Simon Wiesenthal, The Sunflower 4 страница

And why does it make me sick to hear him label me; to think that, after all this time, Josef would still feel that one Jew is interchangeable for another?

In that moment, a tide of disgust rises inside me. In that moment, I think I could kill him.

“There is a reason God has kept me alive for this long. He wants me to feel what they felt. They prayed for their lives but had no control over them; I pray for my death but have no control over it. This is why I want you to help me.”

Did you ask any Jews what they wanted?

An eye for an eye; one life for many.

“I’m not going to kill you, Josef,” I say, pushing away from him, but his voice stops me.

“Please. It’s a dying man’s wish,” he begs. “Or perhaps the wish of a man who wants to die. They are not so different.”

He’s delusional. He thinks he’s some kind of vampire, like the king in his chess set, who is trapped here by his sins. He thinks that if I kill him biblical justice will be served and a karmic debt will be erased, a Jew taking the life of the man who took the life of other Jews. Logically, I know that’s not true. Emotionally, I don’t even want to give him the satisfaction of thinking I would consider it.

But I can’t just walk away and pretend this conversation never happened. If a man came up to me on the street and confessed to a murder, I wouldn’t ignore it. I’d find someone who knew what to do.

Just because that murder occurred nearly seventy years ago doesn’t make it any different.

It is still a complete disconnect for me—looking at this photo of an SS officer and trying to figure out how he became the man standing in front of me. The one who has hidden, in plain sight, for more than half a century.

I had laughed with Josef; I had confided in Josef; I had played chess with Josef. Behind him is Mary’s Monet garden, the one with dahlias and sweet peas and stem roses, hydrangea and delphinium and monkshood. I think about what she told me weeks ago, how sometimes the most beautiful things can be poisonous.

Two years ago, the John Demjanjuk case was in the news. Although I hadn’t followed it, I remember the image of a very old man being removed from his home in a wheelchair. Clearly someone, somewhere, is still out there prosecuting former Nazis.

But who?

If Josef is lying, I need to know why. But if Josef is telling the truth, then I have unwittingly just become a part of history.

I need time to think. And I need him to believe I’m on his side.

I turn back and hand him the photograph. I think about young Josef in his uniform, lifting his gun and shooting at someone. I think about a picture in my high school history book, an emaciated Jewish man carrying the body of another. “Before I decide whether or not to help you... I have to know what you did,” I say slowly.

Josef lets out a breath he has been holding. “So it is not a no,” he says cautiously. “This is good.”

“This is not good,” I correct, and I run down the Holy Stairs, leaving him to fend for himself.

• • •

I walk. For hours. I know that Josef will come down from the shrine and try to find me in the bakery, and when he does, I don’t want to be there. By the time I get back to the shop, all heaven has broken loose. A trickle of the frail, the elderly, the wheelchair-bound snakes out the front door. A small knot of nuns kneeling in prayer have gathered by the oleander bush in the restroom hallway. Somehow, in the short time I’ve been gone, the word about the Jesus Loaf has gotten out.

Mary stands beside Rocco, who has pulled his dreadlocks into a neat ponytail and who is holding the bread on a platter covered with a burgundy tea towel. In front of them is a mother pushing her twenty-something son in a complicated motorized wheelchair. “Look, Keith,” she says, lifting the loaf and holding it against his curled fist. “Can you touch Him?”

Seeing me, Mary signals Rocco to take over. Then she slips her arm through mine and leads me into the kitchen. Her cheeks are glowing; her dark hair has been brushed to a high sheen—and holy cow, is she wearing makeup? “Where have you been?” she chides. “You’ve missed all the excitement!”

That’s what she thinks. “Oh?”

“Ten minutes after the midday news aired, they started coming. The old, the sick, anyone who wants to just touch the bread.”

I think about the petri dish that the loaf must be now, if that many hands have been all over it.

“Maybe this is a stupid question,” I say, “but why?”

“To be healed,” Mary replies.

“Right. Because all this time the CDC should have been looking for the cure for cancer in a slice of bread.”

“Tell that to the scientists who discovered penicillin,” Mary says.

