The Color of Light (54 page)

The soldier’s face swam into view, advancing toward me. Seeing that I was not quite finished, he ran the point of his bayonet into my heart and waited for me to die.

A groan. A fierce pain, cold and burning, all at once. Time stopped for a minute. But I did not die.

Wrapping my hands around the muzzle of the gun, I wrenched it out and slammed it backward, pulverizing his nose with the stock of the rifle. He sagged back, covering his face, making sounds like an injured dog, blood pouring out from under his fingers. I seized him by the helmet and smashed his forehead into the upturned edge of the table, once, twice. He fell to the floor, wriggled a little, then lay still.

I turned my head. The officer was in the kitchen, pistol in hand, his finger in the ring that opened the trapdoor.

With a single leap across the room, I was upon him. He had time for one look of horrified incredulity, one disbelieving
“Was?”
before I ripped his throat out.

He dropped the gun as his hands went to his neck. A great arterial spray fanned across the pictures on the wall. He fell to his knees, pitched forward onto the floor. His body thrummed across the trapdoor for a moment, then relaxed.

Covered in blood, I stood alone, triumphantly regarding the body of my enemy. And then I aimed a vicious kick at his head.

I dumped their corpses in the sewers.

“Olly olly oxen free,” I said, opening up the trap door.

Sofia was a hazy white shape floating in the dark. “There were gunshots,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I thought you were dead.”

I reached down, pulled her up. She threw her arms around my neck, held me tight.

The apartment had grown cold. I took Isaiah from her, made him comfortable on the couch, tucked my overcoat around him. Kissed his cheek. Held him for a moment.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

I looked down at my shirt. It was covered in blood, mine mostly, and torn in three places. Now I ached. Pain radiated up into my arms, my neck, the back of my head. It felt like my chest was on fire.

“I’m all right. Really. If I could just rest for a minute,” I said lightly. I wavered, lost my balance. She caught me, eased me onto the bed. I lacked the strength to even lift my legs onto the mattress.

I put my head back onto the pillow. It felt so good that I dozed off for a moment. I opened my eyes to see Sofia crying, tears falling down her cheeks. I smiled reassuringly at her, wanting her to know that it was all right, I was fine, but I passed out again before I could say anything. I could feel light fingers undoing the buttons on my shirt, a rush of cool air hitting my bare skin, the hiss of an indrawn breath.

It was nighttime in London. A building to our right shivered and collapsed into a mound of fiery rubble. She was walking ahead, going too fast for me, and I was shouting at her to slow down, afraid I was going to lose her in the smoke, but with all the noise and confusion, she couldn’t hear me. I caught sight of the hem of her coat disappearing into La Coupole, and I followed her in. Here, it was warm, bright. I could smell the cigarette smoke and women’s perfume. I sat down next to Leo, who for reasons of his own was accompanied by a dancing bear. He offered me a cigarette from a silver case, and said, “She’s still here, you know.”

Suddenly, a thick fog rolled in. La Coupole disappeared, and I was in a foul alleyway alongside the Élysée Montmartre. Colby lay twisted in an unnatural position on the fluorescent blue-green cobblestones, gray and lifeless next to a skinny prostitute in sequins and bedraggled feathers.
“Sorry about all this,” I said apologetically. “Have you seen Sofia? I really must find her. There’s no time to lose.”

Colby’s eyes snapped open. He pulled himself up, dusted off his suit, and helped the prostitute to her feet. He offered her his arm and they drifted out of the alleyway. Just as he was about to step out onto the street, he turned and said, “Well, are you coming or not?”

I followed, and emerged from the alleyway into the Carpathians, where the rocks jutted up out of the landscape like broken teeth. Colby had misled me, she was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, Archbishop Grigorii appeared out of the mist, his saffron vestments spattered with blood. He was accompanied by a circle of villagers that included Erlichmann and Beata, toting pitchforks and scythes. His deep-set eyes fell on me. “Even evil has a purpose,” he reminded me kindly as he passed.

Now I was getting desperate. They had been no help at all. Where was she? It was late. I needed to be getting back.

