Jasio remembered the day in September 1941, when Papa, bloodied and calloused, dragged himself through the door and announced the Jews were gone and would never return.
Papa lied.
Jasio knew this, because one Jew did come back to Zareby Koscielne after the war. Police Chief Górski shot him dead with one bullet through his head in the middle of the market square.
Today, more than sixty years later, another Jew was coming. An American Jew. Since Ryszard’s call, Jasio had done nothing but think about the tour he’d give the American. Ryszard himself couldn’t very well do it. He’d never lived in the town. As Jasio buttoned his darned white shirt, twisted the knot into his tie, and pulled on his vest, he determined the route. He’d show where the synagogues had been, where the cemetery had been, and maybe if time permitted, Ryszard could take them all out to the place in Sembor eight kilometers away where the town’s Jews were executed.
All he knew about the American was that her grandfather left “Zaromb” in 1913. That was well before Jasio’s time. He hadn’t been born till 1929. He ambled about his kitchen, made so much smaller since Maria died three years ago. Plastic bags filled with toilet paper and soap lined the kitchen table. He unbuttoned his top button and inhaled deeply. It had been easier when Maria was alive. Her constant chatter filled his brain with meaningless drivel that stuffed his nightmares into the hard-to-get crevices of his mind. He crossed himself as he thanked...
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