Before continuing his story, Roy wanted to know what the secret was. A few years later, when he read about Saul’s conversation with Lazarus after Jesus had raised Lazarus from the dead, Roy thought he might have the answer.
“Tell me, Lazarus,” said Saul, “what was it like? What is the difference between life and death?”
“Other than the light,” replied Lazarus, “there really isn’t much difference.”
In an attempt to erase the evidence of Jesus’s greatest miracle, Saul then stabbed Lazarus to his second and unrescued demise.
The more Roy thought about Lazarus’s report from the other side, the more unlikely it seemed to him that the old man, no matter how dedicated a scientist he was, would succeed in solving the mystery of existence.
Roy never finished the story.
Far from Anywhere
Roy read in the newspaper that Doctor Death had escaped and was believed to be hiding out in South America. Doctor Death, whose real name was Aribert Heim, had supposedly murdered hundreds, if not thousands, of Jews, Gypsies, Communists, and other prisoners in unspeakable medical experiments at the Mathausen concentration camp during World War II. He had been captured by the Allies and held in custody with other Nazis for a short time following the end of the war, then, for some unexplained reason, released. Heim lived in Germany for fifteen years, until he was tipped off that he was about to be indicted and fled the country.
Walking to work after school, Roy stopped in front of Vignola’s appliance store and watched the televisions in the window. There were three, each tuned to a different station with the sound off. At first, Roy watched the one showing a Porky Pig cartoon, then a picture of a man came on another set, the one in the middle. The man’s face was darkly handsome but hard, the almost oriental eyes staring to the left of the camera, the grim mouth tight and turned down at the corners, his severely widow-peaked hair slicked back. The name “Doctor Death” appeared under the photograph. Wet snow began falling, melting before it could accumulate on the ground. The wind blew flakes into Roy’s face, but he wiped them off and watched the TV with Doctor Death’s face on it until it switched to another story. Then he remembered that old man Vignola was from somewhere in South America.
Roy went into the appliance store and saw the owner standing on a small stepladder, replacing a lightbulb. There were no customers in the store. Roy went over and stood next to the stepladder.
“Hi, Mr. Vignola,” he said, “need any help?”
“Here,” said the old man, handing down the dead bulb to Roy. “Hold this.”
Roy took it and Vignola finished screwing in the new bulb, then climbed down.
“Thank you, Roy,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Roy handed back the old bulb.
“If you were going to hide out in South America,” said Roy, “where would you go?”
Vignola stood half a head shorter than Roy, mostly because he was bent over and had a hump on his back. He had a head of thick, curly white hair, though, that made Roy imagine him wearing a tuxedo and conducting an orchestra with his hair flying.
“That’s a strange question,” said Vignola. “Why do you ask me?”
“You’re from there,” Roy said.
“From Argentina, yes,” said the old man, “Buenos Aires. But not for forty years. I came to this country in 1922, and I have never gone back.”
“This Nazi called Doctor Death that I saw on the news is probably hiding out down there.”
Vignola nodded. “I heard. Heim. He and Mengele experimented on people in the camps. Beasts. Brazil, maybe. Many of them went there. Some to Argentina, sure, and Bolivia. Paraguay, too. Chile, perhaps, a little fishing village far from anywhere.”
“Why are they allowed to live there?” asked Roy. “If they’re fugitives, and it’s obvious they’re Germans, not Brazilians or Bolivians, why aren’t they arrested?”
“Because in many cases the governments sided during the war with the Axis. Also, the Nazis escaped with enough money to pay for protection for years, or their children now support them.”
“Were you born in Buenos Aires?”
The old man looked up and directly at Roy, who noticed for the first time that Vignola’s eyes were blue.
“No,” said Vignola, “in Napoli. My father was a cobbler, but in those days Italy was not united, not truly a country. There was a great schism between the North and the South, there still is. In Napoli, there were many factions vying for power, political battles in which men were killed just for an insult. Tribe against tribe. My parents took a boat with me and my sister to Montevideo, Uruguay, and settled eventually in Argentina, where there was already a large Italian population.”
“Why did your father leave?”
“They wanted him to go into the army to fight in Abyssinia, and he didn’t want to go there. The Abyssinians defeated the Italians in 1896, and after that Italy wanted revenge. They got it when Mussolini invaded again in the 1930s. This began the war for Italy.”
“They sided with Germany,” said Roy.
The old man shook his head, and said, “Italy has never ended a war on the same side on which it began.”
“I’ve got to go to work,” Roy said.
Vignola looked out the front window.
“It’s snowing harder now.”
“I’ve got a hat,” said Roy.
“This Doctor Death,” said the old man, “they’ll get him. Maybe not right away, but they won’t stop.”
“Who won’t stop?”
“The Jews,” said Vignola. “The Americans won the war but they didn’t finish the job. The Israelis will. They’ll hunt down Doctor Death and the other Nazis, you’ll see.”
“Even if they’re far from anywhere?”
“The world is shrinking fast, Roy. Anywhere is not so far any more.”
“You’re not Jewish, are you?” asked Roy.
