One more time became three, and by the time they reached their parents’ townhouse, it was dark already. Rachel hopped off, and Zacharias rolled the bike toward the garage, when he noticed the armed uniformed man at the entrance door to his home.
Instantly, panic surged through him. Had something happened to his parents while he and Rachel had been out having fun? He parked the bike hastily and rushed toward the door Rachel had already reached.
“Mama? Papa?” His sister’s voice echoed against the walls in the narrow street.
“Has something happened to our parents? What’s going on?” Words spilled from Zacharias’ lips like water rushing down a waterfall.
The officer with the tell-tale SS emblem on his uniform responded with a stoic look. “Zacharias and Rachel Eisenberg?”
Zacharias nodded automatically. “That’s us.” He reached for his sister’s hand and squeezed it. A thought invaded his mind: he’d heard of SS personnel showing up at other families’ homes, rumors of decent citizens being taken away.
The SS officer motioned his head to the hallway behind him and unblocked the way to let them through. Continuing to hold Rachel’s hand, Zacharias ran toward the back of the house where he heard voices. Every room he passed was lit brightly.
Anxiety made his heart beat like a locomotive by the time he finally reached the living room. His mother sat on the couch, her head in her hands, and his father stood next to her, his body visibly coiled in tension. He darted nervous looks at the men in the room: three more SS members, the black uniforms and shiny boots gleaming in the artificial light.
“Are those your children?” the tall, blond officer asked.
Zacharias’ father nodded and cast a regretful glance at Zacharias and Rachel.
“Father?” He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, but to no avail. The presence of these officers in his home could only mean one thing. The rumors were true; he knew it when he looked at his parents’ faces.
His mother’s face was tearstained. Zacharias rushed to her and took her hands as he crouched down.
“They’re taking us away. All of us.” She sobbed, and behind him he heard Rachel’s shocked gasp. “They are arresting us.”
Zane snapped his head to the intruders. Even though he knew the answer, he nevertheless asked the question:“Why?”
As a nasty grin spread on the blonde’s face, Zacharias felt as if an icy hand wrapped around his neck and squeezed the life out of him. A sense of foreboding slammed into him.
“Why?” The officer exchanged a look with his colleagues. “Because you’re Jews, that’s why. Dirty Jews.”
Dirty Jews. The words still echoed in his head when the SS guards led him and his family outside and into a waiting van. He turned his head to look back, glimpsing one last time at the bike he’d come home with only minutes earlier. He’d owned it for only a day—one single day in 1940. He was twenty-four years old, and his life as he knew it had just changed forever. How drastically, nobody could have guessed.
Zane tore his gaze from the bike and looked back at Eddie. “I can’t ride that bike.”
“Of course you can. It works no different than—”
“I said, I can’t ride that bike,” Zane bit out from behind clenched teeth and glared at Eddie.
His colleague did well not to ask any stupid questions. “Fine, hop on with me.”
***
Zane felt numb when he walked into Drake’s practice. He scowled at the Barbie doll receptionist and ignored her protest that she needed to announce him first. Instead, he simply barged into the doctor’s office and slammed the door behind him.
Drake sat behind his desk. He looked up only briefly, seemingly undeterred by Zane’s dramatic entry.
“I’m here,” Zane bellowed when the shrink looked back down at his paperwork. He hated being ignored.
“I’m not blind,” Drake announced calmly.
“And if you don’t start this session now, I’ll make sure you’ll fit into an ashtray,” Zane muttered under his breath.
“Nor deaf,” Drake added and closed the file he was reading and put it aside. “I hadn’t expected you to be so eager to start.”
Zane rolled his shoulders. “If your skills as a doctor are as sharp as your ability to interpret a person’s intentions, I suggest you find another profession.” As if he was here to get through some stupid psycho-analysis and let this quack probe around in his head! Like he had wacko tattooed on his forehead. The guy wouldn’t get a single word out of him, Zane swore.