10 Bits of My Brain
by Stuart Jaffe
copyright 2011 Stuart Jaffe
Smashwords Edition
Always
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Contents
Introduction
Bone Magic
Black No.7
The World Through Patrick
A Simple Gesture
Henry's Son
A Full Life in Twenty-Four Hours
An Appreciation For Dragons
Burdens
The Three Fingers Case
A Final Battle
Introduction
Stuart Jaffe and I had only known each other briefly when we figured out that we were, in fact, the same person. That's a startling thing, realizing that the guy sitting across from you in the convention hotel bar is actually you. You're first inclination is to deny the possibility of it, to reassert you're own individuality, usually by spilling a beer on the other person and taking note of the fact that you didn't get wet. (Again, Stuart, I really am sorry about that ...)
But though it turns out that Stuart and I are NOT precisely the same person, we are pretty close. We're both short, Jewish guys with beards and glasses who write fantasy, live in the South, play guitar, have disturbingly similar senses of humor, and are married to biologists who are more intelligent and more beautiful than we deserve.
Upon establishing that we were separate people, Stuart and I became fast friends, which I suppose was a stunning act of narcissism on both our parts. But let's ignore that for now. Because all kidding aside, we are different in one key respect. Stuart is a master of short fiction writing, and I, most assuredly, am not.
I write novels. I can tell a tale in 100,000 words that will capture your imagination, introduce you to fascinating people, transport you to a strange and magical world, and ensnare you in a complex narrative web. Stuart can do the same thing, but he only needs about 8,000 words. I can't tell you how crazy that makes me.
Crafting a successful short story — one that satisfies on levels of plot and character, setting and action, is one of the most difficult feats in all of writing. In the span of what, for most novelists, would be perhaps two chapters, you have to immerse the reader in your tale, pull her through the narrative, and leave her feeling that she has emerged on the other side with a fresh understanding of human nature and a renewed sense of wonder.
In 10 Bits of My Brain, Stuart manages to do this not once, but ten times. From the chilling opening lines of "Bone Magic," to the terrifying beauty of "The World Through Patrick," to the gratifying conclusion of "A Final Battle," Stuart draws us in, shifts our world in subtle and wondrous ways, and eases us back out again. And each time, we are changed just a little bit.
Some of these stories have appeared before in other venues. Three debut in this volume. Most would be defined as fantasy; a few are science fiction. There are stories here that carry us back in history, that dabble playfully with mystery and a noire voice, that read like the darkest horror. Stuart's work defies pigeon-holing. The man who hosts the podcast "The Eclectic Review" with his wife, demonstrates a talent that is as facile and varied as his intellect. All of these pieces, though, show a master storyteller at the top of his art. And perhaps that is the thread that runs through the collection, binding one tale to the next: a writer's pursuit of narrative mastery.
In the years since Stuart and I first met, we have become colleagues as well as friends. Stuart has become an integral part of the Magical Words blogsite, which I had started several years ago with Faith Hunter, Misty Massey, and C.E. Murphy. More recently, Stuart and I have collaborated on a short story, which we hope to see in print in the not-too-distant future.
Working with him, I have discovered the same commitment to excellence that you will find in this collection. The truth is, I wish I could claim that Stuart and I are one person; then I could take credit for the stories you're about to read.
But enough about me. Us. Him. You have worlds to explore and characters to meet. Delve in!
— David B. Coe, Sewanee, TN June 2012
Author of The Sorcerers' Plague
Bone Magic
Bad enough he had to suffer the Lublin ghetto and the Nazis, but dealing with his grandmother made Andrzej Vashem consider the benefits of a bullet through the head. Though just under five-feet tall, Ada Vashem could fill the decrepit room they shared with such fury that even those struggling on the other side of the sheet nailed into the ceiling, even they would ask for her forgiveness. She never yelled, though. Instead, her anger snapped out in sharp commands like the crack of a whip, leaving no passage for argument. So when he slinked into their dwelling with a bruised eye, he expected trouble.
"It's late," she said. She sat on a stained mattress in the dark.
"I was trying to get some extra ration cards from Yaffa, but before I knew it, he and the others ran off," he said, his gut churning at the memory — standing in that cold alley, stomping his feet for circulation, and then everyone disappeared. He heard the boots clicking behind him. He managed to clear any expression before he faced the soldier.
"Who was it?" Ada asked.
"Breuer. He talked shit to me— "
"Don't swear."
"Yes, ma'am. He gave me a hard time, checked my papers, hit me a little, then let me go. Nothing to worry about."
