Beyond the Shadow of Night

by Ray Kingfisher

  “Did any of your friends survive?”

  Izabella’s face dropped. “Sadly not.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Izabella.”

  “A few out of millions. I often thought over the years what might have become of them, just like my own family.” She gave a sad smile before continuing. “So I was too scared to go begging again, and hid in the backstreets. I became very ill. That was when some Catholic nuns took pity on me. They dressed me up as one of them and I just walked straight through the checkpoint and out of the Jewish sector forever. I don’t remember much about what happened after that, but I went to a hospital and wasn’t in a fit state to rebuild my life until well after the war ended. I did think of you, Asher, I promise I did. But I had no way of knowing what happened to you and your family. I assumed . . . you know, Treblinka.”

  Asher nodded. “Yes, they took us all there.”

  She gasped and held a hand up to cover her open mouth. “You survived Treblinka? How?”

  “For me it was pure luck, nothing more. The rest of my family . . . they weren’t so lucky.”

  “Oh, Asher. I’m so sorry. I’ve never forgotten the Kogans—especially Rina, such a strong woman. But what about you? I mean, very few people got out of that place alive. Did they spare you? Did you escape?”

  “I was . . . well . . . please, Izabella. Perhaps in time, but I can’t talk about it yet—not in public, at least.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” She leaned across and covered his hand with hers.

  “And I know it’s unfair,” he said. “Because I want to know everything about you.”

  “Oh, my life’s been very uneventful since I got out of the ghetto. And, if I’m honest, I like it that way. While I was recovering in hospital, I had some visitors. My brothers and sisters had come back. Then we all lived together for a few years in Warsaw after the war. We thought it would be what our parents wanted, and it made up for lost time.”

  “You got married, so I hear?” Asher glanced down at her hand, the fingers still slender and elegant, one of them encircled by a ring holding a single clear gem.

  “This?” She held it up. “Yes, I still wear it as a reminder. I married Paul in ’52, he died three years ago last March.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Asher said. Then he narrowed his eyes to slits. “Did you say 1952?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mmm . . . and . . . children?”

  “Oh, we tried for many years, but it just didn’t happen. Of course, we didn’t have the technology back then, so I can’t be certain of the reason, but I always thought the time I was starved behind those walls—my formative years—must have damaged me somehow. Anyhow, it’s all in the past. I don’t dwell.”

  “Good,” Asher said. “I mean, it’s good that you don’t dwell. And I’m sorry. But . . .” Asher left his mouth open, struggling to speak, sitting back in his seat, then leaning forward again.

  “What?” Izabella said. “What is it?”

  “Well . . .” He took a sip of milky coffee to help his dry throat. “I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I came back here before—1946, it must have been.”

  “Oh?”

  “I searched for you.”

  “Oh, Asher. You’re making me cry.”

  “I’m sorry. But I have to tell you. I came here, and I went to the market—the Banacha. I saw you there . . . and . . .”

  “I don’t understand, Asher. I don’t remember it at all.”

  He gave his head a sharp shake. “I feel so stupid about it now. And I don’t know why because it was such a long time ago. I saw you at the market. I was about to reach you, to take you in my arms and tell you how I felt about you, but . . .”

  Izabella pressed a paper napkin underneath her eyes.

  “. . . I was almost within touching distance, but then you picked a baby up and held it. A man appeared from behind you. He put his arm around you and . . . and I assumed . . .”

  “Oh, Asher.” Izabella’s face contorted in pain, the tears coming freely. “I remember those days well. I’m sorry, Asher. That wasn’t my child, and that wasn’t my husband.”

  Asher didn’t speak for a few minutes, just took a few breaths. “So, who were they?” he said. “No, I’m sorry, that’s personal, I shouldn’t ask.”

  “No, no. Please. I think we’re both a little too old for the jealous lover routine, don’t you?”

  Asher said nothing, just waited while she dried her eyes.

