She floated into the forest on icy wings, riding the wind through the pines. She tried to speak, but instead a song erupted from her throat. A mournful trill that made the animals on the forest floor pause and lift their eyes in acknowledgement.
The wind swept her to the shore of a gunmetal lake, a mirror of the gunmetal sky. One a grey eye contained by the boundaries of earth, the other an infinite line, vast with possibilities. She had flown at the horizon with her heart full, even forgiving the village by the lake for their indifference. Then the searchlights found her in the sky. In an instant, the horizon shrank into a vault and closed over her with the finality of iron. High in that iron sky, stars twinkled dispassionately, hard as diamonds. No one saw her tumble to the ground. No one saw her gather every ounce of energy and fly to the nearest tree for shelter. But her membraned feet couldn’t balance on the iron branch. She trembled and fell for the last time.
Lifting herself on a broken wing, she gazed into the lake: a tiny heart-shaped face looked back at her from the water. Where had she seen it before? A vague memory of grief squeezed her chest. The face smiled sadly and melted into the water; eyes, nose, mouth stretched upon the lake and dissolved into other eyes, another nose, another mouth, until Rebecca was looking at herself.
She opened her eyes with a start. Where was she? Warm. Protected. She lay in Nesha’s arms in her own bed. She wasn’t a bird. She wasn’t in a camp. She was one of the lucky ones. But what if her mother’s family hadn’t moved from Poland to Canada when Flo was a girl? Her mother would have been a teenager when the Nazis put her into a camp and killed her, along with her family. Rebecca would never have been born. Where were the millions of unborn progeny of those who had perished? She felt Nesha’s breath on her cheek. It was the American Thanksgiving, she remembered. Thank you, Whoever Is Responsible, for my life.
A grey November light filtered through her bedroom window. She had taken the day off and told Iris to reschedule her patients. After last night, Rebecca needed some recovery time. It wasn’t just the stitches the resident had put into her thigh to close the wound from Salim’s knife — four stitches after waiting in Emerg for two hours. It was the stress of having her life threatened, of seeing someone else’s blood issue from a wound she’d inflicted.
Fitzroy, all in a lather, had found her in Emerg last night.
“You should’ve called me! Not try to do things yourself! You could’ve been killed!”
“I couldn’t call you,” she said softly. “He cut the phone line.”
His large face flushed with anger, then concern. “Yes, of course he did. I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath, his barrel chest rising and falling beneath his coat. “I shouldn’t have relied on the surveillance cop. It was my fault.”
She was sitting up on a gurney in one of the cubicles, holding a wad of gauze against her leg as she waited for the resident.
“I’ll go hurry them up,” he announced, turning to go.
“Detective,” she said. “You saved my life.”
“Look, I feel bad enough —”
“If I didn’t have that can of Mace, he would’ve killed me.”
Fitzroy’s face lit up, his mouth lifting from ear to ear. “Right!” he said. He looked behind himself, snickering. “He’s just across the way at the sink. They’re washing the stuff out of his eyes. I hope it stings. I hope it stings like hell. The bastard killed a cop.”
Nesha had rushed in then, his face pale with worry.
“I’m all right,” she said, as he hovered over her in his worn leather jacket.
Fitzroy gave her a grin before disappearing.
Nesha kissed her forehead and took her free hand. “I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”
She smiled, taking in the brown, melancholy eyes. She wished he could stay in the country long enough to make that threat count.
Erich stuck his head into the cubicle. “You all right?”
He exchanged a perfunctory nod with Nesha, who gripped her hand tighter.
“I’ll be fine. How about your father?”
As soon as she said it, she realized the ambiguity. If Erich had any reservations, he hid them admirably.
“You saved his life. He’ll be okay. No fencing for a while.”
She hadn’t asked him about the man in custody, his biological father, or the matter of his startling origins.
The scenes of last night played over and over as she lay in bed, her head too heavy to lift. Nesha adjusted his arms around her.
The next time she woke up, it was past two. The aroma of coffee and eggs wafted up from the kitchen. Nesha was cooking. Her leg pulsed with pain, but she couldn’t lie there any longer. She threw on her bathrobe and went downstairs.
“I was just going to bring this up on a tray,” Nesha said.
He was distributing fried eggs and toast on two plates. She poured the coffee.
“I think I dreamt about a concentration camp. The one Frieda was in.”
On the way home from the hospital the night before, Rebecca had told him about Sentry and Salim. Eisenbaum and Brenner. And Frieda.
“You know, Ravensbrück was one of the bad ones,” he said. “She was lucky she survived. Probably because a Nazi loved her. Very rare in a camp.”
