Jacob's Oath (31 page)

“Oh, shut up already. You think I can’t imagine? You think you’re the only one who
got hurt? But that isn’t the point. I understand, okay, I get it! But that doesn’t
mean you have to sacrifice your future, our future, because of what happened then.
Don’t tell me Maxie would have wanted that. He’d want you to live, to marry me … to…”
She burst into tears. She had tried not to, she didn’t want to, but she did.

She had been about to say “… to have a baby, to start a family,” but that was something
she could not say. And it hurt so. Her soul could not bear the weight of her loss.
She had been ruined for ever. She could never give him what he wanted, even if he
agreed, even if they lived together, married …

Jacob looked at Sarah, crumpled on the bed, her cheeks damp with tears. He sat next
to her, placed his hand on her shoulder, which rose and fell as she wept.

Was she right? No. Or yes? Was it worth it? He didn’t know. He took his head in his
hands. He felt nauseated. It was a choice between two evils. But then, what in life
is not? Everything has its opposite. Whenever you take something, you give up something
too. Every scrap of food he had begged or stolen or hidden in Bergen-Belsen was a
scrap of food someone else could not have. Every breath of life he had taken was taken
from someone else. If he was alive now it was because so many others had died. And
now: To kill Hans was to risk it all.

What to do? He didn’t know. He didn’t know!

He sighed, and stared at the wall. But if he did do it, then how? Every way he looked
at it, he would get caught. But he had to. He just had to do it, and he had to escape,
too. He’d work it out. But when? No time.

He’d had enough. Without thinking, he said, “Sarah, stop it now. I have something
to do. I’ll be back soon.” He hated to leave her like this, but his legs seemed to
carry him out the door. He stooped to pick up his jacket and hat.

He walked toward the Schwartzer Bock, thinking of Isak Brodsky. The Russian hadn’t
explained why, but it was over. Strangely, he trusted him. He said it was all planned,
it was about to happen, and then it had got called off. Well, that left it up to him
now. It always had been.

If he asked himself what was left over from Bergen-Belsen he could only say this:
nothing. They had stolen every reason to live. They had all hung on to life, not because
life was worth living but because that was what one did. It is what has kept the human
race alive despite the greatest of odds. Species come and go, they grow, they weaken,
they die. Only we have gone from strength to strength. Why is that? Because we want
something, that’s why. We don’t just live for the moment, to eat, sleep, procreate.
We have things to do. We may not all agree on what they are, but we all have something
to do.

And I, Jacob thought, I know what I have to do. Sarah will never agree. All right.
But I have one thing to do, just one, and then … well, who knows. Then we will marry
and live happily ever after.

But first he … wait!

There he is. Halfway down Hauptstrasse, by the two G.I.s, going into the bookshop.
Brown jacket and no hat. Glancing over his shoulder and up and down the street, Jacob
didn’t see any of the Rat’s friends. Seeler was alone. Jacob pulled his hat lower
over his brow and entered. There were two long, narrow passages between four tall
rows of books stretching into the depths of the shop. They ended at a big glass door
open onto a small garden with chairs and tables. A little café. It occurred to Jacob
it must be a nice place to sit and read. Should come back with Sarah. As Seeler browsed
along the shelves, Jacob stood near the cashier in the center of the store, leafing
through a book. After five minutes it dawned on him what he was looking at:
A Young Wife’s Guide to a Happy Marriage
. He put it down and picked up a photo book on the 1936 Berlin Olympics.

Over the top, with his hat low, he saw Seeler strolling to the cash register. His
hand trailed along the spines of the books as he glanced at their titles, he was almost
stroking them, and occasionally he stopped to study the pages. His eyes didn’t flicker
and search as if checking for victims, he didn’t have one hand on his thigh to reach
down and pull out a whip from his boot, his mouth wasn’t set in a sneer. Instead,
surrounded by rows of books, he looked as harmless as a schoolteacher. So ordinary.
Apart from that stupid mustache.

But as Seeler approached and Jacob turned his back to him, Jacob’s skin crawled. The
hair stood on his neck. Right now, if he wanted, if he had a knife, he could do it.

