He nodded. Rina brought in two giant-sized steaming mugs. “Here we go!”
Golding took the tea, but didn’t drink it. He used it to warm his hands. Tremors seized his body. He was shaking from internal cold. “Sit down, Mrs. Decker…please.”
Rina sat back down, giving Decker the other mug. He thanked her with a nod.
Golding said, “There is something on my mind.”
Silence.
“I wanted to talk to you about this family thing.” He pointed to his chest. “About my father. Ernesto thought things about him. Things he told you…about my father being…you know…”
“I know,” Decker said.
“It isn’t true,” Golding said. “None of it. I swear to you, it isn’t true. My father was a good man: a very righteous and devout man. He wasn’t a Nazi! He couldn’t have been a Nazi.”
“Okay—”
“No! Not okay!” Golding’s hands were shaking, and he splashed hot tea over them. He hardly seemed to notice, but he did put the cup down. “You’ve got to believe me!”
“I believe you, sir.” Decker spoke calmly. “Kids dream up the wildest things. Sometimes, I think they like to create problems for themselves. My own children are no exception.”
Golding sighed. “They do, don’t they?”
“Seems like it.”
“So why do you think Ernesto would make up something like that?”
Decker was thoughtful. “He told me something about the dates not matching—”
“Dates?”
“When your father immigrated to Argentina, was it?”
Golding nodded.
“According to Ernesto, your father told you he had come to South America in 1937. Ernesto told me that he had really immigrated later, in 1945 or 1946—after the war. But kids oftentimes make mistakes.”
“Even if it wasn’t a mistake, that doesn’t make my father a Nazi!” He bit his bottom lip. Blood trickled out. “I just don’t know much about my father. That’s why I’m here.”
More silence.
“My father didn’t talk about his past. No one did. I learned very quickly not to ask questions. But that doesn’t make him a monster. He was kind and gentle and wouldn’t even kill…b-b-bugs! Honestly. He used to wrap them up in a tissue and let them go outside.”
“My wife does that,” Decker said.
Golding’s hands were rubbed raw. “He wasn’t a Nazi. But…Ernesto had some reason to be curious about him. He said he found an Isaac Golding who had died in the camps.”
“There could be more than one,” Decker said.
“True,” Golding answered. “Either way, I want to find out who Isaac Golding really was. So I’ve come to you.”
It was Rina—the daughter of concentration-camp survivors—who offered him absolution. “It’s past history. Does it really matter, Mr. Golding?”
He looked up. “Please call me Carter…and yes, it does matter. In a few days, I will bury my…my boy…”
He threw his palms over his face and wept, heart-wrenching sobs that were painful to witness. Rina and Decker had no choice but to wait him out.
Finally, Golding said, “Nothing…no pain can compare to that. There is nothing you can do or say or tell me that will hurt worse than that. You cannot even hope to understand my pain, but as parents, you can…maybe imagine it.”
Decker noticed that Rina was silently crying. What was she thinking about? The unimaginable horror of losing a child? Her own set of baggage that included the death of a husband to cancer, the murder of a dear friend, and an untimely hysterectomy?
“So nothing you could tell me could be worse,” Golding said. “My father’s past is a mystery to me, and was a mystery to my son. I’d like to find out about it…to honor Ernesto. It was of interest to him, and I shut him down. Now I owe it to him to find out the truth.”
Decker was impassive.
Golding said, “You don’t think I should do it?”
“You’re whipping yourself,” Decker said. “You don’t have to do that. You were a wonderful, caring father. I know that because Ernesto told me that.”
Water streamed down his cheeks. “I was a good father.” He nodded vigorously. “I was. I spent time with my children. I did my best. I wasn’t perfect, but I tried.” Again, Golding blew his nose. “But I owe this to my son’s memory. And…I’d be lying if I didn’t say…it would…complete something inside of me.” His eyes met Decker’s. “I don’t know how to do it, though. You’re a detective. I thought that maybe you could help. Maybe you know someone who specializes in that kind of thing.”
Decker ran fingers through his mussed hair. “I know a few private detectives, but they’re not genealogists. Plus, they’re expensive—”
“Money isn’t an issue.”
“There are no guarantees,” Decker said.
“There never are. I know that better than anyone.”
Rina said, “Where was your father born?”
Golding regarded her. “Somewhere in Eastern Europe. He never mentioned a specific place. You cannot believe how closemouthed he was.”
Decker took a moment to digest that. “Does he have any living relatives?”
“All gone,” Golding said. “My grandparents died when I was quite young. There was also a sister…my aunt. She never married. She died when I was about ten.”
“I suppose you could try a genealogist,” Decker suggested.
Rina said, “Mr. Golding, what languages did your father speak?”
“Please call me Carter.” Golding thought a moment. “English and Spanish, of course. He spoke a foreign language to his sister. I was under the impression that it was German.”
“German?” Rina asked. “Are you sure it wasn’t Yiddish?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Golding said. “The two languages are similar, correct?”
