Beyond the Shadow of Night(97)

Asher thought for a moment. A tear escaped and ran down his cheek. “Rina,” he said, a grin breaking through the sadness. “My dear Rina. She said it to both of us. Played us like fools.”

“Ah, I see.” Izabella nodded. “Perhaps she knew it was true?”

“And, as it turned out, she was right.”

“She certainly was.”

Asher picked up his cup. “It’s not much, but I raise a toast to Rina.”

Their cups touched. “To Rina,” Izabella said. They drank and placed their cups back down.

“Listen, Asher, I know you can’t talk about certain things—the war. But I want to know everything about you. I’m interested. Life in America must be exciting.”

Asher caressed her hand. “It’s nice for someone to be interested in me. You’re right and wrong. It’s not very exciting, but I should tell you.”

So Asher did, and once he started talking he couldn’t stop. All the details of how he ended up in Detroit, his work at Dearborn, how he met Mykhail again, how Mykhail had changed his name—all things that tumbled from his mouth faster than he could think of them. Izabella also talked, of her happy marriage, her teaching career, and her vacations. Before either of them knew it, almost two hours had passed and they were starting to tire.

“I have to go now,” Izabella said, glancing at the wall clock.

The words made Asher’s heart skip a beat. “But . . . can we meet again?”

“You know, Asher, it’s been lovely talking, and I’d be upset if I didn’t see you again.”

They arranged to meet up the next day, when they spent hours talking, Izabella taking him to her favorite restaurant for dinner. There they talked even more freely: Izabella of her feelings for her husband and how she missed him, Asher of his difficult issues after he got laid off from Dearborn.

On the third day, they met at Izabella’s apartment and spent the day touring the city’s museums and art galleries. When they got back to the apartment, Izabella fixed a meal, they relaxed, and Asher started telling her about his experiences at Treblinka all those years ago.

It was on the fourth day that they both decided they wanted to see more of each other—that this week shouldn’t be the end. Asher knew he should have felt awful about all those years of missed opportunities, but somehow he didn’t. In fact, he was happier than he could ever remember being.

Also on the fourth day, with dark memories swirling around his mind, Asher realized that Mykhail had been wrong about returning to Treblinka.

He made his decision accordingly.





Chapter 31

Pittsburgh, July 2001

Asher rang the doorbell of 38 Hartmann Way. He cursed at the music coming from inside the house and the noise of the kids playing next door, and went around the side into the backyard.

“Hey, Asher,” Mykhail said. “Didn’t expect to see you yet.” He was sitting on a stool, a paint pot perched on a brick next to him. He held a large paintbrush in his hand—the way someone might hold a hammer.

“I did ring,” Asher said. “But . . .” He glanced behind him, across the tall wire fence, to where kids were shooting a basketball while apparently making as much noise as humanly possible.

“My music drowns most of that out,” Mykhail said, nodding toward the kitchen. “How long have you been back?”

“Oh, I was only home a few hours. I dumped my luggage, grabbed a change of clothing, and caught the bus over.” He pointed at the woodwork on the outside of the sunroom. “Keeping the wood rot out, huh?”

Mykhail nodded. “I’ve painted it every three years ever since moving in. It’s become a kind of barometer. Each time it’s just that little bit more tiring. Now I find it hard to kneel, let alone paint.”

“It’s looking good,” Asher said.

“It better had, because it’s the last time I’ll be painting it. Son-of-a-bitch arthritis in my fingers. How was Europe?”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

Mykhail eyed his brush. “I’m a little busy right now.”

“You carry on.” He pointed into the kitchen. “Can I get us a coffee?”

“Cold drink would be good. Got some apple juice in the fridge.”

Asher went into the kitchen and got the drinks, to the accompaniment of that orchestra.

“Still on the old cassette tapes, huh?” Asher said as he brought the drinks outside a few minutes later.

“Oh, yeah. Diane keeps telling me to buy stuff on these new discs or even some new gizmo in a tiny box. I can’t be bothered.” He took a sip of apple juice. “So, tell me about Ukraine.”

“Oh, finish your painting first.”

Mykhail dipped the brush. “I can paint and listen at the same time. Tell me, did you manage to take any photographs of Dyovsta?”

“For what it’s worth.”

Mykhail kept his eyes on his painting line. “What does that mean?”

“I told you on the phone. The farmhouse buildings we lived in as little ones were demolished long ago. The area’s nothing more than one small section of a vast wheatfield.”

“And your accommodation?”

“Comfortable.”

“And Warsaw?”