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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 doorbell rang. “Oy!” Ada cried, “they’re here. Sara, put on water for tea, Chaim, put on your jacket. . . .” She grabbed the platter, rushed out of the kitchen. Garfield reluctantly folded the paper over the story of the dead Eagles. David was right, he thought. It would come to him in the shower some day, or when he was polishing the ceremonial silver, or saying a brocha. Hours, days, years from now; when he’d stopped thinking about it.

Labor Day weekend ended the best season in the history of Bianco Bros. Notions and Variety, and Louis Bianco decided to take his family to Nova Scotia for three weeks. It was a hot muggy day in the middle of September and he stopped by the store to get his deep-sea-­fishing equipment, which was stored in the basement. The heat had seeped in through the stone walls, and the basement was hot and damp. He collected the rods, reels, and tackle box, then stood for a moment smelling the air. After a long hot spell like this, and when the air was very damp, he thought he could still smell traces of the big bottle of Prince Matchabelli cologne he’d broken thirty-five years ago. The stuff had soaked into the cement floor and the heat and dampness brought it out again. He breathed in. He could smell it all right, and he wondered where Abrams was, and Pearce. He’d meant to call Abrams or write to him. He still had his address in the old leather book they kept next to the phone. But the address was as old as the faint smell around him and Abrams had prob­ably moved away years ago, or maybe died. Pearce was in his seventies, if he was still alive. Speiser was dead and so were most of the men on that list by now, Bianco thought.

“ ‘Hardly a man is yet alive . . .’ ” he said softly. Then he tucked the rods under his arms and carried them and the tackle box up the stairs.

By the time he got back home, the story of the boys’ murder in Brooklyn took up two paragraphs on page thirty of the Post and there was nothing in it about clay.

Part Two: Rachel Levy

PART TWO: RACHEL LEVY

1

Chapter 1