Read Online Jacob's Oath by Martin Fletcher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martin Fletcher
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how. Stepping through the algae at the water’s edge, with the mud sucking at his heels
and squishing between his toes, he picked his way over the sharp roots of the tall
rushes and lay down in the grass. He watched a family of startled ducks waddle in
a row to the water. The grass was sharp and hard and scratched his back but he didn’t
care. He threw open his arms and spread his legs and felt the warmth envelop him and
the river breeze dry those private places.
Relief swept through his veins: Yes. It’s really over! He listened to the singing
of birds settling in the nearby bush and to the little blue-chested ones that trilled
and warbled back. Jacob heard himself shout to them all: I made it! I’m free too!
So what?
He felt a tightness, a band around his lungs, a noose closing. It was the memory of
his promise that now he must keep. His stomach clenched at the thought.
As quickly as it came he shrugged it off and jumped up with his arms out to embrace
the sun, which brought back the smile. He examined his sinewy arms; and his legs,
which seemed to be adding some muscle; his hairy white belly and the shrunken prune
below. Hello again, old friend, he thought.
Washed, dried, in clean clothes that were only slightly too large, Jacob set off again
along the Neckar, which now looked to him more beautiful than ever, more inviting
even than when he had pushed in Karl Wagner on his birthday, an existence ago before
Karl donned the swastika.
I could do with some new shoes, too, he thought. Can’t go home in odd shoes.
But a mile on, at the narrowest point where the hills are closest to the river, two
massive American tank transporters were parked parallel to each other blocking the
road. A growing mass of carts, people, and livestock waited in silence. It had been
closed since the day before. Nobody knew why it was closed, or when it would reopen.
There were no river boats here and the bridges had been blown up by the retreating
German army. The only way across, an annoyed matron told him, was an American pontoon
bridge kilometers ahead by the historic Old Bridge: “And that’s been blown up too.”
Jacob wasn’t going to wait. He was excited at being so close to home, at discovering
who was in Heidelberg and what remained of the town. Surely at least the Old City
would have been spared, even if the bridge was down.
As soon as he understood the delay could last another day at least, he set off into
the hills of the Odenwald, following a trail he remembered that wound around the high
ridge and rejoined the river road at the Snake Path almost opposite the Old Bridge.
The trail ran through thick woods until it opened onto the last part of the Philosopher’s
Way, which had been everyone’s most beloved picnic spot. Philosophers, poets, and
painters dedicated their art to the startlingly beautiful view through the trees and
across the winding river to the steeples, gables, and red roofs of Old Heidelberg,
over which ruled, from its perch on the hill, the ghostly towers of the destroyed
renaissance fortress of Prince Elector Otto Heinrich.
As he pushed through the overgrown trail, arms raised to protect himself from the
whip of branches, his step became heavier. A cloud descended upon him. He was nearing
the most beautiful city in Germany from its most beautiful approach, and all he would
see was a sea of rubble, like every other city through which he had passed. He didn’t
want to see the medieval towers, the ancient university buildings, even the old castle,
humiliated by the bombs, even if he hated everyone who lived in them.
His thoughts became grim. The trees were tall and dark and their branches spread and
their foliage pressed in and his childhood fears knocked at his heart. The ogres and
demons of the forest and the gnomes and elves of the fables inhabited the minds of
all who dwelt in the Odenwald. And even after all he had survived,
and squishing between his toes, he picked his way over the sharp roots of the tall
rushes and lay down in the grass. He watched a family of startled ducks waddle in
a row to the water. The grass was sharp and hard and scratched his back but he didn’t
care. He threw open his arms and spread his legs and felt the warmth envelop him and
the river breeze dry those private places.
Relief swept through his veins: Yes. It’s really over! He listened to the singing
of birds settling in the nearby bush and to the little blue-chested ones that trilled
and warbled back. Jacob heard himself shout to them all: I made it! I’m free too!
So what?
He felt a tightness, a band around his lungs, a noose closing. It was the memory of
his promise that now he must keep. His stomach clenched at the thought.
As quickly as it came he shrugged it off and jumped up with his arms out to embrace
the sun, which brought back the smile. He examined his sinewy arms; and his legs,
which seemed to be adding some muscle; his hairy white belly and the shrunken prune
below. Hello again, old friend, he thought.
Washed, dried, in clean clothes that were only slightly too large, Jacob set off again
along the Neckar, which now looked to him more beautiful than ever, more inviting
even than when he had pushed in Karl Wagner on his birthday, an existence ago before
Karl donned the swastika.
I could do with some new shoes, too, he thought. Can’t go home in odd shoes.
But a mile on, at the narrowest point where the hills are closest to the river, two
massive American tank transporters were parked parallel to each other blocking the
road. A growing mass of carts, people, and livestock waited in silence. It had been
closed since the day before. Nobody knew why it was closed, or when it would reopen.
There were no river boats here and the bridges had been blown up by the retreating
German army. The only way across, an annoyed matron told him, was an American pontoon
bridge kilometers ahead by the historic Old Bridge: “And that’s been blown up too.”
Jacob wasn’t going to wait. He was excited at being so close to home, at discovering
who was in Heidelberg and what remained of the town. Surely at least the Old City
would have been spared, even if the bridge was down.
As soon as he understood the delay could last another day at least, he set off into
the hills of the Odenwald, following a trail he remembered that wound around the high
ridge and rejoined the river road at the Snake Path almost opposite the Old Bridge.
The trail ran through thick woods until it opened onto the last part of the Philosopher’s
Way, which had been everyone’s most beloved picnic spot. Philosophers, poets, and
painters dedicated their art to the startlingly beautiful view through the trees and
across the winding river to the steeples, gables, and red roofs of Old Heidelberg,
over which ruled, from its perch on the hill, the ghostly towers of the destroyed
renaissance fortress of Prince Elector Otto Heinrich.
As he pushed through the overgrown trail, arms raised to protect himself from the
whip of branches, his step became heavier. A cloud descended upon him. He was nearing
the most beautiful city in Germany from its most beautiful approach, and all he would
see was a sea of rubble, like every other city through which he had passed. He didn’t
want to see the medieval towers, the ancient university buildings, even the old castle,
humiliated by the bombs, even if he hated everyone who lived in them.
His thoughts became grim. The trees were tall and dark and their branches spread and
their foliage pressed in and his childhood fears knocked at his heart. The ogres and
demons of the forest and the gnomes and elves of the fables inhabited the minds of
all who dwelt in the Odenwald. And even after all he had survived,
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