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“Who would have thought it, Howard?” Noah said. “Your mother fucked Nazis.”
Bancroft’s narrow shoulders sagged forward.
“See, Howard, knowledge equates to power. I make it a point to learn all I can about the people around me, especially those who could be a hindrance. Investigating your background cost me a lot of money and took up valuable time, but I must say it yielded more than I bargained for.
“I paid your mother a visit in the nursing home where you had sequestered her. After a little arm-twisting, she confessed her shameful secret to me, and, for a nominal fee, an attendant wrote it all down word for word. Your mother signed it. Recognize her signature there on the last page? At that point she was so weak, she could barely hold the pen. Frankly, I wasn’t surprised that she died just a few days later.
“You know the story well, Howard, but I was fascinated. She was twenty-three when she was dragged from her home in Poland. The rest of her family, her brothers, sister, parents, were backed against a wall and shot. She was lucky enough to be transported to a concentration camp.
“At that time, in the Old World, twenty-three was borderline spinsterhood. Your mother had prevented her younger sister from marrying an ardent suitor because she hadn’t married first. Her inability to attract a man had created quite a rift in the family.
“But at the camp, she received a lot of attention from men. From the guards. See, Howard, your mother bartered her pussy for her life. Routinely. Over the next five years. She came to like the favors she was granted and flaunted them. She could have toiled alongside the other women prisoners, had her head shaved, subsisted on bread and water, lived in daily fear of her life. But no, she fucked her way into comfortable quarters. Ate well. Drank wine. Made merry with Nazis. She was the camp whore. And for that, she was despised.
“Now, is it any wonder she changed her name and created a fictitious history for herself when she emigrated to America?
“That story she told about the Jewish freedom fighter who had sacrificed his life
for her and his unborn child was sweet, but it was completely untrue, as you yourself discovered when you were… what? Seven? Eight? Old enough to get the gist of the accusations hurled at her. You came home from school one day and asked your mother why everyone called you ugly names and spat on you. That’s when she decided to relocate.”
Howard Bancroft’s hands were trembling so badly that when he removed his eyeglasses this time, he dropped them onto his desk. He covered his eyes and uttered a low moan.
“She couldn’t be sure which of the camp guards was your father. She had spread her legs for so many, you see. But she suspected it was an officer who shot himself in the head hours before the Allied troops liberated the camp. You were born four months later. She was too far gone to abort you, I guess. Or maybe she had a soft spot for this particular officer. I’ve heard that even whores have feelings.
“Howard, Howard, what a nasty secret you’ve kept. I don’t think the Jewish community would look too kindly on you if they knew that your mother happily serviced the men that marched them into the gas chambers, and that your father had ordered thousands of their people to be tortured and exterminated, do you?
“Considering the advocate you’ve been for Holocaust survivors, they might regard your crusade as hypocritical. Your friends in Israel—which are many, I understand—would revile you. Your blood is tainted with that of a traitorous whore and an Aryan murderer.
“Now, you might say to me, You can’t prove this. But your reaction is proof enough, isn’t it? Besides, I don’t need to prove it. The rumor alone would effectively destroy your reputation as a good Jew. Even a hint of something this shameful would do irreparable damage.
“Your family would be shattered. Because even your wife and children believe the fabrication that you and your mother concocted. I shudder to think of the impact this would have on them. Imagine them having to explain to your grandchildren that Grandpa started as Nazi ejaculate. You would never be esteemed or trusted by anyone, ever again. Indeed, you would live in infamy as a liar and a traitor to your religion and your race, just as your mother was.”
Howard Bancroft was weeping into his hands, his whole body shaking as uncontrollably as if he’d been inflicted with a palsy.
“No one need ever know, of course,” Noah said, switching to an upbeat tone. He stood up and retrieved both his folder and the power of attorney document. “I can keep a secret. Cross my heart.” He drew an invisible X on his chest.
“However, I’m sure you understand my precaution,” he said, making a mockery of the lawyer’s earlier statement. “A copy of your mother’s confession is in my safe-deposit box. Another is with an attorney I retained solely for this purpose. He’s an oily, unscrupulous, litigious individual with strong anti-Semitic leanings.
“Should anything untoward happen to me, he’s under strict instructions to distribute your mother’s signed statement to all the synagogues in and around the five boroughs. It would make for very interesting reading, don’t you think? Especially the accounts of her sucking off the SS officers. Some were too fastidious to have intercourse with a Jewess, but apparently fellatio didn’t count.”
Noah crossed to the door. Although the lawyer had made no effort to move but continued to cry into his hands, Noah said, “No, no, Howard, don’t bother seeing me out. Have a nice day.”
Chapter 13
“You’re leaving tomorrow?”
“In the morning,” Maris replied. Nervously her gaze moved around the solarium, never stopping directly on Parker. “Mike arranged for a boat to pick me up. I have a nine-thirty flight out of Savannah, connecting in Atlanta to La Guardia.”
“Have a nice trip.” His surly expression suggested he hoped she would have the trip from hell.
This was the first time she’d seen Parker today. This morning she had slipped into the kitchen for a quick breakfast of cold cereal, she’d skipped lunch altogether, and then had asked Mike to bring her a sandwich to the cottage for dinner. She used work as her excuse for the solitude. She wanted to reread the manuscript with total concentration and without distraction. Mike had accepted the explanation. At least he’d pretended to.
If Parker’s scowl was any indication, she’d been smart to keep her distance all day. He looked ill-tempered, spoiling for a fight. The sooner she said what she had to say and left, the better.
“Before I leave,” she began, “I thought we should have one last discussion about the manuscript. I spent most of the day reevaluating it.”
“Reevaluation. That’s what we’re calling it?”
“Calling what?”