“I wonder if she loved him back,” Rebecca said. “Or if she knew she’d never see him again. He may as well’ve fallen off the face of the earth when he went to Egypt. I guess that’s what he meant to do.”
“They would’ve welcomed him there with open arms.”
“Why?”
“Ever heard of Arab Nazis? The Grand Mufti of Jerusalem?”
“No.”
“He was the Muslim Brotherhood delegate in Palestine. Hajj Amin al-Husseini. Organized the murder of Jews in the twenties and thirties. For this, the English appointed him Grand Mufti. Meanwhile, remember in Cairo the founder of the Brotherhood was writing letters to Hitler, telling him what a stellar fellow he was? Well, Hitler saw an opportunity and the Brothers became a secret arm of Nazi intelligence. When Hitler actually got into power, he sent the Mufti arms. In 1936 they fomented the Arab Revolt when they rose up and murdered Jews and Arabs who disagreed with them. After that the Mufti escaped to Berlin, where he spent the war.”
“Where did you learn all this?”
“Some people golf. I like to sift through old records at the Wiesenthal Institute in L.A.”
“So the Mufti went to Berlin. Then what?”
“He worked for the war effort, recruiting Bosnian Muslim volunteers. He organized them into their own battalions.”
“I don’t understand. They fought for the Germans?”
“They were put into the Waffen SS and fought partisans in the Balkans. They also hunted down Serbs, Jews, and Gypsies. I’ve seen pictures of them marching in formation wearing their fezzes. Twenty thousand of them. The Mufti flew from Berlin to Sarajevo to inspect his Muslim army.”
“What happened to him after the war?”
“He was declared a Nazi war criminal. But the English let him escape to Cairo.”
“Why would they do that?”
“For the same reason the Americans hired ex-Nazis to work for them after the war. To fight the Communists. You’re too young to remember the beginning of the Cold War. The Communists were the new bogeyman. So Arab fundamentalists became allies against Arab Communist sympathizers. The ex-Mufti ran Arab Palestine till he died in 1974. Then his relative took over.”
“But I thought Yasser Arafat ...”
He was chewing on a piece of toast with a smug look.
“Arafat is related to the Mufti?”
“His real name is too complicated to remember. But it ends in ‘al-Hussaeini.’ They belong to the same clan. Arafat shortened his name to hide his kinship because the ex-Mufti was discredited. Even if you supported the Nazis, these days you don’t call yourself a Nazi. Especially if you’re courting the Western media.”
“You must spend a lot of time reading up on this stuff.”
“If we don’t remember the past, we can’t understand the present.”
“Sometimes we have to get beyond the past to be able to live in the present.”
“You think I’m obsessed. I think I’m a realist. What do you think happened to people who kept their heads in the sand when Hitler was consolidating his power? They didn’t survive. The man who tried to run you down? He’s a direct link to the Grand Mufti. The Nazis may be gone, but their legacy lives on. Every time an Arab terrorist kills an Israeli, Hitler laughs in hell.” He stared into his coffee. “The funny thing is, Brenner seems to be one of the human ones.”
The phone rang. Rebecca reached over and lifted the receiver off the wall.
“Hi, sweetheart. Are you feeling better today?” Rebecca knew her mother had held off calling earlier not to disturb her. “Much better.”
“How’s your leg?” There was something else in her voice.
“It’ll heal. Don’t worry.”
“Did Jeff Herman call you? Susan’s left him. Is she with you?”
When Rebecca got off the phone, she hurried up the stairs.
“Where you going?” Nesha asked.
“Getting dressed.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to find Susan.”
Nesha insisted on driving. “Where are we going?”
“Mount Sinai.”
“You’re an optimist.”
“It’s the only thing that keeps me going.”
He dropped her at the hospital, then drove off to find a parking spot.
Rebecca rode the elevator upstairs impatiently, rushing off in the direction of the preemie unit.
Inside, her father stood, enthralled, against one of the walls. She followed his eyes. Wearing a hospital gown, Susan sat in a rocking chair beside the incubator holding Miriam against her chest. Both mother and daughter had their eyes closed as if no one else existed. Alicia, the nurse, stood off to one side, beaming.
Rebecca felt her heart expand in her chest. Her eyes burned with tears.
Alicia waved at her to approach. The nurse opened her mouth in a laugh, barely able to contain herself.
“She been here since yesterday!” the woman said in a hoarse whisper. “Slept in the waiting room. Wanted to know everything. About the IV, the baby’s heart, her oxygen level. Gave her a bit of a bottle. You know the way it is, drop by drop. Wouldn’t leave to go eat. I had to pry her away.”
Rebecca took a deep, cleansing breath, feeling her chest clear of this weight finally. She stepped back beside her father, who looped his arm through hers.
