Eye Wit

by Hazel Dawkins

  Zoran looked dubious but he picked up his pace and hurried after Yoko and Dan. The gate in the railing around the Brotherhood Synagogue grounds was ajar and a man in sandals and shorts, a black yarmulke on his head, sat at the top of the two shallow steps leading to the synagogue’s front door, which stood wide open. He looked at them warily, relaxing only slightly when Dan waved his badge and called out, “Police, did two women just come in?”

  “Two mad women, ran straight in,” and he gestured with his head at the entrance behind him. “I was just coming out and they all but knocked me down. Rude is one thing, crazy is another. I was going to call the rabbi, I didn’t want to leave two meshuganas rattling around in the synagogue. Lunatics. They warned me about New York, we are safer in Oregon.”

  “You’re okay now, we’ve got it,” Dan shouted and he and Yoko ran into the synagogue, Zoran close behind them.

  “Here, this room,” Yoko said and hurried into the small office off the front hall, Dan on her heels. The two stopped so suddenly that Zoran bumped into Dan.

  “What is it, why…?” Zoran started to say but stopped when he caught sight of the man stumbling across the office towards them. The stranger was clutching his left shoulder. Drops of blood oozed between his fingers.

  “A woman shot me with an arrow,” he gasped. “Unbelievable. It nicked my shoulder.” He sank into the desk chair. “I’d just finished exploring the tunnels. I’m a Quaker from Earlham College and I’m writing a history of this place. It was part of the Underground Railroad when it was a Quaker….”

  “Zoran, quick, give him your handkerchief,” Yoko interrupted.

  “The two women are armed and dangerous,” Zoran warned but he obediently passed an immaculate handkerchief to the Quaker historian, who took it gratefully.

  Yoko pulled out her cell phone and gave terse information to the ambulance from St. Vincent’s Hospital. “Sorry, we must hurry,” she said to the Quaker, who nodded in understanding. “Keep that handkerchief pressed firmly against the wound. The EMTs will be here soon. Why don’t you wait outside?”

  “Let’s go,” Dan said, then muttered, “I guess the guy from Oregon won’t want to travel back to be a witness.”

  “I doubt the Earlham College Quaker will either,” Yoko said.

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “It’s in Indiana.”

  Dan snorted in disbelief. “So much for independent eye wits.”

  “Eye witnesses,” Zoran corrected Dan.

  “Okay, you two stay behind me when we go into the tunnels.”

  Yoko crossed the room and moved her hands lightly over the rear wall, feeling for the panel that led to the subterranean depths beneath Manhattan. It didn’t take her long, she’d done this before. The panel slid back and a rush of cool air filled the room, touching their faces with a moist kiss.

  “Damp, I knew it would be damp,” Zoran muttered.

  One by one, Dan, Yoko and Zoran entered the tunnel.

  30

  I had lied to Marco Fellini, of course. Deliberately and with malice aforethought. I felt no shame, because my lies had procured my invitation to Fellini’s lair, the very belly of the beast, where I needed to be.

  A confirmation call came from Jessica, Fellini’s assistant, about an hour after I’d spoken to Fellini. Could I be at his brownstone at 1:00 in the afternoon the next Monday? I could.

  Before the trip, I had much to do: buy tickets to New York and back, brief Mama and Papa on my plans, find a crystal ball to take with me and, most importantly, scatter Brigitta’s ashes over Lac Leman, so often called Lake Geneva, from our favorite balloon. I did that Saturday, just before the son et lumière show.

  Papa had made all the arrangements and secured the official permits, which wasn’t difficult, given his stature with the festival and Brigitta’s reputation at Espace Ballons. It wasn’t a showy, dust-scattering high-altitude drop; I was but ten or fifteen meters above the lake’s surface when I emptied the urn, said my final goodbyes and reaffirmed my vow.

  On Sunday at ten past noon, I was aboard SWISS LX22. At 3:30 p.m., I left JFK’s baggage claim and cabbed to Frankie Manning’s apartment. True to Frankie’s nature, he had arranged a party to celebrate Brigitta’s life—not a drunken wake exactly, but close. I remember playing a fiddle, long and loud. Mostly I remember watching Frankie dance with 45 women, one for each year of Brigitta’s short time on earth. She would have approved.

