“It’s all said now. I’ve got it all out in the open. Relax.”
Brad’s arm tightened up a notch around her. It was welcome support in the sleepless hours she endured that night.
She tried to banish them, but the arguments she’d had with her father—the ones she hadn’t told Brad about—wouldn’t stop spinning around inside her head.
“I remember what you did to Mother.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“She warned me what you were like.”
“I’m not like that with you. I love you, Diane.”
“You love me still living at home. It’s not the same thing. It’s like Mother all over again.”
“Do I open your mail?”
“No, but—”
“Have I ever stopped you having friends?”
“You know what I’m talking about. I tried to move out, get a place of my own, have a measure of independence. It took me until I was thirty. You said I was being ripped off for rent, that it was so cramped you wouldn’t let a rabbit live there.”
“And I was right.”
“And I gave in to you. So the next time, when money wasn’t so tight, when I’d spent weeks toughening myself up to tell you I was moving out, all you could do was ask me why I hated you so much.”
“Well, why do you? We have a good time, don’t we? Do you honestly regret staying with me all these years?”
“I regret not trying harder.”
“And have I ever stopped you seeing men?”
“No, but only so long as it never works out, only so long as I end up staying here.”
“Take Brad, for instance. Have I ever put you off seeing him? Or any other man?”
“You don’t get it, do you? I’m a middle-aged woman who still lives with her father. You don’t need to put men off me.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am.”
By the time Brad had come on the scene, the threat Diane’s father had made—that ultimate one—was long in the past. And whatever the arguments, however harsh the words between them became, Diane would never, ever mention the threat he’d made. She always promised herself that one day she would call his bluff, but she knew she could never live with the consequences if she lost that particular standoff.
Perhaps one day, now that threat had reached its natural expiration date, Diane would be able to tell Brad the complete truth about it.
Or perhaps, even better, one day the memories would slide, and she wouldn’t have to.
Chapter 29
Detroit, June 2001
After meeting again in the nineties, Asher and Mykhail got on like the true long-lost brothers they thought of themselves as. No charges were ever brought against Mykhail; the authorities concluded there was insufficient evidence for that. It was something both men were relieved about but didn’t like to dwell on. It simply wasn’t mentioned. So they called each other every week, and once a month Asher came down to Pittsburgh, staying in the spare room, for a weekend of reminiscing and discussions about the politics of the day.
That had now gone on for four years.
And then, one morning while Asher was busying himself getting ready to go to the library, he had a coughing fit. He’d had a persistent cough for weeks, despite various treatments, but this morning it seemed to take on a life of its own and made him double up in convulsions. He recovered enough to leave the house, but only managed a few steps before falling, clutching his chest.
A neighbor, working on a car in his front yard, was over in seconds. “You okay, bud?” the man inquired.
Asher, his face red and fit to burst, his lungs feeling like they already had, and the pressure squeezing tears from his eyes, just looked up.
The man wiped his hands on a rag as he looked closer. “You got chest pains?”
Asher managed a couple of nods, which sprang the man into action, and two hours later Asher was in hospital, wires and beeping machines his only company. But he managed to get his neighbor to pass the news on to his old friend over in Pittsburgh, who couldn’t get up quickly enough, complete with Diane in tow.
Asher was sitting up in bed as they entered. After the exertions of his brisk walk across the large parking lot and through the labyrinth of hospital corridors, Mykhail had to take a seat and rest for a moment before talking. Diane took the opportunity to wish Asher a speedy recovery and show him a few small gifts they’d brought along, then left her father to it.
By now, Mykhail had just about finished coughing to clear his throat. “Jeez, look at us both,” he said. “We both have heads as bald as bowling balls, both have chest problems. We might as well be real brothers.”
“That’s right, mock the afflicted, why don’t you?”
“That would be both of us. Anyhow, what’s the latest?”
Asher hesitated, then said, “I might have brought you here under false pretenses.”
“You’re not ill?” Mykhail made a point of looking at the monitoring equipment attached to Asher’s body.
“They’ve checked my heart and it’s fine for my age.”
“So, what is it? Did they tell you?”
“Oh, sure,” Asher said. “But I couldn’t even pronounce the words, never mind remember them. It’s an infection, but it’s not tuberculosis, which is a huge relief.”
“Tuberculosis?” Mykhail screwed his face up. “What the hell made you think it could be tuberculosis?” Then his face straightened to a grave expression. “Oh, I’m sorry. Treblinka, right?”
Asher started laughing gently.
“What? What’s funny?”
“That would be a convenient excuse. But I have no excuse at all.” The furrows in his brow became deeper in an instant. “My friend, when we met up again four years ago there was something I didn’t tell you.”
“Oh?”
“It’s something I’ve always felt ashamed of, but something there’s no point hiding now.”
Mykhail gave his head a confused shake. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, now it’s time to tell you. I told you Ford laid me off in the seventies, didn’t I?”
