Chapter 4

Within the leading Packard Ari attempted to relax at Mathais’ side; his fingers drummed tensely on the center armrest that had been drawn down to form a comfortable barrier between the two men. There had been no conversation. The fear that had been gnawing relentlessly at Ari for the past few days seemed to mount in the heavy air of the closed car; his hands were damp with perspiration. It seemed incredible to him that the other should not be able to sense his fear, to feel it, almost to smell it; but Mathais sat looking through the rolled-up window with seemingly complete unconcern. It will go away, Ari thought desperately; this will go away. It is only because I am finally going to meet the head of their organization; it is only nervousness; because we are coming to the final moment; it is only natural. Despite the coolness of the night his forehead was beaded with tiny drops of sweat; his heart began its old pounding rhythm, the irregular beat adding to his fright. The old feeling of nausea returned, and he desperately wished for a window to be opened, wondering if he might possibly request it without his fear becoming visible for all to see. He wished he had taken a pill before leaving, and suddenly wondered if he were about to turn his great adventure into farce by becoming sick.

They left the beach and turned north toward the tunnel leading to the city. With the car windows closed, the sound of their tires was reduced to a faint purr on the damp roadway; there seemed to be something sinister in the smooth manner in which they appeared to float through the foggy night, as if they rode in some hideous bubble that seemed to shrink, getting smaller and smaller every moment. Maybe it is only another form of my old dream, Ari thought, swallowing forcefully, my old nightmare from Tier 3, Row 4, Barracks 4; the frightening dream of being suffocated, clamped down upon, stifled. He drew in a deep breath, freeing his lungs shudderingly, and forced himself to lean back, attempting calmness.

The tunnel swallowed them; the hum of the tires subtly changed tone. Mathais seemed to suddenly acquire a certain air of tenseness. As the car rolled smoothly beneath the glinting battery of fluorescent lights, he sat straighter, as if quietly awaiting something. Now the tires were sucking the roadway with their old whine; the arched mouth of the tunnel had spewed them out once again into the night. And then, behind them, Ari heard the dampened protest of brakes, the muffled, tortured screaming of metal rasping angrily against concrete, and then the final pounding crash. Their driver did not falter but drove smoothly on. Ari turned his head swirftly, staring back through the tiny rear window, but their car had competently swerved away from the main roadway, and the tunnel was now hidden. In the shimmering reflections cast waveringly up from the wet pavement, he could see the second Packard hurrying to catch up with them, swaying slightly on the uneven street. He turned back to see Mathais once again relaxing in his seat, his huge blocks of teeth shining white in a satisfied smile.

“An overly curious cab driver,” said the hotel manager unctuously. “I had noticed him parked a bit above the hotel when we left; he started to follow us.” His voice hardened; there was something familiar about the hardness, something remembered from the past. “That one will bother us no more!”

It was his shocked recognition of the tone of voice that swept all fear from Ari, and with the fear, all of the nervousness and tenseness. He could physically feel these emotions drain away to be replaced with implacable anger and firm resolution. This was the voice he had never forgotten, the voice that he could never forget. This was the voice that represented all he had ever hated and fought against, the voice from which he had suffered and endured such deep losses.

This was the voice of the Storm Trooper, beating his aged and bearded prisoner through the streets; the voice of the camp clerk sneeringly calling out the names of the next batch to leave the frightful insecurity of the vermin-ridden shelves for the terrible certainty of the gas ovens. This was the high, piercing, righteous voice of the Hitler Jugend calmly denouncing their parents to the Gestapo; the voice of the Fuhrer demanding the wave of the future and receiving the shrill “Sieg heil!” of the screaming mob. This was the voice of the Third Reich fifteen years after the cleansing flames of the Berlin bunkers; but the voice of Nazi Germany intact, and Ari knew it well.

He settled back in his seat in sudden relaxation, his blue eyes turning icy. It was this voice and all voices like it that he could help still by his meeting tonight. The opportunity he had feared, he now welcomed. He nodded stiffly to Mathais as if in praise for the neatness displayed in eliminating their pursuer, and then turned his face once again to the window to avoid the other’s smirk.

They were in a part of the city he did not know. In the fog it was difficult to recognize landmarks, but the street along which they drove, and the facades of the buildings which they passed, did not look familiar. This was a section he had not previously visited. Before them a wall suddenly loomed, topped by a string of lights glistening through the fog. They turned to the right without slowing, and continued driving.

