Marcelus had wanted Paul to become a policeman, and as a child Paul had had fantasies about wearing a uniform, carrying a gun, and catching the bad guys. Paul had belonged to the Police Athletic League, and Marcelus was an honorary “pal” and a volunteer soccer coach.
During his high school years Paul was a mischievous adolescent, fistfighting, always getting in trouble over girls, and drinking. He was known for his short temper, loud voice, and cursing. At the slightest provocation his face would flush a bright crimson and the veins on his neck would protrude.
Marcelus knew that Paul had his first sexual experience at fourteen—with an older cheerleader—and it made him proud. Paul had his first suspension from school at fifteen. Nothing all that serious—at least in Marcelus’s view. Just a fistfight with a classmate. In fact, Marcelus admired Paul’s spunk. “At least he’s not a fag, like some of those kids with glasses who sit in the library all day,” he would brag to his buddies at the Lithuanian club.
Then everything had changed. Paul’s high school coach arranged for a football scholarship to Holy Cross, where Paul played freshman football and studied history. Marcelus remained in close touch with Paul during his freshman year. In his sophomore year Paul registered for a class in twentieth-century European history. Halfway through the semester the teacher began to lecture on the Soviet and German occupations of the Baltic nations, including Lithuania. After the second lecture Paul dropped the course and told his father that he was changing his major to government. Soon thereafter he quit football and became a serious student. His interest was prelaw. He began to grow apart from his father. In the middle of his sophomore year he met his future wife, an Irish Catholic woman from South Boston, and went steady with her throughout college and law school, driving him even further away from Marcelus. He attended Boston College Law School and then opened a small criminal law practice in Salem. He married, bought a modest home, and settled down a few blocks from Marcelus.
Though Paul remained in close physical proximity to his father, it was not like high school. But even though he had taken a different path, the old man rejoiced that his son had chosen to settle down a stone’s throw from his father, especially since it gave the old man the opportunity to see his grandson every day.
Paul was now a professional. He had a first-rate Catholic school education, which had emphasized the teachings of the social gospel. He dressed like a lawyer, talked with an educated accent, and reflected the progressive beliefs of many in his generation of Catholics. He was married to a woman who looked ten years older than she was, and he remained faithful to her despite her diminishing interest in sex and his many opportunities and increasing appetites. Countless times Marcelus had commented on his son’s wasted opportunities, assuring him that “what a man’s wife doesn’t know won’t hurt anyone.” Yet something in his father’s attitude made Paul steadfast in his own fidelity.
From the time he enrolled in law school, Paul always spoke in a near whisper, to the point where people had to cup their ears to hear him. It was almost as if he had adopted this manner of speech in reaction to his youthful bravado. Indeed, his entire adult personality seemed calculated to control his childhood exuberance. Even his clothing reflected restraint. He always wore a suit, usually with a vest. His bulging muscles made his clothing seem tight and constraining. He tried hard to look utterly conventional—well mannered, soft-spoken, modest, and conservative.
Beneath his three-piece suit, his lawyerly demeanor, and his close family life, however, there was a controlled rage. Women at work viewed him as virile but shy, waiting to burst out of his self-imposed constraints. He was never flirtatious and tried not to send any message of availability, though his good looks and athletic body made him a subject of water-cooler banter. Only Paul knew how tightly wound he was and how tenuous was his control over his inner turmoil. Something was eating at him, but he did not want to know what it was. He would never seek counseling. He was satisfied to live his life of external contentment—to control his passions—without addressing the internal conflicts. He feared that someday, something might happen that would cause the rage within him to erupt. He hoped to be able to postpone it for as long as possible. So far it was working tolerably well. His wife, his son, his friends, and his colleagues saw an apparently well-balanced, normal, contented man.
