Child of the Journey (9 page)

Emanuel too drinks deeply, thoughtfully. "I prayed, after the Falasha threw me into the thorn bush like so much excrement. I wanted to understand why they had treated me in that manner. But Jehovah would not answer. At dawn, the goddess Anuket spoke to me out of the sun as I sat looking at the mountains and the hills lush with flowers. I knew it was she, for she wore a crown of feathers and carried her scepter and
ankh."

"Anuket--goddess of the Nile, nourisher of the fields." The woman takes notes in small, impeccably neat handwriting. "What other gods are important to you?"

"Her sister, Sati. Their husband, Khnum, god of the cataract."

"Anuket, Sati, Khnum." Her voice is breathless. "The Elephantine Triad. Does your tribe believe in any other Egyptian gods?"

"Egyptian?"
He frowns and leans forward to peer over the top of her notebook.

"Any other
gods."
She tears off a piece of bread, wraps it around a morsel of meat and, after popping it into her mouth, readies the pencil above the graph paper.

He puts his arms around a bent knee and looks toward the far horizon. "There is, of course, Ra, god of the sun."

"Is Ra greater than Jehovah?"

"Jehovah made the heavens and the earth. Therefore He created Ra. At least, as a child I thought so. That is what I was taught to believe. Now...I'm not sure."

For a while there is silence. In the tension silence can cause, the woman's face seems to lose its look of aged innocence. She stops writing and presses the pencil hard against the page; the tip breaks.

"Tell me, Emanuel," she says quietly, "do you believe that the gods are punishing you for leaving your village...that they have taken away your heritage, only to replace it with doubts?"

"I cannot understand why Jehovah sits by and winks at war. Had I not left home I would not have known the meaning of war and--"

"I, too, have doubts." The woman removes her hat and sets it down with trembling hands. She watches him eat more of the stew, jiggling the hot bread in his hand; there is a deep sadness in her eyes. "All these years of searching, Emanuel, and now that I have found you, I am no longer sure I should ever have begun the quest," she says finally.

"Quest? Explain, please." He leans close.

"Seventy-five years ago, a French professor named Joseph Halévy discovered the Falashas--African Jews who lacked knowledge of Hebrew and the Talmud, and who had priests rather than rabbis. The Lost Tribe, he called them. Probably descended from--"

"Menelik the First, son of Sheba. They all say so."

She nods. "All those centuries, living by the dictates and dreams of the Jewish people, yet unaware other Jews existed!" As if in an effort to calm herself, she selects and wraps another morsel, which she holds before Emanuel's mouth. "The finest portion, to honor the favored guest."

He opens his mouth for it like a bird.

"After the Italians invaded Ethiopia," she says, "we heard rumors of a tiny enclave of Jews who were
not
Falashas. A people who spoke Hebrew but did not follow Levite law concerning monotheism. Perhaps descended from Jews who were driven out of their colony at Elephantine, the Nile's southernmost cataract in Egypt, and never heard of again. Four
hundred
years," she looks at him soberly, "before the Christians' Messiah, and a century before the Hebrew language began to change." She starts to roll another bread-and-meat, then stops. "The destruction of the Jewish temple and the slaughter at Elephantine occurred," she says quietly, no longer looking at him, "when Khnum priests realized they were losing power and therefore bribed the commander of the Egyptian garrison."

She holds out the morsel, dangling it between forefinger and thumb. He cranes his neck around in order to take it between his lips. As he eats, he eyes her steadily. "So you wish to study us and make yourself as famous as the Frenchman."

She looks away. "I come from a country called Ireland, but I am a Jew with an African heart," she tells him. Her shoulders sag, and she runs her fingers through thinning hair. "I spent years among the Bushmen. Now I'm not sure who I am. Like you, in a way," she adds softly. "If I expose you to the world you will suffer less--but it will change you. Your people will never be the same. Having found you, I could fulfill
my
dream." She lifts her gaze and looks directly into his eyes; her expression is intense, searching, caring. "It would be better if that were your wish, too."

"I am most confused," he says.

She turns a page of the sketch pad to reveal an excellently rendered drawing of Emanuel squatted peasant-style beside the blanket. "This is
real."
She holds up the sketch pad.
"This...you
...you are the living essence of my Jewish heritage.
My
needs are only a part of this. Everywhere, Jews are being forced to deny their heritage if they wish to survive."----

"You can come out now, Sol."

Miriam's voice pulled Sol out of the vision. He hoped it would not be one of the fragmentary ones that never returned. The people intrigued him--the woman with her sketch pad, the princely black man.

"It's safe for a little while," Miriam said. "You remember--the customers always seem to come in waves. I left Konrad up there. He will call me the moment someone approaches the shop."

Sol took a few seconds to allow the blue glow of the vision to dissipate. "I...fell asleep," he said. There would be time later to talk of the visions, he told himself, clambering out of the sewer to take Miriam in his arms.

They dared not turn on a light. He wanted to look at her, to drink her in as he might a good wine. Instead, he traced her features with his fingers--the slant of her eyes, the curve of her lips, the high cheekbones. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling its sweet, clean smell as if it were a field of freesias. "God, how I missed you," he whispered.

"We may only have minutes," she said, drawing away from his embrace. "We have plans to make."

"Let's just leave. Now. Walk away from here. Better yet, drive away in the limousine until we're close to the border."

"And go where?" she asked.

"Amsterdam. We'll make it there, somehow."

"If
we do, we'll have to keep running."

"From Erich?"

She held fast to his hand. "From Hitler. Eventually Holland will be as unsafe as Germany."

