“The Jewish one. You know. With the six million dead.”
“My uncle said it wasn’t like that. That it’s exaggerated.”
“Some people say that.”
“What if they’re right?”
“She wouldn’t lie about something like that.”
“Who?”
“My great aunt. She says it happened just like they say.”
“But how does she know? She wasn’t alive then, was she? You say this guy Jack Fisher might be the last one … the last survivor … ”
“The Jews say it happened.”
The nineteen-year-old who wrote a blog for the NYU Hotline was playing with his mini, checking his 3DEs. “Of course they do. But ask people who aren’t Jews and what do they say?”
“Like your uncle?”
“Yeah.”
“But there’s all kinds of stuff about it. Information I mean.”
“Look, I can find information about a lot of things … even things that never happened. Once I was supposed to write this bit about a leopard that escaped from the zoo. People said it was running through Central Park. There were even sightings! We checked it out and it never happened. There were never any leopards in the zoo but still there were sightings! People called the police. They said they saw it.”
“So did they?”
“They think they did. Someone hears about it and the next thing you know you got witnesses. It’s like things from outer space. You remember all those reports about aliens right after the Mars mission? I mean the first manned one? Remember that?”
His friend nodded with an agreeable sigh.
“Exactly. People see what they want to see and they believe what they want to believe.” He passed his thumb over the surface of his mini as he talked, 3D images popping up by the second only to disappear a moment later.
“Those death camps were supposed to be real.”
“I don’t know if any of them are around anymore and just because they were doesn’t mean that’s what they were for. Killing people, I mean. They could’ve been used for anything.”
“Like what?”
“A factory. There was a war going on, right? They had tanks in those days. Maybe they made tanks there. Or guns. It could have been anything. A munitions factory. That doesn’t seem so far-fetched.”
“Wait a minute. You’re forgetting something. We’re talking about millions of people.”
“Yeah but if you want to kill millions of people why round them up and stick them in camps? Why not put them in one place and drop a smart bomb on them? Boom! They’re gone and it’s all over.” With that, he keyed in ‘smart bomb’ on his mini. “Here. Look. It tells you how to make a precision-guided missile with a laser sensor.” He held up his mini and in the air was a 3D image of all the components for a smart bomb. “See? Like I say. Boom and it’s over.”
“You’re forgetting they didn’t have stuff like that in those days,” said his friend, nodding to the mini. “Besides, it would take a lot of smart bombs to kill that many people.”
“Not if you got them altogether in one spot.”
“You mean a stadium or a place like that?”
“Maybe.”
“You’d need a lot of stadiums.”
“You would. But say you put a hundred thousand people in there. The next day you bring in another hundred thousand and the next day another hundred thousand. In ten days you kill a million people. It’s possible. Do that six times and you have your six million.”
“But the stadium would be gone too.”
“Not if you use gas. All the people are dead but the stadium is ready for the next day.”
“It would have to be enclosed.”
“So enclose it.”
“But you think moving a million people is so easy? You don’t know how many people that is. It’s a whole city. But maybe that’s what they had those camps for. To organize them. Before they killed them, I mean.”
“I don’t know but let’s talk to this guy and see what he says.”
“Don’t forget he is a hundred years old. Who knows what he can remember? And if his hearing’s gone maybe his memory is too.”
The woman at reception tossed them a wave and said she got through to the nurse’s station on Jack Fisher’s floor. That would be the sixth floor of the Greenwich Village Seniors Center. Fair to limited mobility. Mild to severe osteoarthritis. Early onset stages of dementia.
“Jack is resting in his room right now. At his age he’s always resting. I guess he didn’t hear the phone but like I say he’s hard of hearing. He’s a real sweetheart though. He always says hello and he always asks how I’m doing.”
“So can we see him?”
“You’re lucky. It’s a good time for him right now because it’s between breakfast and lunch. You see their day … their whole life … revolves around meals so here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to have Mary Lou Bennett … she’s our Director of Care … take you up but you may have to wake him. He tends to fall asleep real easy. God I wish I could do that.”
“No problem.”
“Mary Lou will stay in the room with you a few minutes just to make sure he’s comfortable. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No. We don’t have any secrets. We just want to see what NYU was like eighty years ago, that’s all.”
He smiled and she smiled right back. “Jack at NYU. That’s a good one. I like that. Mary Lou will be right with you.”
4
Christine Fisher rushed through the hall of her school to the parking lot. She was in a frenzy. She was carrying a hardcover book – a dinosaur – and a bag with her portable e-book reader. There were hundreds of titles in it. She climbed into her car and threw everything into the seat beside her. She had charged the power cell that morning with just enough mileage for this trip. Christine was always frugal that way. Never one to waste. She got behind the wheel and waited for the onboard computer to recognize her.
‘Hello Christine. Driving conditions are ideal today.’
The car started itself and she was off. She took Regional Road 22 out of town, crossed the Conestoga River and headed north through the rolling hills and farmers’ fields, the silos and barns, the signs advertising fresh maple syrup and the lonely cows on either side of the road. The hills soon gave way to flat open land and she liked the fact she could get lost in the country in fifteen minutes flat. Up a bit more and the image of a deer appeared on the screen of her dashboard. The voice of her computer came on again.
