The Fiction of Life

By Ryan Pierce

The Fiction of Life is the story of Miksa Boros, a young man born in pre-World War II Europe who is forced to leave his county and hide his true identity as the son of a wanted man. His struggles are deepened when the Nazis capture the people he loves most--his mother and the young woman he loves. His journey to save their lives helps him answer questions such as: 'How do you blindly walk into certain death?' and 'What is life really about?'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan Pierce
• Release date: Apr 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310331176

Ryan Pierce

Ryan was born and currently lives in Chicago, Illinois. His works include pieces of historical fiction as well as non-fiction personal essays.

Book preview

Chapter One

Kata was a thief. Had people asked, he would have regaled them with stories of his relentless, daring accomplishments. But those stories did not belong to him. They belonged to others. In truth, he had a reputation in his trade of something between a reckless purse-snatcher and a misguided cat burglar. He lacked the technical skill and imagination that made his contemporaries more successful. He instead pulled the wool over elderly women and other feeble targets, which gave him a sense of accomplishment that grace and charity never could.

One of his associates was an old man who called himself Jurgen. Jurgen was a fence, a man who stood between those who knew about valuable items and those who were brazen enough to go fetch them. There was a customary fee for which he brokered this information: ten percent of the cash or traded value of all stolen goods. In Kata’s estimation, Jurgen was overpaid for his work. Gossip, he had once said, is no skill.

Kata was hunched over on a park bench when Jurgen sat beside him.

Listen to me, Jurgen said.

The plummeting temperature wasn’t the only thing giving Kata the chills on that early January morning. It was 1933 in Berlin, and warmth had left the city long before the winter came. He stared ahead at the street busy with children pushing bread carts and members of Hitler’s brown-shirted army driving in long black touring cars. Jurgen slid closer to Kata on the bench and spoke with the urgency of a man who hadn’t eaten in days. It was a tone many had come to know all too well.

Listen to what I heard, the old man said. He then leaned in, cupped his hands around Kata’s ear, and whispered for some time.

You’re wasting my time, Kata said. He was unaccustomed to being offered rich opportunities. Who put you up to this? Erich? Gebbert? It was Gebbert, no doubt. Well you can tell that pickpocket to go to hell.

This is real, Jurgen said. The cloud of condensation from his breath settled around Kata’s unshaven face.

Tell me again, Kata said.

It’s the home of a widow, Jurgen whispered. Jewels and silver. Loads of it. She winters in Lisbon until May. There will be no man on watch. The locks are uncomplicated and the neighbors are spread apart by large gardens.

I meant the other thing you said, Kata urged. Tell me again about the other thing.

The safe? Jurgen asked. It’s—

Not the safe, Kata chided. The thing in the safe. Tell me again.

Ah, the necklace. It has eight large rubies and eight emeralds, bound by gold. A man could buy an estate with it.

And what are we to do with it? Kata asked.

I have a man, Jurgen said. He knows of this piece, and he will pay for it.

Kata had come across small jewels before, and he had taken some. But other than dressing his wife in them—and she could only wear so much without someone taking notice—he had nowhere to sell such expensive things on his own.

How big is this safe? Kata asked.

It’s big. Waist high.

So there may be other things?

Maybe, Jurgen said. Maybe not. You’ll be the one to find out. There are three other men with responsibilities of their own. He handed Kata a piece of paper with three numbers scribbled on it. The combination.

But if there is more, Kata said, Will this man of yours take anything we find?

There’s that chance, Jurgen said. But I make no promises.

And you’re sure about the combination? Kata asked.

The woman I paid for it—and I paid plenty—she kept the widow’s house for seventeen years, fourteen after the husband died. She was fired when her daughter married a Jew. This will fill all our pockets with enough money to keep us warm through next winter.

What if the widow changed the combination? Kata asked.

Jurgen pursed his lips and looked off for a moment before returning a look of great certainty. There is no chance of that.

How do you know?

She’s an old woman, Jurgen said, shrugging off the notion as preposterous. We old people are very set in our ways.

