James Siegel - Epitaph

"Yes," William said, sitting down at the kitchen table. "They told me you worked there for years."

Dr. Morten was filling up yellow bowls, one with water, one with milk, one with food, then another one with water and another one with milk and another one with food. And so on.

"Oh yes," Dr. Morten said, "years."

Now cats began to appear. Lots of cats. From under the table, from behind the refrigerator, from inside the cupboards, from underneath the radiators, it was suddenly raining cats. William, who was in the general vicinity of their food, had a sudden appreciation for what a wildebeest must go through right before the lions snap the life out of him. Or what Mr. Brickman must feel like every moment he spent outside. It wasn't fun being the prey; given a choice you'd rather be the lion.

"So," Dr. Morten said, "what can I do for you?" He sat down on the other side of the table; a black cat started playing with the belt of his robe.

William explained. Dead person, concerned parties, investigating, etc.

"Fascinating story," Dr. Morten said. "Why are you talking to me?"

"The deceased was registered in a program for Holocaust survivors after the war. Were you around for that?"

"For that and all the rest of them. World War II, Korea, Vietnam. The lot. And you know what I learned-war's war. Just the casualty figures change. And everyone's a casualty. Were you in the war?"

"No." He'd been drafted at the very end and sent to Army Supply in Fort Dix. While Jean had been smuggling Jews to Argentina, he'd been smuggling Scotch to corporals. So while he'd been in the service, he hadn't been in the war.

"What was his name?" Dr. Morten said, then, "Stop it, Clarence," to the cat, who was tugging on his bathrobe like a wife who didn't like being ignored.

"Jean," William said. "Jean Goldblum."

Something happened. A cat leapt across the table, throwing a shadow across Dr. Morten's face. A yellow bowl was knocked over, throwing its milk against the bottom of his bathrobe where it clung like paste.

"Cats…" Dr. Morten said, a little sadly. "Cats. I moved most of my files downstairs-I was going to write a few case studies when I had the chance. I'll take a look. Goldblum? I don't remember that name, but then there were so many of them. If he was in the program, he'll be there."

He left William in the kitchen; two cats began fighting, hissing like snakes, spraying each other with spit. Something had happened. A cat had leapt across the table; milk had been spilt; Dr. Morten had said I'll take a look. William rubbed his forehead, eyes closed, trying to figure it out. A cat had leapt, like a shadow…

Dr. Morten returned.

"It took a while, but I found him. He was in the program. Briefly. Jean Goldblum-that's the name, right? Nothing much there. His wife and children were exterminated in Mauthausen. That's it. If he had any other relatives, it doesn't say so. Sorry." Me too. "Anything else in the file?" "Else?" "I don't know. Anything that caught your attention maybe. Anything I could use." "No." "It's just that you become curious about a person. You start out just doing a job, but then you become curious." "About what?" "Things. Did you know he was some sort of resistance hero in the war-sure you do, it's probably all in the file. He got a lot of other Jews out." "Yes-it mentioned that." "I always wondered why he couldn't do the same for them." "Them?" "His wife and children. I mean while he was smuggling everyone else out of there, why didn't he get around to them?" "Who knows? Maybe they didn't want to leave him behind." "Sure. There's other things though." "What things?" "Well, you've got an honest-to-God hero here. Everyone else was trying to save their skin-but him, he's risking his neck to save strangers. Mother Teresa and Jean Goldblum. See-you can utter them in the same breath." "So?" "The thing is," William continued, "after the war, Jean wasn't so heroic anymore. From what I can tell-from people who knew him. He didn't help old ladies across the street anymore. He ran them over. He became a detective, and he got a reputation…"

"What kind of reputation?"

"The kind that gets you clients who pay in cash."

"What's your point?"

"I'm curious why that happens."

"Why?"

"Yeah. I'm curious why someone turns. I'm interested in the process."

"Are you asking hypothetically? Because that's the only way I can answer you. Mr. Goldblum was a client of the hospital. There are laws about that."

"Sure. Hypothetically. Hypothetically why someone who's up for the Nobel Prize ends up blackmailing queers."

"Hypothetically, you've got someone who grew up by the Golden Rules. Someone who, hypothetically, believed in them. Someone who was confronted with a horrible situation. Someone who still believed in them. Someone who acted on them. Someone who got sent to Mauthausen for acting on them. And the worst part-some- one who lost everything he loved for acting on them. Hypothetically, you've got someone who isn't so fond of the Golden Rules anymore. Someone who, hypothetically speaking, can't wait to get rid of them."

"Okay, that makes sense."

"And this kind of person wouldn't exactly be enamored with himself either."

"Why?" William said, remembering those pictures shot from boot high.

"He survived. They didn't."

They being one wife and two little tow-headed children.

"We coined a phrase," Dr. Morten said. "Survivor's guilt. We couldn't do much about it-but we gave it a name."

"Why couldn't you do much about it?"

"Why? Imagine yourself strapped in an airplane with your whole family. I mean everyone. Cousins, grandmothers, uncles and aunts, your wife and children. And then you crash. You don't just crash-you know you're crashing for a good ten or fifteen minutes. You feel the ground rushing up to meet you. You have to listen to everyone's cries and prayers and whimpers. You have to look into your children's eyes and see the future that'll never happen. And then, when the moment finally comes, when you finally crash, after you've said your goodbyes and wrapped your arms around your wife and children for the last time-surprise. You don't die. They do-all of them, while you watch them go one by one unable to stop it. But you-you're still there. Now," Dr. Morten said, "what do I tell you to make you feel better? What do I tell you to make you stop wishing you'd joined them?"

Yeah, William thought, remembering that little girl, okay, not quite the same thing. But still…

"We started our survivors program armed with good intentions. But they spoke a different language. We spoke a different language. They'd witnessed the inconceivable. Everything we said to them sounded like gibberish. We didn't have a prayer. And neither did they. The program was an unqualified failure. We cut it in thirds, then gave it up completely."

"And Jean. He was a failure too?"

"Sounds like it, doesn't it. Then again, he didn't shoot himself or throw himself off a bridge, so maybe not."

Maybe not. Only maybe he did throw himself off a bridge, only maybe it took him fifty-five years to hit the water. But at the very end of his swan dive, this close to oblivion, someone had reached out a hand and said salvation. But who?

"What will you do now?" Dr. Morten asked him. Other than leave my house-which he didn't say but which he didn't have to.

"Poke around a little more. You never know."

They both sat up, one just a little ahead of the other, though it was hard to say who was first and who was second. Call it a photo finish. Dr. Morten showed him halfway out, pointing the rest of the way like a waiter indicating the direction of the lavatory. William nimbly dodged cats, as nimbly as he could with a cane and arthritis-ravaged legs, which means he stepped on only two or three of them. Dr. Morten wasn't happy about that, and the screaming cats weren't exactly thrilled about it either. All the residents of the town house were pretty happy when he made it out the door.