The Fugitive

Chapter 1

The intoxicating view from the high window of the suite in the Mirabelle Hotel overlooking the ruffled expanse of the ocean front did not seem to have changed at all in his absence. In the far distance the tiny rock islands still broke the even, calm surface of the sea with their pleasantly rounded protuberances; the same bobbing fishing boats seemed to weave on the same hypnotic, undulating waves that washed the beach in front of the hotel veranda. The somnambulant peddlers of ice cream with their gayly striped wagons could have been taken intact from the scene of the week before, pushing the same rickety wagons before them at the same retarded pace along the patterned mosaic sidewalk.

Even the tiny striped umbrellas planted in staggered rows among the daily crop of sun bathers scattered like prop bodies after a battle scene looked as if they had not changed since the last morning he had gazed down upon them. Across the smokeless roofs of the apartment buildings that lined the sand expanse like stilted pickets on a curving fence, the rocky tower of Pão de Açúcar could be seen standing stark against the faded blue sky. Even the tiny cable strands that led to its majestic top seemed to be definable in the clear air of the hot afternoon.

Ari returned to his unpacking. He studied the neatly arranged contents of his leather bag and sighed deeply. Two weeks had passed since his arrival in Brazil; two marvelously dreamless weeks even free of the terrifying heart palpitations; two weeks into which had been crowded more adventure and more excitement than he had known in his life. He stood staring blankly at the challenge of his packed bag. In two weeks he had been kidnapped twice, had seen the sights of Rio, had enjoyed Carnival in São Paulo. What could you know of these things? he asked the waiting bag irritably. All you do is sit there demanding to be emptied.

His restlessness finally overcame him; he left the silent bag and returned to the more satisfying window. But the two weeks were not fruitless, he reflected, searching his mind for some fount of satisfaction to ease his tightened nerves.

In these two weeks you have uncovered the principal limbs of this rotting tree; it is only necessary to identify the main root stem to complete the job. So why be nervous? Why be restless? The time for nervousness was two weeks ago, now is almost the time for triumph. And that soon, very soon. The changeable hotel manager, Herr Mathais — no longer the elastic-faced mine host, but suddenly transformed into a sharp, positive personality — had informed him only that day, in a brisk, businesslike manner, that his meeting with the head of the Brazilian organization was in the immediate process of being realized, and that he would be informed as soon as the details were arranged.

He stared across the blue-green of the ocean before him, analyzing his restlessness.

Can it be nostalgia? he wondered. Is it possible to feel nostalgia for a place where you are? Because you know you must soon leave it? Is this possible? His eyes swept the horizon, coming to rest on the hazy summit of Sugar Loaf. One thing, though, I promise, he said to himself. Before I leave Brazil, I shall manage in some manner to see the view from your summit; that will be my farewell to this lovely place. There on your top, before I leave, I shall cleanse myself of the unhappiness that somehow has followed me throughout this masquerade. When this is finished, it is there that I shall properly say goodbye to the lush grandeur and peaceful beauty of this city.

He sighed and stared back over his shoulder at his still-unpacked bag. Stay there, he said in sudden resolution to his shirts and socks and underwear, to his handkerchiefs and ties, to his extra suit and extra shoes. Stay there and keep yourself company. You are somehow something out of the past, and I’ll unpack you when I’m good and ready.

He looked back out of the window, surprised once again at the depth of his restlessness. Am I nervous? he thought. I should actually be happy; the conclusion of this farce is near, we are coming close to the answer that induced this idiotic imposture, this crazy adventure. Am I afraid? He thought of Da Silva off in a foreign country and felt a pang of loneliness sweep him, a faint shock of panic. Yes, he thought, almost with satisfaction at the revelation; yes, I am afraid. But of what I do not know. But I am afraid!

The thought, oddly enough, seemed to calm him instantly, and he returned at once to his bag, dipping into it resolutely. Without an indication of his previous perturbed state of mind, he carefully placed each item in its place in the dresser drawers, and hung his suit neatly on a hanger in the narrow closet.

Chapter 2

Eight floors below, in his private apartment on the second floor, Herr Mathais was desperately attempting to come to some arrangements with two people who seemed intent upon purposefully misunderstanding him. His temper, normally under the good control so necessary to hotel managers, was wearing a bit thin, but he seemed to realize that this was no time to explode.

“It will be only for one hour,” he repeated, certain in his mind that he had made the same statement at least forty times before. “One hour. At the most.”

The little man facing him, dressed in a blue uniform that had long since seen its best years, continued to hug the edge of his seat in the manner of one who had dropped in for a brief visit and should have been on his way long before. He also seemed doubtful as to whether or not his interlocutor was capable of understanding simple Portuguese. “But the Senhor does not comprehend. It is a public place. Private parties there are forbidden.”

“But you close,” Mathais said patiently. “You close sometime. Sometime you have to close. We only wish to go there after you close.”

“Ah!” said the man across from him, who at this point might properly have been called his opponent, if not his adversary. He had immediately noted the obvious flaw in this argument and had pounced upon it at once. “But afterwards, you see, you cannot go. Because afterwards, we are closed.”

