Gabe - One.

Gabe

            If I had turned down a different street, everything might have been over before it even began. I would never have been looking for Erich, or Jim. Maybe I would have been caught by a different soldier, or maybe I would have hidden out in the town for a few more days before deciding that Hersch truly did not want my help. Either way, if I had gone left instead of right after storming out of Hersch’s rooms, everything would have been different.

            At the time, I thought it was over already. Hersch had practically turned me away at the door. I had a letter in my pocket, a desperate plea from Hersch’s own sister. I had come halfway around the world, planning all the way how in the hell I could break them out of there. I had evaded bloody Nazis in order to talk to him, only to find that he wanted nothing to do with me. No one was cooperating with my plan, after I had worked so hard.

            I didn’t believe Erich was there anymore. If Hersch hadn’t seen him, then he wasn’t there. The sting of disappointment brought a lump to my throat, and I fought back hard against it. No matter how hard I tried to deny it, Erich was the real reason I had come.

            The letter from Rebecca had arrived at Heathshire more than three months ago, and it was dated from six months before that. I don’t know how she managed to get it to me, what impossible system of underground information it had traveled through. But one day, in my regular mail, there was a stained, worn envelope with my name on it. The letter was a stained and torn sheet of typing paper, with less than ten words.

            Erich is coming. Piekło ghetto. Tell Jim. Help us. R.A.

            I was out the door before the end of the day. I dug my Italian visa papers out of the trunk in the basement, withdrew half of my money from the bank, and went in search of a way into Poland. A French pilot was willing to take me as far as Vichy, where I caught a freight car into occupied Paris. My Italian papers and half my savings were enough to convince a German military driver I met there to take me into Germany and across the Polish boarder, on his way to take supplies to the Russian front. Once inside Poland, it was a week’s walk to the ghetto, with the help of the same underground that had helped the letter reach me. Everyone knew the ghetto, though I learned soon enough that Piekło was not the name of the town, but a code name used by the underground: it meant ‘hell.’ The whole journey took three months.

            All because I knew R.A was Rebecca Abrahamson, and she would never lie about Erich being alive.

            Telling Jim hadn’t really been an option. After Wellington’s, he and I went our separate ways, though we both stayed in England for a time. The only correspondence I got from him came year after the bombing, when he asked me to wire him money. I complied, without asking why. He had lost just as much as I had; why not help him? By the time I got his letter, telling me he had used the money to go to Poland to search for Rebecca, he was already gone. I would have gone with him, but he never gave me the chance. One I made it to Poland, I wrote to him and sent the letter through the underground, with instructions to see that it reached the hands of an American called Banhart. I never expected to reach the ghetto at the same time as him.

            When I reached the town surrounding Piekło, I learned about the Resistance from the rebels in town. There were agents on the outside, in the Polish quarter. When I told them I was a friend of Herschel Abrahamson, people looked at me like I was a friend of Jesus. One of them sent a message over the wall immediately, and two days later the elderly Polish couple, whose attic I was hiding out in, brought be a letter in response. I went under the wall in the last sewer tunnel of the Resistance that remained untouched by the Nazis, and met Herschel in the back rooms an abandoned store. I don’t think he would have agreed to see me at all, if I hadn’t had his journal.

            Yes, I had Hersch’s journal. Of course I did. I had walked away from the bombing at Wellington’s without a scratch, because I was in the dorm when the air raid came. It was like a bomb shelter. The entire school collapsed above me, and I was safe as could be. When they came to pull me out, I realized Hersch’s journal had fallen behind the overturned desk. I had grabbed it without thinking, not only because I knew how much it meant to him, but because I knew Herschel had taken down our story in that journal. I knew everything would be destroyed when I left the basement, and Hersch’s journal would be the last evidence of what had happened to all of us at Wellington’s. I meant to keep it, to read it when I needed to remember our days at Wellington’s. After Erich left, though, I could never bring myself to read it.