“I wish I were,” said Vignola.
“I never heard anybody say that before,” said Roy, “that they wished they were a Jew.”
“How old are you, Roy?”
“I just turned fifteen.”
The old man smiled. “Put on your hat,” he said.
Rain in the Distance
Roy was with Magic Frank and the Viper in Meschina’s Delicatessen when he saw a girl sitting in a booth across from theirs who looked familiar. It was just before midnight on a Friday in April. The boys had been to a basketball game at Chicago Stadium and then gone to a party in their neighborhood, which turned out to be pretty dull, so they left and went to get something to eat. Roy couldn’t remember right away where he’d seen this girl before. She wore her honey blonde hair up in a ponytail and had a slender, curvy shape. Roy couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He did not recognize any of the other three girls who were sitting in the booth.
“You guys know who that girl is?” Roy asked his friends. “The one with the ponytail over there.”
“She’s good-lookin’,” said Frank, “but no.”
The Viper shook his head. “Wish I did. She looks older.”
“What do you mean older?” Roy said.
“Older than us.”
Roy and Magic Frank were sixteen, the Viper was fifteen and a half. The girl got up and one of her friends said, “Wait, Daisy, I’ll go with you.”
“Daisy Green,” said Roy. “I saw her at a party a few years ago. Ernie Nederland knew her.”
“Nederland?” said Magic Frank. “He piped a kid at Algren and got thrown out. I had a couple fights with him over at the park when we were in eighth grade. He was small but tough. Smart, too. Knew when to quit.”
Roy said, “Let me out,” and squeezed past the Viper.
He caught up with Daisy Green and her friend outside in front of Meschina’s.
A cold wind came up suddenly and Roy s
hivered. He’d left his jacket in the booth.
“Hello,” he said to Daisy Green. “We met once back in about sixth or seventh grade, at a party. My name’s Roy.”
“Gee, I don’t remember,” said Daisy.
“Well, we didn’t actually meet. Ernie Nederland told me who you were.”
Daisy Green laughed. She had a slight overbite, but other than that her teeth looked perfect.
“Ernie’s probably in jail,” she said.
“Or should be,” said her friend. “I’m Donna.”
“Hi, Donna,” said Roy.
He looked at her, then immediately forgot what she looked like.
“That was a long time ago,” Daisy said. “How did you recognize me?”
“I never forgot you since that night.”
“How romantic,” said Donna.
“Did we make out or anything?” Daisy asked.
Roy smiled. “No. Like I said, we weren’t even introduced. I thought you were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. You still are.”
“He’s dangerous,” Donna said.
“Why didn’t you talk to me at that party?” said Daisy.
“I think you were there with somebody,” Roy said. “Do you want to come back in and sit with me and my friends? It’s cold out here.”
“There’s rain in the distance,” said Donna. “That’s what my grandmother always says when there’s a wind like this.”
“I can’t,” said Daisy. “I’ve got to go home.”
“Can I call you? What’s your number?”
“Do you have a good memory?”
“I remembered you all this time, didn’t I?”
“Rogers Park 4-32-32.”
“I’ll remember,” Roy said.
“Nice meeting you,” said Donna.
“Nice meeting you, too,” said Roy.
The girls turned away and Roy went back inside.
“We ordered,” said Frank.
Roy fished in a pocket of his jacket for a pen and wrote down Daisy’s telephone number on a paper napkin.
“You get anywhere?” asked the Viper.
“I got her phone number.”
“How old is she?” Magic Frank asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Roy. “She’s supposed to be dead by now.”
“Dead?” said Frank. “Why?”
“Ernie Nederland told me she had a heart problem and had already had a big operation and that she wasn’t supposed to live very much longer. She went with older guys he knew. Men. Nederland said she’d do anything.”
A waitress brought Frank and the Viper’s food to the table.
“You want something?” she asked Roy.
“He wants Daisy Green,” said the Viper.
“She ain’t on the menu,” the waitress said.
“Corned beef on rye and a ginger ale.”
The waitress left.
“Maybe she had another operation,” said Magic Frank, “and she’s okay now.”
The two girls with whom Daisy and Donna had been sitting got up from their booth and put on their coats. One whispered to the other and then the one who did the whispering came over and stood and looked at Roy. She was short and heavy with stringy brown hair.
“I heard what you said about Daisy,” she said. “About doing anything. I’m gonna tell her.”
Both girls walked away.
Roy stared at Daisy Green’s phone number on the napkin, then he folded it and put it into the right front pocket of his trousers.
“You should call her anyway,” said the Viper.
Bad Night at the Del Prado
Roy’s mother’s third husband, Czeslaw Wanchovsky, was a jazz drummer whose professional name was Sid Wade. His fellow musicians called him Spanky, a reference to his style of appearing to slap or “spank” his drums as he played. Roy was ten years old when Sid Wade married his mother, and from the beginning Roy and his new stepfather did not get along. Wade was in his early forties and had not been married before, nor did he have any previous experience dealing with children. Wade had lived with his mother and was used to being taken care of: cooked for, having his laundry done, sleeping as late as he wished. During a meal, if he saw a piece of meat or other morsel on someone else’s plate that he thought looked better than what he had on his own, Wade would spear it with his fork and then scrape his portion, or what was left of it, onto theirs.
