Kristmas Collins (40 page)

Ellen didn’t have time to advance the ‘nature versus nurture’ debate. It had been going on long before they arrived on this planet and would rage on long past their deaths. Besides, her plan wasn’t to dissuade the Nazi hunter from his beliefs—there was little chance of that—what she wanted was his assistance.

She pointed to the drawer of the end-table. He was now under her spell, and followed her instruction. But when he slid out a piece of paper from the drawer he looked disappointed. This object was not gold, nor did it have historical significance. It was an invitation to her great-granddaughter’s presentation of her Heritage Paper for her sixth grade class.

“If you want to protect your family, as you claim, why would you provide me such access to them?”

The irony caused the smile to finally appear on her face. “Because if you’re going to stop the Reich from returning to power, you will need Maggie’s help.”

“You will use any lie or tactic to save yourself. How else can you explain hiding out all these years under the cover of being a persecuted Jew? As if the actions of you and your fellow Nazis were not depraved enough!”

“I’ve lived many lies throughout my life, many of which I’m ashamed of. But I never lied about being Jewish.”

“More lies! Your deception can’t save you anymore!”

“My mother’s name was Etta Sarowitz—a
Jewish
prostitute from Munich. Perhaps your doctor friend failed to mention that part in his story. History tends to pick and choose the truth, depending on whether it fits the narrative of the author. Without a father around, I took her surname of Sarowitz—the name I used upon coming to America, and until I married. While many of my fellow Apostles took aliases to survive, Ellen Sarowitz was my given name.”

Good thing the Nazi hunter was sitting, or he might have fallen and broken a hip. He searched her face for a lie, but the deep lines told an ugly story that couldn’t be hidden. She spoke the truth, and he knew it

“But if you’re Jewish …”

“Then it’s the great ruse of history.”

As the Nazi hunter tried to wrap his mind around the bomb she just dropped, Ellen bit down on the glass vial she’d hidden behind her dentures.

The room turned hazy and began to spin. She never used drugs, so she finally was getting to experience the ’60s, a time her children were so enamored with.

The Nazi hunter called out, “No!” But his voice seemed miles away. He was too late.

A beautiful painting filled the canvas of Ellen’s mind. She was back on her first date with her husband, Harold Peterson—he’d taken her to Central Park for a picnic lunch. It was late October and a stiff wind was blowing the fall foliage off the trees. The leaves looked like a rainbow as they floated to earth.

She focused on one large oak tree with a stout trunk. The vision was so clear that she felt she could reach out and touch it. But slowly the picture turned blurry, as if she was looking at it through the steamed glass of a shower door.

She said her final prayers, but they weren’t for herself—she knew her judgment would be harsh. She asked for compassion for Josef and Harry Jr.—the innocent children who were given burdens they couldn’t handle—along with her grandson, Carsten. All taken too soon.

But most of all, she asked to give Maggie and Jamie the strength they’d need to end the cycle, and for the Nazi hunter to guide them with his experienced eyes.

Her mind flashed back to the tree in the park. The stiff wind picked up, continuing to blow the leaves off the branches until they were almost bare. She watched them float downward in slow motion, and when the last leaf hit the ground, everything went dark.

“Maggie, c’mon, you’re going to be late,” Veronica Peterson shouted up the stairwell to her twelve-year-old daughter. She waited a moment, still no reply.

But there was no time to dwell on it. She swooped into the kitchen and caught nine-year-old Jamie about to douse his sister’s cereal with jalapeño sauce. She grabbed the jar out of his stunned hands on her way to the toaster.

“Haven’t you poisoned enough food this week?” she asked, while hastily buttering a piece of toast.

Jamie smiled his “can’t be mad at me” smile. Her husband used to say it was like Mariano Rivera’s cut-fastball—you knew it was coming, but it would still get you every time. She wasn’t a big baseball fan, but understood the power of Jamie’s smile. And it worried her.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I thought it was sugar. You know how Maggie likes sugar on her cereal … and with her project this morning …”

Yeah right.

The Maggie reference served as a reminder to check on her again. While Jamie was impossible to remain mad at, Maggie was quite the opposite. Veronica was convinced that she thrived on it—acceptance was the enemy.

