Beyond the Shadow of Night(98)

“I went there. And I found Izabella.”

Mykhail’s head jerked around. “Your Izabella? Really?”

Asher nodded silently.

A lopsided smile broke onto Mykhail’s face. “So, how is she? Was she happy to see you?”

“She was. It was . . . quite magical.”

“I’ll bet,” Mykhail said as he continued painting.

“It was almost like we’d stayed in touch all these years. We seemed to have so much in common. It was nice.”

“I’m really pleased for you, Asher. You deserve some happiness.”

“Thanks. We spent four wonderful days together. We swapped life stories. I told her about what happened to me during the war. And when I told her about it, I realized I just had to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“To Treblinka.”

Mykhail halted his brush mid-stroke, staring at it. “Oh,” he said. “Okay.” He carried on, painting in silence for a few seconds.

“Why don’t you ask me how I got on there?”

“Sure. How was it?”

Asher was quiet for a few seconds, his nostrils twitching. “Have you ever been there?”

Mykhail didn’t look at Asher, but shook his head.

“Not even during the war?”

Now Mykhail turned to Asher. “What are you getting at?”

“It might be better if we sit in the kitchen,” Asher said, his voice wavering.

Mykhail shrugged. “Okay.” He placed the lid back on the tin and balanced the brush on top. Then he eased himself to his feet with a groan, and motioned for them both to go into the kitchen.

There, Mykhail pressed the stop button on his tape player to silence André Rieu’s orchestra. A pained frown drew itself on Asher’s face as the two men sat down opposite each other. They each took another sip of juice.

“So, what’s this all about?” Mykhail said with a little shrug of his shoulders.

“Well, you remember all those years ago, when I tracked you down to this house?”

Mykhail nodded.

“The story in the newspaper?”

“Yes, but . . . I still don’t understand.”

“The newspaper report didn’t go into great detail, did it?”

“I can’t say I remember. It was years ago and it was all nonsense. And I don’t see—”

“I never asked you about the allegations that were made against you. I trusted you.”

Mykhail sneered slightly, an edge of forced humor showing through. “Where’s this going, Asher?”

“I just want you to tell me—”

“You think I lied? Is that it? I’m lying about what I went through during the war?” Mykhail’s fingers fumbled to shove up one arm of his shirt. On his upper arm was a section of skin, the only hairless section. He prodded a finger against it, and it wrinkled like the skin of a milk pudding. “Take a look. Go on, take a good look. And then call me a liar.”

Asher wiped a nervous hand over his smooth head. “Shall I tell you about my visit to Treblinka?”

Mykhail shrugged. “Only if you want to.”

Asher let out a long sigh, took a moment to gather himself, then spoke.

“What they’ve done with the place is nothing short of a miracle. It’s quite beautiful, although there’s something wrong about beauty in such ugly circumstances. But it’s a very peaceful area, in the middle of a forest. There’s a museum with exhibits, but I couldn’t face that at first, so I had a walk around the grounds. It was so strange, smelled so fresh and clean—like a pine forest should always smell. And I heard no engines or screams or gunfire or crackles from burning pyres. For a few minutes I was completely alone. I closed my eyes and heard birds high above, calling one another.

“Of course, there wasn’t much left of the original camp in terms of buildings or structures. The Nazis saw to that; they wanted to destroy every last shred of evidence so that they could deny it ever existed. But the Poles have done a good job of bringing back the spirit of the place. You know, they have a big area covered by stones sticking up out of the ground—thousands and thousands of them, like nothing you’ve ever seen. It’s a sea of ragged tombstones to represent an ocean of ragged bodies.”

Mykhail stared impassively, while Asher took a breath and continued.

“Anyhow, eventually I went to the museum, where they had a film show, maps of the place recreated from the memories of prisoners and staff, and a few artifacts that simply wouldn’t stay buried—or perhaps rose to the surface.”

“It must have been so hard for you.”

“I can’t convey how upsetting I found the whole experience. They also had a few photographs.”

“Photographs?”

“Yes, of the buildings, some of the prisoners, the bags of hair, the clothes. And a few of the staff.”

Mykhail gave a puzzled frown. “I would have expected photography to be banned.”

“Oh, it was, officially. But one or two guards wanted mementos for their private collections. Anyhow, I didn’t look properly; I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to take anything in—too many people around me. So I left the building and took a walk.”

“And . . . what did you see there?”