Page 29 of Geist Fleisch
“Ferdi,” Max cautioned, but did not contradict him.
“I’m so sorry.” Callum scratched again at his hand. “I don’t know what happened. Truly, I don’t.”
“We saw and felt what happened, every part of it. This place is not for you,” Ferdi continued. “You are lucky we are the first to see you here. Now go, before you bring us more hell.”
“Max,” Callum caught the ghost’s hand as the pair turned away. A jolt of electricity shot through his arm and up to his brain. If the mark on his hand had irritated him before, it now burned like fire. He let go of Max, clutching the spot as if he could somehow make the pain stop. But his fingers felt no heat. The mark burned, but it didn’t radiate.
Max and Ferdi stared at him.
“I can help you. It’ll never happen again, I promise.” He winced as the pain seared his hand again.
Without a word, Max lifted Callum’s wrist into the light, exchanging a couple of words in German with Ferdi.
“It’s nothing. Please, just hear me out.” Callum cried out as another pang shot through his hand. When he looked up, the room was fuller than he had ever seen it, and every eye in the place was on him. The music fell silent, replaced by the steady whisper of a single German syllable, repeated over and over again, a serpentine hiss that filled the room as the gaunt faces of wide-eyed men edged closer.
Fleisch. Fleisch. Fleisch.
When Max squeezed his wrist, Callum didn’t wait for the translation. He bolted for the curtain, not caring if he had to split his head open again to get away from the army of ghosts now advancing on him. That’s exactly what they were; a fallen army of men who’d found in death the peace, community, and love denied them in life. And with Callum’s help, Frank Bakker had nearly destroyed it. Strong hands too numerous to count seized his shoulders and arms, pulling him back through the curtain into the bar. Fit as he was, there was no resisting them as they dragged him out to the centre of the dance floor. He turned his head every which way, looking for Max or Ferdi, then cried out as the ghosts manhandled him to the floor. Another shot of heat ripped through his hand. When the spirits at last released him, he nursed it, barely seeing the faces above as he tried to breathe.
Fleisch.
Fleisch.
The chants grew sharper, more hostile as Callum lifted his tear-streaked face to see Ernst staring him down with contempt.
“Ärgert dich deine rechte Hand, so haue sie ab und wirf sie von dir.” Ernst lifted an enormous blade high above Callum’s head and brought it down in one swift chop that severed his burning hand.
He lifted the bleeding stump of his arm. Why didn’t it hurt? How was he not in agony?
More rough hands, this time under his arms, dragged him to where the front door ought to be. With more shouts in German, Callum felt his entire body lifted and tossed into the street. He screamed as his weight landed hard on the mutilated arm, then looked back to see if any of the accusing mob had followed. Butthe front door of Suzi’s was gone, along with the windows, or any other sign that behind that blank wall lay a thriving club full of daisy soldiers.
He cradled his arm, taking care not to slip on a bank of leftover snow as he staggered to his feet. Pain or no pain—its absence, perhaps not a good thing—he needed an ambulance or a hospital.Krankenhaus. Finally, a German word Anne had taught him would come in useful. It didn’t seem as much fun as she’d promised. First, a taxi. Nollendorfplatz was only steps away and there were always cabs waiting around the Metropol.
He staggered up the street, the thought repeating over and over in his head. He should have been passing out from the pain. He ripped off part of his sleeve and fastened the torn cloth tight as it would go around the stump of his arm. He called out to two men in dark overcoats. They passed him without a look. He called again, getting no response as he neared the Metropol’s glowing marquee, where a row of cabs promised him some form of help. Doing his best to hide the bloodied stump, Callum threw himself in the back of the nearest one.
“Krankenhaus, bitte,” he said.
The driver crinkled his newspaper, continuing to read under the street light, the smoke from his cigarette wafting up toward the cab’s ceiling.
“Entschuldigung,” Callum said, firmer this time. “Krankenhaus?Now,bitte!”
Was the fellow deaf? When Callum tapped his shoulder and got no response, he laboured himself to the next cab, then the next. Each glimmer of hope that he’d captured the driver’s attention ultimately disappointed him. He couldn’t be seen, felt,or heard, though he was solid enough to drag himself up the Metropol’s stairs and into its lobby.
“Hallo?” He called to a passing usherette. “Help me,bitte.”
He called again, clumsily bumping his way through the swinging doors into the amphitheatre, where Buster Keaton’s wide eyes and blank expression loomed over an audience of laughing Germans.
“Help!” He cried over and over, clutching his arm, trying to stem the bleeding as he made it down the aisle, looking at one face after the next. They refused to see him. He at last reached the stage, looking out over the assembled crowd. He remained unseen and unheard, except to one man in the front row. Half the flesh of his face had been ripped away, ruining one of his eyes, and he bled from an angry bullet wound at the back of his skull.
“You have scars now, Englishman,” said Ferdi, his voice as cold as it had been in the club. “Like us.”
“You… you mean I’m dead?” Callum sat down on the stage, letting the projection flicker above him as the audience laughed again.
Ferdi snorted a chuckle under his breath. “I did not say you were one of us; only that you have scars. Ernst can control his temper, but… perhaps making him relive his death was too much.”
“What… what was that he said to me?”
“It’s from the Bible.” Ferdi shrugged. “The book of Matthäus, ‘if thy right hand offends thee, cut it off.’ Now, you know how to say it in German. I doubt you will soon forget it.”