Though he could not see her, Andrzej knew the face she made — the scowling brow, the pursed lips. "Don't be stupid. You're a bright boy. You know better than to do such things in an open alley."
"I was trying to get us more food."
"You know what I saw yesterday in the street?" He had heard this five times already but kept silent. Ada continued, "A dead man. Just lying there with blood covering his head and nobody dared to even glance at him. In his hand, do you know what I saw? Do you? An egg. An egg! These are not humans you deal with. Breuer would've killed you had he felt like it. Just like they killed..."
Andrzej could have finished her sentence but doing so would have unleashed her tears. He could not be so cruel to the old woman nor to himself. No other family but Grandma Ada existed for him. Mother, Papa, his little sister — all dead. His cousins had left for the Sobibor work camp a year earlier — only now rumors reached him that Sobibor had a far worse purpose than forced labor.
With a sharp sniffle, Ada asked, "How are we to live like this? And if you had been killed, what would've happened to me? I'm just an old woman. I can barely keep up with the other seamstresses. If I miss my quota by one shirt — just one little shirt—"
"I know," Andrzej said, reaching out for her hand. The moonlight caught Ada's face, and he started at the sight. She had an emptiness in her eyes like a ghost tired of haunting.
She snapped her hand back. "If I must die like some discarded trash, then I'll at least have had my say. Take this." From under her pillow, she produced something wrapped in newspaper. "Take this to Czerniakow. Tonight. Tell him it's from me."
"What is it?"
"A cow bone. Don't get caught with it."
Andrzej wanted to ask more, but Ada curled on her mattress and closed her eyes. With a sigh, he sneaked the thick bone under his coat, the wool collar scratching his neck, and slipped outside. His heart quickened as he moved from shadow to shadow. He strained to listen for telltale signs of the Germans. Dashing across an open courtyard, he expected a gunshot to follow each step. Through it all, the cow bone — a femur, he noticed — pressed against him, and Ada's stark, moonlit face hovered in his mind.
He knew Czerniakow, of course. Everyone knew about the crazy man living on Krawiecka Street. He had been a rabbi once. Had studied the kabbalah, too. He even knew about texts nobody dared to mention. Andrzej shivered at the thought of what Grandma Ada wanted the ex-rabbi to do with a cow bone.
Snow had been piled on either side of Krawiecka Street forming a narrow path to follow. The moonlight blanched the area — no shadows. Behind him, Andrzej could hear the German guards talking near the ghetto gate in the distance.
I've got to turn around. Try again, tomorrow.
Except he had seen Grandma Ada's face. She would not want him to wait. Either way meant taking a risk — get caught by the Nazis out at night or get caught in Ada's wrath should he return without fulfilling her commands. No real contest — he had to go with the least dangerous choice. Swallowing dry, he scurried down the street toward Czerniakow's home.
The building looked like the rest — dark and starving. Andrzej knocked once, cringing at the enormous boom his knuckles created. The door opened a fraction; a shadow peeked at him, then opened enough to admit his.
"Czerniakow?" Andrzej said, his voice shivering from both the cold and his nerves.
"Upstairs," the shadow replied.
Climbing the stairs, Andrzej glanced at the numerous people sprawled on the floor below. They slept against each other for warmth, huddling like cattle. The idea that they were all dead flashed through his mind. He had heard enough stories of Sobibor, Auschwitz, Chelmno, and other camps, and he wondered if he might ever stand at the edge of a pit looking down on people huddled like cattle — only they would not mumble, would not draw breath, would not move. Is this what had happened to his cousins?
At the top of the stairs, he knocked on a plain door, heard a muffled "enter," and walked in. Books lined the walls in ordered piles, and the floor had been swept with care. In the center, an oversized desk consumed most of the available space, and a man sat at the desk.
Andrzej had expected a wild-haired, old rabbi with a crazed expression and perhaps even a glass eye. What sat before him amounted to little more than a middle-aged yeshiva student dressed in common clothing. He wore glasses, had a slight overbite, and delicate hands. Yet a light flickered behind the eyes of this man — power. He held an open book, acting as if all were normal in the world, as if he had nothing to fear from ghettos, labor camps, and Nazis.
"May I help you?" Czerniakow asked, his voice so quiet Andrzej could have been mistaken that the man had spoken.
What to say? Andrzej had no words strong enough to leap from his mouth. All he could manage while under the scope of Czerniakow's gaze came through action. He produced the cow bone, holding it in both hands like a cherished object.
"I see," Czerniakow said.
"Ada Vashem," Andrzej sputtered out.
