“Have they applied to us in the past?”
“No,” I answered. “Up until now, they have refused to talk about what happened there. Only recently have they begun to tell me about that period.”
“I see,” answered a man’s voice. “Well, I need to know what camp they were in, their previous residence, if they were married during the war, names of any children, the number appearing on their arms—any information they remember. Even something that may seem to you to be unimportant.”
“That’s a problem,” I said. “My grandfather is very old and can’t provide hardly any information and my grandmother… Well, she’s also confused. Sometimes she says one thing and then she contradicts it with completely different information. The only thing I can say for sure is that they didn’t have children at that time and they probably weren’t married then either.”
The silence on the other end of the line sealed the fate on this attempt as well.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and the connection was gone.
I became depressed. I felt a strong need to get out of the house. A new mall had opened up about six months ago, and that’s where I was going. I wanted to get lost among the faceless crowds, to be around people without touching them and without them touching me.
I stopped in front of the store windows. My mood improved. Suddenly I found myself in front of a furniture store. I went inside and walked among the aisles. I had the sudden urge to replace my foul-smelling shabby furniture. Its presence in my home was like a monument to George’s actions.
“It’s about time,” I murmured to myself quietly.
An unexpected voice beside me said, “It’s about time for what?”
I looked over and found myself looking into eyes as green as a tranquil lake.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The woman smiled, revealing two rows of snow-white teeth.
“I was talking to myself, wasn’t I?” I asked self-consciously.
She answered, “Yes, but only I heard you. How can I help you?”
“I don’t really know. The truth is, I was going to buy clothes but found myself in a furniture store.”
We smiled at each other, and then she said, “I’ll let you wander around on your own. If you need help or advice, I’m Joey. I’ll be around if you need me.”
The saleswoman walked away and I continued to wander among the furniture. There was a pretty double sofa the color of gold that I decided to come back to after reviewing all the other furniture. Then I saw it. It was standing in the corner of the store, separate from the rest of the furniture. Its crimson color stood out like an island surrounded by an ocean of furniture. Its color seemed to fill the space where it sat. I knew that I was going to buy it. The reclining chair. It was time to replace the old with the new, the past with the future.
I called the saleswoman over and pointed to the chair in the corner. “A wonderful choice,” she said with a smile. “Would you like it in this color or a different one?”
“I’d like it exactly as it is.”
“You should know that the fabric is unique—it repels liquids, so you don’t have to worry about keeping it clean. Have you tried it out yet?”
“No.”
“Well then, come on! Sit down and feel how it hugs you.”
I sat down in the chair and that’s precisely how I felt. “It’s exactly what I want.”
28
At six o’clock in the evening, there was an unfamiliar knock on the door. I had arrived home from work just a half hour earlier. I had just finished my shower and gone into the kitchen to make myself something to eat. Roy had his own special knock and Donna never knocked on the door, she rang the bell. I asked who it was and a strange voice answered. “My name is Peter. You don’t know me—I’d like to talk to you.”
“Regarding what?” I was sure he was a salesman, the kind that comes to your house and doesn’t leave you alone until they get you to buy whatever product they’re selling. “I’m not interested in buying anything right now, thank you.”
“I’m not here to sell you anything. I’m looking for John Brown,” he said.
Warning bells went off. “Who are you?” Fear began to creep in.
“Look, I just want to talk to him. Are you his wife?”
“No, I’m his daughter.”
“Is he in?”
“No.”
“Come sit outside, that way you’ll feel safer. OK?”
I opened the door. A man of about fifty years old stood there. He had broad shoulders, dark skin, and sunglasses. He held out his hand and we introduced ourselves.
We sat on the steps outside the front door.
“I’m a homicide investigator,” he said.
I swallowed hard and all my senses grew sharper. “What do I have to do with homicide?”
“You have nothing to worry about. The case I’m talking about happened more than twenty years ago.”
“I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”
“You’re right. I actually want to speak with your father.”
“My father’s dead,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
“Why do you need him?”
“We’re investigating a homicide, and we have reasonable grounds to believe he is connected with it.”
“My father?”
He nodded and I could see sympathy on his face.
“Well, he was killed in a car accident three years ago.”
“I see.”
“But I would still like to know why you think he has a connection to this murder.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I replied emphatically.
“I’ll start at the beginning. In Florida, at the end of 1973, there was a car accident. A young man was killed. He was driving the car when the accident occurred. According to the police report, which I recently reviewed, the driver was apparently driving on a narrow, winding road. A truck appeared out of nowhere; the truck driver lost control of his vehicle and crashed into the car. The young man was thrown straight into a fifty-foot ditch. He didn’t have a chance. The car caught fire and several weeks passed before they were able to identify the victim. The incident was investigated and eventually filed as a severe car accident. There was no reason to suspect anything else.”
“I still don’t understand how this story is connected to my father.”
