Chapter 22

But a few years later, he and Rivka did see each other, and here in this new country, Gershon had a chance to make amends for the sin he’d never brought himself to confess. Except that now, facing his old nemesis at the Board meeting, Gershon saw his opportunity threatened. Stepanic’s angular face had grown mottled and fleshy, but his lips still writhed with evil. Disheartened, Gershon stared at the man’s sheer ugliness until he felt confident by comparison. He stated his case methodically, as if reviewing an account with a client.

“How do we know your nephew isn’t of age? Maybe you’re just trying to track down a deserter who’s shirking his duty.” Stepanic silently mouthed the words, “Like you, coward.”

“I assure you, gentlemen, my nephew is only sixteen.” Gershon looked each man in the eye. Heads nodded, but the chairman and several others were sceptical. They wanted proof.

“I’m afraid Jews born in Lemberg weren’t issued birth certificates,” he said, “but this may suffice.” He flourished a parchment attesting to Shmuel’s bar mitzvah, dated three years earlier and signed by the rabbi and other dignitaries from the synagogue, including himself. For those unfamiliar with Jewish customs, he explained the ritual whereby boys became men at thirteen.

“So if a Jewish boy is a man at thirteen, surely after another three years he’s old enough to fight for his country?” Stepanic smirked and stared pointedly around the table, but the Board members were busy studying the document. When they looked up, Gershon opened his custom-tailored woollen coat and placed his polished wallet beside his leather gloves.

“I move we approve the request,” the chairman said. All except Stepanic voted in favour.