"Of course. You must be the grandson." Czerniakow closed his book and straightened his glasses. He motioned impatiently with his hand and said, "Let me see, Andrzej."
Andrzej handed over the bone and stepped back, his skin prickling at the way this man had pronounced his name — like an old friend of the family.
Czerniakow studied the large bone with great care as if inspecting an ancient relic. Then he nodded. "Sleep downstairs. I'll have this ready in a few hours."
"Have what ready?"
A flash of teeth, a smile perhaps, escaped Czerniakow's lips as he said, "Get some sleep."
Andrzej climbed down a few steps. He could see those sleeping on the floor below, and the thoughts of death returned. He remained on the stairs.
Hours passed. If he slept at all that night, he never became aware of it. He stared at the pictures hung in the stairwell — families that no longer lived here, that may not live at all. Horrid memories lurking in the corners of his mind popped up unwanted. Had he really seen his own father shot in the chest? It amazed him that more people had not lost their sanity living in this prison.
Just after three a.m., Czerniakow called, "Andrzej."
Andrzej jumped to his feet and nearly lost his balance for a big tumble. This is foolish, he thought, but he entered Czerniakow's room with his nerves tingling.
Czerniakow sat with his hands folded in his lap. The bone lay on the desk in clear view. Czerniakow studied the work he had done — he had carved a face into the femur.
Andrzej focused on the bone. Tortured eyes peered from behind a crooked nose. The cheeks were sunken with hunger. The mouth a grim line of regret. It reminded Andrzej of a gargoyle mixed with a golem. Beneath the awful visage, Czerniakow had inscribed words in what looked like Yiddish but on closer examination proved to be some variant Andrzej did not know.
"Take this," Czerniakow said. "When you wish to use it, do so where nobody will see you. Hold it in one hand, and tell it the name of the enemy you desire to afflict."
"Afflict?"
"Take it now and leave."
In a daze, partly from lack of sleep and partly from Czerniakow's manner, Andrzej slipped the bone under his coat and went downstairs. He walked home knowing he would have little time before he had to get to the factory, knowing he would have to wait until that night in order to find out what he carried. But I don't want to know, he reminded himself even as the word afflict resounded within him. Old stories of witches and magic filled his head, stories of mad Czerniakow and his mystic secrets, but those were stories.
"Vashem," a harsh voice barked out.
Andrzej halted, not daring to look toward the voice. He knew who it belonged to — Breuer. He thrust his hands into his coat and held tight to the cow bone.
"We keep bumping into each other," Breuer said as he approached. "You wish to be my friend?" He stood in front of Andrzej, his dark uniform tight against his muscular torso. "Come with me. I'd like to show you something."
Without looking, Breuer headed away. Andrzej followed, keeping his head down. He fought back the tears welling inside and the dread tightening his throat. If his death awaited him, he wanted to be brave about it.
Several feet ahead, three old men stood against a wall. Their beards covering their chests had grayed substantially, and they looked tired. Two soldiers trained weapons on these non-threatening men as if they might lunge into an attack at any moment. An overweight officer reclining in a car watched the proceedings with a smile.
"Look here, Vashem," Breuer said with a showman's gesture. "These men have no papers. They claim they were so rushed to get to work that they misplaced them."
"Sir," one of the men said, "I have my papers here. If you would just look— "
"Now I'm a liar," Breuer said, never taking his eyes from Andrzej yet clearly performing for the overweight officer in the car. "I wanted you to see this, Vashem, because you know who is smuggling things in and out of here. I want you to think about helping me out. If I can stop the smuggling, I'll get a big promotion which means I'll have more control over this ghetto. I can make sure you and your grandmother stay where it's safe."
"I don't know any smugglers," Andrzej mumbled.
"But even now, I can see to it that you and your dear grandmother end up on a train." Breuer nodded once, a sharp motion of the head, and the soldiers fired. The old men dropped, but their blood remained dripping on the wall like crimson tears.
Breuer moved in close, his breath puffing against Andrzej's face. "Tomorrow. You decide which you want. I can make it happen either way." He breathed on Andrzej for a few extra seconds, his musky cologne heavy in the air, the silence pressing on Andrzej as heavy as the bone. With an order shouted and the snow crunching under his step, Breuer walked away. One soldier drove the overweight officer into the darkness.
Andrzej did not move, his heart thumping hard against his ribs. When he finally managed to walk, he struggled not to throw up. At length, he arrived home. Ada had left already, so he hid the bone under a floor plank, straightened his shirt and coat, and headed to work.
