Padlocked, page 4
“Ira,” Gertrud said, her voice softer than her sister’s, “you were tolerated because of our father’s position. Now that Anna is gone, we can’t protect you anymore. You will be fired from your job. You can no longer live in our home—”
“But the girls! Surely, you can find it in your hearts to help these defenseless little girls!”
“They are Jewish now, Ira.”
“They are half-Christian!”
“Not in Germany. They are Jews. And it has only been our father’s position that has held back the community from expelling you. Now that Anna is gone, you must leave.”
“But—”
“You must leave,” Herta said sternly. “You must do it for these girls.”
Agata stared at the newborn in her lap. She was swaddled in a linen wrap so that only her head emerged. She had red, chubby cheeks, a wide stub nose, and a delicate covering of short, dark hair. Her pacifier slipped from her mouth, and as she struggled to turn her head back toward it, her lips were tiny and pink. She looked like a little angel. And Agata hated her.
In that instant, Agata wanted nothing more than to jump up from the chair and hand this bundle over to somebody else. If she got rid of it, it would bring her mother back. It was this package in linen that had killed her mother, but there might be hope yet that Anna would return to her. She had to return. She was six years old, and she needed her mother.
Then the baby turned its eyes on Agata. They were enormous, dark eyes, and they seemed to contain a wisdom that was not possible in a human, let alone a newborn. She opened her mouth to reveal hard little gums, and she waved her head this way and that in search of a nipple.
Agata balanced the child on her lap as she reached for the pacifier and placed it back in the child's mouth. The baby cooed. Her eyes seemed to fill with love, a love that became threads that bound the two of them together, wrapping Agata in its invisible embrace. “Elsa,” she breathed. “I am your mother now.”
4
Max
The smoke filled the air. At times, it was so heavy that Max Kursell was sure it would leave thick black soot all over him. He had seen from afar smoldering ruins from hard-fought battles, and this was certainly heavier than any cannon fire, much less a handheld grenade. He wondered if the grenade had only been the first of several explosions.
Max tried to shout for help, but he could not find his voice. He placed his hand on his throat and was horrified to discover that when he pulled his palm away, it was covered in blood. He hadn’t felt any pain. In fact, he didn’t feel anything at all.
Panic set in as he realized that complete silence surrounded him. He had heard stories of a formidable soundlessness in the camp, as it was against the rules for any prisoners to speak, lest they be punished. But this was different.
There should have been a great deal of noise. The Soviets and Ukrainians had arrived in large numbers in clamorous tanks and trucks. Military officers should be shouting orders. Those affected by the grenade should be screaming for assistance. Unless, he thought, they were all too wounded or stunned.
He realized he was standing, wandering aimlessly through a fog of war. He looked down to find that his legs were unscathed; so were his arms. He patted his torso, moving up to his throat again. It was dry. When he pulled his hand away, there was no blood on it, not even from his first contact only a moment before.
Max laughed, the sound reverberating around him. He had evaded being wounded. He’d made it through the war! He had survived and even thrived in Poland for six years of Nazi occupation. Now, he’d been able to convince the Soviets that he was on their side.
He nearly ran headlong into the gate. It had not been there a moment ago; he was sure of it. Perhaps it had been. He felt confused and disoriented. He found the padlock and swore under his breath before he grabbed the gates with both hands and rattled them. “Unlock this gate!” he shouted, his voice echoing as if he stood in an amphitheater. “Unlock it, I say! Right this instance!”
“Does it look like the camp gate to you?”
The voice startled him, and he whirled to the right and then to the left. The voice had seemed to come from all around him, encompassing him, encircling him. It was deep and guttural as if a wolf had suddenly found the capacity for words.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Where are you?”
Max was met only with silence. He began to feel as if his torso was becoming constricted, and he struggled to breathe. “Do you know who I am?” he bellowed.
After another moment of contained stillness, the voice responded. “Of course, I do, Maxwell Erich Kursell.”
