by Gregg Loomis
Marcie thought for a moment. "Mrs. Silverstein, do you have any photographs of your father, perhaps one showing the marks on his arm?"
There was a brief pause before, "Oh no. He always wore long sleeves, even in the summer. It was as if those numbers were some sort of stigma. Far as I know, the picture for your paper was the only one."
"The people from the Holocaust museum, did they take pictures?"
"As I said, it was a video interview."
The sharp edge convinced Marcie she had extracted all the useful information she was going to get from this source. "Thanks very much Mrs. Silverstein, I appreciate your time."
Touching "end," Marcie searched for "holocaust museums" on the Internet. There were half a dozen Holocaust museums in the United States: Los Angeles, New York, Indianapolis . . . Indianapolis? She got hits from Australia, as well as across Europe. Lighting a cigarette, she selected the one in Washington, D.C., like Mrs. Silverstein mentioned. The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.
She searched in vain for an ashtray. David, her husband, must have hidden it as a reminder of her promise to quit, a pledge she had no intent of keeping. She used the morning's coffee cup.
A few mouse clicks later, she was reading about the Benjamin and Vladka Meed Registry of Holocaust Survivors, an active list of survivors who had come to the U.S. after the war. The museum's webpage said that worldwide over 196,000 inmates managed to survive their imprisonment by the Nazis.
Interesting, but not what she was looking for. She took a deep drag of smoke.
The next button seemed more promising. The museum included a touch screen monitor for oral histories. There was a catalog online. Sure enough, there was Alik Grituchlik's name, but there was no way to call up his story.
Marcie pushed back from the screen and sighed, stubbing out half of the cigarette. That was like keeping part of her promise, right? She was cutting down if she only smoked half the cigarette, right? Damn, but she simply had to get to that museum. But how? It was a safe bet her editor wasn't going to front the money. Cash in the newspaper business was tight. More and more people's news was limited to thirty-second sound bites on television than the morning paper. Reporters on the social scene were lucky to get reimbursed for MARTA fare, let alone airline tickets. Besides, her idea would be regarded as better suited for a psychiatric evaluation than the expense account.
She called up her VISA account. Four hundred and twenty-seven dollars under her limit. Then she switched to AirTran's website and scrolled through ticket costs. One seventy-five one way to Reagan-National. Round trip would just about leave enough for a cab and lunch. She would have nothing left over for that cute pair of shoes she had seen, the ones she had tried on at Neiman's last week. A potentially career-changing story versus a pair of open-toed shoes she might wear once or twice.
No contest.
CHAPTER 17
The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum
100 Raoul Wallenberg Place
15th Street
Washington, D.C.
The Next Morning
THE BUILDING WAS IMPRESSIVE BUT IN a very different way than its neighbors. The exposed pipes and drab brick walls of the first floor Hall of Witnesses were a sobering variation from the power and wealth of marble halls and soaring ceilings more common in the nation's capital. The architecture Marcie described as Federal Cookie-Cutter Massive worked very well, she supposed, for, say, the Bureau of Engraving and Printing next door. Here, strategic lighting illuminated exhibits but also created shadows of gloom and despair. The designers had achieved an atmosphere of somber reflection, of memories of tragic loss.
Yawning from her early morning flight, she chose the stairs rather than wait for the elevator to the second floor. The few visitors spoke in churchlike whispers as they gathered around the monitors the website had promised.
She extracted her notebook from her purse and checked the number she had written there after a second visit with Paige and Wynn-Three yesterday. It had bothered her a little to deceive her friend, pretending to simply be checking on the little boy, when her real intent had been to make sure she had the scratches on his arm in sequence. But personal ethics had no place in the news business, something the big names in the profession had demonstrated over and over. Betray a confidence? No problem; the public had a right to know. Release a story before it was reasonably confirmed, no matter the consequences to those involved? Better than letting a rival beat you to it. A real news journalist checked their qualms at the door when they went to work. Everything had its price, and making it big in the news business was no exception. Move over, Woodward and Bernstein. Make way, Dan Rather.
