Read Draw the Dark Online
Authors: Ilsa J. Bick
Yeah, yeah, I knew that was where his father had murdered a man and attacked Charles Eisenmann, who must’ve confronted Witek about the affair. The barn had tremendous significance to David, which made sense.
Only here was something: why mix up thewolvesand the barn? Was that only because David knew that German prisoners had worked the bean fields? That might explain it. The Germans would’ve been traumatic enough for the Jewish population. Given David’s history, the barn would be loaded. Only I wasn’t quite sure I bought that. David had seen Germans at the train station and the foundry, butIhad gone to the barn. I had painted thebarn, not the train station and not the foundry.
Here was another thing:Ihad climbed up to the hayloft, dangled from a window, and spray-painted a pair of wolf’s eyes and swastikas and the wordsI SEE YOU.
But David had seen hisfather, who wasn’t German but Polish. Had Brotz been a prisoner? No, that didn’t sound right; the paper said he was a local. I was missing something but what?
Only one way to find out.
Pen and pad in hand, I closed my eyes and imagined a simple blank canvas. I would jot things down as I went along; after all, I’d done this in my sleep. So maybe now.
The only thing new I had when I woke up was a crick in my neck from falling asleep sitting up. That and a nagging sense that something important had happened, but I couldn’t put my sheets from where I’d moved around during the night but nothing on the pad. Either David was off-line or I was just too exhausted. I suppose that was possible.
As I was brushing my teeth, though, the image of the White Lady—Beth Tikva—swam into my brain. There had to be someone who knew more about that place or the people who’d been here—because I was still having trouble wrapping my head around how a whole community just pulled up stakes and left.
After a few minutes’ Googling, I found what I was looking for: the Wisconsin Jewish Museum. The museum’s website said it had all kinds of archival material, which was good, but the museum was in Milwaukee, a three-hour drive from here. Also, the museum closed early every Friday and remained closed all day Saturday. The good news was they were open on Sundays, which was the only day I could get away anyway. I checked the hours and thought I’d call and say . . . what?Hi, I’m a stupid kid from Winter, and there used to be a synagogue here, only it burned down and everyone left, and do you have any idea why?
I clicked on Contact Us and that took me to a page that talked about archival services and how to submit questions. What did I have to lose?
To: [email protected]From: [email protected]Subject: Winter Synagogue
To Whom It May Concern:
My name is Christian Cage, and I’m a junior at Winter High School in Winter, Wisconsin. As part of a local history project, I’ve discovered that there used to be a synagogue in our town called Beth Tikva. It also went by the nickname, the “White Lady.” This synagogue burned down in November 1945 and was never rebuilt. I would like to understand why. I would also like to understand why the Jewish population here left the town. Is this because there was a German prisoner-ofwar camp in town? I have since discovered that many German PWs, along with Italians and Japanese, worked the fields and factories in the United States during World War II. No one I have spoken to here seems to know much about this, and newspaper articles of the time don’t have much information.
Okay, that was kind of a lie; I hadn’t talked toanyoneother than Sarah and Dr. Rainier, but . . . you know. Part of it was true.
In addition, this synagogue is something that the town seems to have forgotten, probably because so many years have passed. On the other hand, I think this may also have something to do with a murder that occurred here only a month or so before the synagogue was destroyed. I refer to the murder of Walter Brotz by Mordecai Mendel Witek, a Jewish painter who was kind of a local celebrity. Witek was never caught. I have included the hypertext link to that article below.
I stopped typing. Should I mention David? What could I say about him? I resumed:
I think that Mr. Witek’s only living relative—and to the best of my knowledge, the last Jew in Winter—is a son named David. Mr. David Witek is suffering from terminal Alzheimer’s, however, and can’t communicate.
Okay, so that wasn’t exactly the truth either, but I didn’t want to sound completely insane.
The only other contact person I can find in newspaper articles is a man named Albert Saltzman, Beth Tikva’s president. In the one picture of him I found, he looked in his forties or fifties, so he’s probably dead by now. I mention him because he might have relatives who could answer my questions.
That was going to be the end of my letter, but my busy fingers had a mind of their own:
One more thing: If there was a synagogue here, wouldn’t there also have been some kind of cemetery? Does anyone know where that is?
I reread that last part. Why did I want to know that? That was the second time in a day that thought had occurred to me.
I would appreciate any information you might have about the murder and what happened after the fire. Thank you for your time. I would also be happy to speak with you if you’d like to call instead.
