Hawthorn Woods

by Patrick Canning

  “Ajax was attacked by a local hoodlum. He is distrustful at the moment, and best left alone.”

  “I was hoping he’d be up and walking,” Francine said. “I’m glad—”

  “Enough games.” Roland had interrupted Francine for the first time since she’d known him. “I believe there are more urgent matters to be discussed.” He poured them each a cup of tea, then pulled a pack of European cigarettes from a drawer in the coffee table. She had never seen him smoke before, either. “It has come to my attention there may be something you wish to ask me, Mr. Bruno.”

  Francine glanced at Bruno, wondering if he would play dumb a little longer. She could tell by the look in his eyes that the time had come.

  “I’m here on behalf of a third party who believes you to be a man by the name of Oskar Lischka.”

  Francine’s eyes flashed back to Roland. Her lungs forgot how to pull oxygen from the air while she waited for his reaction.

  Roland displayed only a look of disappointment, maybe even boredom, as he took a long drag on his cigarette. “This man you speak of is no doubt a member of the Nationalist Socialist German Workers’ Party.”

  “Correct,” Bruno said.

  “Mr. Bruno, while your intentions may be noble, I’m sorry to say they are in no way original. As I have explained to your associate, I am a man of a certain age, who emigrated here from a certain part of the world, following a war everyone loves to remember. I speak German. I have little documentation to support my life’s events because the world was not as formalized back then. This suspicion has been cast upon me before, albeit in a more direct manner.”

  He looked patiently at Francine. She focused on her cup of tea, her face warm with shame.

  Roland turned back to Bruno. “Instead of accusing me of something, why don’t you ask me something instead?”

  “You go by the name Roland Gerber,” Bruno said.

  “Is that a question? Yes, I go by my own name, which is indeed Roland Gerber. I hail from the region of Engadin, Switzerland. All of my immediate family is deceased, I am a naturalized citizen of the United States, I pay my taxes in full and on time, and I’m a card-carrying member of the county library. No late fees outstanding.”

  “What year did you leave Europe?” Bruno continued.

  “1949.”

  “Why?”

  “The war had depressed the entire continent. I had long wished to come to America, and when the opportunity presented itself, I did so.”

  “Traveling on Die Spinne?”

  “Ah, yes, an exotic escape afforded to the highest of Nazi officials. No, I’m sorry to say my mode of travel was much less fantastical. I came by commercial airline, but never one for scrapbooking, I’ve since misplaced my ticket.” He sipped his tea. “I believe it was an aisle seat.”

  Francine had never seen Roland so bitterly sarcastic, or Bruno so steely and coarse. The change in both men was a touch frightening.

  “Why don’t you tell me my alleged story, Mr. Bruno, since you know it so well?”

  “You went to Argentina in early 1945, afforded travel by your status in the German military. To avoid capture, you murdered a man and fled north. A few of your compatriots had found employment in the American government, but since they wanted rocket scientists, not exterminators, you were forced to forge a Swiss passport and assume a Swiss name. Roland Gerber immigrated to the United States, found a quiet place to settle, kept his head down, and lived a modest life. And your escape was successful, from the moment you fled until this moment now.”

  Roland dragged on his cigarette and tapped the long finger of ash into the tray. “I must commend you on a robust imagination. But factual merit? I’m afraid not.”

  “Most of the tall poppies got cut down at Nuremberg,” Bruno said. “Mossad’s been working their way down the chain of command ever since. These days they get excited for scraps, for men who followed orders. But a man who gave them? You’ll be a sensation.”

  “Your ability to generate hysteria, I do not doubt. The veracity of your claims, however, is another matter.” Roland neared the filter of his cigarette. “What is your profession, Mr. Bruno?”

  For the first time, Bruno faltered. “I’m a cold case investigator—”

  “Not the capacity in which you are interfering in my life. What is your actual employment?”

  “I’m a history teacher.”

