Green nodded. A strange electric silence fell, as if they stood at the edge of the chasm which had yawned between them all these years. But Green was not sure how far he dared venture to bridge it.
“Dad?” he began cautiously. “Can we talk about this old man?”
Sid studied the carpet, his breathing rapid in the silence. “I don’t know anything about Western Poland. I was in the East.”
“But you know about the labour camps.”
“There was lots of labour camps, Michael.”
“I only want to know about what they did to a man. And I want to know about the kind of young men who became Nazi collaborators.”
“You can’t find this in your books?”
“Not the human part. Not the soul of the man and how it would have changed him.”
Sid’s voice was barely audible. “And that, of course, is the most important part.”
Green set his sandwich aside and leaned forward, fearing to breathe lest he break the fragile bridge being built. As carefully as he could, he sketched what he knew of Eugene Walker’s story, ending in the mystery of his death. Sid Green said nothing, but he listened intently, his gaze fixed on his hands. When Green finished, Sid shook his head slowly back and forth.
“Every man is different, Michael. In the camps, some people found God, some lost him. Some found purpose, some lost it. Some felt shame, others anger. I don’t know what made the difference. And after the war, you had to live with what you had been through. Not only what was done to you, but what you had done. Some could not. Some kept the guilt and the shame for a lifetime. Shame that they are alive even, when their children are dead. Shame that they played music while the people were being selected—” Sid broke off, devoting his full attention to the straw in his drink. When he resumed, his voice was flat.
“I know it is not an answer to your question about this man, Mishka. And I don’t know about a non-Jew put in a camp. Would he go through the same things? His people were not all being murdered—his children, his mother and father. He would not be living with this fear that they want us all dead. I don’t know, Mishka.”
“What about collaborators? The camp guards, the local Fascists?”
Sid’s eyes hardened. “The collaborators—how can I know what was in their heads? I can tell you the ones I knew, they hated Jews. That was the most important reason they joined the Nazis—because Hitler was killing Jews, and they wanted to help. Oh sure, it gave them better food and a fancy uniform and made them feel like big men pushing us around—these were important, but not so important as getting rid of Jews.”
“But later, Dad, when they had seen the killing and they’d matured, didn’t any of them regret it?”
Sid shrugged. “Some of the young bullies from the town— the little men who wanted to be big men—when they saw the blood, maybe they regretted it. But not for long. They got used to it.”
“But today, Dad. Years later. As old men, don’t you think they’d look back on the cruelty of their youth and feel ashamed? They killed thousands of people!”
As the memories came back, Sid had become animated. His eyes darted around the room and his colour rose.
“Eichmann, Demjanjuk, Barbie—do you think they feel bad? Not at all. They think they did nothing wrong. It was war, they were strong, they did the difficult things. For the good of the Fatherland. They are proud of this, Mishka.”
“So a war criminal would not be living on a small country farm, hiding from people and drinking himself to death.”
His father wiped his hand across his balding head on which a thin sheen of perspiration had broken out. His breathing was erratic. “I don’t know, Mishka. There may be some of those monsters with a little soul left.” He fixed his rheumy eyes on his son. “You think this man was a collaborator?”
“I don’t know. He was hiding something. And surely a collaborator has more to hide than a victim.”
Sid gave him a strange look. “Maybe not. Maybe the thing you want to hide from most is yourself.”
* * *
More mysteries, Green thought wryly as he left his father’s apartment. The more light I try to shine into the past, the more shadowed pathways I uncover. “Hiding from yourself.” Thanks for that cryptic morsel, Dad. More shadows. You couldn’t shed a little light, Dad, instead of that classic Yiddish shrug of yours before you changed the subject?
Back on the street, the light snow was tapering off in the darkness and, remembering his promise to Sharon, Green glanced at his watch. It was past eight o’clock. The stores closed at nine, so he had barely an hour to duck into a store, find a gift for Tony and get out to the airport before Brian Sullivan’s plane touched down.
