Twilight Zone

  The first officer grabbed his arm, then reached into Bill’s coat pocket for his wallet.

  Bill shook his head. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing—”

  The second officer slapped his face. “Sei still!” he shouted.

  The stinging blow brought tears to Bill’s eyes, and before he could speak again, the first officer had grabbed his wallet; now he was rifling its plastic pockets and examining their contents. He peered down at Bill’s Master Charge card.

  “Qu’ est-ce que c’est que ça?” he snapped.

  Bill frowned in bewilderment, then recoiled as the second man slapped his face again.

  “Antworten Sie!” the Nazi shouted. “Was meint das?”

  Bill forced his voice. “It’s a credit card for goodness sake!”

  “Sind Sie Englischer?” the second officer demanded. “Was tun Sie hier?”

  Bill groped for an answer. What was he doing here? And just where was he? He stared past his two interrogators, stared at the signs identifying the storefront across the street. The signs were in French, but these men were German. Vaguely he remembered his history lessons when he was still a kid in school. The Nazis had occupied France during World War Two. But that was in 1940, a lifetime ago. How could they be here now?

  The first officer held up Bill’s driver’s license. “Vous êtes American? Répondez-moi!”

  “Was tun sie hier?” the second officer repeated. Stepping behind Bill, he grabbed his arms, holding him fast.

  “Let go of me!” Bill shouted.

  The first officer shook his head. “Venez avec nous!” He closed the wallet and stuffed it into his pocket, then turned and started across the walk to the waiting car. His companion began to propel Bill forward. As they reached the open car door, Bill yanked himself free and turned quickly, lunging at his captor and pushing him back against the other officer.

  The two men collided forcefully, and for a moment they stumbled off-balance. Bill turned and ran down the street.

  Shouts rose behind him: “Halt!” “Arrêtez!”

  Bill did not look back. He ran forward blindly with a speed born of panic.

  Again the shouts sounded: “Halt! Ich werde schie Ben!”

  Bill opened his eyes just in time to see the entrance to an alleyway yawning to his left. As he swerved into it, he heard the echo of two shots from behind. He raced up the alley, weaving his way amidst a litter of garbage and broken pieces of furniture. In the darkness he stumbled and fell.

  For a moment he lay there, trying to catch his breath. Panting, he raised his head and glanced back just in time to see his pursuers appear at the end of the alleyway behind him. Both men were holding pistols now, and as their eyes scanned the darkness they raised the weapons, firing blindly.

  Pain lanced Bill’s left arm just below the shoulder. He glanced down, shocked at the sight of the bleeding wound. From the darkness beyond came the sound of running feet pounding against the cobblestones.

  Glancing around frantically, Bill saw a pile of rubble projecting from the wall directly beside him. Soundlessly, he slid behind it and crouched down, breathing a silent prayer that his hiding place was secure.

  Afraid to lift his head, he could only lie silently as the sound and tempo of running feet increased, then diminished in darkness beyond. Only then did he dare to lift his head and peer forward to the other end of the alley. In the light from the street beyond, he saw that the officers had halted, glancing about in confusion.

  For a moment Bill felt safe—but only for a moment. Now the air resounded with a shrill shriek of a whistle, summoning aid.

  Bill’s throbbing arm was warm with blood, his forehead cold with sweat. Peering out from behind the rubble, he saw a wooden door set in the brick wall of the alley directly across from him. Gasping, he rose and dashed toward it. He tugged at the door handle, hoping against hope that he’d find it unlocked. To his relief, the door gave way, opening inward.

  He entered, closing the door behind him. Slowly his eyes penetrated the gloom. Directly before him loomed a flight of stairs. He moved toward it quietly, then began to climb.

  Halfway between the foot of the stairs and the landing above him he paused, startled by a sudden sound of footsteps overhead.

  Again, the cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Someone was coming but there was no place to hide. He stood there, trapped.

  Then footsteps faded and he heard the creak of a door opening and closing somewhere above.

