“I thought a lot about what you told me last night. Have you written your story down?”

“I am writing it now,” he said. “For my children and grandchildren. I do not think my son will read it though.”

“Why?”

“I think maybe he does not want to think of such things.”

“He will want to read it someday,” I said.

“Yes. Perhaps after I am dead. People are always more interesting after they are dead. Especially parents, I think.”

I thought of my own father. What questions would I want to ask him once it was no longer possible?

“One of my father’s favorite books was written by a survivor of a concentration camp,” I said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it, Man’s Search for Meaning by…”

“Viktor E. Frankl,” Leszek said.

“Yes. Then you’ve read it?”

He smiled. “Yes, I have read it. I know the writer.”

“You’ve met Viktor E. Frankl?”

He smiled. “Viktor was a friend of mine. We wrote letters.”

“That is very cool,” I said. “Very cool.”

A few moments later Leszek brought the pancakes over to the table. He gave me the top two cakes, leaving a bottom one for himself.

“I have Aunt Jemima syrup,” he said.

“Thank you.” I poured syrup on my pancakes, spreading it out with my fork. I took a bite. “You make good pancakes.”

“Ha!” he said. “As good as my soup?”

I laughed. After we both had eaten a little, I said, “I want to thank you for what you said last night.”

“I said too much. Did it help?”

“It did. I tried to call Kyle Craig this morning.”

His heavy brow fell. “Who?”

“Kyle. My former business partner. The one who stole from me.”

“Oh yes. You called him?”

“I tried. But his phone has been disconnected. But I’ll find him.”

“Good. Good,” he said, nodding approvingly.

“I think it was actually more difficult telling God that I forgave Kyle.”

“Perhaps you have not yet forgiven God.”

“Perhaps,” I said. I knew there was truth in what he said.

“I understand,” Leszek said. “When Ania died I was very, very angry at God. I even shouted at him. This to me is most strange, because I did not shout at God when I learned the soldiers had killed my mother and brother and sister, or later when they killed my father. But I shouted at him when my wife died. I think because I could not blame her death on anyone but God.” He looked at me sadly. “I think God understands such things.”

“You think so?”