The Trial of Fallen Angels (19 page)

—

HELMUT’S DEATH WAS,
in the final analysis, an accident. The Allied pilots could not have known their bombs would raze a school filled with children. They did not look Helmut in the eyes and execute him. That is why she has been willing to forgive them and, therefore, to forget. But not the Soviets. No, their crime was deliberate and their faces depraved. There can be no forgiveness for them. Ever.

This self-pitying does not last long. Amina, the Survivor, will not permit it. She rubs the mascara stains from her cheeks and blows her nose. She resolves to display
Cloister Cemetery in the Snow
in memory of her brother Helmut and to tell those who ask that it means this to her.

And then an idea strikes her.

Amina has been planning to publish an editorial on the anniversary of the death of Senator Joseph McCarthy. She had been an admirer of McCarthy, not only agreeing philosophically with his fanatical distrust of communists but also embracing his rabid patriotism as a means of deflecting attention from her own Nazi heritage. Embracing Joseph McCarthy made as much good business sense to Amina Rabun and
The
Cheektowaga Register
in the 1950s as embracing Hitler made good business sense to her father and Jos. A. Rabun & Sons in the 1930s. But there was also a deeper emotional attraction to McCarthy, for he stood alone in Amina’s mind as the only one who truly understood the evil of the Soviet Union and the suffering of its victims. These understandings became the germ of Amina’s forthcoming editorial. She would explain in personal terms what the Rabuns of Kamenz had lost to the Red hordes—and she would bravely contrast that with what they lost to the Allied bombs. It would be a moving, convincing, wonderful editorial. A fitting tribute to Joseph McCarthy.

—

THE LIGHT IN
the Courtroom flickers, signaling that the presentation of Amina Rabun is about to shift to another scene. I am worried by Stössel’s selections for the presentation. He has omitted Amina’s entire life in Germany and the sacrifices she made for the Schriebergs. As I suspected, he is presenting only the dark side of her life and character. She has no hope of being acquitted, no hope of absolution.

24

T
he final act in the presentation of Amina Rabun begins. It is winter, February 1974, and Amina is just returning from a three-week Caribbean vacation to her rundown, drafty mansion in Buffalo, built in the 1920s by a Great Lakes shipping baron. She is accompanied by Albrecht Bosch, who has enjoyed his second visit to the tropics as her companion.

Amina and Albrecht have become intimate friends but not lovers, for Amina is adamantly asexual and Albrecht adamantly homosexual. They learned these secrets about each other the day they first met, in a bright tavern in the Allentown section of the city on the second anniversary of Amina’s divorce, which also happened to be the first anniversary of Albrecht’s separation from the artist who convinced him to come to Buffalo from Chicago and then left him for a younger man.

Thus, it was a common nationality and a common fate that brought Amina and Albrecht together—but it was Bette Press that made them inseparable. Albrecht Bosch was in love with the printed word. He invited anyone who would listen into his magical world of typefaces and printing presses and, once there, would explain with an artist’s passion how a simple serif can arouse anger or evoke serenity, and how paper texture and weight can be grave or lyrical, pompous or comforting. He introduced Amina to the ancient struggle between legibility and creativity that ties typography to tradition like no other art form and allows for only subtle innovation. And like Amina’s early teachers of Romanticism, he appealed to her Germanic pride by reminding her that Johannes Gutenberg gifted the printing press to humanity. In the joyful marriage of paper and ink that followed, Amina and Albrecht experienced the harmony of opposites that had eluded their private lives.

The mansion is cold when the travelers arrive back from their journey to the tropics, infuriating Amina because she had left specific instructions for the housekeeper to turn up the heat two days before their return. Amina asks Albrecht to adjust the thermostat and light a fire in the study, then heads for the mail, which has been stacked neatly for her on the large mahogany dining room table. She scans through the envelopes quickly, searching for anything that looks important or interesting and setting aside the monotony of bills and solicitations. Two envelopes fit the former criteria: a large, beige square of heavy cotton-fiber bond addressed to “Ms. Amina Rabun and Guest,” and a menacing business envelope with a return address of “Weinstein & Goldman, Attorneys-at-Law.” She takes both envelopes into the kitchen, puts on a pot of water for tea, and opens the invitation first. To her delight, she reads that the prestigious Niagara Society has, for the first time, requested the favor of her presence at its annual Spring Ball—
the
social event in Buffalo each year.

“Albrecht!” she calls.

