BooksBarbecue
Back The Tribe Save as PDF
Chapters (33)
  1. Cover
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. Prologue
  6. Part One: Roger Hawkins
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. Part Two: Rachel Levy
  14. 1
  15. 2
  16. 3
  17. 4
  18. 5
  19. 6
  20. Part Three: Belzec
  21. 1
  22. 2
  23. 3
  24. 4
  25. 5
  26. Part Four: The Rabbis
  27. 1
  28. 2
  29. 3
  30. 4
  31. 5
  32. About the Author
  33. About the Cover

The whole Laurel police force was there, cars, a few men, and when they saw her, three came up to her. They were pale. One was young and handsome with thick blond hair; he talked for them.

“Were you a friend?” he asked.

“Best friends,” Rachel sobbed.

The men looked at each other.

“What happened?” she asked.

“We’re not sure.”

“Are they dead?” she asked.

“Yes. Three people. A woman and two young men . . .”

Rachel nodded. Her mother would have screamed, her grandmother would have wanted to see. Rachel wanted to see and she pushed past the men and ran up the path toward that silent house. The blond cop grabbed her.

“You can’t go in there,” he said. He didn’t expect her to resist or to be so strong, and she pushed him away and ran up the path. He ran after her, but she held her nightgown up and ran as if demons chased her. Up the stairs, across the brick porch-­patio to the splintered door hanging loose, by a thread of hinge. She smashed through it, slipped on the slick floor of the entrance hall, fell and skidded. The cop reached her, pulled her to her feet.

“Please, lady, please,” he gasped, but she was staring at the front of her beige raincoat which was streaked with gray. So was her nightgown, so were her shoes. She had slipped in gray mud that streaked Willa’s parquet floor. The mud led away from the door, into the living room, across the celadon carpet.

She touched the front of her coat; it came off on her fingers and she rubbed them together and smelled clay.

‡‡‡ Oaf.

Part Three: Belzec

PART THREE: BELZEC

1

Chapter 1

Hawkins leaned on the windowsill and looked out at the promenade next to the river. It was eight-­thirty Sunday morning, but the fags were already out in force. They walked arm in arm along the path against the backdrop of the Manhattan skyline. It was a real walk they took, a slow and stately march, like the women in hoop skirts and men in frock coats must have taken a hundred years ago. The baby carriages were missing, but the feeling was the same. A warm Sunday morning in April, after a night of balls, parties, at-­homes, cruising the bars, drumming up trade; and no matter how the night had come out, they dressed up and walked out to show the world. Hawkins felt a wave of tenderness for them. They didn’t care about the Puerto Ricans who swarmed over Red Hook and spilled into the Heights. They didn’t get bitched off about busing and move to the suburbs.