Lowe's Descent

Lowe’s Descent
By Roy Edgerton
March, 2007



Tuesday morning, another cold rainy January day in

Vancouver. City Bus no. 52 barrels down Granville Street,

loaded with the weary faces of commuters trying to earn

a living. Some sleep, a few are trance-like and stare

straight ahead. Some chat with the person sitting

beside them and others read paperbacks. The younger ones

wear I-PODS and nod to the beat of their favorite artists,

unaware and uncaring that they are the future for the

soon to be booming hearing aid business.

One man sits in an aisle seat mid-way down. He has

today’s newspaper spread on his lap and stares intently

at the front page headlines “Ahmadinejad denies Holocaust,

threatens to wipe Israel off the map”. A look of disgust

crosses his face, then anger, finally worry. He leans

toward the lady sitting beside him.

“Mrs. Feldman, can you believe this madman?” He holds

the newspaper up for her to scan the headline. “It could happen again.” They look at each other, as

though each bears the burden of horrific memories, forever

etched into their brain cells. The man folds the paper and

stands up, the bus slowing for the next stop.
Charles Lowe, age 66, proprietor of Lowe’s Antiques

in trendy Gastown, exits the bus, newspaper and briefcase

in hand. He waves at Mrs. Feldman as the bus roars off,

turns and walks towards his storefront. As he approaches

his place of business, he sees two panhandlers have taken

up residence directly in front of the entrance in the

alcove between the display windows. A couple of

twenty somethings, man and woman, together with their

faithful companion, a golden retriever. They are unkempt

and offer empty coffee cups for spare change from

passersby. Unfortunately for them, Charles Lowe is not a

passerby, but the owner of the business and he does not

want two vagrants taking up space outside his front door.

“You’re going to have to leave right now!” Lowe

barks. “I can’t have beggars in front of my store, get

out, get out! And take that mangy animal with you.”

The panhandlers slowly rise, gathering their cups and

blankets, but not before asking for a donation.

“How ‘bout a coupla bucks for some mochas?” the male

asks.

“Mochas be damned! I’m calling the police if you

don’t leave now.” Lowe bellows.

Reluctantly the threesome move away from the unsympathetic

silver-haired figure who watches them slink away. Lowe

turns and opens the door to his establishment to commence

the day’s business.

Lowe’s Antiques is filled with expensive works of art

from throughout the world. European paintings, sculptures,

and pottery, all museum quality, fill every wall and shelf.

These are expensive pieces to be sure and reveal Mr. Lowe’s

clients to be very well heeled indeed. No ticky tacky

browsers welcome here.

Lowe removes his overcoat, plugs in the kettle for his

morning tea then picks up the telephone. He dials his

banker and after a dozen rings he actually hears a human

voice.

“Mr. Smith, have you reviewed my recent credit line

application? Have you reached a decision on my extension?

I require the increase in order to acquire the Carr and

O’Keefe paintings. You need more financial information?

Look, I have already provided the bank with my last three

years financial and net worth statements, what more could

you possibly require? I really do not appreciate these

delays in the bank’s vetting process, its unacceptable.

I may in fact have to find an alternative banking agent.

Good day Mr. Smith!” Not a good conversation.

Lowe slams the phone down, angry and frustrated after

the call to his bank. The whistling kettle grabs his

attention and just as he pours the boiling water into his

teapot with two bags of Earl Gray, he notes with great

vexation the two panhandlers have returned to his door.

Setting the kettle onto his desk he rushes to the door

where the beggars are sipping Java Hut coffees and the

golden retriever is stretched across his front entrance.

“That’s it, I’m calling the police right now!” he

yells.

Once again, the panhandlers slowly move on, smiling

at each other. A pedestrian stops and observes the

confrontation. He is a thin, gaunt man in a black suit,

small black Homberg and dark rimmed glasses. Lowe sees

him staring.

“What are you looking at? You’d get rid of them too

if was your business.”

Lowe stares at the man, there is some recognition,

something familiar about his face.

“Do I know you?” Lowe asks.

The man turns and walks away. Lowe watches as the

beggars and the stranger fade into the pedestrian throng.

“Idiots.” he mutters as he returns to his store.

***

At six o’clock Lowe begins to close shop. He looks

tired and depressed. It’s been a long day with only one

sale, an 1895 English hardcover sold to a young husband

for his wife’s birthday. Hardly enough to pay the rent.