I agree with you, Kata said, not bothered in the least by Jurgen’s logic. When is this to happen?

The Friday after this one, Jurgen said. The man who cares for the house now will be in Potsdam. His daughter marries that night. He’ll be gone until Monday at the earliest, which gives us time to disperse without chase.

Two Friday evenings later, Kata left his apartment. At home was his wife, who he had stopped looking at with tenderness a few years earlier, and their five-year-old boy, who was still somewhat of a stranger to him. He walked into the winter night, disappearing into the bustle of people on their way to dinners or dates or theaters or homes of those with whom they shared their time. There had been a feeling of urgency in the air for several months, and this night was no different. The German people were starting to hear the answers to the questions of woe that the prior war had brought. National socialism was taking hold, and while politics was of no interest to Kata, it was a song that played over and over in the heads of many Berliners, and they heard hope in its tune.

Kata found the three other men waiting when he arrived at the designated corner two blocks from the widow’s estate. He knew one of them, a Polish man named Oskar with whom he had previously worked. Kata considered Oskar to be as honest of a man as one could expect of a thief. If it were possible to have friends in this line of work, then Oskar certainly was the one friend he had. The other two were strangers to him, one tall and the other oddly short with a thick, blond push broom mustache. Jurgen, as expected, was elsewhere awaiting the fruits of their labor.

Kata, Oskar said, this is—

Why do we need names? the tall man asked.

Very true, Kata said. But you can call me Kata since that is not my true name anyway. I have always said that there is no need for truth amongst liars and thieves.

What? asked the tall man. Who says things like that?

Those words are mine alone, Kata said, however the man who had taught him his trade and had given him his moniker was the true owner of those exact words. Think about it sometime.

Alright, so we all know what to do? Oskar said. I’m on art. Pointing to the tall man, he continued, You’re on silver and everything else on the first floor. Looking at the short man, he said, You take the second floor. Lastly, he pointed to Kata. You have the safe.

Why does he get the safe? asked the short man, pulling at one corner of his mustache. I don’t know this man.

I know him, Oskar said. And that’s good enough. Alright?

Not alright, the short man said. If it’s all the same, I want the safe.

Why? Oskar asked.

I’d just feel better that way.

My friend, Kata said, egos are for men who enjoy the confines of bars and towering walls.

What’s with you? the tall man asked Kata. Did you think that up yourself, too?

I’m definitely sure that those words were mine, Kata said, suspicious of his own claim. Almost completely sure. He thought for a moment and smiled, At least they are now.

Listen, the tall man said, returning his attention back to the short man. I’d feel better if we all just stuck to what we’re supposed to do.

That’s easy for you to say, the short man said. You’re on silver. I’m on the second floor. Nothing’s good on the second floor—except the safe. I want the safe.

We need you on the second floor, not at the safe, Kata said. It’s a very important job.

What’s so important about the second floor? the short man asked.

You’re a small man, Kata said.

The short man brandished a pistol from behind his back and pointed it at Kata’s chest. Say that again, he dared.

Whoa, whoa. Oskar stepped between the men. Slow down, Utz.

No names! Utz seethed, waving the gun between Oskar and Kata.

I mean no disrespect, Kata said. But my wife, she’s a very smart woman, and she hides all of her precious things beneath the bed. I am sure that these people are also very smart people. Stupid people don’t live in such fine homes. There will be great things beneath the bed. And you, my friend, are the man who can get at it.

That is true, Oskar said.

I agree, the tall man said. I could never handle such a job.

Utz lowered his gun and nodded his head.

So it’s agreed, Oskar said. We’ll proceed as planned.

