Dark Star ns-2 Read online

  “Well?” Szara said. Now what?

  “Would you be so kind as to accompany me, it’s just …”

  Entirely without menace. Szara considered outrage, then sensed the weight of Teutonic railroad bureaucracy standing behind this request, sighed with irritation, and stood up.

  “Please, your baggage,” the conductor said.

  Szara snatched the handles and followed the man down the corridor to the end of the car. A chief conductor awaited him there. “I am sorry, Herr Szara, but you must leave the train here.”

  Szara stiffened. “I will not,” he said.

  “Please,” said the man nervously.

  Szara stared at him for a moment, utterly confounded. There was nothing outside the open door but dark fields. “I demand an explanation,” he said.

  The man peered over Szara’s shoulder and Szara turned his head. Two men in suits stood at the end of the corridor. Szara said, “Am I to walk to Berlin? ” He laughed, inviting them to consider the absurdity of the situation, but it sounded false and shrill. The supervisor placed a tentative hand above his elbow; Szara jerked away from him. “Take your hands off me,” he said.

  The conductor was now very formal. “You must leave.”

  He realized he was going to be thrown off if he didn’t move, so he took his baggage and descended the iron stairway to the cinderbed on which the rails lay. The conductor leaned out, was handed a red lantern from within, and swung it twice toward the engine. Szara stepped away from the train as it jerked into motion. He watched it gather momentum as it rolled past him-a series of white faces framed by windows-then saw it off into the distance, two red lamps at the back of the caboose fading slowly, then blackness.

  The change was sudden, and complete. Civilization had simply vanished. He felt a light wind against his face, the faint rime of frost on a furrowed field sparkled in the light of the quarter moon, and the silence was punctuated by the sound of a night bird, a high-low call that seemed very far away. He stood quietly for a time, watched the slice of moon that dimmed and sharpened as haze banks drifted across it in a starless sky. Then, from the woodland at the near horizon, a pair of headlights moved very slowly toward a point some fifty yards up the track. He could see strands of ground mist rising into the illumination of the beams.

  Ah. With a sigh Szara hefted the two bags and trudged toward the lights, discovering, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a narrow country lane that crossed the railroad tracks. General Bloch, he thought. Doing tricks with the German rail system.

  The car reached the crossing before he did and rolled gently to a stop. Somehow, he’d missed a signal-this meeting had the distinct feel of an improvised fallback. He was, on balance, relieved. The heart of the apparat had skipped a beat but now returned to form and required the parcel from Prague. Well, thank God he had it. As he approached the car, its outline took shape in the ambient glow of the headlamps. It was not the same Grosser Mercedes that had carried General Bloch away from the station at Ulm, but the monarchs of the apparat changed cars about as casually as they changed mistresses and tonight had selected something small and anonymous for the treff, clandestine meeting, in a German beet field.

  The middle-age sisters in the train compartment that Szara had recently occupied were amused, rather sentimentally amused, at the argument that now began between the two students returning from their mountain-climbing exertions in the Tatra. Sentiment was inspired by the recollection of their own sons; wholesome, Nordic youths quite like these who had, from time to time, gone absolutely mulish over some foolery or other, as boys will, and come nearly to blows over it. The sisters could barely keep from smiling. The dispute began genially enough-a discussion of the quality of Czech matches made for woodcutters and others who needed to make outdoor fires. One of the lads was quite delighted with the brand they’d purchased, the other had reservations. Yes, he’d agree that they struck consistently, even when wet, but they burned for only a few seconds and then went out: with damp kindling, clearly a liability. The other boy was robust in defense. Was his friend blind and senseless? The matches burned for a long time. No, they didn’t. Yes, they did. Just like miniature versions of their papas, weren’t they, disputing some point in politics or machinery or dogs.

  As the train approached the tiny station at Feldhausen, where the track crosses a bridge and then swings away from the river Elster, a bet of a few groschen was struck and an experiment undertaken. The defender of the matches lit one and held it high while the other boy counted out the seconds. The sisters pretended not to notice, but they’d been drawn inexorably into the argument and silently counted right along.

