Beyond the Shadow of Night(109)

Asher gazed at Mykhail’s face, peering into his sorrowful eyes, watching the tears trickle down his weather-worn skin. “I don’t believe a word of it,” he eventually said. “All you’re doing is trying to save your own skin, just like you did all those years ago.”

“No!” Mykhail screeched. “It’s the truth!”

Asher stood and took a step back. He should have been pleased to see his best friend squirm after what he’d done. But it wasn’t a pleasant sight. Not even one bit. And the worst thing was that he knew Mykhail was being honest. After all, he was contemplating a world in which Diane had never been born. Asher saw the truth in Mykhail’s eyes; he would have known had he been faking it.

But now it was Asher’s turn to be arrogant. He felt he could do nothing else.

Mykhail stood up too, stepping toward Asher, grabbing the lapels of his jacket. “You want me to beg?” he said, now sobbing freely. “Well, I’m begging. Please, Asher. If not for me, then for Diane. Please keep all this to yourself. Please!”

Anger smothered all thought in Asher’s mind. “Mykhail Petrenko,” he said, “I never want to see you again. We are no longer friends.”

At that, Mykhail put his head in his hands. “Please, Asher,” he said. “I’ve thought so much about this over the years that it’s destroyed a part of me. The secrets, the deceit, the guilt. It’s been a disease in remission, one I’ve always known could return one day.” He looked up at Asher. “And today, all these years later, it has. You spring this on me and you expect me to have all the answers in a few pathetic minutes. Well, I’ve told you the truth. I can’t say any more.”

It was then that Asher cracked. He raged and shouted at Mykhail, standing up, pacing around the room, arms whirling, then sitting down again but still not allowing Mykhail to speak. Asher had never possessed much of a temper, but it was as if he’d been saving up what temper he had for those few minutes of telling Mykhail how evil and disgusting he was.

Again, Mykhail asked Asher to forgive him, and Asher told him to go to hell. Mykhail kept saying he was sorry, now red-faced and panting. He kept asking Asher to understand, to look at it from his point of view.

“I’ll see you in hell first,” Asher hissed. “Which is where you belong.” Then he stumbled to the door, where he turned around and fired a final salvo. “I will never forgive you, Mykhail. You’re no friend of mine and you never will be. I just hope I never see you again.”

He left, leaving the door swinging behind him, and staggered to the end of the street, where he flagged a cab down. By the time the cab dropped him off at the bus depot he was starting to feel ill with the stress, and welcomed the chance to sit in the waiting room and recover as best he could. As he watched the motley selection of people passing by in front of him, he started wondering about their histories too—what dark secrets each of them might be hiding. After all, everyone is guilty of something; it’s only a question of scale.

Those thoughts seemed to calm him down a little, and slowly, over the next hour, he started regretting so many of those things he’d said to Mykhail. He’d been unfair; Mykhail had denied this for most of his life, and now Asher was expecting instant and full disclosure and regret.

Asher had been at Treblinka too—he’d helped with the shepherding of those people into the gas chambers. It wasn’t too far removed. Okay, so he hadn’t volunteered: he’d been picked out and told what to do. But if he’d been given a choice would he have chosen to die instead? Nobody could ever be certain of such a thing.

Mykhail had said as much, and he had a point. There was a similarity, albeit with one important distinction: Asher never had a gun at Treblinka. If he had, he would like to think he would have used it on the guards. Mykhail, however, had been a Trawniki guard, as good as a soldier with access to guns. Would Asher have done the same as Mykhail had he been in his position? Would he really have stayed in the POW camp to take his chances there?

The more Asher thought on, the more confused he became.

Music blared from the speakers in the bus depot waiting room. Asher felt so bad he prayed for the volume to increase—increase so much it would hurt his ears. He just wanted to curl up in a corner and never come out again. At that moment, he wanted someone or something to take his life just to stop the cockroaches scurrying around his brain.

It was a long time since he’d had such destructive feelings.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Mykhail. Should he forgive him? Would he want to consider them friends ever again? His mind was a sea of uncertainty about such things, but beyond that he was worried about his old friend. He hadn’t looked at all well when Asher had stormed out.

That was when Asher decided to call Mykhail. He hadn’t changed his mind. Oh no. He only wanted to be sure he was okay. He fumbled with change and willed his trembling fingers to dial.

There was no answer, only that interminable cycle: silent and peaceful, ringing, silent and peaceful, ringing, silent and peaceful. He hung on.

Yes, he should apologize for some of the horrible things he’d said to Mykhail—some of the worst things. Their friendship would never be the same again, but they’d been friends once, and Mykhail was another human being.

He double-checked the number and dialed again. Twice.

Still, Mykhail didn’t pick up.