“Mary, what if it has nothing to do with a miracle? What if it’s just the way the gluten happened to string together?”

“I don’t believe that. But anyway, it would still be a miracle,” Mary says, “because it gives desperate people some hope.”

My mind unravels back to Josef, to the Jews in the camp. When you are singled out for torture because of your faith, can religion still be a beacon? Did the woman whose son had profound disabilities believe in the God of this stupid loaf who could help him, or the God who had let him be born that way in the first place?

“You should be thrilled. Everyone who’s come through here to see the loaf has taken away something else you’ve baked,” Mary says.

“You’re right,” I mutter. “I’m just really tired.”

“Then go home.” Mary looks at her watch. “Since I think tomorrow we’ll have twice as many customers.”

But as I leave the bakery, passing someone who’s filming an encounter with the loaf on a Flip Video camera, I already know I’m going to find a sub to take over my shift.

• • •

Adam and I have an unwritten agreement to not show up at each other’s place of business. You never know who’s going to be passing by, who’s going to recognize your car. Plus, his boss happens to be Shannon’s father.

As I park my car a block away from the funeral home, for this very reason, I think again about Josef. Had a new acquaintance ever waggled a finger at him, genially saying, “I know you from somewhere...” and made him break out in a sweat? Did he look in every window not to see his own reflection but to make sure no one was watching him?

And, of course, it makes me wonder whether our connection was pure chance, or if he’d been hunting for someone like me. Not just a girl descended from a Jewish family in a town with precious few Jews, but one with the added bonus of a damaged face, too self-conscious to draw attention to herself by going public with his story. I had never told Josef about Adam, but had he still recognized in me a guilty conscience, like his own?

Luckily, there isn’t a funeral going on. Adam’s business is a steady one—he’ll always have clients—but if he were in the middle of a service I wouldn’t be rude enough to disturb him. I text Adam when I am hovering outside the back of the building, near the recycling bins and the Dumpster. I’m out back. Need to talk.

A moment later he appears, dressed like a surgeon. “What are you doing here, Sage?” he whispers, although we are alone. “Robert’s upstairs. ”

Robert, the father-in-law.

“I’m having a really bad day,” I say, close to tears.

“And I’m having a really long one. Can’t this wait?”

“Please,” I beg. “Five minutes?”

Before he can reply, a tall man with silver hair appears in the doorway beside him. “Maybe you’d like to tell me, Adam, why the embalming room door is wide open with a client on the table? I thought you kicked the cigarette habit—” Spying me, he registers the Picasso half of my face and forces a smile. “I’m sorry, may I help you?”

“Dad,” Adam says, “this is Sage—”

“McPhee,” I jump in, turning slightly so that my scar is better hidden. “I’m a reporter for the Maine Express. ”

I realize too late that sounds like a train, not a newspaper.

“I’m doing a story about a day in the life of a mortician,” I say.

Adam and I both watch Robert scrutinize me. I’m still wearing my baking outfit: loose T-shirt, baggy shorts, Crocs. I’m sure no self-respecting reporter would be caught dead at an interview looking like this.

“She called me last week to arrange a time to shadow me,” Adam lies.

Robert nods. “Of course. Ms. McPhee, I’m happy to answer any questions that Adam can’t.”

Adam visibly relaxes. “Why don’t you follow me?” He puts his hand on my arm, steering me into the facility. There is a shock as his hand touches my bare skin.

When he leads me down the hall, I shiver. It’s cold in the basement of the funeral home. Adam enters a room on the right and closes the door behind us.

On the table is an elderly woman, naked beneath a sheet.

“Adam,” I say, swallowing. “Is she...?”

“Well, she’s not taking a nap,” he says, laughing. “Come on, Sage. You know what I do for a living.”

“I didn’t plan on watching you do it.”

“ You’re the one who came up with the reporter angle. You could have told him you were a cop and that you needed to take me down to the station.”

It smells like death in here, and frost, and antiseptic. I want to fold myself into Adam’s arms, but there is a window in the door and at any moment, Robert or someone else could walk by.

He hesitates. “Maybe you could just look the other way? Because I sort of have to get to work, especially in this heat.”