The Rideau Centre was five minutes away, and Green dashed through its empty halls towards The Bay, which had been his source of one-stop shopping for years when he lived downtown. Usually he could be in and out in ten minutes. The toy department, however, felt like an alien planet to him as he stood in the middle staring at aisles upon aisles of brightly coloured boxes and plastic toys. He wandered down a pink and purple aisle full of Barbie dolls and impossibly pink furniture. Sharon’s feminist sensibilities would be appalled, but his first wife Ashley, being something of a bubble-head herself, probably had no such philosophical qualms about their daughter’s identity. In fact, considering the size of the cheque he sent out to Vancouver every month, Hannah had probably acquired an entire room full of pink plastic.
He turned the corner and the colours changed to black, grey and camouflage green. The male domain, full of bulging biceps and weapons that would frighten the guys on the Tactical Unit. He sighed. Where in this combat zone were the toys for a one year-old? Dump trucks and sand pails and big wooden building blocks.
“Yeah, sure we got blocks,” the harried clerk told him without even glancing up from tallying her cash. “Last aisle on the right.”
He made his way past a pile of plastic bowling pins to Lego land, where he simply stood and stared. An entire wall of boxes confronted him—police stations, battle ships, space stations, western saloons, vehicles and boats of every conceivable variety. What happened to simple blocks? The kind you piled any which way to make things, and chewed when you got tired?
Green wandered along the aisle looking for something Tony might be able to manage before he got his PhD. But time was running out. The clerk was rattling her cash drawer, and the store was dimming the lights. Shaking his head in an admission of defeat, Green headed for the exit. Get me back to my world of mysteries and bad guys, he thought, and let’s hope Brian Sullivan has had more luck tracking down the story of an eighty-year-old man than I’ve had finding a present for a one year-old.
But Sullivan’s face as he came through the passenger lounge and caught sight of Green was anything but triumphant. He looked tired and harassed, and before Green could even open his mouth, he cut him off.
“You and your crazy ideas, sending me to Hamilton! Three hours in line-ups in airports. Stale peanuts, lousy coffee and a kid kicking my seat all the way on the flight back. And the guy wasn’t even there!”
“Mr. G. wasn’t there?”
“Flew the coop, vanished, poof.”
“What the hell happened!”
Green’s dismay must have shown on his face, together with outrage, because unexpectedly Sullivan grinned. “But I got something. You and your instincts. I got something.”
“What?”
“Buy me a beer and a decent steak, and maybe I’ll tell you.”
Ten
January 15th, 1942
Refugees fill every corner of the room
with their stink, their complaints and their soft flesh.
Rations shrink, and yesterday the last of the chairs was burned.
Winter, thief of hope, steals into the room and into our flesh,
battling hunger for possession of our thoughts.
In our corner, the babies sleep while Sonya roams the streets.
An abandoned string,
a cast-off rag, all carted home in triumph,
with magic fingers turned to sweaters, bonnets, embroidery for sale.
Through the thin wall drifts a beggar’s cry, a child’s wail for soup,
A single gunshot from the wire.
She’s late tonight and when she staggers in,
laden with fur-trimmed coat and red satin dress,
there is no triumph.
Don’t ask, she says, but I do.
I found a body in the street.
Then a look, to chase away conscience.
We have mouths to feed.
Sullivan had arrived in Hamilton shortly before noon, rented a car and, after paying a courtesy call to the Hamilton Police and procuring a city map, he’d set off into the suburbs. Gryszkiewicz’s cousin Karl Dubroskie had begrudgingly provided an address and no further details on his cousin’s life, but Sullivan had pictured a modest home in an older, blue-collar neighbourhood. He was surprised when the map led him deeper and deeper into a wealthy suburban landscape sporting double garages and expensive brick facades.