Max froze. As the disembodied voice had spoken, the air around him had filled once more with odorless smoke the color of pitch. A senseless terror gripped him with such force that he struggled to remain in control of his faculties.
“Go ahead,” the voice continued. “Look again. Does it resemble the gate to the camp?”
Haltingly, Max looked upward from the padlock. “No,” he said. “It does not. The words are gone. But,” he added, “I have been wandering. Perhaps I am at a different gate.” He had no sooner spoken the last word than a cherub’s face in the top center of the gate began to morph. It turned crimson and grew larger, the serene expression contorting into a monstrous image with a sinister smile, the tongue extending outward. He recoiled from it, dropping his grip on the iron pickets. He stumbled backward. “Where am I?” His voice had lost its studied command and sounded uncertain in the dark, swirling smoke.
“Perhaps, you have died, Max Kursell.” The voice sounded throaty and silky now, like an animal stalking its prey.
“If I have died,” he swallowed, forcing himself to assume control once more, “then are these the gates of heaven?”
A sinister laughter cackled around him. He felt as though someone had pinched him, but when he spun around, no one was there. He swiveled this way and that until dizziness overtook him. It was a head wound, he thought. I have a head injury. I must get help.
“Show yourself,” he commanded.
“Ah. The last command you will ever utter.” The smoke seemed to be pushed back and away until he found himself staring at a figure only a few yards away. He leaned in and squinted in an effort to see it more clearly. It must be a man, he thought. The voice had been too deep to be a woman. He appeared to be sitting, but his height was evident even while perched. He wore a cloak the color of graphite, which was so long that it covered his shoes and so high that it almost appeared to reach the brim of a head covering. The covering itself was odd; it was neither a hat nor a hood but both, concealing the face entirely. As Max watched, the smoke appeared to merge with the heavy fabric, creating an undulating mist.
“Who are you?” Max asked.
“I am Abaddon.”
“Abaddon.” He took a breath. He must remain in control. “And what is it you do here, Abaddon?”
The figure rose, and as it did, Max shrank away. It appeared to be at least three times his size.
“I hold the secret to the gate.”
When Max found his voice again, it sounded weak and small. “Are you Satan?”
The figure remained in front of him, vibrating as though it had become a part of the coal-black air.
“There is some mistake,” he continued. When Abaddon did not respond, he swallowed and continued, “I can give you whatever you need to open the gate.”
“Whatever I need?” The cackle began again. “What is that, Max? Your money? Your material possessions?” The arms became outstretched, reaching at least ten feet in each direction. “At the moment of your death, your money ceased to exist. Everything you ever owned has disappeared.”
“But—”
“Money and possessions are nonexistent here. No, Max. All that remains is your soul. Your soul is the key to the gate.”
When Abaddon’s words eventually faded away from echoing and circling him, Max said, “Then, I have faithfully attended church services every Sunday. You must know that.”
“Was your soul there to worship, Max?”
“Well, of course,” Max stammered. “That’s the only reason people go to church.”
“Is it?” When Max did not respond, Abaddon continued, “You see, Max, you cannot bargain with me—nor with anyone on this side. We see through to the essence of your soul. It was not your actions that decided your fate. It was the purpose and meaning that served as the seeds to your actions.”
“Purpose and meaning?” he gasped. “My purpose was to survive. My purpose was to remain outside of the camp as a free man, not inside as a prisoner, no better than a caged animal.”
“‘No better than an animal?’ And who made them ‘no better than an animal,’ Max?”
“Surely, you don’t—I—I was only following orders.”
Abaddon chuckled. “If you only knew how many times I have heard that.”
“But I was—”
“Remember, Max.” At the sound of Abaddon’s voice, Max became mute, unable to continue. “You cannot bargain with us here. Whatever power you think you have is worthless here. It means nothing, just like your money.”
After a long moment, Max found his voice had returned. “Surely, you must know that I never killed anyone.”
