Shadows of Berlin полностью

“Unimportant,” he declares in between loud slurps of soup. His table manners disappeared at Auschwitz and never really returned. Rachel draws a breath deeply into her chest before releasing it. Her feter must sense a quickening resistance on her part, or at least a confusion of emotions, because he sets his spoon into the bowl and alters his tone sympathetically.

“I know I’m asking a great deal,” he is willing to concede.

“Yes.”

“Fifty dollars? It’s a significant sum.”

“Yes.”

“Especially when money doesn’t grow on trees,” he agrees. “But, child. Think of it. A canvas painted by your mother’s hand, surviving. A part of her legacy, undestroyed.” And here he strategically allows his cuff line to expose the tip of the number tattooed onto his forearm. A reminder of his suffering that his niece was spared.

Rachel swallows a small rock. “Yes,” she says, her eyes now gleaming with tears.

“You won’t regret it, zeisele. Fifty dollars? In the long run, it will be nothing.”

“But you must tell me, Feter,” she insists, wiping her eyes. “You must tell me. Which one is it?” Vos moler iz ir geredt vegn? “Which one has survived?”

Suddenly, her feter looks hunted. A moment before, his expression was animated. His voice excited by desire and manipulation. But now his eyes darken, and she can read in them that he’s calculating how to answer. How not to answer. So she is forced to read his mind. She knows he intends to keep her heartstrings thrumming. But he must be fearful too—­what if he reveals too much? Will he frighten her off? What if, of all the paintings her eema ever produced, what if there is one so volatile in memory, so dangerous in its passion, that Rachel might bolt from her chair at the very mention of it and flee into the street? What if such a painting exists? And what if after all the decades, after all the blood and black smoke and burnt history, what if it has survived? Without realizing it, Rachel has clamped her hand over her own mouth as if to stop herself from uttering another word. She feels a breathtaking horror. An exhilarating, electrifying moment of panic.

Rachel’s hand slips from her mouth to her throat. “It’s her.”

Her feter huffs out a breath to forestall a panic. “Rashka,” he says.

But Rachel’s eyes have gone oily black. “Tell me the truth, Feter. The painting. It’s her.” Her breath shortens.

“She’s dead, Rashka,” Feter is compelled to remind her.

“That was never proven.”

“Yes. It was. She committed suicide in Russian custody,” her uncle insists. “Hanged herself in a Red Army cell. She can’t hurt you any longer, Rashka. You must realize that.”

Rashka is searching her bag and pulls out the bottle of Miltown.

“Now what’s this?” A frown. “A potion pill? I thought you were over that, Ruchel.”

“It’s a prescription, Feter,” Rachel answers firmly, swallowing a capsule dry. “From my doctor.” She is suddenly sick of Feter Fritz. Sick of his opinions from the old country. Sick of his paternal posing and the devious nature of his affection. “I don’t need your criticism.”

“Rokhl,” he says, speaking her name defensively.

“Promise me she is dead, Feter,” she demands, her eyes swelling with tears. “Promise me.”

“Oh, my child.” Feter sounds pained but also alarmed.

“Even if it’s a lie, promise me,” she begs. “Promise me she’s dead.”

“I promise you, Rokhl,” her uncle swears, “that she can’t hurt you any longer. This I can promise. Never again.”

She is yanking a handkerchief from her coat pocket. Mopping herself up. “I’m sorry,” she starts to repeat. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No. No apologies. No apologies,” he tells her, his tone comforting but his expression distressed. “You should go home. You’re overwrought. I’m sure it’s these pills. Doctor and pills—­they put a person on edge.” He comforts her in an overbearing manner, makes excuses for her teary eruption, though at the same time, he is preparing to make his escape. A crying woman in a public place—­vos farlegnheyt!

Rachel glares blankly at him. She feels shame like she feels anger—­deep down in the middle of her heart.

“Perhaps your old uncle should be going in any case,” Feter declares as he stands, abandoning his bowl of lentil bean. Setting his old roll-­brim at its customary angle on his head, he slides his tweedy coat over his shoulders. “Consider my request, Rashka,” he offers softly. “For what does money matter, compared to the chance to restore your mother’s name to its proper standing? Imagine that, Rashka, within your grasp.” And with that, Feter Fritz is sailing toward the door and the gritty traffic of East Broadway, leaving his niece with the bill.

3.

God Laughs