Marcelus knew that Paul was in conflict with himself. He had seen the change. He could feel the tension. He had loved the young Paul—the rambunctious Paul, the Paul who had been so much like the young Marcelus. He felt uncomfortable with the older Paul—the elitist who lectured his father about the “true” teachings of Jesus and the social gospel, which Marcelus characterized as “liberal bullshit disguised as Christianity.”
Birthdays were the favorite time for family gatherings. Christmas and Easter always ended in arguments over religion. There was nothing to argue about on birthdays. One of the children would recite a prayer, Marcelus would respond, thanking God for bringing him to America, remembering his parents, and hoping for a good year, and after that the subject of religion was closed. There were a few family traditions, such as the uncovering of the turkey. When Marcelus’s wife, Greta, was alive, she always insisted on a ham for birthdays, because she did not know how to cook a turkey properly. It always came out dry whatever she did, while her hams—made from an old country recipe—were succulent and flavorful. The year she died, Marcelus took it upon himself to learn to cook a moist turkey. Every year it got better, until by now it was “restaurant quality,” as Marcelus bragged. He loved to bring it in covered by a gigantic silver food warmer. Everyone at the table had to stand in rapt attention as Marcelus lifted the warmer, revealing the golden brown bird, which was then carried around the table to applause and oohs and ahs. The older grandchild was then honored by being invited to help Grandpa Chelli carve the ceremonial first slice of the breast.
“Come, Marc. You have the honor of the first slice. But be careful with the knife. It’s sharp.”
There was another family tradition as well. Marcelus Prandus would produce an old chalice from Lithuania and drink a toast from it. It was some kind of secret Jewish chalice, he explained, that “an old Jew once gave me for good luck.” Marcelus Prandus believed strongly in luck. After all, he was blessed with so much luck—a wonderful family, a good life. Even though he was now dying of cancer, he knew he was leaving behind a great legacy. Marcelus Prandus drank from the old chalice and prayed quietly for a painless death for himself and long lives for his children and grandchildren.
As the old man replaced the beautiful old chalice in its box, Paul wondered again why an old Jew would give so valuable a gift to his father.
This birthday party for Marcelus was a particularly poignant one for the Prandus family. It was the first since he had been diagnosed with cancer. Though no one spoke of it, the adults knew that this birthday party would be Grandpa Chelli’s last. He might make it to Christmas, his doctors told Paul, but it was unlikely that he would see Easter.
Despite this reality, or perhaps because of it, Marcelus Prandus was in a wonderful mood as he surveyed his family. If his death proved painful, he could bear it. He was a strong man, a man’s man. He did not fear death, though he knew that his entry through the pearly gates would not be an easy one. His priest, Father Grilius—the only person to whom he had confided his prior life—had assured him that salvation was possible for anyone and for any past deed, as long as he died in a state of grace. He was ready. He would spend his last weeks with his family at his side. Moreover he would die well, no whimpering or complaining, an example to his children and grandchildren. This was important to Marcelus Prandus.
Now, however, he wanted to enjoy this last birthday party with those he loved most. This feast would be the most joyous and festive of his life. “Drink up,” he demanded, passing around an old bottle of slivovitz, a strong Eastern European plum brandy. Paul sipped a bit and gagged at its 125-proof strength. Marcelus laughed. “Too much for you, Paul? In t
he old country, my father would drink it by the glass. You’re getting soft. That is not the Lithuanian way.”
Marcelus wanted his children and grandchildren to remember Grandpa Chelli presiding over the last birthday dinner before his death from cancer. Marcelus Prandus might die a lingering death, but he would die happy, knowing that he had produced a wonderful family that would carry on his name, his heritage, and his memory.
The meal was now over, and it was time for the birthday festivities. The old man blew out the candles on his cake. Everyone sang “Happy Birthday.” Marcelus sang a Lithuanian birthday song. It ended at six o’clock amid hugging and kissing. Marcelus left the house with a big smile, on his way to the Lithuanian Social Club a few blocks away.
