Sins of the Flesh (40 page)

Reuben's eyes blazed with hatred as he stared through the blinding whiteness of the snow at the tight line of German soldiers above him. His head started to pound. Where was that son of a bitch Marcel? He waited, smelling his own fear, for the Germans to either gun him down or force him up and out of the ravine. When the rifles jerked upward, he felt himself go rigid and looked around frantically for his own rifle and the handgun that had been at his side. They were gone, along with Marcel. All he had was a razor-sharp knife stuck in the back of his trousers under his bulky coat.

Reuben crawled to the top of the ravine, then allowed himself to be dragged forward without resisting. When asked for his papers he affected a Gallic shrug, pretending not to understand the motions or the words. The Germans formed a circle around him, making escape impossible. They poked and prodded him with the butts of their rifles, making crude remarks and laughing as he stumbled around the circle.

There were six of them, young boys mostly, with one older man, a sergeant. Reuben was taller than all of them, more muscular, but he was also older, weary, cold, and tired. Only a fool would try something, and he was no fool, but he'd certainly fight to prevent his own death.

The soldiers drove him to his knees as the circle around him spread out. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a motion that came from somewhere beyond the water-spotted German boots. He wanted to stare, to turn his head, but he didn't dare. Instead, he voiced his thoughts in sound, swearing viciously. The Germans laughed. He sensed now that the motion was coming from the ravine he'd climbed out of, but farther down the flat, snow-covered plain. It had to be Marcel. Perhaps he'd heard something, or else sensed it the way all the Frenchmen did, and gone for help. Even if the boy was a crack marksman, as he had boasted, he wouldn't be foolish enough to take on the entire patrol himself. Which could mean only one thing: he had help. But how much?

They were tiring of him now, their jabs stronger, their laughter more obscene. From his position on the ground, Reuben felt like a dwarf who was about to be cut down any second by a gang of giants. When were Marcel and his men going to make a move? After he was shot, he thought grimly. Well, by God, he had no intention of waiting around for
that.

The snow had been packed down by the heavy boots and all the scrambling he'd done in the past few minutes. If he used every ounce of energy, he
might
be able to break through the circle and roll to the edge of the ravine, at which point Marcel—if it were Marcel—could open fire. He could then join the attack and do what he could with his knife.

Without giving himself time to think about possible consequences, Reuben put his plan into action a moment later, taking the Germans off guard. Thrusting his body through the ring of soldiers, he rolled crazily downhill and tumbled off the edge of the ravine in a whirl of snow. Sure enough, as he struggled for footing on the rocky ledge below the lip of the canyon gorge, he heard gunfire. The moment he stopped rolling he was on his feet, his head reeling, scrambling to the top of the ravine for the second time.

He'd been right, there were two men with Marcel, their weapons belching fire. “We got two of them,” Marcel grunted. He laughed, “I stand corrected, three. Here is your gun, monsieur, make yourself useful.”

His weapon in hand, Reuben vaulted through a row of dead hedges filled with snow. A bullet whizzed past his shoulder, splattering the bark off a nearby tree. He crawled on his belly, a crab inching upward. A shot roared past, followed by a second and a third, splintering an entire row of young saplings that would never see green leaves again.

There was no way he could blend in with the snow and winterized trees and shrubs in the ravine. Boldly, he leapt over the rim of the ravine and rolled sideways, coming to a stop at the same time he fired his weapon in an angry burst. No Hollywood stuntman could have done it better, he thought grimly. “One more down,” he shouted.

His ears were ringing as bullets sailed past and around him. Slipping into a crouch, he poised his weapon on his knee and fired blindly in every direction. Then he flattened himself in the snow, confident that he'd gained at least ten yards and was that much closer to the German who'd been raining bullets past him since he'd left the ravine.

The others were close behind him now, he could feel them scrambling over the brush. He felt better immediately—until he heard the silence. When he looked toward the rim of the ravine, Marcel held up two fingers. So, one of them had shot the fourth man. Four against two. He liked the odds.

