Part 36 (1/2)

Leaning over Charlie's shoulder, Franz caught a glimpse of the same green plastic they had seen at the temple. Charlie swept away snow until he exposed the protruding pencil detonators. He ran a finger up one cylinder. ”The tip. It's been crushed. The fuse is live.”

Franz leaned back instinctively. ”How much time do we have?” he asked.

Charlie wrestled the first detonator out of the block and threw it over his shoulder. He had to struggle harder to free the other, but it finally slid free. He tossed it away. ”No way to know,” he panted. ”Could be any time now.”

”But there were four bombs outside the synagogue.”

Charlie reached for his crutches and pushed himself upright. ”Follow the footprints!” He hurried along the wall, following the tracks in the snow.

Franz rushed past him to the next acc.u.mulation of footprints. He fell to his knees and swept his arms back and forth through the powdery snow, trying to ignore his throbbing shoulder. Suddenly his hand came in contact with something hard. His breath caught in his throat. Following Charlie's example, he delicately wiped the snow away from another half-buried explosive.

Franz examined the detonators and saw the pliers' teeth marks. The bomb is live! He fought the urge to scramble away.

Willing his hand steady, he reached out for the icy-smooth detonator with his right hand while stabilizing the explosive block with his left. He tugged on the cylinder but it hardly budged; his shoulder burned. He switched hands and braced his left elbow against the ground, then jerked even harder. The detonator gave way. He tossed it aside and reached for the second one, but this one resisted fiercely. The cylinder wouldn't budge.

His heart hammered against his rib cage. Melted snow dripped into his eyes, obscuring his vision. Behind him, he heard Charlie moving past, searching for the next charge.

Franz almost called to him for help, but there was no time. He considered grabbing the bomb and hurling it as far from the hospital as he could, but the thought of the grenades attached to the explosives at the synagogue stopped him.

He wiped his eyes clear and jumped to his feet. Planting his right foot firmly against the bomb, he again took the slippery detonator in his left hand, yanking back as hard as he could. It came loose and he toppled backward as it flew free of the explosive.

On his back, he arched his arm and threw the detonator with all his might away from the hospital. Just before it hit the ground, Franz saw it spark red, then explode.

CHAPTER 49.

Light snow fell on the gathering in the clearing behind the hospital. The crowd was so big that people were forced to stand shoulder to shoulder to make enough room around the graveside.

Sunny could not stop her tears as she watched three coolies lower Joey's casket into the shallow grave that they had chipped out of the frozen soil. He was being buried on what would have been his twenty-second birthday-though there was an arbitrary element to that date. Joey had known only that he was born sometime in early winter, and when Sir Victor Sa.s.soon had insisted on throwing him a lavish nineteenth birthday party a few years earlier, they had settled on December 27, primarily because it worked best for the tyc.o.o.n's busy social schedule.

Joey was an orphan without any known family, so his funeral arrangements had fallen to Sunny. He had been neither religious nor, unlike so many rural Chinese, even remotely superst.i.tious. Sunny had opted for a traditional but non-denominational Chinese burial. The casket was covered with the white and yellow paper that, according to folklore, warded off evil spirits.

Sunny was moved by the large turnout. The hospital staff stood in groups of two and three, a few patients were huddled under blankets, and a handful of coolies s.h.i.+vered in the cold. Others from the refugee community cl.u.s.tered around the gravesite, some sobbing openly. Only Simon was absent. It had taken every ounce of Sunny's persuasiveness to convince him not to attend. Only after she had suggested that he write a sermon Esther could read, rather than risk his life to sneak into the ghetto to pay his respects, did he finally agree to stay away.

Sunny crouched down, scooped up a handful of cold dirt and tossed it onto the coffin. Franz stepped up beside her and did the same. The other mourners formed a line to repeat the Chinese ritual. It reminded Sunny of the Jewish custom of mourners placing dirt back into a grave during the funeral ceremony. Again she was struck by the parallels between her native and adopted cultures.

Sunny took a last look at Joey's coffin, then stepped back. Franz's hand tightened over hers. She squeezed back, incredibly grateful that her husband had survived the recent events with no more than a broken collarbone. But her relief dissolved into melancholy as she thought of the last time she had seen Joey alive, a huge grin on his face as he had headed out the hospital's door promising to ”sweep the n.a.z.is away like fallen leaves.”

”Thank you, darling,” Franz murmured.

”For what?”

He motioned to the mourners. ”You gave Joey a hero's funeral. No less than what he deserves.”

”He deserved to live.”

He held her hand tighter. ”So true. But think of the lives he helped to save.”

”Charlie and you did too. You are all heroes.” Sunny wiped her eyes. ”It's just that . . . Yang, Max, Wen-Cheng and now Joey. They are all gone.”

Franz caressed her cheek with his free hand. ”I know.”

She caught his hand and gently pulled it away from her face. ”Franz, how can we be sure that von Puttkamer will not simply try again?”

”We can't be sure. Not really.”

”So where does that leave us?”

Franz exhaled heavily and his clouded breath obscured his features. ”I must speak with him.”

”Von Puttkamer? You can't be serious, Franz.”

”I don't see another way.”

Sunny tensed. ”How would you even get a pa.s.s to leave the ghetto?”

”I will have to get von Puttkamer to come to me.”

”Why would he agree to that?”

”I'll offer him certain . . . incentives.”

”What kind of incentives?”

”Photographs,” he said. ”Listen, Sunny. You must take a message to Ernst. Something he can relay to von Puttkamer.”

She shook her head. ”We cannot involve Ernst. If von Puttkamer even suspects that he was the one who told you . . .”

Franz's forehead creased. ”Ja, this is true.”

”Let me do it,” Sunny said.

”Walk into n.a.z.i territory with a message from me, a Jew? You must be joking.”

”Now that Joey is gone, who else can leave the ghetto?”

”We will find someone,” Franz said. ”One of the other refugees. Someone with one of Ghoya's precious pa.s.ses.”

She reached for his right elbow, and he winced in pain. ”Sorry, darling.” She released his arm. ”Let me, Franz. I can do this.”

He shook his head. ”It is too risky.”

”I will only be the messenger.” She feigned a thick Chinese accent and continued in pidgin English: ”I bring chit to master. He pay my c.u.mshaw.”