Chapter 19

“The artist’s task is to create a mis-en-forme.”

“You are insane. And subversive. It is to design a mis-en-scène.”

“You are very argumentative today, Monsieur T. What is the difference?”

“Everything, everything, dear Asya. Art must create a realistic fantasy, a prism for propaganda that binds the masses, and compels them willingly to the viewpoint of the artist. If you will, overcomes the masses. Subjugates them. Not as maître et esclave, but as teacher and student.”

“The masses. La canaille, eh?”

“Exactement. La crapule.”

Asya and Monsieur T tittered politely among themselves before she continued. “Do you deny that function must follow form?”

“Marxist interpretation demands revolutionary change in form and function, also the abandonment of bourgeois nostrums. That is what socialist realism requires. Remember what we agreed? Art must educate, not just entertain. The popolo are ignorant and must be instructed. Pulled. Pushed. Prodded. Tu piges?...”

“So art can subvert, but in the process can art be subverted?”

“Asya, please!” Monsieur T was panicked. “Don’t say things like that, I beg you! Anyone might be listening! Did you read that in Spandaryan’s essay?”

Asya paused. “No I did not. Ne chital, no osuzhdayu!”

‘Not read but not approved,” she said loudly. After a moment she spoke even more loudly, almost shouting. “Ne chital, no osuzhdayu!”

”

Jona held his head in his hands, trying to block out the mind numbing bickering. The theater was completely dark, remaining blacked out long after the end of the movie. The two forms in the seats directly in front of him were scarcely discernible. He sat in the next row behind them, with Elfieda on one side and Alex on the other. Elfieda clasped his hand, squeezing rhythmically as if trying to massage away Jona’s anxiety.

So far, matters had gone well since arriving in Moscow. At least, so Alex told him. Their train from Leningrad had been delayed on sidings so many times that Jona was not sure whether they finally arrived on a Monday or a Tuesday. When they exited Leningradsky Station, exhausted from lack of proper sleep, they found the barren, brown expanse of Komsomolskaya Square inundated in a cold, torrential rain that quickly soaked through Jona’s coat jacket.

From there they walked for what felt like hours. Goldstein seemed to know his way perfectly, even as dusk fell and the streets turned into dark grey corridors shrouded in drifting fog. Jona began to tremble from both fatigue and cold, and abruptly stopped with a painful paralysis of his left leg. Alex gave a casual glance in his direction, and almost without losing a step scooped Lieb up onto his back and kept striding into the gloom.

They stopped at the gate to an enormous building set well back from the street. It resembled a Veronese palace more than a Moscow apartment building. “Ve are here,” Alex mumbled, pushing open one of the ornate, brass filigree gates. “Volkonsky House.”

Jona could only stare in confusion. “We’re going in there? Looks like the emperor lives there.”

“No emperor in Russia. Tsar. And he’s dead. Used to be nobleman’s house, baron or something. One hunderd, two hunderd rooms. Now communal house. Shared by workers. One family, one room. All are eating in dining room, share everything.” Alex grinned at Jona. “Sometime share girls too. Nice, eh? I told you. Worker’s paradise.”

As they approached the elaborately columned entryway to the building, Jona could see people sitting at open windows, nothing more than obscure silhouettes jutting into empty space. They watched impassively as the two men approached. Jona muttered a warning into Goldstein’s ear as he slid himself back onto the ground. “I think they’ve spotted us.”

Alex let out a snorting bellow. “You joke. I can guarantee you the secret police haff already been notified that two strangers are here. Just keep quiet and follow me. Remember who you are, doctor from U.S., vanting to learn about Party, maybe join. They love that kind of scheitze here, believe me.”

It was a relief to be within dry walls and safe from the pour, but it was actually colder inside than out. Jona could not stop the tremoring and aching of his leg, made worse by an immediate feeling of claustrophobia. It seemed like dozens of men, women and children of all ages filled the corridor, almost obstructing their passage. Most sat on chairs next to open doors, some lounged idly, propped against the walls, and others sat cross legged on the floor, doing nothing, with darting eyes and empty expressions. Everyone was bundled in long coats, scarves, and thick boots, including the women. A few were chattering among themselves, but most were silent, still, and watchful. The stink of unwashed clothing clung to every breath of air, causing Jona the panicked sensation that he might vomit at any moment. Even worse, he was terrified he might be touched by one of the filthy specters crowding the corridors. Goldstein ploughed forward serenely, shifting deftly around the human obstacles in their way.

The very last apartment in the wing to the right was A-19. Alex pounded the door with his fist, then kicked it a few times. A middle aged man with sharply receding hairline and thick, round, wireless glasses opened the door carefully, took one peek at Alex, then threw the door open and embraced him warmly. The two men began to speak rapidly in German, too quickly for Jona to follow. Goldstein pointed in Lieb’s direction two or three times, making rapid-fire guttural noises all the while. After a few moments the man ushered them into his apartment, still smiling broadly.

“I speak English, Herr Doktor,” he said, grasping Jona’s hand with obvious enthusiasm. “I am Helmut Damerius. Wonderful to see you. She said you would come in a day or two, to expect you and Alex, and here you are. Marvelous!”

Jona could not hide his confusion. “She said? Who said?”

“Well, Elfieda, of course. You did know she was here, didn’t you?” Damerius glanced quickly at Alex, arching an eyebrow.

Goldstein broke in, turning towards Jona. “I told you, Jona, she vould be here. Ve vill find her soon. So many Germans in Moscow right now.”

“It won’t be hard. She’s at the hotel with all the other German emigres. They are packed there like sardines.” Damerius thought for a moment. “Hotel Lux.” He waved his arm dramatically. “It’s on Tverskaya boulevard, right in the middle of things, actually in the center of town. Much better lodgings than this pile of hemorrhoids.”

Alex laughed. “You forgive Helmut, Jona. Very theatrical. He here now two, three years, here to make TRAM work, Director, right?”

“Yes,” Damerius sighed. “Not getting much cooperation, though.”

Jona sat, uninvited, on the only chair in the room. His leg felt better instantly. “You came to Russia to work on streetcars?”

“No.” Damerius and Goldstein sat down, side by side on the edge of a tousled bed, virtually the only other piece of furniture in the room. “It’s a youth theater group. Young people express themselves, serve as good examples and models to the masses. Go outside, make street theater. Russians love it. It’s good, but... maybe a little too much of a formulaic production, always the same. We’re based here right now but going back to Berlin soon.”

Alex appeared surprised at the news. “Why? Crazy there.”

Damerius shook his head ruefully. “We’ll talk another time, Alex. Crazy here too.”

“Alex. Tell him.” Jona could not contain himself. “About Marielle.”

Alex laughed and broke out a cigarette. “O.K., Jona, but keep in your pants until ve find her.” He turned to Damerius. “Ve look for a girl. It’s his girl. American, from New York. Verk at the school on Bolzhany, teach English. Helmut, can you help us?”

Jona’s heart raced as he watched the expression on Damerius’ face. After a few moments thought the German rubbed at his balding forehead and nodded his head vigorously.

“Ja, I think so. I know who to ask, anyway. I think you should go see Elfieda first, she is waiting for you. Tomorrow morning I will go to someone who will know, I think. I can’t be sure he will help, though.”

“What about Bloomberg? Could he help?” Alex jabbed his finger randomly in the air as he spoke.

“Bloomberg? That rat? Yes, of course. He knows everyone, doesn’t he? They’re in his pocket or he’s in theirs. Is he here?”

“He’s here alright,” Alex intoned darkly. “I vill dig him out. Rats go vhere there’s cheese, don’t they? He’ll help, or I’ll squeeze his heart out of his chest with my bare hand.”

Damerius smiled as if relishing the thought. “If he will help, you will find her. You will get your girl, Herr Doktor.”

Jona clapped his hands with glee, feeling almost short of breath because of the pounding in his chest. Damerius grinned contentedly as he puffed on a lit cigarette placed deftly in his lips by Alex. Suddenly, a metallic alarm sounded, vibrating through the floor and walls with its intensity.

Goldstein jumped to his feet. “Fire! Get out now!”

“Sit down, you fool.” Damerius took another leisurely puff on his cigarette. “The cafeteria alarm. That’s what they’re all waiting for.” He gestured towards the door. “It’s organized very well. They get to eat right before they leave for their next shift.” Damerius took another long drag on a cigarette that was now almost all darkened ash. “Potato soup tonight. Potato soup. That’s what they’re all waiting for.”

Jona had the sudden urge to tell Elfieda about the train passenger who was hauled away by the Gestapo, the one at the Czech border. It was his third day in Moscow. The three were gathered, Alex, Elfieda and Jona, sitting tightly together on a bench, immortal friends bound together by fate, or whimsy, or circumstance, or just maybe by cosmic decree, but bound in any case by ties they could only feel and not explain. Jona sat between the other two, sensing their touch and wanting to stay, but Elfieda was feeling chilled and tired, and said she wanted to leave. Jona and Alex could stay, she said, and they could all meet back in her room later. That’s when the crazy man in the gray suit jumped into Jona’s mind.

They were sitting outside a Metro station, on the banks of the Moskva right across the river from Gorky Park. Elfieda had picked the spot because it was safe. They couldn’t possibly talk in her hotel room because they would be overheard, and she worried that NKVD agents were prowling the park itself for anyone appearing unusual in any way. Conversation in a foreign tongue would be sure to attract attention.

The bench they shared sat in a sharp circle of light, shining down upon them from electric bulbs suspended high above. The street was also lit, dotted with small circles of light that receded left and right, showing the area to be deserted. The river Moskva flowed with a metallic sheen of silver and red streaks, a shimmering montage of reflections from the bright park lights. The park itself was sharply illuminated, bordered by neatly laid beds of flowers and carefully measured walkways. Jona could see only one group, two adults and two young children, ambling slowly beneath a flower-festooned arbor. The scene, the sky, the city itself was cloaked in an eerie silence. There were no sirens, no coughing engines, no shrill laughter, no distant music. Even the river flowed without a murmur, as if a silent movie was unreeling under the open sky.

“Elfieda, I need to tell you something about a man I met on my trip.” Jona gushed the words out in a loud rush of vehement syllabication.

“Hush, darling, not now.” She stroked the back of his hand patiently.

“It’s so quiet. There’s not a sound.” Jona’s voice quavered as he spoke.

Elfieda clutched his arm more tightly and laid her head on his shoulder. “Is it frightening you, darling?”

“No, not frightening, I think.”

“Silence always make me afraid. Silence always followed by sound. Always. Sometimes sound that is very, very bad.” Alex bent over to assume a Thinker pose, fist set firmly under his chin. “Just vait.”

“Quiet, you big brute. You’re enough to frighten the children, you are.”

Alex chuckled, softly, contentedly. “Jona not my child. Face different. Look like you, though, Elfieda. Maybe yours.”

“You monster!” Elfieda forced a laugh, but Goldstein’s words jarred her, striking like a lightning bolt from a cloudless sky, spinning her in an instant into a sinkhole of remembrance. She had an immediate urge to go to her purse, but Jona was leaning on her arm, pinching it down. Thoughts came.

Maximillian. That was what she named the child at birth, in a vain and pretentious act of authority, at a moment when she had already given up all rights to the little alien that was birthed from her body. It had been so long ago, and she had managed to fog the memory so well. The drugs helped, of course, but it was more than that. Something more had been needed to expunge his face from her mind. Anger, perhaps. Maybe guilt. And indifference. The creature that had grown inside her was an exotic foreigner, an unwanted and unexpected immigrant into her private country, the mysterious and unexplored land of Elfieda.

At first, when she recognized the changes within her, Elfieda felt calm acceptance. She had been with Tyszka. Women had babies, after all, even at seventeen. That was the natural order of things. And she certainly didn’t care that she had no husband to account for the child. After all, her own mother never had a husband. One was never needed.

As a young girl, Elfieda received all the proper education she needed, she was given proper clothing to wear, and she was given proper lessons at the piano. The only thing in her life that was not proper was her mother. Marguerite Brunner claimed to be descended from one of the myriad German princelings whose castles and keeps dotted the countryside around Magdeburg, and she behaved every day of her adult life as if she was not subject to the laws and customs of common people. Having old money helped confirm her in the daily exercise of her deliberately bohemian behavior.

Elfieda’s aunt Bert was always there, through every difficult moment, during mother’s long absences but especially during Marguerite’s often short and brutal visits. Mother’s constant desire was to travel the continent, consorting with the various liberal and progressive factions of European intelligentsia. She was vaguely interested in women’s suffrage, but never gave material aid to the cause. She pitied the poor, but never gave alms in her life. And, for reasons known only to her, she spoke out about the plight of the Romani, though it was doubtful she had ever met or spoken to a gypsy in the course of her travels. She was a woman who positively glowed in the reflected brilliance of others and took pains to ensure that everyone knew how she mingled freely with Avant Garde thinkers within the most enlightened salons of France, Austria, and Germany.

Elfieda could remember the day her mother received a telegram from the writer Wilhelm Raabe announcing the death of the great novelist and poet Theodor Fontane, and asking if she would be coming to the funeral. There was to be a reading of some of his poems, and Marguerite might want to read one. So the telegram read. Oh, how mother strutted around their flat in Berlin that day, waving the telegram in the air for all to see. Wilhelm Raabe telegrammed her! To notify her about Theodor Fontane! My God, to give a reading!

That very evening mother gathered the servants in a circle and insisted that Elfieda read passages from one of Fontane’s novels. It was titled L’Adultera. Her mother demanded that Elfieda read loudly and distinctly, every word, and corrected her sharply when the words were not spoken to her satisfaction. Sex was a mystery that was just beginning to unveil itself to thirteen year old Elfieda; reciting passages from a book that discussed sex freely and openly caused her to feel shame and humiliation, while her mother glowed with pride and the servants rolled their eyes. By the end of the reading Elfieda’s ears had turned a beet red and her cheeks were flushed so deeply she appeared to be coming down with variola.

The next morning Aunt Bert opened her door to find Elfieda sobbing on the doorstep. The young girl lived in her aunt’s home from that day on, together with her uncle Freddie. She never saw her mother afterwards, and received no letters, not even a card at Christmas. Aunt Bertie saw to it that Elfieda studied Latin, history, geography, Lear and Hamlet in English, Flaubert and Hugo in French, and Cervantes in Spanish. Of course, there were many readings from Goethe. This was deemed a very credible education for a young girl of her station. Marguerite, it seemed, was quite content to abandon her daughter to the loving arms of Aunt Bert. This suited Elfieda very well.

A few years later Elfieda learned of her mother’s death. She received a letter from someone in Paris, someone she did not know, informing her that Marguerite died after being struck by an automobile while crossing Rue Lamartine. From that day on, Elfieda always imagined her mother crossing the street oblivious to any traffic, perhaps smoking a cigarette, struck down during a fit of careless laughter. Madame Brunner lived long enough after the accident to dispatch a note in her own hand, written with tremulous strokes, crafted with long tall L’s to seduce and and short squat M’s to coerce. Elfieda had committed it to heart:

My dear, Moliere was so right.

We die only once,

And for such a long time.

Live, live, my darling, and let no memory distract you

That injunction became the only meaningful legacy of Marguerite’s life, a rich endowment that Elfieda willingly accepted. She determined to live a life of conscience and action. Life became an endless blur of daily here and nows, urgent activities, and temporary pleasures. Even with Leon Tyszka, life and love were passed back and forth from day to day, like passing olives and water biscuits on a tray, without thought for the future. So, there could be no time in her life for a mewling infant, and she gladly gave up the little creature, surrendering it to strong hands that plucked it from her body like ripe fruit from the vine. Time had marched on, to the drumbeat of her own passions, and she had tried very hard not to let the baby’s memory distract her. Mostly she had succeeded. He would be thirteen now, but whenever his memory emerged into her awareness, she reminded herself that the cause she believed in and fought for far outweighed the importance of her own happiness.

“Elfieda, I want to explain about the man...” Jona’s voice went up an octave, cutting with a whining rise and fall through the street silence.

“Darling, hush please.” She snuggled her face against Jona’s neck and stroked his hair, patting it as if an unruly lock was out of place. “Let this moment be. The world is so cruel right now.”

Silence descended once again, pervasive, boundless. Jona sensed that Elfieda no longer wanted to leave, and so he hugged her as strongly as he could, straining to keep her pressed tightly against him. Alex put a long arm around both of them, resting his chin on the top of her head. They were quite still, bathed in a sharp circle of light, an evanescent tableau etched like a perfect engraving in the motionless night air.

“Comrades!”

Jona, Elfieda, and Alex startled as one, heads revolving in an instant towards the direction of the sound. Bloomberg emerged from the night shadows on their right into the bright cone of light illuminating the three friends. He wore a long dark woolen coat tailored elegantly to his stocky frame. A broad yellow cravat secured by a gold and diamond pin peeked out between the lapels of his coat, nicely framed by his sharply manicured, newly manufactured beard. A ludicrously large ushanka swallowed his bald head down to his ears. To Jona, the stylish Bloomberg looked like he had just emerged from a high stakes game at the baccarat table.

He stopped a few feet away, and with arms akimbo he scrutinized the trio, still seated arm in arm. He turned his gaze carefully towards Jona. “My friends, you look like you are trying to brave the Siberian winter. Come now, it’s a beautiful spring evening.” He spread his arms wide, as if inviting an embrace.

Alex arose carefully, unwinding himself slowly, and sauntered casually towards Bloomberg. Without warning he clamped his fist like a vise onto the smaller man’s tie, wrenching it up towards his neck. “Nice to see you, Herr Bloomberg. Surprised to see you vithout the usual pond scum you like to play vith. You know. Cops, SIPO, NKVD, informers. That kind.”

“Wait, wait, please! I have nothing to do with that sort any longer. You must believe me.” Bloomberg’s eyes opened wide in panic, revolving back and forth rapidly. In an instant his legs began to shake violently, but oddly in synchrony with one another, making him look like a fat trout being fished out of the water. “Believe me, I’ve gone clean.”

“Relax, Herr Bloomberg. Ve don’t vant you to go clean so fast. Ve vant you to call your friends. Ve need information.” Goldstein explained quickly about Jona’s search for Marielle.

Alex allowed Bloomberg to slip away from his grip. Bloomberg immediately began patting down his shirt and fussing with his necktie, both in considerable disarray. He straightened to his full height. “So, you need my help, after all. Just like the old days, Alex. Why should I? What’s in it for me?”

“You help, you live. You betray us...you know I haff many friends here.”

A long pause followed. Jona watched anxiously as Bloomberg stared vacantly into space, visibly calculating the odds of one course or the other. At last he smiled. “Of course I help! Why not? Especially because it is for the son of my distinguished former associate. Tell me…” He paused both his peroration and his smile. “Who else knows about this?”

“Damerius. Ve see him first. Easy to find.” Goldstein glowered at Bloomberg accusingly.

Bloomberg laughed. “Terrible choice. He is under surveillance. But, of course, we all are.” He glanced at Jona, continuing to preen while adjusting the knot of his tie. “It’s very liberating, Dr. Lieb, isn’t it? We are all the same here, as you can see. You and me, all of us completely the same. Everyone is under the glare of the state apparatus, so that correct behavior is assured for all, and the revolution can go on and on and on.” He laughed again, very coarsely, making Jona feel there was something very unclean about the puffed up little man.

“So, vat is next?”

“We should meet tomorrow. Do you know the Kamerny?”

Elfieda spoke up. “I know it. Kamerny. The theater.”

“Good. Tomorrow at four. Ask for Aleksandra. I’ll see you there.”

“Mr. Bloomberg, please...” Jona surprised himself by speaking up. “Do you think there’s a chance?”

Bloomberg’s face neither hardened nor softened. “Do you remember the Paul Klee I showed you in Berlin?”

“Yes. I think.”

“Did it mean anything to you?”

Jona did not hesitate. “No.”

“That’s a shame, Jona. You need to put something of yourself into it to get anything out of it. Your father liked Klee. Met him through Max Ernst, and then introduced him to me, and I like him too. Has made me some money, and there is nothing wrong with that. Your father diagnosed him as Geisteskranken. Mentally ill. Not really crazy, but painting like he was crazy. That was part of his charm, you see. So, I will answer you. If you mean, is there a chance you will all survive this, then yes. Possibly. If you mean, is there a chance of finding the girl, then no. Frankly, you are acting like you are crazy. Geisteskranken. But I will do what I can.” With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared quickly into the darkness, to their left, beyond the rim of bright light that encircled them.

The Kamerny Theater hardly looked like a theater at all. It stood like a squat, pale, plainfaced structure with a long, undistinguished façade on the street side, gathered up within a perimeter of trees that appeared to be dead or dying. There was no marquee or other outward sign to indicate it was a theater rather than a residence heavily in need of renovations. A single, oblong billboard stood next to the main entrance, featuring a poster covered by pictures of actors with fierce looking faces, most of them holding guns.

It was a short hour’s walk from the hulking Lux Hotel to the unimposing Kamerny at No. 23 Tverskoya Boulevard, but for Jona it turned into a passage of regret and fear.

After their meeting with Bloomberg they had returned to the Lux. Alex and Jona slept on the cramped floor of Elfieda’s room, one on each side of the bed. With the single ceiling light turned off, the room was submerged in utter darkness. Alex seemed to fall asleep immediately and soon filled the room with the sound of sonorous breathing and a low whistling snore. Jona closed his eyes and dozed but could not sleep. He could hear Elfieda’s sheets rustling softly and her body turning restlessly, every sound like the far off edge of a coming thunderstorm. He in turn tossed fitfully, semi drowsed, simultaneously unable to sleep but yet unable to open his eyes and come fully awake.

An electric shock coursed through him when she touched him. His heart first stopped, then erupted violently, rushing so quickly he could barely take breath.

Her hand brushed his forehead as she leaned down over the bed. Her barest whisper seemed to come from somewhere inside him when she spoke. “Jona, darling. Sleep here.”

She tented the sheet up high as Jona came into her bed, slipping in tremulously as if he were entering an ancient, undiscovered tunnel of desire and dread. She enfolded him and they remained embraced, lying face to face through the passage of the night, awake, asleep, found at last and still profoundly lost.

The next morning Alex awakened them with a playful spank. “Come on you two. Sleep all day already.” He lit a cigarette and puffed vigorously over the two prostrate forms, exhaling thick plumes right over their heads.

Elfieda groaned, tossed a pillow at Alex, and elbowed Jona. “Both of you turn away and close your eyes.”

“Do I haff to close my ears too?” Alex managed to chuckle, turn on his heels, and smoke furiously all at the same time.

Jona could not move at first. His head was spinning and his eyes were dimmed as if layered by a thick, dry membrane. Alex shook him gently but insistently. “Come. Be late otherwise. Find out about Marielle.”

Jona grimaced. The word rang through his mind, pealing like a church bell, clamoring like an alarm. Marielle, he thought. Marielle. He repeated the word, but he could think no further than her name. He had dreamed about her during the night. At first, they were together in a familiar scene, a memory from the previous summer, sitting on a park bench in Union Square. The pigeons gathered at their feet, cooing in a continuous monotone of contentment as Marielle cut up small pieces of bread and tossed it to one bird or the other. Jona was feeling lightheaded, perspiring with anxiety. Finally, he screwed up his courage sufficiently, and when he judged the moment was perfect he placed his arm around her shoulder in an awkward, lurching motion. She said nothing, but darted a sideways look at him, both mischievous and enticing. In his dream, her eyes were a dark green, and lingered in their glance, growing larger and larger until he found himself immersed in an ocean of green vapor. Panic set in as Jona found himself directionless, without an up or down or right or left, lost in the cauldron of her sea green eyes, drowning slowly...

“Jona! Get up!” It was Alex, shouting into his ear.

Jona came fully awake, sitting up in bed, but the feeling of frenzied hysteria he felt in his dream remained, overcoming him. He grasped his head with both hands, shaking back and forth. “My God, my God, Alex, everything is so out of control. What am I doing?”

Elfieda sat back on the bed next to him. Alex remained standing, more gigantic than ever as he loomed over Jona. He waited a few moments and was surprisingly gentle when he spoke again. “Vhat is it you dream? And vhat do you dream of doing?”

Jona sobbed and buried his face in his hands, now terrified that he might begin crying. Elfieda began caressing the back of his neck, sending a burning shudder down his spine. He shook his head rapidly as if trying to shake the aftertaste of his dream from his mind, and squared his shoulders resolutely.

“Marielle. I want to find her.”

Alex shrugged his shoulders and spit out a few small shreds of tobacco. “Alright. Let’s go.”

They had some salted crackers, and drank bitter tea perked in an electric pot, then left the hotel at a hurried pace. Striding rapidly was the preferred way to walk in Moscow, according to Elfieda. The NKVD were suspicious of anyone seen loitering. She rushed them north from the hotel, along the left side of the crowded Tverskaya, then abruptly stopped with an air of triumph in front of a storefront covered by an enormous multipaned window.

“This is it!” she cried. “Alex, do you recognize it?”

He stared for a moment with an air of confusion, then nodded his head. “Yes. Different now.”

“It used to be the Yeliseev deli.” She gave an evil grin. “Now it’s called Grocery Shop Number Eight.”

“You remember, Elfieda, we eat good here. What vas that soup I like?”

“Rassolnik. And I liked botvinya.” She paused a moment, then burst into hysterical laughter. “You liked it hot and I liked it cold!”

Alex also let out a loud, howling guffaw, embracing Elfieda warmly. They went on with their riot of laughter, absorbed in the moment they shared long ago. Jona could only watch, feeling lost. He thought he should laugh also, and forced some feeble tittering. Then, stunningly, Alex bent down and kissed Elfieda fully on the lips. Jona almost stumbled in shock, exhaling rapidly with an audible wheeze.

Elfieda turned to take Jona’s hand. “Sorry, darling, we’ve been ignoring you. It’s just that we’ve been here so many times, Alex and I.”

“Yes, always good food. I vill buy some pelmeni for all of us. You’ll see, Jona, taste very good in lips and stomach.” Alex gave a stiff bow, performed a military about face, and marched briskly into the store.

Elfieda laughed again as she watched him leave, then hugged Jona briefly around the neck, kissing him on the cheek. “He won’t get far. His money is worthless in there. He can’t get anything without an official coupon and stamp.”

Jona stared in bewilderment, his head still swimming. He felt a tear brimming up. “Why did you let him go?”

She pulled him a few feet to the next doorway over, a narrow foyer leading to the apartments above. “We have so little time alone, darling.” She placed her hand on his hip, barely touching, and her head on his chest for just a moment, as if listening for his heartbeat. She stood very close.

Jona became acutely aware of the passersby on the street. They all seemed to be staring right at him, some with a mocking lift of the eyebrow, others smirking, or twisting their lips in a taunting curve, or giggling knowingly as they strode by. For a moment he imagined they were pointing at him, craning their necks to get a better look at him, or even dragging their legs and cackling in derision while he cowered.

Jona raised his eyes to hers. “Would you kiss me, too?”

Without a word, she did, then stopped to flutter the briefest of smiles, then kissed him again, then smiled again. “Darling, Alex and I were very close when we lived here. But you and I are very close as well, aren’t we? We’ll have our own jokes one day, and laugh, and kiss, and tell the whole world to go to hell.”

As she spoke her head bobbed up and down, much as a bird perching itself to sing its song, and her straight blond hair rippled and flowed smoothly back and forth over her ivory white forehead like wavelets dancing over a luxuriant pool of oiled and steaming water, and he remembered their first night together in Berlin when she came to him and how her hair that night swayed like a sash, waving to and fro and back and forth and she sighed for him like an apparition from an unknown future, a mistress of magic and delusion, both heavenly goddess and hellish gamine.

“Why did you let him go?”

“I don’t know, Jona, I don’t know why I did anything back then. It was a million years ago and everything was so different from now.”

A small shiver came over Jona. A voice inside told him to stop, that he should stay silent, or walk away, or kiss her again. “And you love him? Still?”

“Of course, of course I do. Jona, I no longer have the heart of a little girl. Don’t judge me as if I were a schooltime sweetheart. I love him, just the same way as I love you. But you know that, don’t you?”

Jona stood, mesmerized, looking into her eyes but seeing nothing, sensing the touch of her hand on his waist but feeling nothing. Do I? he thought. Do I know anything? Am I allowed to know?

“Hullo, you two. I think for minute you leave me!” It was Alex, bounding up to them with three small bundles of wax paper held in his hands. He looked sharply at Elfieda, then at Jona, his face disfigured instantly into a dark scowl. “Something wrong?”

“No darling, nothing at all.” Elfieda gave her brightest smile. She pointed at the packages in his hand. “Pelmeni? How did you get them without food vouchers?”

Now it was Alex’s turn to smile. “Easy. Show German marks to man in front of me on line. He take money, I get little tickets. Presto! Pelmeni! I vait on three lines. One to order, one to give coupons, one to get food. I learn something. Russians, they love queues.”

The three resumed their walk. Elfieda and Alex munched voraciously on the soft, round, spicy dumplings. Jona had no appetite. He still felt dazed and hollowed out, as if his center had been surgically extirpated, leaving only his external husk as the residue. Alex insisted that he try at least one of the flavorful balls, but just two bites resulted in immediate dyspepsia. Instead, he carried the small wax bundle palm up and held at chest level as he walked, much like the votive offering of a penitent pilgrim marching towards the shrine of a patron saint.

At length, Elfieda paused, pointing to a broad avenue angling towards their left. “I think that’s it. Tverskoya.”

Alex stared, uncertain. “Sure? Look different. No churches.”

She pointed in the opposite direction, towards a small, carefully manicured park to their right. “I think that’s Strastnaya Square. The churches must be gone, but that has to be the Strastnaya Monastery’s belfry tower...” Then, with more certainty, pointing emphatically. “Yes. I can see Pushkin’s statue. The arrogant bastard is still standing,” she said with an evil laugh.

Jona was startled. “Pushkin? Is that someone you knew?”

“Knew him? My God, Jona, haven’t you read Pushkin? Stories? Poems?” Elfieda grabbed Jona’s arm so forcefully she almost spun him around.

Lieb’s mind whirled. “Yes, I think so.” He tried to concentrate. Had he? If Pushkin’s writings were important to know, then surely his father would have seen to it. “Possibly.” Then finally, “No, I don’t think so.”

“You cannot understand Russia without reading him, even though he lived a million years ago. We must read him tonight when we get back to my room.”

“Vonderful! Can’t vait!” Alex howled the words, causing them all to break out in laughter once again.

Jona’s feelings of anguish evaporated in an instant as they giggled like schoolchildren. Without a thought, he placed his arm around Elfieda as they turned onto the garden lined boulevard of Tverskoya heading west. Before the view was lost, he craned his neck to look backwards at the bronze statue standing upright at the far end of Strastnaya, towering upwards like the ruler of the world. Yes, Jona thought, he does look like an arrogant bastard.

Though not as wide, and certainly not as busy a street, Tverskoya reminded Jona of Berlin’s Unter den Linden. The long, tree lined pedestrian mall coursing down the middle of the thoroughfare, and the large, stately homes ordered neatly along both sides of the shaded street gave the avenue a vaguely Germanic flavor. Jona found it charming that the street was stone quiet and devoid of pedestrians, giving the scene a postcard-perfect appearance.

They had hardly gone a hundred yards when a young boy emerged, as if unveiled by a stroke of magic, from a narrow alley to their left. Jona was shocked by his appearance. He was wraith thin, the size of a ten year old but with the face of a grizzled miner, deeply dirty and lined with sharp creases radiating from the outer edges of both eyes. The top of his head was studded with numerous small, perfectly rounded bald patches, like white leopard spots, a form of acquired camouflage that gave protection within an exotic urban jungle. He wore an oversized faded red cloth coat buttoned at the throat and hanging like a tent to his ankles, so that his feet could barely be seen as he ran with an easy, athletic alacrity to a spot directly in front of Lieb. Without a word he pointed to the small wax bundle Jona held in his hand.

“Don’t move, Jona.” Alex breathed the words softly as he eased himself a step forward.

A blur of motion caught Jona’s eye. Three more children emerged from the alley. Then three more, then five, then a dozen or more debouched out onto the street, both boys and girls. He shivered involuntarily at their emaciated, ragged and somber appearance. Then, in a moment of horror, he saw they were holding improvised weapons. Some carried short, thick clubs, others carried steel or brass pipes. Two of the larger boys carried knives held indifferently at their sides. These were not schoolchildren on extended recess. Making no sound, their leader withdrew a short axe from beneath his coat, propping it on his shoulder.

Jona stood as if paralyzed, transfixed by what he saw. He had a sudden sensation of breathlessness and pain in his chest. “Alex, what is happening?”

Goldstein said nothing. He carefully removed his wallet and tossed it on the ground. The boy scooped it up and smiled when he identified the stack of German marks inside. He made a move as if to dart away, but stopped abruptly, and deftly snatched the packet of pelmeni from Jona’s open palm. For the briefest moment he grinned at Lieb, while his fingers gripped and regripped the axe on his shoulder, fingering it with the rhythm of an imaginary tune played on an instrument of his own making.

He did not run away. Instead, he sauntered back to the alley, waving to the others as if returning to his clan after a long and successful hunt. In less than the blink of an eye they were all gone, ghostly, ephemeral, unreal. The entire event had taken a minute, no more. Stillness washed over Jona, and he suddenly felt that his left leg was numb. He clutched at Alex to keep from collapsing to the ground. Alex did the simplest thing, lifting him in his arms as if picking up a child.

Elfieda spoke first, touching his arm. “It’s alright, darling, they won’t be back.”

Jona felt his leg trembling spasmodically, causing pain to shoot up his spine. “What was that? What in hell was that?” He could not keep from shrieking.

Alex spoke. “Besprizornye. They’re called Besprizornye. Children left behind after the roundups. Parents taken away, no home, live in different corners of the city. Alone, Jona. They make gangs. Can be very dangerous.”

Jona could only gasp. “Why aren’t they picked up, placed in homes or camps or orphanages, or anything? My God, that one boy was like an animal.”

Alex looked down, appearing dejected. “Not like animal. Trying just to get along. Jona, the revolution is still going. Everything not perfect yet, but the struggle is hard.”

“Yeah, well you can keep your struggle in that case,” Jona snarled.

Elfieda also appeared downcast, but took Jona’s arm as soon as he could stand and they resumed walking, moving now at a hurried, ragged pace. After several minutes she spoke in a subdued voice, looking down as if speaking to the pavement. “Darling, I understand how you feel. But is it any better in Berlin, or New York? Please, give us a chance. Give all of this a chance.” She pulled a small, darkly tinted bottle from her purse and tilted it in Jona’s direction as an offering.

He shook his head, saying nothing as she took a deep swallow. Give a chance, he thought bitterly. That’s all I’ve been hearing. Give a chance. How about someone giving me a chance for a change? A thousand thoughts exploded through his mind, a whirling montage of still pictures, word fragments, gestures, and surges of emotion. Harvard. His boyhood hat. Dr. Norris, Starka, Fleming, Agaghigia, Osler, cigar smoke, ducks, grey suit man, leg massages. His father. Give me a chance. Let me take control. I have to find Marielle. A powerful wave of sadness washed over him, an ache of incomplete accomplishment and unfulfilled longing. He felt tears brimming at the corners of his eyes as his thoughts swirled. Am I allowed to feel hope?

“Jona.” It was Elfieda, tugging on his arm. “You are quiet. What are you thinking?”

He said nothing.

“That’s alright, you don’t have to tell me, I already know.”

“O.K., I’ll bite. What?”

“It’s about your quest. Do not lose heart, darling. You will find her. And we will help.”

“Help?”

“Yes.” She hugged him more tightly. “Sancho at your service.”

Once again, she giggled, a little girl’s giggle that sprung without thought or purpose. The lyric of her laughter made Jona first grin, then chortle softly. Warmth waved over him, over his face and chest, and the pain in his leg washed away. He put his arm around her neck and breathed deeply, taking in the scent of her neck and hair. “Why are you laughing, Sancho?”

At this she let out a loud guffaw and pointed at Alex as tears of mirth coursed down her cheeks. “Because, if I am your Sancho, then he must be Rocinante!”

Elfieda’s childish joy touched Jona. In that moment, something cleaved within him, a crack that he could feel, a split in the dry, encrusted mortar embedding him. He felt as if touched by a birthstone, connecting him to his own beginning. A space deep inside yawned open, a secret crevice, a place that gave him comfort and warmth, somewhere between moaning and sighing, grieving and crying, wanting and trying, somewhere between simple belief and awful deceit, somewhere he had always been and somehow never known, like a blind man living in a golden-gilded room. He smiled.

When they arrived at their destination, they walked around to the theater’s side door, unsure where to go. An ancient crone answered their knock, dressed completely in bedraggled black, with head shrouded by a mourning kerchief. After Alex asked for Alexandra, she gestured them to come in. The old woman ushered them slowly along a curving, murky, darkly lit hallway, walking half bent and shuffling with every step as if about to pitch over on her face at any moment. The hallway ended in what was obviously a backstage area, cluttered with unused scaffolds, planking, and ropes. From there she guided them to the orchestra seats, directing them to the second row. As if in obedience to a vow of silence, she tottered off again without a sound.

As she disappeared the theater lights clicked off, leaving them in darkness. Jona sat in a void, almost completely sightless and senseless, barely aware of Elfieda and Alex on either side of him. Anxiety and expectation, the twin harpies of dread, whirled over him as he waited for what was to come.

A machine whirred and clacked, and a brilliant cone of light suddenly streamed before them. A movie began to play, projected onto a screen set up on the stage. It was a Russian film, with opening credits written in Cyrillic characters that were no more intelligible to Jona than ancient hieroglyphics.

Elfieda leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I make the title out as ‘Diz-ir-ter’ in Russian. I think that means Deserter. I’m not sure though.”

Obscenities screamed through Jona’s mind. Who the hell cares what the name of the movie is? What the hell are we doing here? Anger surged through him, and pangs of fear as well. He thought about Bloomberg, feeling the urge to tear his face off. The bastard betrayed us, Jona thought. This whole setup is a joke. We’ll be sitting ducks when they come to arrest us.

Two forms flitted between Lieb and the projection, one tall and angular, one short and wide, making their entrance like animated silhouhettes acting out their roles on screen. They sat down in the seats directly in front of Jona, wafting competing aromas of perfume, brandy, and dried sweat.

One turned around towards Elfieda. It was a woman, her features only partly illuminated, with pitted cheeks and craggy nose sweeping irregular shadows over her face much like an alien moon at quarter turn. “I only agreed to help because of you, Elfieda.” Her voice trembled with a nasal twang, barely heard over the sounds of the movie. “Do you remember me?”

Jona could not hear Elfieda’s response over the background noise, even though she was sitting right next to him.

The woman went on. “Aleksandra. Aleksandra Ekster. We met at Kudrinskaya square, at the actor’s market. I was looking for work then, doing agitprop theater in the streets, doing anything for bread, everything was up in the air, and you were at MONO. You helped me get a job at the Historical museum on Niglínnaya. Do you remember now?”

Elfieda squealed a response and leaned forward so that the two could share a quick peck on both cheeks. Jona poked at Elfieda with his elbow. The movie dialogue was now so loud and piercing that she had to almost speak into his ear to be heard.

“I worked at the Moscow People’s Education Department, that was the job they gave me in ‘21. Every Sunday morning, unemployed actors gathered at Kudrinskaya. I was able to recruit some workers from there, sometimes also from the Moscow author’s club on Prechístenka. So many talented people, so many gifted artists were starving then. Not like now, Jona. Now everyone has work.”

The stolid form of the man who sat next to Aleksandra did not turn or speak. Jona could see that she was speaking rapidly into his ear, but he remained motionless. Eventually Aleksandra turned again towards Elfieda, jerking her thumb toward her silent companion in irritation. “This is Tairov, the director. Désolé ma cher, il veut être ici.”

Jona could not resist the impulse to speak up, raising his voice to be heard over the movie’s soundtrack. “What are we doing here? What are we waiting for? Where is Bloomberg?”

Aleksandra stared back at him momentarily, her eyes darting back and forth in the flickering light like small silvery fish circling in dark, deep ponds, but she said nothing and turned back towards the screen. Alex leaned into Lieb. “They haff the movie playing so that no one can hear vat ve say. There must be a dozen workers in this place besides the old bag. No one knows who can be trusted. Just wait.”

No one spoke again, Jona sat helpless in his seat, and the movie dragged on. Lieb paid only cursory attention to the film. It was halfway through before he realized that the characters were speaking both German and Russian in rough, choppy dialogue accompanied by a churning kaleidoscope of images flashing in bright sequences. The scenes were dominated by an earnest young man with a sometimes anxious and sometimes saddened demeanor. “Alex, what’s it about?”

Goldstein shifted in his seat several times before answering. He seemed agitated somehow, speaking in mumbled tones that Jona strained to follow over the gutteral din of the film’s dialogue. “Young vorker, German, in shipyards. Vants to go on strike against capitalist bosses vith his friends but then his family vill starve, haff no money. Not sure if it all makes sense. He goes to Russia to find understanding. Now... right now it looks like he goes back to Germany to fight.”

Alex slumped back into his seat, receding completely into darkness. Jona sat on edge, almost squirming. Fight, he thought. That is what I intend to do. For once, I’m going to fight for what I want. But how? How can I possibly fight when I don’t know how to? Without wishing it, a voice whispered to him, out of a deepest past, arising from a silky invisible skein that trailed behind him like an unseen cord. Involuntarily, Jona looked to his left and right, towards Alex and Elfieda. Use them, the voice said. Sometimes you have to use others to get what you need. Use anyone and anything you have to. He squirmed in his seat and shook his head. Thanks for nothing, dad. I’m not an operator like you, and I have...I have…I have a conscience.

The film ended without warning and without fanfare, simply shutting down. The theater remained dark, cavernous, silent. Tairov and Ekster began to spit at each other about the meaning and worthiness of the movie. They bickered on and on about art and culture, the popoli, and the needs of the revolution, two disembodied voices that might have been beamed into the capacious hall from some unknown, alien point of origin.

The two eventually drifted into silence and stillness, until Aleksandra twisted in her seat, this time in Jona’s direction. “You are the doctor searching for a past lover?”

The question sounded strange when asked in that way, but Jona nodded his head in assent. He thought he could see Aleksandra smile.

Tairov turned violently in his seat, placing his forearm firmly on the back of the chair for support. “This is romantic nonsense, sentimentalist, seditious. Crazy, really. C’est une idée loufoque!” He intoned each word furiously.

Aleksandra grabbed at his arm, equally furious. “Monsieur T, surely you must understand what he feels?”

“No, Asya, I must not! And you must start to reject all these bourgeois...bourgeois desiderata. To be true to our art we must free ourselves from the old lies.”

“Love is a lie?”

“Sans déconner! Of course. Even if such a thing exists, it must be held as something private, an individual possession, and there can be no personal possessions or attachments of any kind if the revolution is to mean anything.” Tairov fairly shouted the last words, as if in triumph.

Aleksandra bobbed her head back and forth, staring vainly into the darkened corners of the deserted theater, then cried out “You are right, comrade!” In a lower voice she muttered, “Que tu es emmerdant, Alexei.”

The movie projector churned to life again without warning, and the same film began to play on the screen, “Dizirter.” As the opening credits rolled Jona heard the shuffling of feet immediately to his rear and felt his chair pushed roughly from behind. He whirled in his seat to see two forms seating themselves in the next row back. A face emerged abruptly from the blackness, rounded and white, like a moonlit ghost materializing in the night. It was Bloomberg.

He leaned over Jona, stretching himself to talk towards Ekster and Tairov. “Ça gaze?” He greeted them as casually as if encountering them at his club.

Aleksandra remained mute but Tairov almost jumped out of his seat when he looked backwards at the new arrivals. “Comrad Shumyatski! You honor us and our theater. I did not expect you to accompany Monsieur Bloomberg yourself!”

Jona made a motion to turn and examine the newcomer, but Bloomberg pressed his fingers sharply into both shoulders. “Don’t turn around, Herr Doktor. No need to see our guest. All of you,” he shouted loudly, “please keep your eyes forward.”

Jona winced as he felt hot breath against his ear, but the voice that followed was melodious, modulated, and pleasant, a voice of reason. “I was curious about you, Dr. Lieb, that’s why I came. Your father was someone I knew.”

The words made Jona cringe. What’s next? he thought. Yes, I knew your father well. I helped him smuggle the crown jewels out of Russia for a donkey load of supplies and a hero’s salute.

The voice spoke again, this time into the other ear, harsh now and sibilant, a voice of vengeance. “He was a very stupid man.”

A shiver of fear coursed through Jona like a seismic vibration, freezing him in place. His thoughts reeled as he absorbed Shumyatski’s sneering pronouncement. Earnest Lieb had been the target of many epithets and curses, and the quarry of hateful critics and professional vendettas, but he had never been called a stupid man. He wanted to turn and confront his father’s accuser, but Bloomberg kept a firm hold onto his shoulders.

The voice behind him emerged from the darkness once again, now no more than a murmur vibrating through the air, a subtle distortion of the surrounding atmospherics. “Lieb had the chance to join me and the others, all of us who were true to the spirit of 1918 and believed in the revolution, and in Lenin, and the rule of working men and women everywhere. Instead he pretended only, pretended to be with Trotsky, pretended to spy for Stalin, pretended to go with Bukharin. He pretended to be my friend too. Lieb, the great actor! Lieb, the great liar! If he had stayed, he would have risen to the highest circles, and he would have made a difference. His body would be on display in the walls of the Kremlin right now. And why did he betray us? For a few banquets in London and Paris? So that others could stroke his ass and tell him how wonderful he was? To advance his career? No, no, no. Money. It was all for money.” Shumyatski made a spitting noise.

The movie suddenly flared with the blare of shouting between two men, transitioning quickly to a scene of hundreds of workers marching with determination under a forest of flags. Jona sat stock still, almost in shock, while Elfieda and Alex stared rigidly forward.

“Stop the damn cinema! Stop it!” It was Shumyatski, screaming at the top of his voice. Bloomberg and Tairov also shouted the same demand, just a beat behind, dutiful echoes in the vastness of the empty theater. The projector stopped whirring with an audible click. The silence and darkness that followed was overwhelming, terrifying, beating down any urge to move or speak. Jona could hear rustling behind him as Shumyatski rose to his feet. Bloomberg was breathing sonorously, a high priest waiting for his master’s words to spill into the space that surrounded them.

“Hear me. I believed him. Much more, I believed in him. I introduced him to everyone at Khamsovet, to all the artists and directors and writers, and from there he met others, and then others, and then Lenin himself. And when his lies were found out, who do you think they came after? I live still, but they will never trust me again. All because of him.”

Jona could not bear it any longer, despite the bite of Bloomberg’s nails into his shoulders. “Maybe he changed because he discovered the truth behind your lies!”

“Silence! You are very fortunate I don’t throw you to the NKVD.” Jona felt the man’s cold breath at the nape of his neck, ruffling his hair, as if Shumyatski was bending down to smell a stricken prey. When he spoke again his voice was soft once more, almost friendly. “Right now we must be nice to Roosevelt, we want good relations and to be such friends with the U-S-of-A, so you are safe. And I have some exciting news for you! I know exactly where your whore is.”

Jona heard scraping noises behind him, and felt a jarring push at the back of his seat once again. Shumyatski was sliding down the aisle of chairs to exit the theater. “Wait,” he cried. “Where is she?”

The movement stopped for just a moment. The room was pitch black but Jona felt certain he could make out the outline of the Russian just a few feet away. “You will never find her,” he snarled. “If she is not dead yet she will be soon. Maybe you will wish to follow her. Enjoy your stay in the Soviet Union.”

Jona sprang to his feet, attempting to launch himself at Shumyatski, screaming a garbled imprecation. Strong arms clutched him from behind, arresting him, holding him firmly around the neck, squeezing steadily. As he lost consciousness, Jona realized with mild surprise that it was Alex who held him tightly, embracing him until the world faded gradually away into nothing, nothing, nothing at all.

The walk back to the Lux became a funereal procession of three, lacking only the moan of a dirge to complete the appearance of a solemn cortege. Jona’s legs soon lost feeling, and his spine was wracked by hot, searing javelins of pain. Once again, Alex hoisted him onto his back, toting him like a haversack slung over the shoulder during a stroll down a country lane.

“I so sorry, Jona.” Alex walked with head down, saddened by his friend’s pain. “I had to stop you. If you hit Shumyatski, even a little blow, then he sure to call police, NKVD, and all the rest. So then I haff to kill him. Bloomberg too, of course.” He shrugged. “Maybe others who vatching us, also. This vas best, to stop you. Sorry, my friend.”

“It’s true, Jona. I’ve heard his name. Shumyatski is the head man in the movie industry, very high up and very powerful. I’m... amazed he would show himself to us.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Lieb croaked the words bitterly. “He came to stick it to me. The bastard wanted revenge.”

Jona felt as if he were in a state of shock. His mind was simultaneously racing out of control and in a deep, languorous fog, making normal thinking impossible. The safe harbor within himself, discovered so short a time before, a place where he could anchor himself for comfort and serenity, was lost in the profound torpor that clouded his mind. Marielle’s face, her waist, her hair, her ice white thighs revolved rapidly around him in a carousel of flashing images. Thanks dad, thanks dad, thanks dad played in the background of his mind, a continuous, harsh staccato fugue that finally erupted. “Bastard!” Jona shouted at the top of his lungs, not caring who heard. “Bastard! Bastard!” Then, almost without realizing it, he began to cry.

It was dark outside by the time they pushed open the door to Elfieda’s room. She looked quickly left and right, then gestured to have Jona laid carefully on the bed. He was awake but almost stuporous, staring ahead vacantly.

Alex heated up the left-over morning’s tea while Elfieda sat on the bed next to Jona, taking off his shoes and then stroking his forehead. She leaned over him to whisper into his ear. “Darling, say something. Don’t keep it inside.”

“Inside is where it belongs.” Jona spoke indifferently. “Inside of me, me, where it belongs. It has nothing to do with you.”

“But we’re your...” Elfieda stopped herself.

Jona refused the tea. The three lapsed into silence. Alex sat on the floor and pulled out a cigarette. He offered one to Elfieda, who plucked one gratefully, and then offered the pack to Lieb. Jona stared at the soft blue carton, captured by its bright coloring. On the bottom flap it read Belomorkanal in western letters. A map of Russia was printed on it, appearing huge, relentless, mysterious, its landmass drifting off to an indefinite horizon at the edge of the box. He shook out a cigarette and had Alex light it.

Elfieda and Alex smoked quietly, each lost in their own thoughts. Jona studied the cigarette carton, holding the lit cigarette without taking a puff. “Russia is so enormous,” he sighed. “So vast. You could sink all of humanity into Siberia and still find yourself lost.”

After a moment he propped himself up on an elbow and spoke again, looking towards Elfieda. “He looks like an egotistical bastard, doesn’t he?”

“You mean Shumyatski?”

“No. I mean Pushkin. The way he’s standing, he’s full of himself, isn’t he?”

Elfieda hazarded a small laugh, watching Jona’s face carefully. “Perhaps, darling. Genius can afford to be arrogant, cruel, even vindictive. It is all forgiven later, because it’s all forgotten later. Only the genius remains. But that reminds me, I promised a reading tonight, didn’t I?”

Alex groaned while she rifled through a box next to her bed, and then raised a book triumphantly. “Verses! Russian and English. Goldstein, you cannot escape me.”

She began to recite from the book. Jona paid little attention. Instead, he studied the little map on the carton in his hand, imagining the turbulent roar of the rivers, the deadening gloom of the forests, and the unexplored fastness of the mountain ranges rearing up from the rolling plains below. Elfieda droned on in a sing-song voice, ignored, until Jona heard the wispy tendril of a line of poetry that jerked his attention to her words:

...Waiting, a dinner the old man prepared

But there is she

Through the steppe, alone,

A youth is following her steps;

To the old gypsy he’s unknown

“My father,” the young maiden says

“We have a guest. I’ve found him, missing,

In a desert that mounds behind

And called for our camp for a night

He wants to be like us -the Gypsy...

A gentle knocking came through the door, a rap-tap-tapping that echoed the pervasive melancholy in the room. Alex was the first to hear it. He looked around desperately for a moment, found a wooden coat hanger, then trod to the door rapidly. When he flung it open, Damerius was standing there with an older man by his side.

“Alex,” he blurted out, “let us in quickly.”

“It’s alright, Helmut. There’s no doubt we’ve been seen already.” The older man’s voice was deeply resonant, calm, and in keeping with his tall, thinly shaped form, long face and deep set eyes. He took in the room quickly and came directly to Jona, offering his hand. “You are Dr. Lieb.”

Damerius was a short step behind. “Jona, this is Commissar Lunacharskii.”

Elfieda gasped, looking stunned. Alex gave a half bow. Jona, lost in a silent realm of depression, shook the proffered hand as if weighing a sausage, remote and uncaring. Damerius was sweating profusely, jerking his head nervously in all directions. Lunacharskii smiled benignly at all of them.

“Actually,” he intoned, “I am former Commissar Lunacharskii. I will confess that I enjoyed the position of Commissar of Enlightenment while it was mine. Such a wonderful title, don’t you think?.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The store is under new management. You Americans would say I am being reassigned. Put to pasture would be more accurate. Still, I was able to do a favor for an old friend, here.” He pointed at Damerius. “He thinks coming here is a death sentence for me, but I don’t care, really. They want to send me to Spain as ambassador, or Morocco, or some other place far away from home. I should also say, away from my first love, the theater.” He sat down next to Jona with a sigh. Then, more sharply, “Tell me what happened today.”

Elfieda spoke for them, reviewing the day’s events quickly, including the attack of the Besprizornye, describing the street urchins in detail. Lunacharskii shook his head in dismay at the piteous description of the children. When she spoke of their encounter at the Kamerny, his cheek began twitching in anger. As Elfieda neared the end, he held up his hand imperatively to cease her narrative.

“Stop, please. Shumyatski is nothing but a jackal, the worst kind of apparatchik. No creative ability whatsoever, a fraud. Also, it should be said that he has no way of finding the information you are seeking.” Lunacharskii smiled gravely. “He lied to you.”

“I just knew it couldn’t be true!” Jona struggled to his feet. He felt his body swell with excitement.

The elderly commissar settled himself on the bed. As he did, he discovered the thin volume of poetry lying on the coverlet where Elfieda had tossed it. He cracked the book open, allowing himself a thin smile. “You are a Romantic, Dr. Lieb, a believer in love just like Pushkin, aren’t you?”

Jona stammered, not sure what he should say. “Yes, maybe, I could be, or on the other hand a realist.”

Lunacharskii laughed, enjoying himself thoroughly. “Of course, Pushkin was a fool and got himself shot for his pains. What about you, Doctor? Aren’t you afraid you might be killed during this little experiment?”

“I don’t exactly understand what you mean by experiment.”

“Experiment. You know, trial. Test. Like the human experiment, always trying to achieve something hidden just over there, just around the corner, just beyond the rainbow. For sure, most fail, but when the experiment succeeds it can be glorious. Didn’t your father teach you that? He conducted many experiments, after all.”

“No.” Jona began to feel a familiar sensation spreading from the pit of his stomach.

Lunacharskii’s voice became stern. “Our political theories do not approve of individual experimentation, Doctor. Human capital must further the aims of the state, which in turn benefits everyone, everyone, everyone. No one is left behind, which means that no one can get ahead. That is the meaning of what we’re doing here, understood?”

“I think so. Yes.”

A glimmer of a smile returned. “Of course, in the arts we allow ourselves some maneuver. Themes and stories by the immortals, by Dostoyevsky, Ryshkov, Sardou, Sumbatov, Voltaire, even Shakespeare will never perish, no matter how weighted by history.” His thin grin turned into a cavernous smile, extending completely across his face. “I’m afraid you must begin a new experiment, Doctor Lieb.” He turned towards Damerius, raising an eyebrow.

Damerius shuffled his feet nervously. “The Commissar has gotten the information you requested. Jona...Marielle was arrested a few weeks ago. She was turned in by the local druzhina, that’s the volunteer neighborhood police. It looks like she didn’t have proper papers.”

Jona sprang forward a step. “Well, where is she? We can go get her, get bail, or a lawyer, or whatever it is they do in this country.”

Damerius continued to shuffle his feet and gave Jona a pitying look. “I’m sorry, she was considered an outdated element. Déclassé. Dangerous. They shipped her out to Siberia with a large group of other offenders. She’s gone.”

“Where in Siberia?” Jona’s heart began to pound violently, pulsing wildly within his chest.

“A place called Nazino. It’s an island.”

“Nazino?” Jona swung his head frantically from Damerius to Lunacharskii and back again. “Where is that?”

“In hell.” Lunacharskii’s voice boomed like a cannon. “In hell, Doctor. They call it the Island of Death.”

Chapter 20

J. Edgar Hoover was wary of New York City, especially in the spring. The city seemed perpetually slow in shrugging off the grimy residue of winter, mocking the first feeble probes of warmth as they coursed their cautious way earthward. He missed the broad, sun kissed avenues of his hometown Washington, the bold colors of the Potomac, the roiling waters of Chesapeake Bay, and the rolling countryside of western Maryland. Most of all, he missed the smooth corridors of power buried deep within the edifice of national government, corridors that he patrolled like a gray, predatory, shapeless shadow. Nonetheless, this trip to the City of Sin needed to be made, and only he, with a face-to-face encounter, could conclude the business at hand.

The one saving grace of this necessary ordeal was his hotel. He was sitting pretty in the Presidential Suite of the Carlyle, on the thirty fourth floor, buried in the plush cushions of an enormous couch and looking out over Central Park through a picture window that yawned from floor to ceiling. He could see the burnt brown tree lines of the park blending into the bright green of newly sprouted grassy meadows. The vista resembled a Currier and Ives print, and it was grand. Much as he despised the grimy city itself and its left-leaning, union-loving, progressive political establishment, Hoover could nonetheless appreciate the sweep and beauty of a New York cityscape that stretched out to the far horizon. It was a sight that was pleasing to the eye and a view he very much appreciated, something he would add to the esthetic canvas of his memories. After all, he considered himself to be, by nature, a sensitive soul. Not when it came to enemies of the state, of course. Those he would root out and smite with the hard edge of his authority.

The Carlyle had been chosen because of its exquisite and proven tact in all matters related to delicate encounters, secret assignations, and discreet rendezvous. Even so, he had taken appropriate precautions. His staff had booked his room under the name of ‘John Smith’, and he had entered the hotel through the 77th street service entrance. Even now his agents patrolled the passageways, alert to any unauthorized intrusions. His upcoming meeting must, at all hazards, be kept from the view of inquisitive eyes.

He felt no confusion or ambivalence as he awaited the arrival of his invited guest, and certainly no remorse. The country, his country, was at a dangerous tipping point. Huge numbers of unemployed men wandered the streets without occupation or purpose, easily susceptible to the blandishments of pinkos, anarchists, and agitators of every stripe. Subversive elements were everywhere. People were losing faith in their institutions, farms were going under, and even the existence of God was questioned. The country was on a slippery slope on its way to hell in a handbasket, and it was his duty to ensure that it didn’t happen. It was, incidentally, to his own benefit to see that it didn’t happen. If he could, he would guide events by means of dexterous persuasion and nuance, punching all the right buttons and turning all the right knobs. Subtle influence was sufficient for some. If he had to push to get things done, however, he sure as hell would push, just as he was about to do today. Brutal coercion or skillful persuasion: Hoover was adept in both techniques. He would do whatever it took. Guide or push. One or the other.

The door to the apartment burst open. Franklin Roosevelt was wheeled in by his valet, entering in a whoosh of energy that belied his crippled body. Hoover could not help a snort of disgust at his arrival. For one thing, Roosevelt was flashing the same phony grin he fed the masses, while waving his cigarette in the air. For another, his I-am-here-to-serve-you negro came bouncing in like he was cock o’ the walk as he trundled his master’s wheelchair into the room. They were both repulsive. Hoover checked his watch. They were also late. He had only an hour left before another important engagement.

He stood grudgingly. “Mr. President, we have to....”

“Please do sit, Director, there are no formalities here.”

Hoover became even more irritated. “We need to talk, Mr. President...”

“Sorry to keep you waiting, old fellow. Took forever to get here, you know. I couldn’t meet you at the residence because…you know how people talk”

Roosevelt’s bland condescension was infuriating. Hoover knew it was only a few minutes from Roosevelt’s townhouse on East 65th street to the back door of the hotel. “That’s O.K., Mr. President. I appreciate your willingness to meet privately, away from others. But we need to talk. Alone.” He arched an eyebrow in the valet’s direction.

“What? You mean old Mac? Why, he’s completely trustworthy.” Roosevelt gave a jovial chuckle and twisted his neck backwards ever so slightly. “Are you trustworthy, Mr. Macduffie?” The valet stood silently, discreetly, moving his mouth into a smile while not uttering a sound.

“Very well, Mr. President. I want to talk about the letter you sent. The one for Pickett.”

“What about it?” The President suddenly seemed cold and detached, allowing his eyes to drift towards the ceiling while he sucked absentmindedly on his cigarette holder.

Hoover leaned forward to whisper. “I think it would be best for you to disavow it.”

“My, my, Director! Why on earth would I do that?” There was something very odd about Roosevelt, something disconcerting. His voice was pleasant enough, but his face became a wooden mask, an opaque and impervious cipher.

Hoover very carefully eased himself on to the edge of a coffee table facing the president, like a cat readying to spring. He licked his lips. “The mission has been compromised. My sources inform me that your messenger, Dr. Jona Lieb, has disappeared. Looks like he’s gone to Russia. Moscow, more than likely. Mr. President, he hasn’t been heard from in over a week. It’s pretty apparent that he’s absconded with your personal written appeal.”

“Well, that’s disconcerting to hear. Thank God for your sources, Director. Your information is undeniably helpful. Dear, dear. Disappeared. Imagine that. I’m grateful to you for that information, believe me.” He placed the cigarette holder firmly in his lips and with a jut of his chin extended it in the direction of his valet. “Light me up, won’t you, Mac?”

Hoover, leaned closer to FDR, intensity blazing in his eyes. “OK. The best way to do this is to deny, deny, deny. Deny you wrote such a letter. Deny you sent Lieb. Deny you even know him. We’ll issue a Federal warrant for his arrest on some charge, maybe for espionage. You’ll see, this whole thing will simmer down within a week, and just, just...” He struggled momentarily. “Just fly away like a bird.”

Roosevelt took a comfortable, almost languid, puff of his newly lit cigarette, and tilted his head and jaw upwards to a combative angle. “Director, I’m quite surprised to hear you say such a thing. Fly away? There’ll be no such thing. The mission must be accomplished, and you must help in any way you can. I won’t distress you by asking how you know about this operation in the first place.”

Hoover had long ago learned to tamp down the fires that raged within him, especially when dealing with superiors. This time, he found himself barely able to speak in a civil tone to this pompous, posturing, hypocritical aristocrat. “Sir, if I may say so, it would be tragic for you if news of this letter should leak out to the press, possibly even in some distorted form, in a way that makes you look like a cowardly capitulator!”

Roosevelt gave a soft chuckle, no more than a pleasant gurgle of the throat, while at the same time fixing Hoover with a baleful glare. “You know, Edgar - I hope I can assume the privilege of calling you Edgar - you have been a sterling Director of the Bureau of Investigation. As you very well know, your department is going to be reorganized into a new agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI. That sounds splendid, doesn’t it? FBI. Peachy. I want to see that it gets done soon, for the sake of the country, of course. Edgar, we’ll need strong leadership in that agency. You know, I’ll only be president a few more years at the very most. The Director of the new FBI on the other hand, whoever he may be, might be here for a decade or more. I will have to be very careful in picking the right man. I was hoping you wanted to meet with me to discuss that choice.”

Silence ensued.

Defeat, like victory, comes in many guises. Hoover had become skilled at recognizing every possible form of triumph and disaster, assimilating both, and manipulating either to his own ends. Though he hated Roosevelt, he was not contemptuous of the man. He was never contemptuous of power, and understood that in some ways Roosevelt was a kindred soul in that regard. They both worked well in the seamless underground of silhouette and shadow, of formless threats and unspoken fears. The difference between them, however, was that FDR had to come out in the open from time to time, and lay his hand down, no matter how closely held. In the last analysis, he was nothing but a politician. Hoover was rarely under any obligation to do the same. In any case, perhaps this was a time for nudging, and not for pushing.

“Mr. President, it’s just that I’d hate to see your administration hurt in all this. If Lieb goes rogue and all hell busts out, think how that might affect all your other initiatives, things the country needs right now.”

“I see.” Roosevelt took another contented puff on his cigarette, absorbed in the magnificent vista of a crimson tinged sunset over Manhattan Island. “Tell me,” he asked casually, “What if he doesn’t actually possess such a letter?”

Hoover, for all his discipline, could not stop himself from jumping to his feet. “What do you mean? He’s carrying it, isn’t he?” The alarm of uncertainty was in the air, ringing loud and clear. He glanced involuntarily towards the door to the apartment.

“What if he’s not? I really can’t say one way or the other. You, know, I must confess my memory is not what it once was. But what if he’s not?”

“Then why the rigamarole? It is said that Pickett is expecting it. I think you know that. Wants it, in fact, and everything that follows. Frankly, he needs it to prop himself up.” Too late, Hoover realized he had blurted out too much. He averted his eyes to avoid Roosevelt’s satisfied smirk.

“Have you ever wanted something very badly, Director? A special gift, perhaps, one of great value. What if you told all your friends you were about to get it, and then have the rug pulled out from under you at the last moment. That would be crushing both for you and your friends, I think, human nature being what it is. Your trustworthiness would certainly come into question no doubt.”

“Yes. That would be consequential, Mr. President. A raw deal indeed.” Hoover did not feel chastened. That was not in his nature. He did, however, feel a new measure of respect for the crippled man with the plastic face.

Roosevelt shifted in his wheelchair, twisting backwards toward his valet with remarkable vigor. He gave a toothy grin as he spoke. “Mac, would you call Mr. Moran to come in?”

The Mule entered quickly, with the air of a gladiator entering the colosseum. His gnarled fingers were clenched into compact fists and the lift of his chin offered a pugnacious challenge to anyone who might dare to cross him. He ignored Hoover. He wanted to ignore Roosevelt. At this particular moment he preferred to ignore the whole damn world and crawl into his own personal cave for an extended period of hibernation. Things might be better in a few months, because they surely couldn’t turn any worse right now.

“Mr. Moran, can you brief us on the status of Dr. Lieb’s son. He seems to have strayed from the playing field a bit. Has he become a turncoat?”

Moran hesitated momentarily, eyeing Hoover suspiciously. Roosevelt had a way of asking questions in the most irksome manner. “Jona Lieb, the older Lieb’s son, is in Russia, we believe in Moscow. Sir, we don’t know what’s gotten into him, but I have two crack agents on his tail as we speak. They should be drawing a bead on him any day now. When we catch him, we’ll sure as hell find out what he’s up to.”

Hoover burst in. “With respect, Mr. President, the Service has no idea where he is. He could be half way to Havana for all we know. The next thing we know about him may be from an interview posted in the Richmond Examiner. And that won’t be pretty.”

“Really?” Moran made every effort to snarl. “I don’t suppose the Bureau has a better fix on him? Your agents have been snooping around enough.”

“If you had competent men on the job we wouldn’t have to.”

Moran’s face flushed a fiery crimson. “One of mine are worth ten of yours any day. The difference is that mine work for Uncle Sam and not for Little Adolph like yours do.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.” FDR continued to gaze intently out the window, supremely unruffled by the turbulence surrounding him. “Look, you’re going to miss this...” He pointed as he puffed lazily. “The sun.”

As he spoke the sun declined to become a dull red glowing rim suspended between the edge of orange sky and purple earth, flanked by tiered clouds of iridescent gold and deep aquamarine. It was sunset, but if the hour were unknown it could just as easily have been dawn. The golden orb might be rising or falling, pointing the direction of time one way or the other. Forward to the new day coming, or backwards to the day just done. One or the other.

“It’s a shame about Lieb.” Without looking in the direction of either Hoover or Moran, Roosevelt spoke softly but distinctly. “Still, if he’s not a friend then he must be an enemy. That needs to be found out. Contact the Russians, Edgar. You have the means, and they are anxious for our friendship right now. If Lieb’s a friend, I want him to complete his mission and get to the South. If he’s not, then he must be stopped.” He waved his cigarette with a jaunty bounce of his hand in the direction of both men, grinning fiercely. “Friend or enemy. One or the other. No burrowing in between, it’s time to declare himself. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hoover?”

Walter Duranty considered himself a proper Brit. He was descended from a long line of proper Brits, more or less middle class, without the medieval hogwash of meaningless titles, but proper, nonetheless. Now, however, he lived his life in the wider world, a world without artificial boundaries, a world bursting with new ideas, realities, and hopes. He had become very comfortable in his post as Moscow bureau chief for the New York Times, and by and large he had come to like what he saw happening in the birthplace of the New Man. There was a fervor in the land, a tumult of ideas and plans, preposterous suppositions, patchwork proposals, beatific visions, and sketchy renderings that would never reach fruition. The process was organized, chaotic, destructive, innovative, but it all bore down with cyclonic force in one direction - the future. The various soviet states had coalesced into a bubbling pot of trial and error, boiling down rapidly into a hard residue that would point towards a remorseless, relentless future for all mankind.

It was a shame, of course, that the whole thing had to be taking place in Russia. He had found the Russians to be poorly mannered, ill tempered, secretive, bombastic, and thorough liars. They did produce some creative thinkers, though, and among those was Joseph Stalin. Duranty was convinced that Stalin was a worthy heir to Lenin. He was not only the most astute politician he had ever encountered, but also a charismatic leader sincerely intent on ushering his people into a better world. He was a good man, maybe even a great man. Many tried to attribute horrible crimes to Stalin, but Duranty did not believe a word of such mendacious rumors. Obviously, the First Secretary could not possibly be responsible for everything that went on in Russia.

Katya, Duranty’s maid, caught his eye as she maneuvered around the dinner table with vodka bottle in one hand and a tray of pickled beets in the other. He could not suppress an involuntary twitch of the mouth as he watched the lithe sway of her waist when she walked by. Katya was one of the perquisites of his post, an uncategorized emolument that helped sooth the drab Moscow nights. And she was not the only one.

His friend Hugh Knickerbocker, sitting next to him at the table, leaned very close to whisper. “Is she as good as she looks?”

“Better.”

“Bastard.”

Duranty slurped down an enormous spoonful of goulash and washed it clean with a thimbleful of vodka. After a dozen years on station, he had progressed in learning the Russian palate, but was still very cautious with his liquor. Drinking was an arena where the Russians reigned supreme, and vodka was the potent totem they most craved. Eugene Lyons, sitting opposite, seemed already quite smashed up after just a few tumblers of vodka. Duranty thought he would have a little fun.

“The Guardian is sending Muggeridge back to report on the Volga situation. Should be arriving any day.”

Lyons straightened up like a shot, but his bleary, reddened eyes seemed unable to focus. “He’s a beasht and musht be shuppreshed!”

Knickerbocker raised both hands in protest. “Eugene, please, give the bloke a chance. Let’s hear him out first.”

Talk around the table stopped abruptly as Lyons struggled to his feet, swaying back and forth as if he were a slow moving pendulum. “I will shever ties with hanyone who takes his shide.”

The gathering erupted in laughter. Knickerbocker laughed the loudest, also standing with a mock stagger. “Gene, how’s the goulash? Looks like you’re the one who’s shtewed!”

Duranty decided to intervene. “Aw, leave the fellow alone. His heart’s in the right place. At least he’s not a Nazi.”

“ Really? You sure? Anyway, Nazi or Bolshie, what’s the difference. They’re pretty chummy right now. Pretty much the same to me.”

A cautious silence fell upon the table for a brief moment. For some reason, Duranty felt himself genuinely annoyed. “Big difference, mate, and you know it. Never had anything like these two bullies in history, not really. Alright, maybe Athens versus Sparta, but not quite. Let me explain. The Nazis believe that if you make the right man, the right man will create the right society. You understand what the ‘right man’ is, don’t you. The one with the right blood. Aryan. The true German. Our Russian friends believe that if you make the right society, the right society will create the right man. And you understand what the ‘right society’ is, of course. Having the same beliefs, the same clothes, the same haircut. Very different ideas, and they both can’t be right.”

“Or shmaybe bot of ‘um are wrongs!” Lyons swayed as he stood, grinning from ear to ear.

Duranty sniggered as Katya helped Lyons regain his seat and refresh his glass. They were all good enough, Lyons and Knickerbocker and all the rest in his crowd. Good enough, but they just weren’t bright enough to understand what was at stake. It might be true that millions were starving somewhere in Ukraine, perhaps even starving to death. Men, women, cattle, swine, children, the sparrows, whatever. Malcom Muggeridge had gone to Kuban, a city in the Volga basin, had seen the devastation himself, and reported on what he saw for his newspaper. So it was true, no question. People like Lyons wanted to deny the truth, claiming that the kulaks of southern Russia were well taken care of. He was therefore a self-professed apologist and an unprofessional fool.

But Muggeridge was also a fool. If the true story were told, it would be used as propaganda, a tool in the hands of those that wanted the Bolsheviks to fail. In good conscience, Duranty could not let that happen. He owed it to humanity, and humanity owed it to itself, to allow the Bolshevik experiment to unfold, whether good, bad, or indifferent. As bureau chief of The Times, fate had placed him in a position to help do just that. Of course, meticulous documentation of every bump in the road, like famine and mass deportation, was essential, down to the most minute detail. One day all these facts would make for a very good book, a book that would explain everything, a book that would be a best seller, and as an added bonus win him the Pulitzer. In the meanwhile, adverse propaganda had to be suppressed or denied. It was his obligation as a good journalist to do just that. Duranty gulped down another shot of vodka at the thought, then gazed around the dinner table, his dinner table, thoughtfully. The goblet he drank from was made of finely cut crystal. The silver candelabras, set on fine, hand embroidered silk cloth, were polished brightly. The caviar heaped before each of his guests was first rate. Life in the new Russia could be very good, very good indeed.

The doorbell rang.

It rang again, somehow sounding louder.

The second ring was clearly heard over the din of the dinner party. Silence dropped like a dense fog over the gathering, smothering the entire room. In Moscow, a ring at the door in the late hours of the day was not a trifling matter.

Katya padded to the door with a rapid pace and opened it in one quick swing. There were three men, one in front and two standing a pace behind. The one in front was dressed as a taxi driver and spoke first, in the coarse, guttural Russian affected by working class Muscovites. “Is Mr. Walter Duranty of the New York Times here?”

Katya shook her head, answering with a low “No.”

The driver checked a small scrap of paper in his hand. “This is 53 Bolshaya Ordinka, right?”

When she didn’t answer right away, one of the men standing in back, a big, rough faced brute with bulging eyes, pushed his way towards the door, placing his foot squarely across the threshold. He crossed his arms, exuding an unspoken menace.

“What is the meaning of all this?” It was Duranty, hobbling to the door, deliberately speaking in English, hoping to intimidate the intruders. He was shocked when the burly man blocking the doorway answered in perfect English. He sounded like an American.

“You Duranty? We’ve spent the whole damn day tracking you down. This cabbie has cost us a fortune.”

Walter Duranty’s first impulse was to tell these uninvited roughnecks to go to hell and slam the door in their faces. But a quick moment’s reflection held him back. The big fellow looked and acted as if he were from New York. Perhaps he was the new reporter from Vanity Fair, making an obligatory first visit to the doyen of Western correspondents in Russia. The other one, standing with ramrod discipline, was even more interesting. He was hatless, wore a crisp, well fitted charcoal gray suit, and seemed somewhat dark tinged. It appeared to Duranty that he might be a mixed race Phillipino, or perhaps a Berber. That would be appealing.

He took a deep breath and spoke as severely as he could. “Well, who are you two, and what do you want?”

The dark one stepped forward and offered a modest smile and barely perceptible bow. “My name is John Andrews. This is Joe Murphy. We are checking up on an old friend and wondering if you could help us.”

As he spoke, he broke into a wide smile that flashed brilliant, perfect white teeth set below sharply cut lips and a razor thin mustache. Duranty liked him immediately, in contrast to his oafish appearing friend. “And who might that be?”

Andrews hesitated briefly, casting a glance at Katya. “Dr. Lieb. Dr. Earnest Lieb.”

“What do you want with a dead man?”

Duranty seated his guests in the small, dimly lit room he used as an office. Andrews piqued his interest, and Katya’s sly smile in the direction of the tall dark man made it clear she was intrigued as well. “You do know he died in March?”

Andrews shifted forward on his seat, furrowed his brows, and extended his hand palm up in a show of earnestness. “Mr. Duranty, let me be frank with you. Mr. Murphy and I are agents of the United States government. We are employed by the Internal Revenue Service, and we are on a mission to find Dr. Lieb’s son, Dr. Jona Lieb. Do you know him?”

“No, not at all.” Duranty gave the two agents a quizzical look. “This sounds daffy, if you don’t mind my saying. Why in blazes are you looking for him? And why here? And why not go to the Russian authorities?” He paused a moment, and his pulse quickened. “Are you here illegally? Is this clandestine?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold your horses.” Murphy put both hands up as if to ward off a falling boulder. “That’s a lot of curiosity there, Mr. Reporter Man.”

Duranty was immediately confirmed in his opinion that Murphy was the most disagreeable man he had met in some time. A boor, really. “Well, of course, I’m under no obligation to speak to you at all. I don’t engage in conversation with any Tom, Dick or Harry you know.”

“Sir, I apologize for my colleague. We’re both very fatigued from our travel and a bit on edge. I can assure you we are in Soviet Russia with legal authentication. Surely you can understand...” Andrews leaned even further towards Duranty, fixing him with an intense gaze. “It’s not easy for us here. As you know, there are as yet no formal relations between our country and this. We can’t approach the appropriate agencies through normal channels. So, we’re looking for help wherever we can.” He flipped both hands upwards with an exasperated motion.

Duranty leaned back in his chair. He desperately wanted a drink and considered calling Katya to bring vodka but decided against it. He didn’t want to offer spirits to the two Americans; he was certainly not on social terms with them. It was really a shame that Andrews had Murphy in tow, it would have been much more pleasant to deal with him alone. “Why do you want him?”

Murphy started to respond, but Andrews placed a cautionary hand on the older agent’s shoulder. “It’s a delicate situation, and we hope you will show restraint and discretion in the matter. After Earnest Lieb’s death, Jona Lieb cleaned out his father’s accounts, sold all his father’s valuables through questionable methods, and absconded with the cash. They say he just snapped, I suppose from grief. Anyway, he fled the country and the estate defaulted on its tax liabilities, which brings us into the picture. We would prefer to handle this in a way that doesn’t sully the name of Dr. Lieb. Earnest Lieb, that is. We just want to find the young man and reach a reasonable settlement of the matter.” Andrews leaned back on his chair and crossed his legs.

Duranty was an experienced investigative journalist. He could see immediately that Andrews’ little tale had more holes in it than the Titanic. But, he also knew when to keep his suspicions to himself, especially when it looked like there was more fishing to be done. He shook his head in a show of sympathy. “How unfortunate. What the devil makes you think he is here?”

“We’re not sure, of course, but he did make some comments to workmates before he disappeared. Something about meeting old friends of his father’s here in Moscow. Maybe renewing previous ties the old man may have had.” Andrews took a deep breath. “That’s where you come in, Mr. Duranty. Can you steer us to the people Lieb was close to, someone Jona Lieb would have heard about from his father, and known about? Anyone he could come to for help?”

Quick decisions were generally anathema to Walter Duranty, but he made one now. “That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. I refuse to listen to this fiction any longer.” He stood up. “You can leave now.”

For a moment it appeared that Murphy was going to spring out of his chair and cuff Duranty, who cringed backwards and raised his arms up to his face involuntarily. Instead, Murphy turned on his partner with a fierce glower. “I told you all this bullshit wouldn’t work. Now tell him the truth.”

Andrews hung his head, giving the newspaper man an imploring look. “OK, but on one condition. Hold the story. It will be your exclusive when the time comes. Give me your word that you’ll hold the story and not publish anything until our mission is over. Otherwise, we walk.”

Duranty sat down in delight. “Agreed. You have my word. But tell me everything.”

So they did. Almost everything. They explained the invitation to Atlanta, the president’s letter, and Jona Lieb’s disappearance in Berlin. Earlier in the evening, when Andrews and Murphy had gone over their plan about how best to deal with Duranty, they decided to avoid any mention of Kohler. Adrews thought that revealing Lieb’s Nazi friend might be troubling to Duranty, who was well known to harbor a hatred for Germans stemming from his time as a front-line reporter during the world war.

At the end, Duranty was left stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Still doesn’t make sense. Leaves Berlin, you surmise with some woman he just met, as if he’d been smitten overnight.”

Andrews pounded his fist into an imaginary palm. “I agree. That’s what makes this so frustrating. That’s why we came to you. We really do believe that anything you can tell us about the old man’s contacts here could give a clue.”

Duranty slumped back in his chair, still stroking his chin. The glare of the overhead light bulb on his glasses obscured his eyes, giving his face the appearance of a thin, brushed up cartoon character with blank oval orbits hovering over a thin line of lips. “That would be the old days, wouldn’t it.” He thought a few moments longer. “Leon Trotsky was his great friend. No one knew he was a monster then.”

“You mean Lieb?”

“No, I mean no one knew that Trotsky was a monster. A lying, cheating monster who would sacrifice his own mother for personal gain. He had so many gifts.” Duranty became more animated as he recollected. “And they were so wonderful together, he and Lieb. Both brilliant, both with reservoirs of deep knowledge, both with intimate insights into politics, culture, art, music, science - you name it, and they could carry on for hours. It was sheer theater to sit and listen to them talk…Katya! Drinks all around!”

As Katya hurried in to serve them from an enormous flagon of vodka, Duranty propped himself at the edge of his seat, his eyes now gleaming through the lenses of his glasses as if peering through a peephole. “They met in Zimmerwald.”

He downed his drink with a surprisingly powerful thrust of his arm, then held his glass out to Katya for another.

“It was 1915. The war’s ferocity had sapped the strength of the international socialists. In almost every country in Europe the parties of the left cleaved to their own national governments, abandoning overnight the rhetoric of a generation.” Duranty forced a laugh. “I might say the dreams of a generation. Right. In one fell swoop the idea that the working masses would never recognize national boundaries, only class boundaries, all that fell by the wayside. The laboring men of Germany, France, Italy, Russia, even Britain, they all marched dutifully and expertly to the front to be massacred. And, very dutifully and expertly, I bore witness as they did so.”

Without warning, and with no change in expression, Duranty gave out a loud sob. Andrews cocked his head quizzically, surprised at the show of emotion. It was not what he expected. “But that was their chance, wasn’t it? What the international movement wanted? A cataclysmic war that destroyed the status quo and opened the door for revolutionists to take over?”

“No!” Duranty roared. “Not all! Most still believed in parliamentary methods. Not Lenin, though. And not Trotsky. The international peace movement organized a conference in Switzerland, at Zimmerwald, to organize anti-war activities, both on the home front and at the trenches. I went because I was curious, not because I believed anything would come of it. At that stage I thought too much blood had been shed to simply turn the war off like a spigot, but I was wrong. It turned out that not enough blood had been spilt as yet, not nearly enough. So I came. And Lieb came also, though why and how was not so clear to me. He had a way of popping up in places, you know.

He was a dynamo, that man. He argued for passive resistance. Understand, please, he wanted masses marching in the streets, speeches in Parliament, and so on. Trotsky laughed at him, saying the Russians had barely finished burying their dead after trying those kinds of tactics. He wanted to storm the citadels. That’s how they met. Arguing daily but somehow becoming closer as they fought. They were both front and center during the course of the meetings. Lenin was shrewd about the whole thing, working behind the scenes. He didn’t tip his hand until long after.”

“Anything else?”

Duranty gently shook his glass before downing it in one abrupt motion, raising his chin up high and spreading his lips wide to swallow, just as if he were a chick with craning neck and open beak, straining to be fed by its mother. “No, not really. The delegates spent the week in discussion, then issued a memorandum...”

Andrews noticed a subtle change in tone and pounced. “What else? What else did you see?”

“It was odd, in a way. We stayed at a lovely hotel, the Beau Sèjour. It was set in a high mountain dale, fields and groves all around, and with spectacular views of the Alps in the distance. The food was marvelous. I could barely afford the three days I stayed there, I assure you. There were sixty or seventy delegates, and they continued on for over a week...I wondered...” Duranty trailed off, leaving Andrews with a look of confusion.

“You wondered how they could afford it.” Murphy’s booming voice broke the silence. “You couldn’t understand how this group of shiftless, unemployed revolutionaries could live so high on the hog. Where did the money come from?” Murphy broke out a cigarette and lit it. “Mr. Newspaper Man, who gave them money?”

Duranty flickered a smile. This Murphy fellow was quite a character. Disagreeable, though. “Good question, and something I’ve not been able to ferret out completely. I do know that Earnest Lieb gave the Bolsheviks one million, U.S.”

Andrews’ legs jerked as if struck by an electric shock. Duranty continued to flash an awkward half smile, but said nothing, turning his head slowly from Andrews to Murphy and back.

“O.K. I get it. What do you want?” Murphy waved his cigarette without taking a puff.

Duranty smiled widely, a genuine smile of victory. “I want the letter. Or a verbatim facsimile. I want your word that you will track down Jona Lieb, get the letter, and send it to me… Gentlemen?”

Andrews hesitated. Murphy did not. He extended his hand. “Good deal. The whole world will find out soon enough, anyway.”

Duranty barely touched Murphy’s hand as he bolted from his chair, veering towards his corner desk. He inserted a key to one of the drawers, rummaged in it for a moment, and retrieved a thick manila envelope. The diminutive newspaperman clutched it to his chest briefly as if it were a holy relic.

Andrews could see Duranty’s hands trembling as he opened the envelope and spread papers of varying shapes, sizes and different colors on the desk. He laid them out carefully, as if sorting out pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. Standing just a few feet away, in a shadowed nook of the room, Katya watched, her dark eyes gleaming with the feral intensity of a tiger taking up the first scent of its prey.

“This story was told to me by Zinoviev. You know who that is, right? Lenin’s close associate from their old days in exile together in France. We were sitting at dinner, and after enough vodka he began to reminisce about the revolution. I think he was quite under the influence, and truthfully, he drank so much that he ended our soireé flat on his back on the floor, snoring as loudly as a locomotive. I wrote his words down as he spoke them, I’m very good with steno. Let me read you some of what he said.” Duranty sat back down, settled a sheaf of papers in his lap, and began to read:

Walter my dear, dearest capitalist friend, it’s too bad you were not here in the beginning, 1917. That was the year when we didn’t know whether we were going to live or die, whether we would wake up decked out as kings or not wake up decked out in a casket. It’s hard even for me to comprehend, really. The empire of the Tsars, can you imagine! In the past, Holy Russia resisted the Tatars, fought the Golden Horde, conquered the Poles, and threw Napoleon and his invincible army back from the streets of Moscow. But we bolsheviks took the country in six months! I can’t take too much credit, but neither can anyone else, not even Vladimir Ilyich. It was a storm that descended, sweeping everything before it, first tearing away our garments to leave us naked in the wind, but whipping back once again to garb us finally in the raiment of power. First, the Tsar was deposed. Then a provisional government was declared, with Kerensky in charge. The burzhui thought they could retain power, a bourgeois belief doomed to collapse. The Kerensky regime was a joke, really, and everyone believed it was doomed to failure. Historical necessity required this outcome, for sure, but as I look back, I laugh sometimes at the fact that money was the instrument of our success, not Marxist predictions. And not just any money. No, no! American and English money! (he laughs here).

Listen, let me tell you something my dear little Englishman, for tonight I love you like a brother, though I may need to strangle you tomorrow. The Americans had bank people in Petrograd when the revolution began, from Guaranty Trust and National City Bank. The British had theirs as well. They came to us in April, days after Lenin and I arrived in Petrograd. They asked us whether we would continue the war if we came to power, and whether we would agree to take loans for armaments. They offered us money, the sons of whores, money to take power, money to buy guns, money to plough more of our boys under the black soil of Russia. At first Vladimir Ilyich thought they were courting us because they were playing both sides to win, just as if they were playing odds with thoroughbreds at the races. But then the American Red Cross Mission arrived in August, and then we understood. They were backing us to emerge victorious.

The committee arrived by train from Vladivostok, coming through Siberia to Petrograd, a journey no person in his right mind would volunteer to take in 1917, or even today for that matter. They were headed by someone named Thompson. William, I think. Yes, Bill. He paid the full expenses for the entire group out of his own pocket. Walter, my cousin, do you know who that Thompson was? Director of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. Drink some more vodka, Walter, drink until you’re stupid, and only then will you believe that the very heart of Wall Street came all that way, to the very heart of the red revolution.

Trotsky met with them immediately, and the next day introduced me to a remarkable fellow in the group, a man named Lieb, someone he knew already and was willing to vouch for. This was a Nobel laureate, a doctor of world renown. There were other doctors, too, from the best Universities in America. Chicago, Yale, Hopkins. Six medical doctors. Very helpful. Six. But also, sixteen businessmen from Wall Street firms and banks. What a surprise. It was not a Red Cross mission, you see. It was a business trip, and the business was Russia.

But not for Lieb. There was fire in his eyes. Passion. He was a man who was angry every day and showed it too. He had a cause to fight for, but the peculiar thing was that it was not really our cause. I never believed he was a bolshevik, not for a minute, but he was willing to work for us, and with us. And, of course, it turned out he had money.

He went to the worker’s soviets when their meetings were held, dressed in a cherkassa as if born to it. His spoken russian was that of a small child, but he understood our language well enough, and made every effort to sing the ‘Dubinushka’ and other patriotic songs as if he believed them. He liked even more to attend the soldier’s sessions. You know, little friend, that Petrograd was teeming with soldiers, tens of thousands. Some were in organized troop units, most were deserters from the front. Their meetings were the most intense of all the soviets, and sometimes the most radical. When they convened, Lieb got into the habit of attending their sessions regularly.

Alexandra Kollontai told me once that he jumped up on a table during a meeting of one of the soldier’s soviets, pounding on the wall and exhorting them to distrust the provisional government and throw their lot in with the bolsheviks. Kollontai loved that kind of passion. Oh, by the way, my balding comrad, did I mention about Alexandra Kollontai? Take a long drink first. After all, we aren’t monks who have taken the strict and terrible vow of the ‘schema’, are we? No, no. Drink now, while we are still alive, and let’s beckon the gusli players to sing about love, and women, and heartbreak.

You know, I had Lieb to dinner when I heard about him and Kollontai. But he wouldn’t sing with me, or dance to the call of the balalaika while we ate and drank. He ignored the zakuski that were prepared for him, the borscht with cream on top, fish in aspic, even the kvas. He wanted to drink only, as if he wanted to drink himself deep into the ground, become absorbed into the earth, to forget everything. He was a man completely alone. I called him Alyosha, because I wanted to give him a Russian name. Would you believe, he told me he was honored to carry the name of Dostoyevsky’s favorite son, something I did not know. It made him feel like a son of Russia. You see, that was the kind of man he was.

He wanted to have sex with Kollontai. It was not about love by any means, it was about need only, and apparently he had great needs. And why not? She was beautiful, highly intelligent, and very willing. He might have been thirtieth or fortieth in the line of men she invited to her bed, after all. Well, that’s what they say, anyway, but I wouldn’t tell her that if I were you, she’d box your ears for sure. To be short, after a week or so she threw him out for someone new, and he began walking about like death itself was draped over his brow. Very sad. That’s when I invited him to my apartment for a feast that turned into more like a wake.

Vladimir Ilyich came by later that evening without notice, together with Trotsky, both in a hurry. That’s the kind of friends we were back in those days, days of heroes. No one for himself, everyone for all, and all for the revolution. Later, things changed, and the chess pieces began to move all over the board, but that was only after our victory, when some became fat, and after becoming fat became hungry enough to steal out of their neighbor’s plate. Lenin knew all about Lieb and Kollontai, of course. Everyone knew. We were like a family of little rats, in each other’s whiskers all the time. He couldn’t care about such things. He had his own share of women in the past, and look at him, he was a married man. In fact, he rather liked the kind of sexual politics that Alexandra was so avid about, that’s why he appointed her to the Party Central Committee.

But the visit that night was about business, and quite urgent. Walter, my little British friend with the proper mustachio, if you could only feel what we felt in those days, with sudden arrest and a firing squad lurking around every corner. The omens were not good. There were rumors circulating from deserting soldiers that the provisional government was sending troops to the capital. We learned that the miserable cur Kerensky was ordering the Army to send loyal units to Petrograd to restore order and eliminate the bolsheviks. As premier he didn’t have the authority to do that, but the staff officers at Third Corps headquarters were nothing but spineless dogs, and they hated our guts anyway. Mind you, we had the Red Guard, but they were nothing more than armed factory workers, untrained, and would be simple target practice for seasoned troops. As for the soldiers that were milling about in the streets, wandering from corner to corner searching for a dry room and a hot meal, I tell you truly they were nothing but a mob, incapable of organized resistance. So it was over. If the Army came we would have to disperse, Vladimir Ilyich would have to flee through German lines to Sweden, and the rest of us would be stewed with the next day’s cabbage (laughs loudly).

Let me tell you about Lieb. He was heavy over the shoulders, big arms and wide body. Bushy eyebrows, thick beard. He was blond, right? Eyes of amber. When he was angry, which was often, he cursed like an Ismailovsky Guardsman, without regard to who was around within earshot. In Petrograd of that time, not a good trait to have, but he didn’t care. The main thing, he was a demon. When an idea entered his head, he became berserk with energy and would stop at nothing to execute his plan. And so, back to that night. First, have some pryániki, good for digestion.

By the time Trotsky gave his bad news, in the same shrill voice he always used, Lieb was drunk. I would say more than drunk. He appeared to be in an alcoholic coma, collapsed in his chair with head thrown back and spittle at his lips. It amazes me that he was able to hear anything at all, but he heard everything. Before I could say a word, he leaned forward as if resurrected from the dead. Lazarus could look no more terrible. Oh, and his breath smelled like a dead carp, by the way. He grabbed the forearm of Trotsky with an iron grip.

“Let me go to them,” he said, as clearly and calmly as a ship’s captain ordering a course change.

Trotsky could not be more shocked if a gun were pointed at his head. “Go where?”

“I will go to Army Headquarters. I will speak to the commander of Third Corps. I will convince him not to order his men to Petrograd.”

Vladimir Ilyich seemed ready to either cry or laugh out loud. “And how could you possibly do that, comrade?”

In a voice cast from the hardest steel Lieb answered. “I have money.”

Please don’t misunderstand, my imperialist intruder. The Russian soldier was not for sale. The men in uniform had deep love for the mother country. But the front line soldier had suffered four years of brutal battle, where millions of his friends had perished. His bravery and devotion were unrequited by an uncaring government of babbling, shallow idiots, his family back home was starving, and the big shot industrialists were raking in rubles by the millions. It would not take much to bend the troops in the right direction, to make them understand that the whole rotten edifice had to come down and be replaced with something new. The way things were, the gentle touch of a feather might be enough to tip them over, and Lieb had much more than a feather. He had a million American dollars.

Let me say now, loudly and unequivocally to any and all who care to listen, or might be listening right now, that Lenin was a great man, almost as great as Stalin. Great as a theoretician. Great as a political operative. Great as an inspirational leader. But the greatest gift of this great man was in making decisions wisely, surely and decisively. And so he did that night. He endorsed the plan of a wild eyed American, who was intoxicated and might be out of his mind. I suppose you could say, what did we have to lose, and you would be right. But when Vladimir Ilyich said ‘move’, all the gears clicked into place and the engine began to turn very quickly.

We made our plans that very night, with a small modification the next day. Naturally, we tried to persuade Lieb he was crazy. Naturally, we tried to persuade him to give the money to us and let us manage the affair. Naturally, we tried to persuade him to tell us where he kept the money, and where it came from, and from who, and why he brought it with him, and who else knew of the money, and on and on. And naturally he refused to answer anything.

Trotsky, as we dispersed at the end of the evening, told me he thought he knew where the dollars came from. By the way, did I mention about Trotsky and Lieb? When Trotsky was thrown out of Paris - wife, children, all of them - he went to New York. This was January 1917. Why they let him in I can’t imagine. He wrote ideological articles for ‘Novy Mir’ and gave lectures and so made maybe enough money to have a cup of tea once a week. But Lieb took care of him well enough. The family was given an apartment, and Lieb arranged for a car and chauffeur to be at Trotsky’s disposal. One day, when the car arrived in the morning as usual, there was a man sitting in the back seat, waiting. Trotsky told me he was at first hesitant to get in, thinking it was the police. Far from it.

“Lev Davidovitch Bronshtein,” the man said in a voice that rolled down like thunder from Mount Tabor. “I am Jakob Heinrich Schiff.” Heard of him, my bosom little liberal-socialist toady? Director of more Wall Street firms than I have shirts, including National Bank of New York City. I understand they spent the morning together in a pleasant tour of Manhattan, discussing who knows what. I’m sure an incendiary bolshevist revolutionary and the president of Kuhn, Loeb and Company must have a lot in common, don’t you think so? Trotsky never told me more than that, but winked when he declared that Lieb’s treasure came from a very deep pocket that emptied and buttoned up in New York City.

Our dilemmas were many. We didn’t know with certainty how best to approach the government troops. Our spies told us that General Krymov, a drunkard in charge of Third Cavalry Corps, was ordered to secure the city. His headquarters were at Narva, a distance of over 100 kilometers away. He was not the one coming, though. He handed the operation to one of his divisional generals, Dmitry Bagratian, commanding officer of the Savage Division.

Walter, my nearsighted darling, Russia is a rough country, fit only for the toughest, and the strongest. That’s why we have never been conquered. Can you guess why it was called the ‘Savage Division’? Of course. Its men were savages. Certainly, you could say, in a poetic way, that they fought like wild men in battle. But they actually were savages, truly, all volunteers from Azerbaijan, Krzygistan, Ossetia, Dagestan, in fact from every dirty village and collection of primitive huts scattered through the length and breadth of the Caucasus. And virtually all of them Musselmen, each one nurtured since birth with a traditional hatred of Russians. I’m sure the government, and Kerensky in particular, felt smug about unleashing the Savage Division onto the streets of Petrograd and letting them do their worst.

Bagratian was known to be at Krasnoye Selo, twenty five kilometers away, with his division massing along the road leading to Petrograd. Trotsky had a genius for understanding the pulse of the enemy. He was sure that if the troops at Krasnoye Selo could be turned, Third Corps would send no more. So, that was our plan, if you want to call it a plan. Get to Bagratian. Convince him to abort the operation. Convert the troops to our side. Save the revolution. Save the world. Simple, eh? The how’s, when’s, and where’s were conveniently overlooked. Vladimir Ilyich agreed to everything and told Lieb to meet him the next morning. He told me to come too.

We had not moved into our operational base at Smolny as yet, that was later, so we didn’t have formal offices, we generally met in apartments or at sessions of the various Petrograd soviets. Lenin instructed us this time to meet in front of the Mariinsky Theater, which was convenient to all of us. It was early morning when I arrived, maybe seven. I could see that the dance students were gathered outside the theater, waiting for the doors to open. Their dreams, like ours, were very much alive. How many of them, do you think, survived the wars that followed? Lenin was there already, which was not surprising. He was sitting very grandly in the back seat of a Vauxhall, a Grosvenor with closed cab, very formal. Very elegant. Very expensive. Where did it come from? Who owned it before? How did the Bolsheviks get it? All frivolous questions that history would not give a rat’s ass about. So, there he sat, very regal. He already had the look of a Premier.

I made a little joke to lighten the moment “Tovarisch, are we going to war or are we going to the ballet?”

Comrad Lenin did not like my quip, even though it was such a small one. He was serious in that way, almost marble cold. An opaque wall surrounded him at all times. No humor, no familiarity. No one could call him Volodya in public, not even his wife Krupskaya. There was a poem by Mayakovsky that said it well:

There are two in the room:

I

and Lenin -

a photograph

on the whiteness of wall

I loved Mayakovsky, by the way. Not just as a poetic genius, no. So dedicated. So intense. He once gave a report to Stalin itemizing the numerical production of verses in Russia. You understand, like the total number of written stanzas that year, just as if he were running a production report of pig iron or coal. Stalin found the report interesting, and referred it to the appropriate bureau. Of course, the appropriate bureau was Mayakovsky’s!

Lenin spotted me immediately, and gestured me into the back seat with him, very impatiently. You can imagine my surprise when I saw who was up front, driving. Alexandra Kollontai! For a split second I thought Lenin was making his own joke, at Lieb’s expense. Very quickly I learned he was all business. He told me I was not going, that I was too valuable - that’s correct, for any and all who would care to know, and might hear my voice, and are interested in the truth and not vicious stories, Lenin himself said I was TOO VALUABLE to lose. (Shouting - loud) He had made other arrangements. Of course I began to ask many questions, but he held up his hand to silence me. Shortly, Lieb arrived. What sang froid the bastard had! He barely looked at Kollontai even though she gave him a luscious smile. He had with him a white duffel bag, the kind a sailor might carry, and was dressed in a Russian-made long coat, boots, and fur ushanka, maybe raccoon. Expensive. He looked crisp and ready for action, with no hint of a lingering effect from the previous night’s drinking.

Still we did not move. We sat quietly for some time, simmering with our war plans, long enough for the doors to the Mariinsky to open and allow the ballet students to rush in and embrace the day. I envied them. Walter, my friend, let us take a drink together. Eat some pickled beets, have some black bread, and forget today and yesterday, let’s think only about how wonderful tomorrow can be (stands up and staggers around the table once before sitting).

Let me say that our wait was rudely interrupted. This dark bearded fellow abruptly opened the door to the car and seated himself like a king directly across from Lenin, as if the Vauxhall was his personal property. I had never met him before, and I disliked him immediately. Vladimir Ilyich didn’t like him either, I could tell, even though his face remained rigid, with the same impassive face he assumed when playing chess.

I realized with a shock that the man was carrying a rifle over his shoulder, a big one. You know the kind, a Cossack version of the Mosin Nagant. It was an odd feeling. I had been around many armed soldiers in the past, but always with groups or squads, never before with a single armed soldier, and never before in such a tight space. He gave me the shivers.

His name was Said Shamil, a name I still say with dread. Lenin announced that he would be the one going with Lieb to find Bagratian, turn away Third Corps, and save the world for the revolution and humankind. Not in those words, but the intent was the same. And why was he the right one to go? Because he himself was from the Savage Division, an officer who deserted, who still had friends, and who was a Musselman from Dagestan. And by the way, he was a direct descendent of the great Imam Shamil, the one who fought the Russian army of Tsar Alexander to the very last inch, back in the time of our grandfathers.

So, the outlines of the strategy began to emerge to anyone with eyes. Shamil, a twig sprouted from the tree of the great hero of Islam, would return to his division. Now that he was unleashed and free of military order, and with the passion of his hatred for the Russian nation, a nation that had enslaved his people and mercilessly desecrated his home country, he would subvert the troops of Dmitry Bagratian. Also, don’t forget about the American money. Money has a way of translating passion into success.

But what a surly character he was. He smirked continuously as Lenin gave his instructions. I could hear him muttering under his breath all the while, and at one moment I could have sworn I heard him say ‘yob tvoyu mat’. Can you believe it? In the presence of Lenin himself! I almost blurted out, ‘No! You go fuck YOURSELF instead!’ I didn’t only because Vladimir Ilyich was very sensitive about using foul slang in his presence. Shamil was an ugly man, a dangerous man, a useful tool, and a necessary one for that mission only. I was not surprised when a year later he betrayed the revolution and tried to set up an independent Caucusus Republic under his own rule. Well, he payed for that later.

Back to that day, my lovely crippled friend. Did you say once that you injured your foot in a train crash, and you haven’t walked like a man ever since? Fate can be so unforgiving, tovarische, so drink up while you can. The biggest tactical problem was getting to Savage Division’s camps without being intercepted by patrols along the roads right outside Petrograd, or further on by advanced sentry posts. Shamil was confident that once they got inside the camps themselves everything would be alright, that they would be protected by his friends.

He took out a map and traced some lines with his finger for Lenin and Lieb to follow. They would make a great loop around, he explained, first to the southeast and then swing up to the northwest to approach the division lines from the rear. Lieb studied the map carefully and pointed to a spot.

‘You have us going through here,’ he said, ‘but there is first a river and then a lake between the jump off point and the camp. How do we cross?’

Shamil did not bother to look at the map. ‘We swim.’ He said it without blinking an eye, the bastard. ‘Do you know swimming?’

‘Looks like a wide lake.’ Lieb spoke in a way that made it seem he was not afraid.

‘Duderghoffskoye lake. A kilometer wide, maybe one and a half at most. The river is small, not a concern. Any problems?’

Lieb did not hesitate. ‘None,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

And then they were off. My young brother Walter, throw that empty bottle on the ground and get it off the table, we don’t want to invite bad luck, and drink a toast with me to Alyosha Lieb, a man much braver than we, I can promise you, a man with balls not of brass or steel, but of uranium. Shamil was returning to his friends, but Lieb was going into the unknown. And for what, and for who? Not for the Bolsheviks, not really. Maybe he went because he believed, really believed, that anything was better than the wicked war, and that Lenin was the only one who would stop it. Or maybe he did it because he wished not to disappoint his friends of the Red Cross Commission and the Wall Street moguls. Or maybe he did it to impress Alexandra Kollontai, and have her spread her legs for him one more time. Who knows? That’s why we must drink not one, not two, but three toasts to the great man who by himself turned away an entire Cavalry Corps. To Alyosha!

You know the rest, don’t you? Or don’t you? Don’t tell me it wasn’t reported in the Sunday Times so people in Birmingham could read about it with their coffee and toast! They drove themselves like madmen. They rode on horseback for three days, then hiked through forest for three days, swam whatever the hell they had to swim over, and made it through to Savage Division’s encampment. Shamil organized the soldiers into soviets, and the committees immediately voted to stay right where they were. The division did not advance. Petrograd was saved. Bagratian was turned, and later became himself a great general of the Red Army. The million dollars was never heard of again.

And Lieb? He didn’t return to Petrograd. Actually, he disappeared after that, and never sent a word back to us. We didn’t see him again until 1924, just before Lenin died. That’s when he broke with Stalin, or pretended to, who can know in this complicated world? They say he left Krasnoye Selo on Bagratian’s horse, rode one hundred fifty kilometers, and crossed over the German lines at Riga. Through wild country, forests, and swamps, mind you. Rosa Luxembourg saw him in Berlin two weeks later. Strange fellow, don’t you agree, but then again history is created by strange fellows, isn’t it?

So one more time, my arrogant little English bulldog puppy, let me sprinkle some anise into our vodka, and let us drink. Let us drink until all the lies are forgotten. Let us drink until all the truths are forgotten. Let us drink until we ourselves are forgotten.

Walter Duranty finished reading with a dramatic flourish, then hugged the leaves of paper he was holding to his chest, just as he would hug old friends he had not seen for many years. “That is some of my best writing,” he sighed.

Andrews shook his head, as if he were awaking from a trance, barely able to wrap his thoughts around the story he had just heard. “This is all true?”

“Every word. I may have edited out some of the foul language, it’s incredible how Russians swear, but otherwise completely true.” Duranty clutched the sheets of manuscript even more tightly. “Of course, I haven’t revealed everything he told me that night, about other matters that have nothing to do with Lieb. You’ll have to wait for my book to read more.”

“So what you’re telling us is that Earnest Lieb, who hated the communists with conviction, is the one who saved their revolution and made it all possible?”

“I’m telling you what actually occurred, told by an eyewitness to the events. I can’t tell you what might have happened if Lieb had not been there. Lenin, Trotsky, Bukharin, Zinoviev, Kollontai, Stalin...they were quite resourceful. Brilliant, really. I always believed they had redundant plans for every contingency.” Duranty hesitated briefly. “I’m very sorry, gentlemen.”

“What do you mean?” Murphy did not hide his irritation. He couldn’t bring himself to believe half of what he had just heard. Most of it sounded like an elaborate fabrication concocted for the little man’s precious book, or even more likely for a movie script destined for Hollywood.

“Well, nothing in this history can be of any possible help in tracking down Lieb the younger.”

Andrews sank into his chair gloomily while Murphy paced back and forth furiously. “Why did he do it? Why did he risk his life for a cause that wasn’t his? What was his game?” Murphy reached for a cigarette, stopped abruptly, and whirled towards Duranty. “You have a theory, don’t you? You must. C’mon, tell me.”

“I have a theory, certainly, but you won’t like it. He was a paid agent, I’m sure of it. A mercenary, nothing more or less. I’m told he was rather fond of money. Probably recruited during the Swiss convention of 1915. With his connections and prestige he was very valuable. Trotsky handled him. Later they had a falling out, and Lieb turned on the whole bunch of them.” Duranty sighed. “No different than leaving The Times for The Telegraph, I suppose.”

“No.” Andrews spoke softly, still slumped in a pose of despair. “Not an agent. A ghost.”

Murphy turned on his younger partner. “What? Are you nuts?”

“That’s right, a ghost, or better yet a phantasm. Don’t waste your time trying to understand him, there is no understanding.”

