The invitation arrived via special courier—a lunch invitation from one of the most prominent businessmen, a friend of my late father, Mr. Ephraim Rosenfeld.
When I arrived, I found him sitting in his garden, defying the harsh January weather, even though he had passed his eighty-third year.
After we finished eating, we sat around the fireplace accompanied by his wife and two daughters. The conversation branched out in warmth and intimacy. At that moment, I felt something inside me urging me to ask a question that had long haunted me—a question about a story my father once told me about him. I intended to write it, but I wasn't sure of its authenticity. The man smiled calmly and answered with confidence:
"It is real."
His words struck my mind with force, leaving me wondering about the details. I asked him to tell it to me again, but he gently gestured for me to follow him to his office. There, he sat silently before me, gazing at me deeply. His features shifted as if he were no longer the same man, transforming into someone else... someone far more mysterious.
He initiated the question in a low voice:
"Before I begin, I want you to tell me first: who are you? And with whom will I be speaking? To a close friend, or to a stranger on a bus?"
I didn't understand the meaning of his question! He looked into my eyes as if searching for an answer, then added:
"Do you know who you will be addressing? Is it the general public, or the elite? Can you dive into the depths of the characters? Will you understand the secrets of their souls? Can you place yourself among them?"
I stammered, feeling as though I was facing an exam for which I hadn't prepared. I tried to compose myself, but words failed me, so I said:
"And if I cannot answer!"
I saw the ghost of a smile creep onto his lips, and he said quietly:
"Then let us begin, and we shall see who you are in the end."
He relaxed into his chair, clasped his hands together, then sighed:
"Betrayal fascinates me. It is a heavy word, isn't it? But it is part of my life. I was subjected to it. But I also betrayed. Yes, I betrayed."
"I was assigned a mission that was, in essence, impossible, yet the order was absolute: 'Find the lost prophecy of Nostradamus.' A prophecy, I was told, that leads to a power capable of making any nation invincible. I thought it was destined for certain failure—how can one find what is lost forever? But what happened was something... entirely different."
He leaned back, his gaze fixed on the corner of his desk. There sat an old, ornate cigar box, and beside it, a massive leather-bound book, its spine worn by the years. He stared at it for a moment, then returned to continue:
"All my life, I lived on pretense, acting, influencing people. My job was to be a counterfeit image. I never spoke the truth, but now... I feel the time has come to speak."
He paused for a moment, as if waiting for his memory to return to finish what he started. I felt then that the entire room had changed, transformed into a stage he had mounted to deliver his confessions. When he began the narrative, he didn't stop for two full hours, leaving me certain that I was facing a very thrilling story.
I followed every word he said. The words flowed from his lips slowly and quietly. He narrated while his gaze was lost in the void, as if retrieving something lost. Time no longer moved at the same pace; it stopped. Then he closed his eyes, as if trying to hold back a tear that almost escaped his eyelids, and said in a trembling voice:
"You must know that this story haunts my sleep, a source of pain and insomnia that never leaves me. I didn't realize the truth until it was too late. I didn't see it. It has made me, to this day, a human without a soul."
Silence seeped between us, his tear-filled eyes revealing what his tongue could not say. But he looked at me and said:
"You may mention the real names, except for one name only..."
He whispered it in my ear, then turned slowly and returned to his seat in the garden, ignoring everything around him except that world hiding behind his eyes.
At that moment, I realized that what I heard was a painful legacy weighing on his soul. I left him with a promise to return, if fate willed it, after writing the final word.
Let me not keep you waiting, and invite you to the theater of events. I do not know where to start. But I know the beginning will be far... very far away.
Paris, "La Santé" Prison
December 1949
She stared at her nails and her weary hands as she sat on her iron bed. The bars of the cell cast their broken shadows on her face. The time was approaching seven in the evening, and nothing could be heard but the echo of the wind permeating the high window openings.
She stood up and began pacing back and forth, as if walking through her tangled thoughts. She felt the heat of her blood flowing in her veins, trying to awaken her soul again, but she was at peace with herself—a strange reconciliation with the harsh sentence passed upon her.
She heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching, so she hurried to the iron bars, pressed her cheek against them, and stole a fleeting glance at the end of the corridor. But she saw no one, just a long silence.
Images of the trial passed before her eyes. The voice of the prosecutor, the voices of the judges, the eyes of the audience that knew no mercy, as if they had judged her before she uttered a word. Yet, she felt a sense of serenity, as if everything that happened was destined. Despite the surrounding circumstances, she was able to sleep.
At six in the morning, the cell door opened. Her lawyer, Monsieur Étienne, and the Rabbi entered, led by a captain. The woman sat on her bed, calm. Her gaze held no fear; on the contrary, her eyes held a great deal of comfort.
She took out from under her pillow a letter she had written over three nights. She handed it to the lawyer, then put on her shoes and wore a black cloak over her gray prison clothes, hiding the red armband wrapped around her right arm. She looked at them and asked:
"Has he arrived?"
The lawyer replied in a calm tone: "Yes."
Her facial features relaxed a little, and she said confidently:
"Then, I am ready."
She walked with them down a long corridor amidst the cells, the voices of the female prisoners rising in disapproval, but she paid them no mind. Her steps were steady, as if she had walked this path many times in her dreams.
She arrived at an execution yard where a firing squad had lined up—thirteen soldiers and an officer standing tall. She looked around, as if searching for something, and asked:
"Where is he?"
Moments later, a man in his early forties entered the yard. His features were tired, his beard unshaven. He approached her, and their eyes met. His hand was trembling as he tried to hold back his tears, but he couldn't. He stepped forward to embrace her. The guard tried to stop him, but the officer signaled to allow it.
He hugged her tightly—it was his last chance to feel the warmth of her soul. In contrast, she was calmer. She embraced him as if reassuring him, then whispered a few words in his ear, and he smiled.
The officer signaled the guard to remove the man, then stepped forward to blindfold her, but she raised her hand in refusal. He returned the blindfold to its place and stepped back to the side of his men, then raised his hand, shouting:
"Ready!"
The soldiers stood in readiness, their rifles aimed at her. She wasn't looking at them; her eyes were directed towards the sky, as if waiting for something bigger than death itself.
"Aim!"
The woman looked at the man for the last time, and smiled.
Here, the officer brought his hand down, shouting:
"Fire!"
The bullets launched, pierced the air, and pierced the body. The woman shook, then slammed into the wall behind her. A waterfall of blood exploded from her chest, and she slid quietly to the ground.
The man broke down crying like a small child as he watched her convulse, her soul slipping from her body like a silken scarf.
The doctor stepped forward, held her wrist, and examined her eyes. Then he nodded to the officer, who turned to the attendees and said:
"She is dead."