Page 4 of The Little Liar
Over time, people in his neighborhood began calling him Chioni—the Greek word for “snow”—because he seemed so untouched by earthly deceit. How could I not take note of such a creature? In a world full of lies, honesty glimmers like silver foil reflecting the sun.
The Rest of the Cast
Now, to fully tell you Nico’s story, I must include three other people, who will intertwine constantly over the course of his unusual life.
The first is his brother, Sebastian, whom you’ve met already on the train. Three years older, dark-haired, and considerably more serious, Sebastian tried to be a good son while quietly harboring an older brother’s envy of his pampered younger sibling.
“Why do we have to go to bed now?” Sebastian would moan.
Translation:Why does Nico get to stay up as late as me?
“Why do I have to finish my soup?”
Translation:Why doesn’t Nico have to finish his?
The older brother was bony where the younger was lithe, and self-conscious where the younger was at ease. Many a time when Nico was entertaining the family with comic imitations, Sebastian would be curled up near the window, a book in his lap, a frown on his face.
Was Sebastian as truthful as Nico? Sadly, no. He lied about the usual things, brushing his teeth, taking coins from his father’s drawer, whether he’d paid attention at synagogue, and, once he reached adolescence, why he was taking so long in the bathroom.
Still, the older boy was fiercely devoted to his family, his mother, Tanna, his father, Lev, his grandparents Lazarre and Eva, his twin baby sisters, Elisabet and Anna, and yes, when pressed, even his younger brother, Nico, who was his rival in racing through the olive oil market, or swimming off the city’s east side beaches.
But Sebastian saved his greatest devotion for the girl named Fannie.
Fannie is the third person in the little liar’s tale. Before the train ride that changed her life forever, Fannie had been a shy twelve-year-old on the cusp of young womanhood, her features in midbloom, flashing olive eyes, generous lips, a shy smile, a slim, budding figure. Her raven corkscrew hair covered her narrow shoulders.
Fannie’s father, a widower named Shimon Nahmias, owned an apothecary on Egnatia Street, and Fannie, his only child, would help him organize the shelves. Sebastian would often visit the shop on the pretense that he needed something for his mother, but he was privately hoping for time alone with Fannie. Although they had known each other all their lives, and had played together as children, things had changed in recent months. Sebastian felt a rumble in his stomach whenever she looked at him. His hands began to sweat.
Sadly, Fannie did not share this attraction. Being younger, she was actually in Nico’s class in school, where her seat was just in back of his. The day after her twelfth birthday, shewore a new dress that her father had purchased as a present, and Nico, forever honest, smiled at her and said, “You look pretty today, Fannie.”
From that moment, her heart was set on him.
I said I had a look.
But all right. To complete the introductions, let us return to that train, which in the summer of 1943 was barreling from Salonika up through central Europe. Many today are unaware that the Nazis, in their efforts to conquer the continent, invaded Greece and claimed that hot country as their own. Or that Salonika, prior to the war, was the only city in Europe with a Jewish majority population—which made it a ripe target for the Nazis and their Schutzstaffel, or SS, troops. They did there what they did in Poland, Hungary, France, and elsewhere: rounded up the Jewish citizens and led them to their slaughter.
The final destination of that train from Salonika was a death camp, the one called Auschwitz-Birkenau. The large man had been right. Not that it did him any good.
“HALT!” the German officer repeated, as he pushed his way through the passengers and reached the window. He was squat and thick-lipped, his face tightly cut, as if there were no spare skin to soften his jutting chin or bulging cheekbones. He waved his gun at the grate on the floor.
“Who did this?” he asked.
Heads looked down. No one spoke. The German lifted the grate and examined its sharp edges, then gazed up at the bearded man, the one who’d told Fannie to “be a good person” and “tell the world what happened here.”
“Was it you, sir?” the German whispered.
Before the bearded man could answer, the German swung the grate into his face, ripping the skin from his nose and cheeks. The bearded man shrieked in pain.
“I’ll ask again. Was it you?”
“He didn’t do it!” a woman screamed.
The German followed her eyes to the large man standing silently by the window hole.
“Thank you,” the German said.
He raised his pistol and shot the large man in the head.
Blood splattered the train wall as the large man collapsed. The gunshot’s echo froze the passengers in their shoes. The truth was (and I should know) there were enough people in that car to overwhelm the German officer and put him down. But at that moment they could not see me. They could only see what the German wanted them to see. That he, not them, was the minister of their fate.