Duranty coughed down a laugh. “You mean a mirage? He was somehow imaginary?”

“No, not at all. Real enough, just like fingerprints are real. We can find his fingerprints everywhere and anywhere, but we’ll never find him, and who he really was. His story leads to a dead end.”

Murphy growled his disagreement. “Ya know what I think? I think he was an adventurer. A Jack London type, in it for the thrill of the ride. And he liked the dolls, that’s another thing I’ve been thinkin’, and I’m also thinkin’ the apple don’t fall far from the tree.” He pulled out a thin notebook from his jacket pocket and faced the newspaperman. “Do you know a girl named Marielle Hervieux? American?”

Duranty straightened up so quickly that his back cracked audibly. “Not lately!” He threw an agitated glance in the direction of Katya, who lingered in the shadowed corner of the room. Her eyes glowed with a malign, serpentine glare. “I mean no, not really, just barely, not in a while.”

Murphy almost dropped his notebook in shock and disbelief. Could it be, incredibly, so easy? Was it true that this man knew Lieb’s old girlfriend? Was it possible that she was right there in Moscow? Duranty’s quailing response opened an immense vista of opportunity. Of one thing Murphy was sure. If Marielle was here then Jona Lieb must not be far away. “How do you know her?”

“Well, she’s quite well known...you know, around town.”

“Where is she? We need to talk to her.”

“Honestly, gentlemen, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in some time, many weeks at the least.” He cast an anxious look once again in Katya’s direction. “Maybe months, I really don’t remember.”

Andrews chimed in. “So sorry, sir, for any inconvenience this causes, but we are desperate to find her. Please think. There’s got to be a way to locate her whereabouts.”

Duranty moved in Katya’s direction and motioned as if to embrace her, but she slapped his arms away. He appeared desperate for a moment, arching his eyebrows with a pleading look in his eyes. Then, inexplicably, he began to laugh. At first it was nothing more than a low, staccato rumble, but then his laughter grew, louder and louder, until his jaw vibrated with a breathless, wheezy yowl. “You’re in Russia, comrade Andrews.” He jerked his thumb in Katya’s direction. “Where everyone watches everyone else. Don’t you worry, mate. Ask the right people, and she can be found.” He winked at Murphy, still tittering. “Get me a bottle or two of bourbon, you look like the man to do it, and I can find out tomorrow. Better make it three, I may need one for myself.”

Chapter 21

Sleep. Deep sleep. Sleep without sensation, sleep without mentation. No dreams, none. Existence without awareness, uncaring, unreasoning, unresponsive, primitive, dwelling far from the canyons of perception. Sleep, profound and utter sleep. Sleep without recourse, but far from death. Neuronal transmission, cardiac contraction, gastric propulsion, urinary flow, colonic compaction; all the small, demeaning necessities of the flesh and the automatic accoutrements that mark the passage of life continue. Only consciousness is voided, leaving an unrecorded canvas, blankness, ready to be informed, instructed, and moulded as life seeps downward into sleep. Life is present, but it is life without mind, and so life without will. Life without will and so life without doing. Life without doing, and so life without identity. And so sleep liberates mind and body anew, creating life anew. But only while there is sleep.

“Dr. Kotmeyer, how long will this go on?” Pickett shifted his hat nervously in his hands.

“Difficult to say. Another few days, I should think.” Kotmeyer spoke with an air of supreme confidence. He pointed at Maddy’s body, lying peacefully and unmoving on the hospital gurney as it was rolled down the hall. Her respirations were easy and rhythmic but seemed very shallow. Her face, lips and skin were all profoundly pale, almost translucent. “She is doing very well, I should say. No adverse effects from this last treatment.”

“Will it be difficult to bring her back? It’s been a long time now.”

“Not at all.” Kotmeyer whirled towards Pickett. “Your Excellency, you must really leave all these details to me! Please remember, I have been trained in the greatest institutions of Europe.”

“Alright, doctor. But just remember...” Pickett poked a rigid finger into Kotmeyer’s bony chest. “That’s my only girl lyin’ there, and this here ain’t no Vienna.”

The psychiatrist’s good eye swirled back and forth beneath his glasses, completely disjointed from the steady, passive stare of his other, glass eye. “Rest assured, sir,” was all he could say in response, as the President strode away with his retinue of aides.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”’ The words drifted back as Pickett disappeared around a corner, words that echoed with a bite of menace.

Madeline was in her sixth day of drug induced sleep, receiving shock treatments at least twice a day. On several occasions she had lapsed into prolonged, clonic seizure activity, which Kotmeyer interpreted as a favorable indicator of progress. There was no real difficulty in keeping her asleep. He was using Somnifen to maintain deep sleep, and after some initial experimentation was able to titrate the dosing to his liking. He was confident that she was in a state of profound narcosis, unfeeling and unaware. The theory of deep sleep therapy predicted that neuro-integration was malleable to a degree, and that during deepest sleep mental healing from schizoid and depressive disorders could slowly take place.

That was the theory. In practice, there were many unknowns, not least the uncertainty about the necessary duration of the healing process. Five days? Ten? Two weeks? Kotmeyer had already decided on ten days based on reports out of asylums that practiced the technique in Switzerland and Romania. The real problem was simply maintaining the patient’s overall health during the sleep treatment.

Satisfying her nutritional requirements was a nightmare. Maddy was being fed through a nasogastric tube, given an emulsion of milk, raw eggs, orange juice and olive oil four times a day. It was Kotmeyer’s own concoction. However, the nasal tubes clogged regularly and needed to be replaced on an almost daily basis. They were made of soft rubber and had to be kept frozen in order to stiffen them sufficiently to be passed down through the nasal chambers and into the throat. Under the best circumstances the procedure was unpleasant and difficult. It was bad luck that this particular patient’s upper passages were narrow and tortuous, making every tube insertion a bloody, arduous ordeal. To make matters worse, Nurse Stuppen, the Administrative Nurse in charge of the sanatorium, and who was also an unfeeling swine, had decreed that difficult procedures of this sort could only be performed by the physician. Nurses were not permitted to attempt the task. Kotmeyer suffered daily humiliation as he struggled to pass the necessary tube with his one good hand, under the guidance of his one good eye. Typically, the insertion required attempt after attempt until good fortune finally prevailed. He could almost feel the frowns and winces of the nurses assisting him as they looked on in dismay. He could almost hear their derisive, mocking laughter once they were out of earshot.

And there were other issues, such as general cleanliness, and the need to keep Maddy turned regularly in order to avoid bed sores. But the one recurring concern he could not abide was the daily report about his young patient’s bowels. It appeared that she had not had a movement since the induction of therapy. Nurse Stuppen, the slippery snake masquerading as Head Nurse, called him at odd hours to inform him of that fact, and to ask for orders. One call was during his evening prayers, and he was sure it was deliberately timed to harass him. It was infuriating that someone of his stature should be bothered by such trifling details. After all, he had not studied at the Deutsche Forshungsanstalt für Psychiatrie under the world-famed Emil Kraepelin in order to deal with difficult excrement! And he would certainly not be browbeaten into ordering an enema while he was in the midst of prayers!

With this, he was absolutely certain Dr. Kraepelin would agree. It had to be said, however, that the august director of the foremost psychiatric hospital in the world had not agreed with Kotmeyer in everything. In his early days at the Institute, young Samuel Kotmeyer was something of a heretic, a self-avowed revolutionary in the field of human behavior. He believed it was possible, actually necessary, to combine the dynamic insights of behavioral psychologists with the rigid, categorical, concrete approach of the research psychiatrists. Blend Vienna and Munich. Freud and Kraepelin. Dream analysis and electroencephalography. Subjective and objective.

Kraepelin told him he was crazy to think that way, that there was neither an all-embracing theory to accommodate both points of view, nor the technology to prove such a theory in any case. Kotmeyer listened very attentively to that advice, just as he listened very attentively to everything the Director said. He felt obligated to harken carefully, and not just because Emil Kraepelin was one of the great minds of the century, the founder of scientific psychiatry, and a renowned teacher. It was because Emil Kraepelin had saved his life. Not in the physical sense, of course, though he arrived in Munich right after the war with his body still broken. Physically, he healed slowly, adapted, and recovered enough function to allow himself to feel useful. The greater devastation was within him.

Emotionally, he was no more than a barren wasteland, wiped clean of any possibility of even momentary joy. The war had sucked him dry and left him an empty shell. He tried drinking, but could not endure the racking nausea and vomiting that inevitably followed alcohol induced stupor. He had already withstood enough pain and wanted no more. A colleague in Vienna whispered to him about trying cocaine, or opium, but that would cost money, and he had no money. None of that would be possible for him, so that by the time he arrived in Munich he was grimly determined to lead his life as it was, living each day as if he were trying to climb out of a dark crater that kept swallowing him deeper and deeper into its depths.

Naturally, it did not take the great master long to diagnose Kotmeyer’s symptoms. He was called into Kraepelin’s office after clinic hours one Friday evening, just a few weeks after his arrival at the Institute. It was January, frigidly cold, and almost pitch black outside. Kotmeyer was planning nothing more than to return to his small apartment to review his notes and study, but was of course honored by the request to come see the Director privately. The office was dimly lit by a single lamp on a surprisingly small desk in the corner, and barely warmed by a smoldering, coal burning fireplace. Kraepelin’s silent form was framed by overarching Gothic windows that loomed high behind him. Frayed books were heaped in tall piles against every wall. On a small table set against a window Kotmeyer could see a series of glass jars. He knew they contained fragments of human brain fixed in formalin. It was a room that spoke of many yesterdays, of endless study, and of highly ordered reflection.

Kraepelin’s face was set in deep shadow, so that when he spoke his words swam out from unseen lips. “Sit Herr Doktor, you seem to need some rest.” He pointed at Kotmeyer’s empty sleeve. “The war?”

“Yes.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. Thank you.”

“No? Don’t you have pain where your arm was?” The question was asked politely, but with a note of command.

“Well, sometimes right here, where the muscular and bone elements were...excised.”

“No, no, no.” Again the words were soft, but insistent. “Do you feel the arm you no longer have? Do you feel pain, as if you still have that arm?”

Kotmeyer squirmed uncomfortably. With a rapid blur of remembrance, he had a vision of his mangled forearm and wrist, and a small broken bone, one of the tarsals, protruding through the skin at an awkward angle. He relived once again his detached, clinical observation of bright blood pulsing rhythmically to the beat of his heart, spreading everywhere, spreading oh so quickly over his chest, where he held his arm tightly as if clutching a touch-relic, blood that streamed hastily in every direction, in a great hurry to run away and hide with some special secret. “Yes, Herr Professor. I do, but it is more so over my eye.”

“That is very interesting. Pain only, or other phenomena?”

“Visual also. Sometimes stars, sometimes bright flashes or movements.” He hesitated. “Sometimes objects.”

Kraepelin pounced. “People? Do you see people? People who you know?”

The familiar sense of deadness began to return, radiating rapidly, first chest, then body, and head, as if a mirror image or photo negative of once useful blood was infusing through him, now expired and rendered noxious. “Yes. Sometimes my parents. They are dead now.”

“Of course.”

A lengthy silence ensued. Kotmeyer did not want to speak, and felt vaguely embarrassed to talk about his infirmities, but the quiet eventually unnerved him. “I learned the news a year ago. In a letter.”

“Of course, of course. You are from Galicia, is that right?”

“Yes. From Lviv.”

“Your German is excellent.”

“My parents sent me to school in Vienna when I was thirteen. I learned there. I was raised with Russian, and I speak Polish as well.” He couldn’t stop a sarcastic laugh. “In Lviv we don’t know what to speak.”

“And the people you see, your parents, this bothers you?”

“Yes. Yes it does.” Kotmeyer understood that he was being drawn out. As a student in Vienna, before the war, he had been steeped in theories of free association, dream analysis, and Oedipal fixation. He had attended several sessions of the Psychoanalytic Society, with the great Freud himself presiding, and was well aware that Kraepelin was testing the waters, fishing for submerged thoughts, trying to lay out barbs that would ensnare him into revealing his innermost feelings. “Herr Professor, I harbor no ill memories of my father, or of my mother. I grieved for them when I learned they were gone, but I became the way I am right now long before that. The explanation is very simple. It was the war.”

Kraepelin tented his fingers and sat well back into his chair, dissolving into a smoky, poorly lit still life. When he spoke again it was not too quickly, just long enough for a deep breath in and out, merely allowing for a few beats of time to play a drumroll in Kotmeyer’s mind. “Which war?”

“Come Professor, don’t play games with me!” Kotmeyer could not help a surge of anger, and his voice began to rise. He crossed his legs violently. “I did not come here to be trifled with. You see me as I am, dismembered, disfigured, ruined for the remainder of my days. Now you dare to toy with me. I came to the Institute to better myself, to learn at the feet of the master, not to play a fool, or become one of your therapeutic projects. Please, no more of this.” He made a motion as if to stand up.

Kraepelin appeared unperturbed. “Do you know Darwin?”

“Of course! The question is demeaning. Professor, please know I served in a regiment of Dragoons. I have little more than my honor left, and I won’t allow myself to be ridiculed.” Kotmeyer felt a surge of burning pain in his arm, the one no longer there, causing him to embrace his empty sleeve.

“There is a war for survival going on right now Samuel, inside you. A Darwinian war. A war without boundaries or fronts, a war without pity. There are two parts of you, one pitted against the other. Only one will survive, the one that can adapt the best. The battle is real. If you cannot resolve this conflict, you will be too weak to play a useful role in society. You will be used up and cast aside, just another dead-end life lived without meaning. Stronger ones will take your place.” Kraepelin spoke almost casually, steadily, as if offering a prediction on the next day’s weather.

Kotmeyer abruptly felt faint, rooted in his chair as the room commenced a dizzying gyration, twirling and twisting around him. As the spinning increased his vision blurred, and streaks of white lightning and starry showers burned into his eyes. Then, familiar images began to materialize, at first grainy and ghostly, but quickly gaining strength and clarity. They were illusions, he knew that. Phantasmagoric figments. Unreal, complex conceits that were conjured by a willing fantasy. He saw his parents, hand in hand, running through the streets, running frantically down the middle of broad and brightly lit Svobody Prospekt, past the museum and the Opera House, then through Lychakivsky cemetery, dodging ancient tombstones that popped up one after the other like targets at a shooting gallery. Blood soaked both of them, on their chests and arms as they ran, and then he could see the soldiers chasing them, aiming, shooting...For a moment, Kotmeyer thought he was able to see out both eyes, his imaginary eye and his real one, creating a stereoscopic panorama. Side by side he could see Dr. Kraepelin observing him intently, stroking his chin, while right next to him his parents ran through deserted streets lined by burning buildings, fleeing yet another murderous pogrom. Kraepelin stood up, reaching a hand towards Kotmeyer just as his parents rushed over the rough cobblestones of Blacharska Street and into the courtyard of his childhood shule. In his vision, Kotmeyer now saw himself running into the synagogue with his parents, running frantically past Kraepelin, who opened his mouth to speak...

Kraepelin took a step towards Kotmeyer, both arms extended, as if he were emerging into his line of sight from a dark recess in the house of prayer. “Herr Doktor, are you alright?”

Kotmeyer’s inert left eye went dead, extinguishing the vision of his parents, the synagogue, the Jewish quarter of Lviv, everything that had been conjured by his fractured vision. After a few moments the real image of Kraepelin came into focus. “I’m not sure.”

“You have been badly injured, Samuel. You have lost much more than an arm and an eye. And it is plain you have not recovered from all your wounds as yet. That is why you are really here, isn’t it?”

Kotmeyer cast a quick glance at the jars of formalin lining the wall, each containing sections of human brain, each specimen the object of careful dissection and microscopic examination. Psychoses, neurasthenias, debilitating dreams and deep depressions lurked in the depths of each fragment, running, hiding, masquerading, slipping elusively from the investigator’s probe. “Yes, thank you Herr Direktor. It is kind of you to take such interest in my case.”

“Come back to me Monday. You may need Lithium, or tincture of cocaine together with electroshock. In the meantime I advise you to smoke one cigarette every four hours and walk one kilometer every morning. Drink coffee, it may help.”

That night he could not sleep. The false vision of his parents running into the temple kept repeating, over and over in his mind, just as it had for months previously. The synagogue, by tradition the oldest in Lviv, was named the Rezja Zahave. The Golden Rose. As a young boy Kotmeyer had found the name to be evocative, hinting at some deep mystery and unknown provenance. Inside, the cruciform Gothic arch-roofs wove a spell of wonder, and the portal-shaped stone Bimah seemed to float like a cryptic gateway to an inscrutable, ancient past. His parents arranged for lessons with the rabbi, and young Samuel cleaved to his religious studies with great enthusiasm, first out of curiosity and then with increasing belief. Study of the Midrash, Talmud, and of course the Tanakh gave him a feeling of fulfillment, as if he were connecting with a force vastly greater than himself.

At thirteen he was sent to his great-uncle in Vienna, whose only son had emigrated to America. Kotmeyer never saw Lviv again. Great uncle Moshe Avinu was a well-to-do physician who dabbled in many areas, including history, philosophy, music and the arts. He encouraged Samuel to have an open mind about world affairs and study the poetry and art of German and French masters. He also encouraged his great-nephew to stop wasting his time on Judaic studies and devote his energies towards blending in with the Austrian boys at school. At best, uncle Moshe and tante Hannah tolerated the outward forms of religious observance, and even so, just barely.

One year, at Shavuot, uncle Moshe had himself driven in an imposing horse drawn barouche from their home in suburban Heitzing to the great Leopoldstadt temple in the city center. On other occasions he would have had the driver stop several streets away from the great synagogue and walk the remaining distance. This time, he had the driver stop right around the corner from the entrance, and made a point of sitting grandly in the spacious tonneau of the vehicle, resplendent in a pure white suit, taking pains to greet acquaintances as they walked solemnly by on their way to prayer. Most responded with looks of shock and anger as they realized Avinu and his family had taken a carriage to synagogue rather than walk, as the law required. Eventually, they were spied by the chazzan, who later denounced them to the chief rabbi.

That was their last day of temple worship. Moshe Avinu declared he could no longer abide the atavistic practices of the fools who followed the tenets of Hebrew law. He announced that his belief in God had elevated to a higher, more sophisticated level and went on a great harangue about the difference between belief and form. Form, he concluded, was unnecessary. For a while at least, the Shabbat candles were still lit, the challah bread was still made, and Shalom Aleichem was still sung. In observance of Pesach, matzo was served and the Kiddush blessing was recited, but the elaborate ceremony dictated by custom and law was abandoned. Slowly, even those small shows of observance melted away, like the fat on a lamb lost and starving in the desert. Samuel became engrossed in his studies, eventually entering university with his great uncle’s endorsement, ultimately earning a medical degree. Religious practice dissolved into the large reservoir of his past, just as playing with a hoop or ball had done. Uncle Moshe and tante Hannah were placed in kherem by the religious authorities of ancient Vienna, commanded to leave the body of the faithful as surely as Ismael had been banished by Abraham. It did not surprise him when uncle Moshe and tante Hannah converted to the Christian faith a few years later, and it bothered him not a bit to attend the strange and exotic ceremony of confirmation performed at St. Stephen’s cathedral.

When the Great War came, it was his great uncle who suggested - no, insisted - that Samuel enlist as a volunteer. Service in the army would confirm Samuel Kotmeyer as a loyal citizen of the empire, someone beyond reproach, someone who could then seek to enter the highest strata of society without any limitations. His Jewish background would subsequently become irrelevant. Besides, as a medical officer he would be in no real danger, as he could expect to be posted in a hospital situated safely behind the lines. Uncle Moshe proudly presented him with an ornately carved Mannlicher to use as his personal sidearm while at the same time predicting it would never be needed.

Unfortunately, the Italian army was not a party to this understanding.

He was sent to a large field hospital near the village of Doberdò, on the Isonzo front. Although the sound of artillery could be heard crumping in the distance, at times almost continuously, the place seemed safe enough. The hospital grounds were situated on the outskirts of the village, edging an almost sheer escarpment rising mountainously high, at least one hundred meters. The cliffs loomed over an enormous swath of hollowed out valley that stretched fifty kilometers south to the Adriatic Sea and the port of Trieste. The enemy could not possibly come without being seen easily. The enemy did come, though, and came with insane desperation and violence.

His wounds materialized suddenly and anonymously, without the intercession of a guiding hand, the result of a random spread of shrapnel from a shell that burst high above. Shock came on very quickly, and for much of the time that followed there was only darkness. He regained consciousness briefly in Gorizia, the crossroads town which was the true objective of the Italian offensive. The clustered streets of the ancient city were already engulfed in a wall of flames and a rain of bricks and glass as his convoy of horse drawn ambulances wound its way east and north. Kotmeyer’s first real awareness came many days later. Apparently, someone decided he was fit to live despite the severity of his wounds, possibly because of the caduceus prominently displayed on his lapels. As a result, he was transferred to an officer’s sanatorium in the Vienna suburb of Sulz, hidden within the fringes of the densely forested Wienerwald. He was not in delirium, and fortunate never to endure chills or fevers, but as he slowly became aware of his surroundings he found himself dazed and disoriented, struggling to break through a thick fog that had settled into the deep interstices of his mind. They told him later that he remained that way, in a form of coma, for weeks.

As Kotmeyer thought about the evening’s meeting with Kraepelin, he had a flash of remembrance from those first days in Sulz. In the beginning, he was sure he was going to die. Later, he was sure he did not want to live. It was not only the cruelty of pain that had to be endured. Moment by moment, hour by hour he persevered through that ordeal. No, there was more. Kraepelin was correct. He suffered through much more than pain and had lost more than parts of his physical self. He had lost something very vital, some necessary core piece of himself, leaving him in an incoherent wilderness without a roadmap or sign, making life unworthy of his attention. Perhaps it was something he had lost long before, just now making its absence felt, like a missing tie, or belt, or precious piece of jewelry.

Back in his apartment, sleep toyed with him briefly, a fog that stroked his forehead momentarily only to withdraw abruptly, leaving him quite awake, curled up on his side with knees drawn to chest, no more than a mote on the moving edge of time and space. He tried very hard to remember the thoughts he had in the early days of recovery in Sulz, but the memories were elusive, flitting away as a butterfly would when approached too closely. Then something sprang into his mind, like a little bird darting in through an open window, chirping loudly to proclaim itself. It was a word, a single word spiraling slowly upwards from a hazy past. Mitzvot. Commandments. Laws. Order. Order of mind, order of spirit. The word swung open a giant spigot within Kotmeyer, releasing a deluge of other thoughts that cascaded over him, drenching him with memories of his boyhood. The lessons studied so arduously under the supervision of the rabbi. The prayers committed to memory, the homilies of the Midrash, the daily adherence to religious routine, all the threads and stitches that bound his life together in both body and soul. The memories swept back and forth in his mind, like brush strokes repeated over and over, creating a picture of form and texture that made him ache with a yearning pang for the forgotten years of his childhood.

The word recurred. And again, intruding into his thoughts, and again. He could not make it go away. Mitzvot. Instruction. Learning. Mitzvot. Understanding. Obedience. The word tumbled around and around in his brain, the letters stretching from horizon to horizon, becoming a monolith that obliterated everything except its own presence, glowing with an awful power. Then the word began to speak.

The word itself began to speak to him, teaching him, instructing him.

It spoke as a living presence, curling and twisting, murmuring the mysteries of all the unknowns, of past and present and all the things to be, of life and death, and blessing and curse, and of the fragile flower of his life, which would slowly, inevitably turn its face towards its own end of days as it grew closer to that awesome hour.

He finally slept, a deep sleep without dreams, encased within impenetrable walls, then awakened very early, well before the first streamers of sunlight peeked into his room. It was the day of rest. He wasn’t sure where to go, but by asking directions he found his way to Herzog-Max Strasse and the Great Synagogue of Munich. As he passed through the massive arched portals of the temple he heard the words of the Shacharit, the morning prayer, and felt washed with a peace he had not felt since he left Lviv as a young man. Later, after returning to his rooms he recited prayers he thought he had forgotten, drank of the ceremonial wine, and experienced a surge of regret for all the years during which he had abandoned the covenant that was consecrated with his Creator. With the twist of an unseen knot, the bond was forged again.

The following Monday Kotmeyer returned to Kraepelin’s office to describe his experience. The Director listened carefully, with a show of profound interest. At the end, he could barely restrain himself. “Mystical conversion!” He shouted the words as if calling for an assistant to come in. “A most interesting phenomenon! Well described, but poorly understood. Possibly of frontal lobe origin, a remarkable demonstration of altered sensory perception. You certainly look much better.” He gave Kotmeyer a piercing gaze. “Why do you think this happened?”

“Because of you, Herr Professor.”

“How so?”

“The missing part you told me to look for. If not for you, I would never have searched. My war is finally over.”

Kraepelin gave a lengthy sigh. “Darwinist philosophy gives short shrift to religious belief. I myself have none. Does it provide any adaptive advantage?”

Kotmeyer could only smile. “Advantage? As you can see, it saved me. That is advantage enough.”

Looking back, it was easy to see that he truly had been saved from an inexorable decline into a frigid and empty existence. His studies at the Institute flourished. Within a year he met Rosa and fell in love, something he could not have dreamed of before his renewal of faith. After her death he was able to grieve, something he would have been incapable of. He had won his battle, and he had carried on, and become useful to society, just as Dr. Kraepelin had wanted. More importantly he had become useful to himself.

“Oh, Doctor!“

Kotmeyer winced. It was that viper Stuppen. He did not wait to hear her request. “Enema now, soap suds, one hundred twenty milliliters and again in four hours.” He spewed the order tersely in her direction.

As the nurse walked away with just a hint of a grin on her haughty face, Kotmeyer gave a deep sigh. What to do with the President’s daughter. There was no certainty the current treatment plan would work. It was imperative that he develop an alternate strategy to be implemented immediately if Maddy did not respond as planned. His dead eye flashed briefly with a bright white light. Of course, there was always the option of a lobotomy. Very regrettably, however, only about half the patients survived the procedure. He stood quite still in the hallway, thinking, when he remembered a report from a Scottish clinic that was practicing amputation techniques to deal with difficult cases. The therapy seemed to be helpful for a few. The theory was that psychoses segregated to certain body parts that fostered the abnormal mentational processes. Kotmeyer stroked his chin. It was radical, yes, but worth the effort if it could be curative. For just one moment, he had a vision of Maddy with only one arm, or perhaps even only one arm and one eye, smiling happily. Yes, he thought. It might be worth a try…

“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.”

It was every day of her life that Siobhan Healy reminded herself of what her grandmother used to say. Of course, it was usually said while hacking and coughing up great puddles of the most awful smelling, blood speckled golliers. Well, that was the life of a culchie in the old country. No use in cnawvshawling, and there was no time to be sitting by the fire sighing about a soft auld day in the spring, not when there was still work to be done. Siobhan learned the lessons of hard work at an early age, though she was fortunate in the end to escape the toil and trouble of the dirt farm that lay hard by Glengad. Sure, she had come far from herding sheep up and down the sparsely grassed slopes overlooking the stone houses that fronted Sruwaddacon Bay. Gawd, how mamo warned her every day to be careful climbing Dooncarton mountain! Siobhan had travelled far and wide enough by now to know that Dooncarton mountain was nothing more than a weather-beaten hill, barely tall enough to lay bare all of Kilcommon Parish from its peak.

It was easy enough to reminisce fondly about the old days, now that they were done and over, but Siobhan could remember well how hard it had been to escape. It was her love of music that saved her. That, and Father Daniel, an addled priest with the great misfortune to fall in love with a thirteen year old girl. And not any thirteen year old girl, but one who had the grim determination to kick the slop of Glengad behind her the first chance she could, whether it be a great life there or no. And so it went on from there, and here she was, traipsing the world over from Dublin to New York, and now two days out from Veracruz on a slow boat to Savannah.

She was curious to see the American South. Yes, she had been told much about it, and read much about it, and more recently been lectured sternly about it, as if it were a novel that needed to be digested and understood. Gawd, it was made out to be like something out of Arabian Nights, more exotic than the forests of Zanzibar, more cruel than the Gobi desert, more dangerous than the gorges of the Hindu Kush. So be it, Siobhan Healy would not be unnerved by anything she encountered. She was a fit woman, and educated too, and fully capable of handling the affairs of the modern world, grueling though they might be. Mr. Synge once told her that she reminded him of the fabulous Lady of Gearóid Iarla, and like the wife of the great Earl of ancient memory, she knew no fear.

If that was so, it was a gift given to her by her ma, so her mamo told her. Her mother was a great woman, a woman who gave her life for Ireland without a second’s hesitation, gave her life as freely as a lark might do, singing its song to the very moment the winter’s chill might come, and clasp its heart, and shatter it. So said mamo. Of course, mamo said many another thing as well, tottering around the little mountain hut they called a home. Just remember that all of life, everything you see and touch, is nothing but illusion, she would say, and the pain we feel is Jayzus’ reminder to us all that another day is coming. Father Daniel would utter the same tripe from time to time, along with other gammy blather, but then everyone knew he was off his nut and soft as shite. Even so, people in Kilcommon Parish gave inordinate regard to the little gingernut weed named Siobhan Healy as she grew up, out of respect for her mother. That memory would help her when her own day of judgement came, and all because of singing.

The joy of music was lodged within her breast from the day she first mewled her way into this world of sky and dirt. It percolated inside her, nurtured by the winds blowing off the upper bay, and the ceaseless, throaty churn of deep crested northern waves, and by the gentle sighing of her mamo’s voice crooning the nighttime lullaby. The soothing song words still lived within her, and just like then, the singing of them would settle the manky world with a downy blanket of healing comfort. By the time she was ten she was singing like a springtime mistle thrush to the contentment of anyone who would listen. Her early favorites were Mairie’s Wedding and Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye, and other ballads too, but Father Daniel soon enough announced plans to harness her to the work of the Church.

In later years, after many appearances in serious theater in both Ireland and England, she tried to recapture the secret of singing but could not do so. The voice was just not there, not the melody, the pitch, or the cadence. It seemed as if it had flown away, taken from her as surely as the first fruits of the harvest might be taken by the landlord. She made the mistake of attending mass one morning while in Dublin, in hopes of recapturing the spirit of the thing, but merely stepping into the nave of Christ Church made her feel as if she were coming down with a bad dose and sent her scurrying out. It made her angry to remember about Father Daniel, but it had to be said that one’s life was like a little trickle of water, and it didn’t always flow downhill in a straight line, now did it. In the end it was for the good, but only after the bad.

Mr. Synge asked her one day whether she could sing. It was during the time of rehearsals for Playboy. She was terrified to answer truthfully, and truthfully, she wasn’t sure. Finally she told him she couldn’t sing if Satan himself demanded it, and he let the business lie. In any case, and for various and sundry reasons, he kept her in the cast as Sara, and the little trickle of her life became a rivulet and then a brook and then a stream moving mighty fast. Playboy of the Western World was her introduction to the world of theater, and she never looked back. The plays and parts came thick and fast, and so did the money. Not too long after the money, so did the men.

Siobhan was raised in the Holy Church, and then left it for good reason, but she never lost her sense of decency. However, she decided early on that she would place herself in charge of defining that slithery word, even if this or that Lady Muck would not approve. And sure, Lady Mucks abounded. Well, it was her life, wasn’t it, and her privilege to pleasure herself as she saw fit. Not anyone would do, of course, to be a friend or lover. She approached the subject matter as an artist would, taking good measure of light and pitch, perspective and place, depth, story, and most importantly, the whimsy of the moment. And like an artist, she might throw the whole thing out if she didn’t like it, or pine over it if it turned into a masterpiece.

The only masterpiece in her life so far was Mr. Synge, the very one who of a fine dawning in the spring of her life asked Siobhan if she could sing a tune, while at the same time busying himself at nibbling on the nape of her neck. It couldn’t last with him very long, and she missed him still. Of course, opening night of Playboy would live with her forever, and sure, would be remembered and talked about for as long as actors played parts. The bloody stupid Irish shouted them down that night, shouted down an ingenious play by a genius of an Irishman, all because there was a hint, just a hint mind you, in maybe one or two lines, that Irish women dropped their knickers from time to time! Well, the Irish were already close enough to the saints above as it was. Walked among them, in fact. Lowering them down a peg or two towards the rest of humanity couldn’t hurt much, at least that’s what Mr. Synge said afterwards.

It was not surprising that there were many other disasters to live through, too. For one, the tall African who claimed to be an Ethiopian prince and wore an earring to bed as proof. It turned out he was no prince. And then, the Lord of Breaky Manor, who pronounced himself the most eligible bachelor in Connaught. His wife and children must have been surprised to hear that news. Siobhan gave out to him something fierce when she learned the truth.

The biggest catastrophe of all was Danny Breen, right hand man to Michael Collins himself, or so he claimed. He was quite a bucko, thickly mustachioed and slim around the middle, looking every bit the Keltic hero. Oh, and he was a chancer to boot, which only made him all the more exciting. In the need of the night he was fine enough in the doing of the deed, alright, but he suffered from a terminal illness that prevented him from ever shutting his gob. How he talked and talked, and it was usually the same pot of piss over and over again. Ireland, and Ireland, and justice, and then Ireland, and freedom, and the Tans, and the Auxies, and justice, and Ireland, and God bless the soul of Padraig Pearse, and pray the English rot in hell...after a while he began to sound like quite a holy joe, and Siobhan could take only so much o’that. He pridefully introduced her to all the boys, and sure, they made her feel like family, and they were nice enough, but a fair number were boozers, more interested in a plain pint at the local than blowing up IRC barracks, and O! Glori-o! they would then have one or two more to celebrate old Eire. And Gawd, wasn’t the IRA like the Catholic Church. It could smother a soul, and for anyone joining the cast it was almost impossible to drop out of the production without fear of the morrow.

It was already written into history that Ireland’s soft and tender breast was stuffed cock-a-pile with the souls of poets, saints, and fools, not necessarily in that order. What right did Mr. Breen have to preach to her about freedom? After all, had her mother not already paid the family’s debt to Ireland? Wasn’t it enough that Mary Healy was shot fetching guns to Stillorgan at the behest of none other than Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa? And why speak to Siobhan about justice? True justice would have been to string up Father Daniel by his knob for what he did, and tell the world about it too, and most especially inform everyone in the village. Doing so on the feast day of the Annunciation would have been utter justice.

There weren’t many young boys to sing choir in Glengan, maybe three or four. The priest had the notion to stand Siobhan next to the choir pews, on the nave side of the rickety prie-dieu. In that way she could join in the singing and chanting without appearing to be part of the choir. She was adept at learning the hymns and prayers of the Latin mass, and over time became the rock that braced the choir. After a year or so there was no longer any pretense, and when her voice was raised to sing the Dies irae there was no murmur of objection to be heard. Father Daniel insisted that she come to Church every Thursday after matins to practice the hymnal. Siobhan learned steadily, but chaffed at the rigid monotony that dictated her every tone and cadence. In turn, Father Daniel took to rapping her knuckles sharply for every deviation, using a short brass wand for the purpose.

No one could rap Siobhan’s knuckles to discipline her again, she could take pride in that for sure, just as she took pride in sweeping the memory of Danny Breen from her lap. One reason to come to Southern America was to get away from it all for a while, meet some new people and forget some old. It was a long and roundabout way to go; Dublin to Brest, Brest to New York, New York to Veracruz on a ‘Confederate Special’, Veracruz to Savannah, then on to Richmond to play Elizabeth in Barretts of Wimpole Street at the Byrd theater. A million miles seemed just about far enough to finally leave everything behind. Of course, she had not really left everything behind, now had she. The necessities of the times required her to bring some letters and packages from the boys of Sinn Fein in Dublin to the boys of Sinn Fein in New York, just a few items to stir the stew somewhat, and they were well appreciated.

And so the boys in New York practically tripped over themselves to show her a good time, and a good time she had indeed, most especially with a bantam rooster named Owney Madden. They were introduced at the Stork Club. He stuck out immediately as a quare bloke, mighty fine in the face and eyes and looking every inch the lost lad. She was pulled to him from the start, even though he was quite bolloxed the night they met, and played the part of a bouzzie with a perpetually unlit fag dripping from his lower lip. In the beginning he seemed more interested in getting into her drawers than anything else, but before long proved himself to be quite the gentleman, despite his reputation as a gangster. How he showed her around New York! The Cotton Club, Toots Shores, Macy’s, and Ebbett’s field were just some of the tasty morsels she was treated to during a frenetic, whirlwind tour of the sleepless city.

Siobhan was not a baby, but she was quite unprepared to believe that the boyo called ‘Killer Madden’ had ever actually killed anyone, at least not in the recent past. And it could not be overlooked that he had a gentle soul. He came to her room before her departure to Veracruz with a saintly smile on his lips and a locked valise in his hand. A very heavy one. He implored her to bring it to Savannah for him. It was to serve the cause of justice, he said, and by the way would help defray some of his expenses. Justice again! Gawd she was sick of it! Well, Owen was a sweet boy and she agreed, but she told him to lay off with any further talk like that. She would take it because they were friends, and for no other reason. He told her that being friends was fine with him and left behind a magnum of champagne.

Of course, being friends with anyone could still lead to a bloody awful day, now couldn’t it. Father Daniel would tell her, oh so many times, that he was her friend and wanted to see her march straight up the winding road of life. Looking back, he was probably a header and couldn’t stop himself, but that still made him the devil’s scum. It was a Thursday evening when it happened, a Thursday when no one else was there to practice from the hymnal. Father Daniel asked her to rehearse the Te Deum in her high clear voice, a triumphal prayer she could sing with her ears shut to the world, she knew it so well. Ordinarily, the prayer was sung standing, until right after the words ‘Te ergo quaesumus,‘ when the choir would kneel. Siobhan Healy decided on the spur of the moment she would not kneel. Like Dicey Reilly she felt an independent air that night, and would not do it, and there was no sense trying to understand why.

Father Daniel stopped her, the brass wand flashing in the dim candlelight. “Sit yourself down on your knees, for the love of Jayzus,” he said.

“No,” she answered simply, with a bounce of her red hair.

“Kneel, or you will get a kneeling you’ll not soon forget.”

Siobhan remembered that the wand waved with a brief, menacing arc, but still she did not obey. Outside, she could hear the drumbeat of a heavy lashing, and could almost feel the dense scatter of raindrops on the clustered lancet windows that lined the walls of the nave left and right. Inside, Christ on His cross loomed over the sanctuary, head lowered and subdued, legs bent in agony, watching silently from His perch up high. Siobhan at the time was a girl of only thirteen, and barely of the age of understanding, but Father Daniel cared naught for that, and laid a heavy hand upon her. When she cried he told her to shush, and that he secretly loved her, and that Jayzus loved her too for the sacrifice of her body.

It was stupid, really. Siobhan Healy had relations, many relations. Close cousins and further cousins and furthermost cousins. A word from her and the priest would be a dead man, to be fished out of the Shannon one day in the spring with his eyes eaten out and his member missing. Of course, her most important relation was mamo. She was a fine woman, mamo was, and with a fine mind cultivated to a knife-sharp edge by living all her life in a small village in Kilcommon Parish. After tending to the child’s immediate needs, she put Siobhan to bed and instructed her to say nothing to anyone.

“But mathair mhor, he hurt me badly, and I must have justice!”

“Hush, darlin’, you’ll have your justice, and the best kind too. Remember the old saying, ‘De reir a cheile a thogtar na caisleain.’ Be patient.”

It might be true that it takes time to build a castle, but in Siobhan’s case, not too long. After two weeks had passed, mamo had cousin Ryan drive her to Castlebar, where it was heard the bishop would be presiding over mass at the Church of the Holy Rosary. Apparently, a few minutes alone with the bishop in the venerable church presbytery resulted in a veritable miracle. The story was told triumphantly over dinner that night. His Grace, having heard news of Siobhan’s angelic voice, had decided to sponsor her for enrollment at the Royal Irish Academy of Music in Dublin! There was some additional news. Poor Father Daniel was to be transferred. Mamo understood it was to be to somewhere far away, to a place called - and here she enunciated the name very carefully, letter by letter - B-O-R-N-E-O. Gawd, it was told to her by Mr. Burke the schoolteacher that there were savages there who ate the flesh of men and refused to see the Christian light of day. Father Daniel was just the one to do the Lord’s work there, sad though it was to lose him.

As Siobhan stood on the promenade deck of the Aquarius, all of that seemed so long ago. Memory faded, though unevenly, like an old picture left too long on the windowsill. Siobhan told herself she could deal with the hurt, and told herself every day that it was a great life she was living. She reminded herself of that very fact as she stood at the boat railing watching the broad estuary of the Savannah River float by. The current was slow and the water muddy brown, just as she expected. The shoreline and surrounding oxbows were choked with rotting logs, wildly exuberant shrubbery, and the eerie forms of cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss, just as she had read about, and mangroves growing right out of the river, by Gawd. A sudden eruption of water near the boat revealed the squat, obtuse form of a manatee that rolled about slowly and contentedly. Siobhan felt far from home, and just a wee bit nostalgic. A brisk breeze sprang up, flirting with her hair and sighing a song, a quiet lullaby of great comfort to her when she was a child. She could hear the words rush forward and fade, like seawater flowing over pebbles, and just for that moment felt the loss of mamo, and gentle green mountain slopes, and John Synge, and deep glades with uncertain edges, and the brilliant smile of a mother she never knew. The words wavered indistinctly:

Over the mountain, over the sea

Back where my heart is longing to be

Oh, let the light that shines on me

Shine on the one I love

Well sure, the one she loved was still to be found, wasn’t he? She was only thirty eight, after all, and looked ten years younger. Siobhan took solace from that, straightened her back, and braced herself for the coming day. She would have a wonderful run at the Byrd Theater, become as famous as Maire O’Neil, then see Texas and some real Indians, and sail back to London rich as Croesus. Or maybe stop in New York on the way and visit with Mr. Madden and laugh at his silly smile. And it would be great. As great, or even greater than her first day at the Dublin Royal Academy of Music, where she was introduced to counterpoint theory, Oscar Wild’s The Ballad of Reading Gaol, and a corner boy named Kevin Mulcahy all on the same day. Ultimately, she grew to love Oscar Wild, grew to avoid Kevin Mulcahy, and grew to dislike counterpoint. Instead, like an abandoned waif drawn to the shelter of an orphanage, she found her way to the Abbey Theater, where she found the nourishment that would sustain her through all the days to come. And, with all petty pride aside, make quite a name for herself.

A steamy heat boiled down upon her as she descended from the ship onto the arrival pier, her first introduction to Southern climate. There were very few passengers, a few white faces here and there immersed in a sea of black workers. Two porters hustled her bags to the Customs booth where a ruddy faced man with whiskers that were much too long waited patiently. To her astonishment, Siobahn saw a gaggle of photographers waiting on the other side of the arrival gate. Her agent must have sent word about her impending tour. He had assured her they were starving for stars of stage and screen in the CSA. The need to fill the back pages was no different there than anywhere else. They jumped into a frenzy of activity, shouting, calling out her name, and snapping photos in rapid sequence. She waved back, giving the biggest smile she could. The Customs officer stood deferentially as she approached, tipped his hat, and quickly stamped her passport.

“Miss Healy, welcome to Georgia. No need for you to open your bags, Miss Healy, your reputation precedes you, ma’am. You’ll find nothing but southern hospitality here. I’m sure someone like yourself has everything in order.” The whiskers on his face didn’t seem so awful after all, as he gave a big, toothy smile that was nonetheless a bit too frothy.

Siobhan stopped briefly with the reporters to answer a few questions and offered a coquettish pose to the delight of the photographers, then breezed past the lot of them and out to the street. A man was waiting for her, as she was told to expect. He was a black man, somewhat older, thin but somehow athletic looking, with a full head of steely white hair. He wore a tan colored suit with a small cross of cloth pinned to the lapel. With calm assurance he opened the back door of a limousine for her.

“Miss Healy,” he announced with a prolonged drawl, as if to entertain her with the pure southreness of the moment, “This is Mr. Steele.”

“Oh good,” she answered, not knowing what else to say. Mr. Steele was the one that Owney Madden told her would be meeting her. He was an odd appearing fellow with jet black eyebrows that looked to be at war with one another under the brim of his hat, cris crossing every which way as if he were amused and angry at the same time.

He did not get out of the automobile as the driver and porters stacked her luggage in the trunk. He merely leaned over to whisper with a harsh and grinding sibilance. “Miss Healy, do you have a special package for me from New York?”

She pointed to the locked valise without a word.

He also did not say a word, but simply sat back in his seat. His eyebrows somehow seemed more content.

“Get in, Miss, if you will. I’ll drive you to your hotel.” It was the driver, smiling benignly as sweat poured from his brow. He appeared fatigued, almost washed out. Siobhan approved of him immediately. Her instincts told her he had to be a very nice person, despite his appalling status. Being a black man in the South of America must be an awful thing, she thought. Quite surprising that they don’t make more of an effort to improve their condition. They should do like the Irish did and stand up. This fellow looks beaten down, now doesn’t he. Even so, I suppose mamo would say it’s a great life nonetheless. Provided you don’t weaken.

Chapter 16

She was walking through the desert, ankle deep in burning sand. Not aimlessly, though, and not fleeing or following. Her feet were set on a straight line, with purpose, directed by an internal compass. On the far horizon a horizontal demi-moon was either setting or rising, its two horns describing a parabola that arced down to embrace the entire earth from pole to pole, creating a great blank space within its curve. Her eyes could see its ashen, bloodless form. Her tongue could taste the sandy grit penetrating through her lips and into her mouth. Her lungs could breathe in the deep, unremitting heat that radiated from every pore in the ground, burning her nose and throat. Her legs could barely endure aching fatigue as she forced herself forward, trudging over one scalloped dune after another. Her skin could feel the wetness on her neck and over her breasts and sense the warm rivulets of perspiration touching the small of her spine. Her ears could hear the whispering sounds of sand grains whisking by, driven by shallow gusts of rising warmth, singing to her in their native tongue.

In her mind’s eye she could imagine her journey’s end. Crowds would gather then around her, hailing her by name, congratulating her, wanting to greet her and touch her and hold her. And she, with the soft desert winds still rustling within her, would murmur tender words of remembrance to them, and touch their hands, and hold them in return. And they would love her, and she would love them also. And with each greeting and with each shout and murmur she would thrill with the zest of life, and feel the swell of life, and the flowing tug of life, and life would be gathered up from an uncaring world and given to her anew. All she had to do was intersect with the ending that belonged to her, that was coming towards her just as surely as she was moving towards it. She could see the scene so clearly, more clearly than any vision of the future could possibly be. It would all be there for her, all at the end of the journey.

Then, unwelcome rain began to fall. Violent rain, unremitting rain, rain enough to smother her, and make her gag, and cough, and choke, as if a soaking wet rag was being held down firmly on her face. Panic set in, and she began to scream. Not because she couldn’t breathe. No. Breathing was not that important in the order of things. It was because the journey was coming to a halt too soon, long before she could reach its end, and find those who were waiting for her, her loved ones. In the blink of an eye her dreams were about to dry up and die in a soaking rain, leaving behind the remnants of a god-forsaken life that was strewn like useless rubble on an unused road.

Madeleine startled into wakefulness. She was lying supine on a bed. Her body was completely exposed, as if awaiting the meticulous inspection of a coroner. A nurse leaned over Maddy, administering a thorough sponge bath, working down from the eyes and the bridge of the nose to the cheeks and chin and then to the neck and upper chest. The nurse scrubbed vigorously, rubbing, prodding and scouring, so that Maddy was forced to stay awake. It had been this way on and off for what seemed like eons now. Whenever Maddy attempted to complete her trek through the desert stillness, she would be called away from her passage, back to the little room she lay in, away from everything she hoped for. At times the interruptions occurred with a dizzying frequency, leaving her feeling dazed and disoriented, unable to discern dream from reality.

When the nurse saw that her patient had awakened, she scurried out of the room. In brief time, she returned with a doctor clad in a short white jacket. He looked very young, his youthful appearance only partially obscured by a patchy beard sprouting over his chin. He gazed at Maddy’s naked form deliberately, saying nothing at first, then sat on the edge of the bed next to her. Maddy made no attempt to cover herself, completely indifferent to the other’s presence.

“Miss Pickett?” His voice resonated with the timbre of a studied sonorousness. “How are you today?”

She said nothing in response. She turned to stare at the wall, and for the first time, realized the room was tiled completely in white, empty of all color. Sterile. Dead. This must be a dream, she thought. She held up her hand, matching it against the chalk-white wall. I should wake up from it and go back to the desert. My loved ones are waiting for me.

The nurse visibly twitched when Madeline turned her back to the doctor, then lurched to the bedside to cover her with a sheet. As she expertly tucked in the edges, she leaned forward near Maddy’s ear and whispered fiercely, “Answer the doctor!”

“That’s alright, nurse. Don’t you mind, Miss Pickett.” The doctor smiled amiably. “I know you’re still experiencing a great deal of pain. Emotional pain, that is. You are under no obligation to talk to me, of course. I would like to help you in any way I can, though.”

“Get out!” Madeleine hissed the words. “That’s how you can help me. Get out, go straight to hell, asshole, and take this she-wolf bitch with you! I can’t stand any of you!”

The doctor paused for the tirade to end, as if waiting for the reverberations of a mountain call to echo down before he continued. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug of his eyebrows. “In that case I’ll give Dr. Kotmeyer a call. He asked to be notified when you woke up. By the way, Captain Bledsoe is asking to come in. He’s been waiting to talk to you for some time now.”

Madeline shrugged in response as if it made no difference to her, even though she really wanted to bellow an imprecation in protest. Kotmeyer was bad enough, but Captain Bledsoe was without question the sorriest man she had ever seen, a big fat man with brown greasy hair hanging down to his shoulders, a nose like a turnip and a mouth that belonged on an oversized carp. To make matters worse he emitted a foul odor that waffled across the air as soon as he entered the room, reminding Maddy of a rotting pile of vegetables.

For his part, Captain Dwayne Bledsoe of the Georgia State Guard took a dim view of all politicians and anything attached to them. That included their families, who inevitably needed to be handled with kid gloves, and very especially this particular family member. The Chief Executive’s daughter was a willful, sallow, spoiled brat, a hellion with weirdly white hair, a surly attitude, a mouth like a sewer, and a coiled-spring temper. For all he could see, she was crazy to boot. But, he had been given the lead job of investigating the case of the mysteriously disappearing and reappearing presidential daughter, and the events that duly transpired immediately thereafter, so he was determined to unravel the truth.

Thus far, he had gotten nothing useful out of the young victim. Their half dozen interviews had been short, punctuated by a variety of moans, threats, jeers, curses, and sobs. In each instance Madeline had thrown him out of her room with protests that she was too weak, or too sad, or too anxious to continue. The Captain was no stranger to the varied and sundry techniques of evasion, and it was quite clear to him that Madeline was attempting to avoid his questions. This time would be different, though. He had already been given the high-sign by the doctor, a signal that it would be alright to begin his interrogation of this very charming and pleasant young lady. And Dwayne Bledsoe, Captain of the Georgia Guard, was chomping at the bit to do so. Just to prove the point, he carefully inserted a wad of chaw into the crevice between his gums and cheek and began to move his jaw up and down vigorously. An appropriate amount of drool began to form almost immediately around the margins of his lips. His determination thus fortified, he strode confidently into Madeleine Pickett’s sick room.

Captain Bledsoe was a big man. Naturally big since childhood, but made even bigger over the past few years by a regrettable degree of dietary excess. Time and weight had transformed him into a bulky, lumpy shadow of the muscular, athletic and lithe lieutenant who had entered the Guard a quarter century earlier. It was no surprise, therefore, that he failed to dodge the bedpan thrown at his head the moment he entered the room. Fortunately, he was able to get his arms up just in time to protect his face from being struck. The metal pan twanged harmlessly to the floor at his feet.

“Get out of my room and go stick your finger up your ass, you long haired skunk!” Maddy was sitting up in her bed, her face a waxen mask of anger. Her pale eyes tremored back and forth rapidly, as if seeking to acquire her target again for another attack.

Bledsoe straightened himself up, shook his hair away from his face, and carefully spewed a stream of tobacco juice into the fallen bedpan. “Thanks for the spit toilet, Miss Maddy.” He gave her a broad grin, baring an irregular set of brown teeth. “It’s only out of respect to your daddy that I don’t catch you up by that pretty hair of yours and swing you around the room a time or two, you sweet talking little lady.”

“Don’t mention my father! I hate the bastard, and I hate you too. Why can’t you all just leave me be?” Maddy’s voice, like an engine powering up, surged with a rumbling whine. She felt the familiar trembling of rage begin to build inside, tapping with a frantic urgency within her. At moments like this Dr. Kotmeyer had taught her to imagine something soothing, such as a quiet day at the lakeshore, bathing in the cool water and lolling on a picnic blanket while surrounded by friends. If they would only release me from my confinement in this so-called convalescent home I would be free to do just that, she thought. I could be on my own, without the Bledsoes and Kotmeyers of the world analyzing everything I say and do.

One of the nurses had informed her that she had been admitted into the sanatorium just over a week before, but she had no memory of it. Her razor edged recollections ended on the Saturday she decided to run away from Buckhead. Everything after that was erratic, or blurry, or turned backwards on itself.

She remembered Bobo. Bobo Fitzimmons was his name. And Cletis, and Wally, and the other one, the chubby one with the drooping mustache. At least she could remember his face. And the club, The Embassy, it was called. Oh yes, she remembered that, and she remembered they had such a very gay time together. Maddy allowed herself a smile. Are they still waiting at the club? she wondered. I hope they are. There is still time to meet them, and I don’t want to be late.

Escaping the Buckhead estate had been absurdly easy. The train station stood almost at the front gate of the plantation, and was meant for the exclusive use of the Ottleys and their guests and servants. Madeleine simply strolled onto the train, threw a two dollar bill at the conductor, and haughtily told him to keep the change. She got off at the end of the line, at Atlanta Center. She had no real plan. She simply wanted to walk alone, to be finally on her own, to explore without chaperone or guide. She had hardly stepped off the train when she met Bobo.

She was struck by the flash of earnest blue eyes, closely shorn red hair, and an engaging smile framed by dimpled cheeks. He wore the blue uniform of a porter, and without hesitation he approached closely to make himself heard over the clamorous hub bub that engulfed the station. Even so, his words were muffled and indistinct, something about helping with her bags.

Maddy had answered in a carefree, breezy manner. “Why, I’m free as a butterfly,” she had said, “And with just as much baggage.”

“Mighty surprised to see a beautiful young lady as yourself all alone,” was his response, or words very close to that.

Maddy was sure he had used the word ‘beautiful’ with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. From there one thing led to another. Bobo introduced himself, and offered to show her the best sites around town personally, if she were only to wait an hour or two. And if she would, would she mind to pass the time in the company of some sweet tea at a drug store across the street from the station, and they would meet there. She did just that, and by and by he was there, with faded plaid shirt, smelling of mint and tobacco.

And then came magic, the kind of magic it was said that could only be found in fairy tales and dreams. They walked and walked, and they laughed and laughed, and in the middle of the afternoon they sat under an arbor and shared an ice cream soda together, and sucked in the rich syrupy chocolate as if it were the very nectar of life, the vital nourishment that would keep them young forever.

Looking back, Maddy thought she could remember him asking who she was and where she came from, but she only laughed and waved her straw hat like a fan, and told him butterflies did not have names, and generally came from nowhere on their way to somewhere else.

Later, she was introduced to Cletis, and funny looking Wally. Later still, the chubby fellow with the drooping mustache picked them all up in a grand appearing blue Mercedes with an open top, and drove them to the Embassy. Madeleine could close her eyes and still hear the music playing. They called it jazz, a funny sounding name for the uptempo, raucous sounds generated by the four black men on the stage. One of them, the big bellied piano player, was sweating profusely and stopped frequently to swab his brow with a bright white handkerchief, but the music never stopped.

The chubby man with the drooping mustache ordered champagne for everyone, and asked Madeleine to dance a foxtrot. Everyone laughed when the intoxicating mixture of dance and drink left her unsteady on her feet. Following that, there were some long, voided spaces in her memory, punctuated by the remembrance of fleeting smiles and clever jokes, wonderful stories, and raised glasses. As Madeleine thought back to that night, she felt herself squinting at isolated memories that jutted up above the surface of her mind like icebergs, shining just like tinsel flashing in the sunlight.

One of them, maybe Cletis, proposed that they should go to the graveyard and kick over some headstones for fun, and bring the champagne with them. Maddy, surprising herself, said she would not go, that she was afraid of ghosts.

Bobo asked her, she remembered, “Why?”

She could not answer. Maybe because ghosts were both of the days before and of the days to come, and she wanted neither past nor future intruding into her day. She wanted no visions, no furies, no glimpses of a distant shore, and none of the inevitable tomorrows that were decreed long ago in times of yore. She wanted to live only in the moment that surrounded her, sitting in the Embassy Club, floating like a tiny mote within a brilliant beam of light, in perfect equilibrium with everything surrounding her.

It was Bobo who whispered words into her ear as he poured champagne into her glass. Graveyards at night were places of enchantment, he said, where the moon and stars run their silky fingers through the grass in uneven furrows of dappled light and dark, and where the groaning earth becomes at long last at peace with itself, and the seeds of wonderment and contentment could be found like jewels strewn in a pirate’s cave. And so she agreed, and so they went, parking in a little grove of gnarled cypress trees that bore witness to the splendor of the unlighted night.

And then, she remembered, they made love under the velvet canopy of darkened heaven, into the creaking small hours of earliest dawn. First with Bobo, then with angular Cletis and funny Wally. And perhaps with the other one, the one with the drooping moustache. On and on, under the thin and devilish smile of a reddish moon that rose at last above the nodding trees, as if the night would never end. And as she was touched, so she touched in return, clutching, embracing, unbreathing, senseless.

That was all. That was all, all until confusion and forgetfulness overwhelmed her, and she was exiled to some distant desert, to begin her endless tramp back home. That was all, all until the moment the ambulance opened its doors and she was lifted up into its belly like a burdensome beast.

She had refused to tell her story to anyone, especially the dreadful Georgia Captain who pestered her repeatedly. He continued to ask her questions as if he were too stupid to understand that it was none of his business, and that he could never understand any of it anyhow, and that magic and memory do not mix. He loomed over her now, tapping a notebook against his thigh, a moronic smirk on his face, a dull look in his eye.

“Well, Miss Maddy, do you want to tell me what happened during your little vacation in Atlanta?” He asked the question as if he couldn’t care less about the answer. “I got all day, y’know. Doc said it was alright for me to pester you some.” The smirk became an arrogant, irregular grin.

Maddy abruptly raised herself bolt upright, allowing the sheet to slide off her shoulders, falling dimpled to her waist. “Are you sure you want to stay?” She purred the words softly.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure.” Bledsoe answered without hesitation. His eyes did not waver from her face. “Now, s’ppose you tell me a thing or two about that night.”

“Since you insist, it was awful.”

“Awful in what way, ma’m?”

“First give me a cigarette. Even better, a drink. Bourbon would be nice.” Madeleine stretched out her hand imperiously.

Bledsoe shook his head, resigned to all the absurdities of human behavior that police work unveiled. He retrieved a small leather flask from his jacket, offered it in the direction of Maddy, then snatched it away just as she reached for it. “No, no. No, m’am. First talk, then drink.”

“You are not a gentleman.”

Bledsoe said nothing, merely folding his arms.

“You must not be angry with me, Captain, I’ve been through a terrible ordeal. And I am now quite alone, abandoned by everyone, including my own father.” Maddy paused, but saw no response. She lowered her head in contrition. “I hope our conversation will be closely held. You understand, confidential.”

“Yes, Miss Maddy, to the extent the law allows.” He handed over the flask. It was cherry brandy, and it seemed to do just fine. Madeleine took one long swallow, then another.

As she continued, she raised the sheet back over her shoulders. “I just wanted some time alone, that’s all. And it was so boring out in the country. I thought a day in the city would be fun, is all.”

“Did you meet anyone?”

“Oh yes, I did, a real charmer, what my father would call a scallywag. His name was Mr. Fitzimmons. Robert. A common porter at the train station.”

“And?” The Captain was writing furiously in his notebook.

“He seemed like a nice enough gentleman at first, although a bit below my class, and he offered to show me around town. Introduced me to his friends, Wally and Cletis. And another fellow, real quiet, with a drooping mustache.”

“And?” Bledsoe then observed something he had seen many times before. Madeline’s demeanor changed in a subtle way. Her face softened, her jaw dropped slightly, and she began to look directly at him. It was the look people gave when they were ready to speak the truth. He was able to sense it. It was a talent he had. He just knew it.

“He seemed nice, so I allowed him to escort me. Later on we went to a club, where he said I would enjoy the music. There was a band there, they said from West Texas. I was expecting some good negro music, you know, like blues. But they were playing something different, something scandalous. Mr. Fitzimmons said it was called Boogie music, and asked me to dance. Once I saw what the so called dancing was like, of course I refused. After a while I became very uncomfortable. The dancing seemed very...well, carnal, if you know what I mean. Wild and uncontrolled. Shocking, really.”

“This was the Embassy Club?”

“I think so...how did you know?”

“Plenty of people saw you there and identified you. You kinda stick out from the crowd, Miss Maddy, if you know what I mean.” Bledsoe curled his lip into a half smile, half sneer, enjoying the moment.

A long silence followed, uncomfortable to neither one of them. Madeleine lay back down in the bed, curled up on her side, and covered her head completely under the sheet. When she spoke again, it was a thin, tired voice that oozed out from the bedding. “We weren’t long there.”

“Anything unusual happen?”

“Not really.” The sheet did not move.

“Well, that surprises me some. Y’see, m’am, there was quite a little ruckus there that night. Thought you might have seen some of it.”

“What ruckus?”

“Some of the boys, you know, patrons, got quite a bit worked up it appears. Real agitated. The story I’m told is that there was a piano player there, a fine looking mulatto boy of twenty, twenty one. Owner is a gentleman from Louisiana who is specially partial to this boy, seeing as he’s a really talented piano player and so forth. The boy, a real heavy set boy, was sweating up a storm as he played, using his kerchief to wipe down the sweat so much the kerchief became no more than a wet rag. Now, it appears that he called out to the other boys in the band for a fresh kerchief. Called on the other boys, mind you. His kind. Then the most peculiar thing happened.”

Captain Bledsoe paused, unsure how his witness might respond. Human behavior was an oddity that could not be readily explained or predicted. Some people remained silent at all times, regardless of circumstances, facts, or station. Others wanted to talk, on and on, regardless of truth or accuracy. Still others hoped to mumble and stumble their way stupidly through any situation.

The form under the sheet did not move, but a voice again wandered out, almost lazily. “What?”

“Well don’t you know… A lady in the crowd came up to the stage and handed the boy her handkerchief. A white lady, that is. As I said before, quite a fuss broke out. The white gentlemen in the club did not take kindly to a nigger piano player taking a personal item like that, an intimate item, from a white lady. Of course, she shouldn’t have handed it to him. Almost seemed like she provoked the whole thing. Some people said it was you, m’am. You were the lady who started the fight.”

From the depths of her cocoon, Maddy let out a hoarse groan. “It was not me. Now please, leave me alone.”

“Come now, Miss Maddy, you must admit to some responsibility in this egregious matter. A riot broke out after that little exchange. You know what happened to that poor boy? They dragged him outside and hung him from a lamppost, right there in front of the Embassy. Hung him dead, and they messed with his body some, too. The whole city was thrown into the eye of a storm for four days after. Niggers didn’t take it quiet. Went rampaging all over town, several dozen killed, number of white folk also. Guard was called out of course, everything shut down. Buildings burned all over downtown, you can still smell the smoke. The money loss was appalling, looks like quite a few millions. To top it all, you were found lying on the ground unconscious, in an alley, not ten feet from a dead negro. Male, in his thirty’s. He was beaten up bad, skull crushed. Now, tell me true, weren’t you the one who began it all? Weren’t you the lady with the handkerchief?”

“No” Maddy answered with a barely audible whimper.

Bledsoe exploded in anger. “Weren’t you? Weren’t you the reason my city blew up, you stupid, privileged little bitch?”

The form lying in the bed suddenly began to twist and turn with a paroxysmal convulsion of movement, as if a contortionist was struggling to escape a set of hidden iron shackles. Madeleine abruptly sat up ramrod straight, emerging from the sheet as suddenly as an apparition raised from the grave. Her face was a colorless mask, set as rigidly as the whitest carved ivory. Her eyes nodded back and forth in a painful struggle to focus on the Captain. She stood up fully to face him, unclothed and uncaring. Her words were calm, spoken with a deep huskiness in her throat.

“No, I was not the one, because I was not there at the time. You see, Captain Bledsoe, I was escorted out of there much earlier by Mr. Fitzimmons and his friends. They were all so fine to me, so nice. I was taken to a deserted place where they said we would have some fun. A cemetery, I think. And then I was raped. Over and over, by all of them, all through the night, until I was dead. And then I was dumped in some back alley street until y’all found me, and brought me back to life. I suppose you were home sleeping while I was raped, Mr. Bledsoe, nice and warm with Mrs. Bledsoe. No police around at all while I screamed my lungs out, in fact. No, I was not your mystery lady, Captain. I was not the lady with the handkerchief. I was the lady weeping for help in the back seat of a Mercedes.”

Bledsoe felt almost paralyzed, made inert by Maddy’s revelation. There was nothing in the medical reports about a rape. He wasn’t sure she had even been checked for possible rape. His mind was struggling with her recollected words when a sliding, shuffling sound coming from behind caused him to whirl completely around.

“I think that’s enough for one day, Captain. Why don’t you leave my patient alone for now.” Dr. Kotmeyer stood a few feet away, looking forward with his one good eye, pointing resolutely to the doorway with his one good arm.

Pain. Pain unyielding. Pain searing. Pain unceasing. Pain over her arms, and chest, and head. Pain exploding in every sinew. Pain erupting over every muscle. Pain lancing through her eyes, causing her to see bright evanescent spots and billowing lines of light coursing towards her like combers at the shoreline. Eventually the pain subsided, leaving in its wake a harsh throb that pulsed with each beat of her heart. An hour went by, perhaps two, maybe longer. She was awake, but kept her eyes tightly shut to better see the shining display of stars winking on and off, or turning into streaking waves of incandescence. She almost felt that she should name them one by one...Orion, Venus, Haley...but they flickered alive and died too rapidly to be identified individually. Slowly, a thought burned into her awareness.

“Dr. Kotmeyer, why do I see wavy lines?” Maddy opened her eyes.

He was sitting by her side, not a foot away. “They are not real, Madeleine. They are figments, nothing more than exuberant surges of electrical activity emanating from the neural cells within your brain. They will resolve in a while.”

He had told her this before, after her other treatments. This was her fourth one. Electroshock therapy it was called, and each one had been excruciating. But somehow, after each one she had experienced a prolonged feeling of great calm.

“But, doctor, where do they come from?” The answer to that question was suddenly very important to Madeline.

“They come from nowhere. The neurons in your visual cortex begin to discharge, that’s all.” Kotmeyer answered with supreme equanimity, not in the least appearing disturbed by Maddy’s odd query. The thoughts she expressed probably reflected derivative manifestations of an internal conflict. She was, after all, very ill.

He doesn’t understand, she thought. That’s where everything comes from. My attacks. My memories. They come from wherever it is that the flashes and dots come from. She fondled a wire connected to one of the electrodes attached to her head. She did not want to give up quite yet.

“But I’ve never seen these wavy lines before, before the treatments. Never in the past.”

“And so?”

“How can my brain discharge something I’ve never seen?”

Poise and composure were critical to Kotmeyer’s therapeutic method. Nonetheless, he found his patient to be particularly annoying today. The empty sleeve of his jacket began to tremble ever so slightly, a spontaneous response of the injured muscles and nerves in his mangled arm that he could not control during moments of distress. “Please, Madeleine, do not concern yourself with such things. Think of it as imagination, nothing more or less. Pure imagination.”

The pain in her body was by now subsided into a dull soreness, mirroring the aching exhaustion in her mind. She could sense that the shock regimen was somehow helpful to her. All the bad feelings, the utter desolation, enveloping darkness, and absolute devastation were now pushed back, enclosed and walled off, but only momentarily. Soon enough they would seep back, oozing from below or dripping from above, drop by drop. In the end, darkness was the only natural condition, and any attempts to eliminate it were sure to fail.

“What if I described it to you?” She asked tentatively, not sure that she would get an answer.

“Described what, my dear?”

“How they look. The wavy lines, I mean. Would you understand? Would you be able to imagine them too? Could your imagination discharge the same way my imagination does? Aren’t your nerves different?”

Kotmeyer suddenly found himself agitated almost beyond endurance. Why was the patient asking questions, especially these kinds of questions? She ought to be in a twilight state of somnolence. His one functioning eye bored into Maddy, peering as if trying to see through her.

“Well, if it’s all imaginary, I don’t have to see what you see, do I? We can both imagine we see the same thing and move on. Hopefully, to a place where you can at last experience a feeling of calm and repose.”

“So if I see one thing and you see another thing we can just say we see the same thing?”

“We would call it the same thing, yes.”

“But you told me that whatever we see has to be attached to something to make it real, like a thing, like a carpet or a cloud or a comb. That’s why my visions aren’t real, you said”

Kotmeyer rubbed his brow in exasperation. “Well, you see, you can see whatever you want to see, and I can see it and we can say we see the same thing even though we don’t really know for sure. We can see the same thing differently. Now you should really rest.”

“But the wavy lines are real?”

“Yes. Real in your imagination.”

Maddy turned on her side to face Kotmeyer. She did in fact feel very calm, very much as if drugged and about to fall asleep. She closed her eyes, preparing to return to her journey across the desert sands. “I’m the one,” she murmured.

“Miss Pickett, honestly, I’m concerned you will need another treatment very shortly. You’re not making sense.” The psychiatrist felt a sudden thrill of anxiety. If this particular client did poorly his reputation would be in tatters.

“I’m the one they’re looking for. The lady with the handkerchief. The one who started the riots.” She opened one eye to see Kotmeyer’s expression before continuing. The world looked different when she looked through only one eye, as if seeing things that way made all the difference. He began to tug at the short shred of tallis that hung, exposed, from his shirtwaist. She had never seen him do that before.

“I was the one who handed the piano player my kerchief. He was so hot, and he was playing so well. I didn’t want it to end. Something told me not to do it, but it just happened in a second, really. I just wanted the music to go on. A man got up to shout at me, I think he was drunk, then others, and women began screaming. They were all very drunk, I’m quite sure. They charged up to the piano player and grabbed him by his head and shoulders and threw him down and began kicking him. I was so frightened, I ran away from there as fast as I could, out of the club, and kept running until I was completely lost. I think I sat down to cry, or maybe I fainted, I can’t remember. I was afraid to admit what happened. I told Captain Bledsoe that I was with some men I met, and a man named Bobo, and that they were my escorts, but that’s not true. I was alone. Completely alone.” Madeline let out a throaty sob. “I still am.”

The store’s front windows had all been broken and were now boarded over. Management had resorted to daubing the temporary wooden panels with small, mimeographed flyers, allowing the smeared, thin blue type to announce the various sales going on inside.

“Come in!” one urged. “Never has bedding been so easy to buy!” Evidently even that was not enough, as another proclaimed that “No respectable offer will be refused! You can sleep in easy luxury tonight!”

Despite the urging of the accumulated mass of advertisements plastering the display cases of the Samuels Brothers Department Store, no passersby were tempted to enter its spacious interior. There were no passersby to be tempted. All of Myrtle Street remained deserted as far as the eye could carry. The bank building just a few yards away, First Bank of Georgia, was still exuding a foul smelling smoky plume that trailed into the smoggy Atlanta sky. Other buildings along the street gave evidence of the recent three day downtown battle. Cartridges and brass shell fragments still littered the gutters, shiny debris baking in the broil of mid morning heat. And all was quiet, as quiet as if the last human had just picked up and moved on.

Promise Stone took it all in with a lackadaisical air, for all the world appearing indifferent to his surroundings. He veered towards the Samuels Brothers department store obliquely from across the street, and made his way along a side alley until he reached the loading dock at the rear of the store. Two black laborers were preparing to lift and carry a refrigerator into the store, one of a long line of refrigerators, ovens, sinks and stoves waiting to be moved. A middle aged white gentleman dressed in faded overalls sat in a rocking chair nearby, holding a clipboard in one hand and a Coca Cola in the other hand. Sweat was pouring hard from all of them.

Stone approached slowly, stopping deferentially ten feet away. The man in the rocker startled, as if he had been dozing, and took a few hard swallows before coughing and gagging up a sizable clump of filthy looking sputum that he spit out on the cement dock.

Stone did not give the man a chance to speak. “Hullo, suh. Excuse me, I’m lookin’ for Mr. Orkhum.”

The other stopped still to squint at the massive form of Promise Stone for a second or two before he resumed his rocking again. “Who the hell are you?”

“Sorry, suh. Name is Jethro Spratt. Major Levy told me to come here and that I was to be workin’ here. Didn’t say at what. Here is my papers.” He pulled out a crumpled envelope from his back pocket and offered it in the other’s direction.

Mr. Jones had given him the papers the night before, assuring him they looked genuine and would pass the closest inspection. Stone had been heavily drilled about his new identity, and was confident he could pull the whole business off. And if he couldn’t, and if he were to be found out, that didn’t bother him very much either. He wouldn’t go down alone.

Cassius Orkhum was unhappy about having his quiet morning interrupted. Old man Samuels had spoken to him earlier in the morning, and told him that a boy was coming over from a Major Levy, and that he was to be put to work on the loading dock for three dollars a day. Said that the Major was new in town, and might be joining the Samuels’ congregation, or temple, or whatever they called the old man’s strange looking house of worship. Said the Major had called him last night, and would be sending his boy around in the morning. Cassius wasn’t sure he wanted any more bodies around, though, and wasn’t at all pleased with the notion of breaking in a new hand.

He scrutinized the blue work forms handed over by Promise. “Major Levy is your owner?”

“He’s my owner, thassright.”

“Where you from?”

“We comin’ from Cuba.”

“No. You. Where you from? I wanna know about you.“

“They says I was born in Alabama. Birmingham. But hard to say. Suh.” Promise struggled to control himself. He was bothered by the man’s personal question. What did he care about Promise and where he came from? He was lying if he did say he cared.

Orkhum took an immediate dislike to the black man standing in front of him. Too big, and too powerful. Couldn’t be trusted, especially nowadays. “Where is your owner right now?”

“Dunno. Gave me directions to come here. Said he’d be staying at the ho-tel, and that I was to be your boy now.”

“Well...” The loading dock supervisor for Samuels Brothers department store was unsure how to proceed. Maybe there was a way to get rid of this big, unwelcome buck. “Tell you what. I’ll keep you if you can show me that you can do the work.”

“Yassir.”

“See those refrigerator units? They all need to go up to the second floor. Staircase is to your right.”

Promise glanced over at the two dockworkers, who were struggling to move one of the appliances with great effort, pushing it slowly into the building on a cart. About ten or twelve units remained. Without another word Promise jumped onto the dock, secured a length of rope, and wrapped it around the nearest refrigerator. With a quick tug, he used the rope to help hoist it onto his back and made his way steadily into the doorway.

As he disappeared into the building, Orkhum shouted after him, “Alright, you’re on. Three bucks a day, you pay for your own meals. Sleep in the warehouse, the other two will show you.” Godalmighty, he thought. He’s a find. I just hope he doesn’t tear us all apart one day.

In the early afternoon, Promise had a chance to rest from the bone breaking work of heavy lifting for a few minutes, while Orkhum wandered into the bowels of the giant store. This was apparently his normal routine at about this hour, as Tom and Tim, the two loading dock laborers, promptly knocked off work. They were twins, almost identical in facial appearance, but very different in form. Tim was tall, broad across the chest and shoulders, and with thick, strong forearms. Tom was no more than five feet tall, with a wiry frame and thin, angular arms. His left arm didn’t seem to work too well, and a perpetual, stupid appearing grin was pasted to his face.

The two brothers were sitting on the ground in the shade, huddled in a corner of the loading dock, laying out a meal of cold corn dodgers and fried fatback as Stone returned from making the last refrigerator haul. A bucket of water was perched on a stool nearby.

Promise felt a stab of hunger gnawing inside, made even stronger by the intense heat of the day. The smell of pork grease began to overwhelm him. It seemed like an easy opportunity to see about some food. He could hear the two men talking together as he approached, but what they were saying made no sense. They continued speaking gibberish, oblivious to Stone, who stopped just a few feet away.

He picked up fragments of their conversation, hearing words that sounded as if they should be familiar but were somehow unintelligible. To his complete astonishment, the two men finished serving out their food neatly on some well worn napkins, brushed a few crumbs from their laps, and got on their knees. Very deliberately, they clasped their hands and began to pray:

De Lawd, ‘E duh my sheppud

Uh een gwoi’ want

E meck fuh lay down een dem gween passuh

E Kha me deh side dah stagnant wahtuh

E sto’ muh soul -

With a powerful kick into the small of the back Promise sent the nearest one, the small one, sprawling with a yelp.

“What the hell are you two sayin’?” He growled out the words menacingly.

“That’s how we talk, you son of satan.” The other one, Tim, clambered onto to his feet, balancing himself carefully in a semi croutch. He was bigger than average, and thickly set, but did not measure up to Stone’s sheer mass. “Geetchee. But that’s just for us. We talk your way too. Why did you kick my brother?”

Promise ignored the question, glared at both men, then reached down and snatched a piece of pork fat. “Was you prayin?”

Tom staggered to a stand, holding his back in pain. “Yes, we prays. We prays against the evils of the world....” He hesitated. “Like you.” The grin had not left his face.

The fried pork was pleasantly tender but had a mildly rancid taste. Stone hunched down to sample a corn dodger as well. He had no interest in striking up a friendship with the two brothers, but they were odd enough, and intrigued him. “Why?” He grinned at Tom. “Why pray? Ain’t no one gonna listen. Where you two from?”

“Beaufort County. You know Port Royal?”

“Shit no.” He regarded them both carefully as he chewed a crunchy corn dodger. “You rented or contract?”

“Rented, I guess.”

“So you got no money of your own?”

“No, why should we?” Tom cut into the conversation aggressively. “The Lord had no money. Money is the root of all evil.” He hesitated the barest moment then pushed his chest out. “Money fertilizes the work of the devil, that’s what.”

Stone chuckled. “That what they taught you in Beaufort County? Dumb trash like you is what’s keeping us all down. Let me tell you somethin’. Money is the root of a full stomach, that’s what, and decent clothes, and boots with no holes in ‘em. Money’s not evil. It’s the ones that got the money that’s evil. And you already know who they are.”

Tim shot a glance at his brother and mouthed something. The other shrugged and whispered back “twis’up unmanussuble buckrahnigga”.

Stone shot to his feet, clenching the paw of his right hand into an enormous fist. “What did you say? If you’re talkin’ about me I’ll lay you both out.”

“Calm down, brother.” Tim put both arms out in a gesture of appeasement. “We’re just sayin’ that you’ve been beaten down some. You need to get right with the Lord, pull yourself back up, let yourself be free.”

Stone stood to his full height, reared his head back and bellowed out an enormous laughing cackle. Finally, he knew who these two were. He had met them before, many times in his travels. Turn the other cheek. The Day o’ Jubilee is comin’. Jesus will save you. The wheat will be thrashed on the Day o’ Judgement. Stone understood what they were all about. These were dead people talkin’. Dead to the world around them. Dead to the crimes committed against them. Dead to Promise Stone. He stopped laughing just long enough to shake his head, half in wonderment and half in anger. Dead and they didn’t know it.

At one end of the loading dock Stone caught site of a narrow, recessed metal door. He ambled over leisurely and tried the knob gingerly, shaking it slightly.

“Hey, leave that alone. You can’t be touchin’ that.” It was Tom, looking slightly stooped over but still grinning.

“What is it?”

“Door to upstairs. That’s WSB. Radio station. We’re not allowed up there.”

“Okay.” Promise decided to grin in return, happy to move onto another subject, giving only the briefest look at the locked metal door. “Okay. When you ready let’s get back on the job. You know, my brothe’s, idle hands make for devil’s work.”

“Amen,” Tom answered, grinning amiably.

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Chapter 17

Energy. Charge. Velocity.

Guilt. Remorse. Redemption.

Mass. Dimension. Inertia.

Thought. Wisdom. Divinity.

They are interwoven, these all, all interchangeable and all necessary. They converge through different strands of perception, entangled beyond any meaning made possible by the ritual of words. From these, the world around emerges, ill formed, ill seen, ill felt, all image, all real.

But is it all?

Come down. Go back across the valley. Retrace every step. Command a baton of light to sweep over an infinite compass, seeking backwards until it encounters a random past. Shadows form, congeal, and fold into the being of a young mother nursing an infant in the shade of an ancient palm tree.

She is there, perfect in form, intact down to the last atom of her existence. The muscles around her mouth quiver upwards into a tentative smile as her pupils constrict into focus on the babe at her breast. Her heart beats, her lungs breathe. Everything about her, every movement, every chemical reaction, every molecular arrangement, is perfectly restored. But is the adoration she once bore also there? Can love be made to reappear, as if it floats like a senseless, pervasive vapor, ready to be breathed gently into an empty shell of form and substance? Or has love evaporated, spun off like an atom in decay, dismissed from the chorus of time and now merely dissolved, like a mud print in a fretful rain? Can love be measured or is it illusory? Does it matter?

Crossing from Germany into Czechoslovakia became a nightmare.

Osler had met with Jona and Alex in a safehouse apartment in the middle hours of the night before they fled Berlin. His sources had given reassurances that the Sipo and Gestapo might have no knowledge of Jona’s presence at Bloomberg’s house the night of the shooting. However, there could be no certainty. Wittenauer might have somehow tipped them off beforehand, or there might yet be another mole in their group, someone as yet unknown. So, it was best to travel with what Osler called ‘improved papers’. He handed over a well-thumbed American passport with the picture of a sandy haired man who wore thick glasses and a neatly trimmed beard. It looked perfect, quite authentic down to the border stamps from Denmark and Belgium.

“You are Doctor Harrold Teig from Spokane, Washington. Don’t worry about the beard, you are fine as you are. They may ask some questions at the border. For example, they may ask you the name of your favorite restaurant or theater in Spokane. Don’t be alarmed, it’s just to shake you. Say anything reasonable but remember what you say. Once you cross into Czechoslovakia you can go wherever you like. I suggest the USA Embassy. Get home as soon as you can.” Osler put his outstretched hand on Jona’s forehead, as if to give absolution. “My dear Dr. Lieb, you can take your chances here by remaining, or you can flee. It is your choice, but I recommend you flee. Your country and Germany are not on good terms right now, and will never be as long as Nazis are in power. If you are apprehended, the gorillas that run the asylum might choose to make an example of you. However, your new identity is very thin. If they should stop you on the train, or at the border begin to confront you, or especially lead you off the train for any reason, any reason at all, even the most plausible, in that case say nothing. Nothing at all. I will do what I can for you.” Osler’s thin smile was cold comfort.

Alex was to travel as Hemmerich Czwizckowinik, an architect from Graz. They travelled on the same train, but in different cars. Jona could not understand the logic of this precaution. Surely, if one of them were apprehended, then the other would be found out. He did not like the idea of taking the most dangerous journey of his life alone, possibly cut off from Alex at a crucial moment.

The train was impeccably clean and the ride was smooth. However, Jona was on edge, unable to calm himself. He forced himself to sit quietly and stare out the window, which revealed nothing other than blackness. He closed his eyes and soon had a terrible vision; Marielle lay stretched out on a bed, dying. She called out his name as he checked her in a frenzy. ‘I’m sorry, madame, but you have only two hours and fifteen minutes to live. That will be twenty dollars, thank you.’ He found himself saying this with complete confidence and without emotion. The vision terrified him. Could it possibly be true, a foretaste of what was to come? He opened his eyes in a sweat. He forced himself to remember her as she was, vibrant with life and exuding the lure of enchantment.

Drenched in dread and sweat, Jona sat motionless. Abruptly, it occurred to him that he had never finished his letter to Churchill. I’m glad I didn’t post that nonsense to him, he thought. I understand his worry. Now I know enough to tell the real truth. The cabin car offered several generic postcards extolling the beauty of the Fatherland. With shaking fingers, he withdrew a pen from his jacket and began to write:

Churchill:

I am on a train escaping Germany. I am escaping insanity wrapped in hatred immersed in ignorance. Above all, I am escaping a vortex that I fear will engulf the world soon enough, as soon as the monsters in charge have forged the power to bend everyone to their will. The people I have met are beyond reason. They have all been infected with a powerful pathogen that has destroyed their humanity. When we met you were concerned about Hitler and his apparatus. It’s not just him, however. Almost everyone here, with the exception of a few heroes, has been touched by this affliction, and there is no going back for them, for their country, for the world. As for me, I don’t give a shit. Actually, I do: I’m going to find my girl in Moscow and then get as far away as possible. Good luck.

Lieb

Jona held up the postcard and grimly re-read what he had written, then flipped it over. The face was divided in four parts, each with a picture depicting a different part of the German countryside, from deep forests to towering alps to gentle sloping farms to serenely flowing rivers. In his eyes, the harmonious images blended into a landscape of terror and agony. Without further thought he stuffed the postcard into an inner coat pocket.

Between Dresden and the final stop at the border crossing into Czechoslovakia, Lieb became increasingly anxious. Even though he had been told to stay strictly in his own compartment and do nothing to attract attention to himself, Jona found himself wandering through the club and dining cars in hopes of spotting Alex.

Just as he started to feel foolish about seeking out Goldstein against explicit instructions, Jona glimpsed a man who was staring at him. At first he could not be certain, but after sneaking a quick look twice more while pretending to search for the lavatory, it was clear that the portly man in the gray tweed coat sitting in a corner table of the club car was observing his every move. Instantly, Jona’s heart began to pound in his chest like a sledgehammer, making him feel that his head was about to explode. A searing, numbing pain shot up the back of his leg, causing him to jerk and stumble backwards spasmodically, and in a flash he fell clumsily to the floor.

Briefly, everything turned gray. A woman’s short, shrill cry pierced his awareness, and Jona felt hands under his shoulders, helping to lift him. As he regained focus, Lieb found himself being supported by the portly man who had been observing him. Jona gave a feeble attempt at extricating himself by pushing away and turning towards the car door. He muttered a rough sounding “Thank you,” as he moved towards the exit.

The small crowd that gathered drifted away, but the portly man remained at Jona’s side. “Sind sie Amerikaner? You are American?” His accent was thick and nasal.

“Yes. No. I mean, yes.”

The other grabbed him by the lapel and would not relinquish his hold on Jona. “You are American. Listen, please. Fuck Hitler, yes?” He hissed the words with a deep exhalation.

“No! No!” Jona felt a surge of panic begin to overwhelm him, and despite the radiating pain in his leg and back he began to backpedal rapidly, breaking the man’s grip. Lieb opened the door to the next wagon and slammed it shut as he passed through, hurrying as if his life depended on it. The portly man in the tweed suit stayed where he was, pressing his face to the window in a crazed manner. He seemed to be mouthing the words “Listen, please. Fuck Hitler,” over and over.

Hours later, halted at the Czech frontier, Jona had still not regained his composure. He felt almost paralyzed, both physically and emotionally, cursing himself repeatedly for his stupidity. It seemed obvious that the man who accosted him was a planted spy, someone who ensnared unwitting passengers with provocative, treasonous talk. Something about Lieb had attracted the man’s attention, a fact which could only imply terrifying consequences. When two German border agents came by to collect Jona’s passport, he pretended to be half asleep in order to avoid any conversation with them. Osler had been correct. It was best not to talk to anyone unless absolutely necessary.

Jona allowed the predawn darkness to settle over him, quieting him, allowing him to prepare for the next stage in his journey. This was the time of day he usually loved most. It was a time of softness before the hardness of the day to come, a time to indulge in useless thoughts and deep yearnings. As he peered out his window he could see nothing through the unlit gloom of the railroad siding. All was quiet. No clash of boots, no shouted alarms. All was well. He began to dream of Marielle and her milky white legs. Finally, he began to relax.

A scream quavered through the silence. Another. In the corridor outside his compartment Lieb heard the sounds of scuffling and groaning. Without thinking, he quickly opened the door. Three uniformed police were dragging a man down the aisle. He was struggling, trying to dig his feet into the floor, gasping for breath. A thin trickle of blood coursed down his forehead.

It was the portly man in the gray suit. Other passengers had opened their doors as well, and all were staring, their heads protruding into the corridor like so many overripe melons hanging on a vine.

As the man was hauled onwards, he sighted Jona.

“Amerikaner!” he shrieked, “Help! Help! Bitte!”

Three other men were trailing the struggling group. Two were the border agents from earlier in the night. The third was dressed in a short brown suede jacket, bare of any insignia. He seemed very young. Without hesitation he approached Jona, extending his hand upwards peremptorily, indicating that Jona should not move. He snapped his fingers, and the border guard standing a step behind immediately produced the passport of Dr. Harrold Teig.

The portly man’s cries for help receded as he was taken off the train, then dissipated into a deadly silence. Blood buzzed through Jona’s temples so loudly that he could barely keep his head upright. With a supreme effort he kept his eyes fixed on the man in suede.

“So, Doctor Teig, you are leaving Germany so soon?”

Jona struggled to remember the date on his entry stamp. Three days earlier. “Yes, yes, I have to be on my way, on my way.”

The young man gave a pleasant smile. “Where are you going? Your final destination?”

Without hesitation, Jona blurted out, “To Moscow.”

“Really? An unusual destination, Herr Doctor. Are you perhaps a Bolshevik? Ha-ha, forgive my joke.” The plainclothes agent began to stroke the passport up and down with an alternating motion of his hand, as if it were a blade on a leather strop. He was not smiling. “Are you?”

Lieb cursed himself for his blunder. He should have said Budapest. His mind was unsettled, fuzzy, jumping from one thought to another. “No, no, not a Communist at all. Just a visitor. I want to inspect their medical system...it is far behind the U.S. And Germany. Even France. I want to see how they are coping with their primitive methods.” He struggled to keep his voice steady.

The agent’s voice hardened suddenly, and he thrust his chin out aggressively. “Why did that man speak to you just now? How do you know him?”

“I don’t. He approached me in the dining car last night. He spoke to me, quite uninvited. I think he’s crazy.”

“What did he say?”

Jona did not hesitate. “He said ‘Fuck Hitler, yes?’ at least twice.”

The agent settled back on his heels and motioned to the uniformed border officer, who began to write furiously on yellow foolscap.

“He seemed very angry,” Jona offered. “I think he wanted to see if I was...you know, with him. Crazy fellow, really.”

Without prelude, the official launched into a rapid, heated rant in German that Jona could not understand. As he shouted, he began to stroke the lapel of Jona’s jacket. He paused a moment, then continued in English. “That is fine wool, so smooth. Expensive, I’m sure, but of course you are a doctor.”

The man’s fingers strayed inside the lapel, almost stroking the pocket containing the postcard. Lieb staggered, panicked that he would be asked to produce the card for inspection. He felt his throat tighten, almost obstructing his breath. “I can, if you wish…” He began to stammer. “If you…you, you wish, I can open my bag for you. I have nothing to hide.”

The agent seemed satisfied with Lieb’s response, withdrew his hand, and began to return the passport. At the last second he snatched it back. “By coincidence, Dr. Teig, I know Spokane Washington quite well. I’ve been there. My uncle lives there, you see. Tell me, what is your favorite motion picture theater there?”

Jona managed to laugh softly, feeling a gush of relief. “Why, the Palisades Theater, of course. Best popcorn in the state.”

The man clicked his heels together and gave a half bow at the waist as he extended his hand with the passport, and in a heartbeat the agents were gone, leaving behind only the strident echoes of boot heels striking hardwood.

Later, when they had crossed the border into Czechoslovakia, Jona wondered what happened to the portly fellow in the gray tweed suit who was dragged away. The man was obviously insane for talking the way he did and was undoubtedly taken directly to a sanatorium. For the briefest moment, Osler’s warnings of Nazi plans for mass euthanasia flashed back to him. With eyes closed, Jona had a vision of the man’s face, flushed and plethoric, his body swinging from a gibbet even as he continued to mouth ‘Fuck Hitler’ over and over.

Their agreement had been to leave Hlavni Nadrazi station separately upon arrival in Prague, and meet at a restaurant on the corner of Rimská and Italská streets. As Jona’s taxi approached the intersection, he quickly spotted Goldstein’s massive form slouched against a lamp post in front of a dirty, decrepit looking storefront, smoking indifferently. Jona could not contain his joy and relief. Alex had arrived safely. Soon they would be together and on their way, and Marielle would be the prize waiting for him at the end of their quest.

Alex did not appear as happy to see Jona, however. His first words were a shock. “You should not go to Russia. Time to go home, Jona.”

“What do you mean?” Lieb could not hide his confusion. “We’re safe now. Out of Germany and away from the Sipo. We can go to Moscow.”

“Moscow not safe. Not to go there. Not to visit, bad schweinerei there right now. Scheize, you understand?”

“I don’t give a damn about visiting Moscow. I want to go to Marielle, and that’s where she happens to be.” Jona eyed Alex carefully. As usual, he could discern nothing in his new friend’s demeanor that gave any indication of alarm. “Why do you say it’s not safe?”

Alex shrugged his shoulders. “I learn. Come vit me.”

They entered the restaurant, deserted with the exception of an octogenarian sitting at a window table, smoking a drooping, antique calabash pipe and drinking beer from a pewter mug. The man’s hair was sheet white under a wide brimmed hat, but his flaring mustache retained streaks of fiery red and brown. He wore enormous, startlingly black sunglasses. His face was hard to discern because of his oversized hat and forbidding glasses, but seemed dark and had the lines and texture of beaten parchment, reminding Jona of a faded map.

Without hesitation, Alex sat at the man’s table and jerked his thumb towards Lieb. “This is him. Talk vit him in English,” he muttered.

The other paused in his puffing long enough to study Jona carefully from head to toe, as if inspecting a marble figurine or antique relic he was assessing for a bid at auction.

“Alex tells me you are a friend.” His spoken English was almost flawless.

“Yes. Alex is my friend.” Jona answered confidently.

“Then you should listen to him. Go home. Russia is dangerous right now.” The old man gave a thin smile when Jona did not respond. “You are going for a girl?”

“Yes. Not any girl. A girl I’m in love with.”

“Sometimes, men seek the love of a woman to forget her, not to remember her. Is that you?”

“No, definitely no. It cannot be otherwise.”

The man seemed to smile through the opaque lenses of his sunglasses. “Beware. They do this, the Russians. Every few years they kill some people. A hundred, sometimes. A thousand. A million. It makes them feel good, like they are making progress in the world.” The old man nodded contentedly and stroked his mustache. “Right now, they are killing people once again. Quite a few this time.”

Jona could feel Alex staring at him, waiting. “I don’t care about danger.” He blurted out the words without really thinking. “I’m going.”

The old man said something unintelligible to Alex in a low, purring voice. Then he turned to Jona. “That’s what Mr. Goldstein predicted, Doctor. But you will need papers. It’s not like the old days, when you could just go. You will need a letter of invitation from some official, or at least a vid.“

“What’s a vid?”

“Papers. For identification. If you stay very long you will also need residence papers, what they call propiska, and register with the local MVD. You know, the police. Goldstein, you can get these, yes? From our friend up north?”

Alex nodded quietly and got up from the table. Jona arose with him. Before leaving, though, he extended his hand. “Thank you for your help. I know you mean well, and I thank you for that. May I ask your name?”

The old man removed the pipe from his lips and began a giggling laugh as he shook Jona’s hand. “Do you read books, Doctor?”

“Yes, of course.”

The old man gave Jona a look of amusement. “Then call me Ishmael,” he intoned dramatically, and continued with his quiet, tittering laugh.

Out on the street, Alex launched ahead at a vigorous pace, striding along as if he were alone. Jona struggled but caught up with him at the corner crossing as they waited for traffic to clear.

Jona grasped his friend’s arm. “Hey, wait for me.”

Alex squinted forward, then gave a casual look all around and behind them, as if interested in the wood and brick buildings that made up the neighborhood. “Du understand, everything he said, true.”

“I understand. Who was that man, anyway?”

Alex managed to both smirk and grunt at the same time. “Father’s friend, vhat else. He know effryone, effryone know him.”

“But how? What kind of friend?”

“Vy you always want to know this things? Friend, that is all.” Alex could see that Jona was about to burst with more questions. “A writer. From Argentina. I think he’s crazy, but your father like him, help him vith money, and so he writes more crazy things. He is getting much vorse since starting to go blind. Everything vith him is a mystery, vorld is a mystery. If he write two sentences can mean five different things. Life, love, hate; all a mystery with no answers. And crazy.”

“Well isn’t it? Crazy?” Jona surprised himself by his sudden surge of anger. He clasped Alex’ arm tightly to keep from stumbling.

“Listen to me…” Alex whirled, grasping Jona by the shoulders to steady him. “I like you maybe, but you haff not suffered enough to be bitter. Me, yes. You, no. That man, also yes. If he say danger, you must listen.”

Ok, I’m not allowed to feel bitterness, I get it, Jona thought angrily. How much more do I need to bear. Tell me. A quick stumble and a helping arm by Alex allowed him a moment to compose himself. “He’s old. All old people are afraid.”

“Not old. Young. Wears disguise.” Goldman shot a quick glance at Jona out of the corner of his eye, a look a wolf might give before deciding on dinner. “Told you. Crazy.”

“Alright, I understand. But if it can be done, I want to do it. Now that my father’s dead, Marielle is the only thing left that matters to me. I should never have let her go, and now that I know where she is I have to find her. If it can be done, it’s something I must do.” Jona waited a long heartbeat. “Can it be done?”

Alex said nothing as they walked together, with Jona still clutching at his arm. When they reached the next corner, they stopped for an enormous lorry that crept by laboriously, coughing out a cloud of noxious, irritant fumes as it passed. Goldstein squatted down, ignoring the curious looks of other pedestrians, and pulled Lieb with him.

“The gas vill rise up. Less danger.”

When they stood up, Alex faced Jona squarely. “In the Var, and after, too, I learned some things about men. Most are cowverds, just like me. But I saw many men afraid who ver first to go up and over, and first to die.”

Jona had a flash of understanding. He hung his head, trying desperately to guess the right thing to say, but his mind was cluttered with Marielle’s face, and the sound of her sighs, and the softness of her neck. “I just want to see her, Alex. I won’t be at peace until I do.”

Goldstein laughed hugely, clapped Jona on the shoulder, and took off briskly. “OK, OK. Life is shit, anyway. You are crazy, but come, we go.”

Jona also laughed as he struggled to keep pace. “Hey, where are we going?”

Alex did not stop, keeping his head down as if imitating the bow of a ship surging through churning waters. “To Reval. Then Finland. Then Moscow. Then maybe hell.”

Emerald blue splashed with foam green filled a vast tableau that blurred into the horizon. Bright yellow-white light, channeled in narrow beams, poured through turbulent clouds of charcoal. Above, seagulls screeched their incessant cries of hunger, greeting, and warning. Jona was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. He had never felt so alive, glorying in the feel of cold ocean spray spitting at his face. The whole world, his world, had never seemed so clear before.

Ravel receded into the distance, now nothing more than a smudge of memory as the tired ferry struggled slowly into the Gulf of Finland. Actually, the small medieval city on the coast was now called Tallinn. Alex had discovered the name change, much to his astonishment, shortly after their arrival.

“Do you see dis?” He grumbled the words and pointed at the fresh placards that had been glued over every station sign. “They change a good German vord like Reval into Tallinn. Everything change after the var, everything from here to China different now.”

Goldstein’s words had triggered something inside Jona, a charge that touched him with an electric sense of wonder. Now, as the day descended into a late dusk, the words came back. Everything was different. Some unexplained sleight of hand had transformed him into an actor playing a new and unexpected role, spinning him in a direction he could never have imagined. He could have left Germany and gone home to New York. Somehow, the die had been cast in a different direction. He was on a boat bound for Helsinki instead. Who could imagine the chances of that? There was no magic here, and no logic either. Chance, improbable chance was setting his course in a world that was now unrecognizable.

Alex had warned him that the days would be long here, and the nights short. As Jona leaned out over the boat railing and stared, the sun dipped below an endless bank of clouds and then lingered motionless a finger’s breadth above the edge of the world. Only, Jona knew that nothing was motionless. The earth was spinning at a thousand miles an hour, and the stars were hurtling on their cosmic courses, and the little ferry was crawling towards its destination, and everything around him was moving towards some final, unknown ending. He felt his skin prickling at the thought of Marielle somewhere out there, on her own ferry, also moving inexorably closer and closer to the moment they would meet. It was destiny, after all.

Destiny was a word that came to mind frequently now. Perhaps it was because of Kohler, who had a way of phasing in and out of Jona’s memory. The old professor had told him that everything of importance in life was destiny. Art, music, love, death. Everything, he said…

It was back in Berlin, while they were both strolling over the University grounds. A thin looking fellow with narrow spectacles, an enormously wide brimmed leather hat and a furrowed brow sloped up to them as they walked. Kohler introduced them quickly, but Jona could not make out the name. It might have been something like Struderger, or possibly Schrubing, a physicist at the University. It was obvious that Kohler and Strudenter were not especially pleased to see each other.

Kohler was excited about attending the opera that evening and angled the conversation onto the subject of artistic genius, directing his comments at Struderger more than Lieb. He began with Bach, and in frenetic succession went on to Leonardo, and Sappho, and Shakespeare, and others who were much lesser. In an excited voice raised slightly too loud and pitched slightly too high he waxed on about the unknown artists who created a medieval work called the Bamburg Apocalypse, very smug in the knowledge that neither Lieb nor Schrubing knew what he was talking about.

“Everything is destined, Jona. It is sometimes said that great artists fulfill their destiny. It is almost as if the magnificent libretto or exquisite canvas already exists, simply waiting to be unveiled and embodied by the artist. You might call it transmutation. That’s what genius is. A cosmic, innate ability to receive the gift of art, and only a few are destined to do so.”

“That is too bold, professor. We have no proof such circumstances prevail. In the model you suggest the artist is devoured from without by some type of creative energy. We have no evidence such a force exists.” Strudinger spoke in a quick, nervous voice.

Kohler visibly hesitated, almost halting in his steps. “This gentleman, Dr. Lieb, has a unique perspective on the universe. It is all...” he snapped his finger, “but an act of chance. Correct, Herr Professor?”

Refracted by the thick lenses he wore, Struder’s eyes stretched enormously, engulfing his face and leaving almost no room for lips and nose. “One could see it that way, I suppose, but that way is false. A better way to see it is that any outcome can only be a probability. Measurable observation is needed to confirm any occurrence, after all.”

“Come now, I have heard you say that the physical world operates like a spin of the roulette wheel.”

Schtruder rolled his eyes in response. “You have once again broached a discussion just to provoke me, professor.” He turned to Jona. “The professor misquotes me, as usual. In ordinary language, the outcome of an event cannot be known with certainty if we must first make assumptions about the conditions preceding the event.”

To Jona, that sounded quite logical. It occurred to him that it was something his father would say.

“Really? Tell him about your so-called thought experiment, mein Herr.” Kohler gave signs of losing his temper, showing a streak of irritibility that Jona had never seen previously, breaking through the old professor’s wall of dignified equipoise.

Stroder squinted thoughtfully at Lieb. “Are you an art person also?”

“No, I am a physician.”

“Good, then you have scientific training. Have you heard of quantum physics? You know, the theory that allows us to explain atomic and subatomic phenomena.”

Jona blushed and dropped his jaw, thinking furiously. “No, I think I have not, I guess.”

Schruder paused a brief moment to stare at Jona, then continued on. “Well, you’ve heard the old conundrum about the tree falling in the forest, haven’t you?”

“Yes!” Lieb almost shouted his enthusiastic response. “Yes, I have! If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, then did it really fall?”

“Excellent. In quantum terms, the problem can be stated somewhat differently. There may be a probability the tree will fall. There may be a probability the tree will stand. While the dual probability exists, the tree is both standing and falling! Only when we observe the tree do we know which has occurred and register the event one way or the other. Only then is the event finalized.” The physicist stopped, grinning with satisfaction.

For several moments there was complete silence. Jona offered a weak response. “You mean it is standing or falling and we don’t know which until we observe the tree?”

“No! Completely incorrect. The tree is doing both simultaneously. The atoms and electrons composing the tree act along mathematical lines that define both possibilities. When we make an observation, we degrade one of the possibilities, leaving the other intact. Only then are the outcomes of the mathematical functions resolved. What do you think Herr Professor?”

Kohler raised his chin haughtily. “I think your science is insane. Michelangelo did not both create and uncreate the Pietá.”

“You may be right about that. But in creating his masterpiece he expended many thousands of muscular movements. And in turn that required millions of neural transmissions, and in turn billions of chemical releases. Ultimately, the science of atoms governed each of those events. Who knows, the Pietá might have looked like a dwarf embracing a dog if just a few of those chemical events had gone differently.”

Schtruder laughed at his own joke, while Kohler remained sullenly silent. After a moment Jona joined the physicist with a forced chuckle. Something occurred to him. “But that doesn’t really follow. Trees are composed of many billions of atoms. Like a gas administered by an anesthesiologist, let’s say. Even if individual atoms behaved in different ways, wouldn’t their preponderant activity make the tree stand or fall?”

Struderer gave Jona a sidelong glance. “True, I suppose, unless the effect of one electron, or proton, or photon for that matter, resulted in an irrevocable event. One particle that in some way decrees the fate of many. I haven’t quite come up with the right example to illustrate this as yet, but I will. I assure you, even one atom spinning in space one way or the other can change the course of the universe!”

“If it does,” Kohler intoned with gravity “Then it was destined to do so.”

“Alex?”

“Don’t bother now. Sleeping.”

“Who was the man we met in Prague, really?”

“Fuck yourself. Sleeping.”

The countryside was a dreary brown, surrounded by a thick matting of ancient looking trees clotted together in dense copses along the line of railroad tracks. The sky was no more than a ribbon of muddy gray above. The train taking them to Moscow was practically empty, adding to the feeling of disorientation that had plagued Jona since they entered Russia. A tired appearing provodnik in a tight fitting jacket had come by to collect their tickets, almost the only interaction Jona experienced with a Russian since they crossed the border from Finland. She had stopped to stare at Jona’s shoes suspiciously, but eventually punched his ticket and moved on without a word. Alex seemed different as well, withdrawing as if he had recoiled somewhere deep inside himself. He had been curt, almost churlish, when Jona peppered him with questions about where exactly they were going in Moscow, and how they were going to find Marielle.

Jona shook Alex with his elbow. “C’mon, talk to me.”

One eye opened and circled slowly, looking very much like the eye of a whale, perusing with an indifferent look. “What wrong? Little boy afraid?”

The train blacked out as they entered a tunnel, giving Jona a few seconds to answer. The dull light bulb in their cabin appeared brilliant in the darkness. “Alex, I know why I’m here. Why are you?”

Goldstein shifted upright and answered with a half grin. “First time I hear you say someting like almost you can look past your own nose.”

Jona said nothing, not sure whether he should grin or frown.

Alex settled back against the window, looking out blankly. “I am thinking of Elfieda. I am thinking of you. I am thinking of Moscow.” He smiled more broadly now, showing stained teeth set off against a rough black stubble of beard. “Look and see, my friend. Not all Germans so tough, so hard, eh?” He pulled out a cigarette for himself, not bothering to offer one to Jona.

“Who was the man in Prague?”

“Someone from long ago. Once a friend. Now acquaintance.” He paused. “Your fadder’s friend, I told you.”

Jona’s cheeks suddenly burned as if slapped. His father.... Was he dead? Jona had not thought about him in an eternity, as if a line had been crossed that walled off past from present. Memories came flooding back, all unasked for, some unwanted.

“You want to know, right?” Alex continued on evenly, staring out the window. “Don’t know real name, call him Bill. Or sometimes Ernesto. Real crazy man, sometime anarchist, sometime communist, sometime Catholic. After var was actor, also pick pocket. As organizer was for shit. Trouble with police every day. Then began to write. Your fadder liked him, gave him money to write, told him to leave Germany and go back to Argentina. He probably take heroine. And a queer, also.” Alex snapped a quick sidelong glance at Jona. “They lived together in Switzerland for a few months. Don’t think... nothing happen. You know, with your fadder and him, but I don’t know. But I think that is why he never was in army. Began to write books, make some money, meet some people. But he comes back here and there, stay in touch with Osler. Take money and things, bring money and things. Wear disguise because he’s crazy, thinks Nazis after him, or maybe the Reds. Or maybe the Pope, could be. He’s not the only one like that. Now days, many are crazy. Anything else you want?”

No, Jona thought, and then without thinking, why doesn’t he just go away? I’m sick of it all. What was he doing with this guy in Switzerland? Living together.

For a moment, he felt shaky and slightly disoriented. As the train rocked and vibrated, shuddering and screeching as it passed over an irregular or poorly laid rail, Jona felt himself more at ease. “No, don’t need to know anything else about any of that. Putting it behind me and don’t care. Just want to know what we do when we get to Moscow.”

Goldstein closed his eyes again, determined to sleep. “First, we find Elfieda. Then, we find Bloomberg.”

