It was a good thing the Nazi hunter was sitting, or he might have fallen and broken a hip. He searched her face for a lie, but the deep lines told an ugly story that couldn’t be hidden. She spoke the truth, and he knew it
“But if you’re Jewish …”
“Then it’s the great ruse of history.”
As the Nazi hunter tried to wrap his mind around the bomb she just dropped, Ellen bit down on the glass vial she’d hidden behind her dentures.
The room turned hazy and began to spin. She never used drugs, so she finally was getting to experience the ’60s, a time her children were so enamored with.
The Nazi hunter called out, “No!” But his voice seemed miles away. He was too late.
A beautiful painting filled the canvas of Ellen’s mind. She was back on her first date with her husband, Harold Peterson—he’d taken her to Central Park for a picnic lunch. It was late October and a stiff wind was blowing the fall foliage off the trees. The leaves looked like a rainbow as they floated to earth.
She focused on one large oak tree with a stout trunk. The vision was so clear that she felt she could reach out and touch it. But slowly the picture turned blurry, as if she was looking at it through the steamed glass of a shower door.
She said her final prayers, but they weren’t for herself—she knew her judgment would be harsh. She asked for compassion for Josef and Harry Jr.—her innocent children who were given burdens they couldn’t handle—along with her grandson, Carsten. All taken too soon.
But most of all, she asked to give Maggie and Jamie the strength they’d need to end the cycle, and for the Nazi hunter to guide them with his experienced eyes.
Her mind flashed back to the tree in the park. The stiff wind picked up, continuing to blow the leaves off the branches until they were almost bare. She watched them float downward in slow motion, and when the last leaf hit the ground, everything went dark.
Chapter 2
“Maggie, c’mon, you’re going to be late,” Veronica Peterson shouted up the stairwell to her twelve-year-old daughter. She waited a moment, still no reply.
But there was no time to dwell on it. She swooped into the kitchen and caught nine-year-old Jamie about to douse his sister’s cereal with jalapeño sauce. She grabbed the jar out of his stunned hands on her way to the toaster.
“Haven’t you poisoned enough food this week?” she asked, while hastily buttering a piece of toast.
Jamie smiled his “can’t be mad at me” smile. Her husband used to say it was like Mariano Rivera’s cut-fastball—you knew it was coming, but it would still get you every time. She wasn’t a big baseball fan, but understood the power of Jamie’s smile. And it worried her.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I thought it was sugar. You know how Maggie likes sugar on her cereal … and with her project this morning …”
Yeah right.
The Maggie reference served as a reminder to check on her again. While Jamie was impossible to remain mad at, Maggie was quite the opposite. Veronica was convinced that she thrived on it—acceptance was the enemy.
Maggie had worked so hard on her Heritage Paper, trekking over to her Oma’s place a couple times a week to interview her about the family history, or at least Ellen’s version of it. Veronica was so proud of her effort, and thought she was finally starting to integrate into her new school, but on the day of the presentation she wouldn’t even get out of bed. She was such a mystery.
“Maggie—I’m not kidding,” Veronica yelled again up the stairs. “It would be a shame for you to put all this work in and then not show up.”
No response.
All she could hear was Jamie crunching his cereal.
“What did I tell you about closing your mouth when you eat?” she asked on another walk by.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
Yeah right.
She hurried up the stairs to Maggie’s room. She stared at the unfamiliar door, plotting her next move. The house was a lot different from their apartment in the city. It wasn’t that Veronica disliked it; it’s just what it represented.
She wanted to knock down the door like in one of those TV cop shows, but with her luck she figured she’d end up breaking her foot. And on top of that, Maggie never responded to threats. She perpetuated a stubbornness that always made Veronica’s mother make snide comments about