  “Ah. Perhaps this explains a few things.” Roland inhaled the last of his cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray. “If I suspected you of a crime—or rather, someone made it in my interest to suspect you—and I made these baseless suspicions known to the world, when would you feel the judgement of others? Perhaps before a jury had decided your fate, yes?”

  “If I committed a crime, I’d deserve the judgement.”

  “And if you hadn’t?”

  Bruno shook his head. “That’s not—”

  “If you were a professional,” Roland said, taking control of the exchange, “and if you had hard evidence won from a thoroughly conducted investigation, I might now be suffering the confines of a jail cell. But you are not a professional, Mr. Bruno. You are a hobbyist, recklessly attempting an investigation, perhaps as you’ve seen in the movies. You are not a law enforcement officer, nor a licensed private investigator, nor anyone qualified to pass the judgements you now cast upon me. An accusation of the sort you are suggesting is not a flag to be neatly removed upon a verdict of not guilty. It is a dousing that will stain, whether or not the intention was in good faith. Your delusions are no doubt motivated by many things, but not by evidence. Yet you are intent on slandering an honest immigrant who has lived in this country longer than you’ve been alive. I fear your imagination has rendered you delusional.” Roland’s brow furrowed as he nodded toward Francine. “And in your delusion, Mr. Bruno, you’ve taken advantage of a vulnerable soul, drawn her close, and whispered words that are dangerously untrue. Shame on you.”

  The inclusion of Francine seemed to incense Bruno, and he returned to the offensive.

  “My client has authorized me to extend you the opportunity to turn yourself in. Confess to us what we know to be true. That you were a ranking member of the Schutzstaffel. That among numerous other crimes, you ordered and personally participated in the massacre of civilians in Trnów, Poland in 1943. And that you fled judgement in order to live a comfortable life under the false name of Roland Gerber. Failing these admissions, I will have no choice but to notify Mossad, the US Office of Special Investigations, the local police, and any organization with a passing interest in justice. Confess, Lischka, and you end an otherwise disgraceful life with a small bit of dignity. Or you can let news vans brown the grass of your lawn for the rest of your days, until you die as the cowardly murderer you are.”

  “I murdered no one!” Roland was on his feet, matched quickly by Bruno. “How dare you come to my neighborhood, my home, and speak to me this way! I will not have you call me by some criminal’s name and visit his sins upon me.”

  Roland poked Bruno hard in the chest. Bruno grabbed at his blazer.

  Francine knifed an arm between them. “Stop it! Both of you! A fist fight won’t help any of us.”

  Bruno held up his hands and backed away.

  “Your welcome in my house has ended, Mr. Bruno,” Roland said, his face stony and dark. “Francine, I’d ask you to remain a moment longer.”

  “No,” Bruno said.

  “It’s fine, Bruno,” Francine said firmly. She’d let him take the lead in the conversation, but she was starting to feel like a ball being hit back and forth. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Bruno glared at Roland, then banged open the porch door and loitered just beyond the screen.

  Roland lit a new cigarette and stood facing away from Francine. “I regret that our acquaintance has been under false pretenses, but I value the time we’ve shared nonetheless.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I heard the two of you arguing last night. Heard
my name mentioned. Curious, I followed you to your dinner this evening, and once again heard my name. The woman you dined with, I presume she is your client? Who is she?”

  “I’m not going to tell you that.”

  He turned to face her, and his face showed no sign of anger. The uncharacteristic armor and aggression had melted away. He was Roland once more.

  “All of your actions up to and including this very moment have been noble. Had I been in your position, and told the things you’ve been told, I’d like to think I would have the courage to do the same. For you to even entertain the idea that I am this…Lischka, I must not have been a man well met. For that, I apologize.”

  He carefully placed the tea cups back on the tray.

  “I believe Mr. Bruno is compromised and confused,” he went on. “What I ask, and I believe it is only of you I may ask it, is for a judgement free from influence, be it his, mine, or that of this unnamed woman. You have a sound mind and a good heart, Francine. And I trust in them both. Good night.”

