Beyond the Shadow of Night(99)

“What did I see? In that beautiful place I heard the sounds of my yesterdays—the noises that still stain the human race but gave me a perverse comfort in my old age. I heard the railroad trucks hissing as they drew up. I heard the shouts from the guards, ordering people to leave their belongings for collection later, and officials telling the innocent and the unaware that the first step was to have a nice shower after their arduous journey, that afterward they would be fed and shown to their living quarters. The hint of a laugh—guards actually laughing—as they told people to follow everyone else along the Himmelstrasse. Do you know what that means?”

Mykhail, unblinking, shook his head.

“I heard the mothers consoling their frightened children, telling them to stop crying, telling them everything would be fine, that this was a much nicer place to live in than Warsaw. But the children seemed to know more than their parents—or were more honest.

“And I heard the first murmurs of discontent as they were told to take their clothes off. Spectacles, shoes, pants, dresses—all in different piles for ease of sorting. Now murmurs turned to half-suppressed panic. They stayed calm but were clearly not—with darting eyes, quivering faces, shivering bodies. Questions were asked. But the guards had experienced this many times before and could dismiss them as if they were batting away troublesome moths. Those who kept asking were told by a gun barrel to obey. Discontent turned to naked fear as their heads were shaved. And then to rigid terror as they were marched along the Himmelstrasse.

“They were told to get inside. And that was when the unfettered panic started. Very often the stragglers got the message. They fought, but bayonets silenced their concerns.

“The doors were locked. The signal was given. The engine started. The show was over.”

Mykhail stared, almost looking through Asher. Asher took a deep breath and continued.

“I stood at the top of the Himmelstrasse and spent a few minutes doing nothing but looking all around. I wanted to take in the atmosphere. I guess it was a way to connect. I was standing on the very spot where my papa, my mama, and my two sisters last lived—where their hearts gave out their final beats. I like to think there was a little of them with me that day. It was nice. It gave me a little peace.

“Then I returned to the museum building, this time a little more collected of thoughts and calm of nerve, venturing farther along the exhibits. I stopped in front of a display of photographs. Very, very few must have survived. The Nazis tried to obliterate absolutely everything, but one or two people with a conscience—or perhaps with a view to making money—held on to some rare items.

“It was then that I saw it. At first it was merely another one of those wrinkled brown photographs that can be so amusing in different circumstances. But I wasn’t in the mood to be amused, of course. I found the whole display very sad. These were all real people—guards, helpers, prisoners. They once had loves and aspirations. All long gone. Most of them.

“One photograph kept pulling my eyes toward it. The young man’s face was pointing at the camera. He was almost posing, yet somehow you could tell he was ashamed. I was sure I recognized him, and my mind went back to those days of hell and dread. My mind went through my fellow Totenjuden one by one, and also the guards I got to know. Then I had a realization I didn’t want to have. I knew, but didn’t want to know. My whole world wanted this to be a mistake on my part, but I knew it wasn’t.”

Asher could feel Mykhail’s stare from across the kitchen table, almost willing him to stop talking. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

“I had to put on my reading glasses to take a better look, to examine the old photo. It was small, old, and very faint, but the scar under the left eye was definitely there. I couldn’t deny it, although I wanted to. As my mind burned, I collapsed and needed help. They had to bring a wheelchair to collect me, and I was taken to a first-aid center of sorts. They were very kind, but I didn’t say anything to explain my episode because I couldn’t; my mind was elsewhere.”

Asher leaned across the table and grabbed Mykhail’s shirtsleeve, pulling and grasping. “That’s why I need to know, and I’m not leaving this house until you tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Mykhail. Please. Stop playing for time. I just need to hear it. I need to hear what the charges brought against you in ’97 were.”

The table jolted as Mykhail pulled his arm away from Asher’s grasp. His cheeks flushed a little. “I told you,” he barked. “No charges were ever brought against me.”

“Okay, okay. So I mean allegations. What were the allegations?”

“Does it matter? It was just one man’s word, which my attorney discredited immediately. They decided very quickly there was insufficient evidence to proceed with the case.”

“But clearly enough evidence for you to get legal people involved.”

“Asher, please. The whole thing was a complete fabrication of an unbalanced mind. It was a stupid nonsense story made up by some deluded old man.”

Asher paused, taking a few calming breaths. “I need to know. Okay, so it was nonsense, I believe you. Just tell me what this deluded old man said.”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“Honestly?”

“It matters enough for me to track down the man or the journalist on the case or do whatever is necessary to get to the truth.”