It took only seconds to scroll through the index to the name Grituchlik. The face she remembered appeared on the screen and she slipped the soft rubber earphones over her head. The story was little different from the one the old man had told her four years ago. Once again, he rolled up his left sleeve, displaying a faded tattoo. His daughter had been mistaken.
Marcie looked closely. Although the numbers were different, there was the triangle that had also been on Wynn's arm and both were located on the left forearm.
As Alik Grituchlik faded from the screen, Marcie continued to stare at it as though it were refusing to answer her questions. What would be the odds of a three-year-old American child, purely by chance, scratching numbers onto his arm that resembled those tattooed on Auschwitz prisoners over seventy years ago? But if not chance, what?
She could almost make out a face on the thing creeping around the edge of her mind. Almost, but not quite.
She glanced around the room. She hadn't come here merely to refresh her recollection of an old man who had witnessed more horrors in a few years than any should see in a lifetime. But now what?
There were more reference machines and a film on the third floor. It only took a few minutes to learn about the significance of the triangle: it denoted Jew, as opposed to homosexual, Russian, Gypsy, or political dissident, each of whom had their own code. Although not stunning in itself, the fact took her breath away for a moment. If there had been any doubt as to the origins of the marks on Wynn-Three's arm, it had vanished like smoke.
She decided she could use a cigarette.
Outside the building's 14th Street exit, she shivered in the February chill made even more uncomfortable by the pervading dampness that characterizes some of Washington's winter days. She should have brought a warmer jacket. Her hand shook as she lit a cigarette, her first of the day.
Assuming she had solved the riddle of the origin of the numbers, she was now faced with a bigger mystery: Where had they come from? Were they real, actually having been tattooed on some unfortunate Jew's arm? Or had they popped unbidden into a three-year-old's imagination? But even the most fertile imagination had to have some origin, some source where fact left off and fancy began. What if . . .
"Depressing, isn't it?"
Marcie had not noticed she had been joined outside by a small band of modern-day lepers, the smokers. The young man who had spoken was wearing a Washington Redskins knit cap and a ski jacket.
She nodded. "Yes it is. You work here?"
"Sure do." He took a step closer and lowered his voice slightly. "Been here since it opened."
Marcie put her left hand in her jacket pocket so the wedding ring didn't show, a frequently effective move when she was asking a man for information. "I looked at the registry of survivors. Is there any place former inmates are listed by number?"
The young man took a deep drag from his cigarette and chewed his lower lip. "Number?"
"You know, the number tattooed on the left arm."
He exhaled a column of smoke. The wind snatched it away so quickly she wondered if she had really seen it at all. "You mean Auschwitz survivors."
"That was the only place they tattooed prisoners?"
He nodded as he examined the tip of his cigarette before a final drag and ground it into the pavement. "Far as I know."
"Okay. Is there a registry?"
He seemed to consider this a moment before answering. "Not here. Not anywhere, I'd guess."
Marcie took a final puff before adding to the litter of butts on the ground. "Why not? Seems like another way to identify survivors."
"That's just it: the numbers were tattooed to identify prisoners, slave laborers, hardly something to be proud of. Making up a list of those numbers would be like truly adding insult to injury."
Marcie was puzzled. "I don't get it. Are you saying Auschwitz survivors are ashamed?"
"Something like that."
"Why? It's not like they did anything wrong other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
The young man reached inside his jacket and produced a pack of generic cigarettes. He offered one to Marcie, who shook her head, before lighting up. "I think they don't see it that way. I had to guess, I'd speculate most of them, the Jews, anyway, do have some degree of shame. After all, they went off to the camps like sheep, no resistance other than a short uprising in Warsaw."
Marcie had never given the subject any thought. Until her interview of Grituchlik, World War II had been ancient history.