"By then we--"

"No, Sol." She had a new firmness in her voice. "This time we are going to South America...together. I have my own contacts now, in the underground, and Juan Perón has become a good friend. I will go to him myself. When we're safe, hopefully in Buenos Aires, then I'm sure he'll help us send for your mother and Recha."

They sat side by side at the bottom of the staircase, bodies touching, but not embracing. "You seem so sure of this friend's help," he said. "Are you and he--"

"We stand with one foot in the grave, and you cast innuendoes!"

"I'm sorry. There has been so much pain...."

Tears glistened on her face. "You're right," she said more quietly, relaxing the stiff set of her shoulders. "I've worked very hard to wrap Perón around my little finger." She lowered her voice. "Berlin is a perilous city, and I have been playing a perilous game. If I weren't such a good player, I could not be here talking to you. As it is, I'll be holding my breath the whole week. One word to Erich that I know you are free, and it's all over. He would guess at once where you are, and that we are making plans. We would lose our safe-house--and each other."

"What would he do? Have me killed?"

"I don't know. He's rising in the Party, but the way he hates them--"

She stopped, cocked her head, and listened. Sol heard the soft echo of a whistle.

"That's Konnie!" She stood up. "I have to go upstairs. I'll come down again before I close the shop. After that, I can't return until next Sunday, by which time I should have been able to contact Perón." She was talking fast, her voice insistent. "If I don't come, it means there's something I have to do with Erich, or that--"

He cut her short. "What about food?" he asked.

"There are supplies down there--enough for a week, if you're careful."

"Fräulein Miriam!"

"You see how things have changed." She snuffed the candle. Her voice held a hint of laughter. "Konnie is part of us now, so he allows himself to be much less formal...he no longer calls me Fräulein
Rathenau!"
 

Afraid he might never see her again once he returned to the stinking brick crypt, Sol stood too, and took her in his arms. How he wanted to keep her there, to make plans, laugh, make love.

"I
must
go," she said, her voice strained.

He released her and listened to her footsteps until they faded. Back in the sewer, he thought about all she had said. Her reasoning was sensible--but sensible was not what he had wanted. She could have agreed to stay with him, he told himself peevishly. There
was
the alternative of slipping out after dark to contact Perón while he waited here for her.

Fool! He berated himself for thinking like a child. For the next seven days, he would be alone with his memories and his doubts. Such thoughts would not help him find the strength to live through the hours she was gone. He must manage as he had in Amsterdam, by reliving their lovemaking, pretending they were together with all the time in the world. Sometimes he had tried to understand why a makeshift marriage ceremony in a deserted cabaret, with God as their only witness, made him feel so tied to her, so hopeful that life would ultimately reward him for being a good man.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes. Instead of sleep, the vision returned----

----"What does your Hitler propose to do with the Jews of Europe?"
Emanuel asks.

The woman bristles. "He is not
my
anything," she says angrily. There is an awkward silence between them. "He proposes to rid the world of them," she adds in a quiet voice, having apparently calmed herself.

"How? By killing them all?"

"If necessary."

Emanuel turns his face to one side and spits into the sand. He rubs his arms, as if his flesh has suddenly become cold.

"There is a ray of hope," the woman says. "A physician named Schmidt, under a doctor named Mengele, has developed a theory concerning the genetic passing of cultural attributes from one generation to the next. Hitler has offered a reward for each piece of tangible new evidence that furthers her research."

"And what might that reward be?" Emanuel looks skeptical.

"He has sworn to create a homeland for the Jews--in Madagascar. Each addition to Schmidt's research means a shipload of our people is sent to the Jewish homeland."

"This Hitler is like the god Apepi, who tried to stop the progress of the solar barque. They who trust in him, trust a serpent." He rises from the blanket and towers over her. "You have come here to provide their Schmidt with subjects for research." He pronounces each syllable with knifelike clarity. "Perhaps you can get the serpent to agree to one shipload per body!"

"With subjects as unique as your tribe, I think Mengele could get Hitler to agree to one shipload per person."

"Per
body,"
he says.

"The researchers want to examine the bodies of your ancestors, Emanuel. From the living, they want only blood samples. Blood. Nothing more. Your tribal whereabouts will remain a secret. Our meeting places will remain discreet."

He looks down at her, his face a study in contempt. "For over two millennia no one knew or cared that we existed. We were better off." He takes the meat from his mouth and drops it onto the plate. "I will relay your request to my people. The decision must be theirs."----

The vision faded. Sol covered himself with his coat and slept. He woke to the sound of Miriam's voice. Responding more quickly this time, he climbed from the sewer.

"We only have a little while," Miriam said. "The shop is closed. Konnie has some errands to run. He'll be back in an hour."

Without saying a word, Sol took her hand and led her to Kaverne. There, on the carpet, they made love. Concentrating, Sol experienced each place where they joined. He wanted to imprint the sensations on his consciousness so that he could savor them later. Instead, he flowed into her and they floated in a magical space and time where nothing existed except the rainbow of love that once had been two people.

Afterwards, when he touched her, his love and desire for her seemed contained in a sheath of pride and of wonder that God had seen fit to bless him with such good fortune. He held her closely, trying to understand why the fog of self-doubt that he had lived with since Walter Rathenau's death was gone. Later would be time enough to examine that, he decided, pretending to be asleep so that Miriam would continue to lie quietly in his arms.

"I love you, Solomon. I am
your
wife, and no one else's," she said at last, as if in answer to his earlier doubts.

The words reverberated inside him, then etched themselves onto the deepest part of his soul.
 

Your wife,
they echoed.