“Abe, I must be by myself now,” Max said, gasping for breath between his cries.
Abe walked toward the door, powerless to do anything, since it was clear that Max needed to be alone with his memories.
Chapter 19
THE ACCIDENT
After Abe closed the door behind him, Max felt himself losing whatever control he had been able to retain. He ran upstairs to his bedroom and found the old tea canister containing the photograph of Sarah Chava at the circumcision of Max’s son. She was fifteen in the picture, and her smile was as sweet as Max had remembered it in real life. He rarely looked at the picture because it brought back such terrible memories. But now he could not stop himself.
He gazed at the photograph for what seemed like hours, imagining what his sister had gone through before her death. First he cried, then he screamed, and finally he pounded his fists against the table until they became swollen. It was as if he were compressing all his accumulated grief, anger, and frustration into one long night. He cried, screamed, and pounded until he glimpsed the first light of dawn. Then he took the picture of Sarah Chava and walked out of his house and toward his car. He was crying and shaking so severely that he was not certain he could drive. He carefully placed the picture on the visor above the driver’s seat, turned the ignition key, and pointed his car in the direction of Salem. A few minutes later he was on Storrow Drive. As he looked down at the speedometer, he realized he was driving seventy miles per hour. Never before had Max Menuchen exceeded the speed limit. As he drove, the bitter and confused ravings of King Lear rushed into his head: “I will have such revenges . . . I will do such things,—What they are yet I know not,—but they shall be the terrors of the earth.” His grandfather’s last word—nekama—pounded repeatedly in his head like a mantra.
The events in Ponary Woods were no longer a half century ago. They were now. Sarah Chava’s rape and murder had just happened. What Max would do now would not be in cold blood. He would be like the avenger described in the Bible: “If the blood avenger puts the killer to death, it is not an act of murder.” The Bible understood that hotblooded revenge killings were part of human nature. The rabbis of the Talmud said that blood revenge was an obligation.
The fate of his little sister made it clear to Max that he was now capable of doing anything to Marcelus Prandus. The die had been cast. Max accelerated the car to seventy-five, to eighty . . .
The next day Max Menuchen woke up in his bed about noon—bruised and aching. He looked out the window at his old Volvo, and he saw that its front had been dented. For the moment he could not recall what had caused the bruises and the denting. Had he actually run down Marcelus Prandus’s grandchild?
Then it came back to him in a flash. He had crashed the Volvo into a road barrier. He had not killed anyone. At least not yet. He had made up his mind. There was no turning back.
Chapter 20
THE MAIMONIDEAN SOLUTION
At about the same time Max was waking up, Danielle was looking for him in his office. When she learned that Max had failed to show up for his morning class, she rushed over to his house. The discussion about the evil king had worried her. And now Max—who never missed class—was not at school.
At first Max refused to come to the door. He was so distraught over the events of the past eighteen hours—the news of Sarah Chava, his driving to Salem, his accident—that he did not want to see anyone.
Danielle persisted, standing outside and refusing to go away. Eventually Max relented, after cleaning himself up and changing his clothes.
Max opened the door to Danielle. She gazed around his small home decorated with mahogany antique furniture from Europe. Max stood unsteadily, even paler than usual.
“I had a slight accident,” he explained. “Now I need some rest. I appreciate your calling on me, but please allow me to be alone.”
“I think I’ve solved your problem of the evil king,” she said, ignoring his invitation to leave. “Your instincts were right on target. I found the answer in a twelfth-century commentary on the Book of Job by a brilliant Jewish doctor who lived in Egypt. I call it the ‘Maimonidean solution.’ ”
“I’m sure it is brilliant, but I have decided not to write the article after all. The matter has become moot. I’m sorry for having put you through the task of researching it.”
“Max,” Danielle began, “you must stop insulting my intelligence. I know this has nothing to do with any article you are writing. Remember that I did research on you. I know what happened to your family. The terrible events are memorialized in Yad Vashem.”