I nod, and stare at the wall. I hear Adam sorting through metallic instruments, and then something buzzes to life.

I am holding Josef’s story like an acorn, tucked away. I don’t want to share it yet. But I don’t want it to take root, either.

At first I think Adam must be using a saw, but then I peek from the corner of my eye and realize he is shaving the dead woman. “Why are you doing that?”

The electric blade growls as he rounds her chin. “Everyone gets shaved. Even kids. Peach fuzz makes the makeup more noticeable, and you want that ‘memory picture’—the last image you have of a loved one—to be natural.”

I am fascinated by his economy of movement, by his efficiency. This is a part of his life I know so little about, and I’m hungry for any tidbit of him I can take away. “When does the embalming happen?”

He looks up, surprised by my interest. “After we shape the face. Once the fluid enters the veins, the body firms up.” Adam slips a piece of cotton between the left eye and the eyelid, and then sets a small plastic cap on top, like a giant contact lens. “Why are you here, Sage? It’s not because you have a burning desire to be a mortician. What happened to you today?”

“Do people ever tell you things you wish they wouldn’t?” I blurt out.

“Most of the people I meet can’t talk anymore.” I watch Adam thread a suture string onto a curved needle. “But their relatives give me an earful. Usually they say what they should have said to their loved one before she died.” He slips the needle through the jaw below the gums and threads it through the upper jaw into a nostril. “I guess I’m the last stop, you know? The repository of regret.” Adam smiles. “Sounds like a Goth band, doesn’t it?”

The needle passes through the septum into the other nostril, and back into the mouth. “What brought this on?” he asks.

“I had a conversation with someone today that really rattled me. I’m not sure what I should do about it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want you to do anything. Maybe he just needed you to listen.”

But it isn’t that simple. The confessions Adam hears from the relatives of the deceased are should-have s and wish-I’d s, not I did s. Once you are given a grenade with the pin pulled out, you have to act. You have to pass it off to someone who knows how to disable it, or press it back into the hands of the person who’s relinquished it. Because if you don’t, you’re bound to explode.

Adam gently ties the sutures so that the mouth cannot drop open but looks naturally set. I imagine Josef dying, his mouth being sewn shut, all his secrets trapped inside.

• • •

On the way to the police station, I call Robena Fenetto. She’s a seventy-six-year-old Italian woman who retired in Westerbrook. Although she doesn’t have the stamina to be a baker full-time anymore, I’ve called her once or twice to fill in for me when I was down for the count with the flu. I tell her which pre-ferments to use, where my spreadsheets are with the baker’s percentage that will yield enough output to keep Mary from firing me.

I tell her to tell Mary I’ll be a little late.

I haven’t been to the police station since my bike was stolen when I was a senior in high school. My mother took me in to file a report. I remember that at the same time, the father of one of the most popular girls in the school was being brought in, disheveled and reeking of alcohol at 4:00 p.m. He was the head of a local insurance company, and they were one of the few families in town who could afford an inground pool. It was the first time I remember learning that people are never who they seem to be.

The dispatcher at the little glass window has a nose ring and a buzz cut, which is maybe why she doesn’t blink twice when I approach. “Can I help you?”

How do you just come out and say I think my friend is a Nazi without sounding insane?

“I was hoping to talk to a detective,” I say.

“About?”

“It’s complicated.”

She blinks. “Try me.”

“I have information about a crime that was committed.”

She hesitates, as if she is weighing whether or not I’m telling the truth. Then she writes down my name. “Take a seat.”

There’s a row of chairs, but instead of sitting, I stand and read the names of the deadbeat dads who fill the Wanted posters on a giant bulletin board. A flyer advertises a class for fire safety.

“Ms. Singer?”

I turn around to see a tall man with cropped gray hair and skin the color of one of Rocco’s mocha lattes. He’s wearing a gun holstered on his belt, and a badge around his neck. “I’m Detective Vicks,” he says, staring just a beat too long at my face. “Would you mind coming inside?”

He punches in a key code and opens a door, leading me down a narrow hallway to a conference room. “Take a seat. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“I’m all set,” I tell him. Even though I know I’m not being interrogated, when he closes the door behind me, I feel trapped.

