Beyond the Shadow of Night

by Ray Kingfisher

  Those thoughts seemed to calm him down a little, and slowly, over the next hour, he started regretting so many of those things he’d said to Mykhail. He’d been unfair; Mykhail had denied this for most of his life, and now Asher was expecting instant and full disclosure and regret.

  Asher had been at Treblinka too—he’d helped with the shepherding of those people into the gas chambers. It wasn’t too far removed. Okay, so he hadn’t volunteered: he’d been picked out and told what to do. But if he’d been given a choice would he have chosen to die instead? Nobody could ever be certain of such a thing.

  Mykhail had said as much, and he had a point. There was a similarity, albeit with one important distinction: Asher never had a gun at Treblinka. If he had, he would like to think he would have used it on the guards. Mykhail, however, had been a Trawniki guard, as good as a soldier with access to guns. Would Asher have done the same as Mykhail had he been in his position? Would he really have stayed in the POW camp to take his chances there?

  The more Asher thought on, the more confused he became.

  Music blared from the speakers in the bus depot waiting room. Asher felt so bad he prayed for the volume to increase—increase so much it would hurt his ears. He just wanted to curl up in a corner and never come out again. At that moment, he wanted someone or something to take his life just to stop the cockroaches scurrying around his brain.

  It was a long time since he’d had such destructive feelings.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Mykhail. Should he forgive him? Would he want to consider them friends ever again? His mind was a sea of uncertainty about such things, but beyond that he was worried about his old friend. He hadn’t looked at all well when Asher had stormed out.

  That was when Asher decided to call Mykhail. He hadn’t changed his mind. Oh no. He only wanted to be sure he was okay. He fumbled with change and willed his trembling fingers to dial.

  There was no answer, only that interminable cycle: silent and peaceful, ringing, silent and peaceful, ringing, silent and peaceful. He hung on.

  Yes, he should apologize for some of the horrible things he’d said to Mykhail—some of the worst things. Their friendship would never be the same again, but they’d been friends once, and Mykhail was another human being.

  He double-checked the number and dialed again. Twice.

  Still, Mykhail didn’t pick up.

  What if he couldn’t pick up?

  Asher slammed the phone down and cursed himself.

  He left the depot and took a cab back to Hartmann Way.

  Fifteen minutes later, Asher rushed from the cab to number 38, panting and coughing, taking no time to gather himself before he rang the doorbell, then hammered on it. There was no answer, so he went around the side of the house, past those kids who were still playing basketball.

  He went through the gate into the backyard and approached the back door, next to the woodwork, where the pot of paint still rested on the brick, waiting patiently for Mykhail to continue. Asher’s hand was raised, ready to bang on the glass, when he spotted Mykhail. He was sitting at the table, his head and shoulders slumped over. He was still and silent.

  Asher shouted out to him and banged on the door, but he didn’t move at all.

  He cupped his hands against the glass and squinted to see better. On the table next to Mykhail there seemed to be a dark pool. And that object next to the pool, was it a handgun?

  Oh no. Oh dear God, not this.

  Asher turned, and his eyes settled on the brick under the pot of paint. He pulled it out, knocking over the pot, not caring about the spilled paint, then smashed the glass of the door. He reached inside and unlocked it, cutting his forearm on the glass in the process. He flinched, but it didn’t warrant a second thought. A rattle of the doorknob and he was in, almost falling as he ran over and grabbed Mykhail by the shoulders.

  For a second he was back at that wretched place again, seeing things no person should ever see, smelling that peculiar coppery saltiness nobody should smell. This figure—still warm, like the bodies he’d pulled from the chambers so many years before—was clearly no longer Mykhail, but something that used to be Mykhail. A crawling pool of blood surrounded the head, a spray dripped down the wall next to him. Each was peppered with fragments of bone and flesh.

  Asher hugged the lifeless shoulders and called out Mykhail’s name. Then his eyes settled on the pistol next to Mykhail’s right hand. He picked it up and held it for a few moments, realizing he held a lot of the blame for this. They’d been through a lot together. Mykhail had always been the stronger of them, but now Asher had turned him into the weaker one. He checked the magazine of the gun. It was empty.

  He glanced around, looking for bullets. Yes, that was what he deserved. He hunted, checking Mykhail’s pockets and a few kitchen drawers. He found none.

  And even if he’d found some, would he have had the nerve?

  He started to feel physically sick at the thought, as if he was going to pass out. He returned to Mykhail’s corpse. Below him, on the table, were Mykhail’s glass of juice, his beloved tape player, and an envelope with a name scrawled upon it. In a rage, shouting to his God, Asher slammed his arm down and swung it to the side with so much force that the items flew across the kitchen, bouncing and crashing over the floor.

  He shouted again, enraged all the more that there was nobody to listen. He staggered to the back door and stepped outside, where he took in a few lungfuls of fresh air and dropped the gun. Somehow he forced himself to walk on, although he sensed a disconnect between his head and his legs. One foot trod in the spilled paint as he went back around the house, passing the kids again, the nearest two of them giving him a look of fear and backing away. Again, Asher didn’t care.

