Have You Seen Luis Velez?(81)

“I . . . I don’t know. I can’t guess.”

“Zero. Not one letter. Not even from the neighbors who were not Jewish. Surely some of them still lived in their homes and had survived the war. But they did not write back and answer my mother’s questions. So she traveled there. By herself. We were in school, and besides, they would not have subjected us to that avalanche of horror. My father had to work, but I don’t think he would have gone either way. My mother traveled there to see who was left of all the people we knew. All the people we called family or friends.”

Raymond pulled the collar of his jacket more tightly around his neck and waited for her to say more. He glanced over at her to see if she looked cold. But she seemed comfortable wrapped in her knitted shawl.

A gaggle of young tourists ran to the railing, laughing and talking in a language indecipherable to Raymond, taking pictures of each other with the statue far in the distance.

Mrs. G did not say more.

“So . . . ,” he began. Tentatively, in case she wanted to stop him from asking. “Did she find any family or friends alive?”

“She did not.”

“Every single one of them had died?”

“Well, we don’t know, Raymond. It is hard to know. There was research involved to learn the fate of each person who had gone into a camp during the war. Maybe someone else was able to slip away as we did. Maybe someone survived the camp and staggered out with the Allied troops and went somewhere that felt less like hell to them. But that is all optimistic thinking. My mother, who was a realistic woman, called them ‘missing and presumed dead.’ If anyone survived, we never found out about it.”

“That must have been . . .” But he could not think of a way to say more.

“I wonder if you can imagine it, Raymond. If you can possibly think of everyone you know, all your friends, the teachers and students in your school, all your cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles, and then imagine that they are all gone, leaving you and your immediate family alone standing.”

For a moment, he tried. And it might not have been that he couldn’t have imagined. It might have been that he wanted badly not to.

“So . . . ,” he began. “The part of this with the shame. I’m still not sure if I’m clear on that or not. You feel guilty because you . . .”

“Survived.”

Silence. For maybe the count of ten.

“If you had stayed and died with them,” he said, “I don’t see how that would have helped their situation.”

“All right. You look at it that way. I look at it this way: Who was I to survive? What was so special about my life that I was allowed to keep it? It weighs on you, Raymond. Millions of people had their lives taken, but I was allowed to keep mine. At first I felt I had to live on their behalf. I thought I would have to live the most remarkable life anyone had ever lived in the history of the world. I felt as though I had to live life for all of them. But then after a couple of years that idea grew utterly overwhelming, and I fell to the other side, and I lived the least remarkable life one can imagine. I worked as a seamstress all my life and never had children. But I was always determined that I would live a very long life. To one hundred or better. Because it was my duty to make the most of what I was given. But still I was haunted by why I was given it. You know why, don’t you?”

“Because . . . your father had money.”

“Yes. Because my father had the equivalent of a few thousand dollars, and their fathers had nothing. Money, my friend. Money bought us our lives. And that is called privilege. We bought our lives, while those who couldn’t afford to were slaughtered like animals. Does that make our lives worth more? Of course not. No life is worth more, except by virtue of one’s character. But I was eleven. My character was no better than that of my peers.”

She sniffled slightly in the cold. Took a cloth hankie out of her purse and dabbed at her nose.

“I do not want this privilege,” she added. Firmly.

“I don’t know that growing up half-Jewish in Nazi Germany was a lesson in privilege.”

“No. It was not. So now I know this story from both sides. And now I am on the wrong side, and I do not want to be here. How many times do you think I could tap a person on the shoulder and return a dropped wallet? How many wallets will I hand back before someone shoots me?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

“Yes you do, Raymond. Yes you do. Nobody will ever shoot me, and you know it. They will shoot my friend Luis, but they will never shoot me. And the people on the other side, they don’t even see it. I see my privilege because I have lived both with it and without it. The jury did not even see. They did not even see, Raymond. What can you do with a world where people do not even see?”

They continued to sit by the water for a time. Another ten or fifteen minutes at least.

Raymond never managed to come up with an answer to her question. He had no idea what you do with a world where people do not even see.



Raymond arrived at his father’s door at a little after three o’clock in the afternoon. He knocked, more tentatively than he had intended.

Please let Dad answer. Please let Dad answer. Please let Dad answer.

Neesha answered.

He watched her eyes narrow as she took in his face.

“This is not your weekend,” she said.