Jona sat straight up. “Bloomberg? The art dealer?”

“Yes. That is funny, Jona. Art dealer. You mean art stealer.”

Even with his eyes closed Alex managed to arch his eyebrows. “The little prick will be there somevwhere, I think I know vere. Osler tell me about that before we leave Berlin. He will be there in two, three days, and ve will find him. He vill help us.”

“Help us do what?”

Alex opened one eye again, sharply. The whale eye appeared annoyed. “I am back to sleep now.”

Goldstein’s last words were drowned out by the prolonged blast of a whistle as the train tugged its way under a canopy of dark boughs, pushing ever deeper into the vast Eurasian hinterland.

God, I need a lay. No one around I can ask.

Murphy took a sip of Seagrams from a small porcelain cup. The bottle was at his feet, now hovering at the half empty mark. Andrews was slumped on the wooden bench opposite him, eyes closed, chest moving almost imperceptibly up and down. Murphy studied him briefly. Fucking guy doesn’t even snore, he thought. He’s like a goddamn hibernating squirrel, or rabbit.

The two men were completely alone, two small fixtures in the silent fastness of Vainikkala Station. Murphy carefully set the cup between his knees. It was time to concoct a curse. No, that would not be enough. He set his mind to constructing a string of curses, a powerful stream of godawful imprecations, a cascade of blasphemous execrations, anathemas and maledictions, all directed at the miserable asshole who had instructed them to come to Russia by train. They could have gone by boat from Danzig or Oslo, or through Istanbul. No, no. They were assured by the Consul General in Warsaw that Danzig to Helsinki by ferry and then by train to goddamn Moscow was the easiest way to go. Now they were in cold storage, locked inside a dilapidated shithole of a station just outside the Russian frontier for the second consecutive day, hungry and sleepless, waiting for the fucking Finns to let them through.

And if they were allowed to cross the border, what then? The Heinies had told them confidently that Lieb was on his way to Moscow. That’s what their snitch told them. But Murphy was in no mood to believe anyone’s assurances any longer. As he poured another double finger breadth of whiskey into his cup, he quickly sized up the chances of finding Jona Lieb in the People’s Paradise as.... nil. From what he understood, even to try to find him they would have to enlist the aid of the secret police, an outfit called NKVD, or some shit like that, maybe VD for short. And the chances of that were... nil.

Murphy glanced at Andrews once again. He had decided not to despise his younger partner any longer. He couldn’t help that he was an arrogant, scheming, self-serving, manipulative prick. At this point it didn’t make any difference anyway. Just like drinking made no difference anymore. In fact, nothing made any difference anymore. He could shit in his pants and wail like the day he was born, and it wouldn’t matter. Both men were screwed, whether they found the fine, trustworthy young Dr. Lieb or not. For all Murphy knew, it might be Leavenworth for both him and Andrews, thrown in jail together as punishment for their negligence. It was almost too much to hope that Lieb would return with them even if they did manage to track him down. Murphy shook his head, still in shocked disbelief about Jona. It turned out he had been a closet Commie after all. And I didn’t think he could believe in any kinda shit for real, he thought ruefully. He pounded a fist into his leg absentmindedly. Now that I know, I hope I get just one more shot at him. Get to say hello and goodbye my way.

Maybe because of the alcohol, maybe because of fatigue, Maggie’s body flashed into his mind. And then, unbidden, little Lukie’s face appeared before him. These were images he would not allow himself to harbor under ordinary circumstances, but he had never been able to completely cast out those particular demons. Like thieves lurking in the middle night, they probed at him in his unguarded moments, most easily when he was in the depths of drink.

Getting drunk did not open Murphy’s mind and memory. Instead, his thoughts narrowed, constrained into erratic, herky jerky corridors of past experience and emotion. He never actually dreamed about Lukie and Maggie. They came to him only as random images, as if he were rummaging through a stack of photos, nothing more than still and silent caricatures of two beings from a previous life, black and white tones bereft of any solidity. They were less even than wraiths or spirits, appearing more like abstract pencil tracings without content, something a primitive artist might scribble.

“Don’t you believe in love, Joey?” Maggie would say that a thousand times, sometimes pleading, sometimes demanding. He had never lied to her. He had married her because he didn’t want his son to be a bastard. He had married her because her brother had threatened to shoot him dead. He had married her because of the fifteen dollars a week she brought home from the shop. But not because he loved her, no matter how often she swore that she loved him. Anyway, he knew she didn’t love him the way she said. She needed him for some crazy, obscure, random reason. He was something she imagined, something invented, a fantasy derived from her own private world of dreams and desires.

She was peculiar in another way. He could not abide her constant exhortations about sin, and heaven, and hell. She regularly took confession just in order to recite novenas that would clear the decks for more sinning. And one thing about Maggie that everyone knew: she was no stranger to sinning. The church was like a complicated but well oiled machine, churning out entertainment and salvation on a mass scale for any sucker that put a nickel in the designated slot, and Maggie dutifully inserted her nickel over and over, Sunday after Sunday.

There was no way that Murphy would go to Mass with her, no matter how earnestly she made her plea. Mass was something unreal and notional, unconnected to the everyday struggle of the real world. Father Caroll’s had cured him of any further interest in sitting still for an hour of mumbo jumbo so that he could save his soul. If Maggie’s religion gave her some kind of satisfaction, then good for her - as long as he did not have to hear a word about it. Murphy had no particular argument for or against God. He had been through those arguments at Father Caroll’s. There might be a heaven, there might be a hell, but he would deal with either one when the time came, and he arrived at either one. Assuming, of course, that he didn’t just go pfft when the end came. In the meantime, he could not stand her preaching.

His brief married life with Maggie had driven him insane, transforming him into a heartless, unfeeling creature who cared only about himself. He scuttled around the confines of what he called a life like a dung beetle, with emphasis on the word dung. He believed he could drink himself sober, and tried to do so as often as he could. Even little Luke’s birth did nothing to bind him to a familial commitment. There was no love. No sin. No salvation. There was always, and only, tonight.

And so there was never any guilt about going out for a few drinks at Leroy’s, or prowling South End alleys after a Saturday binge just to see what the night might bring. His life belonged to him alone, and he was intent on living out the final act on his own terms and in his own way. His friends thought he was nuts. He certainly acted like he was crazy, most times. Drink, sex, and delirium tumbled each into the other, one day after the next, and he lived as if the good times would have no end. And if they did have an end, it wouldn’t matter anyhow, because for him that would be the end.

The end for Maggie and little Lukie was not his fault. The cops told him that to his face, even though they said it as if he were a small wad of dirt, no more than a speck of scum taking up unnecessary space on a smear of shit. It was determined that the fire that killed them began in the basement boiler room. The flames spread rapidly through the ancient tenement building, engulfing six or seven victims, including Murphy’s wife and son.

Murphy himself somehow managed to escape. He had come home drunk, stopping in the alley beside the apartment building just long enough to vomit up most of that night’s beer and whiskey. He had gotten into a fight earlier, a vicious street brawl with two drunk Micks outside of Corcoran’s. One wielded a heavy chain, leaving Murphy with a long, red-blue welt along the side of his face. He had no memory of staggering up to his bed before collapsing. When the flames began to lap the walls of his bedroom he was somehow able to sense the heat and make his escape, mostly because the wound on his cheek awakened him with a burning sensation. The firemen found Luke and Maggie crumpled in a corner, their bodies smoking.

The fire chief was alright with Murphy, offering what little comfort he could. The police detective was not so forgiving. He wanted to know why a father and a husband had made no effort to save a child and a wife. Also, he was particularly interested in the angry wound on Murphy’s forehead and cheek. It seemed that someone had been found in the gutter outside a bar called Corcoran’s, dead of a stab wound. A weighty, forged steel chain was found under his body, with links about as wide as the roadmap that was raised on Murphy’s face. Murphy, for his part, could remember almost nothing after leaving Corcoran’s, except for the part about vomiting in the alley. Fortunately, he had many friends. Eyewitnesses placed him at a grimy little neighborhood bar called Leroy’s that night, just as surely as the Pope could be placed in Rome.

Maggie’s brother was still out there, though, and that would be a big headache, maybe a permanent headache. Getting out of town somehow, someway, seemed wise. By the next afternoon, after a cup of coffee and two aspirin, enlisting in the military began to shape up like a very good idea to Murphy. He didn’t want to wait around for the funeral two days later, figuring that attending his wife and son’s burial might lead very shortly to his own.

The Marine and Navy recruiters shared a small office in downtown Chicago, a storefront right on Ohio. He approached the Navy recruiter first, who stared him up and down, took note of the chain imprint on his face, and asked whether his parents were married. When Murphy answered honestly that he didn’t think so, the Warrant Officer jerked his thumb towards the thickset Marine sergeant at the next desk.

“Go to them,” he said, “They’ll take anybody.”

And so they did. Murphy enlisted at nineteen, feeling somewhat older but acting somewhat younger. He adapted to life as a grunt quickly and easily, even through boot camp. Once he learned how to square his rack, when to say ‘Aye sir!’ and when to say ‘Yes sir!’ and how to break down his ’03 while blindfolded, life eased up for him. The next seven years seemed like the best of his life, despite the coming of the war. Still the best, he thought, as he took another hard swallow of whiskey. Maggie and baby Lukie were left behind him, nothing more than two empty husks scattered by the winds of time and distance.

But never too far.

Murphy began to sense the first warning signs of disorientation. He found himself blinking hard to maintain his focus, and his thoughts began to circle each other over and over, careening through a foggy soup of memories. He didn’t see any point in trying to keep a grip, though. No need for that any longer. No, Maggie, I don’t believe in love, he whispered.

A loud clacking noise startled Murphy. Looking over his shoulder he saw a tall thin man in blue uniform approaching them over the stone and concrete floor of the cavernous departure hall. He carried a manila folder at his waist with one hand, and rested his other hand on the grip of his sidearm. As he briskly approached the American agents it was not clear which hand he was preparing to deploy.

The agent did not speak English, but did speak French. Murphy kicked Andrews awake and observed as his partner entered into a smart dialogue with the Finn. They spoke rapidly, but the word “Non” said over and over could be discerned without difficulty, uttered by both men with varying degrees of emphasis.

“O.K.” Andrews broke off with the agent to speak to Murphy. “They are willing to play ball. And wait till I tell you this...” Andrews broke into a wide smile. “Two days ago an American came through here. A doctor. His description matches Jona perfectly. Only his name was not Lieb, it was a Dr. Harold Teig. From Spokane Washington.”

“He’s sure?”

Andrews pointed to the document held by the border agent. “They copied the information onto their day ledger directly from his passport.”

Something tugged at Murphy, but his mind was too clouded to focus. “Will they let us through?”

“More like they’re kicking us out. We are being shipped over the border, and we can’t come back. Ever.”

For the first time in days Murphy felt a spark of optimism. If they could just get to Moscow they would at least have a fighting chance at finding Lieb. “Don’t mind if I never do. When does the train leave?”

“Don’t know, I’ll ask -”

Both men shifted at the same moment towards the border agent, and both men froze.

The Finn had stepped back quietly, removed his gun from its holster, and had it leveled steadily at the two Americans. “Venez, messieurs,” he purred, gesturing towards an exit with a jerk of the pistol. “Venez avec moi.”

The frontier crossing was not far, less than a half kilometer away. Andrews and Murphy trudged along the railroad bed, following the burnished steel lines of the tracks. Their guard followed several paces behind them, arm extended and gun pointed as if he were at a shooting range. A chill wind snapped by, adding to their misery.

The border separating Russia from Finland ran along a broad stream spanned by an ancient, rusting iron bridge that appeared ready to collapse with the merest vibration. The border agent stopped and waved them onto the bridge, then incongruously saluted them as they passed on, his gun still at the ready. The Russian border post could be seen a few hundred yards away, screened by a splash of trees.

Murphy felt himself ready to explode with fury. The sum of every errant step they had taken since the start of the mission and the enormity of their failure began to overwhelm him. He tightened his jacket at the throat, trying to protect himself from the sudden freeze that enveloped him even as he felt himself boiling with anger. It’s freezing in May. I am really losing my marbles, he thought, as a final sense of ruin sank in. Without realizing it he began to mutter to himself, exhaling a rythmic mantra of virulence from deep within his throat. Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch...

“Hey, what’s that?” Andrews looked quizzically up at the bluegray cloud ceiling that hovered over them.

“What’s what?” Murphy refused to look up, preferring to stare at the ground as he walked. Something wet stung his cheek. And again.

“Look.” Andrews stopped.

Murphy looked up.

It was snowing. The wind was swirling heavy white snowflakes around his head. For an instant he felt paralyzed, but then he spread his arms wide and began to twirl himself around, faster and faster as the westerly wind spewed snow over him in quick short gusts.

“Son of a bitch!” he shouted at the billowing edge of clouds above his head, seemingly just beyond his reach. “Son of a bitch! It’s snowing and it’s May!” He began to twirl himself ever faster, snapping his fingers and holding his arms straight up as if he were dancing a jig.

Andrews stared for a long second. Just what he had feared was playing out right before him. Murphy was either going insane or descending into a drunken fit. “O.K., Murphy, just calm down. You’re losing it.”

“What’s the matter, smart boy? Afraid?”

Andrews could not keep the anger out of his voice. “Yeah, I’m afraid alright. I’m afraid you’ve gone insane.”

“Son of a bitch, Andrews! Snow in May! Son of a bitch!” He began to laugh, a twittering, screeching laugh that blended with the pounding of his feet. Now he was spinning so fast that it almost seemed as if he were trying to corkscrew himself into the ground, laughing like a chimp and snapping his fingers with each twirl of his head.

Abruptly, he stopped. Breathing heavily and with body motionless he slowly raised his index finger straight up to the sky. He gave a wild look in Andrews’ direction, turning his head but with his eyes still fixed upwards. It was a look that refracted in a thousand directions, as if he were about to implore the multitudes to repent of all their sins.

“It’s snowing in May,” he shouted. The words gushed out with a stentorian bellow. He stretched his finger further, trying to touch the low lying mantle of clouds above them, as if a billowing wisp of cloud was reaching for him as well, and spun himself around to every point in the compass with a glare of messianic rage. “Snowing! So tell me, Andrews. You tell me. Now who’s fucking crazy?”

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Chapter 18

Inbetweenity. That was just about the right word to describe the ambigorous frame of mind that Carver Tweever was fixin’ to resolve. Inbetweenity. He could not decide ‘twix one and t ‘udder, and there was nothing more discomfortable.

Yes he loved pretty Anna. Loved her hair, her eyes, her dimpled cheeks, and all that. But he also loved Delilah. The sensurious curl of her lip and the way she splashed one foot before the other as she swished and swayed did something to his magination. Actually, it did a lot to his maginating. He loved the way she swaggled when she walked, and the way when she talked she slurred y’aaaall... She made it sound all breathless and hushed, as if she was speakin’ in a church, or on a bus.

Anna, she was a nice girl, and any-all would say kinda praddy in her own way. But Delilah, she was straight up be-utamous. In fact, she was the most be-utamous girl that Carver Tweever had ever seen. Her be-utamity was widely known and a topic of sober conversation among anxious young men from DeKalb to Peachtree, each hoping to get a touch. And, Carver knew, she was willing to give a touch from time to time, and that was a fact. Anyway, getting some was not against the law anyhow, and that was also a fact.

On the other hand, Anna knew all the rules about how to behave in proper company, something she was taught at a place called ettican’t school. That was a school for learning the French way of doing things, what anyone can and especially can’t do, and required her to know French, which she was still learnin’ by the way.

Her father had seen to it that she learned the ettican’t way of life. Insisted ‘pon it. People said it was cause he was a Frank-O-Pile and loved to do all things Frankly. People also said the good doctor had put aside a sizable sum for Anna as well, maybe five thousand dollars, maybe even more for the right beau that might come along. That alone made her loveable. Also, she had the generous hip line that his brother Clovis was always talking about, something that would be important in their marriage bed, so he said. Well, she certainly had hips galore, there was no problem in that dimension, she was sure a broad bottomed lady. Between the money and the hips, she definitely had the approval of Clovis.

Unfortunately, Carver did not have the approval of Anna’s father. Carver kinda suspected how come, though he he could not agree with the reason. After all, he was no lunkhead, no matter what others might say. He didn’t have much schoolin’, meb’ four or five years, but he had done his time in the Guard without a hitch. Yassir, served in the infrantry perched right on to the Tennessee River for three months. The infrantry there was so thick a hare couldn’t hop by without a signed and sealed official pass. Of course, it wasn’t the same as regular Army, but if the Georgia Guard said he was good enough to do the job, then that ought to be the end of it. He could distinctly remember Lieutenant Harworth saying over and over to anyone that would give a hey that Private Carver Tweever was smart enough, was in fact walking smart. That was Lieutenant Harworth. ‘Nuff said.

But anyway, that didn’t count for much with Anna’s father, who whispered loud enough for anyone in spittin’ distance to hear that his daughter could do a lot better than lamebrained Tweever. He don’t even have a row to hoe, her father had been heard to say. A small part of Carver really didn’t care, though, as his thoughts fairly frequently swayed back to Delilah. Her hips were very different from Anna’s. As he considered the contrasts between the two girls, a familiar tingling feeling crept up his leg. The recollection of Delilah’s hips moving slowly back and forth fairly swatted him on his head, a smack coming down upon him from above as if from the heavens themselves. The thought of that girl set firmly in his brain as a consequence, and no amount of contentation could wipe it away. Oh Delilah! Carver had to confess in that moment that he was not in a situation of inbetweenity after all. One day soon, mebbe next week, he would go out to the street corner where she often passed, and wait for her, and say hey. She had smiled at him once and might do so again.

It was rough having so many irons in the fire. The whole business was enough to keep him up at night, sleeping poorly, and leaving him with a touch of headache every morning. Carver found himself at times unable to focalize on his work, something that would never do. His job at the station meant everything to him. More than Anna. More than Delilah. In fact, more than his well meaning brother Clovis. Or, down at the farm, his father Otis, or his mother Lois, or uncle Honus, or cousin Lomas, or anyone else of his close knit kin. The radio station was everything to him. He drew life from his work just as surely as any piglet sucked milk from a sow.

The dang thang of it was that Carver loved gizmos, especially any kind of electriconic gizmos. He could forego Sunday afternoon cakewalks, Friday’s down at the Pigeon and Bugle, pokeberry wine with Clovis, and Monday night Bible study. None of that was needed as long as he was bathed in the hum of vacuum tubes, the buzz of transformers, and the silent strength radiating from the ilectrocal power panel. Relays charged him up. Circuit breakers sparked his curiosity. Transformers consumed him.

He had studied long and hard, under the supervision of his boss Mr. Welch, to understand the secrets of electricacy. Although he didn’t understand everything yet, Mr. Welch told him every day to keep at it. Mr. Welch was his boss surenuff, but he was also the kindest, most generosterous man in Atlanta, and for that, Carver was very grateful. Lord Jeez alive, he was grateful just to have a bed in the back room to sleep in and store his clothes, and a working toilet with running water just down the hall. Life right now for Carver Tweever was honeysuckle sweet, vampy sweet, never mind what might happen with Anna or Delilah.

It was four in the morning when Carver yawned himself awake. Just time enough to get to his studies if he moved likkedy splikkedy. The station began broadcasting every day at six AM on the dime. By five, five-fifteen the engineers began to arrive, and Mr. Welch generally came in about a half hour after that. Learnin’ was on Carver’s own time, before punching in at four thirty to start the daily chores of mopping, wiping, scrubbing, dusting and polishing. A radio station could get purty dirty in no time if the cleanin’ wasn’t attended to.

While chewing on a dry biscuit, Carver settled down over the piece of paper given to him by Mr. Welch the last Christmas, and began to write:

Ahmzlawr. E=IR.

He wrote it again and again, painstakingly copying the words in a neat, single file down the length of the page. It was a formalar, and he had memorized it by heart.

E=IR

As he wrote, he whispered to himself, drawing out each syllable and analyzing what he saw written on the page. Ahmzlawr. This lawr was the basic buildin’ block, kinda like the cellar, the foundationer of the entire heaven and earth, all the sky and water, maybe even of the entire time of all time. Everything he seen and touched, everywhere he’d been and done, whatever he would do tomorrow - everything, everything was ordered by this lawr. Carver breathed over the word, over and over. Ahmzlawr, Ahmzlawr, Ahmzlawr...

He didn’t clearly understand it yet, but that could be forgave. There were people sittin’ in colleges who really didn’t understand things proper, and they were very smart. He knew one thing for sure, that E was the cymbal and banjo for power. For now, it was enough to know just that. Power, like the power that lit up the city, or drove an aeroplane, or moved a tractor, maybe the power that would slingshot Delilah into his bed one day, all came from this formalar. So the formalar itself had power, storing the power inside it’s odd looking words, just like a capacitator. And a capacitater was something to be respectful of. He had learned that the hard way, and wouldn’t touch one again without due respect.

Say it like you prayin’, thought Carver. Probaly it was Moses, or sweet Jesus on high who first said to pray it. E=IR. Reverend Shipley had told him once, with a twitch of his neck and a grab on the arm, that Ahmzlawr had nothing to do with Jesus or God, but Carver would not believe it. That kind of power could only pour down like sweet water from the gates of heaven.

After a few minutes Carver stopped concentrating on the formalar and felt himself getting fidgety. Problem was, he didn’t do so well with readin’, or writin’, or prayin’, or even crappin’ too long a spell in one place. That was one reason he was still studyin’ on Ahmzlawr after six months of it’s being set on his table. As anyways, he was too interested about things in general to just set around.

He was curious cause it was kinda set in his marrow, and so he wanted very much to understand what was going on around him. He was specially curious about anything going on at the station, like the new tube, the one that had came in the day before, all the way from England, with a side trip through Nawrleans. They called it a crystal, a special crystal. It was the talk of the station because of how strong it was. It had power, heaping power. They said it had a strength of 50,000 what nots, and could broadcast seventy or eighty miles in every direction. Seventy miles! That was a lot of muscle, almost far enough to be heard down on the farm. The tube they had right now was only 10,000 strong, and it was still good enough to be heard all over the city.

Carver reverently approached the open wooden shipping crate where the tube was stored. It lay right on the top, nestled into a little harbor of straw, no different than a newborn lamb delivered in the back of a barn. It looked more fragile than bone china, giving no hint of its might, but Carver knew that it would soon hold dominion over a million people, or ten million people, or more. Ordinary folks would hurry home, and time their day work so they could sit on their sofas just to hear the transitmissions from this little glass tube. They would lissen, then talk about it the next day, then lissen some more, then before long the radio’s druthers were their druthers. The signals from the tube would make them sway first one way then t’other, and soon they would like or not like, believe or not believe, go or not go and buy or not buy what the crystal told them. No one would yet again ever be in a state of inbetweenity once more about nuthin’ or anythin’.

He gripped the glass cylinder firmly and raised it up to eye level with both hands. For anyone who didn’t know the truth, it made no sense at all. How could this frail glass ornament be so powerful? But Carver already knew the truth.

E=IR

Ahmzlawr.

With great care he placed the tube back in its nest. As he did, his eye caught a sheaf of paper on the desk. It was copy for the news broadcast, either from the night before or to be read that morning. He read the typed lines carefully, tracing each word with his index finger as if trying to probe into the paper itself.

The first was about someone named Commagen, arrested by Atlanta police. The paper said he was a spy for the UR. Carver studied the man’s picture carefully. He was some kinda uggla, bald, white trash lookin’ fella. Talk was that most UR corroborators were drunks, pumped up with spirituous liquors that made them crazy. That’s what Clovis said, anyways. Carver couldn’t figure the UR, and especially UR corroborators. Why not just leave well enough alone? It was hard to understand, but he figured that somehow they were just lookin’ for their own Delilah, and got stuck in their own inbetweenity.

His hand strayed over the pile of remaining bulletins on the desk, struggling arduously to scan each one quickly. The very last one was printed in bold, large type. Carver squinted as he read, making out the letters one by one, spread as thick as manure in a pigsty.

It was about the Pres-dent. It was an announcement that the Pres-dent was coming to Atlanta next month. No, not just that. The Pres-dent was coming right there, right to the radio station! He was going to give a broadcastin’ speech, right there at good ole’ WSB! Gonna talk to the country that was about somethin’ impotent. Carver suddenly felt as if he were struck by a lightning bolt. He looked earnestly at the paper in his hand, then lifted his gaze to the crystal tube cradled inside its crate.

The most powerful man in the country was coming, coming right to where the sleepin’ power was berthed. Carver felt himself swelling with an immense feeling of pride. He understood, understood completely, and the knowledge confalidated him. It was nothing more than the lawr come to life, the power proving itself right before his eyes. Even the Pres-dent had to obey the lawr, yazzir. He had to come himself, make what they called a piglamidge right to the very place where power lived, in order to touch the power himself. Carver rushed back to his room and picked up the notepaper he had worked on so laboriously that morning. There was the lawr written down, line after line down the lenth of the page, and on the page below from the day before, and on the page below that. Line after line was the lawr written in exactly the same way, page after page, day after day, just as sure as Ezekiel followed Isaiah. Maybbe, just maybbe, the Lawr was written exact the same way up in heaven, under the direct tuletage of sweet Jesus. He mumbled the words aloud, slowly, as amazed as the day he was born:

E=IR.

Ahmzla

Sometimes, his mind strayed into dark corners.

It was a dream he’d had many times before. He stood naked at the threshold of a door, uncaring and unbound, as if nothing was sacred anymore. Beyond was but a great space with no walls or floor, an unformed room devoid of sound or sight or smell. Somewhere in there was the beginning. Somewhere in there was the end. In his dream, he wanted desperately to pass through the doorway, to take a step of faith, knowing it would be alright. He felt that somehow he was a key, forged by the Creator for this one purpose. If he could only insert himself into the blank emptiness that lay just beyond his feet, then paradise, true paradise, would be unlocked, and become revealed as if birthed just for him. Time waited for him, prompting him, but in his dream he could not move. He stopped because he could hear words being spoken in his head. It was the Serpent that spoke to him, coiling at his ear, soothing him, coaxing him to choose the well known hell of his current life over the unspoken grace of the next.

Robert Jones bent his head, allowing his chin to set deeply upon his chest, and gripped both hands tightly on the thick volume he held in his lap. As he emerged from sleep his dream fled into a hidden recess of memory, sucked away swiftly like a silent wraith inhaled into the maw of the underworld. He kept his eyes shut even though he was now awakened, wanting to live just a few moments longer within the scope of his mind, letting his thoughts play out, away from the intrusions of the sad, sinful world around him.

Was he truly redeemed? That was all that mattered now. The flow of life meandered for most, but not for him. His had streamed, straight as an arrow, to this very hour. There were no mileposts along the way, no markings to tell him he was following a righteous path, but he believed the Lord God was directing his every step. True, he could hear the hiss of the Deceiver flicking out of the shadows, calling his name, licking at him with a dry, fleshy tongue. The demon’s whispers chimed softly, like finely cut crystal, vibrating with the same question over and over: Would he take that next step, the step into nothingness, the one that would place him at the feet of the Master? Jones had never allowed himself to answer. To answer would be to acknowledge the possibility of failure.

He had long ago stopped asking why. Why? Why was it necessary to drink from this grim chalice of struggle and pain? Why were his people in bondage? Why did God test him repeatedly? Such questions were meaningless. He was a soldier of God, a man under discipline more strict than any ordinary soldier could endure. He wanted only to know how. How? How would he redeem his faith, and his people, and himself?

The room he was in was overstuffed and comfortable, like the rocker he sat in. A wall shelf crowded with toy trains and trucks, wooden boats, teddy bears and a tin giraffe loomed over his shoulder. On the opposite wall hung a very old appearing quilt, the multi colored patches torn in spots and beginning to fade. A narrow platform, once an infant’s changing table, was wedged into a corner, its cracked veneer puckering up with age. A baby had once been birthed here, and grown here, and very possibly died here. A rotting smell exhaled from the planked flooring, which seemed vaguely damp. The room, the small cabin perched at the edge of a bayou, even the leaning trees hovering outside the window, all bespoke of old times now gone by. Jones was content with that thought. He was old, everything he knew was old, and it would all end soon enough.

For some reason, the image of George Pickett swam into his thoughts. Not as he was now, though, but as he was when Jones first knocked on his door at VMI so many years before. Pickett was Commandant at the time, living in a modest house on the campus. Jones was delivered to be his slave, sold quickly after the Reverend Nebuchadnezzar’s death.

Because he was sold across state lines, the law required that Jones should be escorted by a CSA Marshal, just as when he had been delivered to the farm in Arkansas. The Marshal was a balding, scarred, dour faced man who had nearly died of smallpox a few months before, a fact that he relived with Jones repeatedly during their two days together.

Jones had dreaded his first encounter with the older Pickett, but found himself received by a vibrant man who was fully alive, with a youthful energy that belied the deep creases tracking his face. And his hair! Jones had never seen a white man with hair like Pickett’s. It was long, reddish brown without any gray, hanging gracefully in curls well past the nape of his neck, and gave off a lavender smell, just like a little girl’s purse. All the white men Jones knew had short beards and short hair, and back in Arkansas many of them smelled like mule shit.

Pickett didn’t bother with the papers presented to him by the Marshal. He gave Jones a searching look. “I hear you are handy with household books.” His voice was smooth, direct, and travelled one way only, from his lips to the ear of the listener, whether slave or sergeant.

“Yes, sir.”

Pickett looked him up and down. “Let me hear you talk some more. Say some more things.”

Jones didn’t bother to be confused by the request. “As you wish. I had a wonderful trip here, praise God. First class all the way, in the Negro cars of course. Very restful. I want to thank you for that, sir.”

“You talks good.”

“Thank you sir. Study of the Scriptures can only elevate a man.”

Pickett gave a wide mouthed smile, revealing perfect teeth, and clapped the Marshal on the back. “Not too elevated, mind you. Boy.” He chuckled at his little joke while the Marshal grinned. “Come on in, Jones. You’ll be my man.”

So Pickett said and so Jones became.

Pickett was already something of a legend by then, his military exploits embellished by a national press that was starving for new heroes to replace the generation of founders that was slowly fading away. To Jones however, in the beginning, George Pickett was nothing more than Pharaoh come alive. The Biblical portrayal of arrogant pride and power was perfectly demonstrated by Pickett’s everyday behavior. He was cruel to the cadets, insulting to anyone who was not an officer, and coveted every woman within artillery range of the school. Even as he was groomed to play the role of body servant, Jones came to detest his new owner.

It also became apparent that Pickett was peculiar in many other ways. He had no interest in God or religion. The Book of Scriptures was never opened at his dinner table. He had drinking companions aplenty but almost no close friends. Despite his notoriety he was a secluded man. He spent inordinate hours of time, when he wasn’t drunk, at his desk reading Greek and Latin, two obscure languages that Jones understood to belong only to the dead of long ago. On balance, Jones sized him up to be no more than a dented, rusted, shallow tin cup that was now nearly empty. Pickett was a man who was dried up and used up, trying to escape some terrible history that pursued him relentlessly. All the drink he consumed and the women he conquered could not save him from his own past.

Then came Nicaragua.

Pickett made the announcement briskly one morning as Jones was running the bath water. “Jones, what do you think of mosquitos? Get along O.K.?”

Jones did nothing more than check the water temperature with his finger.

“Well, get ready for plenty of ‘em. These will not be of the local variety, either. These ‘uns will be vicious. Where we’re going they come in three sizes; large, larger still, and ex-wife. All three sizes bite but the last one also snatches your wallet. Or your nuts.” As he often did, he laughed at his own joke, thinking himself hilarious.

Jones did not find any of it funny and kept his head down. The humor sounded like a wisecrack Pickett might have heard from one of his drinking companions the night before, and the notion of going anywhere far from the Institute probably originated from an even more dubious source. He could not refrain from asking about it though. “So, we really leavin’?”

There was no immediate answer. Pickett slipped into the steaming bath water and let out a long, ecstatic sigh. “Man, you do this better than anyone I’ve ever had.” He gave an appreciative look in Jones’ direction. “Won’t be having a bath like this again in some time. Leavin’ tomorrow morning, first thing. Headed for New Orleans first. We’ll get our gear there. You just pack my personal items. Three pair underwear, no more. Medium socks. No jackets or ties needed, I assure you. And no uniforms.”

“But Mister,” Jones spoke slowly, feeling his way along carefully. “You’re still Commandant. What about the Institute?”

“Don’t worry about that, the school is paying me while I’m gone. Taking some of the kaydets with me, sort of like field maneuvers. All volunteers, of course.” Pickett laughed yet again, this time more harshly. “Don’t know as they’ll all make it back, though.”

Four days later New Orleans burst into view with a blur of sight and sound, rancid smells and constant motion. The wharves were teeming with boxes, cartons, sacks and crates of every size. There were more Negroes here than Jones had ever seen before. They came in all shapes and looks. He saw stevedores who were muted brown, sleek black, chestnut, and chocolate. To Jones they were a matter of curiosity, no more, prompting no sense of kinship or association. He was a personal servant to the Colonel, and as such had the luxury of lounging on the pier, watching as the dockworkers loaded their ship. He could only feel relief that he was not one of them, a mere menial laborer worked to exhaustion just for the privilege of drawing food rations for one more day. He heard Pickett joke that dockworkers had a shorter life span than the rats that ran under the rotting piers beneath their feet.

Thirty one men gathered on the fandeck of the Costa Rican flagged vessel “Nataniel“ as it slid down the Mississippi the night they left New Orleans. In the time to come, Jones grew to know them, but never trusted a one of them. Most were roughnecks of no particular account, men who knew Pickett from the Army and were willing to sell their prowess with a gun to the right bidder. These were dangerous individuals, unshackled from any serious concern for right or wrong. Jones understood intuitively that these were men to be avoided at all hazards. There were also the VMI students, three of them, neat whiskered young men who were anxious to fight and willing to die in a noble cause. One of the bravos brought along his body servant Blue, who sat meekly on the deck as the group gathered. Pickett’s old friend Major Barkley was there, seven sheets to the wind even before they sailed. Amazingly, he fell asleep standing, snoring loudly while propped against the ship’s railing.

The same night was the first time Jones set eyes on Rufus Dirk. Later, after they arrived in Nicaragua, Dirk claimed to be Creole, and then another time Mestizo, but that first night on the boat he told Jones he was Ocale. Dirk’s skin blended into the black furrows of water curling down the muddy river, and was criss crossed by a thousand thin creases and shallow folds, as if he had been hung out to desiccate under a hot dry sun for a month or more. There was great power in his shoulders and arms, but he stood on spindly legs that seemed to barely endure the massive bulk of his torso. A thick, long-curved knife, a machete that looked more like a broad sword, dangled on one hip and a revolver on the other, and yet another, smaller pistol was jammed behind his belt buckle.

Jones sidled near him, curious. In his young life, Dirk was the first black man he had ever seen to be so heavily armed, lounging informally with the others as if they were all equals. There had never been anything like him to be seen back in Arkansas or Pensacola. Dirk retrieved a straight briar pipe from his pocket, made a great show of lighting it, and vigorously puffed up plumes of poisonous smelling smoke.

“You keep your distance, boy.” He spoke casually and kept his eyes fixed on the shoreline, as if addressing the cypress and magnolia trees that crowded the riverbank. “I’m not one of you’uns and you not one of us. It’s simple. Besides, I’m a free man. Now go back to where you belong, just like him.” He jerked his head in the direction of Blue, sitting quietly at the feet of his master like a faithful dog.

Jones felt a sudden surge of anger. “Yeah, well I’m not like him. I want to be like you.”

Rufus Dirk gave a curious look out of the corner of his eye, then let out a loud exhalation, like the cough of an engine that misfired. “Git.”

This last was clear enough, and Jones backed away just as Pickett stepped up on a coil of hawser ropes to address the group.

Jones later regretted that he didn’t pay close heed to Pickett’s preaching. The band of adventurers stood on the deck surrounding him, posed in varying degrees of attentiveness. The speech rambled on too long for Jones to concentrate, but some words broke through.

Nicaragua was suffering under intolerable dictatorship...The native Indians were being persecuted by the government and their lands under threat...Their country was invaded and their president in hiding... The British were leaving the area, abrogating their promise of protection to the natives... abandoning the populace to their fate ... Yankees were at the root of this evil as they desired to control Nicaragua in order to build a transoceanic canal...It was the duty of all good men and strong to help the natives restore their kingdom and make the Caribbean safe for democracy...

It went on and on in that manner. At the end, the VMI students shouted three hurrahs, while the rest of the band broke up quietly and went their separate ways. Blue stayed seated silently, even after the assembly had dispersed, as if screwed to the deck with invisible bolts.

And so, Jones learned, for the glory of the Southern cause and to strike a blow for human freedom, they were headed for Nicaragua, to a place called the Mosquito Coast.

The Nataniel stopped at Coxen Hole on Roatán to take on provisions. Pickett allowed everyone shore leave while the resupply was underway, though there was really nothing to see on shore other than an aimless assortment of thatched and wooden houses scattered among the mangrove trees. Coxen Hole was more a disorganized outpost than a town.

Jones was surprised when Dirk sprang aboard the ship’s dinghy and sat down next to him for the short row to the beach. He carried a rifle that he placed carefully between his legs before grasping his oar.

Jones was determined not to speak to him. He concentrated on the rhythmic pull of his oar, enjoying the spray of cool salt water that flicked onto his face and forearms. He was surprised once again when Dirk spoke first.

“You been long with him?”

“A few months. Three, maybe.”

“You know anything about him?”

Jones was young, but old enough to weigh his answer carefully. He didn’t know much about Rufus Dirk and what kind of background he had with Pickett. “Dunno. Some kinda war hero, I hear.”

Dirk was sitting on the windward side of the boat. His leathered face was rapidly flecked over with sea scum and foam, making him look as if he were an old, tarnished bronze statue resuscitated from the ocean depths and dripping with briny sweat. Jones noticed with a start that the whites of his eyes were a mustard yellow.

“Yeah, war hero. Brave as they come. Doesn’t give a good goddamn about himself or anyone around him, especially the likes of you. Me, included, for all I know. Remember that.”

“How do you know him?”

“Met in Texas a long time ago. Saved my ass then, from some Tonkawa brothers who were way too interested in my liver. And maybe the rest of my guts too. Then Cuba. We attacked a hill, there was a hot fight, and that gave me a chance to rescue his ass from the frying pan. Now I stand by him, and he stands by me. It’s simple.”

“But you’re...” Jones abruptly decided to leave the rest unsaid.

Nothing more was spoken until they reached shore. As Dirk swung his legs over the prow to disembark he hoisted his rifle in the air, as if it were a trophy held up in triumph. “Jones, you know what this is?”

Jones nodded his head, feeling exasperated. “You don’t need to make a show. I’m not stupid. I know it’s a rifle.”

“Mauser, model 98. German. The best damn weapon in the world. Anything within a half mile of me in any direction is inside the range of my power to kill it, for sure.”

“Sure, but that toy of yours can be taken away. I’ve seen it happen.”

“That’s why you have to use it. Use it and keep using it and no one will have the balls to try takin’ it away. It’s simple.” Dirk strode away down the sandy beach purposefully, as if he were assaulting an enemy position. His head was tightly bound in a red bandana, he was without shirt and was bare chested. Jones imagined that he looked a bit like Abraham leading his tribe through the desert, onwards to a land that God had promised.

Their landfall was a low lying spit of jungle that jutted out beyond the Coco Rio River. It looked solid enough in the early dawning gloom when examined through glasses from the safety of their ship. But it was not really land. Instead, Pickett’s troop encountered a marshy soup of foul smelling tall grass and twisted, half submerged tree trunks that were home to curious pelicans. Unloading the boats, securing them, and hiding them among the bull rushes and scattered palms proved to be a nightmare of pain and effort. Pickett stood up on a stump to give a few words of quiet encouragement, calling them his glorious band of filibusteros, but the men all appeared miserable in the swampy terrain. To worsen matters, just as the sun broke above the tree line, enormous gray clouds billowed over them and shortly began to pour rain.

This was unlike any shower or storm that Jones had experienced, even as a boy in Pensacola. The rain came on in an instant, building to a continuous deluge of thick pelting droplets that sprayed upon them with the force of a waterfall. He had a quick flash of recollection, of his mother from a few years before, running out into a downpour that streamed in just the same way over her hair and face. He’d never seen her do anything like that before. She laughed and laughed, shouting out that Jesus Himself was crying over her and anointing her with his miraculous tears. “When these waters wash away there will come upon us a new DAY.” she had cried. He remembered that she began to sing, in an unnaturally deep voice, words that came from the depths of her throat, words that young Jones had never heard before but were now etched in his soul:

Wash these waters Lord

Wash these waters from my mind

Memories are all I have

But they haven’t all been kind

So wash these waters Lord

Wash these waters ‘way from me

and set me free

Wash these waters Lord

Wash these waters from my soul

No one knows the pain I feel

That time cannot console

So wash these waters Lord

Wash these waters ‘way from me

and set me free

He thought at the time her face was serene, confident in the coming of the Redeemer. Looking back, he wondered whether she already knew it was to be their last day together for untold years to come. The next morning they told Robby Jones he was sold, going to a new home far away, to a place called Arkansas, and leaving behind the family and the plantation he had known forever. His mother’s pleas and laments were of no avail, and in any case not really heard by anyone of importance. Barely comprehending, Jones was trundled off to the train station and the start of his new life.

For a few heartbeats, different moments in his past shimmered indistinctly as Jones stared blindly out the window of the cabin in the woods, safe within the cage of the here and now. Memories swept through him rapidly, like the pages of a flicker book flipping by at great speed. The past whispered to him, calling him by name, chiding him for being afraid and with indistinct murmurs called for him to come back. Jones glanced at the ancient quilt hanging on the wall, then closed his eyes tightly, feeling himself at the doorway to a great mystery. It was the same doorway as in his dream, and he was anxious now to take the next step into the unknown vastness. He caused his eyes to open, and surrendered to the past, finding himself surrounded once again by the darkness of forest and rain as his memories continued to flow…

Rufus Dirk took the lead, his machete in hand. Pickett followed several paces behind, rifle at the ready, and Jones took his place right behind them both. The troop followed in single file. Pickett had given Jones a long canvas duffel bag and told him to guard it carefully. The bag was heavy, and bulky, and Jones found himself barely able to keep up with the older man as they struggled through the difficult terrain.

After no more than a half hour the rain subsided. As it did the temperature began to rise and perspiration oozed out from every pore on his body, soaking his shirt beneath his rainproof and saturating the lining of his hat. Something else was fretting Jones, gnawing deep inside, creating its own cavern of dread and causing beads of sweat to break out around his eyes and to trickle along the small narrow space between his shoulder blades.

Robert Jones felt fear. He felt fear because of the jungle, and the darkness that seemed ready to devour him. He felt fear because of the riot of screeches, squawks, chirps, hisses, hoots and a thousand other unknown sounds that engulfed him. He felt fear because he was surrounded by heavily armed white men, unscrupled adventurers all, with guns at the ready. He felt fear because the expedition might end in catastrophe, and he would die an insignificant death with no one left behind to mourn or remember. Despite his fear, or maybe because of it, he did not utter a word in prayer. At that point in his life, although Jones had felt the pull of the cord, he had not yet been bound to his faith. His own baptism in the Truth was yet to come.

As the company pushed forward, the ground transitioned from wetland and became dry and surprisingly even, with nothing more than a low undergrowth of purple bahia grass sprouting up through layers of wet leaves. Within a few hundred yards of the shore Jones found himself walking through a towering green and gold archway of thickly columned trees made grotesque and contorted by a myriad of entangled vines and lianas. A disorienting, varicolored stream of vegetation crowded the highest tree branches, descending towards the earth in reverse of natural order, cascading in a thick, rope-like spider’s web that obscured their passage. High above were small tree-swept piebald patches of blue and gray sky. Here and there, beams of light reflected ephemerally from compacted leaves and tree trunks. Pickett seemed enthralled by all of it as he helped Dirk cut their way into the dense heart of the forest, grinning ferociously all the while.

As the rain receded, the cascading chirps and tweets of kiskadees, grackles, jays, and parakeets reached a new crescendo of intensity. The thrumming sounds of cicadas permeated the entire periphery of their hearing, continuous and unwavering. Other sounds played on Jones’ imagination. He thought he heard the low growl of creatures hidden among the palisaded trunks of hardwoods and banyans. He had overheard the men talking about the dangers of panthers and jaguars, animals that skulked in the darkness of the forest waiting to pounce on unsuspecting prey. Jones became obsessed with the thought that at any moment he might feel the slash of sharp claws raking his back, or hot fangs tearing at his throat.

Suddenly, off to his right he saw movement within a cluster of ferns, and a low furry form that streaked behind a tree. Jones screamed loudly, pointing. “Jaguar!”

Dirk and Pickett were at his side in a flash. Dirk moved towards the tree cautiously, taking out his revolver as he placed one foot gingerly before the other. One of the men further back in line began to move in a diagonal direction towards the sighting, while the rest of the company hunkered down. In a split second Dirk’s gun barked, and he rushed forward, disappearing as he ran nimbly around a clutter of congested vines.

Within moments he returned at a leisurely pace. Pickett began laughing as Dirk held up an inert form in his right hand. It looked like an enormous cat with a white nose. Several of the other men broke out in laughter as well.

Rufus Dirk seemed to revel in the moment. “Here’s your jaguar!” he shouted, as he tossed the furry carcass at Jones’ feet. “I saw a whole family of these pizotes back there. I think this one is the mama.”

Pickett kicked at it with the tip of his boot. “Scared my boy, here, sure ‘nuff. Scared him shitless, I would say.”

“Well, you know, Colonel, country coloreds scare easy,” Dirk said with both a laugh and a sneer.

Maybe it was the heat, or his exhaustion, or relief that he was safe, or the fear that still boiled within him. Maybe it was something about Rufus Dirk. Maybe it was something that could never be understood. Even afterwards, Jones could not explain why he snapped. They were only a stride apart, he and Dirk, and he was on the bigger man before the other could react, flailing and clawing at his face, screaming in incoherent rage. He never saw the blow that laid him low.

When he regained his senses Pickett was right next to him, squatting at his side with his hat held over his heart. He gave a solicitous shake of his head and a half smile in Jones’ direction. “You concern me, boy.”

Robert Jones knew he was woozy, but he didn’t feel the pain in his jaw until he sat up. “Sorry, Mister. Lost my head.”

“I reckon so, but what you don’t know is that you really did almost lose your head. Next time, don’t show no fear like you did. It will make you a marked man for sure. People like old Rufus don’t respect fear.”

Jones was still dazed, or he might not have spoken back. “Easy for y’all when y’all got guns galore for protection.”

Pickett, to Jones’ astonishment, didn’t hesitate a moment. He unslung his own rifle and held it muzzle up. “Come on, then. Teach you how to use it.”

It was a Krag Jorgensen .30-40, pretty easy to learn. In twenty minutes Jones was shown the rudiments of its operation, and was able to take a half dozen aimed shots at an Ironwood tree that stood a measured fifty paces away. He had no idea whether he hit the tree or not, but Pickett clapped him on the back with great vigor and pronounced him ready.

“Now you keep that rifle on your person at all times, and you will bond with it. That’s an order. Woe to you if I catch you without it.”

Jones vacillated between feeling ecstatic and feeling even more terrified now that he had a weapon in his hands. Every time Dirk came near, though, he made sure to heft his rifle and keep his chin high.

By late afternoon they reached their destination. It was the Coco river once again, six miles upstream from where they landed. The river here was broad and brown, barely moving, and with wide flat sandy banks on either side. The men made camp near the treeline, and soon the smell of coffee and bacon filled the air.

Jones busied himself with cooking and serving Pickett, then cleaning up. By the time he was done he fell to the ground in a state of exhaustion. It seemed as if all the men had gathered together around a large bonfire at the water’s edge, even Blue. Pickett was talking to them, his clear white teeth flashing in the glare of the flames, but his words were drowned out by the buzz of mosquitos and the rhythmic, to and fro plainsong of cicadas. Jones fell asleep, oblivious of Pickett, the moonlit river, the fires of their camp, and the softly edged haze of the Milky Way that soon swelled its borders above him.

A thick mist engulfed the camp the next morning, creating an eerie feeling of isolation and abandonment. Just as disorienting, Jones found his face, arms and legs massively swollen from insect bites, giving him the odd feeling he was inhabiting someone else’s body. Light was just breaking. Jones thought he was the first one up; Pickett was unmoving, cached completely under his rubber sleeping bag. The only sounds heard were the tentative warbles and screeches of unseen birds from high above. After stoking the campfire Jones trod cautiously towards the river’s edge. Remembering Pickett’s injunction, he was careful to sling his rifle over his shoulder first.

Rufus Dirk materialized out of the fog as if contrived into being by wispy river wraiths. He was seated cross legged on the sandy riverbank, staring intently at the hazy edge of the waterline, with rifle at the ready in his arms. He gave Jones an amused glare. When he spoke he was hardly audible.

“Boy.”

“Go to hell.”

Dirk chuckled. “That’s not a very Christian thing to say.”

Jones squatted at the water’s edge and washed his face, rubbing hard over his swollen eyes. “Aren’t you one?” He darted a quick look at the cross of cloth hanging from Dirk’s neck. “A Christian?”

Dirk clasped the cross with two fingers and squinted intensely into the mists hovering over the river. “Naw. Naw, I’m not. This is kinda a memento, a kinda keepsake. It’s simple. Got no time to be Christian, or Musselman, or stargazer of any stripe.” He stood up, arching his back. “Why you here?”

“To wash myself. You know, wake myself up.”

“No time for washin’ or wakin’. You should be here to lissen.”

Jones also stood. “Listen for what?”

The other shook his finger as a warning, then placed it over his lips. He whispered, and pointed. “For that.”

Men appeared. Magic men. They were many, gliding over the water effortlessly, heads and torsos quietly emerging and dissolving again, as if propelled through the dense river mists by an unseen, supernatural power. It was not until they were almost upon him that Jones could see they were standing on broad canoes, using poles to push slowly downstream.

Rufus Dirk cupped his hands and shouted at the lead boat. “Allo! Ki moun ki la?”

A canoe ground to a halt right in front of them. A bow-backed, nut brown man with a shock of white hair stepped out cautiously. He examined Dirk carefully, then looked around, up and down the shoreline. Jones realized with a start that they were not alone; a half dozen of Pickett’s troops were gathered on the riverbank, rifles cleared and at the ready.

As more of the canoes pulled up, the old man reached out his hand towards Dirk. “Ki moun isit ki pal angle?”

“I do. I speak English. Are you Robert?”

“That I am.”

Dirk gave an audible sigh of relief. “Then come with me, sir. The Colonel is anxious to meet you.”

“No need. I’m right here.” Pickett emerged from the fog at a brisk pace. He stopped to salute Robert smartly, then shook his hand. “Everyone!” he thundered, “Gather around!”

Jones would never forget the electric feeling of that moment. Pickett’s troop, disheveled and ragged looking, clustered closely around their leader. Just as they did, beams of sunlight broke through the mists surrounding them, touching Pickett’s face with a radiant glow. He seemed to stand out gigantically among them, as if touched by a living flame. As he spoke, his words danced in a slow, measured cadence, inspiring each man to believe that each utterance was intended for him alone.

“It is my high honor to introduce to you His Excellency, the President of the new Republic of Miskito. For many years he has been the Whita Tara, the Grand Judge, of all the Miskito. Now he has been elected by his people, through the elder councils, to this new and sacred office. It is our solemn duty to help secure the newly created country he is sworn to serve. This new nation is born pure, by revolutionary secession, undertaken to preserve the rights, the customs and the institutions of the Miskito people. And, boys, who knows more about secession for the cause of liberty than we, the sons of the South? Do we not all share in our hearts this one eternal truth?” He paused and spread his arms wide. “That nothing, nothing is more dear than freedom!”

The men began to cheer wildly. Rufus Dirk cheered. Jones found himself cheering. Even Blue cheered, in his own subdued fashion. Soon, the high pitched ululations of the rebel cry pierced the air, echoing and re-echoing into the impenetrable jungle that encompassed them.

It was two full, back breaking days to Waspàn. The current was fortunately sluggish all the way, at times barely noticeable as they paddled upstream. Jones and Pickett joined Robert in the largest pitpan, crewed by four of Robert’s men, while the rest of the troop dispersed among the remaining dugouts. A few dories carrying supplies, personal effects, and camp gear were towed along at the rear of the small flotilla. However, Pickett directed Jones to keep the large duffel bag at his side at all times.

Jones was curious about Robert. The old man had donned a shallow panned steel helmet, the kind worn by the British during the World War, and strapped it tightly under his chin. Fluffy white hair spilled out below the brim, as if he were wearing a cap lined with sheep’s wool. The appearance would have been ludicrous, but for his grave and sober mien and soft spoken speech.

He and Pickett talked freely within easy earshot of everyone on the boat, so that Jones gradually came to understand the scope of the campaign being planned to win sovereignty for the Miskito nation. Pickett spoke quickly and aggressively towards Robert, with frequent jabs of his finger for emphasis. His staccato tone made it seem as if he were issuing instructions to a subordinate, appearing very much like an imperious general snapping orders to a comical appearing private wearing a tin hat.

Jones learned that the village of Waspàn was an ideal staging post for the coming fight. It was situated deep in the interior of the country on the south bank of the Coco, which divided Nicaragua from Honduras. It was too remote for government forces to attack in strength, Pickett said. Rebels could be recruited to Waspàn safely and trained with impunity in the dense jungles all around, or if need be, across the river in Honduras. In two months they would be ready enough to strike south, through the jungle. Their first objective would be Bilwi, a small town in the interior that was already a hotbed of resistance. A band of revolutionaries would be waiting for them there. Ultimately, they would move on to the great prize, the city of Bluefields on the southern coast. The capture of Bluefields would give them a port. It would give them a capital. It would give them independence. The Miskito people would surely rise in support of the offensive every step of the way. The whole affair would be over in less than six months. As he absorbed the plan of campaign, Jones again felt a great foreboding about the venture. He could not shake off the sense of fear that gnawed at him.

At the end of Pickett’s analysis, Robert nodded his head in agreement and satisfaction. “God be praised.”

Jones found it odd to hear the old man say those words. He found himself staring at Robert, who locked eyes with Jones briefly before turning back to Pickett.

The old man seemed quite calm and at peace with himself as he regarded the Confederate. “Tell me, Colonel, you do think God is on our side, don’t you?”

Pickett chuckled grimly. “God is on the side with the most battalions. And, usually, the side with the most food. What about you, Mr. President?”

Robert did not answer right away. He appeared absorbed by something beyond the boat, perhaps the congested line of trees arching over the water’s edge, or perhaps the slow slap of oars in the muddy water. He sighed again, a deep exhale tinged with pain and sadness. “I believe God is on the side of our country. Look.” He pointed at the jungle drifting slowly by. “This, it is my country. This, where I am. This, what I am. Look, there is a quebracho tree, stained black. And the rosita.” He paused momentarily and pointed again. “A bribri. And there, beyond, see the tall supa. I could find for you ripe plantains, krabo, wild mangroves, and also ibina, and the small mahklala that runs like the wind, and take you to a valley where the King Jankro fly. There are villages where we eat eskabaycheh and play the gombeh, and dance the kunjai when we want, and pray in our own tongue that God gave to us, and not some other.”

A small splash in the water nearby interrupted him. Jones almost jumped with fear at the sound. Pickett reached for his gun but Robert stopped him. “Just a caimán. A crocodillo. Like many of God’s creatures, they live all along this river. So I aks you, Colonel. Wouldn’t you fight for all this? Wouldn’t you offer your life to protect your people from conquerors and their evil ways?”

Pickett said something in response, but Jones had stopped listening. The sound of the crocodile thrashing in the water seized his attention, bringing his mind to bear on the scene before him. He became mesmerized by the moment, with past and future and present blended into a single mote of time extending simultaneously towards him, away from him, and around him. The river stretched ahead in a perfectly straight line almost as far as the eye could see, narrowing in the far horizon to a line-thin vortex of jet blue sky, brown water, and overwhelming jungle. The sun’s heat beat down upon his forehead, causing large pearls of perspiration to roll down over his eyes. His vision dulled into a blurred swim, and he felt himself disconnected, as if spinning into a fall down a deep, dark shaft. A voice came to him faintly, from somewhere, speaking directly to him, explaining to him, telling him that everything he could do in life and everything he could become would first have to pass down this narrow channel of water, woods and sky. It was a journey created just for him.

Then a woman appeared on the shore. Jones could see her clearly. She emerged from a barricade of fallen trees at the river’s edge with a sudden flurry of form and motion and came to a stop beneath a slender silver palm tree. She was young, and even from a distance her beauty was luminous. For an instant Jones felt a powerful surge of desire and imagined himself lying with her at the water’s edge. Then he looked more closely. Was she wraith or real? The contour of her naked body blended into the surrounding vegetation, and her head sat unevenly on her neck. At first she was squatted down, her bare breasts just discernible above a spreading fan of papta. Then she stood to her full height, slowly, gracefully, uncaring, and extended both arms straight out, palms upwards, and with eyes uplifted, a high priestess of the One Whose Name is Great. She began to move her mouth. The sounds inside Jones’ head grew louder. He realized it was the woman talking to him. She started to shimmer, like pure gold reflecting in a tropical sun, while the sounds she made grew ever more distinct, reverberating in his ears through an unseen megaphone. The words were distantly familiar, and abruptly Jones recognized them, and knew them by heart. He spoke them to himself, and then spoke them to the woman, who was now somehow standing next to him:

Trust in the Lord with all your heart

And lean not on your own understanding

In all ways submit to Him

And He will make your paths straight

Jones stretched a hand tentatively toward the woman, wanting to touch her, to feel her as she was, but her flesh had dissolved into insubstantial threads of shadow and light, nothing more, and in a heartbeat she was gone completely.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Jones had studied that text, and knew it well. But he had never felt the electric power of the message in the same way. His senses flooded back so rapidly that he truly felt as if he had been blind, and now could see, deaf and now could hear. He absorbed his surroundings all again; Pickett, Robert, the suffocating heat, and the deep brown water flowing by his boat. The angel was gone. Was she a vision, or was she a dream? He could not tell whether she had sprung from the jungle or from his fevered mind, but her soothing words remained, etched forever into his heart and mind. Robert Jones, for the first time in his life, had felt the awesome power of his Lord. He felt himself balancing in a teetering equilibrium, rooted in this life but connected somehow to the next. Fear drained from him as if a dyke had let loose, spilling his life blood with all its accumulated store of passion, fret, pride and anger onto the ground carelessly. For the first time, but not the last, he found himself bereft of everything in the world that made sense, standing before a great portal leading to nothing and to everything, to his final destination and to a thousand possible tomorrows. For the first time, but not the last, Robert Jones dared to imagine the face of his Maker.

Waspàn was no more than a collection of thatched huts tossed randomly, like so many dice, along the banks of the river. The ramshackle dwellings stood on narrow stilts or pilings of wood, leaving a crawlspace between the floor of the house and the ground below, and those small spaces appeared to be the breeding grounds of the chickens that roamed freely over the two dirt roads that ran through the village.

The villagers gave the impression of being more curious than friendly. They gathered in small groups to stare and point at the odd looking strangers from the north. Jones heard them laughing among themselves. Somehow, that gave him a feeling of annoyance. He couldn’t help thinking that the men of Pickett’s troop should be doing the laughing. The natives were uniformly dirty and unkempt, apparently satisfied to be smeared with brown mud and dirt. Many were thinly nourished. The children in particular appeared boney, with protuberant bellies and gaping spaces between their ribs.

Despite the obvious poverty of his people, Robert announced that the village would celebrate that night with a feast in honor of what he called “Pickett’s Liberators.” It did not seem possible to Jones that the Miskito had the wherewithal to provide even bread enough for all of them, much less a feast.

Nonetheless, the village was transformed into a beehive of preparation. A dozen or so long, roughhewn tables were placed at the riverside, and through the course of the late afternoon were stacked with fish platters of various sizes, baskets of fruit and nuts, long leafy vegetables, chicken parts, and dried strips of meat. A fire pit was dug in the sand, lined with stone, and filled to capacity with a gutted pig.

Jones decided to explore the grounds, and was soon befriended by a young boy, looking ten or eleven, who trailed behind for a few minutes before presenting himself boldly and extending his right hand. He introduced himself as Simpson and commenced to narrate the proceedings as they unfolded. He spoke in passable English, and Jones could see that the boy could hardly restrain himself with delight in anticipation of the coming feast.

“You see the woman carrying the straw pataki?” He pointed at an old woman shuffling slowly with a basket under her arm. “She is bringing bami. Bread. Eat together with the chimoaleh. Soup. Over here, look...” he caught Jones by the hand and guided him to a table. “Kwamu! What you say is turkey. And over here. Panaades. And this is tahpam, big fish cut in small pieces. And look, sir! Garnache with beanz an rise. And this is rompopo, so good to drink!” Simpson was so excited he began to dance a little jig.

“Think you’ll eat well tonight, eh?”

The young boy rubbed his swollen belly and grinned. “Ah yer so.”

There was something engaging about young Simpson, something familiar and resonant about his youthful joy and playfulness.

He grasped Jones by the hand again. “Hey, sir, come wit me! You like sweemming? Let’s go sweemming!” He pointed excitedly at the river. “Come on!”

Jones grinned, and gripped the boy’s hand tightly. Sure. Why not? he thought. Let’s go swim in the river!

Just then Blue emerged from the crowd, ambling slowly up to Jones. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Colonel want you now.”

Jones shook himself free of Simpson. “Well, boy, maybe another time. Sure would like to, though.”

The boy understood in a flash and sprinted away, laughing loudly in the uncaring way that children do, free as a bird.

The feasting lasted well into the night, accompanied by the percussive rhythm of drums and sticks, shouts, catcalls, laughter, hoots and derisive joking. There were many declamations of valorous faith in the cause of independence, including one by Pickett that was largely drowned out by the surrounding hubbub.

Although a home brewed beer was served, it was in small quantities only, and consumed quickly. There was no drunkenness, but as the evening wore on many of the villagers began to smoke small, crudely shaped cigars that exuded a pungent, peculiar acrid smell. Soon, a thick cloud of fumes settled like a pall over the revelers. Here and there, a head fell onto a table, asleep, or someone dropped to the ground snoring loudly. Some of Pickett’s troop also fell victim to the powerful haze of smoke being inhaled repeatedly in rounds of merriment.

Jones had heard stories of certain plants that could be made into powerful drugs by either smoking them or burning them like incense and inhaling. Falling flat on his face in a stupor did not seem like an enjoyable prospect to him. Pickett was engaged in earnest conversation with Robert, with no need for Jones. The food was tolerable, and so he piled up a small basket for himself and made his way towards the water’s edge, away from the others. His rifle hung heavily on his back, and the gun strap chaffed at his shoulder, making him hurry. Since Pickett was preoccupied, it would be an easy thing to disobey orders, and to leave the weapon behind. Jones would not disobey. Besides, carrying a weapon gave him a sense of importance, especially in the presence of the villagers.

The night was moonless and dark, lit up only by a large bonfire that cast rippling shadows over the slow flowing waters. Dense jungle stretched interminably away in every direction, a great giant sleeping fitfully under a tropical sky, pricked by the plaintive calls of nightbirds and the strumming of cicadas. The river itself was soundless, sensed but not seen.

He nestled himself onto the sandy riverbank, and after finishing his food Jones lay down, propping himself on an elbow, and allowed the sounds of revelry to gradually fade. The night sky revolved past him slowly, filled by a million stars it seemed, each following its own track, as they had done from the time God first tossed them across the heavens. The awesome panorama prompted him to say a prayer, but he felt restless, bothered by a disturbance deep inside, an inconvenient flutter in a forgotten corner of his mind. He ached to be as free as the stars, but he knew they were not free. They were tasked to their unyielding duty just as surely as he was. How easy it would be, how natural, to turn his head and walk into the depths of the forest, pretending to be free, and trust in the Lord to protect him. He knew somehow, and believed, that other plans had been prepared for him and that a great task lay before him. The memory of the angel praying by the river came to him, and he felt the heavy weight of his fate press down, like a fever upon his brow. Soon, soon, surely, surely, he would be shown the way.

Jones heard a ripple and splash in the water. Caimàn, he thought. Then another, louder splash. A few more. They were active this night. A thought tugged at him, a thin whisper, just a thread. Did crocodiles come out in groups? At night?

The attack came from the north, from across the river directly opposite the village. Later, it was learned that most of the attackers were Garofundu, a neighboring tribe with a long history of enmity towards the Miskito. Their mutual hatred was sufficiently deep to justify spasmodic bouts of warfare, going on now for many generations. There were also Nicaraguan officers, and, it was said, some Salvadorans. Some swore there was a North American among them, issuing orders. It was never learned who betrayed Pickett’s troop, or why, or when, for the enemy’s ambush had been carefully laid long beforehand.

The crash of gunfire shook the night with the power of an earthquake. Jones jumped to his feet, confused and uncomprehending. The screams and hoarse shouts that rent the air unveiled the power and savagery of the attack quickly enough. He retrieved his rifle and lurched toward the sound of shooting coming from the direction of the banquet.

He never made it there. As he lumbered forward, rifle at the ready, a heavy fusillade erupted a few yards ahead. The shooters were screened by dense thickets of underbrush and grass choking the shoreline, but he could easily hear the clack-clack of magazines being slammed into place and the snap-click of firing bolts rammed into position. Much of the screaming had turned to agonized moaning. Jones stopped and tried desperately to think. Anyone in the killing zone must be dead by now. His best hope was to make it back to the troop’s campground just south of the village. He reasoned that it would be a natural rallying point for Pickett’s men, and its location in a small clearing carved out of a banyan grove would provide some protection.

As he immersed himself in the cover of the forest the dark became even blacker, causing him to stumble repeatedly. No more than twenty yards in, he heard a hissing sound that froze him in place. The sound came again, raising the hairs on his neck. He heard the sound again, and then again, soughing in an up and down rhythm. It was not hissing. It was sighing. Gripping his gun tightly, Jones made his way carefully towards the sound.

He found an oddly slumped form cradled in a tangle of cascading liana, like a great spider lying expectantly in its web, waiting silently. Jones approached, afraid of what he would find, and brought his face close to the other’s, struggling to see any detail in the darkness.

It was Blue. Jones touched his face, feeling the warmth of fresh blood. The wound seemed to be in the neck, extending wider than a palm’s width. Blue said nothing, but raised a single finger, pointing towards his right. The sighing stopped. Blue died as quietly as he had lived, nothing more than a small flame that flickered briefly in the immensity of time, snuffed out without a trace. A body lay inert a few feet away, barely visible on a hummock of broken shrubbery and spider plants. Jones couldn’t be sure at first, but a glimmer of starlight revealed the high cheekbones and downy beard of Blue’s owner, the young VMI cadet they called Pluto. Jones could see that Blue’s finger was still extended, pointing at Pluto as if in silent acknowledgement of something that could no longer be expressed in words. How strange, Jones thought. Blue was never far from his owner in life, and Pluto never far from Blue. Now Blue and Pluto would remain together, dead, to the ages of ages.

The firing had not stopped but did not seem to be getting any closer. Jones made his way to the filibustero tents as silently as he could, certain that his thrashing would attract the unseen enemy. As he got closer he could see light flickering vividly from the encampment, a bright beacon that guided Jones but would equally guide their attackers. It seemed like a foolish breach of common sense.

To his astonishment, Jones found Pickett in the center of the camp, revolver in one hand while using the other to steadily feed small pieces of paper into a leaping fire. He wore a stone mask of concentration as he shoveled papers into the flames, barely glancing at Jones.

“Help me with this,” he snarled. “The bastards have sold us down the river.”

Jones stopped dead in his tracks. Pickett was emptying out the contents of the duffel bag he had been assigned to carry. There were papers, sealed envelopes, and folders. There was also money. Newly printed USA dollars, Northern dollars, were bundled together in different denominations stacked within the depths of the bag.

Jones was aghast. “Mister! It’s money!”

Pickett grinned wickedly. “It’s just money, Jones. Don’t want the other side to get it, though. Our Yankee cousins would be howlin’ mad to see us spending their money this way. Making a new country don’t come cheap, for sure.”

Jones made a halfhearted stab at the contents of the bag, but stopped himself again. “How much is there?”

“Cut the shit and get moving, Jones. There’s a million give or take. Kept ten thousand, we may need it. Burn the rest.”

Jones thought he knew Pickett well. Even so, it was a revelation to see not a trace of fear in the older man. His rigid features radiated fury, not fright. This is the kind of man people will follow, thought Jones. No fear. No regret.

He bent over to begin scooping up bundles of cash as Pickett ordered. As he crouched, Jones felt the brush of something whirring, buzzing with the heat of a rocket just over his head. He looked up with a start, just in time to see Pickett whirl in an awkward pirouette and fall heavily to the ground. A dark stain appeared over his shoulder, spreading quickly.

Click-clack.

Diving flat onto the ground, overwhelmed by a feeling of nausea, Jones saw a man run up to within a few feet away. He was short, dark, and hyperexcited as he fumbled to chamber a round into his smoking rifle. Jones struggled to unsling his own gun as he raised himself to a standing position. It was a race won very quickly. The Jorgenson felt as if it were ten feet long and weighed a ton as Jones labored to unravel it. Before he could raise his weapon, the enemy soldier had his own rifle at his shoulder. The muzzle wavered briefly before coming to rest on a direct line to Robert Jones’ head. It was over.

In that instant a vision of the river angel came over Jones, embracing him, enveloping him with an overwhelming feeling of serenity. She guided him by hand to the edge of the great gateway that awaited him. Beyond was an infinite forest of virgin green trees, swaying to and fro in prayer. In the fraction of an instant before death, Jones mumbled the first words that came to mind:

Our Father who art...

The soldier’s head exploded violently, as if it were a ripe melon struck by an unseen sledgehammer. Blood rained over Jones, pelting his face with bright red droplets that streamed like ruby colored tears down his cheeks. For some reason, his ears rang with a deafening whine.

Rufus Dirk strode into view purposefully, checking his rifle’s mechanism with brisk, practiced movements. Major Barkley came puffing up right behind him. He kicked the dead soldier’s body as he trotted by.

Dirk knelt down at Pickett’s side, examined the wound briefly, and gave a half grin, half grimace. “Boss, you don’t look so good. The bullet is gone through and through, though.” He shook out a handkerchief and pressed it against the wound.

Pickett groaned and raised his revolver. “Prop me up. I’ll sell out dear while you get away.”

Barkley gasped. “Colonel, no!”

Pickett groaned again, more softly, and clutched at his shoulder. “Acta est fabula...plaudite.”

Dirk stood up, snorted, and took a quick survey of the clearing. “Keep that shit to yourself, I’ve heard it all before. You’re like a broken record. We’re movin’ out. All of us.” He bent down to whisper into Jones’ ear. “I need my hands clear and Barkley is useless. You’ll have to carry the Colonel.”

Without another word he sidled in a crouched stance to the fringe of the tree line, rifle at the ready. Pickett gave out a loud, prolonged moan as Jones hoisted him up over his shoulder, shuddered once or twice, then lost consciousness as the small band of survivors lost itself rapidly within the unseen channels of uncharted jungle.

Dirk drove them at least a mile before he allowed a pause. They dressed Pickett’s wound as well as they could, but blood leaked steadily around the edges of the hastily created bandaging. Jones surrendered his shirt to be cut into cloth strips. He was relieved not to have to give up his trousers for the same purpose. After what seemed like an eternity, Pickett opened his eyes and was able to drink some water. His gaze fixed on Dirk.

“Hey, pard.”

“Don’t have time for no molasses, boss. It’s simple. We need to keep movin’.”

Pickett passed out once again, even though Jones raised him as gently as he could. By folding the limp body over both shoulders the load was made more bearable, but fatigue set in quickly as they moved on. The ground was even, but strewn with low lying vines, thickly entrenched bushes and fallen branches that made the trek a nightmare of effort.

And the night was full of life. The cicadas had quieted down, but nightbirds quailed their throaty songs from high above them and the croaking of a thousand frogs was scattered around them, each sound spattered around the near distance surrounding them. In the dark of night, every frond and leaf took on the feel of flesh, each protruding twig became a bony finger, and each swish of bough became a breathless whisper. And surely, Jones thought, somewhere nearby, surveilling them intently and breathing slowly, a denizen of the dark waited, hungry, measuring time and distance with an inscrutable calculus.

Without prelude or warning, a man called out softly in an unknown language, somewhere off to the left. Jones threw himself to the ground, losing his grip on Pickett, who thankfully remained unconscious as he tumbled into a flowering Sacuanjoche bush. The voice called out again, more loudly. Someone to their right responded in a high, piercing voice that exuded menace and threat. Jones lay prone, terrified, certain he was to be shot within the next seconds. Dirk, still upright, rushed to Pickett’s side, performed a quick inventory, then turned savagely on Jones.

“ What in the name of fuck is wrong with you…you could have killed the colonel. What happened ? You tripped?”

“No, no…” Jones felt a sense of disorientation. “Didn’t you hear? There are men out there, tracking us. Get down!”

Rufus Dirk’s face remained unseen even as he arose to his full height, waving his rifle ominously in Jones’ direction. “You stupid shit. They’s not people. They’s napes. Parrots. They talk like humans but they’s not human. Just like you, nigga. You talk like a human, but you’re not. Not as I can see, anyway. Never will be. Now pick up the colonel real careful and not another word. It’s simple.”

They hiked again without a break until the first dull gray streamers crossed the sky. Jones had started shaking with fatigue and felt on the verge of collapse when Dirk mercifully called a halt.

“We can stop now. We’ll be OK.”

Barkley was wheezing from exhaustion and sank gratefully to the ground. “How do you know we’ll be alright here?”

Dirk squatted down, his eyes alert. “They’re not following us, that’s how. Either they don’t know we got away, or they don’t care. Maybe all’s they wanted was the old man.”

“Robert?”

“Yeah. Got it in the first volley. It was quick.”

Jones lay Pickett down with great care. The dressing had dried up considerably. Pickett appeared tranquil, but Jones realized his own heart was pounding, and fine tremors were coursing through both arms. He lay down on his back, struggling to calm down, and focused on the sky above. A few stars were still discernible, following their celestial course directly into the oblivion of dawn.

“Dirk, what are we gonna do? Got no food, not much water. Got him.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of Pickett’s prostrate form.

“What we gonna do? We live to fight another day. We find food. We get water. We carry him.” Dirk spat the words out.

“But where we goin’? We gonna travel the wilderness like the Lost Tribes?”

“You shut your goddamn mouth and keep your place. Don’t need to explain nothin’ to you. But if you want to know, we’re goin’ to Bilwi.”

“Corporal, how far is Bilwi?” Barkley had barely enough breath to ask the question.

Dirk removed a small brass compass from his pocket, studied it a moment, and waved vaguely towards the south. “Not too far. About fifty-sixty miles as the eagle flies. Already gone about four. About six, seven days, maybe eight, dependin’. Could be nine. We’ll live off the land, Major. We’ll be fine. It’s simple.”

Looking back, Jones could only remember isolated events, blurring into days and nights, blurring into heat and rain, blurring into burning thirst and stabbing hunger. He could remember Dirk scraping out plantains and mashing wild yams to make a paste that Jones applied to Pickett’s wound. He could remember a family of spider monkeys pelting him with their feces as he lay sleeping one morning, yakking and screeching with hilarious joy all the while. He could remember awakening once to find his exposed chest covered with leeches, and he remembered the intense and painful itch of lice in his groin, and the incessant buzz and sting of mosquitos as large as the butterflies that floated by. If it was not hell, it was not far removed.

On the second night, or third, or maybe the fourth, Pickett spiked a high fever just after they made camp. His face became deeply ruddy, as if touched by flames licking at him from out of the small campfire they had made. He had briefly regained full awareness during their flight from Waspàn, but that night he lapsed into a confused state. He shook with rigors and raved with a howl that silenced the hoohyoo birds and triggered the growling purr of a jaguarundi that lurked not far off.

Dirk examined Pickett’s gunshot wound carefully. He whispered a few words to Barkley, then placed the tip of a thin knife into the fire. It was Jones’ job to hold Pickett down as still as possible while Dirk placed the burning hot blade squarely in the wound, searing the edges with a circular motion. Mercifully, Pickett struggled only briefly before again becoming insensible.

The next morning Dirk informed them they could not move Pickett. “He’s either gonna live or die today,” he pronounced. “Fever been goin’ up and down. Either way, we go on tomorrow. Lay low.”

Jones spent most of that day sitting next to Pickett, using a tree fern to swipe at flies and mosquitos as they hovered back and forth. Toucans griped loudly right above his head, and a flaming red quetzel flew back and forth like a demon, cawing for its mate. Dirk left the camp to forage. He returned carrying a knapsack filled with ripe yellow craboo, some short thin brown plants he called fever grass, and a live lizard that looked like an engorged iguana.

The iguana was lunch, very much appreciated by Barkley and Jones, as they were both disgusted by the rancid, rotten-sweet taste of craboo. Jones had hoped for some coconut, but there were no palm trees in the primordial, compressed wilderness that surrounded them. Rufus Dirk seemed not to care what he ate, concentrating instead on thoroughly chewing everything he consumed. Their water was brown, but potable once it was boiled. Bigger flecks of vegetation were easily removed after boiling, and the small ones didn’t matter. Somehow, Barkley had gotten into some bad water, giving him the urgent shits for three days in a row and rendering him useless for any meaningful work.

After their meal, Barkley lay down with his head beneath a dead yama bush and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, a mirror image to Pickett’s unmoving form.

Dirk perked the fever grass into a yellow tea, brought a cup to Pickett’s lips, and tried to coax him into a few sips. He kept at it repeatedly, without a word, stopping only when it was clear that the man was unresponsive. Dirk’s shoulders slumped, revealing both sorrow and fatigue.

Jones wanted to say something comforting. “It’ll be alright. He’ll pull out. Mister’s strong.”

A long silence followed.

“Why do you call him Mister?” Dirk gave an abrupt, peremptory glance at Jones. When there was no immediate response he snarled the question a second time, louder. “Why do you call him Mister?”

Jones flushed with a surge of anger. Something about Dirk kept him perpetually on edge. “I don’t know. Think I said it one day and he let it be. Just stuck.”

“Bullshit. That’s bullshit, you lying son of a bitch.” Dirk stood up, towering over Jones. The creases on his face darkened, creating the effect of a fractured black mask penetrated only by his yellowed eyes. His right hand twitched convulsively, as if it were struggling to find a weapon. “Tell me why you call him Mister, or I’ll shove this machete up your ass.”

Speechless, terrified, engorged with hatred, Jones sat motionless. Blood pounded through his temples, his ears roared, and his vision dimmed as if dusk had suddenly fallen. He wanted to stand, to fight, to beat down his tormentor. At the same time, he knew that if they fought, he would die at the hands of the bigger, stronger Dirk. As he teetered on the edge of a violent eruption, heedless of the probable outcome, a miracle happened. He felt the graze of soft fingers stroking his brow tenderly, no more than the barest touch of the gentlest breeze. It was the river angel, appearing to him again, unbeckoned. She descended like gossamer down, dulling him, encasing him within herself, moderating the murderous urge he felt to strike a knife into Dirk’s chest. Jones’ heart slowed and his breathing eased. He could hear the angel talk again, and once again her words were mumbles at first, distilling slowly into concrete form. The words were said with authority.

Thy shalt not hate thy brother in thine heart

The words were not a command. They simply showed the way, a path that was now opened to him, a narrow channel, a slowly flowing river that would carry him to his next destination.

Like a predator in the wild, Dirk sensed that his victim was not going to fight. He stretched his hand well behind his head and in a sweeping arc swung it around to slap Jones across the face. “Why do you call him Mister?”

Jones bowed his head and said nothing.

Dirk struck again, almost knocking Jones over with the force of his blow and leaving a bloody gash over the cheekbone. “Why do you call him Mister?”

Jones’ body began to tremble with pain. He turned his cheek slightly.

Almost incoherent with rage, Dirk clenched his fist and pressed it against the wound, grinding it into the flesh. “Why do you call him Mister? Why don’t you call him what he really be? Tell me, goddamn Christian man. Why?”

Pickett groaned.

Dirk lurched forward to be at his side, placing his palm on Pickett’s forehead.

Pickett’s eyes fluttered briefly, then opened fully. He gave a small sigh. “Hey, old dog,” he said in a whisper, and gave a glance at Jones. “Take care o’ ma boy.”

Dirk forced some fever grass tea past Pickett’s lips, and later was able to feed him a pulpy mash of plantains mixed with craboo. By the next day Pickett was able to walk with his good arm slung over Jones’ neck. Not a word more was said between Dirk and Jones. Both men carried on as if nothing had happened between them, though Jones would feel the pain in his cheek for weeks.

They travelled on, one day merging into night, night merging into day, and then another night, and then another day. Torrential rain fell every morning, heat steamed from their bodies, and step by step they evaporated into their surroundings, blending human and jungle. Sounds and smells became their living companions, and without ever realizing when and how, fear transformed itself into wary vigilance. Rufus Dirk was perpetually in the lead, their guide and their chief, machete in one hand and compass in the other.

They reached a shallow river. It was carved out of the jungle as if with a paring knife, a winding narrow ribbon of sluggish dark green water with a rocky bottom. The sun was just setting, casting a reddish hue across the eddies and wavelets edging the stony shore.

Dirk sat down heavily on a fallen tree trunk, checked his compass, and pointed with his left hand towards the east. He seemed to waver for a moment.

“Bilbi. Other side of the river. Two, three miles. It’s simple.” Then, inexplicably, he tipped over, collapsing on the ground.

In later times, even with the benefit of hindsight, Jones could not recall any clues that foretold what was to happen. Dirk had been strong, the strongest of them all, had never faltered, and seemed impermeable to the effects of fear and fatigue. But he was only human in the end.

When they knelt by Dirk’s side, his breathing was labored and his face was lathered in thick sweat droplets flowing down from his forehead. Though his eyelids were closed, both eyes could be seen darting rapidly back and forth towards the right. Abruptly, his right arm and leg began to twitch spasmodically, becoming more violent every moment. After a long minute the seizure stopped.

Barkley spread open Dirk’s eyelids. The pupils were enormous, round coal black holes staring blindly at the sky directly overhead. His eyeballs were a brilliant, fluorescent green with chaotic streaks of red at the corners.

“He’s burning, boss. I think it’s his malaria. Gotta be.” Barkley rocked back on his heels, his face a blend of fear and sorrow.

Pickett at first said nothing. He propped himself up near the stricken man, but did not attempt to lean over. Slowly, with some effort, he formed his mouth to speak. “I knew from yestady, saw the signs. Gonna have to leave him. Come back for him later.” He straightened himself, staring at Barkley defiantly. “Have to get to Bilwi and report to Richmond. We need orders.”

Jones could scarce believe his ears. “But Mist -” He stopped himself so abruptly that he bit his tongue.

“But me no buts. We’ll leave him water and his sidearm but grab the compass. Take my arm, Jones. Bilwi. The man said It’s two, three miles, other side of the river.”

But Jones did not move right away. He bent closely over the stricken man’s head and held it in both hands. Another convulsion followed, shorter this time.

“Come on, Jones, that’s an order,” Pickett growled. He reached into his knapsack, drew out a crumpled roll of bills, and placed the money in one of Dirk’s pockets. Then, more softly, “Come on. He’s a tough nigger. He’s been through worse shit before.”

Dirk was breathing, respirations raising his chest regularly, but he appeared comatose. Jones sobbed involuntarily. He yanked the cross of cloth from Dirk’s neck, then arose and took his place next to Pickett. The small group trudged on, crossing the river with care. Jones looked back repeatedly, cloth cross in hand, until Dirk’s massive form dissipated into the vastness of the rainforest.

Jones leaned back in his rocker, gazing thoughtfully towards the brown edge of shallow bayou swamp barely visible beyond the cabin window. An enormous cypress tree draped thickly with hanging moss swayed gracefully in the wind, arching over the cabin protectively. Its boughs scraped back and forth on the cedar shingled roof, scratching out a secret message for anyone interested enough to decipher it. Thoughts of Pickett and Dirk and Robert and the little boy in Waspàn tumbled through his mind. It was all so far in the past, and yet so near in his heart, within his heart, buried in his heart. Trust in the Lord with all your heart, the angel had said. He had, and he did, and he would for all the days that remained to him. Sometimes, he felt he was nearing the end. Other times, like today, he felt he had barely moved on from the day they left Dirk at the river’s edge. Of one thing he was sure. Even though he had learned much in the intervening years, there was still so much unknown remaining.

The door to the room opened abruptly. A man entered. Jones knew him as Marchand. He was late, but he made no apology. As usual, he entered with a scowl accentuated by perpetually contorted eyebrows. The left rose high as if in shocked disbelief while the right, suspicious, dipped low onto the bridge of his nose. He looked like a man of many possibilities.

Jones barely lifted himself from his seat in greeting. “Marchand.”

“I’m not particular interested in having a conversation with you today. I’m here only because I have to be.”

Jones settled back in his rocker. He glanced out the window. Two helmeted soldiers wearing the distinctive blue, white and gold pelican patch of the Louisiana Guard had taken station right outside, rifles slung over their shoulders casually. One of them was peering inside as Jones was looking out.

“Well, alright then Marchand, what is your message?”

Marchand launched himself clumsily onto a wicker chair in the corner of the room. He didn’t answer right away, first dislodging an ornate silver flask from a back pants pocket and taking a quick hard swallow. A small trickle dripped from his lip. His pink cheeks turned faintly red. He then reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved a long white envelope, and offered it in Jones’ direction.

“For you. Papers. Some money. The word is to go ahead.”

Jones inspected the contents and nodded his head. “Chauffeur’s license, that’s good. Need someone to drive around though.”

Marchand smiled, his right eyebrow arching even higher and his left squinting even lower. “That’d be me. Be back next week. Leave then.” He paused. “Boss wants me to keep an eye on things. Keep an eye on you.” He patted himself over his left chest ostentatiously, puffing himself up to reveal the large bulge under his jacket more clearly.

Jones nestled himself even further into the rocking chair, tapping his foot quietly as he mulled over the plan he had been deliberating over the past weeks. “One more blow. One more shock, and I think it will all come tumbling down. The temple will collapse all around our heads, Marchand.”

“Yeah, well don’t you worry none about Lou’siana. Go ahead and worry about Virginia and Alabama and all the rest if you want. We’ll be just fine, thank you. Better than fine, ol’ Kingfish will see to that, and we’ll be standin’ tall in the end. He knows what he’s doin’. Too bad about everyone else, but if that’s what it takes,” he shrugged, “that’s what it takes. Need to take care of ourselves right here, do whatever needs be, no matter.”

Jones sat thoughtfully for another moment, then gave a deep and honest sigh. “Know what you mean. It’s a situation been suffered through by many a country, it’s as old as mankind, really. The bible tells us how to pray about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Genesis 32.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Finally, Marchand blurted out “Well, what does it say? Genesis 32?”

Jones closed his eyes, wanting to retreat once more to the ancient sanctuary of the forest. He whispered the words, not really caring if Marchand could hear, or understand. “Lord, deliver me I pray thee from the hand of my brother.” It was true back then, and it was still true now.

Subscribe to continue the journey. The biggest revelations in Searching Jona are still to come.

Chapter 13

Sunday morning came flivverin’ in, sneaky at first, like a dirt-poor yard and field boy trying to slip past the padderollers on his way to town, not caring about the whipping that was sure to follow, easing his way eagerly, expectantly into the noisiest, liveliest, bawdiest barrelhouse around. It seemed like the morning star was of a similar mind, riding upwards in the sky as it dodged dark, grim columns of clouds prowling intently in the opposite direction. The moon, on the other hand, looked tired, dry, and weak. Fed whiskey enough, and sated with the trill shrieks, groans, cries and calls of the nighttime, it slumped down low on the horizon, exhausted and ready for sleep.

Sleep was far from Ollie Griffin’s thoughts as he trudged along the early morning streets. Sleep might be sweet later in the day, to be taken while tucked away in a shady bed and far from the muddy heat of the afternoon. But right now he was mindful of only one thing, the one thing that drove him almost every day: Money. Money for his pocket. Money for his honey lady’s pocket. Money for Captain Grace’s pocket. In one way or another money was the necessary ingredient in his everyday affairs. Without money old Captain Grace would pull him off the streets and send him off to who knows where. Without money Florence might start looking in other directions, especially during the long nights he was away from her. Without money his cherished dream of being free would never be accomplished.

Last night had started off well enough at the “81”. The old theater on Decatur was swamped, just like any Saturday night, and the place was jumpin’. All the boys were there, and they all took their turns with a set. The Mississippi Sheiks, The Memphis Jug Band, Peg Leg Howell and his Gang, and The Baxters all played their gigs. Ollie went in with the Howell Gang. Played steel guitar, twelve string, even banjo, whatever Howell wanted. Howell’s owner and manager, Old Man Weaver, was always with the band, and he sometimes picked out songs he wanted done. He liked some of the old standards from the days of Buford Threlkeld’s coon shows, like Warm Wipe Stomp, and other ditties like it that just weren’t popular anymore. As the evening wore on, the band began to play whatever they wanted. When they got around to Too Tight Blues Ollie really got into it with Jimmy Hemingway at piano. Fat Jimmy shimmied his 325 pounds like a sugary bowl of jelly while Ollie hopped up and down as he played. Peg Leg Howell really liked that, and at the end pointed at Ollie to take a bow. Old Man Weaver also applauded, clapping his hands so hard his jowls began to shake up’n down like he was churnin’ butter.

He made three dollar for the show, and Mr. Stone gave him a four bit tip. Mr. Stone was the TOBA man. TOBA was some kind of agency that handled bookings for all the owners, but everyone knew the word actually stood for “Tough On Black Asses.” Well, Mr. Stone congratulated Ollie on a good performance, and promised him a gig at Garver Hall one day. Garver Hall! That’s where whites went to dance, and would mean bigtime money.

That’s what Ollie was hoping for. Bigtime money. He could finish buying himself out from Captain Grace, and buy out Florence also. Be free. Get North somehow. Take the Underground Railroad, maybe. He laughed just a bit. Who knew whether the UR was even real? It might be just a story, something told at bedtime in a whisper, something made up to give folks a little hope for the coming day. But the Illinois Central Railroad, well, that was no made-up story. That was real enough. Get on it somehow, and the ride ended up in Chicago, where people said that anyone with a live guitar could get a job at the best blues clubs in the country. The northern country, that is.

The thing about Ollie was, he liked to work, but he didn’t put on just to get ahead. He was no loose jointed, awkward, aw-shucks-suh smiling jive talker ready to break into a buck ‘n wing whenever he crossed over to the white part of town. He’d been beaten in his day, just a few times, maybe, but never broken. He never kowtowed, not even to Captain Grace. He stayed true to himself, within reason, and most important, true to the music he loved to play.

Playing the guitar had saved him, sustained him, and one day would free him. He had first been taught to play as a small boned boy on the Yazoo, underneath the ancient cypress trees that lived low and slow along the banks of the deep running river. Since then he had learned to play just about anything. Ballads, over-and-overs, devil songs, ditties, stomps, slow low down gut struts, spirituals, schottisches, scats, slow drags, field hollers, breakdowns, jazz, work songs, lullabies, folk rags. Blues, of course. Any one of a hundred different music calls that could touch the spirit and lift a body up, and give joyful release from this mean, mean world, if only for a few minutes. All for a dime a song.

So three-fifty was not bad for a set at the “81”, but not enough. Ollie aimed to make five dollar every day. Three dollar, just as they agreed, for Captain Grace, fifty cent for Florence, fifty cent for him, and one dollar put away for his coming day of independence. He still owed five hundred and five to gain his release. One year, four months and twenty days at one dollar a day. Then seven hundred fitty for Florence. It didn’t seem from time to time that she was worth that much, but he wasn’t complainin’. Shoot, he’d still be a young man of twenty eight when it was all done.

Then the world would hear about Ollie Griffin. He’d go to N’awlns, or Birmingham, or he could stay right here in Atlanta. Start by playing live on WSB during the evening listening hour. Then, record some wax cuts and maybe have one or two local rumbles. And then, finally, sign up with a big label like Okeh Records. When he did make the bigtime, he would walk around looking mighty fine every day, just like Blind Lemon Jefferson. Wear box backed suits, hats with three-colored bands, and on Sundays, shoes with five dollar gold coins in the tips.

So, he hitched a ride to Five Points after the show at the “81”, and was fixin’ to walk back towards Auburn, or maybe all the way to Ponce, and just take his chances, strumming and hollering wherever the pickings looked good. People were funny. Sometimes they’d chase him away, or worse, call the cops. Ollie was no stranger to police boots and night sticks. The caved-in hollow of his right cheek was a grim reminder that sometimes he strayed too far and stayed too long in white neighborhoods.

Other times, he’d be welcomed like a prince. People would come out of their little clapboards and crowd around, clapping and calling, moving their feet and shuffling in the dust of the street and swaying to the timbrous, plaintive, clamorous, plangent twang of bent guitar strings. Then the coins would start falling at his feet, falling like sweet rain, falling like a stream of gold flowing from the mouth of Gabriel himself.

As he headed north he passed the massive Piedmont Hotel lying on its haunches on the corner of Luckie and Peachtree. One day once, it constituted the very cream of luxury lodging in the city center, now fallen on hard times. It was said a room could be had there for two dollar a night, including privileges, and for four dollar, a room with its own private bath and toilet. That would surely be sweet, but would never be in the cards for Ollie. He had gone to the back door of the hotel once, to ask if he could play in the lounge, and he was thrown right out the same back door again. They kicked him as he lay on the ground, and said that a no-account like him would never be allowed in the Piedmont Hotel, ever. There were three big white kitchen boys, and they called him nigger over and over. One of them wanted to stick a cigar up his ass and light it. He was chewing on a burnt out stogie that looked like it was good for nothing else. Ollie held his breath when he heard that, because it would take only one more of them to agree and make it happen, but the other two finally said no, and they let him be.

His friend Early, when he heard the story told, wanted to organize a group to go back to the Piedmont, around to the back, and protest, or better yet burn them out, but Ollie wouldn’t have any of it. Nowadays there were lots of people like that, who wanted to fight. In fact, looking for a fight. People like this cat Nathan Early, who kept talking about some black bigass named Garvey, and about the struggle, and organizing, and going back to mother Africa. Early swore that if anything ever happened to Ollie, he’d blow the town up. He was a hard case.

Ollie asked him once, what was up his ass, anyway? “Hey, Early, why you lookin’ fo trouble like that? Get folks hurt?”

“Folks already been hurt, man. We been trapped here, what? Two hunderd, three hunderd, maybe five hunderd years. It don’t matter, even just one year against our will. Thousands died, maybe millions. It don’t matter, even one killed, and you know that’s true, you seen it yoself. All that can’t be just wrote off. Someone gotta pay. Not takin’ no mo shit, that’s what I’m sayin’.”

The way Early and his friends talked, though, it made Ollie feel like it wasn’t his fight, at least not one he wanted. Furthermore, Ollie didn’t care to go to Africa. He wanted to go to Chicago. So, as far as he was concerned, Early could go have a cigar shoved up his ass if he wanted, but from that time on the Piedmont Hotel was stricken off Ollie’s itinerary on an indefinite basis.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a whole lot of hurt, and a certain hardness in his heart, a callus where he’d been struck over and over. It made him angry to think about that day at the Piedmont, angry to think he could never bring Florence up there, to melt like cool ice cream in a room with its own toilet, and sink, and bathtub, all right there to be used any time of day or night. Hell, he’d get out of bed to take a bath at three in the morning just to say he did it. But Ollie was never one to stay down for long, even though he sang the blues. Maybe it was because he sang the blues. Anyway, he was raised to understand that things were just the way they were, and everyone had to get along in their own way, Nathan Early in his and Ollie in his.

And so, like most everyone else, he held his head erect most of the time, doffed his hat when passing a policeman, and kept his mouth subdued. Nathan Early said he refused to be humiliated like that, but he was just crazy, that’s all, crazy and looking for an early check out. It had to be that way, as long as white people were in charge. They were by and large pretty frightening, white people, and they were crazy, too. Some walked around thumping their chests, proclaiming their great goodness before God Almighty, but very few were baptized in the blood, they just talked a lot about it. Plenty more were vicious, and would take a man for every cent his poor body was worth. They liked doing that especially, even to one another. A scattering, it appeared, were somewhere in between. It seemed to Ollie that few of them really cared whether they were one way or the other. They just lived each day as they saw fit, always busy, always important, always about themselves, and if a black man got in the way, well, that was just too bad. It was as if they lived two lives, one just about themselves and a completely different one around others, particularly colored folk.

Despite what he’d seen and gone through in his life, Ollie could not stay angry at white people for very long. They were folks who’d taken a bad turn and headed for a bad ending, it was true, but he couldn’t hate them, at least not hate them all. He ustacoulda, but no longer. His music had saved him from that. Even so, one had to be careful. Look, if he were surrounded by a hunderd snakes, at least ten would be good ones. But ninety would be evil as hell and so all of them needed to be avoided, just to be safe. Every time he was around them, he felt the fear, the unease, the separation. He couldn’t really put it into words, he didn’t know how, and he couldn’t help it, it just happened, somekindaways.

As he walked toward the rising sun, the gray began to dissolve into the opalescent blue of first morning. A few early risers were strolling the streets, and an occasional car was seen slowly droning by. There were no police to be had. Ollie stopped on the intersection of Marietta and Peachtree near Jacob’s Pharmacy. He could see the pharmacy delivery boys mounting their shiny new motorcycles, imported from far away, and roaring off, carrying their precious cargoes, their paths radiating out over the city. He wanted to stop on that corner, it was a good corner, and he had done well there in the past, once. Just as he slung his guitar around his neck, he heard a low, gutteral voice directly behind him.

“Boy, watchou doin’ here?”

Ollie spun around to see a white, short, bald, middle aged man dressed from neck to knees in a white apron, standing in the doorway of the pharmacy, coming out of the blackness inside. He looked angry for no observable reason. Ollie had lived this kind of encounter all his life, knew it well, understood it, felt it as purely as he felt any song. It was as automatic as taking a piss. An opaque caul dropped between the two men as suddenly as a spring storm, sequestering them both into small flailing sacs from which there could be no escape.

He bowed his head and removed his cap. “Yessuh. Just playing my guitar, suh.”

Without turning his head the man called over his shoulder. “Eddie, come out here!” In a heartbeat or two or three Eddie came out, a big boy brandishing a baseball bat. The bald man looked Ollie up and down before rendering his verdict. “Beat the shit out of that black son of a bitch, woudja? Teach him a lesson he’ll never forget. I don’t ever want to see this trash around here ever again. Not in front of my store”

Without hesitation, Ollie began to run.

Now, for a black man to run fearfully through the streets of downtown Atlanta on a warm Sunday morning was no casual thing. He would be a marked man, immediately guilty of every known and unknown, imagined and unimaginable criminal act. By running, the entire police blotter of DeKalb County became embodied in his person, with Decatur’s thrown in for good measure. The mere act of escape could swell up a mob in moments. Ollie knew he faced the risk of brutal punishment if he were caught. If he were grabbed, tripped, or tackled in a crowd it might trigger a frenzy of savage beating, or worse.

Fortunately, the streets were almost empty as Ollie sprinted across Marietta. One pedestrian, an elderly black lady, merely gaped as he went by. Looking over his shoulder he saw Eddie hop on one of the motorcycles parked in front of the pharmacy and roar the engine to life. Ollie knew all about that motorcycle, it was one of the new bikes written up in the newspapers. Supposedly, the Jacobs family intended to enter them into the big bike races in Savannah and Durham. They were said to be the fastest bikes in the South, goin’ faster than 100 miles per hour. No matter, though. Ollie lost him within a few moments by tearing through a warren of back alleys, small vegetable gardens and junk filled lots.

When the deep, menacing growl of the motorcycle could no longer be heard ripping through the still of the dawn, he slowed to a walk, took a breath and checked his guitar. Then he smiled. Everything had turned out fine, it was just another day in Hotlanta. It occurred to him that it was probably time to go see Captain Grace and settle up, but he resisted. There was still money to be made before his day ended. He decided to go on, just a bit further.

Down Fort Street, past Houston, across Irwin and on to Auburn. Past Big Bethel Church, on beyond the ball fields and further north to Ponce de Leon. Ollie took it all in as the city slowly stretched itself awake, just like a lady in lace yawning politely upon arising. He passed small peeling frame homes, crumbling Italianate brick-front slums, ramshackle Revival mansions, and decaying Georgians arrayed in orderless profusion along street fronts that began to glow with the first licks of the sun’s rays.

This was his neighborhood, his place, his part of town. The black part of town. Some slaves lived here, contracted by arrangement with their owners, but here were mostly the freed poor. He felt at home here, comfortable, safe. His people were here. Whites didn’t come up to this area much, unless they were headed to the Pig’N Whistle on a Friday to have barbecue and listen to Blind Willie McTell. Well, often enough, to collect rents as well.

Ollie meandered into a dirty, littered courtyard framed by tenements on the verge of collapse, mostly trinities. This was a good place to stop. He unslung his guitar and adjusted it on his shoulder so that it lay up against his chest. It felt tight against him, comfortable, part of him. He carefully tuned it down, way down to D7. Sure, when he played Dixieland on the banjo he might do high C’s, maybe ten or twelve in a row sometimes, or flat fives, but when he was solo he liked to play low on the register, it suited his voice. He remembered what his old teacher Cecil had told him long ago, while he strummed on a riverbank strewn with the broken limbs of oak and pine. Ya just plays eleven measures like I showed you, use your thumb for the base line, and sing like you callin’ yo mule, thass all ya needs to do. Ollie followed those rules most times. Sometimes, though, he plucked the lowest string unfretted while he fingerpicked the other strings, just to give more depth and resonance to his play, more soulfulness. And then, without fuss, he began to sing:

Wake up mamma, don’t you sleep so sound

Wake up mamma, don’t you sleep so sound

These old blues walking all over your yard

Blues grabbed me at midnight, didn’t turn me loose today

Blues grabbed me at midnight, didn’t turn me loose today

I didn’t have no mamma to drive these blues away

People began to emerge from their apartments. Tentatively at first, then more and more briskly and in greater numbers, smiles wide, eyes crinkled with joyous expectation. There were mostly women and children, with a few older men. The young men were at work early, even though it was a Sunday. They stood silent for a while, and then began to clap their hands rhythmically, and sway from side to side as Ollie continued singing. Voices rang out as he played, loud voices, soft voices, tremorous voices, voices that sparked with life and some voices that sounded about dead. “That’s right!”, they cried, and “That’s how I feel, baby!” and “You know that’s true!” Little by little their voices became part of the song he was singing, and then it was almost as if they were singing and he was doing the hollerin’. And then the coins began to fly at Ollie’s feet, flowing like a joyful river. Nickles, dimes and cents, each coin a message, each coin a prayer, each coin imploring, beseeching, entreating: Don’t go. Stay with us. Play your music. Make your magic.

He stood before them and played with all that he had within him. He felt rooted to the ground, but somehow his soul soared, rising high and embracing everything around him. The courtyard, the people gathered around, his neighborhood, his past and his present, everything that made up the flesh and heart of Ollie.

After a half hour he felt drenched in sweat and stopped. The heat of a Georgia morning had descended upon them all. The clapping subsided, the voices stopped, and the small crowd drifted away as Ollie gathered up his money. One dollar and eight cent. That was good, that was real good, from just one stop. But not enough. He would not rest until he made five dollar each and every one of his God given days.

He decided to skirt the ballparks and head back to the general vicinity of Irwin. He knew a shortcut he could take, through a back alley behind the train tracks. He trudged off, keeping his guitar on his chest and at the ready in case he bumped across a good looking crowd. He entered a narrow alleyway from the street side and had only gone a few feet when a flash of white caught his eye.

If Ollie had been in a bad mood, or doing poorly, he surely would have turned around and just kept right on walking. But he was in a fine mood despite his earlier brush with Eddy, and the world was good because of the money he was making, and so he allowed curiosity to altogether jump upon him, and grab him, and move him towards the sliver of white that lay unmoving behind a low stack of firewood.

As he approached, he saw that it was a leg. It was a woman’s leg, shapely, exposed to mid thigh, lying in stark relief against the blackened dirt and cobblestone. Ollie rushed to her and knelt down by her side. Her dress was in disarray and stained, and she was lying on her left hip curled up like a baby. He could see that she was breathing regularly, but real shallow. She made an occasional gurgling moan. He saw no blood on the ground around her, and when he turned her head saw no bruises on her young appearing face. Her clear skin was exceptionally pale, and her hair almost pure white, with no color at all, streaming down to the small of her back. She was the whitest white girl he had ever seen. As if in torment, her eyes were gyrating rapidly beneath closed eyelids. Ollie was torn. Here was trouble, maybe fatal trouble if he were caught anywhere near this woman. But, she dearly needed help. Furthermore, it did flash through his mind that grateful white people were often known to give rewards after being rescued from some difficulty. Judging from the way she was dressed, from pearl necklace to fancy shoes, she had money. And if she had money, she had station. She did not appear injured, and she had not been robbed. She had to be sick somehow.

Absorbed in contemplation, Ollie reached over to touch the woman’s neck, feeling for her pulse. The hard smooth coolness of pearls brushed against his fingertips, somehow making him think of the Piedmont hotel, and then of all the desperate moments in the past that had touched him without pity. Very quickly his mind raced from images of broad river mud flats and black bottom corn rows to bright white stage lights blurred by sweat pouring from his brow.

Ollie was so lost in thought that he did not at first hear a peculiar, cyclic, rapidly rhythmic whirring sound coming from directly behind him. When suddenly he became aware of it, he lifted his hand from the woman’s neck and spun quickly around. He turned just in time to see Eddy climbing off his idling motorcycle a few feet away, his face set as grimly as hard concrete, his bat firmly in hand.

Nox, fera nox, vere nox noxia, turbida, tristis, insidiosa, ferox...Pickett sat slumped over a notebook in his lap, leaning against the airplane window, passing the time glumly and aimlessly, writing a passage that suited his mood, translating without much enthusiasm. O night, cruel night! night truly noxious! troublous, sorrowful, gloomy, sanguinary night! He stopped with an audible hmmph. The lines were about a war fought very long ago, from a time of hand to hand combat under the open glare of the sun, and of hard and sorrowful prayer blessed by the healing caress of night. Human warfare was very old, as old as humans themselves, but the nature of war had changed since the days of mythical heroes, gods and goddesses. Then was the kind of war fought with weapons and armor. Now was the kind of war fought with words, falsehoods and deceptions, the truth be damned. God, how he wished he had lived back then! The thought made his leg begin to twitch.

George Pickett was not a man who could sit for very long at any one time. That fact had proven to be one of the many unanticipated problems he encountered during his presidency, and one he had tried very hard to overcome. Nothing in his prior experience had prepared him for the repetitive grind of sitting at a desk and pushing paperwork for four, six, or eight hours a day. In fact, the day he first entered the Executive Mansion was the first day in his life that he undertook any administrative responsibilities more important than preparing a regimental payroll report.

From the early spring morning of his graduation out of the Virginia Military Institute, he had distinguished himself as a man of action. He had fought gallantly in the second Mexican War, and during Cuba’s war of independence he had immortalized himself in the hearts of his countrymen by storming San Juan Hill at the head of his brigade. During his years of military service George Pickett had seen many men die, some at his own hands, and had, from his earliest experiences, become inured to the horrors of combat. War became like an exotic dance for Pickett, something that required thorough training, careful preparation and strenuous effort, but something in turn that resulted in a rush of exhilaration unmatched by any other human endeavor. He had trained for war. He had made war. He missed war.

Of course, he had been raised to it. His childhood years were immersed in stories of martial grandeur, heroic deeds, and gallant sacrifice. Tales of the great men of the War, spoken in hushed tones, were his nightly lullabies. It was his mother who invariably whispered the sagas of yesteryear, as if recounting the chronicles of a race of mythic warriors. From time to time, offered like a delicate plum, his own father’s epic legacy would be intoned, almost as in prayer. Unfortunately, the elder Pickett was seldom around to steer his son as he was growing up, or to care for his family’s affairs. In the end, rumor and scandal accompanied him to the grave. By the time the Confederate war hero was buried at Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, George would remember his father only as the young general shown in pictures, clothed in the majesty of his country’s uniform. He was the George E. Pickett of legend, the man who helped found his fledgling country’s freedom. The later years of decline, dissipation and despair were forgotten, lost as thoroughly as if once written on a wax tablet that was later scrubbed clean of its ancient writings. His mother suffered much as the family fell into insolvency, but even in the depths of poverty she spoke of her husband proudly, intent that the myth and not the man should survive.

Despite their financial straits, LaSalle Pickett was determined that her only son be educated in a manner in keeping with his family’s standing. Unfortunately, little George was a very poor student. He bounced from school to school until finally enrolled in the Fishburne Academy in Waynesboro’. It was a small gentleman’s school that happily ushered him through his studies, partly because of his name, and partly because of his dazzling smile and commanding personality. He quickly demonstrated that he was a natural leader. There was not a boy in his class who did not want to be on his team when they chose up nines after school, each vying for the privilege of being called George’s chum. As a young man, Pickett learned to give those around him what they wanted: a small slice of himself. An encouraging smile at the right moment, a wisecrack to lighten the mood, a soft squeeze of the shoulder to demonstrate sympathy or solidarity; all were gestures he learned to use as naturally and spontaneously as the moment reqquired.

