The Bible of Clay

  "Mercedes won't hear of that," Carlo declared, his heart heavy.

  "What about us, Carlo? Will we hear of it?"

  "Do you think our conscience can bear it?"

  "Mine can, I assure you," Hausser told him; he had not one iota of doubt that he could sleep easily for the rest of his life no matter how many more Tannenbergs were killed.

  "You're right. I guess I'm still just trying to ... to get used to the news."

  "I am too, but we have to make a decision," Hausser said firmly.

  "Maybe we should let them make the decision. They know about these things. They can decide where it would be best to do it," Carlo finally said, knowing that Mercedes would never consent to stopping halfway.

  "That suits me fine."

  "At any rate, tell them that we will hold them to the second part."

  "Yes, we have to; we've waited our whole lives for this, and today God has finally answered our prayers."

  "It has nothing to do with God, Hans, and never has—God wasn't there, he's never been with us. Mercedes is right: If God ever existed, he abandoned us long ago."

  They fell silent again, each lost in his own thoughts, wandering through a past that never receded far in their memories.

  "I'll call Bruno and then Mercedes, and if there's anything new I'll let you know."

  "All rights, Hans. This is going to be a very long night."

  "I personally am going to sleep very well."

  Deborah jerked awake when the telephone rang, then she bolted upright in bed. She clutched her chest and waited—a premonition of sorrow swept over her.

  "Deborah, for heaven's sake, it's all right—it's just the telephone," her husband told her.

  "It's almost dawn, Bruno—who would be calling?"

  Bruno Muller got up and went into the hall to answer the phone. Deborah followed him, shivering with cold and uncertainty.

  "Hello?" Bruno answered, his voice firm and steady.

  "Bruno . . . it's Hans."

  "Hans! What's wrong?" Bruno asked, now alarmed. "The monster is dead."

  "My God!" Bruno exclaimed, breathless at the news, staring at his disheveled wife leaning against the doorway.

  Bruno felt a wave of warmth pass through his body, and then an icy cold settled in the pit of his stomach. Myriad emotions washed over his face, and he felt faint.

  "Bruno! Bruno! What is it?!" Deborah asked, her voice edging toward hysteria.

  "I'm all right, Deborah. Go back to bed."

  "But, Bruno . . ."

  "Go back to bed!" barked the usually quiet Bruno. Hans, listening, knew firsthand what a chaos of emotions Bruno was feeling.

  "Are you sure, Hans?" Bruno asked, back on the line. "I'm sure. We've killed him at last."

  "We did it, we finally did it. Oh, my God, we've won!" Bruno knew now that he could finally die in peace.

  Hans nodded in silence at his friend's words.

  Mercedes had taken a sleeping pill—over the last few months she'd been lucky to get four hours' sleep a night, and she'd finally given in to medication.

  The phone rang and rang and rang before it finally penetrated her dream state. "Hello?" "Mercedes?"

  It sounded to Hans as though she were speaking from beyond the grave. The slurring of her words and the grogginess of her voice worried him. "Are you all right?"

  "Who is it?" Mercedes asked vaguely, trying to wake up, focus her eyes, think.

  "It's Hans."

  "Hans? Hans . . . What's happened?"

  "Good news—that's why I didn't wait to call. I'm sorry I woke you."

  "It's all right—what is it?"

  "He's dead. The monster is dead."

  Mercedes cried out, a sound almost like keening. Then she managed to sit up on the side of the bed and put her feet on the floor.

  "Mercedes, are you all right?" Hans asked again.

  "I was ... I was so asleep. I couldn't sleep, so I took a pill and . . . Hans, is it true?"

  "Yes, absolutely true. He's dead, and there's proof."

  "What was it like? When did it happen?" Mercedes was all questions.

  "He's already been buried." "Did he suffer?"

  "I don't know—I don't have the details yet."

  "I hope he did—I hope he knew he was dying. What about the girl? The granddaughter?" "She's alive."

  "Why? I won't forgive any member of his family," Mercedes declared, her voice rising.

  "There is no forgiveness, that's right, but things have to be done carefully. Apparently there were some problems, and now they want to know whether to finish it there or whether it can be done in Europe, where she'll be staying for a few months."

  "And how are we supposed to know which way is best?" Mercedes shot back.

  "Well, we could defer to them. They're experts, after all."

  "Then we tell them to do what we hired them to do—the whole job, and the sooner the better. . . . Hans, are you sure? Sure? That monster is dead, truly dead?"

  "He's dead, Mercedes, I'm sure."

  Mercedes began to weep then, and her sobs moved her old friend so deeply that he, too, at last was able to shed tears of joy and relief. The world was finally free of Alfred Tannenberg.

  "Mercedes, please, don't cry. . . ."

  Bruno's words seemed powerless to console her.

  Carlo brought her a glass of water, and Hans took an immaculate white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and thrust it upon her.

  At that hour of the evening in Barcelona, the noises of the street filtered through the windows of Mercedes' house.

  Hans had suggested that they meet to mark the fulfillment of the vow they had taken so long ago. Within hours the three friends had landed in Barcelona; they were all deeply concerned about Mercedes, who had been in an emotional crisis since she'd learned of the death of Alfred Tannenberg.