They headed to the house, and everything went as expected, right until the very end. The tall man and Oskar were downstairs, and Utz and Kata were upstairs. Kata found the safe in the bedroom closet. As he pulled the combination from his jacket pocket, he heard an indistinguishable moan from downstairs. He looked at Utz, who in the darkness was on his knees beside the master’s four-post bed. The short man looked over and shrugged. Kata listened for a moment, heard no more commotion, and shrugged in return. Utz stuck his short torso beneath the bed, and Kata turned the safe’s large black dial back and forth and back. Just when the safe’s door clicked open, a gunshot sounded from downstairs. Kata panicked as he swung open the heavy door. He wasn’t going to leave empty handed, regardless of the gunshot. The necklace was there along with three rings, several thin gold bracelets, and a considerable collection of precious gems. He stuffed the necklace and a fistful of gems into his coat pocket. Another shot rang from downstairs. It was time to go, and that’s when he saw it: a diamond the size of a walnut. It was unthinkable that such a large and beautiful stone existed. Kata grabbed it, shoved it into his pocket, and headed toward the stairway. He slowly placed his foot on the first step and listened for movement. There was only silence until he heard the sound of a pistol hammer being cocked just behind his head.

Hand it over, Utz said to him. The necklace.

Kata pulled the necklace from his coat pocket and raised it above his head. He knew that the diamond was worth far more than the necklace, and if Jurgen’s man would buy it then he’d never have to steal anything again.

And the other thing, Utz said. You took something else. I want it.

Just something for my lady, Kata said. You’ve got your necklace. Let’s both go home in one piece, friend.

Give it here, Utz said firmly. Your man Oskar is dead. My friend made sure of that. So give me what you have there, and just maybe I won’t shoot you.

There was a table at Kata’s side. On it was a gold candelabrum. Without looking, he measured Utz’s head to be at about his chest. He wouldn’t give up the diamond. It was his way to a new life.

You’ve got three seconds, Utz said. One…two…

In one swift motion, Kata grabbed the candelabrum, swung around, and struck the side of Utz’s head. The short man dropped to the ground. Kata picked up the necklace and slowly made his way downstairs, silently feeling his way through the shadows. From the last step he could see a body strewn across the dining room floor. It was too lanky to be Oskar. He figured Oskar had gotten off a shot at the Utz’s partner. He walked the other way, toward the back door, feeling his way along the hallway. A bit of light from a street lamp pushed through a small window in the back door. He moved toward it, picking up his pace until he tripped. His foot was wedged beneath something. He reached back and felt a leg. It was Oskar. Leaning down, Kata could see that Oskar’s chest was clean, but blood pooled beneath him. He had been shot in the back.

So it goes for honest men, Kata whispered.

He stood and ran toward the light of the door. It opened easily. He paused and looked back at Oskar one last time. As he turned again to run off, he found himself in the arms of a man who looked as shocked as he was to see him.

What is this? the man screamed. He wore a black butler’s suit. It was the houseman. Jurgen had been wrong. Who are you? Do you know the Reichsführer?

Kata lost his breath. His face must have turned white. He pushed the houseman down to the ground, and ran as fast as he could through the streets and didn’t slow down until he was home. He woke his wife, shook her, and screamed, Wake now! Get up.

What it is? she asked sleepily.

Pack our things, Kata said. Wake the boy. We need to leave.

Again? she asked.

Yes, again, Kata said hurriedly, grabbing a suitcase and stuffing into it the necklace and diamond and candelabrum that he somehow still had in his grasp.

How far this time? she asked. Can we stay in Berlin?

Hmph, he laughed. Berlin? No.

Where then? she asked. Back to Dresden?

No, Kata said, dizzy with fear. We need to leave Germany. Right now.

What have you done?

I stole from the wrong man, he said, throwing another suitcase onto the bed for her to fill with her things.

From who? she asked. What did you do?

From the Reichsführer, he said. And his houseman saw me.

She put her hands to her mouth. Her eyes widened with the same fear that had chased Kata from that house. The Reichsführer was among the highest officer ranks in the Schutzstaffel, more widely referred to as the SS, the henchmen of Adolph Hitler’s army. With one look, Kata knew that his wife understood that they would leave their homeland that night and never return again.

Kata looked around the room, searching for things that a man should not live without. But they had moved before in a hurry. His possessions quickly appeared to be like the dead leaves of a lawn upon which he would never again sprawl. He turned to see that his wife hadn’t moved. Go! he screamed. And she did. She went to wake her boy.