Mathais ground his huge teeth together, but maintained an outward calm, albeit a trifle shaky. He thought a moment and decided to try another tack.

“You open at what time?” he asked slowly, speaking with extreme clarity.

The other considered this carefully, and apparently finding nothing incriminating in answering, nodded thoughtfully.

“Quite early,” he said, but added sadly, “of course before we open, no one is allowed.”

“I understand,” Mathais said heavily. “Now; what time do you close?”

“Quite late.”

“The time,” Mathais said, almost gritting his teeth. “What time do you close? The exact hour?”

The second man, who had sat throughout this duel in silence, now decided to come to his partner’s aid. “We close at midnight,” he said.

Mathais gave a vast sigh of relief. “You close at midnight. Then, if I wished to come there with my friends after midnight, there would be no one there.” He quickly raised his hand to forestall the inevitable. “Yes. I know it is closed after midnight. But we would only require someone to run the mechanism — the car. And we would pay for this. We would pay money for someone to stay after hours to run the car.”

The magic word “money” seemed to have the necessary effect; or at least it had some effect. The two fell into a huddled conference, jabbering softly to each other. Mathais waited patiently, convinced that he was on the right track. One might have imagined that his years in Brazil would have taught him better, but he had always been of a basically optimistic nature. The conference finally ended; the first turned back to him with a tragic face. “Senhor. It is not possible. After midnight we are closed.”

A lesser man might have broken; Strauss, Mathais reflected, would have stalked from the room, or lain down upon the floor and shed tears. He, however, was made of stronger stuff. It suddenly occurred to him where he had been making his mistake, and he immediately took steps to rectify it.

“Fifty conto,” he said, staring hypnotically into the eyes of the man seated so precariously before him.

“I beg your pardon?” It was startled, but definitely interested.

“Fifty conto. Fifty thousand cruzeiros.” His eyes flickered across to the other, and he nodded his head slightly in recognition of the presence of the second. “Fifty conto each, that is, of course. A total of one hundred conto. One hundred thousand cruzeiros.”

There was silence. The second turned to the first and then paused. This obviously did not even require a conference. “Senhor,” he said, “exactly what do you want us to do?”

Mathais smiled successfully and leaned forward. “Listen closely,” he said, “I will explain everything. On next Wednesday...”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mathais’ expression did not change. “I said, ‘On next Wednesday.’ And please, just remember as you are listening, one hundred conto. One hundred thousand cruzeiros. Will you remember that?”

“Yes, Senhor, we will remember that.”

“Fine,” Mathais said with satisfaction. “Now see if you can remember this...”

Chapter 3

The brightly lit facade of the Mirabelle Hotel threw its reflected glow upon the empty pavement of the Avenida Atlantica, now damp from the faint sea fog that was slowly rolling in from the rustling ocean lost in darkness beyond the barrier of the sandy beach. It was past midnight, and the traffic had slowed down to a few well-spaced cars hurrying by, seeking to reach home before the full force of the fog swept down and closed off vision. Their tires sucked at the wet pavement hungrily, sounding sticky in the quiet night. The sharp clacking of an occasional pair of high heels patrolling the darkness were the only other sounds.

Parked a block above the Mirabelle and facing north in the direction of the city stood the battered taxi with the mechanically interesting horn ring. Two blocks below the hotel, facing south, a gaily dressed Brazilian lounged at the wheel of a long, low Jaguar. To pass the time the drivers of these two parked cars were talking to each other by radio.

“This is boring,” Wilson said, and his voice reflected his words. His finger toyed with the dashboard switch. “This is the second night in a row; I’m about ready to leave you to your own devices and call it quits.” He paused, and when his voice came back on the air again its tone had livened. “Or possibly I’ll take this taxi racket seriously. I’ve turned down about eight fares so far tonight, but there are three girls coming along now that I think...” “Relax, boy.” Da Silva’s voice came through roughly, distorted as usual by the instrument, but Wilson could hear the chuckle behind the words. “I can see every move you make. Be patient; just be patient. When this is all over, I promise you can use the cab for a week. Everything you earn will be yours. Including tips.”

“Including women?”

“Including everything. I’ll even buy the gas.”

Wilson yawned. “How much longer do we hold down the fort tonight?”

“One more hour and we’ll call it off. If they are going to make a move, they ought to make it at a reasonable hour. If they want us to be around, that is.” The voice became more serious. “One more hour and we’ll call it a night.”

“And for just how many more nights do we keep up this let’s-wait-for-curfew-to-ring routine?”

The seriousness in the other’s voice became more profound. “I wish I knew. I don’t imagine it will be long, but I honestly wish I knew. This is Wednesday; they pulled that cute little stunt with Moraes in São Paulo a week ago tonight. Don’t worry; something has to break soon.”

“I should hope so. I’m getting calluses on my you-know-what.” The voice of Wilson suddenly tensed. “Hold it. A couple of king-sized cars just pulled up to the side-street entrance of the hotel.”