“What is it?” Albrecht coughs. His head is in the fireplace, which has filled with smoke. He has already gone through half a Sunday newspaper but still can’t coax the wood to ignite.

“We’re going to the Niagara Society Ball!” Amina sings. “Get your tuxedo pressed.”

“Not if I die of asphyxiation first,” Albrecht coughs.

The telephone rings as the water comes to a boil.

“Can you get that, Albrecht?” Amina asks. “The tea’s on.”

Albrecht happily abandons the fire and takes the call in the living room while Amina pours the bubbling water into a creamy Belleek teapot. She adds Earl Grey tea leaves to the infuser, sets a tray with two matching cups, and carries it into the study. After fixing herself a cup and settling into her favorite wingback chair, she opens the envelope from the law firm, finding the enclosed letter:

Dear Ms. Rabun:

I represent Mrs. Katerine Schrieberg-Wolfson in her capacity as Executrix of the Estate of Mr. and Mrs. Jared A. Schrieberg.

As you know, my client has written to you on several occasions concerning ownership of certain theaters and real property in Dresden acquired by your family from the decedents during the war for the sum of 35,000 Reichsmarks, equivalent at the time to approximately $22,000 U.S. You no doubt realize the purchase price was far below fair market value and the sale was made under duress and threat of seizure by the Nazi government and incarceration of the decedents in the Nazi death camps. Therefore the sale was, and is, invalid.

Mrs. Schrieberg-Wolfson, on behalf of the Estate, seeks rescission of the purchase contract and return of all property. In that connection, she has previously offered in writing to refund you the $22,000 plus interest from the date of the sale. You have not responded to Mrs. Schrieberg-Wolfson’s offer and she has, therefore, retained me to take the necessary steps to rescind the contract and recover the property or its value.

My research has disclosed that your family no longer owns the property, it having been sold in 1949, at your personal direction, by Mr. Hanz Stössel, Esquire. My client has authorized me to accept the proceeds of that sale plus interest, minus the purchase price, in full payment and settlement of the Estate’s claims. We believe fair market value of the property in today’s dollars would equal at least $3,500,000 U.S. If such an agreement cannot be reached, we will be forced to initiate legal proceedings against you and your cousin, Miss Barratte Rabun, to invalidate the purchase and to recover the full value of the property. We believe the courts in this country and Germany will be sympathetic to these claims.

My client deeply regrets the need to resort to the courts, but is firm in her resolve. She shall forever be grateful to you for sheltering her family during the war, and has expressed as much in her letters to you. This is, however, a matter of the unfair acquisition of property by your family under extreme conditions. As a result of that action, my client and her surviving family were forced to live in relative poverty compared to the lifestyle which you and your family have enjoyed. Mrs. Schrieberg-Wolfson seeks no more than to right that wrong. She bears neither you nor Miss Barratte Rabun any ill will.

I am authorized to initiate legal proceedings if I receive no response from you to this letter. In light of your position as publisher of a newspaper, it would seem that the negative publicity surrounding such a case would prove very uncomfortable. In that regard, our investigators have learned that Otto Rabun was a member of the Waffen-SS and that your father’s construction firm, from which much of your family’s wealth emerged, was under contract to build the crematoria at Majdanek, Treblinka, and Oswiecim. Such extraordinary facts will be difficult to conceal from the public in litigation.

I look forward to your prompt response.

Very truly yours,

Robert Goldman, Esq.

“How dare she threaten me!” Amina fumes.

Amina had received prior letters from Katerine Schrieberg and thrown all of them away. While the Soviet soldiers murdered members of Amina’s family and raped her and her cousins, the Schriebergs remained huddled in a Rabun hunting cabin nearby and did nothing, risked nothing. When she ran to them for help the next morning, they were gone. Now this, after all their cowardice, after all Amina had risked to protect them, Katerine Schrieberg repays her by threatening to ruin her? It is too much. She takes the letter to the hearth, ignites it, and places it into the fireplace on top of the charred newspaper, warming her hands by its flames.

“What’s going on in there?” Albrecht calls from the living room. “Barratte’s on the phone, do you want to speak to her?”