Josef Gryszkiewicz’s house had flamboyant red trim and cascades of withered vines, which suggested life and energy, but when Sullivan rang the doorbell, no one came. He thought he heard feet shuffling in the stillness, so he rang again. The shuffling stopped. Sullivan stepped back to peer up at the house, and a brief flick of the front curtain caught his eye. Someone was watching him, wary and reluctant to answer the door. He cursed his own stupidity. Of course, an elderly person would be afraid to open the door to an unexpected stranger, especially one built like a linebacker. As he turned to go back down the steps, he heard a rush of footsteps and the click of the bolt behind him.
Returning to the car on the street, he pulled out his cell phone and dialled. He heard the distant ringing within the house, and through the glass he saw the hazy shadow of a woman lurking in the corner of the window. The phone rang again, but the figure didn’t move. Four rings, five, six. Sullivan cursed again. He’d flown all the way to Hamilton only to be stymied by a frightened old woman! Just as he was trying to work out his next move, a car pulled into the drive, and a stout woman jumped out. Her face had a pinched, preoccupied look, and she barely gave his car a glance before turning her attention to the pile of notebooks and the dog in the back seat. By the time Sullivan drew near with his badge, she had the stack of books balanced in one arm and was struggling to tow the dog out. It was an aging Lab retriever which barely lifted its head, let alone mustered any objection to Sullivan’s approach.
Before Sullivan could even speak, the woman gasped, dropped the leash and clutched her throat. “Oh my God, no!”
He reached forward instinctively to steady her, and she recoiled. “What is it? What’s happened?”
He retrieved the leash. “Nothing’s wrong, ma’am, I’m looking for a Mr. Josef Gryszkiewicz.”
“Why?”
“Is this his residence?”
“Yes. No.” As the woman recovered her wits, her alarm turned to wariness, and she backed towards the front door, tugging the dog behind her. “What is it?”
Patiently, Sullivan tried to reassure her and glean whether his witness did indeed live there without revealing any details. Finally he was able to determine that Josef Gryszkiewicz was her father, and that he lived with her. However, he was asleep right now, and she was reluctant to disturb him.
“I’m sorry, Officer, but you have to understand my father is old and frail. He’s from Eastern Europe, and an official visit from the police would upset him. Can you come back in half an hour when I’ve had a chance to tell him what it’s about?”
Sullivan evaluated the request rapidly. Green would never stand for it, for Green preferred his witnesses unrehearsed. Yet there might be an advantage in giving the elderly man a chance to get his bearings and to gather memories that had been long buried. He glanced at his watch, calculated the time remaining before his return flight, factored in possible gridlock along the QEW, and told her she could have ten minutes.
The woman snapped a thank you before nearly slamming the door on Sullivan’s nose. Before he could even turn away, bedlam erupted from inside the house.
“Mama! Mama!” the daughter shouted, and another woman’s voice could be heard from deeper inside. Curious, he tested the knob and eased the door open a crack.
“It’s the police! He wants Tata!”
A shrill babble ensured in a language Sullivan assumed to be Polish, of which he recognized only one word. Ottawa.
“But what should I tell him? He’s waiting for Tata.”
“Say he go to store…” More Polish. “...come back later.”
“But Mama, maybe he can help.”
“No help!” he heard, followed by indecipherable arguing. “Not from police!”
“The police won’t hurt him, Mama. Not here in Canada. And I’m scared!”
The two shouted in an excited mixture of Polish and English, and the din even managed to excite the dog, who began to bark. “Well, I’m calling Glen!” the daughter said.
Sullivan hoped he’d be able to hear what she told Glen, but there was no fear of that. The daughter was forced to shout over both her mother and the dog. From the tone of the conversation, Sullivan guessed that Glen was her husband, and not very sympathetic to his mother-in-law’s fears. Nor even to his wife’s, from the sound of it.
“But can you at least come home?” she pleaded. “Be here while we talk to the cop? Mama won’t listen to me, but she believes you… We need to tell someone! Dad may be lost or hurt, and lying somewhere in the snow. Just like that poor woman who died in the snowbank in Winnipeg.”
