The Storyteller (51 page)

I remember my grandfather as a soft-spoken man who loved books. His fingers were always stained with ink from receipts he would write customers at his antiquarian bookstore. “You met in Sweden,” I say, which is the story we had all been told.

She nods. “After I recovered from typhus, I went there. We survivors could travel anywhere in Europe, then, for free. I went with some other women to a boardinghouse in Stockholm, and every day, I ate breakfast in a restaurant, just because I could. He was a soldier on leave. He said he had never seen a girl eat so many pancakes in his life.” A smile creases her face. “He came every day to that restaurant and sat next to me at the counter until I agreed to let him take me out to dinner.”

“You swept him off his feet.”

My grandmother laughs. “Hardly. I was all bones. No breasts, no curves, nothing. I had hair that was only an inch long all over my head—the best style I could fashion after the lice were gone. I barely looked like a girl,” she says. “On that first date, I asked him what he saw in me. And he said,
My future.
”

Suddenly I remember being young, and taking a walk around the neighborhood with my sisters and my grandmother. I hadn’t wanted to go; I was reading a book, and strolling without a destination in mind seemed pointless. But my mother pressured all three of us girls, and so we traipsed at my grandmother’s snail pace around the block. She was horrified when we wanted to dart down the middle of the street. “Why stay in the gutter,” she said, “when you have this fine sidewalk?” I thought, at the time, she was being overly cautious, worried about cars on a residential street that never saw any traffic. Now, I realize, she could not comprehend why we wouldn’t use the sidewalk simply because we
could
.

When a freedom is taken away from you, I suppose, you recognize it as a privilege, not a right.

“When we first got to America, your grandfather suggested I join a group with others who were like me; who’d been, you know, in the camps. I dragged him with me. We went to three meetings. Everyone there talked about what had happened, and how much they hated the Germans. I didn’t want that. I was in a beautiful new country. I wanted to talk about movies, and my handsome husband, and my new friends. So I left, and instead I went on with my life.”

“After what the Germans did to you, how could you forgive them?” Saying the word out loud makes me think of Josef.

“Who says that I did?” my grandmother replies, surprised. “I could never forgive the
Schutzhaftlagerführer
for killing my best friend.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“No, Sage. I mean I
couldn’t
—literally—because it is not my place to forgive him. That could only be done by Darija, and he made that impossible. But by the same logic, I
should
be able to forgive the
Hauptscharführer
.
He broke my jaw, but he also saved my life.” She shakes her head. “And yet I can’t.”

She is quiet for so long that at first I think she has fallen asleep.

“When I was in that starvation cell,” my grandmother says quietly, “I hated him. Not for fooling me into trusting him, or even for beating me. But because he made me lose the compassion I had for the enemy. I no longer thought of Herr Bauer or Herr Fassbinder; I believed one German was the same as any other, and I hated them all.” She looks at me. “Which means, for that moment, I was no better than any of them.”

 • • • 

Leo sees me close the bedroom door behind me after my grandmother falls asleep. “You okay?”

I notice he has cleaned up the kitchen, rinsed out the glasses we used for our tea, swept the table clear of crumbs, washed down the counter. “She’s asleep now,” I reply, not really answering his question. How can I? How could anyone be okay, after hearing what we’ve heard today? “And Daisy’s here if she needs anything.”

“Look, I know how hard it must be to hear something like that—”

“You don’t know,” I interrupt. “You do this for a living, Leo, but it’s not personal for you.”

“Actually, it’s very personal,” he says, and immediately I feel guilty. He’s dedicated his whole life to finding the people who perpetrated these crimes; I didn’t care enough to push my grandmother to open up to me, even as a teenager, when I found out that she was a survivor.

“He’s Reiner Hartmann, isn’t he?” I ask.

Leo turns off the lights in the kitchen. “Well,” he says. “We’ll see.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

He smiles faintly. “I’m a federal agent. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Really?”

“No.” He holds the door open for me and then makes sure it is locked behind us. “All we know right now is that your grandmother was
at Auschwitz. There were hundreds of SS officers there. She still hasn’t identified your Josef as one of them.”