  “You see, the man was one of my brothers, Marek. It was the time he and my other brother and my sister all lived together here. Marek got married in ’45. Early the next year his wife gave birth to Marek Junior, but she passed away in childbirth. I helped bring up Marek Junior.” She glanced around the café. “It was Marek Junior who bought this place back for the Baran family many years ago. Of course, he’s not so junior now. The woman over there who called me is Katarina, his daughter.”

  Asher’s gaze hopped between Katarina and Izabella a few times as the news took some time to sink in. “Oh God,” he said, his voice trembling. “I feel such a fool.”

  “Don’t punish yourself. You weren’t to know.”

  “But if I’d had just a little more courage, if I hadn’t been so weak, who knows what might have happened.”

  “But that’s just it, Asher. Who knows? We both might have had a better life if we’d met then, but we might not. I guess sometimes your decisions in life are made by the sort of person you are. And you always were a shy boy. That was your charm.”

  “Charm? Is that what you call it?”

  “Yes, I do. You used to watch me without speaking. It sounds like it should have been strange, but I didn’t think so at the time and I don’t now. It was so sweet.”

  “Strange?” Asher let out a laugh. “That sounds more like me. But forgive me. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

  “Well, don’t. Just tell me, how has life turned out for you?”

  “So-so.”

  “Is that it?”

  “There isn’t much to tell.”

  “There’s that shyness again. Come on, Asher. Did you marry? Have you any children?”

  Izabella paused, but Asher didn’t speak.

  “I’m sorry. Am I being forward, asking about marriage?”

  Asher laughed at that.

  “What?” Izabella said, laughing along. “What did I say?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that . . . well, I know you told Rina you wanted to marry me once the war was over.”

  Izabella frowned at him. “I told her no such thing. I thought it. Of course I thought it. I didn’t tell anyone. But Rina told me that you wanted to marry me. She said you confided in her one day when you were alone together at home.”

  Asher thought for a moment. A tear escaped and ran down his cheek. “Rina,” he said, a grin breaking through the sadness. “My dear Rina. She said it to both of us. Played us like fools.”

  “Ah, I see.” Izabella nodded. “Perhaps she knew it was true?”

  “And, as it turned out, she was right.”

  “She certainly was.”

  Asher picked up his cup. “It’s not much, but I raise a toast to Rina.”

  Their cups touched. “To Rina,” Izabella said. They drank and placed their cups back down.

  “Listen, Asher, I know you can’t talk about certain things—the war. But I want to know everything about you. I’m interested. Life in America must be exciting.”

  Asher caressed her hand. “It’s nice for someone to be interested in me. You’re right and wrong. It’s not very exciting, but I should tell you.”

  So Asher did, and once he started talking he couldn’t stop. All the details of how he ended up in Detroit, his work at Dearborn, how he met Mykhail again, how Mykhail had changed his name—all things that tumbled from his mouth faster than he could think of them. Izabella also talked, of her happy marriage, her teaching career, and her vacations. Before either of them knew it, almost
two hours had passed and they were starting to tire.

  “I have to go now,” Izabella said, glancing at the wall clock.

  The words made Asher’s heart skip a beat. “But . . . can we meet again?”

  “You know, Asher, it’s been lovely talking, and I’d be upset if I didn’t see you again.”

  They arranged to meet up the next day, when they spent hours talking, Izabella taking him to her favorite restaurant for dinner. There they talked even more freely: Izabella of her feelings for her husband and how she missed him, Asher of his difficult issues after he got laid off from Dearborn.

  On the third day, they met at Izabella’s apartment and spent the day touring the city’s museums and art galleries. When they got back to the apartment, Izabella fixed a meal, they relaxed, and Asher started telling her about his experiences at Treblinka all those years ago.

  It was on the fourth day that they both decided they wanted to see more of each other—that this week shouldn’t be the end. Asher knew he should have felt awful about all those years of missed opportunities, but somehow he didn’t. In fact, he was happier than he could ever remember being.

  Also on the fourth day, with dark memories swirling around his mind, Asher realized that Mykhail had been wrong about returning to Treblinka.

  He made his decision accordingly.

