Black Cross

all the way out here, Rabbi?” I asked.

“I caught a ride from a good Christian,” he said. “I was hoping to ride back with you.”

The request caught me off guard, but I said, “Sure, glad to do it.”

I opened the passenger door for him, then went around and got behind the wheel. The Swedish-built engine revved smoothly. “Where to?” I asked. “You still live across from the synagogue?”

“Yes. But I thought we might visit your grandparents’ house. Are you staying there while you’re in town?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Yes, I am.” I looked at him curiously. Then I felt a familiar sense of recognition. I had seen these situations before. Some people don’t feel comfortable confronting serious medical symptoms in a physician’s office. “Is there something you need to tell me, Rabbi?” I asked slowly. “Are you in need of medical attention?”

“No, no. I’m quite well for my age, thank God. But there is something I’d like to talk to you about, Mark. Something I think your grandfather meant to discuss with you . . . eventually. But somehow I don’t think he ever made the time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“About what your grandfather did in the war, Mark. Did he ever talk to you about that?”

I felt myself flush a little. “No. He never got past ‘I did my duty when it was required.’ ”

“That sounds like Mac.”

“He never talked to my grandmother about it either,” I confided, surprising myself. “She told me that, and . . . it hurt her. It was kind of like a hole in our lives. Small, maybe, but there all the same. A dark place, you know?”

Rabbi Leibovitz nodded. “A very dark place, Mark. And I think it’s about time someone shed a little light on it for you.”

Fifteen minutes later we were standing in the study of my grandparents’ house. Three generations of doctors had grown up in this rambling country clapboard. We were looking down at the steel fire-safe where my grandfather had always kept his personal papers.

“Do you know the combination?” the rabbi asked.

I shook my head. He reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet, and dug around inside until he found what he was looking for — a small white card of introduction, one of my grandfather’s. He read some numbers off the back, then looked at me expectantly.

“Listen, Rabbi,” I said, beginning to grow uncomfortable. “I’m not exactly sure why we’re here. I mean, I know you and my grandfather were acquaintances, but I never knew you were close. Frankly, I don’t see how anything in that safe could be any business of yours.” I paused. “Unless . . . he left the synagogue a bequest in his will. Is that it?”

Leibovitz chuckled. “You’re a suspicious man, Mark, just like your grandfather. No, this has nothing to do with money. I doubt if Mac had much left, to tell you the truth. Except for the insurance, which was only around fifty thousand, I think. He gave most of his money away.”

I shot him a sidelong glance. “How do you know all that?”

“Your grandfather and I were more than acquaintances, Mark. We were fast friends. I know about his money because he gave a lot of it to the synagogue. Once you made it through medical school, he figured you could take care of yourself, and your grandmother too, if he happened to die first. He owned this house, of course. You’ll get that. As far as the money he gave me, I was to use it to help persecuted Jews who were trying to reach Israel.” Leibovitz turned his callused palms upward. “This all goes back to the war, Mark. What Mac did during the war. If you open that safe for me, everything will become much clearer.”

That reasonable, forthright voice was hard to refuse. “All right,” I agreed, knowing I was being manipulated, but strangely unable to resist. “Read the combination again.”

As Leibovitz read, I worked the dial on the safe until I heard a click, then pulled open the heavy door. The first thing I saw was a stack of papers. Just what I had expected. They looked like legal documents — titles to the two family cars, the house, an ancient mortgage.

“Do you see a box?” the rabbi asked. “It would be nearly flat, and not too large.”

Carefully I dug through the papers. Sure enough, near the bottom of the stack my fingers touched a flat wooden box. I removed it from the safe. It was made of plain pine, about six inches square. I had never seen it before.

“Open it,” Leibovitz commanded.

I looked over my shoulder at him, then turned back and lifted the lid off the box. The glint of polished metal flickered in the light.

“What is that?” I asked.

“The Victoria Cross. The most coveted decoration in the British Empire. Have you heard of it?”

“The Victoria Cross. . .  Isn’t that what Michael Caine won in Zulu?”

Leibovitz shook his head sadly. “Television,” he muttered. “Yes, the Victoria Cross was awarded to a handful of Englishmen who repulsed an overwhelming Zulu army at Rorke’s Drift in South Africa.”

I lifted the cross gingerly and examined it in the light. It was bronze, and hung from a crimson ribbon. The center of the cross bore a lion standing upon a crown. Engraved on a scroll beneath the crown were the words: FOR VALOUR.

Rabbi Leibovitz spoke as if addressing a small congregation. “The list of recipients of the V.C. constitutes the most revered roll in English military history, Mark. As far as the public knows, only thirteen hundred and fifty have been awarded since the decoration was instituted by Queen Victoria in 1856. But there is another list — a much smaller list — that is known to no one but the monarch and the prime minister. It is the Secret List, and upon it are inscribed the names of those who have performed unparalleled acts of valor and devotion in the face of the enemy, but of such a sensitive nature that they can never be revealed.” He took a deep breath, then said: “Your grandfather’s name is on that list, Mark.”

My head snapped up in astonishment. “You must be joking. He never mentioned anything like that to me.”

The old rabbi smiled patiently. “That was the charge that came with the award. The decoration can never be worn in public. I suppose the secret cross was given so that in the dark of night, long after glory had passed, men like your grandfather would have something to remind them that their . . . sacrifices were appreciated.” Leibovitz looked thoughtful. “Still, it takes a special kind of man to hide that kind of glory.”

“Granddad was no egomaniac,” I conceded, “but he wasn’t especially modest either. He didn’t hide honors he deserved.”

Leibovitz sighed sadly. “Mac deserved this honor, but he wasn’t proud of what he had done to deserve it. He began the war as a conscientious objector, you know.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Mark, long ago your grandfather sought me out to discuss something that troubled him deeply. He’d spoken to his Christian pastor about it, but said the fellow hadn’t really understood what he was talking about. The pastor told Mac he was a hero, that he had no reason to be ashamed of what he’d done. Mac struggled along on his own for a while, then finally came to me.”

“Why you?”

“Because I’m a Jew. He thought perhaps I could give him special insight into his problem, that I might be able to help him to unburden his soul.”

I swallowed. “Did you?”

“I tried my best. I truly did. Over a period of years, in fact. And he was grateful for the effort. But I never really succeeded. Your grandfather carried his burden with him to the grave.”

“Well, damn it, you’ve got to tell me now. What did he do that was so terrible? And when did he do it? He told me that he spent the war in England.”

Leibovitz’s eyes settled on some neutral point in space. “He spent most of the war in England, that’s true — doing research at Oxford. But for two short weeks, your grandfather traveled quite a bit. And his travels ultimately led him to a place that must have been very close to hell on earth.”

“Where was that?”