I told him he shouldn’t be drinking with all those drugs he’s taking.
“Medicine,” he corrected. “I don’t do drugs. Kids do drugs. Come here, I want to talk to you.”
I put the bottle on the coffee table, next to his new copy of None Dare Call It Treason. He didn’t read English but he heard about this American right-wing book and just had to have it.
“There’s only one way to convince this shyster uncle of yours,” my father said. He waved a piece of paper in the air, then nodded and snorted. He lit a cigarette. The tip of his cigarette flamed up for a fraction of a second. He inhaled and blew smoke out through his nostrils. “Courtroom testimony. Dated 1945.”
“So?”
My father proceeded to tell me Uncle Arthúr had his own skeletons. There were 2000 of them. Near the end of World War II, the
