The Eighth Dwarf Read Online Free PDF Page A

family and I—in ’37. We put off leaving until almost too late, didn’t we?” He turned his head in his daughter’s direction.
    â€œAlmost,” she said. “Not quite, but almost.”
    â€œWe went to Switzerland first—Leah, my son, and I. My son was twenty-three then. He’s thirty-two now. About your age, if I’m correct.”
    â€œYes,” Jackson said, “you are.”
    Oppenheimer smiled slightly. “I thought so. I’ve become quite good at matching voices up with ages. I’m seldom off more than a year or two. Well, the Swiss welcomed us. In fact, they were most cordial. Correct, of course, but cordial—although that cordiality depended largely on the tidy sum that I’d had the foresight to transfer in a round-about way from Frankfurt to Vienna to Zurich. The Swiss, like everyone else, are really not too fond of Jews, although they usually have the good sense not to let it interfere with business.”
    Oppenheimer paused, looked in his daughter’s general direction, smiled, switched to German, and said, “Leah, dear, I think it’s time for my cigar.”
    â€œYes, of course,” she said, rose, and crossed the room to where a box of cigars rested on a table. She took one out—long, fat, and almost black; clipped off one end with a pair of nail scissors; put it in her mouth; and carefully lit it.
    â€œWould you care for one, Mr. Jackson?” Oppenheimer said as his daughter handed him the cigar.
    â€œNo, thanks, I’ll stick to my cigarettes.”
    â€œDamned nuisance, really. One of the few things I haven’t been able to learn how to do for myself properly—light a cigar. Hard on Leah, too. Keeps her from wearing lipstick.”
    â€œI don’t mind,” she said, resuming her seat by the tea table.
    â€œI always like a woman who powders and paints. What about you, Mr. Jackson?”
    â€œSure,” Jackson said, and lit a cigarette.
    Oppenheimer puffed on his cigar for several moments and then said, “Miss the smoke, too—the sight of it. Ah, well. Where was I? In Switzerland. We stayed there until 1940. Until Paris fell. Then we went to England—London. At least, Leah and I went. Some people call me an inventor, but I’m not really. I’m more of a—a Kesselflicker .”
    â€œTinker,” Jackson said.
    â€œThat’s right, tinker. I take other people’s inventions and improve on them. Patch them up. I had an idea for a cheap way for the British to interfere with enemy radar. Well, they almost clapped me in jail. I wasn’t even supposed to know about radar. But eventually they used my idea anyway. Long strips of foil. Someone else got the credit, though. I didn’t mind. I had other ideas. A long-lasting electric-torch battery. I gave them that. Then an idea for a metal-less zipper. They didn’t seem to think that zippers had anything to do with the war effort. I should’ve tried that one on the Americans. That’s where I made my money originally, you know: in zippers. Damned near the zipper king of Germany. Didn’t invent it, more’s the pity, but I improved on it. But no matter. Then, toward the end of the war, I developed cataracts, and that’s why I’m here.”
    â€œWhy Mexico?” Jackson said.
    â€œThere’s an eye surgeon in Mexico City who’s supposed to be the best in the world. I don’t know whether he really is or not, but he’s a German Jew like me, and I feel comfortable with him. He’s going to operate next month, and that’s why I wanted to get this business about finding my son settled.”
    â€œWhat makes you think he’s still alive?” Jackson said.
    The blind man shrugged. “Because nobody’s come up with any proof that he’s dead. If he’s not dead, then he’s alive.”
    â€œHe stayed on in Switzerland when you went to