Coupling lack of sleep with the monotony of factory work befuddled Andrzej's mind. His thoughts turned fuzzy, and for this, he smiled in thanks. He did not want to think clearly about what he had seen. He did not want to see the blood spurt from the wounds nor hear Breuer's condescending voice, but when the day had ended, and Andrzej found himself on his mattress, his exhaustion no longer helped. Ada sat across from him, her eyes fiery, her smile eager.
"Use it," she whispered. "Go to the attic. No one will see you there. Use it." Andrzej started to protest, but Ada pointed her finger at him, scowled and said, "You will do this. You will honor your parents and your sister. And you'll see that I'm not crazy."
"I never said—"
"Then use it."
"I will. I just—"
"Don't disappoint me."
He stopped his mouth from arguing further. With a long sigh, he raised his tired body, pried open the floor plank, stashed the bone under his coat, and trudged upstairs. The sooner he did this, the sooner he could go back to sleep.
The attic had been empty for several days since the Holzman family went on the trains. Nobody wanted to live there, yet — it still smelled of the Holzmans as if they might return to haunt any who dared to invade their space. Andrzej had to bend over so as to not bang his head on the dusty beams.
He took several steps and pulled out the bone. The hideous face glared at him as he turned it in his hand. He brought the face close to his mouth. The eyes focused on his own, and he turned it away.
Stop being silly. Just make Grandma Ada happy.
"Fine," he said, turning the carved face back. "Breuer. If you can do anything to my enemies, then start with Breuer."
Andrzej lowered his arm, intent on dropping the bone, when a tingling surged through his hand as if he held a low voltage wire. He frowned at the bone, and through clenched teeth, he groaned. Something caught his attention that brought him to the edge of shrieking — the eyes on the bone blinked.
Before he could utter his surprise, before he could throw the cursed bone across the room, its mouth stretched wide open. The pained expression on the carving twisted into a worse image like a child's face understanding the nature of pain. And it screamed.
The sound, like that same child tortured with vigor, resonated into his hand. Andrzej dropped the bone, covered his ears, and scurried down the stairs. The screaming had stopped but it echoed in his skull like the sound of the bullets that had killed his father. He stumbled into his room, nearly tearing down the bed sheet wall, fell on the mattress, and curled into a ball. Grandma Ada rested her bony hand on his back.
"You did well," she said. "Just wait and see."
Wait and see. The words cut into his dreams while he slept and through his nerves while awake. The whole next day, trapped at the factory, he wondered what he had done.
Nothing, you fool! But no matter how often he chastised himself for considering his grandmother's mysticism to have some validity, his brain still produced these thoughts. He still heard her satisfied words — wait and see.
Then, as the work bell rang for the cold trudge back to the ghetto, he overheard rumors whispered from one happy voice to another — Breuer had died last night. How? one voice asked. Heart attack, another answered. In his sleep? a third piped in. No, the first said. Good, they all said.
Back in the ghetto, Andrzej walked down Krawiecka Street, ignoring the icy wind blowing in his face. He felt nothing. His own heart had frozen in his chest. He had murdered Breuer with that cow bone.
That belief thawed him, then heated him up, and finally, fired him into a burning rage. How dare Czerniakow manipulate him this way. He would not play puppet to anybody nor would he become some magic-using freak.
He pounded on the door, forced it open when it cracked a little, and stormed up the stairs. Czerniakow showed no startled response when Andrzej burst into the room. Andrzej stood before the desk, breathing heavily from the snowy streets and his own burning anger.
"What did I ... how ..." he struggled for the words but found nothing. Instead, he let out an anguished growl.
Czerniakow gave a solemn nod. "You didn't believe."
"I killed him," Andrzej said.
"Of course. Breuer was in good health, young, ate well. Not exactly the type to have a heart attack."
"I can't believe it."
"And yet you do."
Andrzej let that sink in and gave up with a nod. Czerniakow gestured to a chair. Andrzej sat, his head spinning through too many strange thoughts.
At length, he took in a deep breath and asked, "If this is true —"
"You know it is."
"Fine. Since this is true, since you have this magic, why don't you use it? Carve a bone, whisper the name Hitler, and be done with all this madness. Why don't you?"
"Why don't you?" Czerniakow asked but dismissed an answer with a quick wave. He pursed his lips and clasped his hands together, and it occurred to Andrzej that these were all measured gestures like those of an actor. "You felt it yourself. Through your hand. What did you think that was? I'll tell you. It was part of you. You have to give up something of yourself to make this magic."
Andrzej glanced at his hand, the fingers tingling as he remembered the force fleeing into the bone.