  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Mercedes sniffled. "I can't help it; I haven't stopped crying since you called me. . . . You know, I think it's a miracle we were able to kill that monster. I always thought that someday we'd do it, but sometimes I would get so desperate, I would think we might never ..." She began to break down again.

  "I still remember the day the Americans arrived," Carlo said gently to her. "You were in the so-called orphanage, hiding with us. You looked like a little boy. That wonderful Polish doctor saved your life and convinced the others to let you stay with us."

  "If they'd ever discovered you . . . ," Hans said.

  "I don't know what they'd have done to us, but they'd certainly have made the doctor pay," Bruno reflected.

  "You were tougher then than you're acting now—you certainly didn't cry as much," said Carlo, attempting to lighten the mood.

  Mercedes wiped away her tears with Hans' handkerchief and took a sip of water. She even tried to laugh with Carlo.

  "I'm sorry . . . I'm . . . I'm going to wash my face. I'll be back."

  When she left, the three friends looked at one another, their faces still troubled.

  "I don't know how that monster was able to live all these years in the Middle East without being recognized and reported. His name alone should have exposed him." Bruno shook his head.

  "A lot of Nazis took refuge in Syria, Egypt, Iraq, just as they did in Brazil, Paraguay, and other Latin American countries. Tannenberg's case is not the only one; there are still Nazis living very respectable lives, old men nobody pays any mind to," said Hans.

  "Don't forget that the grand mufti of Jerusalem was one of Hitler's staunch allies and that the Arabs were supporters of the Nazi regime. We shouldn't be surprised by Tannenberg," Carlo said.

  "But why weren't we able to find him for so many years?" Bruno asked.

  "Because even if a person changes his name, it's easier to find him in a democratic country than in an autocracy," replied Carlo.

  Mercedes came back looking more composed, although her eyes were still red.

  "I still haven't thanked you all for coming," she said, smiling uncertainly.


  "We all needed to see one another again," replied Hans.

  "God, what a long road it's been!" Mercedes exclaimed.

  "Yes, but it's all been worth it. All these years of suffering, of nightmares, and we've finally been repaid. Vengeance," Bruno said, "is ours."

  "Vengeance, yes, vengeance," said Mercedes, her eyes filled with tears but her voice strong and hard. "Not for a single minute in all these years have I doubted that we would keep our vow. What we went through ... It was ... it was hell, and that's why I don't care if God exists; his punishment could never be worse than Mauthausen."

  "Did you talk to Tom Martin again?" Carlo asked Hans, trying to distract Mercedes.

  "Yes, and I told him that they were to finish the job, the sooner the better. He assured me that his man would do what he'd been hired to do, but he underscored the tremendous difficulties he's already had to face with Alfred. He keeps saying that we can't fathom the obstacles he had to overcome to kill a man under the protection of Saddam in Iraq," Hans replied.

  "It's certainly taken long enough," remarked Bruno.

  "And that's why it's cost us a fortune. But in the final analysis, our man did it—we have to be grateful for that. Global Group isn't staffed by thugs and hoodlums; if they were, they would never have been able to kill Tannenberg. Anyway, I told him that the second half of the job had to be done, and quicker than the first," Hans said.

  "Getting rid of Clara Tannenberg may be even more complicated than getting rid of the old man; when the war starts, it won't be easy for Martin's man to finish what he started. And the Americans have made

  their decision. There's a great deal at stake, including saving face," Carlo said with a hint of concern.

  "You know, it's always surprised me that you could be a Communist," Hans said to him.

  Carlo laughed, although his laughter was bitter.

  "My mother was in Mauthausen for being a Communist, or rather, because my father was a Communist. He died before he got to the camp, and my mother . . . my mother worshipped him, so she became a Communist for him—though her parents had also been Reds. What could I do? What can I do? I still believe there's value in Communism, despite the horrors that Stalin perpetrated, all that went on behind the Iron Curtain, in the gulags and all that."

  "I'm torn about this war, although I'll never be anti-American—we owe them our lives," Bruno said.

  "How many innocent people died to free us?" Hans replied. "If the United States hadn't sacrificed thousands of its own men, we'd have died in Mauthausen."

  They fell silent, adrift in their thoughts. Their view of the world had been irrevocably colored by the horror of the camp.

  Carlo got up out of the chair he was sitting in, clapped his hands once, and in a tone of voice that strove for cheerfulness, suggested that they all go out to dinner to celebrate.

  "You're our hostess, Mercedes. Surprise us. But it better be memorable—we've been waiting for this moment for sixty years."

  All four of them knew that they needed to make an effort to get past the emotions of the last hours. Mercedes promised that she'd take them to the best dinner they could ever dream of. None of them had ever gotten over their experience of starvation. It had been many years since they'd left Mauthausen physically, but pain and hunger were with them always.

  47

  "shamas! wake up! wake up!"

  Lia's voice was filled with fear. Shamas opened his eyes and sat up in his bed. Through the window came the first light of day.

  "What is it?"

  "Ili has sent for you. You must go to the temple." "So early? Did he say why?"