“‘Never killed anyone?’ Do you think killing someone requires you to pull the trigger yourself, Max?” A glint of red shone from the depths of the head covering, as if the creature’s teeth were the color of blood. “Killing someone sometimes requires a chain. An order, a declaration, a pointed finger. At any point along the chain, the act can be stopped; the chain can be broken. How many people did you select for slaughter?” When Max did not respond, Abaddon continued, “And when you cried and declared you were unable to do it, how many others did you order to participate in your stead?”
“I was too far down the chain to make a difference. Besides, how was I to know what happened in the camp?”
“Ah. Perhaps you thought they would be treated like kings.” When Max fumbled for an answer, Abaddon continued, “Of course not, Max. The purpose was to make an example of them. The intent was to make them suffer. Each one had a soul, Max. And each one’s soul was no less than your own but equal to your own. Everything else was a façade, Max. Their nationalities, their languages, their cultures... all a façade.”
“Who are you?” Max breathed. “Are you God? Are you Satan?”
“It matters not who I am. What matters is who you were, who you became. What matters are the people you harmed, the souls whose lives you ruined, the reverberation of your deeds.”
“You said my soul is the key. Then I demand that you open this gate.”
“Open the gate, Max? And do you know what lies on the other side?”
As Max peered between the pickets, Armageddon loomed before him. On one side, he witnessed flames and death, shouting and cries, suffering, mayhem, and chaos. Too far on the opposite side for him to see clearly were lights, shields, and—he squinted to see more clearly—were those arms upraised?
“Your demands are worthless here, Max,” Abaddon said. His arms seemed to encircle him, and yet, his arms were not solid but black, putrid smoke that threatened to enter his nose and mouth. “There is only one way to open that gate. And we must begin by going back to every moment in your life.”
“Why? I have already lived it! Unless—yes, allow me to make different decisions—”
“The decisions have already been made, Max. The moments have already passed. It is time now for us to see them as God does.”
“But—” His words were cut off as the arms spun him like a tornado. His breath was wrenched from him, his eyes were blinded, and a deafening roar enveloped him.
The apple hit eight-year-old Max in the forehead as he rushed along the busy street. He felt momentarily stunned as his head jerked backward from the blow; the images of the dusty street and rows of brown brick apartment buildings were replaced by a dizzying array of black spots. His legs and feet took on a life of their own as they stumbled rearwards before righting themselves and jerkily propelling him forward. A steady trickle of blood ran down his forehead and into one eye, nearly blinding him. He barely heard the boys’ laughter, an echoing series of guffaws and taunts as he attempted to hurry beyond their range. He knew better than to respond, though he wanted more than anything to call them names and shake his fist. To do so would bring them from their open window above him down a narrow staircase into the street, where they would pummel him until he could bear no more.
And he was late already.
He burst into the Mond-Weiss Bakery, the door hitting the wall before slamming behind him in his haste. The Widow Weiss stood behind the long glass counter. She was a portly woman with a round face and kind, sparkling eyes. She always wore an apron covered in flour and always smelled of spices and fruits. Her daughter, Celina, was a teenager and looked, perhaps, like a younger Mrs. Weiss, her chocolate eyes dancing, and her shoulder-length bob dark and lush. She turned around from dusting the shelves to greet Max before hesitating as she took in his appearance.
“Max!” Mrs. Weiss exclaimed. She grabbed a towel and hurried around the bakery counter. “What happened to you, dear?”
“I fell,” Max answered. He hated to stand still for her to clean the wound on his head, but as she pulled away the towel to fold it over for a fresh spot, he noticed the bright red blood. His heart calmed as she continued. “Celina, bring me another towel, a wet one, please.”
Celina rushed to the sink to get the towel wet and carried it to her mother. “Oh, Max,” she said sadly, her voice tinged with affection.
Mrs. Weiss continued to clean him up properly. He could not allow his Mama to see him injured.
