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  CHAPTER

  Fourteen

  To forgive is to unlock the cage of

  another’s folly to set ourselves free.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  I lay in bed for hours unable to sleep—not just because I had already slept so late, but because my mind was too full. I thought mostly about the horror Leszek had seen in his life. I realized that in some ways the atrocities of the Holocaust had become cinema to me: a mental library of documentaries, movies, and books I had experienced growing up, erroneously believing that I knew something about the horror. I had never met anyone who had lived through it. It was the difference between reading a travelogue and talking to a native.

  This was something I could never understand: how could a person be so inhumane to others? I put myself in that equation. Had I been a German soldier, would I have obeyed orders? Statistically speaking, I likely would have. What if I had been in Leszek’s position? Would I have attempted an escape or accepted my death? And wasn’t that question, in some ways, the very question I was facing right now?

  In those dark, quiet hours, I found the truth of Leszek’s words. What he said was true—whether I had intended to or not, I had assigned a portion of my future to Kyle. I had deeded him a continual stake in my life—recurring at consistent intervals like a regularly scheduled program in the television network of my mind. As an advertiser, this was something I understood. We paid money to media to lease space in their viewers’ minds. That’s what I had given Kyle, a television series in my mind, a daily drama I visited, to create pain and hate and justification and . . . Then I saw it. Could it be that I held on to my hate and unforgiveness because I wanted to? That hate was as strong a lust as sex or violence? That I had some carnal desire to beat him mercilessly every day in the boxing ring of my mind? And how long would this show go on before I canceled it? For the rest of my days?

  It could. I had met people who held grudges as their most prized possessions, clinging to bitterness and resentment even after the focus of their hatred was dead and buried.

  That idea seemed absurd. If my life was, as my father always said, the sum total of my thoughts, then what would such a course of thought make of my life? And was I willing to give that away? No. I wanted to own my thoughts. I wanted to reclaim my mind. I wanted my time back. I wanted to forgive.

  I don’t know what time I eventually fell asleep, but I woke the next morning around ten. It was light out, so I knew, this time, that it was morning. I didn’t feel dizzy. Actually, except for being off schedule, I felt normal. I lay in bed for a few minutes, revisiting the previous night’s thoughts.

  Long ago I had learned that those middle-of-the-night thoughts didn’t always hold up to the light of day. There were times, in my advertising life, when I had jumped out of bed with a campaign idea I thought so brilliant I had to write it down. I kept a notepad next to my bed for that very purpose. I would jump up and scribble down my flash of genius, then go back to bed, only to wake the next morning, read the words, and wonder, What was I thinking?

  But this time, that wasn’t the case. Everything Leszek had said was true. I owned no stock in Kyle’s life and I had no desire to vest him with stock in mine. I retrieved my cell phone from my pack, then, as I considered what I was about to do, hesitated. What would I say? How much would I say? In a way, it didn’t matter. It was the act itself. The less I said the better. I would call and say, I forgive you. Just those three words. I thought about Pamela. That’s what she had come so far to hear. What she had risked her life to hear. But Kyle wasn’t, as far as I could tell, seeking what Pamela had. Again, I reminded myself of Leszek’s words. It didn’t matter. What I was doing had nearly nothing to do with Kyle. How he responded to my forgiveness was up to him. Even if he met my call with hostility, it didn’t matter.

  Then I remembered that Leszek had said I should first go to God. Surprisingly, calling out to God was harder to me than calling Kyle. What would I say to God? Of course, if God was God, then whatever I said was moot, as he already knew what I would say. I couldn’t plan what I was going to say like some kind of presentation, every word carefully scripted, timed for impact. Speaking to God was not about show.

  I had once been present at a fund-raising dinner for a Washington State congressional candidate. A minister had gotten up to say a prayer but instead had read a poem. I remember thinking it was a nice presentation, but that it was no more sincere than my last advertising jingle. Maybe it was my father’s utter lack of pretense, but I had been taught to say what I meant and get to the point. It made sense to me that I should speak to God in the same way. Keep it simple. I looked up at the ceiling, then said aloud, “God, I forgive Kyle.”

  Nothing. I felt nothing. I felt worse than nothing, I felt like a liar. I still wanted to beat Kyle to a pulp. I wanted to beat him and leave him on the side of the road like the gang in Spokane had done to me.

  That’s when I found the truth about prayer. Like Mark Twain wrote, “You can’t pray a lie.”

  I continued my prayer. “God. I want to beat Kyle Craig to a pulp. What he did was despicable. It was vicious and cruel and he is a bad, evil person.” Oddly, I felt at peace saying this. Now I was getting somewhere. “I want him to suffer, even as I have suffered.” I let the words ring. Powerful feelings began coming to me. “I don’t know why he’s that way. But I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want him to be a part of my life. I want to be free of him. I want to be free of this burden. I don’t want hate. I don’t want this.”