“Thank God!” he said. “I can finally stop telling Miriam I’m her mother.” Later that evening, Susan returned to Rebecca’s house. Without being prodded, she phoned Ben in Montreal. Rebecca and Nesha left her in the kitchen for privacy, but she could hear her sister’s side of the conversation from the den.
“It’s me,” said Susan on the phone. “How are you?”
Rebecca imagined Ben’s surprise. And, hopefully, his relief.
“I’m better,” Susan went on. “At Rebecca’s. Yes, Miriam’s doing fine.”
Rebecca knew Ben had been calling the hospital daily to check on his daughter’s progress.
“I thought you might come to Toronto this weekend to see her. I miss the boys.”
She hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t grovelled. Things would be different in that household, Rebecca thought. Ben would have to make some hard choices if she knew her sister.
Susan stuck her head in the kitchen, her face drawn with exhaustion. “I’m going to sleep. Can you tuck me in?”
Rebecca gave her a minute to get into the nightgown she had lent her.
“Thanks for being so understanding,” said Susan as they sat together on the bed in the guest room. Dark blonde roots peeked through her ash blonde hair.
“I’m your sister. That’s my job.”
“You knew it wouldn’t work out with Jeff, didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t sure. You were going through a crisis, and people in crisis do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do.”
“It was so depressing being with him. He thought I could fix his life. He had all these plans. About new furniture. Where we’d go for vacation. How great it would be walking into his favourite restaurant with me on his arm. He only talked about things. I was just a trophy to add to his collection of stuff. Like his car or his job.”
“I think he really loves you.”
She sighed guiltily. “In his limited way. I don’t want to sound mean, but he’s an empty man. He tries to fill that emptiness with stuff. I was going to be the solution to his life! When I’m so messed up.”
Inwardly Rebecca rejoiced at her sister’s assessment, but she arranged her face in a sympathetic expression.
“He doesn’t even like what he’s doing. Corporate law bores him, but it pays well. At least when I start law school I’ll know what I don’t want to do. I’m going to look into family law.”
She trained eyes on Rebecca that hinted of the mischief from younger days. “I missed the boys so much. Ben’s taken good care of them, I can tell. I appreciate him more. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell him.”
She would make a fine lawyer, Rebecca thought.
Rebecca decided to work on Friday, tending to the more urgent patients who’d had their appointments cancelled the day before.
She worked steadily for a few hours, then Iris called her to the phone. It was Fitzroy.
“I won’t keep you, doctor, I know you’re busy. I’m calling you as a courtesy because you were so helpful. You’re going to be contacted by the RCMP about our friend Salim. He’s trying to cut a deal with information he says is, quote, ‘of international significance.’ They’re going to ask you if you know anything.”
“Is this about the sterilization experiments during the war?”
“What war? No. We’re talking about current political affairs here. He claims to have information about a plot to assassinate the Egyptian president, Sadat. Willing to give up big names.”
She paused, taking this in. “That surprises me. His brother-in-law is one of Sadat’s advisors. Wouldn’t Salim have warned them already?”
“His brother-in-law?”
“Mohammed Hassan. Hassan Pharmaceuticals.”
“You know more about this than I do. Just tell the RCMP.”
“I wonder if his brother-in-law is involved. It seemed strange that Salim knew people in the Muslim Brotherhood.”
“The whole thing could just be a story to bargain with. He’s looking at a long prison stretch — remember, he killed a cop.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“We don’t want to take any chances. Which is why the RCMP will be calling you.”
“He never talked about an assassination plot with me. Have you spoken to Will Sentry?”
“He says it’s news to him, too. I don’t trust this Salim as far as I can throw him.”
“Well, Sadat’s very unpopular in Egypt right now because of the peace initiative with Israel. I’m sure there are plots against him. The question is, does Salim have an inside track on one?”
“You’re very well informed,” said Fitzroy.
She smiled into the phone. “My friend from California has been educating me. The thing about Salim is he’s very well-connected because of his brother-in-law. And he’s a survivor. I can see him betraying his friends if it means things will go easier for him. I wouldn’t discount his story. But how can you check it out?”
“We won’t be checking anything out. Way out of our territory. The thing’ll get passed on to the FBI, and you know how they share information. We’ll probably never know.”
“Let’s hope they pass it on to the Egyptians.”
Mid-afternoon, she opened the door to an examining room for her next patient.
“Mr. Sentry!”
He sat there, like any other patient, his arm in a sling. “Call me Wolfie.”
He must have been very persuasive to get past Iris today.
“How’s your arm?”