Back through the corridors of my boarding school, the desks bursting into flames. Back through the hallways of my father’s house, the people in the portraits applauding politely as they burned in their frames. Back through the lanes of Highgate Cemetery, the angels dusted with snow. Back through a crooked court beside a shuttered tavern, where Anastasia came gliding out of a darkened passageway. “Let’s face it, my darling,” she breathed, blood on her lips. “I made you
better.”

There was a skittering sound at the mouth of the court and I hurried towards it, late for class. Sofia was already there, her attention focused on Lulu the model, brush raised in the air. She turned to look at me and smiled. I took my place behind my easel, relieved. She was safe. The monitor raised the windowshade, she was bathed in light. Now I could rest.

It was pitch black. I didn’t know whether I was awake or asleep, dead or alive. Something warm and wet was trickling over my skin, dribbling down my sides. It came to me that I was being bathed, gentle hands sponging away the blood and gore, washing me clean.

Someone was bending over me, a silhouette against the rectangle of light coming from the kitchen door. My throat was parched, as dry as a
brush fire, but I had something terribly important to say, something that could not wait.

I caught hold of a slim wrist. “Tell Sofia I’ve changed my mind,” I said urgently. “Tell her Raphael said yes.” Then I babbled out a dire imprecation to stay away from the burning buildings, and drifted down again into deep, dreamless sleep.

I awakened before dawn. No pain. Everything worked. Sofia must have been up for hours, scrubbing the walls and washing my clothes. It was as if last night had never happened.

Except for one thing. The miracle of Sofia in bed with me, wearing nothing but a thin slip, breathing softly in sleep.

I sat up, inspected my wounds. Three scars, new pink skin already growing over them. As I gazed down, it came to me that she had seen me completely naked. A warm sensation tingled between my legs. I forced it away. There was nothing I could do about it.

She was stirring. I dressed quickly, went back to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I have to go,” I whispered, stroking her hair.

She struggled up out of a dream, rubbing her eyes. “Where?”

I looked at her lying there, half undressed and half asleep, and thought how good it would be to see her like that every day of my life. “To meet with some people I know in Krakow. I’m going to get you out of here. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

I knelt beside Isaiah, asleep on the couch. “Goodbye, little man,” I said. He rubbed his eyes with his little fists, then his nose. “You’re the man of the house, now. Take care of your mum.” He looked very serious. I fluffed his hair, kissed the top of his head.

I opened the door, squinted up at the lightening sky. Like a small, furious tornado, she was beside me, her body melting into mine.

“Don’t go,” she said sorrowfully. “You’re hurt. You should be resting.”

My hands slid up her round white arms. I could feel her ribs under the slip, her soft breasts as she pressed against me.

Sofia Wizotsky’s eyes. I stared down into their wild tragic depths one more time. I did not tell her I loved her, though I think she knew. She
was a married woman, after all. “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I said, and slipped out the door.

I went straight to my hotel, packed a small overnight bag. My mission was simple and clear. I wanted to get Sofia and Isaiah out of Poland. I had plenty of cash and a powerful connection. I just needed to know who to pay.

My innkeeper booked a phone call for me to Krakow. Two hours later, Anastasia was on the line, purring with delight, and I had a meeting with Rudi scheduled for just after sunset.

The trip took all day, longer than I expected. There were countless stops and starts as we were shunted aside for troop movements, supply trains, more passengers. When I finally reached Krakow, it was nighttime. There was a car waiting for me, a long black Daimler coach with shaded windows and a young driver in a Nazi uniform who rushed out to open the door for me.

There was no problem getting into Wawel Castle, a formidable Gothic pastiche of cathedral, fortress, administrative offices, and prison. Getting out was the trick. A young guard at the booth directed me to a nearby building, then a junior SS man appeared and led me through a fifteenth-century courtyard surrounded by graceful arcaded galleries. He showed me into an office, then clicked himself out.

The room was empty. There was a desk, unoccupied, the secretary gone for the day. Behind the desk was a door, and now and then, I could hear sounds issuing from it. Too nervous to sit, I took inventory of the items on the desk, doubtlessly identical to items found on desks on the Allied side. A typewriter. A telephone. Rubber stamps. A stack of forms. An in box. An out box. Pictures of a smiling family.

The door to the inner sanctum opened, and there was Rudi. He had put on weight, and his skin looked thick and pasty.