As a result, there was no shortage of schoolmates ready to help with his lessons whenever he needed assistance, and he needed assistance often. Inexplicably, the one subject that enchanted him was ancient history. He avidly lapped up the alphabet soup of archaic names and places, bygone battles and legendary exploits. Stories of kings, heroes, emperors and champions from Gilgamesh to Genghis mesmerized him, flitting through his thoughts from moment to moment. In a haze of daydreams, his mind’s eye would carry him from the open deserts flowing past the sluggish Nile to the primeval forests crowding the fiercely coursing Rhine. Especially, though, as time went on, his fantasies were drawn to the vales and mountains of ancient Hellas.

The mythological wraiths of Mount Olympus, the lesser gods and goddesses, the satyrs, nymphs, centaurs, cyclops, Furies, Amazons, and all the Muses became a complex cast of creatures that seemed real to him, exciting his imagination and whetting his appetite for adventure. He fantasized about Perseus, Heracles, Achilles, and Theseus, thrilling to their exploits while fantasizing he marched by their side. Although he performed miserably in his math studies, he possessed a quick aptitude for Latin and, incredibly, Greek.

Even before he matriculated at VMI he was well on his way to reading Homer, Aeschylus, Plato, and Sophocles with fluency. The shoe was then on the other foot, and fellow cadets came to him for help in reading the classics. He gloried in the elegance of his tight coatee and cadet dyke, but unkempt nightly vigils with the classics became his passion. By the time of graduation Pickett had earned a reputation as a scholar of Hellene and Roman antiquity, a recognition that he bore as proudly as any campaign medal. He delighted in his cadet years to read the Odyssey and Ovid to his friends in ther original form, out loud and with heavy cadence, something that delighted him still.

Graduation from the Virginia Military Institute carried with it a junior officer’s commission in the army. Pickett enjoyed the army, even during peacetime, and entered service with the intention of spending the whole of his active life there. Without apology, he had the conscious and deliberate thought that he would redeem the disgrace of his father’s later years through distinguished military service. Most importantly, he would make his mother proud by raising the family name on high once more. There was satisfaction to be found in the boredom of barracks life, filled with the daily minutiae of checklists, inspections, and harsh punishments for trivial infractions. He enjoyed the comradeship of his fellow officers, enjoyed the grudging admiration of his men, and enjoyed the adulation of women for a man in uniform.

And women enjoyed him. Pickett’s winning smile, cleft chin and curly hair were a fatal combination for both the belles of high society in Richmond and Charleston, as well as the country girls of Brownsville and Fort Smith. As he was reassigned from post to post along the vast frontiers of the Southern nation he left a trail of happy dreams, broken hearts, and at least two brown-eyed brats that he denied were his. He had no qualms, as he often boasted, about ‘spreading the wealth.’

Until he met Martha. She was regal, imperious, and intelligent, a woman of distinction at the dinner table and a wildcat under the stars. Looking back, it was clear that she chose the young captain and not the other way around. At the time, though, it took an eternity of effort and trial before Pickett could rouse more than a casual smile from the most beautiful woman he had ever met. Her father, who owned an enormous plantation on the Red River, had a very different view of the matter. He had not sent his only daughter to Mrs. Pritchard’s School in Savannah just to have her plucked up by a notorious Army ne’er do well. At a hastily arranged encounter with the two lovers he announced his unshakeable opposition to any marriage. Many years later George Pickett could still laugh inwardly while remembering the look on Harold Oliphant’s face when he learned they had wed the night before his grand pronouncement.

Pickett loved Martha with all his being, no more or less than she loved him. From the first, she was every last thing to him. Together they tapped every mysterious vein of intimacy, romance, unfettered elation, and bodily ecstasy. Her easy smile was an open portal into the soaring joy of life, but her death ushered him into the unutterable despair of dark shadows and devastation. She died in childbirth, along with their stillborn daughter, after two days of fevered agony and a botched attempt to surgically retrieve the infant. It was four years after they were married, almost to the day.

As he sat fidgeting in his seat, Pickett tried to block out any thoughts of Martha. Even after more than forty years, his eyes welled up with burning pain whenever her face formed in his mind. He suppressed the vision with all his strength, though he wanted desperately to go back, to return and feel the tightness of her arms around his neck and her breath falling like a gentle blossom on his breast. More than anything, George Pickett wished he could return, and start his life anew with his cherished bride, and watch their child grow into the woman she should have become. But, it was a mindless wish. He was a man held to service, and it was his stern duty to deal with the here and now.

He looked out the airplane’s small window, down at the countryside rolling below, concentrating on the thin ribbons of back roads snaking up densely wooded hills, or disappearing into dark-lit hollows. Occasionally, the roads passed through open fields and intersected small clusters of buildings. Pickett strained to see, fascinated. Sometimes, he could make out a village square, surrounded by the outlines of large houses, the outlines becoming smaller in size as the village or town petered out a quarter mile or so from its center. Then, down the road somewhat further, there might be seen a dense clutch of small framed buildings, closely packed, many of them reflecting the sun off corrugated tin roofs with momentary flashes of blinding light. Pickett mulled over what he saw. Collections of small shacks like these were scattered all over the landscape, small sores defiling the natural beauty of the countryside. They might be poor whites, maybe tenant farmers, or sharecroppers. Or maybe free blacks, living in vestigial slave quarters. Or maybe slaves. Someone’s servants. He shook his head grimly. “Too many,” he thought, “No matter who they are. Too many.” He realized, with a sinking feeling, that the larger homes that looked so grand from the air were probably just peeling, decomposing remnants of once elegant dwellings. He felt once again the familiar sensation of nausea overcoming him.

What was to be done? He felt as if he and everyone around him were all caught in a cruel timeslip, trapped in a dead-end warp of history without hope of escape. In the Cuban campaign he had known what to do. Outmanned and outgunned, with no retreat possible, his choice had been easy. Find the enemy, charge forward. Live or die, charge forward. Sublime heroism or hopeless hell, charge forward. But here, there was nowhere to charge. There was no enemy to find. He needed to finish out the remainder of his term to turn the corner, and getting right with the North was the key.

“Worried about Madeline?” It was his secretary, Edward Mosby, sitting across the aisle from him. The young man hated to fly under the best of circumstances, but the German made Ju 52/3m had been bouncing up and down frightfully ever since they left Richmond, causing Mosby’s face to turn a sallow yellow color. He clutched a small bible against his chest and winced with each precipitous dip of the plane.

Pickett appreciated his friend’s concern. “Yeah, I am, and you know why. God, man, if she has one of her fits while she’s out in public, and she’s unattended...”

“I know, Mr. President. Everyone is doing their darndest, I’m sure.”

“That’s not the only thing. I’m flat out worried about everything.” He gave his secretary a sharp look. “How’s the family? How are your little girls?”

“They’re both fine.” Mosby laughed softly. “Haven’t seen much of them lately, with all that’s been happening.”

“Eddy, tell me. Where do you see your girls in twenty years?”

Edward Mosby was a sober, God fearing, contemplative man. Anything he said or did reflected that temperament. He knitted his brows in thought before answering. “Married, I hope. Happy. Families of their own.”

“No, I mean what kind of country do you see them in?”

“Why, this one, of course.”

“Exactly as it is? Do you think by that time they will need to deal with...whatever...”

There was a pause as Mosby took on a look of ferocious consideration, kneading his forehead and staring into space. “Property? Funny, my grandpappy asked me the same question when I was a boy at his knee. I’m no closer to an answer today than I was then, and I try to get at it almost every day. Any thinking person would. I do know this. If we are wrong, if the whole system is wrong, then we have a blood guilt on our hands that can never be paid but with blood in return, God help us. Maybe by us...” He seemed to clutch his bible even closer as he paused. “Maybe by our children.”

“That would be justice, right?”

The younger man nodded, unable to respond in words.

Pickett stared out the window for a moment, absorbing his thoughts. When he did speak, it was with a deeply emotional, almost cracking voice. “It’s got to end, Eddy. The whole thing is splintering and has to come down, we need to start over. And I’m the one to do it. We’re going to open up things with the North, set up trade, let people go back and forth freely, let their newspapers and magazines come down here, and their radio shows, and their movie shows, and you’ll see. Change will come, guaranteed. People will see what’s outside, and it will change them, and their kids, and their kids’ kids. The whole house will cave in on itself.”

“What makes you think Roosevelt will play along?”

“He will. He needs us as much as we need him. Our people there tell us he’s ready. This is confidential, Eddy, but he’s sending a personal letter with Ernest Lieb’s son. The scientist’s son, Jona Lieb. You remember I had you fit him into my schedule. Giving some kind of lecture at the University in Atlanta, a colloquium to honor his father. We already have the complete text of the letter...Let’s just say we have a source at the top. Impeccable. I received confirmation of this late last night. The president is going to offer an opening, and we’re going to take it. The letter, of course will somehow make its way into the papers, a grave breach of propriety, and then everyone will know. I expect that people will go wild when they hear about it. We’ve been waiting for this a long time.”

Mosby hesitated, partly because the plane took a sudden drop that left his heart floating in midair. “What about the army? Does General Patton know?”

Pickett grinned. “No, he don’t, and he ain’t findin’ out until it’s too late. Let that genie out of the bottle and it’s long gone! And besides,” he continued, “Ain’t I still the president, and ain’t I still George Pickett?”

They both laughed at that, a deep malicious laugh made more sweet by Pickett’s pantomime of Patton’s contorted facial expressions. As they settled down, a stewardess rushed down the aisle with a paper she held extended towards the president. He read it quickly and seemed to sag in his seat.

Mosby half rose in alarm. “Mr. President! Is everything alright?”

“Just fine, Eddy, just fine.” Pickett sighed with evident relief. “They found Madeline. She’s safe at the hospital with some scratches, that’s all. Georgia Guard are there.”

“Thank God. What exactly happened?”

“Don’t know.”

They both lapsed into quiet. Pickett felt deflated, as if a great, noxious tumor had been removed from his chest. All was well now. His long night of agony was over. He would stay with Maddy a day or two, arrange for Secret Service guards to stay with her, and return to Richmond to prepare the groundwork for the dawning of a new day in his country. A New Day Dawning. It sounded good. It sounded real, real good.

He looked around for the stewardess. The cabin was empty with the exception of the Presidential entourage. Johnson Airlines had been courteous enough to divert an airplane for the President’s urgent flight to Atlanta. After boarding earlier that morning Pickett was told that Adolph Hitler had a similar airplane, sixteen passenger size, for his exclusive use, employing it to fly in frenetic fashion all over Germany. Newsreels of Hitler’s appearances at Nazi rallies had made a deep impression on Pickett. Hitler had transformed his country brilliantly, creating a German renaissance that could only be admired. There was a bit of rough stuff going on there, but who could complain? Pickett made an immediate decision to ask Congress to fund an airplane for his use as well. He could use a long range passenger plane to stump the country promoting his new policies. If the Chancellor of Germany could have one, then the President of the CSA could certainly have one. If necessary, Picket could also learn to perform some of Hitler’s antics at the podium. Anything to make change happen.

He beckoned the young flight attendant, who was at his side in an instant. “Can you tell me how much longer until we land?”

“I’ll find out, Mr. President.”

She was back in a few moments with the pilot, a tall, burly looking man with a florid face. He leaned over and spoke loudly to be heard over the throb of the engines.

“Right now our indicated ground speed is only 198, Mr. President. Head winds, I’m afraid. Another hour and ten until we land.”

“O.K. Let me know when we’re thirty minutes out.”

The pilot leaned down even closer. “One more thing, though. We won’t be landing at Hartsfield in Atlanta. Diverting to Marietta. Your car will be waiting for you there.”

Pickett stared at the man, incredulous. “What the hell do you mean? Why aren’t we landing in Atlanta?”

The pilot retrieved a small piece of paper with what looked like some scribbles on it out of his pocket. “Just got this message, sir. It seems that some rioting has broken out in Atlanta. There is gunfire everywhere, including at the airport. At this time, it says the riots are out of control and it would be dangerous to attempt a landing. The message says Atlanta is burning.”

Setting up the circuitry needed for secure wire communication had been a nightmare. Patton was told that the cables were hidden in sewage pipes emptying into the Potomac downstream from Alexandria. Where the lines originated was unknown, even to Larson Lehr, the Director of the Department of Secret Intelligence. Their contact, whose code name was MENTOR, had never divulged any details of his identity. He had been a low grade naval officer years before, and maybe he still was. Indeed, it was not certain that he actually had a specific government posting of any kind. One theory popular in the DSI was that MENTOR was a political handler in Washington, someone like Roosevelt’s Jim Farley, who had access to a wide array of operatives within the Federal government.

Whoever he was, MENTOR was the crown jewel of the DSI’s espionage network. For the past three years he had been a gold mine of information, providing a wealth of detail about both military and political developments in the northern country. In the beginning, they communicated with him using a Vernam-Mauborgne ‘one time’ cipher system. The technique and necessary equipment had been helpfully provided by the Germans. They had modified and refined the procedure that was first devised, ironically, in the USA. The system had proven essentially impossible to decrypt without possession of the corresponding key to each transmission. The DSI and Patton had been quite content with that method of communication. It was easy, safe, and difficult to trace back in either direction. A year ago, however, their contact insisted on setting up a secure cable from Washington to Richmond, to be used for urgent messages. This had been accomplished with extraordinary difficulty, costing the life of a CSA marine diver in the process.

It was deemed desirable to exclude the president and his cabinet from any knowledge of MENTOR for reasons of national security. After all, Pickett had never achieved a rank beyond colonel, and was now just another politician. Patton, however, in his role as head of the army, was privy to all the intelligence data gathered by the DSI. He had long ago inserted himself into a primary role in posting questions to their spy in Washington. He thrilled to the cloak and dagger aura surrounding the agent’s espionage activities, and more than once mentioned he would like to meet their secretive ally. This idea was rejected out of hand by Lehr. Even James Knox, who served as MENTOR’s handler, cautioned that it was not advisable to attempt to change the nature of their relationship by crowding or pushing their informant.

Sometimes, MENTOR refused a request for information. When he did, he never explained why. Most of the intelligence he transmitted helped to validate data obtained through other means. On a few occasions, though, MENTOR had provided specific information that was unique and unsupported but ultimately proven to be correct in every detail. For example, he had warned two years earlier that the U.S. Navy was secretly floating a contract for a new naval aviation fighter/bomber. The specifications demanded a speed in excess of 200 mph and an altitude ceiling of at least 20,000 feet. That information could not be confirmed by any other source at the time. Patton himself did not believe the technology existed to manufacture a naval aircraft with those flight characteristics. An airplane like that would be too heavy for carrier operations. When the Grumman FF-1 was rolled out for its first test flights in just the past month, matching or exceeding the Navy’s specifications, MENTOR’s stock soared. He was now unquestionably the South’s most valuable secret asset in Washington. Naturally, when he messaged that he wanted to speak by their secure telephone link directly to General Patton, his request was taken quite seriously and rapidly passed up the chain of command. For his part, the General in Chief was thrilled to come at the appointed hour to the DSI offices housed in the basement of the Treasury Building.

His protégé Knox was waiting for him in a room that looked and smelled like a utility closet, and he did not appear happy.

“I don’t like this one bit.” Knox was agitated as he gestured Patton towards a chair placed in front of a single telephone, situated on an otherwise bare table. A mass of electrical recording equipment loomed in back of the table, extending into the corner of the small, narrow, poorly lit room. The dim clacking of teletype machines could be heard emanating from an adjacent room. The only disturbance on the blank, restrictive box of walls enclosing the room was a prominent NO SMOKING sign facing the table, hanging as if suspended in thin air.

Patton opened a monogrammed gold case he kept in his pocket and carefully withdrew and lit a thin cigarette. Shortly, wispy tendrils of gray smoke began to weave a tortuous path towards an indefinite ceiling. He understood the Deputy’s concern. Asking to speak to anyone other than his usual controller was a huge departure from normal protocol for MENTOR. It could mean any number of things, almost all of them unpleasant. For one, it could mean their agent was compromised, and that he was calling under the control of Federal agents. Almost as worrisome, it could mean that MENTOR had somehow become unhinged and had lost all sense of appropriate procedure. That was Knox’s guess, and he loudly hissed his belief that J. Edgar Hoover’s men from the Bureau of Investigation would be swooping in on their man at any moment, alerted by aberrant behavior.

Patton thought differently. He wondered whether the man wanted to come over. Things might be getting dicey on the other side. Perhaps he was feeling cornered, or anxious, or just feeling that time was running out for him. That was all understandable. Now was a good time to come over. Under martial law, the South was as safe as it had ever been. The North, on the other hand, looked like it was simply imploding based on the intelligence reports available to him. Hell, it was all in the daily newspapers. Unemployment was at all-time highs, exceeding 20 percent. Industries were shut down by strikes in almost every sector of production. Criminal violence was exploding exponentially in every major city. The North was a train wreck happening right before their eyes. Patton sat back in his chair contentedly. There was no doubt about which country had the social structure necessary to withstand the blows of the worldwide Depression. The whole problem of the UR was no more than a transitory hiccup in the nation’s progress. Surely, their immoral and indiscriminate attacks would make them pariahs, even in the eyes of more sensible blacks. Contemplation of the matter made him proud to be a Southerner.

The phone rang. Knox answered immediately, mumbled some barely audible coded words into it, then handed it over to Patton. “It’s him.”

George Patton knew himself well. He was not necessarily a smart man. But he was a clever man. With hard work and by the application of will power he had made himself into a force that few could withstand, even the smartest. And as a clever man, he had learned that honesty was a joke, that honor was a phantom, and integrity was an imaginary construction of the human mind. People said and did anything, anything to save themselves, advance themselves, and, if possible, give themselves the slightest advantage against others. Whenever he first met another, he began with the assumption that the other person was lying to him. Right now it seemed to him that this assumption was sensible, particularly as he prepared to speak to a spy whom no one really knew. He was surprised, though, when he took the telephone.

“Hello, is this the General?” It was a man’s voice, but soft and genteel, almost effeminate.

“Yes”

“Pleasure to talk to you, General.”

“Heah now, this is not a personal conversation, is it? You indicated this was important. What’s this about?” Patton spoke gruffly, impatiently.

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean anything by that. It’s just that I’m glad to finally talk to the person in charge.”

Patton thought quickly before answering. “We have a command structure here, just as you do there. President, Vice President, and so forth. I’m hardly the one in charge.”

“I follow the newspapers, General, and the radio broadcasts. It’s no secret what you’ve done, and let me tell you, it’s wonderful. I was beginning to lose faith in your president. Didn’t seem to have the belly for this fight. But you do.”

“Alright, let’s say I do, what of it?”

“Well, it would be a shame if anything came along to interfere with what you’re trying to accomplish.” The speaker gave a low chuckle, one that conveyed an inappropriate intimacy.

Patton squirmed in his seat, unsure what to say. Here it comes, he thought, this is what it’s all about, what he wants to tell me. “How’s that?”

MENTOR’s tone of voice underwent considerable change, slowing and deepening, as if probing forward into a dark crevice. “You know about Ernest Lieb’s son?”

“And what about him?”

“You know, he’s bringing a personal correspondence from Roosevelt, for your president. This letter could be very damaging to your cause.”

The last words were allowed to die, drifting off into the silence of the tiny communications room. Knox, listening in the corner with an immense set of earphones on his head, waved his hand frantically at Patton to say nothing.

The voice coming over the telephone changed texture again, now becoming hard and brittle. “You must know that Pickett has a transcript of the letter, but he doesn’t have the letter, and he doesn’t have Lieb. Without them he can’t concoct the big show he wants, the big reveal. Without young master Lieb none of this happens. You’ve been told that Lieb has disappeared from view, gone off the reservation so to speak. He’s not dead, but he’s not in Berlin, either. He’s just run off somewhere, looks like he wants some time alone. But he’ll be back, I assure you. Carrying that letter. It would be useful if that delivery could be stopped.”

There was another long pause as Patton’s mind raced furiously. “What does it say exactly?”

“Don’t know, but your president does. Can’t tell you who sent it to him, it’s a secret. Someone high up. Maybe someone like me.” A laugh boomed over the telephone. “Once it’s formally delivered and accepted, the whole world will know its contents pretty quickly. The story will rock the world, I assure you. That would be a big win for Pickett, don’t you think?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

A soft chuckle came over the phone, very delicate. “Just want the right side to win.” A prominent click ended the conversation.

The phone felt slick in Patton’s hand, and he realized his palms were sweating. Why had MENTOR gone to such great lengths to deliver that message? Why deliver it to him? Why not go through normal channels? He took in Knox, staring at him expectantly. He had been a good man so far, but he was also an ambitious popinjay. MENTOR certainly wanted to be sure he communicated directly with the top dog. Didn’t he trust his own handler?

Knox broke the silence. “Sir, whatever did you think of that?”

Patton paused for the briefest moment before growling, “I think we’d better stop that letter from being delivered.”

One hundred sixty miles away, MENTOR carefully cradled the telephone and looked towards his boss. They were sitting in a corner office, high above a noiseless street. The blinds were partially closed, allowing slats of sharp sunlight to radiate across the room. The effect made it seem that his superior was trapped behind diagonal bars. Legal sized papers were stacked on his desk, big white rectangles that reflected onto the lenses of his glasses and obscured his eyes. When he spoke he leaned forward, with both hands on the desk.

“You did well.”

“Thank you sir. I’m not sure how he took it. He’s a cagey fellow.”

“It’s just a seed. Give it time to grow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, let’s send that cable to Moscow as we planned.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter 14

There was nothing for Jona to read. He was raised to read every night, ending each day with the cleansing ritual of study. He was conditioned to pore over the small, structured symbols spread across white paper pages, word upon word, sentence upon sentence, stacked fastidiously one on top of the other, like stone altars dedicated to a powerful demiurge. Reading revived him, renewed him, and released him. Words, like incense, drifted up from each page, enveloping him while he read, carrying with them the luxuriant, intoxicating, revitalizing scent of language. And with language, memory. And with memory, permanence. And possibilities. So many possibilities. He could remember one particular book he had opened reluctantly, only to be seduced immediately by its opening lines. He had memorized them as a message to himself:

“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.”

On this night, however, the possibilities were obscured by darkness as Jona waited, alone and apprehensive, waiting to see what was to come.

The ground shuddered every few minutes. Trains entered and left the massive domed cylinder of the nearby Banhof Friedrichstrasse regularly, their timing exquisite. It was said that some of the best minds in Germany were put to work setting the railroad schedules, so that a train ride from Berlin to Prague would reliably take six hours and eight minutes, just as scheduled, each time and every time. Jona hoped the trains were running on time this night, for Elfieida’s sake, and prayed that she was already safely across the border into Czechoslovakia.

From his second floor room he was able to stand and look out a small, grimy window onto the street below. A seedy appearing kneipe across from his building had it’s doors flung widely open. He could see patrons leaning up against the bar, holding beers and swaying to the music playing from within the recesses of the tavern. He could also see Alex, standing just inside the door, smoking with frenetic energy. When Alex gave the signal, Jona would go down to him, and they would leave together.

Alex Goldstein was the first one of the group that Jona met the morning he and Elfieda strolled casually out of the Adlon, turning right on to Pariser Platz. Jona was happy to leave his hotel room and eager to start a new day, even more eager to put the previous night behind, even though he felt almost drugged from lack of sleep. He felt the urgent need to locate Andrews and Murphy, but had succumbed to Elfieda’s entreaties to meet with her friends. She was very mysterious about it, and it was that mystery that somehow appealed to him, despite his anxiety about the fate of the two agents. The capacious square fronting the Brandenburg Gate was beginning to crowd with pedestrians rushing to work at that early hour. As they entered the plaza, Jona could see, on its north side, the imposing façade of the Blucher Palace, which housed several embassies including the embassy of the CSA. It occurred to him he should go in at some point to confirm the details of the last leg of his trip to Atlanta. They might appreciate meeting him. Elfieda felt Jona hesitate, and urged him, whispering through clenched teeth, to walk at a normal, leisurely pace so as not to attract attention. He had to remind her, as softly as possible, that it was not possible for him to walk normally. His left leg felt as if needles of burning ice were being injected into every nerve.

Jona followed Elfieda as she hopped onto a tram just as it huffed into motion. His left knee momentarily buckled as he jumped onto the first step of the moving vehicle, but she helped to pull him aboard. The trolley gathered speed as it rolled towards the Wilhelmstrasse, the north-south street at the center of the city, encompassing the administrative heart of the Third Reich.

Jona could feel the tension exuding from his companion. She twisted and turned in her seat repeatedly, staring for long stretches of time at the back of the tram or out onto the street, particularly when they stopped to load and unload passengers. When they reached their stop, she jumped out of her seat like a cat, grabbing Jona by the wrist as she pushed by him. They disembarked in front of a building that vaguely resembled a Florentine palazzo. A street sign indicated they were at number 74 Wilhelmstrasse.

“That is the Interior Ministry Building.” Elfieda took Jona by the arm and began walking him south on the broad boulevard. “We’re not going in there. Believe me, it’s a place to be avoided. The old Chancellory is right next door, and who knows, we might see Hitler whizzing by in his Mercedes at any moment, surrounded by cherubim and angels.”

She laughed a wicked laugh, and twisted herself towards Jona so that she could clutch his arm firmly with both hands. Her checkered coat flounced around her legs as she did so, and a strand of blond hair strayed out from underneath her hat to stand straight up in the morning breeze. At that moment she appeared very beautiful to Jona.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

She said nothing, embraced him more tightly, and quickened her pace. The avenue was gaily festooned with potted flowers and a long colonnade of flagpoles on both sides of the street, flying fluttering crimson Nazi Party flags. An enormous velarium was suspended high over a length of the roadway, extolling the new Thousand Year Reich. It began to seem to Jona that they were walking a rather long time. He found himself forced to lean more heavily on Elfieda.

At last, they arrived at a glum, grey, institutional appearing building of brick and granite, Number 85 Wilhelmstrasse, enfolded by two enormous Nazi flags hanging vertically from the roof and reaching almost to the ground. They were blood red, creating an electric effect. Elfieda nudged Jona towards the entrance. Chiseled over the massive doorways were the words Arbeiter Gericht, which Jona translated roughly as Labor Law.

He stopped before entering and turned on his companion in a confrontational stance.

“Look, I’m not going any further until I know where we are, where we’re going and what we’re doing.” Jona tried to suppress a wave of panic that suddenly washed over him. The current situation was completely out of his control, and it struck him that he knew virtually nothing about this so-called writer and state informant who was herding him towards an unknown destination. The precipitous, madcap exodus and flight from the hotel suddenly seemed insane. He should have been standing at the door of the American ambassador’s office as it opened in the morning, to recruit as much help as possible in finding his companions. Instead, he was with a woman he’d met only hours before, and who was sucking him into some kind of encounter that seemed, at the least, ill advised. It dawned on him with some urgency that whatever chase she was on might be illicit, and possibly dangerous.

Elfieda paused as if to gather strength. “Please, Jona, please meet my friends. One of them should be here any moment. It is necessary for the world to know what is going on here.”

“What are you talking about? What do I have to do with what the world needs to know? Wait…You were lying about being a spy for the Nazis, weren’t you. It’s the other way around, isn’t it?” Jona’s agitation and anxiety deepened, and he felt cold fingers of fear begin to dig into his gut. “Listen, just because we were sort of together last night doesn’t mean...”

Elfieda quickly placed two fingers over his lips, stopping him. “Don’t say another word, I beg you. This is not about last night...Jona, I can see into your soul. I believe you are a good man. I want you to hear everything, understand everything, believe everything that we have to tell you. When you depart from Germany and all of this is behind you, I want you to bear witness to whatever you have seen. Please, Jona, we don’t want to be forgotten.” She removed her fingers from his lips and placed them on his chest, pressing hard, as if trying to feel the beating of his heart.

Looking back, it might have all ended right there. Very possibly, Jona might have turned around at that moment and simply walked away, scuttling quickly towards a safe haven either back at the hotel, or at the embassy, feeding his fear with indignation at the way he was being maneuvered. But it was at that moment when Alex Goldstein first appeared, a huge form emerging abruptly out of the crowd, appearing directly in front of them like a meteor exploding out of the heavens. When Alex spotted them, an initial look of surprise turned quickly into a look of concern. He walked very deliberately up to them and interposed himself between Elfieda and Jona, facing Lieb squarely.

Alex was a very large man who dwarfed Jona, with deep, coal black eyes that probed over Lieb explicitly, as if undertaking an X-ray examination of a cancer patient. A knee length black leather coat could not conceal a massive torso and thick shoulders, making him appear as wide as he was tall. His slightly pitted face was drawn tightly over jutting cheekbones and jaw. He projected a sense of brute power, and something else, something difficult to define; hostility, and anger, and violence, and distrust in varying proportions. Jona immediately found him frightening.

“Alex!” Elfieda spoke in English. “This is my friend Jona. The American I told you I was planning to meet. Kohler introduced us. You remember what I told you.”

The examination did not end right away. Alex continued to stare at Jona with the air of someone who would only be content with his own diagnosis. Long after the moment became uncomfortable, Alex spoke. His voice was a deep base, his words were thick and nasal. He looked directly at Lieb. “I know about you already. We haff acquaintance, somevone you shouldt meet. Talk to.”

Jona did not want to hear any more discussion about meeting Elfieda’s cabal of friends. He wanted only to extricate himself from the situation and began to babble almost anything that came to mind in a rapid flutter of words. “I really don’t want any trouble, I assure you. If it’s not too much of a bother, I’ll just go back to my hotel now, I’m feeling quite tired. I don’t care to meet anyone, thank you. Another day, maybe. Possibly.”

The other did not blink, repeating doggedly. “You talk vith him.”

When Jona made a move to step away, Alex grabbed him by the lapel of his jacket in a grip that allowed no argument. He didn’t seem to care that passersby were stopping to stare. “You talk vith him. We go now.”

Jona felt himself falling into a black pit of anguish. He began to pant, finding it suddenly hard to breathe, and could only speak in a gasp. “No I won’t. Why? Why do I have to go?”

The giant who clasped him by his coat did not waver. “Because. He say he vant to meet you, and you vill vant to meet him. He know your father.”

They headed towards the western periphery of the city by tram, into Dahlem, far from the condensed frenzy of the center. Jona fell asleep, exhausted, as the vehicle began its gentle rocking and rumbling. He had not slept well the night before and was now overcome, as if medicated by an opiate, and dropped his head onto Elfieda’s shoulder almost as soon as they sat down. While he slept, he dreamt vividly. As was often in his dreams, there were no sounds, only images. His mother was there, sitting next to him and grasping his arm. She was smoking, spouting long plumes of dense haze, and ordered a black servant to fetch cigars and champagne. They both spoke words Jona could not hear, tittering together, but her presence was comforting nonetheless. As they sat, she gestured at a nearby window, then extended her arm and pointed repeatedly until Jona went to see. They were in Atlanta, and also in New York. Parts of London could be seen in the background as well. As he looked, he could see a wraith walking in the distance. It was his father. Wherever he passed, buildings collapsed on themselves in great walls of thick dust, leaving gutted, grotesque ruins behind. Seamlessly, the scene outside changed. It was Berlin he was now gazing upon, Hitler’s great Reichshauptstadt. In the blink of an eye, it was reduced to a smoking rubble for as far as the eye could see, to a horizon line broken only by the ragged fragments of canted cathedral spires. People were sitting or lying in the streets, coughing soundlessly. Some were scavenging for food and water amongst the fallen mortar and brick. Everyone was bundled in ragged winter wear, with long trailing overcoats and heavy hats. A sick looking family was eating from the carcass of a horse, sitting politely in a circle surrounding the body, doilies set before them with a knife and fork at hand. At the end of the dream, his father turned, waved from far away and gave a cavernous, toothy smile, his face fleshed out with a rosy, almost feverish gleam. In his hand he grasped an enormous, oval pill that he held up high as if it were a torch. He motioned, as if he wanted Jona to follow. Then he disappeared.

Jona awakened.

He could feel the streetcar shaking and hear the squeaking shrieks of the wheels beneath him, but he did not move and did not open his eyes. As he came out of his slumber he struggled to organize his racing thoughts. Against his better judgment he had agreed to go along with Elfieda and Alex, but now he regretted his decision. He felt angry at himself, but it was anger diluted with fear. His two new escorts were taking him far from the familiar landmarks of the city’s midtown, far from Murphy and Andrews, far from Kohler. More worrisome, however, was that Elfieda continued to behave nervously, jerking around to look behind at frequent intervals, as if she were afraid of being followed. Something was going on here, something outside the boundaries of the law. Jona felt a growing sense of curiosity, even excitement, but was terrified by the possibilities. This is crazy, he thought. They are both some kind of criminals, probably part of some kind of terrorist group. This woman is not worth it. I should flag down the cops. He determined to dodge both of them at the first opportunity and take a cab back to the Adlon.

He opened his eyes and sat up as the trolley sighed to a stop. As if on cue, all the remaining passengers got up from their seats and began to exit. It was the end of the line. Alex sat apart, a few rows away, appearing impassive and bored, as if he were on his way to a mindless job he had determined to quit a dozen times already. As he got up to leave he lit a cigarette and began to jostle his way down the aisle. When he reached Jona and Elfieda he whispered “KaDaWe,” before making his way out.

Elfieda grasped Jona’s hand, contriving to linger until they were the last ones off. She hurried him down a congested street without looking behind her until she darted into a cavernous department store. Lieb had trouble keeping up with her, but she kept her hand firmly clasped in his and did not let up her pace.

Just inside the glass paned doors he pulled her to a stop. People milled and streamed their way past them, like a river dividing against an island. Several of them pushed Jona roughly as they passed. He stood his ground. “Tell me what we’re doing,” he demanded.

“Please, Jona, just a little bit farther.”

“No, tell me now, or I’m leaving. What did your friend mean when he said KaDaWe?”

Elfieda tried a feeble yank, but Jona didn’t budge. She looked suddenly both tired and agitated, and it seemed to Jona that her hand, still grasped in his, was tremorous. “It is the name we use for this department store. Kaufhaus des Westens. We use this place sometimes....to get lost.”

“Lost from who?” Jona eyed her suspiciously. “Who is this other fellow? A friend, or an accomplice? Why did he leave us?”

“He didn’t. He’s behind us. Please don’t look.”

Despite her injunction Jona whirled around. He saw Alex just a dozen feet away, examining a rack of ties. Without looking in their direction he tugged at his ear. Elfieda’s hand jerked spasmodically.

“Oh my God!” she breathed. “We’re being followed. That’s the sign, pulling on his ear. Someone is following us. Come on, we’ve got to go.”

Suddenly reinvigorated, she bulled her way past a knot of shoppers, pulling Jona with her. They skirted past bins of socks, tables piled with shirts, and stacks of sweaters as they scurried away. The next fifteen minutes were a blur of constant motion. The two took the elevator to the third floor, and from there Elfieda navigated expertly from section to section through the length of the stupendously sized store, varying her gait from a brisk pace to a slow amble. They walked past women’s hats, through lingerie, circled the shoe section, and plied through a vast hall of housewares. It seemed as if the entire catalog of human manufacture could be found in the store, dwarfing anything Jona had ever seen before. Elfieda never peered backwards, but in her twisting and turning she managed to maintain a good view in every direction around them. Outwardly, she appeared calm. Jona could sense her anxiety, however, by the way she nervously clutched her purse, alternately grasping it tightly first in one hand then the other.

Mercifully, Jona’s leg pain had eased up despite the tramping. Finally, he objected to descending a deserted back stairway after meandering around the fourth floor, but Elfieda proved to be surprisingly gentle and patient with him, assisting him by holding on to his waist as he painfully and laboriously climbed his way down several flights of stairs. At the bottom she threw open a heavy metal door, and they were suddenly outside. Throngs of people were passing back and forth, and the stink of car exhaust and gasoline permeated the air. Jona felt himself bombarded by the fretting throb of city noise.

“Don’t worry, we’re alright now, there’s no one behind us.” She searched up and down the street, then looked at Jona earnestly, extending her arm behind her. “Maybe I overreacted, Jona. Maybe no one was following us after all, I can’t be sure. I’ve been feeling a little nervous myself, so I know how upset you must feel. Please don’t hate me, I can’t take any chances. If you still want to come, our assembly point is just down the street. But I won’t force you. Come if you want to, I won’t try to force you, but I hope you do. Please.”

As if obeying an imperative command, Jona took a few hesitant steps in the direction she was pointing, and in turn Elfieda placed her arm around his waist, guiding him. Jona hardly noticed her touch. He felt himself immersed in a deep fog, without landmarks and without a compass, completely lost in a netherworld of chaos and uncertainty. Elfieda. Alex. They were both involved in something dangerous and illicit, some kind of resistance to the government. Then there was an unknown friend of theirs. Somehow, he had known Jona’s father. Like a chameleon morphing from one shape to another, it seemed that Ernest Lieb’s identity kept changing from moment to moment. Whether as a babbling brook or a raging river, the power of his personality varied with every landscape. Jona knew he wanted to know more, to learn everything that could be known. He grasped Elfieda’s hand, holding it as tightly as if grasping the secret string that would guide him through the labyrinthine confusion he was feeling.

In a few minutes they reached a massive Romanesque-styled church standing astride the avenue. Its steeples towered over the street traffic, suggesting a promontory overlooking a storm swept sea. It looked familiar somehow.

“What is this place?”

“Gedächtniskirche. Built by the old Kaiser. It’s an awful eyesore, really.” Elfieda sniffed dismissively. Her hand, resting on the small of his back, again seemed shaky.

As soon as they entered the subdued interior of the enormous edifice Jona knew he had been there before, standing on that very spot. He stared upward at the intricate network of carved beams and joists girding the church’s vaulting apse. He remembered that as a boy he had lost himself in studied wonderment at the complexity of the supporting arches, curved raking trusses and ornate spandrels. His father had been there with him, explaining the geometry of the architecture and the physics of the forces intersecting at the point of contact between joists and supporting tie beams, arches and piers, arcades and atriums. Later, Jona had dutifully drawn a rendering of the church as carefully and precisely as he could, though he mistakenly embellished the drawing with an additional, nonexistent steeple. His father had ripped it to shreds with a violent outburst, berating him about improper angles and poor perspective. “You are seeing what you want to see,” was his admonishment. “You must learn to observe and reproduce what is actually before you, only what is real, not what you imagine. Not the aspirational. Not the symbolic.” It was a lesson he had never forgotten.

There were other people in the church, strolling slowly up and down the aisles, or admiring the brightly illuminated stained glass windows and massive wall mosaics. Only a few candles were lit near the altar, rendering the entire interior with a mystical aura. A man was seated in a middle row, head down, apparently deep in prayer. Elfieda headed directly there, sliding in next to him. They sat in silence in the duskiness of the nave with nothing but the sound of shuffling shoes surrounding them.

Finally, the man raised his head and spoke in a voice just loud enough to be heard.

“Come.”

He slid out from the row of pews and without waiting headed towards the left hand side of the chancel. Elfieda and Jona followed behind as the man held open a thick wooden door that led to a dimly lit stairway. They descended two levels before emerging into a dank, whitewashed brick hallway. The man held open another door, and they entered.

Jona was shocked by what he encountered, causing him to flinch reflexively. Inside the room were two men. One was a rotund, mustachioed man with an enormous head that was completely bald. The other was a German officer in dress uniform. Tall and regal appearing, he wore a monacle in his right eye as if it were a fixed part of his anatomy. He stood casually, appearing quite bored, holding a cigarette in one hand with thumb and forefinger, and a pistol in the other. The muzzle was leveled directly at Jona.

Jona kept his eyes fixed on Alex, who had not moved from the same position in front of the bar across the street. A gentle rain began to fall, transforming the street scene outside into a murky haze of streaky white and red lights mixed with deep purple tones that receded far into the city night. The rain began to beat with a staccato pulse, but the rhythm of movement below Jona’s window did not change. Women walked the pavement up and down, repeatedly, in groups of two or three or four. They were straßenmädchen. Young men, mostly alone, were doing the same thing, trolling for customers. Lustknaben, they were called. Jona had learned the words from Elfieda’s friend Alex, the only member of the dissident group who had stayed behind with Lieb. Alex seemed to relish the look on Jona’s face as he explained the words in detail. He had taught Jona quite a bit in their short time together.

Lieb shook his head ruefully as he recalled the small drama played out in the basement of the Kaiser Wilhelm Church. The tableaux was a terrifying one. The sight of a German officer aiming a gun in the direction of his chest had completely unnerved him. Jona had humiliated himself by falling to his knees and pleading his innocence, claiming he had been abducted and dragged there against his will.

Then Elfieda spoke a few words rapidly in German, the officer smiled and holstered his pistol, and the bald man sitting in the corner clapped his hands in delight. The man who had guided them down to the subterranean room also seemed amused. Jona was left nauseated and in agony, and so weak he had to be helped to a chair. Once again, Elfieda was solicitous of his needs and offered him a drink from a small flask she kept in her purse. Jona placed it to his lips and took two long gulps before gagging at the taste of peppermint schnapps. He felt as if a flaming sword had been thrust down his throat. It was enough, though, to revive him and place him back in focus. He promptly cursed himself for not abandoning Elfieda when he had the chance.

The blurr of introductions that followed meant little to him. The officer was named Osler. Colonel Hans Osler. The man they met in the church was called Wittenauer. The bald man was Murat Bloomberg. Their names were irrelevant to Lieb. The only matter of importance was getting out of there and back to a place of safety. It was Bloomberg, squinting at Lieb through thick, steel rimmed glasses, who first spoke.

“You somewhat like your father looked, just barely perhaps, at least on the outside. Do you look like him on the inside?”

Jona stared back dumbly, uncomprehending.

Bloomberg waited patiently, then tried again. “Do you have the stomach, I might say the courage to spread a warning of danger, Dr. Lieb?”

As if coming out of a trance Jona turned towards Bloomberg. “How do you know what my father looked like?”

Bloomberg rubbed his bald head, as if attempting to conjure up a genie. “I knew him well. He was my business partner.”

The abrupt onset of a febrile delirium could not have been more disorienting for Jona. The room began to whirl like a gigantic, spinning carousel, twisting him around and around, turning him so completely that he felt that he was doubling around on himself, bending his torso in a great arc as if going back in time at a fantastic velocity. Jona sensed his body collapsing as he began to lose awareness. Just as the threads of consciousness reached their snapping point, he glimpsed an apparition, snarling as it rushed across the image of a ruined, indefinite landscape.

He phased back into awareness to the sound of piano music coming from somewhere nearby. Jona’s ear caught a pattern of oddly stressed minor chords mixing with the steady pulse of natural notes. It sounded like a kind of jazz beat playing steadily, repetitively. Then he heard a woman’s voice begin to sing, in a cadence of rythmic talking. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but he knew it was Elfieda.

He opened his eyes, and startled. He was in a strange and wonderful place. Muted, late day sunlight shone indistinctly through two open windows across from the outsized bed he was lying on. Outside, he could see a lake on the near horizon and a dense growth of trees. It made him think of the Grunewald, the great forest lapping the western edge of the city. Inside the room, he was surrounded by phantasmagorical sights. Garish reds were splashed on beds of yellow, mauve and blue. Elsewhere sharp violet colors blended with sea green shapes. Distorted faces leered promiscuously down at him from the walls all about, and disjointed bodies seemed to float over an anguished, other worldly terrain. It was magical. Jona sprang out of his bed to examine the florabundance of art displayed in the room. It was artwork of every type, filling every space on the four walls that encompassed him. Soft pastel pointilles competed with misshapen Dadaist landscapes. A Cubist representation was displayed next to what appeared to be a purely Expressionist canvas. In the corner of the room was a bronze sculpture, a man wearing a pharaonic helmet, his head perched on the neck of a cobra.

Lieb’s heart raced as he took it all in. It was stunning. He stopped in front of a work that defied any explanation. He saw a parti colored orb, a face with irregular eyes transected by cubes of color.

“That is a Paul Klee. Do you know him?” It was Bloomberg, standing in the doorway right behind Jona.

Jona exhaled involuntarily at the unexpected intrusion. “Oh, no...” He fumbled for words. “It’s...challenging.”

“Really? Your father knew him, from Bauhause days.” The heavy set, bald headed man heaved himself close.

Lieb noticed that he walked with a pronounced sway in his gait, and had a modest degree of spinal curvature, rendering him hump backed. Unconsciously, Jona began to itemize the list of medical disorders associated with kyphosis. There were many he could think of, but for some reason could not get the possibility of malignancy out of his mind.

Bloomberg regarded Jona with a hint of a smile beneath his shaggy mustache. “I hope you’re feeling better. You were quite fatigued. We were able to get you into my automobile and bring you to my modest accommodations. You slept soundly enough through the whole thing.”

“Did I? Thanks. Sorry about all that, I had no sleep at all last night. May I tell you this collection is astounding?”

The other chuckled. “Yes you may. So, what do you think of it?” He gestured at the Klee.

“I don’t really know what to think. I haven’t really read anything about this artist.”

“Do you like it? Is it good? Color? Symmetry? Balance? Symbolism? Perspective? Geometry? Light? Context? Good, eh?” Bloomberg spit out the words with a machine gun staccato.

“Oh, yes, definitely, almost certainly. I think most people seeing this, or at least many people, would say that it’s probably very good art. Quite adequate art, really, I think.”

“Well, in that case I shall want to charge more for it.” Bloomberg chuckled again and clapped Jona on the back. He pointed to another frame nearby. “What about that one?”

Jona examined it with intensity. It seemed like nothing more than a collage of newspaper clippings, pictures, poster cut-outs and cartoons arranged in irregular patterns.

“This is deliberately childlike. No... I think I understand. This is an abstract concept in some way. A parody of modern life, perhaps allegorical. Yes, yes, now I see it. A very interesting and important work, I think. The artist should be congratulated.”

“Is that so? I can tell you that the artist who created this couldn’t care less what you think. In fact, she despises you, and everything you represent. Anyone seeing this would understand her rejection of everything we call normal. I won’t get more than one hundred marks for it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Whoever it is cannot possibly know me, and for me at least, this is an amazing work of art.” Jona hesitated briefly before continuing. “There is a certain beauty in it. It should be viewed as a study in modern expression.” He said the last with great gusto and satisfaction.

“Perhaps a thing in itself. Ding an sich, perhaps?”

Jona screwed his eyes shut tightly, trying to remember where he had heard that expression. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes! I remember now. Of course it is. I read this somewhere. Art for its own sake.”

Bloomberg clapped his hands together gleefully, almost like a child. “Dr. Lieb, your notions are so quaint, so innocent. You did not take art lessons from your father, did you? Too bad. You’d better forget all the old claptrap you learned in school about beauty in music, and poetry, and art. Things are not as they were in the past, things such as idealism, reality, beauty. There is no such thing as beauty, in any case, it’s a figment. In this world, anyway. Art is a thorn, jabbing you in the side to keep you awake and hopefully in pain. In our modern era, art is incoherent, almost repulsive. That’s how it attracts, creating its own conditions of existence in its own space. Those are the new rules.”

Lieb screwed up his courage. “I must disagree, Herr...”

“Bloomberg.”

“Herr Bloomberg. Art, of course, is the outer expression of inner struggle. We all agree to that, I’m sure. There are many essays written on this subject, as you undoubtedly know. As such, there are no rules, really. There is a place for beauty, form, order, and so forth. Just as there is for obscurity, symbolism, and uncertainty.” Jona was confident he was on solid ground. After all, he had not long ago read Roger Fry’s critique of Cezanne. All of it. Not wanting to appear too pompous or overbearing, he waived his hand idly in the air to portray a casual affect. He felt quite proud to hold his own with Bloomberg, who was obviously a major collector.

“Dear doctor, that’s a lot of nonsense. Of course there are rules governing art. Rules about why it’s made, who created it, how it’s framed, how it’s displayed and in what gallery. Rules are what separate art from a carpet stained by dog urine. Of course, the rules can change at any time. Do you know why?”

Jona felt somewhat deflated. “To keep artistic spirit and innovation alive?”

“Of course not, that’s a stupid notion. To keep the customers interested, and most importantly, to keep them buying, that’s why. Cubists, Fauvists, Impressionists, Constructionists, Futurists, Dadaists, everyone has their own label, their own share of the market. Chaos makes money.” Bloomberg really seemed to enjoy clapping his hands together.

As they spoke Lieb heard the piano start playing again. It sounded as if it were coming from the very next room. A man was singing this time, and this time the words were audible. Jona was able to make most of them out, but they made no sense. He really wanted to respond to Bloomberg’s cynical analysis, but he stopped talking to listen to the music more carefully:

An ‘nem schönen blauen Sonntag

Liegt ein toter mann am strand

Und ein mensch geht um die Ecke

Den man Mackie Messer nennt

Jona shook his head in bemusement as the adjacent room erupted into hoots and loud applause. He turned to Bloomberg. “What was that song? Something about a clever Mackie Messer?”

“That is a musical piece from The Three Penny Opera. By Bert Brecht. Do you like it? I can see you don’t know it. It’s quite a famous musical show around Germany these days. Like a manifesto. A statement.”

“Of what?”

For the first time, Bloomberg appeared uncomfortable. “Well, you know how Brecht is, if you know him at all. He’s going through a phase of anti-bourgeois sentiment right now, it can’t be helped. The lead character is called Mack the Knife. He is a thief, pimp, murderer, and much worse. Everything society loathes. Naturally, in the world of Brecht he has a heart of gold and he is the hero of the story. The bourgeois shopkeepers, the police, the solid, everyday town folk are the real villains. I think that includes art dealers. The poor, the oppressed, the dispossessed, anyone who lives at the edges, these represent the true heart of humanity...” Bloomberg’s voice trailed off, leaving a pained expression on his face.

Jona wanted to respond. He had read about this point of view. The ancient Greeks had written about this kind of thing thousands of years earlier, in the form of plays that ridiculed the self-righteous propriety of the powerful. They had covered all that at Harvard as part of a comprehensive education. He was really quite knowledgeable on the subject, after all. Thank God for Harvard, he was taught properly there. Just as he was about to speak up he could hear Elfieda begin to sing once again, distracting him from Bloomberg. She had a thick, somewhat velvety voice, and she put power into her phrasing. He tried to translate as he heard the words. It was something about a ship entering a harbor. The raucous noises from the next room quieted down as she sang, allowing the words to pour into the air like water trickling from a pure spring.

And hundreds will come ashore at noon and will step into the shadows.

Jona forced himself to turn back to his host. “And what about you, Herr Bloomberg, don’t you share his views?”

“I did once. I was a devoteé of Party doctrine in the old days when I was young, a dedicated Marxist. My mother was a widow. I was raised in poverty, and my hatred of almost everything ran deep. I wanted to smash the rich and the powerful. This was before I began my current professional activities, of course. No more, though. Now I am a Practicalist. Come, let’s go into the parlor and join the others.”

And will catch anyone in any door and lay him in chains and bring him before me.

“But why did you change?”

And ask which one should we kill?

“It was exciting in the beginning. The secret associations, the clandestine meetings, even the daily fear of being caught. And I despised the class system. I despised being abused, and seeing my mother, and my brothers, and my neighbors being abused. And ridiculed. Ridicule is the worst infamy. It was worth anything to fight the pompous shits who ran this country with ‘Butterbrot und Peitsche‘. You know, ‘Butterbread and Whip’ was the common saying, as if we were dogs to be trained at the leash. Then the war came, and crashed to an end, and we were suddenly free of the pretentious pile of excrement lording over us. We decided to forge a new government, from the bottom up. Worker’s councils popped up everywhere, and the revolution began.” He paused to take a deep breath and slow himself down. “The war ended and a new world was coming. All the old rules were abolished, and there was freedom in the air.” Bloomberg laughed but did not rub his hands. “Then, would you believe it, suddenly there were new rules, people’s rules. Progressive, of course. How to behave, who to believe, where to be. Even a rule about the right kind of haircut. Very short at the nape of the neck. My current grooming preference arose in response to that one. There was the right way, and the wrong way, just like before, but different. Merely another road to conformity, really. It all became so boring, you couldn’t pass gas from your ass decently without violating a diktat. I decided the best thing to do was to leave all that for the true believers and go into business for myself. Successfully, as you can see. Your father came to Berlin and we met. It was much later, and by then the city’s spirit was broken.”

And at that midday it will be quiet at the harbor.

They entered a large salon. An opulent chandelier illuminated a room dominated by a grand piano at one end. Jona was surprised to see Alex in the group standing around Elfieda as she sang. There were several others he didn’t recognize, perhaps a dozen altogether. Colonel Osler was seated at the piano, playing with long, delicate appearing fingers.

Jona spoke into Bloomberg’s ear so that only he could hear. “But now you are against the new order, right? The Nazis, I mean.”

Bloomberg grasped Jona’s forearm in a surprisingly tight grip. “I have promised everything, everything in this cause. Everything you see around you.” He paused a moment, gesturing towards an ornately carved table. “You see this? A Biedermeier, and I would give it up in a second. Everything but my life. That is one thing, alas, I cannot spare. You understand, I am sure. For the first time in many years I have found something to fight for. Sorry, I mean against. The monster of Hitlerism must be stopped before it devours the whole world. It is easy to believe they don’t really mean it, about how they claim to be Ubermenschen, yes? That everyone else is inferior, destined to be nothing more than slaves to the master race. Jews, Poles, Chinese. Everyone. Easy to believe it’s just propaganda, something to feed the willing masses. But it’s more than just words, Herr Doktor. Not words from a two penny novel, but words that have meaning, and action will follow the words. They are planning to kill every Jew in the world, including my mother.” He searched Jona’s eyes earnestly and spread his arms wide, encompassing the entire room. “Go back to the New World, Dr. Lieb. Tell them, please.” He gave a meaningful pause to his urgent flow of words, continuing his intense gaze, then tapped Jona on the arm familiarly. “By the way, I have no agents in New York right now. Perhaps we can do some business together once you get back. As you Americans say, one hand feeds the other, yes?”

Jona said nothing in response. It sounded like his host was prone to considerable exaggeration. A vision of the intense, earnest young men and women at the bonfire rally flashed before him. It didn’t seem to him as if they were planning to destroy the world. Not at all. To the contrary, they seemed to want to save the world.

The group was very quiet as Elfieda continued with her slow, sad, longing-sounding song. Jona felt the subdued intensity in the room as she went on, apparently nearing the end. Her eyes expressed a deep sense of sadness as she finished:

When they ask me who has to die. And they’ll hear me say: ....

All.

When she stopped there were a few quiet, congratulatory murmurs offered in her direction, but Elfieda ignored them and went directly to Jona.

“Sleep well, darling?” She gave him a dazzling smile, and bent her head down towards him. For a thrilling instant Jona thought she was going to kiss him, but she merely brushed her cheek against his.

He smiled in return. “That was wonderful. It’s from the Brecht opera, I suppose, isn’t it?”

“Yes, this song was Pirate Jenny.” Elfieda took Jona’s hand. “Come, we were waiting for you before starting.”

The group began to coalesce around some chairs and a sofa at the far end of the room. As he moved in that direction, Jona’s eye was caught by a striking silver clad icon set in a glass case near the piano. He jerked Elfieda to a halt, mesmerized by the devotional artifact. It depicted a scene from hell. Winged monsters hovered over a terrified mass of humanity struggling to climb out of the Pit. Some appeared horribly disfigured, others were grinning fiendishly, while still others screamed with open mouths as demons flogged them. The corners of the icon were edged with weathered silver that was studded with a myriad of precious appearing stones. It looked very old.

Jona turned in the direction of Bloomberg, who was standing right next to them. “This is different. I must say, it is striking.”

“You have a very good eye, Dr. Lieb. That is mid fifteenth century. Kievan Russian. Considered to be very holy.” Bloomberg went on in a matter of fact way. “And very valuable. Look here.” He waived his palm and fingers over the icon, like a necromancer anointing the dead. “Here you see topaz for humility, chalcedony for faith, beryl for purity, sapphire for the angelic host, and here chrysolite, and carnelian, and onyx, and jasper, and blessed sapphire, and jacinth, amethyst, agate, ruby, sard, and here...” He tapped the glass case gently, “Most holy emerald. You might say, the entire universe of gems encompassed in this one artifact of faith.”

Jona gulped several times, unable to respond right away. Finally, he choked out the first thought that came into his mind. “I can’t fathom the amount of time and expense it took to craft this. It projects enormous power, the power of all those involved in its creation. A great deal of belief was invested in this, by a great many people.”

Bloomberg gave an amused twitch of the lips in response. “Well, we all have faith in something, don’t we. Right now, a great deal of greed is invested in it. Your father smuggled it out of Kharkiv for me.”

A thousand questions leapt to Jona’s tongue. Who are you? flashed through his mind. What were your dealings with my father? You have some gall saying he smuggled anything out of anywhere. He was about to speak his thoughts, but at that moment Colonel Osler clapped his hands together and demanded quiet. He spoke in a clipped, precise manner, standing with ramrod rigidity before them.

“We have little time to waste. Friends, Himmler is determined to be ruthless. Very shortly anyone who is a Jew will be barred from state service. That means anyone. Anyone who is a teacher, engineer, professor, policeman. Anyone. Even the great Einstein will not be exempt. I can tell you in confidence that he is leaving Germany before he can be touched by this humiliation. Also, in a few weeks at the most, the new Hygiene laws will be issued. Defectives, morons, the malformed, the insane, all will be disposed of. They divert too many state resources from the Wehrmacht. Without them, surely one day in the future we will be able to push out two or three more tanks, a dozen machine guns, or a fresh squad of sappers to the Polish and Russian fronts to assure the salvation of the Fatherland.” Osler paused to stretch his lips into a thin sneer.

“My sister is in an asylum with schizophrenia. What will happen to her?” It was someone Jona didn’t know, a woman who spoke in a horrified, sobbing voice.

Osler reached over to pat her shoulder sympathetically, but he spoke tersely. “Probably an injection, Lena. Something quick.”

Jona could not believe what he was hearing. Without meaning to, he blurted out loudly. “You don’t mean they will be euthanized! That’s not credible, and I refuse to believe it. That would be on a mass scale. Thousands of people. It’s unheard of. How many of the...the impaired are you talking about?”

Hans Osler was a tall man, but he managed to stiffen himself to an even greater height, and adjusted the monacle over his eye more firmly. He gave the impression of examining Jona, as if trying to magnify him ten or twentyfold, tensing his jaw muscles on and off continuously. For a moment it appeared that he wasn’t going to respond at all, but he then exhaled an answer with one quick, almost guttural breath.

“All.”

The small gathering in the room seemed stunned by the announcement. Someone shouted in anger that he was ready to fight to the death. Jona did not believe a bit of it. How could Osler possibly know any of this? He spoke as if he had some inside knowledge of the government’s plans. It sounded more like a kind of edgy, hysterical rumor-mongering. Anti-Nazi histrionic propaganda, that’s all it was. He looked to Elfieda for support, almost shouting at her. “Tell me you don’t believe this is true. They’re not killing ordinary citizens! That’s crazy talk! Tell me!”

She shook her head up and down in a maniacal parody of a puppet fluttering loosely at the end of a string. “Don’t you understand, it’s already happening!”

Jona opened his mouth for a response when a door at the far end of the room flung open with a loud bang. A young girl came streaking in, tawny hair flying behind her. She appeared to be eleven or twelve, still a child. She took no more than two steps before crying out in near hysteria.

“The Sipo are here! Two autos full of them are coming up the driveway! They have big guns!” The girl ran to Elfieda’s side and grabbed her hand, gasping in terror.

To Jona, her words seemed to reverberate as if bouncing slowly within some vast echo chamber. The Sipo. The Sicherheitspolizei. The Reich’s secret police were here, pulling up to enter this house and arrest these people. And he was right in the middle of the whole mob.

An inarticulate roar arose from the group as people sprang to their feet. Osler shouted them down. “Everyone! Quietly! Down the back staircase to the basement and the underground garage. Outside there will be a safe path through the forest. Quickly! Goldstein will lead you. Bloomberg and I will deal with these thugs.”

Jona looked around frantically, in a frenzy to find Elfieda. She and the girl had somehow vanished from view. He could feel his heart racing and his head throbbing. Even though he willed himself to move, his legs were numb and unresponsive. The bore of his vision narrowed to the small sliver of sight that was Alex, standing steadily and raising his hand to signal the others to follow him. Wittenauer, the man from the church, was standing behind Alex, between him and the open door. Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, Wittenauer took a long step away from the others, almost a hop, and in one smooth motion raised his arm straight out. By some miraculous intervention, a gun materialized in his hand, traversing slowly back and forth.

“Everyone freeze where you are!” His voice rang out like a cannon shot. “No one is leaving!” His hand remained rock steady as he swiveled slowly left and right, training the weapon at no one and at everyone simultaneously.

“So, you are the traitor!” Osler spit out the words in Wittenauer’s direction. “I’ve suspected there was an informant in our midst, but I had no hints about the identity. The Sipo have been very secretive. Now we know you for the scum that you are.”

“You’re the scum,” Wittenauer snarled, pointing his gun directly at the Colonel. “And soon you’ll all be dead scum. Especially you, Osler.”

Jona pushed himself back against the wall opposite Wittenauer, watching, terrified, wanting to scream out for help, knowing there was no one who could help. Everything around him became suddenly very faded, all sounds abated, and time lagged to the pace of a slow, slow exhalation. He watched the next events unfold as if looking through the blurred lens of a primitive kinetoscope. He saw a wave of people recede from Wittenauer in the herky jerky manner of actors in an old silent film, and paste themselves noiselessly against the wall next to him, pressed close together in mutual terror. Then, called to action by some unseen director, Elfielda emerged slowly from an alcove behind the gunman. She had her hand in her purse, and while stepping forward she withdrew a glossy black pistol, raised it, and aimed it. A flash of smoke flared from the muzzle, suspended without sound in midair for just an instant before blossoming into an explosive clap. The pungent smell of gunpowder instantly filled the room.

As Wittenauer crumpled to the floor, a scream erupted, followed by the deep grunting roar of the maddened herd of conspirators that now lurched towards the exit. Jona stared, mesmerized, as Osler strode quickly to Elfieda, taking the gun from her hand and with the same motion twirling her around and launching her towards the open doorway at the end of the room. Goldberg shouted something unintelligible, as the pack continued its stampede towards the door, almost trampling Wittenauer’s body where it lay. Lieb stayed pressed against the wall, dazed, with no intention of going anywhere. Alex strode up to him purposefully, grasped him roughly by the arm, and pulled forcefully. There was no resistance.

Jona expected to be hustled to the staircase beyond the doorway, but Alex stopped him as they reached Wittenauer’s prostrate form lying on the floor. He pointed down and asked, “Vhat do you think?”

Wittenauer lay motionless but still alive, body prone but with face twisted to one side awkwardly, gasping with an irregular, low, sucking sound. A small round rent in the back of his coat was soaked in blood, but there was no other external evidence of trauma. Jona knew from the position of the entry wound that the man’s left lung was surely collapsed, causing a catastrophic pneumothorax that prohibited normal respiration. Wittenauer was at the same time both bleeding internally and unable to get enough oxygen into his system, a fatal combination. Without thinking, Lieb kneeled down to see and listen more closely. His hand moved automatically towards the bullet wound, and for a flitting moment he imagined himself performing heroic surgery with a kitchen knife to save the man’s life.

“Will he live?” It was Osler, his voice booming coldly in the silence of the vacated room.

Jona had a sudden, momentary flashback to the red bearded man lying on the street in Cambridge. “No. Impossible. Not without immediate surgery by a first class thoracic specialist.”

“Of course. We can get one if necessary, we have the best surgeons in the world. This is Germany, after all....” Osler murmured vaguely, and then he nodded sharply to Alex, pointing to the inert body lying at their feet. Without hesitation the quiet giant placed the heel of his shoe on Wittenauer’s neck, shifting his weight forward to maximize the effect. The sucking sounds stopped.

Jona watched in horror but made no move to intervene. He wanted to shout a warning, to tell Alex that the coroner would easily detect the man’s crushed larynx at autopsy, and that murder was a felony, and that this was an act of brutality, but he said nothing. He felt immersed in a vacuum suctioning out all energy and leaving him mute and still. The only sound to be heard was the thump of hard boots running up wooden steps, growing louder every moment. Jona could barely respond as Alex leaned over, picked him up, and lifted him over a broad shoulder in one deft motion. Everything then turned black as they entered the dark descent of the stairway.

A car emerged from the gloom, going slowly, its headlights casting parallel cones of luminescence through the hazy drizzle. A chrome eagle with flaring wings glinted on the hood. The automobile was an Adler Standard Six, the model he was told to expect. Jona held his breath as it seemed to slow down almost to a crawl when it reached Goldstein’s position in front of the bar. It stopped. There were two men in the front of the boxy cab, looking around with jerky twists of their heads. Abruptly, the engine roared and the car slid away, disappearing as if it had never been. Alex shrugged up the collar of his long leather coat to keep out the damp, and continued to smoke.

Looking back, Jona could not remember how he got out of the Bloomberg mansion, or how long they tramped among the dark trees of the Grunewald. Or rather, how long Alex struggled through the deep recesses of the forest, picking his way nimbly, silently, while Jona clung to his back like a frightened cub holding onto its mother. Finally, they emerged onto a small knoll covered with thickly sprouting pines. Below them, not three hundred yards away, the great city, Hitler’s weltstadt, swelled abruptly out of the ground, taking the form of a steel limbed giant emerging from a primitive night. The distinct rumble of the U-Bahn could be heard, vibrating through the carpet of pine needles beneath their feet. The tremor shook only briefly, like the first ominous sign of an impending storm roiling just over the horizon.

It was Jona who spoke first. “I want to go home. Please.”

Goldberg eyed him without expression. He squatted on the ground, crouching in the form of an impassive griffin, giving no outward sign of response or recognition. The reverberations from the underground faded completely away before he answered. “Vhere is home?”

Jona felt an abrupt surge of rage, an intense spark of anger that began to shake him uncontrollably, bringing the taste of bile into his mouth. “Fuck you!” he screamed, “Just fuck you! And fuck all of you! All of you! I’ve seen all of you before, you’re all the same, just like the Great Earnest Lieb, holy warriors in the fight against shit and evil. Save the world, you say? No, let the world fuck itself! Leave the fucking world alone and it will leave you alone. Don’t you get it? You’ll wind up on a slab one day and they’ll find your stomach full of sausage and no one will know who you are or how you got there, or give a damn.” As suddenly as the eruption exploded, it began to subside. Jona momentarily felt as if he were outside himself, shocked by the vitriol that flared from his lips. He sank to the ground, exhausted. He realized dumbly that his leg was numb.

Alex watched him quietly, unmoving and unmoved. He took out a green pack of Woodbines from his coat pocket and lit up quickly without bothering to offer one to Lieb. Acrid smoke twirled through the air, reaching towards Jona with smoky, vaporous hands. They both kept quiet as the sound of deep puffing perforated the air. Finally, almost mumbling to himself, Goldstein spoke.

“That’s OK. Sometimes I am thinking the same. The vorld is for shit. But,” he took a long drag, “Elfieda, she convince me ve haff to try.”

The night had cooled considerably, sending a shiver through Jona. “Elfieda said that? She is some kind of woman, isn’t she.” He paused, wondering if it was safe to continue. “How did you two meet?”

Without hesitation, Alex answered. “December 6, 1918. The Chaussee Strasse massacre. Ve marched. Ve demanded food and freedom, and the bastards began shooting us down like dogs. I saw Elfieda standing like a statue. In the street. Just a young girl then. Bullets everywhere. I knock her down and carry her away. Then ve talked. She was Spartakusbund, so I became also. You know. Red. I thought why not.”

“You were a Red?”

“Yes. Still. Still a Kozie.” He laughed derisively as he said the words.

“And Elfieda? Still?”

Alex gave Jona a searching look, squinting as if trying to read a difficult text. “She is. But not like before. The fire is gone now, just anger that is left. In the beginning she vas vith all the leaders. Luxemburg, Liebnecht, Leo Jogiches, the heads of the workers councils. And Leon Tyszka. She vas vith him every moment.”

The wind curled around Jona’s neck, stabbing him with an uncaring cold that caused him to shake. A flood of images and sounds swept through his mind. “They were together?”

Alex took one last drag from his cigarette, then flicked the butt away, propelling it in a glowing arc through the darkness. “They vere together, yes.”

Another subterranean rumble began to vibrate underneath them. Jona hunched his jacket tighter around himself. He wanted to leave. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to hear more. “What happened?”

Alex shrugged. “All things go quick, like the storm. The last day of 1918, the last day of the most terrible year vas the great day of our Party Congress. Rosa Luxemburg gave speech...so vonderful, so powerful. In such hurry to change everything. Right now, she said. The time vas come, she said. Ve change the vorld, she said, and ve change it right now. Tyszka and Elfieda vere there. Ve all clapped. Ve all cheered. Who could know that two weeks later Luxemburg vould be dead, Liebnecht vould be dead. Tyszka vould run away, like rabbit.” Without a pause, he tapped out another cigarette, struck a match, and cupped the flame in his hand in one continuous motion.

“We vent to the barricades. The city vas ours, then. My posting vas on the top of the Brandenburg Gate. Machine gun unit. Ve ver soldiers then, in a new army. Discipline like iron. From there I could see everything. From Templehof to the Dom. I felt like king. But the end vas fast, too. The new year began and our vorld ended...”

The rumble of the subway train faded as Alex trailed his last words in the air. Jona could not bear the brief silence that ensued. “And Elfieda?”

“She go after Tyszka. Never find him. Go to Paris first, I think. Go to Vienna. Go to Warsaw. Kronigsberg. Go to Moscow.”

“She went to Moscow?”

“Sure. That’s vere ve meet again. In 1924. Vorld Congress. Different by then, like she is now. Nervous. Not happy. That’s vhere she began the drugs, to keep her calm.”

Jona’s head snapped up. “What drugs?”

Goldstein shrugged indifferently. “Different ones. Some not legal. Some legal, from doctor friends, like now. Long name. Pheeno-something.”

“Phenobarbitone? A barbiturate! That is addictive.” Jona spoke more loudly and sharply than he intended to.

“Yes. So? Only addictive if you live long enough.” He shrugged again. “Cheaper than cocaine. More reliable. She takes some every day, helps her. Puts it in beer or schnapps, calms better.” Alex cast Lieb a sharp look.

It did not take long for the meaning to dawn on Jona. “Wait...She gave me something to drink at the church...Was that...”

Alex broke into a soft laugh, nodding his head up and down. “She vas very determined you come vith us. Determined you hear the truth. Gave you drink. Made nice fuss to you. You collapse, like broken doll in coma. Carry to car. Drive to Bloomberg. Put to bed.” He seemed to delight in detailing the story.

Jona was stung by a sudden pain over his midsection, just as if punched in the solar plexus. “You fools! Barbiturates and alcohol combined! She has probably habituated to double or triple the normal dose. I could have died! She had no right! None of you had any right!” He struggled to his feet, only to find his left leg completely numb and useless. “I want out of here! I’m getting a cab and going to my hotel. She had no right use me like that and risk my life.”

Alex laughed again, slowly and more softly, with lips downturned and nostrils flaring. “OK, you can go. Today, you hear our story. Go tell others. Go, though you will regret. There is at least one more snitch in the group tonight. You will be identified to Sipo, and they will get you. Not nice people. No Adlon for you. But you are right about this one thing. You did almost die today...”

Jona froze.

Alex continued to smoke, blowing out fumes that billowed into the night sky. The tip of the cigarette burned like a red hot star glowing in the the firmament, spewing tiny comets from its fiery core. “From when I first saw you I did not like you. I did not trust you. And you are American. You vere dangerous to Elfieda. To all of us. So I should kill you.”

Jona struggled to sit back down and finally slumped to the ground, falling closer to Goldstein. He followed the arc of the cigarette migrating in a random pattern through the near darkness. “And why didn’t you?”

“I saw Elfieda. I watched. She smiled at you. I thought, if you can make her smile, you should live. Her last smile vas in Moscow. I vant she should smile.”

The deep gloom of middle night settled over both of them. They sat in a shallow depression, a small hollow on the side of a modest hilltop at the very edge of the forest. The dome of sky arching overhead was moonless, momentarily ruffled only by the sound of rustling leaves and swaying boughs bending randomly in strict response to brief puffs of wind. A peculiar feeling came over Jona. Not depression and not despair. Not resignation, not remorse, not relief. Not fear. It was a kind of numbness, or uncaring. A feeling that nothing mattered. Everything that just a short while ago had been important - getting back to his hotel, finding Andrews and Murphy, giving his lecture at the University, even the basic mission to deliver Roosevelt’s letter - everything now seemed somehow remote and unnecessary. He motioned for a cigarette.

“You vill smoke these? Sure? They are English. Expensive.” Alex tossed over the pack and a box of matches.

Jona was not sure what made him want to smoke. He inhaled very gingerly, barely allowing the acrid vapor to enter his mouth before expelling it. It was caustic and pungent, but he was able to suppress the cough that tickled in his throat. “Why do you smoke these? Like you said, English and expensive.”

“From the time of the var. The trenches. Had all I could take from dead Tommies. Ten. Twenty. Hunderd. Splendid of them to smoke good tobacco. Now used to them.” Alex spoke matter-of-factly.

“Is it hard to...you know, kill someone? Like tonight, was it hard?”

“In the beginning, not hard. Easy then. Always a reason, good reason to kill. Maybe so I can not die. Or my friend. Or someone in next town, or in my club. After time, becomes harder. Reasons not so important. Like tonight.”

“But surely you don’t want to die at the hands of someone else, do you? I know I don’t. That’s very basic, I think.” Jona twirled the cigarette between his fingers, unsure what to do next.

“Live like this? Fear every day? Maybe better to die.”

“You have to live. You have to live, or you can’t make things better. That’s what my father would say. Make a difference.”

Alex gave a low, guttural chuckle, much as would a marksman with his target in sight. “Be careful. You may end up on a slab, vit no one to know who you are.”

Threads of smoke trailed into Jona’s nostrils. He breathed in deeply and deliberately, and promptly experienced a throbbing in his head. He closed his eyes, and immediately felt completely exposed, naked to Goldstein’s cold, implacable examination. He was desperate to hear more. “So what’s your story? What happened after the uprising?”

“Not too much. They find me easy. Beat me. In Plötzensee for six months. Hellhole in day. Pisshole in night. I kill a man, they leave me alone.”

“What about Moscow?”

“I go in ‘24, again in ‘26 and in ‘29 I go for good. I vant to stay, but Elfieda make me come back to organize workers for elections. Duty, she said. All good Germans should return to Germany. So I came back, vith many others, maybe dozen. Ve came. Ve fight. Ve lose. Now ve die.” He spoke casually, but Jona could hear the bitterness in his words.

“What about Bloomberg? Osler?”

Alex reacted angrily, tossing his cigarette aside. “Bloomberg thinks he is a klugscheisse, smarter than us. He is a pig. I shall gut him myself one day, the day his usefulness is over. He thinks ve are the same because ve are both Jews. First, he is not a Jew. He pretends only. Vorships money, not God.”

Jona waited a moment, giving Alex a chance to continue. “What about second?”

“Vat do you mean?”

“You said, ‘First, he is not a Jew.’ So, what is second?”

A new, red hot orb appeared in the empty space between them, accompanied by the sound of a match strike. Jona watched as it flared briefly into a white sear, only to subside into simmering crimson. He could hear Alex drawing breath, as if struggling to speak, until finally the words came tumbling out. “A few months ago they pick me up again. Put me in Kislau. Just got out last veek. You know Kislau? A KZ. Concentration zone. For Reds and queers. Double points if you’re a Jew. They make exercises during the day outside in the yard. Very nice, organized. Take pictures and movies for Goebbels to show people, to show how vonderful to be there, not to worry. At night, inside, they beat you very bad. I had this one guard, nice Silesian boy. Catholic. Thin, strong. Uses rope around the neck. Chokes until you pass out, make you think you die now. And vas always the same thing, saying, “Die, you fucking Bolshie Jew.”

Alex leaned close to Jona, his face emerging abruptly from the gloaming like a shadowy spirit from a haunted forest, his head mounted on a pedestal of darkness. “So, Herr Doktor, here am I. A Bolshie. A Jew. That is me. Everything. Nothing else to know. Bloomberg is lentil soup, make any stew, fill any bowl. He became head of one of the biggest Vingereine. Do you know what is Vingereine? Criminal gangs. Organized. All over city. Own everything, also mayor and polize. Bloomberg became big shot. Hired me for getting rid of enemies. You know, disposing here and there. He vas vith your father one, two years. Gave your father money to buy supplies for his medicine trips. Your father vas bringing him back things to sell. Egypt. China. Russia. Some place in Africa. Good deal for both. Bloomberg become rich, Earnest Lieb become famous.”

The cigarette made a sighing sound as it burnt itself to extinction. Jona sucked on it once or twice, spewing smoke back out into a little cloud over his head. That’s what he had to do, he thought. It was for the greater good. It was to help people, right? That’s who he was.

“And you?” Goldstein’s voice snapped Jona out of his reverie with jarring force. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“That’s right. What about you.” Alex waited just a beat and then continued. “You are a Jew?”

“No! No! Goddamn no! Why would you ask me such a thing?”

“I guess only, but you could be. Lieb. Could be short for Lieberman, Liebling... Liebnecht. Who could know.” Alex laughed, this time a deep, genuine laugh. “You’re sure you’re not? You could be the vandering Jew, like from the story. Funny. Like Ahasver, only lost in Nazi Germany. We could ask Osler, he could find out.”

“Why Osler?” Jona shifted forward, intent on every word.

“He is Abwher. Military Intelligence. Serves mit the Chief, Admiral Canaris. They say even Hitler cannot touch Canaris. Probably, he knows shit about Adolph. Der Fürher vas probably a cheap night tripper in Munich, a lustknaben vith his balls shot off during the Great Var, that’s vat I think. Canaris and Osler have it all in a dossier hidden somever. Swiss vault maybe. Hitler knows it.”

“And so Osler operates with impunity? He operates a resistance group while he’s in Intelligence? The whole thing is preposterous.”

More deep laughter erupted from Alex, blending with the rumbling of another subway train passing nearby. “Not preposterous. The Sipo will say some nasty things, Osler the same. They vill ask for names and addresses, then he vill ask for their names and addresses. Then they exchange cigarette. Velcome to Germany, Lieb. No, even better, let’s fuck Germany. I am going back to Russia. Nothing here for me. They kill me soon. Elfieda vill haff to leave, too. She is blown.”

The wind picked up again, coursing out of the north and right through Jona’s flimsy cotton jacket, piercing him to the core. He began to shiver. “Good luck, then. I won’t forget you. Any of you.”

Goldstein stood up, shaking pine needles off his pants and coat. “Lieb, vhy don’t you come vit me? See Russia. See the new vorld that is making there. Become a new man, then return to your country. You vill have amazing stories to tell. Germany. Russia. Could not be more different.”

Jona also struggled to his feet. “Me? No thanks, friend. Have my own duty, you know.”

“No. You don’t have duty. Only pretending, like Bloomberg.”

Jona began to shiver violently, and at the same time felt a flush of shame come over him. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I can’t. I don’t even speak any Russian.”

“No bother. Learn there. That’s vhere I learn English. They teach you free. Proletariate is entitled to teaching.”

Alex saw that Jona was trembling with cold. He placed an arm around him, pulling him close for warmth. “I vill tell you one thing more, Lieb. The girls there are the best. Make love under the moon, in the hallways, anywhere. All kinds girls. Americans there, too. My teacher of English vas from America. Young girl, pretty but tough. I look but not touch. From New York, she said. I am going to find her vhen I get back. She had beautiful name, I remember it always. Her name vas Marielle.”

Chapter 15

Regret was not a word to be found in John Andrews’ lexicon. Wistful looks backward and idle wishes about what might have been were a waste of time. No one had taught him that rule. Like most things in life, it was a lesson he learned himself, sternly and without qualms. Yesterday was a long corridor that led to nowhere. Today was a door that opened into tomorrow. And the only important thing was tomorrow. And the next day, and the day after that. For Andrews, the future beckoned him with the promise of fulfillment. He could reach out his hand and touch it. He was willing to kiss yesterday’s foul-ups and bad luck goodbye, since tomorrow was sure to be flooded with success, money, classy women, fine clothing, and the envy of the pretentious, snickering fools that surrounded him. Most importantly, tomorrow would be free of assholes like Joe Murphy.

What really galled Andrews was the senior agent’s arrogance. From the moment they met outside the prison gate following their release, Murphy acted as if nothing had happened the night before. Not a word about the fight. Not a word about the arrest. Not a word about a night spent in jail.

Jail! A trip to hell could not be worse than a night spent in the putrid, stinking, filthy, antiseptic, whitewashed pile of sterile manure called Tegal prison. Yet Murphy had simply given a smirking grin, grabbed Andrews by the arm, and steered them both towards the man in the long brown gabardine coat and blue beret who waited for them outside the mustard colored prison walls.

A short and silent ride in a squeaky Packard brought them to the squatly seated American embassy on Bendlerstrasse. After a quick bite to eat, Andrews fell into a dead sleep. Eighteen hours later he was sitting calmly in the anteroom to the ambassador’s office, completely composed, watching Murphy pick at his nails with a small pocketknife. Neither man acknowledged the presence of the other, but both walked in grim lockstep when they were summoned in to see Ambassador Sackett.

Mosely Sackett was a florid faced bear of a man who preferred to speak in clear, plain and blunt English vernacular. Some said that the state of his desk reflected the state of his mind; both were cluttered and disorganized. However, on this occasion the only thing to be seen on his desk was a leather briefcase wrapped in thick, sturdy straps with metal clasps. As Murphy and Andrews entered, the ambassador’s demeanor told both men everything they needed to know about the true state of his mind.

“Damn both of you!” The growl of a tree-crouching leopard would have been less intimidating. “Do you know what the hell you’ve done?”

Murphy spoke up promptly, almost shouting in return. “All my fault, sir. I accept the blame.”

“You’re Murphy, right? Blow it out your ear, Murphy. And don’t worry, I’ll be happy to see to it that you’re the fall guy. And what about you?” He glared at Andrews with a look of disdain.

Andrews had anticipated the question and thought out his answer carefully. “In retrospect, I should have been more persuasive in restraining agent Murphy, sir.”

The glare did not end, boring into both men as Sackett went on. “Do you realize that the Chief of Criminal Police placed a call to me at four thirty in the morning about the two of you and your little slumber party? Woke me up from a sound sleep, I thought a gol-darn war was started. And do you know where he called me from?”

Both men remained impassive.

“From police headquarters at Alexanderplatz, that’s where. That means he had to haul his rear end halfway across Berlin from his home to his office, in the middle of the night, get briefed on what happened, and then get me on the line. He was not a happy little Nazi. Hell of a time for this. They don’t like us and we don’t like them much.”

Neither agent responded, which exasperated Sackett even further. “Let me ask you both. Any idea where your charge might be?”

Andrews spoke up confidently. “Undoubtedly at his hotel, sir. His lecture at the University is scheduled for tomorrow. If I know Dr. Lieb, I’m sure he’s preparing for it.”

Sackett turned towards Murphy. “You?”

“Not so sure. He’s been hanging out with this Perfessor Kohler guy, who’s really stringing Lieb along, mouthing a lot of Party line stuff. He might be with Kohler. A day at the museum and a night at the theater would be right up the Perfessor’s alley. I think wherever Kohler might be, our boy will be there.”

Sackett drummed his fingers on the desktop with a hard, irregular beat as he bunched up his massive brows into a contorted frown. Finally, he rapped his knuckles down with a sigh. “Hell, you’re both wrong. He’s gone. Long gone, in fact. The people at the hotel last saw him yesterday morning. Left the place with a big busty blond on his arm, a regular Valkyrie.”

A small trickle of sweat swelled onto Andrews’ forehead. He resisted the impulse to wipe it away but could not stop himself from rocking where he stood. He felt the weight of his carefully constructed plans begin to crash down on him. Jona is gone? he wondered. The Elfieda woman? That’s impossible. He’s a frightened little chick. He wouldn’t budge without having someone there to watch over him every moment.

“Find Kohler.” Murphy balanced himself on the balls of his feet, fists clenched at his sides. “Kohler will either have his little buddy in tow with him or know where he is.”

“No!” Sackett stood up for emphasis. “I have a better idea. You find Lieb. You two are supposed to be his bodyguards, right? That’s your story, right? Then it makes sense for you to search for him. If it were up to me, you would both be on your way back to Washington with my boot up your ass and your hands in cuffs. But, The Powers That Be, whoever they are, want you to stay on this. That’s straight from the Secretary’s office. Cabled instructions to me this morning. See here, I know who the two of you really are, and I know who he is, I just don’t get what you’re all doing together. I can infer that it’s best I don’t know. Lieb is supposed to be on a private trip, a tour that lands him in a gol-durn location he shouldn’t be going to, as far as I’m concerned. So, we don’t want to use any of our people to help or draw attention to our interest in Lieb. Have to pretend it’s strictly a police matter. I can give you some money, that’s all. The police chief I spoke to, Arthur Nebe, offered to help.”

“With due respect, sir.” Andrews took a deep breath before continuing. He shot a quick sideways glance at Murphy. It was a make or break moment, but he decided to take the plunge. “Is it wise to have both of us continue this mission?”

His words echoed in the room, shimmering like heavy sleet falling on a dark afternoon. The ambassador gave a tired sigh and sank back into his chair. He pointed to the leather briefcase sitting on his desk. “Do you know what that is?” He surveyed both men. “That is a diplomatic pouch. Supposed to go to Lieb. Supposed to secure it to his wrist when he leaves here. He is supposed to give the contents to somebody, don’t know who and don’t want to know. I have been in the Diplomatic Corps for thirty five years, serving in every capacity. I am the gol-durned ambassador to gol-durned Germany for Chrissakes. Even so, I have not been entrusted with knowledge of the contents of this pouch. I have no idea what is in it, or why it’s going to Lieb, which tells me that whatever it is must either be pretty damned important or a load of doo-doo. I’m betting on important.”

Sackett stood again and circled the desk, holding onto its corner as if lumbering cautiously in the dark, only to sit on its front edge facing both men. He swept back the wisp of white hair that fell over his forehead and managed a smile that looked very close to a sneer. “So, gentlemen. There’s not a whole lot of shit I want to hear from either one of you right now. I don’t care if you two cuddle in the bathtub every night or go at each other’s throats. Just bring me back Jona Lieb!”

As they tramped out of the ambassador’s office, Andrews could see Murphy beaming with a grotesque grin. The junior agent suddenly felt something he never thought he would ever feel again. It was a luxury he had foresworn long ago, a sensation that had no place on the straight road to his future, a terrible distraction from the rigid pathway to success. It was about Murphy. It wasn’t simply that he disliked Murphy. Dislike was acceptable, manageable, perfectly understandable. It was something else that he felt, something that bubbled with intense ferocity and unlimited resources, something without boundaries and outside his control. No, it wasn’t that he disliked Murphy. It was that he hated Murphy.

They talked briefly as they descended to the embassy’s administrative wing on the second floor. They were both famished, and made their way to the small staff cafeteria at the far end of the building. Murphy was suddenly all business, barking out commands as if he were still an NCO in the Marine Corps.

“I’ll take the Adlon. Interview staff, anyone who may have seen Jona leave the hotel. Get a description of the broad, make sure it was the same one we met the other night, the Brunny-something dame. Check his room for a note or any messages. All that. I want you to go to police headquarters. Meet this Nebe guy, get his angle and find out what he knows.” He paused to take a breath. “And while you’re there thank him for the hospitality of putting us up last night. Christ, I don’t want to deal with another one of these Nazi slugs ever again.”

“That’s agreeable.” By this time Andrews was willing to do anything to get away from his partner.

They followed the aroma of coffee and sizzling bacon down the long hallway to the dining room. The passageways left and right bustled with early morning activity and the helter skelter of an overworked staff. Passers-by seemed intent on their own tasks, but Andrews had the feeling they were staring at him. I’ll never dodge that, he thought. They’ll always look at me and wonder, as if I’m a museum object on display. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. Ever since boyhood, he had lived with the knowledge of being different and a feeling of isolation from others. Andrews did not regret that at all. Being separate had made him strong.

A sudden pang brought back a vivid memory of his sister Myra. The only meaningful family life he ever knew was during his stay with her, harbored safely inside the small house on Pierce Street. Myra’s baby, her only child, died of brain fever during their first winter together. Andrews remembered his sister’s grief, her expressions of desolation, and felt some of the emptiness she must have felt. She never spoke of O’Banyon after his death and little John never revealed that he witnessed the demise of that dreadful man. As she recovered from her grief, she became even more of a surrogate parent, prodding John, pushing him, exhorting him to excel in his studies. Serious study blended easily with his serious mien, and serious study demanded strict discipline, which young John Andrews adopted with the fervor of a monk. His closet of a room became a cloister, a suitable habitat for his daily routines. The rigorous study of books did not fill Andrews with specious, silly daydreams of adventure and discovery. He did not read for enjoyment of the written word, and his imagination remained tightly compressed into the rigid sphere of concentration needed to master the subject at hand. His daily lessons provided for nothing more than the preparation for the next day’s lessons, and the lessons after that, and again after that. Like building a long, towering wall, he laid down one block of study at a time, one on top of the other. He had no time or inclination for friendships, and made none. Myra was his only friend and companion. She was always there, the steady rock to which he could lay anchor. And it was through her that Mr. Knolles came into his life.

In the beginning, Andrews could not know whether Mr. Knolles was using his sister, or whether she was using him. He did know, though, that his sister’s new boss was a miracle worker. Once Myra was hired on as his office maid, all manner of good things began to appear in their home. Bedspreads, towels, socks and soap materialized as if by magic. An icebox arrived. And food. Lots of food. Fruit, cheese, meats, and even candy spilled across their kitchen table, all the food that John Andrews could want.

Myra repeatedly admonished her younger brother to be respectful whenever Mr. Knolles came around. It became commonplace to hear tapping at the front door in the early evening hours, and he would appear, a bag of gifts in hand and a narrow smile on his broad and lightly creased face, always on his way to or from some other place. It seemed to Andrews that he was typically dressed in the same thick dark woolen suit and broad cravat nestled under a tight stretched vest, creating an appearance that suggested a plethoric, slightly overstuffed sausage. He wore no jewelry other than a plain gold band on his ring finger. He did not look or act like a rich man, but he was. The Knolles business interests ranged widely, from banking in Chicago to coal mining in Pennsylvania, but Mr. Knolles spent most of his time in Baltimore operating his shipping firm.

He was not a gregarious man by any means. When he came into the house he typically sat quietly in the only armchair in their parlor. Myra usually sat on the couch opposite him. Andrews could remember them both very vividly, sitting mutely across from one another for long, lingering stretches of time, staring vacantly at the floor, or sightlessly at some scene on the horizon. No spark of animation, no casual laughter, no intimate banter passed between them. An occasional, muffled word about the weather might be heard, no more. Andrews thought they looked like two deflated bookends propping up nothing but dead air between them. But still he came.

As weeks and months went by Mr. Knolles became more comfortable with John and made a point of asking how his studies were progressing. Every so often he would ask a question in a teasing manner, sometimes with a modest laugh, as if probing the limits of the young man’s knowledge. Andrews could still remember some of them.

“Who was Cicero?”

“What is Zeno’s Paradox?”

“When did the Ottomans capture Constantinople?”

“Where is Timbuktoo?”

“What is the momentum of inertia?”

Andrews smiled to himself as he played the queries back in his mind. He could remember that his responses were quick and certain, all the queries well within the arc of his intellectual stride. Mr. Knolles gave every evidence of being impressed, and in turn seemed very satisfied with his young acquaintance.

It was understandable that Myra would often leave young John alone in the evening while she worked late at the office of Mr. Knolles. Andrews did not particularly care. If there was a sprout of suspicion in his mind about what might be going on while they were together, it was deliberately left uncultivated. The only matter of importance was that he was lifted out of his former state of penury, away from a deadened life that was barely sustained at a subsistence level. New prospects of opportunity opened up. Young John was ready to seize the promise of tomorrow, and Mr. Knolles seemed ready to open the door for him.

The day that changed the course of his life began as a drizzly Saturday in the early fall. The weather was gray and wet, leaving Andrews without any inducements to abandon his studies. Myra knocked on his door with a soft, familiar knock. Since the death of the baby, she came frequently to John’s room. Partly out of loneliness, and partly out of curiosity, she assumed the habit of standing over his shoulder and watching as her younger brother wrote an essay, or practiced math problems, or simply read. John did not mind as she hovered nearby.

A steady rap at the front door announced the arrival of Mr. Knolles. Andrews thought nothing of it when his sister hastened away. He remained oblivious to the outside world as he thumbed through a worn copy of Caesar’s Commentaries, struggling to find the passage of required reading that he was assigned. Finally, frustrated, he decided to take a break and get an apple from the kitchen.

Most often, remembrance swerves through time as if bent by the lodestar of fate. Memory, always looking backwards, paints the course of events like the blossoming of spring flowers. Each one blooms with exquisite precision, flowering from a central stem in a certain, predictable, and inevitable way, like a day lilly nodding skyward when licked by the sun. Life can plod forward dully, or bend, or even break in an instant, and still appear to be following a plan of inexorable fulfillment. John Andrews did not have the temperament to wonder about what might have been had he stayed in his room that day, absorbed in his studies. Whether he was submitting to an ordained script or was subject to the random rattling of chance was not important to him. He went looking for an apple, and as he passed the staircase, he heard low groans coming from the upper floor.

The house was small, and old, and infirm. Noises, in the form of hushed wheezings and soft squeaks, commonly emanated from basement and attic as nothing more than the tired emissions of advanced age. But the sounds he heard this time were different, freezing him for just a moment before he followed their faint scent up the stairs. Andrews was then a tall and slim seventeen. He had lived among the broken windows and gutted slums of south Baltimore a good part of his life, and he knew what he would see before he opened the door to his only sister’s room. He should have walked away, just turning his head and retreating down the stairs. But in that moment, in a luminous instant, the future whispered to him, like an unseen goddess murmuring a faint promise of what might come to be. And so he opened the door to see.

He saw white flesh blending into brown creases, swaying with a slow quiver. Mr. Knolles was thrust upon Myra, the pink domes of his buttocks exposed to view, his heavy trousers girdling his ankles. The couplers were completely unaware of the young man’s entrance into the room. Andrews watched for a few moments, quietly, and then raised his voice.

“Get up!” he commanded.

Mr. Knolles responded at first by brushing back a hand, as if swatting away a fly. Then, abruptly, as realization that there was an intruder sank in, he jumped up, struggling to shrug up his pants. Myra curled herself up without a word and gave the impression of receding from sight, becoming nothing more than a faint tendril of heat deffervescing upon the bed.

Andrews pointed to Mr. Knolles’ left hand. “You’re a married man.”

Mr. Knolles’ face flashed through a series of rapid contortions and colorations, from anger to disbelief, from pallor to violent red. “You dare to come in here and speak to me like that, you goddamn little monkey? Get the hell out!”

Andrews stood his ground and pointed again at the ring. He spoke in an even monophone, very much like greeting someone walking their dog. “I’ll get out, Mr. Knolles, but it’s not right. Mrs. Knolles will be pretty angry if she hears about this. Our neighbor Mr. Staunton works at The Sun. If he found out, it might also get into the paper. That would be too bad, you being an important man.”

Mr. Knolles did not make his money by acting stupidly. As he quickly buckled his belt and buttoned up his vest, he cast a shrewd look at the gangly young man standing before him. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that, kid. You know, I can have three or four boys from the docks over here in an hour. Give you a licking within an inch of your life.”

Andrews shrugged. The threat meant nothing to him. Getting whipped was a chance he took almost every day just walking down the street.

Without looking directly at the young man, Mr. Knolles sat on the bed to put on his shoes. As he struggled with one and then the other, he began to smile. It was the broad, vapid smile of a fairground huckster. “Whaddya want?”

Andrews did not hesitate. “I want to work for you.”

“That’s it?”

“But first, I have to go to college.”

As if moving to the sinuous tune of a magic flute, Myra’s bare leg snaked across the bed. Her naked toe touched Mr. Knolles along his lower spine, stroking silently as it pushed gently against his back. He looked back at her, with a long, earnest gaze. Then he turned back towards Andrews, the smile now gone.

“You’re a clever kid. I know your sister loves you, loves you a lot. Why not? I know you’re smart. I’ll help you. I’ll send you to my old school. College will make a man of you, I warrant. I’ll send you, but you promise to join the firm when you’re graduated. Study accounting, that’s what I need. From now on you’ll be my man. That’s our deal. I win. You win. Fair?”

“And Myra?”

Mr. Knolles made a motion of bending backwards and jerking his head. “Don’t worry about her. Myra will be well cared for, I’ll see to that.”

So he said, and so it became.

Andrews did not learn until later that Mr. Knolles’ “old school” was Princeton. The machinery of application and matriculation were lubricated by a substantial, superficially anonymous donation. Official letters of congratulation were duly received, leaving Myra in tears. Shortly before his scheduled departure an expensive looking leather trunk arrived at the old house on Pierce Street. Inside were three jackets, two suits, pants, shirts and shoes. Nowhere did Mr. Knolles’ name appear, though it was surely from him. A typed note was attached to the garment on top. It read, mysteriously, “DON’T BOTHER TO BICKER.”

The meaning became clear almost as soon as he arrived on campus. John Andrews knew what he was and where he came from. His sister had told him the whole truth about their past long before, and he remembered quite a bit in any case. All the same, he had always believed that he could pass for what he wasn’t. That notion came crashing down around him in his first days at the pure-bred Ivy League school. He was assigned a room alone, which he at first accepted as a stroke of good luck. He realized very quickly that most students avoided him, and every so often he could hear chortles of mockery, half whispered from around dark corners and back row seats. Few, very few, consented to sit with him or be seen walking by his side.

He understood why. His response was carefully thought out and orchestrated. He would become his own man. Andrews began to groom himself meticulously every day and make good use of the wardrobe gifted to him by Mr. Knolles. He affected a clipped mustache and a white straw hat, a very wide brimmed boater, and accustomed himself to walk with a flowing, disdainful gait. Very quickly, he learned to smile with an arrogant air at everyone he met.

Despite his sponsor’s admonition, Andrews decided to apply for entry into the top tier of so-called eating clubs, a ritual called bickering. Rejection after rejection from the more exclusive clubs did not deter him. He applied to others, and eventually was accepted into the less selective Terrace Club. Even then it seemed as if most of the members shunned him, but Andrews behaved as if oblivious to the sibilant murmurs that surrounded him. He strode around the campus, up and down Prospect Street, in and out of Nassau and Alexander Hall like an owner, not a supplicant.

Eventually, he blended into a small coterie of acquaintances. It was a varied assortment of young men, all intent on success and all willing to blind themselves to their respective differences. Among them there were no rounds of rehearsed anger, no savaging of contemporary society or culture, and no pledges to remake the world. Instead, they pored over examination questions, shared answers, and argued over who would be the first to make a million. They never became close friends, and rarely did anything outside the club together. The group was all that Andrews could want, no more and no less.

The study of finance and accounting proved to be an excellent match for Andrews. Rows of numbers in perfect, ranked order, governed by iron clad rules of behavior were the embodiment of a perfect discipline. It looked like a field that offered a safe haven for a poor boy from Baltimore. As his studies progressed his future seemed more definite, and some of his possible tomorrows necessarily folded in on themselves, condensing into a more constricted corridor, and he knew that the path he followed would ultimately debouch into a corporate office that would overlook a busy harbor. The elegant universe of mathematical symbols lit the way forward, like so many signal flares lining a dark tunnel, each one perfect, predictable, reproducible. Life was flowing forward, carrying Andrews in its rapid current.

There was a caller at his door one clear September evening, someone calling with a knocking on his door, someone knocking just as the first brisk autumn winds began to blow. The time was almost exactly four years from the day he had burst into his sister’s room to find her with Mr. Knolles. It was a police detective, an older man, alone, his wispy charcoal hair fluttering in the briskness of the season when he removed his hat. He seemed genuinely sad as he gave Andrews the news about his sister and Mr. Knolles. It was an act of infatuation and mania, he said, a lover’s passion play that ended as so many do. The bodies had been found lying together side by side, unclothed, he explained, one lying in pristine and calm repose, the other smeared by immersion in a thick pool of blood. Myra left a note in her own hand, a few confused words that made no sense to Andrews, a few words that described a hopeless love and a life not worth living in a hateful world. Mr. Knolles also left a last goodbye sealed by a bloody thumbprint, a long rant blaming mankind, blaming God, blaming himself, his wife, his church, his country, blaming all the evil that swirled through the wicked ether separating heaven from earth. At the end of the message, just below his signature, were some lines that looked like poetry. The detective read them aloud from some scribbles jotted in his notepad:

The sleepers are very beautiful as they lie unclothed,

They flow hand in hand over the whole earth from east to west as they lie unclothed

“Do you know it? Do you know what it means?” The officer asked the question in a low, urgent voice. He spoke with evident emotion, as if the answer was the key to everything, the key to understanding murder, and love, and suicide, and all the fractious puzzles that remain unexplained in the borderland just beyond reason and awareness. “Do you know it?” he repeated, earnest, insistent.

“No,” Andrews answered, shaking his head and putting out his palm, trying to push back a door that opened into a world of danger and dark pain. “No, I don’t know it at all.”

Months later, long after graduation, he visited the gravesites. He had received a generous check from the executors of the Knolles will, but he didn’t go because of any sense of debt, or of gratitude. He was curious, no more than that, and he knew his sister was beyond caring. Pursuant to Mr. Knolles’ request, the two were buried side by side, just as they were found at the end. They lay on the edge of a dingle, in a remote corner of the cemetery, bordered by hardened oak and beech trees. The small headstones were very plain and already weathered, bleached and fading in the glare of unfiltered sunlight.

As he stood there, and as anger swelled up within him, Andrews could not understand how he had missed it all. How could he not have seen the secret life that had played itself out between the two dead lovers? He had never felt the heat that so abruptly exhausted itself upon their flesh. He had never looked at the dance they danced, each inside the other’s circle, each caught within a brilliant orbit burning more intensely than the flames of any earthly sun. They had never shown any of it as they groped awkwardly from one day to the next, sitting apart and yet somehow bound together. No light leaked from behind the door they kept closed to the outside world. No one else could know. They alone knew, just those two, the ones who now lay dead side by side. Perhaps they themselves could not know, and could not dream of it, until the last, extinguishing, blinding instant.

When he turned away from their dual tombs on that afternoon five years ago, there was no need for any extravagant vows or earnest resolutions. It was simply understood. He would do better. He would accomplish more. He would prevail.

As he parted ways with Murphy in the Embassy’s somewhat cramped vestibule, Andrews shook away all thoughts of Myra, and Mr. Knolles, and Princeton, and all his past. All of that was old news. What he needed was tomorrow’s headline. He pushed open the door to the street, enlivened by the bustle and noise of the passersby, and determined to make the most of whatever the day might bring. To hell with Murphy and to hell with all of them, he thought. It’s my time now.

The Alexanderplatz address revealed a squat structure that receded from the street’s curb, giving the appearance of an immense, secretive creature crouching in the shadows cast by adjacent buildings. The platz itself encompassed an enormous ellipse, humming with pedestrians, trams and automobiles. A single, unadorned U-bahn entrance erupted out of the grassy central mall, belying the complex warren of tiled tunnels and tracks that arborized below.

Immediately upon entry into the building’s reception lobby, Andrews was confronted by a swarm of black clad, helmeted guards in white gloves. They each wore a brassard of bright, blood red colored cloth on their left arms, with the odd Nazi swastika symbol displayed in black on a white field. He was directed to a young looking officer sitting at an elaborately carved desk. A strong aroma of cologne wafted up from his hair. After a moment of introduction, Andrews waited until another, somewhat older officer materialized. This one spoke English, and quickly ushered the American past the guards. He acknowledged that he was expecting the agent’s arrival.

“First floor, down the left hand hallway. Last doorway.” The officer clicked his heels, shot his right hand upward in formal salute, and offered to accompany the American.

The corridors were cool, and wood paneled. The floor was also of wood, uncarpeted, and creaky. Andrews sniffed at something in the air. It smelled like boiled cabbage that had somehow turned sour. He had been told that the Kriminalpolizei headquarters building also housed a small prison in the basement, but as he was guided to Nebe’s office he heard none of the typical prison noise he was familiar with. No shouting, no jeering or cheering, no clanking, and none of the private, muffled sounds of human incarceration could be heard. Other than the sound of squeaky floorboards the building was hushed.

Nebe’s office turned out not to be Nebe’s office. Instead, it was a small, nondescript room occupied by a detective sergeant who introduced himself as Herr Gröh as he jerked up from his desk. Gröh was a small, angular, thin man with a beaked nose and darting brown eyes. He rubbed his hands continuously, as if crumpling up a sheet of cellophane, and a mechanical smile twitched at his lips. The diminutive German was in plain clothes. There was no armband in view, but a small pin with the Nazi emblem pierced the lapel of his jacket.

“Toot-toot-tootsie, hello! Scooby-doo, kiddo! Welcome to my digs.” He enunciated his words with great care, forming his lips distinctly with every utterance he made. The way he spoke prompted the image of a puppet controlled by a ventriloquist screened from view.

Andrews merely nodded in greeting.

“Come on, Joe, I know why you’re here. Let’s scram this do-se-do and get down to hard boiled eggs.”

“Name is Andrews. Do you mean brass tacks?”

“Brass tacks?” Gröh appeared flustered momentarily. “Sure. Joe is just an expression, buddy. You know, just among us pals. I knows who you are, Johnny Reb. I knows a heap ‘cause this place is the nerve center of the German fuckerland. Get it?” Gröh screeched a laugh. “Don’t fuck with us or you get fucked! No need to beat that drum, Mr. Secret Service. Princeton Tigers, class of ‘28. Dr. Lieb’s nanny, along with your macho older friend Mr. Murphy. That was quite a hoo-ha the other night. How about that, pardner!” Gröh gave a big grin, pleased with himself.

Andrews regarded the detective sergeant thoughtfully for a moment, taking in the whole scene, then broke into a broad smile himself. “Sure was. Quite a hoo-ha. Say, we’re trying to corral Dr. Lieb. Any chance you you can help us smell him out?”

“Welcome to the rodeo!” Groh clapped the American on the shoulder, enjoying himself immensely. “We’re trying to lasso him also. Come with me, pops. Shake a leg.”

He guided Andrews out into the hallway and down two flights of stairs at a brisk pace. As they descended the smell of cabbage became ever stronger. On the second landing a small, barred window looked out over an empty, enclosed courtyard. Gröh pointed straight out as they passed the window.

“Exercise yard. Fifteen by forty yards. This is where the buzzards come home to roost, and that ain’t no jive!”

“There’s no one out there.”

“Are you a nutter? We don’t let anyone enter the exercise area! This is not the Yankee Stadium, you dig? This is where we line ‘em up and let it rip, you savvy my lingo?”

“O.K....pal o’mine. Where are you taking me?”

The other gave a frenetic grin as he forged forward. “There’s a Ginzo I want you to meet. One of my favorite cats. No, no, no. Sorry, bub, I mean rats.”

Andrews gave a quizzical look, causing Gröh to chuckle. “Ginzo. You know. Wop. Guinea. Itie. He’s a narker, spends as much time in here as he does out on the street. He has something to blab.”

“An Italian?”

“We caught him in ‘29. Tried to smuggle in some schmeck. We’ve been playing him ever since. He sees things that are helpful, and he plays ball with us, so we play ball with him. Doesn’t want to go back to Taranto because the mob will rub him out.” Groh snorted. “Wops are all scum. Ugly bastards, too. Wait till you see the schnozzle on this one. Looks like a Jew.”

The prisoner was waiting for them in an oblong, blue walled room. He was seated, with his head down on the table, resting on his arms. He seemed to be sleeping. A uniformed policeman leaning in the corner sprang to attention holding a short, thick wooden truncheon at his side.

As Gröh entered, he in turn stopped abruptly, clicked his heels smartly, and raised his right arm in the direction of the guard.

“Heil Hitler!” he cried out.

The policeman responded instantly, his eyes glued to a spot on the wall above Andrews’ head.

Gröh then gestured towards the prisoner. “Agent Andrews, this is Enrico! My bosom friend!”

As if bored with life itself, Enrico slowly lifted up his head and rolled his eyes casually, in a way that could only be described as simultaneously a leer and a smirk. True to Gröh’s description, he had a nose that seemed to take wing, overspreading his upper lip by a generous margin.

Gröh motioned Andrews to wait by the door and then approached Enrico with a smile fixed in place. The detective leaned very close over the prisoner, whispering softly, as if talking to an elderly relative lying in a sickbed.

They spoke so quietly that Andrews could not be sure what language they were using, until he heard Enrico mumble a long, rolling “Ba’ffancul!”

The effect on Gröh was immediate. He straightened up and waved the uniformed cop over. Gröh held the Italian’s head up by the hair while the other readied his club. Andrews could now see that the prisoner’s hands and forearms were bound onto the table with leather straps. Enrico could only scream as the cudgel came thudding onto his left hand. Gröh was in his ear again, whispering intensely as the club came down again.