“He’s not my Josef,” I say.

Leo opens the passenger door of his rental car for me, then walks around to the driver’s side. “I know you have a vested interest in this, and I know you want it finished yesterday. But in order for my department to follow through, we have to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. While you were in with your grandmother, I called one of my historians in Washington. Genevra’s working up an array of photographs and FedExing it to me at the hotel. With any luck tomorrow, if your grandmother’s up to it, we could have the proof we need to get this ball rolling.” He pulls out of the driveway.

“But Josef confessed to me,” I argue.

“Exactly. He didn’t want to be extradited or prosecuted, or he would have confessed to
me.
We don’t know what his agenda is; if this is some delusion he’s harboring, if he just has a weird death wish—there are a dozen reasons he might want you to take part in an assisted suicide, and maybe he thinks he has to make himself seem reprehensible before you’ll consider it. I don’t know.”

“But all those details—”

“He’s in his nineties. He could have been watching the History Channel for the past fifty years. There are a lot of experts on World War Two. Details are good, but only if they can be pinned down to a particular individual. Which is why, if we can corroborate his story with an eyewitness who actually saw him at Auschwitz, we suddenly have a case.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Things move much quicker on
Law & Order: SVU
.”

“That’s because Mariska Hargitay’s contract’s up for renewal,” Leo says. “Look, the first time I listened to a survivor’s testimony, I felt the same way—and it
wasn’t
my own grandmother. I wanted to kill all the Nazis. Even the ones who are already dead.”

I wipe my eyes, embarrassed to be crying in front of him. “I can’t even imagine some of the things she told us.”

“I’ve heard them a few hundred times,” Leo says softly, “and it doesn’t get any easier.”

“So we just go home now?”

Leo nods. “Get a good night’s sleep, and wait for my package to get here. Then we can visit your grandmother again, and hope she’s up to making an ID.”

And if she does, who are we helping? Not my grandmother, that’s for sure. She has spent years reinventing herself so that she isn’t a victim anymore; but aren’t we redefining her as one if we ask her for that ID? I think of Josef, or Reiner, or whatever his name used to be. Everyone has a story; everyone hides his past as a means of self-preservation. Some just do it better, and more thoroughly, than others.

But how can anyone exist in a world where nobody is who he seems to be?

Silence grows between us, filling all the empty space in the rental car. I jump when the GPS tells us to turn right, onto the highway. Leo fumbles with the radio. “Maybe we should listen to some music.”

He winces as rock fills the car.

“Too bad we don’t have any CDs,” I say.

“I don’t know how to work one of those things anyway. I don’t have one in my car.”

“A CD player? Are you kidding? What do you drive . . . a Model T?”

“I have a Subaru. It just happens to have an eight-track.”

“They still exist?”

“Don’t judge. I’m a vintage kind of guy.”

“So you like oldies,” I say, intrigued. “The Shirelles, and the Troggs; Jan and Dean . . .”

“Whoa,” Leo says. “Those aren’t oldies. Cab Calloway, Billie Holiday, Peggy Lee . . . Woody Herman . . .”

“I’m about to blow your mind,” I reply, and I tune the radio to a new station. As Rosemary Clooney croons to us, Leo’s eyes widen.

“This is incredible,” he says. “Is it a Boston station?”

“It’s SiriusXM. Satellite radio. Pretty nifty technology. In related news, they also now make movies that
talk.
”

Leo smirks. “I
know
what satellite radio is. I just never—”

“Figured it was worth listening to? Isn’t it kind of dangerous to live in the past?”

“No more dangerous than living in the present and realizing nothing’s changed,” Leo says.

That makes me think of my grandmother again. “She said that’s why she didn’t want to talk about what happened to her. That there didn’t seem to be much of a point.”

“I don’t entirely believe her,” Leo says. “Watching history repeat might be self-defeating, but there’s usually another reason that survivors keep their experiences to themselves.”

“Like?”

