“Did you find Antoine?” Spoon asked.
“What?”
“You must think Ema and I are morons. A basketball game? Please.”
I had to smile at that. “I didn’t find him.”
“So what happened?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. In the meantime I have a favor.” I told him what I wanted—my theory on Ashley’s last visit to the locker being important.
“Hmm,” Spoon said, “we don’t know when Ashley was last at the locker.”
“No.”
“And it could have been during the school day.”
“Could have been.”
He considered that. “I guess we could hit speed reverse and see if we can come up with something. Assuming I can get into the security files again.”
“Do you mind?”
“I’m all about the danger.”
Spoon hung up. Three minutes later, Ema called me. “Have you eaten yet?” she asked me.
“I’m boiling water now.”
“Do you know Baumgart’s?”
I did. It was Uncle Myron’s favorite restaurant. “I do.”
“Meet me there.”
There was something funny in her voice, something I hadn’t heard before. “I didn’t find Antoine.”
“Spoon told me. But that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”
“What’s up?”
“I did some research on that tombstone.”
“And?”
“And something is really wrong here, Mickey.”
Half a century ago, Baumgart’s was a Jewish deli and old-fashioned soda fountain—the kind of place where Dad might order a pastrami on rye while the kids sat at the Formica counter and twirled on stools while waiting for a root beer float. Sometime in the 1980s, a gourmet Chinese chef bought the place. Rather than alienate his base, he simply added to it. He kept all the Jewish deli and soda fountain touches and then added nouvelle Chinese to the menu. It made for an intriguing hybrid. Since then, three more Baumgart’s had opened up in various New Jersey locales.
Ema sat in a corner booth nursing a chocolate milk shake. I sat with her and ordered one too. The waitress asked whether we wanted something to eat. We both nodded. Ema ordered the peanut noodles, Myron’s favorite, and something called sizzle duck crepe. I went with Kung Pao chicken.
“So,” she said, “what happened when you went after Antoine LeMaire?”
“Why don’t you go first?”
She played with the straw in her milk shake. “I still need time to wrap my head around this.” Ema took a sip and leaned back. “By the way, do me a favor: if you want to play overprotective daddy with me, just say so.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Don’t lie.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Good,” Ema said. “So what happened with Antoine?”
I told her about my visit to the Plan B Go-Go Lounge. The waitress came and brought our food, but neither one of us noticed. When I finished, Ema said, “I won’t even bother with the ‘whoa.’ This is beyond whoa. It’s like whoa on steroids. It’s like whoa raised to the tenth power.”
The smell of Kung Pao chicken rose up from the plate and suddenly I realized that I was starving. I grabbed my fork and started digging in.
“So,” Ema said, “you think, what, your prim and proper Ashley danced in a go-go bar?”
I shrugged mid-bite. “So what did you learn about that tombstone?”
Her face lost a little color. “It’s about Bat Lady.”
I waited. She hesitated.
“Ema?”
“Yes?”
“When Chief Taylor was dragging me away, I saw Bat Lady in the window. She was trying to tell me something.”
Ema’s eyes narrowed.
“I can’t swear to it,” I said, “but I think she was telling me to save Ashley. I know that makes no sense. But whatever it is, whatever you’ve learned, I need to hear it.”
She nodded. “We already know about that Jefferies quote, right?”
“Right.”
“So I searched the other stuff. That line about a childhood lost for children.”
“And?”
“I found nothing on that exact quote, but I did find this website on . . .” She stopped, shook her head as if she couldn’t believe that she was about to go on. “On the Holocaust.”
I stopped with my fork half in the air. “As in Nazis and World War Two?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It was a reference to some of the Jewish children who joined the underground resistance in Poland. See, some of the kids who escaped the death camps lived in the forest. They fought the Nazis in secret. Kids. They would also smuggle goods into the Lodz ghetto, for example. Sometimes, when they could, they even rescued kids heading toward Auschwitz, the Nazis’ biggest and most notorious concentration camp.”
I just sat there and waited. Ema picked up her milk shake and took a deep long sip. “I still don’t understand,” I said. “What does this have to do with the tombstone in Bat Lady’s garden?”
“You’ve heard of Anne Frank, right?”
I had, of course. I had not only read The Diary of Anne Frank, but when I was twelve, my parents took me to the house in Amsterdam where she hid from the Nazis. The two parts I remember best: One, the moveable bookcase that hid the stairs up to the secret attic where the Frank family stayed. Two, the Anne Frank quote you see as you leave this somber memoriaclass="underline" “Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart.”
“Of course, I’ve heard of her,” I said.
“There was another girl. A thirteen-year-old Polish girl named Lizzy Sobek who escaped from Auschwitz and worked for the resistance.”
The name rang a bell. “I remember reading something about her.”
“Me too. We talked a little about her in eighth-grade history. Lizzy Sobek’s family was slaughtered in Auschwitz, but somehow she escaped. She is credited with saving hundreds of lives. In one documented case, Lizzy ran a February raid that slowed down a cargo train loaded with Jews heading for the death camps. More than fifty people escaped into the snowy woods—almost all under the age of fifteen. And some of those she saved claim”—Ema stopped, took a deep breath—“that when they escaped, they saw butterflies.”
I swallowed. “Butterflies?”
She nodded. “In February. In Poland. Butterflies. Hundreds of them leading them to safety.”
I just sat there.
“Lizzy Sobek became known as the Butterfly.”
I may have been shaking my head, but I can’t swear to it. I knew that we were both thinking the same thing. Butterfly—like on those T-shirts in the old photograph, at my father’s gravesite, on the tombstone in Bat Lady’s backyard. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
“Lizzy Sobek,” I said—and suddenly my blood went cold again. “Lizzy could be short for Elizabeth.”
“It was,” Ema said.
Elizabeth Sobek. E.S. The initials on that tombstone. Another coincidence? I asked the obvious question: “What became of Lizzy Sobek?”
“That’s the thing,” Ema said. “No one really knows. The vast majority of scholars believe that she was captured during a raid to free a group of children starving to death near Lodz. They believe that she and other resistance fighters were shot and buried in a mass grave, probably in 1944. But there has never been any proof.”
“A childhood lost for children,” I said. “That phrase makes more sense now.”
Ema nodded. “There’s more.”
I waited. The restaurant was bustling. People coming and going, enjoying their food, laughing or texting or whatever it is people do at restaurants. But for us, they were gone now. The room was just this booth—just Ema and me and the ghost of some brave, long-dead girl named Lizzy Sobek.
“I did all kinds of searches on those numbers—the ones on the bottom of the tombstone and on that license plate,” Ema said. “The A30432. But I came up with nothing.”
I sat very still. If she had ended up with nothing, there wouldn’t be tears in her eyes.
“So I read more about Lizzy Sobek,” Ema said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a piece of paper. “I found one of those Q and A sites on her life.” She unfolded the paper and slid it across the table.