“A few months ago, we arrested a sixty-year-old white man on suspicion of murder. During his interrogation, he confessed that he was hired more than twenty years ago to intentionally crash his truck into the car driven by the young man that was killed. He said that he had received a hefty sum of money to fake the accident. He carried out his part of the deal, received the payment promised him, and disappeared from the state.”
“And why are you telling me this story?” I began to lose my patience. I wanted him to leave me alone.
“Because the person that paid him to carry out this accident was your father.”
I looked at him in complete shock. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”
He emphasized each word. “Eva, your father hired this man and paid him money to kill the young man driving the car.”
It felt like my blood was boiling in my veins, like fiery sparks from the sun were burning every inch of my skin. I felt dizzy and stood up to vomit. This was too much. Who the hell is this man? I asked myself. I mean, he hasn’t shown me any identification, maybe he’s planning to hurt me and is making up stories in the meantime. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and went up to him.
“Can you show me your ID?” I moved away from him as I was asking the question, turning back toward the house. I was prepared to run and lock the door behind me, but the man, Peter, put his hand in his pocket and took out a badge. I looked it over and read, “Peter Jenkins, Investigative Officer.” The badge looked authentic.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked suddenly.
&
nbsp; “She was killed with him.”
“I see. Again, I’m sorry.”
I nodded and waited. He then turned to me and asked if he could stay in touch with me if the need should arise. I told him he could, and asked, “Could you perhaps give me some information about my father?”
He was surprised, but tried to hide it. “Explain yourself,” he said.
“After my parents were killed, I discovered that I don’t know anything about them. I don’t know anything about their past, their backgrounds, where they came from, if I have other family…”
“They never talked to you about it?”
“No!”
“I don’t know if I can help you. What would you like to know?”
“Where did you come from? I mean, are you from the same place where my father lived as a child?”
“I’m from a suburb of Chicago. The case was transferred to us a little over a year ago, but we were only recently able to locate the last residence of your father. The young man who was killed lived in our jurisdiction. As far as I know, your father lived in one of the city’s suburbs, a place called Chester.”
My hands became clammy and my heart began to race.
Peter noticed my agitation. “Come sit down,” he said. “I can see you are upset.”
“Do you have a specific address?”
“Not with me, but I can check.”
“Please.”
“I’ll go back to my office and check. If you could call me tomorrow, I’ll let you have all the information I can find.” He handed me his card.
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Peter nodded, gave me a little salute, and left. I was alone on the steps and couldn’t decide whether I was happy about finding a clue or miserable after learning yet another horrific detail about my father.
A car pulled up in front of the house, a door slammed, and footsteps grew close to me until a shadow darkened my path.
“What are you doing here outside?” asked Roy.
I took a deep breath and said, “Trying to comprehend what I just found out.”
Roy waited for me to continue.
“Apparently, besides being a Nazi, my father was also a murderer.” I burst out in hysterical laughter.
“Come here,” Roy lifted me on to my feet and pulled me into the house. He sat me down on the sofa and went into the kitchen. A few seconds later, he returned with a cup of tea.
“Drink!” he ordered.
“I can’t.”
“Drink,” he said again and sat down next to me. He moved the strands of hair covering my eyes, leaned my body back, and brought the cup to my mouth. “Take a few sips, it will calm you,” he said gently. I listened to his voice and took a sip of the sweet tea. “Take a deep breath,” he commanded. I did as he asked and slowly began to feel my breathing return to its normal rhythm. Roy got up again and came back with a damp cloth. He placed it on my forehead, and then wiped my cheeks and neck. Then he pulled me close to him, leaned my body onto his chest, and wrapped me in his arms. He didn’t say a word and neither did I. We sat like this for a long time.
The hours passed by and nighttime arrived. I must have fallen asleep. I awoke to find myself lying on the sofa, covered by a thin blanket. The living room was dark except for a floor light shining in the corner. Roy was sitting on my newly purchased easy chair, his eyes closed and his breathing steady. I didn’t want to wake him, so I got up slowly from the sofa and went into the bathroom to wash my face. I lifted my head and looked at my reflection in the mirror. “So, your father is a murderer. You are the daughter of a murderer.” Tears streamed down my face. Quietly. In desperation.
***
From that day on, it was like I was possessed. Thoughts about my father—my idol, the stranger, the monster—wouldn’t leave me. I was overwhelmingly restless, periodically leaving the house to walk the streets. Once, when Sarah noticed me and called out for me to come in to her house, the thought of warm cookies and the feeling of family in her home made me crudely refuse her invitation. I didn’t deserve to enjoy myself, and certainly not to receive warmth and love. I was the daughter of a monster that fed on my love and blind admiration. My soul was replete with feelings of guilt and endless anger at myself. I couldn’t stand moments of enjoyment—couldn’t smile, couldn’t look at myself in the mirror, couldn’t stop hating my stupid self for closing my eyes all those years. I wanted to be a new person.