“Well, well, well. Our lost Englishman, wandering the enemy countryside. I’m surprised you haven’t been shot for a spy.” He went to a rosewood cabinet, poured himself a drink. “So. What have you been doing with yourself, Sinclair? How do you find the hunting here? Any of our boys give you a hard time?”

“Not as long as I steer clear of German pussy,” I said.

Rudi guffawed. “You’ve come a long way since your days as a polite English schoolboy. You must stay a while, Sinclair. I have missed your honesty.”

There was a long moment where I equivocated. Was I giving Sofia away? Probably. Could he be trusted? Probably not. Where there is no choice, there is no fear. Hat in hand, I leaned forward in my seat. “I need a favor,” I said.

Of course I did. He pressed his fingers together, leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know what I can do,” he murmured.

“I need to get someone out.”

He nodded absently, rubbing a place over his eye. I had forgotten how marked his skin was, from a childhood disease, or an adolescent bout with acne, I never found out. “Who is it?” he asked with some interest.

I explained, keeping it brief. Old girlfriend from before I was, ahem, changed. I thought she had married and gone off to America. Turned out she hadn’t.

“Jewish, I presume,” he added languidly. “Otherwise you would not be here.”

“Yes.” I said. “And another thing. There’s a child.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yours?”

Should have been mine.
“No,” I said.

“About the Jews, Hitler is intractable.” With one swallow, he finished his schnapps. Then he leaned forward, picked up the phone, said something in German, waited. A tall, capable-looking SS man knocked lightly, entered. Rudi gestured him towards the inner door. From inside the other room, I heard his voice, abrupt, direct, and then the door opened again. A pretty woman emerged, olive-skinned, dark-haired. She was trailed by a younger version of herself, eleven or twelve, with just the beginnings of hips, breasts. The girl turned on me a helpless stare, eyes large and liquid and frightened, like a fawn. Rudi smiled encouragingly. They were guided into the hallway, where the guard quietly shut the door behind them.

“Mother and daughter,” he explained, with an upward flick of the eyebrows, a sound of satisfaction. He rummaged through some papers on the desk, extracted a cigarette from a gold case.

“What is her name?” he asked.

“Sofia,” I said. “Sofia Wizotsky.”

“Like the tea?”

“The family business.”

“Ah.” He took a measured drag on the cigarette. “And where are they now, the Wizotskys?”

“She’s the only one left.”

Rudi turned out the desk lamp, moved fluidly to the window, pushed the blackout curtain to one side. Stars winked overhead in a moonless sky. The tip of his cigarette glowed red in the dark.

“I have money,” I said. “Swiss francs, American dollars. Whatever it takes.” I took a chance now, bared my soul. “I love her, Rudi. The boy, too. More than my own life. I was out trying to forget her the night Anastasia found me. She’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

This seemed to stir him. He turned towards me; only one side of his pocked face was visible in the dim light. “You love her, this Jewish woman?” he said.

“With all my heart.” I said fervently.

A sharp report cut through my words, coming from the direction of the courtyard. A gunshot. Then another. The sound rang off the hard stone surfaces of the surrounding buildings.

He took a deep draw on his cigarette, let smoke drift slowly out of his mouth. “Because if you care for her,” he said, staring down at the courtyard. “Really care for her; go back to her. And kill her yourself.”

There were loud bumps and grinds, fitful starts and stops, as we crept through towns invisible in the dark. At various times, I woke as we were shunted right or left, wheels and couplings whining with the effort, to let other, more urgent transports pass. Once, I stared blearily at a train lurching slowly westward to find human eyes peering back at me from between the wooden slats of a cattle car.

By the time I arrived in Wlodawa, it was late in the afternoon. It had snowed. Ice covered the ground, slowing me down. It was bitterly cold. Head down into the wind, I didn’t notice at first that something was wrong. It wasn’t until I reached her corner that I realized it was too quiet.

The sounds of dogs barking, pots and pans rattling on the hob. The shouts of children playing, mothers raising their voices, husbands arguing with wives. The syncopation of wagon wheels clattering over cobblestones, the steady tread of footsteps on pavement. The background noises that accompany everyday life.