  Just as she would have approved of me arriving at Marco Fellini’s brownstone at Gramercy Park at 1:00 p.m. the next day, even though I was still fairly hung over and jet-lagged—more the former than the latter.

  Brigitta would know that I was keeping my word to her: it was Monday, just nine days after I had vowed to reclaim GrandMama Luludji’s crystal ball, and I was about to fulfill that promise. I shifted the satchel that held my made-in-Taiwan crystal ball to my left hand, climbed the steps of the Fellini brownstone, and pressed the door buzzer.

  An attractive older woman answered the door, wearing an auburn-colored silk pant-suit that probably cost more than one of my balloons.

  “Welcome, I’m Sophia Fellini,” she said. “You must be Hans.”

  She led me through the foyer and into the living room as Marco Fellini rose from a love-seat facing the fireplace and moved towards me, his hand outstretched.

  “I’m so glad you could make it, Hans. I hope your flight was good, as good as any flight can be these days, anyway. Can I get you anything to drink? Some tea, perhaps something stronger?”

  God, I wanted a drink, just a tiny lock of the hair of the many dogs that had bitten me. Despite my throbbing head, I was able to remember my need to keep a clear mind.

  “Tea would be wonderful, Marco, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. Sophia?”

  “Certainly. I shall be back very soon. Please be seated, Hans. Or perhaps you’d care to show him the house, Marco?”

  “I would love to see more of your lovely home, Mrs. Fellini.”

  “Sophia, Hans. Please, we are not so formal. We have only just met, but from what Marco has told me, I feel we shall be good friends—and please accept my condolences for your tragic loss. I’m so very sorry.”

  I confess to being a little taken aback. Sophia Fellini seemed completely genuine, honestly concerned about me, and Marco Fellini too. They had invited me into their home and could not have been more gracious. Was I wrong about Fellini?

  Was it possible that his crystal ball was just that, an anonymous crystal ball with no connection to my family? Or perhaps they were playing me along, trying to find out what I knew about the crystal ball, to see if I represented a threat to Marco Fellini—to both of them, perhaps. I needed to keep an open mind.

  As Sophia left the room, Marco Fellini gestured toward my satchel. “I assume you have your crystal ball in the bag? I’m eager to see it, but first, let’s just relax and chat a bit. I’m sure you must be exhausted after your trip.”

  “I am a bit worn out,” I said, then told him of last night’s party in my wife’s honor.

  “How wonderful,” he said. “I know of Frankie Manning, of course. He is as close to a legend as anyone in the city. What a marvelous homecoming for you.”

  I probably rolled my eyes a little.

  He continued, “Probably it’s just as well that we are having tea, instead of something stronger, eh?”

  “I may need several pots,” I said.

  He laughed but only briefly before his manner became more solemn. “Have you taken your ferry trip yet, to….”

  “To scatter Brigitta’s ashes? Not yet. I’ll do that in the morning, early. Probably the 7:10 from Whitehall, just as it’s getting light. As I recall, that boat won’t be crowded.”

  “Not going out, no. Coming in from Staten Island you’d be right in the middle of rush hour, but not heading out to the island. Just your usual gawking tourists.”

  Sophia returned and placed a silver tray on the gilded table
in front of us. The tea was good, very strong and very hot. I decided against my usual milk, but did manage several biscuits frosted with dark chocolate, which I never even try to resist.

  We didn’t speak of the crystal ball while we had our tea. We talked about the balloon festival instead, the son et lumière, Brigitta’s work at Espace Ballons, and the family balloon rental business. Mostly, they wanted to know how Brigitta and I had become involved in such a fascinating enterprise.

  Marco wanted to know. “Was it a…how should I say this? Was it a Gypsy thing? I mean, one thinks of circuses and fortune tellers and show people and dancing, all sorts of glittery entertainment, really. Are there many Roma families involved in the festival, in your business?”

  “A number of Roma and Sinti, although we Gypsies don’t necessarily stress that in our promotional materials.”