He watched her pensively. “With Aspirin it’s not so bad.” His hair looked more unruly than usual. She imagined grooming was hard without the use of one’s right hand.
“I never got a chance to thank you properly,” he said. “You saved my life.”
She nodded, embarrassed. She never could take compliments graciously.
“I also wanted to set something straight. I know you misunderstood when I talked about my sister — when I said you were like her. I know you took it the wrong way. Forgive me. Sometimes my temper ...” He lifted his free hand in the air, the equivalent of a shrug. “But I wanted you to understand — I couldn’t give you a bigger compliment. In our family I loved her the most. I wish you could’ve known her when she was your age. She was a noble soul. She sacrificed herself to save so many. Something in your eyes reminds me of her. A sadness. Like you’ve lost something. She looked like that, a terrible sadness in the eyes, from everything she lost.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I like to think that you’re what she could’ve become, if not for the war. If not for many things. She would’ve been just like you.”
Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat. Her chest ached, pain mingling with pleasure in a bittersweet pride. “I don’t know what to say.”
His lips curled up, his eyes contemplating her with affection. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Rebecca got home late in the afternoon, just before Ben and the children arrived. The three boys burst through the door, but only two ran to embrace their mother. The eldest held back, sullen. Ben, thinner than Rebecca remembered, stood awkwardly in the hall, watching. When Rebecca introduced Nesha, Ben stepped forward to shake his hand.
The two youngest boys clung to Susan’s legs. “Where were you?” they asked in a chorus. “We missed you. Are you coming home?”
Susan looked sheepishly at the eldest from under her eyebrows. “Adam, come here.”
He stared at the ground, then glanced up at Ben. Ben nodded, gesturing with his head. Susan held out her hand to the boy. Adam crept toward her, anger mingled with confusion on his nine-year-old face. Once he was close enough, Susan pulled him into a tight embrace.
Nesha observed mother and children quietly. “You’re a very lucky man,” he said to Ben. “Three handsome sons.”
“Thank you,” Ben murmured.
“And a beautiful daughter,” said Susan. She gazed at Ben with steady eyes, waiting for him to respond.
He watched her, perplexed but hopeful. “And a beautiful daughter,” he said.
Susan flushed, rewarding him with a remorseful smile.
Nesha put his arm around Rebecca’s waist and kissed her forehead. “We should be so lucky,” he murmured in her ear.
She let his words buoy her up but was careful not to let them carry her away. If the boys behaved well this weekend, if they didn’t have temper tantrums, if their sweet innocence touched him ...
“Let me introduce you,” she said. “Nesha, this is Adam, the oldest.”
Adam lifted his head from his mother’s shoulder and blinked.
“This big boy with the curly hair is Sammy.”
“Samuel!” he cheeped, his ear still pressed against his mother’s stomach.
Susan grinned. “His Grade One teacher doesn’t like nicknames.”
“And Jonathan, a big boy of four.”
“Auntie Rebecca! I’m still little!”
Nesha smiled at them. “You boys like hummus?”
“What’s that?” said Samuel.
Adam nodded but said nothing.
“It’s a Middle Eastern dip. They eat it in Israel.” He glanced at Ben’s skullcap. “You tear pita bread into little pieces and scoop up the hummus. It can get messy, but it’s delicious. Want to help me make some? You just throw all the stuff into the food processor and it makes a lot of noise. Then you eat it.”
The two youngest quickly left their mother’s side. Nesha beckoned to Adam with a wave as he headed for the kitchen.
Susan and Ben wavered in their spots until Rebecca turned to follow the boys. Then she heard hesitant mumbling behind her, the rustling of clothes as they crept into the den. Things would be awkward at first, but Rebecca trusted in her sister’s charm.
Lights blazed in the kitchen, while the living room lay dusky, now that the sun was setting. She stopped in the shadows, looking toward the brightly lit doorway, enjoying the cheerful din. How lucky she was! Here, in this house, in this country. She was alive, unlike so many others. The tiny heart-shaped face that visited her dreams. She was like Frieda, and not like Frieda. Her mettle would never be tested in the same arena, and for that she was profoundly grateful.
But she knew the desolation of a bird trying to land on an iron tree. There were only two possibilities that she could see: hover forever and never land, or look outward to find a more hospitable home. The bird might have to fly in the dark for a while. She would have to trust her instincts and hope she was travelling in the right direction. Maybe take some chances, let go of herself a little, and watch for a welcoming light.
Rebecca heard the ringing of children’s laughter. The weekend would be easy. It was after everyone left that she would be flying alone again. The food processor whirred on the counter in the distance. A little boy yelped with delight. Savour the moment. Life was made up of moments. She lifted her feet from the ground and headed for the light.