“ ‘I know about it,’he said. ‘You mean young Horowitz, is that right?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘He the one who gave away your parents?’
“ ‘Not just my parents.’
“ ‘That’s true. In the ghetto, an attack on one Jew is an attack on all. What’s worse, the bastard is still at it. I’m told he’s hanging around the buildings where our best fighters hold their meetings. What do you suggest we do?’
“ ‘He must be executed.’
“ ‘What about his parents? They had nothing to do with it. Why make them suffer?’
“ ‘What about my parents? He sent them to their death.’
“ ‘You’re right. Traitors deserve to die. But they’re also entitled to a trial before a judge. Never forget who we are. We Jews believe in justice. Ever since biblical times, we’ve put our trust in judges.’ I was about to say that our present circumstances made it impossible to follow all the rules of procedure, but he continued: ‘I will arrange for a tribunal. The role of prosecutor is yours by right.’
“That’s when I next saw the traitor. Two of our men, armed with handguns, roused him from his sleep and took him to a carefully hidden location where the court would meet. He was unshaven, and in his wrinkled suit and dirty shirt, he looked less like one who had been charged than one already found guilty. Three judges sitting by candlelight would decide his fate. I had a key role as prosecutor. He had no one acting as his lawyer: His kind of traitor could expect no defense. In a shadowy corner sat Abrasha.
“At first, the stool pigeon made a pitiful effort to impress us with his arrogance. ‘I am the son of—’ I interrupted him. ‘We know perfectly well who your father is. What he doesn’t know is what his son is: an informer with no scruples, a filthy collaborator with the Germans, the shame of the ghetto.’
“It was a trial such as you would seldom see. With the help of a law student’s legal advice, I was calling witnesses, and the first was the woman who had exposed young Horowitz. She had agreed to testify under oath, after promising never to reveal what she would hear or whom she would see during the trial. We trusted her. Right hand on the Bible, she swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. Then I began to question her. ‘You know the accused?’
“ ‘No.’
“ ‘No?’
“ ‘I don’t know him. We don’t travel in the same circles. But I recognize him.’
“ ‘Agreed. You recognize him. Tell us how and under what circumstances you saw him.’
“Speaking in her impassive voice, she recounted the brutal opening of the shelter where she and her family had been hiding. ‘Going out on the street, I saw this man with the SS, off to one side. The man next to me whispered, “That’s young Horowitz.” ’
“ ‘Are you sure, absolutely sure, that you are not mistaken? Don’t forget that a man’s honor as well as his life is at stake.’
“ ‘I won’t forget that.’
“Two more witnesses added their recollections to the case for the prosecution. The first worked in the supply office of the
Judenrat.
He was a small, emaciated, fearful man, and he spoke so softly that I had to ask him to raise his voice. ‘One evening, when I was taking documents to the Kommandatur, I saw him sitting in an office with an SS officer. They were drinking a toast.’
“His companion, a stoop-shouldered old man with a troubled expression, spoke in a low, broken voice. ‘In all my life, I have never spoken ill of a Jew; it’s against my principles. At heart, every Jew is good, even innocent.’
“ ‘But then,’ I asked, ‘why have you come to testify before this court?’
“ ‘Because from my second-story window I could see them take away the first group. I was weeping bitter tears, and all those with me were weeping, too. But that one was down in the street, leaning against a doorway, alongside an SS man. They seemed to be chatting peacefully enough. So there it is: If I could drown him in our tears, I’d gladly do it.’
“ ‘Are you certain it was he? Take a good look at him. . . . No, that’s not enough. Look at him some more. Now tell us: Is he indeed the young man who, while Jews were being driven out of their homes to their death, was calmly chatting with an SS man, as you described it to us?’
“ ‘It is he.’
“ ‘No possible doubt about it?’
“ ‘None at all.’
“The accused remained impassive during the questioning of the witnesses, his head bent over, as if what the court was hearing about him were of no concern to him. Was he resigned to his fate? Was he hoping his father would come save him? I asked him several times if he wanted to question the witnesses on this point or that. He answered with a shrug of the shoulders. Contempt or indifference? I suggested he make a statement. Same silent reply. It would have come as a relief to me if he had defended himself, no matter how awkwardly. But he had closed himself off in a total denial of reality. He showed neither fear nor remorse. Nothing mattered to him.