“What do you know?” Max’s tone was sharp.
“That nearly every Jewish family in Vilna was murdered. Yours had to be among them. I’ve known from the very beginning. All that stuff about an article—about justice—it’s a rationalization. You need revenge. It’s psychological. Revenge is the most powerful of human motivations. But you want to be able to rationalize it as justice.”
“I do want justice,” Max said defensively.
“Call it what you want. I think I have a solution to your problem. First you must trust me. You must tell me exactly what is going on.”
“I cannot involve you.”
“I’m already involved. I want to help you. I need to help you—as much for my own sake as for yours.”
“I found him,” Max blurted out. He told her about Marcelus Prandus, the murders, the rape.
“Oh, my God,” Danielle exclaimed, stepping back and placing a hand over her mouth.
Max was shaking again. He began to shout in Yiddish, “Nekama!” and, “Ganze mishpoche!”
Danielle grabbed the trembling Max by his shoulders.
“What are you saying?” she demanded. “Tell me.”
“I have decided I must kill the entire Prandus family,” Max said intently, his eyes looking wildly past Danielle. “I will wipe out their seed, as he wiped out ours. I have no choice. My grandfather’s soul cries out for revenge. Nekama—‘take revenge’—was his last wish. My entire family cries out, especially Sarah Chava.” As he spoke his sister’s name, Max began to sob. Then he wiped away his tears and looked into Danielle’s eyes as he spoke.
“In two days it will be Marcelus Prandus’s birthday,” he continued in a whisper. “I found out from a shopkeeper in Salem that the entire Prandus family will be gathered together for dinner. Just like the Menuchen family was gathered for dinner on Passover in 1942. I will knock at the door, just like Marcelus Prandus knocked on our door. When it is opened for me, I will throw in a bomb. Originally I planned to kill his eight-year-old grandson. Now I believe that killing many people will be easier than killing one. The Nazis certainly understood that.”
Danielle held Max more tightly around his shoulder and looked directly into his tearful eyes. “Max, you’re not a Nazi. You’re not a mass murderer. Your plan will not work. Please listen to me. I know more about firearms than you do. Guns have been in my family since the Civil War. I target shoot near my cottage in the Berkshires, and I make my own gunpowder. If you try to blow up the Prandus family, you’ll only succeed in blowing yourself up.”
“That would not be so terrible,” Max said.
“Look,” Danielle said in her take-charge voice. “Even if you were to blow up the entire Prandus family, that would not be proportional to what Prandus did to your family. They were forced to watch each other die. The patriarch—your grandfather—was forced to watch as each of his descendants died. Your plan will not achieve proportional justice.”
“I must do something,” Max insisted. “Don’t try to stop me.”
“I won’t try to stop you. I have no such right. I will show you how to do it better. The Maimonidean solution is the perfect revenge. I will show you how to achieve proportional justice. On one condition. You must allow me to help you. I came here today simply to tell you about the solution I had found, but now, after hearing what happened to your family, especially your sister, I must help you.”
“
Why would you be willing to risk your freedom, even your life, to help me?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Then you must share them with me before I decide. I have always believed that you are hiding something from me. Now I am certain. There must be something in your life that is pushing you into joining with me in this dangerous quest for revenge. Your abstract interest in biblical justice doesn’t explain why you would be willing to risk everything to help me get revenge against a man who did nothing to you.”
“Please don’t ask me,” Danielle whispered.
“Why not?” Max asked. “You were prepared to probe my private life. Why do you shut me off from yours?”
Danielle looked deeply into Max’s eyes and spoke gently. “I see that I must tell you what I’ve never told anyone before, not even my mother. If we’re to work together, you’re entitled to know.”
