Hanna had no idea of the consequences of her words. That one conversation would steer the course of their entire future together, driving Robert further into a life of lies. The absurdity and irony of it all was that every lie was out of love for her.
The end of December 1944 saw Manhattan blanketed in endless snow. On New Year’s Eve, Robert promised Hanna he would be back before dinner. She had pushed their budget to the limit on a decadent meal from Schwartz’s, their favorite deli on the Upper West Side, splurging on smoked whitefish, pastrami, salmon roe, and sweet challah. She arrived home and set the table, at last ready to put on the dress her husband had given her.
At nightfall, Robert made his last run of the year, arriving to find the docks in total darkness and empty. There was no risk that the police would be patrolling all the way out there on New Year’s Eve. The loading of cigarette cartons and crates of booze took place seamlessly. The two longshoremen who helped Robert wished him a happy new year and were on their way. He tied down the tarp, climbed behind the wheel, and turned over the engine. As the truck lumbered between two cranes, a red light appeared in Robert’s rearview mirror. A cop car was right on his tail, its siren wailing in the dark night. Robert knew he could play dumb about the cargo, claiming he was a deliveryman putting in some overtime for the holidays. With his spotless record, he risked little more than a night in jail and a slap on the wrist from a judge. But the thought of being held behind bars made Robert panic. He froze, paralyzed by the memory of the only other time he had been held prisoner, and the scars that he still bore from that terrible day.
He slammed on the gas, jerking the wheel. Determined to bury any evidence of wrongdoing, Robert sent the truck roaring straight for the river. He leapt out of the cabin at the last second and rolled, catching just a glimpse of the truck as it plunged into the murky Hudson. The cop car nearly met the same fate, but came to a screeching halt with its front bumper hanging out over the void.
Robert didn’t wait for the cop to come to his wits. He scrambled to his feet and fled, disappearing into the labyrinth of stacked cargo.
1945
New York had already rung in the new year by the time Robert arrived home, with skinned elbows and knees, and a fresh set of bruises on his back. Hanna tended to his wounds without uttering a single word. He thought she might explode at any moment, and he’d spent the long two-hour walk through the dark and icy streets preparing for a serious blowup. Yet Hanna seemed strangely calm as she dressed his wounds.
Once Robert was patched up, Hanna sat down across from him and took his hands, the look in her eyes surprisingly gentle and loving.
“I should be furious with you. I was furious around nine o’clock, I was. Around ten, I was even more furious. But by eleven, there was no way I could stay mad a minute longer. I panicked, I was so worried about you. When the clock struck twelve, I made a vow before God and heaven that I wouldn’t be mad at all, as long as you came home in one piece. By two in the morning, I was convinced you were dead. But here you are. So, no matter what happened to you, it couldn’t be as bad as all the thoughts that ran through my head. Now, listen to me, Robert. Tomorrow, there are two ways this can go. The first, I pack my suitcases and leave. You’ll never see me again. The other option is you tell me everything, every last detail of what happened, and I stay. As long as you didn’t kill anybody, and you make me a promise that it’s the last time you’ll ever do anything so stupid.”
Robert chose the latter, telling his wife the whole truth and vowing to never again commit a crime. Hanna forgave him.
Robert planned to beg his boss not to turn him in and to promise to pay back the money for the lost truck. But when he arrived at the truck depot two days later, his boss cut in before Robert could even say a word. The man looked like he had seen better days.