“You can guess the outcome. After briefly deliberating, the three judges pronounced the death sentence. I had won. My parents, my family, all those doomed people would be avenged.
“Was I proud of myself? No. Happy? Of course not. To tell the truth, I don’t know what I was experiencing when two comrades led the traitor off to a secret location, where he would await his execution.
“Now I remember. I felt thirsty.”
Bolek had been speaking in an emotionless tone, so softly that at times his voice seemed more to skirt than to break the silence. Then abruptly, he stopped. Was that all he had to say? Gamaliel wondered. He had spoken of a murder that was weighing on his conscience. Did he mean that because of his desire for justice and vengeance he had obtained the death of young Horowitz? Gamaliel thought of Giordano Bruno, one of his favorite philosophers. At the end of his trial, which had lasted seven years, he’d turned to his inquisitors and said, “Your sentence frightens you more than it scares me.” Was the same true of Bolek and his comrades-in-arms? Did they fear that in punishing one of their own they would come to resemble their executioners?
Softly, so gently that it was imperceptible—not like the sudden nightfall in the tropics—twilight was settling over the city that says it never sleeps, calming its spirit, wrapping it in a melancholy veil of yellow and gray.
More and more people were coming and going in Central Park. Newly arrived couples were seeking cool spots under the trees or by the lake. Gamaliel wondered if Bolek noticed them, or was he still absorbed in memory? Troubled, Gamaliel wanted to look at him to see whether he was going to resume his narrative. But he had promised to listen, just listen.
“Gamaliel, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” His friend was as surprised by Bolek’s tone of voice as he was by the question. He had been expecting anything but that.
“Go ahead.”
“Why do you still live alone? Since Colette’s death have you never wanted to have another family? A son to make you proud and happy?”
Colette’s absurd and tragic death. It was so long ago. What could it have to do with Bolek’s story? Was Gamaliel right in thinking his friend had finished with his confession? Too bad. He would have wanted to hear how the sentence was carried out in that far-off Davarowsk ghetto. Was the executioner chosen by lot?
“Oh, forget about that. This isn’t the time for it, and besides, it’s a long story,” he replied.
“Longer than mine?”
Gamaliel wondered if he should tell Bolek about Budapest. Ilonka. The times he strayed. Esther’s disappearance. His estrangement from Katya and Sophie. Their mother’s suicide. The obsessive sense of heartbreak that he could not rid himself of.
“Let’s just say that God didn’t want my name to be carried on.”
“That’s too easy an answer, isn’t it?”
Gamaliel wondered if he should ask what his life had to do with Bolek’s. Why should Bolek’s confession require him to do the same?
“Let’s talk about it some other time.”
“Why not now?”
“You’ll have to go home soon. Noémie—”
“She knows I’m with you.”
Bolek heaved a sigh. “After the war, I still couldn’t put it behind me. I was constantly seeing the SS in the ghetto. They were like dogs, bristling, ready to jump on their prey. I hated their making a traitor of a young Jew. I hated all Germans. And all those who collaborated with them. And all the neutrals who stood by. I was so devoured by rage that I was ready to hurl all of Creation, damned a thousand times over by the sin of Cain, into the furnace of my hate. And yet I didn’t give in to it. I would tell myself, In what way would my vengeance help my mother and father, whose loss still makes me weep?”
At one point Gamaliel turned to him. “All right, you want to know if I ever wished for a son? Yes, I did, and often. To have a son who would bear my father’s name, to see him grow up, to watch him sleep, to show him the world and all that’s in it, to make him a gift of all I have and all I am. What man doesn’t want that?”
“But?”
“I told you, God didn’t want it to happen. . . . Wait, let me finish. When I say this, I’m referring to when God’s been present in history as well as the times He’s been eclipsed or was absent. It’s written in the Talmud that when humanity experiences catastrophes—floods, epidemics, famines—man’s duty is to refrain from having children. Because, said a Sage, we are forbidden to go against the will of the Lord. If He has decided to destroy the world, we have no right to populate it.”
“Well, in that case, your Talmudic Sage is wrong. And so is God.”