  Bill waited for a moment, giddy with the wave of pain that pulsed through his left arm. He strained to listen, but no further sound broke the silence.

  Slowly he continued his climb. When he reached the landing above, he halted again, glancing from left to right along the small hallway. There were doors at either end. From behind the one at his right, he heard the faint and muffled murmur of conversation. Moving toward it, he could make out the source of the sound more clearly—a woman’s voice, speaking French.

  Bill couldn’t tell what she was saying. The mere fact that she was French and female was enough of a relief to determine his decision.

  Slowly, he pushed the door open and entered the room beyond.

  He found himself standing in the confines of a shabby kitchen, illuminated by the light from a single bare bulb dangling on a cord above a table. Seated around it were three small children who now glanced up from their supper in surprise as he appeared. Standing before the wood stove at one side was a middle-aged woman, obviously their mother. Her dress was drab, her hair disheveled, her eyes widened in surprise.

  Bill turned to her, his own eyes pleading. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.”

  The mother made no reply. The children stared at him silently; then, in response to the woman’s gesture they rose from their seats and moved toward her. The mother stepped before them as they huddled behind her for protection.

  “Please—you’ve got to help me,” Bill murmured. “I’ve been shot.”

  The woman gave him a puzzled glance, then her eyes darted toward the small window at the far corner of the room as the sound of sirens wailed up from the streets below.

  Bill’s voice rose, trying to drown them out. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s like I’m in a dream or something—”

  The woman wasn’t listening to him. But now as the screech of the sirens grew louder, her face firmed in sudden decision. In three quick steps she was at the window—raising it—leaning out—shouting down into the street below.

  Her words were in French but Bill understood them all too clearly.

  “Aidez-nous!” she screamed. “Il est ici! Le Juif est ici!”

  Bill took a step forward. “Please—don’t let them find me—”

  His voice was lost in the sound of her screaming. “Le Juif que vous cherchez est ici! En haut!”

  Bill turned and the children cowered, gazing up at him in fright, but their fear was nothing compared to his own as he heard the answering voices shouting up from the street below and the drumming of running feet against the pavement.

  He lurched through the opened doorway to the landing beyond. Staring down, he saw the door burst open at the foot of the stairs. A uniformed man glanced up, meeting his startled gaze, then turned to call out to his companion. His language was German.

  “Das ist er.”

  A rush of footsteps and a babble of voices rose in answer. As soldiers began pouring through the doorway of the landing below, Bill turned and raced back into the kitchen.

  Slamming the door, he barred it from the inside. Behind him the woman screamed again and the children started to cry. Bill ignored them, moving to the window and staring out at the drop below. The street was temporarily deserted but he couldn’t chance jumping—at this height the fall could be fatal.

  Now the room resounded with frantic echoes as the soldiers began pounding on the door.

  There was a sudden crash as one of the upper panels splintered under the impact of a rifle b
utt.

  Bill reached out with his good arm, finding and grasping the cornice above the window. Firming his grip, he swung out and pulled himself upward, his feet braced against the side of the window frame.

  Exerting all his strength, he clung to the projection with both hands, not daring to look down at the street below. For a moment he hung swaying, his feet moving pendulum-like in empty air; then he raised himself over the cornice and onto the rooftop. Now a faint babble arose from the street; but Bill didn’t look down. Panting for breath, he rose and ran across the roof, continuing his route across the roof of the building beyond it.

  From behind and below, a voice shouted in German. “Er ist am Dach! Ich will schnell eine Licht.”

  Glancing down, Bill saw a soldier climbing out of the window of the room he had just vacated.

  Dizzy with exertion, he turned and stared across the alley where another rooftop rose. This one was slanted and tiled. Bill glanced at it dubiously but the sound of voices from below firmed his resolution. In a minute they’d be up here and he had no choice, nowhere else to go.

  Breathing deeply, he moved to the edge of the roof, forcing himself to look down just long enough to estimate the distance between this building and the next.

