Daniel Yarosh - The Death of Hercules - A DocuNovel

“He’ll need help, then,” Deena said quietly.

“Help? From whom?”

“Us. You, mostly,” she replied.

“Me? Why me?”

“Why not?” she said.

Now that was the question. Why not indeed. Zalmund felt a pinch in his throat, and his ears burned. His mind was clouded for a moment. He could not speak his answer. No need. They would be done with him soon enough.

“Then,” he said, mustering a commanding voice and a dismissive tone, “maybe we will.”

Finally, in early evening the train pulled into the Leipzig station. On Zalmund’s suggestion, Max left the train with them to rest overnight. Max understood his invitation, but Zalmund’s eyes said something else. Max was too tired to think more about it.

On the other hand, Deena was much more encouraging. She practically skipped down the station platform, reciting what little she knew about Leipzig. But when her eyes met Max’s, she held his gaze and then shyly looked away. She giggled and spoke to Zalmund. She turned her head over her shoulder so Max could hear, her golden red hair flying away, and the glint of fading light passed through the station windows onto her cheek.

A dozen platforms stretched out on the left for trains from Saxony and another dozen on the right for trains from Prussia. Their train reached back into the horizon and disappeared from view in the flood of exiting passengers and porters scurrying with carts laden with luggage. This was the largest train station in all of Europe, located in its center and crossroads for all the bustle and business that continued even in the collapse of the Empire. They approached the main hall of the Leipzig train station through a hallway tunnel of arched steel beams that opened onto a majestic expanse stretching out before the entryway and lit by rows of matching crystal chandeliers. Gothic wood carvings decorated the pillars, and above the walls were intricate stained-glass windows, symbolizing the limitless possibilities of Germany following the unification a generation before. The cavernous space now had a heavy air of tattered travelers, seeking sanctuary somewhere else, everyone on the move. Finely painted porcelain tiles and bright mosaics looked down on a mother, her young child perched on her hip, her other arm struggling with suitcases bound with rope.

Zalmund, Deena and Max collected their luggage, made their way to the entrance and stepped out onto the boulevard in front of the broad sandstone façade of the station. Zalmund picked out one, then another, porter, and inquired about hotels they might afford and where money was changed. While Berlin was in ruins, Leipzig was still an operational business center in the heart of Europe and desperately needed tradeable currency. Zalmund quickly changed his silver Dutch guilders he brought from Amsterdam into German marks at an beneficial, actually outrageous, premium. Finally satisfied, he directed Deena and Max south, across Brühl street and down the gas lit Nikolaistrasse.

Nikolaistrasse was at the heart of the Leipzig commercial center. The narrow canyon street was walled-in by imposing four-story stone businesses and homes, with peaked roofs, limestone facades and elaborate entry arches. The few people who were on the street walked with purpose, clutching their coats close against the cold. Max, Deena and Zalmund passed the Seltershaus, home of the Imperial Japan Consul, then the fur trade houses, highlighted by the Blue Pike house with a carved stone pike painted blue and flanked by cherubs, and then the mansion Zeppelin House built for the tobacco merchant Felix Reimann.

They paused at the Speckshof, an inn, brewery and wine cellar. Laid out neatly at the curb was a corpse, properly wrapped in a white sheet, awaiting pickup. The Spanish flu no doubt, each thought. They had seen too many dead in the last year, and they were not shocked but saddened.

They turned to face St. Nicholas, an enormous Romanesque church 750 years old. Zalmund stopped and looked up, dropping the suitcases and crossing his arms across his chest. Deena stopped behind him. Max, walking with his head down, passed a few strides ahead before stopping. He looked back at them with an exhausted smile.

“Why don’t you go ahead to the rooms?” Zalmund offered, reaching out his hand with a few marks. Max looked at him and then to Deena. But he was tired and had no interest in the church. He nodded a sign of thanks, took the bills, said “I’ll pay you back.” He then trudged on down Nikolaistrasse, carrying all their suitcases.

Zalmund and Deena entered the Nikolaikirche, where Johan Sebastian Bach had been cantor and for years composed a new piece on the organ for each Sunday service. His duties included teaching Latin, and when one day he sent a substitute to teach his classes so he could have more time to compose, the city council reprimanded him and slashed his salary. This afternoon was cold and gloomy, and the inside of the church was dim, damp and nearly empty. Deena strolled down the left isle, gaze fixed on the gothic arches, elaborate pillars and tiered baroque balconies. Zalmund followed, feigning an appreciation with a jutting jaw and narrowed eyes. At the naïve where Bach’s organ once sat, he grabbed Deena by the shoulders, turned her to face him, and slowly guided her to the dark wall near the benches, where they could not be seen.

Deena looked into Zalmund’s eyes, first one then the other, with a quizzical expression. “Have you been inside such a church, before?” she asked. Zalmund returned her gaze with an unsettling intensity, and briefly shook his head. His arms slid from her shoulders down her back, and he took a small step closer.

“I came here for you,” he said.

“Does this make you afraid?” she cooed in a low voice, narrowing her eyes and holding him at the waist. Her mouth turned up at the corners in a wry smile, which angered him.

“This is your God, not mine,” he whispered.

“We are all children of God,” she said.

“Then we are orphans.” For the first time Deena saw a look in his face of desperation and need. He bent forward and kissed her. She returned his passion, but when the embrace became uncomfortably long, she gently withdrew.

“We are in a holy place,” she breathed in his ear.

“All the more reason, for love,” he said, putting his arms on her hips and pulling her even closer.

“For love?” The words stuck in Deena’s throat and barely left. She felt confused, and her shoulders trembled. She had been playing at a game all these months. He had never said it was real love. It was escape for both of them, wasn’t it? Now she saw what she had run to, and it came at a terrible junction. At one time she saw she had no options, but now out in the world she glimpsed the possibilities.

Zalmund took her shiver for lust because he needed to believe it. He again leaned into her ear. “Let me make love to you,” he said.

The next morning Zalmund left the rooming house early to gather food for the train. Max stumbled down the stairs mid-morning. As he was asking the hotel clerk about bread, Deena arrived in the anteroom, dressed and ready to leave. They moved closer to a small fire in the single fireplace, outside of the dining room that was quickly filling up. They heard one, then another, deep raspy cough come from inside the room. They looked at each other and decided not to go in.

“Did you see Zalmund?” Deena asked.

Max caught her eye then looked away. “No I didn’t.” He shifted on his feet.

“He’ll be back soon. With food for the trip.” Deena said.

Max looked back at her, staring directly. “You were late coming back from the church.”

“Were we?” Deena asked, and looked toward the dining room. She shook her head to flounce her hair. She did not like being interrogated.