He picks up the newspaper lying atop his desk. Again he

stares at the Iranian leader’s mad and unbelievable

statements in the headlines, then throws the paper into the

garbage basket. Locking the door Lowe looks up and

down the street. He notices some skinheads have gathered

in front of a business a few doors down….they are staring

at him. As he glowers back their faces suddenly morph into

hideous demons… skull faces….pig noses…hollowed eye

sockets. For a second he is stunned, then the faces

return to normal just as City bus no. 52 pulls up.

Lowe quickly climbs aboard flashing his transit pass.

The bus is full, one seat left across the aisle from the

thin gaunt man in the black suit. He collapses into the

seat with a deep sigh of fatigue. Who is this man, where

has he seen him before? The bus rolls on.

As the bus begins the express service along Granville

Street, Lowe tries to relax. He is feeling so exhausted he

just hallucinated for God’s sake! He must get a better

sleep tonight. A glass of warm milk might to the trick.

His eyes dart all over the bus observing passengers and the

overhead ads. Food ads everywhere, no wonder everyone is

fat! Medicine ads, is everybody sick? Lowe’s eyes stop

suddenly at the plain white ad with large black letters:

ARBEIT IST DER WEG. WORK IS THE WAY. What the hell? What

kind of ad is that? He blinks hard, looks away and looks

back at the ad. It says NEED A HOLIDAY? Lowe is confused,

troubled at this second hallucination. He makes a

mental note to call his doctor for a check-up. He grimaces

at the knot in his stomach. The bus takes him home.

Lowe opens the door to his apartment, takes off his

coat, prepares a pot of tea and turns on the television.

He settles into his chair just as the evening weatherman

begins his report.

“Another mixed bag today, cloudy with showers, ARBEIT

IST DER WEG, clearing overnight with sunny periods tomorrow

WORK IS THE WAY, we may hit ten degrees with a slight

breeze.”

Lowe spills the hot tea all over his lap. He stares

at the TV, incredulous at what he has just seen and heard.

He grabs the remote and almost breaks it in half turning

off the TV. He sits in his recliner for a good ten minutes

staring at the blank screen. He looks over at the book

shelf with family photos, stands up and reaches for the one

with the fanciest frame, a young couple with a child.

“Mame, Tate, is it happening again?”

Lowe returns the photograph to the table. He looks

into the mirror but does not see his reflection. Instead

he sees living skeletons, men, women and children, death

trains, gas chambers, swastikas, hellish images parading

before his eyes. He begins to gently weep.

***

The next morning Lowe waits for the City Bus. His ap-

pearance is not as dapper as before. He slept poorly as

seen by the dark circles under his eyes. His posture is

that of a tired old man, shoulders forward, stooped, not

the sharp businessman of before. No.52 arrives, he gets

on. As he walks the aisle he peers at the overhead

propaganda. To his great relief, all the ads are normal.

He gets a window seat. Three stops later he sees the black

suit man get on. He stares at the black suit man as he

looks for a seat. Lowe quickly places his briefcase on the

seat beside him as black suit man comes down the aisle.

“May I?”

“Of course.” Lowe replies. He wonders again if

they have previously met. There IS something particularly

familiar about his face, his features, that countenance.

He HAS seen this visage before and it is not a good

feeling.

The bus roars away and Lowe stares out the window at

the passing scenery. Lowe has memorized every building,

every intersection, every streetscape on his daily route.

Coming up to Minto Crescent his heart flutters as he sees

the giant billboard: ARBEIT WIRD SIE BEFREIEN SETZEN..

WORK WILL SET YOU FREE. Good God! He is losing his mind.

The bus blasts past the sign before Lowe can do a double

take. He immediately stands and pulls the cord to exit at

the next stop. He gets off and turns to see the black suit

man has moved into the window seat and is staring directly

at him. Black suit man mouths something to him. Lowe

thinks he knows what he said but surely it couldn’t be.

***

Lowe walks the rest of the way to his shop. He

lurches, almost zombie-like, his mind far away, his eyes

blank, his stomach in his throat. As he approaches his

business he is stopped in his tracks by the swastikas

and anti-semitic graffiti spray-painted all over the front

of the store. And the panhandlers are back too, but they

look different today. Their dreary, filthy street clothes

have been replaced by crisp brown trousers and shirts and

shiny boots. The friendly golden retriever is gone and a

dangerous looking rottweiler growls menacingly as Lowe

rushes towards them.