  "No, the servant who came said only that Ili wished to see you."

  Shamas dressed quickly and left for the temple, filled with worry by his old master's call.

  When he reached the rectangular room in which Ili and a number of other scribes awaited him, his misgivings were confirmed. Something grave had clearly happened.

  "Shamas, the lord of Safran has demanded our lands," Ili told him. "He is envious of the temple's prosperity."

  "What does he want of us?"

  "All that we have: wheat, the fruits of our trees, the date palms, our water. He wants our livestock and our houses. He says that there is little fruit in his lands, and that the waters of his streams have dried up. He demands that we increase our tributes to him, for he says that in comparison with what we have, we pay little."

  "We have enough grain in the storehouses so that there will be no want of it."

  "That is not the problem, Shamas. The truth is that the lord of the palace lacks nothing but wants everything. He sees that we have much, and he would have it. He is the grandson of my predecessor, the last grand master, and he thinks that it is his birthright to govern not just the palace but the temple as well. He shall seek to place an administrator over us, to oversee our labors and decide what portion of our harvests shall be sent to the royal treasury and what portion shall remain here.

  "I withheld this from you yesterday, so as not to mar your ceremony. But I received the lord's orders several days ago, and today, before dawn, one of his soldiers came to demand my answer. I believed that we could continue to talk about the matter, that I might persuade him of the injustice of his demands, but I was mistaken."

  "And is there no way to oppose him? Can we not rise up against him?"

  "He would destroy us—he would salt our land, sack our storehouses. . . . We have no choice. We are men of peace; we know not how to make war," said Ili.

  The scribes, distraught, were silent, pondering what tribulations their lord's demand might bring upon them. Some looked toward Shamas, hoping that his restless mind might find a solution.

  "We can seek aid from the king of Ur," said Shamas. "He is more powerful than our lord, who would not dare match arms against him."

  They agreed to send an emissary to Ur to seek the king's aid and implore his protection. Ili appointed a young scribe and bade him set out immediately. But the question they all asked themselves was whether the king of Ur would hear their pleas. Kings were capricious beings, and their logic was not the logic of men. Thus, it was possible that the king of Ur might ask in exchange for his aid a price larger than that demanded by the lord of Safran. They were left to await their fate.

  The sun was shining in all its splendor, bathing the yellow land of Safran with light, when the cry of a man rose above the noise of the market.

  Ili and Shamas looked at each other, knowing that that cry was the augury of death and destruction.

  All the scribes ran to the doors of the temple, where soldiers from the lord of Safran were already making ready to enter. The crackling of flames and the weeping of women rose toward the sky, and citizens shouted as the soldiers attacked men's houses and their defenseless inhabitants.

  Shamas realized that there was nothing they could do but bend like the rushes along the banks of the Euphrates, waiting for the storm to pass. But his instinct was more powerful than his reason, and he confronted the soldiers, though Ili begged him to stand aside.

  He knew that his effort would be futile, but he would not surrender to the injustice that was being done against them.

  How much time had passed? Perhaps a second, perhaps hours—he felt profoundly weary, and confusion reigned within his mind.

  No man is eternal, even a king. Someday someone in this temple will live once again in peace, hoking after the fields and pastures, caring for the livestock and the houses of men who trust in the good work of scribes who, as we have, labor from dawn to dusk to bring order and justice to the community, thought Shamas as he was dragged away by a soldier.

  He saw Ili, his master, lying on the ground, with a wound to his face from which a stream of blood was flowing. Other scribes lay motionless around him, and among the bodies were also servants of the temple who had run to defend the place where until today peace and tranquillity had reigned.

  His head hurt, his limbs were heavy, he could hardly move one of his arms, and his
eyesight was clouded.

  Am I dying, like the others? Am I already dead?

  Then he realized that the pain he was feeling was too intense for the dead. He knew that there still remained in him some breath of life, but how much? And Lia—was Lia still alive? The soldier kicked him in the face and left him to die—Shamas was hardly breathing, and the soldier feared little that he would stand again.

  Why has God willed that this should be my end? Shamas thought. Then he smiled to himself—Ili would have reproached him for asking such a question at a moment like this, a question to God. But would the others not ask the same of Marduk?

  If Abraham were here, Shamas would ask him why God allowed His creatures to die violent deaths. Was such an end truly necessary?

  He was not certain whether his eyes were closed, but he could not see; his life was ebbing away, all because of one man's greed. How absurd that seemed to him! Where was God? Would he see Him in the end? He heard a voice, the voice of Abraham, begging him to trust in God. Then a white light illuminated the corner in which he lay, and he felt a firm hand help him stand. He felt no more pain and melted into eternity.

  48

  GIAN MARIA WAS CAREFULLY CLEANING A TABLET ON WHICH

  the marks of cuneiform were barely visible when a laborer practically ran over him. "Come, come!" he shouted. "There is another room! A wall has fallen!"

  "What wall? What's happened?"

  He received no answer from the man, who took off running back toward the excavation site. Gian Maria followed with curiosity. Ayed Sahadi, looking very excited, was shouting orders to a group of laborers.