  “Why ever not?” Sophia Fellini said.

  “Because we’ve learned to become realists, Sophia. Unfortunately, a good deal of prejudice still exists, even in these times of relative enlightenment. Even in Switzerland, many people, perhaps most people, view Gypsies as undesirables.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Marco Fellini said. “Really? Such bias still exists in this day and age?”

  “Not officially, of course,” I said. “I don’t mean to imply that the Swiss government is still as unenlightened as it was during World War II, when they turned away nearly every Jew and every single Gypsy seeking asylum from Hitler. Nowadays, the Swiss authorities are scrupulously fair.

  “But the cultural bias against Gypsies remains, as it does everywhere, even here. Just as with Blacks, Jews, and your Native Americans. I suppose one has to be a member of such a minority to understand how deeply such discrimination runs, how pervasive and insidious it is, how much it hurts. Still, like I said, we’ve learned to live with it.”

  “To ‘live long and prosper,’” Marco said. “Is that the phrase? Who said that, anyway?”

  I smiled. “I believe you’re quoting Mr. Spock, from ‘Star Trek,’ Marco.”

  Marco Fellini chuckled. “Ah yes, of course. Spock. Would that all of society was as enlightened as Spock and all those folks in the world of ‘Star Trek.’”

  “God save us from the Romulans,” I said. “Those Gypsies of the future.”

  “Touché, Hans,” Marco Fellini said. “And that is a very good segue to examining crystal balls of Roma descent, I think. Come, let us adjourn to my study.”

  “I’ll leave you boys to your fun,” Sophia Fellini said, picking up the tray. “I do hope you’ll join us for dinner at the club tonight, Hans?”

  “Thank you, Sophia, I am looking forward to that.”

  Sophia left the room and I picked up my satchel and followed Marco Fellini up the stairs to his study. Thanks to an hour’s-worth of tea, my headache had faded somewhat, but if my heart had been beating any faster, it would have leapt from my chest.

  Marco glanced back as we entered his study. I could see the crystal ball over his shoulder, resting in position on the left end of the fireplace mantle.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You look like you could faint.”

  I took a deep breath and forced myself to meet his eyes. “I’m fine. Sometimes I get a little lightheaded when I climb stairs too quickly. Because my blood pressure is always low.”

  “That would be a hazard in a hot-air balloon, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s why I always drink lots of coffee before we lift off.”

  He chuckled. “Well, there it is,” he said, swinging his right arm toward the fireplace. “My Roma treasure. What do you think of it?”

  I moved to the fireplace and the luminous ball on its copper base. I knew in my heart I was finally seeing my grandmother’s crystal ball, her totem, given under duress to Josef Mengele nearly sixty-five years ago.

  “May I?” I asked, reaching for the ball, feeling my blood pressure rise.

  “Of course.”

  I picked up the ball, hefted it, stared into its soul. I half expected to see GrandMama Luludji Krietzman’s ghostly countenance staring back at me. Instead, I saw an image of the base upon which it had been resting, floating in the center of the ball. The ball felt warm in my hand, very warm.

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “Just lovely.”

  I reached for the elaborate, filigreed copper base, which loomed like an altar of worship in front of me. It was light as a feather, to my surprise. I expected heft, real weight, but it was so delicate and fine––as if webbed of gossamer, its only mass the burden of its long sad history in evil hands.

  I turned the base over. It was just as beautiful on the underside, where few would ever look.

  There! Just at the very center, a tiny inscription. I held it closer.

  B K 42

  I spun around, my blood pressure suddenly in the realm of an imminent stroke.

  “You bastard! This is my grandmother’s, the crystal ball Josef Mengele took from her at the Birkenau Death Camp!”

  Fellini fell back a step. “Hans, calm down. You are mistaken. It’s just a crystal ball on a pretty base. A relic, nothing more.”

  I worked to keep my voice down, reduced it to a growl. “A relic? You are absolutely right, you son of a bitch. It is a relic, a relic whose copper base was carved by my great-grandfather, Besnik Komoroff, in 1942 when he gave it to my grandmother, Luludji Krietzman.

