“Yit’gadal v’yit’kadash sh’mei raba,” his father said through his tears.
Aunt Gerda wore the sorriest face Jacob had ever seen and he had seen some sorry faces in the ghetto. “The baby wouldn’t stop crying and the soldiers were there. I’m sorry, Jacob. He would have died anyway.”
Jacob’s father finished the prayer and then he pried the still baby from Aunt Gerda’s arms. He gave a long lingering look, planted a kiss on its forehead and covered its face with the blanket. Jacob’s eyes followed his father as he walked along the ledge to where the water was deepest. He saw him put his baby brother into the water and watched as the solitary figure disappeared beneath the surface into the dank darkness of the sewer.
The next day the soldiers returned. They opened the manhole cover, went down the ladder and found the six of them. Immediately, the soldiers covered their faces and complained about the stink. “Verfluchte Juden,” they said. Nudging them with the butts of their rifles, they marched the group up the ladder. One by one. They wouldn’t let any of them help Jacob’s mother, who was still bleeding from the birth.
It was August and the air was hot. When they emerged from the sewer none of them could open their eyes because the sun was too bright. Jacob’s eyes hurt so much that he had to cover them with his hands and even his skin hurt with the sudden heat. He looked at his father, but the man he saw just then wasn’t his father. Jacob didn’t see a tailor and a fixer of sewing machines. He didn’t see a man who could make the crooked line of a shirt straight by merely putting it on. What he saw was a broken man in tattered clothes with a dead face of stone.
The Germans said the ghetto was now Judenrein. Free of Jews. They called the Jews pigs and vermin, and they spit on them. Jacob wanted to know what happened to his friend Father Kasinski, but he didn’t dare ask. He was too frightened. The next day Jacob, his parents, his Aunt Gerda, and Zivia and Romek were all on a train heading to a new place.
Auschwitz.
17
Jack’s alarm went off at seven o’clock. He opened his eyes and felt sluggish. Despite his airs, he couldn’t get used to all this business about being a hundred years old. It was a number that belonged to Methusalah. None of his friends had lived that long and no one in his family. There were more centenarians than ever, but the age still came with a stigma. It meant you were ancient, a dinosaur, a relic from an earlier time that people didn’t understand and didn’t even want to understand. But shouldn’t Jack be thankful that he had lived so long? Hadn’t God saved him when so many others were taken? But God also made him an orphan at the age of five or was it four? Jack didn’t know. He never knew exactly what happened to his parents or when it happened. Only that they met a horrible end.
All these years he had lived without parents, siblings, cousins. Not one single relative. It meant orphanages and homes with strangers and such deep scars that not a day went by when he didn’t think about his mother and his father and the time they had together. It was so little time and even that had been a prison for them. Why would a merciful God let Jack survive only to wallow in a bog of guilt where the strands of his earliest memories tugged like ghosts reaching out day after day after day? Pulling him in to join the dead where he belonged.
He had been living like this for ninety-five years.
He left his room, headed down the hall to the elevator, and passed a door with a message taped to it. A different message was posted on this door every day. God promises a safe landing, not a calm passage. That was today’s message. Trudy, the woman who lived there, always wore a smile.
Jack made his way further down the hall and caught the elevator where he found Eric, eighty-seven and a widower like him. He was a man who never said much, just a nod or a shrug. Jack said hello, but got nothing in return and then, a few seconds into their ride, a sign of life.
“What makes you think you’re so special?” Eric said.
“Excuse me?” said Jack.
“You know what I’m talking about. You think you’re the only one who suffered? You think no one else deserves any pity?”
“Pity?”
“Yes pity. What makes you think you’re so special?”
“What are you talking about?”
The elevator doors opened and Eric marched off in a huff to the dining room. Jack followed him through the lobby with the yellow-brown wallpaper on the wall and the red floor that was painted like that so you could see it. The first person he bumped into was Trudy, the one who put all those messages on her door.
“Good morning, Jack,” she said. “How are you today? Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Trudy was always smiling, but never had much to say. Nothing of substance. It was usually the weather or the Yankees or politicians or how the coffee they served in the dining room was never hot enough, but she was a lot more pleasant than Eric had been in the elevator.
“Good morning, Trudy,” said Jack. “I’ll try for that safe landing.”
“You do that,” and she gave him a warm smile. It would be the only smile he would see all day.
The next person he bumped into was a woman he admired. Linda was a few years short of the Hundred Club, but carried herself with the dignity of a well-preserved seventy-five. She could pass for that.
“Good morning, Linda,” Jack said.
“Hmmph,” was all she said.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I heard about that story in the Times. Everyone has heard about it. You think you’re a big celebrity? Well you’re not.”
Jack was horrified. The reporter, a young English grad from Columbia, wanted to know about the ghettos and the camps, so he told him. He told him about the Zyklon gas and the death chambers and the ovens. He told him about Dr. Mengele and the experiments with children. He told him about the six million.