I typed out my number, agonized over the closing—should I write “sincerely” or “regards” or . . . ? I chose “Sincerely,” typed my name, and hit Send. I didn’t know if anyone would answer, but it was worth a shot.
sarah13: Hey, that was a really good idea. You never know.ccage: Yeah. I don’t think I’ll get much, though. I mean, if we’re having this much trouble and welivehere.... The only other person would be the president, Mr. Saltzman, and he’d be ancient. Probably older than Eisenmann. He’s probably dead.sarah13: Maybe he has relatives. Maybe they know something. On the other hand, what is it you want them to tell you that you don’t already know?ccage: Already know? I want to know why everyone left. I want to know why the synagogue burned down. I want to know
why I keep dreaming about wolves and blood and death
whynobodyhere seems to know anything. I mean, it’s like you look around and there are lawns and houses and everything looks so normal, only thingsweren’tnormal.sarah13: You’re focusing way too much on this. I mean, bad things happen everywhere. Murders happen everywhere.ccage: Yeah. Maybe. But isn’t it weird? That nobody knows anything?sarah13: How many people have we really asked?ccage: Uh . . . a lot of people? I’ve even asked thesheriff, and all he knows are a couple facts.sarah13: Maybe there’s nothing more to find out. Not everything is a conspiracy. You’re just way too paranoid.ccage: You try spending your life with people looking at you.sarah13: Are we starting that again? You need to get out more.ccage: Hah-hah.sarah13: Look, the reason the Jews left ... hello ... isn’t it OBVIOUS? They were hated—maybe not by everybody, but Eisenmann broke the union and the union got burned out. They had church groups protesting their meetings. I wouldn’t want to stay either.
We went back and forth like that a few minutes more, and then she said I was going in circles, and I told her I’d see her in about a half hour, and we logged off.
So here’s the stupid thing.
Talking to Sarah like that . . . it was kind of fun.
“Boring?” asked Sarah.
Uncle Hank nodded. “We’re small enough that each of us knows how to process a scene if our main guy’s busy. You can spend a couple hours sifting through trash, picking up cigarette butts, looking at footprints on a front door from where some idiot’s kicked it in so he can do a smash and grab. Hours of work. Sometimes you solve a case that way, but more likely you catch the guy because he’s stupid enough to talk to his buddies at the bar, and then word gets back to us. Most criminals are stupid.”
I’d heard a lot of this before, and so I tuned out. Actually, I was kind of worried because of what I’d written, about the cemetery. I’d drawn a cemetery too, come to think of it. Sure, Dr. Rainier said that Mr. Witek was dying, and yeah, I’d seen Lucy die in my head and then for real, and so . . .
I knew Mr. Witek would die—and soon. I was running out of time.
Time for what? Well, for one thing, when Mr. Witek died, the past would be gone—at least, the one broadcasting in my dreams. I would no longer have access to it, not in my head and not through traveling back—which I really believed was happening. However I did it, I slipped into David’s skin and his past. So it was possible to go back ... maybe....
And then I had a truly creepy thought. What if David and I were going to, I dunno, trade places or something? Like forever? I’d die in his body, and he’d get to live out my life in mine. What if all this was some kind of dress rehearsal for the main event?
A little voice, not David and certainly not me, sounded in my head:Yeah, but aren’t you the one who wants to go to the other side, to the sideways place and find your mom? Everyone says she’s dead, so what if she is dead and this is your big chance, sort of a short cut?
“Christian?” Uncle Hank’s eyes were framed in the rearview. “You all right? You look a little peaked.”
“I’m fine.” But I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep so he couldn’t read the lie.
As we rounded the last bend, Sarah said, “Wow, that’s beautiful.”
Framed by gnarly oak and maple, the house was silhouetted against the crystal blue of a crisp October morning. The front of the house, which Dr. Rainier said was a Queen Anne-style, faced east. The sun deepened the brownstone a ruddy blood color, accentuated by copper gutters that had weathered to a deep green. There was a large circle drive with a stone fountain in the center that was piled with colorful mums.
“How many rooms are there?” asked Sarah.
“About twenty, I think, counting the servants’ rooms on the third floor.” Uncle Hank grinned. “Wait until you see inside. There are two sets of stairs, back for the servants, front for everybody else. It’s kind of interesting, and Helen’s doing a real nice job in there.”
Sarah picked up on that right away because she turned to me and raised her eyebrows and mouthed,Helen? I pretended not to know what she was going on about, and then she just gave me a look—likeDUH.
