come to,” Jakob said. “The dead have to pay to feed the living. Rotten world, eh?” He directed his light into the first open doorway he came to, and gasped. “Jesus, Maria, and Joseph.”
Boxes. Wall-to-wall, unlabeled boxes as far as he could see, stacked in perfect geometric towers. He counted fifty-six, but maybe there were more where his light couldn’t reach. He didn’t know what was inside them, but he did know this was a dream. The bump on his head was making him see what he most needed: a roomful of something he might sell or trade or keep for himself. His fingertips tingled with anticipation as he touched the cardboard. Real enough. He tore it open. Tins gleamed in perfect circles like little mirrors. He groped for the opener that usually came in such boxes, and used it to bend back one lid. The rich smell of black bread drilled a direct line to his stomach. He shoved a fistful into his mouth. How much was here? Twenty tins times fifty-six boxes . . .
He plunged into the next room. More boxes, full of packages this time, crispy zwieback good for years if well packed. He reeled into the next room. Sacks of noodles and rice. In the next, tubs of Linz marmalade and ersatz honey. He nearly wept for joy in the room full of cigarettes, the new money, the hardest currency in Germany. They were Luz brand, worth two or three marks a stick. He couldn’t believe his luck as he stuffed his pockets. This was a black-market warehouse, no doubt about it. Maybe the cologne-soaked stranger from outside was a racketeer.
“Hey, friend, you still here? Look, I know people. Can unload this food for you no problem. Profits in the stars, I’m telling you. Naturally we’d keep enough for ourselves. I mean, you can’t sell all of it. Too hard to transport, and besides, winter is here. Remember last winter? If I ever see a turnip again, I’ll bludgeon somebody with it. But this place . . .” Jakob passed the open doors and wished he had his backpack, a wheelbarrow, a truck that could haul these glorious calories home to his family. “This place will save us. We’ll stuff our families all winter. You got a family?”
A low voice said, “Hands up, thief.”
The hairs on Jakob’s neck tingled. The voice came from out of nowhere, the empty tunnels. “Seen that film too, friend. Gangster shoot-out. Bang, bang.” He bit open a pack of cigarettes and tipped one into his mouth. He wasn’t dumb enough to light it in a coal mine, but the feel of it soothed him. “Why don’t you come out and let me shake your hand? You helped me outside. I appreciate that. We got a lot to talk about.”
Wherever the stranger was, he kept out of the beam of Jakob’s lamp. “You’re not that crippled.”
“I love it when people tell me that. You going to show yourself?”
The stranger’s voice had rust on the edges like a machine that needed oiling. “I said hands up.”
“Can’t. I’d fall over. War wound.”
“Where?”
“You’re looking at it. Left leg.”
“I meant where were you when you got wounded?”
“Stalingrad. Look, you going to come out?”
“Nobody got out of Stalingrad. The German Army died a heroic death fighting for the Reich.”
“A few of us got out, a few surrendered, and the rest died eating shit. You going to come out so I can see who I’m talking to?”
The stranger stepped into the tunnel. He held a fistful of darkness Jakob knew was a pistol. And he wore a tunic, field gray, the eagle and swastika over the breast pocket. For the first time in his life, Jakob let a cigarette fall unsmoked from his lips. Field gray was forbidden. The swastika was forbidden. “Dressed for a party, are you? Brits’ll lock you up if they see you like that.”
The stranger tilted his head away from Jakob’s light. The miner’s tilt, as Papa had always had even in the open air. “Name, rank, and unit.”
“What?”
“Name, rank, and unit.” The soldier’s voice wavered, deep one moment, cracking the next.
“Wait a minute. How old are you?”
The soldier extended his arm.
“All right, I’ll play along. Jakob Relling. Was a corporal. Twenty-Ninth Infantry, motorized. Wiped out in Stalingrad, and if you call that heroic, I’ll split your lip.”
The soldier straightened his back, parade-ground stiff. “Corporal Relling, in the name of the führer, I arrest you for stealing from the German Army.”
“Listen, kid, any