Ghosts of Their Fathers

“You had a second saintly dream?” “My roommate, Jonaton Reis, was a Jew and a gay man. He was wounded at Dunkirk. Before the war, he taught art at Oxford College. A gentle, lovely man, he told me stories about great impressionist artists of the world. He knew more about art than even my father and knew the Torah by heart. All of it. Many seizures he had, because of the steel plate in his head. He thought of me as his son. At least Abe had a loving father, Monk thought. If this man was included, there had been two of them. Did he know how fortunate he was? He wondered. “He showed me his grandfather’s gold timepiece. His brother brought the watch and some gold coins to the hospital before I came. The watch had a gold chain, like the one my father wore in his vest pocket. Jonaton gave it to me and a silk prayer shawl with fringes on the four corners, like the tallit my father wore for Morning Prayer. I still have it. “The shawl helps me with my bad dreams. I did not want Jonaton to give it to me, but he said he was dying, and I should have it. I hid the watch in the lining of my good jacket, in my wardrobe, so no one would take it. He became fearful, my poor Jonaton. He thought the nurses were injecting him with poison. Many times, he tried to go out the window. He said his family waited for him. The nurses said he no longer had a family. No, his brother had gone to live in Israel. “We became close, but he started to worry that I might hurt him. Sometimes, I would wake up at night. He would be next to my bed with his face so close to mine. I was afraid, but he was my friend and he was a Jew. I knew I must stay and care for him. After Auschwitz, I would never leave anyone behind again... ever.” Monk leaned forward. “You promised to stay with him.” “One night Jonaton came in a dream. He was seven or eight years old, so handsome in his football jersey and corduroy jodhpurs. He rode a small, yellow bicycle down a country road to a stone bridge. He looked at me and said he had brought me a gift. It was a good-sized painting, but he couldn’t carry it and drive his bike. He got off his bike and gave me the painting. I took his hand, and we walked across the bridge together. When we reached the other side, he kissed my cheek and hugged me so tightly. He said something in French about the painting, but I did not understand him.” “He was so happy to be on the other side. I knew then what it meant. I knew he was dead and wanted to give me something. He was in the first stage and had much higher to climb; he would go to the top. They come to me like that, in stages. He did not glow bright like Father Kolbe. Except for Father Kolbe, they are brighter and happier each time they appear, until they reach the top of the mountain. Then, I see them no more except for Father Kolbe who never leaves me. When I woke from my dream Jonaton was gone, and the window was open. It was so dark outside. I knew from the dream that he was dead. His body would be out there alone. Monk coughed and looked at his mother’s picture. “You were worried that . . ?” “I went out the window to the woods, to search for him. I should not have gone; I know that now.” Abe rubbed his hands together. “It was good out there, so cold and free, the smell of green grass and black soil. I could not find him, but I found two of his gold coins near a pond. Then the hospital workers came with dogs and lanterns. “The captain asked me why I was there. I was afraid. I told him the truth, that Jonaton was dead. I showed him the coins and told him where I had found them, near the pond. He did not believe me. The next day, they discovered Jonaton’s body. He was strangled with a towel from our wing of the hospital. The other coins were gone. They found the antique watch in my room, in the lining of my coat.” Abe glanced back toward the door. “You don’t have to continue,” Monk said. Abe took a deep breath. ”No, Father, I must. They asked me where I hid the coins. I told them I did not take them. I said Jonaton was a father to me. They put handcuffs on me. I was put on a train to Scotland, to a hospital for insane criminals.” “The train? Was it . . .? “It was not like the one to the camp, but rather a big open place. I sat in a wide, cushioned seat. But it started to get smaller, the walls coming so close together.” Abe squeezed the arms of the chair and stared into Monk’s eyes. “I was there a long time. I was there for many years. It was not good.” Abe shook his head, as if to free himself from his thoughts, then spread his fingers on the desk and stood. He shuffled to the door, stopped, and looked at Monk. “Sometimes, I feel vengeful, Father. Sometimes, I want to do things to get back at those who did not help us.”