Her companion glanced at his watch. "Jeez, I'm late getting back from my break. I'd love to continue the conversation. Maybe a drink after work?"
Marcie would have had no qualms about leading him on if there was more information to be gleaned. But there wasn't. She was at a dead end for the moment. "Thanks, but I'm here for the day only."
The disappointment on his face was at least some compensation for what might well be a fruitless trip. It was good to know men, someone besides David, still found her attractive.
CHAPTER 18
Office of Silvia Weiner, PhD
132 17th Street
Atlanta
Two Days Later
1:35 P.M.
PAIGE HAD MIXED FEELINGS ABOUT DR. SILVIA WEINER, PhD, not MD, working out of her home right here in Ansley Park. The possibility of Paige's neighbors seeing her bringing Wynn-Three to a shrink was, well, unsettling if not downright embarrassing. What kind of a parent had a three-year-old with mental problems, anyway? On the other hand, she did not relish the idea of sitting in the waiting room of one of those medical office buildings with other children who might be suffering from all kinds of disturbances, either.
Within minutes of meeting Dr. Weiner, most of Paige's doubts vanished. The doctor, a small, fifty-ish woman whose oversized eyeglasses gave her an owl-like appearance, had a warm smile and a manner that relaxed Paige. She carried a thin manila folder.
Wynn-Three, though, seemed to reserve judgment. Perhaps his mother had made a mistake by telling him he was going to visit a doctor. Doctors usually meant shots and shots hurt.
Squatting in front of Wynn-Three's chair to bring her face even with his, Dr. Weiner asked, "How would you like to play with some really cool toys while I talk to your mommy?"
Relieved that no hypodermic needles seemed to be involved, he nodded uncertainly, waiting for her to open the door to the adjacent room. From where she sat, Paige could see an huge assortment of toys that would occupy any kid for hours.
Shutting the door behind Wynn-Three, Dr. Weiner took a seat across from Paige. "A few questions."
"Sure, but I think I pretty well described what's happened when I called to make the appointment."
The psychologist opened the folder, scanning its contents before looking up. "You are a full-time parent, right?"
"I quit the law practice shortly after Wynn-Three was born, yes."
Dr. Weiner looked like she was re-reading something in the file. "Do you do volunteer work, stuff outside the home?"
Paige shook her head. "I didn't resign from the law firm just to work for free. I'm a full-time mother."
"So, you don't have a nanny?"
Paige wasn't sure she succeeded in keeping the edge out of her voice. "Full time is full time. I'm home with him every day all day."
"Surely you take off an hour now and then to go get your hair done, have a manicure."
Paige was getting impatient. What the hell did keeping up her personal appearance have to do with Wynn-Three's problem? "Of course."
"Who looks after the little boy then?"
"Sometimes his father if he's home, although he works most of the weekends. We're lucky. A young lady who works at home lives right down the street. She takes care of Wynn-Three maybe two, three hours a month and when we go out at night."
Dr. Weiner produced a pen and scribbled something in the file. "Does your son become upset when you leave him with this woman?"
"Quite the contrary. He loves Marcie. I'm afraid she spoils him."
Another note. "Anyone else who spends time with him? Grandparents, aunts and uncles?"
"My parents live in New York. They see their only grandson maybe twice a year. My husband's father has the beginnings of Parkinson's disease. We don't dare leave him alone with Wynn-Three for fear he might drop him or otherwise unintentionally hurt him. My husband, Wynn-Three's father, of course, spends as much time as he can with his son."
"Are you present when your husband is with the child?"
Paige had spent enough time doing corporate mergers and acquisitions to know when someone had an agenda not on the table. "I'm not sure where all this is going, Dr. Weiner. You're implying Wynn-Three's problems are the result of some kind of relationship with someone in the home?"
Dr. Weiner removed her spectacles, wiped them on her blouse and held them up to peer through them. "Or outside of it."
"Meaning?"
