The Auschwitz Violinist by Jonathan Dunsky

Author:Jonathan Dunsky [Dunsky, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-12-06T22:00:00+00:00

10

She didn't say I was crazy. Didn't burst out accusing me of aggravating her pain with my delusions. Her eyes didn't flick in panic toward the door or the kitchen, where she could get to a knife. My tightly held breath told me I had been expecting such a reaction, and I was grateful when it didn't materialize. Instead of calling me mad, Magda Abramo sat in her straight-backed chair with more calmness than one could reasonably expect. Her eyes were no longer tearing, and she seemed more alert, her fatigue momentarily banished. She seemed beautiful then, with her gray eyes like weathered metal—resilient and tested.

"You don't seem surprised by what I just said."

She breathed in deeply. "No. I was surprised when I discovered my husband dead. Then I was surprised."

"He was not depressed or on edge or anything of the sort?"

"Not that I could see. He was not unhappy. I'm sure that he deeply loved me and David. Life was not perfect and not all of his wishes were fulfilled, but is that ever the case?"

I allowed that it was not.

She said, "Ever since I discovered his body, I have been agonizing myself with the question of how I could have missed the signs. After all, a wife should know her husband better than anyone else. If he was on the verge of suicide, if he was even contemplating it, I should have noticed. So in a way, what you say gives me a sort of relief. Perhaps I was not blind. Perhaps I did not fail my husband by failing to note that he was depressed or had lost hope for the future." She shrugged and took a sip of her tea. "Or perhaps I just want to believe you as a way to avoid blaming myself for his death."

A silence fell between us. Then she asked, "How did Yosef Kaplon die?"

“Slashed wrists. Bled to death in his apartment. I understand your husband was hanged.”

She nodded, then must have registered my frown. "You expected them to be the same? Does it change anything?"

"It might. It will make it much harder to convince the police that these deaths were murders, not suicides."

"Does it make you doubt yourself?"

"No. From early on, I had a feeling that Kaplon's death was not what it seemed to be. That was before I even knew about your husband. Where exactly did you find him?”

I followed her eyes as they traveled up, and I saw a sturdy metal hook lodged in the high ceiling, inches from where a bare bulb now hung. The hook had been made to bear the weight of a heavy light fixture. It had likely been placed there by some fanciful German former owners planning to light the apartment like a European ballroom. Either the light fixture had never been hung, or the owners had taken it with them when they were expelled by the British.

"I came in the door," Magda said, "without a care in the world—well, apart from the daily cares of any wife and mother—and he was hanging there.

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