“You did. That must have been tough.”
“The word doesn’t even come close. Anyhow, when that happened, something inside of me broke. I couldn’t cope. And I . . .”
“What?” Mykhail leaned in closer.
“I had no family, and all my friends were at Dearborn. When I lost my job I, uh, I started drinking too much. At the time I didn’t quite know why, but it was all I felt like doing. Before long I’d drunk my severance pay. But I carried on drinking, and soon after that I became a bum, living on the streets.”
“You mean, what they call a homeless person these days?”
“That’s right, a dirty hobo, hanging around the local park, sleeping under a tarp, drinking anything alcoholic I could lay my filthy hands on.”
Mykhail grimaced. “I’m sorry, Asher. It’s not rare, you know. Unemployment does that to people sometimes.”
Asher was already shaking his head.
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly the unemployment, that’s not why I feel ashamed.”
“I don’t get it. You’re talking in riddles here, buddy.”
“Shut the door,” Asher said.
Mykhail hesitated, but did as his friend asked and sat back down.
“You never had any brothers or sisters, Mykhail, did you?”
“Hey, thanks for pointing that out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m kidding. What about it?”
“I told you about Rina, right?”
“That she died in . . . in that place, together with the rest of your family. Sure, you told me.”
“Was killed, Mykhail, was killed. There’s an important difference.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Go on.”
“You see, I find it easy to say that now. She was killed. But in 1946
I couldn’t even think it. I knew what had happened to the rest of my family, but it was different for Rina. Even now my mind still drifts back to the last time I saw her, just after we got to Treblinka, when we were being herded like cattle. I can still hear her pleading with me, and I can still hear my own voice assuring her that I won’t let them separate us, that I’ll die before I allow that . . . The guard says we can see each other after the delousing procedure, so she goes. And I see her being taken away, just a worthless piece of driftwood being carried along by the tide. I tell myself I’ll see her soon. But I don’t. Not ever.”
Mykhail, staying silent, fetched some Kleenex from the dispenser and handed them to Asher, who took a few moments to wipe his face dry.
“And after the war ended and the camp was cleared, I still never felt one hundred percent sure that my poor sister was dead. Of course, I was in denial. There was one small part of my mind that imagined scenarios where she’d escaped or been freed, and somehow had returned to Warsaw. I daydreamed that one day I would find her, but not yet. Even when I was in Kiev, I thought one day in the future I would somehow contact her, but not yet. Not just yet. It was all nonsense, of course, because the only people who survived that cauldron of evil were guards and a few helpers like me who escaped. I knew that but didn’t want to believe it, so I told myself I was too busy building tractors and cars to look for her. I told myself that one day I would have the time to track her down. And finally, when the factory laid me off, I realized I now had that time I’d always promised myself. I could have done some research on the place, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that because it would break the spell, because I knew precisely what it would tell me. So I had to find something else to do.” Asher looked in Mykhail’s direction, but through him. “And I did find something else to do. I drank.”
“Oh God, Asher. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“You know the one thing that pulls on my heart more than any other?”
“What?”
“The thing that still churns me up inside is that I never thought something like that would happen to Rina. She was the strongest of women. She, above the rest of my family—including me—could have done something really worthwhile with her life. Yes, I stopped crying for her when I dried out in the seventies, but the feeling is still there. It’s just like a crack in a wall that’s been papered over.”
“That’s awful. But . . . you recovered, right? You got yourself off the streets?”
“There’s a soup kitchen in Detroit—the Catholic Club. They fed me for years. I’d have died without them, for sure. I met another old war survivor, one from the Vietnam days, who was doing some volunteer work. It took some time, but he got me out from under those tarps and into a house. But I know some of those homeless guys had tuberculosis. I know I’m being irrational, but it’s worried me ever since.” He took a heavy breath, which turned into a coughing fit.
Mykhail stayed silent for a minute while he recovered, then said, “Hey, buddy. It’s no big deal. Not to me. I’m just pleased there’s nothing seriously wrong with you. Tell me, what treatment are they giving you for this infection?”
“Strong antibiotics. They say I should be okay in a few months—if not weeks.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Mykhail, there’s something else I have to tell you.”
“More?” Mykhail started to laugh but cut it short. “Of course. What?”
“Well, do you remember that millennium celebration we went to?”
Mykhail shrugged. “Uh, yeah. So what?”
“And what I said then?”
“To tell you the truth I was too busy keeping an eye on Diane and that boyfriend of hers. You know he proposed to her? Can you believe that?”
“It’s what people do.”
“Thankfully she had the sense to turn him down.”
“You should give her more freedom, Mykhail. You can’t keep her forever.”
“Look, never mind telling me what to do. What’s your point?”
“I promised myself I would do something. But I guess I just lost my nerve, completely put the idea to the back of my mind. But this chest infection is a warning. I’m getting old. I don’t have much time.”