  The first boy was an easy winner and the groschen were duly handed over-offered cheerfully and accepted humbly, the sisters noted with approval. The match had burned for more than thirty-eight seconds, from a point just outside Feldhausen to the other end of the station platform and even a little way out into the countryside. The point was made: those were excellent matches, just the thing for woodsmen, mountain climbers, and any others who might need to light a fire.

  As Szara approached the car, the man next to the driver climbed out, held the back door open and said, “Change of travel plans,” with a smile of regret.

  His Russian was elementary but clear, phrased in the slow cadence characteristic of the southeastern reaches of the country, near the Turkish border. “It won’t be so inconvenient.” He was a dark man with a great belly; Szara could make out a whitening mustache and thinning gray hair spread carefully over a bald head. The driver was young-a relative, perhaps even a son of the passenger. For the moment he was bulky and thick, the extra chin just beginning, the hair at the crown of his head growing sparse.

  Szara settled himself in the back seat and the car moved forward cautiously through the night mist. “You tried to contact me in Prague?” he asked.

  “Couldn’t get your attention, but no matter. Which one do we want? “

  Szara handed the satchel over the seat.

  “Handsome old thing, isn’t it,” said the man, running an appreciative hand over the pebbled hide.

  “Yes,” Szara said.

  “All here? “

  “Except for a pistol. That I dared not take through German border control. It’s at the bottom of the river.”

  “No matter. It’s not pistols we need.”

  Szara relaxed. Wondered where and how he’d be put back on his way to Berlin, knew enough about such treffs not to bother asking. The Great Hand moved everyone about as it would.

  “Must keep to form,” said the man, reaching inside his coat. He brought out a pair of handcuffs and held them out to Szara over the back of the seat. The car entered a farming village, every window dark, thatched-roof stone barns, then they were again among the fields.

  Szara’s heart pumped hard; he willed his hand not to rise and press against his chest.

  “What?” he said.

  “Rules, rules,” said the fat man disconsolately. Then, a bit annoyed: “Always something.” He shook the handcuffs impatiently. “Come, then …”

  “For what?” Za chto?

  “It isn’t for anything, comrade.” The man made a sucking noise against his tooth. He tossed the handcuffs into Szara’s lap. “Now don’t make me irritable.”

  Szara held the cuffs in his hand. The metal was unpolished, faintly oily.

  “You better do what we say,” the young driver threatened, his voice uncertain, querulous. Clearly he wanted to give orders but was afraid that nobody would obey him.

  “Am I arrested? “

  “Arrested? Arrested?” The fat man had a big laugh. “He thinks we’re arresting him!” The driver tried to laugh like the other man but he didn’t have the voice for it.

  The fat man pointed a blunt index finger at him and partly closed one eye. “You put those on now, that’s plenty of discussion.”

  Szara held his wrist up to the faint moonlight in the back window.

  “In back-don’t you kn
ow anything?” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Don’t worry, nothing will happen to you. It’s just one of those things that has to be done-you’re certainly aware, comrade, of the many things we all must do. So, humor me, will you? ” He turned back around in his seat, dismissively, and peered through the ground mist rising from the road. As he turned, Szara could hear the whisper of his woolen coat against the car upholstery.

  Szara clicked the handcuff around his left wrist, then put it behind his back and held the other cuff in his right hand. For a time, the men in the front seat were silent. The road moved uphill into a wood where it was very dark. The fat man leaned forward and peered through the window. “Take care,” he said. “We don’t want to hit an animal.” Then, without turning around, “I’m waiting.”

  Szara closed the cuff on his right wrist.

  The car left the forest and headed down a hill. “Stop here,” the fat man said. “Turn on the light.” The driver stared at the dashboard, twisted a button; a windshield wiper scraped across the dry glass. Both men laughed and the driver turned it off. Another button did nothing at all. Then the dome light went on.

  The fat man leaned over and rummaged through the open satchel between his feet. He drew out a sheet of paper and squinted at it. “I’m told you’re sly as a snake,” he said to Szara. “Haven’t been hiding anything, have you?”

  “No,” Szara said.

  “If I have to, I’ll make you tell.”

  “You have all of it.”

