68. Their Stories

For all that I’m recalling now, there’s much I never could tell, even if somebody’d want to hear it, to hear me.

Not that I know so much, or more than anybody else in this room. Certainly not more than mother. For that matter, I’m not sure that what I know, what any of us has ever known, matters now. But, like this block, it’s all anybody really knows.

The man the cops found in the basement and tagged with my former name—that man confirmed what I’d suspected ever since the cops broke down Adam’s door too late to keep him from suffocating in gas fumes. The police report, and the stories I’d heard about Adam—and, for that matter, anything anybody might’ve said about me since I left this block—confirm one of the few iron-clad truths I’ve learned: When a man from this block dies, whether here or someplace else, nobody ever really knows the whole story about his death.

Sometimes you hear outright lies—like Adam was possessed by evil spirits. Or the man they found in the basement was me. Or that my former name was that of a sexual predator, who was killed in retribution (or retaliation, depending on who’s talking) for his preying on young boys. Or that it was done by someone he didn’t pay, or who didn’t pay him.

Mrs. Littington—who declared Adam one of the tuer Christ—said that her god had avenged himself on the people who killed his representative on earth. In the time she lived on this block, she never went to church, and I never heard her mention—except for what she said about Adam—deities or anything else that existed beyond her own life. I didn’t have the courage, or whatever, to point out this self-contradiction to her. For that matter, neither she nor anyone else ever explained what was going on when Jesus—sentenced to hang on a cross for a crime that would’ve gotten him community service in other places and times—rose from the dead three days after his death. If he was God in human form, how—why—could he die? Why would he deem such an improbable act necessary to atone for the alleged sins of people.

Why—from a God whose divine will brought Adam to Bergen Belsen and this block and me into the body of a man—were there so many?

None of it made sense; none of it could be pieced together, any more than the accounts of the men who managed to escape this block, however briefly. Nor did the stories of heroism or treason in the wars they fought, or the grotesque details of dismembered corpses found in the rivers, bas, oceans, lots, garages and other places near this block that are seen by nobody who’s from here.

Men have always lied, exaggerated, distorted, omitted and embellished when telling of each other’s deaths. It’s noting new, and it’s been called journalism, biography, history (especially military history) and psychology. My one and only disappointment with the female race, so far, if that so many of us have, for so long, simply echoed what we’ve heard.