“Possibly. But there’s something else. For a long time, I’ve distrusted this world we live in. I told myself it doesn’t deserve our children. And the proof is Auschwitz.”
“No, no, a thousand times no. Look, I have Leah. She gives meaning to my life. She’ll have children, and they’ll change the world. They’ll make it a better place—more welcoming, more humane. Yes, humanity does have a future. It deserves Leah. And her children will prove it.”
Was that Bolek’s secret? Gamaliel wondered. Was he trying to answer the philosophy of Nietzsche and Schopenhauer?
Bolek’s face darkened. “Your argument is nihilistic,” he said after a moment, “and I’ve heard it before. I find it inadmissible. Think of your parents. Your family tree will end with you. Is that what they wanted?”
“What about the Horowitzes’ son?” Gamaliel retorted, trying to change the subject. “That’s a strong argument, isn’t it?”
“The exception proves the rule, but that is not an argument.”
“Don’t you have more to tell me about that traitor?”
“What do you want to know?”
“What happened next. All of it. When did he die?”
“Three days later.”
“Why the wait?”
“Because of his father. He found out his son had been arrested, I don’t how or from whom. He asked to see Abrasha. Their talk lasted several hours. The older Horowitz was pitiful. At first, he refused to believe his son could have sunk so low as to betray the ghetto and its Jews. Then, after he’d read and reread the testimony of the witnesses for the prosecution, he began to sob. ‘It’s all my fault, my fault,’ he said over and over, wringing his hands. ‘I brought him up wrong. I was too preoccupied with business; I thought too much about money, about success. So is it any surprise that he grew up without principles or values? It’s my fault, my fault....’ Abrasha tried to reassure him: ‘It serves no purpose to blame yourself. You’ve been an honorable man, a good Jew. You’ve done a lot for the community. If your son didn’t follow your example, it’s not your fault, but his.’ ‘But that’s just it,’ the father said. ‘I gave too much time to others and not enough to him. I blame myself; the responsibility is mine, not his.’ Abrasha said again that he was wrong to think that. Then the older man used another argument. ‘I’m on your side; you know that. I’ll give you whatever you want, all the money you need; I’ll give you what is left of my fortune—but give me back my son! I’ll punish him myself. I’ll lock him up at home, like a prisoner, till the war is over. Or else do it yourselves—put him in your own prison, but don’t kill him! Even if he deserves it, I don’t!’
“Abrasha summoned all the cell leaders to an emergency meeting the following night. Should we accept old Horowitz’s offer? he wanted to know. It was then, during the discussion, that one of us commented, ‘A father like Horowitz would have done better not to have had children.’ ”
“And the condemned man? What happened to him?”
Bolek looked down. He did not answer right away. He seemed to be wondering whether he should satisfy his friend’s curiosity or leave him in suspense.
“The traitor was executed.”
A wave of sadness came over Gamaliel, mingled with a jumble of other thoughts. He had to suppress a vague sort of fear, a sense of impotence in the face of so much sorrow, before he could continue. “And his father?”
“He mourned his son in keeping with our law.” Bolek swallowed, then added, “Two weeks later, he and his wife were put on a transport to Treblinka.”
For a long moment, they were both silent, as if paralyzed by the name that stopped thought in its tracks, as though to restrain it from hurling itself into the pit of death.
“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question,” said Gamaliel. “Why don’t you write about what you went through back then? Don’t you think it’s your duty to pay homage to what your comrades did? For the sake of history . . .”
Bolek grunted in contempt. “Don’t talk to me about history. Some believe in it, and others will go so far as to sacrifice their conscience to make it say what they want, for lack of the truth. As for me, I don’t believe in it. History is murderous, and as set as the blank face you’d see on a hardened killer. I’ve heard it said that now we know everything about the Holocaust, that it’s been picked apart, analyzed, demystified, that all its parts have been dismantled. Such is the arrogance of ignorance! They accumulate data drawn from the official German archives without realizing that the truth isn’t found only in numbers, dates, and orders. Who knows about my father’s heroic dying, my mother’s silent tears? Where is their truth? And where is the truth of my brothers and sisters when they were being driven to their mass grave? We seem to know the murderers better than their victims. And they call that serving history. Well, their history isn’t my history, because my truth isn’t their truth!”