‘Be careful. It’s not far off the roadway, about two kilometers up number 22.’
Sure enough, a moment later the deer appeared at the side of the road, but one glimpse of the car and it ran off, disappearing through the grasses. Christine watched and then there was that familiar sign – ‘Christ died for the ungodly’ – and further up the road another sign. It marked the boundary of the town of Salem, or as it more accurately noted, the Historic Hamlet of Salem. A few minutes longer and she pulled into the next town.
Elora.
It was a quiet community in the Southern Ontario countryside, an hour’s drive west of Toronto. Christine had been here countless times and was familiar with the old stucco homes that sat beside the road not too far off, but then again they were, and for all she knew they could have belonged to the original settlers. They looked ancient enough.
She was twenty-five, a teacher at Williamsburg Senior Public School, part of the Upper Grand District School Board, and she was a very good teacher, too. At least, she wanted to be. If only they would let her. She often wore a sharp edge about her, but today it was a razor.
Christine loved the drive to Elora. It was an escape, a respite from the hustle of the busy work week at school, and she liked the people here. They were different, not in as much of a hurry, and she knew all about them. She had always been a voracious reader and more than anything it was history that intrigued her. People intrigued her. Where did they come from? What did they do? How did they han
dle their hardships? But for people in Wellington County, life was good. The area was teeming with families that went back one and even two centuries. Elora was typical.
It was full of stone buildings, shops and eateries with names resonating from the past. Antiques Arts Books. Shepherd’s Pub. The Yarn Bird and Kids Boutique. In the center of town they all came one after the other in a streetscape that looked make-believe. The shops were connected in a long building that rose from the ground on a base of stone slabs and brick. There were creaky doors and window frames of weathered wood, and signs for businesses hanging from wrought-iron arms that swayed effortlessly in the breeze. The sidewalk in front of the shops was uneven with a gentle slope leading to the street, its stylish bricks sitting as pieces of a puzzle, the odd piece missing, and behind this ramshackle collection was the unmistakeable sound of rushing water from the Grand River.
Christine knew the corner of Metcalfe and Mill Streets well. Right across the road was the Elora Mews with more shops still. A kabob house called Jenny’s Place. The Enduring Elegance Gift Boutique. The Karger Gallery with its fine pottery and artwork. All of them had been around for years. Beyond the shops was the Elora Mill Inn where the water was loud and the wind strong. She spotted an elegant swan riding the current to where the water began to drop and it looked as if it might go over the edge and down the waterfall, but at the last moment it turned around and swam back the other way. Like most everything in Elora, the five-storey inn – a veritable skyscraper in these parts – stood on a foundation of stone. One glance and anyone could tell it was old with long meandering vines climbing up the side all the way to the roof.
This was the site of the original mill dating from the nineteenth century. Christine knew all about it. In 1832 the founder of the town purchased fourteen thousand acres near the falls for two and a half dollars an acre. He wanted to build a mill, but died. Ten years later, when the village had two dozen families, a carpenter became the fledgling community’s first miller and did his thing on two acres set aside for him. These two acres. When the U.S. Civil War broke out south of the border, Elora had a thriving population of twelve hundred people. It was all there in the historical record, and Christine knew as well as anyone that history mattered.
Further along where the water was even louder – its dull rush had mushroomed into a boisterous thrashing – stood the gates to the lookout. Here, amid the pungent smell of lavender and the mighty roar of rapids below, she could peer out onto the gorge. It was spectacular, but not as spectacular as further to the west where the Grand and Irvine Rivers met. If you had never seen it before, the site was something to behold.
Christine parked her car and grabbed the old hardcover book she had placed in the seat beside her. She walked into the old building where the mill once stood and headed downstairs to the dining room with the rushing water running just outside the window. She could hear it. The sign on the doorway with Rules of This Tavern bid a quaint hello to all who ventured in:
Four pence a night for Bed
Six pence with Supper
No more than five to sleep in one bed
No Boots to be worn in bed
Organ Grinders to sleep in the Work house
No dogs allowed upstairs
No Beer allowed in the Kitchen
No Razor Grinders or Tinkers taken in.
It was called The Gorge Lounge and its stone walls, cosy fireplace and grand piano offered the ambiance of a country retreat. The waiter arrived and Christine ordered her favorite meal – organic green salad, a main course of tomatoes filled with chickpeas and spinach, all of it washed down with a glass of red wine. So delicious and sad. The wine tasted good and made her a bit queasy, and then she was finished, leaving not a thing, not a morsel, and it was almost as if no one had eaten off the plate at all.
She placed her tip on the table, left the building and walked two minutes up Mill Street before turning onto Metcalfe. One block north she turned again, passed a string of old homes and ventured into the park. She waded through the thick underbrush, dodging in and out among the long narrow trees, and headed for the gorge. A wire fence was at the pathway’s edge, but it was easy to lean over and look onto the rocks below. There was a warning. UNSUPERVISED AREA – USE AT OWN RISK. Then she walked down the six slab steps to the end of the concrete where a low-lying, stone wall served as the barrier.