Heat rushes up my neck, and I break out in a sweat. What if the detective thinks I’m lying? What if he starts asking me too many questions? Maybe I shouldn’t get involved. I don’t really know anything about Josef’s past, and even if he’s telling the truth, what could possibly be done after almost seventy years?

And yet.

When my grandma was being taken by the Nazis, how many other Germans had turned a blind eye, making the same kinds of excuses?

“So,” Detective Vicks says. “What’s this about?”

I take a deep breath. “A man I know may be a Nazi.”

The detective purses his lips. “A neo-Nazi?”

“No, the kind from World War Two.”

“How old is this guy?” Vicks asks.

“I don’t know, exactly. In his nineties. The right age, anyway, for the math to make sense.”

“And what is it that led you to believe he’s a Nazi?”

“He showed me a photograph of himself in uniform.”

“Do you know that it was authentic?”

“You think I’m making this up,” I say, so surprised that I meet the detective’s gaze head-on. “Why would I do that?”

“Why would a thousand crazy people call in to a tip line that runs on the news about a missing kid?” Vicks says, shrugging. “Far be it from me to figure out the human psyche.”

Stung, I feel my scar burn. “I’m telling you the truth.” I am just leaving out, conveniently, the fact that this same man asked me to kill him. And that I chose to let him believe I was entertaining the possibility.

Vicks tilts his head, and I can see that he’s already making a judgment—not about Josef but about me. Clearly I’m trying my damnedest to hide my face; he must be wondering if there’s more I’m concealing. “Is there anything in this man’s behavior that would indicate he was actually involved in Nazi activities?”

“He doesn’t wear a swastika on his forehead, if that’s what you’re asking,” I say. “But he has a German accent. In fact he used to teach the language at the high school.”

“Hang on—are you talking about Josef Weber?” Vicks says. “He goes to my church. Sings in the choir. He led the Fourth of July parade last year, as the Citizen of the Year. I’ve never even seen the guy swat a mosquito.”

“Maybe he likes bugs more than he liked Jews,” I say flatly.

Vicks leans back in his chair. “Ms. Singer, did Mr. Weber say something that upset you personally?”

“Yes,” I say. “He told me he was a Nazi!”

“I mean an argument. A misunderstanding. Maybe even an offhand comment about your... appearance. Something that might have warranted... such an accusation.”

“We’re friends. That’s why he confided in me in the first place.”

“That may be, Ms. Singer. But we’re not in the habit of arresting someone for alleged crimes without having a valid reason to believe he might be a person of interest. Yes, the guy speaks with a German accent, and he’s old. But I’ve never even experienced a whiff of racial or religious prejudice from him.”

“Isn’t that the point? I thought serial killers were supposed to be totally charming in public; that’s why nobody guesses they’re serial killers. You’re just going to assume I’m crazy? You’re not even going to investigate what he did?”

“What did he do?”

I look down at the table. “I don’t know, exactly. That’s why I’m here. I thought you could help me find out.”

Vicks looks at me for a long moment. “Why don’t you write down your contact information, Ms. Singer,” he suggests, passing me a piece of paper and a pen. “I’ll look into things, and we’ll be in touch.”

Without a word I scribble down my information. Why would anyone believe me, Sage Singer, a damaged ghost who only comes out at night? Especially when Josef has spent the past twenty-two years gilding his reputation as a beloved Westerbrook community member and humanitarian?

I hand the paper back to Detective Vicks. “I know you’re not going to contact me,” I say coolly. “I know you’re going to toss that piece of paper into the trash as soon as I walk out the door. But it’s not like I walked in here saying I found a UFO in my backyard. The Holocaust happened. Nazis existed. And they didn’t all just evaporate into thin air when the war ended.”

“Which was nearly seventy years ago,” Detective Vicks points out.

“I thought there was no statute of limitations on murder,” I say, and I walk out of the conference room.

• • •

My nana only serves tea in a glass. For as long as I can remember, she has said this is the only way to drink it properly, the way her parents used to serve it when she was a young girl. It strikes me, as I sit at her kitchen table, watching her bustle around the kitchen with her cane to set the kettle and arrange rugelach on a plate, that although she talks openly and easily about being a child and about her life with my grandfather, there is a caesura in the time line of her life, a break of years, a derailment. “This is some surprise,” Nana says. “A nice one, but still a surprise.”

