Way back when, he must have been a genuine blond. With his pale blue eyes and his pallid complexion, he could have easily passed for one of Hitler’s Übermenschen. Perhaps that was why he lasted so long before he was crammed into a railroad car and headed toward certain death. His existence was a testament to miracles. Having lived a long life, Oscar Adler wore the battle decorations of age, face and hands riddled with liver spots. His forehead held several shiny pink depressions—scar tissue left over from the removal of growths. Rina’s father had had several basal-cell carcinomas removed from his face because he was also very fair. Both of her parents were light-complexioned and light-eyed, but her mother had always made a point of wearing a hat when she was in the sun. It had paid off. Mama had beautiful skin. Oscar was older than both Mama and Papa. His cheeks clung to the skeletal structure underneath as tightly as a rubber mask. His eyes were sunken and framed by jaundiced folds of skin, the irises almost pinpoints under thick glasses.