Czerniakow continued. "I have used it before. Several times. But never again. Were I to do so, I might not be me when I woke up. If I was lucky, I might simply go insane."
"Then I'll do it. I'll kill Hitler."
"He's too far away. The farther the target, the more of yourself you must give to make the magic work. The stronger the target, the more of yourself you must give. The healthier the target, the more you must give. You understand? To kill Hitler with this magic would be to kill yourself. He is too far away, too strong. As for his health, I don't know. If we're lucky, he'll die of pneumonia tomorrow."
Andrzej shook his head, but he said, "At least give this to the Jews in the ghetto. We could each have a bone, each whisper a name, each fight back."
"It's not the way things are to be played out."
"There are uprisings in other ghettos. We do fight back. You have a great weapon—"
"Which has a great cost!" Czerniakow slammed the table and, just as abruptly, recomposed himself. "Just to make one bone takes from me, takes from my soul. I would be dead before you could arm the block you live on."
"Then why'd you make one for me at all?"
Czerniakow bit his bottom lip and looked away. "Your grandmother asked me to." With a sudden confidence that troubled Andrzej, Czerniakow stood and walked behind his chair. "I'm curious — why did you come today and not Ada. You burst in here straight from work."
"How do you know that?"
"Perhaps you're here because you know more than you think you do. Perhaps you've always known about your dear grandmother, and some part of you, some quiet mousy part that hides from your consciousness, that part of you directed your footsteps to my door — that part fears a witch like Ada."
Andrzej jumped to his feet, his hands clenched, ready to pound this arrogant bastard in the mouth. But he did not move. Grandma Ada? A witch? His shoulders drooped and he fell back into his chair.
"Here," Czerniakow said. Andrzej looked up and found another carved cow femur on the desk. "Tell Ada this is the last one I'll make. I consider my debt paid."
Walking home in a stupor, Andrzej felt the cold bone against his skin. Despite all he had survived, all the atrocities he had witnessed, he found himself stunned by the bizarre depths in which his world had sunk. His own grandmother a witch? Even if that proved true, even if the bone magic did come from some dark place of witches and death, he had used it to combat an evil man. The bone itself could not be evil — only the use of it could be such a thing.
By the time Andrzej reached his mattress, he had come no further in convincing himself one way or the other. Ada rested with her back propped in the corner. He watched her in the dimming light, wondering what to make of it all.
As if reading his mind (and maybe she had, he thought), Ada said, "I learned witchcraft from your great-great grandmother. She dabbled a bit, taught me what she knew, and pointed me in the right direction to learn more. I've used it sparingly. Most people out there are fools, and fools like to burn witches. I wasn't even sure if I should give you that bone, but we've all lost so much, and you're all I have left."
"I know, Grandma."
"You don't. I've lived a whole life. You'll learn when you're older, but I know. I've prayed you would have the strength to be successful with this, and my prayers were answered. Because of you, your daring, your courage, Breuer did not kill another Jew today nor will he ever. Now, go to sleep. We have work to do tomorrow."
Of all that Andrzej had heard and seen in the last day, nothing hit harder than his grandmother's short speech. He had been courageous. He had given part of himself to help those around him. Yes, he killed a man, but he stood in the center of a war. People died in wars. People killed, too.
He slept well that night, and in the morning, he showed no surprise when Grandma Ada rested her thin hand on his back. She smelled sweeter than usual and wore a smile that warmed him inside. It had been too long since he had seen such a welcome sight.
"Schenker," she said. "Klaus Schenker."
"Now?"
"Yes, now. Don't be stupid. Go."
Andrzej took the bone up to the attic and held it in his right hand. He let out a pitiful sigh. "Klaus Schenker," he said and braced himself for the jolt through his hand, the blinking eyes, the horrid screaming mouth.
That night, before he went to sleep, Grandma Ada handed him another bone, smaller than the others he had used before and this one had no carvings of any kind. Andrzej held it and shook his head. "I'm tired," he said. "I'll take care of this tomorrow morning."
"No," she said, her stern tone snapping him awake. "Czerniakow won't carve anymore. You must do it."
"But I don't know how."
"Take a knife, go upstairs, copy what you see on the bone from this morning."
"But—"
"The sooner you do it, the sooner you sleep."
Andrzej slumped his shoulders and stomped up to the attic. He lifted the old bone, still uncomfortable at the sight of its grotesque face — a little shiver hit him when he noticed that the mouth and eyes were both closed. He set the bone against the sloping wall and picked up his knife. The he began to carve into the new bone. His work lacked Czerniakow's craftsmanship, but it appeared passable. In some ways, Andrzej's lack of technique made the face far more hideous. As he neared his third hour of carving, the face seemed to shimmer beneath his bleary eyes.