The decision took hold immediately. I ran home, took out a suitcase, and crammed a load of clothes into it. It was the middle of the day, and Donna was in the office. I called her home and left a message on her answering machine saying that I wouldn’t be coming in to work in the near future, adding, “Please don’t try to find me, I’ll come back when I can.”
I got into the car and began to drive, not knowing where, just wanting to put as much distance as possible between myself and the place that only increased my self-hatred—the house I grew up in was a lie. My foot pressed down on the gas pedal and the car drove on and on. After several hours, I stopped at an unfamiliar city. The city welcomed me with indifference. Nobody noticed my arrival and no one tried to make contact with me. I rented a room in an old apartment house that suited my needs. I wanted to be anonymous and assimilate into the human kaleidoscope of the city.
I felt safe after a week. I bought a map and walked around town like a tourist, visiting a different part of the city each day and walking around until my feet screamed for rest, wearing myself out completely. I left each morning as soon as I woke up and returned to the room in the late evening, living mostly on snacks during the day, not eating a real meal for more than a week. As the days went by, this weakened me. The distances I walked grew shorter and my feet dragged.
My vision grew blurry. Sometimes I ran into obstacles and fell. Sometimes people helped me up, but most gave me strange looks, lowering their heads to avoid my eyes and or simply moving away from me. At first I didn’t understand why they were acting that way, until one time a shop window showed me my reflection. I was a shadow of myself. That pleased me. The former Eva has disappeared. In her place, a new Eva will appear, more moral and aware. I smiled at the shadow in front of me and said goodbye to old Eva in my heart. I leaned my body against the window and tried to walk away, but my feet wouldn’t move.
People passed by me and not one of them stopped. Perhaps I have become invisible. Perhaps I have annihilated her. I sat down on the sidewalk, leaned my chin against my chest, and fell asleep. When I opened my eyes again, it was dark all around me. My legs were in a strange position and my hands had changed color—now they were purple, and my fingers wouldn’t move. My breathing was heavy. A few people passed by on the sidewalk, but none of them looked at me. Somebody threw a coin that landed at my feet.
I am going to die. So, this is what it’s like—not so bad. If I stay here all night, I will freeze to death, but I don’t care. Apathy replaced the will to live. Passivity took control of me. I closed my eyes and waited for death.
When I opened my eyes again, I found myself in a bed with tubes coming out of my arms and nose. Is this a hospital? An old woman was in the bed to my left covered in a white sheet, her breathing labored and wheezy. The bed to the right of me was empty. This must be the place they put people who are terminal. When I woke up again, the bed to my left was empty. Someone touched my hand. I turned my head and looked into a pair of nice brown eyes. “How do you feel?” asked Brown Eyes. Without the energy to answer, I just moved my head. “If we hadn’t found you, you wouldn’t have made it.”
“Who are you?” I asked and didn’t recognize my voice.
“I am Nurse Rosa and you are in the hospital. You were unconscious when we found you and brought you here. You’re going to be OK, but you need to follow our instructions. A doctor will come and examine you later.”
I nodded and asked how long I had been there.
“Three days,” came the answer. “Do you have any family you would like us to contact
for you?”
“I’m not from here,” I answered.
“Where are you from, dear?” she asked in a voice as soft as velvet.
I could barely whisper the name of my hometown.
“Who should we call?”
Without a hint of hesitation, I answered, “Roy.”
I must have given her the number, since she stopped asking me questions and let me escape into a thoughtless sleep.
They told me I slept two more days. When I opened my eyes, I saw Roy. He was sitting in the chair next to the bed looking at me. His face look tired and several years older than the last time I saw him.
When he saw that I had awoken, he got up, came over to me, took my hand and asked, “How do you feel?”
“Better,” I answered.
“What did you do, Eva?” he asked and sat on the edge of the bed.
I didn’t have anything to say.
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Tears began to run down his face. He got up and turned away from me.
“I’m sorry,” I said to his back.
“It’s my fault. I should have known what you were going through.”
“How could you? I didn’t even know myself.”
“I was so worried about you.”
“Sorry.”
When he turned back toward me, his face was the face I knew again.
“What did the doctor say?” I asked.
“That you need to get stronger, eat nutritious food, drink a lot, and rest.”
“Roy, I want to go home.”
I went home two days later. The nurse and doctor that took care of me made me promise to eat proper food from a list they gave me, and to drink a lot of liquids. We didn’t talk much on the way home. Roy let me take it easy; he didn’t ask any questions and didn’t ask for promises. When we got home, he helped me inside. I was weak and needed support. He helped me lie down in bed and said he would come back later. After a little more than an hour he returned. I heard him moving objects around in my old bedroom, dragging something. When he came into my parents’ room, where I was lying down, I asked him what he was doing in my bedroom.
Life in a Box Page 24