  Eight feet—maybe nine. He could make it. What was he talking about? He had to make it!

  He stepped back, taking another deep breath, then ran forward and leaped from the parapet, landing on the slanted surface opposite with a thump that squeezed the air from his lungs. His fingers found a purchase on the tiles, but even when he exerted all his strength, he was unable to pull himself upward. The darkness had deceived him; the angle of the roof was too steep for him to climb with nothing but tiles to cling to.

  Suddenly a beam of light flared across the surface of the roof directly beside him.

  Bill glanced down over his left shoulder for a glimpse of the alleyway below. His eyes watered as he stared into the blinding ray of an upturned searchlight resting in the back of an open jeep. As the light swept on, its path was followed by a hail of rifle shots. The soldiers were firing up, guided by the beam.

  Frantically, Bill made another effort to edge his way up along the steep slant of the rooftop, favoring his right hand.

  There was a sudden splintering sound and Bill glanced up along his arm to its source: the tile he clung to had cracked and broken loose.

  “Oh no!” he gasped.

  Scrabbling, his fingers clawed nothing but empty air, and he felt himself starting to slide back toward the edge of the roof behind him. And now the beam of the searchlight swooped, then halted directly upon him, pinning him in its harsh glare.

  Bill closed his eyes. In a moment now, the shots would come.

  Suddenly, from below, a voice sounded in command. “Halt Feurer!”

  There were no shots, and no need for them, because they could see what was happening. They could see him sliding down the slant toward the edge of the roof.

  Bill clawed out again, gripping another tile to halt his descent, then groaned in dismay as he felt it tear loose from beneath his frantic fingers.

  A sudden blast of cold air welled up from below and he realized to his horror that his legs were now dangling over the edge. Then he began to slide faster.

  Tiles scraped against his body and tore at the side of his cheek as he slipped backward. As he went over the edge, his right arm rose to grab the drainage gutter; now his fingers closed around it and for a moment he hung swaying over the alleyway below.

  Then he fell.

  Bill hit the ground with an impact that drove the breath from his body.

  Ground. He was lying on the ground.

  And that meant he was still alive, still conscious. It was a miracle, that’s what it was—a miracle. That rooftop was at least three stories above the cobblestones of the alleyway.

  Cobblestones—

  Bill was lying facedown, his left cheek pressed against the ground. And it was ground; not cold, hard stone, but soft, warm grass.

  Something was wrong here—very wrong.

  Bill started to open his eyes, but before he could do so, hands gripped his shoulders roughly, turning him over and slamming him down on his back.

  Now his eyes were open. He stared up into the night sky, into the circle of figures gazing down at him. “No!” he cried.

  He was lying on his back in a forest clearing. Flames flickered under the hanging branches of the trees—flames of torches held in the hands of white-robed, hooded figures standing over him.

  A shock of recognition surged through him.

  White robes—armed men squinting down at him through eyeholes in their hoods. The Ku Klux Klan!

  “No!” Bill cried again.

  One of the hooded figures laughed. “We got you now, boy!”

  What was he talking about?

  Bill opened his mouth, but before he could speak, two of the Klansmen grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to his feet.

  Then he found his voice. “Where am I?”

  A hooded man cradling a rifle shook his head. “Shut up!” Turning, he nodded to the man standing at his right. “Tie his hands,” he said.

  The hooded figure nodded, then stepped behind Bill to join his companions as they jerked their captive’s wrists out behind his back and pinned them together. Bill felt the rough rope looping around his wrists.

  He looked up, shaking his head. “What’s the idea? Why are you doing this to me?”

  The Klansman before him raised his rifle in a menacing gesture. “Shut up, boy!”

  Bill stared at him, frowning. “What are you talking about? I’m a white man!”

  Hands gripped his shoulders from behind, pitching him forward. He fell facedown upon the grassy knoll, and landed hard, unable to break his fall because his wrists were now firmly tied together behind his back.

