The Color of Cold and Ice Page 19

  He shot past the middle school group lined up at the counter with their postcards, Starry Night mouse pads, iPad and iPhone covers, and through the gift shop crowd out the exit. He asked the first people he saw, an old man and woman, “Canal cruises? Do you know where I would find them?” They didn’t understand. A middle-aged man was taking a photo. “Sir, would you happen to know where the canal cruises are?” They were from Tennessee, of all places. No, they didn’t know. A woman sitting on a bench motioned for him. As he approached, she asked in a Dutch accent, “You want cruises?”

  “Yes,” he said, relieved.

  She pointed. “Just go in that direction. You will come straight to them.”

  “Thank you.” He sped off, almost in a run.

  * * *

  A blonde buxom woman sat at the ticket counter. In a heavy Dutch accent, “No, no, the pizza cruise has already left, just a few minutes ago.” She pointed towards the boat, a good tenth of a mile down the canal. She handed him a brochure. “I think you might like this one.” She opened it up and began to extol the virtues of this particular cruise.

  “Thank you, but no.” He walked away in a huff, leaving the pamphlet in its opened position on the counter, the lady in mid-sentence. He looked back at the bewildered woman, attempting a smile. “I’m sorry. Thank you.” She didn’t buy it. Her eyebrows rose at his obvious disappointment and rudeness. Crazy American, he knew she was thinking.

  Should he jump in and swim towards the boat? Should he try to catch up and run along beside it? Pathetic. He was pathetic. He had only just met her. He wasn’t Dustin Hoffman. This wasn’t The Graduate. Their relationship wasn’t at a point that he could storm into a church and steal the bride from another man. She wasn’t with another man, just a small boy, her son.

  * * *

  At the hostel, he picked up his guitar and sang The Girl with the Cappuccino Smile. Yes, that would be the title.

  Chapter 34

  Ben and Mark

  * * *

  THE AIR WAS crisp and clean, the sun beating down on him more like an early summer day, rather than spring. A breeze blew through his wet hair. There were no complimentary blow dryers at The Dancing Bear.

  The spokes on the bicycle hummed, a higher pitch than OM. Still, he let his mind settle into the vibration like a mantra. Two French loaves, naked, flesh-colored phallic symbols, protruded from the front basket. One chunk of Brie, another of Edam in brown paper tied with a simple off-white string added balance to the front of the bike. In America, both would have been in plastic. Windmills appeared ever so often. He passed a lake. A man fished. A woman lay on a towel, topless, sagging breasts, catching the warming rays of the sun. Nakedness, something the Europeans weren’t ashamed of. He peddled along like something out of a novel, except in a novel a girl would be by his side. In the perfect novel, Em would be at his side.

  Marina had offered to come with him, but he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He was still beating himself up over yesterday. Maybe if he would have said something before it was too late, she and Chad might be with him today. Eleven more miles. Not far on a bike. He could have rented a cargo bike for Chad. But he was alone, and eleven miles was enough time to go over the lyrics he had written. He wasn’t sure how perfect they were, but they came from his heart. The last song he wrote from his heart was the one about Rain. This one was better. He could feel it. Marina felt it. She had overheard him playing and crept into the room like a butterfly in flight while hovering around him like he was one of Van Gogh’s sunflowers. “Oh, if only my boyfriend would write a song like that about me,” she said, “My heart would melt.” Like in an old black and white silent movie, she placed both her hands over her chest and mimicked fainting. There was no need for subtitles.

  “You should put that on YouTube, dedicate it to your girlfriend,” she said.

  Mark laughed. “Maybe.”

  The only problem was, Em wasn’t his girlfriend. When Marina asked him if it was about the woman he broke up with, his face almost melted at the thought of Shelly. In his mind, Shelly turned green like Elphaba. Would she be envious if he met someone new? He laughed again. Shelly’s face melted and was replaced by Em’s. Marina gave him a strange look. “Just a joke I thought of,” he said. He needed brevity in the situation as he was still beating himself up over letting her get away. “No, this song is for a girl I recently met.” Marina’s words about her own boyfriend came back to him. “I’m hopeful,” he added.

  “Oh,” she said, dragging the word out, as if he just spoke the universal language of love.

  * * *

  The little girl of the family taking care of Ben met him at the door. “Mam, Mark is hier.” Easy enough to translate. Her mother was quick to follow, opening the door wide, kissing him on both cheeks. He awkwardly returned the gesture.

  “We have been expecting you,” she said.

  He handed her the loaves of bread and cheese. At that moment, a thin white haired man in a checkered shirt and blue jeans entered the room. Was this Ben? He looked to be more around his dad’s age, early seventies. He came closer, grabbing Mark’s hand, his sinewy veins like a miniature landscape against the callouses of Marks’s fingertips, shaking it vigorously with more strength than one would expect. There was moistness in his eyes, partly from age, but more so from emotion. Seeing a long lost relative, although, a distant one, when he thought no one was left had to be profound for him. His eyes and face, although totally different, than that of the little Greek man, spoke volumes with regard to wisdom. Who wouldn’t be wise after his ordeal?

