THE BANALITY OF EVIL
Hutch liked history. Real, unrevised history.
Grandfather Hutchinson had left Hutch only a few things when he passed on. His great-grandmother's engagement ring, now permanently attached on the finger of Becca, Hutch's new wife. His grandfather's beloved pocket watch, which over and over again had somehow survived Hutch's career as a rough and tumble cop. And the dozen books on history which Grandfather had treasured.
"Read them, Ken," he remembered his grandfather saying. "Read them if you read nothing else. History is a testament to the past and a warning to the future."
And Hutch obeyed. Those books held a place of honor on the bookshelf in his home. They were banged up and dog eared and much loved.
Hutch was sitting on his couch one late summer day. Becca, his brand new wife, was out with her best friend, Sivvy, the wife of his soulmate Starsky. They were looking at maternity clothes for Becca, who looked like she would need them very soon even if she was only around four months pregnant. Maybe the doctor had miscalculated the due date. It couldn't happen fast enough for Hutch.
Starsky was at Merle's Auto Repair, fretfully listing the Striped Tomato's latest faults to the smirking technician. Then, as he had advised Hutch while demanding Hutch's wallet earlier, he intended to pick up a case of their favorite beer, a good sipping bourbon, and two pizzas with everything. Don't expect him back too soon, he warned Hutch. He liked the smell of the pizza place and was willing to wait while lunch was being prepared.
Hutch by choice was alone with Kenny, the baby. Heaven on earth.
Kenny was a little over one year old now. A mini doppelganger of Starsky. A combo of little toughie and ball of sweetness. But today he had been a bit cranky and just wanted to sleep.
More dusky curls than when he was born. Eyes that had darkened to his father's lapis lazuli. Strong body that had walked early and got into everything that wasn't nailed down.
Kenny was drinking from his own special cup now.. Was not adverse to clunking his godfather's head with it from time to time. Hutch didn't mind; he never minded anything Kenny wanted to try. He just hoped that the grown up Starsky would never notice and decide to employ it as an attention-getting technique of his own. Beer bottles or coffee mugs, Hutch was prepared to lecture Starsk, were not the same as a plastic juice cup.
Kenny and Hutch shared a special bond that turned the blonde godfather to goo. It was ridiculous, really. Starsky the Elder and Becca were the only other ones who had this power over Hutch. Kenny would lock eyes with his godfather and give him a big grin and Hutch would be a puddle on the floor.
Sivvy was 'ma ma'. Starsky was 'da da'. Becca was 'ba ba". And Hutch was 'huck'.
The first time, everyone thought that "huck' was just a really big belch/hiccup, except for Hutch. He was outraged that anyone could think that, and bullied the others until they conceded that 'well, just MAYbe…"
But now it was an established fact that 'huck' was his beloved uncle.
Starsky, of course, had immediately started calling Hutch 'Huckleberry' and sometimes 'Finn'. Hutch chose to ignore this, only occasionally resorting to a jab in Starsky's ribs.
He hoped that the others would take their time getting home. Hutch was curled on the couch with one of Grandfather's books and Kenny was asleep in his bouncy chair after a diaper change, a messy piece of Hutch's hummus on pita, and a slug of OJ. Hutch was the only one in Kenny's immediate circle who didn't seem to object to changing diapers. That's love, boy.
Hutch adjusted the book he was holding on his lap. Leaned over the bouncy seat and serenaded the sleeping Kenny.
"Who's the best in all the world?" he sang in a twangy country and western soprano. "Uncle Huck. Uncle Huck."
Kenny, still asleep, inelegantly blew a spit bubble of approval.
The book Hutch had grabbed from the shelf was about World War II.
Specifically, the Holocaust.
Starsky and Hutch were both born in 1943. During the middle of it all. Obviously oblivious to what was shattering the world around them.
Hutch hadn't opened this book in a long time. He thumbed it and noticed with a start that there were two bookmarks thrust between pages. Two flattened out Chunky Chocolate Bar wrappers. And suddenly he remembered exactly the last time he had looked at this book.
September 1972. Six years ago. The Munich Olympic Games - the kidnapping and massacre of Jewish athletes by the Black September PLO group. Hutch and Starsky had been newly minted detectives, after years as street cop partners. Chunky had been Starsky's candy of choice in those days.
At that time Starsky had shared some of his family Holocaust history with Hutch. As a background to the Munich tragedy. But neither guy dwelled on it at the time. They were young 30 year olds then. Things that were happening in 1972, some in their own back yard of Bay City and America, took the spotlight.
Hutch lifted the first bookmark. All at once he remembered why it was there.
The page was a black-and-white photo of a Nazi officer at one of the death camps. Tall, proud, weapon in his lap, cigarette dangling from his lips.
Light hair, blondish. Eyes that could have been blue. Lanky frame.
Hutch might have been looking at himself.
"I'm Swedish," Hutch said out loud. His voice echoed in the room.
But it undeniably looked like him. A shorter-haired, relaxed but alert Hutch, frozen in time.
Hutch shuddered, imagining what the bastard was looking at just out of camera range.
So casually evil. So banal. So indifferent.
Hutch flipped slowly to the other candy bar wrapper. He remembered what was on that page too. He caught his breath.
Another photo. Grainy. Snapped by one of the U.S. troops who was first on the scene of the liberation of the Dachau concentration camp in April 1945.
A row of just-released prisoners, staring dazed into the camera. Not understanding what was going on. Not caring. Slumped, leaning on each other. Beyond skeletal.
Except for one prisoner.
This emaciated guy looked as half dead as the others. Hair clipped so close that only the barest suggestion of curls was visible. Hands as gnarled as a ninety year old man's.
But the eyes. The photo was black and white but this man's eyes seemed to be blazing with color through the page. Oh yeah, this one knew what was happening. Hutch would have bet that the guy had just asked one of the liberating soldiers how the Brooklyn Dodgers were doing.
And - oh - the stick of a man was actually grinning. A crooked smile.
This guy had Starsky's crooked smile.
He was looking straight into the camera. Flashing a V for Victory.
It was a Starsky at the gates of hell. Could have been Starsky's father or cousin. The ghost of Starsky Past. Bent but not broken.
Hutch knew why that Chunky Bar bookmark had been left there.
He understood why Grandfather had left him this book.
The memory of the Holocaust wasn't dead. It wasn't a banal glitch in the timeline of history. It was history that had to be remembered.
His eyes went to Kenny. Oh, Kenny. Oh, Kenny.
And his own child to be.
New lives. Tabula rasa, blank slates. Their loved ones had a sacred responsibility to fill those slates with what must never be forgotten.
Hutch was going to see to that.
The End