~  ~

Chapter Two

We must leave now, the boy’s mother said, waking him in the middle of the night, packing his things into a tattered, brown leather suitcase. She had said those words to him before, and though he was only five years old, he knew exactly what they meant. They had moved three times in the prior year, and the year before that had been no different. They had started the year in Berlin. Pottsdam was a quick stop along the way to Dresden, but they were soon back in Berlin. In each city, they moved residences whenever someone became suspicious of Kata or when rent couldn’t be paid. The boy had become used to the carousel of homes and acquaintances.

Hurry, love, she said, scooting him from his bed with her hands. This flat is horrible, anyway. And I hate the couch. It smells like vinegar.

As the family ritual always went, they were abandoning their abode while their neighbors slept. And as before, the boy’s parents redefined the criteria and reassessed the value as to exactly which items were worth hauling with them. Haste, to them, was not something beset by panic; it was a skill honed with practice. So they diligently packed their things into a 1929 Opel Laubfrosch that the boy had never seen before that evening and drove the slow, green and black machine until he could no longer see the dim lights of Berlin through the small rear window. As they crossed through the low hills of northern Austria, and the ground beneath them ceased to be the land of the man from whom they ran, Kata laughed in such a way that made the boy think his father had never been as happy as he was at that exact moment. The boy, however, didn’t share in the joy. He wasn’t fooled by his father’s pretense of victorious escape. Kata’s laugh carried the fear of uncertainty. Although the difference between escape and flight seemed to be vast on that night, years later the boy came to understand that there was indeed no difference at all.

They drove for two days, stopping only to refuel. There were few words spoken. It wasn’t until that second day when the boy asked, Where are we going?

Far away, my love, his mother said without taking her eyes off the dark mountainous road ahead.

It’s a place for Jews, Kata said, I met a man in Dresden. Do you remember Dresden? We lived there. You loved it. The man I met there was a Jew—taller than most with not such a big nose—and the place we’re heading was at one time his home. I’m sure they have many, many Jews.

Having only a faint idea of what a Jew was, the boy considered asking what they had to do with anything, but he was tired and he didn’t have the energy to hear another of his father’s stories. They tended to drag on without end and were always passed along as true stories that had happened to friends of his when even a five-year-old knew that they were fabrications and fables. It had occurred to the boy over time that Kata had gone about his life either without knowing or choosing not to care that the things he said seemed ridiculous to other people. So, as the car climbed across the hilly road under the light of the moon, rather than opening his mouth, the boy closed his eyes. It was far less trouble.

As the boy was fading off to sleep, Kata said to him, Do you see the moon, boy? It’s very bright tonight. While this may have sounded like a charming thing for a man to say to his son, perhaps something that harkened back to a happy memory the two of them had shared, it was not that at all. It was something Kata had said to his son a hundred times in an awkward effort to form a bond. He had told his son that the moon had long ago been part of the sun until it broke itself off and lost its glow, and that on nights when the sun missed the part of itself that had run off, it would shine its light upon the moon to summon it home. Ridiculous.

They arrived at their destination around noon on the following day. It was a village called Pajka set at the foot of emerald hills in southwestern Hungary.

This will change the course of our lives, the boy’s mother said as she lifted his small suitcase from the car. He could see that she was tired. So perhaps she meant what she had said, but then again, perhaps it was just the sort of thing that a mother had to say.

Kata was at the door of the two-story brick row home making an arrangement with the landlord. The boy followed his mother around the two men and into the house. It was plain and coldish grey, one in a row of many built and bonded a century earlier and set nearly atop one another. From the boy’s second-story bedroom, his mother stared out the window at distant fields filled with bent shadows and waving stalks. I loved that couch, she thought aloud.

In the matter of weeks, Berlin became but a dream from which the boy had abruptly woken, the details of which swiftly slipped away with each passing moment. The family celebrated his sixth birthday in their rear garden amongst the chamomile, tulips, mignonettes, and lilies. They invited the neighbors, and all of them came, perhaps curious to know if the new people were enough like them. The boy’s mother served meats and cheeses and cakes on a polished silver tray that she carefully placed on a long wood table draped in white linen. This was more trouble than she had gone to at any of their other new homes.

