Ira Levin - Boys from Brazil

He asked and answered the usual questions, told the usual stories; ate enough not to distress Dolly Labowitz.

They drove to the temple in two cars. He gave the lecture, answered the questions, signed the books.

When they got back to the house he put the call in to Klaus. “It’s five A.M. there,” the operator reminded him.

“I know,” he said.

Klaus came on, groggy and confused. “What? Yes? Good evening! Where are you?”

“In Massachusetts in America. How old was the widow in Trittau?”

“What?”

“ How old was the widow in Trittau? Frau Schreiber.”

“My God! I don’t know, it was hard to tell; she had a lot of make-up on. Much younger than he was, though. Late thirties or early forties.”

“With a son almost fourteen?”

“Around that age. Unfriendly to me, but you can’t blame him; she sent him off to her sister’s so we could ‘talk in private.’”

“Describe him.”

A moment passed. “Thin, about as high as my chin, blue eyes, dark-brown hair, a sharp nose. Pale. What’s going on?”

Liebermann fingered the phone’s square push buttons. Round ones would look better, he thought. Square didn’t make sense.

“Herr Liebermann?”

“It’s not wild geese,” he said. “I found the link.”

“My God! What is it?”

He took a breath, let it blow out. “They have the same son.”

“The same what?”

“ Son! The same son! The exact same boy! I saw him here and in Gladbeck; you saw him there. And he’s in Göteborg, Sweden; and Bramminge, Denmark! The exact same boy! He plays a musical instrument, or else he draws. And his mother is always forty-one, forty-two. Five different mothers, five different sons; but the son is the same, in different places.”

“I…don’t understand.”

“Neither do I! The link was supposed to give us the reason, yes? And instead it’s crazier than what we started out with! Five boys exactly the same!”

“Herr Liebermann—I think it may be six. Frau Rausenberger in Freiburg is forty-one or -two. With a young son. I didn’t see him or ask his age—I didn’t imagine it was in any way relevant—but she said maybe he would go to Heidelberg too; not to study law, to study writing.”

“Six,” Liebermann said.

Silence stretched between them; stretched longer.

“Ninety-four?”

“Six is already impossible,” Liebermann said, “so why not? But even if it were possible, and it isn’t, why would they be killing the fathers? I honestly think I’ll go to sleep tonight and wake up in Vienna the night this all started. Do you know what Mengele’s main interest was at Auschwitz? Twins . He killed thousands of them, ‘studying,’ to learn how to breed perfect Aryans. Would you do me a favor?”

“Of course!”

“Go to Freiburg again and get a look at the boy there; see if he’s the same as the one in Trittau. Then tell me whether I’m crazy or not.”

“I’ll go today. Where can I reach you?”

“I’ll call you . Good night, Klaus.”

“Good morning. But good night.”

Liebermann put the phone down.

“Mr. Liebermann?” Dolly Labowitz smiled at him from the doorway. “Would you like to watch the news with us? And have a little nosh? Some cake or fruit?”

Hannah’s breasts were dry and Dena was crying, so naturally Hannah was upset. That was understandable. But was it any reason for changing Dena’s name? Hannah insisted on it. “Don’t argue with me,” she said. “From now on we’re calling her Frieda. It’s the perfect name for a baby, and then I’ll have milk again.”

“It doesn’t make sense , Hannah,” he said patiently, trudging along beside her through the snow. “One thing has nothing to do with the other.”

“Her name is Frieda,” Hannah said. “We’re changing it legally.” The snow opened in a deep canyon before her and she slid down into it, Dena wailing in her arms. Oh God! He looked at the snow, unbroken now, and lay on his back in darkness, in a bed in a room. Worcester. Labowitz. Six boys. Dena grown up, Hannah dead.

What a dream. Where had he pulled that from? Frieda yet! And Hannah and Dena sliding into that canyon!

He lay still for a minute, blinking away the terrible sight, and then he got up—pale light scalloped the window shades’ bottoms—and went into the bathroom.

He hadn’t been up once during the night; a really good sleep. Except for that dream.

He went back into the bedroom, brought his watch over to one of the windows, squinted at it. Twenty to seven.

He got back into the warm bed, pulled the blankets up around him, and lay and thought, morning fresh.

Six identical boys—no, six very similar boys, maybe identical—lived in six different places, with six different mothers all the same age, and six different dead-by-violence fathers, all the same age, similar occupations. It wasn’t impossible; it was real, a fact. So it had to be dealt with, unraveled, understood.

Lying still and at ease, he let his mind float free. Boys. Mothers. Hannah’s breasts. Milk.

The perfect name for a baby…

Dear God, of course. It had to be.

He let it all come together…

Part of it, anyway.

It explained the grapefruit juice, and the way she’d rushed him out. The way she’d rushed the boy out too. Quick thinking, pretending his bare feet and no bathrobe were what worried her.

He lay there, hoping the rest of it would come. The main part, the Mengele part. But it didn’t.

Still, one step at a time…

He got up and showered and shaved, trimmed his mustache, combed his hair; took his pills, brushed his teeth, put in his bridge. Dressed and packed.

At twenty after seven he went into the kitchen. The maid Frances was there, and Bert Labowitz in shirt-sleeves, eating and reading. After the good-mornings he sat down across the table from Labowitz and said, “I have to go to Boston earlier than I thought. Can I go with you?”

“Sure,” Labowitz said. “I leave at five of.”

“That’s perfect. I have to make one phone call. Just to Lenox.”

“I’ll bet someone warned you about Dolly, the way she drives.”

“No, something came up.”

“You’ll enjoy the ride more with me.”

At a quarter of eight, in the library, he called Mrs. Curry.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, it’s Yakov Liebermann again. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Silence. “I was up.”

“How is your son this morning?”

“I don’t know, he’s still sleeping.”

“That’s good. That’s the best thing, a lot of sleep. He doesn’t know he’s adopted, does he. That’s why you got nervous when I told him he has a twin.”

Silence.

“Don’t get nervous now , Mrs. Curry. I won’t tell him. As long as you want it a secret, I won’t say a word. Just tell me one thing, please. It’s very important. Did you get him from a woman named Frieda Maloney?”

Silence.

“You did, ja? ”

“No! Just a minute.” The thump of the phone being put down, footsteps going away. Silence. Footsteps coming back. Softly: “Hello?”

“Yes?”

“We got him through an agency. In New York. It was a perfectly legal adoption .”

“The Rush-Gaddis Agency?”

“Yes!”

“She worked there from 1960 to 1963. Frieda Maloney.”

“I never heard the name before! Why are you butting in this way? What difference does it make if he does have a twin?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then don’t bother me again! And don’t come near Jack!” The phone clicked. Silence.

Bert Labowitz drove him to Logan Airport and he caught the nine-o’clock shuttle to New York.