  “Don’t sound so miserable. You’ll have me weeping in a minute.”

  Szara said nothing. He shifted in the seat to make his hands more comfortable and looked out the side window at the cloudy silhouette of the moon.

  “Well,” the fat man said at last, “this is just the way life is.” A shrill whine reached them from around a bend in the road and the single light of a motorcycle appeared. It shot past them at great speed, a passenger hanging on to the waist of the driver.

  “Crazy fools,” the young man said.

  “These Germans love their machines,” the fat man said. “Drive on.”

  They went around the bend where the motorcycle had come from. Szara could see more woodland on the horizon. “Slowly, now,” said the fat man. He reached over and turned off the dome light, then stared out the side window with great concentration. “I wonder if it’s come time for eyeglasses? “

  “Not you,” the driver said. “It’s the mist.”

  They drove on, very slowly. A dirt track for farm machines broke away from the road into a field that had been harvested to low stubble. “Ah,” the fat man said. “You better back up.” He looked over the seat at Szara as the car reversed. “Let’s see those hands.” Szara twisted around and showed him. “Not too tight, are they?”

  “No.”

  “How far? ” said the driver.

  “Just a little. I’m not pushing this thing if we get stuck in a hole.”

  The car inched forward down the dirt path. “All right,” said the fat man. “This will do.” He struggled out of the car, walked a few feet, turned his back, and urinated. Still buttoning his fly, he walked to Szara’s door and opened it. “Please,” he said, indicating that Szara should get out. Then, to the driver: “You stay here and keep the car running.”

  Szara shifted himself along the seat, swung his legs out, and, leaning forward in a crouch, managed to stand upright.

  “Let’s walk a little,” said the fat man, positioning himself just behind Szara and a little to his right.

  Szara walked a few paces. As the car idled he could hear that one cylinder was mistimed and fired out of rhythm. “Very well,” said the fat man. He took a small automatic pistol from the pocket of his coat. “Is there anything you would like to say? Perhaps a prayer?”

  Szara didn’t answer.

  “Jews have prayers for everything, certainly for this.”

  “There’s money,” Szara said. “Money and gold jewelry.”

  “In your valise?”

  “No. In Russia.”

  “Ah,” said the fat man sorrowfully, “we’re not in Russia.” He armed the automatic with a practiced hand, the wind gusted suddenly and raised a few strands of stiff hair so that they stood up straight. Carefully, he smoothed them back into place. “So …” he said.

  The whine of the motorcycle reached them again, growing quickly in volume. The fat man swore softly in a language Szara didn’t know and lowered the pistol by the side of his leg so that it was hidden from the road. Almost on top of them, the cyclist executed a grinding speed shift and swung onto the farm track in a shower of dirt, the light sweeping across Szara and the fat man, whose mouth opened in surprise. From somewhere near the car an urgent voice called out, “Ismailov?”

  The fat man was astonished, for a moment speechless. Then he said, “What is it? Who are you?”

  The muzzle flare was like orange lightning-it turned the fat man into a photographic negative, arms spread like the wings of a bird as a wind swept him into the air while down below a shoe flew away. He landed like a sack and hummed as though he’d hit his thumb with a hammer. Szara threw himself onto the ground. From the car, the young driver cried out for his father amid the flat reports of a pistol fired in the open air.

  “Are you hurt? “

  Szara looked up. The little gnome called Heshel stood over him, eyes glittering in the moonlight above his hooked nose and knowing smile. His cap was pulled down ridiculously over his ears and a great shawl was wound around his neck and stuffed into his buttoned jacket. Three shotgun shells were thrust between the fingers of his right hand. He broke the barrel and loaded both sides. A voice from near the car said, “Who’s humming?”

  “Ismailov.”

  “Heshie, please.”

  Heshel snapped the shotgun back together and walked toward the fat man. He fired both barrels simultaneously and the humming stopped. He returned to Szara, reached down, thrust a small hand into Szara’s armpit, and tugged. “Come on,” he said, “you got to get up.”

  Szara managed to scramble to his feet. At the car, the second man was hauling the driver out by his ankles. He flopped onto the ground. “Look,” said the man who had pulled him out. “It’s the son.”