“To protect their families. It’s PTSD, really. Someone who’s been traumatized like that can’t switch off some emotions and leave others intact. Survivors who look perfectly fine on the outside can still be emotionally empty at the core. And because of that, they can’t always connect with their kids or their spouses—or they make the conscious decision
not
to connect, so that they don’t fail the people they love. They’re afraid of passing on the nightmares, or of getting attached and losing someone again. But as a result of that, their kids grow up and model that behavior with their own families.”

I try but can’t remember my father being distant. He did, however, keep my grandmother’s secrets for her. Had my nana tried to spare him by staying silent, and had he suffered anyway? Did that emotional disconnection skip a generation? I screened my face from people; I found a job that allowed me to work nights, alone; I let myself fall for a man I knew was never going to be mine, because I did not think I’d ever be lucky enough to find someone to love me forever. Had I been hiding because I was a freak, or was I a freak because I’d been hiding? Was my scar only part of it—the trigger for trauma, passed down through the bloodline?

I don’t realize I’m sobbing until the car suddenly swerves across three lanes and Leo gets off at an exit. “I’m sorry,” he says, pulling to the
curb. A reflection from the rearview mirror boxes his eyes. “That was a stupid thing to say. For the record, it doesn’t always happen that way. Look at you, you turned out perfectly fine.”

“You don’t know me.”

“But I’d like to.”

Leo’s answer seems to shock him as much as it shocks me. “I bet you say that to all the girls who are crying hysterically.”

“Ah, you’ve figured out my M.O.”

He hands me a handkerchief. Who still carries a handkerchief? A guy who has an eight-track in his car, I suppose. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose, then tuck the little square into my pocket.

“I’m twenty-five years old,” I say. “I got laid off from my job. My only friend is a former Nazi. My mother died three years ago and it feels like it was yesterday. I have nothing in common with my sisters. The last relationship I had was with a married man. I’m a loner. I’d rather have a root canal than have my photo taken,” I say, crying so hard I am hiccupping. “I don’t even have a pet.”

Leo tilts his head. “Not even a goldfish?”

I shake my head.

“Well, lots of people lose their jobs,” Leo says. “Your friendship with a Nazi could lead to the deportation or extradition of a war criminal. I’d think that would give you something to chat about with your sisters. And I also bet it would make your mother proud, wherever she is now. Photos are so airbrushed these days you can’t trust what you see, anyway. And as for you being a loner,” he adds, “you seem to have no trouble having a conversation with me.”

I consider this for a moment.

“You know what you need?”

“A reality check?”

Leo puts the car in gear. “Perspective,” he says. “The hell with going home. I’ve got a better idea.”

 • • • 

I remember thinking, as a kid, that churches were so incredibly beautiful, with their stained-glass windows and stone altars, their vaulted ceilings and polished pews. In contrast, the temple where I was dragged for my sisters’ bat mitzvahs—a full hour’s ride away—was downright homely. Its roof came to a massive brown metal point; some sort of abstract ironwork—probably meant to be a burning bush but it looked more like barbed wire—decorated the lobby. The color scheme was aqua, orange, and burnt sienna, as if the 1970s had projectile-vomited all over the walls.

Now, as Leo holds the door open for me so I can walk inside, I decide that either Jews must be universally bad interior decorators or all temples were built in 1972. The doors to the sanctuary are closed, but I can hear music seeping out from beneath them. “Looks like they’ve already started,” Leo says, “but that’s okay.”

“You’re taking me on a date to Friday night services?”

“This is a date?” Leo replies.

“Are you one of those people who looks up the nearest hospital before you travel, except it’s not a hospital you scout out but a temple?”

“No. I was here once before. I had a case once that involved the testimony of a guy who had been part of a
Sonderkommando
. When he died a few years later, a contingent from my office came to the funeral here. I knew we couldn’t be too far away.”

“I told you—religion isn’t really my thing—”

“Duly noted,” he says, and he grabs my hand, cracks open the sanctuary door, and pulls me inside.

We slip into the last pew on the left. Up on the bema, the rabbi is welcoming the congregation, and telling them how good it is to worship with everyone. He begins to read a prayer, in Hebrew.

I think back to the moment I lobbied my parents to stop going to temple. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I think I’m having a flashback. Leo’s hand closes around mine. “Just give it a chance,” he whispers.