As the stop sign drew closer, Peter Abramovich eased on the brakes. It had been two years since his driver's test but he had never gotten out of the habit of counting to three before hitting the gas. He tapped the wheel with his thumbs, whistling to the jazz album his mother had put on.
"It really aggravates me that the insurance company ups your payments simply because you are a teenage boy," Mrs. Abramovich grumbled, digging through her purse for her phone, "If they met you, they wouldn't know what to think."
"A responsible eighteen year old male behind the wheel?" Peter smirked, "Like a freaking unicorn."
"They certainly broke the mold with you, son."
Peter chuckled, glancing over at his mother. His smile faded as he noticed the lines on her brow. They hadn't been there a year earlier. He couldn't believe it had been twelve whole months since his grandfather's diagnosis. She sighed, resting her temple against her knuckles as she read her texts.
"I was wrong. Nurse Catie isn't going to be able to make it in tonight at all." She peered over at her son with the same chocolate brown eyes he possessed, "Are you sure you're okay with staying there? It'll only be until the service is over and then I'll come relieve you."
With a casual wave of his hand, Peter returned his attention to the ocean side road, "Don't worry about it, mom. I've got this. Opa and I will be fine. We'll have some broccoli, mac and cheese, watch a little wrestling. It'll be great."
"I hate that you have to miss the service."
"Opa needs us this year more than ever. God will understand." Peter dragged his fingers through his dark blonde waves, rolling down the window to let in the sea air, "It isn't like this is my first Rosh Hashana eve."
"With you off to college next year-"
"Mom, I promise. I will find a synagogue wherever I end up." Peter insisted as he swerved the jeep down the dirt road leading to the beach house.
He never said it but it felt like his mother was more fervent about their Jewish faith than his father. And it was Greta Abramovich who had converted to Judaism. She had been raised Lutheran.
"Your father is already there with your sisters." She commented, scrolling down the screen on her phone, "I'll come in with you and say a quick hello. He might be having a good day. I don't want to miss it."
Opa's house was a former vacation cottage that his son-in-law purchased for him after the doctor's news. The ocean was always soothing to the old man and seemed to help him focus as the disease slowly ate away at his consciousness.
"Opa?" Peter called as they walked into the small television room.
There was the high pitched squeal of a kettle left on the stove. Mom's face blanched as she raced into the vintage kitchen and took it off the red hot eye.
"Dad? Where are you?" She called out, following the hallway towards the staircase.
Peter strode over to the open back door, the curtains drifting like fog in front of it. He peered out across the lawn towards the sea rose bushes lining the grey rocks. A wave crashed against the shore, spray shooting up into the late afternoon air. It was almost twilight.
"I'm here. I'm here." Opa rounded the corner of the house, "Wilhelm, tell your mother to calm herself. I didn't go far."
Peter's jaw clenched but he managed a pained smile. Opa had gotten into the habit of calling Peter after his eldest son who had died in the Vietnam War. Granted, in the family photo albums Opa, Wilhelm and Peter all looked scarily familiar. However, he hated to see the hurt it caused his mother. Clearly, this wasn't a good day for Opa.
"Agathe!" Opa exclaimed, calling his daughter by his dead wife's name as he embraced her, "Don't worry yourself so. I only went down to check the mailbox."
Mom's expression fell. Peter watched in awe as she pulled herself together with a bright smile as Opa released her.
"You left the kettle on," she managed, "Would you like me to make you some tea?"
"Sit down, I will make it for you." Opa insisted, loosening the top buttons on his sweater and adjusting his glasses, "Rest those feet. No doubt it's been a long day."
Peter sat next to his mother at the round kitchen table, a small vase of daisies that Nurse Catie had brought blooming at the center. Twisting his watch around his wrist, Peter glanced up at his grandfather. Opa poured the contents of the tea pot into three blue china cups. He always served it black without asking if they wanted sugar or cream.
"Tell me about your day." Opa instructed, giving them each a saucer.
"I got an A on my advanced chemistry exam." Peter offered cheerfully.
"This is good. Yes, very good." Opa's brow furrowed, "You continue in that science. Chemical engineering is the way to go. Make good money for your family someday, son."
Peter nodded and peered into his cup. Opa's lucid moments were becoming less frequent. Even these conversations where he thought his grandson was someone else were to be cherished. It would only be a matter of time before the Alzheimer's took over for good.
"I've got to get going," his mother rose from her seat, "I have an appointment."
"Very well. Be home before dark, Agathe. No wife of mine should walk alone at night." Opa's expression tensed, "Even if the Soviets have left us to our own devices."