The mother-in-law burst in with a volley of protest, and the woman had to shout her down. “I know that’s what he said, Mama, but it’s been two days! He wouldn’t go for that long without calling us. And with all this snow and ice, he could have slipped and fallen.”
More yelling, followed by the slamming of the phone and the daughter’s announcement that Glen was on his way and would solve everything. Abruptly, silence fell. Standing on the porch, Sullivan had a sudden feeling that she had sensed his presence. He beat a hasty retreat to his car and was sitting quietly listening to the radio and making notes when a late model Chevy Blazer rumbled into the drive. Pure, sleek black muscle, the kind of car Sullivan dreamed about while he repatched the rust holes in his Malibu one more time. A large man hauled himself from the driver’s seat, and Sullivan stepped out of his car to meet him.
Glen had a salesman air about him. Hearty smile, sporty tie and a loud, friendly voice. He stuck out a beefy hand.
“Glen Louks. Ottawa, eh? So what’s this about, officer?”
“I’m here gathering background on an Ottawa matter.”
“How’d my father-in-law’s name come up?”
Sullivan decided to let a little truth slip by, so he mentioned the cousin in Renfrew.
The man’s face, far from clearing with relief, grew more confused. “But he hasn’t seen him in years. Refuses to go up there.”
“This is about an incident that occurred twenty years ago.”
Glen shrugged. “Before my time.”
“Your father-in-law’s not in trouble. He was the victim. But his assailant has been...” Sullivan paused on the wording, “...in some more trouble, and we’re interested in revisiting the assault.”
“Oh Christ, is that all!” Glen shook his head in exasperation. “My mother-in-law’s all worked up because she thinks he’s in trouble. They’re from Poland, and over there, you can understand, the police were not always your friend. But come on in, I’ll tell her it’s just about this old business.”
Glen ushered him in the door, and Sullivan was assailed by the smell of onions, garlic and old dog in the over-heated air. The dog had evidently exhausted itself, because it had subsided into a snoring heap by the kitchen door. The two women were perched tensely on the edge of the sofa in the living room. Seeing them side by side, Sullivan could clearly dete
ct the family resemblance despite the thirty-year age difference. Both had deep-set blue eyes, high slanted cheeks, and identical worry lines across their brows. When Glen explained the purpose of Sullivan’s visit, the worry lines deepened.
The older woman shook her head vigorously. “No fight. Mistake.”
“Your husband ended up in the hospital,” Sullivan said.
“Sick.” The woman tapped her heart.
“Mama, the guy who attacked him is in trouble again,” Glen interjected. “That’s why the officer’s asking.”
“Trouble? What trouble?” the mother asked. Stubborn as a mule, this one, Sullivan thought. The true immigrant grit with which Canada was built.
“I’m afraid I can’t—” He began but was cut off by the daughter’s gasp.
“My God! Dad! Could he have hurt Dad?”
“Are you saying something happened to your father?”
Both women exchanged quick looks.
“He’s missing,” Glen said flatly.
“No, no, no,” the mother snapped. “Gone to friend.”
Once again, the son-in-law refused to play along. “He left two days ago. He received a phone call Saturday afternoon, got dressed, said he was going out to meet a friend and never came back.”
“Old friend,” the mother repeated. “He went to help old friend. He come back.”
Sullivan did some quick calculations. Saturday afternoon was the day he and Green had been in Renfrew asking questions about the assault. The day they interviewed the resentful and reluctant cousin Karl Dubroskie.
“What’s the friend’s name?”
Glen had no idea, but an argument ensued in Polish between the two women which Glen watched with bemusement. The gist seemed to be the mother’s refusal to supply the police with any names. Sullivan sighed. With all the fear and distrust, this was going to take longer than he’d imagined. He forced himself to sit back on the couch and be patient. When he could get a word in edgewise, he tried to reassure the mother that her husband was not in any trouble, nor were any of his friends, but it was vitally important that the police know what really happened in the assault.
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