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.