  He flagged down a cab as soon as he reached the next street and jumped in. The driver was talkative and friendly at first, but that stopped as soon as he noticed the deep red blood on Asher’s hands. Asher told him to go the bus depot and started wiping the blood off onto his jacket.

  The driver asked Asher if he was okay, and was very quickly told to just shut up and drive on. At the depot Asher headed straight to the restroom to clean himself up.

  The bus back to Detroit wasn’t due in for another two hours, so he sat in the waiting room, huddled in a blur of regret and self-loathing. He drifted in and out of sleep, at times hardly aware of what was real and what was a product of his imagination. A glance at the bloodstains on his jacket told him he was trying to escape the horrible truth.

  He knew exactly what he’d done. Okay, so Mykhail had done wrong all those years ago, but he was also Asher’s friend, and between friends you understand and forgive, and Asher hadn’t done that. He could never forgive the true Nazis—the masterminds, the planners, the drivers and motivators, those with cold minds who had instigated those terrible things he witnessed all those years ago.

  But the people who were given little real choice?

  Asher knew from his own experiences that the concept of free will was often a capricious one.

  So, yes. He felt responsible for Mykhail’s suicide. But he didn’t take the gun and put it against Mykhail’s head. When the trigger released the hammer, forcing the pellet of metal through his skull, it wasn’t Asher’s finger that had pulled the trigger. But everyone is guilty of something, and Asher had argued with him and badgered him so much it might as well have been he who had killed him.

  Well before the bus bound for Detroit was due in, Asher had convinced himself he was to blame for Mykhail’s death. So he went straight to the police station and told them he’d just killed a man. He told them Mykhail’s address and exactly where and how the body lay. They held him while they checked everything out.

  In time there was more: Mykhail’s blood all over Asher, Asher’s bloody fingerprints on the gun that was found outside the door, his own blood on the glass of the door, the paint on his shoes, the boys who had seen him running from the house with blood on his hands, the cab driver’s account of a
disturbed old man leaving blood on his seats.

  The next day, Asher was charged. The day after that, he dictated and signed a confession.

  As soon as he entered the cell he felt sure he’d done the right thing. He felt strangely at home; after all, this was as close as he could get to how his family had died, so in a sense he was closer to them. He felt at peace.

  Chapter 35

  Pittsburgh, September 2001

  Versions of the story got onto the TV and into the newspapers, but Diane—having been the one to initiate the review of the case by handing the tape to the police—was kept informed of new developments at each stage.

  The police had originally taken Asher’s confession at face value. Why wouldn’t they? Tight budgets and stretched resources had met with a signed confession and clear forensic evidence, producing as clean a case as any. But on hearing and verifying the tape, they took a closer look at the evidence and timings, and interrogated Asher once more. He eventually broke down and admitted his confession had been false, that he’d gone back to the house, seen his friend’s dead body slumped over the table, broken in, picked up the gun in a panic, and stumbled out in a fog of shock.

  What with the legal formalities, it took a few days for Asher to be released from jail and taken back to his home in Detroit. Since then, Diane had talked with him on the phone a few times, initially with stilted results, but they were soon talking like old friends or even uncle and niece. In passing she’d told him she’d decided not to go stay with her mother in Baltimore, but to stay with Brad. They were, however, both going to spend some time with her mother.

  A few days before leaving, while Diane and Brad were sitting down to eat, the phone rang. Asher asked Diane if he could call round the next day, said he had to see her about something. He apologized for the short notice, and told her it wouldn’t be a regular thing. Diane, just a little confused as well as intrigued, told him that would be fine, that he was welcome to stop by, an invitation he accepted.

  A few minutes later, after Diane had made arrangements and put the phone down, she and Brad carried on eating.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” she said.

  Brad looked puzzled. “For what?”

  “Being presumptuous. It’s your house.”

  “It’s our house.”

  “It still feels wrong.”

  “You’ll get used to it. And Asher’s welcome here too. Any special reason for the visit?”

  “I didn’t ask, but he sounded nervous.”

  “Do you think you might ask him . . . you know?”

  “Jeez. I don’t think he’ll want to talk about that, and I’m not sure I want to. Perhaps we should all just move on.”

  “Sure.”

  The next afternoon, while Diane was preparing a meal, she heard a cab pull up outside. She peeked outside and saw Asher’s familiar stooped frame stepping out.

  She opened the door before he got there. They embraced in the half-hearted, polite way politicians and dignitaries would, and went into the kitchen.

  “I hope you don’t mind me coming round,” Asher said, rubbing his clean-shaven chin.

  “Not at all.”

  “And Brad? I mean, I’ll understand if you’d rather not stay in contact.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “It’s fine. It’s all good. I’m really pleased to see you.”

  She made coffee and they sat opposite each other.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Just now? Tired.”

  “It’s a long journey.”

  “Yes, it is. But it might just be the last time I do it.”

