I’ll tell you something,’ Todd said. He sounded oddly breathless. ‘If they knew what you were, if I ever told them, they’d spit on you and then kick you out on your skinny old ass. My mom might even take a butcher’s knife to you. Her mother was part Jewish, she told me once.’
Dussander looked at Todd closely in the drizzling dark. The boy’s face was turned defiantly up to his, but the skin was pallid, the sockets under the eyes dark and slightly hollowed — the skin-tones of someone who has brooded long while others are asleep.
‘I am sure they would have nothing but revulsion for me,’ Dussander said, although he privately thought that the elder Bowden might stay his revulsion to ask many of the questions his son had asked already. ‘Nothing but revulsion. But what would they feel for you, boy, when I told them you had known about me for eight months… and said nothing?’
Todd stared at him wordlessly in the dark. ‘Come and see me if you please,’ Dussander said indifferently, ‘and stay home if you don’t Goodnight, boy.’
He went up the walk to his front door, leaving Todd standing in the drizzle and looking after him with his mouth slightly ajar.
The next morning at breakfast, Monica said: ‘Your dad liked Mr Denker a lot, Todd. He said he reminded him of your grandfather.’
Todd muttered something unintelligible around his toast. Monica looked at her son and wondered if he had been sleeping well. He looked pale. And his grades had taken that inexplicable dip. Todd never got Cs.
‘You feeling okay these days, Todd?’
He looked at her blankly for a moment, and then that radiant smile spread over his face, charming her… comforting her. There was a dab of strawberry preserve on his chin. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Four-oh.’
‘Todd-baby,’ she said.
‘Monica-baby,’ he responded, and they both started to laugh.
9
March, 1975.
‘Kitty-kitty,’ Dussander said. ‘Heeere, kitty-kitty. Puss-puss? Puss-puss?’
He was sitting on his back stoop, a pink plastic bowl by his right foot. The bowl was full of milk. It was 1:30 in the afternoon; the day was hazy and hot. Brush-fires far to the west tinged the air with an autumnal smell that jagged oddly against the calendar. If the boy was coming, he would be here in another hour. But the boy didn’t always come now. Instead of seven days a week he came sometimes only four times, or five. An intuition had grown in him, little by little, and his intuition told him that the boy was having troubles of his own.
‘Kitty-kitty,’ Dussander coaxed. The stray cat was at the far end of the yard, sitting in the ragged verge of weeds by Dussander’s fence. It was a torn, and every bit as ragged as the weeds it sat in. Every time he spoke, the cat’s ears cocked forward. Its eyes never left the pink bowl filled with milk.
Perhaps, Dussander thought, the boy was having troubles with his studies. Or bad dreams. Or both.
The last made him smile.
‘Kitty-kitty,’ he called softly. The cat’s ears cocked forward again. It didn’t move, not yet, but it continued to study the milk.
Dussander had certainly been afflicted with problems of his own. For three weeks or so he had worn the SS uniform to bed like grotesque pyjamas, and the uniform had warded off the insomnia and the bad dreams. His sleep had been — at first — as sound as a lumberjack’s. Then the dreams had returned, not little by little, but all at once, and worse than ever before. Dreams of running as well as the dreams of the eyes. Running through a wet, unseen jungle where heavy leaves and damp fronds struck his face, leaving trickles that felt like sap… or blood. Running and running, the luminous eyes always around him, peering soullessly at him, until he broke into a clearing. In the darkness he sensed rather than saw the steep rise that began on the clearing’s far side. At the top of that rise was Patin, its low cement buildings and yards surrounded by barbed wire and electrified wire, its sentry towers standing like Martian dreadnoughts straight out of War of the Worlds. And in the middle, huge stacks billowed smoke against the sky, and below these brick columns were the furnaces, stoked and ready to go, glowing in the night like th» eyes of fierce demons. They had told the inhabitants of the area that the Patin inmates made clothes and candles, and of course the locals had believed that no more than the locals around Auschwitz had believed that the camp was a sausage factory. It didn’t matter.