At first, he thought he had fallen asleep and dreamt the little movements. Then he thought he might be hallucinating. However, with all he now knew, he guessed this to be a sign that the magic he carved in the bone would work.
An hour later, he completed the last of the foreign inscriptions, held the bone in his hand, and stretched his legs. He froze, staring at the bone, and then raised it high. The name in his mouth wanted to come forth, just waiting on his tongue. It would be so simple — Adolph Hitler. Just a simple whisper and all would be over.
A clamor from downstairs broke his concentration, and with a sigh mixed of disappointment and shame, he brought the bone to Grandma Ada. She approved without a word, and he hurried off to work. When he returned later that day, she had another name for him.
"Dieter Kuester," she would say, and off he would go to the attic.
"Henry Meer," she would say, and off he would go.
"Warner Schmetterling," she would say.
"Frederick Hagen."
One week later, Dr. Carl Kaltenbach arrived to inspect the ghetto thoroughly. A strange epidemic of heart failures had been causing serious problems with the German soldiers in charge of Lublin, and he had been ordered to solve the case. He died the day after his arrival.
Andrzej no longer bothered to show up for his factory job. He spent most of his time carving bones in the attic. He never asked his grandmother where she acquired these little treasures, but he could tell from the various sizes that cow bones had become increasingly rare.
He slept little. Mostly, his body kept going as if he had a caffeine IV dripping into him all day. At times, he tried to close his eyes, but then he saw things.
He saw his father's shocked expression as a bullet penetrated his body. He saw Breuer's swollen chest as he rotted under German soil. He saw the face on the bone as it came to life, its childish voice screaming the pain Andrzej felt ripping through his hand. He always saw that face.
"You're done?" Grandma Ada asked. When had she come upstairs?
"Just about," Andrzej said, his unwashed odor hitting his nostrils with surprising force. "Maybe I'll clean up first."
"You'll finish your work. Then we'll see about what I can do for you."
Andrzej nodded, his glum expression turning back to the bone in his hands.
"Is it so bad?" Ada asked. "You've become a hero and something to be feared. The Germans," she said, her eyes wrinkling out a smile, "they all don't know what to think. They wonder what curse has befallen them. They don't walk so proud and strong through our streets at night. That's because of your hard work. You should be pleased."
"I am."
"You don't sound it."
"This takes a lot of energy. I'm just tired."
"You think I ever had it easy? They take all our family away ..." Her voice cracked, she hesitated, and then snapped out, "Keep at it. Your father would be proud."
"You think so?"
"I raised him. I should know better than anyone what he would think," she said. Then she leaned in close to his ear and whispered, "Bernard Hillenbrand."
When another week had passed, Andrzej found he could carve the bones without consulting the original. He knew that face too well. He knew all the marks, all the shapes, and wondered how long before he could carve the bones with his eyes closed.
The world beyond the attic ceased to cross his mind. Only Grandma Ada remained and the names she gave him to tell the bones. He took to wearing nothing but his long underwear and his long coat — both stained and torn. He ate once in awhile and used a bucket as his toilet, but like his sleep, these things became more annoyances than necessities. Only carving that face mattered — and the strength it gave him.
Then Czerniakow paid a visit.
"Hello, Andrzej," Czerniakow began, his voice as tentative as his gestures. He bore a strong soap smell that infiltrated the attic like the Germans liquidating a ghetto. He surveyed the room, licked his lips, and trembled out a smile. "Can you understand me?"
"Of course I can. Don't be stupid."
"I didn't know what your mind would be with so much abuse."
Andrzej hunched over his latest carving and muttered, "I'm fine. Go away."
"You have to stop," Czerniakow said, gaining strength.
"You've already told me of the dangers, but you see I'm fine, so you were wrong. Go away, please."
"I don't care about you. You're making things worse for our people."
"I'm defending our people. I'm fighting back."
"Every time you kill one of them, they tighten their forces around us. We've more soldiers here than ever before. You kill one of them, they send ten of us on the trains. They're putting pressure on everybody, trying to find out how this is happening, who is responsible."
"Maybe then some of our people will fight back, too."
"We do fight back — peacefully."
"We act like sheep."
"The Americans fight for us."
"No one will fight for us until we stand up for ourselves."
Czerniakow flashed his false smile. "This is not the way. We can stand up without resorting to the actions of our enemies."