Da Silva’s voice remained calm, but there was an undercurrent of excitement in his tone. “I see them.

Packards. Who drives Packards these days?”

“Undertakers,” Wilson said. “Two men in the front seat of each. It’s too dark to make out anything else at this distance. By the way, nobody seems to want to get out. They must have heard that the beds are hard.”

“I think this is it!” Da Silva said, excitement creeping into his voice. “Just a minute! I’m sure of it now; here come the leading characters!”

Mathais and Ari were coming down the steps of the hotel entrance; Mathais handed Ari carefully into the rear seat of the first car, and then looked quickly up and down the street. He hesitated, went back to talk to the driver of the second car for a moment, and then returned, spoke softly to his driver, and entered, taking his place beside Ari. The man beside the driver reached back through the open window and swung the door shut.

The cars took off in tandem, turned into Avenida Atlantica in the direction of the city, and gained speed. Wilson threw his car into gear and cut in behind the second Packard. His radio suddenly crackled.

“I’ll turn around and come up behind you,” Da Silva’s voice said, firm and authoritative. “I think this is really it! This time, for the love of God, don’t lose them!”

“Roger, Wilco, Joseph and Mary,” said Wilson succinctly, and reached forward to switch off the radio. He settled determinedly behind the wheel, concentrating on his driving.

The fog was increasing in intensity; the street arcs along the Avenida wore sparkling halos. They passed wedge-shaped shafts of light thrown out from hotels and bars and apartment entrances; Wilson flashed a quick glance in the rearview mirror, but it was impossible to say whether or not Da Silva had come up with him. On the other hand, he thought with some compensating satisfaction, it should be difficult for those in front to know they had a tail!

At the Avenida Princesca Isabel the procession turned left, swinging away from the ocean, heading for the twin tunnels, each of which gave one-directional traffic between Copacabana and Botafogo and the city. The glow of fluorescent lights in the downtown side gleamed ghostly in front of Wilson as he approached the arched mouth through the fog. In front of him the tail lights of the trailing Packard blinked into brilliance as the driver slowed for the entrance. Wilson gently applied pressure to his brake pedal, and they entered the tunnel at a moderate speed.

A bus suddenly rocketed by at Wilson’s side, glistening with drops of water, its driver intent upon finishing his run and getting home as quickly as possible. In the flickering lights of the tunnel, the yellow sides of the swaying bus loomed ominously; Wilson pulled to one side, braking slightly. In that instant the car ahead seemed to leap forward in a sudden burst of speed, and without conscious thought, Wilson stamped fiercely on the accelerator. Without warning, the Packard then sharply braked and began to twist, as if in difficulty, weaving back and forth across the narrow tunnel. The yellow bus screamed past, its driver visibly cursing as he shot into the night and disappeared. The wet tires of the battered taxi behind tried their best to hold the pavement, squealing bravely in the attempt, but in the narrow passage there was just not enough room. As if in slow motion he saw his skidding car sliding toward the Packard; the rear fender of the other loomed larger and larger before him; he felt the sickening shock of contact as he pulled the wheel fiercely to one side. The impact threw him against the tiled wall; the entire side of the car scraped along, shrilling wildly. One tire, finally gripping a dry spot in the roadway, completed the disaster; the cab swung about in a wide arc, bounced off the wall with a shattering crash, and rocked to a shuddering stop, blocking the passage of the tunnel completely. From the interior of the crumpled hood a jet of hot water and steam sprayed against the cracked windshield.

Da Silva, coming up fast behind, saw both the intention and the accident, but without stopping to investigate he braked to a stop, thrust his Jaguar brutally into reverse, and shot backwards out of the tunnel. A car coming up behind skidded wildly to miss him, and entered the tunnel with its driver looking over his shoulder screaming imprecations. Da Silva paid no attention.

Once clear of the entrance, he swung the wheel sharply to the left and went bouncing over the center strip, coming down heavily over the curb to enter the uptown side of the tunnel with his superchargers roaring. He was fortunate in facing but one lone car hurrying home to Copacabana; this fled to one side with lights flashing and horn echoing hollowly in the enclosed space. Da Silva kept to one side, shooting through the narrow tunnel with his hand pressed steadily on the horn, his foot madly flickering the floor switch for his headlights.

At the exit of the tunnel he slowed momentarily as he bumped back across the center strip to his own lane. He cast one quick glance back at the steaming wreck piled across the mouth of the tunnel and then, without hesitation, swung once again in the direction of the city, stamping on the gas pedal.

But the road ahead was clear. The fog here had lifted enough to see the glaring cyclop eye winking down impersonally from each light pole; they illuminated a deserted pavement. With a vicious muttered curse, Da Silva tightened his grip on the steering wheel, increasing his speed. But he knew with a sinking feeling, even as he shot past the empty shining sea wall and the silent dripping palms, that he had lost his quarry.

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 swiftly, 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 Führer 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. “Pão 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 Pão 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 silently, 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 lower walk and started slowly up the steps, dragging, as if their owner were feeling his way. A figure began to emerge from the lower 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 I 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 mewling 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 swelled 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...