  “Sit, sit,” the woman said with a smile and motioned towards a chair. Ben was spry. He walked towards the high back the way Allison did her yoga moves. The chair was positioned along side his own.

  Ben grinned like a little child. His teeth were too perfect, too white, obviously replacements. On the coffee table, an assortment of documents were spread out, some old black and white photos, and some more recent colored ones.

  “He has been arranging those for the last two days,” the woman said. “He has been so excited, like a kid, ever since he heard from your father you were coming.” Why do people talk about old people as if they aren’t there, like they were children? Would he be talking about his own parents like that one day? Pushed off to the side of the albums and loose papers and photos was a box of opened chocolates. They were also on the front desk of The Dancing Bear. Chocolate, another piece of the puzzle of the universal equation of humankind.

  “I’m Eva. I should have said, but then you already knew from the correspondence, and this is Helene.” The little girl, who looked to be around seven, was now acting shy, hiding behind her mother’s skirt. Eva said something in Dutch to the little girl. Mark guessed it was something like skedaddle, go outside and play now, as the little girl ran off through the house with a screen door banging behind her.

  Ben, as if he wanted to talk about the most important thing first, held up a picture. The black and white photo, a crease running down through the middle, frayed at the lower edges, the right upper hand edge missing entirely, was encased in a plastic sheet. “This is Aya,” He held it towards Mark as if presenting something sacred on the altar of a Hindu deity.

  Mark took the picture from his hand, as that is what he thought Ben wanted. He studied it. She was a part of his family, one who came before, the branch that didn’t survive. He held it with both caution and reverence, fully aware of his toughened fingertips against the fragile remembrance. He stared intently and then laid it back on the table as if he had used up his allotted time in handling such sacred memorabilia. White museum gloves should have been placed beside the chocolates.

  The face reminded him of Allison. The girl’s dark eyes pierced his soul, the same haunting eyes that stared back from the pictures of Anne Frank. Did humans come into the world knowing their fate in the subtle reaches of their minds? “She is beautiful,” Mark said.

  “She truly was, both inside and out,” Ben replied. “Sh
e was nineteen in the picture. It is the only one we have left of her. The Nazis destroyed most all Jewish possessions, the ones that were of no value to them.” He paused. “I am so grateful to have it.”

  Eva had disappeared, probably to check on Helene. She returned, a little later with a tray in hand, a white porcelain teapot and teacups. “Do you take sugar or milk?” she asked.

  “Neither,” Mark said.

  “I will take some sugar,” Ben said.

  “No, you won’t Old Man. You know that is not good for you,” she said with a smile on her face as if chiding a child who was behaving badly in front of company.

  “Always looking out for my health, this one,” Ben said, looking up at her with both defeat and a wide grin displaying his perfect dentures. “I survived the camp but can’t survive sugar, she thinks.”

  Mark laughed. It came out unexpectedly. Ben must have sensed his unsureness. He laughed, too.

  Eva departed, and Mark heard pots and pans clanging in the kitchen.

  “She was in love. She had just become engaged,” Ben said.

  “Oh,” Mark faltered for words. What could anyone say?

  “To my best friend.” He held out another picture. It was inside a Hanukkah card, a black and white photo; 1953 was written across the bottom. A man and woman who appeared to be in their thirties were smiling back, each holding a child. It could have been John, Allison, Molly and Little John smiling back in the picture, although they bore little resemblance.

  “Joseph, Aya’s finance, my best friend, survived the camp. He went on with his life. He married. We kept in touch, mostly through Hanukkah cards.”

  Ben went through the various papers and pictures, holding them up one by one, explaining their significance, each a record of a particular memory. His voice grew either stronger or weaker depending on what he showed Mark. At times, his eyes grew moister. Mark reached for a chocolate to go with his now lukewarm tea.

  Ben looked down at his lap. Was he tired? Should he go? He looked to Eva who had reappeared. She gave him no indication of what to do. Then, Ben took a deep breath. “We never talked of the camps. There was no need. It was always there, the silence that lingered between the words, the words of everyday life. It was the case with most Holocaust victims.”

  “And this?” Mark opened the album. He had become mesmerized by the history that lay before him, the family that was a part of him, the family he knew nothing about until only a few weeks ago.

  “Myself, a younger man,” he laughed. “And this was my dear wife, Gerda. She passed many years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Mark said.

  Ben both nodded and shrugged, both acknowledging his condolence and that both life and death happens. “We couldn’t have children. I met Gerda after the camps, after I graduated from medical school. She was the subject of experiments, a twin, herself. They often did unspeakable things to identical twins. Her twin died during the experiments.”

  Mark noted that Ben’s initial robust appearance, a man not looking his age, had turned into a fragile puppet of feebleness enveloped in his high back chair.

  On cue, Eva went over to Ben, and touched him gently on the arm. “I think it is time for your nap.”

  He looked up at Mark, eyes glazed over, as if he had just experienced the tortures he and his loved ones had endured, all over again.

  Eva helped him out of the chair, and Mark stood up. He embraced him before shuffling down a hallway towards his bedroom, Eva following in close proximity. She looked back towards Mark. “Just a moment.”

