The Forgotten (20 page)

Martinez said, “I just checked. He hasn’t even begun. Logjam. He hopes to know something by tomorrow.”

Decker said, “So how about…we finish up the paperwork and call it a night.”

Everyone seconded the motion. Oliver even thirded it.

A mother’s sleep
was eternally light, a quick dash into never-never land, where the conscious lay dormant, rousing to action at the wail of a hungry infant or the moans of a sick toddler. So ingrained was the reflex that even after the children had grown to independence, Rina’s slumber remained permanently altered; the reason she awoke as soon as the bedroom door opened. It was not much more than a mere crack, but she sensed it even if she didn’t hear it. It wasn’t light yet, although the sky had turned from black to gray in anticipation of dawn. According to the nightstand clock, it was five twenty-eight. Sammy stood at the door. She put her finger to her lips and waved him away, not wanting to wake up Peter. She didn’t know what time Peter had come home, but she had gone to bed at midnight.

Quickly, she slipped on her robe and quietly closed the door behind her. She squinted as harsh lamplight seized her eyes, blinking several times as she tried to clear her thoughts. Sammy was dressed in street clothes, the leather straps from his small black prayer box—the
tefillin shel yad
—coiled around his right arm. On the widow’s peak of his sand-colored hair sat the other prayer box—the
tefillin shel rosh
. Tall and handsome, her elder son cut an imposing figure.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he replied. “I’m just jet-lagged. I’ve
been up learning since four in the morning. Then I saw a hint of daylight and decided to daven. I’m not the problem. There’s some guy at the front door who wants to see Dad—”

“What?
Now
?”

“Yeah, he says it’s important. He seems very agitated. I didn’t know if I should wake Peter or what.”

“Did he give you a name?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get it totally. Something Gold—”

“Oh my goodness!” Rina slapped her hand to her breast. “Carter Golding?”

“Yeah, yeah. Who is he?”

“His son was murdered—”

“Oh no!
He’s
the one?”

Rina nodded. “I’d better go see what he wants—”

Sammy stopped her. “Don’t you think you should wake up Dad?”

“First let me see what he wants.” She hesitated before she opened the door, then made the commitment. The man facing her was small and thin, his features blurred by lack of light and by facial hair. He was in constant motion, rocking on his feet, kneading his hands together, his eyes jumping about.

“I’m so sorry,” he coughed out. “I thought that maybe…that your husband…that maybe he wasn’t sleeping…I’ll come back—”

“No, no, please come in, Mr. Golding,” Rina pleaded. “Please.”

He crossed the threshold of the door, stepping in just far enough to let Rina close the door. Wrinkled and disheveled, it was clear that he’d been wearing his clothes for a very long time. His movements were jerky, spasmodic—like a pinball confined to a very small machine. “I shouldn’t have come here.” Breathless. “Waking you like some madman. I’m not a madman!”

“Of course you’re not—”

“Your husband is still asleep? Don’t wake him. I’ll come back—” He stared at Sammy, then pointed at him with a shaking finger. “What’s on his arm…his head?”

Rina looked over his shoulder. “
Tefillin
…phylacteries.”

“My father had them. I don’t know what he did with them. But I know he had them.” A pause. “I wonder what became of them?” Golding began to pace, throwing his arms behind his back. Groucho Marx on methamphetamines. “You’re the one who sent out the flyer for the hate crimes council at the synagogue. We sent you some money, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you.”

“You sent us a thank-you card—a nice one considering it was Ernesto who trashed the place.” Tears welled up in the man’s eyes. “He wasn’t a bad kid, you know.”

“Of course—”

“He used…” Golding coughed to hide a sob. “He used to talk about your husband. Did your husband tell you about that?”

“No, sir, he keeps his business confidential.”

“They used to talk…your husband and Ernesto. Ask him. Ernesto wasn’t a bad kid.”

“I know—”

“No, you don’t know!” Golding grabbed her arm until he and Rina were almost nose to nose. “You
don’t
know. But I’m telling you the truth. He had his problems, but he was a good kid!”

In the background, Rina could see Sammy walking toward the bedroom. Rina shook her head ever so slightly. Instead of pulling away, she placed her hand atop his. “A parent knows his child better than anyone; I believe you, Mr. Golding.”

The man’s face crumpled, his chin quivering as a tear fell down a cheek. He let go of her arm, leaving behind fresh finger marks. “Thank you!”

“Please sit down—”

“I shouldn’t be here,” he whimpered. “Bothering you—”

“Please sit down, Mr. Golding. Let me get my husband for you.”

