The Storyteller Read online

  "What am I supposed to say to him?" I ask.

  "Nothing," Leo advises. "Let him talk to you. See if he says something detailed either that matches what your nana told us or that we can ask her about."

  It isn't until I've hung up and am standing in the shower with the hot water streaming down my back that I realize I have no transportation. My car is still at the service station waiting to be fixed after the accident. It's too far to walk to Josef's house. I towel off and dry my hair and throw on a pair of shorts and a tank top, even though I would bet a hundred dollars that Leo will again be wearing a suit when he shows up. But if, as he said, appearances are part of this game, then I have to wear what I've worn in the past to Josef's house.

  In my garage I find the bike I last used when I was in college. Its tires are flat, but I unearth a hand pump to get them reasonably inflated. Then I quickly whip up a batter in the kitchen and bake streusel muffins. They are still steaming when I wrap them in foil, stick them gently in my backpack, and start pedaling to Josef's house.

  As I bike up these New England hills, as my heart races, I think about what my grandmother told me yesterday. I remember the story of Josef's childhood. They are two speeding trains coming at each other, destined to crash. I am helpless to stop it, yet I cannot turn away.

  By the time I reach Josef's house I am breathing hard and sweating. When he sees me, he frowns, concerned. "You are all right?"

  That's a loaded question. "I rode my bike here. My car's in the shop."

  "Well," he says. "I am glad to see you."

  I wish I could say the same. But now, when I see the lines in Josef's face, they smooth before my eyes into the stern jaw of the Schutzhaftlagerfuhrer who stole, lied, and murdered. I realize, ironically, that he has gotten what he hoped for: I believe his story. I believe it so much I can barely stand here without being sick.

  Eva darts out the door and dances around my feet. "I brought you something," I say. Reaching into my backpack, I pull out the package of freshly baked muffins.

  "I think that being your friend is very bad for my waistline," Josef says.

  He invites me into the house. I take my usual seat across from him at the chessboard. He puts up the kettle and returns with coffee for both of us. "Truthfully I was not sure you would come back," he says. "What I told you last time . . . it was a lot to take in."

  You have no idea, I think.

  "A lot of people, they hear Auschwitz and they immediately assume you are a monster."

  His words bring to mind my grandmother's upior. "I thought that was what you wanted me to think."

  Josef winces. "I wanted you to hate me enough to want to kill me. But I didn't realize how that would make me feel."

  "You called it the Asshole of the World."

  Josef takes a shallow breath. "It is my turn, yes?" He leans forward and knocks away one of my pawns with a Pegasus knight. He moves slowly, carefully, an old man. Harmless. I remember my grandmother talking about how his hand shook, and I watch as he lifts my pawn from the inlaid wooden chessboard, but his movements are too unsteady in general for me to be able to tell if he has a particular lasting injury.

  He waits until my concentration is focused on the board before he begins to speak. "In spite of the reputation Auschwitz has now, I found it was a good assignment. I was safe; I wouldn't be shot by a Russian. There was even a little village in the camp where we could go for our meals and drinks and even concerts. When we were relaxing there, it was almost possible to believe there wasn't a war going on."

  "We?"

  "My brother, the one who worked in Section Four--administration. He was an accountant who added numbers and sent the tallies to the Kommandant. My rank was much higher than his." Josef brushes the crumbs from his napkin onto his plate. "He reported to me."

  I touch my finger to a dragon-bishop, and Josef makes a sound low in his throat. "No?" I ask.

  He shakes his head. Instead, I place my hand on the broad back of a centaur, the only rook I have left. "So you were the head of administration?"

  "No. I was in Section Three. I was SS-Schutzhaftlagerfuhrer of the women's camp."

  "You were the head honcho at a death factory," I said flatly.

  "Not the boss," Josef said. "But high in the chain of command. And besides, I did not know what was happening at the camp when I first arrived in 1943."

  "You expect me to believe that?"

  "I can only tell you what I know. My job wasn't at the gas chambers. I oversaw the prisoners who were kept alive."

  "Did you get to pick and choose?"

  "No. I was present when the trains arrived, but that task fell to the camp doctors. Mostly I just walked around. I was an overseer. A presence."

  "A supervisor," I say, the word bitter in my mouth. A manager, for the unmanageable.

  "Precisely."

  "I thought you were injured on the front line."

  "I was--but not so badly that I couldn't do this."

  "So you were in charge of the female prisoners."

  "That was left to my subordinate, the SS-Aufseherin. Twice a day, she oversaw roll call."

  Instead of moving my rook, I reach for my white queen, the exquisitely carved mermaid. I know enough about chess to realize that what I am about to do defies the odds, that of all the pieces to sacrifice the valuable queen is the last one I should consider.

  I slide the mermaid to an empty square, knowing full well that it stands in the path of Josef's Pegasus knight.

  He looks up at me. "You do not want to do this."

  I meet his gaze. "Guess I figure I'll learn from my mistakes."

  Josef captures my queen, as I'm expecting.

  "What did you do?" I ask. "At Auschwitz?"

  "I told you."

  "Not really," I say. "You told me what you didn't do."

  Eva lies down at Josef's feet. "You don't need to hear me say it."

  I just stare at him.

  "I punished those who could not do their work."

  "Because they were starving to death."

  "I did not create the system," Josef says.

  "You did nothing to stop it, either," I point out.

  "What do you want me to tell you? That I am sorry?"

  "How am I supposed to forgive you if you're not?" I realize I am shouting. "I can't do this, Josef. Find someone else."

  Josef's fist crashes down on the table, making the chess pieces jump. "I killed them. Yes. Is that what you want to hear? That with my own two hands, I murdered? There. That is all you need to know. I was a murderer, and for this, I deserve to die."

  I take a deep breath. Leo will be angry at me, but he of all people should understand how I feel right now, listening to Josef talk about the joy of officers' meals and cello concerts when my grandmother, at the same time, was licking the ground where soup had spilled. "You do not deserve to die," I say tightly. "Not on your own terms, anyway, since you didn't give that luxury to anyone else. I hope you die a slow, painful death. No, actually, I hope you live forever, so that what you did eats away at you for a long, long time."

  I slide my bishop across the board into the position no longer protected by Josef's knight. "Checkmate," I say, and I stand up to leave.

  Outside, I straddle my bike and turn back to see him standing at the open door. "Sage. Please, don't--"

  "How many times did you hear those words, Josef?" I ask. "And how many times did you listen?"

  *

  It isn't until I see Rocco at the espresso machine that I realize how much I've missed working at Our Daily Bread. "Do my eyes deceive?" he says. "Look at what the cat dragged in. / One long-lost baker." He comes around the counter to give me a hug and without even asking, starts to make me a cinnamon latte with soy.

  It is busier than I remember it being, but then again, at this time of the day, I'm usually on my way home to go to bed. There are mothers in jogging clothes, young men typing furiously on their laptops, a cluster of Red Hat ladies sharing a single chocolate c