“I was in the area,” I lie. “How couldn’t I stop by?”

My grandmother sets the plate on the table. She is tiny—five feet, maybe—although I used to think of her as tall. She always wore the most beautiful set of pearls, which my grandfather had given her as a wedding gift, and in the old photo of the ceremony that sat on her mantel, she looked like a movie star with her dark hair in victory rolls and slim figure hugged by a confection of lace and satin.

She and my grandfather used to run an antiquarian bookstore, a tiny hole-in-the-wall that had narrow aisles jammed with hundreds of old tomes. My mother, who would always buy her books new, hated the vintage hardcovers with their cracked spines and threadbare cloth covers. True, you couldn’t go in there and find the latest bestseller, but when you held one of those volumes in your hands, you were leafing through another person’s life. Someone else had once loved that story, too. Someone else had carried that book in a backpack, devoured it over breakfast, mopped up that coffee stain at a Paris café, cried herself to sleep after that last chapter. The scent of their store was distinctive: a slight damp mildew, a pinch of dust. To me, it was the smell of history.

My grandfather had been an editor at a small academic press before buying the bookstore; my grandmother had allegedly wanted to be a writer, although in my childhood I never saw her write anything longer than a letter. But she loved stories, that much was true. She would sit me on the glass counter beside the cash register and take the A. A. Milne and the J. M. Barrie books from their locked case and show me the illustrations. When I was older, she would let me wrap customers’ purchases in the brown butcher paper she kept on a giant roll, and she taught me to tie it with string, just like she did.

Eventually my grandparents sold the bookstore to a developer who was bulldozing a host of mom-and-pop stores to make way for a Target. Whatever money they made was enough for my nana to live on, even all these years after Poppa was gone.

“You were not really in the area,” she says now. “You look just like your father used to look when he lied to me.”

I laugh. “How’s that?”

“Like you’ve swallowed a lemon. Once, when your father was maybe five, he stole my nail polish remover. When I asked him about it, he lied. Eventually I found it in his sock drawer and told him so. He became hysterical. Turned out he read the label and thought it would make me—someone Polish—disappear. He hid it before it could do its job.” Nana smiles. “I loved that boy,” she sighs. “No mother should outlive a child.”

“It’s no party to outlive your parents, either,” I reply.

For a moment, there is a shadow veiling her features. Then she leans down and hugs me. “See, now you are not lying. I know you are here because you’re lonely, Sage. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe now, we will have each other.”

They are the same words, I realize, that Josef said to me.

“You should cut your hair,” my nana announces. “No one can see you properly.”

A small snort escapes me. I think I’d rather run naked through the street than cut my hair, and leave my face exposed. “That’s the point,” I say.

She tilts her head. “I wonder what magic could make you see yourself the way the rest of us do,” she muses. “Maybe then you’d stop living like a monster who comes out only after dark.”

“I’m a baker. I have to work at night.”

“Do you? Or did you pick the profession because of the hours?” Nana asks.

“I didn’t come here to be grilled about my career choice...”

“Of course not.” She reaches over and pats my face, the bad side. She lets her thumb linger on the ridged flesh, to let me know that it doesn’t bother her—and that it shouldn’t bother me. “And your sisters?”

“I haven’t talked to them lately,” I mutter.

That is an understatement. I actively avoid their calls.

“You know they love you, Sage,” my grandmother says, and I shrug. There is nothing she could possibly say that can convince me Pepper and Saffron don’t hold me responsible for the fact that our mother isn’t alive.

A timer goes off on the oven, and my grandmother pulls out a braid of challah. She may have given up formal religion, but she still adheres to the culture of Judaism. There is no ailment her matzo ball soup cannot fix; there is no Friday she doesn’t have fresh bread. Daisy, the home health aide Nana refers to as her “girl,” is the one who mixes the dough in the KitchenAid and sets it to rise before Nana braids it. It took two years for Nana to trust Daisy enough to give her the family recipe, the same one I use at Our Daily Bread.

