Within moments of meeting Sage Singer I know this: she isn’t trying to frame this Josef Weber guy; she has nothing to gain from turning him in.

She’s incredibly sensitive because she has a scar that ripples from her left eyebrow down her cheek.

Also: because of said scar, she has no idea that she’s incredibly hot.

I get it, really I do. When I was thirteen I had the worst case of acne—I swear my pimples gave birth to smaller pimples. I got called “Pepperoni Face,” or Luigi, because that was the name of the guy who owned the pizzeria in my hometown. On school picture day I was so nervous about having my image captured for eternity that I actually willed myself into throwing up so I could stay home. My mother told me that when I was older, I’d teach people to never judge a book by its cover, and that’s pretty much exactly what my job entails. But sometimes, when I glance in the mirror, even now, I feel like I’m still staring at that kid.

I bet whatever Sage is picturing, when she looks at her reflection, is a lot worse than what the rest of us actually see.

Genevra is the one who is dispatched to vet most of the cold callers who reach our department; I’ve only met two or three. They were all in their eighties, Jews who still saw the faces of their captors superimposed on everyone they happened to meet. In none of those cases did the allegation pan out to be correct.

Sage Singer is not eighty years old. And she’s not lying, either.

“Your grandmother,” I repeat. “She’s a survivor?”

Sage nods.

“And somehow, in the past four conversations I’ve had with you... that never came up?”

I am still trying to figure out if this is a very good thing, or a very bad thing. If Sage’s grandmother is willing and able to identify Reiner Hartmann as an officer at Auschwitz-Birkenau, that would be a direct link between the file Genevra’s amassed and the information Sage has culled from the suspect. But if Sage has predisposed her grandmother in any way to the suspect—by saying for example that she has been talking to him—then any eyewitness testimony given is prejudicial.

“I didn’t want you to think that was why I called you. It had nothing to do with my grandmother. She never talks about her experience, ever.”

I lean forward, clasping my hands. “So you haven’t told her about your meetings with Josef Weber?”

“No,” Sage says. “She doesn’t even know he exists.”

“And she’s never discussed her time at Auschwitz with you?”

Sage shakes her head. “Even when I’ve asked her, specifically, she won’t talk about it.” She looks up at me. “Is that normal?”

“I don’t know that there’s anything normal about being a survivor,” I say. “Some feel that because they lived, it’s their responsibility to tell the world what happened, so it won’t happen again, and so people won’t forget. Others believe that the only way to go on with the rest of their lives is to act as if it never happened.” I sweep my crumbs into my napkin and carry my plate to the sink. “Well,” I say, thinking out loud. “I can give my historian a call. She can get a photo array cobbled together in a few hours and then...”

Дата добавления: 2015-10-21