by Rebekah Pace
The author of this book is solely responsible for the accuracy of all facts and statements contained in the book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Level 4 Press, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Published by:
Level 4 Press, Inc.
13518 Jamul Drive
Jamul, CA 91935
www.level4press.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019944590
ISBN: 9781646300310
Printed in the United States of America
Other books by Rebekah Pace
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS
Operation Santa
Walking with the Prophets
THE Santa Wars
MIRACLE
Table of Contents
Theresienstadt Ghetto, Occupied CzechoslovakiaJune 1944
Weequahic, New Jersey 2019
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Theresienstadt Ghetto, Occupied Czechoslovakia
June 1944
I sat between my parents on a hard bench while the orchestra tuned its instruments. In the violin section, Mira’s chair stood empty. I’d been listening to her practice for weeks. She wouldn’t have missed the performance unless something awful had happened.
When I turned to scan the crowd behind me, my mother nudged me to be still. Her face showed no emotion, but her eyes pleaded with me not to draw attention to myself. I knew I risked being singled out for punishment later, but at the moment I didn’t care about myself—only about Mira.
As soon as my mother’s gaze returned to the front of the room, I glanced over first one shoulder, then the other, trying not to be obvious as I craned my neck. When I caught the eye of one of our guests of honor, my heart jumped, filling my throat until it was hard to breathe. I gulped as he smiled and nodded at me. Cold, clammy sweat broke out all over my body, and I looked away.
“Peter.” That one word, that whispered plea, stopped my fidgeting.
Everyone in the camp was ordered to attend this charade. Our four guests, a delegation sent by the International Red Cross, were the only ones in the auditorium who were not part of the show. The rest of us were performing as though our lives depended on it—because they did.
For months, the Nazis had used us as slave labor for their Verschönerung—the beautification project meant to prove to the world how well we were being treated inside this ancient walled fortress. As soon as the facade was complete, a German film crew had arrived to shoot newsreel footage and a documentary about the town Hitler had given as a gift to the Jews.
The Nazis used us to fool the rest of the world, and they carried out the deception with their customary cold efficiency. Before the film crew arrived, the camp director dispatched seven transport trains, bearing tens of thousands of people who were sent away to relieve the overcrowding. Mira’s father was among them. A sudden stab of fear, like an icicle, pierced my heart. What if Mira had tried to speak to a member of the delegation about her father’s whereabouts?
I clenched my fists in my lap and tried to keep my face from betraying my inner turmoil. Before the delegation arrived, we had been instructed how to behave, and Mira knew the rules as well as I. Our captors watched us constantly, and if one of us said too much, punishment would be meted out as soon as the delegation was gone—likely deportation to the east, and the unknown.
As the house lights dimmed, the Nazi officers took their seats. The conductor raised his baton in a hand that did not shake. As the first note sawed across my nerves, I blinked back tears.
I never laid eyes on Mira again.
Weequahic, New Jersey
2019
1
I moved my coffee cup aside and spread the newspaper on the kitchen table, but before I read the funnies or worked the crossword puzzle, I wrote several copies of the same coded message on different sheets of paper. The message itself was simple. Delivering it was the tricky part.
Leaving the notes on the table, I stacked my lunch dishes on the drainboard and ran water in the sink. My mother never liked to leave the dishes for later, and I guess that’s why I did things the same way.
A knock on the door caught me off guard, scaring me so badly that I dropped the glass I’d been drying. It shattered on the linoleum, and I froze. In my panic, I forgot that whoever was on the other side wasn’t going to break down the door and take me away.
There was another knock, and Benny called, “Pete? You in there, man? You okay?”
Benny owned the bodega on the corner where I did my shopping. With a sigh, I shuffled over to the door and checked the peephole. I didn’t recognize the woman with him. She was holding a clipboard and looked young enough to be in college, but then again, everybody looked young to me.
“Who is that?”
The woman answered, speaking louder and slower than she needed to. There was nothing wrong with my hearing. “My name is Melody Richter, Mr. Ibbetz. I work for the county’s Elder Services Department. May we come in?”
Richter. The judge, it meant in German. I took that as a bad sign. “What for do I need services?”
“This visit is just a courtesy, sir. We do it from time to time.”
“Really?” I’d lived in Weequahic for more than seventy years, in this exact apartment for sixty-four of those, and most people would say I’d been “elderly” for a good twenty years. But I’d never had a visit from the county before. Something told me not to slide back the bolt or take off the chain.
Benny tried again. “It’s all right, Pete. Let us in. There’s nothing to worry about.”
