It hit the cement floor with a thud and broke apart. The Russian dropped to his knees and began to weep piteously. Shmuel stood in fear. The room blurred in the urgency of his situation. Askew on the cement, a great fluffy pile of excelsior spewing out of it like guts, the box lay broken on the floor. An evil-smelling fluid spread smoothly into a puddle.
The civilian returned swiftly.
“You idiots,” he said to them. “And where were you while these fools were destroying valuable chemicals? Snoozing in the corner?”
“No, sir, Herr Ingenieur-Doktor,” lied the young corporal. “I was watching closely. But these Eastern Jews are shifty. I just wasn’t fast enough to prevent—”
The civilian cut him off with a laugh. “That’s all I get from the Waffen SS is excuses. Have them clean it up and try not to drop the other crates, all right?”
“Yes, Herr Ingenieur-Doktor. My apologies for failing at—”
“All right, all right,” said the civilian disgustedly, turning.
When the civilian left, the SS corporal hit Shmuel across the neck, just above the shoulder, with his fist, a downward blow. It drove him to the floor. The boy kicked him, hard, in the ribs. He knew he was in a desperately dangerous situation. He’d seen a KZ guard in ’44 knock down an elderly rabbi in much the same way. The man, baffled, glasses twisted, raised his hands to ward off other blows; this insolence so enraged the stupid young soldier that he snatched out his pistol and shot the man through the forehead. The body lay in the square for three days, head split apart, until they’d removed it with tongs.
“You stinking kike pig,” screamed the boy. He kicked Shmuel again. He was almost out of control. “You piece of Jew shit.” Shmuel could hear him sobbing in anger. He bent over and grabbed Shmuel by the throat, twisting him upward so that their faces were inches apart.
“Surprises ahead for you, Jew-shit. Der Meisterschuster, the Master Shoemaker, has a nice candy delight for you.” His face livid and contorted, he drew back. “That’s right, Jew-shit, a real surprise for you.” He spoke in a clipped Prussian accent hard and quick, that Shmuel, whose basic Yiddish was a derivation of the more languid Bavarian German, had difficulty understanding when spoken so quickly.
The corporal backed off, color returning to his face.
“All right, up! Up!” he shouted.
Shmuel climbed up quickly. He was trembling badly.
“Now get this mess cleaned up.”
Shmuel and the Russian gathered the excelsior into a wad of newspaper and mopped the floor dry. They also retrieved the broken glass and then, carefully, finished loading the cart.
“Bravo! Fine! What heroes!” said the boy sarcastically. “Now get your asses out of here before I kick them again!”
Shmuel had been playing for this second for quite some time. He’d seen it from the very first moments. He’d thought about how he’d do it and resolved to act quickly and with courage. He took a deep breath, reached down and picked up the wad of newspaper and stuffed it into his coat.
With the bundle pressing against his stomach, he stepped into the cold. He waited for a call to return; it didn’t come. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he rejoined the labor detail.
Not until late that night did Shmuel risk examining his treasure. He could hear steady, heavy breathing; at last he felt safe. You never knew who’d sell you for a cigarette, a sliver of cheese. In the darkness, he opened the paper carefully, trying to keep it from rattling. Inside, now matted and balled, the clump of excelsior was still damp from the fluid. The stuff was like mattress ticking, or horsehair, thick and knotted. Eagerly, his fingers pulled tufts out and kneaded them, until he could feel the individual strands.
There was no question of knitting; he had no loom and no skill. But he spread it out and, working quietly and quickly in the dark, began to thread it into the lining of the greatcoat. He kept at it until nearly dawn, inserting the bunches of packing into the coat. When at last there was no more, he examined what he had made. It was lumpy and uneven, no masterpiece; but what did that matter? It was, he knew, significantly warmer.
Shmuel lay back and felt a curious thing move through his body, a feeling long dead to his bones. At first he thought he might be coming down with a sickness and the feeling might be fever spreading through his body. But then he recognized it: pleasure.
For the first time in years he began to think he might beat them. But when he slept, his nightmares had a new demon in them: a master shoemaker, driving hobnails into his flesh.
A week or so later, he was in the trench, digging, when he heard voices above him. Obeying an exceedingly stupid impulse, he looked up.
Standing on the edge, their features blanked out by the winter sun, two officers chatted. A younger one was familiar, a somewhat older one not. Or was he? Shmuel had been dreaming all these nights of the Master Shoemaker and his candy delight. This man? No, ridiculous, not this bland fellow standing easily with a cigarette, discussing technical matters. He wore the same faded camouflage jackets they all had, and baggy green trousers, boots with leggings and a squashed cap with a skull on it. Quickly Shmuel turned back to his shovel, but as he dropped his face, he felt the man’s eyes snap onto him.
“Einer Jud?” Shmuel heard the man ask.
The younger fellow called to the sergeant. The sergeant answered Yes.
Now I’m in for it, Shmuel thought.
“Bring him up,” said the officer.
Strong hands clapped onto Shmuel instantly. He was dragged out of the trench and made to stand before the officer. He grabbed his hat and looked at his feet, waiting for the worst.
“Look at me,” said the officer.
Shmuel looked up. He had the impression of pale eyes in a weathered face which, beneath the imprint of great strain, was far younger than he expected.
“You are one of the chosen people?”
“Y-yes, sir, your excellency.”
“From out East?”
“Warsaw, your excellency.”
“You are an intellectual. A lawyer, a teacher?”
“A writer, most honored sir.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty to write about after the war, won’t you?” The other Germans laughed.
“Yes, sir. Y-yes, sir.”
“But for now, you’re not used to this hard work?”
“N-no, sir,” he replied. He could not stop stuttering. His heart pounded in his chest. He’d never been so close to a German big shot before.
“Everybody must work here. That is the German way.” He had lightless eyes. He didn’t look as if he’d ever cried.
“Yes, most honored sir.”
“All right,” the officer said. “Put him back. I just wanted the novel experience of taking one of them out of a pit.”
After the laughter, the sergeant said, “Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” and he knocked Shmuel sprawling into the trench. “Back to work, Jew. Hurry, hurry.”
The officer was gone quickly, moving off with the younger chap. Shmuel stole a glimpse of the man striding off, calm and full of decisiveness. Could this simple soldier be the Master Shoemaker? The face: not remotely unusual, a trifle long, the eyes quick but drab, the nose bony, the lips thin. The overall aspect perfunctorily military. Not, Shmuel concluded, an unusual fellow to find in the middle of a war.