  I stopped and sat in silence. Then I felt a remarkable thing. A warm feeling of peace came over me. “I want to forgive him.”

  That was the answer. Desire. It is not the ability to walk that pleases God, it is the desire to walk. The desire to do the right thing. The truest measure of a man is what he desires. The measure of that desire is seen in the actions that follow. “I want to forgive Kyle Craig,” I said aloud. This time I meant it.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Kyle’s phone number. His number had been disconnected. From what Falene had told me back in Spokane, I should not have been surprised.

  I put the phone down and thought about what time it was on the West Coast. I had crossed into Central time, so it was only a little after eight. I dialed Falene’s number. She didn’t answer. I had forgotten that she never answered calls from numbers she didn’t recognize. I hung up and tried again, thinking to leave a message. To my surprise, she answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Falene, it’s Alan.”

  There was a momentary pause. “Alan, where are you?”

  “I’m in South Dakota. How are you?”

  She paused. “I’m fine,” she said unconvincingly.

  “How are you really?”

  “I’ve been better,” she said softly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you remember me telling you about my little brother?”

  “Didn’t he just get out of rehab?”

  She sniffed. “Yes. But he’s gone back to using. I haven’t seen him for eleven days.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m really worried,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again. I didn’t know what else to say.

  After a moment she sighed. “But that’s not why you called. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to reach Kyle.”

  “Kyle Craig?”

  I knew this would surprise her. “Yes. I tried to call him but his number’s been disconnected.”

  “That’s because there’s a long list of people who would like to lynch him. Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “Part of my healing, I guess. Can you help me find his number?”

  “It might take me a while.”

  “That’s okay. You can reach me here.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll call you back.”

  “Thank you, Falene. Now what can I do for you?”

  She sighed. “I wish there were s
omething. But thank you anyway.” We were both silent for a moment. Then she said, “It’s so good hearing your voice.”

  “Yours too,” I said.

  “I’ll call when I find Kyle’s number.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  We hung up. Then I lay back in my bed and looked up at the ceiling.

  I missed Falene. After all she’d done for me I wished I could somehow comfort her. She was my truest friend, and without her I doubted that I would still be alive.

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  I once heard a preacher say,

  “The reason we sometimes connect so

  quickly with a complete stranger is

  because the friendship is not of this

  life, but is the resumption of a friendship

  from another.” I do not know if this is

  true, but sometimes it feels true.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  I lay in bed for a few more minutes, then stood without any difficulty. I was no longer dizzy. Time to leave, I thought. I put on some sweatpants and walked out to the kitchen. Leszek was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He looked up as I entered.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning.”

  “I am doing a crossword puzzle,” he said. “I am not much good at these puzzles. Do you know a five-letter word for worship?”

  I walked over and looked at the paper.

  “The second letter is a d,” he said.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I was never very good at those things either.”

  “Maybe if it was in Polish,” he said, smiling. “But in English, too many words I do not know.”

  “Adore,” I said.

  He looked at the word. “Yes. Adore. That is very good.” He penciled in the word. “How do you feel today, Alan?”

  “Good. I feel good.”

  “Good is good,” he said standing. “I will make you some breakfast.”

  “No hurry,” I said. “Finish your puzzle.”

  “You will starve first,” he said. “I will never finish this puzzle.” He walked over to the kitchen. “I never finish the puzzles.” He turned on the electric stove beneath a frying pan. “I went to the market this morning. I bought some delicious syrup to go with our pancakes. I like the American pancakes. You say pancakes or hotcakes?”

  “Both,” I said. “Usually pancakes. But a flapjack by any other name is just as satisfying.”

  “Ah yes, Shakespeare,” Leszek said as he dropped batter onto a skillet. “You are clever.” He ran a spatula under the cake, then flipped it over.

  “I thought a lot about what you told me last night. Have you written your story down?”

  “I am writing it now,” he said. “For my children and grandchildren. I do not think my son will read it though.”

  “Why?”

  “I think maybe he does not want to think of such things.”

  “He will want to read it someday,” I said.

  “Yes. Perhaps after I am dead. People are always more interesting after they are dead. Especially parents, I think.”

  I thought of my own father. What questions would I want to ask him once it was no longer possible?

  “One of my father’s favorite books was written by a survivor of a concentration camp,” I said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it, Man’s Search for Meaning by . . . ”

  “Viktor E. Frankl,” Leszek said.

  “Yes. Then you’ve read it?”

  He smiled. “Yes, I have read it. I know the writer.”

  “You’ve met Viktor E. Frankl?”

  He smiled. “Viktor was a friend of mine. We wrote letters.”

  “That is very cool,” I said. “Very cool.”

  A few moments later Leszek brought the pancakes over to the table. He gave me the top two cakes, leaving a bottom one for himself.

  “I have Aunt Jemima syrup,” he said.

  “Thank you.” I poured syrup on my pancakes, spreading it out with my fork. I took a bite. “You make good pancakes.”