  “Look,” I said, holding up the base. “His initials are on the bottom: ‘B K’—Besnik Komoroff. And ‘42’—the year he made it. See?”

  Fellini was mute, his countenance stricken. He knew. God damn him! He knew!

  “Magie Sehar Luludji, my grandmother, was known in Hamburg and to us Romani. Do you have any idea what this precious ‘relic’ means to my family? What it stands for, to us?”

  “Please, Hans,” he said. “Please. You are mistaken. Calm yourself. Sit, please, and let’s talk about this. I’m sure there is some reasonable explanation.”

  He moved towards me, slowly, as if afraid I would attack.

  “May I see it, please?” He reached for the base. “Please, Hans, let me see the base.”

  Reluctantly, I relaxed my death grip on the crystal ball so that I was only gripping it, not squeezing it as if my hands were a vise. Marco walked over to a wingback chair and sat down, staring at the underside of the base. He motioned me to the chair opposite, and reached out for the ball, which I handed to him, equally reluctantly.

  “Hans,” he began, calmly, slowly. “I bought this at from a reputable antiquities dealer in Sao Paulo last September, when Sophia and I were on vacation. I would be happy to show you the receipt. Considering the artistry that went into its creation, particularly the copper base, I paid a pittance for it. I assure you Hans, it is a curiosity, a very pretty one, but it is nothing more.”

  “Where did the dealer get it? Did Mengele give it to him personally?”

  “No, of course not. In the first place, Mengele died in the seventies as I recall, before this dealer was even in business—before I was in business, for that matter. Much more importantly, the dealer is very reputable, as I said. He would never deal with anything connected to the Nazis, especially not a work of art stolen during the Holocaust. Nor would I. That would be professional suicide.”

  “Then how do you explain my great-grandfather’s initials, and the year, incised in its base.”

  He tried a little smile of tolerance. “I don’t know if you noticed, but the initials and the year are very precise, very even. That indicates to me that they were pressed into the base by a metal stamp, which tells me that many bases just like this one were produced in 1942, all with the same stamped initials and date. Which would indicate it came from a factory.”

  “That’s preposterous. This is Luludji Krietzman’s crystal ball, Fellini, and you know it.”

  “Hans, please. Be reasonable. Do you have any documentation of that? Any at all? A picture, perhaps? Any kind of proof of what you’re saying?”

&nbs
p; “I’ve just showed you the proof,” I said. “Besnik Komoroff’s initials.”

  “Those could be anyone’s initials, or even the factory’s mark, Hans.”

  I was losing control of this exchange. Fellini was being much too calm, relentlessly reasonable. He had admitted nothing. What could I do?

  “So you say this isn’t my grandmother’s crystal ball and that its base was not carved by my great-grandfather.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, and without any proof at all to the contrary, I’m afraid you will just have to accept that as the truth. Any reasonable man would.”

  “So you expect me to just leave this here, with you. My family’s most treasured possession. I cannot do that.”

  “You have no choice!” he said, raising his voice for the first time. “But I must say I’m really quite impressed with your performance. You obviously came here under false pretenses, but you had me fooled.

  “Now I see you were just trying to get something for nothing, like so many others of your ilk. You are nothing but a thief who is carrying some cheap ‘Gypsy’ trinket in that bag of yours, probably from China, hoping to trade it for something of value, with a bizarre story no one could believe. I doubt that you even have a wife, much less one who just died, and I’ll give ten to one odds that you don’t even know Frankie Manning. I would give larger odds that your name is not even Hans.”

  He stood. “So now you will pack up all your lies in your pathetic bag with your pathetic trinket and leave.”

  “You bastard,” I said, gritting my teeth. I rose, shaking, to my feet, and by a great effort of will managed not to throttle him. “You will not get away with this, Fellini. I will see to that, to be sure. The Gypsy curse on your crystal ball will ensure that evil will befall you, but that won’t happen fast enough. I will sue you and your business and I will contact the papers and inside of a week everyone in New York will know what you have done, that you are not only a common, ordinary criminal but an extraordinarily evil man who traffics in goods stolen by Nazis. You have not heard the last from me.”