            That was all Hersch wanted from me. He took the journal, and then told me to leave, go get out while I still could. He didn’t want to leave; he made that perfectly clear. I told him Jim was coming too, but he didn’t seem to care. He wouldn’t even let me see Rebecca, even after I showed him the letter. He told me she had lied, that Erich could be dead for all he knew. I had stormed out of the building after that, and now here I was.

            I hid my face under my hat and behind my scarf. No one would recognize me here, but it was bitterly cold, for late November. There was already a dusting of snow on the ground, and I didn’t want to end up like the frozen bodies in the ditch. As I made my way down the street, I shoved my hands in my pockets and scowled, trying to decide what my next move would be.

            The freezing wind blew hard against me, blinding me with tiny pinpricks of ice. It was getting dark already. I shivered, wondering if I could even find my way out of here. Under my mercifully warm coat, my rosary still felt practically frozen to my chest. I touched the beads through the wool of my jacket, sending up a silent prayer just to let me get out of that godforsaken place alive.

            I saw someone coming towards me down the road. It was the glow of his lighter that caught my attention. If I squinted, I could see he was a soldier. I tried to slip into the shadows of the nearest building, but it was too late. He had spotted me.

            I froze, and he yelled something in German. My German was much too weak to understand him, and he tried again in Polish. When I still didn’t understand, he flicked down the cigarette and tried in English. “Show me your papers!”

            My mouth went dry; my Italian papers would do no good here, and my British ones were enough to get me killed. I prepared to plead for my life, knowing full well that I had nowhere near enough money left for a bribe. “Please…” I began.

            Big mistake. He obviously recognized my accent. “Stay where you are!” he shouted. To my horror, he pulled a revolver from his jacket and pointed it at my forehead. “Get on the ground! On the ground!” I dropped to the street immediately, keeping my eyes on the ground. Oh, God. I was really going to die. “On your knees! Hands on your head!” I fell to my knees in the snow, bringing my hands to the back of my neck. That voice, it couldn’t be.

            I could hear the crunch of snow under his heavy jackboots as he rushed toward me.  “Don’t move,” I ordered, “or I’ll shoot. Who are you?”

            I had to know, even if it got me killed. I cast my eyes up for one split second, because that was all I needed. I needed to see his hunched shoulders and jutting lower jaw, his pale blonde hair and his inward curling hand. His icy blue eyes. “I said don’t move! Who are you!”

            My heart was pounding before my brain could catch up, and I found I couldn’t breathe. I started to shake, keeping my eyes glued to the ground, because if I saw those eyes again I was sure I would do something to get myself killed.

            “Erich.” The name came off my lips like a miracle, like a prayer, hardly more than a breath. He didn’t understand, didn’t recognize. His hand " his left hand " swooped towards me and yanked the cap off my head. My hair spilled down across my face, and I could have heard his intake of breath from a mile away.

            Slowly, I lifted my eyes back to his. He was frozen, open-mouthed; the gun dropped from his hand and into the snow. “Gabe.”

            It was really him; he was there. Erich was alive and safe.

            I had no time to even consider what this meant, because two shots rang out behind us.

            Threw myself to the ground, not knowing where the shooter was. I reached for my own pistol, convinced that another soldier had spotted us. Staying down on my knees, I whirled around and fired two badly aimed shot in the general direction of the noise. Before I catch sight of the shooter, though, Erich had me by the collar, dragging me into the nearby alley.

            I landed on my back in the snow, looking up at Erich. He saved me; Erich had saved me. He was pressed against the alley wall, with his gun back in his hand. Being in such a close space with Erich made me feel fluttery and lightheaded, but now was not the time. He looked so intimidating. His uniform, I hadn’t really taken in his uniform. He really was a Nazi now.

            Erich fired two shots into the air. The noise echoed off the walls, so deafeningly loud I had to cover my ears. “Who are you?” he bellowed. “Stand down! That’s an order!” He must have thought it was another soldier too, though why he was back to English I couldn’t say.

            The voice that came from the street nearly made me fall backwards. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll get you out of there!”

            American. The voice sounded wrong when he was trying to be serious: Jim. 

