Blue Moon (38 page)

“Darrin was correct: he was not a homosexual. But his uncle preyed upon his self-esteem, which may have been constitutionally vulnerable—paedophiles are often expert at such manoeuvres. As a man, Darrin had a normal sex life but when he became a prostitute, he began to re-enact the treacherous landscape of his youth. He got
back in touch with how much he had craved his uncle's so-called love and how he had been forced to maintain it. Like many young people who suffer sexual abuse, Darrin separated his mind from his body performing sexual activities, but he reanimated the vulnerability his uncle had earlier exploited. Psychically, his male clients could not give him any real sense of self-esteem, nor could his girlfriends. In the past year or so, he confronted an abyss of emptiness carefully constructed for him years earlier. That's why he took his own life.”

“You seem so self-assured in all these interpretations you offer.”

“Never self-assured. You have suffered some recent traumatic experiences. I never met Emma or Darrin. In speaking about them with you, I am objectifying your subjective experiences, trying to explain them in a meaningful way. That is my job.”

“You speak in a voice of great authority, as if you are completely beyond the fray of real life,”

“You may be correct to complain about Olympian detachment but how otherwise could I presume to offer you any sustenance?”

“I have been wondering recently if you are giving me anything of value. Emma died because bad things simply and irrevocably happen. Darrin died because of a tragic flaw. Is that what you are saying?”

“In a nutshell”

“So what value is it to me to come here to be told things I could figure out for myself?”

“We all have blind spots. I am supposed to help you remove yours. Provide you with another pair of eyes. I also think you are consistently harsh with yourself. My job—from an objective point of view—is to disabuse you of false impressions you harbour about yourself.”

“In order to set me free?”

“Yes.” And then with a slight note of helplessness in the wake of my recalcitrance: “I live in hope of doing
exactly
that.”

The whole exercise of analysis seemed increasingly meaningless. I was angry at myself for not taking a more active role in obtaining counselling for Darrin, for neglecting him after Emma died. Dr. Newman refused to countenance my suggestion that I could have done something to help Darrin. I also told myself that I should have insisted that Emma leave Gas Town, which had become an increasingly dangerous place to live through the sixties. When Dr. Newman reminded me that Emma had not died because she lived in Gas Town, I ignored him.

My own life seemed to have reached an uncomfortable stasis. I visited Mrs. Wilson regularly but, except for her—and the occasional
meal with the Duthies—I lived a solitary existence. In 1972, the same year Emma and Darrin died, Mrs. Wilson's deteriorating health led her to take up residence at Arbutus Nursing Home, where she took her favourite books and pictures with her. Now confined to a wheelchair, she was not inordinately fond of the other inmates and craved every moment we spent together.

One afternoon, when we had made short work of the single tumbler of whisky that began each visit and were about to turn to tea, Mrs. Wilson mentioned to me how upset she had been to read the article in
The NewYork Times
about the psychoanalyst in Vancouver. The story had reduced her to tears.

“What analyst?,” I asked.

“A man called Newman. The story is heartbreaking, has put everything into perspective for me.”

I asked if I could see the story. “Certainly, darling. It's in the magazine section of last Sunday's
Times.”
She pointed in the direction of the pile of newspapers in the corner of the room near her bed. “The one with Greta Garbo on the cover.” I asked if I might borrow that issue. “Of course. No need to return it.”

I don't know how I made it through the next hour. Usually I took the streetcar back and forth to the Arbutus. On this day, I asked the matron to call a taxi. The driver came within five minutes and I was back home in about twenty.

The story was astonishing, even in the wake of the many other Holocaust narratives I had already read. At first, however, the account seemed unduly ordinary. Ernst Newman, who was born in Stuttgart in 1916, had attended the gymnasium there. His prosperous father, who owned a factory that made pots and pans, insisted from the time his son was born that he was to be a medical man. As a child, Ernst had no such inclination but being, as he termed it, “a dutiful son,” he allowed his father to make this decision for him. Ernst's own interests—as he told the American journalist—veered in the direction of music and books: “From childhood, I was fascinated by the “human sciences, the ways in which the imagination frames and reframes reality.”

