Emil worked until he almost dropped that day but relied on himself to reach the concrete quota Ivanov had set. He sat by the little woodstove after pouring the last of the concrete into the block molds. He closed his eyes.
I am enough. I alone can survive . . .
The triangle began to ring, signaling the end of the workday. Emil opened his eyes in a daze, feeling in his chest and in his head the same darkness that Nikolas had described, so heavy and cold, he did not know if he could get to his feet. He did, finally, but he was dizzy and had to hold on to the wall before he could gather up his hat and gloves and go out into a full-on blizzard. Nikolas’s corpse was already almost buried in the falling snow.
“Line up!” the Soviet guards shouted. “Marching formation!”
Emil went to one of the guards he was familiar with, pointed out Nikolas’s body, and was told the burial detail was coming. He paused to watch the snow build on Nikolas’s frozen body, then took the dead man’s place in line. He’d gather wood scraps tomorrow.
Trudging through the storm to the city hall basement to eat, Emil felt like he might collapse at any moment. His mind and inner voice turned reptilian, bent on survival, and goading.
One foot in front of the other. One foot . . .
I am enough. I am Emil Martel, damn it. I am . . .
And then Nicholas’s words, We were doomed the moment we took the gun and decided to pull the trigger.
At the same time Emil was hearing the echoes of Nikolas in his mind, a prisoner several rows in front of him staggered and collapsed in the snow. A guard went to the downed man and kicked him. When he didn’t respond, the guard dragged him to one side and left him.
Barely able to stand himself, Emil gazed dully at the new corpse, hearing Nikolas again in his head, It’s just a matter of time.
The prisoners began moving. Emil tried to follow them, one foot, one step, one foot, one step. He got dizzy again, wobbled, and almost went down. Black spots appeared and swam in his vision. He thought he was going to lose consciousness and die in the snow, another frozen body on the death cart, and panicked, tried to will himself alert. Emil staggered finally and went down on his knees. He had nothing left. He surrendered.
I can’t do it. I am not enough. I’m just a man. I’m sorry, Adeline. I can’t do this alone . . . I need help. I need . . .
A hand grabbed him roughly under the armpit and jerked him to his feet. It shocked Emil back to semi-alertness, and he looked in confusion at the guard.
“You’re not dying on me today,” the guard said. “Ivanov wants you kept alive.”
Emil felt his balance return, said, “I’ll be better once I’ve eaten.”
The guard nodded, said, “The mess is just ahead there.”
The line slowed at the entrance to the city hall’s basement. The area was lit by floodlights. Emil had his head down, defeated, cut off from hope. He felt like he had nothing left to fight with beyond his ability to stand up and move with the line toward food and sleep. He knew he was so weakened, he would die if disease hit him.
Maybe it would be better. Less torture in the long run for Adeline and the boys. And if I’m going to face judgment, I’d rather do it sooner than later.
Emil got wobbly again, his despair deepening and widening before yawning bottomless with sheer desperation and fear. Feeling like he was falling away into the darkness, he did the only thing he could think of: he threw back his head, exposed his face to the driving snow, and raised both arms to the night and the storm.
“You hear me?” he croaked. “If you do, take me sooner than later.”
The line moved again toward the stairs. Emil dropped his arms and slouched forward a step. Why was he even bothering to eat? It was over. He’d lasted seven months. He could not do it alone anymore. And God? God was just a story in a—
“The bee is a miracle,” he heard a man say in German, but in an odd, thick accent. “No bee, no flowers, no fruit, no beauty, no life.”
The line moved a foot. Emil went with it, lifting his head and turning to search for the source of the voice.
Out of the blizzard, a pale apparition appeared: a prisoner caked in snow led the pony and the death cart coated in hoar, with four bodies already aboard and two other prisoners helping from the back, driving the wheels and the weight through fifteen centimeters of snow.
The lead prisoner had his hood up as he tied the pony to a post about twenty meters from Emil and turned to the two others, saying, “Eat honey and you’ll live a long life. It’s a gift from God. Makes you strong. Makes you live long. We’ll eat first? Then the graveyard, yes?”
Emil squinted, shook his head in disbelief, but then, as if drawn by some magnetic force, he left his place in line and walked toward the men of the death detail as they made for the back of the meal queue.
Emil followed them, calling out, “Corporal?”
It was windy, howling. The three prisoners kept walking.
“Beekeeper,” Emil shouted. “Survivor of Stalingrad!”
Two of the men continued on. But the one who’d been leading the pony stopped, pulled back his hood, and turned to look at Emil with a puzzled and then amused expression, as if someone had whispered a joke in his ear that he was only now getting.
“Martel,” Corporal Gheorghe said, grinning at him. “I said I’d see you again, and there you stand!”
Gutengermendorf, Soviet-Occupied east Germany
Captain Kharkov shut off the flashlight, put it in his pocket, and strolled in Adeline’s direction, holding his vodka
