“You are loco!” she said. “He was in a camp during the war. He’s a Jew and he suffered like all of them. And I can prove it.” She closed her kohl-stained eyes to emphasize the point. “I happen to know he’s circumcised.” She picked up a glass of whiskey that had been sitting on the coffee table and took a delicate sip.
Rebecca and Nesha looked at each other. “That doesn’t prove anything,” he said.
“Leo is a gentle and generous man,” Isabella said. “But strong, too. He has to be strong for business. And what he has with that wife, he has to be strong. He suffers because of her.”
“What happened to her?” Rebecca asked. “Why did she break down?”
Isabella had found another cigarette and was trying to light it with shaking hands. “She couldn’t understand that he had to make a living. She’s a weak woman, a selfish woman. She found out what he was doing and she couldn’t take it. She called it blood money. But it paid for the food in her mouth. He told her if he didn’t sell the paintings, somebody else would. The Jews who owned them were dead anyway. What difference did it make?”
Was that really it?
“Is that why he killed Goldie,” Rebecca asked. “Because she found out?”
Isabella gaped at Rebecca. “He is not a killer. You don’t comprehend him.”
“Where is he? Did he run back to Argentina?”
Diaz grimaced a no. “He made too many enemies there. He would never go back.”
“Was he involved in the terror?” Rebecca said to Diaz. “Did he have anything to do with Goldie’s abduction? Did you?”
Nesha watched, not giving away his surprise but she sensed it.
“You are accusing without proof. Where is your proof?” said Diaz.
“The police would be very interested in the way you run your business,” she said. “We’ve got your expense book. It reads like a novel. All fiction.”
He leaned on the arm of an upholstered chair, subdued for the moment. “I had nothing to do with Goldie. I only knew her son because he was a friend of Isabella’s boy and Leo was involved with Isabella. Carlos helped us sometimes. We had a different business then. Drugs. He helped with exchanges. You know. But the boy didn’t understand how it worked. He thought if he kept a little for himself, no one would know. Sometimes he kept some money, sometimes some drugs.”
Rebecca made a wild stab. “You were the one who informed on them.” He didn’t deny it, only stared into space, puffing on his cigarette. “You were losing money so you told the death squad where they were hiding. You didn’t care if they killed Goldie’s son, too. He had nothing to do with your business.”
Diaz glanced uneasily at Isabella. “Many were killed. For less reason.”
Isabella exploded out of her seat. She threw the glass of whiskey into his face with vehemence. He appeared stunned, wiping the liquor from his eyes. But before he could move she launched him from his perch on the chair arm and sent him flying onto the floor.
“¡Asesino!” she screamed. The red silk arms flew around her body, unattached to reason or will.
Without warning she leaped toward Nesha and snatched the gun from his hand. Diaz had barely enough time to lift himself onto his elbows when she positioned herself above him. Holding the gun with two hands she pointed it at his head.
“My boy died because of you! All this time I blamed her...” Her hands began to shake and she appeared to take aim.
“Isabella..., ” said Rebecca, who started toward her.
Nesha held his hand up like a traffic cop. “Excuse me, lady,” he began. “I agree with you one hundred percent. The bastard deserves whatever he gets. But I’m sorry to say it won’t be with that gun. Take a closer look. It’s just for show. It’s an antique.”
Isabella looked down at the Luger as if for the first time. That was when Nesha stepped forward and gently but firmly plucked it from her hands.
Then came the Angel of Death and killed the Shoichet That slaughtered the ox that drank the water That quenched the fire that burned the stick That beat the dog that bit the cat That ate the goat That Father bought for two zuzim. One little goat, one little goat.
chapter thirty-two
The white pavement curved through mountains of highrises on either side of Mayfair Avenue as Rebecca and Nesha walked wordlessly back to the car, each lost in thought. Their arms bumped intimately while they moved, each one’s trajectory slightly overlapping the other.
She had phoned the hospital from the lobby of the apartment building and spoken to Martha. Iris’ vital signs were hopeful, but she hadn’t regained consciousness.
“So what’s the deal with the gun?” Rebecca asked, though that wasn’t what had been on her mind.
“Oh. You mean, is it just for show? Let’s say I was hoping I’d get to it before she tried out the trigger.”
Rebecca put her arm around his waist so that she could feel the gun beneath the jacket. “Do you always live this dangerously?” she asked.
He unfurled her arm like a belt and deftly pulled it through his elbow, fitting his hand over hers. “Just when I’m with you.”
His full upper lip curved into a bow and she wished she could forget everything else. “I think there’s more to Chana’s breakdown than Isabella told us,” she said.
“What difference does it make?”
“I’m not sure. But I think it might be important. If Chana was so upset about Leo dealing with Nazi loot, it’s not very likely she’d knowingly marry a Nazi. And they were in the camp together, so she knew who he was.” They approached Nesha’s rented blue Oldsmobile. “If only she would speak.”
Rebecca stopped in mid-stride. Opening her shoulder bag, she pulled out the sheaf of letters. “Maybe she will speak!”
They climbed into the back seat of the Olds. She spread the letters out on both their laps, checking the postmarks and placing them in order of date. There wasn’t much daylight left.
“These are the letters Chana wrote to Goldie in 1977. Then she came to Toronto and they didn’t need to write to each other anymore. So we don’t have anything written around the time she actually had her breakdown. Still, I’d like to read through some of them to see if she says anything that’ll help us.”
Nesha picked up one of the letters. His lips moved silently till she bumped her knee against his. “’He goes out every night and I’m alone. I can’t complain about my surroundings, he keeps bringing home the most beautiful paintings. He says friends of his have asked him to sell them, but I’ve never met any of his friends. I can’t wait till you’re here.’”
Nesha took out a sheet from another envelope. “’Maybe we couldn’t have children as punishment for what I did during the war. Children are the innocents. I often think about that boy who died because of me. Do you think God has punished me by taking away my children?’”
Nesha stared stonily outside the window as Rebecca handed him a letter dated September 25, 1977. “This was the last one written before Goldie came to Toronto. It’s longer than the others.”
A full minute went by before he took the sheet from her and began to read. ‘“It’s almost Yom Kippur. Though I don’t go to schul I must again ask forgiveness from the soul of the boy who died because of me. Also this is the time of year I think of him because he died in the camp soon after the holiday in 1943. He showed up one day at the machine near mine