By the time Ernst was twenty, Hitler was in full command of Germany, and the extermination of Jews was beginning to be put into operation. The full horror that was to unfold evaded him. At that time, he did not wish to even imagine what later would seem such an
obvious scenario. Certain, however, he would not be able to complete his medical studies, he did not pay them much mind. He stayed up late each evening, drank a lot and, in general, became something of a gadfly. “A particularly obnoxious form of nihilism took possession of my soul. Realizing I had no real future, I did not try to anchor myself in the present. For far too long, I had been an overly attentive child. When it manifested itself, my rebellion was of the deeply obnoxious variety. Terrified by what they beheld, my poor parents were filled with shame and anger. I was now the prodigal son.”

For six months, Ernst's debauchery continued unchecked. That style of life was almost instantly cast asunder the day he met Rowena, the daughter of one of the publicans whose establishments he frequented. Her physical beauty played a great deal in what he termed his conversion. He met her purely by chance. One afternoon, he came across Herr Lasky accompanied by his daughter. Although the possessor of a lascivious tongue when serving his young clientele, the publican as paterfamilias was the model of propriety. He nodded curtly in Ernst's direction and ushered his daughter and himself away from the young man.

Ernst had fallen instantly in love. That evening, he penned a letter to Fraulein Lasky, whose given name he did not yet know. Fortunately for him, Rowena was also smitten and answered immediately. They arranged a meeting two days later and wrhen, soon after, they confronted her father with the news of their engagement, he gave them his permission to marry. The Newmans, heretofore worried about their son's recent excesses, responded rhapsodically to the news of the forthcoming marriage. The couple married six months later and, almost nine months after that, their son, Peter, was born. Ernst continued in his medical studies, his newfound purpose in life enhancing the efforts he brought to the mastery of his chosen profession.

Up to this point, the life history of Ernst Newman had all the twists and turns of one of the Grimm brothers' happiest fairy tales. Unfortunately, the greatest blight of twentieth century history soon intervened. Ernst was forced to leave school, where he was now declared an undesirable. He worked for his father-in -law, until his tavern was shut down. Then, the small family of three along with many other Jews—was expelled from the city limits and left to wander in the countryside. This state of affairs did not last long, as
they were detained and after three days spent in confinement, they were separated: Rowena and Peter were placed in one work station, Ernst in another. Ernst was never sent to a concentration camp: he was dispatched to a small factory where medical supplies were manufactured. Rowena and Peter were not so fortunate, although they did not wind up in one of the infamous camps. Instead, Rowena was given work in a large abattoir. Women did not slaughter the animals, but they worked long hours cleaning out the innards of the dead creatures. Peter and the other children were left to their own devices in the cramped, lice-infested living quarters allocated to the workers. From 1942 to 1945, Ernst and Rowena were out of death's way, but their agony was that neither knew the fate of the other. Only at the end of the war did Ernst learn that his wife and son were safe in a small village in Switzerland near the border with Germany.

This information came in a typed letter sent to Ernst just after he had made it back to Stuttgart, where he learned that his in-laws had been murdered. He was happy to be with his parents, who had just returned from Switzerland, where they had been in exile since 1942, the year of Ernst's marriage. Not only had they survived, they had been fortunate enough to send a great deal of money out of Germany before the war. They were even more fortunate that they had placed those funds in trustworthy hands. Once again, they were people of both wealth and standing; and they had determined to settle in the new state of Israel.

The letter that contained the comforting information also told Ernst that the writer of the letter—one Herr Tarnopolsky—had obtained the safety of Rowena and Peter at considerable personal as well as financial cost to himself, and in: In order for Ernst to regain his loved ones, he would have to recompense Tarnopolsky for his troubles. The amount in question was the equivalent of $50,000. If he would present himself in Brig at the principal hotel there on the twelfth of September—in ten days' time—everything could be resolved to mutual satisfaction.

