The Last Witness (9 page)

12

The yellow taxi pulled up just past the front doors of the Greenwich Village Seniors Center. The driver spotted an elderly woman with a cane standing next to a man who looked even older than she was.

“Taxi?” he said.

The woman raised her cane, and the driver backed up his car to get as close as he could to them. She saw that he was middle-aged with a dark complexion. The side door of the taxi opened. The driver stayed behind the wheel, watching through his rear-view mirror as the old man helped the old woman navigate into the back seat.

“Arabs,” the woman whispered to the man. “They would never dream of getting out to help you into their cab. Not in a million years would they offer a hand.”

With the two of them inside and the car doors closed, the driver looked over his shoulder, awaiting instructions. A thick pane of glass separated the front of the car from the back.

“New York University School of Law, Forty Washington Square South. The building is called Vanderbilt Hall,” said Jack’s voice through the car’s speaker system. “It’s in Greenwich Village.”

“We’re in Greenwich Village,” said the driver.

“I know,” said Jack. “It’s not far.”

The driver smirked, slighted at the prospect of such a short fare. With the one-way streets and bumper-to-bumper traffic, it would take ten minutes for the trip and that only if he stretched things out. Walking would be faster, but this couple wasn’t walking anywhere.

“It’s the main building of the law school,” Jack said. “It’s the whole block between West Third and Washington Square South.”

“I know where it is,” said the driver.

“I’m glad you know.”

The woman steadied her cane between her knees, her hands clasped around the top. “This should be interesting,” she said to Jack as she settled in. “Do you think they’ll know who you are?”

“Why would they know me?”

“My nephew’s son knows who you are. He met with you, didn’t he, when he wrote that article?”

Jack nodded.

“That was a terrible thing he wrote and I’m going to tell him that.”

“He’s young. He doesn’t know any better.”

“Imagine writing what he did after all the things you told him.”

Jack shrugged.

“It’s not right. They think just because you’re a hundred years old you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The sound system was picking everything up. The driver peeked into his mirror, and scrutinized the face of the man in the back. “You’re a hundred years old?” he said.

“What was that?” Jack said, raising his head.

“You’re a hundred years old?” the driver repeated in a louder voice.

Jack smiled. “Yes I am. They had a big party for me the other day but that was the other day. I’m working on my second hundred years now.”

The driver laughed as he inched his cab onto the roadway. The traffic, full of small electric taxis like his, was barely moving.

“Didn’t you tell him about Auschwitz?” the woman said to Jack. “And how everyone was starving to death? And about the gas chambers and the crematorium?”

“I did but I guess he didn’t believe me.”

The driver looked into his mirror again.

“I don’t understand how people can be so ignorant,” the woman went on. “And university students yet. What makes it so bad is he’s my nephew’s son. I wonder what’s going to happen at the debate today.”

“It’s not a debate,” said Jack. “It’s a panel discussion. But that’s why we’re going. To see what they have to say.”

“I’m not terribly hopeful.”

“They’re going to have some professors there and the president of the Jewish students association or whatever it’s called.”

“One would think he’d have something to say about it.”

The cab wasn’t moving. None of the cars were moving. The driver stared into his rear-view mirror.

“What was that you said about gas chambers?” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” said Jack.

“She said something about gas chambers.”

The woman lifted her cane and tapped it twice against the glass directly behind the driver’s head. “This man,” she said, motioning to Jack, “is a survivor of the Nazi death camp at Auschwitz. You’ve heard of Auschwitz, haven’t you?”

The driver just shrugged.

“My God,” the woman exclaimed at his apparent indifference.

“Can I ask you a question?” said Jack, leaning forward.

“Sure,” said the driver.

“Where are you from?”

“Iran.”

“When were you born?”

“Nineteen-ninety-five.”

“How long have you been in New York?”

“Nine years now. Almost.”

“And you’ve never heard of Auschwitz?” the woman asked him.

“Well …”

“Well what?” said the woman.

“I heard rumors.”

“Rumors?” the woman said.

“Yes. I heard a few things but that was only after I came here.”

“What about over there?” said Jack. “In Iran. Did you go to school in Iran?”

“Of course.”

“Did you ever learn anything about the holocaust or about the war when you were in Iran?”

“Which war? There are lots of wars.”

“World War II. Back in the nineteen hundreds.”

“World War II?”

“The Second World War. Isn’t that what they call it now?”

“No. We never studied that but the Great Holocaust? Sure. That happened the year before I came to America. Everyone knows about that but even that is exaggerated.”

“What do you mean?” said the woman.

“What you read in America isn’t what you read in Iran. There they print the truth. Over here it’s all propaganda. Can you deny it?”

“You’re talking about the Christian holocaust?” Jack said.

“That’s the only holocaust I know about.”

“And you think it’s exaggerated?”

“Of course. They say hundreds of thousands of Christians were murdered but that’s not true. Yes there were a few murders when some Christians started preaching about Jesus to the Muslim community but that’s all. It was only a handful.”

“I believe the number they claim is fifty thousand.”

“It’s not true. It’s all exaggerated. But they should never have been preaching to Muslims in the first place.”

“And what about the other holocaust? The Jewish holocaust.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“I never heard a thing about that until I came to this country. Now why is that the case? Maybe because it’s an American invention?”

The traffic was crawling along, giving the driver plenty of time to keep glancing into his rear-view mirror.

“This man is a survivor of the Jewish holocaust,” the woman said, raising her voice. “And that was the big one. Six million people.”

“I’m sorry,” the driver said, “but I don’t believe it. Look. If six million Jews were murdered how come there are so many Jews today? Where did they all come from? There must be six million Jews in New York City.”

