The boy, frowning, pulled his mittens off. “We…better call the police,” he said. The dark forelock fell aslant his forehead.
Mengele sat gazing at him. “How marvelous you are!” he said. “I’m so—” He blinked, swallowed, smiled. “Yes,” he said, “we certainly must call the police. Do a favor for me, mein—Bobby dear. Take the dogs and go in the kitchen and get me a glass of water. You might also find me something to eat.” He stood up. “I shall call the police, and then I’ll look for your father.”
The boy stuffed his mittens into his jacket pockets. “Is that your car in front?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mengele said. “And his is the one in the garage. Or so I assume. Is it yours? The family’s?”
The boy looked skeptically at him. “The one in front,” he said, “has a bumper sticker about Jews not giving up any of Israel. You called him a Jew.”
“And so he is,” Mengele said. “At least he looks like one.” He smiled. “This is hardly the time to talk about what words I used. Go get the water, please, and I’ll call the police.”
The boy cleared his throat. “Would you sit down again?” he said. “I’ll call them.”
“Bobby dear—”
“Pickles,” the boy said; the Dobermans rushed snarling at Mengele. He backed down onto the settee, forearms crossed before his face. “Ketchup!” he cried. “Ketchup! Ketchup!” The Dobermans leaned at him, snarling.
The boy came into the room, unzipping his jacket. “They’re not going to listen to you,” he said. He turned toward Liebermann, pushed his dark forelock aside.
Liebermann looked at him.
“He switched it around, didn’t he?” the boy said. “He had the gun, and let you in.”
“No!” Mengele said.
Liebermann nodded.
“Can’t you talk?”
He shook his head, pointed at the phone.
The boy nodded and turned.
“That man is your enemy!” Mengele cried. “I swear to God he is!”
“You think I’m retarded?” The boy moved to the table, picked up the phone.
“Don’t!” Mengele leaned toward him. The Dobermans snapped and snarled at him but he stayed leaning. “Please! I beg you! For your sake, not mine! I’m your friend! I came here to help you! Listen to me, Bobby! Only for one minute!”
The boy faced him, the phone in his hand.
“Please! I’ll explain! The truth! I did lie, yes! I had the gun. To help you! Please! Only listen to me for one minute! You’ll thank me, I swear you will! One minute!”
The boy stood looking at him, and lowered the phone, hung it up.
Liebermann shook his head despairingly. “Call!” he said. A whisper, not even getting out of his mouth.
“Thank you,” Mengele said to the boy. “Thank you.” He sat back, smiling ruefully. “I should have known you would be too clever to lie to. Please”—he glanced at the Dobermans, looked at the boy—“call them off. I’ll stay here, sitting.”
The boy stood by the table looking at him. “Ketchup,” he said; the Dobermans turned and hurried to him. They ranked themselves beside him, all three at the side toward Liebermann, facing Mengele.
Mengele shook his head, ran a hand back over his cropped gray hair. “This is…so difficult.” He lowered his hand, looked anxiously at the boy.
“Well?” the boy said.
Mengele said, “You are clever, are you not?”
The boy stood looking at him, fingers moving at the head of the nearest Doberman.
“You don’t do well in school,” Mengele said. “You did when you were little, but not now. This is because you’re too clever, too”—he raised a hand, tapped at his temple—“thinking your own thoughts. But the fact is, you’re smarter than the teachers, yes?”
The boy looked toward the dead Doberman, frowning, his lips pursed. He looked at Liebermann.
Liebermann poked his finger at the phone.
Mengele leaned toward the boy. “If I am to be truthful with you,” he said, “you must be truthful with me! Are you not smarter than the teachers?”
The boy looked at him, shrugged. “Except one,” he said.
“And you have high ambitions, yes?”
The boy nodded.
“To be a great painter, or an architect.”
The boy shook his head. “To make movies.”
“Oh yes, of course.” Mengele smiled. “To be a great movie-maker.” He looked at the boy; his smile faded. “You and your father have fought about this,” he said. “A stubborn old man with a limited viewpoint. You resent him, with good reason.”
The boy looked at him.
“You see,” Mengele said, “I do know you. Better than anyone else on earth.”
The boy, bewildered-looking, said, “Who are you?”
“The doctor who delivered you. That much was true. But I’m not an old friend of your parents. In fact, I’ve never met them. We are strangers.”
The boy tipped his head as if to hear better.
“Do you see what that means?” Mengele asked him. “The man you think of as your father”—he shook his head—“is not your father. And your mother—though you love her and she loves you, I’m sure—she is not your mother. They adopted you. It was I who arranged for the adoption. Through intermediaries. Helpers.”
The boy stared at him.
Liebermann watched the boy uneasily.
“That’s distressing news to receive so suddenly,” Mengele said, “but perhaps…not wholly unpleasing news? Have you never felt that you were superior to those around you? Like a prince among commoners?”
The boy stood taller, shrugged. “I feel…different from everyone sometimes.”
“You are different,” Mengele said. “Infinitely different, and infinitely superior. You have—”
“Who are my real parents?” the boy asked.
Mengele looked thoughtfully at his hands, clasped them, looked at the boy. “It would be better for you,” he said, “not to know yet. When you’re older, more mature, you’ll find out. But this I can tell you now, Bobby: you were born of the finest blood in all the world. Your inheritance—I’m speaking not of money but of character and ability—is incomparable. You have it within you to fulfill ambitions a thousand times greater than those of which you presently dream. And you shall fulfill them! But only—and you must bear in mind how well I know you, and trust me when I say this—only if you will go out of here now with the dogs, and let me…do what I must and go.”
The boy stood looking at him.
“For your sake,” Mengele said. “Your well-being is all that I consider. You must believe that. I have consecrated my life to you and your welfare.”
The boy stood looking at him. “Who are my real parents?” he asked.
Mengele shook his head.
“I want to know,” the boy said.
“In this you must bow to my judgment; at the—”
“Pickles!” The Dobermans rushed snarling at Mengele. He cowered back behind crossed forearms. The Dobermans leaned at him, snarling.
“Tell me,” the boy said. “Right now. Or else I’ll…say something else to them. I mean it! I can make them kill you if I want.”
Mengele stared at him over crossed wrists.