Beyond the Shadow of Night(90)

“Oh?”

“It’s something I’ve always felt ashamed of, but something there’s no point hiding now.”

Mykhail gave his head a confused shake. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Well, now it’s time to tell you. I told you Ford laid me off in the seventies, didn’t I?”

“You did. That must have been tough.”

“The word doesn’t even come close. Anyhow, when that happened, something inside of me broke. I couldn’t cope. And I . . .”

“What?” Mykhail leaned in closer.

“I had no family, and all my friends were at Dearborn. When I lost my job I, uh, I started drinking too much. At the time I didn’t quite know why, but it was all I felt like doing. Before long I’d drunk my severance pay. But I carried on drinking, and soon after that I became a bum, living on the streets.”

“You mean, what they call a homeless person these days?”

“That’s right, a dirty hobo, hanging around the local park, sleeping under a tarp, drinking anything alcoholic I could lay my filthy hands on.”

Mykhail grimaced. “I’m sorry, Asher. It’s not rare, you know. Unemployment does that to people sometimes.”

Asher was already shaking his head.

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly the unemployment, that’s not why I feel ashamed.”

“I don’t get it. You’re talking in riddles here, buddy.”

“Shut the door,” Asher said.

Mykhail hesitated, but did as his friend asked and sat back down.

“You never had any brothers or sisters, Mykhail, did you?”

“Hey, thanks for pointing that out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m kidding. What about it?”

“I told you about Rina, right?”

“That she died in . . . in that place, together with the rest of your family. Sure, you told me.”

“Was killed, Mykhail, was killed. There’s an important difference.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. Go on.”

“You see, I find it easy to say that now. She was killed. But in 1946 I couldn’t even think it. I knew what had happened to the rest of my family, but it was different for Rina. Even now my mind still drifts back to the last time I saw her, just after we got to Treblinka, when we were being herded like cattle. I can still hear her pleading with me, and I can still hear my own voice assuring her that I won’t let them separate us, that I’ll die before I allow that . . . The guard says we can see each other after the delousing procedure, so she goes. And I see her being taken away, just a worthless piece of driftwood being carried along by the tide. I tell myself I’ll see her soon. But I don’t. Not ever.”

Mykhail, staying silent, fetched some Kleenex from the dispenser and handed them to Asher, who took a few moments to wipe his face dry.

“And after the war ended and the camp was cleared, I still never felt one hundred percent sure that my poor sister was dead. Of course, I was in denial. There was one small part of my mind that imagined scenarios where she’d escaped or been freed, and somehow had returned to Warsaw. I daydreamed that one day I would find her, but not yet. Even when I was in Kiev, I thought one day in the future I would somehow contact her, but not yet. Not just yet. It was all nonsense, of course, because the only people who survived that cauldron of evil were guards and a few helpers like me who escaped. I knew that but didn’t want to believe it, so I told myself I was too busy building tractors and cars to look for her. I told myself that one day I would have the time to track her down. And finally, when the factory laid me off, I realized I now had that time I’d always promised myself. I could have done some research on the place, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that because it would break the spell, because I knew precisely what it would tell me. So I had to find something else to do.” Asher looked in Mykhail’s direction, but through him. “And I did find something else to do. I drank.”

“Oh God, Asher. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“You know the one thing that pulls on my heart more than any other?”

“What?”

“The thing that still churns me up inside is that I never thought something like that would happen to Rina. She was the strongest of women. She, above the rest of my family—including me—could have done something really worthwhile with her life. Yes, I stopped crying for her when I dried out in the seventies, but the feeling is still there. It’s just like a crack in a wall that’s been papered over.”

“That’s awful. But . . . you recovered, right? You got yourself off the streets?”

“There’s a soup kitchen in Detroit—the Catholic Club. They fed me for years. I’d have died without them, for sure. I met another old war survivor, one from the Vietnam days, who was doing some volunteer work. It took some time, but he got me out from under those tarps and into a house. But I know some of those homeless guys had tuberculosis. I know I’m being irrational, but it’s worried me ever since.” He took a heavy breath, which turned into a coughing fit.

Mykhail stayed silent for a minute while he recovered, then said, “Hey, buddy. It’s no big deal. Not to me. I’m just pleased there’s nothing seriously wrong with you. Tell me, what treatment are they giving you for this infection?”