  “Really?” Diane’s face dropped. “Asher, you know you’ll always be welcome to visit. The fact that Father isn’t with us . . . Well, you’re welcome to visit, is the point. Like I said on the phone, I don’t hold you responsible in any way.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you, considering what happened. Have you had any . . . repercussions?”

  “Repercussions?”

  “I think they call it ‘press intrusion.’ People with nothing better to do than blame you for what your father was involved in.”

  Diane shook her head. “Nothing so far. But I’m good. I’m in a good place to cope with all that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Your father was right: you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Thank you.”

  Asher leaned in and held her hand. “And I hope things work out for you and Brad.”

  “I have a feeling they will. I only wish I’d done it many years ago.”

  “I’m sure.” Asher stared into space for a second, concentrating. “You know, Diane, there was something else your father told me when I confronted him that day, when he was trying to explain his actions. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I do now. He said that sometimes circumstances stop us being the people we’d rather be.”

  “Yeah,” Diane said. “Yeah, I get that.”

  They exchanged a smile, and each took a sip of coffee.

  “You got rid of the beard,” Diane said, nodding to his face.

  He laughed. “First time I’ve seen my chin in thirty years.”

  “Suits you,” Diane said.

  “Thank you.” Asher looked around the kitchen. “Nice place Brad has here.”

  “Well, it’s kind of Brad and Diane’s place now.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. And I’m really pleased for you. I know how your father . . . well, I know what he was like.”

  “Yes.”

  Asher smiled again and said how nice the coffee was. It was then that Diane couldn’t help herself. It hadn’t been the kind of question to ask over the phone, but she got the impression it might well be her last chance to ask him face to face.

  “Why did you do it, Asher?”

  There. The question had been burning a hole, and now it was said. It was out there. A look of severe concentration cast a shadow over Asher’s face. He froze, staring at her, then slowly and quietly said, “The confession?”

  “I still don’t understand. And I’d like to. If you don’t mind.”

  Now he just looked bewildered. “I’m still not sure I can say. But I know I’ve felt guilty all my life, and that evening I felt guiltier than ever. I guess I still feel I was responsible for your father’s death, even though I didn’t pull the trigger. I was guilty in that respect.”

  “But you really weren’t, Asher. It’s only looking back that I can see Father was always on the edge like that anyway.”

  “Thank you. But I’m still sorry. I still miss him.”

  “I know. Me too.”

  “You realize if it hadn’t been for him I wouldn’t have met Izabella earlier this year?”

  “I guess not.”

  “He paid for my vacation, and he persuaded me to return to Warsaw—for the wrong reasons, perhaps, but he persuaded me nonetheless.”

  “He was my father. I know he wasn’t all bad.”

  “Of course not. I know that too.” Asher stopped and took a long breath. “That brings me to the reason I’m here. I have to ask you something.”

  “Sure. What?”

  “You see, when I saw Izabella in Warsaw we got on better than I ever could have dreamed of.”

  “You told me that already.”

  “No, I mean really well. It was uncanny—almost as if we’d been together all those years as a married couple. If anything, it was even more beautiful than it was when we knew each other during the war.”

  “I can believe that. You painted a pretty picture, I have to say.”

  “And I told her about my life up in Detroit, how I had friends I met regularly in the library—buddies, so I thought. Do you know that when I was in hospital not one of them came to see me? Not one. The only visitors I had were you and your father.”

  “No, I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

  “You see, we told each other about everything. It felt so good for me. And then, on the day I left, when I thought it couldn’t get
any better, she sat me down and asked me to live with her permanently in Warsaw.”

  “Oh, Asher. That’s really nice.”

  “Well, it should have been. I wanted to say yes to her. I wanted to say yes a thousand times. But I was too scared.”

  “I don’t understand. Scared of what?”

  Asher gave his chin a rub, pausing for thought, before continuing. “You see, I had this image in my mind. Izabella and I are married—have been married for fifty years. And we’re happy, deliriously so. We have a lovely house, nicely decorated, clean and tidy, fresh flowers on the dining table. We go on vacation together, just the two of us now our children are all grown up. But we help out the children by giving advice, and we play with our grandchildren.” He shrugged. “Schmaltzy, I know. But I couldn’t get those thoughts and images out of my mind. I knew damn well that I’d spend my time with Izabella regretting the past, wishing to God we’d got together just after the war and enjoyed all those years together, had that family and the nice house and the vacations. All that regret, it would have made me angry. And that wouldn’t have been fair on her.”

  Diane gave a thoughtful nod.

  “The regretting, the longing for a past I never had—I just couldn’t face it. I guess getting myself locked up meant I could avoid having to explain it to Izabella. It’s only now I realize that. But I called her after I got released, explained it all to her. We talked for hours, just like we had in Warsaw, and with her help, I think I’m ready. She told me I can still have those thoughts of what might have been, and that in time I’ll come to accept that the chance has gone. And she’s right. I don’t long for those things anymore. I think of them occasionally, but I don’t long for them. I accept the chance has gone.”

  “You know something?” Diane said. “I completely get that.”

  Asher smiled softly, sadness in his eyes. “Somehow I thought you might.”