Forever by Judith Gould

her off to pick up Waldo. And, in
every other sentence, she told him how she couldn't believe for a
minute that he'd killed himself.
    The night dragged on.
    Every so often, she'd stare up at the
tarnished brass chandelier - the one her grandfather had supposedly
hanged himself from - and tried to imagine him climbing up on a
chair, looping a belt around his neck, and kicking the chair out
from under him.
    But each time, she shook her head and
frowned. It was no good. No matter how hard she tried to visualise
it, the scenario just wouldn't play. She kept thinking: How could
he have managed it with his bad leg? He had barely been able to get
out of a chair, or even step up on a curb without relying on his
cane.
    On the drive into the city, she had told
Uncle Sammy as much.
    'The police say that suicides often show
unbelievable determination,' he had replied.
    But no. The suicide verdict just wouldn't
play. Not for her. Not now. Not ever.
    But how could she prove it? For prove it she
must.
    There were so many questions . . . and no
answers.
    When she ran out of things to tell him, she
mosied around his desk, poking among the piles of papers and
scribbled notes. An eight-by-ten colour slide caught her
attention.
    She picked it up, held it against the desk
light, studied it for a long time. It was a first-rate photograph
of a painting which depicted weary, stooped old people on one side
awaiting their turn to step into a fountain, from which they
emerged young and straight and beautiful on the other. Not a pretty
picture as paintings went, but powerful, and strangely arresting.
And its subject matter was unmistakable. It's the fountain of
youth, she thought.
    Lowering it thoughtfully, Stephanie noticed
a stick-on label in the lower left-hand corner of the cardboard
frame. It was neatly printed in what she recognised as her
grandfather's hand:
    Lucas Cranach, The Younger (1472-1553)
    Oil on panel
    Property of the British Museum
    Setting the slide down, Stephanie's eye
wandered to the stack of old, fading black-and-white
photographs.
    She picked them up, flipped slowly through.
The first showed a beautiful young girl of about six standing
beside a dog almost as large as she was. The next was of the same
girl, at about age twelve, standing beside an even more beautiful
girl, obviously her sister. The resemblance was striking. They both
had pigtails and wore Bavarian dirndls, and there were rolling
meadows and a steep-roofed chalet in the background. Another
photograph showed them along an esplanade flanking . . . what? A wizened, ancient dwarf? Obviously a close friend,
from the way they hugged each other.
    The next few photographs were even older ...
the brown-and-white variety, with sawtooth edges. Were these the
parents of the girls? Perhaps. Then came more black-and-whites. A
woman walking with both girls and the dwarf, all three in
First Communion dresses, all three smiling at the camera. One
showed the first girl, older now, her arms hooked through those of
two young men . . . obviously admirers.
    Suddenly something raised the hairs on
Stephanie's arms; made them stand up straight. She recognised this
young woman of sixteen or so. It was Lili Schneider - future
world-class opera diva and beauty, whose voice had thrilled
millions . . . whose very biography her grandfather had been
working on!
    There were other photographs, as well.
    Lili hamming it up with school friends, Lili
standing beside a piano, where a stern-faced woman with swept-back
hair sat with her fingers poised over the ivory keys; an older Lili
onstage, bewigged and begowned for Der Rosenkavalier , a
smiling Lili on the arm of a handsome Nazi officer ... a whole slew
of pictures of Lili with Nazis . . .
    It was too chilling.
    Stephanie let the pictures drop.
    The stereo caught her eye. She went over to
it. What had Grandpa been listening to last? she wondered. She
turned on the sound system and punched the CD player. The disc
drawer slid silently out, the disc