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empathy.
    “Miriam was my little playmate, we had been together
since—since I was twelve months old.” Radbuka began to cry.
    “When she arrived at the camp with you, isn’t that
right?” Beth said.
    “We spent two years in Terezin together. There were
six of us, the six musketeers I think of us now, but my Miriam, she was my
special—I want to know she is still alive someplace, still healthy. And maybe
she remembers her Paul as well.” He cupped his face in his hands; his shoulders
shook.
    Rhea Wiell’s face loomed suddenly between him and the
camera. “Let’s finish here, Beth. That’s all Paul can handle today.”
    As the camera pulled back from them, Dennis Logan, the
station anchor, spoke over the scene. “This sad, sad story continues to haunt
not only Paul Radbuka but thousands of other Holocaust survivors. If any of you
think you know Paul’s Miriam, call the number on our screen, or go to our Web
site, www.Globe-All.com. We’ll make sure Paul Radbuka gets your message.”
    “How disgusting,” Carl burst out when Morrell muted
the set again. “How can anyone expose himself like that?”
    “You sound like Lotty,” Max murmured. “I suppose his
hurt is so great that he isn’t aware that he’s exposing himself.”
    “People like to talk about themselves,” Don put in.
“That’s what makes a journalist’s job easy. Does his name mean something to
you, Mr. Loewenthal?”
    Max looked at him quizzically, wondering how Don knew
his name. Morrell stepped in to perform introductions. Don explained that he
had come out to cover the conference and recognized Max from today’s program.
    “Did you recognize the guy—Radbuka, wasn’t it? The
name or the person?” he added.
    “You’re a journalist who would like me to talk about
myself to you?” Max said sharply. “I have no idea who he is.”
    “He was like a child,” Carl said. “Utterly
unself-conscious about what he was saying, even though he was recounting the
most appalling events.”
    The phone rang again. It was Michael Loewenthal,
saying that if his father had Calia’s dog to please come home with it.
    Max gave a guilty start. “Victoria, may I call you in
the morning?”
    “Of course.” I went into the back to get a card from
my case so that Max would have my cell-phone number, then I walked out to the
car with him and Carl. “Did you two recognize the guy?”
    Under the street lamp I saw Max look at Carl. “The
name. I thought I recognized the name—but it doesn’t seem possible. I’ll call
you in the morning.”
    When I went back inside, Don was in purdah again with
a cigarette. I joined Morrell in the kitchen, where he was washing Carl’s
brandy glass. “Did they tell all away from the prying ears of journalism?”
    I shook my head. “I’m beat, but I’m curious, too,
about the therapist. Are you guys going to stay up for the special segment with
her?”
    “Don is panting for it. He thinks she may be his
career-saving book.”
    “You’d better believe it,” Don called through the
screen door. “Although the guy would be hard to work with—his emotions seem
awfully volatile.”
    We all returned to the living room just as the
“Exploring Chicago” logo came up on the screen. The show’s regular announcer
said they had a special program for us tonight and turned the stage over to
Beth Blacksin.
    “Thank you, Dennis. In this special edition of
‘Exploring Chicago,’ we have the opportunity to follow up on the exciting
revelations we heard earlier today, exclusively on Global Television, when a
man who came here as a boy from war-torn Europe told us how therapist Rhea
Wiell helped him recover memories he had buried alive for fifty years.”
    She ran a few segments from Radbuka’s speech to the
convention, followed by excerpts from her own interview with him.
    “We’re going to follow up on today’s extraordinary
story by talking to the therapist who worked with Paul Radbuka. Rhea Wiell has
been having