Jack went to the far corner of the dining room, to the faces he knew at his table by the window. Fred, eighty-something and not well, got around with a walker. He always wore a scowl and Jack figured it was because no ladies ever took an interest. Patricia, a retired schoolteacher and also in her eighties, often shared stories with Jack. They talked about their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Then there was Rachel, a friendly Jewish woman approaching ninety and recently confined to a mobiler.
“We are honored to have you join us for breakfast,” Rachel said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Thank you for educating us about the war and for telling me how to live my life.”
“What do you mean?” said Jack.
“You paint yourself as the ultimate victim and you’re not even Jewish!”
Jack sat down and examined his place setting. A glass of orange juice and an empty plate. A bright green napkin. And the cutlery set up nice and tidy. The waitress arrived and filled their plates with scrambled eggs and toast.
“Hey girl, no butter for me,” Rachel said.
“She’s new,” said Fred. “She doesn’t know.”
Jack began to eat when Patricia of all people tore into him.
“Those things you said in that story. You shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t have said those things.”
“What things?”
“That bit about ovens and gas chambers. No one wants to hear that.”
“But it’s true.”
A voice from the next table. “Who said so?” It was Linda.
“I find that strange coming from you,” said Jack, turning to face her. “You know these things happened. You’re just as old as me.”
Linda glared back. “I am not. I’m ninety-four and you … as everyone on God’s green earth knows … are a hundred.”
So that was it, the celebrity status that went with his one hundredth birthday, and the revelation about being a survivor.
“Linda, when were you born?” Jack asked her.
“Nineteen-forty five. Why?”
“And you’re telling me the holocaust never happened? I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“It was a hundred years ago,” she said. “How’s your memory Jack? You don’t even know what you ate yesterday.”
“Are you denying it? Are you saying it never happened?”
“What she’s saying is you like to embellish things. You do, Jack. You tend to exaggerate.”
It was Fred. He always resented Jack because women found him charming.
“I don’t exaggerate,” retorted Jack. “When do I exaggerate?”
“All the time.”
“Give me an example.”
“I can give you six million examples.”
Rachel piped up. “What upsets me most is that you’re not even Jewish and you pretend to be a victim.”
“I was a victim! I still am! I’ve been a victim my whole life!”
“What were you doing in those camps if you weren’t Jewish?”
“That’s not all,” said Fred. “What was all that business about soap?”
“Soap?” said Jack.
“Soap being made into lampshades.”
“That was in the story,” said Patricia. “And toenails made into paper … and teeth … human teeth … taken from people and carved into art.”
“What?” said Jack.
Patricia nodded her head.
“I never said anything like that,” Jack told them.
“So where’d he get it from?” said Patricia.
“InfoLink,” said Rachel.
“What?” Jack said.
“InfoLink. You don’t know what it is? Well finally there is something that Jack Fisher doesn’t know. My nephew told me about it. When you want to find out something you go to InfoLink. It’s all there. When Allan saw the story in the Times …”
“Who’s Allan?” said Jack.
“My nephew. Aren’t you listening? When he saw the story in the Times he went on InfoLink and read about soap being made into lampshades and the toenails business. What did they do with toenails anyway?”
“They turned the toenails into paper,” said Fred.
“And what was that other thing about teeth?”
“They took out your teeth and carved it into art. It was sculpture.”
“Yes teeth. It’s all there on InfoLink. If you want to know about it just ask Allan.”
“I don’t know what any of you are talking about,” said Jack. “I never told him anything like that. I never heard of these things. I heard about the skin and lampshades but I don’t know if it was true. But teeth and toenails? What the hell is all that?”
“It was in the story,” said Fred.
“Yes,” said Rachel, “and if it didn’t come from you where did it come from?”
“It must be InfoLink,” said Patricia.
“What if InfoLink is full of crap?” said Fred.
Jack had never heard of InfoLink, but was inclined to agree with Fred. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know anything about this with toenails and teeth. Yes the Nazis took out teeth … gold teeth … they did that to everyone before they killed them … but they didn’t take out all your teeth. Why would they do that?”
“I know why,” said Fred. “They took out your good teeth and used them in place of their bad teeth. With cavities. That makes sense.”
Jack looked at him wide-eyed. “I think you’re crazy.”
“You’re calling me crazy?”
The four of them, their energy sapping with every word they spoke, returned to the breakfast laid out before them. Their forks picked at the scrambled eggs. Their dentures munched on the slices of toast. And their juice glasses sat full, the fleeting sips cutting through the deadly silence.
18
“Is that Lieutenant Hodgson?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Jack Fisher. You came to see me the other day about my great-granddaughter Christine.”
“I did.”
“I got another message from her this morning.”
“This morning?”
“About ten minutes ago. If I can get hold of a nurse I’ll have her send it to you. Hello? Are you there? Lieutenant Hodgson?”
“I’m here.”