The club was his link to the past, where he could talk to trusted friends about the old country. When the talk turned to the war, they always used euphemisms. The roundups and executions were of Communists, traitors, and parasites. The word Jew was rarely mentioned, except to complain about how much power they still had. They never discussed the children whom they had slaughtered or the families they had destroyed. There were no feelings of guilt to expiate. They had done what they had to do, and they did not dwell on it. No nightmares, no regrets. Life was good in America. The children didn’t have to be burdened with a past they could never understand. The world had quickly forgotten. Why should they have to remember? They were confident that the unpleasantness of the past would never rear its ugly head again.
Marcelus Prandus looked forward to an evening speaking Lithuanian with his old friends and reminiscing about the good old days when sons followed in their fathers’ footsteps.
Chapter 23
THE KIDNAPPING
The time had now arrived to bring in Marcelus Prandus so that he could see what was going to happen to his family. The birthday provided the perfect opportunity. It was easy for Danielle to position her station wagon on his route to the Lithuanian Social Club with the hood up.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said to the man who was whistling as he walked down the street. “I seem to be having a problem starting my car.”
“Happy to give a look. I used to own a car repair shop,” said the old man, tipping his hat politely.
When Marcelus lowered his head to peer into the engine, Danielle stuck a target pistol in his ribs. “Into the back of the car. Now. Don’t make a sound or I’ll put a bullet through this silencer.”
“Don’t shoot. I will do whatever you say,” Prandus replied nervously as he opened the door and sat down. Danielle got in next to him, keeping her pistol in his ribs.
Max appeared from around the corner, climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned the car in the direction of the Berkshires.
During the two-and-a-half-hour drive, Prandus kept asking what was happening to him. “I’m old and sick. I don’t have any money. You must have the wrong person.” It was dark, so Prandus could not get a good look at his driver.
Max didn’t know whether Prandus would recognize him, but it really didn’t matter. Danielle kept saying, “We’re not going to hurt you. We only want to show you something.”
At dusk they arrived at a small abandoned hunting cabin a few miles from Danielle’s summer cottage. It was deep in the woods, far from its closest neighbor. As soon as Prandus entered the cabin, he realized that he was in for a prolonged stay. It had been carefully prepared for his arrival. Blackout shades would keep the inside light from showing outside. The windows were all bolted shut and barred. There were no phones or other means of communicating with the outside world. The only appliance in view was a small television set with a built-in video player. Prandus concluded with relief that he was not going to be killed. Otherwise why would they have taken such pains to make the cabin ready for a lengthy stay?
Danielle tied the old man to a large oak chair. When she was finished binding his arms and legs, she announced, “It’s showtime. Here is the master of ceremonies.”
Max walked into the lighted room and looked Prandus directly in the eye. “Do you remember me?” he asked.
Marcelus Prandus looked at Max Menuchen for a full minute, racking his brain for a clue. “Your face is familiar,” he said tentatively. “Do I know you?”
“My name is Max Menuchen,” declared the man standing over the man bound to the chair. He paused, then, pointing an accusing finger at Prandus, he said in a somber voice, “You murdered my entire family in the Ponary Woods on April 2, 1942.” His gaze was steely. “You made us dig our own grave. Your only mistake is that you did not succeed in killing me. I clawed my way out. I have waited for more than fifty years to have my revenge. Now I will have it.”
“Oh, my God, I, I don’t know what you are talking about,” Prandus stuttered in panic. “You must have the wrong person.” Forcing a smile, he continued, “Prandus is a common name. I had a cousin who was sent back to Lithuania. It was him, not me. You must let me go. I will help you find him.”
“I could never forget your eyes!” Max bellowed as his hand, with a will of its own, smashed against Prandus’s face. It was the first time Max had ever hit anyone in his life. Prandus cringed in fear, not from the force of the blow, but from Max’s words. As he watched the powerful man’s face twitch, Max heard King Lear’s terrible words: “Tremble, thou wretch, that hast within thee undivulged crimes unwhipped of justice . . .”