“Yes,” Rina said. “Assuming your father is Jewish, there is a world of difference between the German-speaking Jews and the Yiddish-speaking Jews. Yiddish-speaking Jews were usually poorer—manual laborers, farmers, or merchants. German Jews were a different ball of wax. Lots of them were much more integrated into German society. In general, German-speaking Jews came from Germany. Hungarian-speaking Jews—like my parents—came from Hungary. Rumanian Jews came from Rumania. Lots of Czech Jews spoke Czechoslovakian. But Jews from Poland usually spoke Yiddish if they came from what we call the pale area—a border area between Poland and Russia.”
Decker asked, “Polish Jews didn’t speak Polish?”
“The rare educated ones did; those that lived in the city did. But most Polish Jews were very poor and lived in these small border villages. They were ghettoized even before the Warsaw Ghetto became official—do you know about the Warsaw Ghetto?”
Both of them shook their heads.
Rina ran her hand over her face. “When the Nazis were stepping up their eradication of the Jews, they herded them all in an area in Warsaw to keep track of them. It made the extermination easier. It’s not important right now. Maybe it’ll be important later on.”
Golding tapped his toe. “And what does it mean if my father spoke Polish?”
“Did he?” Rina asked.
Golding waited before answering. “Ernesto showed me some papers…in my father’s handwriting. The language wasn’t German. And it wasn’t a Romance language either. Maybe it was Polish.”
“All right,” Rina said. “That tells me that your father was either an educated Jew or city Jew or…he wasn’t Jewish, but a Pole.”
Decker said, “Where did Ernesto get his information from?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. I…” His eyes misted up. “I haven’t gone through his school papers. I suppose there might be information there.” He sighed. “He told me that an Isaac Golding had died in a Polish camp. I don’t remember the name. At that point, it didn’t seem consequential. Maybe the written language was Russian.”
“You’d know if it were Russian,” Rina said. “They have a dif
ferent alphabet.”
“Yes, of course.”
Rina said, “The big cities in Poland have some records, you know.”
“I know, but I don’t know how to…” He sighed. “Everything in that part of Europe is so foreign to me. My father…he gave me nothing about his past. He used to say that now we are in America, and that’s all that mattered. He considered himself an American. He was very angry with me when the Vietnam War came and I protested against it. Though he never raised his voice, I’m sure he thought I was ungrateful. The subtleties of First Amendment rights were as foreign to him as the sixties’ hippie, drug-laden culture.”
Rina cleared her throat. “I was planning on going to the Tolerance Center in the next day or two. They have archivists there whose specialties are filling in blanks. If you give me Ernesto’s school papers, maybe I can look through them—”
“Not until we do,” Decker interrupted. He regarded Golding. “I’d like to go over your son’s room first thing this morning.”
Golding nodded permission. “If you think it will help bring the monster to justice. I have my own opinions, of course.”
“Which are?”
“That the horror had nothing to do with my son,” Golding stated. “Dr. Dee Baldwin was murdered miles away from my boy. He was just in the wrong place….” The man looked away. “You can go through his room if you have to. But I have my doubts.”
“Thank you,” Decker said.
“And if you find anything relevant to my father, you will give the papers to your wife…so she can check it out with the Holocaust Center’s archivist?”
And what could Decker say to that? “Mr. Golding—”
“Carter, please.”
“Carter, what if the information is…painful to you?”
“I already said that nothing could compare. I owe this to Ernesto. And I will do this for him! And if you can help me, you’d be doing something for Ernesto as well. But if there’s a conflict, I’ll hire someone privately.”
“It may come to that,” Decker said.
“In the meantime, maybe your wife can find out something.” Golding reached into his pocket and pulled out a colored Polaroid of an elderly man, Carter, and two burgeoning adolescents. “The most recent picture I have of my father. Dad was notoriously camera shy.” He looked down. “If he were a wanted man, that would make sense.”
Rina took the photograph and studied it—a study of three generations. Grandfather Yitzchak was flanked by Carter on the left and the boys on the right. Carter and his sons wore T-shirts, jeans, and big smiles. Grandfather Yitzchak had on an old narrow-lapel black suit, white shirt, and a thin tie to match. His expression was not exactly stern…more like shy. “How old is this?”
“Four years. Dad was seventy-eight. He was the last of my family to go. Mom died ten years earlier.”
Rina nodded. “And the boys?”
“Ernesto was thirteen, Karl was eleven.”
“All I can do is try.” Rina stood, snapshot still in hand. “I’d better go check on Sammy.”
“The boy with the phylacteries?”
“Yes, he just got back from Israel.”
“Go check on him.” Golding stood and held out his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Decker.”
She took his hand, securing the agreement to help him. As soon as Rina left, Golding began to pace, making tracks with mindless, nervous motion. “I need to get back to Jill…and Karl.”
“When may I look at your son’s room?”
Golding checked his watch. “My goodness, it’s early. How about in two hours? At eight or eight-thirty?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Lieutenant, when can we bury our son? I know you’re conducting an investigation, but my wife and I need some…some…”
“Closure.”
“Something tangible to weep over.” Again Golding looked away.