“You’re being very hospitable…especially after what Ernesto did to your synagogue.” Then Golding broke down, crying out dry, heavy sobs.

A few tears escaped from Rina’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. Let me get Lieutenant Decker. I know he’d like to see you.”

“No, he wouldn’t!” The man continued to sob. “I
yelled
at him yesterday! I
insulted
him!”

“I’m sure you did nothing of the sort,” Rina said softly. “Besides, I yell at him all the time and he still talks to me. I’ll get him for you.”

She started toward the bedroom, but Golding jumped up and grabbed her arm again. “Please, I don’t want to put you out.”

But Sammy had already gone into the bedroom. In a flash, Decker appeared, still bare-chested underneath a terry-cloth robe. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was a red nest of tangles, and his skin felt as if it was on fire. Part of that was the adrenaline rush, his heart beating as fast as a jackhammer.

“Oh God!” Golding exclaimed. “I woke you up!”

“I’m fine, Mr. Golding.” Decker noticed Sammy staring, his big brown eyes agape.

The boy said, “Uh, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“I’ll come with you.” Rina started to leave, but Golding grabbed her arm again. Decker moved in, but Rina held him off with the palm of her hand. Golding was too distraught to even notice Decker’s defensive stance.

“Please stay,” Golding sobbed. “You were so nice to write such a thank-you card.”

She looked at her husband, then said, “Of course I’ll stay.”

“Thank you!”

Again Rina patted his hand. No one spoke for a few minutes, the only sounds being Golding’s choked tears. Wordlessly, Rina extricated herself from his grasp and fetched a box of Kleenex. She handed it to him. “How about a glass of water?”

“No, I’m all right.” He blew his nose into a tissue. “I’m…” Another blow. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Rina said. “Why don’t we all sit down?”

When he didn’t respond, Decker said, “Please, Mr. Golding. Have a seat right here.”

Decker sat him down in his special place—an oversize leather chair-and-a-half stuffed with down, complete with ottoman, his reading sanctuary whenever he was home. The rest of the furniture was feminine and frilly, upholstered with lots of blue gingham checks and blue-and-white paisley prints. Lacy pillows and doilies abounded. A sweet little hand-loomed rug sat under an old-fashioned white rocker. Decker’s chair looked like the fat sheik in the middle of his harem. He perched himself next to Rina on the couch.

Golding said, “I’m sorry to have woken you up like this.”

“No, no,” Decker said. “It’s no bother, sir. Can we make you a cup of tea?”

“Don’t bother.”

“It’s no bother.” Rina was up. “Herbal maybe? I have cinnamon, orange, chamomile, lemon—”

“Chamomile.”

“Sugar, lemon?”

“Plain.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Golding whispered out a “thank you,” then turned his attention to Decker. “You must think I’m crazy.”

And how could the man be anything less than crazy after what had happened? Golding had on a light gray, coffee-stained sweatshirt and jeans.

Decker said, “Is there something specific on your mind, Mr. Golding, or did you just need to talk…or ask some questions maybe?”

He played with his beard. “There is something I want to talk about. I just don’t know how…” He swallowed back pain. “Do you think you’re going to find this monster?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have some ideas?”

“You’ll be the first one to know when I have something definite.”

“When do you think that will be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Soon? A week, a month, a year?”

“Every case is different. Right now, this case is top priority.”

He nodded. Rina brought in two giant-sized steaming mugs. “Here we go!”

Golding took the tea, but didn’t drink it. He used it to warm his hands. Tremors seized his body. He was shaking from internal cold. “Sit down, Mrs. Decker…please.”

Rina sat back down, giving Decker the other mug. He thanked her with a nod.

Golding said, “There is something on my mind.”

Silence.

“I wanted to talk to you about this family thing.” He pointed to his chest. “About my father. Ernesto thought things about him. Things he told you…about my father being…you know…”

“I know,” Decker said.

“It isn’t true,” Golding said. “None of it. I swear to you, it isn’t true. My father was a good man: a very righteous and devout man. He wasn’t a Nazi! He couldn’t have been a Nazi.”

“Okay—”

“No! Not okay!” Golding’s hands were shaking, and he splashed hot tea over them. He hardly seemed to notice, but he did put the cup down. “You’ve got to believe me!”

“I believe you, sir.” Decker spoke calmly. “Kids dream up the wildest things. Sometimes, I think they like to create problems for themselves. My own children are no exception.”