  “Ismailov’s son?” Heshel asked.

  “I think so.”

  Heshel walked over and stared down. “From this you can tell?”

  The other man didn’t answer.

  “Maybe you better start the machine.”

  While Heshel retrieved the key and unlocked the handcuffs, the other man took a crank that clamped behind the rider’s seat and locked it onto a nut on the side of the engine. He turned it hard a few times and the motorcycle coughed, then sputtered to life. Heshel made a hurry-up motion with his hand, the man climbed on the motorcycle and rode away. As the noise faded, they could hear dogs barking.

  Heshel stood silently for a moment and stared at the front seat of the car. “Look in the trunk,” he told Szara. “Maybe there’s a rag.”

  In Berlin, it was raining and it was going to rain-a slow, sad, persistent business shining black on the bare trees and polishing the soot-colored roof tiles. Szara stared out a high window, watching umbrellas moving down the street like phantoms. It seemed to him the city’s very own, private weather, for Berliners lived deep inside themselves-it could be felt-where they nourished old insults and humiliated ambitions of every sort, all of it locked up within a courtesy like forged metal and an acid wit that never seemed meant to hurt-it just, apparently by accident, left a little bruise.

  Late Tuesday night, Heshel had driven Szara to the terminus of a suburban feeder line where he’d caught a morning train into Berlin. Once aboard, he’d trudged to the WC and, numb with resignation, forced himself to look in the mirror. But his hair was as it had always been and he’d barked a humorless laugh at his own image. Still vanity, always, forever, despite anything. What he’d feared was something he had seen, and more than once, during the civil war and the campai
gn against Poland: men of all ages, even in their teens, sentenced to die at night, then, the next morning, marched to the wall of a school or post office with hair turned, in the course of one night, a grayish white.

  He took a taxi to an address Heshel had given him, a tall, narrow private house on the Nollendorfplatz in the western part of Berlin, not far from the Hollandische Taverne, where he’d been told he could take his meals. A silent woman in black silks had answered his knock, shown him to a cot in a gabled attic, and left him alone. He supposed it to be a safe house used by the Renate Braun faction, but the ride in Ismailov’s car and a few, apparently final moments in a stubbled wheat field had dislocated him from a normal sense of the world and he was no longer sure precisely what he knew.

  Heshel, driving fast and peering through the steering wheel- there were bullet holes in the driver’s side of the window and the glass had fractured into frosted lace around each of them-had signaled with his headlights to two cars and another motorcycle racing down the narrow road. So Szara gained at least a notion of the sheer breadth of the operation. Yet Heshel seemed not to know, or care, why Szara was headed into Berlin, and when Szara offered him the satchel he simply laughed. “Me?” he’d said, heeling the car through a double-S curve in the road, “I don’t take nothing. What’s yours is yours.”

  What did they want?

  To use the material in the satchel that rested between his feet. To discredit the Georgians-Ismailov and Khelidze had only that connection, as far as he knew. And they were? Not his friends in the Foreign Department. Who then? He did not know. He only knew they’d stuck him with the hot potato.

  The kids in the Jewish towns of Poland and Russia played the game with a stone. If the count reached fifty and you had it, well, too bad. You might have to eat a morsel of dirt, or horse pie. The forfeit varied but the principle never did. And there was always some tough little bastard like Heshel around to play enforcer.

  Heshel was a type he’d always known, what they called in Yiddish a Luftmensch. These Luftmenschen, it meant men of the air or men without substance, could be seen every morning but the Sabbath, standing around in front of the local synagogue, hands in pockets, waiting for a day’s work, an errand, whatever might come their way. They were men who seemed to have no family or village, a restless population of day laborers that moved through eastern Poland, the Ukraine, Byelorussia, all over the Jewish districts, available to whoever had a few kopecks to pay them. The word had a second, ironic, meaning that, like many Yiddish expressions, embellished its literal translation. Luftmenschen were also eternal students, lost souls, young people who spent their lives arguing politics in cafes and drifting through the student communities of Europe- gifted, bright, but never truly finding themselves.