The Last Witness by Jerry Amernic Page A

back.
    “New York University School of Law, Forty Washington Square South. The building is called Vanderbilt Hall,” said Jack’s voice through the car’s speaker system. “It’s in Greenwich Village.”
    “We’re in Greenwich Village,” said the driver.
    “I know,” said Jack. “It’s not far.”
    The driver smirked, slighted at the prospect of such a short fare. With the one-way streets and bumper-to-bumper traffic, it would take ten minutes for the trip and that only if he stretched things out. Walking would be faster, but this couple wasn’t walking anywhere.
    “It’s the main building of the law school,” Jack said. “It’s the whole block between West Third and Washington Square South.”
    “I know where it is,” said the driver.
    “I’m glad you know.”
    The woman steadied her cane between her knees, her hands clasped around the top. “This should be interesting,” she said to Jack as she settled in. “Do you think they’ll know who you are?”
    “Why would they know me?”
    “My nephew’s son knows who you are. He met with you, didn’t he, when he wrote that article?”
    Jack nodded.
    “That was a terrible thing he wrote and I’m going to tell him that.”
    “He’s young. He doesn’t know any better.”
    “Imagine writing what he did after all the things you told him.”
    Jack shrugged.
    “It’s not right. They think just because you’re a hundred years old you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    The sound system was picking everything up. The driver peeked into his mirror, and scrutinized the face of the man in the back. “You’re a hundred years old?” he said.
    “What was that?” Jack said, raising his head.
    “You’re a hundred years old?” the driver repeated in a louder voice.
    Jack smiled. “Yes I am. They had a big party for me the other day but that was the other day. I’m working on my second hundred years now.”
    The driver laughed as he inched his cab onto the roadway. The traffic, full of small electric taxis like his, was barely moving.
    “Didn’t you tell him about Auschwitz?” the woman said to Jack. “And how everyone was starving to death? And about the gas chambers and the crematorium?”
    “I did but I guess he didn’t believe me.”
    The driver looked into his mirror again.
    “I don’t understand how people can be so ignorant,” the woman went on. “And university students yet. What makes it so bad is he’s my nephew’s son. I wonder what’s going to happen at the debate today.”
    “It’s not a debate,” said Jack. “It’s a panel discussion. But that’s why we’re going. To see what they have to say.”
    “I’m not terribly hopeful.”
    “They’re going to have some professors there and the president of the Jewish students association or whatever it’s called.”
    “One would think he’d have something to say about it.”
    The cab wasn’t moving. None of the cars were moving. The driver stared into his rear-view mirror.
    “What was that you said about gas chambers?” he said.
    “I beg your pardon?” said Jack.
    “She said something about gas chambers.”
    The woman lifted her cane and tapped it twice against the glass directly behind the driver’s head. “This man,” she said, motioning to Jack, “is a survivor of the Nazi death camp at Auschwitz. You’ve heard of Auschwitz, haven’t you?”
    The driver just shrugged.
    “My God,” the woman exclaimed at his apparent indifference.
    “Can I ask you a question?” said Jack, leaning forward.
    “Sure,” said the driver.
    “Where are you from?”
    “Iran.”
    “When were you born?”
    “Nineteen-ninety-five.”
    “How long have you been in New York?”
    “Nine years now. Almost.”
    “And you’ve never heard of Auschwitz?” the woman asked him.
    “Well …”
    “Well what?” said the woman.
    “I heard rumors.”
    “Rumors?” the woman said.
    “Yes. I heard a few things but that was only after I came here.”
    “What about over