by Ilsa J. Bick
“No.”
“Right before he died, Joseph made the children of Israel promise to take his bones when they left Egypt: God will surely visit you, and you shall carry up my bones from here. At the time, they probably thought he was crazy because life was good for them in Goshen, so why should they leave? But they promised. Eventually, of course, they became slaves. When God sent Moses and Aaron to lead them to freedom, Moses kept the promise and gathered up Joseph’s bones to take with them.”
“So Moses buried him?”
“No, Moses was not allowed into the Promised Land. It was up to Joshua, finally, to give Joseph a proper burial in Shechem, in a plot of land that Jacob, Joseph’s father, had bought centuries before.”
“And that’s why you’re here for Mr. Witek.”
“To take him back, yes. I’ve also made arrangements for his father’s remains when the pathologist releases them.” Rabbi Saltzman hesitated and then said, “And the baby, even if it turns out not to be related to the Witeks.”
I didn’t think there was much chance of that, but I said, “Why would you do that? If it’s not a Jew?”
“It seems the right thing to do. Who else will mourn that child?”
No one, I thought. No one but me.
“We Jews don’t like leaving anyone behind,” Rabbi Saltzman continued, and then he gave me a small grin. “I guess you could say that we’re like God’s Marines that way.”
I don’t know why I did what I did next. Maybe I was just so tired. Or maybe because of the presence in that grove, I don’t know.
But I told Rabbi Saltzman everything. Pretty much. Not about Aunt Jean or Miss Stefancyzk or anything like that. That was part of a story that had nothing to do with David Witek.
Instead, I told the rabbi about the barn, meeting Mr. Witek in the home, my nightmares, the paintings. Drawing that final confrontation and then knowing where to look for David’s father. I thought about telling him about the light and Dekker, but I didn’t.
He listened and didn’t interrupt. When I was done, he was silent a few moments longer and then said, simply, “I believe you.”
“You do?” I searched his face for a lie, but his eyes were gentle and clear. “It sounds nuts . . . I mean, when you think about it.”
“Oh, I suppose there were a few people who thought Moses had gone off the deep end when he claimed to have seen a burning bush that wasn’t destroyed. Or Jacob when he dreamt his ladder of angels.”
“You’re saying it was . . . God?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure it matters. If you want to get scriptural about it, there are passages in Genesis and Deuteronomy, where it seems that people on the verge of death gain tremendous prophetic or clairvoyant powers. So maybe that happened to David. His mind had fixed on the one thing he could not leave behind, but he could no longer act for himself. Either he chose you or your mind found his, and then you acted because he couldn’t. You did a great mitzvah.”
“A . . . what? Is that like a good deed?”
He laughed. “Let me put it to you this way: In our religion, we have what is called the chevra kadisha, a holy society. These are men and women who give of themselves to the dead, preparing the body according to our laws and protecting the body until burial. To do so is a chesed shel emet, a good deed of truth. It is a kindness done without ulterior motive because the dead can never repay the favor.” He put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “That is what you have done for David. I don’t know what you believe, personally, but remember this: What you did was a great kindness, and God will not forget.”
NOVEMBER 1 : NIGHT
WINTER, WISCONSIN
So . . . that’s it, I guess. Pretty much.
They took Sarah’s mom to Milwaukee this afternoon. The doctors still don’t know what’s going to happen. Right now, Reverend Schoenberg’s still in Winter because Sarah has to stay in the hospital for another day. Sarah’s aunt is on her way to Milwaukee, though, so Mrs. Schoenberg won’t be alone.
In a way, I think I ought to stay until everything’s sorted out, but it might be a long time and I need to do this now, while I’ve got things square in my head. While I’m still brave enough to try. Because, of course, the muttering hasn’t gone away.
You know what day this is? Yeah, yeah, the day after Halloween, hah-hah. It’s All Saints’ Day. I looked it up. It’s supposed to honor those who’ve had visions of heaven—and not just any visions, but beatific ones: direct communion with God.
So is that irony or what?
I think Dr. Rainier knows. We don’t have what I did with David, but I’m not sure that matters. I think she can accept this because it’s like she said: parents are there to be left. I’m glad she’ll be here for Uncle Hank when I’m gone, though. I’ve seen the way they look at each other. You don’t have to be a telepath for that one.
It’s important for me to say this, so there’s no doubt. Most of all, I don’t want any of you to feel bad or be sad because I don’t and I’m not. Well, not much.
I love you, Uncle Hank. I wish we could go together, but we can’t because I don’t think that where I’m going is safe for you. You’ve kept me safe all these years. Now it’s my turn to return the favor. But I love you.
So, please understand that you haven’t failed. I need to do this. I need to see for myself what’s possible. I need to see what that mountain’s all about. I need to find out who’s there. I’ve got a pretty good idea already.
If it’s Mom, then I have to figure out why she can’t get back. She might be trapped. Or maybe she won’t leave Dad. Or—maybe—she doesn’t want to come back because she thinks that what she’s found there is better than anything this world can offer.
If she thinks that, she’s wrong.
On the other hand, who knows? Maybe once I’m there, I won’t want to come back either. But I don’t know, and I won’t until I see through her eyes, and let her see through mine: so she knows what’s possible in this world.
Because this world is a good one. Because love is powerful and love is strong, strong enough to bridge time and space . . . and worlds.
Mordecai’s brush feels right in my hand.
So does the knob that I’ve painted.
I take the knob in my hand and it turns—
And then there is light, that brilliant purple light so bright I have to close my eyes. But I still hear them, these Armies of Light.
I step toward them and whisper: “Mom?”
THE END
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The tiny village of Winter, Wisconsin, really exists, nestled in the only somewhat larger town of Winter—which seems to be a Wisconsin thing. Although I’ve never visited either, I’m sure they’re lovely and as different from my Winter as night is to day. The only thing I know for sure is that neither the real town nor village maintained a prisoner of war camp during World War II. The same cannot be said for thirty-nine other Wisconsin towns that were part of a network of more than five hundred PW camps scattered across the United States and home to more than half a million German, Italian, and Japanese PWs from 1942 until 1945. Anyone interested in reading more about this can do no better than Nazi Prisoners of War in America by Arnold Krammer (Scarborough House, 1996). For Wisconsin history buffs, there’s Stalag Wisconsin by Betty Cowley (Badger Books, 2002).
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Babying a book, like bringing up a child, takes a village, and I need to take a moment to gush about the folks who helped bring up this book by hand.
First off, to my indefatigable editor, Andrew Karre, who popped into my e-mail one glorious April afternoon and has since proven to be as insightful and thoughtful a reader and advocate as one could ever have the great good fortune to meet. Thank you so much, Andrew, for your support, patience, enthusiasm, and gentle humor. Never has a birth been so painless.
A big shout-out to everyone at Carolrhoda who worked on this book, and especially Lindsay Matvick, who—despite having several hundred clamoring authors—alway
s saw me in the back whenever I raised my hand.
To my no-nonsense, straight-shooter, level-headed agent, Jennifer Laughran: every author needs such an advocate and anchor.
Big hugs and sloppy kisses to Louisa Swann, Jo Ann Dent, and Bev Schroeder, who helped chase away the book-birthing blues. Thanks also to my fellow writers from the Oregon Writers Workshop who critiqued the original proposal; and to Kristine Kathryn Rusch, who hinted, ever so gently, that I should just write already.
I am indebted beyond words to Dean Wesley Smith— friend, colleague, mentor, my very first editor. Thank you, Dean, for your wisdom, ever-available shoulder and the occasional, well-placed boot in the rear.
Finally, for David: Thank you, dear, for riding the roller coaster and not eating a single cat.