“Again?” she asked. “Dear Max, my dear child, you mustn’t hurry so much that you fall again. I will wait for you, just as I do every evening. I promise you that.” Finished, she leaned in to hug him. “Now. I have a special treat for you.”
She rushed behind the counter. When she emerged a few seconds later, she motioned toward a bistro table. “Sit, sit, my dear Max. I have a strucla for you.”
Max dutifully sat on the heavy wood chair while Mrs. Weiss placed a small plate and a cloth napkin in front of him. The aroma of the pastry wafted up, and he closed his eyes as he inhaled. It smelled of almonds, sugar, butter, and cinnamon. He accepted the fork she handed him and dug into the petite slice. He knew from experience that it was three bites, and he savored each warm, delectable piece as long as humanly possible.
“The bread is just coming out of the oven,” Mrs. Weiss said from the back of the bakery. The ovens were in full view, positioned directly in line with the front door—a deliberate placement that allowed the aroma to waft through the open door onto the sidewalk beyond. As if remembering that Max had slammed the door behind him, she pulled the bread from the oven, placed it onto a cooling rack, and, while it cooled, she opened the door and put a brick at its base to keep it propped open. There were only a few who could resist the mouthwatering scent of her baked goods.
She took her time moving back to the bread, her eyes wandering to the scrawny little boy sitting with his head tilted back, his eyes closed, the tip of his tongue occasionally jutting out to lick his lips. Max Kursell might be eight years old, but he appeared closer to five. He was shorter than most and so gaunt that a brisk wind might carry him away. But he had a full head of fair blond hair and icy blue eyes, and who knew but someday he might be quite a looker.
Max was just finishing his strucla when she finished wrapping the still-hot bread in a thin piece of cheesecloth and placed it in front of him.
“Better take this to your mama,” she said as she collected the plate, fork, and napkin. She hesitated. “Do you have food to go with this, Max?”
Max nodded but averted his eyes. “Mama is making soup.”
“Oh? That’s good. What is in it?”
He shrugged. “Radishes. Maybe a carrot!” He looked up and smiled.
“Do you think she might have a need for a piece of fish or two?”
“Fish?” His eyes gleamed.
“I had too much delivered today. She would be doing me a monumental favor if she took two pieces off me.”
Max nodded and kept nodding as she quickly wrapped two pieces of food in a separate piece of cheesecloth. They were coated in such thick layers of crust, he knew they might never taste the thin slice of fish within, if there indeed was any. But it didn’t matter. The crust itself was delicious. He knew it would be.
Mrs. Weiss walked him to the door as he held the two packages in his tiny hands. “Now, don’t run too quickly,” she admonished gently. “You don’t want to fall again and split your head or spill the food.”
As Max hurried down the sidewalk, she walked into the street, now deserted as suppertime approached, and made sure the boys in the next block noticed her. Folding her arms across her stout body, she continued walking toward them, narrowing her eyes. As Max approached that apartment building, they ducked inside and did not emerge even after he had passed beneath them.
Max hunched next to the living room radio as he carefully rolled the dial to receive a clearer signal. The radio was a monstrously large piece of furniture and something they would never have been able to afford, but his mother had received it as partial payment for sewing numerous items of clothing. It appeared to have been damaged, its wood marred, and the reception left much to be desired. But it had opened up a new world to him.
He was eighteen years old now, his pale blond hair cropped short and his blue eyes sharp and riveting. He hadn’t become tall and muscular like the movie stars that were all the rage now; his growth had been stunted at barely five-foot-four, and his body was just a slightly older version of his spindly childhood physique. He carefully listened to the phrase on the radio and attempted to repeat it verbatim. “Thank you,” he said in English with a contrived British accent. “You’re welcome.”
“What are you saying now?” his mother asked from the dining table a few feet away. The table was piled high with bolts of material on one side and semi-finished clothing on the other. In between, Felka Kursell peddled the old sewing machine, her back hunched over the needle as she joined two pieces of fabric together.