“Yacht Club,” Mathais said briefly, and also turned his attention to the thickening night outside. The Yacht Club faded into the darkness behind them, the car began to slow down. Another curve and a second cluster of lights began to approach. This I should know, Ari thought. It is not so far from the drive; I should be able to orient myself. He shrugged in indifference; it was really quite unimportant.

The Packard eased to the hidden curb; Mathais got down heavily and helped Ari to get out. The fog here was thicker, a pocket that had swirled down into the depression formed by two huge rocky towers. Certainly I should know this place, Ari mused with a touch of irritation. Have I lost my sense of direction altogether? He shrugged again as they walked toward the light cluster; the driver and his silent companion bracketed the two as they went. The sound of the second car pulling up could be heard; a car door slammed and the other feet walked hurriedly up behind them. They arrived at the source of the lights in a tight group. Ari stared in amazement.

Before him was a boxlike car, resembling a short street trolley, but hung from a set of oily wheels mounted clumsily above. He swung his eyes up; the heavy cables passed in a sagging dip over his head and faded in a rising curve into the wall of fog. He turned to Mathais, who was smiling, unable to hide his pride in his arrangements.

“Yes,” Mathais said. “Pao de Açúcar—Sugar Loaf. Our leader will meet you on top of Sugar Loaf.” He was almost grinning in his self-satisfaction at his own cleverness. “It is the perfect place, yes?”

But, Ari almost cried, it is foggy, we shall not be able to see the beautiful view! Even as the thought crossed his mind, he realized how unimportant to his mission it was; but the feeling of loss somehow persisted. What a shame to visit Pao de Açúcar on a night of such fog! What a waste!

He turned to Mathais, his face exhibiting the proper appreciation for the other’s brilliance. “Do we wait for him here?”

“No; he prefers to meet on the summit.” Mathais chuckled comfortably. “A summit meeting.” He took Ari’s arm, guiding him to the car. A little uniformed Brazilian sat inside, eyes downcast, waiting for them to enter. The silent men with them stood to one side until Mathais handed Ari in; then they followed. Mathais stepped back. “I’ll see you on top in a few minutes,” he said, and added almost jovially, “Boa viagem. Good trip.”

They started at once with a jerk, swaying fearfully. Ari grabbed for the supporting rod above his head, and then lowered himself gingerly onto a seat. The silent Storm Troop types about him seated themselves on either side; no word was spoken. Ari turned, looking down over his shoulder through the open window; the glow of the lights on the ground was slowly fading. Their car seemed to be suspended in a yellowish liquid, washing in it, rocking gently from side to side. His eyes automatically turned back to study the interior of the little wooden car; it seemed to be terribly fragile, scarcely built to ride to such heights. Ahead of them the cables swept silently out of the fog and then disappeared once again behind. The little blue-jacketed conductor sat with his eyes fixed blankly upon the floor.

A sudden rift in the fog bank gave a momentary glimpse of the city, a flashing view of tiny streets and foreshortened apartment buildings dropping steeply away, but before Ari could fix it in his sight, the curtain of mist swept between them and they were once again back in their silent medium, swaying ever higher.

The faces about him were expressionless. What would you say if you knew you were taking a Jew up to meet your leader? he said to them silenty, bitterly. What would you do? Would your cowlike faces at least assume some expression, even if it were only of anger? Would you look shocked, surprised? Amused? You would look the same, he thought with cold disgust; you are automatons, robots, and you would look the same. You have looked the same for a thousand years; you would not change now. Up and up they went; time seemed to stand still for their silent ascent into the mysterious emptiness of the blind sky. The hum of the huge wheels rolling quietly on the cables washed them all in weariness; the figures of his bodyguards, slumped in the wooden seats along the wall of the swaying car, seemed steeped in hypnosis, watching him as if drugged. The yellow fog beyond the glistening window swirled about sluggishly, casting back the weak light from the climbing car in spectral lights and shadows.

The ride seemed endless. As they rose the fog became cooler; the drop in temperature was quite apparent. Ari welcomed the sudden cold, laying his head against the wooden window frame, enjoying the dampness on his cheek. And then a sudden squealing of the cables jerked his head up; they were decelerating. The swaying became less pronounced, the invisible pull upward was being reduced. There was a sharp scraping sound as they dragged against something, coming to rest with one final tug. They were on top; the door opened.

