E - Letting Go
By sirat
- 972 reads
Henry knew who it was as soon as he saw the little figure in the
distance between the slender boughs of the palm trees that leaned
lazily across his field of view. He watched him as he turned off the
dirt-track that twisted its way across the dry cactus-sprinkled
scrub-land to walk up the rocky path towards his house. It was the way
the man walked that gave him away: the purposefulness, the tightness of
the gait, the disregard for the hazards of the bleached dusty stones
that made up the path's surface. Henry had always imagined that he
would be younger, somehow. An earnest young academic from some Polish
university, dripping with anger and self-righteousness. This man wasn't
all that much younger than himself - twenty years his junior, perhaps,
a pale-skinned European in his mid-sixties, perversely dressed for the
merciless heat of Thailand in a neat dark grey business suit, his
figure long and gaunt, his silvering black hair thinning to near
baldness beneath the little circular brown yarmulke
that clung precariously to the top of his head. In his right hand he
clutched a well-made black leather briefcase, held rigid against the
rhythm of his long regular strides, like a precious icon carried in a
religious procession.
Now that this moment had arrived, the moment he had imagined so many
times, dreamed about so often, it seemed almost an anticlimax. Henry
was surprised at how little he felt. Just a dull resignation, and a
sadness. He had hoped that he might have been permitted to leave the
theatre before the final act, but now he could see that it was not to
be, and he knew that it was an indulgence he had no right to expect. In
a way it pleased him that the issues were going to be addressed. Not
put right of course, that lay far beyond his gift. No atonement was
possible. All that he had to offer in reparation for his crimes was his
miserable eighty-five-year-old life, a trinket so insignificant in the
face of what he had done that its forfeiture would be almost a further
affront to his victims. But at least the matter was going to be tidied
up. That was better than nothing.
The man had reached the foot of the wooden steps leading up to Henry's
veranda. He stood there for a few moments without speaking, staring
into Henry's face with cold grey eyes that betrayed absolutely no
emotion. It was Henry who broke the silence. "Why don't you come up?
Take a chair?" he entreated politely.
The man climbed the three steps and lowered himself stiffly into the
more scuffed of Henry's two wicker armchairs. Still staring blankly at
the older man, he paused almost a full minute before he said
anything.
"Do you know why I have come here?" he said at last in a voice that was
as flat and emotionless as his stare. Henry noticed that he had an
American accent. He felt a momentary crazy impulse to make a joke, to
answer something like: You've come to read the water-meter. Or: You've
come to read the gas-meter. That would be better! Oh yes, the gas
meter: that would be suitably sick! But he didn't say anything. Instead
he merely nodded.
Before he said anything else the newcomer opened his briefcase and
carefully withdrew several neatly labelled manila folders, which he
placed on the cracked glass top of Henry's coffee-table. "My name is
Saul Abrams," he said quietly, "and you are Dr. Wolfgang Heinrich
Muller. Or do you intend to deny that?"
Henry exhaled heavily and felt his shoulders drop. "Wolfgang," he
mumbled abstractly, "yes, I knew him once. It was a very long time
ago...;"
The newcomer showed a trace of emotion at last. He spat out the
question: "Do you deny that you are Wolfgang Heinrich Muller, a former
Major in the SS at the Experimental Medical Facility at
Treblenka?"
He paused so long that Abrams was on the point of repeating the
question. "'Major' was an honorary rank," he said at last, "I only held
that rank for the last few months of the war."
"So... It was you...;" the man with the manila folders
whispered, "It really was you..." He said it in the tone of
someone who had waited for this moment almost as long as Henry himself
had waited. He said it as though he hardly dared allow himself to
believe that it had actually happened. "It was you," he repeated, so
quietly it was almost inaudible.
Henry shrugged. "Well, Wolfgang was a clever ambitious young man in his
twenties with a straight back and strong arms, and bright
eyes... and a lot of bad ideas in his head. And that young
man grew into me. I wouldn't even recognise him now. I wouldn't know
him if I bumped into him in the street. I don't remember a great deal
about him. But despite all that, it is true that I am the man that he
became. What do you want me to do? Should I cut my wrists? Will that
make it all right?"