I trusted him, so I opened the door. Miss Richter stepped inside, looking around nosily. As I followed her gaze, I saw my apartment through her eyes. My portable transistor radio and the black-and-white TV with the rabbit ears antenna might be older than Miss Richter and Benny put together. There were scorch marks on the counter from the hot plate I’d been using since the stove stopped working about five years ago. The sagging sofa and the narrow bed had seen better days, that’s for sure. So had the curtains. I think the woman who lived in this apartment before me bought them back in 1952, before she and her husband retired to Miami Beach. My worktable in front of the window probably looked like nothing more than a tangle of old electronic equipment—but I was familiar with every radio tube, wire, antenna coil, and transmitter.
Miss Richter’s study of the apartment stopped at the broken glass
on the kitchen floor. Embarrassed, I crunched through the shards to fetch the broom and dustpan from the corner, but Benny beat me there.
“Pete, you don’t have to—I got it.” He looked sad as he swept up the mess.
Miss Richter made a note on her clipboard. Though she was smiling, it seemed like she was waiting for me to make a mistake. “Mr. Ibbetz, may we sit and visit for a few minutes?”
I gestured toward one of the vinyl-covered chairs at the kitchen table, and after she sat, I did too.
Benny lingered near the open door. “I’ll get out of here and let you two talk. See you later this afternoon, right, Pete?”
Before I could protest, he bolted, and it dawned on me that this woman from the county was here because Benny had called her. I never should’ve opened my mouth and told him about my plans. I definitely never should’ve opened my door.
“Mr. Ibbetz.” She kept smiling, but her friendliness was an act. “Do you have any health problems, sir? Do you take any medication?”
“No.”
“That’s remarkable for a gentleman of your age—which is ninety-one, am I correct?”
“Yeah.” My mother used to say that a lady who would tell you her age would tell you anything. I’d admitted my age, but I wouldn’t spill the rest of the beans.
“When did you last see a doctor?”
I shrugged. “Five, ten years. I can’t remember.”
“Do you cook your own meals?”
“Yes. Sometimes I am picking up a sandwich at the deli, but mostly I am cooking.”
“And what was your profession?”
“Plumber and handyman. I am working as assistant super for apartment buildings in the neighborhood until I retire.”
She cocked her head when she noticed the sheets of paper on the table, and I had to stop myself from slapping my forehead. What a putz! Why did I leave the messages where anyone could see them?
“How about friends? Do you socialize regularly?”
“I am shopping in Benny’s bodega almost every day. In former times, back in the fifties, it was a deli.”
“Yes, Mr. Martinez told me. He says you know a lot about the history of this neighborhood.”
“I have lived here since seventy years. Benny, he is too young to remember half of what I can. So are you.”
She made another note. “How about contemporaries? Other friends? People your own age?”
“I am the oldest guy I am knowing. All the others, they move away or pass on.” I thumped my chest a little as I said with pride, “My ticker is still keeping perfect time.”
“I see. That’s very good. And do you have any travel plans?” There it was. She had waited to spring that question on me. She couldn’t ask me right off the bat.
“Pssht! How does it look like I would travel? Where would I go?”
“You tell me, sir. Where would you go—if you were planning to go somewhere?”
“Home. I’d go home. But nothing is the way I remember when I was being young.” I can guarantee that.
“Has anyone invited you to come for a visit? Anywhere, not just to your old home in . . .” The question hung in the air.
“Leipzig. After the war, it was no good for travel—was destroyed by the Allies. Then, it was being part of East Germany. But not anymore—not since 1991. I could have been going after that, but my relatives and the people I am knowing when I was a boy—they are dead. No one is asking me to come for a visit there.”
“I see. So, no travel plans.”
“No.”
She stood up. “Do you mind if I take a peek in your refrigerator and your bathroom, sir?” I probably looked insulted, because she quickly added, “Just in case there’s anything we can do for you, to make your life more pleasant.”
You can get out, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. Instead, I let her inspect the rest of my apartment. I had nothing to be ashamed of. The place was clean. Until recently, my life was orderly. Predictable. Now, I hoped she didn’t sense the chaos inside my head.
In the kitchen, Miss Richter touched the scorch marks on the Formica, like she was letting me know she’d seen them. She smiled her fake smile again when she came out of the bathroom. “It all looks very pleasant and homey. Thank you for your time, Mr. Ibbetz.”
I followed her to the door. Benny and Mrs. Simmons, my landlady, were waiting for her at the end of the hall. I acted like I was shutting the door, but I kept it open a crack. They were talking about me as they headed down the stairs, and they must’ve thought I was deaf because they didn’t bother to lower their voices.
I tiptoed over to the stairwell.
Miss Richter said, “By law, there’s nothing to be done unless you think he’s a danger to himself. Are there any other causes for concern?”
Benny answered, “He’s forgotten his wallet several times recently when he’s come to get groceries.”
“And does he remember to pay you later?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
Then Miss Richter asked Mrs. Simmons, “Are you afraid Mr. Ibbetz will burn down the building while he’s cooking?”