Ernst's parents felt the police should be contacted. They told their son: “This is the action of someone who knows of our great wealth. This is another crime about to be perpetuated against us, as Jews.” Ernst was not so sure that the letter was, as his parents thought, a hoax. For one thing, the letter had contained small,
intimate details about him that only a wife would know. He thought Mr. Tarnopolsky was criminally minded, but he was convinced Rowena and Peter were in his power. Against their better judgement, Ernst's parents gave him the money and on the eleventh, they saw him off at the train station.

The trip to Brig was short and uncomplicated. Nestled in the heart of the Alps, the scenery there was breathtaking in its simple magnificence. On the morning of the twelfth, Ernst received a telephone call at his hotel. He was to hire a car and travel with it in the direction of the huge glacier on the Hoffenstrasse pass; he was to leave at precisely three o'clock in the afternoon and should reach the lookout to the Glacier at about six, just after the sun had set. A car—a red Mercedes-Benz—would be awaiting his arrival. Rowena, Peter and Mr. Tarnopolsky would be the only occupants of the car; Mr. Tarnopolsky would greet him and receive the payment, only at which point would his wife and child be allowed to leave with him.

An organized man, Ernst left precisely at three. He had some trepidations, but, overall, his heart was filled with optimism. When speaking to Tarnopolsky on the phone, he had overheard Peter speaking to Rowena. They both sounded cheerful, obviously buoyed up by the prospect of being reunited with him. The drive was a pleasant one, the scenery refreshing in its rugged, often sublime, simplicity. At long last, he felt he could breathe again. He took in the air, felt it coursing down his lungs. The sun set just before six and not quite ten minutes later he saw the red Mercedes waiting for him, its bright beam lights welcoming him to the rendezvous point.

Ernst parked about twelve feet before the Mercedes, got out and walked towards it. Herr Tarnopolsky, meanwhile, was walking in his direction. He bowed in Ernst's direction, then clicked his heels. “I take it, Herr Newman, that you have the money with you?” Ernst reassured him that this was so. “Excellent. I see you are a man of your word. I am also a man of my word, but there has been a small change to the plan. Just as we were about to set out, your wife pleaded with me to allow her and your son to remain behind in the chalet we have been renting, just beyond the trees there.” He pointed into the forest, where a small house could just barely be seen. “'It's too cold for my little boy, Herr Tarnopolsky. Let my husband fetch me from here, I beg you. I do not want my little boy to suffer any further tribulations.'
What can I say, Herr Newman? I am also a family man. I agreed to her proposition.” Ernst was a bit suspicious, but he felt he had little choice but to turn the money over to Tarnopolsky, who, having clicked his heels once again, got into the Mercedes and drove away.

The walk to the chalet was fifteen minutes. The trees, bathed in full moonlight, gave off a strong but delicate smell. As Ernst got closer to the chalet, he noticed how beautifully constructed it was. He felt like a child who, having endured a series of horrible adventures, finally finds himself at an enchanted castle where he will be fully restored. He observed lights in the windows and, as he drew nearer, he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. He called aloud to his beloved wife, but no sound returned his greeting. In one final burst, he ran towards the door and pushed it in. He never forgot the sight that met his eyes: the room was completely devoid of furniture, but in the middle of the floor lay the nude, blood-covered bodies of his wife and child. They had obviously died within the hour. What is more, the look of agony on Rowena's face revealed all too well that she had been sexually violated; the little boy's open eyes also indicated that he had been a witness to unspeakable evil.

Ernst lost track of time. Eventually, he walked back to his car—it was now snowing—and drove to the nearest police station. The police insisted on driving him back to the chalet, from which the two corpses were soon removed. The perpetrator of the crime—Mr. Tarnopolsky—worked under a number of different aliases. The authorities were convinced his real name was Schneider, a Jew who had worked as a capo, an informant on other Jews, at Auschwitz. He was hated by the other prisoners, who had shunned him at the time of the liberation. He was a hunted man—one of the few Jews accused of war crimes—and had somehow made his way to Switzerland. He had committed two other hoaxes of this kind, killing four other people before Rowena and Peter.