Beyond the Shadow of Night(107)

I did a lot of things in my previous life that I am ashamed of. I’ve told you my real name is Mykhail Petrenko, and that I was born and brought up in a small farming village in Ukraine.

That’s true.

Something else is also true. I admit I’m a coward for not coming clean earlier. I kidded myself that I kept it secret for your sake, so that you could live a normal life. The truth is that I wanted to tell you years ago, but each time I pictured your face as you heard my words, and I couldn’t bear to do it. I can’t tell you to your face, but I can no longer keep the truth from you.

You’ll remember four years ago some allegations were made against me. War crimes, they called them.

They were all true.

I was at Treblinka.

I operated an engine. I was a part of the machine—that death factory.

Even through this recorder, I can’t bring myself to tell you any details. But I was there and took an active part in some horrible, inhuman acts.

I’ve done my best to lock those memories away for the sake of my sanity and your happiness, to pretend it all happened in a different life. I know I haven’t been the best father to you; many times you’ve wanted to leave home, and I know I’ve stopped you. It’s no excuse, but when your mother left me I felt the emptiness of a family eradicated by circumstances, and it seemed to take hold of my soul. In spite of my attempts to hide my feelings, I’m sure you know how I suffered in those months that followed, and I couldn’t face the prospect of losing you too.

Apart from that, I think I managed to control myself well, to shut out those blood red memories and hide behind this confident shell of mine.

But my old friend Asher found me out, so I told him exactly what I did all those years ago. Understandably, he’s very annoyed with me, and he’s just left this house in a foul temper. He’s promised not to turn me in, but I doubt he’ll count himself as my friend now, and in a way that’s worse punishment.

The phone has been ringing. I know it’s him. He’s prone to bouts of anger but at heart he’s a good, gentle man with very strong principles. Please be kind to him, Diane; he’s very upset. I know him well and I know why he’s calling: he wants to forgive me for my involvement in those evil acts. He would do that for me, even though I don’t deserve it.

I do, however, ask you to forgive me for what I am about to do.

Like Asher, you have a lot to forgive me for. I never could face the prospect of you disowning me, which probably explains why I screwed up your life just like I tried to screw up your mother’s. I’m sorry. I never intended to do that. Guilt does that to people, it spreads the misery.

You’ve been a caring daughter, Diane—much more so than I deserve. I know you’ve made a lot of sacrifices over the years for my sake, so please remember that I will always love you. Over the coming months people will try to make you feel ashamed to be my daughter. Resist that. Believe me when I say that you have nothing to be ashamed of—absolutely nothing. My crimes were my own doing and nobody else’s.

I’ve kept the lid on this for too long, and it’s done too much damage, way more than I’m worth. But now the past has come back into my life, and I simply can’t live with it.

I’m so sorry.





Chapter 34

Pittsburgh, July 2001

At the kitchen table of 38 Hartmann Way, Mykhail’s finger dropped onto the stop button of his trusty old tape recorder, then shook uncontrollably as it moved along and did the same to the eject button. He’d already taken great trouble to scribble Diane’s name on both the cassette and the envelope. That was good. That was foresight. He was shaking so much now that he would hardly be able to hold a pen, let alone use one.

And this was Mykhail Petrenko, not Michael Peterson. Asher had just reminded him of that fact—of the history of the man he really was. He was born Mykhail Petrenko, so it only seemed fitting that at this time he should become him once again. Fitting and truthful.

He took a sharp breath and slowly plucked the cassette from its holder. The cassette was shaking, the envelope was shaking. It was like threading a needle while sitting in a moving car. But by the fourth attempt it was in. He tried to lick the flap but there was no moisture on his tongue, so he reached across to his glass of apple juice, dipped his finger in it, and sealed the envelope shut. He placed the envelope in front of him, next to the tape recorder and his juice, and moved all three to one side—with a care that seemed perverse even to him—to where they would be safe. He glanced down at the remains of the glass Asher had smashed on the floor, then up and through the glass of the back door. That brush, balanced on the paint pot, which was balanced on the brick, was still waiting for him. Those three items might be the only things to miss him when he’d gone. Asher had almost kicked the thing over when he’d stormed out an hour earlier. That had left plenty of time for Mykhail to think, to come to terms with what he knew all along he needed to do. And Mykhail had decided, closing and locking the door for a little privacy, then composing himself before leaving a message for his one and only.

He reached for the gun. He stared at it for a moment. Strangely, he felt an element of peace, a kind he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

He rested the muzzle of the gun on his temple.

He’d been in tears for the past half hour—which was so unlike him—but now there was an acceptance that it was all over.