After Dachau (10 page)

“I’m not sure I understand what you want,” Miss Crenevant said. “Dr. Reese explained, but I’m not sure I have it right.”

When I asked her what she was covering in her course, she said it was the period between the birth of Christ and the so-called Great War that broke out in Europe when the heir to the Austrian throne was assassinated in Sarajevo.

“That’s fine,” I said. “In fact, it couldn’t be better for my purpose,” which I then explained again.

She listened, pondered. “It will be a good exercise for them,” she said at last, meaning her students, of course.

“That’s what I thought,” I told her modestly. “Useful to me and a good opportunity for them to use what they’ve learned.”

“We could actually do it tomorrow afternoon, if that’s not too soon for you.”

“Tomorrow afternoon will be perfect,” I told her.

She thought for a moment. “Will you want me to set it up? To explain to the girls what you want from them?”

“No, I think I’d better do that.”

She thought some more.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever been a classroom teacher.”

“No, never.”

“Then I feel I should warn you that girls of this age and social class—all very bright, very rich, and very spoiled—can be a handful, even for a veteran.”

“Yes, I have some dim recollections of that kind from my own school days.”

She replied with a silence that said I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, and she was doubtless right. I didn’t think it wise to explain that it would actually help if her girls focused on the possibility of humiliating me. It would distract them from the possibility of humiliating Mallory, for whose benefit the enterprise was being mounted.

We arranged that Mallory and I would be escorted to the classroom by one of the girls, who would meet us at the school entrance between one and one-fifteen.

Having been ditched
and ignored for two and a half days, Mallory was predictably rather chilly when I finally reached her at her condominium apartment that night.

“I’m not going to apologize,” I told her, “because I’ve been working on your behalf, and I had to leave to do it.”

“Working how?” she wanted to know.

“I can’t explain. I’ll have to show you. Will you come with me somewhere tomorrow?”

“Where?”

“If I tell you that, you’ll just ask why.”

“Why shouldn’t I ask why?”

“Because it’s something I have to show you. I’m not going to answer questions about it. Either you trust me or you don’t.”

“I trust you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be curious.”

“You can be curious all you want. At one o’clock you’ll know.”

“Okay.”

“Where shall I pick you up, at the apartment or the studio?”

“The studio. At one o’clock?”

“No, at noon sharp. I’ll tell you this much. You’ll probably feel more comfortable if you’re wearing something other than your painting clothes.”

“You mean like a dress.”

“Like a dress, yes.”

“Am I supposed to impress someone?”

“No, just the opposite. Something casual and inconspicuous will do fine.”

She grunted unenthusiastically.

“Noon,” I repeated.

“I heard you,” she snapped, and broke off the connection with a bang.

A GOOD TEN MILES
from the distractions and temptations of the nearest village, the Gramercy Park Academy for Girls stood in the center of an immense walled park as bright and cheery as a prison yard. The school itself, at the end of a suitably impressive drive, was an absurd caricature, someone’s idea of a stately gothic pile, as conceived, perhaps, by some dour railroad magnate in the age of Queen Victoria. Naturally it did not in fact date from that era. It was a modern horror, fashioned deliberately to overwhelm and oppress the minds of students unfortunate enough to be incarcerated there, with massive walls of gray stone streaked with moss, and tall, cramped windows admitting only enough light to allow the contemplation of one’s sins or the merciful shortness of life.

Mallory and I arrived as we had traveled, in an uncomfortable silence.

On picking her up at the studio, I’d said something witty like, “You look nice,” which was certainly true enough. She looked, I suppose, like a young woman applying for a job as a junior legal secretary.

She said, in a kind of savage murmur, “Mallory has exquisite taste.”

The conversational tone for the journey had been set.

When she finally caught sight of the school, she said, “Are you committing me to a lunatic asylum?”

I said, “It’s a school.”

“What are we doing at a school?”

“Learning,” I replied neatly, pulling into a parking space by the entrance.

As promised, one of the girls was waiting for us inside the cathedral-like entrance, a stout, businesslike youngster in a navy blue outfit that could only be a school uniform.

“Mr. Tull?” she said to me, darting a look at Mallory.

I told her that was right and glanced at my watch. It was 1:05.

“My name is Ava,” the greeter announced. Good manners dictated a handshake and an introduction to Mallory, who said, “How do you do?” as if she’d been at it all her life.

The classroom was
suitably dim, dank, and high-ceilinged.

Miss Crenevant looked like she might be Ava’s mother. She was tall and rather muscular, dressed in a mannish suit, with a jowly, rectangular face, thick glasses, and russet hair in an unattractive pageboy cut. She shook our hands
solemnly, as if welcoming us to a memorial service, then turned to present us to the girls, who were staring at Mallory, evidently struck by her icy beauty and sophisticated manner.

“I thought you might want these,” she said, indicating two high stools she’d arranged at the front of the class.

“Yes, that’s fine,” I said, awkwardly leading the way.

Mallory sat down, crossed her legs precisely, and looked around with an air of detachment, establishing that none of this had anything to do with her.

I sent my eyes round the class, and the girls—fifteen or eighteen in all—switched their gaze from her to me. We were ready to begin.

“I want to start by thanking you for your time,” I said and gave them a moment to snicker at this rather silly statement, since we all knew they’d had no say in the matter. “Believe it or not,” I went on, “you’re going to do something important in this room today, for this person here, Mallory Hastings.”

Mallory shot me a perplexed, half-angry look.

“Miss Hastings,” I went on, “recently had an accident in her automobile that—without going into details—caused her to suffer an unusual form of amnesia.”

