She was running ahead of me. It was a common phenomenon with clients. They spoke as if you already knew what troubled them, that the formality of hiring you was all that was needed for you to get started on their case.
"Why don't you tell me the whole story from the beginning?"
Instead of speaking, she unclasped her handbag and brought out a small brown book. From its middle, she withdrew a small photograph and handed it to me. The photograph was three inches wide and four inches long. A small piece near the top-left corner had been torn off. The photo was yellowing with age, but the image it showed was clear enough.
A sunny day. A lake in the background. Trees looming on the far bank. Patches of white where sailboats cut across the placid lake surface. A much younger, better-fed Henrietta Ackerland at the front. I could tell it had been a cold day, because she was coated and gloved. A small hat perched on her head. She was cradling a baby. Her son, Willie?
Henrietta was staring directly at the camera, a broad smile across her face. I was right. She had been beautiful once. And happy. The woman who sat across the table from me did not seem capable of such happiness.
"Where was this taken?" I asked, lowering the picture.
"Krumme Lanke. In Berlin. Do you know the city?"
"No."
"It's very beautiful. Or it was, before the war."
"You lived there?"
"Yes. I was born there, went to school there, and got married there. My husband, Jacob, took that picture."
"And this is your son?"
"Yes. Willie is his name. But I said that already, didn't I? He was six weeks old that day."
"Big boy," I said. I would have guessed his age at ten weeks. Neither of my two daughters had looked as big as the baby in the picture at six weeks. "This was how long ago?"
"November 2, 1938," Henrietta said without hesitation.
I turned the picture over. No date on the back.
"You know the date by heart."
She nodded. "It was the last time I was happy, the last time all three of us were happy together. Jacob, Willie and me. Things were turning dark for Jews in Germany, but I had my little bubble of sunshine around me."
Her tone was one of resigned sadness, a sadness that had had time to settle like silt in every vein and artery, never to be dislodged by the passage of blood or time. Her eyes remained dry. I got the sense she had cried so many tears over the past ten years that she had very few left.
It struck me that whatever her story was, I did not want to hear it. I had enough such misery of my own. Goddamn it, Reuben, why did you have to send this woman my way?
Henrietta said, "One week later, November 9, was Kristallnacht. Jacob was working at the shop. When he did not come back, I thought of going to look for him, but I was too frightened. The noise, the smoke from the fires, the screams. And there was no one to watch over Willie if I went out. The next day, I learned that men had broken into the shop where Jacob worked, dragged him out into the street, and beat him. Then he was arrested. I was sure they would release him soon, but…"
"But they never let Jacob go," I finished her sentence for her when it became apparent she was unable to.
She shook her head. "I tried to find where they took him and kept hoping they'd let him go. After two weeks, I was starting to lose hope. Earlier that year, a cousin of mine decided to leave Germany. She told me I should take my family and leave too, that Germany was no longer safe for Jews. I told her she was exaggerating, that the Germans would soon come to their senses, that the hate couldn't last much longer. By the time I realized she was right, it was too late. Jacob was arrested. I did not want to leave Germany without him. But I could get my son away."
"You gave away your son?" I asked, in a tone of shocked incredulity.
Henrietta flinched as if I had raised a hand to her. "I could think of nothing else to do. I was scared. So scared. I felt that I had to get him out of Germany."
She paused, as if waiting for my approval that she had done the right thing.
"Go on," I said, ashamed of myself. Who was I to judge other people for the decisions they had made in trying to protect their children, considering my failure to protect my own.
"A schoolmate of mine, Esther Grunewald, had decided to immigrate to Palestine. I asked her to take Willie along with her, told her I would follow in a few weeks, three months at most. At first she refused, but I begged and pleaded, offering her nearly all the money I had. Finally, she relented. She and Willie took the train from Berlin to Zagreb on February 27, 1939, and that was the last time I saw my son."
"Why didn't you follow them?"
"I spent the next six weeks making inquiries after Jacob. Then I got a warning that I was to be arrested. Apparently, all my poking about had made someone angry. I used the little money I had left to buy false papers, but couldn't get a passport. I left Berlin, settled in Frankfurt with my new identity, and stayed there throughout the war, hiding in plain sight. With my blond hair and blue eyes, no one suspected me of being Jewish. I looked like the perfect Aryan woman from Nazi posters."
"When did you get here?"
"Two months ago. After the war, I spent some time looking for Jacob, but found no trace of him. I no longer have hope that he's alive. Then I boarded a ship to Israel, but the British stopped the ship and sent us to a prison camp in Cyprus. It was there that I learned Hebrew."
"And once you got here?"
"I started looking for Willie and Esther. I asked the immigration official which newspaper had the biggest circulation in Israel. Davar, he said. I posted an ad there six weeks ago. No one has contacted me. I went to the police, like I told you. Only Reuben Tzanani did anything to try to find Willie. Yesterday he told me he had done all he could and suggested I see you."
"What actions did he take, do you know?"
She nodded. "He told me he checked the civil register, but found no Esther Grunewald or Willie Ackerland listed there. He checked criminal records. Also nothing. Then he searched death certificates from 1939 to today. Nothing." She paused, lowering her eyes for a moment before raising them back to mine. "He told me there was nothing more he could do. I told him I wasn't ready to give up, so he said I might talk to you."
Rubbing the back of my neck, I made a mental note to thank Reuben for leaving me with the unpleasant task of telling Henrietta Ackerland the truth. Which was that her son was dead. It could have happened a number of different ways, but Willie Ackerland was dead, of that I had no doubt. Maybe he and Esther Grunewald had died en route to Palestine. Or maybe Esther Grunewald simply took the money Henrietta Ackerland had given her and dumped the baby somewhere. Maybe she never intended to take him along with her. 1939 was a bad year for kindness. It was a desperate time. In such times even good people do evil things. Maybe Esther Grunewald was such a person.
But whatever had happened, it was clear that no one by the name of Esther Grunewald or Willie Ackerland was living in Israel now or had died here in the past ten years.
I knew I had to tell it to her straight, but that didn't mean I relished the prospect. I delayed by slowly draining my coffee cup. Her eyes didn't leave my face the whole time.
"I wish I could help," I said when I felt I could delay no longer. "But Reuben is right. He checked everything there was to check and found nothing. Finding someone after ten years is almost impossible in the best of circumstances. In this case, there is no hope. With the work Reuben did and the newspaper ad you placed going unanswered, there is only one conclusion to be drawn: Your son is dead."
I didn't tell her I was sorry for her loss. From experience, I knew such a sentiment would provide her with zero comfort. I simply told it to her like it was. The unvarnished, awful, gut-wrenching truth. She would have to deal with it in her own way.