“Smells good,” I say, desperate to change the course of the conversation.

My grandmother drops the first challah down on the counter and goes back, in turn, for each of the other three. “You know what I think?” she says. “I think that even when I do not remember my own name anymore I will still know how to make this challah. My father, he made sure of it. He used to quiz me—when I walked into our apartment after school, when I was studying with a friend, when we were strolling together into the city center. Minka, he’d say, how much sugar? How many eggs? He’d ask what temperature the water should be at, but that was a trick question.”

“Warm to dissolve the yeast, boiling to mix the wet ingredients, cold to balance it out.”

My grandma looks over her shoulder and nods. “My father, he would have been very happy to know his challah is in good hands.”

This, I realize, is my opportunity. I wait until Nana has brought one of the braids to the table on a cutting board. As she slices it with a bread knife, steam rises like a passing soul. “Why didn’t you and Poppa start a bakery, instead of a bookstore?”

She laughs. “Your poppa couldn’t boil water, much less a bagel. To bake bread, you have to have a gift. Like my father did. Like you do.”

“You hardly ever talk about your parents,” I say.

Her hand trembles the slightest bit where she holds the knife, so slightly that had I not been watching so carefully, I might never have noticed. “What’s there to say?” She shrugs. “My mother, she kept house, and my father was a baker in Łód . You know this.”

“What happened to them, Nana?”

“They died a long time ago,” she says dismissively. She hands me a piece of bread, no butter, because if you’ve made a truly great challah you don’t need any. “Ah, look at this. It could have risen more. My father used to say that a good loaf, you can eat tomorrow. But a bad loaf, you should eat now.”

I grasp her hand. The skin is like tissue, the bones pronounced. “What happened to them?” I repeat.

She forces a laugh. “What is with these questions, Sage! All of a sudden you’re writing a book?”

In response, I turn her arm over and gently push up the sleeve of her blouse so that the blurry edge of her blue tattoo is exposed. “I’m not the only one in the family with a scar, Nana,” I murmur.

She pulls away from me and yanks down the cotton. “I do not wish to talk about it.”

“Nana,” I say. “I’m not a little girl anymore—”

“No,” she says abruptly.

I want to tell her about Josef. I want to ask her about the SS soldiers she knew. But I also know that I won’t.

Not because my grandma doesn’t want to discuss it, but because I am ashamed that this man I’ve befriended—cooked for, sat with, laughed with—might have once been someone who terrified her.

“When I got here, to America, this is when my life began,” my grandmother says. “Everything before... well, that happened to a different person.”

If my grandmother could reinvent herself, why not Josef Weber?

“How do you do it?” I ask softly, and I’m no longer asking just about her and Josef but about myself as well. “How do you get up every morning and not remember?”

“I never said I do not remember,” my grandmother corrects. “I said I prefer to forget.” Suddenly, she smiles, cutting the ribbon between this conversation and whatever comes next. “Now. My beautiful granddaughter did not come all this way to talk about ancient history, did she? Tell me about the bakery.”

I let the beautiful comment slide. “I baked a loaf of bread that had Jesus’s face in it,” I announce; it’s the first thing to come to mind.

“Really.” My grandmother laughs. “Says who?”

“People who believe that God might show up in an artisan boule, I guess.”

She purses her lips. “There was a time when I could see God in a single crumb.”

I realize she is extending an olive branch, a sliver of her past. I sit very still, waiting to see if she’ll go on.

“You know, that was what we missed most. Not our beds, not our homes, not even our mothers. We would talk about food. Roast potatoes and briskets, pierogi, babka. What I would have given my life for back then was some of my father’s challah, fresh from the oven.”

So this is why my grandmother bakes four loaves every week, when she cannot finish even one herself. Not because she plans to eat it but because she wants to have the luxury of giving the rest away to those who are still hungry.

When my cell phone begins to ring, I grimace—it’s probably Mary, giving me hell because Robena’s arrived to start the night’s baking instead of me. But as I pull it out of my pocket, I realize that the number’s unfamiliar.

“This is Detective Vicks, calling for Sage Singer.”

Дата добавления: 2015-10-21