“It wasn’t me. My cousin looks just like me, and he has the same name. I helped Jews during the war. The Greenbergs, the Levines, the Blooms. I helped them. Please. Please. Don’t hurt me.”
“We are going to hurt you, more than you can imagine. We are going to make you feel what I felt. You will suffer as I did, as we all did that terrible night.” Max’s booming voice was like a judge’s pronouncing sentence.
“I’m dying of cancer,” he cried. “It’s only a matter of months, and I’ll be dead. Can’t you show mercy for a dying man?”
“Did you show mercy to my family?”
Max could see that Prandus was frightened, but he could also see that his fear had not yet escalated to terror, which it soon would when Prandus realized that the stakes were higher—much higher—than his own brief remaining life.
Prandus shifted under the strain of the ropes. He was like a trapped rat with no escape. Obviously, there was no use denying his identity. In apparent desperation he tried a different tack. “I was wrong. It was terrible what I did. I was so young. Please forgive me.”
Max heard remorse in Prandus’s voice—but it was the remorse of the caught criminal.
Prandus begged, “Let me die in peace.”
“Remember my grandfather who begged you to let him die first?”
Until now Marcelus Prandus had no distinct memory of the Menuchen family. He had participated in so many aktions, had killed so many families, that it was all a blur. Yet the mention of the grandfather who had asked to be killed first brought back a picture of this one family. It was the first time Prandus had thought about it since that night more than fifty years earlier. For Prandus, Ponary Woods was one incident among many, each quickly forgotten. For his victims, it was forever. All Prandus could whimper was, “I’m so sorry. Please don’t kill me.”
“I won’t kill you. I will do to you what you did to my grandfather.”
“What do you mean?” Prandus asked as it began to sink in what might be in store for him. “What do you mean? What do you mean?” he demanded, his voice shrill with terror.
“You have a grandson named Marc?”
“Oh, my God. Please don’t hurt my Marc,” Prandus cried in shock as a feeling of nausea came over him. “What do I have to do to stop you from hurting Marc? I’ll pay you anything. I have some money in the bank. Take my house, my silver.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Oh, my God. Then take my life. Torture me. Do anything to me, but please don’t touch Marc. Please. He’s only a child. He didn’t do anything. It’s not his fault.”
“Those were my words to yo
u that night. Before you killed my baby son. Do you remember what you said?”
“No. I’m sorry for whatever I said. Please forgive me.”
“I remember every word you said. ‘It isn’t his fault, but the fault is in him. In his seed, in his genes.’ ”
“No, no, please. Don’t hurt him,” Prandus cried, tugging at his restraints. His arms turned red as he flexed his large muscles against the strong ropes. The veins on his forehead began to protrude. It looked as though he might be having a stroke. Then exhaustion took over as the old man realized he could not break free.
“This time you are powerless,” Max said with an air of satisfaction.
“Take me to my grandson,” Prandus pleaded, hoping against hope that he might be able to warn him or otherwise save him. Again he strained against the ropes.
“You will never leave this room. We will bring Marc here, and you will see him die before your very eyes.”
“No, no, please, no. Anything but that. I can’t stand it. I will die first.”
“You will not be so lucky.”
“I am a different person today. The man you are punishing is not the same person who did those terrible things in the woods. For fifty years I have led a good life.”
“The fifty happy years you spent after what you did make you even more deserving of punishment.”
“I was so young,” Prandus said, sobbing. “Is there no forgiveness?”
“It is not for me to forgive, only to avenge.”
“An eye for an eye?”
“If I wanted an eye for an eye, I would first rape your granddaughter. Do you remember my sister, Sarah Chava?”
“No. I never raped anybody.”
Max slapped him again, this time drawing blood from his lip. “Do not deny what you did. It will do you no good,” he said sternly.
“We were following orders,” Prandus whimpered.
Just Revenge Page 10