"No, Dr. Muller. That will not make it all right."
"I didn't think it would. I'm going to pour myself a drink, Mr. Abrams.
Do you want one?" The other shook his head. "It won't be laced with
poison, by the way," the old doctor added, "I'm not a great one for
dramatic gestures."
He made his way to the modest cocktail cabinet and poured a generous
quantity of brandy into a glass. Then he sat down again, nursing it on
his knee. Abrams had taken a document from one of the manila folders
and was holding it stiffly before him, but he was still looking at
Henry. "Do you remember the total number of people who passed through
the facility at Treblenka during the years 1944 and 1945?" he asked in
a tone that was almost conversational.
Henry shook his head. "It's a long time ago, Mr. Abrams. A very long
time ago."
"We have estimated about seven hundred and fifty. Does that sound to
you like the right kind of figure?"
"If you say so." Henry's voice had become very quiet and his eyes,
almost unblinking, were fixed on those of his guest.
"It's the best estimate we have been able to arrive at. And of those
seven hundred and fifty people, or thereabouts, all ages, both
sexes... how many, would you like to estimate, are
still surviving at this time?"
Henry shook his head. "I have no idea."
"Six, Dr. Muller. Just six, that we know of. Five women and one man."
Abrams handed Henry the document that he had been holding. "These are
signed and sworn statements from each of the six. You will notice that
they have been translated into English. If you prefer I can let you see
them in German or in the original Polish. Would you prefer one of those
other languages?"
"It makes no difference," he said almost inaudibly, "I am acquainted
with all of those languages. Although my Polish may be a little rusty."
He fumbled around in his inside pocket to find his reading glasses and
put them on. Such a cosy little scene, he thought to himself. For all
the world like two old friends seated on the veranda, one showing his
holiday snapshots to the other. How very civilised it all was.
"The allegations contained in these statements," Abrams continued in
that same impenetrable monotone, "are of two kinds. There are specific
allegations against you, and descriptions of the regime that these
people witnessed at the Treblenka facility. The witnesses describe
experiments in which human subjects were deliberately infected with
life-threatening diseases, including typhoid fever, syphilis and
hepatitis, and then used as guinea-pigs for the testing of novel drugs
and treatment regimes. They allege that the percentage of subjects who
survived these experiments was of the order of two or three per cent.
Three of the women witnesses have also made allegations against you
personally of repeated sexual assault. Are these allegations true, Dr.
Muller?"
"Would it make any difference if I said no?"
"Not a great deal." He put the piece of paper down on the table and
Henry picked it up and held it carefully, moving it in and out in front
of his face to find the best distance.
Abrams watched him read the first sheet, turn the page, watched his
head nod very slightly as he hurried to the end. "I suppose you want me
to sign this?" he asked passively.
"These statements are legal documents," Abrams continued quietly, "I
shall witness your signature. After you have attested to the truth of
each statement it shall be lodged in the War Crimes section of the
Holocaust Museum and Archive at Yad Vashem in Jerusalem. It shall
become a public document and shall be admissible in evidence if any of
your surviving victims or the families of the dead should wish to bring
criminal proceedings against you. And the State of Israel shall support
them fully in any such prosecution."
"I see." Henry fixed the other's eyes once again. "So the State of
Israel does not intend to bring any proceedings itself?"
"Not if you sign. You are no longer young, and, frankly, not all that
important. It's the truth that we are primarily interested in in your
case, Dr. Muller. Nothing more."
"That's all you want of me? The truth? A small thing like that?"
Abrams did not reply. He merely produced an expensive-looking grey
fountain-pen and handed it to Henry. "How very... thoughtful
of you," the other mumbled.