Barratte on the phone? This news startles Amina even more than Mr. Goldman’s letter because she has not spoken to Barratte in nearly ten years. The bond between cousins became strained when Amina fled Germany with Captain Meinert and took Barratte with them. Barratte despised the Americans for the death of her father in Berlin as much as she despised the Soviets for the deaths of her mother, sister, and brothers in Kamenz. Her resentment of Amina for forcing her to leave Germany and live in the land of her enemies only grew as she endured years of abuse and humiliation in Buffalo schools as the little orphaned “Kraut girl” whose parents and country got what they had coming. At the first opportunity after she turned eighteen, Barratte took control of her inheritance and left. After that, Amina heard from Barratte only occasionally and knew little about Barratte’s life. The telephone call on that cold Saturday in February came to her as a complete shock.

“What does she want, Albrecht? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s wonderful!” Albrecht replies. “Barratte had a baby boy this morning! Seven pounds, five ounces! She named him Otto Rabun Bowles! You’re a grandmother, or a great aunt, or something, Amina! Here, come speak to her!”

—

THE COURTROOM REAPPEARS.
The faceless being from the monolith is standing at Hanz Stössel’s side.

“A decision has been made,” the being announces without emotion, in the hollow voice of a proctor calling time. The presentation of Amina Rabun is terminated before the essay on her life can be completed.

25

W
e’re going out tonight,” Nana said to me.

It was late afternoon and we were in the study of her house. She was reading, of all things, the 1897
Farmer’s Almanac
—the year she was born. I was needlepointing a Christmas stocking for Sarah. We had never gone
out
before. I pulled the needle through the fabric.

“Where?” I asked.

I had started the stocking when I was pregnant with Sarah. It would have been finished in time for her second Christmas. I picked it up again when I went home to meet Elymas after the presentation of Amina Rabun. I wanted him to take me back to see Bo, but Elymas never came. Doing something for Sarah became my way of protesting her death. I decided to act as though she were still alive—that we were both still alive. I made bottles of formula for her every morning and ran her a bath. I washed her clothes and crib sheets. I drove to the day care and then to work, and back to the day care and then to the convenience store. Every place was vacant. I drove through ghost towns. The unmarked police car flashed its lights to pull me over, but I kept driving until it disappeared from the mirror. When the loneliness became too great, I returned to Nana’s house and brought the stocking back with me to finish.

“It’s a surprise,” Nana said, her lips spreading into a smile. This was actually the first time we’d spoken since I came back. We had spent several days silently passing each other in the house.

“I don’t think I can take any more surprises,” I said.

“Elymas does have a flair for them,” Nana replied. “It’s part of his charm, I suppose. But I wouldn’t trust everything he says and does.”

I looked at her. “Should I trust you?”

“You should trust the truth, child.”

I put down my needle. “And what is the truth, Nana?”

“The truth is what makes you feel calm and loved, nothing more than that.”

“That’s meaningless.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s the only meaning. Truth is never anger or fear. They’re illusions, and Elymas traffics in them.”

I picked up the needle again, looped the thread, and pushed it through the fabric. I was working on the toe of an angel blowing a trumpet.

“He told me you would call him a false prophet,” I said.

“He also told you that I’d be upset, but I’m not. You’re free to follow false prophets if you wish. They all expose themselves eventually. Truth is never far away.”

“I saw Bo and Sarah with my own eyes. I held them in my arms.”

“I know, dear, I know. And you sailed on a caravel and walked through Tara, and everything around you here seems so real. But it all disappears. Things and bodies are not real. They’re symbols, and symbols are impermanent. Life is impermanent.”

“Bo’s life has been ruined.”

“According to Elymas, it has. But who’s to say? Can you trust Elymas? Can you trust your own memories? Would Bo be closer to the truth by working at a homeless shelter or sitting in front of a television camera?”

“What happened to her? What happened to me? What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything, child. It’s you who doesn’t see the truth all around you.” She closed the almanac and pushed herself up from the chair. “When you’re ready to see it, you will. But it’s time now for us to get ready.”

“For what?”

“You’ll need an evening gown.”

That got my attention. “Where do you expect me to find one of those in Shemaya?”

She had the devious look of a grandparent teasing a child with a present. “In your closet.”

I went upstairs and opened the closet in my mother’s room. There were five different gowns—beautiful silks, satins, and crepes with matching stockings and shoes. I was thrilled. Nana stood at the door, watching me.

“They’re beautiful,” I said, holding each one in front of me. “Won’t you tell me where we’re going?”

“I can’t,” Nana said. “It’s a surprise.”

She sat on the bed as I tried on each gown, twirling past her. They all fit perfectly, but we most liked the black satin gown with straps and the low bodice that exposed my shoulders and back. I was actually enjoying myself.