"This is war. I'm acting as a soldier."
"A soldier? I see. And where is your army? Where is your commanding officer? Where is your supporting government? Where is your battlefield? You deceive yourself. You are an assassin carrying out murders for your grandmother, the witch."
"I am an unstoppable force of war. I am an unsung hero. How you turn away from such power boggles my mind. This magic holds more might, more sheer brawn, than any weapon the Nazis could devise."
"But your soul," Czerniakow said, his pleading whimper grating onAndrzej’s nerves.
"All great soldiers must pay terrible prices for their cause. Nightmares of horrible acts — all paid so that the common citizens, people like you, don't have to be bloodied in battle."
Czerniakow lowered his head and backed out. Before he left, he said, "Don't become one of them."
Andrzej returned to his carving. Two more days drifted by. Or had it been three? Ada brought him another bone, this one dry and clinging to the soil that provided its grave. He did not want to know who had dug it up. He just wanted to carve.
And so he did. He carved. He carved. He carved.
The commotion from downstairs had been going on for a few minutes before Andrzej took complete notice. At first, he heard muffled cries and sharp commands. Then the distinct clumping of soldiers' boots.
Andrzej grabbed the last bone he had completed and approached the stairs. He went down only three steps, listening to the destruction of furniture and the orders to head outside. The stairwell walls closed in on him, and he came near to running back to his attic to hide, to wishing it all away.
He heard someone yell, "Die hexe! Die hexe!" Witch! Witch! They had Grandma Ada.
Andrzej edged downstairs. When he opened the front door, sunlight blasted upon him, glaring off the snow, blinding him with its intensity. He raised his hand carrying the bone to cover his eyes, and someone grabbed his shoulders. The soldier yanked him into the street, not caring if he stumbled, and shoved him next to his grandmother.
A crowd encircled them — Nazis and Jews standing next to one another to watch the spectacle. Grandma Ada clasped his free hand and gave him a tight squeeze. "Die hexe!" the people yelled, each looking to the other for support.
Andrzej's eyes had adjusted, but he kept the bone covering his head. Though his voice cracked from disuse, he managed to say, "I have protected you."
Laughter fluttered through the crowd. A man stepped forward, glanced for approval from the Nazi soldier standing guard, and walked closer. Andrzej had no trouble placing the face — Czerniakow.
"We have enough troubles in this world. We don't need witches, too," he said and the crowd agreed. Then, so Andrzej could hear, Czerniakow said, "I warned you not to use this magic and look what you've done."
Andrzej glowered and said, "I fought back." Czerniakow shook his head as he backed into the crowd, but Andrzej had more to say. In as much of a bellow as he could muster, he said, "I have fought back! And I will not stop!" Grandma Ada squeezed his hand again even as the soldiers raised their weapons in response. "I am the weapon you fear." The soldiers glanced wearily at one another, each waiting for the other to silence the witch. "And I will end this war now," Andrzej said, lowering the bone slowly to his mouth.
He intended to whisper the name Hitler but an idea struck him that caused his mouth to curl upward. He thrust the bone high above his head and yelled, "All Nazis!" Though he could not see the garish face open its mouth, he could hear its rattling tortured-child scream, he could see the twisted looks upon the crowd as they witnessed powerful magic, and he could feel lightning scraping through his hand.
"No!" Grandma Ada screeched and wrapped herself around Andrzej.
Nothing stopped, though. The scream continued as did the pain. Two soldiers dropped to the ground. Then a third. Soon the rest fell as if they had all just dropped off to sleep. An armored car passing a block away made a loud crack as it hit a wall. The pain in Andrzej's hand crept down his arm, burning into his shoulder and electrifying his entire body. His body quaked. His limbs flailed as if suffering an epileptic fit. He collapsed.
"Andrzej," a soft voice called.
He opened his eyes to see Grandma Ada crumpled next to him. Dazed, he rose and looked around. The crowd had not moved. They stared at him, unsure of what to do. A few wore bright smiles of wonder; others looked frightened.
He gazed at Grandma Ada. Her emaciated features, her twisted grimace, her bones vibrantly visible — all just another horror.
"What did you do?" Andrzej asked as a familiar pain settled in his chest — loss.
"Don't be stupid," she whispered. "You couldn't do it alone. The magic would've killed you."
"But you—"
"I'm old. It takes the young to fight these things."
Andrzej opened his mouth to say something, he did not know what, something that would mark this occasion — but one of the soldiers moaned. Another moved his hand. In seconds, all the soldiers climbed back to their feet, each acting as if suffering a massive hangover.