It took Henry about five minutes to read and sign each document. As
each one was completed Abrams silently took it, carefully countersigned
with the same pen, and placed it back in the manila folder. When they
were all done, the two men's eyes met once again. Henry tried to read
Abrams' expression but found that he still couldn't.
"Is there nothing that you want to say, Dr. Muller?" Abrams asked at
last. It was some time before Henry replied.
"You're a good man, Mr. Abrams," he said at last, "a man who fights for
justice. A man who has devoted his life to... finding out the
truth. You can't understand somebody like me, can you?" Abrams said
nothing. "And you're young! You weren't even born when these things
were going on, were you?"
"Barely," Abrams admitted.
"It was a strange time. More strange than you can even imagine. A time
of certainties, Mr. Abrams. No shades of grey. National Socialism or
Communism. Jew or Aryan. German or foreigner. Comrade or enemy. Men
marching, drums beating, flags waving, organisations you had to belong
to, slogans you had to chant when everybody else did, anthems you had
to sing, things you had to believe, things you had to agree to. There
was no middle path. Nobody could hold out against it. Nobody could get
away from it... I was a young medical graduate, with
a new wife. I needed a job. I needed to eat. I needed security. Do you
think I could have held out against all that? What was I supposed to
do, for God's sake?"
Abrams studied him like a specimen under a microscope. He waited for
the old man to continue. "I was weak, Mr. Abrams. I was frightened. I
was a coward. I took the path of least resistance. Maybe I could have
done something else. I don't know."
"I have spoken to people whose circumstances were just as difficult as
yours," said Abrams very quietly, "who did do
something. I have spoken to people who were not Jews, who had no part
in the fight, and yet risked their lives and suffered ruin and torture
and imprisonment because they did something. I have spoken to people
whose husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, parents, friends
lost their lives because they did something. Lost
their lives because they would rather die than do nothing."
"I told you, Mr. Abrams, I was not a hero... I Cannot change
things that have happened in the past." He paused. "Would you like to
see what my wife looked like, Mr. Abrams?" Without waiting for an
answer he got up and went to a little shelf above a display cabinet in
the lounge. He took down a yellow-tinted framed photograph of an
attractive young woman with long dark hair. He returned with the
picture and handed it to Abrams.
The girl in the photograph wore an embroidered dress of a light colour
with a low square neckline, and she was smiling and lifting a hand
towards her face, as though embarrassed at the idea of having her
picture taken. Behind her were trees, and just visible behind them what
looked like a wooden tower of some kind raised into the air on four
rigid stilts.
"She was very beautiful, was she not, Mr. Abrams?"
Abrams nodded. "Yes, Dr. Muller. She was very beautiful. Where was she
standing when this was taken?"
"Where... ? I don't think I can recall..."
"No? Perhaps I can help you. That is one of the Treblenka look-out
towers in the background." He turned towards Henry but the old man made
no response. "What became of your wife, Dr. Muller?"
Henry took the picture back and laid it on the table before answering.
"Near the end... when I knew it was all about to end...
I sent her to Switzerland with false papers. We were to meet in
America."
"And did you meet?"
"I never went to America. I came here instead. They... you... would have found me too easily in America."
"So you lied to her. You deserted her."
"Don't you think she was better off without me? Don't you think I did
her a favour?"
Abrams shrugged. "So you've been here all this time? Did you practice
medicine?"
"Never."
"Any particular reason?"
"I... lost the stomach for it, I suppose." He thought for a
moment. "Have you ever heard the legend of the dogwood tree, Mr.
Abrams? No, I don't suppose you would have. It's a bit of Christian
mythology - folklore. The dogwood tree grows in North America. It's one
of the most twisted-up, deformed little things you can imagine. The
branches turn around, twist back on themselves. But the legend says
that the dogwood tree was once tall and straight. It was the tree they
used to make the cross to crucify Jesus. And when the tree saw what it
had done, how its virtues had been misused, it decided that it would
never grow tall and straight again. It would twist itself up into a
little wooden knot, so that it could never be used to make another
cross. That's what I have done, Mr. Abrams. I have twisted myself up
into a little knot and hidden myself away so that...