He stepped out into a world apart from any he had ever known. The fog was thinner here; above him the faint glow of the moon could be seen, forcing itself through the spreading webs of mist. The cloudlike blanket of fog flowed below on all sides, curling folds that boiled in the air only a few feet beneath his precarious perch. The movement of the car seemed to remain with him, as if the mountain itself were shifting slightly; he took a few steps and the earth miraculously firmed. The four men who had ridden with him formed a file that led him to a flight of steps set in one corner of this aerie.

“On the platform,” one said harshly. “He will meet you alone on the platform above.” Ari stared at them blankly; a thumb jerked abruptly upward, and with a nod he began to climb.

The rounded railing was damp under his fingers, the concrete steps slippery beneath his feet; he seemed to be mounting into the heights of the sky itself. Below he heard the scraping sound and the thin whining of the cables as the little car hesitatingly took off on its descent to the earth so far below. Then the silence about him was complete.

The upper platform was lit only by the growing brilliance of the now triumphant moon, and by a red airplane-warning beacon mounted on a slim steel pole high above. He stepped into the red puddle of light that the beacon cast and watched his skin take on a bloody tinge. With a faint shudder he stepped away to the soft clean moonlight, leaning on the railing, turning his back on the cynical red eye, peering down into the ocean of fog that flowed beneath. From the distant hidden rocks far below, the tiny sounds of surf came up in weak crashes, fighting their way through the thick insulating layers of yellow mist; he tried to remember the foot of the cliff as he had seen it many times in brilliant sunlight, but the picture refused to form. He could only see the waves beating against the black rocks in endless darkness, tragically tearing at the giant, wearing upon it, trying to drag it down under the murky sea.

His eyes swept the fog bank below; lighter spots came and went, reflecting the lights of the city in thinner layers. Somewhere below this cloud mass lay the beauty he had come to know and love, the winding beaches, the swaying palms. A sudden puff of breeze cleared a spot for an instant; the glittering curve of Copacabana sprang into view and then was lost again as the mist rolled back. At least I’ve been to Sugar Loaf, he thought in sudden sardonic bitterness. And then, surprisingly, his feelings changed to thankfulness. Yes, he thought, at least I’ve been to Sugar Loaf! I promised myself to come, and I am here! Even though it is dark and foggy, even though I came through no volition of my own, I am here! I shall take my satisfaction from this; we must take our satisfaction where we can!

Time passed slowly,; then the creaking of the car wheels straining against the taut cable came clearly again through the night, gradually increasing in sound. The tiny car was once again approaching. He listened intently. There was the familiar scraping sound again, the car dragging slowly against the ledge, and then silence. A few minutes passed as he waited, suddenly tense, feeling the fog at his back. Then hesitant footsteps could be heard as they came across the slower walk and started slowly up the steps, dragging, as if their owner were feeling his way. A figure began to emerge from the slower level, rising from the stairwell; the heavy hat first, then the shadowed face, and finally the tall, slightly stooped body. It paused at the top of the stairway, as if in contemplation or seeking rest, and then came slowly across the platform to Ari’s side.

They faced each other in silence. The taller man had a rough scarf wound about his mouth and nose, as if for protection against the fog, and with a brief nod of his head in Ari’s direction, he began to remove it, glancing contemptuously about as he did so. The scarf came off slowly, like a mummy’s bandage; Ari found himself studying the glittering eyes during the unwinding operation. This man is mad, he suddenly thought; and his heart began to accelerate, rumbling in his ears.

The cowl was finally disengaged, the grizzled head shook itself in freedom, casting aside the narrow band of cloth; he turned abruptly to Ari.

“Herr Busch?”

Ari said nothing; the face before him wavered and then took shape again; it was lined and aged, the hair beneath the brim of the huge hat was sprinkled with white. There was something familiar in the voice, in the cast of the face.

“Herr Busch?” The repetition was demanding.

Where had he seen this face before? His mind fled through the past, down the years of the horror that had been his homeland, and came automatically to Buchenwald; and there he found the answer. The shock of recognition struck Ari brutally; his voice caught in his throat. The mad features before him dimmed as dizziness swept him and then faded, but a nameless joy also swept him at his discovery. The harsh face stood waiting impatiently.

“Von Roesler.” The words were forced from his throat in a burst of vengeful happiness; his heart increased its dreaded tempo, drumming wildly in his breast, physically shaking him.