Danielle paused for a moment. “When I was fourteen years old, I was going out with a black boy in my high school. When my grandfather found out about it, he came into my room one night and threatened to kill me if I went out with a ‘nigger’ again. He slapped me. He demanded to know if I had sexual intercourse with him. I told him the truth—that I had not. He wouldn’t believe me. He said he would see for himself.” Danielle looked away from Max as she continued. “He started screaming that I was not a virgin. Then he raped me. My own grandfather. He said that I was too good for any ‘nigger’ and that it would be better to have my own grandfather’s child than the child of a black.”
“Oh, my God,” Max said, placing his arms gently around Danielle. “How could a grandfather do that to his own flesh and blood?”
Danielle began to weep. It was the first time Max ever saw her cry. “I became pregnant and had an abortion. I did it all alone. It was against my deepest religious beliefs. I killed a child. My child. My grandfather’s child. I justified it by believing that the child would have carried my grandfather’s genes and would have been a monster like him. But it wasn’t the baby’s fault. My child could have lived.” She sighed, wiping away her tears. “Then I became obsessed with my genetic heritage. If my grandfather was capable of such evil, was I? Could I become the Mr. Hyde he had become? If the answer was yes, I was doomed. If the answer was no, I had killed my baby unnecessarily.”
“You are destroying yourself. You are not to blame.”
“Maybe,” Danielle said in a shaking voice. “But like you, I need revenge. I could never take revenge against my grandfather. He died shortly after my abortion. He didn’t even know I had become pregnant. He pretended that nothing had happened. He died peacefully in his sleep. I am taking my revenge against another rapist, the man who raped your sister. When I see Prandus suffer, I will see my grandfather suffer,” Danielle said, her fists clenched, her eyes glazed. “Now do you understand my passion for what we are doing?”
“Thank you for helping me to understand not only you, but me as well,” said Max.
The two professors embraced, holding each other for a long time. Max broke the silence. “Now please tell me about your plan—and then leave. I must do it by myself. I cannot involve you any further.”
“You can’t do it by yourself. I have to help. It will take two people. I will merely be assisting. Give me until tomorrow morning to come up with a detailed scenario. I promise you it will work.”
Max was beginning to understand the apparent inconsistencies in Danielle’s life: religious Christian, gun enthusiast, filmmaker, granddaughter of a monster, believer in genetic destiny, incest survivor. It was a prescription for psychosis. Yet she had managed to keep it all together—at least on the surface. The rage, the hate, the pent-up frustration, all were being kept in check by her external successes. Now they would explode like the images of creation in her video, if Max were to refuse her request—her demand—to partake of revenge. Just as he needed his nekama, she needed hers. They were more alike than he had ever imagined.
“We will meet tomorrow morning,” Max said.
The next morning, when Danielle demonstrated the step-by-step implementation of her Maimonidean solution, Max agreed immediately, on the condition that if they were caught, he would shoulder the entire blame. After learning Danielle’s brilliant plan, Max was now certain that with her assistance he could finally secure his just revenge. He was ecstatic.
For the next two days, Max and Danielle monitored every move made by the Prandus family.
Max drove his old Volvo up and down English Street in Salem, where Marcelus Prandus lived in a small bungalow, while Danielle videotaped the old man’s routine. Max also did some shopping in the neighborhood stores, pretending to be a visiting relative and learning details of the Prandus family. They also stalked and videotaped the children on their way to school, to their friends, and to visit their grandfather. It was a simple task, since the Pranduses lived within a few blocks of each other. In the evenings Max and Danielle reviewed the videotapes and planned the next step. Danielle had shown Max how to coordinate his actions with her videotaping during their planning session at Max’s house.
Max was nervous as the time approached for the next, and most critical, phase of the plan. Danielle reassured him that nothing could go wrong as long as they stuck to the carefully worked out blueprint. Max did not know whether he was more frightened at the prospect of failure or success. He did know that there was no backing out now; they must move on to the next step.
Chapter 21
WORRY
“I’m worried about Max,” Abe whispered to Rendi as they lay in bed. He sat up and said, “I’m going to call him.”
