Randy finished another beer, belched and tossed the can out his window.
“I hope a highway patrolman didn’t see that,” Jill whispered to Bob.
Harold looked in the back seat, smiled with reassurance at them and then turned to John, staring a moment.
“John, you didn’t answer me. Who are your people?”
“Cherokee.” Lifting his chin, he kept his gaze straight ahead.
“Not Jews?”
“No.”
“Then why are you looking for a man who hurt Jews and not Cherokee?” Harold hoped a logical approach would break through to John. From his previous discussions with John, Harold knew he was intelligent. On some days John amazed him with some of his observations. If only Harold could get in touch with John’s coherent side.
“What?” John asked.
“Your Pharaoh is an old man who never did any harm to Cherokee.” Harold felt his heart beating faster.
“No.” John shook his head. “Pharaoh. He enslaves all men.”
“This old man doesn’t enslave anyone.” Harold leaned into him.
“But my people must be free.”
“Isn’t your father Pharaoh?” Harold risked bringing up the matter of John’s childhood, but the ongoing abduction brought about desperation.
“My father is a worn out warrior.”
“But he’s the one who’s enslaved you all your life, told you that you were stupid and told you he wished you were dead.”
Harold watched muscles in John’s jaw clench.
“Yes, I know now. I know how your father treated you. I know how your mother tried to protect you. I know you were caught in the middle of many fights between your parents.”
Harold with eagerness searched John’s face for a sign of recognition. He wanted John to realize he understood.
“I know now. I can help you free yourself of all those memories of your father. But I can only do that if you let me take you back to the hospital. Free yourself from Pharaoh. I can help you. ” He paused. “Come on, let’s go back to the hospital and talk about it.”
“I ain’t goin’ back to no hospital.” Randy hit Harold on the shoulder with his boney fist.
“Caleb,” John said with authority. “Be quiet.”
Randy glared at him, pulling his legs up on the seat, bowing his head to hide his face.
“I hate Moses.”
***
Greta had suffered enough indignities in her life. As a child in Oberbach, she endured comments on how her sister was the pretty one while she was the sturdy, hard-working one, albeit ugly as a cow. When one of the handsomest men in town paid attention to her, she fell straight away in love—at least what she thought was love. He was shorter than she, bore a perpetual smirk on his face, hardly ever cared about her feelings, and people in town kept telling her the most horrible rumors about him. She ignored all that on her wedding day. Whoever would have thought Greta Gurstadt would have found a man, especially one with clear skin and straight teeth? When gossip of Hans Moeller’s death drifted her way, she discounted it, saying people were jealous of Heinrich’s success in the Third Reich. She bragged that someday she and Heinrich would live in Berlin to serve the Fuhrer, although in private she hoped never to leave her beloved Oberbach. But they did leave Oberbach after the war. Why must we leave, Greta pleaded. Other Germans fought and lost the war, but they did not have to leave. Heinrich just sneered and reminded her that he was head of the household and they would live where he decided.
The only thing that made the move bearable was her beautiful blond son, Edward. She took solace in knowing he would always give her joy and he did, until as a strapping young adult he announced he wanted to change his name, and once again ugly suspicions challenged her unwavering allegiance to head of the household. For whatever else may have disappointed her, Greta maintained her near-deification of Heinrich as the ultimate male—he of golden hair and strong jaw and muscular body. Even as his jaw became rounded and his muscle softened, he was still strong mentally and forged a good living running their little woodcarving shop in Gatlinburg. Then his stroke came, and Heinrich was no longer even strong of mind. Greta had to learn how to balance a business ledger, understand tax laws and manage sales in their store. Heinrich no longer could carve what they sold, so they had to resort to buying items made in Korea, Singapore and other places repugnant to their Aryan sensibilities.
If Heinrich were no longer strong of body or of mind, he was still strong of will, and demanded to be considered boss even when his legs gave out and Greta had to carry him. She stretched her adoration to a thin line of respect she felt he had earned over many years. But the deportation hearing snapped her tenuous devotion. The judge may have ruled Heinrich was not an undesirable, but the evidence, however legally circumstantial, was enough to end Greta’s protracted worship of Heinrich Schmidt. He was not a god. He was not a good man. He was just a crippled, evil man who never valued her hard work and never cherished her. Now he voiced the ultimate insult. Eva Moeller called her a stupid cow and Sebastian Keitel called her a stupid cow, but Heinrich would not be allowed to call her stupid cow. The last shred of love, respect and tolerance was gone, which gave force to the blows she dealt his face that night in their living room.
“Go to bed.” She pointed to the bedroom.
“Go to hell.” Heinrich’s blue eyes were as icy as Bavarian well water in the middle of winter.
Greta did not believe he could sink any lower than he already had, but telling her to go to hell compounded her pain and anger so much she could endure no more, pulling her hand back to slap Heinrich again. He blocked it, which added frustration to her boiling rage, and she knocked his hand away, slapping him again and again, first with her right hand, then her left. Red whelps appeared on his pasty white skin, but she did not care. They were nothing compared to the pain Heinrich had inflicted on her.
“You were the big Nazi! Big—what you call it? Gestapo! You killed Hans and got away with it? Who else did you kill? How many other men did my husband murder?”
“Greta.” Tears began to well in Heinrich’s eyes. “Stop.”
“You’re no big Nazi now.” Her slaps became more intense. “You’re an old man! You don’t tell nobody nothing.” She pushed him to the floor. “Now get to bed.”
“I can’t get up.”
“Then crawl,” Greta snarled, kicking Heinrich in his rear. “I don’t carry you no more.”
“Greta.” Heinrich pleaded, “No. I feel sick.”
“No more lies.” She reached his groin with her next kick, causing him to jump and start crawling. “Move.”
“No, Greta,” he sputtered between sobs.
“Move.”
“Greta, please.”
But the kicks were unrelenting, and with the agility of a wounded elephant Heinrich crept on his hands and knees to their bedroom. When they reached the door, Greta placed her foot on his sagging buttocks and pushed, sending him sliding into the bedpost.
“Now get into that bed.”
“Yes, Greta,” Heinrich said with defeat in his voice. He crawled into the bed and pulled the covers around him.
“Now you shut up or I’ll hit you again.” Greta wagged her finger in his face. She turned and marched out, as Heinrich dissolved in a flood of tears.