“Tell me about it.” Mykhail lifted up a hand, its knuckles swollen and the fingers twisted. “These things are useless. I can hardly hold a pen, let alone write. We’re both getting older.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I’m running out of time to do stuff.”
Mykhail eyed him quizzically. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m going back home.”
“Home?”
“Dyovsta—or whatever remains of it.”
“You’re kidding?” Mykhail struggled to produce more than a croak for a few seconds. “All these years you complain about journeys, and now you’re rushed to hospital with chest pains and—”
“I wasn’t rushed here, and I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re still very ill. Shouldn’t you be concentrating on getting better rather than planning a vacation to Europe?”
Asher strained to pull himself up into a sitting position. “Mykhail. My little health scare has only served to strengthen my resolve. You know we’ve talked about this plenty over the years—returning to see what’s left of the old farm and the village center.”
“No, Asher. You’ve whined on about it once or twice, but always accepted you could never afford it, and I’ve always said it was another life that I have fond memories of—memories I don’t want to spoil.”
“Are you not even curious?”
“A little. But only a little. Accept it, Asher, we’re seventy-eight. We’re old and our lives are here. The stress of going back there would kill us, especially you, and especially after this.” Mykhail motioned toward the medical paraphernalia surrounding Asher’s bed.
“But that’s just it,” Asher said. “Now I have to go more than ever.”
“What?”
“My mortality has been pointed out to me. My best years are far behind me, and whether it’s my chest or my heart or something else, I’m going to die sometime. I might as well die while I’m doing something I want to do.”
“Can you afford it?”
Asher shook his head. “I’ve worked that out. I need to take a few weeks to recover. After that I can get a job, just working at a checkout or something. I don’t spend much. I can earn enough money in a few months to pay for a cheap flight, and accommodation shouldn’t cost much over there.”
“Asher, please, my friend. Stop this. It won’t do you any good.”
Asher stared straight at him. “I’m not doing it for me.”
“But you should rest. You’ve contracted a serious chest infection, for Christ’s sake, not had a tooth extraction. You can’t work.”
“I have to do this, Mykhail. And I’m going to.”
Mykhail pursed his lips. “I’ll pay,” he said quietly.
“You won’t, you goddamn idiot.”
“You’re calling me an idiot?”
“I was once a beggar, Mykhail. Never again.”
“You’re not begging; I’m offering—even though I don’t think you can cope with the travel and the stress.”
“We’ll see.”
“Okay, okay. Just promise me you’ll think about my offer. I really don’t want you to go back. But if you’re thinking of getting a job to pay for it, talk to me first. I’ll pay. And the hotels too. No strings, just a gesture between old friends.”
“I’m not a charity case.”
“Shut up, won’t you? I have a few cents stored away. I can afford it. Just get yourself better first.”
Asher looked down, surveying the instruments attached to his decaying body. He glanced at Mykhail out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll think about it.”
Mykhail smiled and held his hand out. “Brothers in all but blood, remember?”
Asher grabbed his hand and gave it a strong shake
. “All but blood.”
In July, after many weeks of treatment and recuperation—not to mention a lot of soul-searching—Asher took advantage of Mykhail’s offer and flew to Kiev. He killed a little time researching history in the library, then took a train and taxi to Dyovsta.
He meandered through the village, its streets now clogged up with cars, its rural charm now cluttered with shops and adverts for things that hadn’t even been invented in 1936. He had a coffee to prepare himself, then headed for the lane leading to his old farmhouse.
Later, back at the hotel he was staying at, he called Mykhail to tell him what he’d seen. He told him about the village center, then Mykhail asked him about the farm.
“There’s nothing left,” Asher replied.
“Nothing left of what?”
“Well, nothing left of anything. The farmhouses we grew up in, the outbuildings, they just aren’t there. It’s one enormous field—much bigger than the fields we had in the thirties.”
“Really? Nothing?”
“Not one brick.”
“My God.”
“Even in the village center, the clock tower’s about the only thing left from the old days. There are more stores, more houses, and more people.” He sighed down the line. “It’s . . . it’s a bit of a disappointment.”
“Did you find out what happened to the villagers during the war?”
“That wasn’t a disappointment. Well, more sad than disappointing.” His voice broke and wavered a little. “Very few of them survived.”
“Really?”
“Once the German forces took over, any who were lazy or difficult were sent to concentration camps, and most of the others died of starvation or disease.”
“You mean the crops failed?”
“Oh, the yields were good by all accounts, but the Germans used the food for their own people and let the Ukrainians starve.”
Mykhail cursed under his breath. “That’s terrible. Awful. And I don’t suppose you . . . you found out what happened to my parents?”
“Now that was interesting.”
“Go on.”
“This is difficult, Mykhail.” The line went quiet for a few moments. “I could have sworn you told me you checked immediately after the war, and found out that they died in concentration camps.”
Beyond the Shadow of Night Page 27