  Chapter 31

  Pittsburgh, July 2001

  Asher rang the doorbell of 38 Hartmann Way. He cursed at the music coming from inside the house and the noise of the kids playing next door, and went around the side into the backyard.

  “Hey, Asher,” Mykhail said. “Didn’t expect to see you yet.” He was sitting on a stool, a paint pot perched on a brick next to him. He held a large paintbrush in his hand—the way someone might hold a hammer.

  “I did ring,” Asher said. “But . . .” He glanced behind him, across the tall wire fence, to where kids were shooting a basketball while apparently making as much noise as humanly possible.

  “My music drowns most of that out,” Mykhail said, nodding toward the kitchen. “How long have you been back?”

  “Oh, I was only home a few hours. I dumped my luggage, grabbed a change of clothing, and caught the bus over.” He pointed at the woodwork on the outside of the sunroom. “Keeping the wood rot out, huh?”

  Mykhail nodded. “I’ve painted it every three years ever since moving in. It’s become a kind of barometer. Each time it’s just that little bit more tiring. Now I find it hard to kneel, let alone paint.”

  “It’s looking good,” Asher said.

  “It better had, because it’s the last time I’ll be painting it. Son-of-a-bitch arthritis in my fingers. How was Europe?”

  “That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

  Mykhail eyed his brush. “I’m a little busy right now.”

  “You carry on.” He pointed into the kitchen. “Can I get us a coffee?”

  “Cold drink would be good. Got some apple juice in the fridge.”

  Asher went into the kitchen and got the drinks, to the accompaniment of that orchestra.

  “Still on the old cassette tapes, huh?” Asher said as he brought the drinks outside a few minutes later.

  “Oh, yeah. Diane keeps telling me to buy stuff on these new discs or even some new gizmo in a tiny box. I can’t be bothered.” He took a sip of apple juice. “So, tell me about Ukraine.”

  “Oh, finish your painting first.”

  Mykhail dipped the brush. “I can paint and listen at the same time. Tell me, did you manage to take any photographs of Dyovsta?”

  “For what it’s worth.”

  Mykhail kept his eyes on his painting line. “What does that mean?”

  “I told you on the phone. The farmhouse buildings we lived in as little ones were demolished long ago. The area’s nothing more than one small section of a vast wheatfield.”

  “And your accommodation?”

  “Comfortable.”

  “And Warsaw?”

  “I went there. And I found Izabella.”

  Mykhail’s head jerked around. “Your Izabella? Really?”

  Asher nodded silently.

  A lopsided smile broke onto Mykhail’s face. “So, how is she? Was she happy to see you?”

  “She was. It was . . . quite magical.”

  “I’ll bet,” Mykhail said as he continued painting.

  “It was almost like we’d stayed in touch all these years. We seemed to have so much in common. It was nice.”

  “I’m really pleased for you, Asher. You deserve some happiness.”

  “Thanks. We spent four wonderful days together. We swapped life stories. I told her about what happened to me during the war. And when I told her about it, I realized I just had to go.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “To Treblinka.”

  Mykhail halted his brush mid-stroke, staring at it. “Oh,” he said. “Okay.” He carried on, painting in silence for a few seconds.

  “Why don’t you ask me how I got on there?”

  “Sure. How was it?”

  Asher was quiet for a few seconds, his nostrils twitching. “Have you ever been there?”

  Mykhail didn’t look at Asher, but shook his head.

  “Not even during the war?”

  Now Mykhail turned to Asher. “What are you getting at?”

  “It might be better if we sit in the kitchen,” Asher said, his voice wavering.

  Mykhail shrugged. “Okay.” He placed the lid back on the tin and balanced the brush on top. Then he eased himself to his feet with a groan, and motioned for them both to go into the kitchen.

  There, Mykhail pressed the stop button on his tape player to silence André Rieu’s orchestra. A pained frown drew itself on Asher’s face as the two men sat down opposite each other. They each took another sip of juice.

  “So, what’s this all about?” Mykhail said with a little shrug of his shoulders.

  “Well, you remember all those years ago, when I tracked you down to this house?”