“Do you want to see it? This message I mean. It’s one of those 3D things.”
“If you got it I want to see it. You could have one of the nurses send it to me. You still have my card, don’t you?”
“It’s right here on my night table. She seems excited about something but she doesn’t look too well.”
“You know what, Mr. Fisher? On second thought maybe it would be better if I just come over there myself.”
“If you like.”
“I think that would be better. You’re at that residence in the village?”
“The Greenwich Village Seniors Center. She’s all right, isn’t she? Christine I mean.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
……………………………………………………………………….
Jack sensed something was wrong when three people showed up at his door. There was Mary Lou his director of care, the mammoth Lieutenant Hodgson, and a woman he didn’t know.
“Mr. Fisher,” said Hodgson. “This is Kathy Sottario. She’s a police officer with the NYPD.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jack said. She flashed him her badge.
Mary Lou asked Jack if he was all right. Then she said she would excuse herself, but if Jack wanted anything he could page her.
“Thank you,” said Jack and with that Mary Lou was gone.
“We’d like to see that 3DE,” Hodgson said. “Let’s get that out of the way first.”
Jack ushered his two visitors into the room. Hodgson shut the door behind them.
“Is Christine all right?” Jack said.
Hodgson pointed to the box. Jack flipped open the lid, pressed the button, and there she was. Christine. With some papers in her hand.
“Hello Jack. I said I’d be getting back to you. Remember? Well I hope you’re sitting down because this is fantastic. I’ve been digging into these old records. I’ll bet you didn’t know they existed. I’m talking about the population registry books kept by the Judenrat. Am I saying that right? Judenrat? It sounds funny. These registries are all about the Lodz ghetto when you were a boy. They survived the war and have the names of everyone. I have here in my hands the page with your family. The Klukowsky family. Let me read it for you. Klukowsky, Samuel Icek … that’s your father and I hope I’m saying his name right … born in 1912 in Lodz. The address was Basargasse 24. Klukowsky, Bela Chana … your mother … born in 1915 in Lodz … same address. And you Jack. It says right here … Klukowsky, Jacob … born in 1939 in Lodz … same address again … Basargasse 24. Then there’s another column with the place of deportation and … extermination. That’s what it says. A lot of people from Lodz went to the death camp in Chelmno but everyone in your family wound up in Auschwitz-Birkenau. So I searched some more and this is what I found. The Official German Record of Prisoners in Auschwitz Concentration Camp. May 1940 to December 1944. You were right about those Germans, Jack. They kept records of everything. Year by year. Month by month. They have tables of … let’s see … non-Jewish prisoners entering Auschwitz … total typhus deaths in Auschwitz … Jewish typhus deaths in Auschwitz … deaths by natural causes for Jews and non-Jews … transfers for Jews and non-Jews …and this one … administrative executions. They have dates for that. And there are lists … long lists … of names. In August 1944 more than sixty-five thousand Jews from the Lodz ghetto were deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau including you and your parents and your aunt and your two cousins. I found all six names. I have more to tell you so I put together a package and it includes a little surprise. I even gift-wrapped it for you. Consider it a belated birthday present for your one hundredth. I know you’re coming to Kitchener soon so I’m going to leave it for you in our old hiding place. You know where it is. Love you Jack. Your little Christine.”
When it was over, the woman officer with Hodgson took hold of Jack’s hand, and it made him uncomfortable. He was
never one for people touching him, especially people he didn’t know.
“This is very interesting,” she said. “Look, Mr. Fisher, we still haven’t heard from Christine. The only one who has is you. She hasn’t been in touch with her parents or her sister.”
“So?” said Jack.
“Well, it does seem odd, doesn’t it? That she hasn’t been in touch with those who are closest to her. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
“I don’t know. Christine is a big girl. She doesn’t live with them. She has her own place.”
“She lives alone?”
“No. She lives with a friend.”
The woman and Hodgson exchanged glances.
“A friend?” the woman said. “And who is that?”
“Her girlfriend. They have their own place. I met her once or twice.”
“What is her friend’s name?” Hodgson said.
“I forget,” said Jack.
“Can you tell us anything about her?”
“Not really. They live together in a house.”
“Is she also a teacher?” asked the woman. “Like Christine?”
Jack thought for a moment. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
Jack’s eyes weren’t the best, but he caught how the woman was looking at him. As if she didn’t believe him.
“Mr. Fisher,” she said. “We’ve been in touch with Christine’s family and no one mentioned anything about Christine living with a friend. Now why is that?”
“I don’t know. They share the rent. It’s cheaper that way.”
“I’m sure it is but how come her mother didn’t tell us about that?”
“Emma? She’s a strange woman that one.”
“Christine’s mother?” said Hodgson. “Why is she strange?”
“She’s a nurse who thinks she invented the cure for every disease known to man. And she’s old-fashioned.”
“Old-fashioned?” said the woman. “What do you mean?”
Jack hesitated.
The Last Witness Page 11