The face before him suddenly smiled, congenial. “You know me? You are familiar with me?” The stoop disappeared as he stood militarily erect. “Then we can clear up this unfortunate misunderstanding quickly.” He paused in reflection, turning to stare into the gleaming blue eyes with imperiousness. “You know me? From where?”

“Von Roesler! Colonel von Roesler!” Ari chuckled, a frightful sound in the whispering night; a sound to turn a more sane man in querying doubt.

“From the Fatherland? From the war?” The crazed eyes turned inward in glorious memory. “I’m sure that we have met; you know me, and you seem to be most familiar. Most familiar. Possibly I was a bit hasty in my first reaction to your visit, my dear Herr Busch.” The eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“Colonel von Roesler!”

“From Poland, perhaps? Or Riga? Or possibly Paris. Was it Paris?”

Ari stared at him in mounting joy; a vicious smile twisted his lips. The other peered at him curiously.

“Or one of the camps. Did we meet in one of the camps? I was in many, you know.” There was an unconscious pride in his tone. “I was at Auschwitz, and Maidanek. And Dachau. And Buchenwald, of course…”

Ari listened to this fearful litany in grinning hate. At the sound of this name he chuckled aloud, almost sobbing. The crazed eyes swung around at the sound.

“Buchenwald? You were at Buchenwald? Of course!” He stared into the glittering blue eyes in grimacing concentration. “You were a guard there, I remember… or a clerk.… Or were you one of the attendants at the ovens…?” The voice faltered, becoming querulous. “You do not wish to say? To tell me? But I know—I know!” He suddenly giggled in infantile triumph; how could this one expect not to be remembered with those startling blue eyes? “It was Hamburg! On the train—the brakeman…” He shook his head in sad bewilderment. “No; you were not the brakeman. But it was Hamburg—one of the guards there? The barracks, perhaps…?” His mind wandered off, slipping back into that awful nightmare. “The fire—you remember? You remember the fire?” The twisted face jutted forward, the voice became petulant. Those deep blue eyes, those terribly blue eyes! “You do not want to tell me? But Know!! I remember! It was—Buchenwald! It was Hamburg—!” The triumph suddenly returned; he almost crowed. “No, no! I know! It was Paris! Of course; it was Paris! I knew I would remember! It was Paris! We were coming around a corner, I was with Monica, you know; and we were coming around this corner, we had been to the Portuguese Embassy…!”

And then recognition struck him like a huge fist, slamming through him, battering him, tearing away his reserves. He lurched back against the railing, his mouth opening in shocked horror.

Ari laughed. He reached for the shaking arm drawing away from him in desperation, gripping it tightly, speaking from an inspiration or direction he could not recognize. “You must not make a sound!” he said quietly, staring with almost equal madness into the crazed eyes before him, his heart beating in a frenzied tempo, his body beginning to tremble. Von Roesler tried to pull away, cringing, his blanched lips opening in terror.

“No, no!” Ari whispered as one would to a frightened child, some corner of his brain sniggering at the insanity of the scene, the unreality of it, the hopelessness of it. “You must be perfectly quiet!”

A faint cry broke from the terrified madman, a pitiful mewing sound. The silence on the deck below was broken by the uncertain shuffling of feet.

“Ah, no!” Ari whispered fiercely. The pain was sweeping him now, washing over him in terrible waves, choking his words deep in his chest. Von Roesler’s cries grew in intensity, sobbing as they forced their way through the paralyzed throat. A wild scream burst from the drooling lips. The footsteps below, no longer hesitant, pounded up the stairway.

Ari smiled quietly. With superhuman strength he grasped the shrieking figure in his thin arms and leaned backward as far as he could over the broad railing, pulling the struggling body of the other with him. The pain almost paralyzed him, robbing him of the power of his arms, but he forced himself ever backward, panting, fighting. With a violent arch of his back he rolled sideways, never loosening his grip on the other, dragging the squirming body with him; a low growling sound came from his throat, from the exertion and the terrible stabbing pain.

The footsteps came clattering across the concrete of the platform; hands reached out desperately. He felt the fingers clawing at him, the fingernails scraping urgently across the cloth of his sleeve. The pain in his body spelled to a climax; a star-burst exploded before him, releasing a beautiful brilliance in his eyes; and then released him to final peace and freedom as they dropped away from the dragging hands into the void below.

They fell through the night, a dead man still clasping a screaming maniac in his rigid, locked grasp. The sea reached out with calm arms to greet them….