About a year into the marriage, Roy and Sid Wade had a terrible fight that very nearly came to blows. Wade had taken to using Roy’s room to nap in during the day, which meant that Roy could not go in there, for fear of waking him. One afternoon, however, Roy needed to get his baseball gear out of his closet, so he snuck into his room and, as quietly as possible, gathered up his glove, bat and spikes. Sid Wade woke up, saw Roy and yelled at him, cursing Roy for disturbing his rest. Roy talked back, one angry word led to another, and Wade, a big, bearlike guy who had wrestled in college, came at the boy as if he were going to mangle him. Roy dropped his baseball glove and spikes and held up the bat, ready to defend himself.
At this point, having heard the shouting, Roy’s mother entered the room. Her husband stood glaring at Roy, breathing heavily, his large hands frozen inches from the boy’s neck.
“What did you do?” Roy’s mother yelled at him.
“I needed my stuff for the game,” he said. “I had to get it out of the closet.”
“You know Sid works nights,” she said. “You should have taken your things out earlier.”
“Next time, son,” said Sid Wade, his barrel chest heaving like a gorilla’s, “it’ll be your ass.”
Roy stared hard at this sweating, red-faced beast more than twice his size and said, “I’m not your son. And the next time, as you say, I find you sleeping in my room, I’ll stick an ice pick in your ear.”
“You hear that, Kitty?” said Wade. “He’s just like his father.”
Roy’s mother spat on him.
Sid Wade said to her, “I told you he was going bad.”
Roy did not wipe his mother’s saliva off his face. He picked up his glove and spikes and, still holding the bat, walked out of the room without saying another word.
For the following few days, Roy made himself scarce. When he was home, he avoided both his mother and Sid Wade as much as possible, refusing to speak to her unless it was absolutely necessary, and not at all to him. Wade no longer took naps in Roy’s room.
Ten days after the incident, on a Sunday, Roy’s mother came into his room and said, “You and Sid should make up. He left his bass drum and some other things behind at the gig last night at the Del Prado Hotel and he has to drive down there this afternoon to get them. I thought perhaps you could ride with him and talk things over.”
Roy looked at her. She was in her early thirties and still beautiful, but her eyes were not right, they were more red than brown and her gaze was unfocused. She seemed to be staring at an object other than him, something not in front of her or even in the room.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” said Roy. “If he lays a hand on me, I’ll kill him in his sleep.”
“Don’t say that, Roy. Sid’s a good man, really. He just doesn’t know how to handle you. Give him a chance, for my sake.”
There were tears in Roy’s mother’s eyes now.
“All right,” he said.
An hour later, Sid Wade opened the door to Roy’s room and said, “You ready to go?”
Roy followed him to his car, a green 1955 Pontiac Chieftain sedan, and got into the front passenger seat. The hotel was on the South Side, so Roy knew it would take at least forty-five minutes to get there.
Neither of them spoke for ten minutes, then Sid Wade said, “Your mother’s a nervous woman. She’s not always easy to live with.”
Wade lit a cigarette and rol
led down the driver’s side window. It was early April but the real spring had not come yet. There was still a nasty chill in the air.
“Do you want to listen to the ball game?” Wade asked. “I think the Sox are on.”
“Okay,” said Roy.
Wade turned on the radio.
“What number is the station?”
“Ten something,” Roy told him.
Sid Wade found the game and left the radio on with the volume low. Roy knew that he was not a baseball fan.
A few minutes later, Wade said, “It was a bad night at the Del Prado. First a drunken couple in the ballroom slapped the shit out of each other, then a guy got shot outside just as the band was packing up to leave. There was a lot of confusion and I left part of my kit behind.”
“Who got shot?”
“A guest who was coming back to the hotel at around two a.m. He’d just gotten out of a taxi.”
“Was he killed?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Do you know why?”
“I didn’t hang around to find out.”
They rode the rest of the way without talking. Roy listened to the game. By the time Sid Wade pulled the Pontiac up in front of the Del Prado, Chicago was up six to two over the Senators in the eighth.
“Wait here,” said Wade. “If anyone asks, tell them your father is inside the hotel and he’ll be right back.”
Sid Wade got out of the car and took the keys with him. Roy could not listen to the radio, so he opened his door, got out and stood on the sidewalk. A doorman came out of the hotel.
“You c-c-can’t park here,” he said.
“I didn’t park it here,” said Roy. “I can’t drive.”
“Who th-th-this c-c-car belong to?”
“A musician who forgot something in the hotel last night.”
The doorman was a tall but slightly stooped slender man wearing a red and yellow braided cap and a red and black coat that resembled the jackets the flying monkeys who worked for the Wicked Witch wore in the movie The Wizard of Oz. He looked around and up and down the block, as if he were desperate to speak to someone other than an eleven-year-old kid.
The Roy Stories Page 32