             “Jim?” I called. Erich knew it too, and he peeked around the corner to confirm who was there. “What are you doing here?”

            “Gabe? You all right?”

            Erich made a face of utter disbelief, rolling his eyes in a way that made me feel like Jim was asking where Essex was back at Wellington’s, not pointing a gun at us. “It’s me you idiot!”

            “Jim, don’t shoot!” I cried, hearing the panic in my own voice. He would shoot Erich, if he got the chance.  “It’s just Erich!”

            “Erich?”

            “Yes, Erich! Now put down your gun, and he’ll put down his!”

            Erich whipped his head towards me, lip curling. “Like hell I will! He’s an intruder!”

            “So am I. Are you going to shoot me too?” I had to bet my life that he wouldn’t.

            He pointed furiously at me. “Don’t push me, Moretti!” It was an empty threat; his gun was never pointed anywhere near me. “You have one too.” He nodded to my pistol. “Don’t pretend I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

            I looked down at the gun in my hand, then shoved it into my pocket. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it all the way. “I’m coming out, Jim,” I called. “Don’t shoot!”

            I took a deep breath, put my hands in the air, and stepped out of the alley. Jim was at the end of the street, and though I couldn’t see him clearly, he was as tall and skinny as ever. The sight of him made my heart ache for Wellington’s. I was glad his legs were back to normal after the explosion, at least. Jim lowered his gun when he saw me, and I lowered my arms. He was on my side, whatever side I was on.

            I turned back to Erich, who was still crouched in the alley. With a groan, he holstered his gun, though keeping a hand on it, and stepped out behind me.

            He and Jim stared menacingly at each other. “How the hell did you get in here?” Erich growled, trying to keep himself under control.

            “How the hell did I get in here? How the hell did you get in here?” Jim had never been the best with words.

            “I’m a goddamn soldier!” Erich yelled, starting to lose control already. “And don’t think I don’t know why you’re here! I should kill you!” The rage in his face was terrifying; I had forgotten what he could do when he was truly angry.

             Jim raised his gun again, prompting Erich to pull his too. When faced with Erich’s obviously superior aim, Jim dropped his arm again. “Come towards me, Gabe,” he seethed. “He won’t shoot you.” I hesitated; I didn’t want to walk away from Erich.

            “I don’t think he wants saving, Banhart.” Another painfully familiar voice slithered down the street, coming from behind Jim. All three of us whipped around, pointing our guns at the newcomer.

            “Hersch?”

            “Hersch!”

            Hersch moved slowly down the street, wielding his own gun. “Can we stop shooting? It won’t be any good for us if a soldier finds us here.” His accent was so thick I could barely understand him, so I could tell it had been a long time since he spoke any English.

            Erich pointed his pistol at Hersch, but kept his finger off the trigger. “Too late,” he snarled. He really was a soldier, and he was completely within his rights to shoot all of us. Just the thought made me sweat.

            “By my count, you’re outnumbered,” Jim seethed. Both of them swung their guns towards Erich.

            Erich tensed and a wave of panic shot through me. They wouldn’t really kill him, would they? This was a nightmare. Erich, looked from Jim to Hersch, took a deep breath, and put his gun away again. He took a step closer to them, and I followed him. He was trying not to seem afraid, but we all Hersch was right: Erich was outnumbered. “Abrahamson,” he snarled. “It’s you and Rebecca then, the ones we’re after? The Gören, The Brats of Abraham. I should have known.” He chuckled darkly. “How’s the Resistance?”

            Hersch did not drop the gun. “It’s dead.”

            “I don’t believe that.” Having done his work with Hersch, Erich turned to Jim. “Don’t point that thing at me. I’m not the one you came for.”

            That changed the tides, and suddenly Hersch and Jim were pointing the guns at each other. “He’s right, Hersch,” Jim said angrily, “You know why I’m here.”

            Hersch gritted his teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said in a tone that said he certainly did.

            “Don’t give me that!” Jim yelled. “Where is she?”

