Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

“What do you mean, ceased to exist? You’re still here, right?”

“Yes. I’m still here. In 1939 before the war, there were one hundred and twenty thousand Jews living in Lviv. In 1941 that number grew to two hundred and twenty thousand. Refugees from Western Poland. That was half the city’s population. Today there are only two thousand of us left.”

Nadia didn’t know what to say. She knew what the Nazis had done. Everyone knew. But the Nazis had been gone for more than half a century.

“The first daily Yiddish newspaper in the world, the Lemberger Toblat , was published in Lviv in the nineteenth century, when it was under Austrian rule. Lviv was a center of Yiddish literature. Ukrainians and Jews who lived in Lviv got along very well. Until the cooperatives came.”

“The cooperatives?”

“Ukrainian communities consisted mostly of farmers. Jewish communities consisted mostly of shopkeepers and moneylenders. When the farmers pooled their resources to buy and sell products without a middleman, it created tension. Many Jewish people lost their jobs.”

“Did any of your family survive the war?” Nadia said.

“No. My parents were shipped to Belzec in May, 1942. That was four months after my only brother was hanged to death from the gallows the Nazis set up in the town square. He was part of the armed Jewish resistance. His last words were ‘the sun still shines.’ He was captured by the SS paramilitary death squad, who were assisted by the Ukrainian auxiliary police. Most Ukrainian kept to themselves during the war. But some didn’t. That was the second of two major pogroms in Lviv. You know what a pogrom was?”

Nadia shook her head.

“A legal riot against Jews with the full support of the law.”

“Horrible. How did you survive?”

“The resistance hid me. I was passed on from sanctuary to sanctuary until the war ended. The Nazis never found me. I was one of the lucky ones.”

Nadia took a bite of rugelach and sipped her tea. “I need to find Karel. I need to ask him some questions about things that went on in a place I cannot talk about. It’s a matter of life and death for someone I love.”

“He went on a pilgrimage to Zarvanytsia.”

Nadia had never heard of the place. She shook her head.

“It’s a small village in Ternopil. It’s known for its miracle-working icon of the Mother of God.”

Nadia frowned. “But I thought he was—”

Karel’s mother raised her eyebrows. “Jewish?”

“No. A scientist.”

“He is. But as I said, he’s searching for something more.”

Nadia stood up and thanked her for her hospitality. She started toward the door.

“He said you might show up here some day, you know.”

Nadia wheeled. “He did? When did he say that?”

“When he retired and moved here. About seven months ago. He’d bought the building years before in preparation for retirement.”

“Why would he have thought that back then?” Nadia asked the question aloud, even though she was asking herself.

“Because he is Karel. His father was one of the scientists that worked on the Manhattan Project. He is a special boy. He sees the future.”

JOHNNY TANNER CLIMBED into the elevator with his clients on the fourth floor of the Superior Court building in Elizabeth, New Jersey. It was only 9:15 a.m. but Wednesday was already turning out to be a good day.

He’d gotten the charges dismissed against the James brothers. Both in their forties, lifelong criminals. After a five-year stint in Mid-State, they’d given up crime and opened a car wash in Newark. But their probation officer demanded ten percent of their monthly gross. When they refused, she planted a kilo of heroin in their bedroom during a monthly home inspection. They were arrested. Johnny called the cops and shared his suspicions. They arranged for another client of his to wear a wire. When the probation officer demanded ten percent from that client, too, the cops arrested her. A judge released the James brothers this morning.

“That was the shit, Johnny,” one of the brothers said.

“Free car wash for life,” the other brother said. “Towel dry and tire shine still cost you á la carte, though. You know what I’m saying.”

“No problem,” Johnny said. “My tires always shine. No matter what the weather.”

Outside, afternoon clouds hung low. The air smelled of exhaust. Pedestrians lollygagged past the Furniture King and the Bargain Man. They would scatter before night fell. This was a town where the police secured their cruisers’ steering wheels with the Club. Anything could be stolen, anyone could be robbed at any time. That’s why Johnny loved Elizabeth. The streets pulsated with their own heartbeat. They teemed with real people who had real problems. It was the place he loved to call home.

His next appointment was at Rikers Island with Bobby. If the day’s momentum continued, the kid would explain why he thought Nadia’s life was in trouble. He looked close to cracking. He hadn’t said anything yesterday when Johnny visited, but he wasn’t his cool self anymore. He’d fidgeted in his seat, taken deep breaths, and looked like a stick of Ukrainian dynamite ready to blow. All Johnny needed to do was figure out how to light the fuse.

Johnny walked two blocks to the lot where he parked his car. A vintage Monte Carlo SS. It was rude, crude, and could not be subdued. He passed an old Lincoln Town Car parked on the side of the street. The only reason he noticed it was because of the two blond twins sitting in the front seats. They eyeballed him the whole way. Didn’t bother to hide their interest.

Johnny’s guard shot up. Something was wrong. And then he saw him. Leaning against Johnny’s Monte Carlo, sucking the last bit of nicotine out a cigarette, looking like the most harmless man in the Tri-State area.

Victor Bodnar.

Elder statesman. Thief. Murderer.

Johnny had met Victor when Nadia returned to New York with Bobby last year. So much for the good day, Johnny thought. Now he was the one with the real problem.

“Get off my car,” Johnny said.

Victor stood up. The speed with which he followed the command shocked Johnny. It told him the old man wanted something from him. It told Johnny he had an edge in the conversation that would follow.

“I thought we had a deal,” Johnny said. “I thought we were never going to see each other again. On this Earth, that is.”

“You’re mistaken,” Victor said. “We never agreed to anything like that.”

He spoke with a thick Russian accent. No, not Russian. Ukrainian. If Nadia had read his mind she would have smacked him for mixing up the two. Fortunately, she couldn’t read his mind.

If only she could.

“No,” Victor said. “Last we saw each other in the basement of the butcher’s shop, you threatened me. And then you left.”

Victor had killed his cousin from Ukraine and two of his bodyguards. Johnny hadn’t witnessed the murders because he was tied up in the meat locker next door. But he’d heard the gunshots. Victor had freed Johnny on the condition of silence. Nadia had become involved with Victor because she’d inadvertently caused his art smuggling operation to be closed down by the FBI. That’s how everything had started. Johnny remembered his last words to Victor. If any harm came to Nadia, he promised to find Victor and square it. Johnny had meant it. But now his words seemed inadequate, his vow of revenge meaningless.

He had to prevent any harm from coming to Nadia. He had to deal with any risk to her beforehand.