“Ba’ffancul! ‘Ba’ffancul! ‘Ba’ffancul!” Enrico howled in pain and terror, first lifting his head with mouth wide open in a primordial gesture of defiance and then collapsing on the table once again.

Andrews watched with fascination, soaking everything in, knowing he might never see anything like it again. It was very interesting indeed. During his training he had been taught that the physical abuse of any prisoner was generally counterproductive. Usually better to be friendly, he had been told. However, it was quite apparent that Enrico was visibly giving up. He began to talk very quickly, gasping in pain every few moments. Clearly, there was something to be said for torture after all.

“Non me caga nienti!” It was Gröh’s turn to shriek directly into the prisoner’s ear. Andrews wondered if he was making an attempt to talk street-tough slang in Italian. Hopefully, he would have better success with that than his laughable efforts at lingo in English.

Enrico continued talking, blurting in short, staccato sentences, in a tone more suited to the confessional than the interrogation room. After a few moments the police guard took out a cigarette, lit it, then stuffed it between the prisoner’s lips. Plumes of exhaled smoke spilled from Enrico’s mouth as he spoke faster and faster.

Eventually, Gröh turned back to face Andrews with a look of smug satisfaction. “This little piggy’s done,” he laughed, and motioned the American to exit the room with him. As they left, the German began rubbing his hands together in a rolling, continuous motion once again, unable to control his excitement. “Everything is jake with this creeper, Joe. Gave us good info again, just like what he told us last night. I asked him to tell me Samoa, Noah, but he had no new hops for pops. It all checks out.”

“Can you believe him?” Andrews began to feel uneasy.

“Yeah. He knows I will stick his nose up his heinie if he’s not square with me. Besides, he don’t get no poontang from us unless it’s all on the up and up.”

Andrews decided to play along. “You mean you supply him with bang?”

The detective nodded, giggling with delight and appreciation. “Yes. Bang. That’s right. I like that. Bang. The stuff we give him is much better than the shit he tried to smuggle in.”

“What did he say about my man?”

Gröh cleared his throat, noisily swallowing his own phlegm. “His friend saw your bird last night. He has definitely flown the cuckoo’s nest.”

Andrews grabbed the frail appearing detective by the sleeve, spinning him around. “What do you mean? Flown where? When? How?”

Gröh chortled derisively. “Looks like you’re in a pile of puke, pal. He jumped the blinds. Scrammed. We won’t be able to help you with your boss at the Embassy, but don’t worry. The Reichsminister will keep this out of the blats. At least you Americans will not be humiliated publicly.”

“Where is he?” Andrews threw the German against the wall, struggling to keep himself from closing his fingers around the man’s throat.

Gröh’s eyes opened wide in shock. “Be cool, cat,” he croaked. “Your little friend has more moxie than you thought, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Where is he?” Andrews shouted in a guttural voice. “Tell me where he is!”

“Gone, man, gone! Left town with a Mocky in tow. Don’t know if he was swanked or someone fed him a Micky Finn, but he was on the choo-choo to Prague last night.”

Andrews staggered as his thoughts whirled. “Stop the train!”

“Too late, mate. The train has left the Fuckerland. Crossed the Czech border early this morning.” The German gave the American agent a contemptuous look. “Face the music, Mr. Shine. He’s been spooked. Jeepers creepers, your crummy doctor friend is halfway to Moscow by now.”

Chapter 10

Light brown legs swayed before the mirror, swinging back and forth beneath the swirl of a bright yellow camisole. Frederica danced, casting a moving, graceful silhouette against the torn and tumbledown wallpaper.

She stopped momentarily to stare at her reflection before the large oval mirror set in the middle of the room. Almond shaped, dark green eyes set under thin, arching, jet black brows stared back at her. She frowned and made a bahbin, pursing together generous, smoothly upturned lips that were quite accustomed to pouting.

After just a momentary pause to absorb the lines of her face, she took a quick look out the large, open window placed near the door at the very end of the room. It was just past noon. Heat poured in from the outside, pulsing with thick, humid vibrations through the small, closed room. No sounds could be heard. She could see a narrow expanse of deep green lawn set back from the graveled, lazy wander of a back country road. A bright blue sky arched to a cloudless infinity. There was no one in sight.

Frederica began to dance even more intensely than before. As she spun around the room she closed her eyes and imagined herself en Ville, back home on a sultry Saturday night, exhausting herself at dances with the other girls. And with boys, sometimes, as long as they were the right boys. Dances that went on all night. Dances that were forbidden to the gentlemen and genteel ladies of New Orleans. Dances that were insatiable, fueled by a fire that would not be extinguished.

The young black people of the town, those who were free, would come to the Place Congo on Saturday nights, drawn by a mysterious, magnetic action. Finished with their week at hard labor they came, flushed out of the narrow lanes and back alleys of the old city by the promise of the dance and the erotic, exotic excitement of the night. The occasional white citizen, riding by whether in a simple carriage or imposing barouche might slow down to watch, but not to linger. The nocturnal ladies of the town strolled up and down the dirty cobblestoned piazza, spinning their parasols, pausing briefly from time to time, sometimes to laugh easily and take a cigarette from anyone who might offer. For them, the ardor steaming in the night air gave promise of passion, and coin, to come. The fiddlers and accordion players would set up chairs in the middle of the square with their money jar and not get up again until the first tongues of light would set upon the scene.

It was in the Place Congo that she learned the steps to all the dances of the day: the Babouille, the Quadrille, the Calinda, the Valse, the Cunjaille, and the most expressive of all, the Fandango. As she spun around in the heat of her little room, Frederica pretended that she was dancing before a crowd that clapped and whistled with loud excitement, just as in past days. She held an imaginary mantilla, a large Madras kerchief, by its tips and moved her feet to the seductive rhythm of the Fandango once again. With a sudden, lithe swirl she changed to the Calinda. And, as she danced, she began to sing:

Mo te ain negress

Pli belle que Mètresse

Mo té vole belle-belle

Dans l’armoire, Mamzelle

Dansé Calinda, boudoum, boudoum

Dansé Calinda, boudoum, boudoum

A thin sheen of sweat began to gather on her forehead, and stream down the small of her back, but Frederica did not mind. Dancing was more than an escape; it made her feel supremely alive. More than anything else, it gave her a reason to reach for another day, even when the one just past was filled with heartache and pain. She paused once more to gaze at herself in the mirror. Her skin was the color of a light, aromatic cocoa, accented by a cluster of fading cocodinde along either side of a short, straight nose. Long, black, shimmering tight curls flowed down over her forehead. Frederica was no couyon. She knew that she owed everything she had to the allure of her light skin and long, long legs.

Monsieur Fabry had told her once that in Paris she could easily pass for white, perhaps even for one of the dreamy ladies of the night that she had heard talked about. She could not possibly believe that to be true, but she had known even before she transformed into a woman that her face and form were pleasing to men, making them feel the sudden grasp of quick desires and unknown possibilities. It was long ago that she became accustomed to the casual touch of hands upon her body and the quick, unspoken query that flickered deep within admiring, luminous eyes.

When she was seven or eight she came down with la picote, along with several other children in the Fabry home. Monsieur Fabry’s son, T Poot, was the first to get sick, and very quickly the servant children broke out in waves of the pox as well. In those days the house servants had rooms attached to the back of the house. Frederica was whisked from her normal quarters and quickly isolated in the basement. She was bedded down next to sewing tables, ancient looms, and spinning wheels, watched over by Old Janine the seamstress. She came down with the pox anyway. Monsieur Fabry rushed to see her when he heard the news, and came daily for several days, stroking her face and asking about her health.

Even as a little girl Frederica was wise to the ways of the world. She asked Old Jane one day why the master kept coming by.

“Mais, ma piti’ momzel,” she answered, “He want your face to see. He ‘fraid the pox will leave un’ cicatrice! C’est trop dommage if even one mouchon makes on that pretty skin!” Luckily, the chickenpox left her without a blemish. Frederica often wondered what might have happened to her, and where fate might have taken her had she remained scarred after her illness.

They told her she was born in Terrebonne Parrish, in Chauvin Township, just north of Cocodrie, in the fin-fi-fond of backwater bayou country. It was commonly known that master Breaux was her father, but Frederica had no memory of either the elderly master or her mother. At the age of six she was sold to Monsieur Fabry and brought to New Orleans.

Like a delicate flower grown in an exotic arboretum, she was carefully cultivated during her years at the Fabry mansion. She was given good shoes and good food. When other slaves were given simple pain perdu, she was served pain maise and gumbo, dining together with a few of the house servants, just like the master. Gingham dresses were exchanged for silks and satins when she turned thirteen, and Monsieur insisted that she learn correct French and good English. The Fandango was replaced by the Quatre Danse and Valse, and proper manners at mealtimes were the rule. She was reminded constantly to have no doings with boys. Monsieur Fabry lectured her often that it was her Christian obligation to remain pure until she was allowed to marry.

Finally, on her sixteenth birthday, she was deemed ready for resale by the honorable Monsieur Fabry. It appeared he did not have marriage in mind for her, after all. Frederica was presented at a discreet auction held in an ancient manse just off the Place d’Armes. She was purchased by a proctor for her current master on the spot, and brought by steamer to the strange, cold city of Richmond.

Later, they told her that her final purchase price was five thousand dollars, more than three times the usual cost of a healthy female. At first, Frederica was filled with pride at the exorbitant price paid by her new owner. She learned that he was an older man of great wealth and power. But, over time, pride turned to humiliation and ultimately to anger at her debasement.

It was more than a month before she met her new owner. It was many months before she accommodated to her new master’s straightforward advances. To his credit, he never attempted to force himself upon her, though he was well within his legal right to do so. After all, who could intervene between master and slave? Time and loneliness had their effect upon her, however. She was kept segregated in a room to herself, with hardly a care given by the elderly negro couple who were the only custodians of the house. There were a half dozen field hands who rarely came up to the main house, and anyone who did seemed resentful of her. She was instructed by the overseer, Mister Billy, to perform only minor housework, and to do nothing that might injure her hands. This was master’s country home, just outside the city, and it seemed to Frederica that he came there only to see her, rarely staying more than one day at a time. Eventually, her own intense cravings, both for attention and for the tender touch of another, any other, became overwhelming. When she gave herself to him, it was with a mixture of dread, anticipation, and carnal lust. He was a grand beede, of course, but could be gentle in his own way. After more than two years as his mistress, she had come to care for him in a peculiar way, even as she had come to hate her life of boredom, isolation and degradation. Over time she had somehow learned to neglect the fact that he was the instrument of her misery. Adapting to her new life also meant she had come to suppress almost all other desires, except for dance.

Frederica paused in her dance to survey the doorway at one end of the room. On the other side was their bedroom. All was quiet. He was still asleep. He had come to her in the morning with a glow of excitement, almost shouting for joy as he lifted her easily and spun her around the room. He talked and acted like a crazy man, and in the rush of the moment Frederica wanted to believe he really cared for her in some small, secret way. Before their lovemaking he had told her everything about his yesterday, and about the even greater day tomorrow would bring. Now he rested, and Frederica wanted to dance, and dance, and dance, as if there would be no tomorrow, just today, an eternal today consumed with dance. She also made sure to stay within view of the window, glancing outside expectantly every few moments.

At last, like the prow of a fantastic ship emerging over the horizon, a huge straw basket could be seen bobbing up and down above the rutted roadway. Then, an equally enormous head revealed itself, precariously supporting the weight of the basket. Frederica watched intently as a woman’s form emerged on the unpaved road, her body shimmering with an indistinct haze in the early afternoon heat. The woman walked slowly, deliberately, showing signs of the substantial burden she carried on her head. As she came closer her features resolved more clearly, revealing a weathered, wrinkled moon face scarred by acne. She wore a dull blue cotton blouse and gray pleated skirt that hung to the ground, covered loosely by an oversized white apron. Around her neck hung a bright red and white checkered kerchief that swept back and forth like a semaphore as she trudged along.

Frederica thrust her head and shoulders outside the window and looked left and right. No one was in view. She waited until the woman came quite close. “Madame Louisa!” She hissed out the name, afraid to make any loud noises. “Madame Louisa!”

The older woman stopped when she heard her name, cocked her head in a gesture of confusion, and turned to squint at the house as if she had trouble seeing it clearly. She spoke softly, as if to herself. “Qui c’est q’ça?”

“C’est moi! Frederica!”

The woman sighed patiently, heaved the basket onto the roadside, and carefully made her way towards the window. She walked hesitantly, as if feeling her way along. Frederica was happy to see the older woman, happy to see someone from her own country. Louisa was a Lafourchaise, born not too far from Terrabonne, and had been to New Orleans herself many times. She was a link to Frederica’s past, and a trusted friend.

She was also a traîteur, a mistress of the healing arts. For twenty miles around, master and servant, young and old, white, black, and coffee, had been served by her poultices and herbs during the past many years, and many cured by her tricking and conjuring. Once, soon after they met, Frederica had asked for a special potion, one she could use to lash fast a man’s desire to the woman first to whisper in his ear. Louisa had refused. “Aies d’la patience, m’enfant,” she had said. “Be patient, do not tie yourself to this one. Il est trop bruit, lui-la. He will hurt you badly if you let him do.” And so, no tricks and no obeah were offered for the sake of poor Frederica. The small pouches of ground up cypress bark, polecat weed, horehound tea, and whisks of la paille jaune remained untouched in Louisa’s boar-skin mojo bag.

Now, as Louisa leaned heavily on the windowsill, the older woman appeared hot and fatigued. She idly fingered a small woven cross pinned to her blouse. The heat and stillness were oppressive. Nonetheless, she refused an offer to come inside the house and rest. Her eyes roved back and forth, searching out Frederica’s face as best she could. “No, they wait for me,” she said, gesturing towards the basket. “Tell me, ma peti’, tell me, raconte-moi de tes nouvelles.”

The younger woman thought for a moment. The only real gossip she had to share was the news she learned from her master earlier that day. He had sworn her to secrecy, but after all, this was Louisa, the only friend she knew. After a moment’s hesitation she told everything, including her owner’s declaration that by the next day he would be master of the situation, and life would then be grand.

Louisa soaked everything in, knitting her brows in concentration as if committing the news to memory. At the end she asked no questions but merely grunted and straightened herself carefully, as if to ensure that all her joints were properly aligned. “Enfin,” she muttered, then took Frederica’s arm to stroke it gently. “He is good to you?” She asked in a manner that seemed gruff, “Or does he make the misère?“

“No, he is good.” Frederica answered too quickly and too loudly.

Louisa continued to stroke the younger woman’s soft caramel skin, lost in thought, perhaps lost in memory. After a moment more she sighed and placed Frederica’s arm, as if it were a package being delivered, firmly on the window sill. “A chaque la sienne.” Without another word she turned and trudged back to the monstrous sized basket that awaited her by the road.

Frederica resisted an impulse to call out a goodbye. Madame Louisa could be strange at times, as anyone who knew the secrets of hoo-doo might be. Best just to let her leave. She would certainly be by again tomorrow, near the same time. The old healer’s last words were bothersome, though. Why did she say ‘to each their own?’ That sounded unfair, an accusation of some kind. Frederica was just trying to get along, just like all of them, all the others who worked the fields and toiled in kitchens and tended the animals. She was doing no wrong, and hurting no one. It was not her fault that she could pass for white in Paris, or dance the Valse with long, slim legs and nimble feet.

And so, she began to dance around the room again, stopping for just a heartbeat to watch Louisa’s black silhouette disappear down into the heat haze of the road. It occurred to Frederica that she had probably told old Louisa things she shouldn’t have, but she dismissed the thought quickly. Louisa would tell no one. There could be no secrets between friends, anyway, just as nothing could be hidden between lovers. It was one and the same, wasn’t it? In any case, dancing solved all these riddles, making everything fresh and clean once again.

Frederica was startled when a few minutes later the bedroom door creaked open. It was her master. He stood, unclothed, masked by the shadow of the doorway. “Frederica, comyeah!“ he commanded. His voice was a growl, low and imperative, and there was no smile on his face. George Patton was an impatient man, and when the moment was upon him, he brooked no delays.

Robert Jones read:

“And a man shall be as an hiding place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest; as rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.”

The high shrill warning shriek of a fish hawk pierced the early morning stillness. The large bird could barely be distinguished against the gray light of dawn as it followed a long, graceful glide onto its enormous nest at the very top of a cypress tree. The swamp lay quiet, unmoving, venting great billows of mist and vapor as if the earth below was a slowly decompressing steam engine, hissing softly as it died. Still, stagnant water surrounded Jones, choked by the debris of rotting tree trunks and dead vegetation. As he breathed, he could feel the hot, humid air fill his lungs, carrying with it the reek of sulfurous fumes. Thankfully, it was too early for mosquitoes to be out in any numbers, but gnats and midges were already darting around his head.

“Weary land,” he repeated, peering into the haze surrounding their little clearing. It was their fifth day on the run, and Jones was bone tired. He figured they would hide here through the day, then move at night. Their next safe house was just outside Marietta, not more than five or six miles away. Under cover of darkness, moving through woods, they should be able to reach their destination by middle night if they set off just after sundown. The swamp would be their hiding place until then.

Right after the train rescue Cox’s band had split up into squads of two or three, each group going their own way and scattering in all directions. Cox himself wanted to accompany Jones but was refused curtly and quickly. The freeborn trader was too valuable a man to be compromised. The authorities would be searching for Jones, not Cox. If they were both captured together it would be a terrible blow to the Resistance. Cox grudgingly agreed and assigned a young man named Promise Stone to accompany Jones.

He was a mountainous youth of twenty from Alabama, with a broad back, wide temples and a thick neck. Jones recognized him immediately. He was one of the group that had taken the Black Scouts sergeant into the woods. They were both given fresh clothes, a haversack containing crackers and tinned foods for Stone to carry, and careful instructions about their contacts. Promise Stone also carried a Smith and Wesson M&P revolver in his coat pocket. He seemed ready to use it at any moment.

They spent their first night in a small cave still fresh with the malodorous scent of bear droppings. The cave entrance was no more than three feet high and young Stone was able to disguise it effectively using shrubbery and fallen tree branches. Throughout the night they could hear dogs in the distance, but the barking and baying never approached closely. There was little sleep in the darkness of the cave, partly, for Jones at least, because of fear the bear might come back.

By morning it was quiet, and they made good time to their first safe house, a warehouse on the outskirts of Ashville. The owner was a white man, Otterly Peebles, a Methodist and UR man for thirty years and completely trustworthy. He owned a mattress operation, shipping to dealers all over the Carolinas and into northern Georgia as far as Atlanta. Jones knew he had been useful to the cause on many occasions. He had helped transport material goods, including guns and bomb parts, but generally did not like to deal with human cargo. This time, however, it was understood he would make an exception.

Peeble’s facility was on Depot Road, east of the river and just south of the massive steeples of the Asheville Cotton Mills. The warehouse was separated from a dense thicket of old growth trees by a rail spur that ran along the back of the building. The two fugitives were able to get very near to the loading dock without being seen, and the rail-bed afforded a clear view left and right before they had to leave the protection of the treeline and expose themselves. As they approached the building through heavy underbrush, Promise grabbed Jones by the coat, forcing him to the ground.

“Look,” he hissed, and pointed. A red blanket hung down from an upstairs window, left to air out in the morning breeze. Red and yellow were warning colors. Blue or white indicated all was safe. The two men hunkered down and waited. It was midmorning before the red blanket was removed and a white sheet was tossed out onto the windowsill. After a careful look around, Jones and Promise sprinted across the tracks, up onto the loading platform, and quickly inside.

A thin, short man with a dark brown beard and a large shotgun waited inside, his weapon aimed squarely at Jones’ head.

“Both of you! On your knees!” He waived the gun at them menacingly, but spoke in a reedy, nervous sounding voice. Jones sensed that Promise hesitated, as if carefully weighing the distance to the gun barrel. This time it was Jones who grasped the younger man by the sleeve, pulling him down.

The bearded man sidled closer to them, keeping his right hand on the gun trigger while glancing down repeatedly at a paper he clutched in his left hand. Within a few moments he asked Jones to stand up. After another lengthy examination of the paper, he scrutinized Jones once more, then carefully leaned the gun down against a table.

“Mr. Robert Jones, I presume. Son, your face is everywhere. Troopers were here just a little while ago, handed me this wanted poster.” He held up the flyer with frontal and profile pictures of Jones on it. “My name is Peebles. Who’s the boy?” He nodded towards Promise, who sprung to his feet in one nimble hop.

Robert Jones was not a demonstrative man, but he had to resist a sudden inclination to bearhug Mr. Peebles. Stone, on the other hand, arose with a scowl on his face. He took a few steps towards Peebles, looming over their diminutive host. He placed a large hand on the other’s shoulder, giving it a forceful push. “I’m not your boy,” he snarled.

“Hey! Watch yourself!” Peebles made a move towards the shotgun, but Stone easily snatched it up first. He checked to make sure a round was chambered, then brought the muzzle up hard against Peeble’s forehead.

“Promise! Put it down!” Jones shouted the command as forcefully as he could, not knowing if Stone would obey. He tensed himself, but resisted the urge to grapple with the younger, stronger man and risk an inadvertent discharge. “Come on, Promise, rest easy now.” This time he murmured the words softly.

Slowly, deliberately, Stone lowered the gun. Peebles had stood his ground bravely, but as the gun was lowered the poor fellow began to tremble. He stammered as he spoke. “Wh-wh-wh-why d-d-did you d-d-d-do th-that? I’m h-h-h-here t-t-to h-h-h-help you!”

Jones quickly stepped in front of Stone. “Mr. Peebles, I assure you of my sincere regret.” He snapped an angry glance backward at the hulking Stone. “It’s hard sometimes to control these young bucks.”

Promise Stone snarled, still holding the shotgun with an iron grip. The blood vessels in his temples were engorged, pulsing with an angry, seething rhythm. “Nigger don’t need your help. We take care’f ourselves. Don’t you ‘xpect no thanks from me. Boy.”

Peebles said almost nothing after that, steering clear of the young giant. He ushered them into a small kitchen with a pot of beef and cabbage stew boiling on the stove, and then left the fugitives alone to their meal, seeming grateful to escape their presence. After a murmured prayer by Jones, both men ate rapidly and in silence. As they were finishing up, Jones took the measure of the young man next to him.

“Now, Promise. Tell me where the hurt is.” He asked casually, as if not particularly interested in an answer.

“What does what hurt? I don’t hurt nowhere.”

“Well, you must be hurting inside, I’d say somewhere deep, seeing’s how you just treated that man. Am I right?”

Promise stopped eating just long enough to pick at some meat lodged in a tooth. “Nawsir.”

Jones was about to stop, but something told him to question further. “Where are you from?”

“Dix Hills farm. Etowah County.”

“Where’s that?”

Stone looked surprised at the question. “Where that? Man, Etowah County!” he bellowed the words louder, as if Jones was hard of hearing. “You never hears about Etowah County? Alabama!”

“You ran away?”

Stone nodded. “Right after I had to kill Hoxby. He was never gonna whip me again.”

“Overseer?”

“Driver.”

“Where’s your mama?”

“Don’t know. Somewhere, ‘suppose.”

“Where’s your father?”

“Don’t know.”

“Brothers? Sisters?”

“Don’t know.”

“Are you connected to somebody? Anybody?”

Promise Stone was done eating. He turned to eye Jones directly. “Yassir. To you, Mr. Jones. To you.”

Early the next morning, in the deepest dark before dawn, Peebles, Jones and Stone loaded twelve box spring and mattress sets onto a truck parked at the loading dock, in two piles of six each. Two sets were hollowed out, leaving just enough space for a man to hide inside each one. Peebles had them stack the dummy sets third from the bottom, one in each pile. He showed them how to lift a flap on the side of the box spring, and demonstrated how to crawl in and close the flap behind. As a final measure he brought three full grown pigs into the hold of the truck.

Stone eyed the arrangements suspiciously, while Jones shook his head, bemused at the sight of the pigs. “Why the swine, Peebles?”

“You’ll be right happy we have them, if we get stopped. They won’t be searching much in here with three hogs around.”

Peebles estimated a six to eight hour drive to Kennesaw Georgia, depending on weather. The two runaways were to stay in the back and hide in the mattresses if the truck stopped for any reason. Neither man said very much as they drove, each lost in thought, numbed by the drum of noise and darkness.

Without warning the truck braked sharply and came to a complete stop. Jones could hear muffled shouts from out front, from the area of the cab. Not too long after came the yowling of dogs. Quickly, both men crawled into their hiding places inside the bound up and hollowed out mattress sets. Jones found that the vacant space left inside was wide enough, allowing him room to stretch out comfortably, but barely allowed an inch or two clearance for his head. It was pitch black and there was no air movement. A sensation of claustrophobia threatened to become overwhelming. Jones began to pray, and as he did so he thought about Promise Stone, and then about all of the people who were hiding in a dark place every day of their lives.

For long minutes, nothing further happened. The silence was burst by a metallic grating sound as the rear doors of the truck opened. Peeble’s voice could be heard very clearly, shouting out “Careful! Those are Aunt Lilah’s prize pigs!”

Almost immediately Jones heard the simultaneous bark of an angry dog and a man’s voice, cursing vehemently. “Goddamn! Goddamn! What are these Goddamn pigs doin’ in here!”

Peebles remained insistent. “Be careful! That one’s Tester, he’s a runner. Please, fellas, don’t let the dog at ‘em! My aunt Lilah has her heart set on ‘em.”

Jones listened intently, straining to understand what was going on, but was able to catch only fragments of words. He could hear the hogs running up and down the length of the truck’s hold, mewling and grunting. Outside, the dog’s barking seemed to take on a new intensity. The air he breathed lay heavy in his chest, and he felt for a moment as if the small space he occupied was shrinking. He was lying prone, and began to feel an uncontrollable urge to turn onto his back, an impossibility in the cramped space of his confinement. Suddenly, Jones heard a loud thump and then the unmistakable sound of boots walking towards him.

The North Carolina Trooper inspected the stacks of mattresses and springs, carefully poking them with his finger and running his hand along the fabric. He kicked the bottom ones and shook the very top ones. With a kerosene lantern held high he looked in all the corners, prodded some old blankets on the floor, and sent one of the pigs squealing with a smack on its rump. After a few minutes he turned back to the rear doors. “Captain, it’s all clear. Sure you don’t want me to bring up the dog? I can call some of the boys to clear these hogs out.”

Jones’ heart skipped a beat waiting for the response. He heard nothing more, until a few minutes later the truck engine turned over and the familiar vibration of movement was back. He forced himself to stay in his hiding space, thinking he should not move until they were well away. Within a few moments, however, he heard Stone calling his name out softly.

Carefully, Jones shimmied his way out and stretched himself. It was quite dark, but the streaks of light leaking in from the ill fitting cargo doors allowed him to make out Stone’s form, solid as a mountain. The pigs continued to make guttural noises from the far corners of the truck.

“Well, Promise, looks like we dodged that little scrape pretty good.”

“You think so, Mr. Jones?”

“Why sure. We’re here, aren’t we?”

That seemed compelling enough to Jones. The State Troopers were left behind and they were on the road again, on their way to Kennesaw. They would be there before nightfall, then on to their next safe house. Jones managed to sit down in the darkness, propped against a mattress. He wanted to pray. His mind ran through several prayers of thanks that he could recite, but as his thoughts whirled, his eyes closed and he fell asleep. He dreamed deeply, thirstily, savoring the soothing waters of Bethesda and the cooling breezes of Mount Tabor, walking among shadows and the stirrings of trees.

He awakened with a start, looked around in the darkness, and realized that the truck had come to a halt. No sounds came from outside. It took an agonizing length of time, but finally the rear door lock was undone with a clang and the door swung open. Bright light poured into his view, and he could see Peebles standing a few feet back from the door, motionless. It looked like they were stopped on an unpaved, backwoods road with nothing in sight but a dense forest of long leaf pine, sycamore, and hickory trees as the backdrop. With a gleeful yip Jones scurried to the back of the truck and flung himself onto the ground, into the glow of a spectacular sunset. “Come the day of rejoicing! We made it!” he shouted at Peebles.

“Stop right there!”

Jones froze. To the left, along the side of the truck, a gray clad State Trooper stood motionless, shouldering a rifle sighted right at Jones’ chest.

Peebles spoke through gritted teeth. “Nothing I could do, Jones. He came along in the cab. Wanted to make sure I delivered those pigs to Aunt Lilah, without any funny business.”

“Both of you, on the ground! On your bellies!” The Trooper took a few steps forward, slowly arcing the gun back and forth between the two captives.

Both men collapsed onto their knees and then lay down prone. Jones turned his head towards the Trooper. If it was time to die he wanted to see the end as it happened. As Jones watched, the man approached with rifle at the ready, his eyes barely visible below the brim of his peak hat. Jones braced himself.

The trooper’s head abruptly exploded into a corona of red droplets and flying tissue. He lurched and collapsed forward, his face falling no more than a foot away from Jones. Sightless blue eyes twitched for just a moment, then stopped. Only then did the sound of a gunshot vibrate through the warm evening air.

From the black recesses of the truck Promise Stone crept out cautiously. With his revolver at his side, he quickly checked both sides of the truck and then ran up to look inside the cab. Thomas Jones got up only to find Peebles still cowering on the ground. The man was shaking, terrorized, and obviously in shock.

Jones’ mind raced. The Trooper had been assigned to accompany Peebles to this destination. If he didn’t check in within a reasonable time, then additional men, probably Georgia Troopers, would be sent to investigate. Georgia State Troopers had a reputation for ruthless tenacity in tracking down runaways. They would do no less in the hunt for men suspected of killing a uniformed officer. The fugitives needed to move quickly in order to escape, and could leave no clues behind. As Stone came sauntering back, Jones motioned with his finger at the quaking Peebles.

“Do him!” he ordered.

“No, please!” Peebles quailed, rolling onto his back as he attempted to sit up. “I’m with you!”

Without hesitation, Stone aimed and shot the supine supplicant through the neck. A spatter of blood erupted like a geyser from the victim’s suddenly inert form. Each spray, timed to the pulsing of his heart, was less powerful than the one before. The man’s life was measured in the span of a dozen spurts, no more. Stone smiled at his handiwork then looked expectantly at Jones.

“Hurry up, Promise. We don’t have time to waste.”

“What about the old lady?”

“What old lady?” asked Jones, irked by the question, irked by the delay, irked by the whole day’s disaster.

“That one, Mr. Jones, the one in the window.” Stone pointed over the older man’s shoulder.

Jones whirled around, and to his astonishment saw a cottage adjacent to the road, right behind him. It had not registered with him during the crisis of the last few minutes. In one of the windows not thirty feet away stood the form of a white haired woman, immobile, watching them as if watching an enchanting play.

“Oh,” he said, “That must be Aunt Lilah. I forgot.” He turned back to Stone and jerked his thumb overhand in the direction of the diminutive dwelling. “Make it quick.”

Robert Jones lamented the necessary loss of someone like Peebles, as he was a valuable resource. It was most unfortunate that he had been compromised by their skirmish with the trooper. Nonetheless, no one, he reminded himself, no one could be allowed to jeopardize the movement. People would be lost along the way, like pebbles strewn in the wake of a rolling wheel, but the wheel had to keep on rolling, come what may. And the old woman... Well, it was a shame about her. He looked over his shoulder to see Stone kick in the front door, then turned away.

The glimpse of aunt Lilah’s white hair brought to mind his own mother, just newly passed into glory. She was done with the troubles of this world, but Jones was surely not. He was here, still waiting for the trumpet of the Lord to blow. A wisp of memory blew an old, obscure fragment of song into his awareness. It was something his mother used to sing very long ago. With some prodding he remembered first some words and then the tune:

My sins so heavy

I can’t get along

Ah, say you ain’t done with the troubles of the world

Ah, roll, Jordan, roll

He felt better as he mumbled the song to himself, and afterwards could barely find a moment to remember Aunt Lilah. It was time to roll on.

They sank the truck, with the bodies on board, in a lake a few miles down the road. It was deep and dirty surfaced, perhaps an old coal pit or quarry that had filled in, and suited their purposes perfectly. From that point on they doubled back somewhat then turned east. The swamp they blundered into was a gift from God. It was almost pitch black when they were finally able to crawl up onto a dry hummock covered with ferns, and both men fell asleep instantaneously.

Now, as the earth began to awaken, Jones had a moment to reflect and pray. The last few days had been difficult for him. In some ways, more difficult than his time in prison. He realized that some of it had to do with the fatigue he felt. He was an old man now, and every part of his body seemed diminished, weak, and crying out for rest. But it was more. He had ordered the killings of many in the past. He had sent good friends on missions that were hopeless and sure to end in death. That did not bother him. God had ordained a higher cause for Jones, a greater good to be accomplished. It was true that his time on earth was touched by the hot breath of Mammon, but it was still possible to overcome it all and find grace. Every sin could lead to redemption, and forgiveness could be given on the Day of Jubilee. Sometimes he thought that every person’s every act had been ordained from the very dawn of the universe, written down in an elaborate script by a divine hand. But he also had been told that every person had a chance to achieve righteousness. It was necessary, only, to follow the word of the Lord, and strive to reach the Promised Land.

A whippoorwill, hidden high up in the morning mists, began its clear throated call. Dense dark clouds hung in the early sky, threatening a thick spring rain. All about him Jones could see bunches of yellow eyed grass, duckweed, and water dragon. A sudden ripple in the water marked the passage of a sleek, bullet shaped otter. Cattails sprang upwards, urging themselves towards the sky, while bright red clumps of milkweed hovered near the murky surface of the swamp. Water oaks hovered overhead, overgrown with Spanish moss that cascaded to the earth in great tangles. A blue skinned frog clung to a dead branch poking up from a dense tangle of flowering leatherwood. Jones leaned back into the arms of a swamp tupelo, nodding his head in amazement. It seemed as if all God’s creations, in all their infinite variety and plentitude, were rustling, or swaying, or stock still, or white, or red, or aromatic, or foul, all that lived under sky and sun and moon. All playing their role, all getting ready, in their own way, to have their day and meet their Maker.

Promise Stone still slept, bundled in a thin jacket. Jones had given great thought to him. He was just a child, but a child born of great pain and sorrow. Like himself. Like all of them. Like all his people, all the children of Africa, brought to a new and strange place to be born again. They were all here, the Fanti and the Jola, the princes of the Mende and the wise men of the Ashanti, beautiful Bassa women and Yoruba warriors. Abundant in their many variations, in all colors and in all shapes, they were all God’s children, all of them, all of them populating God’s kingdom, and it was Jones’ calling to deliver them to freedom. He did wonder, from time to time, whether everyone’s freedom would look the same, and feel the same, but he understood it wouldn’t matter; it was God’s freedom that would be rendered to one and all.

As Jones sifted through his pocket bible in the early morning light, he realized the enormity of his own failings. The slave masters who held his people in servitude were damaged, but not destroyed, and certainly not ready to loosen the chains of bondage. Would he ever see that dawn to come? This war against monstrous injustice must be carried on, sternly, mercilessly, but how could it be ended? When would his people be set free?

He flipped through pages of his bible randomly, as he often did. He came to 2 Samuel, to a section he did not know well, and something caused his hand to pause. It took only a moment to understand the scripture flowing beneath the tip of his finger. Robert Jones smiled as he read:

And I will come upon him while he is weary and weak handed, and will make him afraid: and all the people that are with him shall flee; and I will smite the king only

Jones raised his hands to the heavens in glee and gave a prayer of thanks.

“....and I assure you, my fellow citizens, that we can and will overcome this difficult time together, and that we have nothing to fear as long as we join together, just as our parents and their parents did, to ensure the safety of our beloved nation.” An occasional hiss and buzz distorted the words coming over the radio, but did not obscure them. “Then, once the nation’s crisis is over, we can resume the normal functions of constitutional government with all its protections. May God bless you all, and may God bless the Confederate States of America.”

George Pickett sat at his desk, in his study, head drooping, listening to his voice coming out of the radio console nearby. He said nothing as the broadcast aired the recorded speech at the appointed hour of eight p.m. He said nothing as it ended. He began to doodle on some blank paper, then grunted without looking up. “Wanna play Hangman?”

Alben Barkley sat nearby, looking anxiously at his friend. “Come on, now George, this ain’t the end. In fact,” he gave every appearance of brightening up, “This is just the beginning! You can fight ‘em, George, you can fight ‘em! You’re still president. He thinks he’s in charge, but you can control things. Hell, you can go to the people any time you want, just like you did tonight.” He pumped his fist in the air energetically.

“Save it for the county fair, Alben. Don’t want to hear that pablum. It’s over now, until Patton says so.” Pickett shook his head morosely. “If there is a worse place than hell, I am in it.” He looked up at the picture of Abraham Lincoln hanging on the wall behind his desk. “Now I know how he felt.”

“Not the same thing, George. Come on now, he lost the whole shebang. And then he lost his marbles. You’re not going crazy. You’ve just...made an accommodation for a little while. For the good of the country.”

Pickett sighed. If that were only true, he would be happier for it. He did not believe for a moment, though, that it was for the good of the country. Quite to the contrary. The country, it seemed to him, was going to hell.

It had been so much easier in the early years, after the War. The fervor of the founding generation was passed on to the next, and the expansionist conflicts at the turn of the century had fueled a cycle of prosperity and patriotism. Mexico. Nicaragua. Cuba. The Confederacy had spread its tentacles far and wide. The mass of citizenry had been proud, energetic, and optimistic about the future. Until now. Over recent years an unprecedented storm of social protest had arisen and had begun to lash the waters of communal national life with increasing ferocity. It seemed that more and more Southerners were questioning the rightness of their system. Young people, particularly educated young people, were finding it hard to accept that their country was a pariah among nations. They questioned why they couldn’t travel freely to other countries, why their government didn’t enjoy normal relations with other governments, and why they were both feared and jeered by other peoples around the globe.

Just as worrisome, the advent of the great global economic depression had unveiled weaknesses in the South’s banking and financial sectors that had no easy remedy. Capital was drying up inside the country, and investments were not coming in from outside the country. Wages were pegged to the lowest common denominator: slave labor. Pickett fumed about this very fact. It was outrageous that average, God fearing white working men were being elbowed out of jobs by blacks, often by blacks owned by some champagne-guzzling, self-righteous hypocrites in Charleston, or Montgomery, or Houston. Non-slave jobs were getting more and more scarce, southern yeomanry was being squeezed hard, and Pickett could just feel the rising tide of anger and frustration across the country. He worried that he would not have the time to right the ship before the storm upended them all. A new South, The New South, had to become a reality soon, or the country he knew and loved would be fractured forever.

There were other warning signals. Bowman Gray, an old friend and president of AJ Reynolds Tobacco, had called to warn that he was planning to lay off white workers, over a thousand of them, because of the zooming costs of imports such as Turkish tobaccos and French made cigarette paper. He also confided that he was surreptitiously planning to lease black workers to do the work the whites had done. He wanted the government ready to call out the Army and crush any white backlash that might interfere with production at his factories. Pickett knew very well that similar layoffs at the Tennessee Coal, Iron, and Railroad Company the previous year had resulted in vicious street protests in Birmingham. Two days of uncontrolled mob violence followed, resulting in the lynching deaths of dozens of black laborers. In turn, their owners had raised howls of bloody murder. Fortunately, most of the dead property had been insured. In any case, using the Army to suppress a labor action would present an ugly picture to the nation, and ran the risk of diminishing the Army’s luster.

It had done no good to go over this with the Congressional delegation that came to him after Patton’s threatening encounter the prior evening. The Senators and Congressmen who filed into his office at the White House were intent on only one thing and were not shy about expressing themselves. The menace of the Underground Railroad, they said, had to be suppressed, promptly and permanently. The recent upsurge in the number of bombings, acts of arson, bank robberies, kidnappings, and attacks on railroads were all being attributed to the UR. There were so many attacks that it was impossible to know how many bore the imprint of the terrorists and how many were random crimes. And of course, there was the little matter of the spectacular escape of the President’s own body servant from a prisoner train.

They had come, hat in hand, but with the determined air of powerful men who had already rendered judgment. The Vice President, John Nance Garner of Texas, took on the initial role of spokesman for the group. He was an old pol who had grayed in the service of his state and country. He was known affectionately as Cactus Jack and could be as prickly as a dried out prairie cactus when he wanted to.

Garner had wasted no time launching right in. “George, we know General Patton was here today and recommended temporarily placing the country under martial law. We’re in a tough scrape right now, and we all think this is the best way to get out of it.”

“Cactus, I’m the damned president! I’m not going to sit idly by while this son of a bitch tries a palace coup!”

“Well, it’s not a coup, that’s just it. You’re still president, that doesn’t change. Under martial law some of your duties are temporarily transferred to Army jurisdiction. Things like habeas corpus, interstate transport, shit like that. I won’t argue the part about him being a sombitch. The main thing is, the army needs to move where it needs to, when it needs to.”

“It’s illegal.”

Garner signaled Hugo Black, the Attorney General, to respond. He spoke with severe gravity in the high pitched, nasal twang of his native Alabama. “Mr. President, it is legal. That is, it can be made legal provided you sign all the necessary endorsements. The decision is not a Constitutional one, it is a political one. Ultimately, that will be a decision only you can make.”

Pickett felt the net tightening around him. He looked for relief to the Speaker of the House, Claude Swanson. He said nothing, but his overgrown mustache twitched uncontrollably, as if he were aching to pitch in. Swanson simply shook his head vigorously, in a gesture of warning.

A sensation of bile came into Pickett’s throat, and for a moment he felt as if he might vomit. They were all against him, and there was no way out. “And what about you?” he asked Garner bitterly. “You don’t care that your office is being desecrated?”

Cactus Jack let out a roar of laughter. “My office? Desecrated?” He chortled as he unveiled a plug of chewing tobacco from the deep recesses of his waistcoat. “Why, the Vice Presidency isn’t worth a pot of warm piss! You can have it. I want security for my people.”

Pickett was not persuaded, and wanted to argue the matter further. Besides, he didn’t want a bastard like Patton to win. He stood up, both hands clenched into fists that he buried onto the top of his desk, assuming a pugnacious stance. “What if I don’t agree? Then what?”

It was the Kingfish who broke his back. Huey Long, recent Governor and newly elected Senator from Louisiana, was the closest thing to a dictator on the North American continent. For years he had agitated against the central government in Richmond with a populist fervor that bordered on radical militancy. He preached the virtues of the poor and the evils of bureaucracy, and many times had threatened to remove Louisiana from the Confederacy and remake New Orleans into what he called a ‘Free City,’ open for trade with anyone. Including, of course, the North. Pickett hated him with deep conviction and the feeling was quite mutual.

He had been standing quietly at the back of the delegation, holding a straw boater that he had taken off his head to use as a fan. Now he pushed himself forward, his long, tousled hair hanging down his forehead, drenched in sweat. His cheeks turned a bright red as he spoke. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. President. I’ve been waiting my turn, waiting for the right moment to pull the trigger, and here it is. Louisiana will not stand by and watch the country violated by this band of apes you call the UR. I have already spoken to the governor today. If her sisters will not act, then Louisiana will lead the way by declaring a state of emergency, and we will take care of our own. We’ll bring out the State Militia in force. As far as I’m concerned, this Confederacy hasn’t done anything for us since independence, anyway.” He paused for effect. “You can go your way and we’ll go ours. Don’t try to coerce us either way, our rights in this matter are enshrined in the constitution. Hell, our rights are enshrined and consecrated by the blood of our ancestors.”

The room hushed. Speaker Swanson continued to shake his head back and forth, as if contemplating a river too deep to ford. Long’s warning was unmistakable. And more importantly, he could make his threat come true with just a phone call. Folks in Louisiana were wild for Huey Long and would follow wherever he led them.

Hugo Black broke the silence, showing a flash of anger. “Senator, the Constitution stipulates that our states joined their fortunes together in order to form, and I quote, ‘a permanent federal government.’ Besides, this is a time we need patriots, not radicals or revolutionaries.”

Long waved his hat dismissively. “Aw, don’t shovel that shit this way. The country’s going to hell and we all know it. But it ain’t because of the niggers any more than it’s because of the Catholics. Look, I don’t love the blackie any more than the next man, but I’d rather take him than the big assed slave owner who’s taken over half the county and’s eating up everything in sight like a fat faced rat. They walk around spilling coins out of their pockets that they expect us to lap up like little dogs and be grateful to ‘em. They rent their niggers for the best jobs and squeeze ordinary folks just like you would squeeze out a mop. Well, I’m sick of it, ya hear? I’m sick of hearing that at least we’re better than a nigger. Well, you know what I say? Set ‘em all free! That’s right! We’ll know how to deal with them afterwards, but they won’t be taking our jobs for slave wages, I can tell you that.”

An uproar of incoherent shouts drowned out his last few words. Someone shouted “Traitor!” The distinguished Cordell Hull, Secretary of State, turned on the bulky Louisiana Senator with fist upraised as if to strike him in the face.

“Silence!” It was Pickett, standing at his full height and holding a .54 caliber Kerr revolver straight out, with his arm extended, aimed at Huey Long’s chest. The huge gun was a hand me down from his father, a memento that brought back fond memories of his youth, and he kept it permanently in his desk. It was a keepsake, yes, but it was fully loaded. Pickett tried to keep his breathing steady even as he felt a throbbing pain sear across his chest. “Boy, I have four men right outside the door who will drill you on my command. Don’t even have to do it myself.”

Cactus Garner raised both hands upwards. “Now, George, just because he’s nuts, don’t you do anything crazy.”

Crazy was the right word to use. Everyone in the room knew that Pickett was capable of doing something crazy. Crazy, in fact, was what he had done throughout most of his life. Crazy was what he himself had claimed to be after his first wife had died lo these many years ago.

Pickett did not respond. He held the gun straight out and brought the trigger to full cock. The tension in the room became palpable.

Swanson muttered audibly, “He’s going to do it.”

Huey Long stood tall, puffed out his chest, and spit a glom of tobacco onto the floor in Pickett’s direction.

Crazy. For years, friend and foe alike knew that George Pickett could be as unpredictable as the wind. Act crazy, or be crazy, it made no difference. In the world of politics, at war with the Longs and with the Pattons, that seemed to be his greatest strength. In the eye of the everyday public, his huge, crooked smile was his strongest calling card, but being just a little bit insane didn’t seem to hurt too much either. Women still went crazy for him, and men trusted him. When he combined both charm and unpredictability, he was crazy good. With a flashing smile he uncocked the gun and placed it carefully back in the desk drawer. “Well, boys,” he said softly, “That’s enough excitement for now. No need to come to blows.” As he sat down, he made a show of searching his desktop briskly. “Now, where are those papers I need to sign? When this is over, we’ll have some scores to settle, you can bank on it. And,” Pickett looked at the faces gathered before him somberly, “God help us all.”

Now, a day later, Pickett felt an overwhelming sense of grief as he sat in his private study, wondering what he might have done differently. After recording his announcement to the nation earlier in the day, Pickett spent time on trivial paperwork at the Executive Mansion before going home with his friend Barkley. Now he didn’t know what to do with himself. His immediate solution was to dig out a bottle of Jack Daniels from a lower drawer of his desk and lay out two glasses. “This will get me through tonight,” he muttered, half to himself. “Tomorrow will have to take care of itself.”

Barkley gave a soft laugh. “George, you haven’t changed that much since the old days, you know that? You’re unpredictable at times, but you’re very predictable at others. You know, I was a little surprised that you signed those papers. What persuaded you?”

Pickett did not care to answer that question, preferring to empty his glass with one quick and unfeeling swallow. As he poured another measure, he could see Barkley staring at him with eyebrow arched, and without really meaning to, he spoke the first words that came into his mind. “Let me tell you, I read a story as a youngster at VMI, and in the story was a riddle, old as the hills. Now here’s the riddle: A thing there is whose voice is one, two eyes that see, whose feet are four and two and three.” A lustrous smile came to his lips as he saw the look of confusion on his friend’s face. “Can you solve it?”

Barkley knotted his brows in tense thought for a few moments, then relaxed and sipped at his own glass. “If I were not a Christian man, Mr. President, I believe I would tell you to shove that little tale up somewhere where the stars and the moon don’t sparkle, if you know what I mean. What in the name of Beelzebub does that have to do with anything? I know what you’re doing, I’ve known you too long. You’re pretendin’ that you’re an eddicated man, full of stories and stuff, but I know you’re nothin’ but a bull headed, vacant minded hothead full of bullturd with bourbon for brains. Now, I will drink your whiskey, but I won’t put up with your shit.”

Pickett assumed a sphinx-like composure, erased his smile, became completely still, and said nothing.

“You bastard.” Barkley was not smiling.

At that, both men clinked glasses and Pickett was able to give an honest laugh. “Sorry, Alden, but I can’t help it, I’m only human, and that riddle is an example of the story of my life. Riddled with riddles.”

The strident ring of the telephone came as a sudden, startling intrusion. The operator announced that it was Mr. Otley of Buckhead, Georgia. Pickett answered eagerly. It was always good to receive calls from good friends at low moments like this.

“Hey, pal, how y’all doin’? You were awfully fast. You’re the first to call since the address.”

“George, what address? I don’t know anything about any address. That’s not why I called.” Otley sounded tense.

Pickett shot up to a stand, causing Barkley to stand up as well. “What’s wrong? Has something happened? Is Madeline alright?”

There was a short pause. “That’s why I’m calling, George. She’s gone.”

“Gone where? What do you mean gone?”

“Don’t know George. Best as we can figure she disappeared about a few hours or so ago. Maybe earlier this afternoon. Don’t know where.”

Pickett was frantic. “What about Lou Ellen? She wouldn’t go anywhere without her. And Lou Ellen wouldn’t let her out of her sight.”

“She’s right here. Has no idea where Madeline’s gone to.”

The President of the Confederate States of America stood immobile, powerless, unable to think clearly. “You called the Governor? The Guard?”

“Of course. They’re looking now.”

“Alright, I’ll arrange a flight. Coming down, be there by first thing in the morning. I’ll call Governor Talmadge right after I hang up with you. Telegraph with any news. And one more thing…”

“Yes, George.”

“Lou Ellen. That old bitch, this is her fault. Have her whipped. Have her whipped good.”

Chapter 11

“Dr. Lieb, come and look at this, won’t you?”

Jona shifted in his armchair, staring sightlessly in the semidarkness. He was dozing, half dreaming, half roused. I am both asleep and awake, he thought, and then dreamed that he laughed at himself in a fit of vicious ridicule. I am both here and there, then and now. He heard his laughter recede into the distance, becoming nothing more than the exhausted cough of a dying engine.

“Dr. Lieb, come and look at this, won’t you?”

Elfieda lay sleeping on the bed, making small sonorous noises with each respiration. One white leg protruded from underneath the sheets, bare to the hip. From where he sat across the room, Jona could not actually see the blond of her hair, buried in one of the enormous down pillows at the head of the bed. Even so, as he sagged in his torpid state, he could see strands of her golden hair dancing slowly, in a languid rhythm back and forth before his eyes. Like a futile mirage the image both beckoned and mocked, an illusory promise that would remain unfulfilled. Without warning, Marielle’s face blossomed in interposition, looming over him, a moon-pale apparition floating into the forefront of his drowsy imaginings. A pang of sadness struck a deep chord within him as her hair strayed over her cheeks, drifting like a tidal current to and fro, to and fro...

The morning cool made Jona shiver. He wanted to retrieve a blanket from the bed, but was afraid he might awaken Elfieda, and that was something he did not want to do. Right now, he wanted only to rest, to somehow be alone, and to obliterate the last few hours. To dream, perhaps dreaming to forget, perhaps dreaming to imagine, even if it meant he remained conscious enough to know that he was only dreaming.

“Dr. Lieb, come and look at this, won’t you?”

His mind was working slowly, sluggishly, processing fitfully. For some reason, his thoughts kept receding, going backwards to his stay in London. As his eyes began to flicker closed, he could see Doctor Fleming, hunched over and peering intensely into the single lens of a microscope as if he were looking through a knothole in a fence.

Lieb was at Fleming’s laboratory, buried deep within the cavernous Gothic structure of St. Mary’s Hospital, just across from Paddington Station. Alexander Fleming was an acknowledged leader in the field of microbiology. For years he had been both an admired colleague and an envious adversary of Ernest Lieb.

Fleming, dressed stiffly in starched shirt, wide cravat, vest, and long white laboratory coat, was the very image of an academician. As he spoke, a noticeable burr betrayed his Scottish origins. Without any affectation, he maintained a formal, reserved demeanor as he conducted his guest on an invited tour of the laboratory’s cramped facilities. He cautioned Jona that they had only a short time together before Lieb was due to meet the Department head, the renowned Sir Almroth Wright.

They had just entered the laboratory when an assistant at one of the microscope stations let out a cry of surprise. Fleming hurried over and practically yanked the poor fellow out of his seat in order to focus the microscope to his suiting and study the magnified image under the lens. After a few minutes of scrutiny he looked up at Jona.

“Dr. Lieb, come and look at this, won’t you?” He had a certain crispness about him, but was gravely polite and had none of the penetrating intensity of Ernest Lieb.

Jona felt confident of his own skills at the microscope and promptly squinted into the lens. He saw nothing remarkable, however. He shifted the slide on the microscope stage but could only discern what looked like a field of lightly stained clumps of rod-shaped organisms. He looked up at Fleming, who was standing right behind him. “Are they E. coli ?” he asked tentatively.

To Jona’s chagrin, the gray haired scientist said nothing in response, merely nudging his way back over the microscope to take another look into the lens. After a few more moments of study he whispered a few terse instructions to his assistant, and then turned back to Lieb.

“I’m sorry, did you say E. coli? No, not at all, I’m afraid. This is a strain of Salmonella typhi. As you know, the agent responsible for typhoid fever. We are comparing the Salmonella’s growth characteristics in different nutrient environments. These slides were made from a ferrocyanide citrate agar inoculated with a small number of bacteria.”

Jona nodded his head slowly. “Looks quite impressive.”

“Actually, growth appears to be somewhat sparse in this particular medium. Inhibited for some reason.” Fleming stood up briskly. “We have examined Salmonella growth patterns systematically in a series of defined nutrient media. This bacterial strain does much better in Dominick and Lauter agar, or in Salle’s medium.”

It seemed to Jona as if the whole room had come to a sudden halt, with every one of the half dozen technicians frozen at their bench stations and staring silently in his direction. He had the overwhelming sensation that Fleming was peering at him with a look of curious inspection, as if he were an interesting insect. Or, quite possibly, a small microbe that required further evaluation. Humiliated and cowed, Jona could barely bring himself to speak.

“I see, of course...Well, that’s an, an important finding, I presume. I’m sure.”

His host stood still for the barest moment, then gently grasped Jona by the arm as he ushered him out into the hallway. “I can see that you did not follow your father’s work very carefully.”

“No. Not really. Well, maybe sometimes.”

They exited the lab and continued down a long, barren hallway that led to an opaque, obscure terminus bathed in shadows. Fleming walked with hands clenched behind his back and slightly stooped over, looking much like he were following secret directional signs on the floor.

“Your father was a great man, Doctor Lieb, but he was never interested in the sort of thing we do here. This is too small for someone like him. No indeed, he played on the world stage. Pestilence, pandemics, mass deaths, social chaos...These were the scenes he liked to appear in. He would come in, perform his part, then exit stage left. On to the next theater.”

Fleming paused in his words, pursing his lips, but did not slacken his pace. “Well, that could be misconstrued as unkind, I suppose. I am sorry, Dr Lieb, I meant no offense.”

“None taken, of course. Please, call me Jona.”

“Terrible with names, chappie. Dr. Lieb will have to do.”

They reached the end of the corridor. To the left and right, stairs went up and down, disappearing into the recesses of the building. Silently, Fleming gestured towards the ascending stairway on the right. As they climbed, Jona’s left hip and leg began to throb with pain, forcing him to stop and grasp the handrail for support.

“Are you alright, Dr. Lieb?” Fleming stopped in mid step, looking more curious than concerned.

The staircase was deserted, but from high above could be heard the thump and clatter of footsteps moving rapidly up and away from them. They were alone. Jona marshaled his strength and began to climb again. “I’m fine, thank you.” He gave Fleming a bitter look. “I guess this is the biggest stage I get to play on.”

“Sorry about that, dear fellow. No need to be angry, really. Look, as I said, your father was an enormous presence. But he was simply not interested in the kind of nuts and bolts investigation that we blokes do here. You know, the small steps that create the foundation for the big breakthroughs. He was always looking at the big picture.”

“Well, his laboratory was busy with research activity day and night. That is one thing about his work I do know. I’m sure they were investigating the basics as well.”

It was Fleming’s turn to stop. The intonations of his Lowlands accent echoed harshly in the narrow confines of the stairwell. “Night and day, to be sure. Busy little bees, all abother. The truth is, chappie, your father’s laboratory worked night and day to tear down the accomplishments of other investigators all over the world. At the word of Ernest Lieb, any finding, even an important one, was at risk to be ridiculed and withdrawn. Unless, of course, it was work published by one of his cronies. Lickspitters, actually. Frankly, your father has not made an original research contribution in the last twenty years.” Fleming snorted. “He had the brass to criticize me once.”

Jona was too stunned to respond. His mind whirled with a flurry of thoughts that he couldn’t put in order. He had never heard anyone condemn his father in that manner. As they climbed to the next floor Lieb found himself feeling a slow surge of outrage. He wanted to show his anger in some way, but didn’t know quite how to, or know quite what to say. Of course, he didn’t want to create a scene. He was Dr. Fleming’s guest, after all.

Eventually, he muttered out, “Well, that is a unique point of view.”

“Not unique, chappie. Not unique.”

On the next landing they arrived at a large wooden doorway with the words ‘IMMUNIZATION CENTER’ stenciled across it in large letters. In smaller letters underneath was written ‘Almroth Wright, Director’

“Here you are, Dr. Lieb. Sir Almroth has been looking forward to your meeting for weeks, and I would not wish to deprive him of that pleasure, however briefly. Goodbye.” Without extending a hand Fleming bowed curtly, then turned and walked off at a crisp pace.

Jona was on the verge of saying something clever and biting in response, but couldn’t find the right words before Fleming disappeared down the stairs. Only after he vanished from view was Jona able to muster up a muttered, guttural imprecation. “You pompous, jealous, overblown stuffed shirt!” He said it with feeling, wishing the two of them were still face to face.

“My word, and we haven’t even met yet!”

Jona whirled around. A frumpy, short, wild haired apparition, looking like someone freshly arrived from the previous century, stood before him, smiling wickedly. He wore a long, heavy appearing waistcoat embellished by a gold watch chain, a severe, high riding starched collar supporting a partially dissolved bow-tie, and an enormous mustache that completely obscured his upper lip.

He extended a long, thin hand. “You must be Jona Lieb. I am Professor Wright. Nice to meet you at last. I must say I would recognize you anywhere, you are so like your father. Come in, please.”

The office inside surprised Jona by its austere simplicity. He had imagined oak lined walls supporting massive bookcases, and perhaps a display of varicolored limpets in indeterminate stages of preservation, or oddly shaped rock splinters from the Neolithic period. Instead, Wright sat at a spartan wooden desk devoid of ornamentation. A telephone was perched prominently in one corner and a small pile of neatly stacked papers was in the other.

Sir Almroth Wright was a very old friend of his father’s and a close collaborator over the years. He was a pioneer in the development of vaccines, including some groundbreaking work with the strategic concept of mass vaccination. He had long ago argued in favor of mandatory vaccination schedules for children and adults in order to achieve a level of ‘herd immunity’ that would effectively eradicate pools of specific infectious agents from population groups at risk. His greatest achievement was the development of a vaccine against typhoid fever. Ernest Lieb had once told his son that if anyone would one day find the cure for polio it would be Wright.

“I see you and Fleming hit it off.” Wright gave Jona a bemused look.

“My apologies, but he was rude and disrespectful, especially to my father. I thought the idea of my visit was to honor my father’s memory.”

“Well don’t get your knickers in a twist. Your father was one of the giants, and he will be missed. I miss him already. There are others though, not many, like Fleming. He just can’t reconcile himself to someone looking over his shoulder, checking his methods, arguing over his results. Seems angry quite often, as if he had been cheated out of some prize that should have been his.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over both of them. Neither man knew the other, and Jona began to feel that he had exhausted the necessary niceties attendant to his visit. He was suddenly very tired and wanted to return to his hotel. Preparing himself to stand up, he began to shift restlessly in his chair.

Abruptly and without a word, Wright opened a drawer underneath his desk and removed an oversized cloth bound volume. He waved it in the air momentarily, much as if it were a talisman, and placed it carefully in front of himself.

“Would you like to see some pictures of the ancient days?” He asked the question in a subdued, almost reverent voice, as though he were a High Priest about to read from the Book of the Dead. “I pulled this old album out for you to see.”

“Pictures?” Jona inhaled sharply, suddenly attentive. There were not too many pictures of his father in an ordinary or random scene. Most old photos of Ernest Lieb were framed and hanging on a wall, showing him in the setting of a banquet, debate, or speech. Jona felt his temples begin to throb. Informal snapshots were rare. Perhaps he might be seen in some of them as well.

Wright walked over and placed the book in Jona’s outstretched hands, then stood over him like a wary schoolmaster. “Sorry about the loss of clarity of some of these. Used one of those Brownie cameras you Americans make. Taken in difficult circumstances, you know.”

The cover felt somewhat flimsy as it was opened. On the very first page was a large picture of two men, both riding donkeys. One of them was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, bow tie and wide brimmed hat. The man’s overhanging mustache was accompanied by a sharply shaped beard. The other man rode his donkey in native fashion, with both legs over the left side of the animal. He wore a wrinkled khaki jersey, wide pantaloons over knee length boots, and a tarboosh set solidly on the top of his head. By his side hung a holstered gun. It was his father, looking impossibly young.

Clustered around them was a mass of villagers spilling out of what appeared to be white limestone washed huts. A tall, full-bearded giant in pitch black robes and long flowing hair stood in their midst, a rifle slung diagonally over his shoulder. A dusty Kalymavchi covered the top of his head, making him look gigantic. In the corner of the photograph was a penned note:

To our friend

Adgahigia, 1919

Jona felt his heart skip a beat. “Sir Almroth...was this in Russia?”

“No, not Russia. Armenia. Why do you ask? We met there in May, the first spring after the war. Well, after our war, anyway. In that part of the world, the war never stopped. I was in Baghdad with the British High Commissioner at the time. We were supposed to be in charge there, running the place for their own good, but the bloody Arabs were busy blowing us up. Awful place. Couldn’t wait to get out. Earnest somehow found my whereabouts and cabled me to come to Erzerum, in the western part of what was then Armenia, and to come urgently. Terrible outbreak of typhoid, you know. A million, two million, three million refugees were caught between the Reds coming down from the north and the Turks attacking from the west, both sides advancing on the middle. No scruples or rules in that war, laddie. Once typhoid broke out it hit like a typhoon, swallowing up everything before it. Hundreds of thousands dead, I’m afraid, and little we could do to stop it.” Wright took a wheezy breath and then continued in Jona’s direction. “Well, why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you ask? About Russia?”

“Oh,” Jona shifted uncomfortably. “I just learned from...just the other night...I was told he went to Russia that year, that’s all.”

Wright became quiet. He sat back in his chair and tented his fingertips together, creating a small sanctuary for himself as he regarded Lieb. “Yes, well that’s quite true,” he intoned softly, then fell silent again. “Why don’t you take a look at the rest of those?” He waved casually at the album in Jona’s lap.

Most of the remaining pictures were of poor quality, many of them blurry. His father appeared in only some of them. In one, he had his arm around the enormous black robed man, both of them smiling broadly into the camera. Jona tapped a finger over the image. “Who is this fellow?”

Wright peered over his desk. “Father Markos. A dear, dear man. Devoted to his faith. The bravest man I have known. Sad story, really.”

“Why sad?” Jona sensed something in Wright. A hesitancy to speak. A reluctance to reveal. A burning to bare witness.

“In the end, he died.”

Just as a sharp breeze flutters and vibrates through the delicate fibrils of a spider web, threatening to dismember it completely, Jona felt something inside begin to quiver. A distant remembrance called to him, wrenching forgotten thoughts from their burial place.

“How?”

“He was killed.”

“How?”

“Your father killed him.”

It was said with a harsh percussiveness, sounding like train wheels rolling repetitively over a break in the track, the sound of one wheel cascading over another, with each noisy shock obliterating the one before. Jona felt no revulsion, no outrage, no disbelief. Images, thoughts, sounds flooded over him and suddenly they coalesced into one coherent stream of memory. He recalled something his father had once told him.

They were together for a long weekend in the summer after his graduation from Harvard, just before entering the School of Medicine. His father had rented a cabin outside of Lennox, in the Berkshires, situated on a lake of crystalline beauty. For some unknown reason, the elder Lieb decided to conquer fly fishing. Jona grinned to himself, remembering. Another accomplishment to achieve, another goal completed, another item of conquest to add onto Earnest Lieb’s lifetime curriculum vitae.

Of course, neither of them knew anything about fly-fishing. A local outfitter, a diminutive man with long black hair knotted at the back named Big Peter was hired to help them. He spent a few hours demonstrating to both Liebs the intricacies of choosing a proper fly, casting with a proper line, and choosing a proper location to fish. Early the next morning he pushed them off in a small rowboat, pointing to a spot in a small cove about a hundred yards away where he thought they should go.

A fine mist hovered just inches over the surface of the still waters, but the dense forest of pines surrounding the lake stood up sharply in dark green relief against a sky that was a blended ruddy blue. Just as they made their first cast of the morning the soft edge of the sun’s disk emerged from a nimbus of golden orange and scarlet clouds.

Jona tossed his line indifferently and stared vacantly at the ripples that spread with perfect symmetry over the motionless water. Nothing else moved.

Earnest Lieb very carefully and very precisely cast his line, then rapidly retrieved it. He cast again and then again, repeatedly reeling in and attempting once more to make a perfect cast, jerking on the line to load it and heaving the rod mightily back and forth as he had been instructed. As the sun rose higher, large beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and cheeks. He continued grimly but was dissatisfied with every toss of the line and eventually threw down his rod in disgust. His face was congested and contorted with anger, an appearance that Jona knew only too well.

Without warning, the elder Lieb picked up the rod and reel and tossed it as far as he could into the lake. As the long pole disappeared into the depths he began to laugh loudly, his voice booming explosively over the placid water. The great Dr. Lieb did not give outward displays of mirth often, and when he did, it was usually with a measured reserve. Even when he appeared to join in the hilarity of others, his eyes had a way of roving rapidly back and forth with the gaze of a predator searching out easy meat.

“Just like Marmara,” he spit out in disgust.

Jona almost let it go, but after a brief hesitation he stretched his legs out languidly, shifted his seating, and asked “What do you mean, dad? What was Marmara?”

His father laughed again; a softer, gentler, more genuine laugh. Jona saw a quick flicker in the older man’s face, a look that came and passed instantaneously, a look that concealed rather than revealed. “The sea of Marmara. I tried fishing there once. It didn’t work out any better than here, though.”

“Why in the sea of Marmara? Isn’t that in Turkey?”

Earnest Lieb dipped his hand into the lake, waving it slowly back and forth, creating small eddies that rocked the boat ever so slightly. “Yes, of course. It’s in Turkey, connecting the Dardanelles with the Bosporus. Tell me, Jona, can there be any more famous bodies of water in the world? Where Europe and Asia meet. Collide would be more apt.”

Jona shook his head. The Dardanelles sounded familiar for some reason. “Why were you there?”

“I was there with an old friend, Mikhael Barzajian.” He looked sharply at his son, still sprawled comfortably at the bow of the little boat. “Didn’t I write you about all this?”

“No.” Jona struggled to remember. In recent years there had often been long lapses between letters from his father as he travelled from one remote outpost to another.

The elder Lieb continued. “Constantinople was a terrible place right after the war. Measles, smallpox, dysentery, tuberculosis, horrible conditions. People starving. No clean water. And getting any help or supplies into there was not easy. Not overland at least. You understand, the Greeks, the Bulgarians, they were stalking the Turkish frontiers like hyenas. To get there myself I took a boat down the Danube to Rustchuk, then the train to Varna over horrible tracks, then a steamer to the City. I went there alone, bringing a shipment of syringes, morphine, cotton gauze, that kind of thing. Also a new medication, an antibiotic that appeared interesting. Barzajian was the Minister of Health, or was supposed to be. By then he was incredibly rich. He built an empire based on medical goods, selling to doctors, hospitals, even selling government supplies back to his own government. We had met years before in a certain way, so I knew him well. Meeting him again was not difficult.”

“Why did you go?” Jona turned around in the boat, facing his father, entranced by the description of an exotic and distant place.

Earnest Lieb continued to splash the warm water with his hand, as if contemplating the blue green depths below. With Jona watching, he carefully cupped his hand, scooped up some water and quickly slurped it in. “What did I just swallow?” he demanded in his sternest professorial tone.

“Dad, I don’t think you’re being serious. Water, of course.”

“Inadequate answer! Not just water. I ingested life forms. Microscopic living creatures of every possible description. Hundreds of thousands, maybe millions. Fungi, protozoa, bacteria in amazing variety, most of them not even known to us as yet. Ingested or inhaled by us constantly, passing through us, part of us. They represent the outer world, blending with our inner world in a continuous spectrum of coexistence. The very well adapted ones, they change our inner world to suit their needs, so that they can thrive within humans successfully. They give us gifts we don’t even know about as they go about their secret lives deep within. Or, instead, they become incorporated into us, becoming a living cog within us, part of our mechanism of life. I sometimes imagine that we are the ones adapting to them. Something rings true about that, at least to me. There are millions upon billions of them, and they were here long before humankind. They’re alive and have just as much biological right to existence as we have...” Lieb stood up in the boat, rocking it, as if he were attempting to stand at a lectern.

“But every once in a while we cross paths with a form of life that is not well adjusted to existence with humans. It creates disease, even death. Some agents rip through whole populations, killing thousands at a time. That’s why I went to Constantinople, Jona. To study. To learn about the outside and the inside. And, to help the sick if at all possible. That’s why. You’ll understand better when you finish your studies.”

It took a few moments for Jona to digest all that the elder Lieb said. He was still young, and excited about his forthcoming medical school studies, and, of course, intended to follow in his father’s footsteps.

“What about Barzajian?”

“He is quite a character. Rich as Croesus. He’s an Armenian, or so he said, and so in those days he kept a small army of bodyguards to protect him from Turkish fanatics. Remember, this was just a few years after one or two million of his countrymen were exterminated. He was safe because he’d been in the inner circle for so long. With his intelligence and with hard work he had climbed high in the Sultan’s government, and in fact he often bragged he was a personal friend of the Sultan himself.” Lieb laughed. “He would do anything to ingratiate himself within the imperial councils of the Seraglio. Here was a Christian who would not hesitate to pray in the Blue Mosque if it would profit him to do so.”

Jona withdrew his rod into the boat, no longer pretending to fish. “What about the Sea of Marmara?”

“Barzajian arranged a day’s cruise on his yacht. About ten of us, British and French diplomats, an industrialist, a Russian who said he was a colonel though I’m sure he was a spy. The sea was choppy and the fishing was awful. No one brought up anything except an occasional crab or octopus. I fished as badly as I did today and behaved as badly. The best part was later. We swam, ate, drank sweet chai, and talked politics. The Sultan was history, finished, kicked out, leaving the military in charge, but no one knew what the Army would do next. A fellow named Mustafa Kemal - you’ve heard of him as Ataturk, haven’t you - was emerging as de facto leader and head of the Army. You have to remember that Turkey had just been carved up by the Allies at the end of the war. Ataturk wanted to get his country back and was determined to do just that. Barzajian talked to us about his own plans for the future. Later, he gave me his honest predictions privately. Ambitious pirate, let me say.”

Their little boat had drifted towards a quiet shoreline strewn with fallen tree trunks and water lilies. Overhanging willow trees provided shade from the full sun. Small wavelets made slapping noises against the bottom of the boat. Jona remembered thinking it was the perfect place to be alone with his father. The elder Lieb seemed content to pause in his narrative and sat back down. To Jona it seemed as if the scene could last a lifetime.

“What ever happened with Barzajian?” He asked the question, not really caring what the answer might be.

“Oh, he has done quite well for himself. People like him always land on their feet. Went to Armenia when the lid blew off in Turkey. Then he became a commissar in the brave new People’s Republic once the communists took over. Can you imagine! Probably the richest bolshevik in Russia! Anyway, he helped me get started in Constantinople, and I helped him later in Armenia.” Lieb hesitated almost imperceptibly.

“How was that, dad?”

Jona knew his father’s moods well. Anger, frustration, satisfaction, and belligerence all spilled out of Ernest Lieb from time to time, each manifesting visibly in the form of a scowl, grimace, or smile. But Jona had never before seen his father with the particular look that came over him at that moment. An opaque, rigid mask contorted into half sneer and half frown framed his face, and his darkened eyes darted back and forth, as if looking for escape from an unexpected entombment.

His words sounded slurred, almost fatigued as he spoke. “Well, there was someone that Barzajian arranged for me to meet there. In Armenia. To assist me in my task. I thought he was a friend. Turned into a traitor, though. Betrayed me and Barzajian, both. I had to deal with the matter the best way I could. I didn’t want to, believe me, but the minister was forever grateful afterwards.”

Ernest Lieb sighed. Jona, sitting opposite his father in the rocking boat, felt his sigh rustle softly through the air, like a dry breeze blowing across a timescape of whitened sands and decaying bones. Jona, sitting a world away and half asleep in his hotel room in Berlin, felt the sigh again, rising slowly and increasing in strength, becoming a gust of wind snapping through the treetops, bending aged boughs to the point of fracture. Jona’s thoughts were swept along, through a latticework of forgotten days and nights, brushing back the husks of long dead thoughts, circling around between Lennox, London, and Berlin.

“It’s time to resurrect them,” Jona thought, “Time to resurrect forgotten years.”

“Doctor Lieb, are you alright?” It was Wright, in London, peering at him quizzically.

“Yes, of course. I think so. It’s just that these pictures... and what you just said... Why would my father kill anyone, much less a man of the cloth? I don’t believe it, and I’ve never heard that said by anyone before.”

“I don’t imagine anyone has. You see, I’m the only one who knows, and your father swore me to secrecy.” Wright put his hand up sharply in a preemptive gesture. “It’s much more complicated than you can imagine.”

Jona scrambled to his feet and leaned both hands on Wright’s desk. “Then tell me.” His words came out in a harsh snarl, surprising both the older scientist and Jona himself.

“Please...Jona. May I call you Jona?”

Lieb nodded and sat down grimly. “Tell me.”

“You can’t know how difficult things were at the time. Awful, really. Look, have you ever tried to guide your way to a primitive village in the dead of night? Do you know how you can find your way there? By the smell. The odor of mounds of offal, rotting refuse, and unwashed beasts travels for miles around if the wind is right, even in the best and healthiest of circumstances. In the midst of a lethal outbreak of disease, though, the stench of death is everywhere, unmistakable, pinpointing places of human habitation as certainly as coordinates on a map. That’s what it was like in the Caucasus that summer.” Wright leaned back in his chair and raised his eyes to the ceiling before continuing, as if reading a script.

“Villages like this one in the picture, Adgahigia, were flooded with the dead and dying. I had never seen anything so horrible, though your father told me the Ukraine was worse. Anything you can imagine was there, just like a living, outdoor textbook of human disease. Typhoid, of course, but more. Leprosy, smallpox, marasmus, cholera, plague, pellagra, kwashiorkor, tuberculosis. And there were other ailments, equally devastating but not physical in nature. Just as visible, though. Insanity, rage, fear, depression and grief seemed to afflict almost everyone we met. Much worse than the front-line trenches during the war.”

“My father described some of these places to me, and I’ve read about poverty, I understand what it must be like. Dad didn’t mind, though. He seemed to thrive on situations that were difficult and dangerous. Tell me about the priest.”

“I met your father as instructed in Erzurum, a vicious, backward town in the Anatolian interior. Exceptional water, though. For some absurd reason the northern Americans had a consulate office there, run by a fellow named Wilkins. Doctor Lieb had already arrived a week before, assembling a team that included two French engineers, our water and sanitation experts. The epicenter of the outbreak was in the south. Your father, though, wanted to go to the north, towards the Russian border, where the disease was spreading and where he thought we could do the most good. He had a large shipment of medications with him, including an investigational agent he hoped to study, and the engineers were to look towards establishing a safe water system. It all looked exciting on paper, but the reality on the ground seemed impossible.”

“Why?” Jona felt himself getting restless. He wanted to shout at Wright to get on with the story, to skip over the engineers, and the outbreak, and every other stupid detail and get to the most important part, the only important part.

“Wilkins told us it was hopeless. He had been there, you see, in 1915 and 1916, and had seen the exterminations. There used to be Armenian settlements all around those parts for centuries. Christian, you know, but the Turks suddenly found that to be inconvenient. Something about a Greater Turkey, drivel like that. Suddenly, everyone had to be totally Turkish, whatever in the world that might mean. Atavistic thinking. Medieval, really. The Armenians were rounded up, very systematically. Never thought the Turks could be so efficient, actually. Wilkins told us what he had seen, the most brutal descriptions. Death marches into the desert, extermination camps, rape, mass hangings, disemboweling of pregnant women, that sort of thing. Poor Wilkins, he and others tried to tell the outside world, but nobody would believe it. Nobody wanted to, and so there was no one to listen. By the time we arrived the fighting had shifted north and east, right into the area we wanted to go. To make things even worse the Bolsheviks were spilling over the border into Armenia from the north, causing more fighting.”

“Dad was just back from Russia, wasn’t he?”

“I believe so, but I don’t recall the details. Ukraine, southern Russia, Volga, those kinds of places. It wasn’t something he talked about. Not his style to talk about the past, anyway. He was a very driven man. Everything was about today, or tomorrow. As far as he was concerned yesterday was gone and not terribly relevant. The only thing of importance was to test the antibiotic samples and save some lives.”

Jona digested that for a moment. What Wright said rang true. Even so, he didn’t trust the old professor. What if he felt some animus towards his father because of a past quarrel? “What about the priest?”

“Your father had a patron in Constantinople who helped us. Someone high up in the government. Thus the wagons, official passes, mules, porters, tents, and so on. Very hush hush, though, his name was never mentioned. This friend was the one who arranged to have Father Markos meet us in Erzerum as we were preparing to depart. He was a native Armenian, he spoke broken English and was fluent in Turkish. Doctor Lieb called the priest a facilitator, someone to help get us into the mountainous areas in the north safely. As we set off it seemed that this fellow knew everybody. It was only later that we learned he was quite famous throughout the countryside. He was actually a monk, some kind of a holy man, originally from a monastery, I believe, called Arkaghagia. God, but that language is awful, isn’t it? The place was renowned in that part of the world for its sacred music, and it was there that Father Markos learned the traditional tonals of their holy neumes. That is what made him so well known, the fact that he was so connected to the past, you see, and to the beauty of their language. What a voice he had! I didn’t understand a word, of course, but the power of his singing was inspiring, especially in the quiet of the dawn. He began his songs of prayer at sunrise every day and completed them at sunset. I believe he could have raised the dead with his chanting...” Wright paused, screwing his face into a tight contortion. “He translated one of his incantations to teach it to me, told me to sing it every morning, it would bring me peace. Utter rubbish, of course, superstitious nonsense, but I can still remember it. You know, it still comes to mind occasionally. I confess that I’ve tried to chant it myself from time to time. Here, it was like this, one has to inhale deeply and sustain the mode.” He intoned the words in a nasal, reedy, thin voice that nonetheless carried surprising power.

Turn your wrath away when the prayerful ones pray

Compassionate Lord spare us and do not let us perish

Raise up one who has collapsed from the fall

Wounded by the enemy

O healer of the sick heal my sickness

It occurred to Jona that Wright seemed lost in his own thoughts, talking and singing as if he were in a trance. “I bet he imagines he’s back there,” Jona thought. “He’s reliving the whole thing. It’s as if he’s with dad and the priest right now.”

Wright continued, speaking in a monotone, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if transparent beams of remembrance were streaming down from that direction. “It took eleven days of rough travel to arrive at our destination. Only much later did I understand how dangerous that journey was. Along the way Father Markos brokered safe passage through the armed camps of some local warlords, guiding us until we reached Haghpat.”

“What was Haghpat?”

“A mountain. A church. A cloister. A library. Built ages ago, lad, ancient as sin. When we arrived, the local monks had long since been killed, or fled the fighting, or succumbed to starvation or disease. The monastery, including church, chapels, bell tower, and so forth lay spread out on a steep mountain slope with a commanding view, surrounded by a number of small settlements in the valley below. And most importantly, safe water. Deep wells, aquifers, and so on. All in all, a perfect base of operations. Except, of course, that it was at the front lines of a barbaric little war.” The old scientist paused just long enough to take a deep, wheezy breath.

“Father Markos installed us up there, and from then on he was magnificent. He had no fear. Every day he travelled into the local villages, meeting the elders, identifying the sick, and distributing medical supplies. He arranged for many of the very young to flee, escape to Yerevan where it was safe. Every day he risked a chance meeting with Turkish irregulars, and certain death if he were to be caught. He was a priest, you know, and the Turks liked to flay that type alive. As a lesson to the others, you understand how it was.

He kept us informed about the cases of typhoid in the area. It was your father who had the idea of dividing affected villagers randomly into those who received single strength and double strength treatments. We were using a compound of sulfa, but didn’t really know its proper dosing yet. His plan was to analyze the data after a month, and compare death rates on the two different regimens. It would have been a marvelous study. Quite unique, really, conducted in the field as it was.”

Wright paused and sighed audibly. There was no natural light in the room. Illumination was provided by two light bulbs hanging from the center of the ceiling, each encircled by a metal collar, casting a light that gave the elderly professor a sallow, sickly look. He sat back in his chair as if he were ready to close his eyes and sleep.

“Sir Almroth, I insist you tell me what happened.” Jona was frantic to hear the conclusion of the story. “You said my father killed the monk. How?”

“It was not a day in the countryside there, you know. No picnic. Use whatever metaphor you like. There were deeply forested mountains all about, and almost every night the bark and chatter of guns was everywhere. Much more frightening than in France during the war, believe me, because one didn’t know where the enemy was coming from. We didn’t realize it at first, but Father Markos organized a local battalion of militia to protect the area from attack. I only learned of it one day about a week after our arrival when a truck pulled into the little courtyard of the monastery with the priest and a few other men. They began pulling weapons of every type out of the back and piling them in the refectory. Of course, I asked where the guns were from, and Father Markos laughed at me. ‘Dead Turks,’ he said, and waved his hand behind him. When I looked in that direction I could see an enormous fire burning at the top of a nearby mountain. A huge plume of smoke was rising up, you could see it for miles. I asked him what it meant. I remember the look in his eye to this day. ‘Dead Turks burning,’ he said, and launched into a hymn, in that great strong voice of his. He told me he was singing the Lord’s Prayer in its original Aramaic. What a man he was!”

“He doesn’t sound very much like a man of God.”

“By that time he was no longer a man of God. He was a man of belief, though. He believed that it was necessary to fight what he called the invading infidels, to fight for the protection of God’s people, to fight for God’s kingdom on earth. This was how he spoke, you see, very intensely. To me, it was all very antiquated, really, and rather barbarous. I mean, fighting over religion, how savage! But that was why your father liked him, because he was a fighter as well. They struck up quite a friendship, those two. Father Markos was up and down the mountain two or three times a day, riding on a rather robust chestnut mule. Doctor Lieb went along quite often, always with a band of armed men. Sometimes they came back with a sick child or a wounded comrade, sometimes with a new load of guns and ammunition. Of course, I stayed behind, as I was responsible for all the administrative work. Devil of a job, kept me up all hours. Exhausting. And, we had no tea. I did go down to Adgahigia once, though, the day that picture was taken.”

Jona stared at the large picture on the album’s first page carefully. The sun must have been low in the sky, casting long, irregular, sharply contoured shadows on the ground. Wright’s face was partially obscured by a black curve that swept down his jaw and chin, the result of a floppy hat pushed forward on his forehead. Some of the villagers stood in darkness, just emerging from their doorways into the street. They all wore joyous smiles, staring straight at the camera as if casting their own singular beam of light into the lens. Earnest Lieb was captured staring to his left, directly towards the dominant figure of Father Markos standing next to him. The priest was swathed in a long jet black tunic-robe, and wore a tall, tubular kalymavchki that blended imperceptibly into long locks of hair that straddled both broad shoulders. Jona realized with a start that a stack of rifles was piled at the feet of the priest.

“They all look so happy,” he murmured.

“It’s true, that was a happy day. That was the last happy day, in fact. That night the Reds came.” The elderly professor appeared suddenly agitated. He got up from his chair and began to pace behind his desk.

“What Reds?” Jona was dumbfounded by the turn in the story.

“The Reds, Jona, the Reds, the bolsheviks! They slipped into the village that night. They were led by a bastard named Barzajian. I’ll never forget his oily, perfumed hair and pig face. He roared in like an invasive, virulent species, a pathogen of exceptional evil. Claimed he was a commissar, and he wore two stars on his collar, but he was just a common thief, a thug with an armed gang behind him. They were all Armenians, of course, so they were acceptable to the locals, at least in the beginning, but all of them were Red Army, I assure you. By the next morning they were firmly in control after a minor skirmish, and by the next afternoon they had lined up a pitiful group of old men and young boys in the central square and shot them dead. No particular reason that I could fathom. Bastards.

Doctor Lieb and Father Markos descended into the town after an early breakfast, to see what the devil was going on down there. I remember the priest looking somewhat agitated, but that was all. Your father was gone all day. Quite unusual for him, the priest came back in the late morning with six or seven men, all heavily armed. They hurried into the main church of the monastery, Saint Nashan it was called, and Father Markos conducted a short service. I could hear his voice in loud prayer and chanting, and all that sort of thing very easily. Some of the men joined in the chanting. I found it astonishing that even the most illiterate peasants could chant the neumes. Remarkable. Not long afterwards they all came out. Two men went up into the bell tower and the rest barricaded themselves into the refectory. I realized at once that there was trouble, and I sent a man from our team to get your father.”

Jona said nothing. He placed the photo album back on Wright’s desk.

“They came up in the late afternoon. Your father. Barzagian. Thirty or forty armed soldiers. Of course, I told them immediately about the priest and the other men. This was my first encounter with Commissar Barzagian. He strutted around like a peacock in heat, ordering his men here and there. I remember he commanded your father to go to the church library for his own safety, an order that was promptly ignored. Barzagian shouted something in the direction of the refectory, and Father Markos shouted something back, and then a warning shot was fired. The soldiers were posted behind a wall surrounding the monastery and hunkered down. To me, it looked like a stalemate, or a siege.” The elderly professor fingered the album absently and seemed to trace his finger over the large picture on the first page, like a blind man reconstructing a hidden maze.

Jona could not restrain himself. “What happened then? Did my father really kill the priest?”

The question charged across the space between them with the force of an electric spark, galvanizing Wright. He turned sharply towards Lieb. “Yes. Yes, as surely as I am speaking to you at this moment. He caused the whole thing to happen. It was Doctor Lieb who volunteered to go alone into the refectory and speak with Father Markos. He insisted on it. He walked right in as if marching into his own laboratory. He wasn’t long. When he came back out your father looked shaken and pale, obviously distressed. He told us that the priest refused to come out until the antichrists left the sacred grounds of Haghpat, that they were worse than the Turks. Said something strange, also, about not being tricked again.”

“But why? Why move in urgently? Why move in at all?” Jona shook his head in despair. He tried to visualize the scene. A clear summer day with skies dark, dark blue, the kind of blue that can only be seen in the uplands. A fantastic landscape of sharply shaped mountains carpeted with green and amber tree tops rose all around, creating the backdrop for the random spill of somber stone buildings that comprised the monastery. Dusky men in sweat-soaked uniforms crouched behind a low lying, ancient wall, straining to peer cautiously at the straight sided cupola atop the bell tower. Jona could see his father as well, pacing, sweating also, scowling, his mind brimming with ideas, plans, orders. The vision faded rapidly. He continued softly, as if asking the question of himself. “Why do anything?”

“Our supplies, Jona. Our packs, syringes, medications, the sulfa. Also, all our notes and data. Everything was there, stored in the refectory. There would be no treatments without the sulfa. There would be nothing to publish without the data. The priest told him he would blow the whole lot up rather than surrender to the Reds. An entire summer’s worth of work would be destroyed. Your father was frantic to secure the stores. In the blink of an eye, Doctor Lieb and Barzagian exchanged roles. It was your father who commanded the commissar, demanding that his men move in immediately to eliminate the monk and his followers. I’ll never forget, and could scarcely believe, that Lieb called them insurgents, bandits, guerrillas. Just hours before, he and Markos were fast friends.” Wright paused to shake his head.

Jona wondered whether it was with regret or with wonder. “Did they get him? Father Markos?” he asked weakly.

The grey haired professor threw his head back and gave a dry, sarcastic laugh. “Who got who? As the soldiers were ordered forward a furious firing began, shooting coming from all directions. It was a frightening, deafening hell. I remember your father went forward partway with the troops. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he seemed to be screaming at them insanely before crouching behind one of those massive, ornately carved stone crosses planted in the ground, what they called a khatchkar. You have seen pictures of them? They’re huge relics and can easily hide a man.

As the men stormed the refectory and reached within a few feet of the building, an enormous blast went off. It was an explosion, a bomb set off from inside that destroyed everything within a hundred meters. A deliberate, destructive suicide. The structure was leveled, nothing was left, merely a gutted shambles and a field of debris. The khatchkar saved your father’s life, without question. He was the only one left alive within the blast area because he crouched behind that cross. The brave commissar and I, along with a few others, were safe behind the wall. I tell you...” Wright swung his gaze towards Jona. His eyes glistened with moisture. “I could hear Father Markos singing at the end. I swear to it. He was chanting a canticle, one of his bloody neumes, right before the bomb went off. The words were still vibrating in the air even after his life was snuffed out.”

Quite suddenly, all the talking was done. A dead silence descended over both men. Jona’s mind was dispassionate, passive, as if absorbing the police report of a routine homicide. A woman strangled in a jealous fury at the hands of her husband, perhaps, or an elderly miser found dead in his doorway one morning, his rooms ransacked. Routine. Something to be expected on a regular basis. An event to be carefully contemplated and deliberated, analyzed and evaluated in a methodical manner, but ordinary nonetheless.

Sir Almroth Wright sobbed once, then rubbed both eyes, attempting to regain his composure. “Lieb made me swear I would tell no one. God knows, he always got what he wanted. But you should know, lad, you should know. After all, he knew. He knew the priest would never give in, but he demanded the attack anyway.”

Jona stared blankly, trying to focus on the moment. He saw that Wright was watching him, inspecting him, observing his behavior. He thought he should say something. “Tell me, Professor, what happened with the research? Did you get any useful data out of it? Which regimen worked?”

Wright swept his hand through the air in a dismissive gesture. Jona heard him speak, but it seemed that the words came to him elliptically, filtered through a thick gauze. “The patients died equally, I’m afraid, and of course the study ended when the explosion destroyed our stockpile. We only had scraps of notes left as documentation. From what we could piece together neither regimen worked, Jona. Despite all our study and knowledge, we were wrong about the correct dosages. We didn’t even really know the proper duration of treatment. We were treating for two or three days at a time, that’s all. And, sadly, some patients died of side effects we didn’t anticipate, some kind of adverse blood effects. Ultimately, there were aspects of the drug we just didn’t know well enough. We were as ignorant about the drug as the villagers.”

Words came to Jona’s tongue, but he bit them down, repressed them even though he wanted to scream them out loud. You mean it was all for nothing? An image of the village picture came floating through his mind, twisting and turning, arching over space, propelling the people in it through languid, dulcimer tones of slowly dissolving time. They died for nothing, Jona...Jona, they agonized for nothing...They suffered for nothing, Jona...

“Jona!” The sound pealed through his brain like a ringing bell. “Jona, darling, wake up!”

His eyes creeped open slowly, cautiously, as if the lids had rusted shut. It was Elfielda, looming over him, hands on both of his shoulders, engulfing him. Disoriented, he was about to ask her to wait a moment while he finished talking to Wright. He wanted to go back and confront the old man, overwhelm him, humiliate him with the proofs of his failures and lies.

Elfieda shook him gently. “Time to wake up.”

Jona looked away from her, acutely aware that she was now fully dressed. He started to speak, but suddenly found his throat filled with phlegm, causing him to croak and then gag. He felt for a moment as if he couldn’t breathe, as if he were drowning in his own secretions.

She encircled his neck with her arms, then kissed him on the cheek lightly. “No need to say anything, darling. Let it rest. Now is time to start a new day. We have to find out about Herr Kohler and your friends.”

Andrews. Kohler. Murphy. The previous night’s events exploded in Jona’s mind, galvanizing him into motion. He got up, looking for his shoes. “Where should we go first?” He looked sharply at Elfieda.

“To your closet. First you get dressed. Then we should begin at your embassy. They will help us.” She paused deliberately, gazing into Lieb’s eyes. She hesitated only briefly, then spoke firmly. “Jona...”

“Now what?” He found her manner intrusive and wanted more than anything to get moving and get outside, away from this room.

“I would like us first to stop somewhere. On the way.”

“Stop? Why?” Annoyance snapped in his words. “I’m not stopping anywhere. I want to find my associates and Doctor Koehler.”

Elfieda stood her ground, raising her chin as she spoke. “No. I would like us to stop somewhere first.”

Jona could not believe what he was hearing. He searched Elfieda’s face, and found her regarding him resolutely. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, merely mouthing the word “Why?”

“Jona, I am not who I said I was. Everything is very different from what you think. I am sorry, but you don’t understand. I want to show you, not tell you. Come with me. Please, come with me. I want you to meet some friends of mine.” She grasped his hands and squeezed gently. “Then you will understand everything.

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Chapter 12

There was no consciousness. There was no awareness. Life existed, but it was somewhere else, somewhere unknown. Here was just a space. There were no intersections, no boundaries, no connections, only darkness without end.

Then, suddenly, Bang! Then, again, Bang! Then BANG! BANG! Then an endlessness of bangs, each one exploding closer and closer, each one its own living voice, each voice a whispered shriek of terror. Then the voices became louder, and then they became screams, each one exhaling the name of Joseph Murphy with a long drawn out whistle.

Murphy opened his eyes, then blinked them closed as a geyser of dirt erupted over him. Shards of bark and dark green leaves fell from above like rain. Thick tree branches plummeted downwards with the force of meteors flung by an angry god. The explosions were no longer staccato notes, but had become a continuous salvo of noise and fury. The bombardment had begun an eternity ago. Mostly they were whizz-bangs, with a smattering of Jack Johnsons. The trench mortars were the worst, looking like four foot space ships launching at a leisurely pace from the woods beyond, then streaking downwards until they landed with seismic, obliterating force. There was no point in trying to hide from them; escape was impossible.

He checked his watch quickly even as he burrowed his body deeper into his foxhole. Fifteen minutes. It had started fifteen minutes ago. The Krauts along this part of the line sometimes shelled for five minutes at a time just to make life miserable for the Devil Dogs, but they preferred twenty minute barrages if they were going to come. It looked like they were going to come.

Next to Murphy, not more than four feet away, was Private Malone’s trunk and head. His left arm was cut off just beneath the Indian-head unit designation of the Second Army Division, a shoulder patch the Sixth Marines were forced to wear. The sleeve of his tunic was ripped into rags. He had no waist. His legs were scattered elsewhere. Right next to Malone was Adorno. His right hand was quivering in fear, but he looked alright. Right next to Adorno was Schmidt, huddled at the bottom of their rifle pit.

“Sergeant!” It was Adorno, searching out Murphy with pleading eyes. “Sergeant!” In a sign that he wasn’t thinking clearly, the lame-brained shithead had taken off his gas mask. He seemed to be gasping for air. Murphy ignored him and looked at his watch. Four more minutes. Four more minutes until it ended. Four more minutes until they came. He said nothing. There was nothing to say until the shells stopped falling. Adorno would have to figure things out for himself. Murphy buried himself as deeply as he could into the moist forest peat and waited.

When the bombardment ended, he raised his head cautiously and peered over the low earthen berm he had raised in front of his foxhole. Gingerly, he slipped off his own gas mask and cautiously sniffed the air. He could see through the slanting silhouettes of sunlight streaked with gun powder, but barely. Twenty yards away the tree line gave way to a brown grassy swale descending gradually about two hundred yards to a thin ravine. He knew a narrow creek ran there, but from his elevation he could not see it. The Germans would have to come out of the trees about four hundred yards away, cross the creek and ascend the shallow ravine to get to him. Murphy checked his M1903 Springfield rifle grimly, pressing on the magazine and yanking the bolt action to ensure a round was chambered. His trench gun was slung over his back, weightless in anticipation. He was ready. They were ready. As long as he had at least half the platoon alive he knew it would be murder.

Lieutenant Mauriac tumbled into the foxhole with Murphy. He was their French liaison, cordially hated by everyone. He crawled up next to Murphy, took out his field glasses and began to scan the area to their front. “Zey come,” he said laconically.

“I know, asshole.”

“I will have you shot for zat,” the other said calmly. A meerschaum pipe was clamped casually between his teeth. He took one slow drag on it, even though the tobacco in the bowl was not lit, and played with the white kerchief tied loosely at his neck. Then, after a pause, “The Lieutenant Wade est mort. Dead. You have the command. Remember, zey will bunch up in the declivité, like pigs. You will please slaughter them, yes?” Without another word he slithered off to the next pit.

Everything became dark after that, despite the broad daylight. Steel-dark helmets appeared to be coming out of the woods across the way, giving the illusion through the billowing smoke of somehow becoming disembodied from the rapidly moving uniforms clad in field gray. They were good soldiers, and knew what they were doing. They used every possible artifice to mask themselves as they came past their own tree line. But eventually, they came to the opposite slope and the ravine below. As Murphy watched, they descended. He admired them. He hated them. He wondered about them. They must know they are going to die, he thought.

His own soixant-quinzes opened first, which somehow irritated him. It didn’t take much, since the cannoneers were all assholes anyway. The entire area had been pre-sighted by the gunnery crews, and the carnage inflicted on the Germans from the rain of artillery shells was awful. Then his machine guns began firing. How he loved the sound of the Brownings.

And then, there they were! Right there! The enemy! He stood up and placed his left foot forward as he aimed his rifle, just as if he were standing on the parapet of a great fortress, and began to shoot. That was at a time when he still thought he could be a hero and win the war all by himself. The entire scene then turned crimson, and once again Murphy retreated into his own space, devoid of awareness or feeling. All sights and sounds receded. Something mechanical inside him kept working, kept him standing, kept him shooting, kept him killing…

Murphy tossed in his cot, turning violently, first one way then another as the dream played out in his mind. He felt no real embodiment with the actors in his dream, not even to himself. He watched them all as if he were in a private, exclusive cinema that operated only for him. The characters, Sergeant Murphy, the French Lieutenant, even the Germans, were scripted. They appeared on cue and swaggered through their lines in the same way every time, dream after dream. Murphy, dreaming, gloated as the enemy fell in cornrows before the massed guns of the marines. Murphy, dreaming, winced as a bullet creased the neck of Sergeant Murphy. Murphy, dreaming, sobbed as the Sergeant walked slowly backwards past his dead and dying soldiers, slowly backwards away from Schmidt and Adorno, slowly backwards into the dark recesses of the forest.

The dream had been recurring ever since Murphy was deployed stateside, right after the Armistice. At first it had bothered him, leaving him sleepless and drenched with perspiration. No longer, though. Now it was almost an old friend, a buddy connecting him seamlessly to Schmidt, Mauriac, and even Private Malone, whom he could barely remember in any form other than gruesomely dismembered. By the end of the war they were all dead, but they lived on in the way of old comrades enshrined in a common brotherhood of pain and exhilaration.

At times, when the reverie was over, he might lie in his bed longer, hoping the dream would return to him, and then, rarely, return yet again. It ended in the same way every time, with Sergeant Murphy disappearing into a timeless, undefined place, without sound or color, free of feeling, somewhere outside of this world. Murphy wondered whether it was heaven.

The dream ended.

Murphy shifted onto his side and opened his eyes slowly and deliberately. The small room he was lying in was disturbing, causing a sense of spatial disorientation. Everything was painted a bare, sterile, flat white. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, everything. Even the door was a solid white. There were no bars or windows. The bright lights hanging above from short slender cords abolished all shadows, leaving the impression that the room was structureless. With some effort, Murphy could identify the four corners of the cell, and somehow that was reassuring. It’s not any worse than the Father Caroll Home, he thought. It’s sure a lot cleaner. What a hellhole that was.

As he awakened, he began to feel soreness almost everywhere, especially his right temple. A quick rub there confirmed a tender walnut sized lump. The prior night’s events were somewhat clear, though he could not remember every detail. He had drunk too much, got pissed at everything, got into a fight with some Nazi, got arrested. The one thing he could remember most vividly, though, was the foul sausage breath of the police sergeant shouting and cursing at him as he slapped handcuffs on both his wrists. Murphy could not remember whether he was standing or flat on his back at the time.

They had taken everything from him, including passport, wallet, and watch. He had no idea what time it was. At a cognitive level, he knew that stripping him of his belongings and keeping him in a barren room was meant to depersonalize him, to break him down and leave him vulnerable. Despite his understanding of this basic principle of prisoner management, Murphy felt both anger and fear. Anger at himself for losing control of his emotions the night before, and real fear that he would be left to fester in jail for days on end until help arrived. The end result would not be pretty in any case. Fortunately, Nanny Moran was a few thousand miles away and would be in no position to drill Murphy with the meaning of true fear, at least not for a while.

He was about to swing his legs over and attempt to stand up when he heard a metallic clanging at the door. It shot open and three men clad in stark black uniforms entered briskly. Murphy riveted onto the one in the middle. He recognized the type immediately. Older, ramrod straight, hat starched, uniform crisply tailored and pressed. Everything about him screamed ‘Officer‘. His hat bore the insignia of the Death’s Head. He wore two different kinds of collar tabs, both odd appearing. The tab on the left showed four pips and a stripe. Murphy wasn’t sure what it represented, but four pips certainly denoted a high rank. The tab on the right collar was even stranger, bearing what looked like two parallel lightning bolts in silver. A quick once-over of the other two men confirmed that they were typical enlisted grunts, ready to jump at the officer’s command.

“Good morning Mr. Murphy,” the officer offered up a greeting in a calm, brisk, confident tone. He spoke with a distinct British accent. “I hope you had a comfortable night.”

“Yeah, sure.” The agent gave a bleary-eyed smile. He was determined to behave as well as possible, at least until his release.

“My name is Dost. Obersturmbannführer Dost, at your service.” He stopped abruptly and snapped off a sharp salute, one of those Hitler salutes that everyone was doing, with the arm pushed out like a battering ram.

“I guess you already know who I am.” Murphy considered whether he should extend his hand in return, but decided not to.

Dost nodded curtly, quickly retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, and extended them out to Murphy. Without a moment’s hesitation he snagged one and put it to his lips. The officer began to fumble for a light. He made a great show of patting all his pockets and removing a wallet, some change, a metal comb, watch and a passport. They were all Murphy’s. After showing them plainly he laid them on the bed before producing a cigarette lighter.

Both men lit up silently. The officer exhaled deeply before speaking in a quiet, confidential voice, as if speaking to a friend during a long tram ride.

“How is your mission going so far?”

“Mission? What mission? Oh, if you mean escorting Lieb on this little trip, not so good right now.” Murphy forced a grin. Every instinct in him fired an alarm, though. The German appeared way too chummy.

The officer laughed gently. “Not so bad as at Bois de Belleau, though, right?”

Murphy regarded Dost warily. The German stared back expectantly. “Not sure what that has to do with anything.”

“We know about your service in your country’s Marine Corps, Mr. Murphy. We know quite a great deal about you, you see. Your service record. Your current employment. You have even been in the newspapers back in America a few months ago, saving your President’s life, apparently. Quite a famous fellow. Very easy to research all these facts about you. Your partner, though, not as easily. He is a bit more mysterious. But I wanted to meet you personally because of Belleau Wood. You were in Sixth Marines?”

Murphy absorbed everything the officer said. He tried to maintain a passive, expressionless demeanor, but inside he began to churn. What did these bastards really know? “That’s right. Third of the Sixth.” He examined Dost carefully. The man was about his age, medium height, and with a thin, sharply angled face. He looked like a schoolteacher. “Why so interested?”

“I was there.” Dost touched his fingers to the brim of his visor briskly, as if to doff his hat. “My first combat assignment. 461st Regiment, June 4th, 1918. My very first day at the front. It is like yesterday to me. We knew of your regiment. You were very tough. I believe your unit was awarded the Croix de Guerre three times, correct? It must have been a high honor to wear the Forragère of the Croix de Guerre over your shoulder. Where were you posted?”

Murphy kept himself from softening. “Just over Boureches. And you?”

“Closer to Lucy. We charged some woods across from a big stone building.”

“The old hunting lodge. I know it, my unit passed right by there on our way up to the line.” There was a moment’s pause. “It was rough in that sector. A lot of good boys didn’t make it home.”

Dost also hesitated. “Yes. Many good boys did not make it home.”

Silence filled the room once again. Murphy could see that the officer’s eyes were wet, gleaming unnaturally in the white glare of the overhead lights. Abruptly, Dost leaned over and clapped the American on the shoulder. “Well, it was long ago. Why did we fight that damn war, anyway? What made us kill each other? We should be friends, should we not?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Very well, then. I have good news for you. You are being released. The Interior Minister himself, Herr Frick, has ruled on this matter. No charges will be brought forward, but please, we must insist on no further trouble from any of your party. Doctor Lieb is an honored guest in our country, and we want no difficulties to become associated with his visit here.”

Murphy’s mind raced. “That’s it? Nothing else? Free just like that?”

“Of course.” Dost smiled broadly. “We are all kameraden now. I must tell you, my friend, that Herr Kohler is the reason that all charges are being dropped. He explained that you were simply defending yourself against a drunkard. We picked up that man as well and later on he confessed everything to us. He is worse than a drunk, his record shows he was a drückberger during the war. You know...” Dost seemed to struggle for the right word. “Drückberger... A coward, a malingerer. Disgusting. Fortunately, Herr Kohler’s testimony was most compelling. He is a Party member, you know.”

Murphy absorbed everything that was said without any change in expression. He stared back blankly, suppressing a sudden pang in the pit of his stomach.

“As for your partner, Mr. Andrews, you will see him shortly. These men will show you to the main gate.” Dost smiled.

Murphy shook his head. He began to think he could just possibly be wrong about these people. Obersturmbannführer Dost seemed like a genuine fellow, almost likable. And from what he said, Kohler had really come through, like a true friend. He puffed on his cigarette as he gathered his things off the bed.

“So, did you stay in the Army after the war?” He asked the question somewhat more gruffly than he wanted to.

“No. I went home to Cologne after the end of hostilities. What your side called an Armistice. I resumed my trade and my life. I was a bookseller. All kinds, but I specialized in English language books. Thackery, Elliott, Hawthorn, Henry James, and so forth. Poetry, too. I love Blake particularly. I can say honestly that his poetry changed my life. You must know these lines, I’m sure: To see a world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wildflower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand…how does the rest go?” Dost paused, and giggled softly when Murphy did not respond. “And eternity in an hour. Beautiful, no? Live for a moment within those lines and your life will never be the same. I joined the ranks again later, after the troubles started. And you?”

“Me? I became a Private Dick. I thought you knew that already.”

Dost laughed loudly, tilting his head back with each guffaw. “Yes, of course. I love your expressions. You Americans are wonderful with words. Private Dick. Marvelous.”

This time Murphy gave an honest, deep throated chuckle, without reservations. This Dost fellow really seemed like a good Joe. As he began towards the door, escorted by the two enlisted men, he turned once more towards the German officer. “Say, I noticed your uniform. It’s new to me, I can’t make it out. What outfit are you in?”

Dost reflexively touched the tab on his right collar. “We are SS. Schutzstaffel. The Führer’s personal guard. It is a great honor to serve in the SS, indeed.”

“Yeah, well, see ya ‘round” As Murphy sauntered out of his detention cell he squared his shoulders and began to whistle a tune that popped into his mind. It was a marching tune that was cocky, brash, and arrogant, sung once by young voices, thousands of young voices on the march. It was from a time that was intensely real, terrifying, and deeply emotional. A time that had carved up his living body like a sculpture, creating the person now known as Joe Murphy. It was the greatest time of his life.

You see them on the highway

You meet them down the pike

In olive drab and khaki

Are soldiers on the hike

And as the column passes

The word goes down the line

Good morning Mr. Zip-zip-zip

You’re surely looking fine

Murphy somehow managed to keep whistling and smile at the same time as he passed through the door and into the hallway. So long, you scum sucking SS son of a bitch, he thought. You almost fooled me.

Professor Kohler examined the wood carefully, brushing its surface slowly with his gloved index finger. The room was hushed as he performed his exploration. Two lab assistants stood nearby, and a young woman from the Kaiser Friedrich Museum sat across the table to observe. The room was brightly exposed by natural light flooding in from the windows, and the examination table was further illuminated by large portable surgical lights at either end.