It was called Lover’s Leap Lookout, but that was just a name. Still, Christine knew that people had jumped into the gorge. It was a serene place to end it with the trees, the sky and the water. She was all alone, accompanied only by her thoughts.
Her great-grandfather Jack was a hundred years old and he more than anyone inspired her to become a history teacher. He had so much history in him, a hundred years of it, and while much of it was good – the life he had built, the family he and his wife had raised, the grandchildren and great-grandchildren – there was that other part. The nightmare. That was how he once described it to her. The total nightmare of his childhood. But then it wasn’t a childhood, was it? That had been stolen from him, cut off and snuffed out before it even began. When he first told her about it, she found it hard to believe. Who could believe such things? Who would want to believe such things? No one wanted to think things like that really happened. It was better, safer, easier to simply forget and pretend it wasn’t so.
She had the book, the one she hated so much. She lifted it over her head as if passing sentence, and with smug satisfaction tossed it over the wall right into the gorge. The pages filtered through the air, slowing the speed of descent, and it seemed such a long time to drop a mere hundred feet or so. Such a long time to die. She watched the book strike the rocks and skip into the water before disappearing below the surface. She heard it, too. The fluttering of the windswept pages as the book fell. The harsh thud when its spine hit the rocks. The soft, but sharp plop when the river swallowed it whole. She stood there, looking into space, drawn to that familiar stone wall, and realized just then that the time had come.
A young girl was sitting on the ground behind the trees eating a sandwich. Off in the distance through the thick brush, she could see someone standing at the edge of Lover’s Leap Lookout. She thought it was a woman. The girl saw her throw something into the gorge, but she didn’t know what. Peering through the trees, through the slender rising columns of bark and panoply of leaves, the girl watched the solitary figure stand there for the longest time and then she saw her climb up onto the ledge. The girl put her sandwich down.
Standing on the narrow ledge, Christine steadied herself with her arms at her sides as if she were a bird. That’s what she was. A bird. It wasn’t easy, but then she knew it wouldn’t be. She had always known that, ever since she was little. How odd that one’s sense of balance is suddenly so precarious when you look down and it’s such a long way to the bottom.
The girl watched as the solitary figure kept standing on that uncertain ledge. It was hard to see. And the girl stared in disbelief at what happened next.
For a few seconds, Christine’s life hung suspended between two worlds. It was an in-between place. She would never know if it was a sudden rush of wind that came from behind or what, but it was just enough to lift her into that space where her arms became her pages. Her wings. Just like the book, they, too, fluttered in the air, and for one precious moment engulfed in absolute peace she found herself in a state of complete euphoria. It was perfect. Nothing but sheer freedom with only her body and the air to guide her. How wonderful. How strange. And just like that it was gone.
5
The knee was made of titanium. It wasn’t a new substance, but it was still the best. It had been a few weeks since the surgery and the thing felt stiff, but the doctors said it would be like that. The pain had been terrible the first few days, but has since subsided and now the biggest problem was getting used to the feel of a new joint. It didn’t feel like the old one. The old knee was in bad shape, tired and worn out from holding up that big load all those years
, and why it was the right knee and not the left no one ever knew. There was constant pain in that knee from the arthritis – severe arthritis they called it – and one thing they all agreed on was that it wouldn’t get any better. A knee replacement was the only tangible option – the surgeon had stressed the word tangible – and besides, Jack Hodgson still had a lot of years left.
“How are we doing, Lieutenant?” the doctor said.
“Not bad. Considering I have a new leg.”
“Not a new leg. Just a new knee. I don’t do legs.”
Hodgson squeezed his massive frame into the chair. It was a chair built for a normal human being, not a man who stood six-foot-five and weighed three hundred and thirty pounds. At least, that was what he weighed before the surgery. Walking into the room, he dwarfed the doctor – he did that to people – and it wasn’t so much his height but the bulk that he carried around with him. It was his ball on a chain. The load had become his prison.
“Eating well?” the doctor asked.
Hodgson nodded. “Back to normal.”
“Then that’s not good. The whole point was to eat better, exercise and get control of your weight. I believe our goal was two-seventy-five.”
“Our goal?”
“You know what I mean. It was two-seventy-five, wasn’t it?”
“Doc, I haven’t weighed that since I was eighteen.”
“Look Lieutenant, I gave you that chart. Have you been following it? With all the fruits and vegetables?”
“I eat fruits and vegetables.”
“Yes but what else are you eating?”
Hodgson didn’t say anything. The doctor smirked.
“Let’s check your weight,” he said.
“Not on that scanner. I don’t like that thing. It takes half a second and tells you how much you weigh. It doesn’t give you any time to prepare yourself.”
“I have a scale if you like. It still works. Want to use that?”
Hodgson said he did. The doctor led him into the next room and said to take a seat. The old scale was on wheels, and apart from a little dust, in good working order. The doctor took a cloth and wiped it off before giving a nod to Hodgson who grudgingly got up from the chair. His right knee with the new titanium joint didn’t take to the task with the dexterity of his left.
The Last Witness Page 2