Decker said, “I’ll try to have him released as soon as possible. Can I help you with anything else?”
Golding shook his head. “Not unless you can raise the dead.”
Rina’s late husband’s last name was Lazarus. Decker kept his face neutral, not knowing if the name was an omen for positive outcome or irony.
23
Sipping coffee, Decker sat at the kitchen table, the paper opened in front of him, and pretended to be casual. “I have problems with your searching for the identity of Golding’s father, Rina. For all I know, it might be the reason behind the murder.”
Rina adjusted the kerchief on her head, then sliced strawberries into a bowl of cereal. “All the more reason for you to find out what’s going on.”
“I agree.” Decker looked up. “It’s exactly how you said it. All the more reason for me to find out. Me, not you.”
“And which of your detectives knows the area of post Holocaust Jews?”
“Rina—”
“Excuse me. I have to go feed your daughter.” She marched out of the kitchen, marching back in a minute later. “You had no idea what questions to ask Golding. And even if you had stumbled upon the right questions, you’d have no idea what the answers would have meant. And you’re the best of the lot.”
“Now you’re being chauvinistic.”
“Peter, I am doing the man a favor—parent to parent.”
“And I am trying to run a murder investigation.”
“Even better. I’ll tell you everything I find out.”
Decker rolled his eyes.
“Don’t give me that!” Rina scolded him. “Didn’t you ask me to take Tom Webster to the Tolerance Center?”
“To give him their information on hate groups. Not for genealogy.”
“So while he’s looking at hate groups, I’ll talk to the archivist.” She looked at him with defiant eyes. “Don’t you have to be somewhere?”
“You’re trying to get rid of me?”
Rina regarded her husband’s hurt face. Sighing, she pulled up a chair and sat next to him. He put down the paper, took a final drink of coffee, and shrugged her off. “I’ll go now.”
“Stop.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”
“Why do we have these stupid conflicts?” Decker growled. “You shouldn’t be involved in my business.”
“You had no qualms about asking me to take Tom Webster—”
“So now I changed my mind. Tom can figure it out himself.”
It was Rina’s turn to be offended. “Fine. Solve your own cases.”
“Thank you very much, I will.”
No one spoke.
“What is it, Peter?” Rina blurted out. “An ego thing?”
“C’mon!”
Silence.
Rina checked her watch. “Are you taking Hannah to school?”
“I will if you want me to.”
“She likes it. She enjoys time with her father.”
She got up. Decker held her arm. She looked at him with downcast eyes.
“I hate this!” he said. “You’re giving me heart palpitations.”
“That’s caffeine. Or old age. Don’t blame your palpitations on me!”
“Old age? That’s mean, Rina! True…but mean.”
It was mean. Rina sat down. “Sorry.”
“I’m worried,” Decker said.
“Peter, no one is going to come after me for trying to find Isaac Golding’s true identity.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
Rina was touched by his admission. His fear came from caring. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Peter, this is your case. I have enough obligations without adding conflict with you. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You’re brushing me off.”
“I’m in a terrible bind. I want information that you can help me with, but I feel like I’m betraying some protective husband code by getting you involved.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge?” Rina hesitated. “What do you really need from me?”
A good question. He said, “Tom is perfectly capable of
getting information from the Tolerance Center. But since you’ve been setting up this hate prevention council, I figured you’ve done lots of the research work on local hate groups…. You could give him some background, so he’ll know how to ask the right questions.”
“That’s certainly true.”
“And by your being there, you can help him ask the right questions if he gets stuck.”
“Fine.”
“Also, by being with someone he knows…even tangentially…he’ll feel less like a fish out of water.”
“I have no problem going to the Center with him, Peter.”
Decker gave her a weak smile. “I really do appreciate your help.”
She smiled back. “I know.” A pause. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it.”
“All right,” Rina said. “But now I have a problem. You have to figure out a way to help Carter Golding so I don’t appear to be going back on my word.”
A quandary. Decker said, “Exactly how does one go about finding an anonymous concentration-camp victim?”
“First of all, Isaac Golding isn’t anonymous. He has a name. There are lists, Peter. The Center has archives.”
“So all that you’ll be doing is looking at lists?”
“I don’t really know.” Rina got up and poured a cup of coffee for herself. “What exactly did Ernesto tell you?”
“That there was a discrepancy between the supposed date of his grandfather’s arrival in Argentina and the actual date he did arrive. Then he told me that he had found an actual Yitzchak Golding, but he had died in the camps. I was thinking that maybe his grandfather just made up the name.”
“Could be, although it doesn’t sound random to me. If Grandpa had been a Nazi who had wanted to pass himself off as a Jew after the war, what better way to present yourself than as a dead man? No one showing up to prove you wrong. Where was Ernesto’s Yitzchak Golding from?”
“I don’t know, but he supposedly died in a Polish camp.” Decker mulled over his thoughts. “I believe he told me a name. I have his entire confession on tape. I’ll replay and tell you the name he told me if you promise not to fink on me.”
“Scout’s honor.”
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