is dressed in a suit and has one of those Humphrey Bogart type hats on the back of his chair. He is in his thirties he looks like, but it’s an older version of thirty somehow. He looks as though he has done too much living in those years, his eyes are deep and sad looking, with circles under them, and his hair is prematurely turning gray around his temples. He is very thin, painfully so, and his body trembles when I ask him if he’d like another piece of cake. He turns his sad looking eyes on me. He shakes his head, wordlessly dismissing me. But as he reaches for his coffee cup and brings it shakily to his lips, I see something on his left forearm where his sleeves have been rolled up: a five digit number tattoo with a triangle beneath. I know this mark, for Matthias and Harry have it as well, though their numbers are different. It’s a gift from the Nazis at Auschwitz and now I understand the source of some of this young man’s sorrow and trembling. Has he only just left there? I wonder. I reach down and grasp his hand, the one that is not holding his cup, and he looks up at me again, this time in surprise.
“ Wilkommen aus America. Alles gut hier. Ich verspreche.” He doesn’t even blink.
Finally he snaps alert and whispers softly, “Sprechen Sie Deutch?”
My German is somewhat broken, I am not precisely fluent, but I can speak it well enough.
“Ein bisschen. Aber mein Portugiese ist besser oder vielleicht Italienisch.” I offer to speak in either Italian or Portuguese hoping to find some common ground.
To my horror, his eyes fill up with tears. Now I’ve done it, gone and traumatized some almost murdered Jewish man, who is obviously Lost and by the looks of everyone at this table, alone. I feel the need to apologize, although for what exactly I am not sure. Surprisingly, he doesn’t let go of my hand, but only looks at me.
“Sono Italiano” he whispers over a swallowed sob, revealing his birth nationality.
“Do you have a place to stay tonight?” I ask, switching to Italian, his language, which I am better at anyway. I pull up a chair up and sit down. Still, he holds my hand.
He shakes his head, wordlessly.
“Do you want to come with me? I have some people I think you’d like to meet. Our home isn’t fancy, but it’s a place to stay and I think you’ll find you have a lot in common with all of us there. What do you say? I’m Sonnet, by the way.” I awkwardly turn our hand holding session into a form of a handshake.
“Bar,” the man replies slowly. Has it been a while since anyone has asked for his name? “And I would like that, yes. I think so.”
“Alright then, Bar, I’m going to run across the street and get my laundry and then I’ll come back in and get you. Does that sound agreeable?”
Bar simply nods. I clean off the empty cake plates and cups, return them to the kitchen where a second round of volunteers have already begun washing, and walk out through the heavy glass doors. I don’t bother folding my dry clothes, but carelessly toss them into my baskets where they will wrinkle freely, and push the baskets into the backseat of the Blue Beast. I’m not keen on anyone seeing my driving firsthand, but I figure someone from over seventy years ago won’t be in the position to judge. I suppose it’s possible he would have had a car back then, but I can almost promise he hasn’t driven it lately.
When I get back, Bar is right where I left him, sitting in almost a dejected fashion in his chair, his back ramrod straight and proud, but his head lowered in a way that appears submissive. The inconsistency of his pose is incongruous. I tell Jim to keep a look out for Rose, reminding him of her hair color and her eyes that look like mine, and also tell him I am taking Bar home with me. He doesn’t look too pleased with this turn of events.
“Now, Sonnet, I am always one to embrace everyone, you know that. But even I don’t invite strangers home to my house the day I meet them. That’s not smart thinking. Why don’t you let me find a place for him to stay? He’ll be fine here, there’s room and