I suppressed a snort. It was just the one time! With such a terrible cook as my landlady, Miss Richter should be more worried about her. Always with the smoke alarm going off. Oy vey.
“No. He ain’t never done anything like that.”
“The scorch marks on the counter looked recent,” Miss Richter kept on digging. “Does he wander off? Have you ever seen him step out into traffic?”
Benny spoke up. “Until recently, he was never confused, but a few days ago, he got lost in the neighborhood and was almost hit by a car.”
It had been a mistake to tell him about that.
Then Miss Richter held up a piece of paper. “And what about this? It’s nothing but gibberish. I find it concerning.” She’d stolen one of the coded messages off my kitchen table when I wasn’t looking.
Mrs. Simmons peered through her glasses. “Ain’t that one of them Sudoku things?”
Benny shook his head. “No. Sudoku is numbers, not letters.” He took the paper, looked at it for a moment, and shook his head. At least he had the grace to look uncomfortable before he spoke. “I’ve known Pete for about fifteen years, and I don’t think he’s losing his marbles or anything, but lately he’s been talking a lot about his past. He’s never done that before. Sometimes he speaks German and doesn’t realize he’s doing it until I point it out.”
Miss Richter nodded like she had all the answers. “As people age, childhood memories can come to the forefront of their thoughts. Things that happened at the beginning of their lives seem clearer to them than what happened yesterday.”
“It freaked me out when he mentioned he was planning a trip. That’s why I called Elder Services.” Benny ran a hand over his face. “He’s got no relatives—no one but me, really. I don’t think he’s left the neighborhood in . . . ever. He’s like a windup toy on a track. A creature of habit. He’s a nice old dude, but I wouldn’t call him adventurous or nothing. So why was he talking about going on a trip all of a sudden?”
Thanks a heap, Benny, my friend. The only person I trusted in New Jersey, and you turned out to be a collaborator.
But Miss Richter shook her head. “He denied having any travel plans when I spoke to him.”
“What if he was lying to you?” As soon as the words left Benny’s mouth, he folded his arms. “Okay, right? I don’t think he’s lying, either. I just think he’s confused.”
“Confused,” Mrs. Simmons chimed in. “That’s gotta be it. At his age, it’s not unusual to get confused.”
Miss Richter put her clipboard in her tote bag. “Of course, I’m most concerned about the incident when he was nearly hit by a car. I’ll file a report recommending we seek an alternative living situation for him.” She turned to Benny. “Do you know anything abo
ut his finances?”
“I don’t think he’s got much beyond his Social Security. You saw how he was dressed. He buys groceries every few days and never spends more than twenty or thirty dollars at a time. He told me he gets his place practically rent-free.”
Mrs. Simmons nodded. “It’s true. After Mr. Ibbetz retired, the new super let him stay on. His is the only apartment that hasn’t been updated, so he gets a big discount on the rent.” She walked Benny and Miss Richter out the front, and as soon as they were gone, I hurried back into my apartment and locked the door.
In the junk drawer, I rummaged around for my pocketknife, and then hustled to the bedroom. Stripping the bedding off my mattress, I lifted it up to expose the underside and slit the stitches that closed up the hole. I plunged my hand inside and brought out a fistful of cash.
Before the war, the Nazis had stolen my family’s money and possessions. Even after I came to America, I never trusted banks—or the government. Because I had no wife, no family, and had never bought a house, I didn’t spend much of what I earned, and I’d lived in this apartment rent-free when I was the assistant super. All the years I’d lived without Mira, I’d kept everything—including my money—to myself.
But Benny was right when he’d told Miss Richter how much I’d changed in the past few weeks. I had to leave right away, and it would take more than my landlady, the friend who ratted me out, and some well-intentioned buttinski from Elder Services to stop me.
When I said I never laid eyes on Mira again, that wasn’t a hundred percent true.
2
I was born in 1928 in Leipzig, one of the larger cities in Saxony, in the eastern part of Germany. I lived with my parents on the southern outskirts of the city, in a two-story house with a garden in back.
Our ancestors had lived in Germany for generations. Both my grandfathers were decorated veterans who fought during the Great War. Though we were Jewish, we didn’t go regularly to shul—not so different from Christians who attend church only on Christmas and Easter.
My father had gone to cheder as a boy, learned Jewish prayers, and became a bar mitzvah, but as an adult he’d abandoned the practices, which he considered old-fashioned. My mother, who had had no religious education as a girl, was even less inclined to embrace the old ways, and my father’s parents would not visit us because we did not keep a kosher home. We were always welcome to visit them, though. We attended services at their synagogue during the high holidays, and when we had Shabbat dinner at their flat, I found the mystery and the ritual interesting, but more like a story or a play than anything that related directly to me.