“What kind of logic is that?” said the woman.

“There is another holocaust too,” said Jack. “More than a million Armenians were killed by the Turks in the early nineteen hundreds.”

“By Turkish Muslims?” said the driver.

“Yes.”

“Of course. What do you expect? It’s all lies. All of it.”

The woman was shaking her head from side to side.

“Do you mind if I ask
you
a question?” said the driver, looking into his mirror at the reflection of Jack.

“Sure.”

“How come no one here ever talks about Jews killing Muslims? What about that holocaust?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jack.

“I’m talking about Jews killing Muslim babies. Muslims have lots of children and Jews try to kill as many of them as possible to keep the population down.”

“Where does this happen?”

“Wherever there are Jews.”

“I don’t think so,” said Jack.

“So you don’t believe it?”

“No.”

“And the same way I don’t believe the story about your Jewish holocaust either. It’s not true.”

The woman piped up. “Show him your arm,” she said to Jack.

“What?”

“Show him your arm.”

“I don’t want to.”

“What about your arm?” the driver said, glancing back again.

“He has a number stamped on his arm. It’s from the camp.”

“Really? Let me see it.”

“Show him,” she said to Jack. “Why don’t you? Then maybe he’ll believe you.”

Reluctantly, Jack removed his coat, peeled off his sweater, and rolled up his shirt sleeve. The driver had the cab at a complete standstill now. He turned around and looked through the glass partition.

There,” Jack said.

High up on his right arm was a letter followed by five numbers.

A-25073
.

“How did you do that?” the driver said.

“He didn’t do it,” the woman said. “The Nazis did it.”

“How?”

Jack rolled his sleeve down and put his sweater back on. “They stuck a needle in me. It hurt.”

“You remember?” asked the driver.

“Of course.”

The woman seemed satisfied, but she didn’t know what the driver was thinking. He turned around to face the front and put his hands back on the steering wheel. Jack looked at his watch.

“The meeting is going to start soon and we’re stuck in all this traffic,” Jack said, leaning forward. “When are we going to get there?”

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” the driver said. “There’s a lot of traffic. I can’t do much about that. Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“If what you say is true how did you get out?”

“Now
that
is quite a story,” the woman said.

“You want to know?” Jack said, sliding his coat over his shoulders, and the driver said he did. “All right. If you want to know I’ll tell you. It was like this. I looked like an Aryan boy.”

“What’s that?”

“An Aryan? It means you’ve got blonde hair and blue eyes. A true German. When I was in the ghetto I used to sneak out to the Aryan side to steal food and other things for my family. If anyone stopped me I just gave them a Hail Mary.”

“What’s that?” the driver said.

“Hail Mary,” Jack said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jack went right into the Latin.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc ete in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”

Every syllable, every letter, was perfect. Jack sounded like a priest at mass. His woman friend was impressed, but she didn’t know about the driver.

“What’s that mean?” the driver asked, so Jack told him.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

He said it without thinking. It was automatic. The driver was confused.

“Why would a Jew know something like that?” he said.

“Well,” said Jack, “in the ghetto at
Lodz
… that’s the city where I lived in Poland … I used to slip into a church on the Aryan side. It was one street over. Like I said I could pass for an Aryan boy so it wasn’t difficult. In the church there was a priest … Father Kasinski … a wonderful man … and he taught me the prayers. He baptised me. He taught me about Catholicism and it’s a good thing because that’s what saved my life.”

“You mean Jesus saved your life?”

“Yes he did and I never forgot it.”

“And you learned those prayers?”

“I never forgot them.”

“Tell him how you got into the church,” the woman said.

“I went through the sewers,” Jack said.

“The sewers?” said the driver.

“I learned how to go through the sewers but then the Germans found out about all the Jews hiding in the sewers and they found us. My family … my mother … my father … my aunt … my two cousins … we were all sent to
Auschwitz
and they died there. Every one of them. Except me. I lived.”

“Why did you live?” said the driver.

“I was lucky. I knew the prayers.”

The driver was listening intently, but now the car was near Vanderbilt Hall. He pulled his taxi up to the entrance. “That’s quite a story,” he said. “It really is. But is it true?”

Jack took out his wallet to pay for the fare. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this,” he said, “but on this trip you’ve been trying awfully hard
not
to earn a good tip from us. Did you know that?”

The driver shrugged and tossed Jack a smile. “It was a short ride. But I enjoyed your story.”

New York City, 2037

13

Miriam Abraham was ninety-seven years old and in bed every night by nine o’clock. When her husband was alive, the two of them would retire with a nightcap of green tea and hit the lights by ten-thirty, but since his death the evenings were long and empty. So she got into the habit of going to bed earlier. This night was different. It was Wednesday. Her card night. She was at a friend’s apartment in New Jersey, and arranged to have her daughter pick her up and drive her home across the George Washington Bridge. She always liked going over that bridge. It was pretty, especially at night with all the bright lights from Manhattan, but then she got a message. Her daughter’s garage had been broken into and her car vandalized. What’s more, the charger wasn’t working, and now she was waiting for someone to come help, but it was late and who knew how long that would take? Would Miriam mind calling a taxi for the trip home? Her daughter even said she would pay for it. Miriam called back and said she would summon the taxi, but being an independent sort she insisted on paying herself.

The taxi took its time and didn’t arrive until past eleven. It was late and Miriam was tired. “Are you the lady who called?” the driver said as he helped her into the car. She gave him her address and on they went. She didn’t notice anything peculiar about him except for the tattoos on his arms.

“Are those snakes?” she said and the driver said they were.

“But they’re not just snakes,” he said in his soft voice. “They’re cobras. The cobra is the king.”