We went through the same process in Nana’s room, settling on a gown for her with more color and a high neckline. She pulled two strands of pearls and two matching pairs of earrings from her jewelry box and gave a set of each to me. Standing before the mirror, we made a striking couple, and neither of us needed hairbrushes or makeup. Hair and complexions are
always
perfect in Shemaya.

We left the house with the last of the four suns from the four seasons dropping beneath the treetops. Nana led me out the back door and through the woods on foot to the entrance of the train station. There were strange new sounds when we entered the vestibule, mystical and resonant—the sounds of water rushing and wind blowing, of dolphins laughing and birds singing, of children talking and parents sighing, of all creation living and dying. It turned out to be the sounds of a band. A handwritten note on the doors read “Reception for New Presenters.” We walked in.

All the postulants were gone, and with them the static discharge of their memories and the sad, horrifying, but sometimes beautiful, states of their deaths. On an elevated stage, near the board showing arrivals but no departures, hovered four faceless minstrels like the being from the Courtroom, each dressed in a long gray cassock. Two played violins, one a bass, and the other a cello, all of which vibrated in colors: auroral greens, violets, and blues. Before the band milled a crowd of formally attired men, women, and children, some off by themselves enjoying the performance with a plate of hors d’oeuvres and a glass of champagne (or milk for the children), others gathered into small groups, talking and laughing.

Banquet tables had been erected in the four corners of the hall and piled high with pâtés, caviar, cheeses, fruits, and other delicacies, and next to these were bars fully stocked with wine, liquor, and other refreshments. A small army of faceless, gray-dressed creatures tended the tables and bars and collected the empty glasses and plates from the guests. A magnificent crystal chandelier and a constellation of lesser chandeliers bathed the room in a warm, sparkling light. I looked around, trying to gain my bearings. Luas emerged from the crowd, dressed handsomely in a single-breasted tuxedo.

“Welcome! Welcome!” he said, greeting us. “We’ve been waiting for you!” He gave each of us hugs, then turned and waved his arms over the crowd. “Grand, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I shouted over the din.

“And all in your honor, my dear. You’ve graduated with flying colors, and now you’re ready for your first client. I must say, we’ve got an excellent group of new presenters. Time for a little play before the work begins. You both look wonderful.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But I really don’t feel like I’m ready to graduate or represent anybody. I barely understand the process . . . and I don’t think I agree with the results.”

“Have no worries, Brek,” Luas assured me. “Everyone’s nervous the first time, you’ll do just fine.”

Nana winked at Luas. “Brek was very suspicious about tonight,” she said. “She almost forced me to ruin the surprise.”

“Was she now?” Luas said. “Ah, but she’s an inquisitive one. That’s what we love about her.”

“Here’s another question, then,” I said. “What have you done with all the postulants? The hall was filled a few days ago.”

“And a perceptive question as usual. Didn’t I tell you, Sophia?” Luas said. “They’re still here, actually. Come, I’ll show you.”

We walked out of the train shed and closed the doors. “Okay,” he said, “now, open them again.”

All at once the music was gone, along with the minstrels, food, tables, chandeliers, and beautiful guests. The postulants were back—thousands of intensely bright spheres filled with memories floating in the dim, sulfurous light of the train station.

“How can they be here?” I said to Luas.

“Creation is a matter of perspective and choice,” Luas replied. “What one wishes to see becomes what one is able to see. You have never seen the subatomic particles pulsating in the furnishings of your living room, nor the minuscule particle of your living room in the pinwheeling galaxies of the universe, but this does not mean subatomic particles and galaxies do not coexist. Your powers as a presenter are maturing, Brek. You are seeing more of what there is to see. You are seeing as if through microscope and telescope.”

Walking among the spheres halfway across the train shed, I saw a man dressed in rags with bulging eyes and a shaved head. He glanced at me but quickly looked away. Following behind him was a young girl, also dressed in rags. She stared at me with haunted, defiant eyes. Her right arm was missing, and she reminded me of myself as a girl.

“Are they presenters?” I asked Luas. “They don’t seem to be dressed for the party.”

“No,” Luas said. “They’re souls like all the others, but you’re only able to see a small portion of their memories at this time.”

“Maybe I could represent the little girl. It looks like we have something in common,” I said.

“That is not possible,” Luas replied. “The girl already has a lawyer, and your first client has already been selected.”