  It was when Eva took Ben’s arm as they walked towards the bedroom that Mark saw the row of numbers tattooed on his left forearm. Why had he just now noticed?

  * * *

  “He’s settled in. All he has talked about is your visit. I’m afraid it has taken a toll on him,” Eva said.

  “I’m so sorry. I never meant.”

  She broke in, “No, no.” She smiled. “Your visit has also given him so much pleasure. And not to worry. He takes a daily nap about this time.” She brightened. “Perhaps you can come back tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow I have to leave for the workshop I’m attending.”

  “Oh, well, I understand.”

  “Please tell him how much this visit meant for me, as well.”

  “I will, and oh, here.” She went over to the other table in the room and picked up a folder. “This is for you, to take back to your father. Most are copies of documents, and some are copies of the original pictures he showed you. I went yesterday to the copy office.”

  Mark hesitated. “Is Aya in here?”

  Eva winked. “Oh yes. He insisted.”

  Chapter 35

  Mark and The Iceman

  * * *

  LEAVING AMSTERDAM KNOWING Em and Chad were there, proved hard. If only he could have talked to her again, but how could he find her? There was no time as his flight left early.

  Mark landed in Prague a little before noon. Several of the people who were on the flight with him boarded the shuttle. It would take a little over two hours to reach the place in Poland where the workshop was held. It was somewhere in the mountains. On the shuttle trip, they talked about how they had come to know about The Iceman and the expectations of the workshop.

  The driver took them over deserted roads with beautiful countryside, much of it mountainous, a wondrous site after the concrete and metal of New York City. With each mile, the enthusiasm and anticipation grew.

  Right away, the others noticed his guitar case. It took little coaxing by the others on the shuttle for him to play a few songs. Eventually, the trip resulted in a full-fledged sing-a-long with the most popular songs that everyone knew. Someone would ask, then another, if he knew this or that song. Of course, he didn’t. But, they would hum it to him. He picked it out until they nodded their heads in approval.

  Among rolling hills with patches of snow, a bland white house with a red roof warmly greeted them. They entered a stark room with red and pink-colored yoga mats rolled up in the corner. It appeared to be the same room that he and John had seen from home, the one The Iceman instructed the online lessons from. Mark counted ten students included the five on the shuttle, including himself, and of course The Iceman, who had yet to make his entrance, making eleven in all. They sat on the bare wooden floor. The only adornment in the room was a green-tiled fireplace and some wall hangings with strange writings that looked to have spiritual significance.

  There were two women. One appeared to be in her twenties. The other was in her forties or a well preserved fiftyish. It was hard to tell since most looked fit, an outdoorsy kind of fit. Most of the students spoke in Dutch. Of the guys, one was an older man, the only other American. He appeared to be in his sixties. The youngest guy looked to be still in his teens. One looked athletic, like he might be a rock climber or even a mountain climber. That was a definite German accent coming from the guy who had a husky build akin to that of a lumberjack. No one looked to be out of shape. Mark judged himself to be the biggest couch potato there. Working in a record store and sitting on a stool, playing guitar didn’t build much muscle.

  People stood and sat cross-legged on the floor, talking until an assistant who introduced himself as Eric entered the room. Mark assumed most had already watched the videos or had even done the online training. He welcomed them and offered everyone herbal tea in the kitchen area and showed them where they would be bunking. Mark, along with the rest, deposited their minimal pieces of luggage consisting mostly of backpacks and carry-ons in their allotted space. He rested his guitar across his narrow bed.

  After handing out gray hooded sweatshirts stamped with the Innerfire logo, black-silhouetted figures doing varying yoga poses, Eric instructed them to meet in the main room in thirty minutes.

  Back in the main room, some stood. Others sat cross-legged on the floor. All had the newly acquired hooded sweatshirts on. Suddenly, all talk ceased as the long awaited guru walked into the room.

  “Good mor
ning, class,” he said robustly, after a hearty round of applause. He was dressed in the same outfit he wore during the online course. He wasn’t a tall man, but something about him, his presence, took hold of people.

  Mark, along with everyone else in the room wanted to say “Your wish is my command.” He began talking about bacteria and diseases and how he was waging a war on it. He talked about his many records, about how medical science studied him, and about how the textbooks were changing to include him, but none of it was in a bragging way. He said what he could do, we also could do. That reminded Mark of what Jesus had said, the Ye are gods part.

  He explained how he could control both his autonomic nervous system, which went against western science. And he could also control his vascular system and his mind. Again, he cited incidences where he had been hooked up to all kinds of contraptions, studied, and monitored. This was what John was interested in and the stuff about which Mark was supposed to report back to him. The Iceman assured them that he would give them the tools to do the same.

  The man had a force. He was a one man Jedi, and he was going to bless this group and the whole world with the force, or teach them how to tap into it if he had his way. If only there were more of him to go around. Mark felt charged and nervous at the same time.

  A round of introductions ensued, each being given a turn to say his or her name, where they were from and why they were taking the course. It turned out the older man, the American, whose name was Steve, was battling cancer. It was currently in remission, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He had tried every alternative he could, including a strict juice fast. He had heard an interview with The Iceman on a podcast. It seemed a lot of the people there had heard the same podcast.