*   *   *

Sarah had stopped crying now, after Jacob had left. She lay exhausted on the bed.
They had been fighting all morning, ever since they woke up. Going over the same ground,
over and over. Jacob had said again that she didn’t know how to hate. He kept saying
that. And she had said, “That’s right, I don’t know how to hate. And I don’t want
to.

“But I do know how to love.” It was true, and she surprised herself. Jacob had asked
her and she didn’t have an answer to the question: How could she go through all she
had gone through, and still be so full of love? What, there were so many good Germans?

“No, of course not, even the quiet ones weren’t good, they didn’t care about anyone
except themselves, they did anything to stay out of trouble. I know that,” she had
said. “But if it was the other way around, would we have been so different?”

So it had gone, for hours. Sarah said, “I don’t love them. Of course not. I don’t
condemn them, that’s all. The truth is, I just don’t care about them, that’s the difference
between you and me. I just want to get on with the rest of my life and not have them
ruin that, too. And not here, either. Somewhere else. With you.”

Jacob had tried to stop her, to get her to be quiet, to agree with her. But he couldn’t,
just couldn’t, give up on Maxie, his friends, his oath to his dying brother. Part
of him wanted to, yes, that was true. But how could he, and live with himself?

Around and around they went. About how he would do it. About how he would get caught.
And what they would do to him. And to that, he had no answer. All he kept saying was
“I have to do it. Now. Or it will be too late.”

It was hopeless. She felt like beating the poor little pillow. Whatever she said,
he was as stubborn as an ass. And then the fool had wanted to make love. She had kicked
him.

Lying on the bed, curled around the pillow, she knew only one thing for certain: She
loved him as much as life itself and she would do anything, anything at all, to keep
him.

And that is when the idea began to form. The mist was clearing. She sat up slowly,
her jaw clenching, her mind racing. Yes. It’s possible. It could work. It must. She
nodded faintly to herself and her face set in determination.

*   *   *

I could do it right now, Jacob thought, moving away from the cash desk, putting down
one book, picking up another. But then what? His back to the cashier, he stayed close
enough to overhear, Seeler was asking about a book, Jacob didn’t get the title. Something
about Argentina. The salesman said he could order it. Jacob tilted his head closer
to hear better.

“Can you have it here in three days?” Seeler asked.

“Yes, certainly, sir, we will have it here in two. We close at seven, if you can come
just before then we will have it for you, or the next morning.”

“Friday afternoon it is, then. Thank you. I’ll come just before seven o’clock. You
think you’ll have it by then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because I’ll be leaving the next day. That’s very kind. Thank you very much. Should
I pay now or then?”

“Half now?”

Seeler handed over some notes, asked for a receipt, said good day, and walked out
of the store.

He’s leaving on Saturday?

Automatically, Jacob followed. It was easy, following those ears in the crowd. He
took the usual route. Ten minutes later, Seeler reached his favorite beer hall. Jacob
saw him greet some friends, all young men about the same age. Probably all Nazis,
he thought. As usual they laughed and chatted up the waitress and ordered beers. Shameless.
And free. He could feel himself snarl. They’re getting away with it, all of them.

There must be thousands of them, tens of thousands, all over Germany.

That’s when the dark cloud he carried swirled into a vortex, like a tornado leaving
calm in its wake, and his confusion cleared. He knew what he had to do.

He had decided.

He almost ran to the castle road, to the vendors with their military souvenirs, and
looked through their collection of knives, laid out on wooden boards. There were short
paratrooper knives with wooden handles. Long stabbing knives for trench warfare, close
combat daggers and combat pocketknives that folded in half. He held a ribbed-handle
boot knife and weighed it in his palm as if he knew what he was doing. Tried the same
kind with a ring handle. And the more he looked and held and balanced, the more he
realized there was no way on earth he could take such a thing and stick it in another
human being.

He couldn’t bear the idea of piercing flesh and pushing up to the hilt into tissue
and muscle and nerves, and he knew it wasn’t as if the Rat would just stand and take
it. He’d scream and struggle and hit back. He saw them falling over, and even with
a dagger in his heart he could imagine the Rat fighting for his life, getting the
better of him. And how would he even know where the heart was? And how would he get
in front of him and close enough? And if from behind, in the dark, where to stab him?

