isnât polluted, not like Paris. There isnât nearly as much traffic.â
They walked him to the U-Bahn. On the train, he wasnât sitting long, the violin in his lap, before his eyes began to close. He snored, woke himself, and blinked at the other passengers, who were not the same as when he had closed his eyes. The train was just pulling out of a station whose name he did not recognize. He must have passed his stop. He stood up, his legs feeling weak, and, clutching the violin case, waited by the doors. It took several minutes to arrive at the next station, where he impatiently pushed the button for the doors to open.
The platform was deserted; even the sandwich kiosk was closed. He walked to the iron stairs and climbed to the entrance, but there were no officials here either. He felt his confidence seep away and didnât trust himself to get back on a train and return the way he had come. Instead, he would look for a taxi. Here the night was gloomy, the station surrounded by trees in full leaf and, more distant, office buildings. A few cars went by, but no taxis. He was trying to decide whether he had any choice but to risk the U-bahn again when something smacked him hard from behind, propelling the violin case from his hands as he fell forward. Sharp pains stabbed his hands and knees and he could only stay where he was, trying to catch his breath.
People leaned towards him, their faces close, speaking German.
âIâm all right. I can get up now.â
âEnglish?â a woman said. She took his arm as he rose. âTeenage girls. They are now as bad as the boys. They stole your violin.â
His first thought was that he wouldnât tell Sarah.
HE AND PAUL TOOK A long train ride and then walked from the station through what looked like suburban streets. New houses with satellite dishes and painted garden elves had been built right up against the walls of the camp. He spent six hours inside, peering into the barracks, the prison yard, the infirmary, the pit for mass executions, the remains of the crematorium. In almost every building an enormous amount of information was displayed on large panels that could be pushed aside like leaves in a giant book: historical timelines, biographies of inmates, reproduced documents, far more than he could read in a dozen visits. No horror was softened, no cruelty excused. There had been no children and families here, thank God, but instead political dissidents, Jewish radicals, captured Soviet soldiers. He read about a German arrested and brought to the camp for being a homosexual. There was a photograph of him from before the war, a man with short hair happily posing in a dress and high heels in front of a doorway. Bernie found himself almost unable to look away from it, perhaps because it seemed so ordinary and comforting.
PAUL HAD KEPT A DISCREET distance from him during the visit, disappearing altogether for long stretches, and only reappeared by his side when he returned to the entrance. As they began their walk back to the station, Paul said, âIf you will excuse this suggestion, perhaps you should have something to eat. It has been a long day without food or drink.â
âNo, thatâs all right. Iâll have something back at the hotel.â They rode the train and took a cab to the hotel. Bernie insisted on giving Paul money for a ride home. Then he went up to his room and ordered a sandwich from room service. Even after taking a shower, he felt as if his skin were covered in ash. He did not want Sarah to ask him about it. There was a knock on the door and he called, âCome in, I left it open.â The waiter pushed in the cart covered in a white cloth and with a silver lid over his sandwich. In his robe, Bernie walked towards the cart, felt flush, then nauseous, and the ground rolled up from under him.
THE HOSPITAL KEPT HIM OVERNIGHT, not because of the bruise on his temple, but for his low blood sugar and slightly
They walked him to the U-Bahn. On the train, he wasnât sitting long, the violin in his lap, before his eyes began to close. He snored, woke himself, and blinked at the other passengers, who were not the same as when he had closed his eyes. The train was just pulling out of a station whose name he did not recognize. He must have passed his stop. He stood up, his legs feeling weak, and, clutching the violin case, waited by the doors. It took several minutes to arrive at the next station, where he impatiently pushed the button for the doors to open.
The platform was deserted; even the sandwich kiosk was closed. He walked to the iron stairs and climbed to the entrance, but there were no officials here either. He felt his confidence seep away and didnât trust himself to get back on a train and return the way he had come. Instead, he would look for a taxi. Here the night was gloomy, the station surrounded by trees in full leaf and, more distant, office buildings. A few cars went by, but no taxis. He was trying to decide whether he had any choice but to risk the U-bahn again when something smacked him hard from behind, propelling the violin case from his hands as he fell forward. Sharp pains stabbed his hands and knees and he could only stay where he was, trying to catch his breath.
People leaned towards him, their faces close, speaking German.
âIâm all right. I can get up now.â
âEnglish?â a woman said. She took his arm as he rose. âTeenage girls. They are now as bad as the boys. They stole your violin.â
His first thought was that he wouldnât tell Sarah.
HE AND PAUL TOOK A long train ride and then walked from the station through what looked like suburban streets. New houses with satellite dishes and painted garden elves had been built right up against the walls of the camp. He spent six hours inside, peering into the barracks, the prison yard, the infirmary, the pit for mass executions, the remains of the crematorium. In almost every building an enormous amount of information was displayed on large panels that could be pushed aside like leaves in a giant book: historical timelines, biographies of inmates, reproduced documents, far more than he could read in a dozen visits. No horror was softened, no cruelty excused. There had been no children and families here, thank God, but instead political dissidents, Jewish radicals, captured Soviet soldiers. He read about a German arrested and brought to the camp for being a homosexual. There was a photograph of him from before the war, a man with short hair happily posing in a dress and high heels in front of a doorway. Bernie found himself almost unable to look away from it, perhaps because it seemed so ordinary and comforting.
PAUL HAD KEPT A DISCREET distance from him during the visit, disappearing altogether for long stretches, and only reappeared by his side when he returned to the entrance. As they began their walk back to the station, Paul said, âIf you will excuse this suggestion, perhaps you should have something to eat. It has been a long day without food or drink.â
âNo, thatâs all right. Iâll have something back at the hotel.â They rode the train and took a cab to the hotel. Bernie insisted on giving Paul money for a ride home. Then he went up to his room and ordered a sandwich from room service. Even after taking a shower, he felt as if his skin were covered in ash. He did not want Sarah to ask him about it. There was a knock on the door and he called, âCome in, I left it open.â The waiter pushed in the cart covered in a white cloth and with a silver lid over his sandwich. In his robe, Bernie walked towards the cart, felt flush, then nauseous, and the ground rolled up from under him.
THE HOSPITAL KEPT HIM OVERNIGHT, not because of the bruise on his temple, but for his low blood sugar and slightly
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