In the Land of Armadillos Read Online Free PDF

that sound like to you, Herr Sturmbannführer?”
    â€œIt’s about an armadillo and a cockatoo,” he replied, thinking of himself and Gerda. “They are very different from each other in many ways. Maybe their families don’t approve of the match. But they love each other above all. So they move away.”
    She regarded him as if he were an interesting exhibit at a museum.
    â€œThe cockatoo,” he said suddenly. “Her name is Bianca.” The meaning of the coincidence dawned on him. “He named her after you.” She bowed her head graciously, permitted him a small smile. “You left him when the war started,” he went on, trying to work it all out. “Because of the anti-Jewish laws, I presume.”
    â€œ I left him ?” she repeated in disbelief, her eyes narrowing. “Is that what he said? Let me enlighten you, Sturmbannführer. After he came back from the United States, he was afraid. Things had deteriorated. He thought I’d be harassed, beaten, maybe worse. So he told me he didn’t want to see me anymore.”
    Max was astounded. He tried to imagine having the strength to leave Gerda, faced with a similar situation, and he realized he would never do it. He couldn’t survive without her. “That was very noble of him.”
    â€œOh, yes. Very noble. My hero. Of course, he didn’t ask me what I wanted. He made the decision for both of us. I would have been happy to face those pigs together with him.”
    Max was surprised at her vehemence, at the hurt Toby’s betrayal still inspired. “But how can that be? He came back from New York, where he would have been safe, to be with his family, his girlfriend . . . I don’t understand.”
    She stared past him, out the window at the market square, giving him the opportunity to observe her in profile. The almond-shaped eyes—blue? gray? hazel?—were spaced widely apart and set into high, chiseled cheekbones. There was a straight, regal nose and a domed forehead that gave way to hair the color of a wheat field in autumn. She was like a poster advertising Aryan perfection.
    â€œHe didn’t come back for me,” she said, biting off the words. “He broke it off with me a week after he returned. I don’t think it was for his family, either—they begged him to stay. No, I have another theory about why he came back to Poland. I think that, for him, it was too easy over there in America. Too easy to be a Jew, too easy to be an artist, too easy to be alive. Celebrated not for his work, but for his status as a refugee. ‘Look, there goes Tobias Rey, he escaped from the Nazis’ clutches.’ And then they patted him on the head and invited him to dinner, and they gave him a job in one of their nice, safe schools, where there were a hundred wealthy girls who all wanted to be titillated by his terrible stories before they fell into his bed. He could say anything he pleased, do anything he liked. It cost him nothing, and it gave him nothing. It was too easy to forget the real world out there beyond Coney Island, where knowing the wrong people or being born to the wrong parents could mark the difference between life and death. Here, each tiny gesture matters. Every breath of a condemned man is an act of defiance. That’s why he came back.”
    Max tried to get the visit back on track. “Excuse me, Frau Lipowa. I apologize if I am bringing up sad memories. But the reason I brought you here, what I would really like to know, is if he has always been this way.” He laced his fingers together, leaned across the desk. “I know something about Jews, Fräulein,” he said. “Generally, they are cooperative, they are helpful, they beg to be given a chance to be useful. They want to live, you see. Toby doesn’t do any of those things. In fact, he does exactly the opposite. If I had to describe him, I would say he is a man who is