  Without waiting for a response, he went back inside the house.

  Francine joined Bruno in the backyard.

  “What’d he say?” Bruno asked as they left the driveway.

  “He said he’s sorry he let me down, but that he understands why I’m doing this. And he said I’m the only one who could see everything clearly. Without being influenced.”

  They walked in silence for a moment before Bruno shook his head in frustration. “Goddammit.”

  “What?”

  “He’s not wrong.”

  “What?”

  “This is about justice. Ida says it every time we talk. Justice is objective.”

  “None of us is objective. We’re all mixed up in this in different ways.”

  “But you have the best view. You, Ida, and I all know Lischka in our own way. You’re the only one who knows Gerber too.”

  “Bruno, I hate picking restaurants. You can’t lay something like this on me. We’re supposed to be partners.”

  “We are.” He thought for a moment. “How about this? I think Gerber is guilty. If you think he’s guilty too, I’ll be the one to turn him in and accept whatever consequences come with it. But if you really think he’s innocent, if you think he’s Roland Gerber and no one else, then I won’t do anything. I trust you, Francine.”

  She sighed, forcing herself to consider the possibility that the decision somehow fell to her.

  “This is the worst fucking vacation.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “Yes. But I need time.”

  “We don’t have much—”

  “I know. Just give me the night to think it over. I’ll have an answer for you in the morning.”

  “Do you want me to stay up with you?”

  “It’s okay. I need to do this on my own.”

  Bruno looked over his shoulder. “Think he’ll try and run?”

  “No,” Francine said confidently. “Not unless he knows for sure he has to. If Roland Gerber’s not in Hawthorn Woods, he’s nowhere.”

  Chapter 39

  I have habits that are really harmful.

  [ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE

  Charlie crawled carefully across the upstairs landing and peeked into the guest room.

  Aunt Francine was still awake, an hour after she’d come home. She was just walking back and forth, sometimes drinking coffee, sometimes just sitting on the bed and thinking.

  It was true he had promised not to go outside, but even though he’d helped her with Ajax, they still hadn’t fixed everything. They were close, Charlie could feel it. They just needed a little something more.

  Out on the roof, he soft-footed across the shingles, tied knots around the weather vane, and shimmied down the frog sheet to the yew bush. His feet made quick work of yards, front and back, as he looked for the answer everywhere he could think of. In the Cunninghams’ oak trees. On the side of Mr. Merlin’s garage. In the glow of Diana’s bedroom. The Asperskis’ house. The Durhams’ house. But there was nothing to be found in any of those places. Of course there wasn’t. He’d been to all of them before.

  Then he saw something new: a pale blue pickup truck, parked around the corner from the Banderwalts’ house. A huge forearm rested on the driver’s side door, and every once in a while, a stream of brown spit flew from the open window down to the asphalt. Charlie walked closer to better see inside the cab. He recognized Eric and Diana’s dad, sitting in the low light of the dashboard.

  Mr. Banderwalt didn’t seem to be doing much, just watching the yellow house and spitting every now and then. Then he noticed Charlie standing in the grass. He didn’t look surprised or scared. It was almost like he thought it was funny. He started up his truck and shot a finger gun in Charlie’s direction, then drove off without waiting for a response.

  Charlie started to walk home, disappointed he wasn’t going to find anything. The he realized there was one last person, one last house he hadn’t been to yet.

  He ran past a line of spruce trees and a hammock swinging gently in the wind. The door to the screened-in porch was unlocked, and so were the double doors inside.

  Chapter 40

  I resent having anyone trick me so cleverly that I have to admit I was fooled.

  [ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE

  The clack of the kitchen’s screen door closing jolted Francine awake. Pete’s clocks told her she’d gotten maybe an hour of sleep, bringing her grand total in the last two days to…an hour.

