“A few tried. Most were recaptured. When someone did escape, all of us were ordered to stand at attention for hours on end in the courtyard while the escapee was tracked down, then humiliated and hanged. Remember, Patrick, we were Jews, exiled into Hell because no one else wanted us… where would we have escaped to? Even the Allies that eventually liberated the camps never entered the war to save us. We were told we were God’s Chosen and God had abandoned us, as so many of us had abandoned Him at Mount Sinai.
“Prayer became intolerable, we were humans reduced to vermin. Still a few of us managed to find a speck of Light, one last shred of human dignity that represented our refusal to accept our fate. For me, it was cleanliness. Each night before I lay down on my bunk with four or five other living corpses, I found a way to wash my hands, to cleanse them of the grit and ash deposited from the day. This was the way I fought my oppressors. This was the small victory that kept me out of the darkness.”
“Did you ever believe you’d be rescued? How did you manage to maintain any hope?”
“In Auschwitz, hope was a sin. Hope kept you alive another day, and to stay alive you were forced to think and act in ways that were inhuman. I saw mothers renounce their children in order to live, I saw women allow themselves to be raped by the guards in exchange for a slice of bread. I witnessed one man suffocate his brother to steal his rations. Evil begets more evil, Patrick, as well you know. And yet, through the madness of it all, yes… we held out hope that one day the world would be a different place, that our survival would usher in the change we yearned for.”
Virgil opened his eyes. “Now you’ve heard my story. Does it set your misery in perspective?”
“To be honest, it only reinforces what I came to realize in Iraq — that there is no God, that this Light force you claim is part of all of us can’t possibly exist. If God is so omnipotent, why is there so much evil in the world? If God is so loving, why didn’t He stop the Holocaust? If you’re saying He chose not to, then He’s no God of mine, He’s a monster.”
Virgil struggled to his feet, his back aching. “I understand your feelings, Patrick. I’ve heard these same thoughts a thousand times a thousand. The answer goes back to the true purpose of life, which is a test for the soul — the completion of its tikkun. Evil exists so that free will can have a choice.”
“What choice did you have when your mother and sisters were being gassed? If God was around, why didn’t He answer your prayers?”
“God did answer our prayers. The answer was no.”
“No?” Patrick shook his head, incredulous. “And that’s acceptable to you? The Nazis were tossing children in ovens and God was cool with that?”
“Of course not. But who are we to judge the Creator’s plan? You’re one man, living in your own limited microcosm of time and space, your entire perspective of existence based on a single lifetime spanning three decades, lived in a physical dimension that represents less than one percent of what’s really out there.”
“Those people were innocent, Virgil! They were victims of rampant evil.”
“Rampant evil, as you call it, has been around a long time. Just for argument’s sake, what response would have sufficed? Another flood? Or maybe God should have killed the firstborn son of every German household like He did in Egypt? How about a new set of plagues? Or were you expecting more of a fire-and-brimstone response… like an atomic bomb? Wait, that came later, and thank God, because the world’s a lot safer for it now, isn’t it? Free will, Patrick. God gave us His laws; it’s our choice whether to obey them or not. Or do the words, ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’ appear with a special clause that says it’s okay to murder hundreds of thousands of innocent people if you want to take over the Arabian oil fields?”
“Saddam was evil. We came as liberators.”
“And who did you liberate the Native Americans from when your ancestors stole their land and wiped out their tribes?”
Patrick started to reply, then mulled it over. “Okay, point taken. We did this to ourselves, and I am as guilty as anyone.”
“Yes you are, and like every soul, unless you complete your tikkun, you’ll be coming back again… assuming there’s something to come back to.”
Reaching the crest, they could see acres of headstones spread out across Trinity Cemetery. Down the sloping hill to the east was Broadway, the main thoroughfare glowing from the light of hundreds of bonfires.
Virgil pointed. “We can follow Broadway all the way to Battery Park, but the journey will be dangerous. The plague has spread, the people are in a state of panic. Keep the vaccine concealed beneath your overcoat, or we’ll have nothing left for your wife and daughter. Patrick, are you listening?”
Patrick was not listening, he was staring at the path ahead, the cracked concrete sidewalk bordered on the right by a row of mausoleums, on the left by gravestones.
“What is it?”
“I think I’m having a major déjà vu.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“I don’t know. But suddenly I’m very cold, like I just stepped into a deep freezer. Oh, no… it’s him.”
Standing on the path, pointing a bony finger at a tombstone topped by the sculpture of an angelic child, was the Grim Reaper.
“Virgil, he’s here.”
“The Angel of Death? Where?”
“Can’t you see him? He’s on the path just up ahead. He’s pointing to a grave. Virgil, what should I do?”
“Don’t get too close, do not let him touch you. Can you see the name on the headstone?”
“No.”
“Are you certain you’ve never been to this cemetery before?”
“Yes!”
The Reaper motioned again, this time more emphatically.
Shep could feel the Angel of Death’s icy tentacles crystallizing upon his flesh — cold, bony fingers clawing at his scalp, seeking to penetrate his brain. He had never felt terror like this before, not in Iraq, not in his worst nightmare.
The fear was too much, unleashing waves of panic that curdled his blood.
Patrick Shepherd ran!
In four strides he was past the mausoleums, sprinting down the east side of the hill through a maze of graves, the route made more treacherous by the snow cover. His mangled prosthetic arm swung wildly by his side, the curved blade clipping headstones, each shearing contact generating a spark — a beacon that threatened to lead Death straight to him.
The walkway appeared on his right, an icy stretch of twisting tarmac that angled along the periphery, ending at the east entrance on Broadway. He headed for it—
— tripping over a snow-covered grave marker that launched him face-first down the hill like a human toboggan — spinning, rolling — the snow rushing down his open collar, the night sky whirling in his vision, until he landed in a heap against the ancient stone foundation that supported the eastern gate of Trinity Cemetery.
Shep rolled over on his back, sore and disoriented. He was no longer afraid, the Reaper’s icy presence gone. Lying in the snow, he stared up at the night, the full moon having risen high enough to reflect its light behind a haze of clouds. God, if you’re really up there… help me please.
He heard the reverberations — boots on snow. He closed his eyes, waiting for Virgil to arrive.
The voice belonged to another. “There’s one.”
“Leave him be, he’s mine.”
“Marquis, you promised me the last one.”
"You tryin' to push up on me, capullo?"
"No man. It’s cool.”
"Yeah, that's what I thought you said.”
Shep sat up — the night bursting into colors as the boot connected with his face.