Maggie had worked so hard on her Heritage Paper, trekking over to her Oma’s place a couple times a week to interview her about the family history, or at least Ellen’s version of it. Veronica was so proud of her effort, and thought she was finally starting to integrate into her new school, but on the day of the presentation she wouldn’t even get out of bed. She was such a mystery.

“Maggie—I’m not kidding,” Veronica yelled again up the stairs. “It would be a shame for you to put all this work in and then not show up.”

No response.

All she could hear was Jamie crunching his cereal.

“What did I tell you about closing your mouth when you eat?” she asked on another walk by.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

Yeah right.

She hurried up the stairs to Maggie’s room. She stared at the unfamiliar door, plotting her next move. The house was a lot different from their apartment in the city. It wasn’t that Veronica disliked it; it’s just what it represented.

She wanted to knock the door down like in one of those TV cop shows, but with her luck she figured she’d end up breaking her foot. And on top of that, Maggie never responded to threats. She perpetuated a stubbornness that always made Veronica’s mother make snide comments about acorns falling near trees. There were rumors about Veronica having a similar stubborn streak during her youth.

She lightly knocked, then waited … nothing.

Maggie was likely playing her music too loudly through her headphones, in defiance of Veronica’s warnings about deafness.

Passion for music was another handed-down trait, although their tastes differed greatly. Maggie had recently converted from bubblegum pop to a mishmash of loud and angry, which corresponded with her latest personality twist. Veronica preferred the classics. That is, if 1980s “glam metal” was considered to be classic.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Something was wrong. She twisted the door handle—surprised to find it unlocked—and burst into the room.

Maggie was nowhere in sight.

Veronica performed a quick reconnaissance, her focus settling on an art easel in the center of the room. Maggie was a talented artist—better than Veronica ever was, even though she was no slouch with the brush. It seemed like a different lifetime when Veronica was the fresh-faced art history major at NYU, back before Carsten Peterson swallowed up her life. But now Carsten was dead, and she needed to find the old Veronica.

She checked Maggie’s latest masterpiece, which was as angry as her taste in music. A mother cradling a bloodied child as bombs burst around them.
Was it concerning the loss of her father, the looming war, or maybe both?

Veronica snapped back to reality. She couldn’t believe with her daughter “missing,” she’d slipped into a momentary daze. As a single mother, she had to think for the three of them, but sometimes wondered if she could even care for herself.

She noticed the cracked window—the same one she caught Maggie sneaking out once before, by shimmying down the gutter. She ran to it and felt immediate relief when she spotted her daughter. But what was she doing? Maggie, wearing her typical ponytail and
Kingston for President
T-shirt, was digging a hole in the backyard with a rusted shovel.

“What the …”

Veronica bounded down the stairs and through the kitchen. “Jamie, leave the cat alone.”

“Mom, I was just…”

Yeah right.

Veronica put on her down coat and stepped out into the chilly November air. She then headed toward the likely confrontation that would spoil the morning. “Maggie, what are you doing?”

“I’m almost done,” she said, without looking up.

“What did I tell you about burying bodies in the backyard?” she asked, forcing a disarming smile.

“Jamie’s class will be so excited that he’s bringing his comedian mother for Career Day.”

The twenty hours of labor, the late night feedings, the trips to the emergency room for the asthma attacks …
for this?

“Now that I’ve humored you, maybe you can tell me why you’re digging up the backyard?”

Maggie let out an angst-filled sigh. “It’s part of the Heritage Paper project. We have to bury a time-capsule that can’t be dug up for thirty years. Oma and I put it together.”

“My Bon Jovi shirt isn’t in there, is it?” Veronica asked. She checked her watch—they were getting late.

“That shirt is a dark family secret that should remain buried.”

Veronica tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t hold it. Neither could Maggie, who began to laugh at her own wittiness. It was one of those rare moments that made all the negotiations and mental gymnastics worth it. There hadn’t been a lot of laughs since Carsten died, but then again, there wasn’t a whole lot of sunshine at the end of his life either.

Veronica took off her coat and draped it over Maggie’s shoulders. “Your brother and I will be inside eating breakfast when you finish.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

A cease-fire. Things were looking up for Veronica, but she knew with two kids it could start going the other way at any moment.