He muttered to himself in a low voice as he inspected the precious work of art, an oil on panel. Every few moments he spoke distinctly, and his words were written verbatim in a rapid hand by one of his assistants. “The panel has been thinned for some reason. It is made of three boards, oriented with the grain running horizontally. Probably linden, in my opinion. Cranach used linden and beech wood quite often.” After an imperious, authoritative pause he went on. “The cradle is sound, also thinned slightly.”

The room remained hushed but for the sound of pencil scribbling on paper. The work was not new to Kohler, he had seen it several times before. It was The Nymph of the Spring, one of the few supine nudes painted by Cranach the Elder. As the assistants turned it over face up, he assessed the composition critically. As was sometimes the case with a Cranach, at first it was disappointing. The early Renaissance German artist had never mastered light and shadow, motion and fluidity. The figure of the nymph, lying on her right side, was highly stylized and very Germanic. At first glance the objects within the space created by the artist were emotive and figurative, almost primitive. But very quickly, Kohler’s eyes absorbed an underlying complexity in the arrangement. Carefully positioned symbols orbited the central figure of the nymph, who reposed calmly in the foreground while a clear spring swirled close by against the near horizon. It streamed out from an edifice of rock, in eternal replenishment of the mythological creature’s water sanctuary. A quiver of arrows hung from a nearby tree, a reminder that beauty was often linked to danger.

The Dryads, the Nereids, the Hyads, all were nature’s nymphs, Koehler thought. Legend said that they believed they would live forever, for eternity, like the gods above. But they did not. They were all destined to die, and didn’t know it. They loved, they laughed, they played, they even slept as if the end would never come. How surprising, how galling, how terrifying for them when the fatal moment arrived. And how cruel.

He examined the female figure that dominated the foreground. She described a sinuous curve, naked but for a diaphanous sheet that draped around her waist. Necklaces, one tight around her neck and one hanging like a pendant over her breast, adorned her body. An eddy of fair hair wound around her head, creating a bright whorl of color. Allure, sensuality, and the silent pulse of the surrounding forest were locked together in an evocative harmony.

“Professor, tell us what you see, and what you are thinking, please.” It was the young curator from the museum, herself one of his former students.

Kohler stared at her absentmindedly, seeing only the splash of brown hair that fell upon her shoulders. He pointed at the painting. “I was just wondering. Look at her. What is she? Who is she? Is she Arethusa, goddess of the mountain stream? Perhaps instead she is Dryope the water nymph, seducing the beautiful Hylas, drawing him to her. Does it matter if we know? Do we need to touch the surface, to feel the brushstrokes made by Cranach centuries ago? Do we care that he was Martin Luther’s friend and godfather to his son? Should we compare this figure to Titian’s nymphs? Or can we simply admire the white flesh of her thighs and her half sleeping smile? Which arc of light, which lens, which prism frames this work of art?”

The young woman blushed, both cheeks turning a peach tinted crimson. Kohler smiled as he saw it, feeling a surge of color in his own cheeks.

She spoke quickly, briskly, severely. “You are correct, Professor. Art must create a connection, a bond that is greater than the scope of the image itself. It cannot be simply abstract.”

“And, it must be driven by purpose, by the will of the artist. Correct?”

“Of course, Professor.”

Kohler nodded, satisfied. He felt all eyes transfixed upon him. How wonderful it is to talk about great art, he thought. How wonderful to still be master of the moment. There was so much more to say about the work he was examining... Shadow, movement, centering, symbolism, sexuality...For some irrational reason Jona Lieb popped into his mind, and then, quickly, his two associates; Murphy, the crazy one, and Andrews, the dark one.

He quickly checked his watch. The two agents were sure to be released by this time. The SS Obersturmbannführer whose name he could not remember had assured him of it. It was a clever ploy, really. The Americans would be told that it was his intercession that resulted in their release. Bravo! He would immediately have their gratitude and trust, Jona’s particularly. The other two did not matter in any case. Kohler congratulated himself. It was just such an outcome he hoped for when he first encountered the police the previous evening. He had produced and flaunted his Party membership card and demanded to speak to the police commander. He made a big show of it until Murphy and Andrews were hauled away. Later, he met with the SS officer privately, and they concocted their plan together, a wonderful plan under the circumstances. A true work of art. By the time Kohler had gotten home it was after midnight, he was exhausted, and sleep could not come quickly enough.

As fate would have it, he had an early morning appointment to examine The Nymph. At first, that seemed unfortunate, as he had hoped to meet with Jona for breakfast at his hotel. Now, however, he felt a deep sense of pleasure as he held Cranach’s masterpiece in his hands. An old friend, Baron von Schenck, had shipped it to the museum from his castle home outside Magdeburg and asked him to confirm the authorship of the work. Of course, it had already been authenticated by Max Friedlander years ago, and its provenance was impeccable.

Kohler shook his head. For some undisclosed reason, Max had decided to step down as director of the Kaiser Friedrich Museum, and was rumored to be leaving Germany altogether. They had worked closely together for years under the tutelage of their mentor, Wilhelm von Bode, the old Empire’s grand master of art history and criticism. It was von Bode who transformed the Kaiser Friedrich into one of the world’s premier museums, rivaling anything in London or New York. Of course, it was not the Louvre, but who could foretell the future? Art had a way of migrating here and there, sometimes bought and sometimes sold, sometimes gifted and sometimes plundered. Museums, and even governments, were sometimes required to transfer works of art to other museums, even to other countries. It had happened before and could certainly happen again. Von Bode had worked assiduously to purchase major works for the museum and develop its staff. It was he who who acquired the Holbeins, Dürers and Rembrandts now housed within the institute’s vast exhibits. It was he who hired a young, eager romantic from Munich just out of University, and posted him to Rooms 23 and 24 at the museum, the salons dedicated to mostly anonymous medieval and early Renaissance German art. It was he whose aspirational instructions to museum staff were to do everything possible to imbue ordinary citizens with the pride of Teutonic kultur. It was he who...It was he who first introduced Kohler to the aggressive dynamo known as Ernest Lieb.

It was a crisp October day in 1909, the five year anniversary of the museum’s opening. The Crown Prince was there that day, and in a high quavering voice gave some introductory remarks. The Director gave a brief oration describing some new acquisitions, the pride in his voice vibrating for the world to hear, and afterwards they all withdrew to the basilica for tea. Kohler, wandering among the crowd in thrilled aimlessness, came across von Bode in a heated discussion with a tall, sandy haired man speaking terribly broken German in a loud voice. Kohler could remember as if it were yesterday.

“Mein Herr!” von Bode had called, “Come meet the enfant terrible from the province of Georgia!”

The man stuck his hand straight out, assuming an aggressive stance. “Hi. Ernest Lieb. Hope you’re more reasonable than your boss!”

Kohler could see that von Bode was visibly tittering, a most unusual occurrence for the Old Man. “Dr. Lieb wishes to meet someone famous. Anyone. He says that I won’t do!”

That was indeed laughable, as the Director was one of the most famous men in the world of art. Kohler joined into the mirthful spirit of the moment. “And what kind of famous person would you like to meet? Someone from Admiralspalast perhaps?” In that era Admiralspalast was an infamous and unsavory Revue Hall known mostly for its accommodating women. Kohler thought the joke was funny.

“Don’t be absurd. I was there the other night. A lot of fun. Can’t beat Vaudeville, though.” Lieb answered in a deadpan, serious voice. He looked about, scanning the room. “How about Professor Planck? I heard he was supposed to be here.”

The remark could not have been more painful. Kohler did not know Max Planck, and did not really understand his accomplishments. Something about the theory of electrical waves. But he did know that Planck was considered the world’s pre-eminent scientist. And a proud German. Sadly, the man’s wife had died just the day before, and he had understandably sent a note that he would not be attending the museum event.

“Are you a physicist, Dr. Lieb?”

“No, not a physicist. A physician. I am a scientist who proves things with my hands. Physicists are philosophers who make up stuff in their heads. I go into the field and work, they go to bed and dream.”

“No time to dream, Doctor?”

“I can dream. But I make my dreams come true. So, what about Planck? If he is here I want to meet him.”

The intensity with which Lieb spoke verged on the manic. Kohler felt almost blown over, but recovered quickly. “He is not here, but there are others nearby you may wish to meet.” He turned towards von Bode and bowed politely. “Sir, may I take the Doctor to Room 67?”

Von Bode gravely bowed his assent in return.

And that was the beginning of their long friendship. They walked up to the museum’s second floor where he introduced Lieb to some old companions. There was Dürer’s Madonna of the Finch, works by Schongauer, and the astonishing Rest on the flight to Egypt by Albrecht Altdorfer. To Kohler’s amazement, Lieb launched into a peroration comparing the use of line and form by Dürer and Altdorfer, and relating their techniques to older German masters like Landauer. By the end of the morning Kohler was in a dizzy spin, overcome by the whirlwind of facts, ideas, opinions and arguments that spilled from Lieb, who hardly allowed a word in interruption. Much of what he said was accurate. A good deal was sheer blather and utter nonsense. All of it was uttered with firm conviction.

Finally, Kohler could not stop himself from blurting out, “Doctor, your mastery of the subject is amazing. Have you been studying for very long?”

Ernest Lieb broke into a grin that lit the room. He had wonderful teeth and a broad, strong chin that dimpled as he smiled. “Just since yesterday, friend.” He spread his arms out, as if embracing the entire panorama of paintings in the room. “I love it, all of it! Thank you.” Then he turned to Kohler and with a wicked, conspiratorial smirk he whispered, “Better than the Borghese.”

Both of them laughed uproariously at that, and it was only then that Ernest Lieb began to ask questions about the works on display. Detailed questions about color, paints, allegory, geometry, layering, mysticism, schools, movements, cathedrals and fables. His curiosity was voracious. With each answer his brow wrinkled, as if some inner adjustments were needed to properly stow the new information as it was received. And there was something more about Lieb, something more than his electric energy and ceaseless intellectual demand. Something about the way his guest looked at him and talked to him made Kohler believe that Lieb knew him, understood him, accepted him. Ernest Lieb knew how to be intimate. By the time they parted that afternoon it was as if they were old friends. When Lieb returned to visit years later, they picked up right where they had left off, much as if they had only parted the day before.

Bells pealed clearly in the distance, a penetrating resonance that startled Kohler from his moments of remembrance. Years of time abruptly crumpled like wastepaper, the words and images on the page distorted into a myriad of meaningless fragments before being tossed in the trash. The Cranach work was still in his hands, the nymph still half asleep. She lived in her own world, uncaring about the bells, about Lieb, or even about Cranach.

Kohler cocked his head to listen. Three sets of chimes vibrated in the distance. Noontime, he thought. The Angelus bells. St. Mark’s bells ringing the faithful to prayer and contemplation. Ringing loudly so the flock can find its way.

He had been contemplating much about himself lately. The earlier gloom and depression he felt upon his return to Germany had lifted. He was actually happy in his work and busily preoccupied with the details of everyday life. He felt somehow that this whole business with the young Lieb might have something to do with it and found himself looking forward to visiting with Jona again. In darker moments it occurred to him the entire undertaking was nothing more than a soporific thrown his way by the regime to bind him and enmesh him ever more closely. But that was surely nonsense. After all, he retained his own free will in the matter, and as a good German he would choose to do his duty as he saw it. There could be no blemish on his conscience in that regard.

He focused his concentration on the Cranach once again. The authenticity of the work was unimpeachable. The master’s private symbol, the Kleinod, a small winged snake, hovered in the upper right corner. His friend, the good Baron from Magdeburg, undoubtedly wanted the painting authenticated again because he was preparing to sell it. Perhaps to someone in New York, or Zurich. Who could know, perhaps even to some person in the exotic land of Georgia. Well, it was indeed a creation of Cranach the Elder, quite authentic, and would undoubtedly bewitch some nouveau riche matron, or seduce a cinema star, or entrance a financial magnate fresh from a boffo day at the Bourse.

Kohler examined the surface through a magnifying glass, and began dictating clearly to his assistant. “Pentimenti seen on the nymph’s upper thigh. Note some erosion and wear in the right upper corner. Retouching in both upper corners.” It was genuine, he thought, but flawed. It was blemished, true, but very valuable nonetheless, and it would undoubtedly sell very dearly. Art could be that way sometimes.

William E. Dodd paced around his desk pensively. He was a contemplative man as a rule. He liked a thoughtful, reasoned approach to any problem, no matter how acute or dire. Decisions and solutions needed to be adequately supported by a structure of logic, fleshed out by empirically derived knowledge. However, he knew that even the strongest pyramids of logic could be founded on phantasms of myth and nonsense. And lies. He was, after all, a historian, and knew that humankind had often blundered into the most obscene of pathways on the basis of finely tuned logic. He was afraid that was precisely what was happening in Germany right now.

Dodd was Ambassador and Plenipotentiary Extraordinaire to the newly proclaimed German Reich. He was fully sensible of the fact that this was an enormously important posting, for a confluence of reasons. Most significantly, the Confederate States of America did not have many other ambassadorial level stations in Europe. Oh, yes, there were embassies in small countries with little to offer, like Estonia, and perhaps soon the legation in Rome would be upgraded. But Germany remained the Southland’s most important strategic contact. And now, as political fervor swept the Nazis into power it was all-important to keep a careful finger on the pulse of events. Germany offered their only keyhole to the doors of the world.

Fortunately, it did seem as if matters had quieted down over the past few months. After the burning down of the Reichstag in February there had been a storm of activity. Hitler had seized authoritarian control of the government in a coup. Dodd could see that it was a completely naked power grab without any substantive justification and had informed his government accordingly. Now Hitler and his henchmen were supreme, and as might be expected they were busily consolidating their control over every possible agency nationwide. Schools, youth groups, newspapers and radio, the judiciary, medical associations, and of course the military; all were devoured by the many headed hydra of the Nazi regime.

On the other hand, there was no more chaos in the streets, industry was purring busily, people were getting back their jobs, and Hitler’s popularity was soaring. From his perch in Berlin, it seemed to Dodd that matters were progressing much better in Germany than in his own country.

He had recently sent a report to Richmond concluding that the Reich was stabilized and that no new or abrupt changes in policy were forthcoming, in the near future at least. He opined that he did not know how long the Nazis would keep power, but right now there was no serious challenge to their authority. Also, it seemed that Hitler did not seek war, but that he was quite serious about resolving the “Jewish question.” In the same cable he requested clarification about his own scope of activity and authority in the aftermath of President Pickett’s declaration of domestic martial law.

The ambassador was a sincere patriot. He loved his country, he loved Carolina, and he loved the rich texture of Southern life. He had written a biography of Jefferson Davis, and in it he had endeavored to explain context and history, culture and geography as the key elements in his hero’s life, and the sphere within which he toiled so arduously to accomplish the birth of a nation. In the short span of his own lifetime Dodd could see it all falling apart. The body politic was dismembered as surely as a bomb might dismember a limb from the torso. He had spoken with the President at length before accepting this posting; he was gratified to know that Pickett accepted the fundamental requirement for slavery reform. The recent turmoil back home only accentuated the need for change.

Morale was low and anxiety was high for everyone on his staff, and Dodd himself had become afflicted by migraine headaches as a result. It was his wife who suggested he go to Nauheim for the cure. Ordinarily Dodd would not consider it, but the French were going for the summer, as were the Swedes and perhaps the Rumanians. It was even rumored that Randolph Hearst, the USA newspaper impresario, might be coming with his mistress. It was well known he was sympathetic to the Nazis, and there was some thought that he might be interested in expanding his news syndicate to major German cities. Perhaps he could be enticed to open bureaus in the CSA as well. That would be quite a feather in Dodd’s hat.

All in all, going to Nauheim to enjoy both the baths and the buzz of informal diplomacy seemed like the right thing to do, and everyone on the staff thought it was a wonderful idea as well. Everyone except Adalius Pecker. Pecker was an atrocious little troll from Texas, an ape-like midget, a disfigured dwarf who slinked around pretending not to be noticed. He was their spy in residence, but he acted more like a mole snooping on Dodd and the embassy staff rather than a professional investigator cultivating sensitive contacts within the German government. The horrid little man came from what was assuredly a village of mud huts named Silverton in Briscoe County. Pecker had taken on the nut brown, skin cracked appearance of the hill people who lived there, and Dodd constantly imagined him skulking among the bone dry arroyos that edged the rolling divide of the Caprock, blending into the background like a mutant chameleon. Not surprisingly, the diminutive spymaster was widely known among embassy staff by the sobriquet of Peckerhead.

When Pecker learned of the upcoming spa excursion he became apoplectic, something that Dodd found to be quite satisfying. It was therefore more than a bit suspicious when the stunted spy called Dodd’s office on the morning of departure and announced that he needed to see the ambassador urgently, within the hour. Dodd’s wife was sure that the evil little creature was simply trying to annoy them as much as possible and suggested that her husband place a large rat trap in the corner of his office, just to see what might happen. She offered to supply the cheese.

Pecker burst into Dodd’s private study without a knock, and he was not alone. A tall, distinguished looking, white haired gentleman was with him. He was dressed in a richly textured, close cut brown serge suit and deep blue poplin shirt. On one of his wide lapels he wore a small red button emblazoned with a Nazi swastika. His wardrobe and his demeanor projected a sense of power and affluence. He appeared somehow familiar, and Dodd was sure they had met before, but he could not recall the man’s name, or remember the circumstances of their encounter.

Adalius Pecker could not restrain himself. “I’ve brought someone very important to meet you.” His broad smirk conveyed his sense of triumph in the moment. “This is Alfred Rosenberg.”

“Ah, Herr Rosenberg, welcome.” Dodd rushed to proffer the man a seat. Alfred Rosenberg was the publisher of Völkischer Beobachter, the newspaper that served as the primary news organ of the Nazi Party. More importantly, he was known to be in the innermost circle of Hitler’s friends and advisors. No one, not even Goering, could claim to be an older or closer friend to the Fuehrer. Dodd had met him years before at a Nazi Party social gathering, a time when Rosenberg appeared much less imposing than he did now.

The German tossed his gray, short brimmed hat, a sharply creased trilby, onto Dodd’s desk, sat down casually and crossed his legs with both hands folded in his lap, as if awaiting drink service at his club. He gazed at Dodd expectantly, and with his head tilted at just the right angle in order to appear both sincere and imperious. Dodd in turn stared back, quite flummoxed.

Pecker broke the silence, mumbling in a low raspy voice. “Mr. Ambassador, we need to talk about the Lieb fellow.”

Dodd glanced nervously between Pecker and Rosenberg. What is the idiot doing? He thought furiously. Why is he talking openly about Lieb? The ambassador had of course been informed of Jona Lieb’s arrival in Berlin. All he knew, though, was that Lieb was traveling on to the CSA to take part in some kind of colloquium to honor his father. Dodd was smart enough to understand there had to be something more to the story, something sensitive that was being kept secret. It was now plain that Pecker and Rosenberg both knew more about it than he did.

“Go on.” He tried to sound as casual as possible.

“Your Excellency, you may be aware that Dr. Lieb’s itinerary will take him ultimately to the city of Atlanta in your country.” Rosenberg spoke with a vague air of distraction, as if he were thinking about where he might be dining that evening.

“Yes.”

“Did you know that he is carrying a communication with him?”

“Hmm...a communication.” Dodd was determined to remain nonresponsive.

Rosenberg laughed softly. “I understand your reservation, Herr Dodd.”

Pecker jumped in, unable to restrain himself. “We know he is carrying a letter for the President, and the people at Prinz Albrecht Strasse believe it is from Roosevelt himself. The thinking is, the Yankees may want to settle up the bill.” Pecker’s voice was oddly melodious, quite out of keeping with his grotesque appearance. “We have this information courtesy of our friend here.” He nodded towards Rosenberg.

“And how do they have this information?”

Rosenberg smiled diffidently, spread his arms, and shrugged. “Well, surely that’s not important right now. What is important is that it is quite true, and we are quite happy to share that intelligence with you.”

Dodd sat on the edge of his desk and stared thoughtfully at the floor. He felt an immediate and intense dislike for the German. Back at Randolph-Macon college he had taught students like Rosenberg; well-heeled, smartly dressed, well mannered, and, lurking underneath, the stink of a smirky smarminess. This particular social caste invariably possessed a bedrock of incredible arrogance. “Did you say ‘share’?”

“Certainly.” Rosenberg edged forward on his chair, projecting an air of complete sincerity. “We do want to share with you. Our countries are kindred spirits, are they not? Tell me Ambassador, as an educated man, have you read the works of Arthur de Gobineau and Houston Stewart Chamberlain? They rank among the great minds of the century. Their philosophic proof of the need for racial and blood purity should be mandatory teaching in your country, of all places. We both share the same beliefs, do we not? We both share the new religion of the blood, is that not true? It is only proper that we share information as well. It is my dream that one day we will be more than friends, we will be allies. Think about it, Mr. Dodd! Germany and the CSA. Almost certainly Italy will join us. Maybe, one day, Japan as well. We could rule the world! You could take Washington, Philadelphia, New York as your own. I would send a crew of correspondents to cover the first sale of Africans in Times Square! The possibilities are endless.”

“All we want is to be left alone, thank you.” Dodd pursed his lips. Was the man trying to lure him into saying something outlandish, something he could bring back to his friend Adolph? Or was he merely out of his mind? He stole a quick glance at Pecker. The contemptible little creature was virtually standing at attention as Rosenberg spoke. At any moment Dodd half expected him to throw out the stiff-armed salute the Nazis were so fond of.

“Look, Ambassador. We just received some disturbing news about Lieb. That’s why we’re here.” Adalius Pecker spoke with a slow, unconcerned, sonorous drawl, but his eyes bored into Dodd with a fierce intensity.

Dodd abruptly felt his skin crawl and a tingling at the nape of his neck. He didn’t know why, but the two men in the room were suddenly frightening to him, as if they were newly unleashed dogs; two unbred, ravenous, unreasoning hounds set loose in the streets. He no longer wanted to talk with them, but was afraid to order them away.

“What is the disturbing news?”

“Well, it’s just this.” Pecker gave a jubilant grin, revealing teeth that looked like irregular, small, unpolished stones snatched from the banks of an upland stream. “Our little messenger boy is gone. Missing. For all we know he’s dead.”

Content Note: The following chapter includes scenes of violence and descriptions of injury consistent with the historical events portrayed.

Chapter 7

Jona floated in a a sea of mist, mesmerized by the vaporous wisps that formed and reformed all around him. It was very early. The first morning spray of sunlight was just beginning to color the fog with a pearly touch. The ship was rolling very slightly, giving Jona the dizzying feeling that he was flying through a bank of clouds. He could feel the steady rhythmic vibration of the ship’s engines, but there were no sounds except for the deep thud of waves against steel. As Jona stared out to sea, whitecaps were just barely discernible along the murky reaches of the waterline. They approached regularly, wave by wave, with unfailing frequency. Some seemed to lash at the sides of the ship with frenzy, others with an ordered calm, each crest completely unpredictable in its form and strength. Further off, visible through tracers of light in the semidark, the waves seemed disembodied from the ocean itself, appearing as on a remote horizon of time and space, roiling with their own intrinsic rhythm.

Just for a moment, Jona wanted to believe he was in a magical, almost mystical place. Perhaps he could unearth deep secrets in this space, or find contentment, or wisdom, or come face to face with the inner membrane of his being. But his mind spun actively, telling him that the haze was the product of atmospheric condensation as warmer air struck cooler water. He could deduce that his perception of water and sky was actuated by the reflection and refraction of light waves, generating energy in certain wavelengths which in turn stimulated retinal receptors that fed the information in the form of neuro-impulses to his brain. There was no magic.

As he leaned on the railing Jona turned his face into the wind, squinting towards the dawn. Visibility is zero, he thought. Visibility is zero. I can’t see a thing. He paused a moment, feeling the wind brush across his face, a soft reminder of his place in the present. My father would say that’s exactly when everything should be most clear. Visibility is then really infinite, unshackled from everything we are supposed to see. And then he would probably say something very clever, like visibility is both infinite and zero.

Zero. The word brought him back sharply to the time he was recuperating from the active phase of polio. He had come home from the hospital, heavily sedated with laudanum because of the pain from muscular contractions. It was already more than six weeks into the course of illness, and recovery of muscle function in his legs had progressed much too slowly. A noted doctor from Chicago had come to examine Jona, at his father’s request. He was young appearing, with a brusque manner, foul breath and cold hands. At the end of the examination, he announced in a loud voice to no one in particular that there was zero chance of complete recovery. He emphasized the word zero with a harsh finality that allowed for no discussion or argument. That was the first time it dawned on Jona that he might remain permanently bedridden, that he might never walk again. The revelation frightened him beyond comprehension. His father had been furious with the doctor, bellowing at him as if he were a first year medical student. Later that day, he was exceptionally attentive to Jona, sitting at his bedside and reading to him for hours from The Count of Monte Cristo. Jona could still remember each thrilling narrative from the book. Earnest Lieb did not have to explain to his son that it told the story of a man who was able to overcome every adversity. At the end of the reading his father leaned very close to Jona, seeming to struggle with words for a few seconds. He made a sobbing noise but said nothing. Grief lay suspended between them like a filmy web, a net catching every sound and motion, every feeling and thought. Then, in a tick of the clock, the moment ended. The elder Lieb composed himself and gave his son a squeeze of the shoulder. Jona had a sudden premonition that some kind of parable, wise saying, or paradigm was about to be conferred upon him, like a gift from a munificent prince. Something like ‘Zero is the mirror image of the infinite,’ or ‘Every possibility begins from zero.’ But nothing was said. No magic words, no profound utterances. It was one of the few times he could remember his father sitting in total silence, staring at the floor while touching Jona on the arm.

Two indistinct forms abruptly materialized out of the fog, a couple walking slowly down the deck arm in arm. They were both bundled into overcoats to protect against the chill dawn air. As they passed he could see they were elderly. The man walked with shuffling steps and his right hand tremored rapidly, as if he were rolling some unseen dice. The old woman held him tightly, supporting him carefully as they strolled. Jona scrutinized them carefully. Based on their head shape and cheekbones they appeared to be eastern European. Not Slavic. Very likely Jews. Poles, perhaps. Or Estonians. Skull size and orbits suggested moderate intelligence. Nothing else of importance was noticeable. He felt a sudden wave of appreciation for his forensic training. They nodded amicably as they passed, their lips twitching into smiles flashing with silver and gold. Jona stared after them as they continued silently towards the stern of the ship, leaving him in their wake as they disappeared into the mist.

For some reason the sight oppressed him, throwing his mind into a whirlwind of further thoughts. From the start, the ocean passage had prompted many memories. Now three days into the voyage, Jona was awash with reminders of his childhood. This was his first trip abroad since he and his father had first gone to Germany, eventually to flee the South permanently. His mother had died just three months earlier, and their departure had been arranged hastily. Jona recalled his excitement about missing school, but little else about their preparations.

He was only nine then, and spent much of the voyage terrified that a wave might wash him overboard, or that the boat would founder on a hidden reef. There were no nannies with them on that trip; the elder Lieb kept him close at all times. He pointed out details of the ship’s construction, explained all about screw driven propulsion, airtight compartments and bulkheads, and reassured Jona that it was all quite safe. Nonetheless, the young boy remained apprehensive throughout the passage and clung to his father as much as possible.

Nights were the worst time. Falling asleep in his bunk, he imagined that every noise coming from the hull and every vibration coming from the engines was an impending sign of disaster. Almost every night it seemed an eternity before he could drift into sleep. Often, visions of his mother came to him during periods of semi arousal. She coughed incessantly in his visions, a throbbing cough that merged with the powerful rhythmic pulsations coming from the engines.

One night he was awakened by a nightmare. Frightening dreams were uncommon for Jona, but whenever they did come they continued to terrify him for weeks afterwards. That night’s dream was now lost to his memory, but he remembered that he awakened in a panic to find the cabin in complete darkness. He could hear the ship creaking and throbbing, just as if it were cracking apart. Instinctively, he got out of his bed and attempted to crawl in with his father, whimpering all the while.

Earnest Lieb awakened with one of those crazed, unreasoning explosions of anger that usually resulted in a fiery welt across Jona’s bottom, or worse. This once, however, his father calmed down quickly. After turning on the bedside lamp he told Jona to sit on the floor facing him.

“What is the matter?” he demanded sharply.

Jona responded the only way he knew, by crying and rubbing his eyes as he sobbed.

Earnest Lieb heaved a disapproving sigh. “You’re scared?” He waited a moment while Jona bobbed his head up and down. “Look, Jona, you’re no longer a young child. You’re nine, aren’t you? I can’t baby you every time you’re frightened. Fear is something you will have to learn to overcome. Fear itself is no more than a disease, an illness that can be diagnosed and treated effectively. Sometimes the therapy itself is difficult or even painful, like an operation, but in the long run it’s well worth it.”

The little boy sitting on the floor merely nodded his head, unsure what might be coming next.

His father commanded him sharply back onto his own bunk. Using a long thin leather belt from one of their suitcases, Earnest Lieb tied his son’s wrists together, and then to the bed’s side rail. Without a word he then turned off the small bedside lamp, leaving the cabin in darkness once again. Jona spent the night in agony, terror, and anger. For hours afterwards he could not fall asleep, feeling trapped and immobilized by the restraints around his hands. Of course, crying out for help was out of the question. Eventually, a grey, filmy dawn appeared through the porthole and awakened him, a dawn very similar to the one just blossoming through the fog of the current day. In the light of that long ago daybreak, Jona was able to see that his father had fashioned the knot in such a way that it came apart simply by shaking his wrists vigorously. If he had made any effort during the night to escape, the knot would have fallen off, releasing him. That memory still pierced him. Ha, ha, he thought, that was very clever, dad, teaching me a lesson like that, making it so I will never forget. Jona held on to the railing as the ship rolled across some deep swells. He began to feel some of the same anger he had felt that night returning again. Without realizing it, he began grinding his teeth. His thoughts piled rapidly and grimly, one upon the other. Well, it’s time, he thought. It’s time to make my own memories now. He’s gone, so I’ll chart my own course. Like taking on this mission. He took on assignments, now I’ve got one. Maybe I’ll be the one to do something important for the cause of world peace. I guess he’d like that.

Jona was still amazed at himself for agreeing to the venture. It was most certainly not a patriotic gesture. He did not believe that America was the last great hope of mankind, even though he called it his home. Appeals to jingoism were just so much political tripe, and he hated politics. Jona had been taught from childhood that patriotism was the last refuge of the indolent beggar searching for meaning and had never observed a reason to change that opinion. He supposed that his home was as good as some places, and as bad as some others. No difference, really. His father had filled him with many stories of the wider world: England, France, Germany, Russia, Central Africa, China, the Balkans. Earnest Lieb had travelled to each of those areas to teach, to research, to help, to heal. Each had it’s special place in the sun, each its special mission, each its individual lesson for all mankind. Undoubtedly that was true of the CSA as well, despite all the criticism it received on the world stage. ‘We are born citizens of the world’, was one of his father’s maxims. Jona grimaced. Another cosmic incantation to live up to. Still, there was a ring of truth to it, and Jona was determined to enjoy the experience of new and foreign lands for himself.

“Up kinda early, doc.”

Jona’s head and neck snapped around, his eyes quivering in the direction of the greeting. It was Murphy, slicing into view as sharply as the prow of a ship emerging from a fogbank.

The federal agent walked up to him briskly, extending his hand. “Sorry about that, didn’t mean to scare you.”

Lieb looked past the agent. “Good morning yourself. Where is Andrews?”

Murphy smirked. “Still getting his beauty sleep, pal.”

“It is early, agent Murphy. What gets you up at this hour?”

“Routine, Doc. Learned it in the Marines, and it’s been a habit ever since. And by the way, no more ‘agent Murphy’ crap. It’s ‘Murph’, or ‘Murphy’, or just ‘hey, bub!’ That’s all”

Jona realized that the fellow was trying to be friendly but felt uneasy in his presence all the same. Somehow, Murphy did not project the same warm, quiet reassurance that flowed from Andrews. On the contrary, the older agent gave the appearance of someone perpetually determined to bash his head through a solid brick wall. The man’s jaw protruded forward as if inviting confrontation. Most disturbing, he had a way of squinting as he spoke that made his eyes bulge enormously. The whole image projected raw, primitive power. Jona wanted to get away gracefully, without having to say anything that might seem curt or rude. “Look, I was just going for some tea...”

“Sure, I’ll join you, doc.” Murphy spoke loudly and with supreme confidence.

Lieb took pains to stare down at the deck, trying to hide his chagrin.

Both men ambled slowly and soundlessly towards the aft garden lounge, which served coffee and tea through all hours. They passed a group of deckhands who were securing the rigging around a lifeboat. The sight made Jona pause and shudder involuntarily.

Murphy noticed immediately and chuckled. “What’s the worry, doc? Don’t concern yourself. There are plenty to go around, and they all work. The crew are just performing safety checks. No worries, these modern ships can’t sink. You weren’t thinking of the Titanic, were you?”

“No, not really...It made me think of the Lusitania.”

“No chance. The Lusitania was torpedoed by a Kraut U-Boat during the war. We’re not at war.” Murphy paused a moment, thinking. “Well, we’re not at war with anyone who’s going to shoot at us on this boat. Not that kind of war.”

They entered the garden lounge, passing from gray light into bright illumination. Scratchy music was playing from a gramophone in the corner. It sounded like Bing Crosby singing ‘You’re Getting to be a Habit with Me.’ For some reason, Jona detested the song, and immediately wished that he could be alone, back in his room, and far away from Mr. Joe Murphy.

As they sat down Murphy stared at Jona intensely. “You don’t like me very much, do you, doc?” His voice was raspy, choked by years of inhaling tobacco smoke.

Jona fielded the question nervously, sipping from his cup before answering. “It’s not that I don’t like you, Agent Murphy. Put yourself in my place. I’m virtually assaulted by federal agents on the day of my father’s funeral, and pressured to do something I had no intention of agreeing to do until I was threatened by your boss. All of you made it sound like I’m a Red sympathizer. If you ask me, Moran’s the one acting like a Bolshevik!” Jona took a deep breath, trying to keep his hand from shaking as he lifted the tea cup to his lips.

Joe Murphy let out a small grunt as he leaned over the table. “You are quite a little shit, aren’t you.”

“What did you say?” Jona appeared stunned.

“You heard me.” Murphy spoke softly, as if describing the floral arrangement sitting in the middle of the table. “I’ve seen a million guys like you before. Everything has to be just right for them, or they go running to mommy. Or daddy in your case, I guess.”

Jona hesitated but decided to stand his ground. It was very important that he establish control over this man. “That’s no way to talk to me, and very unfair,” he quavered. “I’m no weakling. I’ve had to overcome quite a bit in my life, as you may have noticed.”

Murphy lit up a cigarette despite the early hour. Lieb really was a little shit, and the grizzled agent wanted to push him a little further. “Yeah, I noticed. Like overcoming the fact that you were dumped by that Marielle broad. I bet that was rough, big boy!”

“She didn’t dump me, if you must know. I’m the one that broke things up with her...” Jona trailed off, looking nervously around the room. “Look, that’s really none of your concern, and something I’d prefer not to discuss.”

“Is that so?” Murphy laughed. “Well, doc, I have to tell you that I’ve seen her picture, and she is one hot little cookie. Why the heave-ho?”

Jona gave every appearance of being miserable. His shoulders slumped, his head drooped, and after a moment he let out a sigh. When he spoke at last it sounded like he was mumbling to himself. “I suppose I didn’t really want to, but dad... He insisted. He made me.”

Joe Murphy’s brain raced at the mention of the elder Lieb. “That must have been tough, kid. Did you love her?”

“Yes. Maybe. Yes, I think so. I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure.”

“What was it, then? Was it because she was a crazy anarchist? A Commie? Come on, your dad had lots of Commie friends.”

“No, it wasn’t that at all. That part was OK, I think. I’m not sure. There must have been something wrong with her. Something that wasn’t visible to me, but he could see.”

Jona shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his mind filled instantly with a thousand different visions of Marielle. He could see her red hair flashing across her face as she turned to look at him, her eyes gleaming with impish glee as she teased him, the smell of her neck...Their last night together she had smothered him with kisses, begging him to go with her, to drop everything and leave it all behind. “Let’s make a new life with just the two of us,” she had said. He could still feel the electricity in her touch.

In the beginning, everything had been easy. There was no thinking, no decision making, no plus or minus to consider. He was mesmerized by her. Everything about Marielle - her pale beauty, her wit, her fire, the way she sighed - intoxicated him. When he was near her, it was like nothing he had ever felt previously. He had never seen things so clearly, and he had never been so certain about anything before. From almost their first encounter, Jona knew he was hopelessly in love with Marielle.

When they were not together, he felt a dull, aching void deep inside. By daytime he was filled with visions of her. By nighttime he was in a special torment, overpowered by a burning lust that stabbed into his belly as if a knife were twisting inside him. Like a man with a draining wound, he tossed, heaved and flailed, unable to sleep. His symptoms often carried over into his work, rendering him useless, mindless and hapless for hours at a time. He wanted to find her, speak to her, and touch her. Sometimes, visions of her lustrous body came to him as he performed autopsies, carrying with them every imaginable fantasy.

And she was so free. She was a modern woman, unfettered by what she called enslavement to societal norms and conventions. Margaret Sanger was one of her heroines, and she loudly proclaimed her belief in women’s equality. She argued for abortion and communal centers for child rearing in order to free women to pursue their dreams.

One evening she told him she believed in free love, whispering it in his ear with an impish look in her eye. An electric charge pierced Jona as surely as the strike of a lightning bolt. He repeated her words in his mind, but could not process or understand her meaning. “Do you mean have others in our bed? Not just me and you?”

She whispered the gentle laugh he loved so much. “Darling, we haven’t even been in bed yet. Don’t worry, I didn’t mean that others would be draped around us when we’re together. I just mean that there’s no reason to feel trapped. That goes for you too. Of course.”

He must have appeared shocked, because she pulled at the lapels of his jacket, pulling his face near hers. “What’s the matter, darling? Are you jealous? You don’t want me to abandon everything I believe, do you?”

Jona could still close his eyes and remember the soft warmth of her breath upon his neck as he held her close, and feel once again the turmoil in his brain as he struggled to understand her meaning. “What are telling me, Marielle? Have you been with others?”

“You are jealous, after all. It’s sexual jealousy, isn’t it, and you must drive it out of your mind immediately. It is not allowed. You cannot feel that way if you want to be a modern man. Actually, you cannot feel that way if you want to be with me.”

“Of course,” he told her, saying the only thing he could possibly say. “But you must never leave me.”

“Never, darling.” She breathed the words with a with a silky laugh.

Jona could remember the quick thought that flashed through his mind that moment, a feeling that probed at him like the burnt tip of a stake. “No jealousy. Anyway, I’ve always been told what my feelings should be or not be. Always.” The thought flickered out quickly, and with Marielle in his arms, he again abandoned himself to the miracle of love.

Most miraculous of all, Jona felt that he had started a whole new life, a new existence, something he could not even conceive of before he met Marielle. He felt, at some times joyously and at other times almost somberly, as if he were whole again. For the first time since his boyhood illness, he stopped dwelling on his limping gait and atrophied legs, and pain abandoned him. Marielle was the first woman he had ever touched. She was the first woman he had ever allowed to touch him. His first time alone with her had been like a dream, free of almost all inhibitions. His only thoughts were for her, as if the person previously known as Jona had disappeared, swallowed up in a tidal wave of new and powerful emotions. He had wanted even more, much more. He had wanted to both devour her and subsume himself within her, and consummate their love in every possible way. But, he had never dared those possibilities. An unseen, inner breakwater funneled his actions, permitting his waves of desire to go so far, and no further. Beyond that was fear and uncertainty, a place he would not speak of, a void within him patrolled by monstrous anxiety.

He introduced her to his father on Columbus Day at a reception held at Jack Dempsey’s restaurant. The affair was meant to raise money for food relief in the Bowery, and ordinarily would be an odd sort of event for Earnest Lieb to attend. As a rule, he preferred to speak on behalf of more cosmic causes, such as the political precursors of famine in China, or malaria control in the Congo River basin. This time, however, his father came to attend and not to speak, since the featured guest was Babe Ruth.

Earnest Lieb loved baseball, and like millions of simple-minded adolescents he idolized the infamous Yankee baseball giant immortalized as The Babe. Baseball was virtually the only distraction the elder Lieb allowed himself in the conduct of his everyday affairs. It was also the only thing that could induce him to sit in a public place, whether a restaurant or a ballpark, without being the center of attention himself. Jona never understood his father’s passion for a game that he considered terminally tedious. His father tried repeatedly to interest him in the nuances of baseball, without any success. The summer after Jona contracted polio the elder Lieb insisted that they go to the Polo Grounds together to see a game. At the time, he was still using crutches and simply getting to his first row seat was agony. Several of the players came by to leave autographed baseballs for the convalescing boy, but it was all meaningless to Jona. The only one he could remember afterwards was someone called ‘The Flying Dutchman’, and then only because of the absurdity of his name.

At the fund-raising affair, Jona couldn’t remember what his father said upon meeting Marielle. It all seemed to be going well, though...

“Hey, Doc. Wake up, are you daydreaming?” Murphy leaned over to tap Jona on the elbow.

He responded slowly, almost drowsily, as if awakening from a convalescent sleep. “Sorry. That’s a part of my life I would like to leave behind, if you don’t mind. It makes no difference now. Anyway, it’s all over.”

The Secret Service agent took another drag from his cigarette as he contemplated Jona. “Doc, I don’t think it is. As I said, I’ve seen guys like you before. Don’t be a sap, you’ve still got a lotta shit floating around upstairs.”

In an instant Jona found himself exploding with anger. “You go to hell! You go right to dirty darned hell!” He struggled to his feet, almost as if he were going to lunge at Murphy. “What do you know about me, about what I am? All you think you see is a cripple and you pretend to be polite about it while you secretly laugh your guts out. You’ve seen guys like me before? Let me tell you, I’ve seen your type a million times before as well, you brute faced ape, and inside here I’m just as much a man as you are!” Jona thumped his chest as he finished, and almost immediately he felt deflated. He sat down slowly, aware that the busboy was staring at him. A quick scan around the room confirmed that a couple in the corner were eyeing him warily.

Murphy watched him coolly, dragging deeply and then stubbing out the cigarette. “Well done, doc, well done. I want to thank you sincerely for that little demonstration.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s good to see you’re actually alive and kicking. A living, breathing human being with a pair of cojones between your legs. Before that, I thought you looked like a man dying from some sort of disease. Like some kinda cancer, maybe.”

By the time Andrews got out onto the first-class promenade deck the sun had burned through the low lying layer of clouds, and it had become a beautiful, clear day. The sea had calmed down with the advent of daylight, now stretching out to a straight green horizon. He knew Jona was an early riser and had wanted to be up in time to meet him for breakfast. But, like every other night since the start of the voyage, he had slept miserably, tossing for what seemed like hours before finally drifting off. Although he looked clean shaven and relaxed, he was nauseated and had a terrific headache.

It had taxed his enormous powers of self discipline to maintain his daily composure while getting almost no sleep since leaving New York. He found his cabin to be suffocatingly small, the bed too short for his lanky frame and the air in his room musty and oppressive. It all brought back too many memories of his youth in Baltimore, growing up in his sister’s ancient, dilapidated frame house. He had slept in a small cubbyhole next to the stairs. It was more a closet than a room, and he had sworn then never to live like that again, whatever it might take. The crossing was now almost over, and none too soon for him.

Despite feeling washed out, he remained attuned to the mission, and most importantly to Jona. By this time, he felt that he could read Lieb like a book. All the elements of his background and makeup were readily discernible to anyone who would see: A brilliant, overbearing father, an enduring love-hate relationship with his long dead mother, a life of shame and humiliation due to a disability, and a record of mediocre achievement in his field. Andrews nodded to himself as he briskly ticked off each point in turn. It was all there, a classic profile of a man who was a loner. And a loser. Someone who had lost both in the game of life and in the game of love. Andrews had seen this personality type before, someone who could not easily trust others and who in turn could never be trusted completely. And he had certainly not changed his initial opinion about Jona; he just didn’t like him.

It was his task, however, to engage Jona, and to appear supportive and understanding. Someone who could be leaned upon in time of need. A friend. On a clinical level, he knew the confidence building methods that could be used to foster attachment, and John Andrews applied what he knew without hesitation. Demeanor, intonation, facial expression, and even dress were elements that he brought to bear on Lieb, with obvious success. It was clear that Jona liked him and seemed to want him around whenever possible. Ironically, that was just what Joe Murphy had predicted would happen.

At the thought of the senior agent, Andrews frowned. Murphy had remained abrupt, and even harsh with him since embarkation. He didn’t really give a rat’s ass what Murphy thought of him personally, but it remained important to his career track that he remain on good professional terms with the senior agent on the case. He could not risk a poor written evaluation. Of course, a successfully completed mission, with himself as the lynchpin, would assure advancement. After all, this was all being reported right to the top, possibly even to the president directly. Moran would see to that. When it was over, he would be sure to get the lion’s share of credit and Murphy could take a hike.

In fact, the whole crowd back at Secret Service could take a hike. Andrews knew they talked about him behind his back. There was nothing new in that. And he knew why, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was going forward and advancing to the head of the line. The Secret Service, after all, was not the end of the world. Other agencies would want to gobble him up, like the FBI. The Director himself had told him so. And, it had to be admitted, no agency was more powerful than the Bureau, not even the Secret Service. J. Edgar Hoover had taken a personal interest in Andrews and had made it clear that there was an appropriate position being prepared for him upon his successful return. Hoover was the kind of mover and shaker who would pull his whole team with him to the highest strata of power in Washington. John Andrews planned to be right there with the charismatic Director as the Bureau advanced in prestige and influence. And down the road, who could know what might happen?

As he turned towards the port side of the deck, still searching for Jona, Andrews heard his name called. He whirled around to see a cabin boy approaching with a piece of paper in his hand. “Mister Andrews,” he said briskly, “Telegram, sir.”

The agent snatched the telegram, signed for it, and took a snap glance at it. He stuffed it into his pocket and looked quickly up and down the deck to make sure neither Jona nor Murphy had seen the message delivered. Especially Murphy. He was virtually alone, and no one within view had given a look in his direction. Striding aft rapidly, he made his way back to his cabin in a few moments. He prayed not to bump into Joe Murphy, who would almost certainly question him about where he was going, and why.

Once in the cabin he locked the door and sat down on his bed before taking out the telegram. It was from Washington, timed and dated from earlier the same day. He had been told before he left that he might receive a communication during the course of the mission, but he was surprised nonetheless. Considering the risks involved, something important must have triggered the transmission of a cable by public channels, even in code.

Andrews retrieved a small notebook and a pencil from his suitcase and opened it next to the telegram. After a few minutes he had it deciphered into plain language. He read it twice, then thoroughly ripped it up and flushed it down the toilet. Once he was satisfied the note was destroyed, he first checked himself carefully in the mirror, then went out to find Jona. Andrews smirked as he took the stairs two at a time. His buddy must be missing him by now.

Southampton was alive with a writhing mass of humanity shouting and waving from the pier as the ship was docked. The scene brought back a vivid memory of arriving in Bremen in 1909, with Jona comfortably in the embrace of his father as their vessel was nudged into its berth. He remembered the stale, salty ocean smell, the cobblestoned streets and the hansom driver wearing an ornate, shiny-black peaked hat.

After arrival they entrained directly for Berlin. Jona was to live there for about a year while his father worked at the Institute. During that time the elder Lieb traveled frequently, sometimes around Germany, sometimes to England or France. It was not unusual for him to be away for weeks at a stretch, but he always traveled alone. Jona was left behind to attend classes dutifully at the British Embassy School, under the watchful eye of his nanny, Mathilde.

They lived in a modest brick home in Kreuzfeld, near Hallisches Tor, and so it was a short trolley ride to either the Friedrichstrasse or Wilhelmstrasse and then on to the center of the city. Mathilde had a son, Gregor, who lived with them in an upstairs bedroom. He was seventeen or eighteen at the time, but tolerated Jona’s company and took the younger boy under his wing. He worked the night shift at a chemical plant in Pankow, so that he was free in the late afternoons, when Jona was home from school. Jona quickly learned enough German to pester the older boy to play with him. Gregor took him on bike rides around the neighborhood, often careening in front of an onrushing tram or car just for the thrill of it. Jona, ensconced on the handlebars and holding on for dear life, shouted in delight with every screaming swerve of the bicycle. He could not remember that he ever had such fun in his life again.

One day near the end of their stay in Berlin, Gregor came home from work and announced very grandly that he was now, and would be henceforth, a Socialist. He had signed on to the SPD, the Socialist Party, that very day at the factory. From that point onwards he seemed less playful with Jona, and they spent less time together. Gregor barraged Jona with newly acquired polemics on social justice, worker’s rights, and capitalism. He talked about the need for a cataclysmic revolution in order to rectify past wrongs, and to commence a future of fairness and equality. Everything that had come before was nothing but evil cloaked as progress. In the new world to come the truth about the past would be exposed, and a new course would be charted. Gregor thought he might go to university and study to become a historian. When the new era came, he would thus be well poised to expose humankind’s past inhumanity. The young man always spoke intensely, as if the revolution and the coming socialist paradise were imminent, possibly about to explode before them at any moment. Very little of it made much of an impression on nine year old Jona, who simply wanted more bike rides.

Years later, after the war in Europe broke out, Earnest Lieb received a letter from Mathilde, which he read to Jona. They learned that Gregor had rushed to join his reserve regiment in the first days after mobilization. Like most young men of the time, he was euphoric as he marched off to war under the banner of the Kaiser’s Reichskriegsflagge. It seemed odd that Gregor shrugged off his socialist ideals so quickly in the deluge of enthusiasm for war. He was killed just a few weeks later at the battle of Tannenberg. According to Mathilde, it was a very great victory for Germany. But, she did miss Gregor very much and was sorry for his death, even though he had lost his life in the noble performance of a sacred duty. If he had lived, he would have become a very great man, she wrote. Maybe even a great scientist like Herr Lieb.

Now, as he remembered his boyhood friend, Jona forced himself to stifle a sob that welled up, unbidden and unwanted. As he watched while the ship was lashed tightly to its pier, memories of Gregor and his own boyhood engulfed him in a swell of grief. “No more,” he vowed. “No more crying, I swear. The past is done. I’m turning the page, and then I’m closing the whole damned book.”

Jona spent until well into the afternoon walking slowly down the Strand from the West End, working his way past St. Paul’s and down Fleet Street before meandering into the congested side streets of the City. It was his second day in London. A very good day. His legs felt unusually strong, the sky was bright and spotless, and he loved the twists and turns of the old London streets. It was not New York, of course. Leicester Square was not like Herald Square, and venerable old Hyde Park could not compare with Central Park, or so he told himself. He was staying at the newly opened Cumberland Hotel, which was just across from the London Arch. The Arch was striking, but Jona had no doubt that it was humbled by the more imposing monument at Washington Square. London was wonderful, but it seemed to Jona that New York was smarter, younger, and somehow more alive. It did occur to him that Londoners visiting New York might see things differently, but that was undoubtedly due to their biased view of the world. He was just being objective

One thing that London shared in common with New York was the astonishing diversity of people who mingled freely on the streets. It was curious. Jona had expected to find a dominance of classical Northern European dolicho-blond racial characteristics among native Londoners. In fact, he saw very few passers-by who demonstrated the anticipated traits. There was a sprinkling of tall and fair types, but far larger numbers of dark haired, squat, round faced, cucumber necked and pear-shaped individuals crowded the streets of the city center. There were gangly Africans, portly Arabs, and smooth skinned Indians bustling in and out of shops, as if hurrying back to their own little corners of the Empire. Jona noted with interest that there appeared to be Jewish owned shops scattered here an there. In any case, just being in London was grand, and his wonderful adventure was beginning just as he had hoped.

The best part of all was his early morning escape from his two shepherds. He had told Andrews the evening before to meet him for breakfast at eight. Jona was quite sure neither agent would be looking for him before then, and gleefully stole through the empty hotel lobby at six. From there it was a few strides to Hyde Park, and the Underground was just a short walk away. As he returned to the Cumberland, Jona wondered what his reception would be like. He didn’t have long to wait.

“Hey, doc!” It was Murphy, his footsteps muffled by the heavy carpeting as he jogged across the lobby towards him.

Jona prepared himself for the worst. He decided to strike first. “Look, you have no control over my movements. As far as I’m concerned, I have every right to come and go as I wish to.”

Murphy stopped abruptly, knitted his brows into the contour of a washboard, and gave a crooked smile. “What, lie to your friends one minute and sneak around like a thief in the night the next? Why, sure you can doc. Sure you can.”

Lieb gave a skeptical nod. “Really. If you are alright with that, why have you been loafing around here, waiting for me? I know you want to lace into me for taking off on my own this morning.”

“Not at all, my good doc. Hell no. I suppose a little note telling us about your plans would’ve been nice, just so’s me and Andrews wouldn’t be going nuts. But that’s your call, like you said. No, no. I’ve been waiting for you because I have a message to deliver. An invitation.”

Jona was instantly wary. “An invitation from who?”

“A guy from this side of the pond who’s somewhat important, I’m told. A member of Parliament. He wants to see you. Name’s Churchill.”

Their formal itinerary in Europe did not include meetings with politicians or state leaders. Jona had wondered about that. His father had certainly known enough of them, like Britain’s wartime Prime Minister, Lloyd George, and even Germany’s president Hindenburgh, himself a colossal remnant of the former Empire’s war machine. The name Churchill sounded vaguely familiar, but Jona could not remember any specific incident that linked him with Earnest Lieb.

Murphy made a great show of distancing himself as Jona tore open the flimsy envelope he was handed. A handwritten note inside simply said “Would you care to meet for dinner at Ciro’s tonight? Come at 8.” followed by a barely legible, exuberantly scrawled signature.

Jona regarded Murphy warily. “Why me? What do you think he wants?”

“Only one way to find out, doc. His secretary dropped the note off but wouldn’t say shit about it. Since this is private, you can go alone. You know, have your freedom, act like a big shot, and so forth.” Murphy tried hard to restrain his sarcasm, remaining all smiles. “You don’t have to sneak out.”

Jona stared at the agent with some suspicion. “What does Andrews think? Where is he, by the way?”

“Out in the park, looking for you, my man. He was actually worried about you. Thought he might find you tied and gagged under a bush.” Murphy reached into his pocket and brought out a long, elaborately wrapped cigar that he offered to Jona. “Since you’re going to a high class place, take this. All these upper class Brits smoke like a furnace. And when it’s time to light up, don’t act like a fucking momma’s boy.”

Ciro’s combined high society charm with art deco chic. The murmured buzz of conversation and careful laughter reflected the restaurant’s patronage, a proper blend of black tie, old whiskey, and highbrow intercourse.

Jona arrived first and was promptly seated at a booth by a small window. The early evening sky was partially obscured by streaky clouds and was still surprisingly bright, playing out long shadows on the pavement as pedestrians passed by. Jona did not really care that Churchill was late; he was quite happy to rest his legs, relax, and stare out the window. The view reminded him of home in some ways, but there were no homeless tramps on the streets, which were quite clean, and no soup lines to be seen. Jona knew that times were tough in Britain, and wondered vaguely where all the homeless were hidden. Across the street, bright lights illuminated a billboard:

Duke Wellington and his Orchestra

With their new smash hit

“Down a Carolina Lane”

Direct from New York

Two nights only

And only at the Palladium

Jona loved Duke Ellington’s music and had gone to some effort to purchase several of his recordings. Anything called jazz music was still illegal in most states back home, though no one regarded that prohibition seriously. Speakeasies and private clubs made fortunes by serving illegal booze and playing deliciously illicit music. By cleverly calling his music “swing” and not “jazz”, Ellington had been able to play openly to the mainstream public and avoid any legal harassments. Of course, in England none of that mattered. That seemed to be a small advantage. It occurred to Jona that catching the London show would be a thrill, but he had no idea whether it would be possible.

He wondered absently how blacks were accepted in England. Earlier in the day he had wandered past a rundown pawn shop on the West End when his eye was caught by a small medallion in the display window. It seemed to be propped randomly in one corner, where its polished white surface caught the morning’s rays. Jona was struck by its elegant craftsmanship. It showed an ebony-black figure, kneeling on a background of pure white porcelain. The figure had its hands raised as if in supplication, girded by iron chains. Above them were the words “Am I not a man and a brother?”

When he inquired about it with the shop owner he was told it was a Wedgewood from the late 1700’s. Jona found this astonishing. “Why would they make something like this?”

The owner wanted to be helpful, but could only shrug his shoulders. “Don’t know, guv. All about the slave trade, I think. They made quite a few of these, I know that. And charged a pretty penny for them.” After a pause he leaned over the counter and whispered in a guttural voice, as if Jona were a co-conspirator in a desperate plot. “Good thing they stopped the whole business, or we’d have many more of the kaffirs living here now, wouldn’t we.”

Jona knew it was an unnecessary extravagance, but purchased the token anyway. He pinned it carefully inside his vest, determined to bring it home as a memento of his trip.

A sudden bustle of activity inside the restaurant announced Churchill’s arrival, as he was escorted to the table by the maitre d’hotel. Jonah’s first view was of a squat, burly, bulbous nosed man in a bowler hat and blue polkadot bowtie who approached the table and stretched out his hand lazily as he came within reach. Jona liked him immediately.

“Dr. Lieb, pleased to meet you. And thank you for joining me for dinner. I am Winston Churchill. Please call me Winston, but Churchill will do just as well.” He spoke in a sharp, cutting, nasal voice, and very quickly, enunciating each sentence distinctly.

Before Jona could respond Churchill peremptorily ordered a bottle of champagne and simultaneously produced two cigars, offering one to Jona. “Service here is quite slow. It will be an hour before we eat - might as well light up.”

Jona had smoked cigars before, but very few. As a general matter he found smoking to be an unhealthy practice. Nonetheless, with Murphy’s admonition in mind, he hesitated only briefly before placing the end firmly in his mouth. “Thanks. Call me Jona, by the way.”

Churchill perused him with a look of amusement, reached out, and plucked the cigar from Jona’s lips. “Let’s clip the end off the bugger first.” He gave a broad smile as he offered it back. “These are Cubans, the only cigars worth smoking. Romeo y Julieta. The privilege, you might say, of the patrician class.”

There was something ingratiating about Churchill. Ordinarily, Jona would have been acutely embarrassed by his gaffe. Churchill managed it in a way that made it seem very natural and understandable. He accepted the cigar back as gracefully as possible and allowed Churchill to light him up.

Jona took a deep draw and the cigar tip glowed into an ember. Inhaling the smoke was out of the question. Simply puffing on it made Jona dizzy, but to his own surprise it gave him a feeling of satisfaction. He managed a grin. “Thanks for inviting me to dinner...I’m not sure why...” Jona fumbled for words. “I don’t know how we’re connected, or even if we are. How did you come to find me?”

It was Churchill’s turn to grin. “The Home Office informed me of your whereabouts. You’re not an everyday visitor, after all. They thought it would be a good idea for me to look you up because of your father.”

“Did you know him?”

“Oh, yes!” Churchill laughed. “We were friends of a sort. He was quite a pest, particularly in the beginning, when we first met. Over time, though, we became giddy with friendship!”

Jona leaned forward, straining to hear over the surrounding clatter. “How did you meet?”

“I can tell you exactly.” Churchill paused to pour them both champagne. “December 31, 1918, about 4:30 in the afternoon. I was at my desk at the Metropole. You see, I had been there up to the end of the war holding the Munitions portfolio and was about to enter the cabinet as War minister the next day. All I could think of at that hour was going out to dinner with my wife and friends to greet the New Year. Dreadful, bloody 1918 was finally over, the bloody war was finally over, bloody rationing was finally over, and there was much to celebrate. Well, cheers.” He doffed his glass towards Jona and took a gulp. “Then in comes this rather intense fellow to see me on the spot. They told me it was a famous American, but honestly I had no idea.”

“My father?”

Churchill bobbed his head quickly a few times, took a puff on his cigar and raised his glass, all at the same time. “Indeed. It was the famous Nobel winner, Dr. Lieb. He arrived out of nowhere, like Banquo’s visitation before Macbeth. Why, he materialized so abruptly I shouted out to him, ‘Prithee, see there! Behold! Look! Lo! How say you?’ He was no ghost, though, of that I can assure you. Of course, it was terribly urgent that he see me right away, and so on and so on. Your father was rather....energetic.” At that, Churchill laughed lightly, as if at a private joke.

Jona had never heard the story - there was so much about his father he didn’t know. In December 1918 he was at the end of his first semester at Harvard, waiting to take his final examinations in chemistry and natural philosophy. He remembered spending the holidays alone that year. “Why so urgently?”

Churchill knotted his brow as he considered his answer. “Well, that was how he was, his style. Once he decided something needed to be done, it assumed a matter of instantaneous importance. Importance not just to him, you see; importance to humanity at large. And in December 1918 it was imperative that he go to Russia. He knew I was taking over the War ministry and he had the crazy idea of having the Royal Navy take him to Archangel, which we occupied at the time, or at least have the Army take him to Riga. The Baltic. Any way into Russia.”

“But why?”

“Denikin. He wanted to get to Denikin.”

Jona hesitated, feeling that his questions were almost boyish. “Who was Denikin?”

Churchill tapped the embers from his cigar and scowled. His gaze became fixed and more intense. His voice deepened and veered into an almost cadenced rhythm, as if he were reciting an ancient ode. “Don’t you know the history of that time? The Russian Empire had succumbed to the might of the German Imperial Army. Furor Teutonicus had struck with savagery, and had sunk them out of the war. The Tsar and his regime were fallen. In the following year the Bolsheviks had captured all of heartland Russia. The Red Army, five million strong, seemed ready to burst across its frontiers and into Eastern Europe...Who could know, possibly sweeping as far as Berlin. That might seem unthinkable to some nowadays, but Marx himself predicted that the workers’ paradise to come required an industrial base, and Germany at the end of the war fit the bill perfectly. It was a veritable hotbed of revolutionary fervor at the time.”

Churchill paused long enough to take a long sip of champagne, followed promptly by a puff of his cigar. He leaned intently over the table, as if passing on a desperate last message to Jona. “Of course, the mass of peasantry in Russia wanted nothing to do with the Bolshies and their bloody revolution. A few brave souls organized them into armies of resistance, the White Armies. Denikin led one of them, the one massing out of the southeastern part of the country. Did damn well, for a while. In the beginning of 1919 all these events were beginning to unfold.”

“But why...”

“Why did your father want to go there? He had heard, of course, as we all had, of the horrible things done by Red Army units throughout southern Russia. Ukraine, actually. Whole villages razed at the point of the bayonet, innocent peasants slaughtered en masse. Women, children, it didn’t matter. It was utter barbarity. Any person, any town, any district siding with the Whites was the target of a deliberate reign of terror. No, even more crushing, anyone not actively assisting the Reds was obliterated. No one was allowed to stand neutral. So, your father told me he had to go there, to see for himself I suppose, to help in some way. Ultimately, to tell the world.” Churchill managed to send huge plumes of smoke snorting out of his nostrils as he spoke, as if venting a blazing fire from deep within.

Jona thought for a moment. His father had talked about Russia, and some of this sounded vaguely familiar. “Wasn’t Denikin fighting to restore the Tsar, the aristocracy, the system as it was, as if the war never happened? Something the peasants would never accept no matter how awful the Reds might be?”

A sharp glance told Jona he had struck a nerve with Churchill. He lifted his chin defiantly. “It was the Kremlin’s policy to take food from the countryside and send it to the cities, to support their precious worker’s paradise. Prodrazverska, they called it. Feeding the factory workers while starving the farmers. You know, I had pictures of dead and sickened babies who were obviously starved, proving the Bolshevik atrocities, but I couldn’t convince anyone here to publish them. They were considered too shocking, and of course everyone thought me a warmonger for urging intervention into the whole infernal mess.” He stopped in full gear and abruptly grinned at Jona. “Well, I’ve been talking about me again. Sorry, dear chap, a congenital weakness. You want to know about your father.”

“Did he get there?”

“He did, but not with us. He cajoled the French to take him. They occupied the Crimea at the time.” He paused a moment, as if to reflect. “Well, we all carved out little parts of Russia when the Reds came to power. Brits, French, Yanks, Nipponese. We all took our little piece, hoping to drive them under by a show of strength. It came to nothing, though. Yes, he did make it to Denikin, but what happened after that is quite a mystery, you know.”

Jona did not hesitate, responding like a curious child raising a large rock out of the mud to look underneath. “What do you mean? What did my father do?”

“Well, actually, I was hoping you might know, my dear fellow. Did he ever talk about it with you? Did he write any letters? He spent three or four months there and seemed to be a changed man when he got back. Some say he really wanted to get to Moscow. Some say he did get to Moscow. The Denikin thing was no more than a ruse.” Churchill sat back in his chair expectantly, his face wreathed in smoke, but his eyes gleaming in the faint light.

“Didn’t he speak to you about it? Ever?” Jona was hoping there would be more.

“I’m afraid we drifted apart years later. The old chap became quite upset with me as time went on.”

“Why?” Jona asked more sharply than he intended to.

Churchill gave the merest hint of discomfort as he puffed a large cloud of smoke over their heads. “Dr. Lieb was unhappy about how we handled Ireland, I’m afraid. More correctly, how I handled Ireland. The Irish question and Home Rule have been a cancer eating at our body politic for centuries. I suppose he wanted us to simply give the keys to the kingdom to the Godawful Republicans, Jona, the rebels. A serious mistake on his part, I should think. Come now, anything about Russia you might recall?”

Jona knew his father had spent some time in Russia, and that he traveled back there at least a few times. But he traveled to many places a few times. There was something about what Churchill said, though, about seeing horrible things there. Jona shook his head slowly. “Mr. Churchill...Winston, I know much less than you seem to know. I was in school at the time. My father never really talked about his work, or his travels very much. I do know he came to hate the communists.”

“Yes he did, my dear boy, but not right away. In fact, he returned from his sojourn in Russia quite enamored with the Bolshies. It seems he was quickly scooped up by Lev Bronstein and they were soon bosom friends.”

“Bronstein?”

Churchill smirked. “You know him by his nom de guerre. Leon Trotsky.”

Jona’s mind raced. Trotsky! Lenin’s right hand man. Founder of the Red Army. He had vied for leadership of the Communist apparatus after Lenin’s death and had lost out to Stalin. He was now Joseph Stalin’s arch enemy. Trotsky was an intellectual who could comfortably and knowledgeably talk and write about the historical, philosophical, economic, and even scientific basis of Marxism. The kind of man who could mingle very easily and affably with Ernest Lieb.

An uncomfortable silence descended. Jona sensed that Churchill did not believe he could be so ignorant about his father’s activities in Russia. “I can’t recall that he ever mentioned Bronstein, or Trotsky, or anyone like that, I’m afraid. I don’t think he really knew any of these people very well.” He looked at Churchill defensively. “Otherwise, he surely would have said something to me about the whole matter.”

Churchill lurched forward as if propelled by an unseen force, leaning across the table with his cigar in his right hand, just inches from Jona’s face. “Indeed, that’s the very thing, my dear Jona.” He spoke intensely, his voice descending into a growling baritone snarl. “We learned, much later mind you, that the esteemed Dr. Lieb already knew Mr. Bronstein quite well at that time.”

Like a little child overturning a large rock and staring at the underside, Jona’s mouth gaped in astonishment. “But how could that be?”

“It seems they met in the spring of 1917. Bronstein was in New York city at the time, in exile, just getting ready to return to his homeland. The whole of Imperial Russia was in turmoil right then. The Romanovs were deposed, a provisional government was in power, the army was disbanding by desertion and refusing to fight the Germans. Remember, a peace treaty between Germany and Russia was not signed until much later. It was really quite a mess. You may recall that just a few months later Bronstein and Lenin orchestrated the so-called October revolution, a ballsy coup that swept the Bolshies into power. It pains me, Jona, it pains me deeply to think that your father was not completely truthful in wanting to see Denikin, just a year later. He duped us all.”

“But why?”

Churchill shifted back on his seat, took a long puff on his cigar, and gave Jona a kindly smile. “Yes. Quite. Why.” Churchill abruptly stood up, holding his champagne glass outstretched directly before him. “Well, we shall never know, shall we? And as you said, Dr. Lieb was certainly a contrarian within a few years thereafter. While many of the international intelligentsia swooned with ecstasy over the worker’s paradise, Earnest Lieb sounded the alarm about Bolshevik barbarism. Well, that’s all behind us, now. There were, I am sure, good reasons for the secrets he dared not share with us.” At this point Churchill merrily, almost mischievously swirled his glass up high in the air and raised his voice loud enough to be heard by patrons at adjacent tables. “As one of the greatest of our poets once said:

‘Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;

But O too fond, when have I answer’d thee?

Ask me no more.’

So, let us drink a toast to the memory of a man who dared much and achieved much. To a great scientist, a great humanitarian and a foe to the Red heathens. To a man who devoted his life to the betterment of all mankind to the very day he would die, though our humble selves may never understand the what and where and why. To Dr. Earnest Lieb!” He shouted the last words triumphantly, turning to left and right with glass upraised. It was all so staged, so pompous, so rehearsed, so Churchill.

Jona struggled to stand, as his left leg sent sharp rays of pain to his back. “To my father!” he almost shouted, and then slumped back into his chair, feeling somehow silly. He looked around furtively, wondering if any others were staring at him. “So is that why you brought me here, to burrow into what my father did in Russia?”

Churchill was all smiles now. “Not at all, sport! Come, Jona, I understand you have quite a trip ahead of you! I read in the Times today that your next stop is Berlin. And then on to that most eccentric of all countries, the CSA, where banality meets evil. That must be exciting for you.”

“Yes, very much, I think. I will be meeting with some of my father’s old associates in Berlin. I really, uhm, don’t know them myself. I was very young when we left Germany. Before the war.”

“Will you be meeting with Herr Hitler?”

“Well, he’s not on my itinerary. I will be at the University, meeting the scientists, attending lectures, and so forth. All rather academic kinds of things only.” Jona took a short breath, took a puff on his cigar, and decided to forge forward. “Are you interested in Mr. Hitler? He’s a fascinating fellow from what I read and hear.”

Jona was astonished at Churchill’s reaction. The man stiffened in his chair, pushed aside his champagne glass, and visibly scowled as he worked furiously at his cigar. The whole effect made Jona straighten in his seat, despite the pain in his leg.

“Jona, I am beginning to hear things from Germany that worry me.” Churchill spoke as if mesmerized, staring down at the table. “Terrible things, really. This man has written a book, by the way. Have you read it?”

Jona shook his head.

“I have, and it gives no comfort. I’m worried, my dear Jona. No, I’m frightened. At first, I considered him a third rate actor playing out his role in a second rate play, begging for applause. Now, through some insane reversal, I’m beginning to believe that the play has been written for him, the lines constructed for him, the role created entirely for him.”

“I understand that he is trying hard to make himself dictator, now that he is Chancellor.” Jona spoke confidently, authoritatively.

“That’s nothing!” Churchill waived his hand dismissively. “Dictators come and go. It’s not that he wants power, it’s what he wants to do with that power.” Suddenly, he slammed his hand on the table, very hard. Heads swiveled in their direction from all around, but Churchill was oblivious, focused intently on Jona. “Just think, my young friend. Germany will be rearmed and driven by the holy grail of revenge. Russia is lost. France is castrated. We ourselves are an empty shell, with the exception of our navy. No army. No air forces. What is there to stop this madman?”

A narrow faced, balding, bearded man sitting at an adjacent table leaned in their direction. “Winston,” he hissed. “Everyone can hear you! You must be quite drunk.”

Churchill gave a broad grin and waved his glass in the other’s direction. “Yes, Max, but in the morning I’ll be sober and you’ll still be bald!”

Laughter erupted all around them, the kind of genteel laughter that could be expelled while maintaining the body motionless and keeping the hands politely and firmly on either side of the dinner plate.

Jona gave a half smile, unsure whether he should laugh as well. Everyone in their immediate area seemed to know each other, and it was quite clear he was an outsider and not part of the crowd. He concentrated on puffing on his cigar slowly without inhaling. After a few moments the laughter subsided and Churchill abruptly lapsed into a morose silence. His facial expression transformed into a glacial rigidity, and he began to play distractedly with his glass of champagne. Before the silence became too uncomfortable, he smiled weakly, and lifted his glass towards Jona.

“Well done, old boy, you’ve unmasked me. Perhaps I’ve unmasked myself. No subtlety here. This is why I’ve taken the liberty of intruding into your schedule. It’s all about Hitler. It’s all about the Narzies.” Churchill seemed to deliberately distort the word ‘Nazis’ in a peculiar, drawn out manner, as if saying the word with a mouth full of ashes.

“But how can I possibly help you?”

Churchill gazed at Jona minutely and intensely, as if taking measurements before drilling into him with a hidden instrument. As he spoke his voice maintained a gravel hard, determined edge. “You know, when I was a very young man, younger than you are now, Jona, I was seconded to a pitifully small British army that set out to fight the dervish hordes outside Khartoum. Sudan, you know. After an exhausting march through the desert, we met the enemy at Omdurman. You may have heard of it.”

“I have, sir, but I didn’t know you were there.” It was startling to realize how old Churchill must be.

“Indeed, I was there, and I would not have had it otherwise. On the day of battle I accompanied the 21st Lancers as we set out to reconnoiter and develop the enemy’s positions. Lord Kitchener ordered us into the teeth of the Dervish formations. After a short ride, I found a slight elevation beyond our lines. Jona, the entire Mahdi host was spread out on the plain before me. The river opposite us could be seen in its entirety. Every man, camel, horse and wagon in their thousands was out in the open, and I could see every one for miles around. It was quite exhilarating, not least because of the danger. I like to think it may have been the last time in history that one man could view the entirety of the enemy with one sweep of his own eyes.”

“And now...you can’t see the enemy?” Jona felt the thrill of a sudden insight. “You want me to be your eyes?”

“It would be an immeasurable service to hear from you, Jona. Go to Berlin. Meet whomever you are to meet. Write back what you see, what you hear. Keep me informed.”

“You mean send you reports?” Jona could hardly contain himself. “Send reports, with my observations?”

“Precisely.”

“Absolutely! I would be happy to!” Jona took a long drink of champagne, waving his goblet in Churchill’s general direction. He suddenly felt euphoric, almost drunk, and lightheaded. Another mission to accomplish. He would send his own reports, possibly to the highest levels of the British government.

“Sir Winston, have no fear. Everything I see of the Naaarzi regime will be promptly reported back to you. Perhaps you could write back too?” Jona didn’t know what else to say, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Now let’s eat!” He felt famished, as if he could consume a king’s feast.

Churchill chuckled, and then Jona started to laugh loudly, not caring who heard, or whether he was making a scene. As he did, he felt the hairs on his neck and arms begin to tingle, as if taking on a life of their own, making him laugh all the louder.

Chapter 8

Deep green gorges carpeted with yellow-green pine. Swollen, ruddy gray skies. A stretch of trestled bridge spanning a murky brown stream. Jones recorded individual sights as if taking photographs, trying to commit each panorama to memory. Somehow, he felt as if he’d been here before, as if this train ride was something from the past that he was now reliving.

He had traveled in his life, much more than he could have expected as a young boy. When he was twelve he was sold to a pig and strawberry farmer in Arkansas whose name Jones could not now remember. His new master, a raw young man who looked scarcely older than young Robbie, was very proud of acquiring his first slave. He had several of his neighbors come over just to inspect his new property. Apparently, young Jones was the first slave in the county who was purchased by mail order, and this raised quite a bit of conversation among the sober, thoughtful men of Marble Creek. Jones was poked and prodded like an over ripe melon, but apparently met universal approbation. His young master bragged that Robbie was more fit in person than he looked to be in his catalog photograph. Just as the advertisement had said, he had a strong back, a quick disposition, and was free of the clap.

Undeservedly, his young owner died within the month of a vicious mule kick to the head. Jones was trying to harness the surly animal when his master ran up to take charge. The mule bucked in terror, and it was over in an instant. The helpless Robbie watched in horror as the man gasped once or twice, twitched, and then lay completely still.

Death was not a novel sight for Robbie Jones. Despite his youth he had encountered the dead and dying many times, at all ages and from any number of causes. His older sister had died not long before he was sold, of the pox, leaving this world with a shrill death rattle in her throat as her brother held her hand. Over time, he had learned not to cry simply because a life passed on, even though at times it seemed so sad. Old Man Misery had told him often that death was just a release with a ticket to yonder, the Lord’s manumission from the tyranny of this earth, and in some poorly understood way Jones accepted that as gospel truth.

No, it was not the man’s death that frightened Robbie. It was the awful fact that they were the only ones on the farm, he and the master, and now the young slave was all alone, left with the responsibility and most likely the blame for what had happened. Under the circumstances, almost anyone would run.

Jones laughed at himself as he thought about that day, and about how foolish he had been. Well, he was just a boy at the time, after all. The dogs caught up to him just after the terror of darkness began to set in, finding him at the edge of a dank, foul smelling pond swarming with giant skeeters and tiny noseeums. He willingly ran into the rough hands of the determined men who had tracked him, and they treated him fairly after that. Cuffed him about somewhat, that was about all. Everyone seemed to agree that the unfortunate farmer was the victim of an ornery mule, and consequently no fingers were pointed at Robbie in the matter of his master’s death. The next morning the magistrate was kindly, but firm. Because Robbie had run away, violating the terms of his service, a lashing was ordered. The ruling seemed fair, even to young Robbie at the time. It just wouldn’t do to have nigger slaves running off just whenever they felt like it, and for whatever reason. Not that he was happy about it. No. But it happened to be the way the clock ticked, and that was all that could be said about it. It would be easy for Jones to look back and see the injustice and inhumanity of it all. But looking back was no different than peering into a strange and distant world. Jones had no time for that. He had his hands full dealing with the world he lived in now.

Justice was applied without malice, twelve steady strokes, and the magistrate’s elderly wife then ministered to the youngster by applying a healing poultice to his back and offering a nourishing soup. A more vexing problem was what to do with him after that, since his dead master had no next of kin available to make a claim on his property. Should the young slave be sold together with the farm? Sold separately? Who would take the responsibility of custody until he was legally purchased? His legal status seemed to be a source of concern for quite a number of people. Luckily for young Jones, good fortune intervened when the Reverend Nebuchadnezzar Smith offered to take Robbie into his household for the purposes of care and instruction.

The good reverend and his wife Nell brought Robbie into their home on the fringe of town. Nell refused to allow the young man to work the fields, insisting that he learn the household duties of a domestic. Robbie was beaten often, of course, once quite severely over the head with a heavy silver candelabra, leaving him senseless for the better part of a day. That was because he fell dead asleep on the kitchen floor one hot, sultry summer afternoon, both fatigued and famished, and allowed the dog to eat a good part of Mrs. Smith’s freshly baked bread pudding still cooling on the table. He was very careful in the presence of puddings from that time onwards. Generally, though, he found the daily household routines to his liking, and could tell that his work met with the approval of his new master and mistress.

Within a year, a distant relative of the deceased farmer appeared in town to make his claim, and formally sold Jones to the Smiths. The purchase was completed ‘for a song’, according to an ecstatic Nell. The very next day Robert Jones was baptized in the name of Jesus Christ. From that time forward, Reverend Smith devoted an hour every Sunday teaching his young slave to read from the Holy Book of Scriptures. Nell devoted much more time than that. Robbie took to learning with an avid, keen intelligence. Stories of saints, kings, and prophets came alive within him under the tutelage of the stolid Reverend and his wife. And he learned to pray, to pray intensely, and with the fervent belief that the Lord of Hosts was with him while he prayed. More and more, as the years passed Jones began to feel the hand of God upon him, leading him, guiding him.

By the time he was eighteen, he was not only personal servant to Nebuchadnezzar Smith, but also substantially in charge of the daily operations of the household. Purchases, visits to the marketplace, and payments to merchants all became his responsibility. It was about then that Jones began the long trial of locating his mother, in hopes of reuniting with her. Unfortunately, it was also about then that his aging master, Reverend Smith, became ill, and they came to Richmond seeking the best of medical care, and his world changed again.

Jones shook himself back to the present, abandoning his reverie reluctantly. Yesterday was long gone, and there was much to do today. He was riding in what felt like, and shook like, and screeched like, an antique passenger train, and had only a small grimy window to look through, forcing him to peer at the outside world as if through the long bore of a rifle. His chains made it difficult to stretch too far as he craned his neck to spot a crack in the clouds, rimmed with golden sunlight. At one bend in the tracks he saw a pure white waterfall that spawned dual rainbows arching into the far, far distance, far beyond the reach of his vision. Perhaps as far as paradise, for all he knew. Jones did not have faith in omens necessarily, but he did believe that God often gave signs to those who would see.

“Whatsoever things you desire, when you pray, believe that you receive them, and you shall have them.” He intoned the well-worn prayer to himself, starting quietly at first, but almost shouting the last few words: ‘you shall have them!’

“Man, shut your mouth, ‘cause even Jesus won’t save your sorry ass when I get through with you.” Warrant Officer Doak raised a massive black hand as a cautionary gesture in the general direction of his prisoner but did not bother to open his eyes. He sat on the bench seat facing Jones, his head propped against the sealed window. It seemed he had an infinite capacity to sleep under any circumstances.

Jones did not respond, continuing to study the visions streaming by outside his window. He felt both a sense of contentment and purpose since the last day of his imprisonment. Why should he not, since the Lord himself had stretched out a hand of deliverance at the twelfth hour.

He made no attempt to forget or diminish the terrible moment of supreme anguish that gripped him as he was carried, limp and weak as a newborn pup, into a charnel house of torture deep within the heart of the prison. A giant of a man waited for them there, and like the ones who carried Jones, his contorted yellow face was heavily pockmarked, giving him a cavernous, demonic appearance. A short white man, an evil looking gnome, stood not far away. On a table before the giant was an array of knives, ranging from the size of a scalpel to a large, square cleaver. A deathly still grin was upon his face.

Jones felt himself descending in an instant into a hellish state of crazed fear. He lost everything in that moment; his mind, his soul, even his faith. His previous self-control broke down completely. He began to scream, shouting to them that he would confess everything just to be let alone, or better yet dispatched into the merciful arms of Satan. His giant tormentor seemed to listen patiently, shaking his head to and fro rhythmically. “No, no, no, nigger. No time for confessions now. No sense in talking to me, I don’t know nuthin’ exceptin’ you time is up now.” The short white ogre said nothing, merely giving a short nod of the head.

And that was when the miracle happened. Just as they were strapping him down onto a cold polished metal table, a voice was heard from the back of the room. Jones could not make out the words, and could not see who uttered them, but felt their meaning immediately. Was it the Lord speaking? Was He using one of them as His instrument? It made no difference, as His will would be done. It would be revealed plainly to all who would see.

And so it was.

The men holding him promptly stopped what they were doing. The glittering blades were put away. He was picked up, and carried back to his cell, it seemed to him, almost tenderly. And he knew he was saved. Not just saved momentarily but saved forever. The hand of the Lord was truly upon him. The next morning he was boarded onto the train, and there he sat one day later, immersed in the surety of his salvation. His prayers had clearly been answered, and would be answered still.

“Hey, Doak, how much farther?”

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”

“Come on, brother, tell me something. Anything.”

Doak opened his eyes and stared blankly at Jones. He had a massive square face that was mostly obscured by a beard as thick as wool. The collar of his jet black uniform, embroidered with the letters CSA, was clasped closely at the neck, giving him a rigid, soldierly appearance. Since taking custody of Jones they had barely exchanged a dozen words. Jones knew that men from Negro Guards units were routinely used for prisoner transport. They were all free men, and their callous contempt for slaves was legendary. Doak had a long chain of chevrons on his tunic sleeve, indicating many years of service. He slowly and deliberately placed a plug of tobacco firmly into his mouth, creating a huge bulge in his cheek. “What do you care, old man, anyway? If I was you, which I ain’t, anyway, I’d just sit back and take whatever’s coming. There’s nothing you can do, anyway, nowhere you can go, no way you can hide. Anyway, where you think you wanna go?”

Jones chuckled. “I’d be happy if this train just turned around, take me north to Kentucky or Ohio, maybe take me right to Cincinnati.”

It was Doak’s turn to laugh softly. “No chance of that, old fella. Ain’t gonna run that way. Anyway, this train runs on Southern gage track. Five feet. Nice and comfy. Up north, track is four foot eight and a half. We keep it that way, don’t you know, so they can’t come down here with their armies and their trains. So’s they tell us, anyway. No, boy, you’re going to Georgia, anyway.”

Jones shifted his gaze back to the window and rested his head against the hard edge of the seat-back, satisfied with what he’d learned. Georgia might as well be Tibet for all he knew. He’d never been there, had no family and had no friends there. Truth was, he didn’t have many friends anywhere. His particular situation did not allow for many friendships. Wherever he might go, being alone would be nothing new.

Intruding into the serenity of his formless thoughts came the sudden advent of odd sounds; muffled staccato pops vibrated through the car, like off-notes from a fretless guitar. The train was moving slowly through heavily forested, hilly terrain. Jones sat bolt upright, thinking that he detected some movement among the trees just outside his car. Doak sensed the noise too, cocking his head to one side as he lifted his massive frame into the aisle. His hand reflexively dipped towards his sidearm.

Suddenly, the train gave off a steely stricken shriek, the sound of a horrible death knell, and abruptly skewed to a grinding halt. Harsh, hoarse voices were now echoing from everywhere, and there were more sharp popping noises. Doak was thrown to the floor as the train came to a precipitous stop, but with an agile twist began to regain his feet. He was no more than three feet from Jones, and began to lurch forward, struggling with his holster, when he suddenly dropped down as if poleaxed by the hand of God. Jones jumped up to look at his jailer, and saw that his face was completely gone, leaving just a bloody rim of beard to identify the man who had been Doak. A viscous red stain appeared on the floor carpet adjacent to his head.

There were other men in the car now, many men, brandishing pistols and rifles and making loud hoarse noises that Jones could not comprehend. The smell of gunpowder was suddenly thick in the air. A key chain was retrieved from Doak’s body, and in short order Jones felt his shackles undone. It was not until he was led outside into the cool morning air that Jones came to his senses, and to the realization of what had happened. He knew he was saved yet again.

A clot of ten or fifteen men, all heavily armed, waited for him expectantly, and began to cheer as he appeared at the door of the passenger car. In the center of the group stood Cox, the itinerant merchant, craning his neck until he satisfied himself that Jones was safe. He hissed something in a low tone, and two men scurried up the track towards the train engine.

Jones dropped easily onto the ground, stepped up to Cox, extending his right hand, and simply said “Cox.”

The other gave a wide grin and extended his own hand. “Jones.”

“Casualties?”

“For us, none. Six dead on the train. It was easy, once we were sure about what train you were on.” Cox caressed the dull matte metal trigger of a new looking Colt .45 handgun.

“Where are we?”

“South Carolina. Fifteen miles from Florence.”

Jones gazed around searchingly. The morning sun was breaking through molten clouds, illuminating the scene with almost ethereal light. The tracks gleamed like silver lances thrusting into a deep mixed forest of ash, maple and old hickory. A thin drift of purple smoke wafted from the motionless steam engine, which still hummed and hissed with incipient power. As he watched, the two men dispatched by Cox earlier trudged back toward the group, a bound man walking between them. His head hung down, but Jones could see blood from his scalp dripping down onto the pitch black uniform of a Negro Guardsman. Jones had seen him the previous day, visiting with Doak. He wore master sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.

“Pretended to be dead,” said one of the men, speaking to Cox. “Whatcha we do with’m?”

The prisoner looked up, but only briefly, then fell to his knees. He looked barely conscious and swayed perceptibly. Cox turned to Jones. “Let’s ask the boss.”

Robert Jones felt himself swell with a sense of supreme euphoria. He took in the whole scene again, feeling somehow that he had rehearsed all this before. He raised his right arm straight up, ready to either bless or curse, to smite or lift up. The men, his men, soldiers of the Underground Railroad, shuffled together to hear his words. With a mighty voice he cried out “As the Lord God said long ago, let it be said again, ‘When I sharpen my flashing sword and my hand grasps it in judgment, I will take vengeance on my adversaries and repay those who hate me.’”

And then, triumphantly, “Smite him! Death to any man who has consented to make himself a slave! Death to all of them, all who do the work of Pharaoh, white or black, high or low. Let their blood fertilize the soil below in preparation for the day of Jubilo!” The men broke out in cheers, whoops, and the quavering of the Rebel yell.

As the man was dragged into a thicket nearby, whimpering with the soft mews of an infant, Jones was drawn back to the now silent train. It would be derailed, of course, before they left. His men were already prying at the rails with shovels and picks. The track lay straight and true, as if laid out by the hand of God. From where he stood, it was not possible to know where it began, and where it ended.

Five feet wide. Jones reflected on it for a moment. His own life was more than fifty years wide. And like the course of the track, his ultimate destination was fixed, preordained long ago. Robert Jones, leader of the Underground Railroad, knew that prayer, and not men or machines, would lead him where he needed to go. He was free now, free of all bondage, free of all fear, free of all restraint. He vowed that the Lord’s justice would be administered by the hand of his servant Robert Jones, and that wherever his road led it would be washed equally by tears and blood, applied without mercy or appeal. Much pain would be expended to bring heaven to earth, but these were the Lord’s dues, and had to be paid.

He searched his mind for a passage from scripture appropriate for the moment, perhaps from Isaiah 61, supremely undisturbed by the sound of two successive gunshots, wafted by the wind from the nearby woods.

“Well, we’all’s gonna have to crow small right now, won’t we momma. At least until we get to where we want.” George Patton wiped his brow with a handkerchief already soiled with sweat, unsure whether he was more oppressed by the stifling heat, or by his mother’s relentless tirade. He held the phone away from his ear, unwilling to hear more than he had to. She was just repeating herself, and he already knew what she wanted him to do. After what seemed like an endless harangue, he saw his opportunity and interrupted her.

“Sorry, momma, my aide is here with a message that I must attend to. No, I can’t put him off, it’s urgent. Yes, momma, poo poo to you too.”

He slammed the phone down in a foul mood, grabbed his service cap, and stormed out of his office. There would be no more telephone calls. It was time for direct action. With a single gesture from Patton, his driver understood their destination, and within fifteen minutes he was at the Executive Mansion.

President Pickett was not happy to hear that Patton was pacing in the anteroom to the Executive Office, but he knew that a blow-up was inevitable. Might as well be now than later; there was really no good time. Besides, he couldn’t pretend to be unavailable. As the general in chief strode in, Pickett thought he leaned in like a cut wolf. Mean and hungry.

“Good mo’nin, George, you look hot. Want some lem-o-nade?” Pickett drawled his words out as much as possible, knowing that Patton hated this particular kind of deep southern affectation.

“No!” Patton almost shouted, visibly irritated. “Mr. President, we have to talk. We are in a crisis that must be resolved, and quickly. The nation cannot endure more of this. People are beginning to panic. Big Business is beginning to panic. Big Banks are beginning to panic. Our creditors are beginning to panic. The stock market fell eleven per cent after yesterday’s news. We can’t afford more days like that.”

Pickett sat back in his chair, cocked his head to one side, and searched Patton’s face earnestly. “Yesterday’s news? Well, why don’t you tell me about it. Are they taking potshots at us from across the Cumberland again? I thought our northern cousins stopped that long ago.”

Patton knew he was being played for a fool, and would have none of it. “A massacre! Seven dead! One, maybe two were execution style. This attack was carried out by skilled and trained guerrillas, not by armed hoodlums, let me tell you. And who was it that escaped? Who was rescued? Can there be any doubt that your boy was at the center of the whole thing all along?”

Pickett sighed, running a hand through the short curls at the nape of his neck. “I know, George, I know.” He dropped the drawl. “What I don’t understand is where these bastards get their organization, and their intelligence. They knew exactly where to find Jones. How?” He pounded the table with his clenched fist in frustration.

Patton shrugged. “We’ll pick up everyone who knew Jones, anyone who bumped into him at the market, every blood sucking tick that ever lit on to him. We’ll find out something, but not nearly everything. They operate out of small cells, completely blinded to other units. A UR man could pass another on the street and never know it. That’s why so many of our arrests are dead ends. But someone had to be the mastermind in charge, Mr. President, and that someone was spawned in your household, right under your...”

“Enough, general!” thundered Pickett. “You are on the verge of insubordination! You are speaking to the president of the republic. Deport yourself accordingly.”

“Well, Mr. President, it is imperative that you do something if you’re going to save your bacon on this one. The newspapers are having a field day, and it’s going to get even more ugly. Public confidence is already shaken. Read the Examiner if you don’t believe me. The editorials are predicting massive insurrection in the fields, in factories, everywhere. You’re the politician, not me. What do you think the reaction will be when the true story gets out? What happens when the general public learns it was your man that was rescued? I suggest you have to preempt this somehow.”

“Thanks, George, I already have enough political advisors, those jobs are taken. And I suggest that you get back to headquarters and make sure the Army is doing everything it can to help out. Now, I’ve spoken to the governor of South Carolina this morning, and assured him of all the help I can bring to bear. See to it that you do the same.”

George Patton had a congenital short fuse, a profane vocabulary, and social skills that did not fathom the meaning of decorum. It took every ounce of self control he could muster to keep from assaulting the President of the Confederate States of America with the first epithet that came to mind. You nigger loving son of a bitch, he thought. I will have your sorry old ass for lunch. Remarkably, he was able to swallow his words as he began to pace back and forth. “I’m sorry, but that’s not enough of an answer. Mr. President, by virtue of my rank as General in Chief, duty compels me to formally request that you unveil the administration’s plan for dealing with this crisis. The nation can’t absorb any more shocks. People are ready for almost any solution. Any.”

Pickett regarded him carefully. He detected something in Patton’s voice that made him uneasy, a deeper, more ominous layer of threat. “That, sir, is a topic to be reviewed at the coming cabinet meeting next week. Consider yourself invited. In the interim, I retain in my own hands any decisions regarding a domestic matter.”

The words seemed lost on Patton as he stood scowling speechlessly. He had heard enough to satisfy himself that the president was a coward, without the guts to take the necessary measures that the times demanded. He had never believed all the heroic fairy tales attributed to Pickett in any case. Many old timers in the army had told him that Pickett’s service in the ranks was just like his service in public office: indolent, poorly prepared, erratic. Personally brave? Maybe, but so were untold others. Hero? Absolutely not. Abruptly, he snapped to attention, saluting Pickett briskly. “Sir, I must inform his Excellency that the Army considers that this is not a domestic matter. Sir, it is an insurrection, funded and directed by external powers. Therefore, the Army requires that a national emergency be acknowledged, and that martial law be declared.” He remained at attention, staring at a horizon one foot over Pickett’s head.

“The Army requires?”

“Yes sir, and may I add that there are many outside the Army who agree with this assessment. Some, in fact, from within the administration.” Patton could barely restrain the triumph in his voice.

Pickett felt stunned. His first impulse was to call the Secret Service agents guarding his door to come in and arrest Patton, but he quickly realized that there was great weight behind this punch. Arresting Patton alone was no better than blowing up one cell of the UR. In practical terms, such a move would trigger a political crisis of nightmarish proportions. A sudden wave of nausea came over him, accompanied by a familiar twinge of pain radiating over his chest. “Are you out of your mind,” he snarled. “Suggesting some kind of banana republic coup that would leave the army in charge, making you dictator, making a mockery of everything we stand for? Never, general, never while I draw breath.”

Patton leaned over the president’s desk, his blue eyes gleaming. His tight fitting gray tunic seemed to expand as he drew a deep breath. Something within him began to shake, deeper than any earthquake. It was time for the walls to come tumbling down. It was time for the moment, at last, to meet the man. And he was that man. He spoke softly, and with great control. “This is not a request, Mr. President. Think carefully about your choice, and how it will affect the nation. We must avoid the appearance of anarchy and chaos within the highest reaches of government. With a word from you things will go smoothly, and power will be transitioned back to civilian control once the emergency is over. In any event, please understand the Army is ready for any eventuality.”

George Pickett Jr. had fought Mexican irregulars on the Texas border, hacked his way through the fetid Nicaraguan jungle in a fevered haze, fought in Cuba’s blazing heat, and killed a man in Kentucky without a moment’s hesitation. He had a violent history and did not feel fear easily. However, he did recognize danger when it appeared, and right now great danger literally loomed over him in the person of the General in Chief of the Confederate States Army.

He tried to temporize. “George, I can’t decide this myself, you know that. Look, I will convene the Cabinet in emergency session tomorrow if you wish. Why don’t we take the matter up then? In any case the entire cabinet would have to weigh a decision like the one you propose.”

In that moment, Patton knew he had won. He snorted loudly. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. President. I will return this evening at eight. The Vice President and Secretary of War will be coming with me. You can call them to confirm the appointment, if you like. We can complete our arrangements then.”

Pickett slumped in his chair and nodded. He was the perfect picture of defeat.

Patton smirked, his thick, fleshy face contorted by the upward curl of his lips. “It will be easiest and best if we avoid a fight.” He attempted a conciliatory tone. “You see you have no choice. Give us what we want, the country will be better for it, and everything will work out in the end. It’s all about the nation, after all.”

The president looked down at his desktop, and in a firm voice said “Sure.” As the General in Chief turned away to stalk out of the room with a triumphant swagger, Pickett carefully modulated his voice to a low murmur as he straightened his back. He was not going to bend to the whim of any man. Honor and duty required him to throw the gauntlet down at the feet of the usurper. The ancient challenge that sprang from his throat was barely audible, but reverberated to the depths of his being. He spoke in a long dead language, saying the words as if they had just been fired in flames of defiance: “Molon Lave.” As Patton disappeared he breathed out the same words again, somewhat louder. “That’s right, General, that’s right. Come and get it.”

Hate the sun. Hate the humidity. Hate the smell of cows. Hate stinking from perspiration. Hate my father. Hate the Otley’s. Hate Atlanta. Or Buckhead, or whatever it’s called. Madeline sat on the lawn, legs laid out over the thick carpet of grass, feeling bored with everything. Dr. Kotmeyer had told her to list her likes and dislikes, but she found it a stupid waste of time, and found him a stupid waste of time as well.

Over the past two weeks she had been seeing him daily. In the beginning, Maddy found it hardly possible to talk to him. Most of his questions had to do with her father and mother, questions she could not possibly answer. After all, her mother passed on from typhoid or something else when Maddy was too young to know a thing, just a baby, that’s what her father had told her. Kotmeyer seemed unimpressed by that inconvenient little fact, insisting that Madeline should be able to remember things like whether her mother hugged or kissed her, or kissed her father, or kissed whomever. He even asked whether she was nursed by her mother, as if Maddy could simply close her eyes and bring it all back. She told him that she could hardly remember anything from six months before, never mind going back to when she was weaned. She wasn’t about to tell him she could remember almost everything, and it was no business of his if she could.

The questions about her father were even more absurd. None of them had anything to do whatsoever with her life. At one point she was asked whether her father had ever fondled her. That was how Dr. Kotmeyer phrased it. Fondled! When she heard that question Madeline paused a moment, then answered. “Maybe he did. Or maybe he didn’t. That’s for me to know.” With a sly smile she then arose from her chair and marched out of the consultation room with a magisterial air, snickering all the while, not bothering to even look back at the ugly quack who called himself a doctor, much less speak to him.

Not that she ever wanted to look at him. He was the most grotesque creature she had ever seen. For beginners, he was missing his left arm. It had taken almost an hour of strained staring during their first visit to realize that his left coat sleeve was empty. He did not have the courtesy to pin the empty sleeve onto his jacket as common etiquette demanded. Apparently, he was determined to keep that obvious fact a secret, proving that he was nothing more than a liar. Also, his face was cavitated like the landscape of a heavily mined quarry, with deep irregular scars running across a tallowed skin. Finally, a scrub brush of a beard projected at an odd angle from a narrow chin, giving him the appearance of a hapless, hornless billy goat.

Altogether, Maddy considered him an ogre of a man, and much too ugly to look at, something she told Lou Ellen repeatedly. Someone of her station should not be properly associating with a loathsome, low class creature like Dr. Kotmeyer under any circumstances. Lou Ellen responded by pointing out that Maddy had improved dramatically under the care of the ogre. She was now walking normally, her headaches were gone, and she seemed less tense and introverted. Lou Ellen knew her charge well, and perceived that the fires simmering deep within Madeline had receded.

The Ottley’s Buckhead estate was located in the rural, sparsely populated outskirts of Atlanta proper. By any standards it was vast, including sculpted gardens, grazing pastures, peach and cherry orchards, and tennis courts. Artfully hidden in a small copse of crabapple trees and far beyond the house was a long reflecting pool lined with bronze and marble statues of wood nymphs and sylvan gods. Here, Maddy sought out some comfort in the late night hours when, unable to sleep, and with the moon peeking through the gnarled and twisted features of the trees, she walked along the water’s edge as if she were greeting the forest spirits lurking in the shadows.

The plantation featured its own rail spur coming to within a comfortable walk of the main house. Madeline found herself staring at the quiet metal tracks. Somewhere on the other end of that line she fantasized that an entirely different universe percolated with an energy of noise, commotion and confusion. Love, hate, desperation, hope and wonder all whirled in a continuous rhythm, she thought, from the rundown single family shotguns of Cabbagetown to the rising edifices on Peachtree Street. She felt that the pulse of newness was just a few minutes away but might as well be ages away. Madeline was not allowed to experience any of it. She was trapped in a cocoon that would never open, compelled to a life of sameness. And none of Dr. Samuel Kotmeyer’s little tricks of memory or suggestion could change that.

Madeline spread her dress out on the lawn, just within the arc of shadow flowing from an ancient sycamore, so that she could feel the cool blades of grass tickling up and down the back of her bare legs as they swayed back and forth. Lou Ellen was seated on a chair next to her, snoring pleasantly under a large straw sun bonnet festooned with fresh picked flowers. Maddy thought about what Dr. Kotmeyer had told her during their session earlier that day.

She had refused to answer a question about her dreams, informing him that dreams were a very private matter that she would never discuss with a stranger, even a doctor.

“But dreams are just a window into the disturbance,” he sighed. He spoke with a slurred, heavy tongue, almost as if he had a paralysis that prevented normal speech. “Miss Pickett, if you would just allow yourself to respond honestly, a whole new world of understanding will open up to you.”

“Doctor, I’m sure you are a very smart man, but you can’t possibly know what I do and don’t understand.”

“Well, do you understand why you are constantly becoming so angry? Explosive anger, it appears. Please don’t try to deny it. Both your father and your Negress have told me about it. The description they gave is quite striking.”

“Oh, you discussed this matter with Lou Ellen? She will hear about this, believe me!” Madeline was beside herself at the thought that her servant would talk about her behind her back.

“But you don’t deny it’s true, do you?” Dr. Kotmeyer’s gaze fixed upon Madeline. His deep, amber colored eyes were not the same size, something that generally made her avoid looking at him directly. He tilted his head very slightly, as if trying to transfix her with the larger eye. She was sure this was another one of the tricks and games he played to confuse and distract her. He was quite the charlatan.

“It’s impossible to explain in words what I feel and see in my dreams. It’s not like other people, I’m sure. I feel like I’m...I’m...” Madeline hesitated.

“You’re different, perhaps? Chosen for something? Or special in some way? Is that what you were going to say, that you’re a special person? With special powers, or special feelings?” Kotmeyer leaned forward aggressively, his good arm shaking ever so slightly.

His question seemed to unnerve Madeline. Her pale gray eyes began to flutter rapidly, as if striving to find something just out of eyesight. “I am special,” she whispered, “Just look at me. Nothing you can say will make me look any different. I will never be normal, like the good little girl ya’ll want me to be. I will always be this way, whether my mother nursed me or not.”

Dr. Kotmeyer paused a heartbeat, trying to time his response perfectly. “Madeline. Listen to me. Hear me. I am special also.”

His words propelled Maddy back into a sudden vivid memory of her childhood. She was walking through dense woods with her father and her beagle puppy, Master. How she loved Master! It was very cold, and she could remember long streams of icy breath flowing from both of them as they puffed through the underbrush. She was no more than six. Master suddenly took off, sprinting after a small brown rabbit, one small furry ball chasing another. Madeline followed in a flash, chasing the dog as it bounded down a shallow ravine. With a slip of the foot on wet and frozen leaves, the child tumbled down the culvert into an ice cold stream that was fringed with snow.

The water was not terribly deep, but was frigid. She was immersed for a few terrifying moments before her father’s strong arms yanked her up. Maddy recalled his soothing voice as he held her close, opening up his own jacket to envelope her and protect her as he hurried back to the warmth of their home. She was whisked up by Sue Ellen who bundled her up in front of a smoky fire.

Later, her father came back. She could recall that he was festooned with bandoliers and wore a gun at each hip, saying something about going out in search of a runaway. He patted Maddy on the head, then without any warning drew his gun and pointed it squarely at Lou Ellen’s head. He said in a very even voice, “Take care of my little girl while I’m gone.”

Everyone froze for an instant, until her daddy flashed his dazzling smile at Lou Ellen and chuckled, twirling the gun back into its holster. Lou Ellen responded by hurriedly stacking a bundle of logs onto the fire, as if building a pyre.

Madeline felt something cold begin to seize at her throat once again, and out of fear began to whimper. “Daddy, I don’t feel good. It’s cold.”

Her father stretched his arm as far as it would go and brushed her hair. “Hush, darlin’. Now don’t you worry, you’re my special girl. Use your magic powers, princess, and it will be like summer. You’ll be fine.” Madeline squinted hard, forcing herself to concentrate on the long ago scene. Dr. Kotmeyer was silent, and there were no sounds from the grounds outside. Her thoughts swirled randomly, as if thrown on the table before her like a puzzle. That’s what her father had told her. Hadn’t he? It all felt real enough.

Consciously, she pushed the memory away to reorient on Dr. Kotmeyer. Her eyes slowed their herky-jerky motion. She felt that she was back in focus. “I understand, doctor. We are all special in our own way. You and I. Everyone.” Her tones were measured, almost passive.

“Really? You seem very quick to give up your past beliefs, and everything you have adhered to for so long, Miss. Pickett.”

“You’re the doctor, aren’t you? I’m trying to be a good patient. You know what you’re talking about. After all, I’m listening to you, aren’t I?”

Kotmeyer continued to stare intently at Madeline. With a start, she realized that his smaller eye was actually false, nothing more than a small glass orb meandering on its own sightless axis.

“Well, that’s interesting indeed. You know, you are making great progress. I think we can change our visit schedule to thrice a week. Continue to scrutinize yourself, though. Be attentive to whatever may trigger your bouts of rage.”

Sitting on the Ottley’s lawn, feeling the heat soak into her, Madeline thought about Kotmeyer’s last words. The day was very still, with sunset almost upon them. Lou Ellen’s heavy, irregular breathing was virtually the only audible sound. It would be so easy, she thought, to prove you are wrong, doctor weasel, no matter how clever you may think you are.

Memories shimmered, as if from a distance, barely out of reach. It would be easy to simply pick one out, like a card from an index file, and have it relive itself over and over, as often as needed to prove that she did have gifts that no one else could know. After all, the past was her friend, and memories were old acquaintances that came to visit for a while and keep her company. They were locked inside her forever, ready to be tumbled out like dice and played repeatedly, one toss after another. They were the only friends she really had. They were the only loved ones she would ever have. Did that repulsive fool of a doctor really expect her to share any of them, or turn them away?

Times past could bring gossip, sadness, excitement and heartfelt laughter. Sometimes, when the fury was upon her, memories would oscillate in and out of her mind, alternating the past with short glimpses of what the future might bring, as if teasing her with grainy images of a photograph not quite in focus. And sometimes memories brought something else, harder to comprehend, and much more hurtful. Mirages. Desires. Deep longings. Fantasies without number. They could be painful, like reading a soulful poem, but she endured them. Welcomed them. After all, it was all real. Wasn’t it?

A breeze lashed at her cheek. Without warning Madeline felt herself sinking into a quicksand of unreasoning, mindless rage. The pathway downwards was familiar, trodden many times before. With a supreme effort, this time she stepped back. One by one, she shut the doors. Thoughts, remembrances, emotions all receded, like a great bonfire dying out in the deep of night. She willed the embers to stop glowing, and they gradually turned an ashen gray. And, miraculously, she began to feel at peace.

“Maddy?” It was Sue Ellen, opening first one eye and then the other with a drowzy curiosity. “What is it child? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!”

Maddy smiled at her servant, feeling almost giddy. “No, Sue Ellen, no more ghosts.” For all his humbuggery, she began to believe that Kotmeyer was pushing her in a new direction. Something new right now would be nice. She would still be special, in her own way, but she would try to keep it all within herself. It was time that her spectral visions, howling furies and emerald skies should all be packed away in a secret place, very carefully, like expensive old lace, to be taken out and displayed only for special guests and other occasions, like weddings and funerals.

Samuel Kotmeyer finished his notes hurriedly. He had a sloppy script, even though his right hand was fully functional. Quite often he could not read what he himself had just written. Scrawling quickly just made matters worse. But the sun was setting soon, the candles would need to be set, then Kiddush would need to be recited, and then of course no further work until Shabbat was done. By that time, he would have scant memory left of the day’s session with Madeline Pickett.