As Abe started to get out of bed, Rendi tugged on his pajamas. “Come back to bed. It’s two o’clock in the morning. You can’t call him. He’s an old man. He’ll have a heart attack if you wake him. Call him in the morning.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“That’s obvious. You’ve been tossing and turning all night,” Rendi said, sitting up.
“I think he may do something to himself. I can only imagine his frustration. I failed him, Rendi. God failed him. The legal system failed him. There’s nothing we can do. It’s so damned unfair,” Abe said, his voice cracking. “I can’t stand it. I feel like a helpless amateur. We’ve got to come up with something.”
“Can’t we at least expose Prandus? Write a column. Call a press conference. At least his neighbors will know.”
“They’ll all say he seems like such a nice, quiet person,” said Abe. “They won’t believe it. Look at Demjanjuk. He became a hero to his neighbors.”
“Some will look at him funny. It will cause him some distress. His own children will wonder. He will suffer.”
“You’re missing the point,” Abe said, getting back under the covers. “I don’t give a damn about Prandus. He’s history, as far as I’m concerned. I care about Max. A press conference won’t help Max. It will just make him more frustrated, especially when he sees that Prandus’s neighbors say nice things about him.”
“Sometimes, Abe, the doctor can’t save the patient. Don’t blame yourself. You’ve left no stone unturned for Max.”
Abe didn’t even hear what Rendi had said. “I wish Haskell were still alive. He’d know what to do. I’m at a loss. First thing in the morning, I’ll go talk to Max. Maybe he can stay with us for a couple of days.”
“Okay. At least you’ll be able to get some rest with Max in the next room,” Rendi said as she put the pillow over her head and tried to get back to sleep.
Part IV
Nekama
Chapter 22
THE PRANDUSES’ LAST SUPPER
“Marc, now that you’re eight, you are old enough to say the blessing. Have you learned a nice prayer in school?” Marcelus Prandus, the patriarch, asked his grandson and namesake.
“Yes, Grandpa Chelli,” the blond-haired boy replied, calling his grandfather by his family nickname.
The old man listened proudly as the child recited a blessing.
Birthdays were Marcelu
s Prandus’s favorite times. Birthday parties were so American, and Marcelus Prandus was an American patriot. He loved what America had done for his children. It really is, he often thought, the land of opportunity. His children had been educated and had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. His two grandchildren were all-American kids, the boy playing baseball and excelling in computers, the girl playing with Barbie dolls and ice-skating. He had kept from his children and grandchildren his hatred of Jews and blacks. He would complain about the “Yids” and the “niggers” at the Lithuanian Social Club where he gathered with his friends from the old country. In front of his children and grandchildren, there were no bad words about any group. This was America, not Lithuania, and such hatreds would be a barrier to achieving the American dream.
Not that it was all perfect. Peter, his younger son, rarely went to church and broke the family tradition by sending his daughter to public, rather than parochial, school. He was no atheist, just lazy about religion.
Paul, on the other hand, was quite religious, but in the wrong way. He sent his son to a progressive Catholic school. As far as Marcelus was concerned, he took the teachings of Jesus too literally. He was an active voice of criticism within the Lithuanian church, demanding more aggressive actions on behalf of the poor and the dispossessed. The conflict between Marcelus and Paul reached a head when Paul helped to organize an AIDS walk-a-thon. Marcelus was furious, arguing that AIDS was “God’s way of telling homosexuals that they were immoral.”
Still, Paul was Marcelus’s favorite. Like his father before him, Paul had been a star athlete—football, baseball, soccer. Tall and strikingly handsome, Paul had worked out with his father at the local YMCA since he was ten years old. After school he would help out in the car repair shop his father owned. On Sundays they attended church together and then—when the Red Sox were in town—they would drive down to Fenway Park for an afternoon of baseball, beer, and hot dogs.
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