Mom kissed Opa on the crown of his snowy head, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Peter saw her to the door and didn't let go when he hugged her.
"I'll text the girls and tell them to be good for you guys." Peter met her eyes, "You be good to you, mom."
"Sweet boy," she murmured, her mouth down-turned as she clasped his shoulder, "You're growing up so well."
As he had predicted, Peter and Opa ended up with plates of microwaved vegetables and boxed mac n' cheese on TV trays. The threadbare sofa and armchair that Opa refused to give up were far from comfortable. Peter was sure they had been with the old German since before the Wall fell.
"What about Lucy? Is Lucy on?" Opa demanded, wiping his glasses on his sweater.
"I don't know, lets see here…" Peter clicked through the guide with the remote, "It's your lucky day. I Love Lucy at five."
Peter hit the wrong button and went up a channel. It was a history documentary on the German invasion of Russia. Panzer divisions rolled across broad landscapes like lions stalking prey on the Savannah. His father had told him much about his parents who had escaped Stalingrad before the battle. His grandfather on that side had fought against the Nazis and was proud of his service that had ended in Austria. Opa never spoke much about his time in Germany during the war. He had been in his early twenties and of course had been conscripted. However, his time had been confined to offices and behind typewriters, drawing up boring reports for the higher ups. His mother had told him time and again that Opa had never held a gun in the name of Hitler.
"I remember those fields went on for ages." Opa murmured.
Peter swallowed his bite and peered over at his grandfather in the armchair, "What?"
"Farmland for miles. I decided right then and there I would marry and settle down in that exact place after the Final Victory." Opa smiled as his dark eyes trained on the television screen, "It was though it had been made just for us."
"Opa, you were in Berlin for the entire war."
"Was I?" Opa's face wrinkled in thought, "Maybe-"
"Yes. Yes, you were," Peter laughed nervously, "That's where you met Oma. You guys got married in 1946 in Berlin."
Opa's mouth twisted, "I made sure our division was the finest in the Reich. Even when we were freezing to death that winter. Our shipments to the camps were always on time."
Peter changed the channel, "Look Opa. It's Lucy."
With a broad smile, Opa nodded, "Good. I like this episode."
Swallowing a bite of macaroni, Peter tried to slow his heart rate. There was a chance that Opa was confusing his war experience with another of an old friend. The doctor said things would grow more convoluted for him as the disease wore on.
By the end of I Love Lucy, Opa had fallen asleep with his napkin tucked into his shirt collar. Peter cleared the dishes and washed them in the dark kitchen. After drying the last plate, he drummed the counter with his thumbs. He peeked over his shoulder at Opa. The man who had given Peter his face was muttering incoherently, a silvery trail of drool crawling down his weak chin. 872Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡelrQr1gBCm
Opa was the grandparent with whom he had always been closest. Even as a child, he would beg to visit Opa when he and Oma had lived in their town apartment. Opa listened to him, gave him practical advice and always hugged him as though he would never see him again.
Peter was more scared of the statements Opa had made while watching the documentary than anything else in his life. He thought of the old chest in the attic. It had followed Opa everywhere, never left out in the open but always lurking under beds or in closets. Opa said he believed in keeping his sins close so he would never forget. Peter had never put two and two together until that moment of sickening revelation.
Opa was fast asleep. He wouldn't notice if Peter disappeared for a moment. Climbing the stairs in the dark, Peter thought about the Jewish New Year his family was recognizing at that very moment. The shofar would be trumpeted one hundred times over the course of the Rosh Hashana services. It was the symbolic call for repentance.
Peter climbed up the rickety stairs into the lofted attic. There was nothing else in the square room but the splintered chest, barely visible in the grey light from the single window. The lock on it was rusted. Taking out his pocket knife, Peter fiddled with it. Beads of sweat formed on his brow despite the cool, dusty air. With a groan, the metal gave. Peter's heart jumped into his throat. Feeling like a thief in the night, Peter opened the trunk. Pushing away the black cloth covering the contents, Peter numbly stared down into the abyss.
He lifted a dog eared photograph and a tattered uniform jacket from the bowels of the chest. Bringing them over to the window, he studied them. His senior level history course had only spent a few weeks on the events of World War Two, but he knew at what he was looking. The insignia on the sharp, black collar was undoubtedly that of an SS officer. Peter peered at the photo, hoping against hope it was a coincidence. However, the man in the photograph was the spitting image of himself clad in the uniform he grasped.
Peter opened the window and vomited into the sparse garden below.
ns 15.158.61.16da2