There was no way he could do it. Sarah was right. He wasn’t the kind.

He’d have to shoot him instead. But the noise. He’d have to be close or he’d miss.
It would take at least two shots. Even if they were alone, people were always close
by. Nowhere was private in Heidelberg, which was crawling with people. There were
three or four times as many as the town normally held. He’d get caught.

Jacob walked away. There was only one thing for it. He’d have to find a metal club.
And not tell Sarah another word. She’d already thrown away one knife.

THIRTY-ONE

Heidelberg,
June 11, 1945

Sarah strode the last fifty meters with pursed lips, a firm chin, and straight shoulders,
her wooden heels clacking like knitting needles. She paused at the window to adjust
her hair, fluffing up her shiny hazel curls that fell across her collar. Her gray
woolen coat was open so that its mauve silk lining played off her mauve beret. She
had chosen a new white crepe de chine blouse that was wavy and glossy and open to
the second button, revealing a hint of cleavage and a string of pearls, which she
now knew to be imitation but were almost as translucent and filmy as any from the
ocean floor. She ran her hands down her pleated burgundy skirt, pressed her lips together,
and with an index finger wiped away a tiny smudge of lipstick. With a deep breath
she opened the door and entered the hotel, wafting with her the keenest aroma of eau
de cologne.

She walked straight through the dining room to reception at the end of the short corridor.
“Hello, I’m looking for Frau Seeler, please?” she said to the rather dowdy woman perched
on the stool behind the desk.

“Yes, good day. I am Frau Seeler.”

“Oh, good day, my name is Gertie Haas, and I’ve come about the job. I understand you
are looking for a waitress? I’d like to apply for it. It is still free, I hope?”

“Yes, that’s right, we are looking. But it’s more than just a waitress. We all do
a bit of everything here.” What a pretty, elegant girl, Frau Seeler was thinking,
and so well spoken. She must come from a good family.

“Oh, I’d be happy to do anything at all, whatever you need. To be honest, I really
need a job.”

And no airs and graces, no nose in the air. “It’s hard work, for fair pay, live in
if you like with food and board, but of course the pay wouldn’t be quite so much in
that case. It’s a long day but there’s a break in the afternoon.” She should ask her
questions but her mind had strayed. What a nice pretty girl with such a pleasing,
genuine smile and sparkling eyes. Just the girl to stop Hans from leaving; he’d like
her. Who knows? As Sarah answered how much she would appreciate any opportunity both
to work hard and to learn the hotel trade, which surely would be a growing field in
the new Germany, what with all the Americans in town and the rebuilding in Mannheim
and everywhere, Frau Seeler had already heard all she needed to hear: church bells.
She smiled. And the cooing of babies. But hold on, Trudi, don’t get carried away.

“Well, dear, have you worked in a hotel before?”

It seemed that Gertie Haas was perfect. Although she had never worked in a hotel she
had spent years waitressing in Berlin, she knew how to sew and darn, could cook a
little and was very happy to learn more, and was used to long, hard hours, as she
had grown up on a farm near Hanover. She even spoke a little English. Frau Seeler
couldn’t wait to tell Wolfgang. It was so hard to get good help. Everyone wanted a
job but nobody wanted to work, or if they did they were the wrong kind of person,
foreigners or poorly spoken. She couldn’t have hoped for better than this young Gertie
Haas.

Just as she was thinking of how to delay the pretty young girl until Hans came home,
the door opened and there he was. He swayed by the door-frame for a moment, leaned
against it, collected himself, surveyed the room, and with a quizzical look made his
way to the bar.

He had had a few beers and chasers but knew he could hold his drink as well as the
next man. It was mid-afternoon, after all. He aimed a kiss at his mother’s cheek and
listed toward Gertie. “A kiss for the gracious lady,” he tried to say. “Polite thing
to do, you know.”

After introductions, Frau Seeler said, “Hans, would you be so kind as to show Miss
Haas…”