Golding sighed. “They do, don’t they?”

“Seems like it.”

“So why do you think Ernesto would make up something like that?”

Decker was thoughtful. “He told me something about the dates not matching—”

“Dates?”

“When your father immigrated to Argentina, was it?”

Golding nodded.

“According to Ernesto, your father told you he had come to South America in 1937. Ernesto told me that he had really immigrated later, in 1945 or 1946—after the war. But kids oftentimes make mistakes.”

“Even if it wasn’t a mistake, that doesn’t make my father a Nazi!” He bit his bottom lip. Blood trickled out. “I just don’t know much about my father. That’s why I’m here.”

More silence.

“My father didn’t talk about his past. No one did. I learned very quickly not to ask questions. But that doesn’t make him a monster. He was kind and gentle and wouldn’t even kill…b-b-bugs! Honestly. He used to wrap them up in a tissue and let them go outside.”

“My wife does that,” Decker said.

Golding’s hands were rubbed raw. “He wasn’t a Nazi. But…Ernesto had some reason to be curious about him. He said he found an Isaac Golding who had died in the camps.”

“There could be more than one,” Decker said.

“True,” Golding answered. “Either way, I want to find out who Isaac Golding really was. So I’ve come to you.”

It was Rina—the daughter of concentration-camp survivors—who offered him absolution. “It’s past history. Does it really matter, Mr. Golding?”

He looked up. “Please call me Carter…and yes, it does matter. In a few days, I will bury my…my boy…”

He threw his palms over his face and wept, heart-wrenching sobs that were painful to witness. Rina and Decker had no choice but to wait him out.

Finally, Golding said, “Nothing…no pain can compare to that. There is nothing you can do or say or tell me that will hurt worse than that. You cannot even hope to understand my pain, but as parents, you can…maybe imagine it.”

Decker noticed that Rina was silently crying. What was she thinking about? The unimaginable horror of losing a
child? Her own set of baggage that included the death of a husband to cancer, the murder of a dear friend, and an untimely hysterectomy?

“So nothing you could tell me could be worse,” Golding said. “My father’s past is a mystery to me, and was a mystery to my son. I’d like to find out about it…to honor Ernesto. It was of interest to him, and I shut him down. Now I owe it to him to find out the truth.”

Decker was impassive.

Golding said, “You don’t think I should do it?”

“You’re whipping yourself,” Decker said. “You don’t have to do that. You were a wonderful, caring father. I know that because Ernesto told me that.”

Water streamed down his cheeks. “I was a good father.” He nodded vigorously. “I was. I spent time with my children. I did my best. I wasn’t perfect, but I tried.” Again, Golding blew his nose. “But I owe this to my son’s memory. And…I’d be lying if I didn’t say…it would…complete something inside of me.” His eyes met Decker’s. “I don’t know how to do it, though. You’re a detective. I thought that maybe you could help. Maybe you know someone who specializes in that kind of thing.”

Decker ran fingers through his mussed hair. “I know a few private detectives, but they’re not genealogists. Plus, they’re expensive—”

“Money isn’t an issue.”

“There are no guarantees,” Decker said.

“There never are. I know that better than anyone.”

Rina said, “Where was your father born?”

Golding regarded her. “Somewhere in Eastern Europe. He never mentioned a specific place. You cannot believe how closemouthed he was.”

Decker took a moment to digest that. “Does he have any living relatives?”

“All gone,” Golding said. “My grandparents died when I was quite young. There was also a sister…my aunt. She never married. She died when I was about ten.”

“I suppose you could try a genealogist,” Decker suggested.

Rina said, “Mr. Golding, what languages did your father speak?”

“Please call me Carter.” Golding thought a moment. “English and Spanish, of course. He spoke a foreign language to his sister. I was under the impression that it was German.”

“German?” Rina asked. “Are you sure it wasn’t Yiddish?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Golding said. “The two languages are similar, correct?”

“Yes,” Rina said. “Assuming your father is Jewish, there is a world of difference between the German-speaking Jews and the Yiddish-speaking Jews. Yiddish-speaking Jews were usually poorer—manual laborers, farmers, or merchants. German Jews were a different ball of wax. Lots of them were much more integrated into German society. In general, German-speaking Jews came from Germany. Hungarian-speaking Jews—like my parents—came from Hungary. Rumanian Jews came from Rumania. Lots of Czech Jews spoke Czechoslovakian. But Jews from Poland usually spoke Yiddish if they came from what we call the pale area—a border area between Poland and Russia.”