The psychologist sighed deeply. "Mrs. Charles, children do not suddenly develop phobias, self-mutilate, regress in toilet training, or demonstrate any of Wynn-Three's symptoms without causation. Some event, some trauma, precipitates it."
"Such as?"
Dr. Weiner studied Paige for a moment, clearly trying to decide what to say. "You are an educated and intelligent woman, Mrs. Charles, hopefully also a sophisticated one. Your son is exhibiting the classic symptoms of sexual abuse."
It was as if Paige's breath had been sucked away. Otherwise, she would have protested. Instead, Dr. Weiner held up a restraining hand. "It's all there: the uncharacteristic actions, the phobias . . ."
"Are you telling me Wynn-Three is afraid of, say, trains because of sexual abuse?"
"There could have been the sound of a train while he was being abused, just as many victims associate their trauma with a song that was playing on the radio when the event took place. He could have seen those numbers during an episode also. It's natural, particularly with children, that they repress the incident. They exhibit anger, humiliation, fear, whatever, by abnormal behavior. Were Wynn-Three a little older, I'd expect him to act out, to become antisocial, a bully, that sort of thing. Unless and until we can identify the sexual predator, who, by the way, need not necessarily be an adult, there is no chance of successful treatment."
Paige started to say something, then shut her mouth. Not necessarily an adult? Had Wynn-Three reacted to Manfred speaking German or Manfred himself? But Wynn-Three had never played with Manfred except for that one afternoon. What had happened when the two boys were up in Wynn-Three's room? Hadn't his dad been present?
Dr. Weiner stood. "The law requires me to report any incident of suspected child abuse to DEFACS, Department of Family and Child Services . . ."
"Do what? You don't even know . . . What about patient-psychiatrist privilege? It applies to psychologists, too."
The older woman shook her head slowly. "Wynn-Three is my patient, Mrs. Charles, not you. Besides, I could lose my license. I would suggest you look closely at anyone who has contact with your son, anyone. I . . ."
The door opened, Wynn-Three standing in it. "Mommy, can we go home now?"
Paige bolted to her feet. "We certainly can. Say good-bye to Dr. Weiner."
On the short drive home, Paige experienced a rainbow of emotions: disbelief, fear, guilt. Mostly disbelief and
anger. The absurdity of suggesting she had let little Wynn-Three suffer some sort of abuse! Impossible! Wynton was right: Freud and all his disciples were equivalent to modern witch doctors. But it was undeniable the child's personality had undergone a change since that day at the Pink Pig.
Who . . . ?
Impossible.
But she would take precautions nonetheless.
That night Paige intentionally delayed bathing Wynn-Three until Wynton came home, turning the task over to him. Scrubbing the daily grime off a three-year-old was a duty she usually did herself. When Wynton got his small son in the tub, she was confronted with the results of two, rather than one, small child. A splashing contest invariably developed, leaving the child still grubby but wet, Wynton soaked, and the bathroom drenched.
Tonight, she felt guilty peeking through the partially closed bathroom door, praying she would see nothing other than the usual horseplay. She did not suspect her husband, not really, but Dr. Weiner's admonition echoed in her head.
Anyone.
With Wynn-Three tucked away, she described the day's events over glasses of wine.
"Abuse?" Wynton spluttered, almost spraying her with chardonnay, "Abuse? What the fuck . . . ?" He stopped long enough to wipe his mouth. "What the fuck do you expect from some head shrinker? They think everything has to do with sex, abusive, consensual, you name it! It was your idea to take him to that woman, now you can deal with the snooping bureaucrats she'll sick on us. Jesus, if the firm ever gets wind of this . . ."
Paige realized the futility of pointing out that Mrs. Jennins at St. Philip's had recommended Dr. Weiner and Wynton had reluctantly agreed.
She came about on another tack. "But what if there really was abuse?"
Wynton snorted contemptuously. "By whom, me?"
"Remember how upset Wynn-Three got when Manfred spoke in German?"