  Mykhail nodded.

  “The story in the newspaper?”

  “Yes, but . . . I still don’t understand.”

  “The newspaper report didn’t go into great detail, did it?”

  “I can’t say I remember. It was years ago and it was all nonsense. And I don’t see—”

  “I never asked you about the allegations that were made against you. I trusted you.”

  Mykhail sneered slightly, an edge of forced humor showing through. “Where’s this going, Asher?”

  “I just want you to tell me—”

  “You think I lied? Is that it? I’m lying about what I went through during the war?” Mykhail’s fingers fumbled to shove up one arm of his shirt. On his upper arm was a section of skin, the only hairless section. He prodded a finger against it, and it wrinkled like the skin of a milk pudding. “Take a look. Go on, take a good look. And then call me a liar.”

  Asher wiped a nervous hand over his smooth head. “Shall I tell you about my visit to Treblinka?”

  Mykhail shrugged. “Only if you want to.”

  Asher let out a long sigh, took a moment to gather himself, then spoke.

  “What they’ve done with the place is nothing short of a miracle. It’s quite beautiful, although there’s something wrong about beauty in such ugly circumstances. But it’s a very peaceful area, in the middle of a forest. There’s a museum with exhibits, but I couldn’t face that at first, so I had a walk around the grounds. It was so strange, smelled so fresh and clean—like a pine forest should always smell. And I heard no engines or screams or gunfire or crackles from burning pyres. For a few minutes I was completely alone. I closed my eyes and heard birds high above, calling one another.

  “Of course, there wasn’t much left of the original camp in terms of buildings or structures. The Nazis saw to that; they wanted to destroy every last shred of evidence so that they could deny it ever existed. But the Poles have done a good job of bringing back the spirit of the pl
ace. You know, they have a big area covered by stones sticking up out of the ground—thousands and thousands of them, like nothing you’ve ever seen. It’s a sea of ragged tombstones to represent an ocean of ragged bodies.”

  Mykhail stared impassively, while Asher took a breath and continued.

  “Anyhow, eventually I went to the museum, where they had a film show, maps of the place recreated from the memories of prisoners and staff, and a few artifacts that simply wouldn’t stay buried—or perhaps rose to the surface.”

  “It must have been so hard for you.”

  “I can’t convey how upsetting I found the whole experience. They also had a few photographs.”

  “Photographs?”

  “Yes, of the buildings, some of the prisoners, the bags of hair, the clothes. And a few of the staff.”

  Mykhail gave a puzzled frown. “I would have expected photography to be banned.”

  “Oh, it was, officially. But one or two guards wanted mementos for their private collections. Anyhow, I didn’t look properly; I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to take anything in—too many people around me. So I left the building and took a walk.”

  “And . . . what did you see there?”

  “What did I see? In that beautiful place I heard the sounds of my yesterdays—the noises that still stain the human race but gave me a perverse comfort in my old age. I heard the railroad trucks hissing as they drew up. I heard the shouts from the guards, ordering people to leave their belongings for collection later, and officials telling the innocent and the unaware that the first step was to have a nice shower after their arduous journey, that afterward they would be fed and shown to their living quarters. The hint of a laugh—guards actually laughing—as they told people to follow everyone else along the Himmelstrasse. Do you know what that means?”

  Mykhail, unblinking, shook his head.

  “I heard the mothers consoling their frightened children, telling them to stop crying, telling them everything would be fine, that this was a much nicer place to live in than Warsaw. But the children seemed to know more than their parents—or were more honest.

  “And I heard the first murmurs of discontent as they were told to take their clothes off. Spectacles, shoes, pants, dresses—all in different piles for ease of sorting. Now murmurs turned to half-suppressed panic. They stayed calm but were clearly not—with darting eyes, quivering faces, shivering bodies. Questions were asked. But the guards had experienced this many times before and could dismiss them as if they were batting away troublesome moths. Those who kept asking were told by a gun barrel to obey. Discontent turned to naked fear as their heads were shaved. And then to rigid terror as they were marched along the Himmelstrasse.