Glaring at him produced no reaction. He looked back, but blankly. These were confrontations she would rather have avoided, but she had to defend herself.
“Stupid they must think I am,” she addressed the little man finally. “Stupid and blind.”
The man blinked, then smiled with brown crooked teeth. “You ‘a trouble, lady?”
“Me you don’t fool. I know they send you for to get me. I know their dirty tricks.”
The man looked around, as if an explanation might hang in the air, as if someone might translate. Failing that, he boldly proceeded.
“Ahh,” he lifted his free hand (the one that would hold the gun in the lunchbox), “my hand she’s a-dirty. I no toucha. You no worry.”
“You don’t take me so easy. Not this time.”
The little man continued to smile but it was forced now. When the streetcar stopped in front of him, he motioned for Goldie to get on first.
She couldn’t believe the audacity. Crossing her arms, she planted herself on the island like a tree waiting for the storm.
“I’m not so stupid like that,” she said.
The man quickly climbed aboard and when inside, turned on the top step to face Goldie one last time. This was it, she thought, now comes the gun, the knife, the last pain through the heart. Hello, Enrique.
Before the doors folded shut, he opened his decaying mouth and replied, “You too olda for me, lady.”
chapter three
Wednesday, March 28,1979
Rebecca was looking over the morning’s test results. Every now and then she glanced up at the print of Van Gogh’s Wheat Fields and Cypress in the waitingroom to reassure herself that none of David’s paintings had escaped the basement. She wondered whether Iris had realized when she put up the Van Gogh how turbulent it was, the thick heaving clouds filled with energy, the dark trees springing from the ground like flames. Iris chuckled on the phone as she booked an appointment with a patient. Without warning the front door flew open and Mrs. Kochinsky wobbled in. She was wearing a stylish navy blazer over beige trousers but something seemed askew, as if she hadn’t put them on straight. Or maybe it was the sweaty bangs of greying brown hair that stuck to her forehead. But, she still looked a decade younger than her sixty years.
“Mrs. Kochinsky!” Rebecca exclaimed. “How are you?”
“Not good!” she said and hobbled over to the waiting-room instead of approaching the counter. She dropped into one of the chairs and appeared to be trying to catch her breath.
Rebecca stepped toward her, concerned. “Are you all right?”
Mrs. Kochinsky looked up at Rebecca and absently lifted the damp bangs off her forehead with her fingers. “I’m so glad you’re back, Doctor. But bus — bus ride killing me. A man....” She suddenly glanced up at Iris, who had stopped talking on the phone to listen.
“Come into my office, Mrs. Kochinsky,” Rebecca said.
One of Iris’ eyebrows shot up in mock offence.
Once they were seated privately, Rebecca said, “So, it’s been some time since we last met. How’ve you been?”
The dark half-moons under her patient’s eyes hinted at the anxiety, the web of paranoia she’d woven around herself.
Mrs. Kochinsky shook her head. “Not good, not good.” The charming Spanish-Polish inflection. “All winter I have such trouble sleeping. The other doctor — Romanov — he no good. He don’t understand. Only wants me take drug for sleeping. Maybe I don’t want sleep. Because of dream. Yesterday I dream of Enrique. Oh, Doctor! I don’t want sleep. I have nothing left. Why I should always reminder have....” She was still agitated, her chest rising and falling too quickly.
“You don’t usually dream about Enrique,” Rebecca said. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”
Mrs. Kochinsky hesitated a moment. She cleared her throat, then took a breath. “Night very dark in my dream. My husband, dead two years, sits in bedroom on chair. He say, ‘They find him, Goldie. Don’t wait for him. He not come back.’ This scare me because I know what. Then suddenly I’m in plane. Flying. Much noise. Very dark outside. Two men — young men — sit on floor, hands tied behind. Noise from plane terrible. I shout at men: ‘Wake up!’ They don’t move, eyes closed. Suddenly big man opens door to outside. I see clouds beside. I shout, ‘Close door!’ But he take one man, lift and push him out! I look — body fall through clouds, down, down into water. I scream louder. Big man don’t hear me. He take other young man — I see sleeping face and suddenly I know it’s Enrique. I grab his arm but like cloud, I can’t touch. Big man lift like before but I push hard on Enrique’s chest and finally, finally he open his eyes and smile last time. Then ... then man throws him down through door. I try catch my boy, but he falls. Falls. I can’t look. I know he land in ocean....”
Rebecca waited a moment, noting how pale her patient had become. “That must’ve been a very frightening dream.”
Mrs. Kochinsky looked up at her, brown eyes fierce. “Not just dream. Before I leave Argentina I hear talk, secret talk, about how soldiers get rid of people. They don’t want bodies left. So they take prisoners up in plane. Give them drug make them quiet, weak. Then ... then,” she put a hand over her eyes, “they throw them out into ocean. Still alive. Alive.”
Rebecca couldn’t speak. Mechanically she rose and took three steps to a small sink in the corner. She pulled a disposable cup from the dispenser and filled it with water. She handed it to Mrs. Kochinsky.
“I’m so sorry,” she said and sat down across from her, suddenly very tired. This was not paranoia; it had the unfortunate ring of truth.
Mrs. Kochinsky drank from the cup mechanically.
“My family gone. Why I should live? I’m only alive because I’m not dead.”
Rebecca leaned forward toward the older woman, seeking eye contact. “Your sister’s still alive. It sounds like she needs you.”
Mrs. Kochinsky lifted her head, bird-like. “What I can do? I’m helpless. She just sit there, won’t talk. Only sometime a word in Yiddish. We don’t speak Yiddish from before war. I bring material so she can sew. She have her little machine there. You should see clothes she make for me. Beautiful dress, blouse....” She inclined her head and tapped her cheek with one hand. “Aye, you won’t believe how she was good with hands. You know, in camp she had job in factory — no one can do like her, with small fast hands. She make part for weapons, little pieces metal must fit together, and if not fit, gun not work. They will shoot her. She told me religious boy come work beside her, can’t do with hands. Young, clumsy. She show him, try help, but he can’t. What you think? She do work for him, so they don’t take him away. She lucky — they change her from factory and then she clean officers’ place. Help her survive. Survive. For what?
“Now she just sit. Do nothing. Her husband happy he get rid of her.” She lowered her voice. “I tell him I look after her, but he send her away. I know why he don’t want me. He have office at home. Many business deals. Crooked deals. He don’t want me find out. Who knows what he do there. I told her for long time leave him. Bad man. Did bad things in war. But was good to Chana, so she marry him. Desperate after war, no one left. And now? He don’t care. I want take care for her.”
“But that would’ve been a huge commitment, taking care of