52

“I’m home!”

Returning from the cemetery, Alys walked into the small apartment and readied herself for the usual wild charge from Julian. But this time he didn’t appear.

“Hello?” she called, puzzled.

“We’re in the studio, Mama!”

Alys made her way down the narrow corridor. There were only three bedrooms. Hers, the smallest, was as bare as a wardrobe. Manfred’s was almost exactly the same size, except that her brother’s was always piled high with technical manuals, strange books in English, and a stack of notes from the engineering course he had completed the previous year. Manfred had lived with them since he started university, when the arguments with his father had intensified. It was supposedly a temporary arrangement, but they’d lived together for so long now that Alys couldn’t imagine juggling her career as a photographer and looking after Julian without the help he gave her. Nor did he have much opportunity for advancement, because in spite of his excellent degree, job interviews always ended with the same phrase: “It’s such a shame you’re a Jew.” The only money coming into the household was what Alys made selling photos, and it was getting harder to pay the rent.

The “studio” was what in normal homes would have been the living room. Alys’s developing equipment had taken it over completely. The window had been covered in black sheets, and the only lightbulb was red.

Alys knocked on the door.

“Come in, Mama! We’re just finishing!”

The table was covered in developing trays. Half a dozen lines of pegs ran from wall to wall, clasping photos left out to dry. Alys ran over to kiss Julian and Manfred.

“Are you all right?” her brother asked.

She made a gesture to say that they would talk later. She hadn’t told Julian where they were going when they left him with a neighbor. The boy had never been allowed to get to know his grandfather in life, nor would his death provide the boy with an inheritance. In fact the entirety of Josef’s estate—much depleted in recent years, since his business had lost momentum—had gone to a cultural foundation.

The last wishes of a man who once said he was doing it all for his family, thought Alys as she listened to her father’s lawyer. Well, I have no intention of telling Julian about his grandfather’s death. At least we’ll spare him that unpleasantness.

“What’s that? I don’t remember taking those photos.”

“Looks like Julian’s been using your old Kodak, Sis.”

“Really? Last I remember, the shutter was jammed.”

“Uncle Manfred fixed it for me,” replied Julian with a guilty smile.

“Tattletale!” said Manfred, giving him a playful shove. “Well, it was that or let him loose on your Leica.”

“I’d have skinned you alive, Manfred,” said Alys, feigning annoyance. No photographer likes a child’s sticky little fingers anywhere near his or her camera, but both she and her brother couldn’t refuse Julian a thing. Ever since he had learned to speak he’d always gotten his way, but he was still the most sensitive and affectionate of the three.

Alys approached the photos and checked whether the earliest ones were ready to handle. She took one and held it up. It was a close-up of Manfred’s desk lamp, with a pile of books next to it. The photo was exceptionally accomplished, with the cone of light half illuminating the titles and excellent contrast. It was slightly out of focus, no doubt the product of Julian’s hands pressing the shutter release. A beginner’s mistake.

And he’s only ten. When he grows up he’ll be a great photographer, she thought proudly.

She glanced over at her son, who was watching her intently, desperate to hear her opinion. Alys pretended not to notice.

“What do you think, Mama?”

“About what?”

“About the photo.”

“It’s a little shaky. But you chose the aperture and depth very well. Next time you want to do a still life without much light, use the tripod.”

“Yes, Mama,” said Julian, grinning from ear to ear.

Ever since Julian’s birth, her nature had sweetened considerably. She ruffled his blond hair, which always made him laugh.

“So, Julian, what would you say to a picnic in the park with Uncle Manfred?”

“Today? Will you let me take the Kodak?”

“If you promise to be careful,” said Alys, resigned.

“Of course I will! The park, the park!”

“But first go to your room and change.”

Julian raced out; Manfred remained, watching his sister in silence. Under the red light that obscured her expression, he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Alys, meanwhile, had taken Paul’s piece of paper out of her pocket and was staring at it as though the half dozen words might transform themselves into the man himself.

“He gave you his address?” asked Manfred, reading over her shoulder. “To cap it all, it’s a boardinghouse. Please . . .”

“He might mean well, Manfred,” she said defensively.

“I don’t understand you, Sis. You haven’t heard a word from him in years, for all you knew he was dead, or worse. And now suddenly he shows up . . .”

“You know how I feel about him.”

“You should have thought about that earlier.”

Her face contorted.

Thanks for that, Manfred. As though I haven’t regretted it enough.

“I’m sorry,” said Manfred, seeing he had upset her. He stroked her shoulder affectionately. “I didn’t mean it. You’re free to do whatever you want. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’ve got to try.”

They were both silent for a few moments. They could hear the sounds of things being tossed onto the floor in the boy’s room.

“Have you thought about how you’re going to tell Julian?”

“I have no idea. Little by little, I guess.”

“How so, ‘little by little,’ Alys? Will you show him a leg first and say, ‘This is your father’s leg’? And the next day an arm? Look, you’ve got to do it all at once; you’ll have to admit you’ve been lying to him all his life. No one’s saying it won’t be hard.”

“I know,” she said pensively.

Another noise thundered through the wall, louder than the previous one.

“I’m ready!” shouted Julian from the other side of the door.

“You two had best go on ahead,” said Alys. “I’ll make some sandwiches and we’ll meet in half an hour by the fountain.”

When they had left, Alys tried to put her thoughts, and the battlefield of Julian’s bedroom, into some sort of order. She gave up when she realized she was matching up different-colored socks.

She went over to the little kitchen and put some fruit, cheese, jam sandwiches, and a bottle of juice into a basket. She was trying to decide whether to take one beer or two, when she heard the doorbell.

They must have forgotten something, she thought. It’s better this way: we can all go together.

She opened the front door.

“You really are so forget—”

The last word came out as a gasp. Anyone would have reacted the same way to the sight of an SS uniform.

But there was another dimension to Alys’s alarm: she recognized the person wearing it.

“So, did you miss me, my Jewish whore?” said Jürgen with a smile.

Alys opened her eyes just in time to see Jürgen draw back his fist, ready to pummel her. She had no time to duck or dash behind the door. The punch landed squarely on her temple and she tumbled to the ground. She tried to stand up and kick Jürgen in the knee, but she couldn’t hold him off for long. He yanked her head back by the hair and snarled, “It would be so easy to kill you.”

“So do it, you son of a bitch!” Alys sobbed, struggling to free herself and leaving a chunk of her hair in his hand. Jürgen punched her in the mouth and stomach, and Alys fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

“Everything in due time, darling,” he said, unhitching her skirt.