Suddenly Reuben leapt to his feet and zigzagged to the other side of the ravine, landing in time to point his rifle between the eyes of the German soldier, the one who'd jabbed him the hardest with his gun. Smiling coldly, he knocked the man's weapon to the side and watched it slide all the way down to the floor of the ravine.

“Tell your friend to surrender,” he said slowly and clearly. He jabbed the end of his gun under the man's armpit so that his arm shot in the air, then smiled again when he heard the harsh guttural words that he hoped meant surrender.

By the time Marcel's friends escorted the last German to the top of the ravine, Reuben was panting like a race-horse at the finish line. There was a hurried whispered conversation that was actually an argument; did they kill the Germans or take them prisoner? He himself didn't give a damn one way or the other. But if he had to make a choice, he'd vote for killing—which was exactly what the partisans did, on the spot, with fixed bayonets. They toppled the bodies into the ravine.

“They'll be found soon. Signs of your activity are prevalent, monsieur,” Marcel said, pointing to the packed-down snow. “We'll stay with you for three more kilometers and then we must leave you. We're needed elsewhere. You will be headed in the right direction at that point. It is all we can do.”

“It's enough,” Reuben said.

“Monsieur, these friends have news of the woman you seek. I will draw you a map in the snow. See, here and here. This is the village and the church where the children were brought. Your friend is already on her way up the mountains with the little ones. We have word that the Germans have increased their patrols. You need to know this, monsieur. The devils are everywhere. This trail is the one we think they took. A parade such as the one your friend leads will leave prints in the snow. Follow them and pray for snow to be at your back. Go slowly as you climb, for the air is thin and it is difficult to breathe. You are not used to our mountains.”

Two days later Reuben walked into the village church late at night. He was so exhausted he lay down on the hard wooden church pew and was asleep instantly. Had Germans been banging at the door with rifle butts, he would still have closed his eyes. His body craved sleep, needed it before he could continue. For four hours he slept deeply and dreamlessly. When he woke, he took a look around the church, lighting matches as he went along, hoping for some sign that would tell him Mickey had been here. But there were only cold ashes from the fireplace in the back of the church. Praying in the winter, he decided, had to be a cold business. When people were cold and hungry, how could they concentrate on their prayers?

He raised his eyes to the figure on the cross which seemed to be watching him. “I am a Jew,” he whispered. “The Bible says we are Your chosen people. Why are You allowing this to happen? Children and women have no place in this war, yet they are dying. Hours ago I killed men who wanted to kill me. I defended myself to be free to find a band of children and two women who believe in You with all their hearts. They were here, this building offered them sanctuary for a little while. How can women and little children scale the Pyrenees? I don't know if
I
could do it. Are You keeping them safe? Will You help me to find them?”

Reuben dropped to his knees and folded his hands. “I ask nothing for myself. I ask only that You keep Mickey, Yvette, and the children safe until I can find them.” Was it a prayer or a request? Both, he decided. He made an attempt at blessing himself. “Amen,” he said spiritedly.

It was still dark when he set out in the direction Marcel had indicated. It seemed warmer to him somehow, the snow wetter and harder to wade through. The snowshoes he'd been promised had never materialized, but they wouldn't have worked in this kind of snow anyway. With many miles ahead of him, Reuben determined to walk until he dropped, simply putting one foot in front of the other until his legs gave way beneath him. When he reached the rocky slopes the going would be easier but steeper.

When daylight broke, Reuben was pleased with the progress he'd made. He reached into his knapsack for what he thought of as his most precious possession, his lifeline to survival: a pair of binoculars.

“You will need these more than me,” Marcel had said when he'd handed them over. “If you reach safety, turn them over to the Resistance member you meet next. They'll find their way back to me.”

Reuben had taken the boy's hand and shaken it gratefully, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “You're a fine son, Marcel, your father has reason to be proud of you.”

“My father is dead,” the boy had replied flatly. “It is the other way around, monsieur; I am proud of my father, for he died for our cause.”

The binoculars revealed nothing but an endless expanse of white below and thick, gray clouds above, swollen with more snow that would shower down shortly. Two more hours should see him entering the mountains. How far behind Mickey and the children was he? He no longer knew what day it was or how much time had passed since Christmas. He knew only night and day.