Though he couldn’t have known it at the time, his life was about to change course; for this was the day he met Emily Levy. As she approached him, fixing her butterfly hairclip in mid-step, everything else in his vision fell out of focus. She had black hair that curled just beneath her shoulder. Her porcelain skin looked as if it had been untouched by the sun. There was a small brown mole, a perfect circle, just off her left eye. Her lips were delicately pursed. She buried her brow into her almond-shaped eyes that glowed bright and green with small bits of red and yellow. They looked to him like stones beneath a shallow, clear run of water.

My mother made me give this to you, she said in a soft, yet forceful voice.

He stared back at her without speaking.

Do you want it? she asked. It’s for your birthday.

He looked down, embarrassed that he had not noticed the small present wrapped in dark blue paper that sat in her hand.

Thank you, he said. What is it?

Open it and find out, Max, she said as she rolled her eyes.

Miksa, he said.

She looked at him blankly.

My name is Miksa. This wasn’t the name he had been given six years earlier in Berlin. Nor was it the name he had been called by anyone before his family had come to Pajka. It was the name of a Hungarian Jew, not a German Christian. And since it was new to him, he practiced it with regularity. Sometimes, when he said the name to himself, he pronounced it incorrectly. So he was relived to have not done so under the pressure of such beauty.

I like Max better, she said without care of the case he had made.

Miksa pulled the paper apart slowly so as not to tear it, as he imagined this was what she would have preferred. Inside was a thin copper picture frame with a photograph of György Sárosi, a well-known soccer player, clipped from a local newspaper pressed between the copper backing and a pane of glass.

He’s my favorite, Miksa lied. Will we be friends?

You and the man in the picture? she asked.

You and me, he said.

She considered his question for a moment. Her eyes narrowed and her lips shifted to one side. Then, as if she had come to a grand conclusion, she spoke: If we must speak, you should know that I don’t usually like boys. I like sweet berries, my father, and butterflies. She began to walk away, but Miksa’s mother, tall and black-haired and stronger than her thin frame suggested, grabbed Emily and pushed her toward Miksa.

Stand still, my prince, his mother said, steadying her camera. Emily, move closer and smile. Both of you, smile for me.

Emily’s arm, wrapped in a red wool sweater, pressed softly and unintentionally against his. Her hair smelled like honey.

Maybe, Emily whispered, barely audible.

He looked at her. The corner of her mouth curled up slightly. Maybe what?

Maybe we’ll be friends, she whispered.

I’ve never had a friend, he said, and that was mostly true, at least in its implication. He had never been anywhere long enough for anyone of any consequence to find familiar comfort in his presence.

Then I promise, she said, looking straight ahead at the camera with a tilted head and widely opened eyes. Then, in the sweetest voice he have ever heard, she said, Happy birthday, Max.

Oh, yes, his mother said, pulling his attention from Emily. And hold still…beautiful! One…two…three…

That camera, as any other would have, captured only what it saw: light but not darkness, shapes but not space, things but never thoughts. It unknowingly witnessed the stark difference between Miksa’s family and their new neighbors. The new arrivals’ clothes betrayed them as people of another place and, as Miksa’s mother would have argued, another time. There was a heavy plainness carried on their neighbors’ faces, as there always was with those who had never been touched by the bustle of a grand European city. But what the camera could not see was what some people would argue was the greatest distinction between them; as Kata had promised, the people of Pajka were Jews. All of them. And as Kata said later that evening after the neighbors had gone home and the tray had been polished and put away and the curtains had been drawn, You can just see that in them. Can’t you?