An unseen voice barked an order, and Andrzej knew it came from the overweight officer. Andrzej closed his eyes as two Nazis grabbed him. "No!" Grandma Ada said, struggling to rise. "Please, don't!"
The officer wobbled through the crowd and approached Andrzej. He lowered his round face close to Andrzej. "He's lost his mind," the officer said. "Look at him. Crazy." Then he put his mouth right next to Andrzej's ear and said, "I have a doctor friend in Sobibor who can't wait to meet you."
The officer nodded to the soldiers, and they pulled Andrzej away, heading him down the street. Nobody needed to ask where they took him as the train blew its shrill whistle.
He could hear his grandmother crying his name. A chilling cry. A child's anguished scream. Then came the distinct crack of a gunshot. Then came silence.
No matter. She would not die so long as he remembered all she had taught him. He knew the carvings by heart. The Nazis at the Sobibor work camp would soon suffer a terrible plague. All he needed were the bones to engrave, and he felt confident there would be plenty lying around.
I chose to start this collection with this unpublished piece because to me, it's the one that got away. I love this story and always wanted to see it in print, but it proved a tough sell —- it has a slower pace and a sad ending. To me, it's always been eerie and powerful. And it always beckoned me to find a home, infiltrating my dreams and gnawing at me whenever I saw it in my short story folder. In a way, I had no choice but to put it here. Now it'll finally leave me alone.
Black No. 7
(first appeared in AlienSkin Online, 2005)
Start on Earth and head straight away from the Sun. Go on for about seven months FTL and establish a stable orbit around the galactic center. Then look for D142337 — an M4 star so worthless it never got a name. Spinning around that red giant, giving it an enormous berth, is a crummy rock called End. There's only one city on End, so it's easy to find. Brilliant name — End City. At the far southern edge, look for 175th Street and take it south. On the right, there is a green door with white trim leading into a cellar, and this is Black Stack's All-Purpose Bar. The bar's decent and the whorehouse above is loaded with choice girls, and in the back of this cellar bar is a small room and me — one of the three greatest tattoo artists alive.
I said that to myself every night. It helped me keep perspective, and at the edge of the galaxy, perspective is valuable. Every part of that speech is true, though. I was, still am, one of the three greatest tattoo artists alive. I'm just not sure if I'll ever do another tattoo.
Two weeks ago, Stack entered my parlor after the bar had closed. The smell of stale booze sticking to the floor wafted in with him. He stooped due to my low ceiling and laughed with his eyes. The walls were covered with my artwork and a little flash from other artists, and Stack never failed to check it out before talking. His feet were tapping — not a good sign.
It was too early in the morning (or late at night) for me to bother with pleasantries. "You looking to fire me?" I asked.
Stack raised his hands. "No way. You bring in some good customers. Especially those doeegra. You realize how much they drink after they see you?"
Doeegra were muscular creatures, all arms and bristly skin. They loved tattoos, but the only place clear enough to use was the underside — and if the artist inked with a conventional seven-fifty laser, the doeegra would die from internal injuries within thirty-seven hours. Since I still used an old needle (one of only five who did), the doeegra loved to visit Stack's for the chance to work with me. And then there was Black No. 7, but only the three greatest tattoo artists knew about that.
I gestured to the customer's chair. Even sitting, Stack's feet tapped away. He eyes flashed green for a second as he checked his datalink — contact lenses that linked with his house network, letting him view all his security cameras and personal files from anywhere.
"What then?" I asked, adding an angry undertone — it was expected of me.
"I want you to do a tattoo."
"Yeah?"
Stack scooted forward, glanced over his shoulder, and in a softer tone, he said, "On yourself."
Now I understood his fear. It wasn't everyday you asked a murderer to tattoo himself. Of course, I wasn't really a murderer, but he didn't know that.
"Listen," he said, his hands more active in his speech than normal. His nerves were getting to me. "I ... I got some problems and I need help. See, under my bed, in the floor, is a safe. It's a really good safe, requires an eighteen point match on my thumbprint. If I die—"
"Someone threatening you?"
"Easy there," Stack said, forcing out a grin. "I don't want you killing anybody. But if I die, I want you to open that safe. Inside is a package and enough cash to get you to Mars. I want you to go back and find this girl, Sareena Cole. Give her the package."
I laughed. "What the fuck is this?"
"I'm serious," he yelled, and I believed him. He would never yell at me for a joke. "Look ... this girl ... she's my daughter."
"You have a daughter?"
"I want you to tattoo my thumbprint. It's got to be perfect."