Forgive me, I'm talking nonsense. An old man, rambling." He stood up
and carefully carried the picture back to its place above the cabinet.
Abrams waited for him to return. When he had sat down again he looked
quizzically at his guest. "You've studied my case for a long time,
haven't you, Mr. Abrams?"
Abrams nodded.
"Do you know anything about my wife? Anything about what happened to
her? Anything at all?"
Abrams was silent for a long time. At last he decided to speak. "She
reached America," he said very quietly. "In fact she claimed to be a
Jew fleeing persecution. Was that your idea?" Henry did not reply but
his expression answered the question for Abrams.
"There's more, isn't there, Mr. Abrams?" Henry urged.
Abrams watched him fixedly. "Did you know that she was pregnant?" he
asked very quietly. Again Henry's face answered the question. His eyes
widened in startled disbelief.
"Pregnant... no, I never knew..."
"Would it have changed anything?"
"Well... yes... of course... A
child... changes everything. What happened to the
child...?"
Abrams shrugged. "We never traced the child. Frankly, it wasn't your
wife we were interested in. It was you."
"So... I might have a child... grandchildren
even... in America?"
"Dr. Muller, you might even have a wife in America. That isn't our
concern. Your wife has committed no crime, as far as we are aware. To
bear a child for a... a man like you is not a criminal act.
To love a man like you... no crime. A mistake, but not a
crime, Dr. Muller."
Henry's head sunk a little lower into his chest. "All that," he said
weakly, "was part of the price I paid. Part of curling myself up into
that little knot. I know it isn't much, weighed against what I did, but
if you think about it, it was all that I had. I've given everything
that I had, Mr. Abrams..."
"I apologise for stating the obvious, but you are alive, Dr. Muller.
You have good health for a man of your age. Your body is undefiled and
whole. You have all of your limbs, you have not been castrated, your
internal organs have not been mutilated, and you have apparently
retained your sanity. Please spare me your self-pity."
It was the nearest that Abrams had come to a display of emotion. He
said it coldly, without raising his voice, but the contempt and the
condemnation sent a shiver down Henry's spine.
Abrams collected his papers off the table, gathered them neatly into
the briefcase, and left without another word.
He walked briskly down the path to the road without looking back at
Henry's house. Exercise was what he needed, a bit of brisk physical
exertion to clear his system of the bottled-up anger and the tension
that was making his heart pound, his head throb in time to his furious
strides. As he made his way down the narrow road between the
overhanging coconut palms towards the harbour, the tension gradually
seeped out of him and he began to regain control of his seething
emotions. He slowed his walking pace and began to look around. The
hills were dotted with little ornate, gaudily-painted farmhouses whose
steep-pitched roofs ended in flamboyant twists and scrolls that existed
for no other purpose than to express something of the joy of existence.
A gaily painted pick-up truck swept by him, its two occupants waving
cheerily and shouting a Thai greeting as they passed. It was a happy,
warm, friendly place, but Abrams had armoured his spirit against it and
none of it made contact with his troubled psyche.
In the distance, near the village and the harbour, he saw a thin
sloping ribbon of white smoke rising from somewhere behind the local
Buddhist temple to vanish among the wispy grey clouds that drifted
ponderously across the sky. As he drew a little nearer he could make
out the sound of men's voices chanting: there was a ceremony of some
kind in progress. He glanced at his watch. The ferry did not leave for
almost two hours. There was no point in hurrying. He slowed his pace to
a gentle stroll and, for want of something to do, made his way towards
the temple and the rising plume of smoke at the far end of the village.
The temple was a long, low, highly-decorated building, red and gold
being the dominant colours of the scroll-work on the outside walls.
Above the structure was a traditional highly ornate orange-tiled Thai
roof of a dizzy pitch, ending in decorative coils at its four corners.
