It was nearly one o’clock, and yet no one had come for Hans. Cohen recalled Seidel’s words, Someone will be here within the hour to retrieve the boy. The professor prepared him a small lunch and had him lie down for a nap.
Taking off his shoes, Hans queried, “Did you really like my sunset? I made it for Papa.” Then, realizing for the first time that his father had gone, Hans bolted up from the couch. “Where is Papa?”
“Sssh, don’t talk now. It is time for you to lie down. We’ll talk more when you awaken.” Cohen eased the boy back down on the couch, pulling a nearby blanket over his chest.
For how long the weary professor sat, watching Hans, he did not know, but the sound of a muffled voice just outside his door brought him out of his lethargy. The uneven movement of footsteps approached his door.
“Senor Cohen… Senor Cohen.” This was followed by a rapid series of hollow blows to the door. Afraid the sounds could awaken Hans, the professor moved quickly to answer it.
“Ah, Senor Cohen, sorry to disturb you.” Cohen recognized the man as Carlos Vella, the one-legged tenant who lived at the very end of the hall. “You have a call,” he said, pointing his crutch towards the phone adjacent to his room.
Cohen thanked Vella, then glanced back at the sleeping boy before closing the door behind him. In less than two dozen steps, he reached the phone, picking up the receiver.
“Yes, this is Cohen.”
“Senor Cohen, this is Fredrich Mueller from the German embassy. Perhaps you remember me from earlier today.”
“I do remember you, Herr Mueller. If this is about Hans, I’m expecting…”
Mueller interrupted, “If I may sir… Eric Seidel is dead!”
The words, crisp and clear, left no discourse for interpretation. Cohen heard precisely what Mueller had said, and leaned hard against the wall to keep his legs from buckling.
“Dead… how… when?”
“He apparently hung himself in his holding cell.” Mueller remained quiet for a few seconds, allowing Cohen to absorb all that he’d said. Again, he spoke, this time, his voice appearing softer, more deliberate. “There is something else. Lieutenant Ortega found a note addressed to you and turned a copy of it over to our embassy. May I read it to you?”
“I… yes… please.”
“It reads, ‘Dear Professor Cohen, Please forgive me for what I’ve done and what I’m about to do. Know only that my son’s happiness is all that matters to me. As you have probably figured out by now, no one is coming for Hans. Marta wrote me a couple months ago, saying both she and her husband no longer have the patience to handle a boy with Hans’ limitations. Professor, it was immediately after receiving this letter that I came to the conclusion you would be the best person to care for my boy. You have done a remarkable job with him, and he is obviously so very, very fond of you. If I’m not mistaken, I think you feel the same way. Dear God, I pray you’ll take him in, as the alternatives would be unthinkable. I go to my grave in complete hope. Please tell Hans I love him.’ And it’s signed, Eric Seidel.”
Mueller cleared his throat, relieved that he had gotten through Seidel’s letter. Cohen heard the sound of papers being shuffled then Mueller’s voice returning. “Now, concerning Seidel’s son, Hans, we’re attempting to arrange…”
No longer able or willing to absorb any further information, Cohen unconsciously placed the receiver back on its cradle, stunned by this latest turn of events. He shuffled back into his apartment, his eyes, forming into liquid pools of despair. To his surprise, Hans had awakened, a look of concern on the boy’s face.
“Professor, why are you crying?” The professor proffered a benign smile, but before he could answer, Hans scurried up to him, carrying a handful of colored placards. “Can we have another lesson?”
Cohen reached out, pulling the boy into him. The embrace had nearly broken him as he recalled so very vividly the last time he’d held his own child and the serenity which it had given him. Clutching Hans to his bosom, the professor couldn’t deny the symbiotic binding existing between the two.
“A lesson, Hans?” he asked, his voice noticeably energized. “Yes, indeed, you may have a lesson.” Giddily, he strode over to the curtains, pulling them back, instantly radiating the room. “In fact, you may have lessons every day of the week if you wish. First, however, let’s have some music, eh, Hans? And none of that sleepy old Brahms either.” Drawing himself over to the old phonograph, Cohen unsheathed a dusty recording of Bizet’s “March of the Toreadors” and placed it on the turntable. The upbeat tempo appeared to surge through him as he beckoned the boy towards him. Together, hand in hand, they circled the room, faster and faster, marching joyously to the ancient recording. Hans’ eyes flittered about excitedly, fueled by the carnival-like machinations of a spinning room, blaring trumpets, and the toothy, wide-eyed grin of his mentor.
The music soon dissolved, leaving behind the rhythmic scratching of the needle as it rotated lazily on its track. Cohen welcomed the respite, sinking clumsily onto the couch while Hans continued his muted march, a dignified luster cast on his face.
Cohen watched with fascination Hans’ performance, modestly crediting himself for the boy’s emergence the past half year. It seemed not so long ago that he was using these very same techniques with his son Bernard, whose mongoloid features bespoke of his own handicap and eventual tragedy.
After several more minutes, Hans stopped, his chest heaving noticeably. Inexplicably, he dashed towards the professor, leaping onto the couch and resting his head onto Cohen’s shoulder.
“I like coming here,” he squealed. “It’s my favorite place.”
Saying nothing, Cohen placed an arm around the boy and stared into the void. For the first time since he could remember, a feeling of unbridled contentment had come over him; a long overdue epiphany which signaled to Cohen that his son had come home.
About J.D. Chaney
