11. Heinrich
11
Heinrich
I stared, no longer hearing the passing tank. I would say my heart pounded in my ears, but I don’t recall it even beating. Sergei had sent only one word. Its meaning could not have been more clear.
Something thudded on the street outside.
A car raced by, its engine backfiring, reminding me of countless nights when I slept in fear of gunfire. Every terror I had ever experienced, every thought of war that raged through my mind, assaulted my senses like some specter bent on possessing my soul.
Without thinking, I threw on my heavy coat and hat, grabbed the statue and film, and shot out the door. I had no plan, no destination in mind. There were no maps or compasses or radios to guide me. No team waited on the other side of barbed wire, hoping beyond hope I would make it back alive.
As it had been for nearly a year, it was only my rabbi and me.
When I hit the bottom of the stairs and entered the shop, I stopped behind the counter and ducked to catch my breath and gather my thoughts.
“The Soviets must know what I have,” I thought aloud and glanced down at the rabbi. “You’re the only thing keeping me above ground, my little friend.”
The irony of that statement was not lost on me, not even in that moment of abject terror. A Nazi—well, former Nazi—clinging to life through the wizened features of a wooden Jew?
It was preposterous.
It was also true.
My fingers traced the lines of the carving, admiring the intricate handiwork of the artist. I’d done so many times since finding the piece; but there, squatting on the floor of the shop in fear for my life, it felt like I was seeing the statue again for the first time.
I turned it over and searched the base.
There was no mark, no imprint, no indication whatsoever of who might’ve created the masterpiece. What a shame. An artist capable of such work deserved praise and recognition, not anonymity.
“Idiot,” I chided. “Who admires art when guns are pointed at his head?”
I made to stand quickly, bumping my shoulder—and the statue—against the bottom of the counter. An audible click echoed through the shop.
Worried I might’ve damaged the relic, I squatted back down and turned it over in my hands. A compartment had opened, exposing the hollowed interior. I turned it over and studied the rabbi’s face, then his hands, then the book he held. Somehow, I’d hit it just right, and the book had pulled out, triggering a trap door in the base to open.
What a strange miracle of chance.
In all the time I’d had the little rabbi, I’d never found a way to open it. I hadn’t even known it could be opened.
Another car streaked by the front door, its engine angry in the silent night.
“I don’t have time for this,” I grumbled as I began to shut the secret compartment.
The film canister in my hand made it hard to fiddle with the delicate contraption, so I tossed it inside the rabbi and pressed the door to the base until it clicked and remained closed.
Boots slapped on concrete outside the door.
A lot of boots.
Too many boots.
I chanced a peek over the counter to spot a man in a Soviet uniform, his rifle at the ready and aimed at the shop’s door.
Whispered shouts barely masked what I knew would come next.
Careful to keep my head below the counter, I squat-walked to the back room and nudged the anterior door open. The alleyway was dark, almost oppressively so. Nothing stirred. No rifles glinted in the moonlight. No uniformed men whispered orders.
Heart pounding, I clutched the statue to my chest and slipped into the night.