            Hersch’s face darkened. He knew exactly whom Jim wanted, we all did, and Hersch would never give her up without a fight. Hersch could tell, though, like we all could, that Jim would never really shoot. To prove the point, Hersch put his own gun back in his pocket smugly. “Get out of here, Jim. You’re not a part of this anymore.”

            Hersch had played a good card. “I know what you’re doing, Abrahamson! But I’m not leaving until I see her.”

            Hersch put his hands up. “You pull that trigger, and you’re not leaving here at all.” Jim’s hand was shaking; he would never do it.

            I knew Jim wanted to stand his ground, but Hersch had the upper hand. So he turned his gun on Erich instead. “You!” he shouted. “You seem to know a lot about why I’m here. What about him?” he cocked his head towards me, and I froze. “I’ll bet you know why he’s here, too,” he let a knowing smirk slide across his face. “I’ll bet you know real well.”

            Erich pulled his lip back into a snarl, and we all knew Jim had said just the right thing. Just to prove his point, Jim moved his gun in my direction. My heart was pounding in my ears, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but stare down that pistol. Erich’s face twisted with conflicted rage. “Don’t you f*****g point that at him!” he roared.

            Jim smiled smugly again, though Hersch’s gun was once again locked on him. “That’s what I thought.”

            “You stay out of it, Banhart,” Erich snarled, “You say one word about it and I’ll blow you away before you know what hit you!” His knuckles were white on the pistol.

            I thought I might throw up. After all this time, Erich would try to deny what had happened two years ago. There had been days, in the last two and a half years, when I only made it through by imagining what it would be like if I ever found Erich. I never knew how or where we would find each other, but in my mind, he always kissed me first, the way he had that day on the steps. I had thought there was no way in the world he could take back everything he had said to me that day.

            It made me so angry, I could hardly breathe. I was not about to let Erich get away with that. While the three of them glared at each other, leaving me out of the fighting, I reached into my coat and grabbed my own gun.

            “What’s Jim got to do with it?” I asked, trying " and failing " to sound as ferocious as Erich. They turned, surprised to see that I had stake in this too. “You know you’ll never be able to take it back.”

            Erich swung his pistol towards me. I knew had pushed him too far, but the realization that he might actually be angry enough to kill me made my body lock up in terror. “That’s the past,” he growled.

            I clenched the gun to keep my hands from shaking; I barely even know how to fire the bloody thing. But I wasn’t just going to take that from Erich. He couldn’t really believe that. “You can’t just shoot me and make it go away,” I raised my voice, and I sounded terrified and hurt even in my own head. “You’ll always know.”

            “Oh, shut it, Moretti! Cut the dramatics. Why else would you be here?” Hersch sneered. He would call my bluff, I knew. Hersch still had the intuition of a psychic. He moved his eyes to me, but kept his gun locked on Jim, thank God.

            I turned angrily on Hersch. “You know why,” I seethed. “You know why I came all the way here for nothing.”

            Hersch scoffed. “So what? You were just in the neighborhood? I don’t buy it for a second. Besides, I didn’t tell you to come.”

            “But you know who did,” Jim broke in. “And she wants us here, even if you don’t.”

            Hersch glared at us. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

   The four of us were all within two feet of each other by now, having moved closer as the fight got more heated. We stood there in the middle of the street, pointing our guns at whomever we thought had wronged us the most. We each had our reasons to be angry. The problem was, for every reason we each had to pull the trigger, we had equal reason to defend whoever got shot. So it wasn't a question of who was angry enough to shoot; it was a question of who would be stupid enough to go first.

Author's Note

Ok, so this is probably confusing right now, but I'll be filling in the holes of what happened to the boys during the two and a half years apart as the story goes on. Bear with me and let me know if I've got anything wonky that doesn't dovetail with the other chapters, or if you think I should have explained something that I missed (but you're not supposed to know everything yet so hang in there). And watch for edits!

Reviews

[Arianna]

pshh not confusing. i mean a little bit but mostly just exciting and oh goodness i am glad to be back reading gabes chapters. :D this is i think my favorite part, i loved it when you put it in passover and i was sooo looking forwerd to when it came back, seriously its amazing :)