It was religion that had attracted Kata to Pajka. They were Christians of little faith looking to disappear. It’s the last place on earth they’ll be looking for us, Kata had reasoned. They, of course, were the men at the disposal of the Reichsführer from whom he had stolen the diamond. The stone was so rare that a man would surely chase halfway around the world to get it back. It could not be sold without the whole of Europe taking notice. And the Reichsführer was no doubt a serious man, the sort who would have killed their entire family without a thought if for no other reason than to demonstrate to others that he is not a man to be taken lightly. So they could not go back. Not until the sun ceased to shine upon the Thousand Year Reich. That day, Kata said with utter assurance, will never come.

So they called themselves Jews and gave themselves Jewish names. The boy’s new name was Miksa Boros. As a liar, it was Kata’s masterpiece. They had become figments of his imagination. They would be Jews on the day that they had once celebrated the birth of Christ. They would be Jews on the days held sacred to their new neighbors. And they would be Jews on the day that the Schutzstaffel would come to Pajka. But on that day, the SS would not be coming to collect a wayward thief or a priceless stone. They would be coming for the Jews. They would be coming for Miksa’s new neighbors, for his mother and father, and they would be coming for him.

But that day was several years off, long after Miksa overheard his father decry, Believe me, Hitler won’t invade. What would he want with Hungary? It’s full of Jews.

~  ~

Chapter Three

You still think he won’t invade? Lilla Boros asked her husband. It was late 1938, and Hitler had begun to impose his will beyond the German borders. Her husband was the man who had once been known as Kata but now only went by the name Marek Boros, father of eleven-year-old Miksa. The fictitious life they had created since arriving in Pajka five years earlier suited Lilla well. She had come to love everything about this new life, including her fictitious name. The stationary life was one of comparative ease despite the unsettling circumstances that had delivered her. Whoever she had once been died a death that she hadn’t bothered to witness, as if it had been the life of a stranger. And with that death went the memories of whatever name she had once been called.

Are you out of your mind, Marek? She prodded her husband. It was the Sabbath. Religious traditions were assumed as easily as names. Lilla lit two short white candles and recited a Jewish prayer to which she knew all of the words and none of the meaning. Neither Marek nor Miksa joined her in the blessing. Lilla was the only one who cared enough to be the Jew she was supposed to be when no one was looking. It somehow made her feel as though she was more honest than the rest of her family, and therefore better for it. The three sat around the kitchen table, which was big enough that it always felt as though someone was missing, yet small enough that it provided sufficient reason to never invite anyone over. Their meal was sparse: challah that Lilla had made days before and a bowl of dried figs. Lilla and Marek drank red wine that soured even as they sipped. Marek’s acquired profession, that of a coalminer, afforded few extravagances.

I know he won’t invade, Marek said with the caustic certainty he had always employed when he sensed that his authority on any given topic was in question. I give you my word.

And how do you know? Lilla asked, awaiting his answer with amusement.

I hear things, he whispered, looking toward the window as if a squirrel or finch might be daring to plunder his stash of secrets.

Over the years, Lilla had come to abhor his lies. But when they had first met, she didn’t mind so much. The first thing he had ever said to her was a lie. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen with these two eyes of mine, he had said. Utter rubbish, she knew. Her hair had been a mess, and her eyes were puffy and still streaked with makeup from the night before. But he assured her of his sincerity, and she chose to believe it. What girl wouldn’t want to? Certainly not a girl whose mother had died at her birth, whose grandfather had raised her for seven years with kindness until the energy she required stole his last breath, and whose alcoholic aunt was the only one left to take her in. Lilla had had no guidance as a child or as a young woman. No one told her smart things. There was no one around with any sense to follow. So when she was seventeen and a handsome man wearing fancy black leather gloves and a fashionable hat called her the jewel of the heavens, who was she to not listen? He was impressive. It was his confidence, something she lacked to no end. She wished, even then, that she had appreciated her own strength; for it was not weakness that had allowed her to feed and clothe herself during those early years. It was not laziness that had awoken her each morning to cook and clean and get off to school without anyone else’s urging. It most certainly was not cowardice that had fended off her aunt’s drunkard boyfriends who found their way into her bedroom at night. But without confidence and strength, vigor and courage were muted roars in