you, Judge Rath?”

‘Don’t. Your trip will be very dangerous and I’m not sure that the exit visas will protect you. God forgive me, but I hope I’m not sending you to your death.’

 

Two hours later Jora had managed to drag Yudel to the building’s stairway. She was about to go outside when she heard a truck halting on the pavement. Everyone who lived under the Nazis knew exactly what that meant. The whole thing was like a bad melody, beginning with a screech of brakes, followed by someone shouting orders and the dull staccato of boots on snow, which became more precise as the boots hit wooden floors. At that point you prayed for the sounds to fade away; instead there was an ominous crescendo culminating in knocks at a door. After a pause, a chorus of weeping would ensue, punctuated by machine-gun solos. And when the music was over, the lights went on again, people returned to their tables, and mothers would smile and make believe that nothing had happened next door.

Jora, who knew the tune well, hid under the stairs the moment she heard the first notes. While his colleagues broke down Rath’s door, a soldier wielding a flashlight paced nervously back and forth at the main entrance. The torch’s beam cut through the darkness, barely missing Jora’s worn grey shoe. Yudel grabbed her with such animal fear that Jora had to bite her lip in order not to cry out in pain. The soldier came so close to them that they could smell his leather coat and the cold metal and oil of the gun.

A loud shot rumbled down the stairwell. The soldier interrupted his search and rushed upstairs to his companions who were yelling. Jora lifted Yudel in her arms and went out into the street, walking slowly.

EN ROUTE TO THE GULF OF AQABA, RED SEA

 

 

The room was dominated by a large rectangular table set with twenty neatly placed folders, in front of which sat a person. Harel, Fowler and Andrea were the last ones in and had to sit in the spaces that were left. Andrea ended up between a young African-American woman dressed in some sort of paramilitary uniform and an older man, balding, with a bushy moustache. The young woman ignored her and went on talking to the companions to her left, who were dressed more or less as she was, while the man to Andrea’s right offered his hand, with its thick, coarse fingers.

‘Tommy Eichberg, driver. You must be Ms Otero.’

‘Another person who knows me! It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

Eichberg smiled. He had a round, pleasant face.

‘I hope you’re feeling better.’

Andrea was about to answer but was interrupted by the loud, unpleasant sound of someone clearing his throat. An old man, well over seventy, had just entered the room. His eyes were almost buried in a nest of wrinkles, an impression that was accentuated by the tiny lenses of his glasses. His head was shaved and he had a huge greying beard that seemed to float around his mouth like a cloud of ash. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, khaki trousers and thick black boots. He began to speak, his voice as sharp and unpleasant as a knife scraping teeth, before he reached the head of the table where a portable electronic screen had been placed. Beside it sat Kayn’s assistant.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Cecyl Forrester and I’m Professor of Biblical Archaeology at the University of Massachusetts. It’s not the Sorbonne, but at least it’s a home.’

There was some polite laughter among the professor’s assistants, who had heard the joke a thousand times.

‘No doubt you have been trying to figure out the reason for this trip ever since you set foot on this ship. I hope you were not tempted to do so beforehand, given that your, or should I say
our
, contracts with Kayn Enterprises require absolute secrecy from the moment they were signed until our heirs rejoice at our death. Unfortunately the terms of my contract also require that I let you in on the secret, which I plan on doing over the course of the next hour and a half. Do not interrupt me unless you have an intelligent question. Since Mr Russell has informed me of your particulars, I am familiar with every detail, from your IQ to your favourite brand of condom. As for Mr Dekker’s crew, don’t even bother opening your mouths.’

Andrea, who was partially turned towards the professor, heard a threatening whisper from the people in uniform.

‘That son of a bitch thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. Maybe I’ll make him swallow his teeth one at a time.’

‘Silence.’

The voice was soft but it had an undertone that was so violent it made Andrea shudder. She turned her head enough to see that the voice belonged to Mogens Dekker, the man with the scar, who was leaning his chair against a bulkhead. The soldiers immediately went quiet.

‘Good. Well, now that we’re all in one place,’ Cecyl Forrester went on, ‘I’d better do the introductions. The twenty-three of us have been brought together for what will be the greatest discovery of all time, and each of you is going to play a part in it. You already know Mr Russell to my right. He’s the one who selected you.’

Kayn’s assistant nodded his head in greeting.

‘To his right is Father Anthony Fowler, who will act as the Vatican’s observer on the expedition. Beside him are Nuri Zayit and Rani Peterke, cook and assistant cook. Then Robert Frick and Brian Hanley, administration. ’

The two cooks were older men. Zayit was skinny, aged around sixty, with a down-turned mouth, while his helper was heavy-set and a few years younger. Andrea couldn’t quite tell his age. The two administrators, on the other hand, were both young and almost as dark as Peterke.

‘Besides these overpaid workers, we have my idle and sycophantic assistants. They all have degrees from expensive colleges and think they know more than me: David Pappas, Gordon Durwin, Kyra Larsen, Stowe Erling and Ezra Levine.

The young archaeologists shifted uncomfortably in their chairs and tried to look professional. Andrea felt sorry for them. They must have been in their early thirties, but Forrester had them on a short leash, which made them seem even younger and more insecure than they actually were - which was the complete opposite of the people in uniform seated next to the reporter.

‘At the other end of the table we have Mr Dekker and his bulldogs: the Gottlieb twins, Alois and Alryk; Tewi Waaka, Paco Torres, Marla Jackson and Louis Maloney. They’ll be in charge of security, adding a high-calibre component to our expedition. The irony of the phrase is devastating, don’t you think?’

The soldiers didn’t react, but Dekker righted his chair and leaned across the table.

‘We’re going into the frontier zone of an Islamic country. Given the nature of our . . . mission, the locals could become violent. I’m sure Professor Forrester will appreciate the calibre of our defence if it comes to that.’ He spoke with a strong South African accent.

Forrester opened his mouth to respond, but something on Dekker’s face must have convinced him that now wasn’t the time for any more acid retorts.

‘Further to the right you have Andrea Otero, our official reporter. I’m asking you to cooperate with her if and when she requests any information or interviews so that she will be able to tell our story to the world.’