She was a fascinating case, one of the most interesting since his arrival at the University a year earlier. She clearly had a personality disorder that included relatively classic megalomaniacal and narcissistic manifestations. But beginning so early in childhood! That was unusual. He wondered whether it might have something to do with her skin color. Kotmeyer was quite certain she had a form of albinism with incomplete penetrance. It was a somatic weakness that might have profound psychological implications. Could her lack of pigmentation affect behavior or personality? Was there a primary physical basis for her emotional dysfunction? A common phenomenon, in his opinion.

He shook his head as he scribbled furiously. Most interesting of all, she was responding to therapy in a manner quite contrary to expectations. She refused to be cleansed by the process of shining a light into every corner of her psyche. Rather, the patient was deffervescing her emotional excesses by deliberately blocking every effort to examine her psychological landscape. There was no doubt, against all odds, that she was improving, at least in terms of her behavioral responses. What she might be experiencing within her internal milieu was another matter. Her mind, more mysterious than most, was closed to him.

Dr. Kotmeyer placed his pen down and pondered for a moment, stroking the wispy remnants of his beard. How interesting that it was the patient who chose this volitional approach to the problem, something she willed upon herself. It could not possibly last, however. Madeline Pickett was trying to smother a seething cauldron, and eventually there would be an inevitable, volcanic eruption. She would need his services when that happened, and desperately so. In the interim there was nothing he could do to preempt the explosion.

Oh, it all had to do with suppressed sexual expression and tension without doubt. Something sexual might in fact be the trigger for the next crisis. His colleagues in Vienna were right about assigning the causes of many personality disturbances to dysfunctional sexuality, whether in the context of desire, orientation, misguided morality, and so on with numberless permutations. In this case, though, he was sure there was more. Dr. Kotmeyer, formerly of Vienna and Berlin, and trained in the Freudian tradition of psychoanalysis, nonetheless remained open to other possibilities, other explanations of life’s disruptions. The interface of internal sexual thought and external behavior was foundational to personal experience. However, there was an even deeper impulse that moved humans ever since their first creation on earth; the desire for meaning in a meaningless universe. Kotmeyer believed this with all his soul. Sex was not everything.

In any case, this particular patient was a godsend. The president’s daughter! Undoubtedly, she would serve as an entrée to the cream of Southern society, something he had been desperately trying to accomplish since his arrival in Atlanta. No more of uneducated, neurotic housewives obsessed by handwashing, or fearful of walking into a marketplace. From now on, only uppercrust women terrified of being assaulted at night by their slaves, and willing to pay well for any release from their anxieties. All in all, Kotmeyer thought, that seemed like a good trade. No. It was a superb trade. Penury did not agree with him, especially when contrasted to the past, when he lived within the very heart of poverty stricken Europe.

After completing his medical charting, Dr. Kotmeyer hastened to prepare for the fall of dusk. The small apartment was slovenly, but his well thumbed siddur was kept meticulously in the same spot, on the bureau next to his bed. Right above it on the wall hung the only visible ornament in the room, a silver framed black and gray and white picture of modest proportions. He stopped to gaze at it, as he often did. In the picture stood a slender young woman in a summer dress that hung loosely from her hips, wearing a hat hanging rakishly to the side of her head, barely covering her curly hair. Her smile seemed almost bubbly, framed by generous lips daubed in dark lipstick, barely offsetting her dark complexion and thick, nearly opaque glasses. The picture was inscribed along the bottom, in small, neat letters. Kotmeyer knew them by heart:

My love, for all eternity.

Paris, 1922.

He felt his throat constrict, and he sobbed involuntarily. He knew he was too sentimental, too much anchored to the past, but he could not help himself. O, Rosa, he thought, you should be here with me, tonight, lighting the candles and ushering in God’s day of rest. Kotmeyer composed himself quickly. He knew the truth would be very different. Rosa was not one to light candles, lay out loaves of bread, or give the blessing.

Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam

Kotmeyer exhaled the words slowly, intoning them for Rosa, as if speaking for someone who was present.

No, for Rosa it was always about her work. The Work, as she called it, as if it required no other description or explanation. She had been swept to Berlin from Hungary, fleeing the aftershocks of the communist regime that had crumbled in 1919. They were inseparable from the time they met, and she finally agreed to marry him, but only in a civil ceremony. Her father was a rabbi, but she rejected any adherence to Jewish faith. In fact, she rejected any notion of being a Jew at all. She staunchly identified herself as a simple member of the proletariat, and denounced what she called tribalism. Religion, she often said, was an opiate, just as Marx had written, and she would not be drugged. Religious creeds were used to asphyxiate thought and to permanently subject mankind to the dominance of old ideas. No matter, she liked to say, a new age was coming.

Later, as the Nazis grew stronger in Germany, Rosa began to change. She deliberately identified herself more frequently as a Jewess. Kotmeyer suspected that she believed more deeply than she pretended to, but on the surface, at least, she claimed to espouse her faith and blood only as a means of confronting fascism. She urged other Jews also to identify themselves proudly and publicly, and to stand up to the thuggish brownshirts who roamed the streets. By 1929 that had become a terrible mistake. No one could have anticipated the viciousness of the SA, as Jews all over Germany were subjected to a systematic campaign of savagery.

It was then that Kotmeyer read Hitler’s book, his so-called autobiography. Professor Kotmeyer prided himself on his openness to new ideas, and his willingness to see the other person’s point of view. There was always another side to every disagreement, he believed. Books, to him, were simply a way to communicate, and to bridge ideas, cultures, and perspectives between human beings everywhere. But this specific book, this book of Hitler’s, horrified him. It was then that he decided it was time to leave Germany. It was not just Hitler, after all. It was all of them, or at best, most of them. Neighbors, coworkers, colleagues, tailors, mechanics, grocers…they all shared the virus. Max Wertheimer had told him to be patient, that Germans were not intrinsically against Jews, that they were expressing anti-Jewish sentiment only because they were attracted by the Nazis. Kotmeyer did not believe it; he could sense the hatred growing like a malignant tumor that was rapidly metastasizing. It was best to depart.

Rosa disagreed. The Work needed to go on. Fascism needed to be fought. Workers and students needed to be mobilized and enrolled in the Party. Rosa in turn urged him to go immediately, but he would not leave her, and put a brave face forward. After all, he was a wounded, decorated hero of the Great War, a Captain in an elite Austrian regiment. That background might buy him some time, at least until they could flee together.

Looking back, it all seemed like a distant, dark dream, an insubstantial nightmare lacking any explanation or understanding. One day the virulence swirling within the heart of Germany spilled over, like poisonous fluid overflowing a boiling pot, overwhelming and destroying the world he once knew. Coming to the CSA was easy when the time came. Germany and the CSA were after all kindred spirits.

How insane, he thought, I left a country tearing apart with race hatred and came to a country sewn together by race hatred. Jew, negro, what’s the difference. It could as easily be Chinaman or Arab. One day it might be Paddy or Pole. It’s easy to hate. Simply choose an object that satisfies the needs of the hating class.

As if it were yesterday, he could remember the two plainclothes policemen who had come to his Berlin office in the middle of a bright June afternoon, interrupting a session with a patient, to give him the news. They informed him that Rosa had undoubtedly brought the whole matter down upon herself by taunting a group of stormtroopers at an outdoor rally. It was, they said, a stupid thing to do. Really, they said, in a very practical way it was her own fault. There would be no trouble like this if people would just keep their mouths shut and go about their own way. She had been stabbed to death, they said, surrounded by screaming Nazis. Kotmeyer made the mistake of asking how many times she had been stabbed. One of the men, short and bald with a bull neck, shrugged and said, “I don’t know, ten, maybe twenty. What’s the difference.” They had left her on the street for over an hour afterwards before she was picked up, much like sweeping up some debris from a passing parade. History and time receded, and would never speak her name again. But he would, cherishing her in a place deep within himself.

Dark had come now. The candles were lit, the washing of hands was done, and the comfort of things familiar surrounded Kotmeyer. It was pleasing to him, reassuring somehow, to recite the Kiddush, even though he was completely alone. He said each word carefully, omitting nothing, holding his prayer book tightly, with a cup of wine close at hand. As he came to the end, he paused momentarily, feeling the pain of lost love, loneliness, and lamentation. But the moment was brief. The prayer had its own requirements, which he fulfilled faithfully.

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Chapter 9

Time passes. It intersects a space, and a moment is born. And, for every age, a moment comes that changes everything. A moment without conscience.

Grains of sand pass through the maw of the hourglass, reverse, and pass through again, over and over in an unending cycle. Each one, each single grain, might be a self-contained cosmos of time and space. Each one, each single grain, might bear its own burden of pain, lust, pleasure and love before it is dispersed by time. But a few, a very few, streak through eternity as if ablaze, circuited into an illimitable maze of memory:

Armed warriors stand astride a narrow pass.

A wrist is nailed onto roughly hewn timber.

A warlord bestrides a thousand mile wall.

Green flags of conquest sweep over the desert.

Fragile ships leave harbor for an uncertain shore.

A bloody guillotine slashes downwards.

Whenever such moments are spawned, they rush like a tidal wave of lunatic madness through the hearts and minds of all they touch, illuminating their existence, separating dark from light, hope from despair, one from all. Nothing before or after can ever be the same. Feeling, sight, and thought are altered irrevocably, and memory soon becomes myth. Why and how this happens cannot be comprehended. It is as if a curtain is drawn back by unknown, mystical hands and a slightly different species of humankind shuffles onto the stage, replacing the previous cast, and begins the play anew.

Whispers from generations past might linger, heard in the quiet spaces between breath and heartbeat, recalling ordinary deeds and common acts, memories that hemorrhage like old bloodlines dying out. But it is the awesome power of the iconic moment that breathes new energy into the simmering fluid of life. There is no narrative, no moral, no right or wrong. Urgency, compulsion, and clangor skitter around and around as if in orbit, embracing the great central fact that the course of human history - no, the course of the entire universe for as far as the human eye can see - is changed forever when time meets space, and a moment is created.

The moment was here.

The sound of hard leather on cobblestones echoed through the night, as the crowd rippled like a supple, prowling predator across the boulevard. Jona moved with the others, feeling the tautness, the intensity, the thrill that wound around him like a serpent’s coil.

The Unter den Linden was lined by lamp-posts at regular intervals all along its length, each one wreathed by a circle of intense light at its base, sharply warding off suffocating night. It seemed that phantasmagorical shapes shimmered on the ground as shadows leaped beneath the boughs of the swaying linden trees. All around him were heard the feral growls and intonations of shouted slogans and ancient songs as the students marched. Jona felt himself spinning as he walked, almost overcome by the electric feeling that surged through him. It seemed as if a bolt of lightning had thundered down, coursing from body to body within the multitude, ungrounded and unchecked. It was thrilling. It was sensual. It was malevolent.

They had started south on Universitatstrasse, the narrow street bordering one side of the University grounds, and as the gathering proceeded it swelled in size progressively. More and more students fed into the procession like so many tributaries feeding into a swollen, rampaging river. Some carried burning torches high in the air. Most of them carried books.

By the time they reached the broad, grassy, central island of the Unter den Linden the students had sorted themselves into an orderly parade as they continued across the avenue. Strategically placed men in brown uniforms and authoritative armbands bearing the swastika symbol ushered them along. It was a cool and clear evening. Jona paused briefly to smell the pungent, acrid odor of smoke in the air, feeling drenched in the exhilaration of the moment. This was an experience like none he had ever felt before, immersed in the energy that crackled around him. He stood in the middle of the broad, tree lined boulevard in the very heart of Berlin and twirled himself around and around, performing his own crazy dance, wanting to see everything, to hear everything, to feel everything.

Students gathered in groups in front of the University gates, dressed in the respective colors of their burschenshaften, each fraternity calling out clashing chants that coalesced into the cacophony of sounds that charged the atmosphere. A large group of them clustered around an enormous statue of Humboldt, which occupied an honored niche immediately in front of the ornate fence that separated the campus grounds from the street. The great naturalist and explorer was portrayed as seated, with one leg outstretched, staring pensively in judgement at the students gathered at his feet. As Jona glanced towards his right further down the avenue, he could see the solid, classical lines of the Neue Wache, the graceful colonnade of its façade still visible in the dim light. Beyond it, murky in the distance, was the looming multi-domed mass of the Berliner Dom, its church bells now stifled and hanging dormant.

It was barely past eight. A steady stream of men and women, including ordinary citizens as well as students, funneled towards the large open square across from the University grounds, a plaza called the Opernplatz. Jona hesitated, feeling increasing frustration. His escort for the evening had arranged to meet him on the avenue’s grassy concourse at eight precisely. Lieb looked around for him carefully but suspected that they would not meet. It would be difficult to intersect one another in the dark among this throng in any case. He glanced at the imposing baroque features of the Staatsoper across the boulevard, the opera house that framed the eastern side of the Opernplatz. Jona had been there just the night before with his host, but memory of their evening together had already drifted, and for now at least it seemed ages away.

With what sounded like a roar the passing swarm of humanity suddenly surged forward, and Jona allowed himself to surrender to the moment. Enveloped by a mass of bodies, he felt arms and chests and hands propelling him forward. Jona felt as one with the mob and pushed back at those next to him as well. To his own surprise, he did not feel repelled by the closeness of others and allowed himself to flow freely within the swarm that surged onwards. As they crossed the street into the broad, open space of the square a hush descended over the ocean of people that pressed forward, and the peculiar, crackling, memorable sound of that night could finally be heard.

It was a low pitched hum at first, but then became a louder, harsher hissing as Lieb got closer to the center of the plaza. For just a few seconds the air was rent with sudden high pitched flaring sounds followed by squealing sounds, as if something were dying in a last squirm of agony. And then, finally, an enormous bonfire came into full view. Jona stared at the pyre, transfixed by the flames that rippled and licked upwards. Youthful faces all around him were exultant, eyes straining forward, mouths open in hoarse prayer.

Jona could see and hear a short, intense appearing man on an elevated stage shouting with raspy voice into a microphone that sent his words reverberating throughout the Opernplatz. That had to be Goebbels, the minister for education and propaganda. Jona had been told about him, that he was Hitler’s right hand man. He was saying something about the flames lighting up a new era. Jona paid no attention, mesmerized by the conflagration that illuminated the scene before him. Suddenly, the little man raised his right arm straight up to the sky, a little man made smaller still by the huge throng that stretched before him. As he shot his hand upwards the crowd appeared to snap to attention as one.

“Heil Hitler!” they shouted.

And then, “Sieg Heil !”

And one more time, a tremendous shout in unison, “Sieg Heil !”

And again, and again, and again, in a seemingly unending chorus of invocations to the high priest of the new German Reich. “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

Students with torches raised them high in gestures of determination as well as salutation. Jona looked around at the ecstatic faces that surrounded him, filled with the euphoria of the moment. He sensed his own heart pounding, he felt as if he was one with them, and felt an urge as if he, too, should raise his arm and scream out the name of Hitler as everyone around him was doing. The crescendo of roaring salutes continued, the crowd seeming to twitch in a frenzy with each repetition.

Then, in a split instant, it happened. The moment came.

Someone ran up to the fire and tossed in an armful of books. The crowd moaned and screamed, delirious with joy. One young woman went down on her knees with arms upraised and shouted incoherently. A thin, blond haired boy who appeared to be barely into adolescence stood next to Jona, tears coursing silently down his cheeks. More students surged forward, throwing book after book into the searing fire. Jona was seized by an unreasoning sense of urgency, driving him to push through to the front of the tightly massed crowd, nearer the blaze. He came close enough that the flaring of the flames was palpable, and the heat beat upon his face. Like a voracious beast, the bonfire swallowed up volume after volume as the tomes were heaved into its very heart. Novels, philosophical tracts, scientific works, poems, essays of history were all transmuted into carbonized embers spewing into the night, evaporating into empty space. It seemed that thousands of books were lined up, stacked in the center of the square, very passively waiting their turn to be marched forward and consumed in the conflagration.

Small groups of students standing at the edge of the fire began to chant the titles, or the names of the authors, or both as the books were heaved into the flames, as if reciting a roll of the condemned. Jona realized with an odd prickling at the back of his neck that he knew many of these works; these were books he had read as a schoolboy, or at his father’s bidding, or simply for his own enjoyment. Some of these were old friends, joyous companions and wise advisors, yet even so Jona felt the thrill of the moment as they were surrendered for incineration and consigned to death. He joined the mob in screaming out the names one by one, as he too condemned them to annihilation:

Hemingway. ‘The Sun Also Rises.’ Poor Jake Barnes, thrown finally into a burning hell by unrequited lust!

Yes, cried the crowd.

‘The Metamorphosis,’ from Kafka. How Gregor Samsa’s insect body will quiver in the flames!

Yes, mocked the mob.

Sinclair Lewis and ‘Arrowsmith.’ Onto the fire with the futile Martin Arrowsmith and his absurd phage treatment for bubonic plague!

Yes, shouted the multitude.

‘All Quiet on the Western Front.’ Paul and Mr. Kantorek go equally into the funeral pyre!

Yes.

John Dos Passos. ‘1919.’ Eveline Hutchins, Miss Mathilde, Hollywood executives, the Roosevelts, the war, all up in smoke!

Yes.

Emile Zola!

Yes.

HG Wells!

Yes.

Freud!

Yes, Yes.

Upton Sinclair!

Yes, Yes.

Bertold Brecht!

Yes, Yes.

Jack London!

Yes, Yes.

Heinrich Mann!

YES, YES.

James Joyce!

YES, YES.

Einstein!

YES, YES, YES.

The roars surpassed all ability to endure. Jona’s left leg felt seared by pain and a burning numbness, but he tried to will the sensation away. The throng around him continued its berserk bellowing, some calling out the book titles, and some continuing the ‘Sieg Heil.’ One student nearby seemed to be reciting something, rocking his upper body backwards and forward at the waist repeatedly, reminding Jona of a Hebrew prayer.

And so the evening went on, becoming eventually a blurr of inchoate sounds and images. Without any clear signal, the audience to the great event, exhausted and satiated, emptied of its last measure of passion, began to break up and disperse. The last act of the great performance was finished. Jona was suddenly exhausted himself, and felt again the paralyzing pain in his leg and hip. The affair was over. The actors were done. The theater darkened as the pyre subsided. It was time to return to his hotel, where his Secret Service friends would undoubtedly be waiting. As fatigue descended upon him, he felt suddenly as if he needed to change out of his sooty, smoke impregnated clothes, and he wanted badly to take a hot bath and feel clean again. He lingered only slightly as the crowd thinned out, watching the smoke drift upwards and out over the low-lying mound of St. Hedwig’s Cathedral just beyond the square.

“Jona, we have found you!” The words vibrated in the air as if erupting spontaneously out of the ether. It was Kohler, approaching steadily with a thin cane in his right hand and a tall, somewhat sturdy appearing young woman holding on to his left arm. He appeared supremely at ease.

“Guten abend, Herr und Frau Kohler.” Jona could not curb his enthusiasm. “Sie waren hier? Haben Sie alles?“ He nodded respectfully towards the lady. “Es war eine Nacht werde ich nie vergessen!”

Kohler chuckled softly. “Please, Jona, no more German! I know you are trying hard to be gracious, especially on a night like tonight, but we’ll all be more comfortable speaking to you in English. This is not Mrs. Kohler, thank you, but I do want you to meet Elfieda Brunner.”

Jona bowed formally. “Pleasure.”

She smiled back. “The pleasure is mine, Dr. Lieb. Dr. Kohler has told me about his adventures in the U.S.A. and the terrible murder you witnessed. I hope you have recovered from the shock.”

The question was abruptly jarring to Jona. He had not thought about that incident in many weeks, but as the memory was revived he could recall it vividly. Like a surgical specimen fixed in formalin and placed on a back shelf, it could still be retrieved and studied in detail. “I have. I suppose getting away has been good for me.” And then, with great animation he continued. “And being here tonight was simply overwhelming!”

Kohler appraised Jona carefully. “Indeed. And what, pray tell, was so wonderful my dear friend?”

“The energy. The enthusiasm. The belief these people have. It makes me feel something important is happening here, something that is going to change the world.”

“And the theatrics you witnessed, with the books and so forth. Rather medieval, I must say. That did not bother you?” Kohler pointed vaguely towards the sputtering bonfire with his cane.

“No, not at all. I understand that this was symbolic. I’m sure they don’t want to actually destroy works of literature and science. Probably, I’m guessing, this was meant to send a message...maybe to be cautious with whatever one reads, or skeptical at least. Or when it’s inappropriate. That kind of thing, maybe, I think.” Jona felt suddenly very deflated.

They began to trudge slowly back towards the boulevard, trailing a large group of very enthused students. The high pitched quaver of feminine laughter pealed through the night air like a sharpened knife. Kohler’s cane clicked rhythmically on the pavement. His voice was very subdued when he spoke. “But that is where you are mistaken, Jona. We do want those texts destroyed. All of them. One must have the moral courage to say some things are simply destructive to society at large. Common people are too easily influenced by propaganda nowadays. As Goebbels himself just proclaimed moments ago, there should be a return to basic truths.”

Jona remained quiet for a moment. “Back in Cambridge you told me you wanted to eradicate subversive art. I didn’t believe you then and I don’t believe you now.”

“Not the same thing. Very few can truly appreciate and understand art. Works of art can change a person, but alone cannot change the world. Art is too nimble, too elusive, always just beyond our grasp. As a work becomes more well known, poof! It can take on a new identity, change into something else, almost anything you want it to be, really. Art is in the eye of the beholder, after all. Furthermore, Jona, many aspects of fine art, let’s say perspective, texture, allegory, symmetry and spatial development require...umm.... shall we say these things are difficult for ordinary people. A high intellect is needed to really appreciate these kinds of fine points. The masses would hardly understand sacred geometry, for example. A book on the other hand, a book can be bought by anybody, and read by anybody. Its meaning is usually quite plain. One reading can turn you for or against anything. Books, Jonah, books change the world. The first thing revolutionaries do is write.” Kohler paused. “Marx wrote. Thomas Jefferson wrote. St. Paul wrote.” And then more softly, “Hitler wrote.”

“There is no shame in this, Herr Kohler.” It was Elfieda Brunner, who sidled in between Kohler and Jona as they walked, grabbing an arm from each as she spoke. “We must do what we must in order to protect ourselves from both pernicious lies and the pernicious liars.”

Jona shifted uncomfortably. He felt that Kohler’s lady friend was leaning on him too closely, but she would not be denied, and tugged at him more firmly.

“Yes, Frau Brunner, but...”

“Fraulein,” she interrupted. “Please call me Elfieda.”

“Yes, Elfieda, I agree, I guess, but now that I think about it, I wonder about some of the books that were selected for, uhm...deletion. And who chooses? That little Goebbels guy?” Jona now felt very fatigued, almost drugged.

Elfieda jumped into her response as if she were entering a boxing ring. “All works of art must conform to the standards of the Party! No more can Undeutsches schrifftum be allowed. The Fuhrer, and he alone, decides the fate of literature, art, music, film, theater. Everything!” She was almost shouting now. “Everything must support the work of the Party. All to the greater good of the Reich.”

“Why was Jack London burned?”

“A Marxist-Socialist misfit. He does not deserve to be read.”

“Freud?”

“A Jew.” She answered as if responding to a math quiz.

Jona began to feel a void gnawing at him. He could sense a great truth yawning overhead, one that caused an indefinite unease, a discomfort, a vague feeling of dyspepsia and nausea that could not be shaken.

“Well... I don’t think I care about Jews one way or the other either...” A sudden vision of old man Shapiro standing at his deli counter flashed through Jona’s mind. “I mean, well, I don’t want to associate with them, of course. Not really, I don’t think. Not so much. But I don’t hate them. Or anyone else, for that matter.” He raised his voice at the end, sounding a defiant note.

Kohler interjected. “Yes, you do, Jona. You do hate them. Their strangeness, their difference, their separateness. You are aware of it every time you meet one of them. You despise them, in fact, but you feel it very inconvenient to say so. It’s somehow ungentlemanly to admit it openly. It seems offensive to you to view them as less than you are. But not for us. You see, my dear Lieb, we understand what has been happening to us. The cabal of Marxist, Bolshevik, intellectual, international Jewry has been killing us for some time, sapping our strength and vitality, and so now it’s time to resolve this problem. To, I believe, move on as you Americans might say. Come, come, this has been written about extensively. You must know what I say is true.”

“Well said, professor! Germany must be for Germans only!” Elfieda hugged Jona even closer, pressing his arm into her breasts and leaning into him to speak towards Kohler.

Jona felt confused. It was not true. It was absolutely not true. Was it? Old man Shapiro was not part of a cabal, was he? His mind whirled furiously but he couldn’t organize his thoughts and felt mildly disoriented. What would his father say? Oh, Earnest Lieb had his own prejudices, without doubt. But they were private, internal, personal. They didn’t count. It was not how he felt but how he acted that mattered. He had preached the equality of all peoples and the importance of social justice, didn’t he? Jews, Ethiopians, Mongolians, tall, short, fat, yellow, black... all equal. After all, wasn’t that what his life stood for? A life of science dedicated to the betterment of all mankind. Prejudice of any kind must be fought. That was the way. The only way, more or less, almost certainly.

He had a sudden thought. “How do you know who’s a Jew?”

Kohler offered a low titter and a broad smile. “We own the word. We decide.”

An inspiration erupted into Jona’s mind. “You need a magic bullet,” he murmured.

“What is that, Herr Doktor?” Elfieda laughed the words softly into Jona’s ear.

“Magic bullet. That was an expression my father learned from Paul Erlich, an old friend and colleague here in Berlin. He had a theory that any bacteria could be destroyed by tailoring a chemical to bind with specific proteins on its surface. Inject the chemical and it would kill that particular bacterium. Like an antibiotic would do, for example. So, there could be a magic bullet for every type of infecting agent. My father liked to say that if we can create a magic bullet for microbes, we can create one for poverty, hatred, ignorance, war, and on and on.”

Kohler thought for a moment. “Of course, I remember Professor Erlich. He was here at the university. A great scientist. Noble Prize winner. A giant, really. He was a Jew, by the way.”

“Well, then, you see. You recognize Paul Erlich as a great man, a pioneer of science, a great teacher. You may dislike Jews in general, which I don’t believe for a moment, but you can’t possibly hate him, can you?”

Kohler stopped completely, turned to face Jona, and tilted his head up with a loud, derisive laugh. “Dear, dear, Dr. Lieb, why should I hate Professor Erlich? He’s dead! He died years ago. There is nothing of him left to hate!” He placed his thin hand on Jona’s shoulder in an intimate gesture. Kohler, Jona and Elfieda formed a small stationary island standing in the midst of a torrent of passersby sweeping down the avenue. The old professor squinted into Jona’s eyes. “Death, Jona. The ultimate panacea. Death. Death is the universal magic bullet.”

“I’m telling you, they’re all fucking crazy in this country!” Joe Murphy tugged on a cigarette and scowled at Andrews simultaneously. “Can you believe the shit that’s going on? Burning books!”

Andrews sat opposite Murphy, burrowed into a plush sofa and seeming quite relaxed. They were in the lavish bar of their luxury hotel, the Adlon, just a few blocks from the Opernplatz. A large picture window gave view to the street, and they could see streams of people drifting past, giving sign that the rally was over. Murphy had spent the last few hours drinking beer, schnapps, Russian vodka, and a noxious something called Doppelkorn, mixing drinks without hesitation. He had not stopped fulminating about everything they had seen since their arrival in Germany, getting louder and louder with each drink. Andrews had heard stories about Murphy’s prodigious capacity for alcohol but had never seen him behave this way. It appeared that something had snapped inside the older agent, and that he had become unhinged somehow. Andrews felt helpless to put a stop to the drinking and hoped that Lieb would be back before Murphy became uncontrollably drunk.

It had been a miserable day for both of them. Jona appeared on edge all morning, looking forward to the rally later in the evening and talking incessantly about the opera he had seen the night before. Kohler had taken him to see something called Parsifal. Andrews had never studied music. He had a vague recollection of Wagner, the great German composer, but could not recall anything specific about any of his compositions, including Parsifal. From the moment they met for breakfast, Jona couldn’t stop raving about it, and couldn’t say enough about Kohler. It was the best music, he had said. It was the best libretto. It was the best story. It was the best opera house. And regarding Kohler, he gushed on and on. Kohler knew so much. He was so insightful and so clever. He was able to explain and reveal everything about everything. Lieb went on about it continuously during their meal together. It made Andrews yearn for the old Jona, the one who wouldn’t say a word that wasn’t dragged out of him.

After breakfast Lieb had insisted that he would take a foray into the city together with Kohler and most definitely without his two chaperones. That left the two agents at odds right away. Andrews wanted to stay around the hotel in case Jona sent word that he needed them. Murphy wanted to go out and see the city.

The hotel’s concierge settled the matter when he insisted they go to a place called Hause Vaterland on Potsdamer Platz. It was supposed to offer a dozen regional German restaurants under one roof, each one with a distinctive flavor and with characteristic decor from the corresponding part of Germany. He told them it would give them a true taste of German cuisine. It turned out be nothing more than an enormous tourist trap. The place was spotless, almost sterile, and the waiters stamped around as if they were practicing the goose-step. The head waiter took one look at the two Americans and insisted that they sit at a Berlin style Weissvierstube, which Murphy seemed to enjoy enormously. He had two orders of succulent boulotten while slurping clean three enormous steins of malodorous dark beer, belching all the while. By the end of the meal he appeared slightly tipsy. Andrews, on the other hand, was hardly able to handle more than a few bites of rubbery veal.

More than anything, he was worried about Murphy. It seemed to him that his partner was deliberately abandoning any control over himself. A successful mission required both of them to be at the top of their form, something that no longer seemed to concern the older agent. Of course, a successful mission also required that Jona run a steady course. All in all, Lieb’s quirky demeanor, the garish, noisy environment of the restaurant, and Murphy’s abysmal behavior combined to make his stomach turn. Andrews’ mind was left spinning, taking a darker cast. Was Murphy simply losing control, or was he deliberately trying to deep six the entire effort? Either way, if his senior didn’t shape up soon, the end result would be disastrous for them both.

Potsdamer Platz swirled with heavy pedestrian and street traffic as the two men emerged from the multistoried restaurant and theme park. Trams, buses and trucks added their weight to the congealed mass of autos, horns blaring, attempting to crawl through the congested traffic of early afternoon. Shoppers darted in and out of a myriad of glass cased store fronts. Modern city life raced at a frenetic pace in the heart of modern Berlin. The bustling scene only increased Andrews’ feeling of nausea.

Murphy seemed not to notice anything. He made an abrupt turn and barreled rapidly in the direction of nowhere in particular.

“Hey Murphy, wait.”

The burly agent did not pause, merely casting a surly look backwards as he strode even faster. “What?”

Andrews drew even with him. “I have to make a stop. I think that’s a pharmacy over there.” He pointed to a large sign emblazoned with an engraved caduceus, overhanging the sidewalk a short distance away.

“Wha’samatter, got the runs?” Murphy chortled derisively.

They said nothing more until they approached closer to the store. Without warning, Murphy abruptly reached out spasmodically and clutched Andrews by the neck of his jacket, arresting his progress.

“Don’t take another step,” he hissed.

“You’re mad!” Andrews struggled to maintain his composure as he twisted out of the clamped hand that gripped his collar.

“Shut it, Mac, and look over there.”

A small group of men were clustered on the street in front of the pharmacy. Two of them were dressed in brown military fatigues with carbines slung over their shoulders. Even from a distance, blazing red armbands with black swastikas over a white field were easily visible.

Andrews paused to study the situation, analyzing the meaning of the ominous tableaux that confronted them. After just a moment’s pause, he yanked back on Murphy’s hold. “Alright, let’s get out of here. Those are some mean, hungry looking dogs.”

“Save that homespun shit for someone else, Andrews. Come on, we’re going in.” He seemed eager to forge ahead.

As they approached, the uniformed men stiffened. One of them seemed young. When he sighted the ominous figure of Joe Murphy he began to finger the stock of his weapon nervously.

Murphy halted conspicuously, facing them squarely. He stood with arms akimbo, gigantic, exuding an air of anger, menace, and confrontation. He looked completely American, from the tips of his brown Bostonians to the flat peak of the pork pie hat perched sturdily on his head. The men in uniform shifted slightly.

“Andrews, can you read this load of bullturd?” He bobbed his chin in the direction of the display window as he unfurled a cigarette from a pack of Camels.

A poster was hung on the window, much like a notice for an upcoming pancake breakfast to benefit the Boy Scouts:

Meidat alle

Jüdischen Geschäfte!

Kauft nur bei Deutschen

Boykott!

Andrews stared at it, uncomprehending, then looked quizzically at Murphy. “I don’t know German.” He studied the sign again impassively. “The last word seems obvious.”

Without another word, Murphy moved quickly to the doorway. He smiled brightly at both troopers and waved his hand in a friendly manner. “Hey fellas, need to get something for my friend here, he’s got the craps. Don’t want any trouble, unless you want us to beat the livin’ shit out of you, just like in ‘18.” He stopped in front of the older guard, who might have been his own age, grinned broadly, and offered him the open end of a pack of Camels. The German did not hesitate to pluck two from the pack, placing one in his breast pocket. Murphy made a half turn towards the other, who grinned back and also took two.

While they lit up Andrews sidled past them. The pharmacy was brightly lit inside and he could see immediately that the establishment was practically bare. Almost empty shelves stretched across one side of the store, holding a smattering of nondescript bottles, jars, cans, and boxes. A large mural hung on one wall, depicting what might have been a medieval surgeon in a forest clearing. He was hacking off someone’s leg using a grotesque knife, with several onlookers gawking rigidly at the stolid fellow undergoing the amputation.

A young woman at the counter stretched, as if rousing herself from a nap. She eyed the stranger with curiosity but said nothing until he came near, then leaned over the countertop with a neutral curve to her lips. Andrews took note that she was pretty enough.

He tapped the counter with his index finger. “Brioschi.”

“You are American? English?” She spoke with a thick, almost guttural accent.

“American.”

She stooped behind the counter and retrieved a small blue bottle. Just as she offered it to Andrews she let out an enormous sob. A thin trickle of tears appeared on both cheeks. “Please, sir, take me with you.”

“How much?” Andrews felt a surge of annoyance as he pulled out some German paper money from his wallet.

“No, please, no money. Take me with you, please. Out of the country, please.” The woman half extended both arms in the direction of the American as if she were raising them in prayer.

Andrews was nauseated. He was tired. There was almost certainly trouble brewing between Murphy and the armed Germans at the entrance to the store. He didn’t have time for the woman’s hysteria. None of this had been in his plan for the day. He threw some bills on the counter, grabbed the bottle of Brioschi and took jogging steps towards the door. The sun peeked out from underneath a cloud just as he emerged from the recesses of the store. It felt good to be outside.

He found Murphy smoking easily with the two Germans, singing “Yankee Doodle” at the top of his voice. A small crowd had gathered around them, curious enough but not appearing friendly.

“Hey Andrews, get a load of these jerks. I’m giving them jive and they don’t even get it. What do you expect, these two here are Brown Shirts. Both of them are shitheads. We should ram something up their asses, that’ll teach ‘em.” He nodded with an amiable smile towards the two armed men as he spoke. The younger one nodded back with a boyish grin. He looked no more than sixteen.

Murphy took a last drag of his cigarette and flicked the stub onto the curb. “The sign in the window is about Jews, by the way. They’re being kicked in the nuts by the Nazis. How I hate these bastards. They’re scum, all of ‘em. Come on, I’ve seen enough.”

As they walked away Andrews popped two Brioschi into his mouth, and experienced relief almost immediately. Briefly, he turned his head to look back at the pharmacy, and an image of the young woman inside, hands outstretched, flashed through his mind. It occurred to him that for once he felt exactly the same as Murphy. He had also seen enough.

After they arrived back at their hotel Murphy insisted he wanted to sit in the garden courtyard in the rear of the hotel, admire the enormous spouting fountain on display there, and have a beer. Andrews checked his watch. It was a little before three. He announced he was going to take a walk, declaring he needed to work off the effects of lunch.

In minutes he was meandering at a leisurely pace down the Unter den Linten to Brandenburg Tor and on to Pariser Platz to the west of the great arch. The ruins of the burnt out Reichstag, destroyed by fire just a few months earlier, were still visible in the near distance, covered with workers busily disassembling the building’s carcass brick by brick. He wandered through the Tiergarten and then on to Konigsplatz, dominated by the overwhelming height and mass of the Siegessäule, Germany’s Victory Column. He found a park bench on a corner of the scrupulously tidy Siegesalle mall and sat for almost an hour, taking several more brioschi as he studied the monumental statuary that lined the carefully manicured boulevard. Statue after statue bore Berlin’s ceremonial witness to the successful wars that birthed the German empire.

His contact came right on time, passing him a plain brown envelope by simply tossing it on the bench next to Andrews. The man scurried away quickly, disappearing behind the looming edifice of the Siegessäule. Siegessäule, Andrews thought, Victory column. Siegesalle. Victory street. These people honor war. War has its uses, that’s obvious, but Germans are living in the past. They should spend more time thinking about tomorrow and stop poking their neighbors in the eye. On the other hand…He shook his head in acknowledgement. Power has it’s privileges. The walk back to the hotel cheered him up somewhat, and his indigestion was much improved by the time he was back in his room. The deciphered message promptly gave him heartburn.

Now it was evening, both agents were seated at a booth in the hotel bar, and Andrews gazed at his partner with a mixture of pity and disgust. “You know, book burning is not that unusual. It’s happened in history many times. They say that the first emperor of China had every book in his kingdom burned or destroyed. That was two thousand years ago. Lots of book burnings since then.” Andrews paused a moment to take a sip of the seltzer water he had allowed himself. “Lot’s of people burnings, too, for that matter.”

“That’s just the half of it.” Murphy went on as if he hadn’t heard a thing. “The same sign we saw today is on every store run by Jews, sometimes with those Jewish stars...you know...”

“Star of David.”

“Yeah. Of David. Painted on the windows, warning people to stay out. And listen to this, they’re also picking up men off the streets just on suspicion of being a queer and sending them to jail just like that. No trial, no nothin’. If you’re a Red you’re royally screwed. You know what the waiter told me? The SA, like the two heavies we saw today, are still the enforcement arm of the Nazis, not the cops. They are the real muscle behind Hitler. They’ve been fighting union thugs, socialists, and commies in the streets for years. Real dirty stuff, back and forth. Well, this guy tells me the SA have just been deputized, and now they have the authority to pick up anybody without a warrant, just like the regular cops. So, who do you think they’re going after? No wonder anyone on the other side is on the lam. People are disappearing left and right. I’m telling you, this place is a fucking horror show. They’re worse than the Mafia. Someone’s gonna have to pay, ‘cause right now there’s blood in the streets.” Murphy shrugged and took another long gulp of brown beer.

Blood in the streets. Andrews stared out the window absently, his thoughts suddenly removed far away by the echo of a memory. For just a moment, he had a vision of himself as a youngster, maybe nine or ten, walking the dirty streets of Hampden, in Baltimore. He could remember stopping outside Odetta’s Bar and Grill. He squatted on the pavement, his black wooden shoeshine box next to him, right in front of a sign in the window that announced:

NO DOGS!

NO NEGROES!!

NO CHINAMEN!!!

IRISH WELCOME

He hoped a drunk would walk out of the bar and ask for a shine. A drunk did stagger out a few minutes later. It was his stepfather, Mickey Ray O’Banyon.

Mickey Ray was something of a legend in Hampden. He never had a steady job as far as anyone knew, but always had scratch in his pocket. They said he played horses, women, and niggers, in no preferred order. Every once in a while, he disappeared for long stretches of time, some said to Dover, and he generally returned herding a helpless looking group of newly arrived blacks. Newbies, escaped slaves, all of them just raw meat for the sharks that circled them expectantly. And the biggest shark of all was Mickey Ray.

In the old days these pitiful, ignorant people were taken into the warmth and protection of private homes or churches, taught the ways of their new homeland, and ushered further North. No more. Johnny Andrews’ observant eyes had seen the men contracted out to the railroads for gang work on pennies a day, and the young women brought to the back alleys of East Fifth street. For the simple, trusting ex-slaves conveyed into town by Mickey Ray O’Banyon, their escape to freedom all too often ended in penury, disease, and torment.

For John’s sister Myra, marriage to O’Banyon had resulted in much the same. Andrews hated him, not least for the way he often treated his sister.

Mickey Ray staggered out from the saloon and into the sunshine, already scowling. He stank of cheap whiskey, or something resembling whiskey. His pants were stained with urine, and there were particles of sawdust in the nap of his hair. When he saw Andrews squatting down next to his shoeshine box, he first stopped and stared as if to focus carefully, and then gave a long legged kick that shattered the box and sent it flying into the gutter. In a flash he was on top of the boy, cuffing him around the head and cursing in the most vicious way. “You fuckin’ guttersnipe!” He howled as if baying to the moon. “Now you gonna die!”

Mickey Ray had lived his life by riding the winds of luck wherever they would take him. It was his bad luck that day that a police patrol happened on the scene at that very moment, clattering up on big brown horses that snorted with anticipation. Police clubs made the sound of loud thumps on Mickey Ray’s back and head as they grappled him to the ground. One of the cops grunted as he struck, “Break the goddamn darkie’s head!”

John Andrews could still hear Mickey Ray’s screams echoing, still echoing from whatever private hell yet harbored his ghost. “I’m not a nigger!” he wailed, “I’m not a nigger!” Time and place had not erased the memory of that moment. The event was neatly trimmed and tied, folded carefully, and like many of his other remembrances, stored behind a clearly labeled doorway that led to days gone by.

Sitting silently, aware but unresponsive to everything around him, he willfully subdued the images from his past. The past was not now, and he only had time for right now. But, just as he began to let go, Andrews felt again the hatred and the power captured in the words that he spoke at that moment, on that day. As Mickey Ray lay bleeding, broken, and still on the ground, with the roundfaced, heavyset policemen panting over him, the young boy pointed coldly at his stepfather. “Kill him,” he had said calmly, “Go ahead. Kill him. Nobody’ll care.”

There was a sudden bustle at the bar’s entryway. Jona entered, leading Kohler and Elfieda. Murphy saw them first and stood to make himself seen. He couldn’t help swaying slightly. Andrews waved at Jona, giving a look of concern. As they approached, he also arose.

“Dr. Lieb, I was beginning to worry about you. Everything alright?” Andrews looked inquiringly at Elfieda.

“Andrews, you should have been there!” Jona almost gushed the words out. The sight of his friend waiting for him patiently made him feel re-energized. “You know Professor Kohler, and this is Frauline Brunner. Elfieda.”

“Hello. And what do you do, Frauline?” Joe Murphy spoke quickly, almost before Jona stopped talking. He did not like surprises, and this woman’s appearance was a surprise he definitely did not like. She looked a little too cozy with Lieb. She looked a little too made up. She looked a little too merry. She looked a little too busty. She looked a little too much like trouble.

Elfieda laughed. She took a quick glance at the six or seven emptied glasses on the table in front of Murphy. “Excuse me, what did you say?”

Murphy remained dogged, indifferent to the angry look flashed by Andrews. “What do you do?” He really wanted to ask her ‘Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?’ “It’s just that, you know, I’m curious, seeing as you’re with the perfessor and all. Are you in the art business too?”

It was Kohler’s turn to laugh softly. He turned towards Jona. “May I share our confidential talk of yesterday?”

Lieb hesitated briefly then nodded assent.

Kohler had materialized like an unexpected sea wind the day before, only Jona’s second day in Berlin. In an eerie replay of their last encounter, Kohler’s dignified form appeared in the hotel restaurant just as Jona was finishing breakfast with Andrews. Lieb was genuinely happy to greet his distinguished visitor.

Kohler explained that he had read about Jona’s arrival in the newspapers. In any case, he had learned something about Jona’s itinerary from a friend, one of the professors at the School of Physics. The faculty was abuzz about Jona’s upcoming lecture, he reported. Announcements about it were posted everywhere on campus. It was easy to guess that he would be staying at the Adlon, a short walk down the street from the University.

Jona had introduced Andrews as a friend, and mentioned Murphy, who joined them shortly. Murphy, of course, gave every impression of being snappy and unhappy with anything and everything. Later in the day, on their way to the opera, Jona confided that both men were private detectives he had hired to provide personal security during their trip South. This was the cover story he was instructed to use whenever questions arose about the two agents.

Now, in the presence of both agents and Jona, Kohler was able to turn squarely towards Murphy with a gleam in his eye and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am sure you are curious, Herr Murphy, but with a purpose, no doubt. Dr. Lieb has already told me you are a private detective, hired to guide and guard him during his difficult journey. But, I am also sure...” Here, the professor paused for dramatic effect. “That you are not what you are said to be!”

Joe Murphy stared at Kohler with such intensity that his eyes appeared to erupt right out of their orbits. “And how is that, my dear Herr Maestro Perfesser?”

Kohler smiled at the barb and nodded triumphantly. “I believe you are both agents of the United States government, probably of your Federal Bureau division, and you are to conduct Jona safely to his destination and back.” He folded his hands on the table in a gesture of satisfaction.

Andrews leaned forward with a big smile. “Now, Professor Kohler, what would make you say that?”

“It’s obvious, really. Dr. Lieb is the son of one of the great men of our times, but a man who was a renegade to his native land. Indeed, some in the Southern country might view Earnest Lieb as a traitor. It might be tempting for some authorities in the government to detain Jona, perhaps even use him for some kind of perverse propaganda. Or, a hostage perhaps. Thus, having U.S. Federal agents as bodyguards would be logical. It would be doubly provocative to undertake anything against Jona with the two of you surrounding him at all times. So, Herr Murphy, I am sure that it is in fact necessary for you to know all about Fraulein Brunner, and about me, and about everything going on here. For your reports to your superiors, of course.” Kohler ran his hand through his sleek white hair and shook his head. “And besides,” he continued, “Jona could not possibly afford to hire two detectives with the salary he makes as an assistant to the Medical Examiner of New York, exalted though the position might be.”

An uncomfortable silence descended around the table. Jona shifted in his chair unhappily, and again felt the urge to strip out of his clothes and crawl into a hot bath. He felt the situation slipping out of his control.

Murphy took out a pack of cigarettes and held it out silently towards Elfieda. She nimbly retrieved a cigarette and held it to her lips while Murphy shook one out for himself. He gave her a light, lit up himself, and after taking a vigorous puff he drained a glass of vodka, then leaned towards her with a herculean sigh. “Well?”

“Well what, Monsieur FBI?” Her voice was melodious and low, subdued by the tobacco smoke.

“Well, what do you do?”

As if on cue, everyone around the table broke into thunderous laughter. Not tittering laughter, or the pleasant laughter that follows a bon mot or clever joke. No, this was bellowing laughter, staccato inhalations and exhalations, coming with great wheezes, gasps, yelps, snorts and stridorous noises that left the eyes tearing and the sides sore. Even Andrews joined in, unveiling himself briefly with riotous mirth.

Elfieda was the first to calm down sufficiently to speak. “Well, Mr. Murphy...”

“Please, lady, call me Joe.” Murphy was still rubbing his eyes vigorously with both hands as he chortled out the words.

“Well, Joe, if you must know, I am a writer.”

“Oh yeah? What kinda writer?”

“Mostly for magazines. Sometimes newspapers.” She hesitated slightly, peering towards Kohler.

Jona found himself staring at Elfieda. Sitting down, she seemed slimmer than before. Her hair was a dirty blond, set severely short under a red cloth cloche hat with an enormous white feather swooping around the side and down towards her neck. She wore a stunning black and red checkered swagger coat with a flurry of ruffled white silk showing at the neck. When she smiled at him, her thin nose crinkled, reminding him of a rabbit. And she seemed to smile at him often.

Murphy was relentless. “So, what newspaper do you write for?”

Elfieda again glanced quickly towards Kohler, who seemed to nod. She took a slow drag and tapped out some ash before answering, her mouth pouting upwards. “Mostly for Arbeiter Zeitung.”

Joe Murphy looked dazed for a moment, as if he had just been plunked between the eyes by a mallet. Andrews cocked his head inquiringly in the direction of Kohler and then turned to Elfieda. “I believe that’s a Socialist newspaper.”

“It’s practically a Commie rag.” Murphy’s jaw seemed to protrude involuntarily, making him appear as if he were ready to chew marbles. “We had an Arbeiter Zeitung in Chicago when I was growing up. They were nothing but a bunch of troublemakers. Filled people’s heads with crazy ideas. Hey, Perfesser, you have some strange friends, don’t you?”

“Yes, it might seem that way,” he responded calmly. “In fact, Elfieda is an important member of the influential ‘Proletarian Revolutionary Writers Union.’ Treasurer, I believe.”

Jona listened in disbelief. “What’s going on here? What about all that stuff you said earlier? About the Fuehrer being in charge of everything?” Elfieda looked straight ahead stolidly.

“It’s very clear, Dr. Lieb.” Andrews spoke in a calm, almost clinical tone. He picked up his seltzer water, slumped back into the couch, and crossed his legs. “So, Herr Professor, who does she report to? You? Unlikely. I bet, frauline, that you once reported directly to Party headquarters. Or maybe to those new people at the Prinz Albrecht Strasse, the Gestapo. I would also presume that your spying activities are no longer needed. Now that the Nazis are the power of the land, they can arrest whomever they want whenever they want. The entire Proletarian Revolutionary Writers Union can be picked up tomorrow, if it hasn’t been already.”

Kohler was quick to respond. “If their activities are against the common good, why shouldn’t they be arrested? My friends, this is not the great and powerful United States. Please, look around you. We have lost a war. Almost three million of our best and brightest young men died in defeat. Millions of others disfigured forever. Parts of our country are still occupied by foreign troops, including the French, our ancient enemies. Because of the Allies and the war reparations they imposed on us, our economy is in a shambles, and both foreign and domestic revolutionaries are trying to undermine us. Our national identity, our culture, our virtue as a nation is at risk of annihilation. We are in peril every day. In a time of crisis, in a time of war, surely these difficult procedures are justified. You would do the same!” As he ended, his voice began to break with emotion.

Elfieda continued to look straight ahead in silence.

Jona was struck by something in her face. Sadness, perhaps, or perhaps shame, he couldn’t be sure. He was startled out of his thoughts by the abrupt blaring of horns and the thumping of a drum. A brass band, probably coming back from the Opernplatz, was beginning to play on the street right outside the bar’s broad window, and an exuberant crowd could be seen gathering around. It was lively music, and before long Jona found himself tapping his feet to the rhythm.

Murphy also seemed to be enjoying the music. Before long he began to clap his hands and whistle loudly. Patrons in the lounge began to stare, or turn away to keep from staring. “Hey, Perfesser, what do they call what they’re playing?”

“That is a song from long ago. From the time of the Kaiser. It is called ‘Heil Dir im Siegerkranz.’ “ Kohler smiled as he responded. Even he seemed to nod his head up and down to the sway of the tune. “I can see you are enjoying it. This is authentic German music!”

“Sure, I’m lovin’ it! It’s really great stuff. I’ve heard it before, ya see. We could hear it playing across the lines during the war. And after we beat the living shit outta you Krauts, we let the prisoners sing this little ditty as we marched them back to old Deutchy-land!”

Jona couldn’t restrain himself. “Mr. Murphy, you are out of line here. The professor is my friend.”

“Yeah, kid, but maybe you need some new friends. This guy is a dyed in the wool Nazi. As far as I can see, the whole bunch are dirty. Don’t you get contaminated.”

Suddenly, a hugely formed man in a pitch black leather coat erupted out of nowhere. With a loud grunt, he grabbed Murphy by the shoulder, spinning him around. Jona could see that the man’s face was plethoric, and his neck veins were engorged. He appeared quite drunk.

“Ich habe gehört was sie gesagt haben!” With an effort, he then snarled some words in broken English. “You haff no right to sprech like dat. I vas dere! I vas Frontsoldaten! In ze trench! Auch ich Kampfte im Krieg!”

Andrews sprang to his feet in a split second. “Look, my friend, we want no trouble here. My associate meant nothing personal.”

The intruder was not assuaged. He pointed to Murphy and then pointed with his index finger to his own forehead. “You crazy! Say sorry! Tschuldigen! Entschuldigen uns sofort! “

Murphy staggered to his feet. He smiled weakly at the intruder, spread his arms out wide, then gave a military salute and bellowed with stentorian clarity, “Fick dich!”

All hell was promptly released. The German swung a huge paw at Murphy, which he dodged adroitly, following with a knee to the man’s groin. Within seconds a general melee broke out. Several young Germans, some of them appearing to be students, rushed Murphy. In a flash, Andrews jumped up to cover his partner’s back. Tables overturned with loud crashes, glassware smashed on the floor with explosive cracks, and women’s screams were heard among the grunts and groans of the combatants. The bartender shouted out “Hör auf damit!” but no one paid heed and the mayhem continued despite his entreaty. Jona and Elfieda retreated rapidly towards the exit. Kohler followed, but moved slowly and almost grudgingly.

It was really no contest. Murphy and Andrews were trained fighters in top physical condition, and easily held their own against their assailants. Two of the Germans were sprawled on the floor unconscious within just moments. Someone came at Andrews with what looked like a rubber truncheon. He expertly dodged the blow and landed a crushing counter punch over the man’s forehead, dropping him like a felled tree. A chair was thrown at Murphy’s head. He caught it in mid-air, whirled it around his head, and then tossed it right through the adjacent windowpane. The window was shattered, sending glass shards flying outwards towards the band outside, which began to disperse very quickly.

Through the broken remains of the window the noise of the outside world gushed in, and a klaxon could be heard blaring out in the street. Kohler shouted out “Die Polizei kommt!”

With Kohler’s warning spinning through the frenzied sounds of the brawl, Andrews sprang around towards Jona with a look of urgency. “Dr. Lieb” he called, “you have to leave right now! The police must not find you here. The two of us will be fine. Please, leave now!”

Kohler grasped Jona by the elbow. “He is quite right. We should make our escape from here.”

Lieb hesitated. He needed little persuasion to leave, but at that very moment Joe Murphy fell to the floor in a heap under the weight of two brutish attackers. For a split second he considered throwing himself into the fray, perhaps by kicking one of the attackers, or pulling on their hair. Kohler tugged again, and Jona turned towards the doorway decisively, with Elfieda right behind. As they made their way hastily towards the hotel lobby he could hear someone, perhaps a woman, screaming with a shrill cry, “Toten sie ihn! Toten sie ihn!”

When they reached the elevators, Jona spoke to Kohler with a hoarse breathlessness. “Professor, what do you think we should do?” An enormous mob of curious, gaping onlookers thronged in the lobby, taking in the sights and sounds coming from the bar, just as if they were watching a heavyweight prize fight. The hiss and buzz of shouted, garbled conversation bounced around them, making it difficult to hear easily.

“There is only one thing for you to do, my friend. Go to your room immediately and lock the door. One of us will come to you when this is over.”

“But...” Jona turned back towards the tumult coming from the lounge.

“My dear Lieb, don’t be a fool. Anyone can see that your friends are professionals who are well able to take care of themselves. I will wait for the police and speak to them. Remember, I am a Party member and may have some influence. Rest assured, Herr Murphy and Herr Andrews will be fine. But, your status may be compromised if you are found to be involved in a bar room fight. It would be scandalous. Think of the lecture you are due to give at the University! Now, upstairs, go, quickly!”

Elfieda spoke for the first time in an eternity. “The professor is correct, Doctor. You must go.” She chanced a glance into Jona’s eyes, then turned towards Kohler.

The elevator operator held the doors open patiently and closed them quickly as soon as Jona entered. Just as they clicked shut he glimpsed uniformed police rushing into the lobby.

It was only then that Jona succumbed. His knees began to shake and he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to urinate. By the time he got out of the elevator he was barely able to make it to his room, and once inside he fell face first onto the bed. Exhaustion and fear coiled around him, choking the breath out of him and leaving him gasping. Unwanted images appeared before him like a kaleidoscope. He saw again the big man with the red beard sprawled on the pavement, heaving with the death rattle in his throat. He imagined his father lying still as stone encased within his casket. He saw...Marielle’s face swimming up to him as if arising from some unfathomable depth, her lips curling into a cry of terror...

He slept.

Hot mists exuded from the surface of the water, whirling, contracting and coalescing into floating, twisting vapors that condensed into beaded droplets on the walls and ceiling. All was silent, with the simple stillness found only in the predawn. Jona lay limp inside the steaming bath, motionless, mindless. He wanted only to float suspended within the warmth and allow the cleansing waters to wash away the wastes of the day.

All the silly boyishness that had embraced him at the thought of the great adventure he was to have was now replaced by the same sense of foreboding that had engulfed him before the start of the journey. Something was terribly wrong. Dangerously wrong.

He had awakened at his usual time, well before the touch of sunlight. He did not remember falling asleep. Repose had come quickly and stealthily, a quiet, cat-like actor stalking in the night, pausing for no whisperings or murmurings before the curtain’s fall. As he opened his eyes to the darkness, his mind turned immediately to Andrews, Kohler, and Murphy. No one had come to him during the night, and he had no idea what happened after he fled the lounge. Jona thought about going back downstairs to see for himself, but Kohler’s last instructions to him were to stay secluded in his room. And, the police were down there. Jona certainly didn’t want any trouble with them.

The bath both relaxed and deadened him, but something tugged at the back of his mind, gently, but persistently. He could not make it out, but the vague pull engaged his mind and brought him back into focus. The fracas in the bar was hours ago, undoubtedly broken up by the police when they arrived. Even after answering questions, the agents and the elderly professor should have been free of the whole affair long ago. I should have gone down there to help, he thought. An odd weight, a disturbance, pressed against him, gnawing silently. Dad would have stayed, he would never desert a friend like that. A friend should never be abandoned.

The weight on his mind lifted like a curtain. It was about his father. His father had been in his dreams, calling out something, no more than a disembodied voice speaking to him from an offstage location. How strange, Jona thought, how strange that dad is gone. Is he really gone? And then, with an involuntary shake of his head, I haven’t even thought about him in so long, but it feels like he’s still here.

In retrospect, it was peculiar that Kohler had not once brought up his father, despite their long acquaintance over so many years. Jona wondered idly how they had met and become friends. His father had never talked to him about Kohler, but they were similar in many ways. Both carried themselves with an austere reserve. Both possessed an enormous intellect. Both had great passion for their work. In some ways, Kohler, more than his father, was a man for all seasons, easily able to blend his insights regarding art, politics, music and history into any conversation. Jona genuinely liked him.

Whorls of steam swirled silently, creating a pearly mist. Jona felt his body melting into the limpid warmth of the water. He knew he should climb out of the tub and get dressed, but he hesitated, not wanting to emerge into the morning cold. The silence was broken only by small drops of water dripping from the faucet, each one striking a crystal-pure tone as it struck the bath. Jona listened intently, judging the timbre of each drop as it hit. It was not easy, but with each repetition he softly called out a note, as if reading from a musical score. This was just what Kohler had instructed him to do the other evening as they prepared for the opera.

“Jona, listen to each note,” he had said, “listen to each chord, to each theme. Train yourself to record what you hear. It will make music a second language for you!”

After their encounter at breakfast the previous morning, they arranged to meet in the early evening at the foot of the Schlossbrücke, just across from Museum Island. They walked leisurely down the broad, tree lined Unter den Linden to the opera house. Kohler was bubbling with enthusiasm, using his slender cane to point out the sights along the grand avenue. Jona was happy to be outside and away from his two escorts.

“Do you know Parsifal?” Kohler asked, his eyes twinkling as if he already knew the answer.

Lieb shook his head, feeling shamed that the work was completely unknown to him.

“It is a sacred story. Wagner composed it particularly to be performed at the annual festival in Bayreuth. He drew from many mythical elements, of course, but from the beginning he intended it to be a purely German parable.” The gray haired professor went on to describe the story line.

Jona found the tale to be confusing, obscure, and almost childish. As they walked, he scarcely listened while Kohler discoursed about castles, flower maidens, Knights of the Grail, and a spear with healing powers. It all sounded nonsensical. As they passed through the ornate atrium of the Stadtsoper, Jona found himself regretting that he was trapped by Kohler’s invitation, and as a result committed to an evening of boredom at the opera.

The performance proved to be magical. From the opening tones Jona was entranced, engulfed by the massive force of Wagner’s opus. Medieval characters flitted around a blackened, otherworldly stage, singing words from a libretto that Jona could barely hope to understand. Kohler was there beside him, whispering into his ear, explaining a symbolic movement or accompaniment. As the protagonist gradually evolved in mythical fashion from a simpleton into a heroic figure, Jona felt the power swell within himself as well. He imagined it was he who journeyed through darkened forests on an inscrutable mission, and it was he who carried with him the sacramental touch of healing and renewal.

As he lay in the bath, immersed in the warmth, stroking water idly over his thighs, Jona closed his eyes and attempted to reprise the climactic third act. He could visualize the players and scenes, but recalled very few of the words. At one point Kohler nudged him to attention as Parsifal was shown undergoing his heroic metamorphosis. “Listen Jona,” he whispered in a reverent tone, “Listen to the sounds of the ostinato bells as Parsifal is transformed! Can you hear the notes? Glorious! C...G...A...E.” Jona remembered, and intoned the notes to himself, while the sound of droplets striking water echoed in the porcelain room, each successive drop also sounding C…G…A…E.

As he mumbled aloud, he thought he could hear something for just a moment, an acoustic accident perhaps, a murmuring in the distance. He closed his eyes and listened intently, straining to hear. Words came to him, confused and with no pattern. At first, it was as if Goebbels were shouting at him, in loud brass at a shrieking pitch. Then, he could feel the mob moving towards the bonfire flames as they shouted incoherently, their drums beat-beat-beating a steady cadence in the night. Kohler was there, reading poetry to the gentle, drawn out sound of a flute, merging with the steady strum of years and years gone by, evaporating and condensing, breathing words of marvel and regret. Somewhere among the whispers, words began to coalesce and cohere, and then Jona remembered, remembered what came to him through the notes and rhythms and sounds and swellings, remembered the words wrung out from his memory, whooshing into his awareness through whorls of haze:

Mein Vater

Hochgesegneter

du Helden

The words called for him to join his father in death, just as Parsifal had wished. As the lines melted into his mind, they deposited a complex alloy of feelings and memories. Jona drifted away, as if hovering on a distant horizon, events and moments streaming by with lightning speed, overcoming the current of time and place. Abruptly, without warning, a wandering thought struck him like a stray beam of light: Was dad really a hero? The question sprang into being out of nothing, fully grown and armored as if ready for a dark and primitive combat. Of course he was. Millions owed their lives to him. An image flashed before him, of children all over the world coughing violently as they hid under their bed covers. Earnest Lieb helped to save them, didn’t he? He acted nobly, didn’t he? He was a hero, wasn’t he? The vision receded quickly, as if turning into an alleyway to hide among the shadows.

Jona took a deep breath, sat straight up, and struggled to his feet. The sound of water streaming from his body struck the bath like a cannonade, energizing him into action. I should sit right down and write a report to Churchill, he thought. He will want to know what I’ve seen here for his...uhm...Jona stopped in mid-thought. I really have no idea why Churchill wants any kind of report, about Germany or anything else. My God, why the fuss over the Nazis! What’s he so worried about, anyway? A few things might be extreme, but these people are just trying to find their way. Just trying to get by. The whole Jewish thing is just an aberration. He should talk to Kohler, then he would understand. I’ll put that in the letter.

After throwing on a bath towel, Jona ambled dutifully to a small desk in the corner of the room. He flicked on the desk lamp and sat down to pen and paper. He wrote furiously fast, feeling the need to get dressed:

My dear Sir Winston:

I am writing you from the very heart of the Nazi regime, and I can report that all here is transformed …

A soft tapping at the door interrupted him. He turned excitedly and rushed to answer. At last. Andrews, or perhaps Kohler had come to him. Finally, some fresh news about the aftermath of the previous night’s debacle in the bar. Jona swung the door open quickly.

Elfieda Brunner stood in the doorway. She glanced him over quickly, a bemused smile on her lips. “Good morning, Herr Doctor.”

“Frauline!” Jona tried not to collapse from embarrassment and placed both hands firmly on the edges of the towel tied around his waist. He gave every appearance of wanting to shrink into it. “Why are you here? I mean, where are the others?”

She stood her ground in the doorway, gazing intently into Jona’s eyes. “I am very sorry, Dr. Lieb, your friends have been arrested. They have all been taken away by the police. I thought you would want to know.”

It took a few moments for Jona to assimilate what she said. “But where are they? How are they? How do I find them?”

“I cannot be sure where they were taken. But it was the regular police who made the arrest, not Gestapo or SA. Don’t worry, they’re not in danger of disappearing. Your friends and the Professor can be found with the correct inquiries. You will have to contact your embassy to assist.”

“What happened after I left?”

Elfieda shrugged her shoulders. Her coat was now unbuttoned, revealing a blouse of silk foulard that fell in ruffles down to her waist. Her eyes gleamed in the relative darkness of the hallway.

“What you might expect. The police apprehended your two bodyguards and the Germans involved in the fight. Six or seven altogether, I think. Your friend Mr. Murphy is quite rude, by the way. He is fortunate the police treated him in a civil manner. The professor tried hard to save the situation, but he was picked up as well. He tried to order the police away, but that just made them more angry.”

Elfieda paused a moment, opened her purse, and retrieved a cigarette. She gave Jona an expectant look as she placed it at the very edge of her lips. Jona stared at her as if stuporous. “And what about you, Miss? How did you get away?”

“Well...” For a very brief instant, she gave a look of irritation, and then composed herself rapidly. “I did not go back into the lounge with the professor after we left you. I stayed outside...It would be awkward for me to be arrested...You understand, because of my situation.” Elfieda tossed her head gently, as if shaking out her hair.

Jona stood in the doorway dumbly, staring as if transfixed by the cigarette dangling from Elfieda’s mouth. He felt a hint of cold sweeping in from the hallway but made no move to retreat into the warmth of his room. Elfieda slumped slightly, resting her hip firmly against the doorjamb, and coolly removed the unlit cigarette from her lips. She came closer by straddling the threshold, placing one leg forward. A faint aroma of admixed tobacco and lilac twisted through the air. Her lips parted slightly as her mouth stretched into a silky smile.

“Well, Jona, aren’t you going to invite me in?”

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Chapter Four

Summer was a promise soon to be redeemed. The dogwood trees along North Twenty Fifth Street were beginning to bloom, and multi-foliate azaleas were burnished anew by the sun’s strengthened rays. Along the low plateau overlooking the river, stately homes of brick and clapboard lined quiet streets that shimmered in the morning haze. Variegated steeples, turrets and mansard roofs all seemed to reach for the bright blue sky, like morning glories arching upward silently to receive a sip of warmth from the still air. This early in the day there were almost no cars on the roads, and North Twenty Fifth Street nestled quietly in the very womb of the morning. The scene was a magical dreamscape, a myth brought to life by the touch of sunrays slanting down from a sun untouched by care or woe.

Down the street, a team of horses appeared, pulling a large wagon piled high with every conceivable type of dish-ware, lengths of carpet, pots, chairs, brooms and other paraphernalia of human existence in the early twentieth century. The driver, with skin cast in dark cocoa, made a clicking noise with the back of his throat. It was that noise, a gentle disturbance in the early morning atmospherics, that brought out the cooks, servants, and cleaning maids of the neighborhood. North Twenty Fifth Street was lined with small clusters of people, all blended brown and black, awaiting the wagon’s arrival.

Near the corner of Broad Street a small grassy space afforded a natural stopping place. The tinker jumped off the wagon, secured the reins of his horses to a thickset post, and began to place some of his wares on the ground while a small crowd converged on him. The man was graying, short, with a powerful physique and broad chest. He moved quickly and vigorously, whistling to himself as he hauled items off the wagon, arraying them for display. Within a few minutes a horse-drawn cart laden with vegetables arrived, driven by a young boy wearing an impossibly formless felt hat. The older man barked a few instructions to the boy, who parked under a large willow tree. More people congregated. Some were quiet while others greeted acquaintances they met along the way, but any sounds that were made were no more than a murmur that eddied like a gentle puff of wind within that time and place. The quiet bustle was orderly and did not disturb the genteel graciousness of the neighborhood. As purchases were made, the older man carefully noted each transaction in a log book, including the item, its cost, and the households of the purchasers. He knew every household on the street and beyond, perhaps everyone in Church Hill. He could recognize almost everyone who walked up to his wagons, and everyone knew him by his name: James Cox. Mister Cox to most of them. Some of the servants were dressed in fine, crisp uniforms, or well cut suits and dresses. Some conversed in a fine, cultured tone that bespoke a childhood education. These were, after all, house servants. All, slaves. Cox was dressed in overalls, and spoke the rough language of back country life. Even so, everyone who approached him was deferential. No matter how coarsely dressed he was, James Cox already owned the precious commodity that most of his customers that morning could only dream of having. He was a free man.

Even James Cox straightened up and became attentive at the approach of a tall, slightly stooped man with a neatly trimmed, pure white beard. He wore a cream colored linen suit and starched white shirt that contrasted sharply with his dark, smooth textured complexion. A black ribbon was pinned to one jacket lapel and a small cloth cross on the other. As he waded through the knots of people standing around the wagons, there were softly spoken greetings and respectful nods. He acknowledged everyone he passed with a quiet smile but did not stop until he reached the assortment of goods set down on the grass around the wagon.

“Good morning, Cox.” His voice was thin, almost reedy. His eyes darted sharply along the ground and then up to the wagon.

“Morning, Mr. Jones.” Cox smiled broadly, gave an agile jump up into the wagon and retrieved a package wedged in between two large tin cartons. He climbed down, handed over a plain brown-papered package and stepped back with his arms crossed over his chest, appearing very satisfied with himself.

“Where did you get it?” Jones waited for the answer before undoing the string wrapped around the parcel.

Cox grinned again. “It’s awright. I picked it up in N’Awlins coupl’a weeks ago. It probably came from, you know...” He pumped his thumb rapidly upwards several times.

Jones said nothing. It might indeed have come from up North. But if it came from New Orleans, it might have originated from anywhere - North, South, or perhaps Europe. And it may or may not have been shipped legally. Customs officials there were notoriously loose about that sort of thing. He slowly undid the wrapping and took out the small blue volume that was inside. It appeared to be in pristine condition. He carefully examined the binding and then inspected the flyleaf. It was an original edition copy of Alfred E. Zimmern’s ‘The Greek Commonwealth.’ It looked like it would do. He looked directly at Cox. “Well?”

“Twenty dollars.” The traveling merchant raised both hands before him reflexively, palms outward, as if warding off a powerful force. “Now please don’t start with me. That’s fair and that’s what it’s going to be.”

Jones handled the book idly, tilting it back and forth in his hand, letting the sun glint off its polished cover. “Is that so? Now tell me, where else are you going to sell this? You’ll be lucky if I take this off your hands.”

Cox cracked just a bit. “Now you know this is perfect for Mister. This is ‘xactly what you asked me to find. Now I found it and you have to pay.” He paused a moment and then tried his best gambit. “Everyone knows it’s his birthday coming up. You’d better get something you know the man will like.”

Jones pursed his lips and almost scowled. He could probably squeeze a few dollars out of Cox, but with a small crowd around them he could sense that at least a dozen ears were attuned to their every word. It just wouldn’t do to be seen penny pinching with a street merchant. “Very well, Cox. Thank you for thinking of us. Keep your eyes peeled and let me know if you see any other interesting items in your travels.”

At that he handed over a twenty dollar gold coin, and turned to leave. Before he had taken another step, he heard his name called softly. He turned back to find Cox with his hand extended. “I am sorry about your mamma, Mr. Jones.”

Jones took the other’s hand. “Thank you, that’s very kind.” He was not surprised that Cox had heard the news even though the sad event had happened only three days before. Word had spread widely and rapidly. He could also see the measured look of surprise in the other’s eyes. Many had expressed their condolences since the passing of his mother at the astonishing age of one hundred and one, and many had seemed perplexed that Jones gave little indication of grief. They were wrong. Robert Jones was mourning the death of his mother more than words could describe. More than anyone else, she was responsible for baptizing him into the spirit of the Lord and setting him on a path of righteousness. But he did not show grief. It was not a matter of simple stoic acceptance or simple strength of character. It was a simple matter of faith. Jesus Christ was Robert Jones’ lord and master. Jesus had told him, told him personally and without equivocation, that “God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.” Those words had spoken directly to his heart, giving him the courage to carry on with his duties despite his grief. He felt this message so deeply that he planned to make it the subject of his witness that very Sunday.

Jones strode rapidly back towards the big white house fronting a Greek Revival styled façade. Simple Doric columns rose majestically around the entry portico, a prelude to the gracious grandeur to be found inside. The house, the street, all his surroundings were part of his life, known to him these past twenty years as well as he knew his own arms and legs. The gentle rhythm of the seasons resonated within him as naturally as the cycles of birth, life and death. Winter was ended. Spring had come on hard in the past few weeks, casting its verdure everywhere he looked. The sycamores and chestnut trees were budding, sprouting tendrils were reaching for the sun, and leaves were erupting with bright coats of green. The green of spring. The green of new life. Resurrection green. The God of the living was exulting, and Jones breathed in His divine fragrance with every step and with great joy. As he walked, he tossed the book he had just purchased up and down in his hand. Mister liked to collect and read books of many different types. His body servant, Robert Jones, lived his life by only one.

“Daddy, are you up?” Madeline shouted, almost shrieked, as she knocked on the door to the study.

“I am, darlin’. Come on in,” came her father’s prompt response.

Madeline entered the room to find her father in his robe, seated at his massive desk with what appeared to be a mountain of papers stacked before him. He had scooped out some space in the center and was stooped over two books set at an angle left and right, with a pad of yellow foolscap placed between them. The early morning sun poured in on long beams from the window on his left, casting the right part of his face into darkness. He sat facing a solid floor-to-ceiling mass of bookshelves bursting with volumes of every size and thickness. Behind him was an almost bare wall with two candle sconces. Over one was a portrait of his father at maturity, resplendent in full dress military uniform. Over the other was a fading, grainy oil rendering of Abraham Lincoln, holding his chin and brooding silently.

On other days, Madeline enjoyed rummaging through the books in the library, asking her father questions about this one or that. Not on this day, though. On this day her gaze was fixed squarely on her father’s face. His steel gray hair hung in finely curled ringlets, molded neatly despite the early hour. He was visibly tired, with long radiating lines extending from his eyes onto his cheeks. His eyelids seemed to be drooping, giving him an almost drugged appearance. “I’ve been up for a little while now, angel,” he said slowly. He paused to take a sip of coffee from a small, fine china cup. “But what’s gotten you out of bed so early?”

His daughter did not answer immediately. She arched both arms upwards and performed a graceful pirouette as she moved towards his desk.

“Daddy, you told me to have fun this week, didn’t you?” She did not wait for him to respond, but rushed on. “I’ve been invited to a picnic, and I want to go.” She managed to speak, sound breathless, and smile, all at the same time.

Her father put both hands palm down, pressing them firmly against the desktop, and inspected Madeline carefully. Mornings could be very difficult for his only child. He could see that she was still in her long flannel nightgown. She had not yet washed her face and her snow-white hair was undone, hanging loosely almost to her waist. Madeline’s skin was pellucid in the early morning light, and her eyes a pale, washed out gray. They created a startling effect, appearing to shine from an inner light that reflected outward, like the glow of a bonfire beaming a warning from a rocky promontory. For now, her eyes were calm. He knew that at times of anger they could transform in an instant into a translucent aquamarine that flared brilliantly. And dangerously.

Madeline had always hated the luminous look of her eyes. They marked her as different from others, strange and apart, like a feral creature stalking the depths of the forest. As a child her father had told her often that her eyes were beautiful diamonds, and that they flamed brilliantly like the stars above. He would name the brightest points of light in the heavens, telling her she outshone them all. Madeline had memorized the exotic names as her father intoned each one softly: Antares, Sirius, Betelgeuse, Rigel...but childhood had passed. As Madeline grew older her eyes took on a different aspect. They began to mirror an inner affliction that tormented her unpredictably, without apparent cause, like the unexpected eruption of a solar flare. Powerful, impatient, and at times violent outbursts of unreasoning anger could engulf her for hours at a time. Some days were quiet, when the flames simply smoldered silently within. But a searing, flashing fire lay always close to the surface, just within the ambit of her pale gray eyes. When unreasoning fury erupted, her father’s love and compassion were tested to their limits. Her doctors had been unable to help her, and both father and daughter refused the opiates they recommended for sedation during her outbursts.

“May I ask just who is doing the inviting?” he asked in a neutral tone.

She paused just enough for effect. “Alec.”

Her father felt relieved. Alec was a decent fellow. He was the German ambassador’s son, and could be relied on to be a gentleman with discretion. Madeline could be impulsive, and it was never possible to predict when an attack might occur. “Darlin’, a picnic is a wonderful idea. And it looks like it’s going to be the perfect week to have one.”

“Thank you, daddy. You know I’ll need a new dress.” Her pale lips pursed into a smile, and her father rejoiced that she seemed genuinely happy.

“Of course, Maddy. why don’t you go downtown with Lou Ellen. She will help you and I want you to be with somebody. Taking a walk will be good for you. But please...don’t go hog wild.”

At that, Madeline tiptoed up to her father and kissed him on the cheek. As usual, he wasn’t sure how to respond. She was a young woman. He was an elderly father. Without the guiding touch of a wife and mother he felt uncertain about how best to show his love for his daughter. She didn’t wait for him to return her demonstration of affection, but again did a series of twirls and pirouettes as she spun away, then turned and rushed out of the room.

As if on cue, Robert Jones came in the door just as she was leaving. Madeline roared past him like a hurricane, shouting “’Bye, Jonesy” as she disappeared from view.

Jones shook his head as he stared after the fleeing girl. When he looked back into the bedroom her father was also shaking his head. “You see, Jones, that girl is in one big hurry. Persephone fleeing Hades would not run so fast.”

Jones appraised the situation carefully before answering. Mister looked tired this morning but did not appear depressed or angry. There had been no argument with Maddy, no shouting match, no call for help. All was well.

“Yes, sir. Always in a hurry. She stays mighty thin that way.” He paused a moment and pointed at the books and paper strewn on the desk. “Doin’ your hobby?”

“Yeah, a bit.” Mister waved his hands over the books, as if conjuring forward an unseen spirit. “You know how it is, Jones. It helps get my mind off things. I know I’ve got so much real work to do.” He cast a hopeless look in the direction of the mounds of documents heaped before him on different corners of the desk.

“What is it about today?”

In the blink of an eye Mister snatched up the foolscap and waved it in Jones’ direction excitedly. “Parallel passages, I think. Tryin’ to figure it out. I know you can’t understand all this, Jones, its above you, but it’s real interesting. Let me show you.” He held up one sheet of paper, pointing to some lines of strange looking letters, then flipped to another page. Here the letters were familiar, but the words made no sense.

“Sorry, Mister. I don’t get it.”

“Well, this first one is in Greek. The beginning lines from an ancient book. Never mind what it’s about. Listen.” He deepened his voice and enunciated each word with a regular cadence:

ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα, πολύτροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλὰ

πλάγχθη, ἐπεὶ Τροίης ἱερὸν πτολίεθρον ἔπερσεν

“Still sorry. Still don’t get it.”

“Alright, now listen here. This next one is Latin, from a book by another author, an old Roman writer. Listen good.” He spoke the next passage again in a ponderous tone.

Musa, mihi causas memora, quo numine laeso

Quidve dolens regina deum tot volvere casus

“Mister, no one speaks in these tongues anymore, ain’t that right?”

“Only scholars, Jones.”

“Well...” Jones paused. He had been down this road with Mister many times before, never with a good response, but he felt it was his duty to try. “You read those lines like they’re straight from God’s mouth, but those words are from mouths long dead, meant for people who are long dead. See here, but anyone livin’ today can read the word of the Lord. Don’t need to be no scholar to do so. And the Lord is alive, if you would just talk to Him.”

Mister shook his head ruefully. Jones was a good body servant, but a very simple soul without depth, and without insight into the complexities of the human experience. “Now let me read the translations back to back.” He then read the words in an ordinary speaking voice.

Tell me, O Muse, of the man of many devices, who wandered full many ways

After he had sacked the sacred citadel of Troy

Then:

O Muse, assist me and inspire my song

The crimes and the different causes relate

Jones allowed himself to be silent, unwilling to look Mister in the eye.

“Did you hear that, Jones? They both invoke the spirit of the Muse. The Muse helps them tell the story.”

“Who’s is that? The Muse?”

Mister wagged his finger emphatically. “The Muse is the one that tells the story, saying the words through the mouths of the two writers. That’s what it’s all about, finding your Muse, out there somewhere. That’s what I’m trying to do, to make sense out of what all I’ve been through and done. Some of all you’ve been through with me too, side by side, so that’s what you should be doing’ as well.”

“Telling the story or making the story?”

“Don’t be ornery with me, Jones. Truth is, could be either, but either way all the words come out of its mouth, the Muse, and down to us.”

“Whatever this muse may be, it’s a creation of man. Gospel says that in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Right there, solid as rock. God, not man.” Jones could see a certain look come over Mister’s face, one he had seen many times before, and understood that he had disappointed him once again. Well, it could not be helped. When the Judgement came, as the scriptures said, by his words he would be justified.

Mister sprang up from his chair abruptly, as if responding to an alarm. “Jones, you know I can’t believe in all that shit. Let me tell you, when the bullets are flying, I’ve learned to believe in many gods, but they’re all .38 caliber and larger. Now, let’s get on with it, we have a big day ahead. I’ll leave the praying to you, Jones. Include me in your mumbo jumbo or not, it’s up to you.”

Uncannily, it was exactly seven thirty as the words boomed out. For over thirty years, seven thirty was time for the morning bath, and in all those years Jones had never needed to give a reminder. The bath water was already drawn, and it was steaming gently, expectantly.

Jones was a skilled servant who knew what his elderly master wanted. The man had to be helped into the bath carefully, and for the first few minutes he simply lay back in the hot water and relaxed. Jones applied wet, warm towels over the face but did not rub. After a while, he used a soft brush soaked in soap water to begin scrubbing vigorously. First over the back and neck, then arms and legs, and then thighs and buttocks. Jones used up and down strokes and applied the brush firmly to the skin. He eased up as he brushed the left shoulder area. A long, jagged deformity scarred most of the shoulder and upper chest. Jones rubbed a washcloth gently over the area, following the scar carefully as it coursed along, a fleshy reminder of a violent past now long gone. The older man relaxed visibly and became limp in the water as he was lathered and then rinsed down one handful of water at a time. Jones then removed the hot towels and carefully shaved the face and neck using ordinary soap and a straight razor. When it was over, the old man seemed to stiffen for a moment, then sighed as he urinated and defecated in the bathwater. Jones helped him stand in the tub and step out. He used an enormous bath towel to carefully wipe the older man dry over his entire body. He left the buttocks and groin areas for last, making sure they were free of any soiling. Mister was known to make a mess there some days. At the end he gave one last inspection and was satisfied that Mister was clean and dry. Using a small face cloth steeped in lilac water Jones then patted him down gently over his upper body, under the arms, and on the face. No ointments or gels were used on the scalp, but it still took several minutes to comb out the naturally curled hair. Finally, Jones helped Mister dress. He had already laid out a well combed seersucker blue pinstripe suit with white shirt and attached starched collar. Mister liked to stand as he was dressed, leaning on the other’s shoulder to pull on his underwear and pants. His servant rolled on both socks and then fitted on and tied up both shoes. Finally, Jones expertly knotted and tied a dark blue bow tie. Mister had remained quiet throughout the entire time. Jones could see that he was lost in his thoughts this morning, and did not intrude where he was not wanted.

When all was finished, Jones held up a large square mirror. The man in the mirror appeared rejuvenated. The careworn lines in his face had receded. When he smiled in the mirror he seemed like a man in his fifties, not seventies. As he turned towards the bathroom door he clapped Jones on the shoulder, gave a jaunty wave of the hand and strolled down the long hallway to the staircase without saying a word. He walked rapidly, with a spring in his step. Although Jones could only see the back of his head, he knew that Mister was grinning his famous grin. Fabulous, ancient, resplendent and indomitable, George Pickett Jr., twelfth President of the Confederate States of America, was ready to conquer another day.

Madeline and Lou Ellen walked arm in arm down a gently descending embankment toward the canal. They had shopped for hours, but could not find a dress that flowed properly over the young woman’s long thin torso and arms. By early afternoon Madeline had grown restless and her attention began to wander. Eventually, they stopped at John Tyler’s Jewelers. The venerable establishment offered a new display of pearls in the window, advertised as river pearls. Madeline rushed in impetuously and immediately picked out a string of irregular pale white pearls that seemed to virtually dissolve onto her skin when she placed them against her neck. Lou Ellen was not pleased. Mister had not approved a necklace, only a dress.

As usual, a pouting glare from Madeline was sufficient to silence any protest from her servant. “That old fool,” she snorted, “he don’t care what I do as long as I don’t embarrass him, God forbid. I don’t really care what any of you say, including you, you old bag. So fuck yourself and stay out of my way.”

With that said, Lou Ellen did not dare do or say anything further that would disturb the welcome tranquility of the day.

After making placing her order Maddy and Lou Ellen walked arm in arm at a leisurely pace through the downtown streets, enjoying the glorious spring day. Madeline was dressed in a sleeveless yellow dress, but began to feel warm nonetheless. The sidewalks were filled with ambling pedestrians. Most were women, including servants. No one seemed hurried, and the air was filled with murmured greetings. A few passersby nodded politely as they crossed paths, but no one stopped to speak to Madeline. Cars and trucks rumbled down the streets slowly, dodging horse drawn carriages and wagons. The streets themselves were spotless. Small groups of street cleaners, all young black men, moved quickly to sweep up any horse droppings. They were hired out by their owners to the municipality to do the work, and were all dressed in neat green work coveralls with a large, ornate “R” scrolled over their breast pockets. A group of Black Scouts dressed in field gray uniforms passed by, parading in unison, proudly carrying their wooden guns at shoulder arms. The boys all seemed to be between eight and ten years old, clean faced and crisp as they marched under the direction of their elderly white officer. Policemen in light gray pants and white tunics stood at every intersection, directing traffic. An aura of calm and orderliness pervaded the walkways and placid citizens of Richmond on this beautiful day in early spring.

The pair swung west to avoid Monument Avenue and Freedom Mall, then entered Canal Walk just below Tredegar. The walkway here was lovely, a place that Madeline liked visiting to experience the serenity of the rapidly flowing river. The James took on a murky blue color, churning as it rushed past the Jefferson Bridge. The river was never the same to Madeline, changing color, or texture, or the rush of its current with each visit. The sounds of crashing water came from the Falls. Belle Island could be seen in the distance as a gentle mound of green arising from the river surface. A modest breeze flared through the treetops, causing a distant rustling in the newly greened boughs. A boy came by selling peanuts, but did not utter a sound, merely holding up a paper bag wordlessly as he passed them. Serenity ruled. As soon as he passed, Madeline opened her purse, took out an amber-colored bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a quick gulp. Lou Ellen looked quickly around to be sure no one was watching but said nothing.

It was approaching one o’clock and the sun was at its strongest. Both women were fatigued, and stopped to rest when they found a bench thoughtfully set under the umbrella of an enormous, flowing willow tree. The view was pleasant, and they were able to avoid the sun’s direct glare. Madeline appeared content and the older servant was happy to be off her feet. The day seemed to be crawling to a halt and settling down to rest through the heat of the afternoon. After just a few quiet minutes had passed, Madeline abruptly began to feel restless, as if agitated by the heat, and started looking around rapidly in all directions. Lou Ellen watched her with concern. “Maddy, are you feeling well?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she responded. But her pale gray eyes continued to flick around, almost randomly, as if she were suddenly blinded. The river, the sky, the sun, and her companion all seemed lost to her. “Let’s go,” she said suddenly.

“Go where, child?” Lou Ellen was hoping it was time to return home.

“Let’s go up to see daddy.”

Lou Ellen turned on Madeline firmly. “Out of the question. You know you can’t interrupt your father when he has work to do. He is a very important man and he’s very busy today.”

“Well, I’m going. I’ve got to see him.” Madeline’s voice was faint, barely rising above the noise of the creaking tree branches just over her head. Without another word she began striding briskly towards the Seventeenth Street exit off the Canal walk. Lou Ellen could have stopped her if they were at home but stopping her in a public place would create a scene. That just wouldn’t do. With a sigh she hurried after Madeline and the two then continued arm in arm at a brisk pace.

It took only a few minutes to get back up the hill to Government Center. The graceful portico of the State Capital stood like a brightly lit beacon, overlooking the city from its perch at the summit of the plateau. They took a left on to Clay Street and after a few more minutes saw the Executive Mansion complex ahead. The area was congested with trucks, bulldozers, cranes, and many dozens of laborers working on the site. The fabled old building, the epicenter of the Executive branch of government, was undergoing extensive renovations as part of an ambitious reconstruction of the original Southern White House and surrounding grounds. Congress, after years of wrangling, had finally authorized the first significant alterations to the revered site since the days of Jefferson Davis. Construction workers, some black and some white, scurried about pushing wheelbarrows and carrying planking around the new building site. Discarded chunks of mortar and piles of unused bricks were everywhere. A small group of men in scuffed suits stood next to an enormous scaffold, examining blueprints set on a long wooden table.

Lou Ellen felt Madeline’s arm begin to shake as they approached the building. The young woman again seemed agitated, and Lou Ellen recognized the frantic, panicked look in her eyes. It was a look the elderly servant had come to know well; the first spark of an impending explosive outburst. Madeline was about to have an attack at the worst possible time, in a public place. Lou Ellen herself began to panic at the thought. It just wouldn’t do to have strangers see the President’s daughter having a fit and screaming incoherently.

As if by some magical intercession, Madeline’s eyes blended into a pale, cloudy aqua, and her bare white arms and cheeks flushed a faint candy red. Madeline gripped Lou Ellen’s arm urgently, tightly, tilted her head up, and opened her mouth as if to shout something at the heavens above.

Just as a scream exploded from her lungs a crackling detonation concussed the air around them. The force of the blast swept everything before it, slamming into both women with terrific strength and knocking them onto the ground as if thrown down by an angry, all powerful giant. The west wall of the Executive building crumbled, sending up a huge geyser of smoke and leaving broken bricks and twisted piping on the pavement all around them.

The scene was horrific. As the swirling dust and smoke began to clear, the bodies of construction workers could be seen laying in odd positions on the ground, some still and others rocking back and forth and groaning softly. Agonized screams could be heard coming from under piles of debris. Dense smoke drifted from the scene as shocked bystanders and gray clad police rushed to help the injured.

They found Madeline on her back, alone and unmoving, with arms spread gracefully at her sides. She lay quite straight, almost perfectly in the middle of the street, as pale as a corpse.

Pickett was fretting in a meeting with Hattie Caraway, the wealthy junior senator from Arkansas, when the bomb went off. He was in his office on the second floor, luckily facing away from the windows as the explosion shuddered the building and shattered glass on the lower levels. Hattie Caraway recognized the sound right away and leaped onto the president to protect him. Seconds later, when the Secret Service agents catapulted into the room, they found the rotund senator from Arkansas sprawled on top of the president, pinning him to the ground. To the agents, it appeared that she was attacking him, and they swarmed onto the pile aggressively to restrain Caraway. Within a few moments order was restored, and a terse explanation from Pickett made matters clear. For her part, the widowed Hattie Caraway had no objection to her brief encounter with the president.

Pickett was hustled to a secure room in the sub-basement. The Executive Mansion was quickly surrounded and cordoned off by Secret Service and Virginia Guard troopers. Within minutes the building was a fortress. In addition to the troops on the ground, military aircraft began patrolling the skies over Richmond. By the time members of the cabinet began to arrive it was clear the bombing was an isolated event. There was no evidence of unrest in the city. Telephone calls to Atlanta, New Orleans, Savannah, Houston, Charleston, Memphis, Juarez and other important urban centers indicated that all was quiet. The teletype from Havana was silent. There was no general uprising.

Pickett looked around the bare walled bunker gloomily. The room was congested and the air thick with tobacco smoke. An enormous ventilation fan in the ceiling made a rapid, continuous scraping sound as it turned. The inner circle of the country’s political leadership was present, waiting for him to speak. He wasn’t sure what to tell them. The bombing was undoubtedly the work of the UR - the Underground Railroad - though it might be difficult to prove. There had been a steady increase in bombings, shootings, and bank thefts attributed to the UR over the past year. Most of their actions had been in rural areas, far from any nearby concentration of police or military force. They had never been so bold before, but Pickett had feared it was only a matter of time until they attempted a strike like this in the heart of the capital. The Secret Service and the Division of Investigation had of course begun a preliminary inquiry and a few fragmented reports had begun to come in by courier. The explosive device had been planted under some scaffolding on the new North Wing of the building along a section that was still under construction. North Wing... Pickett wondered if that was meant to make a statement. There were many casualties reported. Two young Black Scouts were killed as their troop marched by on their way to Monument Avenue. At least six more were gravely wounded, among them their commanding officer. Another report indicated many laborers and pedestrian passersby were also injured and at least eight dead. Over the course of the past hours the chaotic scene outside had been brought under control, the injured transported to hospital, and the area completely sealed off. The Executive Mansion and surrounding grounds were now an enormous crime scene.

The newspapers were already in a frenzy. The Enquirer had sent a small busload of reporters to the area. It was said that the journalists outside already outnumbered the security troops. Pickett knew he would have to meet with them soon in order to reassure the country that he was well, and that the government was functioning normally.

“Mr. President, are you sure you suffered no injuries?” It was Vice President Garnes.

“I’m fine,” Pickett snapped. For no particular reason, the question rankled him. Hell, this was nothing compared to combat. He looked around the room at the others, all of whom seemed to be staring at him with varying degrees of shock and apprehension. He used his well known smile to veil an overwhelming anxiety. The country at large was quiet for the moment, unaware of today’s tragedy. But news of the bombing would spread quickly, broadcast high and low, and the consequences could be incalculable. The president could not be sure how ordinary people from Virginia to Texas would react. Among whites there would be indignation, anger, perhaps a cry for vengeance from some, or perhaps a cry of remorse and self-loathing from others. Among blacks, and especially among slaves? Only God could know.

Pickett knew with certainty what few were willing to admit. Slavery was dying. Slavery as it once was, what the Founding Generation had fought to protect, was already dead. In a country of almost eighteen millions of blacks, less than three in five were chattel property, as in the old days. A few million were now legally free of ownership, completely manumitted. Of course, they occupied the lowest strata of society, for the most part, and would never enjoy the privileges of a white person. Many more millions were held to service, but for wages. In some cases, they were paid based on a wage scale determined lawfully by individual states. The pressures of labor shortages in a newly industrializing society had resulted in wholesale “service contracts” with factories that required menial, unskilled labor. This type of service was becoming increasingly popular. Not only could owners contract out slaves to function as workers, but they no longer had responsibility for their care and maintenance. Workers, whether men, women or even children, were kept in cheap, squalid, company owned housing adjacent to the factory plants. Some contracts allowed the workers to have their families with them so that many slave owners had no physical connection at all with their property, just ownership papers - much like stocks and bonds. In Tennessee, North Carolina, and Virginia black children, both free and slave, were eligible for elementary schooling at a rudimentary level in order to produce the more productive workers that were going to be necessary for the ‘New South’. Pickett smiled ruefully. That slogan was an expression of his vision, first proclaimed during the intense presidential campaign of 1930. The idea of a New South, true to its founding principles but modern in outlook, represented his hopes for the future of his country. The campaign slogan resonated with voters and had gotten him elected in a landslide. Of course, his name had not hurt any.

The sweep of change was accelerating, rapidly destroying the face of the Old South. The graceful plantations dotting the coastal plains and river valleys of the southern states were no longer viable and were maintained only by the wealthiest of families. There was still a community of interests among all whites, but there was restless concern about the growth of slave jobs in the industrial sector. Of course, no white man would ever do a nigger’s job, but the global depression had suppressed demand for some of the CSA’s important exports, including tobacco, rice, and cotton. People were hurting, and there had been mass protests over the lack of high paying jobs. Unions were discouraged, but that did not stop agitators from attempting to organize workers. A strike had broken out among Birmingham steel workers that was ultimately suppressed with brutal force during his first year in office. Ten dead. Ominously, there were recent attempts in Atlanta and Richmond to organize black factory workers as well. It was not possible to know what might be bubbling below the surface of these movements.

Pickett rubbed his brow, as if trying to squeeze a solution from his brain. The past and proper relations between master and slave were eroding. They weren’t even called slaves any longer; they were servants, workers, or laborers. They could not be assimilated, and they could not be made to go away. There was no solution, there could only be accommodation. And the best way to achieve accommodation was to restore the Confederate States of America to the community of nations. Even though the country owed its existence to foreign recognition during the old War, it had been treated like a pariah since then by virtually every European nation. Germany was a rare exception, and in recent years had proven to be a close friend. Pickett knew in his gut that the only way to save his country from falling into chaos was to entice European trade and broaden diplomatic partnerships. And the only way to achieve that goal was to conclude a peace treaty with the North and gain recognition of their final, irreparable sovereignty. Ultimately, the North would be their natural trading partner, and warming relations between the two countries would decompress the cauldron that was boiling in the South.

Right now, though, it was necessary to deal with the emerging threat of the Underground Railroad. They were thugs, criminals, and terrorists, but no one could deny that over the past twenty years they were gaining strength steadily. Attacks of sabotage had spiked to new levels, and the increasing efficiency of their methods suggested a higher, more sophisticated level of organization. As these thoughts swirled in his brain, Pickett slumped in his chair, cupping his face with his right hand, the very picture of despair.

An orderly entered the room ushering in two men who Pickett immediately recognized as editors from the Guardian and Enquirer. The president instantly sat straight up, fixed a grin on his face, beckoned both men to sit next to him, and pulled out a cigar. In an instant he was completely transformed, and again radiated confidence. Bacon, from the Enquirer, was an enormously obese man who was sweating profusely as he entered the congested conference chamber and then had difficulty negotiating the cramped space in the small room, squeezing around those who were already seated. He heaved himself into a chair right next to Pickett, scattering droplets of perspiration onto the president’s shirt and pants. He had no sooner secured his bottom onto the seat of the chair than he pulled a silver flask from his jacket pocket.

“Mr. President, would you honor me, sir?” It was more of an announcement than a question as he held the flask out across the table.

Pickett did not miss a beat. “That’s mighty white of you, sir,” he answered expansively, and flashed a smile as he rapidly took the flask to his lips and executed a highly exaggerated swig. “Excellent liquor, Mr. Bacon. Please feel free, gentlemen.” Pickett lit his cigar and watched as Bacon offered a drink to Mason, who was from the Guardian. Mason appeared to be over six feet tall but weighing no more than one hundred forty pounds. He had large, bulbous eyes framed by deep convex glasses. He literally turned his nose up as the flask was offered, exposing a scrawny neck with cord-like muscles.

“Mr. President!” He almost screeched. “There are dead bodies in the streets of our capital! Armed bandits are on the loose! The public safety is in jeopardy! What is the Administration going to do?”

Pickett regarded the other man coolly as he dragged on his cigar. With a determined look he stood to his full height and placed his hand firmly on the tabletop. He drew strength from who he was and what he embodied as the head of state. The president began to speak in a low, even voice. The room hushed, and men who knew well how to appraise and judge cast their eyes upon him.

“I will tell you, sir, what we shall do. We shall turn ourselves to stone, and with hardened heart hunt down every criminal who is hiding with blood on his hands. We shall mobilize every man, woman and child, black or white, free or slave, until every one of these vermin are flushed from their hiding holes. And every one we do find we shall fire with the flames of hell, until every atom of their existence is extinguished for all time. I will speak to the nation, to the very conscience of the nation, and together we shall overcome this moment in history, just as our forefathers did in their time.”

There was silence initially, but someone began to clap, and soon everyone was on their feet clapping rhythmically in the hot, closed room. A few yipped the rebel yell. The president seemed to stand hugely before them, smiling a grim warrior’s smile. They continued to clap as a courier struggled his way into the room and edged along the wall until he reached the president. He whispered something into the president’s ear. The clapping continued as George Pickett first swayed back and forth, as if struck on the head, and then clumsily collapsed onto his chair.

On most days reality lapped at her mind gently, like a spent wave curving along a protected cove. The throbbing ebb and pull of the outside world was incessant, but only dimly felt within the threshold of her awareness. True awareness, true feeling, true vision came only with the tempests that surged out of their secret dwelling places within her. In those moments, the howling of her voice matched the keening of the winds in her mind, blowing through time and space. In those moments, she could hear others calling her name in the gale, their disembodied voices coming from over the horizon. In the crisis of the storm, the seen and the unseen, the known and the unknown, the real and the unreal, the possible and the impossible all collided around her in a kaleidoscope of sight, sound, and feeling. And out of this chaos came.... what? Anger. Always, there was anger. Sometimes mingled with despair, or a deep sense of helplessness. But always anger. Swirling upwards from her heart, her mind, her soul, it was a demonic force that took possession of her. Fury was the first wind to lash at her, and the last to recede.

She knew very well what others thought about her. When she was younger, after the attacks first began, she had tried to explain. No one, not even her Lou Ellen, understood. She knew they pitied her for the way she looked, and for the “troubles” that afflicted her. As a young girl she had been ashamed of her white, white skin and long pale hair. She had been saved from the disparaging taunts of others only because she came from a great and powerful family. But over time she had grown to understand how different she was from everyone else, and that her inner convulsive storms were just part of that difference. She believed she was uniquely gifted, and at times she felt overwhelmed with the power that had been given to her.

Long ago, in her early teenage years, she experienced a recurring dream that played out like a movie show in her mind, composed only of thoughts, unspoken words, and blurred images. In her dreams, a race of giants wandered through the universe during the time of the Creation. They were great creatures of power and wisdom who traveled effortlessly through the byways of place and space. As they journeyed, they left tokens of their passage by planting kernels of primordial energy randomly in different corners of the cosmos. These seeds germinated through eons of time, waiting to exfoliate at preordained moments, and so created heroes, saints, and prophets. Madeline came to believe, and was quite certain, that her mind and soul had flowered from one of those seeds. Like her lifeblood, that power flooded through every nerve of her being, and she believed there was a purpose, a great design, for that power. There had to be. When she found herself in the epicenter of her furious deliriums, this force of light gave her a special sight. Not just the sight of things that were or are, but the sight of things that could be, or might be. Or would be. For moments at a time she could see the dim outlines of an indefinite shore, and comprehend the forms and sounds and motions that animated it. With her second sight she could sense herself and everything around her surging relentlessly toward the unseen borders of what was to come.

But even visions of the future could not calm her rages. Anger burned within her even in her calmer moments. Like the light from the sun, it illuminated every dark space in Madeline’s world. She had told herself many times that it did not matter that she was destined to travel through life alone. She was a pillar of power unto herself, and being apart from others was the necessary exchange for her secret power to see the coming unknown. But even so, she felt the bitterness of this truth. Her bouts of rage did not drive others from her, because there was no one to be pushed away. She had already seen this particular future, echoing repeatedly in her mind’s eye. In all time to come there was no one for her. No gentle arm to lean on, no soft voice to soothe her, no heart to embrace her. She could foretell that the days to come held no tenderness for her, and so she held none for herself.

Maddy...The future called her name, summoning her over the cresting surf. Maddy...The past pulled at her, recalling her to a quiet, sandy spit of sanity. Maddy...the present beckoned her urgently, vehemently, repeatedly to solid ground.

“Maddy! Can you hear me, darling?” She heard the familiar voice as if it were coming from within her.

“Madeline! Speak to us!” She opened her eyes and saw dim shapes moving in an uncertain light. Lou Ellen leaned over her and rubbed her cheek gently. “Maddy,” she murmured.

Madeline began to push herself up onto her elbows, but a gentle hand pressed her back firmly onto the bed. Her eyes began to focus on another form, and she recognized her father standing at the foot of the bed. He stood as if at attention, with his right hand holding his hat over his heart. Once he saw a look of recognition in her eyes he placed his hat briskly on his head and stepped closer to kiss her on the cheek. “How are you feeling, Madeline?” His words came slowly, as if he felt reluctant to speak at all.

Lou Ellen was seated at the bedside and was able to bend over and embrace Madeline in a tight hug. “Don’t fear for me, I know I have been saved for some higher purpose.” The stricken young woman spoke firmly, but she felt very tired.

Pickett gazed at his daughter with relief. Her color was even more pale than usual, but she was coherent and oriented. The doctors had told him that she had suffered a blow to the head and a concussion, but that she should have a complete recovery. For this he was grateful. But others were not so fortunate, and there would be much grieving over the coming days. And with grief there would be demands for vengeance. He looked at Lou Ellen, almost prostrate over the body of his daughter. A deep feeling of anger came over him as the meaning of the day’s events sank in, like a noxious vapor that permeated the air he breathed. There was a cancer in the land, and it had to be found and removed. For those who had died, for his daughter, for his country, he would do whatever was necessary to accomplish just that.

He spoke aloud what he was thinking within. “We’ll find them, Madeline, the ones who did this. We’ll find them and kill every one. I’ll lynch them from the treetops.” Pickett thought he saw his daughter move as he spoke, but it was Lou Ellen turning her head halfway towards him. The old woman looked Pickett in the eyes.

“Well, get on then,” she said quietly, “and get it done with.”

Robert Jones walked confidently down the almost empty streets, immune to the electric sense of fear that flowed around him. There were police barriers and checkpoints at every major intersection. Heavily armed Virginia Guard troopers in their distinctive black leather jackets prowled the side streets in groups of four, rifles at the ready. Jones was surprised to find a tank stationed on the corner of Belvidere Street, its stubby muzzle aiming towards the sliver of moon just arising over the horizon. The tank commander stood in the open top hatch, carefully monitoring the lanky black man strolling briskly towards the deserted intersection. Jones pretended not to notice, but he could see there were other armored vehicles nearby. Soldiers with guns slung over their shoulders huddled quietly in small groups, almost lost within the gloom of the early evening. Jones thought it was strange that the cavalry was not scouring the streets as well. Perhaps they were patrolling the extensive suburban reaches of the capital.

He strode quickly and purposefully, making no attempt to deviate from his course, and keeping to well-lit streets. He was leaving Jackson ward, which was an inevitable focus of investigation as dusk descended on the city. It was a colored neighborhood, made up mostly of second generation freed blacks. It would be easy to imagine that the UR had spread its tentacles into the oldest black section of Richmond. Now that there had been a bombing at Government Center it was understood that blacks - any and all blacks - would be under suspicion. Jones snorted. Nothing new in that, he thought. Just the same old thing. Blame the nigger, now. When something goes wrong, blame someone below you. That was the easiest thing to do. It required no thought, no conscience, no....no nothing. Someone could be as empty in the soul as a dried up well and smear about blame like that. Jones knew the world had not changed much since the times of the Lord’s days on this earth. Pharisees, sinners, tax collectors and the high and mighty were all still here, still in charge. Ordinary people pay for all the world’s needs, he thought, especially the need to be blamed. Slaves, the poor, the downtrodden all paid in this world, but God would see to it that the rich and powerful would also pay in due time. Yessir, pay to the last full measure. What would that look like? The accumulated debt of pain and sorrow gathered up over the years; why, it would have to pile up half way to the moon. No, uh uh, not to the moon. Half way to heaven itself.

Small shops, some restaurants, and a few artisan’s studios dotted Leigh Street. As Jones made his way east from the Ebeneezer Baptist Church he could see that everything was shut down. A few folks, mostly elderly women, sat at their open windows, watching the scene unfold before them. No one dared to walk the streets.

Jones planned to get home by going through old Chimborazo. This part of the city remained undeveloped, retaining pockets of thickets and scrub pine that dated back to the time of the old War, when an extensive field hospital occupied much of the area. It was generally believed that the ghosts of the tormented dead still roamed the valley. Jones had been through this way many times, and had often imagined he could hear the sobs of the long ago departed, as if their voices lived in the nodding trees that lined his route. This way was heavily patrolled, and Jones was stopped a half dozen times. His identity card and transit pass were impeccable. Whenever necessary, he carefully unfolded an endorsement from the President of the Confederate States of America. He had no difficulty at any of the stops and made his way rapidly home through the gloaming.

Church group had been unsatisfying that afternoon. News of the bombing had spread like wildfire, and Reverend Mattoon had decided to dwell on that matter rather than the planned text from 1 Corinthians. Reverend Mattoon was their white pastor. Reverend Jackson, their colored pastor, had sat quietly in a pew all afternoon, head bowed, seemingly in prayer the whole of the time. How disappointed Jones had been. He had studied the passage from Corinthians intensely over the past week, and prepared himself that day with prayer and by taking only bread and water in the morning. He had hoped to reveal passages from Amos, Job and 1 Timothy that would deepen the meaning and scope of the section under study. As he walked through the valley of Chimborazo, he repeated a passage of sacred text to himself in a low voice: “For I delivered unto you first of all that which I also received ...” Jones shook his head slowly, overwhelmed by the beauty and solemnity of the words written by Paul. Yes, Lord! Robert Jones had been shaken to his very soul when he first read that passage. In those few words he had seen an image of what his life should be. What could be greater than giving to his brethren from the gifts that he had been given? Jones had been blessed with a quick mind, an education, and a trusted position. Like the apostolic writer, it was his duty to transmit the fruit of these gifts to others. First of all... Not as an afterthought, or as a half remembered errand, but first. Like the great apostle, Jones prayed that his gift giving would open the hearts of others to the glory of the King. For this, he would give everything and endure anything.

