read through some of them to see if she says anything that’ll help us.”
Nesha picked up one of the letters. His lips moved silently till she bumped her knee against his. “’He goes out every night and I’m alone. I can’t complain about my surroundings, he keeps bringing home the most beautiful paintings. He says friends of his have asked him to sell them, but I’ve never met any of his friends. I can’t wait till you’re here.’”
Nesha took out a sheet from another envelope. “’Maybe we couldn’t have children as punishment for what I did during the war. Children are the innocents. I often think about that boy who died because of me. Do you think God has punished me by taking away my children?’”
Nesha stared stonily outside the window as Rebecca handed him a letter dated September 25, 1977. “This was the last one written before Goldie came to Toronto. It’s longer than the others.”
A full minute went by before he took the sheet from her and began to read. ‘“It’s almost Yom Kippur. Though I don’t go to schul I must again ask forgiveness from the soul of the boy who died because of me. Also this is the time of year I think of him because he died in the camp soon after the holiday in 1943. He showed up one day at the machine near mine on the factory floor. A religious boy, pale with thick dark sideburns where his forelocks used to be. I imagined his mother cutting them off before being led to the gas chamber. Orthodox Jews were the first to die. His hands large and smooth like baby’s skin. Probably never used those hands for anything but turning pages of religious books. I saw him struggling on the machine. Those long fingers trying to fit into the mechanism and cut the metal pieces. They had to be precise. I tried to show him how but he just couldn’t. He tried, but impossible. People who didn’t reach quota didn’t survive. Beaten to death, or taken to Werk C where the yellow powder for the explosives killed them. Skin turned yellow after a few weeks. I feared for him and did work for two. Thank God my hands were fast enough from the sewing. One day we got word about Yom Kippur prayers in the next barracks. After work we ate our watery soup and crust of bread quickly before sunset so we could fast next day. Even in the camp we felt we had to fast on the Day of Atonement. Next door was filled with people, but very quiet, everybody listening to a beautiful pure voice singing Kol Nidre. I looked to see who. It was my young orthodox friend (can’t remember his name) in a spot cleared in the middle between bunks, singing from memory, everyone in a trance. The song so sad and pure, surely God must’ve heard. Even the SS guard came to listen, and like jungle animals at the waterhole, we stood together listening. And the guard’s face — I can’t explain, he looked human for the first time. Soon after, I got the job cleaning officers’ quarters so I left the factory. I saved myself without thinking about the boy. When he couldn’t do the quota they transferred him to Werk C. He worked with the yellow powder but not for long. Something went wrong, it always did, and an explosive blew up in his hands. Pieces of him everywhere, what gruesome stories they told. He wasn’t more than sixteen. One day I went to clean the SS guard’s room and there it was. The Hand, encased in silver like a relic from a saint. I knew it was his. Recognized the shape of the long fingers, the silver melted over the hand, outlining even the nails. Little glass windows framed in gold over the knuckles so you could see through. A work of art. They said the guard had found a local silversmith. I was sick in the toilet. I had to look at it every day when I went to clean.”
Nesha’s voice had become increasing lower while reading. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back on the seat. Rebecca took his hand in hers.
“We have to speak to her again,” she said softly. “Maybe if we ask her the right questions....”
Rebecca drove the Olds up Bathurst Street while Nesha slouched in the passenger seat, eyes glazed over, staring out the side window. Bathurst was lined with senior’s buildings, which often meant that old men in plaid hats held up traffic driving big cars too slowly. She manoeuvred around them in the fast-falling dusk past Lawrence, past Wilson, past Sheppard, past Finch. In twenty minutes she pulled into the parking lot of Sunnydale Terrace.
They approached the front desk. A semi-circle of people waited to speak to the pudgy blonde who had taken Rebecca up to Chana’s room the other day. Pulling Nesha by the hand, she skirted the crowd and headed for the stairs.
Nesha seemed to come awake once they were on the second floor. He strode to Chana’s room and knocked quietly, then opened it. Rebecca knew something was wrong when he turned on the light and stopped on the threshold. Chana was lying on her back, one eye open, one closed. An IV dripped into her arm and the metal sides of the bed had been raised up as a restraint. The open eye saw nothing; she was unconscious. Her mouth hung partly open, her skin a paper-thin white.
Nesha approached the bed, his eyes large with fear. “Meema Chana!” he murmured. “Meema Chana, it’s me! I’ve come back.”
Rebecca fought the urge to pull him away and picked up the chart at the foot of the bed. The attending physician, Dr. Chan, had written “Provisional Diagnosis — CVA,” cerebral-vascular accident, and had prescribed blood thinners. Blood samples had been sent out to a lab for testing but Rebecca knew by looking at her that it was serious. She put the chart down and lifted Chana’s wrist to take her pulse. The rate was high and irregular. Chances were she’d thrown off an embolus. Rebecca checked her pupils: they were fixed and dilated, a bad sign. Drawing back the covers at the bottom, she pinched her leg. No response.
She turned reluctantly to Nesha. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It looks like she’s had a stroke.”
He took her small immobile hand. “Meema Chana, I’m here. Wake up.”
Rebecca couldn’t bear it and left them alone. She stepped outside and breathed in the nursing home smell of stale urine. Down the hall a few rooms away, the frail old man she had seen last time hovered as if waiting. At once he began a quirky waddle toward her, punctuated with his cane. Curious, she met him part way.
“Do you know what happened to Mrs. Feldberg?” she asked.
“Here today, gone tomorrow,” the little wisp of a man muttered. “Weren’t you here the other day?”
“Has her husband come to visit in the last few days?”
He peered up at her through thick bifocals and fluttered a hand in the air. “He don’t come no more. That’s what happens. You come here, people forget about you. It’s no good.”
“Did she have any visitors yesterday?”
The old man leaned on his cane, nodding, a satisfied smirk on his face. “That’s what I wanted to tell someone. No visitors, no. But a workman came late last night.”
“Workman?”
“Plumber or something. Wore overalls and carried a toolbox. Saw him come out of her room.” “What time was that?”
“Couldn’t sleep last night. I’m a bad sleeper, too old you know. I got up for a glass of water and heard something outside. So I opened the door and saw him come out. Maybe midnight.”
“Isn’t that unusual, a plumber coming here at midnight?”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Did you see what he looked like? Hair colour? Age?”
“Had a cap on. Just an average fella. All I know was he was younger’ n me.” He chuckled. “Maybe a young fella of sixty.”
“This is important: do you think it could’ve been her husband?”
