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Some of the story was familiar. The childhood in Poland. The rise of the forces that began to limit their movement. The dread. The aborted education. The father that was shot in front of him; the brothers sent away to die elsewhere. The guilt that he’d survived alone. “The boy who helped me,” Zelig said. “Chaim,” Carl said. “You named me for him.” “He wasn’t dead when I woke up on the morning that I left,” Zelig said. His face had changed and he and Phyllis were now looking at Carl carefully. “What do you mean?” “He was still alive when I left,” Zelig said. “He gave you his ticket to the boat. He gave you his formula.” “No,” Zelig said. “I took it. I went to take it from his hand and he woke up and fought me and I punched him, and I don’t know what happened after that. I ran. I ran and ran, and I never checked. I went to the boat. I came to America. I never found out what happened to him.” Carl shook his head. “No,” he said. “I had to save my life,” Zelig said. “That’s what a war does to you. It turns you into a question mark, and there’s only yes or no. And by then I had no other answers. I had to keep trying. You don’t know when to stop trying when you’re constantly being asked like that.” “So what happened?” “I lived with it. I came here. It was a new world, and I tried to be a new person. But I dreamed of him every night. I wore him like a chain around my ankles. When I died, his face was the last thing I saw.” “Oh no,” Carl said. “Oh no.” “I’m forgiven now,” Zelig said. “Don’t you see? I was judged and then I was finally forgiven.
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