Beyond the Shadow of Night(92)

He meandered through the village, its streets now clogged up with cars, its rural charm now cluttered with shops and adverts for things that hadn’t even been invented in 1936. He had a coffee to prepare himself, then headed for the lane leading to his old farmhouse.

Later, back at the hotel he was staying at, he called Mykhail to tell him what he’d seen. He told him about the village center, then Mykhail asked him about the farm.

“There’s nothing left,” Asher replied.

“Nothing left of what?”

“Well, nothing left of anything. The farmhouses we grew up in, the outbuildings, they just aren’t there. It’s one enormous field—much bigger than the fields we had in the thirties.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“Not one brick.”

“My God.”

“Even in the village center, the clock tower’s about the only thing left from the old days. There are more stores, more houses, and more people.” He sighed down the line. “It’s . . . it’s a bit of a disappointment.”

“Did you find out what happened to the villagers during the war?”

“That wasn’t a disappointment. Well, more sad than disappointing.” His voice broke and wavered a little. “Very few of them survived.”

“Really?”

“Once the German forces took over, any who were lazy or difficult were sent to concentration camps, and most of the others died of starvation or disease.”

“You mean the crops failed?”

“Oh, the yields were good by all accounts, but the Germans used the food for their own people and let the Ukrainians starve.”

Mykhail cursed under his breath. “That’s terrible. Awful. And I don’t suppose you . . . you found out what happened to my parents?”

“Now that was interesting.”

“Go on.”

“This is difficult, Mykhail.” The line went quiet for a few moments. “I could have sworn you told me you checked immediately after the war, and found out that they died in concentration camps.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I mean . . . but . . . I wasn’t sure, it was a hell of a long time ago and I could have gotten it all wrong.”

“Uh . . .”

“Asher? Are you still there?”

“I’m here. It’s just that . . . you did get it wrong. Yes, they were sent to a concentration camp. And it’s true that millions of Ukrainians—non-Jews—died in those places. But not your parents. They survived. Your father died in 1958, your mother three years later.”

Mykhail let out a heavy gasp, but didn’t speak.

“Mykhail?”

But there was nothing.

“Are you still there, Mykhail?”

A few seconds later, there was a weak “Yes.”

“I’m sorry. It must be hard for you to take. It looks like they spent their later years on the same farm, quite a peaceful existence from what I can gather.”

Mykhail took another few seconds to compose himself. “Oh, that’s . . . that’s good. And it’s very good of you to check. Thank you, my friend.”

“That’s no problem.”

Mykhail sniffed and took a few deep breaths. “So, what else is there to do there?”

“Not much. That’s why I’ve decided to visit Treblinka.”

The line went silent again.

“Mykhail? Are you still there?”

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

“You didn’t tell me you were planning to visit that place.”

“I’ve only just decided.”

“But that wasn’t part of the agreement.”

“What?” Asher stuttered to reply. “What agreement?”

“When I offered to pay for your flight out there.”

“Oh, Mykhail. Why are you being like this?”

“I’m only thinking of you, Asher. I’m worried your heart might not take the strain. Why not just stay in good old Ukraine?”

“Because there’s not much left of the old Ukraine. You wouldn’t even recognize it.”

“Or, better still, go to Warsaw instead. Yes, that would be better. Visit Warsaw. Anywhere but Treblinka.”

“I have bad memories of Warsaw, Mykhail. You know that.”

“But you have even worse memories of Treblinka, surely?”

“Oh, of course, but Treblinka . . . well, that’s where my family are. I know it sounds strange, but it’s as if I can hear them calling. I really need to visit them.”

“At least you have good memories of Warsaw as well as bad ones. You told me you enjoyed many happy days there before they put the wall up—evenings out with your family, meals at the apartment, there was even that café and the violinist girl.”

“Oh, I have my memories, for sure, but—”

“Well, go there instead. Going to Treblinka will only upset you. And, of course, you could track down the violinist girl—what was her name?”

“Izabella.”

“Yes, Izabella. You could see her again if you went to Warsaw.”

“And remind myself of what I could have enjoyed all these years?”

“No, no. To reminisce about your joyful time together, to connect with the better times of your history. If you go to Treblinka . . . well, I hear very little is left there. You’ll be on your own.”