Child of the Journey by Janet Berliner, George Guthridge

tried to understand why a makeshift marriage ceremony in a deserted cabaret, with God as their only witness, made him feel so tied to her, so hopeful that life would ultimately reward him for being a good man.
    Exhausted, he closed his eyes. Instead of sleep, the vision returned----
    ----"What does your Hitler propose to do with the Jews of Europe?" Emanuel asks.
    The woman bristles. "He is not my anything," she says angrily. There is an awkward silence between them. "He proposes to rid the world of them," she adds in a quiet voice, having apparently calmed herself.
    "How? By killing them all?"
    "If necessary."
    Emanuel turns his face to one side and spits into the sand. He rubs his arms, as if his flesh has suddenly become cold.
    "There is a ray of hope," the woman says. "A physician named Schmidt, under a doctor named Mengele, has developed a theory concerning the genetic passing of cultural attributes from one generation to the next. Hitler has offered a reward for each piece of tangible new evidence that furthers her research."
    "And what might that reward be?" Emanuel looks skeptical.
    "He has sworn to create a homeland for the Jews--in Madagascar. Each addition to Schmidt's research means a shipload of our people is sent to the Jewish homeland."
    "This Hitler is like the god Apepi, who tried to stop the progress of the solar barque. They who trust in him, trust a serpent." He rises from the blanket and towers over her. "You have come here to provide their Schmidt with subjects for research." He pronounces each syllable with knifelike clarity. "Perhaps you can get the serpent to agree to one shipload per body!"
    "With subjects as unique as your tribe, I think Mengele could get Hitler to agree to one shipload per person."
    "Per body," he says.
    "The researchers want to examine the bodies of your ancestors, Emanuel. From the living, they want only blood samples. Blood. Nothing more. Your tribal whereabouts will remain a secret. Our meeting places will remain discreet."
    He looks down at her, his face a study in contempt. "For over two millennia no one knew or cared that we existed. We were better off." He takes the meat from his mouth and drops it onto the plate. "I will relay your request to my people. The decision must be theirs."----
    The vision faded. Sol covered himself with his coat and slept. He woke to the sound of Miriam's voice. Responding more quickly this time, he climbed from the sewer.
    "We only have a little while," Miriam said. "The shop is closed. Konnie has some errands to run. He'll be back in an hour."
    Without saying a word, Sol took her hand and led her to Kaverne. There, on the carpet, they made love. Concentrating, Sol experienced each place where they joined. He wanted to imprint the sensations on his consciousness so that he could savor them later. Instead, he flowed into her and they floated in a magical space and time where nothing existed except the rainbow of love that once had been two people.
    Afterwards, when he touched her, his love and desire for her seemed contained in a sheath of pride and of wonder that God had seen fit to bless him with such good fortune. He held her closely, trying to understand why the fog of self-doubt that he had lived with since Walter Rathenau's death was gone. Later would be time enough to examine that, he decided, pretending to be asleep so that Miriam would continue to lie quietly in his arms.
    "I love you, Solomon. I am your wife, and no one else's," she said at last, as if in answer to his earlier doubts.
    The words reverberated inside him, then etched themselves onto the deepest part of his soul.  
    Your wife, they echoed.
    Your wife ...

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    E rich opened the long velvet box and examined the diamond bracelet he had bought for Miriam more than a week before, for no particular reason except that he thought it belonged around her wrist. He had been carrying it around ever since, hoping for a moment when she would seem receptive.
    For the last