There was no doubt I had their attention now.

“I’m sure you know what amnesia is and what its usual effects are. The amnesiac may be missing his name, his address, even his occupation, but he hasn’t forgotten how to read and speak the language he grew up with. He hasn’t forgotten how to drive a car. He hasn’t forgotten what money is or what it can buy. He hasn’t forgotten that he’s a citizen of a certain country with a certain history, a certain political structure, and so on. Yet he may not recognize either his parents or his wife and children.

“Some of this is true of Miss Hastings—and some of it isn’t. There are some very fundamental things that exist in your heads that are missing in hers. These are things you take for granted, that you hardly think about at all, and that may actually seem to you quite inconsequential—almost not worth bothering about. But I’m going to ask you to dig them out of your heads for the benefit of Miss Hastings here today.”

The girls exchanged bemused glances.

Ava’s hand shot into the air, and I gave her a nod.

“Why don’t you just tell her what she wants to know?”

“Because it isn’t something she ‘wants to know.’ She doesn’t even know it’s missing.”

“Even so, why not just tell her?”

“Because she probably wouldn’t believe me.”

This announcement produced a minor sensation. I was careful not to notice what effect it produced in Mallory.

“We know something she wouldn’t believe?” This question came from the back, from a rather exotic-looking girl with a dusky, oval face and wide, dark eyes.

“May I ask your name?”

“My name is Etta.”

“Thank you. I didn’t exactly say you know something she wouldn’t believe. What I was getting at is that she wouldn’t believe it if it came from me. If it comes from you, I’m sure she’ll believe it. That’s exactly why we’re here.”

Another hand shot up, this one belonging to an elfin creature with sandy hair and freckles who announced herself as Nanette.

“Why wouldn’t she believe it if it came from you?” Nanette wanted to know.

“Miss Hastings would expect anything I say to be biased. But she would have no reason to expect that of you.”

Another girl raised a hand, or rather shyly turned up a palm. This was Sylvia, a child with a narrow, foxy face and wide, round glasses.

She said, “May I ask why Miss Hastings would expect anything you say to be biased?”

“Sylvia!” Miss Crenevant hissed.

“No, that’s all right,” I assured her. “Let’s see what Miss Hastings has to say about this.” I turned pointedly to Mallory. “Have I painted an accurate picture here? Would you tend to be suspicious of anything I might tell you?”

“Yes!” She was clearly steaming, ready to support any accusation I might make against myself on her behalf.

“Do you care to explain why?”

She shifted the full power of her glare onto me. “Because you’re a liar. A liar and a—” I suspect it was on the tip of her tongue to call me a murderer, but, thankfully, she drew back from that.

“So,” I said. “But you don’t suspect these girls of being liars.”

Mallory studied them, face by face. Finally she said, “I don’t know what they are.”

“They’re ordinary high school students,” I told her, fudging a bit on the “ordinary” part. The girls themselves remained still, perhaps sensing that this was not the time to assert their specialness. “You were a high school student once yourself, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That didn’t automatically make you a liar, did it?”

“No.”

“I can’t think why these students would be liars either. They haven’t been coached. They don’t have the slightest idea why we’re here.”

“Neither do I,” Mallory snapped.

“I know. We’ll remedy that soon enough.” The statement came out in a more portentous style than I intended, but there was no way to call it back. The moment of truth had arrived for me, but I had no plan for it. I’d hoped vaguely that the circumstances would provide some inspiration, but there were no sparks as yet. There was nothing to do but take a leap.

“A couple of minutes ago I recited a list of things we all expect to find in our heads when we wake up in the morning. We may not remember a specific telephone number, but we haven’t forgotten how to use a telephone. We may not remember a friend’s exact age, but we haven’t forgotten what he looks like. We may not remember the capitol of Wyoming, but we haven’t forgotten the shape of the continent we’re living on. We may not remember where the car’s parked, but we haven’t forgotten what it looks like. We may not remember the dates of the Peloponnesian War, but we haven’t forgotten the general sequence of events that got us from ancient times to the present. But this last thing is exactly what Miss Hastings has forgotten and what I’d like you to reconstruct for her.”

Their eyes widened in alarm.

“Miss Crenevant tells me that what you’ve been reviewing here is the period between the birth of Christ and the Great War. Is that right?”

They nodded warily, as if they thought anything more exuberant might encourage me to spring a surprise quiz on them.

“What did the combatants in the Great War think it was all about? Can you tell me that?”

The girls shifted uneasily in their seats.

Miss Crenevant stepped in to give them a hint. “You remember we discussed why, at the time, the war was so difficult for the combatants to understand or explain, even to each other.”

After a moment the foxy-faced Sylvia shot her hand up into the air and began waggling it furiously.

“Go ahead, Sylvia,” I said, taking charge.

“They weren’t looking far enough back,” she said. “They didn’t see that this was just the final battle in a war that had been going on for almost two thousand years.”

“A covert, undeclared war,” Miss Crenevant added, setting the record straight. “Carried on without guns and bombs. By other means.”

I nodded. “I learned the same thing when I was in school—and so did Miss Hastings, of course, though she has utterly no memory of it now. She’s in the same position as the combatants in the Great War. That’s what we’re here to correct today. Who were the perpetrators of this covert two-thousand-year-old war?”

The girls’ eyes widened in surprise. Surely it wasn’t going to be
this
easy! This was kindergarten stuff. A dozen voices supplied the answer:

“The Jews!”

I sensed, rather than saw, Mallory stiffen at my side.

“And who was the war being waged against?”