  But it had been worth it. She’d weighed every word of research, every ounce of evidence, every second she’d spent with Roland. And finally, around the first birdcalls of dawn, she’d reached her decision.

  Stomach churning and head pounding from exhaustion, she trudged down the stairs to call Bruno and give him her answer. They were either going to bring long-overdue justice to one of the greatest travesties in recent history or condemn an innocent man to a waking nightmare for the rest of his days.

  Francine walked into the kitchen and screamed.

  Roland Gerber sat at the table under the soft ambience of the Tiffany lamp. He made no other move other than to hold up his hands in the scant daylight.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Roland. What are you doing here?”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he repeated.

  “What are you doing in this house?”

  “I was hoping we could speak a moment.”

  Francine considered making a grab for the phone, or simply running out the door. But she didn’t know if Charlie was still upstairs. She couldn’t risk leaving him alone in a house with this man.

  “Speak,” she said.

  Roland nodded his thanks. He appeared to have aged a decade overnight. Deep shadows hung below his eyes, and his chest was sunken beneath the normally well-fitting blazer.

  “It seems you’ve had a long night of contemplation,” he said.

  She didn’t answer.

  “May I ask if you’ve come to any conclusions?”

  “I haven’t made a decision yet, Roland.”

  “At least you’re still calling me Roland.” He tried a smile, but when Francine stayed rigid, the smile vanished. “Very well. I was hoping I could stay uninvolved.”

  “Uninvolved?”

  “I am not a Nazi, Francine. But neither am I someone who will idly allow his life to be destroyed by a mistake in judgement. I provided you an opportunity to reflect and realize the plain truth for yourself, yet you linger in uncertainty. So I will make the decision easier. Tell Mr. Bruno, and whatever third party bribes you in earrings, that you do not believe me to be this Oskar Lischka. Convince them of the same. Mr. Bruno will listen to you, I have no doubt. I want only to be left alone, but as you know, I am a survivor. You alone can keep me from any extreme acts of self-preservation.”

  The slowly hinging rays of sunlight caught one of the empty root beer float mugs from the day before, and Francine suddenly felt it imperative to know where
her nephew was.

  “Tell me when it’s done,” Roland said. He stood, fixed her with a withering glare, then left through the back door.

  The second he was gone, Francine tore out of the kitchen and vaulted up the stairs two at a time. She’d find Charlie sleeping, rubbing his eyes and asking who she’d been talking to. She would make him breakfast and—

  The bed was empty.

  A fire engine roared outside. The Fourth of July parade. That’s where she’d find him.

  She ran full stride down the block in her daisy sundress, and looked with dismay at what must have been at least a hundred people lining the parade route.

  Freshly washed fire trucks rolled slowly down the asphalt with every light oscillating and every siren whining. The first responders inside tossed handfuls of colorful candy to legions of children scampering along the edge of the street, stuffing their pockets with as much loot as they could fit. Girls in gymnastics leotards turned cartwheels in front of a tractor towing a fence-lined flatbed of kids dressed like Tom Sawyer. Even Diana Banderwalt was there, waving a brilliant white sparkler, its glittering light extinguishing at the feet of her brother, who followed close behind, keeping a wary eye on the crowd.

  None of the happy faces belonged to Charlie.

  A drop of inky-black dread fell inside Francine’s heart and began to leach outward. She had to outpace it, had to keep ahead of the ridiculous notion that her nephew was missing.

  She ran past the lawn chairs and picnic blankets lining the parade route, dodging pinwheels and American flags as the parade snaked between the three ponds. At the finish line of the barn parking lot, carefree parents put Band-Aids on skinned knees and daggered straws into juice boxes. Francine navigated around bandana-wearing dogs and face-painted toddlers, the dread inside her growing stronger with each step.

  “Francine!”

  Bruno waved to her from across the crowd, just as Laura Jean stepped up to a podium.

  “Morning, everybody! Thanks for coming out and helping make this a day to remember. They’re forecasting rain today, but we’re gonna have fun while we can!”