  The Klansman with the rifle moved toward him, and Bill felt a jab of pain as a booted foot emerged from beneath the hem of the white robe, kicking him over on his back again.

  “You hear me, boy? I said for you to shut up!”

  Bill gaped upward, swallowing hard, hoping against hope as he made one last attempt. “I’m white! Can’t you see? Look at me—”

  The Klansman with the rifle leaned forward, a mirthless chuckle sounding from behind his hanging hood.

  The man above him swung his rifle-barrel down, smashing it into Bill’s stomach. “Don’t talk back to me, boy! We gonna learn you some respect.”

  Bill lay silent, fighting the pain, and the nausea welling up behind it.

  A low murmur sounded from the half-circle of hooded figures behind him. From their midst one voice rose clearly. “Let’s hang him!”

  Clutching hands reached down, yanking Bill to his feet. Holding him tightly, they jerked him around to face the moss-festooned boughs of a huge tree. Something flamed and flared beside it, a burning cross, six feet high, the base wedged into the ground. By its light and by the light of the torches carried by the Klansmen, Bill could see hooded shadows reflected against the treetops of the forest surrounding the clearing.

  Hoods . . . torches . . . cross-burning . . . they had to be insane! Either that or he was crazy.

  No time to puzzle it out, because now they were already dragging him toward the tree. Staring up, he saw a Klansman standing beside it, his hands busily tying the final knot of a noose. Now he tossed the loose end of the heavy rope over a hanging tree limb. As his captors on either side pushed Bill forward, the man with the noose advanced, holding it out, ready to encircle his neck.

  Bill twisted his head to avoid the descending loop, then lifted his right foot. Lunging sideways, he kicked out at the leg of the man at his right.

  With a gasp of pain the hooded Klansman staggered off balance, stumbling against the blazing cross. His gasp turned into a scream as his robe caught fire.

  Howling, he hurled himself to the ground, writhing and rolling in a frantic effort to extinguish the flame. Shouts of dismay sounded as
his companions rushed forward to aid their comrade. Freed from the grip of his captors, Bill turned and plunged out of the firelit circle and into the dark woods beyond.

  Hands still tied behind his back, he stumbled forward, darting between the trees at a dead run.

  Amidst the outcry and confusion in the clearing behind, a shout arose to speed him on his course. “Look out! He’s getting away!”

  Bill didn’t look back. Had he done so, he might have seen one of the hooded figures hurry toward the black bulk of a pickup truck that stood parked at the far side of the clearing and hastily open its rear doors to release what waited within.

  Now there was no need to look back. A sudden baying arose, telling all he needed to know.

  Dogs.

  They were coming after him with bloodhounds!

  Bill ran faster. He weaved his way through the darkness, blundering into tree trunks. Low-hanging branches whipped his face, tangles of roots and vegetation impeded his staggering flight. Wheezing, he flung himself forward. Desperation drove him onward in response to the sound of curses and cries, the crashing of running feet, the howling of the hounds bounding behind.

  Suddenly he emerged from the woods to find himself standing before the weedy edge of a riverbank. For a moment he halted there, staring down into the turbulent current glittering in the moonlight. Croaking in alarm, frightened frogs splashed into the rushing water. Bill didn’t hear them; he was conscious only of the howling dogs, the whoops and shouts of the pursuing men. Someone’s voice rose in a rebel yell: it seemed to come from only a few yards away.

  As its echo sounded in his ear, Bill started forward. Taking a deep breath, he dived headlong into the water.

  Feet thrashing, he surfaced, twisting and tugging in panic at the cord binding his wrists behind him. To his relief he felt it loosen and give way, freeing his hands. Then he began to swim downstream, moving toward the center of the rushing torrent.

  Now, on the bank behind him, the dogs appeared, their howls mingling with the roar of the rushing water. A moment later they were joined by their hooded masters, armed with rifles and shotguns.

  One of them called out angrily; “You won’t get far, boy!”