As he approached the turn onto his own street, Jones could see several police cars, their headlamps dimmed to a dull orange. Richmond uniformed police performed a careful inspection of his documents. Jones, of course, removed his hat respectfully as he was interrogated. This was no time to provoke or antagonize a cop, no matter what documents he carried. He could see that Virginia Guard troopers were also present, lurking a dozen yards from the checkpoint, weapons at the ready. Security around the president’s home could not be tighter. A police sergeant told Jones to lean over a car, and frisked him carefully. “You o.k., boy, now go ahead and run home,” he said. He seemed to be smirking. “Wouldn’t want old man Pickett to have to change his own drawers.” His partner chuckled but said nothing.

The house was quiet as Jones approached, but he saw the kitchen lights were on as he swung around the back. Someone, maybe Lou Ellen, would be there to share a sandwich with him. It was almost completely dark now, but Jones knew every brick in the walkway, and had no difficulty maneuvering around beds of giant begonias as he made his way to the rear of the house. The entire neighborhood was very still, but Jones could see there were lights on in the adjacent houses, including Senator Robinson’s behind them. It looked like the senior Senator from Alabama was entertaining dinner guests. A low current of music could be heard drifting from his dinner party. The soft creaking of cicadas could also be heard, and as Jones ambled around the back of the house he breathed in the sweet scents from the lilac bushes nearby. Jones began to feel an enormous sense of relief. It seemed that despite the trauma of the day, life was still on its orderly and quiet course.

The servant’s entrance was right next to the kitchen, raised by three steps off the graveled pathway. Jones never made it to the first step.

“Freeze!” a harsh voice hissed from somewhere ahead. “Put your hands up where I can see them.” At the same moment a blinding light illuminated his face, causing Jones to squint and cover his eyes with his right hand.

Strong, anonymous hands grabbed him roughly, and threw him face down to the ground. Jones felt a moment of terror as his face was pushed hard into the turf, crushing his mouth and nose and smothering him. His arms were twisted behind him and steel cuffs placed on his wrists. Just as he felt he was going to lose consciousness the hand holding down his head let up its pressure, allowing him to turn his face and take a deep, gasping inspiration. The pungent, chlorophyll laden smell of grass filled his nose and throat, causing him to cough and choke as he was pulled to his feet. Jones could sense men on both sides of him holding him by each arm and a third behind him holding him by the collar of his jacket. Wordlessly, they ran him, as if running a dog, to a car parked at the side of the house.

Just as he was thrown into the back seat of the car, Jones felt a sharp, brief sting in his upper arm. Other bodies piled into the car seat on either side of him. Jones tried desperately to right himself and sit straight up, but suddenly felt weak and very dizzy. He collapsed backward, his head falling onto the shoulder of the man to his right. A deep vortex of blackness engulfed him rapidly, rendering him senseless as the car sped silently into the dark hum of night.

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Chapter 5

“Adaptation is the key, gentlemen.” A bout of staccato coughing interrupted the speaker for a moment as his words boomed out over the audience.

“Explaining the emergence of adaptation and antibiotic resistance, when and why they occur, is crucial to our understanding of bacterial biology. Perhaps to our understanding of human biology as well. The understanding of adaptation requires that we understand all the possible mechanisms of change. Change is everything. Adaptation requires self-awareness, identity, uniqueness, plasticity. Yes, even desire, in a way. The desire to survive. Indeed, to thrive. We all share some of that, don’t we, complex though we may be.” Stanhope Bayne-Jones paused for effect, scanning his audience regally from the lectern. Standing tall in the diffused light of the amphitheater styled lecture hall, dressed in a dark blue coat and tight fitting vest, he appeared every inch the Great Professor. “And,” he said in a tone of magisterial authority, “adaptation lends understanding to the basic biological instinct of resistance. We evolve in order to remain what we are, yes, to keep our identity.”

Jona shifted in his chair uncomfortably. The auditorium was crowded that morning due to the eminence of the speaker. It was unusual for Bayne-Jones to speak to a group of generalist physicians rather than to his cohorts in the field of microbiology. He was well known in his discipline, and the audience was eager to learn the newest information in an area of medicine that had exploded over the past several years. Apparently, the Yale professor had decided not to pare down or simplify his presentation for his New York audience. On the contrary, his lecture was filled with complex data culled from recent research on bacterial replication. The presentation was tedious, detailed, and lengthy, making it difficult for Jonah to follow carefully.

Jona also found it hard to concentrate because he felt on edge in the crowded hall. He sat in the gallery, where the audience was compressed into an uneasy, uneven, restless mass of tapping feet and crossed legs. The chairs were pushed very close to one another, and he could sense every breath, snort, and cough from those sitting around him. In particular, he was able to hear every mucousy, congested sniffle from a diminutive man with an enormous walrus mustache sitting right behind him. Jona did not recognize him, and concluded he might be a neighborhood physician not on the Bellevue staff. By all rights, the intruder shouldn’t have been allowed admittance into the lecture hall, and Lieb felt a righteous sense of resentment that the stranger was here at all. This kind of information was not appropriate for everyone, after all. At one point during the presentation Jona had stolen a quick peek backwards at the little fellow and was repelled by the appearance of a stringy purulent discharge on the upper edges of the man’s hairy facial appendage.

“I am convinced,” Bayne-Jones continued, “that the development of resistance is an adaptive response that is inherent in the genetic endowment of bacteria. In the broadest sense, this entails the ability of these organisms, or any organisms, to differentiate their internal from their external milieu. Or, if you prefer, to distinguish ‘self’ from ‘non-self’. Each living entity can in some way understand its own unique existence and can respond to external threat by attempting to protect itself. Not always well or successfully, perhaps. The broader, the more robust and more responsive its capacity to mutate and change, the greater its chances of survival. Survival, of course, may mean the evolution of an organism into something that is very different from the original. It is not known, not yet, how genetic information of this type is transmitted through successive replications, from generation to generation. We believe that this line of research will reveal the secrets of the genetic code within bacteria, and eventually, if I may say so, within humans.”

As the audience burst into sustained applause, the professor’s words triggered Jona’s mind backwards to a conversation he once had with his father. The elder Lieb rarely talked about his research with Jona, and when he did it was usually to voice a complaint about bureaucratic incompetence at the laboratory or university. More rarely, he would talk about general trends in the field or speculate about future developments.

Just a few months before, they were alone for a rare breakfast together. The elder Lieb had taken the train down to New York to meet privately with John Rockefeller about an endowment. Times were difficult, and the Rockefellers were already immersed in the uptown construction of the ultramodern complex that was slated to become the New York Medical Center. Endowment funds were cut short until the medical center was to be finished, still more than two years distant. However, Earnest Lieb could be very persuasive, and his meeting had gone well. He had arranged to meet Jona the next morning at a small restaurant on Eleventh Avenue. The place was owned by a former Serbian army officer befriended by Lieb during the old days, when he and Jona still resided in the city. Jona had noticed that his father appeared tired and asked him about it.

“I’m exhausted, but I feel exhilarated at the same time, Jona. Our research data are really exploding. We’re finding that some bacteria seem to be able to confer patterns of antibiotic resistance rapidly to one another. The information spreads through any given colony of these organisms with amazing speed. Mutation. Change. That’s the mechanism, I’m sure of it. But we don’t know how. We don’t know what triggers the process, and how the mutation spreads among individual bacteria. We don’t even know if it’s orderly, by design, or just a random series of events. I can’t believe it’s random, though. There is a how and why to change. And that’s what beggars the imagination. Why do they want to live? How do they know they want to survive? Is there some recognition of life in these tiny organisms? Do they want survival only for themselves individually, or for their entire colony? We will develop our theories and test them systematically. It’s time consuming, but that’s science.” As he discoursed he sipped at a Turkish coffee, a renowned specialty of the Serbian owner. It was always taken as strong and hot as possible, with no sugar, and it’s deep, aromatic smell permeated the air. Jona was drinking tea with light cream.

As usual when he was about to challenge someone, Earnest Lieb tilted his head to the right and thrust his jaw out. His dark brown eyes gleamed radiantly, matching the coffee’s intensity. “And how are you, Jona? You appear well rested. Recovered from all that nonsense of last year, I hope. How is your research going?”

In one swoop his father had bored in on the two open wounds in Jona’s life. The reference to Marielle caused a searing pain in the pit of his stomach, moving him to momentarily wrap his arms over his abdomen. Jona dreaded questions like that from his father. He hated to discuss his own failures with the great man of science, particularly his research failures. Even the few successes he had enjoyed in the Neurology research laboratory were trivial in comparison to the scientific advances achieved by Earnest Lieb. Jona said nothing, bowing his head over his teacup.

After a few awkward moments of silence, the elder Lieb settled back into his chair, giving the impression of examining the restaurant’s gritty plaster ceiling carefully. Dim noises of clinking cutlery came from an adjacent table, but the small dining room was otherwise quiet. “Do you know what my field of interest was, back in the beginning, when I first got started?” He asked the question as if he were looking for something at the back of a medicine cabinet.

Of course, Jona knew. “Syphilis,” he answered promptly. “Spread, prevention, especially treatment.” Earnest Lieb had made several seminal discoveries regarding one of humankind’s most mysterious ailments, giving him scientific renown when still in his early thirties.

“That’s right. But do you know why?”

Jona felt vaguely uncomfortable. “No, not really. I assumed you were put on the chase for a cure by Professor Collins back in Atlanta.” Jona had a vague memory of Dr. Collins as a short, fat man who wore a monocle implanted in his right orbit.

“Partly true.” Earnest Lieb eyed his son with a tremor of tension at the corner of his mouth but said nothing further.

Jona felt a void stretching out before them as the quiet deepened. He sensed that his father wanted to speak about the past, but was searching for an opening, like a blind man seeking a doorway. As they sat quite still, he could feel an inaudible metronome ticking down in a cadence that would end in silence. If he did not strike the right note in the next few moments there would be nothing left for either of them to say.

“Was it because of the Negroes? Did you want to do something to help them?” As a young investigator Earnest Lieb had found that up to a quarter of male slaves in the South had syphilis by age thirty. Lieb had often referred to syphilis as one of the many “diseases of oppression,” occurring disproportionately in slaves and poor free blacks, male and female. Much later, he had discovered that roughly the same incidence rates for venereal diseases were found in Northern black men inducted into the army. For years he had urged the development of systematic health services for the poor, and particularly enjoyed shocking anyone who would listen by proposing the free distribution of prophylactic rubbers to men. And to women.

“No, Jona, I was no social worker, especially back in the beginning. I simply wanted to succeed in my research and get ahead in my career.” Lieb looked at his son sharply, and took a sip of coffee. “But I was angry, too...” His voice faded off and he seemed distracted, playing with a spoon.

“Why, dad?” Jona did not want him to stop talking.

“Listen. You can’t understand what things were like back then in that place. Thirty years ago, but it seems like yesterday. My God, blacks were possessions! Still are. Honest people, friends, good solid men with dignity would have their underwear washed by slaves. Blacks were somehow human but not full human beings, just pieces you could move here and there as you pleased, as you might move a lamp from one corner to another. It was awful. It’s still awful. It’s a goddamn crime, really. A crime without penance. You’ve heard me say all this. A crime before all humanity.”

Jona was shocked to hear his father use profanity. He could remember that, as a child, his father would occasionally swear, particularly during dark moments of anger and often when drinking. But from the time they moved north, and with his recognition as a prominent international figure, his father’s control of language remained scrupulously proper. It was part of his persona. Jona also did not allow himself to utter any improper words, even in the most trying of circumstances. He knew his father would never approve. It was a rule he could not even imagine breaking.

Lieb finished his coffee and abruptly turned the cup over upside down onto its small dish. A small trickle of brownish fluid and coffee grounds appeared leaking around the rim. He observed the drainage briefly, and then continued speaking slowly, in a soft monotone. “There was a very rich woman from Savannah. A big-time landowner, had a huge plantation. More than a thousand acres, had cotton, rice, cattle, you name it. She came to see Collins about some of her female servants, and he directed her to me with instructions to help in any way possible. So they came in. There were three young women, all reasonably healthy appearing but all clearly infected with syphilis. All three were quite pregnant. One was very young, maybe fifteen. They told me, at least the young one did, that the plantation overseer had raped them. All we had available at the time was a drug called salvarsan. We knew even back then that treatment with salvarsan was ineffective for the fetus, and possibly dangerous for the mother. But salvarsan was all we had; it was either that or nothing. After making the diagnosis I recommended that all three pregnancies be aborted, and that the women be treated promptly thereafter.” Lieb paused a moment and shook the inverted coffee cup on the saucer very gently. He took out a package of Lucky Strikes, removed a cigarette, and placed it in his lips. Almost instantaneously the restaurant owner appeared from nowhere, as if from an adjacent universe, and lit the cigarette.

“Thank you, Vlade,” murmured Lieb. Vlade was quick to extricate a cigarette from the pack for himself and light up as well. Jona noticed he was missing the fourth and fifth digits of his left hand, which appeared contracted and deformed. A long scar extended down his wrist, disappearing under his shirt cuff. The nail on his middle finger protruded at least an inch, much like a knife-like rapier ready to be deployed in an instant. The Serb pointed to the pack of cigarettes and gazed at Jona questioningly, but Jona shook his head.

His father inhaled deeply, then continued. “Of course, abortion was ruled out of the question. It was illegal, naturally, which I didn’t mind. I could have gotten around that. That wasn’t the problem. You should have heard the owner, though, when I gave her my recommendation. The old bag screamed as if she were struck by lightning. ‘I am a soldier of the Lord!’, she shouted at me as if it was Sunday morning in some backwoods low hollow church. ‘I will not allow the Devil’s work to be done in my household.’ What a joke.” At this Lieb laughed a full throated, rumbling laugh as he tossed his head backwards. Almost simultaneously Vlade did the same, slapping himself on the knee, although Jona had the impression that the Serb did not understand a word his father was saying.

“I didn’t realize the truth of the matter right away, but eventually it dawned on me. Of course she wanted the babies. Little black babies, when weaned and toilet trained can eventually be quite valuable. Even with syphilis, which would be a minor distraction in the workaday world of the blast furnace, or coal mine, or tobacco plantation. Have you ever seen congenital syphilis, Jona?”

“Certainly. Mental retardation, poor vision, heart and liver disease...The spirochetes of syphilis can infect almost any organ. It’s a horrible condition.”

“Not so horrible, my boy, if you can make a few bucks out of it. That’s what our dear lady from Savannah had in mind. One of the girls, the young one, delivered prematurely while they were still with us. I saw the baby before it died the next day. I didn’t want to acknowledge it as human, Jona, it was so deformed. The worst example of congenital syphilis I ever saw. Its head was no larger than a small orange. But even so I knew it would one day be put to some mindless labor or maybe left to slowly starve to death. It made me angry...I wanted to kill it, smother it, remove it from my sight, destroy the goddamn thing...” Lieb trailed off, staring vacantly at the breakfast dishes in front of him on the table. The Serb watched him intently, his dark brown eyes unwavering, the clipped mustache on his upper lip twitching slightly. A clock on the wall ticked softly, the minute hand moving smoothly over the dial. Jona’s heart beat quickly. He had never heard this story before. For an instant, he remembered the quick flashes of anger in his father that he had seen as a boy. The clank of a fork on a plate coming from a nearby table shook Earnest Lieb from his reverie, and he looked rapidly around the room, as if afraid that his words had been overheard.

“I did not, of course, though I had every opportunity to do so if I wished. I’m sure the old lady would have been happy if I had discarded the little bundle for her. Even better, had I popped it into the crematorium. This particular specimen would be unsuited for any kind of work whatsoever. Providence saved me from any further torment when the infant finally died of internal hemorrhage within a day or so. I think the young mother was relieved as well, though she cried all night over the little thing. There was absolutely nothing I could do. I couldn’t help it. I felt terribly guilty about it all.”

Jona felt a hot flush of anger at what he was hearing. “There was nothing for you to be guilty about. That’s absurd. Why would you feel guilt?”

Earnest Lieb smiled widely. He looked over his shoulder for his friend. “I don’t know. Where does guilt come from? Eh, Vlade?”

The Serb had moved silently, like a shadow, to the rear of the room and was just walking back with two plain glass flasks in his right hand, both without labels. He placed them on the table in front of his friend and pointed to them in turn, saying simply “Starka“ and “Raki” as he identified each one. The elder Lieb nodded towards the Starka. He had spent a summer in Poland investigating a cholera outbreak and had acquired a taste for the rough burning sensation of Starka taken straight. It took him only a second to drain an ornate shot glass. He placed the glass sharply on the table and tapped the rim with his forefinger. It was promptly replenished by Vlade, who then wrinkled his brow in Jona’s direction. Jona was already dizzy from the cigarette smoke swirling around him and shook his head rapidly.

Lieb threw back his head and finished off the second shot, grunting softly and then gritting his teeth. “Well, Jona, where does guilt come from, tell me?” His voice was louder, insistent, belligerent.

Jona wasn’t sure how to answer. Did his father really even want an answer? He groped for a response, sifting mentally through philosophical treatises he had read. “Kant would say from within,” he answered haltingly, “from the deepest core of our humanity.”

Earnest Lieb literally sneered. “Kant said that? From our deepest core? Do you mean from our cells? Or even deeper, our chromosomes, our genes? Does guilt come from our genes, Jona? Does hate? Desire? Faith? Do our genes determine whether we have compassion?”

Jona was stunned by the depth of his father’s intensity. He sat helpless, head bowed, unable to answer back, unable even to look up.

The older man took another deep drag on his cigarette. An acrid blue haze hovered over the table. His voice lowered and he leaned forward over the table, crouching like a prowling carnivore as he continued. “When I was much younger than you are now, I read everything I could about the great giants of science. I studied their accomplishments. I dreamed about them. In my mind, I pretended to perform their experiments. I learned about Friedrich Miescher and his discovery of nucleic acids. He isolated nucleic acids in pus draining from wounds, can you believe it! I imagined in my mind’s eye Muller’s experiments using x-rays to cause gene mutations. While my friends at school read Tolstoy and Thackery I memorized Edmund Wilson’s drawings of chromosomes cleaving during cell division. I devoured Morgan’s experiments with gene transmission in fruit flies. What a mind he had! Remarkable science! I believed at that time that all the answers I needed could be found in those experiments. I thought everything could be explained by science. If not in biology, then fine, the solutions would be in other fields. So I studied physics, astronomy, chemistry. Becqerel and Curie, Roentgen, Rutherford, von Baeyern, Maxwell, Boltzmann, Laplace, Courvoisier...” His father’s voice drifted off and he seemed to slump in his chair. Vlade silently filled their glasses once again. Earnest Lieb drank his down without hesitation.

Jona wanted to say something but was unsure what his father might want to hear at that moment. The Serb pulled over a chair and sat at the table with them, making an exaggerated smirk and appearing bored as he smoked. Very casually, he inserted his long fingernail into his ear and probed vigorously, retrieving a glob of brownish material.

“Jona, do you know where the highest concentrations of syphilis organisms are typically found?” Ernest Lieb pursed his lips, assuming a professorial tone, but with head bent, looking downwards.

Jona thought for a moment, culling his memory for the answer. He felt like a young schoolboy at the feet of the master. “No,” he admitted. He imagined that the Serb threw him a glance of contempt, as Vlade continued to draw on a cigarette that was now more ash than tobacco.

“In newborns. The fetus is the ideal medium for the growth of the spirochetes of syphilis. I performed an autopsy after that baby from Savannah died, Jona, and I harvested the brain, heart, and liver. I cursed the unfeeling God that allowed the birth of a monster and the death of an innocent baby, but I was able to begin my first transmission experiments with that tissue. So you see, it was my anger and guilt over the birth and death of that miserable creature that pushed me down the road of my research.” Lieb smiled at Jona, but it was a hard smile, and his eyes seemed to narrow into slits.

“It was a worthy road, dad. It was a road that led to great things.” Jona felt momentarily transported back to his boyhood, when it had been easy to speak intimately with his father.

“Anger and guilt,” Lieb mused, as if he had not heard a word that Jona had said. “The reverse side of two other sins, hatred and pride. I gave up everything ... almost everything. Years and years devoted to nothing else. I walked a road to hell to satisfy those sins. No, I crawled that road on my hands and knees. And as the years went by, after all my research and study of syphilis, salmonella, cholera, and every other stinking, godawful microscopic killer of humans I could identify, I learned something.” At this point he turned completely in his chair to look at his son.

Jona later remembered the moment vividly. His father’s dark green eyes flitted back and forth, searching, as if unable to focus across the hazy space that separated them. A broad forehead was wrinkled in crisp relief against a sparse crop of steel grey hair. A sharp nose cast an unyielding shadow over the mid part of his face. His cheeks and chin appeared leathered and weighted down, obedient to the laws of nature.

“I learned that bacteria have chromosomes, and they have membranes,” he said softly. “But they have no guilt. They live all their days without the slightest sense of guilt. That, and pride, and hatred, and hope belong to us alone. They come from deep within us. They come from the deepest core of our humanity.”

After a moment he turned back to the table, picked up the inverted cup from its saucer and carefully examined the brown stained coffee grounds that remained within it. He grimaced and pushed the cup over to the Serb who also scrutinized the blot of brown material.

Vlade shook his head slowly, patted the professor on the shoulder, and poured another shot of liquor for both of them. He stood up and held his glass up in the air theatrically, gesturing in a toast to Earnest Lieb, intoning sonorously “Per me si va nella citta dolente,” before they both poured the burning fluid down their throats.

After the lecture, Jona walked outside into a dreary, drizzly day. He hurried along Twenty First Street clutching a small piece of paper in his hand. Joe Murphy had left a message for him at the ME’s office that morning. The note instructed him to come to an address on 59th street, in the old San Juan Hill area, a seedy and depressed part of Manhattan hard by the river. The meeting was set for noon, giving Jona just enough time to walk to his destination and avoid the expense of a cab. Jona hoped the misty rain would not flare into a heavier downpour before he got there.

The streets were tough here, and pedestrians in this part of town were sparse. At one dirty, littered corner Jona could see a group of people huddled around a small pile of furniture. As he approached, he realized it was a family of four that had been put out on the street. He pretended to study a poster on the building behind them as he passed, advertising Charlie Barnet’s band appearing together with Kitty Kallen at a club in East Harlem. Without wanting to, he could see a little girl, ashen faced, sitting on what looked like a grimy horsehair sofa. Tears were streaming soundlessly down her face, as she held up a piece of cardboard with some scrawled writing: need $12 rent for April. The mother seemed to be sleeping on a blanket folded on the pavement, snoring loudly. Two little boys who looked like twins gazed at Jona apathetically. Twelve dollars, he thought, that’s not very much.

A group of four black men in long shabby coats loitered further down the block in front of a tenement building, singing. The words were easy to make out, even at a distance. Jona could hear them trilling “Let’s all sing like the birdies sing” in strong, melodious voices. Clustered tightly, they faced one another and sang à capella to no one but themselves, moving their arms expressively as if inviting the whole world to listen. They managed to give the song a percussive, syncopated beat with every ‘tweet, tweet’. The words vibrated up and down the nearly empty street. Jona wanted to get closer but was afraid to appear too interested in their performance. He loved the song, as he loved music in general, but the clustered men seemed rather ragged and soiled, and all of them were grimly thin. He feared that if he passed too nearby, they might try to speak to him, or ask for money. Involuntarily, he clutched at his wallet as he walked hurriedly beyond them.

The address he had been given was a nondescript brownstone building with a storefront office advertising “Mehl and Mehl Law Firm”. As he stepped through the door Jona wondered idly why the Secret Service had chosen a Jew law office for their meeting. Of course, he was not bothered by it. The hallway was poorly lit and filthy. Jona flinched when he spotted several roaches scuttling along the walls as he walked towards the office door.

It had been four weeks since his father’s death, and Jona had become resigned to his impending mission, and though he didn’t want to say so aloud, even a bit excited by the prospect. He had mentioned the idea of a memorial lecture in Atlanta to his colleagues at the city morgue, all of whom expressed support for honoring his father. Most importantly, Dr. Bellevue had seemed exceptionally solicitous of Jona, to the point of urging him to take as much time as he needed before returning to his duties. That was quite unlike Dr. Bellevue. It certainly seemed as if his supervisor had undergone a pleasant and welcome change in demeanor. All in all, the idea of visiting the CSA had begun to appeal to him, and he no longer dreaded the summons from Murphy he had received that morning.

Of course, the two musclemen assigned to accompany him were certainly not going to control what he did or said in Dear Old Dixieland. He would meet his father’s old colleagues, give a lecture In Memorium of Earnest Lieb’s scientific accomplishments, and deliver Roosevelt’s letter to the appropriate authorities. Very simple. Jona had no political axes to grind and intended to avoid any inflammatory comments or provocative discussions. He had decided, completely on his own, to recommend the publication of a festschrift in honor of his father’s accomplishments. He was very proud of himself for coming up with that idea. Furthermore, as far as he was concerned, anything resembling a social agenda was taboo. In essence, his trip would be strictly academic in nature. Yes indeed, he would lay down the law to these two jokers, Andrews and Murphy, and make it clear that he, Jona Lieb, would be in charge.

As he entered the offices of Mehl and Mehl, Jona reassured himself that the whole venture would be a breeze, and probably quite entertaining. He would enjoy seeing the land of his boyhood and he would certainly enjoy being treated like a distinguished visitor. That would be a novel experience. And, if he played a pivotal role in improving the international climate, so much the better. Any honors that followed would be well deserved.

A young woman in yellow was sitting at a desk in the middle of the room. Jona was momentarily distracted by the console radio in the corner of the room. It was a beat-up looking Philco with the top panel removed, exposing the internal wiring and glowing vacuum tubes. Jona stared at it for a moment. The scientific marvel of radio transmission still amazed him, but it seemed a somewhat trivial accomplishment. Nothing very important was ever broadcast over the airways. Grainy sounding music, possibly an opera, was emanating from the speaker. The accompanying hissing and buzzing made it impossible to recognize the music with any certainty.

Jona walked up to the receptionist diffidently, conscious of his awkward limp. “Hello. I’m Dr. Lieb. I have an appointment with Mr. Murphy.”

The woman gave Jona a radiant smile, revealing perfectly formed teeth. “Mr. Murphy is expecting you, Doctor. He called to say he would be a little late. Can you have a seat?”

Lieb smiled and nodded. His heart raced when she smiled at him again. Her blond hair was bobbed in a somewhat old fashioned manner, her skin had a lustrous, pearly appearance, and her eyes were bright blue. She was quite lovely, and her gaze seemed to linger on him just a moment longer than necessary. Jona turned away. As he sat down he began to rehearse what he would have to say to Mr. Murphy and Mr. Andrews.

Joe Murphy was seething with anger. He was sitting in the crowded lobby of the Biltmore Hotel waiting for Andrews to finish his phone call. Fifteen minutes ago they were ready to leave the hotel for their meeting with Lieb. As they exited the elevator a bellhop informed Andrews he had a call waiting on one of the lobby phones. Murphy had been sitting ever since, impatiently waiting for his younger partner to finish. He could see Andrews clearly from where he sat. What annoyed him most was the junior agent’s pervasively passive appearance. He never looked excited, or angry, or happy for that matter. As he watched Andrews talk inside the phone booth it was impossible to discern any clue about the nature of his conversation. The man was a machine.

When Andrews finally strode out Murphy could not hide his annoyance. “Who the hell were you talking to?” he demanded.

Andrews did not answer immediately. Rather than responding he began to adjust the knot on his tie. This simply infuriated Murphy. “Look, Andrews, you answer my question or I make a phone call of my own, to Moran. Now who were you talking to?”

Andrews looked casually at his senior partner and kept moving towards the double revolving doors at the east entry into the hotel. “The Bureau,” he said simply.

Murphy grabbed him by the coat sleeve, almost jerking him backward. “Why the hell were you talking to them?”

“To find out more about our dear little friend. He has quite a dossier with them.”

Joe Murphy was in his fifteenth year with the Secret Service. He had joined the elite cadre of agents right after discharge from the Marine Corps. Over that time he had developed a grudging admiration for the Bureau, especially since it had been reconstituted as the Federal Bureau of Investigation a decade earlier. They were certainly thorough in everything they did and any information from them was very likely to be reliable. On the other hand, he was not convinced the Bureau was trustworthy. The Director, a rat faced, smug looking fellow named Hoover, had already shown himself to be a vicious infighter in the highest circles of political power. The fact that the Secret Service was interested in Jona Lieb was sure to find its way to Hoover’s desk. Who knew what he would do with that information? If the Director began snooping into the matter the secrecy of their mission would surely be compromised.

As if reading his mind, Andrews clapped Murphy on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I spoke to a guy who’s an old college buddy of mine. Princeton man, if you know what I mean.” Andrews seemed to smirk for an instant. “Strictly on the QT.”

“Yeah?” Murphy snarled. “Well next time how about you clear things with me first?”

The younger man said nothing in response. They were in their car within a few minutes. Andrews was the driver, and he concentrated on weaving in and out of light early afternoon traffic. When they stopped at a red light he turned to his partner and spoke slowly and distinctly. “Don’t you want to know what he told me?”

He got a guttural grunt in reply. Murphy appeared to be fastidiously studying some undressed manikins in a nearby clothing store window.

“Our wonderboy, Dr. Jona Lieb, was in with quite a bunch of Reds. It turns out he knew them all. You name them - Clifford Odets, Erskine Caldwell, Lester Cole, Elia Kazan, Alvah Bessie. Mostly the artistic types. A Who’s Who of the Communist Party.”

“We already knew this stuff, didn’t we? The boss spelled it out for us and for him also. Scared the crap out of him.”

Andrews gave Murphy a poised look. “He met with Jim Cannon at least once, right after the guy came back from his trip to Moscow.”

Murphy shook his head vigorously. Jim Cannon had been the first President of the American Communist Party. He had gone to Moscow in 1928 to attend the Sixth Congress of the Comintern, apparently at the invitation of Joe Stalin himself. If Jona Lieb had been given access to the leader of the CPA it meant a real possibility that he was a true believer. If that were the case, their mission was blown sky high. “But he was never a member, right?”

“Jona? No. But Earnest Lieb was.”

“The father?” Murphy was dumbfounded. “But he spoke out against the Commies. I read that he once debated a Commie academic type from NYU who kept calling Communism the wave of the future, and the Red Dawn, and shit like that. Lieb renamed the ‘Red Dawn’ the ‘Red Lie.’ “ Murphy did not read much, unlike his younger partner, but what he did read, he remembered. He prided himself on a near photographic memory, and could remember verbatim statements and conversations faithfully.

“Quite true, boss. He was actually a member of the Communist Socialist Party before it broke up and became part of the CPA.” In the whirlwind of social and political upheaval during the 1920’s the various communist and extreme left socialist factions had fought viciously among themselves for political primacy. A kaleidoscope of parties, labor movements, and political associations had merged and diverged, melded and reformed during a period of continuous internecine skirmishing. The Communist Party of America, or CPA, had emerged victorious from the fray, though weakened considerably by important defections. Apparently, defections like that of the august Ernest Lieb. Nonetheless, the U.S. Government considered the CPA a formidable threat to national security. It was said that Hoover worried insanely about the communist infiltration of labor unions, academic institutions, and the motion picture industry. No wonder that the Bureau of Investigation monitored its activities intensively.

“It seems the old man broke with the Party right after Cannon’s return from Russia,” Andrews continued. “It was from that time on that he denounced the Party, the Comintern, Lenin, Trotsky, the whole bunch. His best ammo was reserved for Joe Stalin.”

Murphy felt confused. “But he continued his associations with a bunch of them afterwards. Does that make sense to you?”

“Not only that, but he introduced his son to several of them, and encouraged him to continue in their company. Bureau agents are pretty sure about that.” Andrews shifted his gaze from the road to glance at his partner, who seemed absorbed in thought. “And young Jona was happy to comply.”

“Is that so? He doesn’t give me the impression of being too happy about anything.”

“The reports indicate he hung around with this bunch socially. He dated lots of girls casually until he met Hervieux. One of the Bureau’s undercover agents met her at one of the Saturday night dances the Party used to put on down on East 10th street, what they called vetcherinkas. She liked to call herself an anarchist, but she was a CPA member from 1929 on. True believer, a soldier. Little Lieb fell hard for her, evidently. Not sure what happened there.”

“That’s someone we should talk to, find out a little more about our friend.”

“No can do. She’s gone from the scene, about six months now at least. She wasn’t very important in the big scheme of things, and the boys at the Bureau didn’t bother tracking her. Don’t know where she is, but they think she’s in Europe now. Maybe Paris.”

Murphy said nothing, frowning hard. He wanted to slow down the pace of the conversation. Andrews was coming out with too much too fast. “But why would old man Lieb want his son in that company? Maybe I could understand that he didn’t want to abandon old friendships of his own. But why involve his son?”

The younger agent shrugged, his face remaining impassive. “Maybe he planted Jona with them as, you know, a seksot.”

“What the hell is a seksot?” Murphy growled.

Andrews smiled wryly, enjoying the moment. It felt good to see Murphy squirm. “I’m told it’s a slang word they use in Moscow, ever since the revolution. That’s what they call a spy.”

Murphy had the feeling that Jona Lieb had bonded with Andrews. One good reason for that, he surmised, was because they were both oddballs. And, he thought ruefully, because both were quite wrapped up with themselves. There was something about Andrews that made it easy to think he was a friend. Murphy had never seen anyone be so two-faced so easily. With some ambivalence, the senior agent decided that the younger agent would be the point man when it came to dealing with Jona.

John Andrews, on the other hand, was not so certain that he had forged a connection with Lieb. He sensed something about Jona that he couldn’t put precisely into words, but he did not believe Jona Lieb could feel attachment to anybody. It was not just that Lieb seemed aloof; it was that he seemed uncaring. Also, for someone bright enough to be a doctor, he didn’t ask many questions. Andrews could think of dozens of questions that should have been asked about this whole affair by any reasonably bright person. But not from Jona. Is he some kind of a passive personality type? Andrews thought, Or just damaged goods? Has he been too beaten down to trust?

Murphy wanted Andrews to confront Lieb with the information from the Bureau and demand an explanation about his past activities. Andrews argued that any attempt to corner their already skittish charge would simply result in losing him completely. They needed Jona to be fully cooperative, as once they got down South they would be totally dependent on his good behavior to accomplish their mission successfully. There was no need to antagonize him needlessly, particularly since his past history was probably irrelevant to the task at hand. Jona Lieb and his father had strayed into a crowd of Bolsheviki, but Jona appeared as conservative as Calvin Coolidge. Murphy was clearly not happy but had ultimately relented. There would be no confrontation with Lieb.

Andrews felt very satisfied with his morning’s work. He had taken the initiative and gotten a briefing on both Liebs from the only agency in the government that could provide that kind of background. He grimaced at the thought of his senior partner’s performance. Joe Murphy liked to play by the script. Once he encountered anything out of the ordinary his usual response was to retract into his shell as if he were crawling into an entrenchment, and shout orders out to others. After their disagreement, Andrews was very surprised and pleased that Murphy had not kicked the whole thing upstairs to Moran for further instructions.

For that reason alone, Andrews was able to flash a genuine smile when he and Murphy met Jona in the law firm’s waiting room. Jona looked smaller and somewhat more frail than at the time of their last meeting. Additionally, he was limping more than previously, with a tortuous gait that suggested pain at every step. He seemed happy to sit down as they entered a small conference room in the rear of the office suite.

“Gentlemen,” Lieb said tersely by way of greeting.

Andrews responded promptly. “Dr Lieb. We’ve asked you here to discuss some of the details of our upcoming trip. Please listen carefully, since you will not be given anything in writing from us until after we’ve left the country.”

“O.K., but you listen first. Here are the rules. I want to be clear that I won’t be sneaking around in a trench coat and sunglasses. I intend to travel openly under my own identity. I will use my own passport, and my own name at hotels.” Jona lifted his chin defiantly as he spoke. Now they know I won’t be pushed around, he thought. And I do mean business.

Murphy said nothing, but promptly felt confirmed in his belief that Lieb was nothing more than shit toast and could not be trusted. Andrews also remained impassive but shifted his gaze directly into Jona’s eyes. As he spoke he made his voice assume a soft, steady, reassuring cadence. “Doctor, I will repeat what I just said. Please listen carefully to these instructions. We will be leaving two weeks from today on the Franconia. That is the morning of the twenty first. They tell me it’s a wonderful boat. It leaves from the 48th street pier, be there by ten in the morning, your billets are all taken care of. Again, the twenty first, 10 am. We will meet you promptly once you’re on board. We arrive in Southampton on the twenty fifth, then to London. We’ll spend just under a week there, and on the second we take the overnight steamer to France via Dunkirk, and then the train directly to Berlin. You will be asked to give a short talk at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, as a commemorative lecture in honor of your father. No doubt they will wine and dine you while you are there. On the twenty sixth we leave Bremen direct to Caracas, then on to New Orleans, arriving on the eighth. Into Atlanta on June tenth, attend the Colloquium on the seventeenth, and then to Richmond on the twentieth. We expect you will be given an interview with their president at that point, but that could change. You complete your mission by delivering President Roosevelt’s personal letter. You, of course, don’t know what’s contained in the letter. We don’t either. We’re all just delivery boys when it comes to that. We depart for Bermuda on the tenth, then on to New York on the twelfth. That gives a full month in good old Dixieland. Arrive home on the fourteenth of July. It’s going to be one crazy, exciting trip.” Andrews gave a broad grin in hopes of lightening the moment but he could see Jona pursing his lips.

“Why are we going to London? I can understand spending some time in Berlin. My father still has many friends there. But why detour through England?”

“Because that’s the way the Chief wants it to be, and that’s the way the plans have been made,” Andrews answered slowly.

Murphy jumped in, as if unable to restrain himself any longer. “Look, Doc, if you don’t want this trip to be for biscuits, you can’t always question every little thing during this wonderful vacation fling we’re going to take. A lot is riding on the success of this mission and quite a few smart brains have put a lot of thought into the plan. The brass doesn’t want you to hide. They want your name front and center in the papers right before you get to the CSA. That way, you’ll make a bigger splash when you get there. You’re going to meet some science big shots in England, make the newsreels and the papers both there and here. It’s all in the plans. The point is, you can’t be fighting us on every detail, or we’ll never make it.” At that Murphy folded his arms as if challenging Jona to say anything further.

Jona did not speak for a moment, as if he was giving due consideration to everything that had just been said. He wanted desperately to show them that he was in command of this venture and that he would be directing their moves. He wanted to be his own man. But he really couldn’t afford to stir up any trouble, either. He had a brief, flashing mental glimpse of Dr. Bellevue’s frowning face. Now that his father’s protective aura was gone, Jona entertained the sickening possibility that he could be dismissed from the ME’s office without a moment’s hesitation if he didn’t play ball with these two slugs. Their presence was surely the reason Bellevue had been so pleasant recently. Slowly, he nodded his head, as if agreeing with Murphy. “That’s fine. I want to keep this as aboveboard as possible, I think. I don’t mind it if we get the press involved, as long as I can focus on the academic aspects without interference. I’ll do what you want me to. Just don’t try to make me into something I’m not.”

Andrews and Murphy exchanged glances, and Andrews walked around the long mahogany table to clasp Jona on the shoulder. “That’s great, Dr. Lieb. That’s just what we need to hear from you. We’re all on the same team now. Why don’t you rest up the next few days, make any purchases you need to make, and blow off some steam between now and our departure.”

Jona nodded to both of them, and got up to leave. As he reached for the door he turned back abruptly. “Are we traveling first class?”

Andrews smiled, a broad, genuine smile that revealed short white teeth and crinkled his clipped moustache. “Yes, Doctor, you will be. Even though we’re just the hired help, we will be in first class also. It will be grand.”

As Jona left he nodded weakly to the blonde, but felt somewhat nauseated and made no attempt to speak to her. She kept smiling until he disappeared from view.

François Minsch sat at his desk praying for the end of the day to come quickly. In reality, if not for his wristwatch he had no way of knowing whether it was day or night. Not a drop of natural light entered his subterranean office. The harsh overhead light bulbs were wreathed in circular tin collars that reflected energy in very specific ways according to very specific physical laws. Enough energy, he imagined, to hasten a photon on its never ending path, or move an electron to pity, or swell an orchestra of celestial subatomic strings. Minsch had studied physics in Lyceum and considered himself somewhat of an expert on the matter of light waves. However, even though his enormous bulk was properly illuminated, no vibrancy whatsoever seemed to reach François Minsch. If any corpuscles of energy did reach him, his vast, overflowing body remained singularly resistant to their effects.

There is a certain class of humanity who have come to live in a manner that satisfies the minimal requirements of maximum entropy. Persons with bloated, corpulent bodies of flabby flesh surrounding frames of thinning bone and minuscule muscle mass. Individuals whose fat laden, indolent nerves discharge their impulses only intermittently, resulting in no appreciable bodily responses except for the barest necessary movements needed for satiation and excretion. People who allow the universe to flow by them like a torpid dream and seem incapable of spontaneous motion without vitalizing injections. François Minsch was such an individual, but without the vitalizing injections.

Of course, it had not always been this way. There was a time...Well, there were times for everything, but his time had slipped away, taking ambition, and hope and earnest desire for success with it, without declarations or announcements of any sort. A picture of his daughter Clara, long gone to Brazil, looking young and vivacious in a long white dress and straw hat, sat on his desk facing him, as if urging him to go on, though it be for only one more day. He knew he should try to carry on, even if all he had left inside was the energy emanating from the lamps overhead.

His job at the Ministry had changed sharply in the past few months. For many years it had been very quiet in the warren of offices at 22 Schlierstrasse. Over this time Minsch had allowed his once sharp mind to succumb to the dumbing, numbing effect of repetitive, meaningless work. Now, however, there were abundant numbers of newly arrived, keen eyed men in long leather coats who hurried through the corridors every day, shouting orders and making demands. On some days, it was possible for someone that he didn’t know and had never seen before to charge into his little room and order him to prepare an immediate report on this or that matter. Everywhere and everyday were heard shouts of Bisschen dalli! Weitermachen! Schnauze! Hurry, hurry, hurry! François noted that these people invariably wore colorful armbands displaying a hakenkreuze on the sleeves of their jackets and small black lapel pins almost as a form of rank.

Long ago, during the Great War, Minsch had been rewarded several times for his work. His supervisor then, General Hauser, had praised him for his careful eye to detail and his thoughtful analysis of often confusing information. It was not easy in those days. The fate of the nation was in peril, and their adversaries were clever. Everyone, Minsch included, had to do their utmost to fulfill their duty to the Fatherland. It took careful attention to every nuance of information, long hours, intuition, and mental agility to decipher the enemy’s plans. General Ludendorff himself had sent a congratulatory telegram to the entire staff after the great victory at the Masurian Lakes.

But that was then. Things had changed, and a new breed was in charge. The current crowd didn’t even adhere to the usual niceties and courtesies of office life. No greetings in the morning, no offers of lunch, no sense of collegiality. So, Minsch ploughed on in anonymity. He went through dozens of reports a day that were often no more than short notes, and prepared a daily summary briefing for his new boss, Fughler, who was a real Nazi. Most of the analysts were not Party members, but Fughler made it abundantly clear that he was, strutting around with a Nazi armband on his coat sleeve like an arrogant peacock.

The work was excruciatingly boring. Minsch was at least self aware enough to recognize that he was just going through the motions, like a rat trained by Dr. Pavlov to push a ball with its nose. The thought of a rat instantly conjured up an image of thick Stilton cheese, his favorite. He had to concentrate hard to remove the image of the cheese from his mind, and focus on the papers organized in haphazard piles on his stainless steel Government Issue desk. Perhaps it was this retreat from the cheese that caused him to take note of a short memorandum in front of him. The report had come in at four a.m. Berlin time, sent by one of their agents in the United States, in Boston. It was a detailed itinerary for a North American doctor, someone who would be coming through Germany and then travel to the Southern American nation. Someone named Lieb. Minsch remembered that name from a lengthy report he had received from Professor Kohler a few weeks previously. He always remembered Kohler’s reports because they were usually written beautifully. Additionally, they often included an interesting literary notation. Minsch prided himself on his ability to identify them. Kohler had mentioned this same Lieb as well.

After considerable shuffling of papers Minsch decided he would incorporate the information about Lieb in his report, cross-referencing Kohler’s citation. It was odd that this doctor fellow was going to the C.S.A. It was quite illegal after all, based on U.S.A. law. There was no way to get proper visas for a trip like that. Someone would have to arrange that, someone high up. Why come to Germany? Who was he? Why was this information even sent by their Boston agent? And how reliable was the agent? He was a very mysterious fellow, wasn’t he. The code system used in his messages was a joke, easily decipherable by any serious cryptographer, so that it was abundantly clear this couldn’t be a terribly important source. Minsch understood there was a great deal he did not know, but his supervisors might know much more from other sources and other reports. Perhaps he could satisfy Fuhgler’s sense of the dramatic for at least one day more with this information.

Minsch knew he needed to curry favor with his boss, or he would be fired soon. Actually, he didn’t have much hope of salvaging his position and making it to retirement, now just two years away. He worked at a sensitive desk, and he suspected that his name, bestowed by his Francophile father, worked against him. He sighed. He had never liked the name François, and often pretended that his name was actually Friedrich. But these people knew, of course. They knew everything.

And there was another matter. A different kind of problem with his bosses might also develop, based on some of the rumors and vicious gossip he had heard recently. In fact, Fughler, the Nazi, had just asked him about it a few days earlier, demanding clarification and confirmation. He wanted to know if François Minsch was a Jew.

There was a liquor outlet on the corner of Twenty Second street and Third Avenue. There were no liquor bottles in plain view, of course, but Jona had been told reliably that the small produce store nestled on the corner also doubled as a market for more expensive grades of whiskey. He had been in the store only once before, to buy apples, and so the place was barely known to him. He hesitated in the murky drizzle outside before determining to go in.

The sign on the storefront announced the premises of Vincent Vitelli and Sons. Lenny at the morgue had told him to ask for Lefty and take out a five dollar bill. “That’ll open all the doors you need, Doc. A onetime payment, sorta to show you’re on the up and up and not some mug off the street,” he had said, laughing. Jona proceeded as instructed. There was a boy at the counter, sitting idly as Jona walked up to him. When he asked for Lefty the boy scrambled quickly to the back of the store. Jona was surprised by the appearance of an old woman, perhaps in her early seventies, who shambled up to him wearing an ancient woolen overcoat and blue kerchief. He offered the five dollars and she promptly snatched it from his hand, waving silently for him to follow her.

At the rear of the store Jona could see a large, framed watercolor of Jesus Christ hanging somewhat crookedly, on a wooden door leading to a back room. The figure seemed to frown in disapproval. The woman opened the door, revealing a small room with shelf after shelf of whiskeys, gins, and bourbons. “What kind you want?” she demanded in a frog-like voice. Jona could smell an odor of rotting onions coming from somewhere, perhaps from the old woman. He glanced at her quickly, noting a large glandular swelling protruding from the front of her neck like a small orange. Lieb pointed vaguely towards a fifth of Seagrams and backed out of the little room quickly. At the counter he paid out four dollars for the bottle, which was placed carefully in a brown paper bag. The woman said nothing further as he left the store.

Jona had never done anything like this before. He had felt unsettled and disoriented all afternoon, as if everything around him was spinning. The gloomy day somehow worked to make him feel drunk, and so he decided to truly get drunk. Drinking alcohol was usually an unpleasant social necessity. He never looked forward to it, and he certainly never drank alone. Somehow, a grim lever had slipped into place deep inside, driving him to buy the illicit booze. Maybe it was his meeting with Andrews and Murphy earlier that afternoon, or maybe just anxiety about the upcoming trip, but in any case he felt a sense of tension. As he walked home, Jona had the sudden realization that it was Tuesday, and there would be no letter from his father this day, or any other day ever again. Forever.

The apartment was cold when he arrived, and quite dark. Very little of the bleak evening light filtered in through the windows. No noise was heard coming from the street. The ice box was warm, and empty. It let off a musty smell. Jona could not remember the last time ice had been delivered. He was not hungry, and felt jittery as he opened the whiskey bottle and poured a large splash of liquor into a water glass. He wanted music, and made his way cautiously into his small parlor, first peeking in carefully to make sure the room was empty. Cole Porter’s “Night and Day” was already on the turntable of his gramophone. After a few cranks of the motor he placed the playing arm carefully on the record disc, then settled into his armchair. The music had a dreamy effect on him. Almost without realizing it he took several deep gulps of whiskey and began singing softly with the recording.

Night and day, you are the one

only you beneath the moon and under the sun.

Whether near to me or far, it’s no matter,

where you are.

I think of you

His father’s diary was on the end table next to him, still in its brown paper wrapping, unopened since it was given to him weeks ago. He picked it up, and immediately dropped it on the floor. Jona poured another drink for himself and quickly drained it before picking up the package again. He undid the string, and a thin leather-bound volume was revealed. Along the spine,“1909” was embossed in gilt letters.

Jona had been drunk a few times in his life, but never alone. Others had done the singing and the dancing, made the silly gaffes or shouted the wicked jokes that were forgotten by the next day. Now he was alone, and the room and music were beginning to swirl around him as if he were in a vacuum. He took a swig directly from the bottle, as he had seen done in the movies. The caustic fluid seared his throat, but did not cause the choking or gagging sensation that he had feared.

He opened the book randomly, and it fell to February 27, 1909. In scrupulously neat handwriting his father spent two paragraphs critically reviewing the recent crisis between France and Germany over Morocco. The two countries had almost come to blows over some stupid matter of protocol. At the end of his analysis Earnest Lieb had confidently predicted that a general European war ‘that will be horrific’ would break out within two years. “Well, dad,” Jona muttered. “Wrong on that one. It was five years.”

Jona flipped through the pages aimlessly, watching the days and months of the year fly by as he continued to hum slowly under his breath. The words of the song played dreamily in the background, as if coming from a different room, a different apartment, or a different time that he was just now remembering.

Day and night.

Night and day.

April 26. The handwriting was still neat, but strayed upwards, as if the words were written in an awkward position. ‘I haven’t got the courage to approach Evelyn any longer. I know she is dying, and there is nothing I can do. The servants are with her around the clock. I want her last days to be composed and calm, and of course I feel an obligation to be with her, but every moment away from Amelia is torture. Things at the lab are a mess. I don’t know what to do. I am so lonely.’

Jona felt a buzzing in his ears, and bright, sharp lights began to flash before his eyes. It sounded as if the music playing on the gramophone suddenly increased in volume. The words to the song, once so familiar, now seemed distant and strange.

April 28. ‘Is it possible for a human being to be more miserable than I am? This morning I touched heaven, and no universe was too great to conquer. Amelia told me she felt the same way. Oh, the sweetness of her smell as we parted ways! I did not want that moment to end. This evening I am in hell. Evelyn is surely near death. Coughing is worse, always bloody. Pain is worse. Respirations are labored. She asked me where I had been all day and begged me not to leave her side again. I can’t stand it when she looks into my eyes that way. So selfish of her.’

The humming noises in Jona’s head increased. His head began to sway. He stared at the page before him as if he were blind.

Who was Amelia?

The music was very loud, reverberating off the walls, the ceiling, and directly into his brain. He took another drink from the bottle, allowing the burn to sink down the middle of his chest, then turned in the direction of the gramophone. A crackling voice emanated from the whirling disc.

That this longing for you

follows wherever I go.

April 30. ‘Amelia stopped me in the laboratory today. She was upset about something, but wouldn’t say about what, and we couldn’t get alone. She gave me a run up of our latest data, which were marvelous. I’ll get a complete picture when I get to the farm. I think I know what she’s upset about, but I didn’t have time to talk to her about it. No privacy. I think the whole thing is wearing her down. She won’t go to the farm with me though it would be perfect if she did. We’ll have time together when I get back. Received a letter from Erlich today. Was very kind and encouraging. He again invited me to come to Frankfurt and visit him at the Institute. Asked what I was up to. Wrote a quick note back telling him to expect some big news from us very soon.’

May 2. (evening) ‘Evelyn closed her eyes for the last time at 1835 h and expired at 2110 h. Called Dr. Elliott, who attended. Her last words were unclear but sounded like “don’t leave me”. I feel a bit alone and down right now, and exhausted, but I trust in a happier future now that she is out of the way. Amelia does not know yet, but news will reach her surely before I can tell her myself. Will cancel the farm until after the funeral. I will weep for Evelyn, I’m sure, but I feel like a stone has been lifted. Everything will be easier now. She may be going to heaven or hell, or nowhere at all, but at least she’s gone.’

Jona felt his eyes stinging, and a warm droplet fell from his face onto the open book page. The room felt hot and oppressive. He lurched to the window and pushed it open. Immediately, a blast of cold air seized him, drying his face. The raucous noises from the street below drowned out the music playing in his apartment. A policeman was walking his beat right underneath him. Jona leaned out of the window and defiantly took a long drink from the whiskey bottle. “Hey, you!” he shrieked, “Look at me!” He waved the bottle outwards, as if offering a drink. The policeman ambled on, oblivious to Jona’s shouting. A few pedestrians looked up absently, but no one stopped. For a brief instant he considered standing up on the window ledge. Surely, people would then notice. Surely, people would then stop and pay attention. Surely, people would then ask why, why, why? As Jona wobbled back and forth to counter his own unsteadiness, he found the idea suddenly too frightening and he quickly relented.

After a long, empty stare into vacant space Jona turned back into the parlor, and closed the window completely. The music had stopped playing. As carefully as he could, Jona placed the playing arm on the first grooves of the record. It took several tries, but he was finally successful. He was thoroughly dizzy now, and almost fell back onto the couch as the music started.

In the roaring traffic’s boom

In the silence of my lonely room

I think of you

Jona’s vision was blurred. He held the diary close to his eyes, but even with straining it was hard to focus on the small, carefully crafted words. He thumbed forward to the next page to resume the narrative.

May 3. ‘It is over. For her sake I hope there is a God, since she spent her whole life trusting in the belief she would one day be exalted. No need to argue about that anymore. The funeral was not well attended. No one from the lab came. Can’t blame them, been a little rough on them lately. Amelia did come, but kept a distance. I imagine that was for the best. Now that she is gone, I will not attach any blame to Evelyn. Her infidelities are forgiven, though she never asked for forgiveness, and never concerned herself with the consequences of her actions. All the consequences. Every one. Everything that went wrong was my fault, I suppose, though it couldn’t be helped. I’m not sure that I didn’t hurt her at the end, but I couldn’t stand her clinginess, and that’s the truth. Don’t really have time to deal with all that. I can’t be controlled like that. Amelia spoke a few words to me. Leave for the farm tomorrow.’

May 6. ‘Results beyond any expectations. Spencer reviewed the tabular data with me, and he is quite satisfied that we can end now. We have surpassed all our own predictions. I don’t know how to feel. I have been an agent in helping to advance the progress of mankind. How odd to think that my name will be associated with this momentous landmark. Collins will be very happy when he gets this. Will want to have this published immediately, I’m sure. I will have to discuss this whole thing very closely with Collins, particularly the protocol. Study cohort, etc. Would not want to upset our European friends. I have written him about this, but he hasn’t responded as yet. The paper should be titled: “Successful Treatment of Treponema Pallidum Infection Using a Novel Antimicrobial Agent.” I want the outline of the Introduction, Materials and Methods, and Results to go as follows:’

The writing ended near the bottom of the page. When Jona turned the leaf over, he found the succesive three pages had been neatly cut out. The next journal entry was May 12, which seemed to be devoted to a dry discussion of human skull sizes and racial identity. Jona’s mind was drifting in and out of comprehension, but he forced himself to concentrate as he skimmed forward quickly over the dates of the next several weeks. He found no further mention of the project. The project, of course, was his father’s groundbreaking study on the treatment of syphilis. It had made Earnest Lieb famous and was still referenced in medical texts more than a quarter century later. It had been the first step on the way to the Nobel Prize.

Jona turned back to the missing pages. They had been cut very close to the binding, at first glance with a very sharp scissors. As he thumbed the edges, Jona realized that they were more likely cut with a scalpel, all three together in one precise, continuous stroke. Like removing a cancerous tumor at autopsy, Jona thought. They were the only pages missing from the diary. They might have contained details about the syphilis study. Perhaps they contained details that Earnest Lieb didn’t want others to ever see. A quick image of his other’s silhouette flashed through his mind. Maybe something about infidelities.

Or there may have been more about Amelia.

Jona was beginning to feel sick. Bile came into his throat, choking him as he swallowed it back down with difficulty. He placed the journal and the bottle on the floor, and sank back into the couch, disappearing in the dark shadows of his own thoughts. His mind was ebbing, like a slow tide. But as he receded into unconsciousness, he dragged up small bits and pieces of memory, almost like hauling up debris from a litter-strewn lakebed. He could remember the night of his mother’s death, hiding in his bed as his father and the visiting doctor talked in urgent whispers right outside his door. He remembered sadness then, the same sadness he found himself feeling once again. His father had been very careful to write down the time and manner of his wife’s passing, the doctor’s name, and all the other detailed fragments that were so important to record, the final deed to a house of memories that had long ago begun to crumble into nothingness. But nowhere in his personal journal did he mention a nine year old boy trembling in fear at the mystery of death. Trembling in fear at the loss of his mother. Trembling in fear, perhaps, for himself as well.

The music sounded mournful as the recording came to an end, lulling Jona to the very boundary of oblivion. He mouthed the words, but made no sound as he imagined a summer’s evening very long ago.

I think of you

Day and night

Night and day

Chapter 6

Listen. Listen closely. Listen to the sounds of the trees. Each tree has its own voice. Each plays to its own key, whether murmuring or humming, singsong or keening. Each has its own words, spoken in its own rhythm and pitch. Some squeak like happy children, with bright tones fluttering rapidly at the top of the register. Others, like a ponderous mill-wheel turning slowly, rustle cautiously while carefully seeking just the right note.

Robert Jones cocked his head to the left, trying very hard to listen. He was being attentive to the words of branches and twigs and limbs and trunks. Actually, he wanted to talk back, perhaps responding to some query or remark made by the placid walnut tree, or aggressive willow, or shy magnolia. But he did not talk back. He knew it was insane to speak to trees, and he was not insane. So, he contented himself with merely listening. The trees would do all the talking. He lay on his side in the darkness of a subterranean, windowless room, and thought of all kinds of trees. Cherry, chestnut, sycamore, birch, maple... But most often he thought of the mustard tree. He knew of it, of course, from the Bible, where it was mentioned prominently. But he had no idea what it was. Was it found only in the Holy Land? He tried to imagine it, what it might look like, how big it might be, the color of its leaves. Most importantly, what it might say. Surely, its demeanor would be pious and its words would be precious. So he listened carefully, hoping to hear its voice.

Robert Jones had completely lost his sense of time, making no attempt from the beginning of his incarceration to keep track of the passing days. He imagined it had been a few weeks since he was arrested. He remembered walking past the giant chestnut trees at the back of the house on that Tuesday evening, and nothing further. But the chestnut trees had witnessed everything, and he was sure that one day they would reveal the truth to him. Jones had awakened in this cell, with only the murkiest memory of how he was apprehended, or by whom. He had no remembrance of how he had been brought to the place he was in now.

From the beginning, he was beaten in a haphazard manner. There was no particular pattern or rhythm to it. Each time, Jones was brought to a brightly lit room with a large window. A view of green, rolling hills carpeted with loblolly pines lay beyond. He would first be strapped onto a thick metal stool bolted onto the floor before his interrogators went on methodically with their business. He was typically beaten on and off for a number of minutes at a time, it seemed to him, with carefully chosen blows upon the chest, back and abdomen, usually with a stubby black billy club made of ash. Jones, of course, could have no real idea how long the ordeal lasted. It was not unusual for him to faint for a few moments at a time as a result of the horrific pain inflicted on him. Then, of course, all notion of time was lost. The murmuring of the trees would always bring him back, though, reviving him to a slow awakening as if infusing him with the word of God.

It was Jimmy’s job to do the beating. He seemed to be proud of his work, as he made a point of introducing himself by name before starting in. Apparently, he considered it the proper and correct thing to do. “Hey, I’m Jimmy,” he would say, or “You remember me from the other day, don’t you? It’s me, Jimmy.” Jimmy was very wide of frame, with large rough hands and a very thick neck supporting an exceptional head. He was smooth cheeked, with close cropped red hair and a downy goatee. The gray pinstriped suit he wore like a uniform was kept buttoned and stretched tightly across his chest and arms. Although he recognized the somber nature of his work, he never appeared ill natured. Jimmy scrupulously followed the directions of the man he called ‘boss’, a balding man who preferred to sit in a swivel chair in the corner of the room. Jones could see him tapping at his knee with a pocket watch as the rhythmic punching or clubbing went on. The boss never seemed particularly angry or upset. He merely seemed intent on supervising the corporal punishment that was delivered, as if according to a schedule.

He did earnestly advise Jones to speak up at their first encounter. “Come on, now,” he said. “You betta con-fess. You betta talk now or we gonna just slap it outta you. Look...” at this point his voice had gotten low and serious, as if to emphasize the peril of Jones’ situation. “We’ve had a quite a bit a practice beatin’ the shit outta niggas. We not gonna fail with you. Hell, I hadda never failed. My score is purrrrfect, about one thousan’ ta zero.” He laughed at that.

They had started by asking him about who he knew, the questions beginning on his first day there. They questioned him about everyone in the neighborhood he knew, even if only through the most casual encounter. They wanted names of everyone he knew at the church, and in turn who they knew. They wanted most of all to know about the Underground Railroad. The UR. The Underground. Over and over, they asked the same questions. “Who do you know in the Underground?” “Who recruited you into the Underground?” “Who is your contact in the godamn Underground?” Every so often, almost casually, they asked what he knew about the bombing in Richmond. They inquired where he had been and at what times, who he had talked to, and when. Sometimes, it was the boss asking the questions. Most of the time other men, two or three of them, entered the room at intervals, sat at a small desk, and conducted the interrogation. They never attempted to cajole or threaten, and only one fellow appeared to enjoy the painful spectacle played out before him as Jimmy went to work. The questions from his interrogators were often punctuated by staccato blows to the ribs, or chest, or groin. Sometimes, there was a blow, and then a trailing question. Sometimes, a question followed almost immediately by a blow. At times it seemed as if Jimmy was unsure about what to do next, pausing until the boss gave further instructions. As his exertions increased, Jimmy’s tie would become loosened and askew, and flutter around outside the confines of his jacket. His inquisitors told Jones repeatedly to give up and talk; they would break him eventually, he was just postponing the inevitable.

But they had failed. Robert Jones was fast approaching sixty years in age, but his strength and stamina were still considerable. Even more formidable was the strength of his prayer. He began offering up prayers from the moment he was brought into the torture room. Often it was no more than “Dear Lord,” or “Oh, Lord,” or “Dear Jesus.” His constant invocations seemed to affect Jimmy, who occasionally paused to allow Jones to finish a prayerful entreaty aloud. This did not sit well with the boss, who merely needed to murmur “Jim-my...” to begin the mauling once again. Jones could see that Jimmy was irked by the reminders. Sometimes, he deliberately withheld his blows an extra count longer as a show of defiance to the boss. Once, Jones was knocked off his stool after being clubbed on his upper back. The pain seared into his eyeballs, turning everything around him black. He screamed in agony and then heaved out a passage long burned into his heart: “When they arrest you and deliver you up, do not worry beforehand.” Even through his pain, Jones could hear Jimmy softly say “Praise Jesus, amen,” before striking him again with the club.

The boss would provide careful instruction, such as “Three to the underbelly” or “Club him twice on the spine.” Jimmy never struck him over the head or face, however. Jones had wondered about that, but only in the beginning. When the little bald man stopped shouting instructions the day’s torture was over, and Jones would be brought back, or carried back, to his cell. He did not curse or condemn his tormentors. He never confessed to any crime. He never proclaimed his innocence.

He told them nothing.

He wanted to, though. He wanted to tell them there was no Underground, that it was a fantasy, a nightmare conjured up whenever there was a bombing or a shooting. He wanted to tell them there was no enormous subterranean network of terrorists waiting to strike. He wanted to tell them that every act of defiance was the work of a single man or woman, coming forward to raise a hand against a system that had to die. Once, when he was alone back in his cell, he laughed aloud at the incredible stupidity of his inquisitors, and everything they stood for. They were searching for a vast labyrinth of conspirators who acted in concert, as if by some grand design. Didn’t they know that even the greatest forest was made up of single trees, each seeking out the sun in its own way? Didn’t they know the scriptural message ‘that the trees of the forest will sing for joy before the Lord, for He comes to judge the earth?’ Jones nodded grimly to himself. And His judgement would be mighty.

One day, after what seemed like weeks had passed with the same daily, unyielding routine, Jones was brought to a different room at the end of a tangle of hallways. Although Jimmy and the boss were there, everything else was different. The room was small and dark, with two large bright lamps focused on a single metal chair in the middle of the room. A hospital gurney was parked a few feet from the metal chair. The boss sat very close to Jones after he was strapped down onto the chair, and began whispering into his ear. “You’re gonna be hurt real bad today, son,” he said, almost as if talking to a friend. “Today’s the day you pay your dues. Tell me what you know, and I’ll let you off easy.” He paused, thinking the words would sink in. “You don’t even have to tell me everything. Just give me something. Like where ya’ll meet. Give me something, now, and this don’t have to happen.”

At that he signaled Jimmy, who began clubbing Jones over the shoulders carefully and with great power. He did not introduce himself this time, or pause to hear Jones pray. He took his time, looking like a man chopping wood very precisely. The blows went to the chest and then the abdomen. The pain surged from one bone to another. At one moment Jones was struck a blow over the forehead, between the eyes. That had never happened before, and the effect was like a volcanic eruption within his head. Jones began to hallucinate as blood poured over his eyes, blinding him. His legs thrashed violently, trying to get traction, the sound lost in a high pitched shriek of pain. His mind took leave of his body, wandering off like a lost soul moaning for relief, trying to shut out the horror of pain lancing through his skull. Through the buzzing in his ears he thought he heard the soft friction of wind against bough, and the gentle rubbing of broad green leaves. They were speaking to Jones. They were saying something just out of reach of his hearing, out of sync with his awareness. He could hear voices at a distance, shouting at him, entreating him, threatening him, demanding something from him.

Jones became narcotized, insensate to the agony induced by every blow of the club on his body. Jimmy put the club down and carefully punched Jones in the solar plexus. The blow sent a shock through the sternum and into his chest. He coughed up a small amount of blood and felt a tingling numbness up and down his spine. He wanted to vomit. He was struck again, in virtually the same spot. His chest seemed to be crushed, and he felt for a long instant as if he were unable to breathe. Amidst the coughing and choking, and with his own blood staining his clothing, Jones cried out to let his Lord know that he was ready to cross over, if he would only be taken. He prayed fervently for release. As if in answer to his prayers, a chaotic fog of forgotten images from a long-ago childhood came swirling before his eyes. His vision narrowed as his awareness broadened.

He was on the Vance ranch outside Pensacola, and from halfway up a scrub pine at the far edge of the plantation he was able to make out the ocean, extending deep and blue to the very limits of his sight. What a wondrous scene! Jones was able to see through his boyhood eyes once more, and feel again the wonder of that view. His hands seemed to touch again the rough, resinous wood of the pine. He could hear his aunt Marion, calling to him to come down out of the tree. “Robbie, get down here now,” she cried, “Get over here with the rest of us.” Little Robbie scampered quickly to the ground. His younger cousin, also named Robert E. Lee Jones, was lying on his side on the ground, playing with the long stalk of a dandelion wedged in his teeth. Other children were there, and Old Man Misery, and Miss Vance, wearing a long cotton dress and a checkered apron that hung to the ground. Big horse flies were buzzing all around them, their sounds waxing and waning, sounding urgent as they flew by very close. Veering into the soft swirls of ocean breezes playing through the tall grass, they seemed to be saying something. Something. Saying something, but what? Old Man Misery recited a prayer in a deep, quavering voice. Everyone murmured “amen.” Aunt Marion then began to sing, in a high, clear, vibrant voice, a voice that carried through the generations, maybe even through all time itself:

If you don’t believe I’ve been redeemed

God’s gonna trouble the water

Jimmy drove a terrific blow into the lower abdomen, causing Jones to exhale a groan that left him without breath. For a split second he wavered between past and present, between his memory of before and the searing agony of the present moment. A spinning sound twined around him, penetrating deep into his brain. Give me something, it said. The voice was shrill, demanding, familiar. Something.

Then all became black again, dissolving into a warm, clear, late summer afternoon. An ocean breeze rustled through the treetops, and the heavy scents of muddy swamp water and wild honeysuckle filled the air. Two clouds floated without moving against a perfect indigo sky. All the people in the little clearing were from the same household, and were gathered to pray, with Mister Vance’s approval. In Pensacola County, they could do nothing without Mister Vance’s approval. Mister Vance preferred an outdoor location, enveloped by the glory of nature, rather than taking his household to a regular church. Sometimes, Mister Vance himself would accompany them out to a suitable place on the fringes of his three thousand acres, between the creek and the bluff, a small clearing where they could all hush to the word of God, and he would lead them in prayer. On those occasions he would usually tell them a story from the scriptures. Jones remembered Mister Vance telling them the story of Onesimus, the trusted Greek slave who served God’s ministry on earth. Saint Paul had used Onesimus as a messenger, carrying the Good News from city to city. Mister Vance told them that Onesimus was Paul’s slave, and was appointed to do the Lord’s work at the direction of his master, Paul. That was little Robbie’s favorite story. Oh, to one day be like Onesimus, and serve the Master of all!

When Mister Vance didn’t come himself, he sometimes sent Isaiah out with them. He was one of the two nigger drivers on the Vance farm, and his terrible cruelty was legendary in Pensacola County. Isaiah would circle them from a little distance on his narrow hipped gray mare, always watching. His dark face was perpetually shadowed by a wide-brimmed felt hat, and his right hand was never far from the whip coiled on his saddle. He never joined them in prayer, and everyone understood that he was already consigned to hell. But on this day, this particular day, the group was alone. They all kneeled in a circle, almost lost in tall maiden grass, except for Old Man Misery. He stood alone among them, head bent down and hands outstretched to the heavens. Aunt Marion was singing, and one by one the others joined in:

I want you to follow him on down to Jordan stream

My God’s gonna trouble the water

A carefully aimed punch into his groin shocked Jones into the here and now. As he looked down at himself through uncomprehending eyes, he saw his lap was soaked in blood. Or perhaps it was urine; he couldn’t see clearly. He wanted to die at that moment, and tried to picture the Master embracing him. His vision was blurred and darkened, and he really believed that he was about to cross over, cross over to the side of the Lord. He would cross, rinse in the cool waters and rest under the shade of the trees that were shushing in the distance. The body would be shed, shaken off like a cocoon, and his spirit would be free. Jones imagined himself resting under the heavenly trees, and could hear they were speaking to him, singing the Word to him joyously. He could hear them saying, as if from a great distance: Give something. Jones understood immediately. In order to cross over, something had to be given. That’s what Old Man Misery had told him many years ago, in between puffs of his pipe.

“In this life,” he had drawled, “You have to pay your dues. The master will make you pay, the master here and the Master upstairs. You can’t even check out without paying your dues.” Robbie had pretended to understand, but at the time he didn’t know what the word ‘dues’ meant. He thought it was another word for prayer. So, in that bush meeting of long ago, kneeling with Aunt Marion and Miss Vance, Robbie Jones also joined in the singing, thinking that he was paying his dues. Forehead dripping with sweat, he raised his voice in song:

You know chilly water is dark and cold

God’s gonna trouble the water

You know it chills my body but not my soul...

Jones was trembling and shaking uncontrollably, as if he were freezing. He felt immersed in the cold... The blackness around him receded slowly. His vision was still blurred, but he was able to make out the walls of his cell. He did not know how he had gotten there or how long he had been back. He was still in agony from the blow to his testicles, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps. He had to breathe through his mouth because his nose was filled with clotted blood. Any movement of his right arm caused excruciating pain in his shoulder. Something in there was badly hurt. It was hard to even think, but at that moment he knew that the Redeemer had stretched out His hand and saved Jones, for some reason, from death.

That had been the last beating.

Now, one or two or three days later, he lay on his side, in the dark, imagining the murmured sounds coming from outside the walls that imprisoned him. He still had no idea where he was, or what his captors intended to do with him. He wasn’t always able to think clearly, but he understood that he had been left alive and with spirit unbroken.

He knew well that there were ways a confession could be extracted from any man. Bones could be broken. Eyes could be scoured out. Teeth smashed, private parts ripped, viscera extruded, nails torn, muscles disjointed. The litany of human cruelty was lengthy. If his keepers wanted information Jones knew there were ways to make him say anything. And if they wanted him to die, there were experts in that matter as well. Why they were torturing him in this manner was known only to God, but Jones felt he was meant to take this passage for a reason.

Food was left for him two times a day, generally leek or potato soup with bread. It was tasteless, but they were not starving him. The electric light recessed high into the ceiling was turned on for a few hours a day, revealing stark gray walls and a solid stainless steel door with a diminutive peekhole. The prison guards did not speak to him, and he did not attempt to speak to them. Jones eventually began marking a line on the floor next to his cot with blood from the open, draining wound on his forehead. He made the mark with every alternate meal he was given, judging that to be twenty four hours. It was hard to establish a routine, but he tried to get down on his knees to pray four or five times a day. Sometimes he could not get on his knees because of the pain in his back. Sometimes he could not get up after kneeling, and simply collapsed on his side. Sometimes, he began to cry and could not pray. It seemed lately that he had to urinate frequently, so he decided to pray after each time he passed urine into the open latrine in the corner of the room. Each prayer ended with the same exhortation, said in a lowing, mournful voice: “Lord, if it is Your will, take me to Your side right now!”

And so it seemed to Jones that he was coming closer to his God every day. His mind became filled with visions of holy places, and the sounds of sacred trees whispering their secrets to him. Even though his body was pierced with pain, he felt a certain sense of justice as well. He comprehended that he was going to die very soon, perhaps in agony, but he believed his spirit would live on in ecstasy. His abusers would stay on in this life, at least for now, but their spirits would one day be consumed in fiery torment. The inexorable symmetry of his universe helped him endure, even overcome, his torture.

Shortly after daubing the third bloody line marking the days since his last beating, Jones adjusted himself painfully on his knees. He wanted to pray, or sing, but his mind was fuzzy, and he felt faint. He believed he was truly in a valley of death. In my dark hour, O Lord, he thought, I pray to You. His head throbbed with pain radiating from crown to jaw as he bent his neck to quietly recite the twenty third Psalm. He had committed the verse to memory as a boy and recited it frequently. Just now, the words leapt into his mind without prompting. Just as he mouthed the words “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me ...” Jones heard the sound of keys turning in the lock of his cell door, and the overhead light suddenly turned on, spilling white light directly on him. With eyes still blurred by darkness, he saw four men enter his room like phantoms and stride silently and rapidly towards him. All four appeared to be hard men with pockmarked faces and lean bodies. Three were black, the first black men Jones had seen since coming into the prison, dressed in gray flannel uniforms and high boots. The fourth, thin necked and blond, gave crisp orders with quick gestures of arms and hands. Swiftly, they grabbed Jones by his shirt and legs and without a word began carrying him out of his cell. He screamed in pain as his arm was wrenched behind him. He felt dazed and uncomprehending, like an animal succumbing to the fatal embrace of a foaming predator. At that moment Robert Jones did not know that he was being dragged directly into an indescribable hell. These men had come to subject him to a new universe of pain.

The beatings had ended.

The carving and cutting was about to begin.

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“Mr. President, we believe we’ve broken their backbone.” Larson Lehr looked around the room and shuffled some sheets of paper that lay before him. Before continuing he looked for approval towards the man to his immediate right. “To this point we have made thirty seven arrests. We have eleven whom we’ve turned. They have given us a wealth of information, leading to one hundred and five additional individuals who are under surveillance right now. There are two safehouses, one in Lynchburg and one in Petersburg that we have identified with certainty. We’re watching every move they make, marking every contact they have. We expect to round up even more in the coming few weeks.” He looked around the room smiling smugly at the others.

President Pickett felt irritated by the rail thin man sitting opposite him. He had never liked Lehr, and sensed the feeling was mutual. The Director of Secret Intelligence was a perfect example of the type of long service bureaucrat that was stifling initiative at the highest levels of government. After thirty years in the Service, Lehr had almost no memory of his brief career in the field. His expertise was in analysis. Pickett grunted. More like paralysis. The president allowed his gaze to stray briefly over to the burly form sitting next to Lehr. That man was a different matter. “Tell me, have you yourself interviewed any of the officers who sent those reports?”

Lehr shuffled through some papers. “No, Mr. President, but I have their written reports right here, if you would like to see them.”

“No, I don’t want to look at any more papers!” Pickett made an effort to control himself. “I want to know what those men really believe, what their gut tells them. We go through this same damn business every few years. We get a ‘breakthrough’ with a witness, or crash a safehouse and round up a bunch of this scum. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told that they’ve been broken, infiltrated, dispersed. But they keep coming back, don’t they?”

Lehr almost jumped out of his seat, as if he had been struck. “I can assure you, Mr. President, that this information is accurate!”

Pickett brought his palm down heavily on the table, creating a sharp cracking noise. He did so deliberately, for effect. Everyone in the room instantly straightened themselves to attention, except for the thickset man dressed in field gray sitting next to Lehr. He remained hunched over the table, leaning over it as if ready to spring into the air. Pickett surveyed the men around the table, then devoted his attention to the Chief of Secret Intelligence. “No, sir, no you can’t,” he said very softly. “You can’t assure us of that at all. The only thing you can be sure of is that your men tortured a sufficient number of these bastards to get some kind of information out of them. We have no idea whether any of it is true or accurate.” Pickett paused a moment, contemplating Lehr carefully. “As in the case of Robert Jones, for example.” He waited a few drumbeats before continuing. “You did torture him, didn’t you?”

Lehr opened his mouth and motioned as if to gasp but dared make no sound. His Adams apple bobbed up and down several times as if he were trying to swallow something noxious. He could not believe that the president would bring up his former body servant during a cabinet meeting. There were rumors percolating everywhere around the country that someone from the president’s own household had been gathered up in the sweep that followed the Richmond bombing. To this point, the media had agreed not to pursue the story until the investigation into the terror plot was concluded. It would be in the best interests of everyone in the Pickett Administration, including the President himself, if Robert Jones would simply disappear into some dark hole and never be heard from again.

Pickett was insistent. “You tortured Jones, is that right?”

“Sir, all interrogations are conducted as forcefully as the law allows. Anyway, he’s a...you know, a...negro.” Lehr almost expectorated the word.

Pickett savored the irony of Lehr’s legal claim. The law did not deal with the interrogation of slaves accused of terrorist or guerrilla activities. Of course, slaves were indeed persons. The Supreme Court had ruled on that decisively in a series of cases. For example, it was held that slaves had immortal souls, just as whites, and could not be denied last sacraments without just cause. However, they were property and had none of the rights of a citizen. That seemed pretty clear. As such they were granted minimum standards of humane treatment in any prison environment. Any slave engaged in insurrectionary activities, however, was entitled to nothing. The thought of a slave uprising evoked the most primitive fears in whites all over the country. It was the stuff of nightmarish stories told to children at bedtime, as if old Nat Turner were skulking in a corner, ready to jump out of the shadows at any moment. No one would lift a finger to help a negro accused of such rebellion. In any case, Pickett doubted there were any lawyers in the hellholes run by Lehr’s department.

“Did he admit to anything?”

Lehr peered at a page of notes through narrow, wire framed glasses. As he bent over a cow lick stood straight up from his scalp at a ridiculous angle. “No. He denied everything. However...” At this point Lehr looked across the table directly at the president. “We have not exhausted all our efforts with him as yet.”

“I see.” The president seemed thoughtful. “Tell me, just how was it that you came to round up Jones?”

Lehr was not expecting that question and began to visibly flush. “Mr. President, we have our networks and our informants. The day of the bombing we got a call implicating your man from a source we consider reliable. It didn’t take us long to establish that his whereabouts were unaccounted for during several hours that morning. He refused to tell us where he’d been and what he was doing that day from the moment he left your home. Anyone can read between the lines and figure something isn’t right.”

Pickett felt his anger mounting. He knew in his bones that the whole matter with Jones was a setup, designed to embarrass him and his administration. He could imagine the tabloid banners: ‘Terror leader bathed and dressed President hours before bombing.’ He readily admitted to himself that he would do a great deal to avoid headlines like those. No, it was a setup from the get-go. Jones was no more guilty of a terrorist plot than his daughter was. His servant had been framed, and Pickett had a strong idea who was behind it. The only man in Richmond unscrupulous enough, ambitious enough, conniving enough, and powerful enough to conceive and carry out a scheme like that. Lehr’s immediate superior, the same burly, glowering, immaculately dressed man sitting across the table. The General in Chief of the Army of the Confederate States of America, George S. Patton.

A knock at the door interrupted Pickett from continuing. An aide in military uniform marched into the room briskly and handed Lehr a note. Lehr reviewed it quickly then looked up and scanned the group, but avoided eye contact with the president. He handed the message to Patton who read it slowly, then pushed it across the table. Pickett knew instinctively the message would contain bad news and had to will himself to pick it up and read it. It was worse than he imagined. Within the past two hours there had been near simultaneous bombings in Jackson and Little Rock, both at the state capitol buildings. At least eleven were dead, with dozens wounded. Mercifully, the governors of Mississippi and Arkansas were unharmed. Like the Richmond bombing, there were no messages or acknowledgements of responsibility. The malefactors were unknown and presumably long gone. It had to be the Underground. Pickett’s vision turned red momentarily as he absorbed the news. He then read the message aloud in a clear and distinct voice.

“Courage, Mr. President.” It was the gravelly voice of George Patton. “We’ll find these SOB’s if we have to turn out every nigger loving bastard between here and the Rio Grande. And when we do find them, every mother’s son of them will be sorry he was ever born.”

Pickett ignored the remark, sweeping his eyes around the room at each cabinet member individually. “We will overcome,” he said quietly, and then in a much louder voice, “We will overcome this blow, just as we have overcome every blow since the founding of our nation. I want everyone here to return to their posts. Summon all your energy, use all your manpower, do whatever is in your means to tighten the net around these murderers, and bring them to justice. I will call on Congress for an emergency appropriation to cover the cost of this dragnet. In addition, I intend to call a Governor’s Council to coordinate our efforts with the States.” He looked at Lehr briefly. “We have not broken them yet gentlemen, but I intend to see to it that we do.” The president rose from the table and swept rapidly out of the Cabinet Room, followed by a small coterie of his personal staff.

The group began to disperse, several members rushing out of the room holding briefcases clenched tightly. A few lingered, talking quietly in practiced tones of authority. Most of them were completely impotent and knew it. A few, a very few, were truly ready to seize the day and everything it might bring.

George Patton dismissed Lehr brusquely with a gesture of his hand. He considered the Director of Secret Intelligence to be nothing more than a bureaucratic functionary and had no use for his opinions. Lehr’s Chief of Staff, James Knox, stood aside discreetly as the Director left the room. Knox was a short, stoutly built man with a full beard. His eyes gave the startling appearance of constantly shifting back and forth, left and right, and he had the peculiar habit of never looking directly at anyone as he spoke. Most often he gazed earnestly right over the head of the person he was talking to. Patton beckoned him into a corner of the room where they could be alone. “Well, what did you think?”

Knox did not hesitate. “I think that’s a man who has lost control, sir. He gave no real direction because he doesn’t know what needs to be done. I don’t believe he can generate and hold the confidence of the people.”

“Jim, I think you’re correct. It’s very unfortunate for the nation that we are facing this emergency with that man as president. Sad to say, he’s just too old and too ignorant. His fire burnt out a long time ago. He was never nothin’ but a cowboy, anyway.”

The junior man did not miss a beat. “Sir, we must do everything we can to save our country, even if that means taking extraordinary measures.” He drawled out the word ‘extraordinary’, giving it added emphasis.

Patton smiled grimly and wrapped his arm around the other’s shoulder. His breath was hot as he leaned close to speak. “Don’t worry, Jim. Our country will be saved from this crisis, whatever it takes. And we will be the ones to save it. You may be called upon to play a part. Be ready.”

Knox seemed to stiffen, as if snapping to attention. “Sir, my family was born and bred from the soil of Alabama. Our bones are scattered from Huntsville to Opelika. My grandfather fell at Malvern Hill. We Knox’s are always ready and eager to serve.” Then, more quietly, he added “You just need to give the word.”

Patton could not restrain himself. He leaned over and kissed the younger man on the forehead. “God bless you,” he whispered.

The Special Edition Hansom Six sped through the streets of Richmond, surrounded by howling police and Secret Service cars. The motorcade wound its way past the spectacle of the Monuments, but Pickett paid no attention to the heroic statuary lining Freedom Square. He was so lost in thought that he remained oblivious to his surroundings. The elaborate and fastidiously manicured green lawns of Liberty Mall swept by as the President considered his options. The CSA, unlike the North, did not have a centralized internal security service. The Department of Secret Intelligence was a small, woefully underfunded and poorly led division of the War Department. It’s primary purpose was to collate intelligence from other countries, most importantly the United States. There was simply no equivalent to the northern Federal Bureau of Investigation. On the contrary, each state zealously guarded the privilege of investigating and prosecuting any criminal activity within its own jurisdiction. The only major exception to this rule was the Escaped Servant Registry maintained by the Department of Justice and enforced by CSA marshals. Any truly nationwide crisis like the one facing the government right now had to be managed in one of two ways. Pickett could turn to the state governors and urge them to coordinate a counterterrorism campaign extending from the local level across state lines. He had already taken this step after the Richmond bombing. Or, as President, he could turn to the only authentic national institution, the one that transcended everything; the individual states, the governors, the local courts, everything. The Army.

The Army of the Confederate States of America. The very words sent a tingling sensation down Pickett’s back and caused his heart to thump just a little faster. Involuntarily, the old names came tumbling into his mind, stirring up echoes of past glories. Jackson, Longstreet, Hill, Stuart, Hood, Forrest. His own father, George Pickett. And, of course, the immortal Robert E. Lee. He had learned of their exploits as a little boy, firing his youthful fantasies of glorious battles and decisive campaigns. The great Confederate captains of warfare were as illustrious as any in history. Even now, as an old man, Pickett could still imagine them mingling in the company of Alexander and Caesar, Genghis and Napoleon. It was because of their dedication, valor, and military skill that a new nation erupted onto the world stage just seventy years earlier. In turn, it was because of their inspiration that his own life had followed a tangled course of danger and adventure, defeat and accomplishment. He had fought for his country, from the deserts of Mexico to the swamps of Nicaragua, always imbued with the ideal that the Southern way of life was righteous and true, and the cause of the Confederacy was just. His nation was not free of blemish, but was incomparably better than any other on the planet. Certainly better than the one across the northern border. So he believed.

The modern day Confederate Army included the flower of the nation’s youth. For most boys, military training began at age twelve in a local Scouts unit. Although not compulsory, participation in a Scout infantry or naval unit was virtually universal. Societal pressures to become a part of the formidable Southern military machine were pervasive, firmly woven into the fabric of community life. Wearing a Scouts uniform was a mark of manhood that no boy would willingly forego. Formal military service was compulsory for all able-bodied males at age eighteen. Not everyone could get into national service, however. Only those young men with exceptional physique, muscular coordination, strength, and an appropriate level of education were allowed to enter the ranks of the Confederate Army or Navy. Of course, scions of illustrious First Families were exempt from those restrictions and were able to enter the national service arm of their choice. The remainder were enrolled in county militia elements or State Guards units, under the direct control of their respective governors. Traditionally, these units were used in the settings of natural calamity or unforeseen disaster.

In contrast, the Confederate States Armed Forces were an instrument of national authority, under the orders of the President and his immediate subordinate, the General in Chief. Pickett had the authority to order Army, Navy, and Air units into the search for the elusive guerrillas of the Underground if he wished. Unless their intelligence apparatus was able to ferret out more specific information about the identity of UR operatives, however, their efforts would be doomed to fail.

Pickett rubbed his temples as if he were experiencing an excruciating headache. He glanced reflectively over to Alben W. Barkley, the Secretary of the Interior. Barkley was a close personal friend from Pickett’s youth. Three decades earlier, as young bucks on leave from the army, they had been filibusteros together in Nicaragua. They had dodged death more than once, and by the narrowest of margins. Looking back, it was easy for both to laugh at their youthful adventures. At the time, though, it was deadly serious business, and had almost triggered another war with the North.

Also seated in the back seat of the limousine was the president’s Chief of Staff, Edward Mosby. He too was a trusted friend. Pickett shook his head in exasperation. These might be the only two friends he had left. If things didn’t go well with the Underground, he was quite sure they would drift away too.

“George, I can see this is making you sick.” It was Barkley, trying to sound a solicitous note.

“No, Pudge, not sick. Angry. Angry this is happening. Even more angry that I feel almost powerless to do something about it. I feel like I’m not worth a lick. Right now, it’s the governors of Virginia, Arkansas and Mississippi that are in charge of tracking down these murdering hyenas. We have a few dozen Secret Intelligence agents that we can assign to help, and that’s it.”

Barkley stared at the floor before answering. “I understand how you feel. Just trust the system, George. A lot of minds much smarter than ours spent a great deal of time figuring out how this government is supposed to function. This is the way they thought it would be best. Let things work out the way they’re supposed to. If the governors want help, they’ll let you know. Don’t fret, they’ll holler rather than face political suicide themselves.”

Pickett looked out the window of the speeding limousine. The car cast a sharp black shadow on the road as it moved. “These are different times, though. Different problems. “ He hesitated just a tick. “Could call out the Army.”

“God, no!” Barkley shouted as he inched forward to the edge of his seat. “That’s the last thing you should do!”

“Well, well, well, Alben,” Pickett managed to chuckle. “That was pretty sharp. I wonder why.”

“You know why. Firstly, ordinary folks will see it as a panic move. It’ll shake confidence in their state governments. Secondly, we don’t need the Bald Eagle involved in this. Give him an opening and he’ll take charge of the whole show. Hell, give him a chance and he’ll take charge of flushing the toilets around here!” Barkley moved his massive torso to the right in order to look directly at his friend.

Pickett laughed out loud, a clear, almost singing laugh that made him sound much younger, flashing pearly white teeth at the same time. ‘Bald Eagle’ was their private code word for George Patton, though ‘Chrome Dome’ was sometimes used as well. “You’re right about that,” he said softly, drawling the words out indistinctly. “He is trying to make hay, no doubt about it. I don’t understand why, though. I’m about halfway through my term, and the field will be clear for him after that. Just a few more years and it will all be his for the taking.”

Barkley seemed to be breathing heavily, obviously excited by the discussion. His heavy jowls quivered with dismay. “No need to wonder, friend. Power. Plain and simple. The son of a bitch craves power, and he’ll do anything to get it.” He looked quickly at Moseby, then continued in a quiet voice. “I sincerely worry about him, George. He’s into everything and everybody and plays by his own rules. He’s capable of anything, I believe.”

“Like, for example, framing my body servant in order to embarrass and undermine me?”

“I could believe he probably did just that. And that situation is an example of something else that you need to know. He needed a real good organization to do that. And not military. People outside of the military were involved with that arrest.” Allben Barkley wheezed as he patted his ample abdomen, proud of his assessment.

Pickett conjured up an image of Jones stretched out on a long table, being tortured, screaming in agony. And Patton standing over him, laughing fiendishly. The whole thing was so dirty and so nauseating it made him feel like calling out Patton to settle the matter man to man. He made an abrupt decision. “Moseby, take a note, please. Address it to the Chief of the DSI. I want my property, Robert Jones, released from detention forthwith. He’s mine, I own him, and I want him back. Law is clear. All his personal items are my belongings, too. Had a small bible he carried around. Want that back also.”

Moseby took out a pad and small pencil and dutifully began scribbling furiously. He had delicate, long fingers that worked very quickly. As he wrote he arched one eyebrow and asked in a slow, deliberate manner “Is that a good idea, Mr. President? I mean, releasing him with charges against him unresolved? What if this gets out?”

Barkley waited just a beat and then chimed in. “He’s right, George. I’m sorry, but you can’t just release him like that. You’d just be adding fuel to the fire.” He paused and murmured under his breath, “Lord knows we have plenty of fires right now.”

Pickett sensed some of the old fire leaping up, like a hot breath on the back of his neck. He felt himself flushing over his face and ears, a warning that he was ready to erupt in a torrent of anger. It took a few moments to compose himself before answering, but his blood was up. “Well, what in hell am I supposed to do, just wait for a false confession to be twisted out of him? You know they’ll get what they want eventually. Everyone sooner or later signs what’s put in front of them. Who knows what they will make him admit to. Maybe even personal things. About me.” He hesitated a split second, staggering his words. “Or Maddy. They could make him say anything.”

Allben Barkley knew his friend well, and instinctively understood what he was trying to say. He knew that Maddy’s circumstances weighed heavily on Pickett’s mind. “I have an idea. It would not be very hard to do. Why not send him down to the Georgia farm?”

“Farm?” Pickett stared at Barkley with a vacant look. “What farm? What are you talking about?”

“You know...the farm. The one outside Atlanta. My department runs the place. No one will approach him there, no one can interrogate him there. He’ll be out of Lehr’s clutches, and the best part is that Patton won’t be able to question it.”

Pickett understood immediately. He stared at his friend pensively. The other two men stayed silent. No one dared intrude into the President’s thoughts. “Will he be alright there?” He asked the question in a hushed tone, as if in a confessional.

“I can see to it. Much as possible.”

The President again stared out the window at the car’s contorted, jet black shadow on the ground outside, stretching absurdly far from the limousine as they sped through empty streets. He responded very softly, as if greeting an old friend at an intimate dinner party. “Well then, let it be so.”

Madeline stared morosely at her feet, daydreaming aimlessly. Thoughts, forms, images and memories flitted in and out of her mind in no order at all, without conscious effort. Painful sensations from her legs and head competed with fleeting glimpses of fall foliage and the smell of melting chocolate, inhaled within the feathery warmth of her favorite duvet. Her memories both drew her away from the world outside and grounded her to it. Madeline believed she possessed a continuous recollection of her life back to her earliest childhood years. When she was depressed or lonely she opened the vaults in her mind and let the spirits of the past roam freely, visiting with them like an old friend. At times she could be in the past, reliving a bee sting, or a cold autumn rain. When the Fury came upon her, the past, present and future sometimes melded into one great orgy of indistinguishable emotions and sensations.

“Madeline, get up, baby!” The voice struck her sharply, bringing her back into focus. “Get on your feet, honey.” It was Lou Ellen, standing just a few feet away.

“I don’t want to.” Madeline turned her wheelchair so that she was facing away from her servant. Light poured in straight, parallel beams through an ornate Palladian window that stretched from ceiling almost to the floor. A pair of light gray wood pigeons were sitting on an ornate birdbath in the small courtyard outside the windows. They made low cooing noises as they jerked their necks rapidly up and down, their curiosity unrequited. The sky above was azure and cloudless. Madeline was in her room, surrounded by the things that usually gave her comfort and reassurance. On this day she felt moody and uneasy but didn’t know why. She did not feel the early tugs of a crisis. There were no warning voices in her head, no sudden premonitions or visions. She felt tired, almost dead, and wanted nothing further to do with feeling alive.

“Get on your feet and do your walking like Doctor wants. Now!” Lou Ellen barked the command like a drill instructor. She was boiling over with anger. During the past weeks she had lost all patience with the young mistress. It was true that over the years, Maddy had grown more and more difficult, but she had now withdrawn completely behind a hard shell of uncaring recalcitrance. The doctors had confidently diagnosed Madeline to have suffered a concussion and emotional shock as a result of the bomb explosion. However, there were no serious physical injuries. Her arms and legs were fine, with the exception of some minor bumps and bruises. They had recommended a regimen of gentle massage, moderate exercise and daily swimming to help speed her recovery. Madeline responded like a sullen, oppositional child, refusing to follow the daily routines outlined by her doctor. Her mood, always unpredictable, settled into a pattern of withdrawal and depression alternating with periods of irritability. She barely touched her meals and appeared thinner to Lou Ellen, though others had not yet noticed. Mister seemed completely oblivious to the change that had come over his daughter. He visited every day but acted as if Madeline was convalescing from chickenpox or a broken leg and well into recovery. Lou Ellen sensed that the young woman was suffering from something deep inside, far beyond the reach of any scalpel or syringe.

Madeline knew that the elderly servant was upset with her behavior and didn’t care. She seemed to enjoy it. She abruptly swung the wheelchair around again.

“Help me,” she commanded sharply. Lou Ellen threw a glance at the door, hoping for someone or something to come in and save her, and almost moaned. Without another word, she reached around the younger woman and assisted her to a standing position. Madeline began to shuffle towards a leather upholstered settee in the corner of the room, half bent at the waist. Lou Ellen walked alongside, her arm around the other’s midsection, but barely providing any support. As they neared the sofa Madeline seemed to stumble or trip. She instinctively grabbed onto Lou Ellen, causing both of them to lose balance and tumble onto the couch.

Madeline first groaned, then screamed “Hold on to me, you old bitch! Can’t you do anything right? Now hand me the bottle. The pain is unbearable. I have it under that little cushion in the corner.”

Holding her hand over her heart, Lou Ellen shook her head but said nothing as she reached for the brocaded pillow.

Both women were startled by a loud knock on the door. A brief pause was followed by another knock, and a hoarse voice shouted, “Is Miss Madeline in there?” It was Charles, the new man. Neither one of them liked Charles. Partly, it was because he was completely new to the household and seemed nervous and confused most of the time. Partly, it was because he was acquired from a ranch owner in Waco, Texas, and had bad manners, bad breath, and bad teeth. But mostly, it was because he was trying to fill the shoes of Robert Jones. From her first encounter with Charles, Madeline was determined that he would never take Jonesy’s place.

The two women pushed each other to sit upright, shimmying and smoothing out their dresses. Lou Ellen gave Madeline a sly smile and yelled back, “What do you want here, anyway? Go away before I call the exterminator, you varmint.”

“Sorry, miss Lou. I don’t mean to make t-t-t-rouble b-b-bu-b-but the pu-pu-p-pu-p-p-puresident is coming t-to-to-t-to see Miss Madeline right now, and they want her t-t-t-to stay p-p-pu-p-pu-p-p-pu-put!”

As the last agonizing stammer ended, both women exploded in laughter. Madeline laughed like a little girl, simultaneously giggling and snorting at the expense of the unfortunate Charles. In a few moments there was another knock, softer than the first. “Come in, d-d-d-daddy,” she shouted, and again burst into laughter.

Pickett opened the door cautiously and poked his head inside. As usual he immediately studied Madeline’s face in order to gauge her state of mind. Satisfied with what he saw, he entered the room with a broad smile. “Hello, darlin’.”

Madeline sat on the settee, her smile turning into a frown almost instantaneously. “Daddy, I’m so miserable I want to die!” She appeared ready to burst into tears.

Pickett rushed to her side, feeling helpless. His mind was racing as his heart was breaking. How could a young woman go through so many changes so quickly? And how could a man who had gone through three wives not know the answer? He placed his arms around her just as she began to sob loudly. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

He no sooner finished the question than Madeline broke into a heavy, heaving cry. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m just so unhappy, daddy! Do something! Help me feel better!”

Pickett gave Sue Ellen a questioning look, but she merely shrugged her shoulders, unable to explain Madeline’s mood swings. He squeezed his daughter tightly around her shoulders. “Darlin’, give me an idea at least. Is it your head or your legs?”

She answered with a wail and shake of her head, crying uncontrollably. “No, I’m just miserable.”

Her father was hopelessly lost. He stroked her swan white hair tenderly, feeling its soft, silken touch. She cupped her face in her hands, sobbing.

“But about what? Did somebody bother you today?”

“No. Nothing. I don’t know why I’m so blue.”

George Pickett Jr. could be patient, but not very often and not for long. Action was preferable to waiting, whether tracking rebel Mexicans on the desert prairie or attacking political opponents in the halls of Congress. The sight of his daughter in such anguish triggered his decision to act. He squeezed her shoulders again.

“It’s OK, honey, it’ll be alright. Look, it’s past time we got you some more help. Now we will. We’re going to get things done for you, I promise.”

Lou Ellen also grasped Madeline by the shoulders and looked at Mister directly. She looked frail after many years of difficult service, but her dark brown eyes flashed an unquenchable challenge. “Mister, what do you mean?”

Pickett straightened up, suddenly energized. “I’m sending you to see a doctor they say is the best in the country. No, the best this side of the Atlantic. German, I think. I’m told he’s helped many like you, Madeline.”

His daughter stopped heaving long enough to sputter a question. “Where is this doctor?”

“In Atlanta, darlin’, at the University, I believe. Don’t worry, I’ll have you stay with the Otley’s while you’re there. They’ll take good care of you, and I’ll be coming down there myself in some weeks for an event at the University. You’ll be just fine.”

Madeline nodded wordlessly, almost numbly, still pouring tears down her cheeks.

Lou Ellen did not appear completely content, though. She cleared her throat loudly to get Pickett’s attention. “Mister, just one thing...what kind of doctor is this supposed to be?”

Pickett frowned at the question, as if giving it thought. “He’s an alienist”

“A what?” Lou Ellen seemed horrified. “Mister, what is a alienist?”

Pickett frowned again, more severely this time. He turned and started to leave the room. “I’ll arrange for telegrams to be sent to the necessary people. Later on, I can get Otley on the telephone. Don’t worry darlin’, everything will be taken care of.” He stopped at the door and gave Madeline a wide grin, showing perfect teeth. “You’ll be feeling better in no time at all. Why, by the next time I see you in Atlanta you’ll be a different girl.”

Madeline said nothing, nodding her head in silent assent. She kept her face averted, staring at the floor, not wishing to look at her father or Sue Ellen. A feeling of calm settled over the moment, and the strangest sensation overcame her. She felt something within her leap, as if trying to come out, a feeling of hope she barely recognized.

Night fumes wafted up slowly from the dark and wet cobblestoned streets. Shadows played in irregular jagged lines on the walls of decaying houses. Wilhelm Kohler cast his own shadow as he walked, his cane tapping loudly on the pavement before him. All else seemed silent, but Kohler knew there was a whole world hidden behind the solid doors and shuttered windows of this seedy district. From time to time he glimpsed others hurrying across an intersection, appearing and disappearing like fleeting wraiths, or the occasional dimmed headlights of a car swerving down a side street. No one approached him. Nonetheless, he knew he was not alone.

He had been here before, but not in years. It was a low rent district in Schwabing, just off Studentenstadt, far from the sparkling fountains and broad boulevards of Maximilianstrasse and Ludwigstrasse. It was equally far from the University, where he had enjoyed the best years of his life. Far from the Lichtsall, where he had walked happily with friends, fellow students, shouting lines of poetry from Faust. Far from the Aula, or Great Hall, where countless hours of lectures had passed like a dream.

The old neighborhood seemed superficially unchanged, but he felt that everything was different. He had felt that way ever since arriving back in Germany. After disembarking in Bremen he had rushed by train straight to Berlin to check with his staff at the museum. There were mounds of correspondence and administrative details to catch up with. After a three month absence he had much to do.

On his first full day back he was summoned by courier to report to his nominal superior at the Ministry of Culture, Bernhard Rust. As his car made its way through traffic towards the Wilhelmstrasse he was shocked to see a group of ten or twelve men dressed in brown shirts and pants literally dragging a man and a woman down the street, holding the woman by her long blond hair. They both appeared to be barely conscious as they were hustled along.

As Kohler stared his driver spoke up. “SA,” he said tersely. “Rounding up Red Front scum.”

Kohler shook his head in confusion. The SA constituted the paramilitary arm of the Nazi party. They were an essential, brutal formation composed of thugs, thieves, and disenchanted former soldiers who had helped pave the road to Nazi supremacy. Their bullying street tactics were meant to intimidate ordinary citizens and subvert governmental and institutional authority. Most importantly they were used to crush Communist factions wherever they might be found. But now that Hitler was in power, there was no longer a reason for the SA to exist. The Nazi party no longer needed the brownshirts to subvert the government. They were the government. Kohler had assumed they would be disbanded once the Nazi Party was in control of the security apparatus. Their continued presence on the streets made no sense, leaving him deeply apprehensive.

“What about the police?” he shouted. “Aren’t they in charge of these arrests?”

The driver turned his head briefly to look at Kohler with a wry smile. “Who knows who’s in charge. SA, police, SS, SD... there are so many. There’s a new bunch now, as well, Geheimes Staatspolizeiamt. We call them Gestapo, it’s easier. Who’s running the show?” he snorted. “For all I know you are, boss.” Kohler exhaled deeply, causing the driver to look back at him again. “You’ve been gone awhile, haven’t you?”

“Where are they taking them?” Kohler felt very old at that moment.

The driver pointed with a long, bony finger. “They have an interrogation house right down there on General Pape-Strasse. They have others, too. Many. Kantstrasse, for one, right around the corner from my apartment.” He laughed loudly, a ‘Ha-Ha’ laugh, enunciating every ‘Ha‘ distinctly. “It might make others nervous, but not me. I welcome it. I am a good German, after all.”

Since that day Kohler had heard the same phrase repeated over and over amidst the chaos of events in the capital city. ‘I have nothing to fear, I am a loyal German’ was the mantra of the Berliners that he encountered. Taking a stroll alone one evening in his Potsdam neighborhood he was stopped for identification by three different groups of men: a squad of SA, two local police, and two men who said they were from a branch of Abteilung, the secret police. Kohler’s Party papers made short work of each interruption, but the experience created an oppressive aura of fear. Kohler came to realize that the Nazi party, praised before its ascension to power for its iron discipline and strict obedience to the fuehrer, Adolf Hitler, was actually led by a collection of competing warlords. Hitler’s henchmen - Himmler, Ribbentrop, Göring, Röhm - were all promoting their own fiefdoms in an effort to consolidate power. Secret torture houses sprang up all over the country, some said more than fifty in Berlin alone, operated by any one of a half dozen different agencies. Interrogation centers were quickly filled with people from all walks of life. Anyone who expressed democratic, socialist, or communist beliefs was just as likely to be dragged off in the middle of the afternoon as the middle of the night. People who saw their neighbors taken away assured themselves that it couldn’t happen to a good German.

But it could. It did. Kohler learned of acquaintances and even some colleagues who were beaten on the streets, or arrested, or taken off and not heard from again. For some, it seemed as if their only offense was to be an artist, whatever their political views. Especially if they were Jews. News percolated through the museum staff that performers from several of central Berlin’s nightclubs had been arrested. It was rumored that they were Jews. People whispered that they were taken to a detention camp built by the SS near a small suburb of Munich. It was called Dachau.

Jews everywhere were packing bags and buying tickets to anywhere. Kohler found that to be somewhat regrettable, but perhaps necessary under the circumstances. Inevitable, really, under the circumstances. It was too bad. True, in other days some might have been his friends, but the world had changed in a way that made any friendships with people of a lower cultural order impossible. The times had hardened. The demands of German kultur required the purity of the German race to be preserved. He had believed all this for years. It was too late to go back now, despite the unfortunate emergence of SA, Gestapo, and all the rest. Jews simply did not belong in the new Germany.

Of course, he wanted nothing untoward to happen to these unfortunates. He did not really believe in the assorted conspiracy theories that were broadcast by the authorities, accusing Jews of every malfeasance that could be imagined. Like many other intellectuals, he wanted Jews to be shipped to a homeland of their own, and peacefully removed from Europe in a humane manner. To Madagascar, perhaps, or Central America. El Salvador would be nice. The stories that were heard of rampant beatings and arrests of Jews, possibly even murders, were unsettling, but he repressed any feelings of alarm.

And, there were whispers that the state’s tentacles would soon ensnare others. Others who were malformed. Others who were insane. Others who were homosexual.

And so, Wilhelm Kohler began to feel the sweetness of victory turn to ashes in his mouth. He had cleaved to the Nazi movement more than a decade earlier, after Germany’s defeat in the Great War, in the belief that ironclad discipline and national pride were necessary to prevent the spread of chaos. After mountains of effort had been expended and oceans of faith had been consumed by the movement, the New Germany had come. But the New Germany was now run by a collection of sociopathic misfits who had begun to reveal themselves clearly to anyone who had eyes to see. Kohler felt his spirit being crushed as he learned more and more gruesome details of life under the new regime. He had worked for years to see the German spirit renewed, arising like a phoenix from the ashes. He had hoped to see Germanic genius, in the tradition of Wagner, Beethoven, Goethe, Schiller, and Schopenhauer once again express itself in the soul of the nation. But the great crusade was on the cusp of floundering. He was coming to believe that his hopes were nothing more than illusory fantasies, and that the short, dark man with the powerful voice and charismatic gestures who was now their leader was sweeping all of them towards an unknown catastrophe.