Shanti has a small suitcase in our motel room but a larger one in the back of the SUV. I find it interesting that she went out of her way to leave it in the vehicle. When I first open it, I’m disappointed. It’s stuffed with clothes, a few magazines, a pair of boots, running shoes, a watch, and a cell phone—devoid of any stored numbers.
Yet when I have finished emptying the suitcase on her bed, I notice a faint bulge on the interior of the lid, beneath the leather lining. Human eyes would never have noticed it. The area is sewn shut; indeed, it looks as if it has never been exposed since the day the suitcase was constructed. If I were to hide something, I think, and it were important to me, I would put it in exactly the same place.
I tear off the inner lining of the suitcase.
There’s a manila envelope inside. I open it with a swipe of my fingernail. Inside are two items: a business card and a photograph. The card lists the name of a lawyer: Michael Larson of Pointe, Wolf, and Larson, 1250 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York. The card is made of high-quality paper, the printing is impeccable. It smells of money.
Written on the back of the card, with a dull pencil, is another New York phone number.
The photograph is of a middle-aged couple. The woman looks familiar, even though I’m certain I’ve never met her before. The couple sits smiling on a couch beside an open window that looks out on rolling grassland with a lake in the distance.
They appear to be a typical couple. The man has his arm around his wife. I’m certain they’re married. There’s an ease between them that only comes from having lived many years together. I see their love for each other in their eyes.
Looking out the window, behind them, I’m pretty sure I see a piece of land that belongs to North Carolina. The type of trees, the color of the lake, the way the green fields slope—I’ve visited the area before.
On a small end table, to the right of the couch where they sit, is a black-and-white photograph. The picture is handsomely framed but it was taken with a primitive camera. The print is grainy, the focus questionable. I suspect the photograph was snapped in the forties or fifties.
Once more, there’s a couple, although these two are younger and they’re standing on Ellis Island, near the foot of the Statue of Liberty. They’re not alone—a hundred people mill in the background. Most look weary and I can understand why. They have just crossed the Atlantic and arrived in the New World.
But the couple at the forefront of the group don’t look exhausted. On the contrary, they’re bursting with excitement to be standing on the doorstep of New York City. Studying their faces I can see all the hopes and dreams they have for their future. But I also see their joy is tempered with sorrow. Even if I didn’t know them, I’d still see the pain in their eyes.
But I do know them.
Their names are Harrah and Ralph Levine.
I met them during World War II, in Paris, and spent time with them in the most hellish place the modern age has ever known: Auschwitz, the concentration camp where over a million Jews were slaughtered. It was only because of Harrah and Ralph that I survived the camp.
Now I know why the woman on the couch looks familiar.
She’s the granddaughter of Harrah and Ralph.
I’m still staring at the photograph when Matt returns. I hand it over, along with the card, and tell him who the people in the pictures are. Matt listens closely and studies them with a penetrating gaze. I don’t bother to point out the numeric codes imprinted on Harrah’s and Ralph’s forearms. Matt misses nothing.
“How did you happen to become friends?” he asks when he hands back the picture.
“We worked together in Paris, with the French Resistance.”
“Did you stay in contact after the war?”
“Not exactly.” I pause. “We were all sent to Auschwitz.”
Matt is stunned. “You’re not telling me you were a prisoner?”
“I wasn’t a guest.”
“Sita, how could the Nazis contain you? I don’t understand.”
Those days are difficult for me to talk about.
“It’s a long story, an unbelievable story. Toward the end of the war, I decided to help the Allies defeat the Nazis. My reasons were complex—I’d just as soon not go into them now. But I never imagined for a moment that I’d be taken prisoner by a bunch of fanatical Germans. The idea was preposterous. But the Nazis—they had weapons I never imagined.”
“I’m not following you,” Matt says.
I shake my head. “It would take time to explain. And even if I do tell you everything, there’s a good chance you’ll think I made most of it up.”
Matt takes my hand. “Sita, come on. I know you’d never purposely lie to me.”
His fingers feel good wrapped around mine.
“There’s the rub,” I say. “I might lie to you and not know it.”
Matt stares at me, waiting for me to explain. My body trembles. I feel a sharp pain inside my head and a dull ache in my heart. Loss, I feel loss.
“Those were dark days, Matt. The darkest of my life. The Nazis did terrible things to me, unspeakable things. It got to the point where I didn’t know my own name. I don’t know how I escaped. But I do know if it hadn’t been for Harrah and Ralph, I wouldn’t have survived.”
“How exactly did they help you?” Matt asks.
His question is reasonable. How were mere mortals able to help a five-thousand-year-old vampire? I wish I could answer without sounding like a complete nut.
“The Veil of Veronica. Have you heard of it?” I ask.
“I’ve heard the stories, or I should say the myths. Isn’t it supposed to be a cloth that Christ wiped his face on when he was carrying the cross to Calvary?”
“Harrah called it Golgotha but I suppose the name doesn’t matter. It was where the crucifixion was supposed to have taken place. But Christ did not wipe his face on the cloth. It was the other way around. Veronica, the woman in the tales, dipped the cloth in water and wiped his brow. And an image of his face was immediately imprinted on the cloth.”
Matt considers. “From what I’ve read, it was fluids from portions of his face that stained the cloth. From his nose and his cheeks and his brow—the raised parts. The liquid contained just a small amount of blood. It was mostly sweat and lymph fluids. Only a rough outline of a face was created. There wasn’t supposed to be a clear picture.” He adds, “But I’m no expert on the matter.”