  “Ha!” he said. “As good as my soup?”

  I laughed. After we both had eaten a little, I said, “I want to thank you for what you said last night.”

  “I said too much. Did it help?”

  “It did. I tried to call Kyle Craig this morning.”

  His heavy brow fell. “Who?”

  “Kyle. My former business partner. The one who stole from me.”

  “Oh yes. You called him?”

  “I tried. But his phone has been disconnected. But I’ll find him.”

  “Good. Good,” he said, nodding approvingly.

  “I think it was actually more difficult telling God that I forgave Kyle.”

  “Perhaps you have not yet forgiven God.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. I knew there was truth in what he said.

  “I understand,” Leszek said. “When Ania died I was very, very angry at God. I even shouted at him. This to me is most strange, because I did not shout at God when I learned the soldiers had killed my mother and brother and sister, or later when they killed my father. But I shouted at him when my wife died. I think because I could not blame her death on anyone but God.” He looked at me sadly. “I think God understands such things.”

  “You think so?”

  Leszek nodded. “I will tell you a story. When my son was very young he found a little knife. I took it away from him so he would not hurt himself. He got very angry and yelled at me. But I was not angry at him.” His expression lightened. “I am not saying my Ania was like a knife.” He leaned forward and grinned as if he were going to tell me a secret. “Even though sometimes her tongue was very sharp.”

  I laughed.

  “I am just saying that I am older and wiser than my little boy and I understand why he was much upset, so I did not take it so serious. God is older and wiser too. I think he understands too.”

  This made sense to me. “I hope you’re right,” I said.

  He grinned again. “So do I. Or I am in much trouble!”

  I laughed again. As I looked at this grinning old man my heart was full of gratitude. The thought of leaving him filled me with sadness. We ate awhile in silence before I finally spoke. “I’m going to be leaving today.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I thought you might.”

  “I would like to shower first if that’s okay.”

  “Yes, of course.” He looked sad. “Is there anything you will need before you go?”

  “No. You’ve done more than enough.”

  “I can drive you back to the freeway.”

  Even though I had normally refused rides I could not refuse him. “Thank you. I would like that.” I took my plate over to the sink and turned on the water to wash it.

  “No, no. Just leave it. Please. I will do dishes later. You go shower.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He waved his hands, as if brushing me away. “Yes. Go.”

  At his dismissal I went to my room, retrieved clothes and a razor, then went into the bathroom. I shaved first then turned on the water and stepped into the tub. There were small slivers of soap in a plastic dish. Leszek was a man who had little and wasted less. I didn’t shower very long as I was conscious of using his hot water. I washed my hair twice, still amazed at how long it was. I could almost pull it back in a ponytail.

  As I got out of the shower I could hear Leszek playing the piano again. I toweled off, dressed, then went to my room and finished putting my things back into my pack. I made the bed, then carried my pack out to the front room where Leszek was waiting for me. He looked very sad.

  “You are ready to leave,” he said.

  “I’m afraid so,” I replied.

  “Okay, okay. We go.”

  We walked out the front door to his car. I threw my pack into the car’s backseat, then climbed in as Leszek started the car. As we drove out
of his neighborhood, Leszek pointed out the Corn Palace again, its façade adorned with murals made of corncobs. As we crossed under the freeway, I pointed to a small turnoff near the freeway on-ramp.

  “How about right over there?” I said.

  Leszek pulled his car off the side of the road and shut off the engine.

  I felt surprisingly emotional.

  “Well, my good friend,” Leszek said. “This is goodbye.” He reached out his thick hand. I grasped it.

  “Saying thank you seems so inadequate. I am so grateful for all you’ve done for me.”

  “It was my pleasure,” he said. “Is your father still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he must be proud of such a son. I hope we meet again.”

  “Me too,” I said. “I didn’t get your phone number.”

  “Then I will give it to you.”

  I took out my journal and a pen. He told me his number and I scribbled it down. “I’ll call you when I reach Key West.”

  “Yes. You call me. I will celebrate for you with toast.”

  “Toast?” I said. “Is that a Jewish custom?”

  “Yes. I will drink toast.”

  I laughed. Then I shook his hand again and climbed out of the car. “Take care, my friend,” I said. “Be safe.”

  “What so bad thing could happen to me in Mitchell, South Dakota?” he replied.

  I laughed again. He waved, then started his car, signaled, and slowly pulled back out onto the road. I watched as his car disappeared in the merging traffic. All gold does not glitter, I thought.

  CHAPTER

  Sixteen

  I have discovered the ladies of the

  Red Hat Society. Or, more accurately,

  they have discovered me.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  Over the next three days I walked from Mitchell to Sioux Falls. My travel was without incident and full of corn. There was corn everywhere. At one point I passed what looked like a petroleum refinery, which vexed me, as it seemed totally out of place amid the acres of cornfields. As I examined the plant it occurred to me that they were making ethanol from corn.