“No, Mottle, I never did meet Tod again.” A pair of wide eyes look up at me, an expression of wonderment spilling out of them.

“Zeide Berle, please tell us about what happened when you met the queen!”

I hear a bark of laughter burst out of my oldest grandchild. “Mottle, you must have heard that story a dozen times since the beginning of the summer. Why do you find it so fascinating?” Shmule asks.

The wide eyes of wonderment turn to hurt, a sheen of tears filling them. “Now, now,” I say, “not everyone gets to meet the monarch in the palace. It really was exciting. Besides, you asked me about Daucel a dozen times too.” I feel my eyes twinkle. I can’t help but tease Shmule.

A precocious child, he grew up to be an exceedingly talented young man. He inherited my curiosity, but definitely not the flightiness. His down-to-earth manner must come from his mother’s side of the family.

Shmule huffs. “But Zeide Berle, you know that Daucel is the key to the story! He was the last one to be in contact with Tod! Not to mention that he was working with Tod, taking advantage of you even when you were still an unsuspecting kid!”

“Shmule, I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that your Zeide has rehashed this story thousands of times.” That’s my wife, Bubbe Bertha. She’s right. I have thought this over every day since that horrible accident so many years ago. The fifty years that have passed hardly ease the pain of the casualties that could have been avoided. If only someone had taken me seriously then.

If only someone had taken me seriously ever. The old wound resurfaces. Not my parents, not Ben, not even Egler the Cobbler with the blue shoe patch so many years ago.

“Zeide Berle, do you think Tod could still be alive today?”

I sigh deeply, painfully. “It could very well be, Shmule. I estimate he’d find himself in his upper eighties if he is, but with modern medicine, it’s definitely more common than when we were growing up in Liverpool.”

A smile wrinkles Bubbe Bertha’s face. “You never fail to bring up the old times, Berle.” Turning to Shmule, she adds, “I can hear those wheels turning. You want to find him. Or Daucel.”

Shmule’s face turns a fiery red, and he shakes his head. Mottle laughs at his older brother’s embarrassment, reminding me of his presence. Bubbe Bertha raises a single eyebrow at Shmule until he grins sheepishly and nods. “You know me too well, Bubbe.”

I interrupt. “Run along now, Mottle. I’ll tell you the story of my meeting with the queen later.” His face lights up as his little feet take him bounding out of the room.

Ever the optimist, I surprise the room with my uncharacteristic skepticism. “Scotland Yard was after him for years. They turned over Europe looking for him. What makes you think you’ll succeed in this needle-in-a-haystack search of yours?”

“It’s been years, Zeide Berle. He has to have lowered his guard somewhat. And the accident at Mersey was in the middle of the war. It was so easy to disappear then.”

“Do you understand what you’re saying, Shmule? You’re accusing him of treason!” Bubbe Bertha is horrified.

“The way I know Tod, that wouldn’t be beyond him. If he was ready to stab me in the back, he would be ready to defect to enemy territory.”

A fire ignites in Shmule’s eyes. Wariness in Bubbe Bertha’s. Exhaustion in mine.

But I make a snap decision. With ease, I rise from the worn armchair and make my way to the bookshelf. I pull out a cracked envelope and slide out a sheaf of yellowing newspapers. “These are all the pictures of Tod I collected over the years. Make copies, scan them, do whatever you need to do, and bring them straight back to me.”

Shmule grabs my offering and scurries out, shouting his thanks over his shoulder. I look at Bertha as the door slams shut. We both laugh at his impetuousness.

I shrug. Who knows? Maybe Shmule will accomplish what all others have failed to do, where I myself have refused to tread.