Robert Sawyer - Frameshift

Epstein sucked in breath, then: “He beat Jubas, then shouted, ‘ Davayy ebatsa’ …”

Levin raised his shaggy black eyebrows. “Which means?”

Epstein squirmed in his chair. “ ‘Come fuck,’ in Russian. He was saying to Jubas, take off your pants and come fuck. And he pointed at the terrified girl.”

Avi Meyer tasted bile at the back of his throat. He’d thought he’d heard all the horrors twenty-seven years ago, after his bar mitzvah. His mother was dead now; he hoped she had never known.

Mickey Shaked, one of the three Israeli prosecutors, had a full head of curly hair and sad, soulful eyes. He placed the cardboard photo spread in front of Epstein. It was a sheet with eight photographs on it: two rows of three pictures and a final row of two. All were of Ukrainian men suspected of war crimes. The first five photos were passport shots; the sixth was clipped from some other document. Only the seventh and eighth were regular snapshots — almost twice as big as the others. Of the eight photos, only the seventh showed an almost totally bald man; only the seventh showed a round-faced man.

“Do you see anyone whose face you recognize among these pictures?” asked Shaked.

Epstein nodded, but at first was unable to give voice to his thoughts. He finally placed a finger on the seventh picture. “I recognize him,” he said.

“In what way?”

“The forehead, the round face, the very short neck, the broad shoulders, the ears that stick out. This is Ivan the Terrible as I remember him from Treblinka.”

“And do you see this same man anywhere in this court today?” asked Shaked, looking around the vast theater as if he himself had no idea where the monster might be.

Epstein raised his voice as he pointed at Demjanjuk. “Yes, he’s sitting right there!”

Spectators actually applauded. Demjanjuk’s Israeli lawyer, Yoram Sheftel, spread his arms imploringly at the bench. Judge Levin scowled, as if reluctant to interrupt good theater, but finally called the room to order.

Another witness was on the stand now: Eliahu Rosenberg, a short, stocky man with gray hair and dark bushy eyebrows.

“I ask you to look at the accused,” said Prosecutor Mickey Shaked.

“Scrutinize him.”

Rosenberg turned to the three judges. “Will you ask the accused to take off his glasses?”

Demjanjuk immediately removed his glasses, but as Mark O’Connor, his American lawyer, rose to object, Demjanjuk put them back on.

“Mr. O’Connor,” said Judge Levin, frowning, “what is your position?”

O’Connor looked at Demjanjuk, then at Rosenberg, then back again at Judge Levin. Finally, he shrugged. “My client has nothing to hide.”

Demjanjuk stood up and took off his glasses again. He then leaned forward and spoke to O’Connor. “It’s okay,” Demjanjuk said. “Have him come closer.” He pointed to the edge of his booth. “Have him come right here.”

O’Connor at first shushed Demjanjuk, but then seemed to think that perhaps he did have a good idea. “Mar Rosenberg,” he said, “why don’t you come over for a closer look?”

Rosenberg left the witness stand and, without taking his eyes off Demjanjuk, closed the distance. Spectators whispered to themselves.

Rosenberg placed a hand on the edge of Demjanjuk’s dock to steady himself. “ Posmotree!” he shouted. Look at me!

Demjanjuk met his eyes and stuck out his hand. “ Shalom ,” he said.

Rosenberg stumbled backward. “Murderer!” he shouted. “How dare you offer me your hand?” Avi Meyer watched as Rosenberg’s wife, Adina, who was seated in the third row, fainted. Her daughter caught her in her arms.

Rosenberg stormed back to the witness stand.

“You were asked to come closer and have a look,” said Judge Dov Levin.

“What did you see?”

Rosenberg’s voice was shaking. “He is Ivan.” He swallowed, trying to gain composure. “I say that without hesitation or the slightest doubt. He is Ivan from Treblinka — Ivan from the gas chambers. I’ll never forget those eyes — those murderous eyes.”

Demjanjuk shouted something. Avi Meyer hadn’t made it out clearly, and O’Connor, his hearing impaired by the translation headset, apparently also missed it. He took off the earphones and turned to face his client.

Avi strained to hear. “What did you say?” asked O’Connor.

Demjanjuk, red-faced, crossed his arms in front of his chest, said nothing. Demjanjuk’s Israeli lawyer, Yoram Sheftel, leaned closer to O’Connor and spoke in English. “He said to Rosenberg, ‘ Atah shakran ’

—“ ‘You are a liar.’ ”

“I’m telling the truth!” shouted Rosenberg. “He is Ivan the Terrible!”

Molly Bond felt — well, she wasn’t sure how she felt. Cheap, but excited; full of fear, but full of hope.

She would turn twenty-six this summer, and was now well on her way to her Ph.D in behavioral psychology. But tonight she wasn’t studying.

Tonight, she sat in a bar a few blocks from the University of Minnesota campus, the smoky air stinging her eyes. She’d already had a Long Island iced tea, trying to build up her courage. She was wearing a tight-fitting red silk blouse, with no bra underneath. When she looked down at her chest, she could see the points made by her nipples pressing against the material. She’d already undone one button before entering, and now she reached down and undid a second one. She was also wearing a black leather skirt that went less than halfway down her thigh, dark stockings, and spike-heeled black shoes. Her blond hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders, and she had on green eye shadow, and lipstick as bright red as the silk top.

Molly looked up and saw a man enter the bar: a not-bad-looking guy in his mid-twenties, with brown eyes and lots of dark hair. Italian, maybe.

He was wearing a UM jacket, with “MED” on one sleeve. Perfect.

She saw him looking her over. Molly’s stomach was fluttering. She glanced at him, managed a small smile, then looked away.

It had been enough. The guy came over and took the barstool next to her, well within her zone.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

Molly nodded. “Long Island iced tea,” she said, indicating her empty glass. He motioned for the bartender.

His thoughts were pornographic. When he didn’t think she was looking, Molly could see him peering down her front. She crossed her legs on the stool, bouncing her breasts as she did so.

It wasn’t long before they were back at his place. Typical student apartment, not far from the campus: empty pizza boxes in the kitchen, textbooks spread out on the furniture. He apologized for the mess and started cleaning off the couch.

“No need for that,” said Molly. There were only two doorways off the living room, and both were open; she moved over to stand in the one that led to the bedroom.

He came over to her, his hands finding her breasts through the blouse, then under the blouse, then quickly helping her remove the blouse altogether. Molly undid his belt buckle, and they shed the rest of their clothes on the way to the bed, plenty of light still spilling in from the living room. He opened his night-table drawer, took out a three-pack of condoms, and looked at Molly. “I hate these things,” he said, testing the waters, hoping she’d agree. “Kills the sensation.”

Molly slid her palm across his hairy chest, down his muscular arm, and onto his hand, taking the condoms from him, and putting them back in the still-open drawer. “Then why bother?” she said, smiling up at him. She moved her hand to his penis and stroked it into full erection.