Rising from the centre of this to dominate it all was a high silver
chedi like an elongated metal cone standing on its
base, the equivalent of the steeple on a Western church, a shape that
he knew was repeated on Thai ceremonial headwear to symbolise the
god-quality that the Buddhist faithful believed to reside to at least
some degree in everyone.
The chanting was quite loud now, and as he entered the gate and circled
around towards the rear of the building he came upon the outdoor
service that was in progress in the field behind. He approached slowly
and respectfully, sitting down near a small family group who were
gathered around a rug on the grass. The rug was spread with food and
some small vessels containing flowers, as though in preparation for a
very formal picnic. Other similar groups were scattered among the tall
carved burial stones that dotted the space between the temple and a
crackling funeral pyre that had been built at the far end of the burial
ground. Atop the neatly stacked firewood was a woven wooden burial
basket, in which the body of a very slightly-built man reclined, draped
with a vivid yellow shroud. Young Buddhist monks, their heads shaven,
their bodies cloaked in robes of the same bright striking yellow stood
solemnly in a semicircle around the base of the pyre, chanting their
prayers with a calm dignity and rocking very gently in time to the
rhythm of their chant. Every few moments someone would slowly approach,
bowing low as they walked, and place something within the smouldering
sticks. Abrams strained to see more clearly but it was a bit too far
away for him to make out exactly what the offerings were.
"Welcome to this holy place," said a very quiet voice by Abrams' left
ear, causing him to start despite its calmness. He turned to find a
very old, wizened Buddhist monk sitting cross-legged by his side,
smiling serenely, his fingers entwined on the lap of his yellow robes.
"Thank you," he replied in a similar hushed tone, "I hope I'm not
intruding..."
"It is I who am intruding. I am an old man and very inquisitive. It is
a dreadful vice."
Abrams found himself smiling. "There are worse vices," he assured the
old man. "Who is the... deceased?"
"Khun Chaub. A very kind and good man. A farmer who worked hard for all
of his long life, who loved his wife and his children and gave food and
garments to the poor. It is a happy day for him, I hope I can meet my
own death with so great a store of merit."
Abrams nodded. "And the things they are putting in the fire. What are
those?"
"All kinds of things. Flowers. Food. Things that Khun Chaub may need in
his next life. And messages for the souls of other dead people. And
things that... that belong with the dead and not the
living."
"What do you mean?"
The old monk seemed to find this a difficult question. "In this life,"
he began ponderously, "we form attachments. We cling to things.
Especially to evil things. Things that are not good for us. Do you
agree?"
Abrams nodded.
"And when someone dies... moves on to another life...
that can be a good time for the people who are left behind to stop
clinging to things that are no longer good for them. Things that are
hurtful, damaging, things that put limits on the growth of the human
spirit. Do you understand?"
Abrams was not sure that he did. The monk seemed to pick up his
hesitation.
"Take yourself, Mr... ?"
"Abrams."
"Mr. Abrams. You carry a case made out of leather. I observe the way
you hold it. The case is black but your knuckles are white with the
strain of the grip with which you hold that case. Is it not so?"
Abrams grinned somewhat sheepishly. "What's in there is very
important," he said defensively.
"Is it? Is it something that makes you happy?"
"Well, no, not really."
"Is it something that makes other people happy? Something that makes
the world a better place? That adds to the total sum of human
happiness?"
Abrams looked at him strangely. "I'm not sure," he whispered.
"But you said it was very important?"
"Yes," Abrams agreed hesitantly, "that much I know. It is very
important."
The old monk smiled. "Have you any knowledge of the South Indian monkey
trap?" he asked with a mischievous sparkle in his eye. Abrams' blank
expression told him that he had not. "Well," the monk began, obviously
pleased to have Abrams for an audience, "I always think that it
completely proves that the Lord Buddha passed that way, because it
could only have been invented by a person of our faith. You see, the
trap is nothing more than an empty coconut shell that is fixed to a
branch by a strong rope. There is a small opening into the shell, and
inside is placed a small piece of fruit, let us say a lychee. Can you
see how the trap works?"