Reuben trudged on, seeking a temporary place of shelter to rest his legs and time to gnaw on his last piece of dry meat. He had three cigarettes left, and when he stopped to rest, if the area was safe, he was going to smoke one. In the breast pocket of his coarse shirt was his second luxury, three of the rose petals from the jar on Mickey's mantel, wrapped carefully in a grimy handkerchief. From time to time he took them out and looked at them. They were his incentive to keep going, to find Mickey.

It was late in the afternoon, but still light, when Reuben reached the spot where Mickey had stood to view the awesome specter in front of her. The air seemed sharper somehow, the scent of evergreens strong and pungent. All above him were rocky bluffs and dense forest. His heart thudded and then quieted. Mickey and the children had climbed this, and so would he.

A straggly row of hedge bushes was his first obstacle to the narrow path that snaked upward. In the waning light he was sure it was the same path Mickey had taken; the deep footprints were almost filled. Eyes glued to the ground, he strode forward through the thicket, watching as the trail angled off to the right and then back to the left. It was an up-and-down course with huge, monstrous boulders to be scaled. Winded, the resin from the pines sharp in his nostrils, Reuben literally slid down the boulders, exhausted from his upward climb. How in the name of God had Mickey and the children managed this? Perhaps they hadn't, he thought miserably. Yet he had to believe that the instinct for survival would give them the strength to scale mountains.

Eventually he reached higher ground, where the trees were denser and the trail almost indiscernible. Reuben weaved his way left and right, past mountains of boulders that were taller than he, through thickets and deadfalls. Once, he lost his footing and slid down the last slope to land in an ice-cold stream. Cursing his clumsiness, he retraced his steps, crawling back up the slope and scaling the huge rocks—only this time he was freezing in his wet clothes and the thin air was singeing his lungs. At the top of the slope he gazed with widening eyes at a plateau that stretched perhaps for half a mile. The mountain loomed majestic in the night, black and ominous.

Some instinct warned him not to move, to wait and watch. There was too much open ground here, with no cover except the blinding snow. Even if he crawled on his belly, he'd be exposed to observation and would leave a trail that would be easy to follow in the daylight hours.

There were command posts and patrols all through the mountains, Marcel had said. And the locations were changed often to thwart those trying to get over the mountains into Spain.

The will to live, to survive, to find Mickey, made him cautious as he contemplated his options in the last remaining hours of darkness. Did he take the plateau, or did he walk along the line of trees and hope for a better place to cross? If he left this particular trail, he might become hopelessly lost and never find Mickey. The fine hairs on the back of his neck pricked a warning. Without allowing himself further speculation, he was on his feet and running through the line of trees.

He heard the sound before he risked a glance to the flatland through the trees: a military vehicle, a jeep probably, its tires crunching and crackling in the snow. The early dawn patrols Marcel had spoken of. Reuben moved farther back into a thick nest of evergreens, their fragrance so strong and so pungent he thought he would choke. It was getting lighter by the second. He pulled out his pocket watch and clocked the patrol. His breathing was shallow now, the air too thin for all the exertion he'd put forth. Wait. Wait…It was all he could do.

Twenty minutes later he heard the vehicle return, creating a new set of tire tracks. Thirty minutes, possibly forty, which meant the command post to the east was a mere ten minutes away, the one to the west, twenty. Twenty minutes of safety, twenty minutes to cross the plateau and leave no tracks.

In an instant he was up and running, back the way he'd come. Marcel had warned him several times to go in a straight line. He found his first resting place with no trouble, then leapt from his position at the tree line and landed dead center in the hard-packed snow left by the German vehicle. Panting with the effort, he stepped over the wheel line and poised a moment before leaping once again. This time he fell flat in the snow, disturbing the even coating to his left. There was no time to smooth out the snow, and sharp eyes would spot the indentation immediately. For one set of tracks they'd probably send a two-man patrol, possibly three. Fast as he could, he headed for the trees, knowing he had less than twenty minutes to make time and hide himself. And then what? Kill or be killed? If he killed, the whole damn army would be after him.