Abrams thought for a moment but was baffled.
"Oh, it's amazingly simple, Mr. Abrams. The monkey puts its hand into
the coconut shell for the lychee, and grabs it - like that!" The old
monk made a fist to show Abrams what he meant. "Now can you see how the
trap works?"
"Oh yes. Of course. When he has the fruit in his hand, he can't get his
hand out any more."
"Exactly, Mr. Abrams! The monkey wants that lychee very badly, and he
will not let go. Because he will not let go, he is a trapped monkey. He
has lost his freedom. He has given up everything that life has to offer
a monkey, because he can not bring himself to let go of that lychee.
Don't you think that he is a very foolish monkey, Mr. Abrams?"
Abrams sat very still and looked into the face of the monk. Minutes
passed. "May I ask you what you are thinking, Mr. Abrams?" said the
monk, no longer able to contain his curiosity.
"Oh, just about the monkey. It's a very sad story, isn't it. When all
he has to do to get free is just... " Abram's voice faded out.
The monk held up his hand which was still in a fist and slowly and
gently opened it. Abrams said nothing but a calmness and a serenity
seemed to spread slowly through his body. He felt himself relax, felt
the tension drain from his features. He sat for several minutes in
silence and complete peace. He suddenly realised that he was no longer
holding the briefcase, it was lying on the grass by his feet.
"Would you... would you put that on the fire for me?" he
whispered so quietly that he was surprised the other heard.
"Oh no, Mr. Abrams. You have to put it on the fire yourself."
* * * * *
Abrams tapped gently on the hotel-room door. It was opened by his wife,
an elegantly dressed slightly overweight American lady of late middle
age. She seemed mildly surprised at his appearance but greeted him
warmly and ushered him in.
"You're back early, Saul. You look pleased. Did you get a result?"
He took off his jacket and threw it over the back of a chair before he
replied. "What do you think?" was his laconic answer.
She looked him straight in the eye: "I don't know. I thought you
looked... different some way, when you came in. That was the
last lead, wasn't it, Saul?"
"The very last one," he confirmed, lowering himself on to the wide soft
bedspread as he said it. He held out his two hands and his wife took
them and allowed herself to be drawn down to sit beside him on the
bed.
"Why do you look so pleased then?" she demanded, still eyeing him
strangely.
"Ruth, I've wasted too much of my life on this search. Too much of
yours as well. I want to apologise."
"Don't be silly, Saul. Of course you had to look for him. For your
mother's sake." As she spoke she lifted the framed picture from the
bedside table and handed it to Abrams. He took it and stared at it, an
expression on his face that Ruth had never seen there before.
"I... I suppose he must have died then?" she probed, still
convinced that there was more to the affair than Saul was willing to
say.
"Ruth, we've got to stop talking about this thing. Stop thinking about
it. Our grandson gets married in four days' time. We've got to get out
of here. Back to the 'States. This isn't where we belong. We've got to
start thinking about the future, not this stuff. Not what's over and
done with... "
Ruth could hardly credit the change in her husband. "You've finally
admitted it then. That he's dead. That you're not going to find
him?"
He put his arm around her waist and pulled her towards him in a gentle
embrace. "He died a long time ago. I know that now."
Ruth smiled and kissed him on the cheek, which embarrassed her as soon
as she had done it. "I think I've got myself a brand new husband today,
" she laughed.
"I think you have, Ruth," he smiled, "I think you have." He looked down
at the yellowing picture of his mother. It showed a young attractive
woman with long dark hair, and she wore an embroidered dress of a light
colour with a low square neckline. She was smiling and lifting a hand
towards her face, as though embarrassed at the idea of having her
picture taken. Behind her were trees, and just visible behind them what
looked like a wooden tower of some kind raised into the air on four
rigid stilts...
First published by Fish Publishing, Co. Cork in "Franklin's
Grace and Other Stories - Winner's of Ireland's Fish Short Story Prize"
June 2002
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