“Did you do this? You did, didn’t you!” Lowe

screams. “This is a hate crime, you’ll pay for this.”

“Calm down Mr. Lowe, or should I say Mr. Loewenstein.

We were not involved with this, it was here when we

arrived. I suspect the bald headed ones down the street

may have had something to do with this last night.”

“What did you call me?” Lowe shrieks. “My name is

Lowe, and don’t you forget it!”

“Oh don’t worry, we never forget.” replies the male.

As they turn to leave, the rottweiler bares his fangs at

Lowe. Lowe grabs the hankie out of his sportcoat and

attacks the graffiti, but with little success. He rushes

into his shop and dials 911.

“Hello, yes I want to report a hate crime, my store

has been vandalized and I am being harassed by vagrants.”

He pauses and listens.

“No, I have not been physically harmed, they’ve left.

Are the police coming? Charles Lowe, 225 West Pender.

Lowe’s Antiques, right, right”. Lowe slams the phone

onto its cradle. Lowe is incapacitated by his whirling

emotions. Rage and fury mixing with fear and anxiety.

He realizes he must calm himself or he will either have a

stroke or heart attack.

He plugs in the kettle for his trusted calming pot of tea.

He turns on the small television on his desk.

“And now a word from our sponsor, Progressive Bank.

Your FINAL SOLUTION is here.”

Lowe drops the china teapot and it smashes on the concrete

floor. He whips his head towards the television.

“Your financial solution is here with Progressive

Bank. Call us today.”

Lowe glares at the television, then reaches for a large

hard covered reference book on the shelf above his desk.

He looks at the cover. “Holocaust” in big black letters.

He is staring at the photos on the cover when the phone

rings. He picks it up.

“Police? No? Who’s calling? Progressive Bank? Mr.

Schmidt? I know of no one by that name at the Bank. I was

dealing with Mr. Smith, not Schmidt. What, my credit

extension has been denied? You want more collateral? What

is wrong with you people? Perhaps you are not telling me

everything. I can see what you are doing now!” Lowe cries

out. Once again he smashes the phone down.

Lowe is sweating, he’s nearly hysterical. The kettle

whistles as Lowe looks up to see the black suit man on the

sidewalk staring into the store. He mouths “STERBEN SIE

JUDE”. DIE JEW. Lowe is now apoplectic. He grabs a

silver candelabra and rushes to the front door but black

suit man is gone. Lowe looks up and down the street but

sees only the skinheads staring back at him, skinheads

wearing Gestapo uniforms. One raises his arm and points at

Lowe.

“Jude!” his demon head shrieks.

Lowe rushes back into the store and locks the door behind

him. He runs behind his desk and collapses to the floor.

***

Evening has followed, its dark outside and quiet. Lowe has

been in a stupor sitting on the floor for hours. The Nazi

slogans run through his mind over and over again. Seen in

every concentration camp, the slogans were simply another

cruelty perpetrated on the Jews. Work is the way, work

will set you free. And then you will be killed. He rises

with great difficulty and makes his way to the front of the

store, peering out the window. Its almost eleven PM, he

must catch the last bus home. He quickly locks up as

No. 52 approaches. Lowe gets on, almost unrecognizable

from his previous handsome appearance. He stands beside

the Driver and peers down the length of the bus. No signs,

no black suit man, no skinheads. He takes the first seat

and sits down. Within minutes he’s asleep. Not a calming

sleep, but a tormented one, with tortured souls standing

helplessly by large ditches as stone faced soldiers aim

their guns at them. As the rifles crack, Lowe suddenly

awakes with a start, just in time for his stop.

Lowe shuffles to his apartment, enters the building and

takes the elevator to his floor. As the elevator doors

open and he exits, two uniformed Nazi officers are waiting

for him. It’s the two panhandlers, now in full

Stormtrooper regalia.

“Good evening Mr. Loewenstein. Did you have a

comfortable ride home? How was work today? Sales good?

Did you get your credit line extension?”

Each Nazi grabs Lowe by an arm and drags him to his apart-

ment door. Lowe struggles without effect.

“What are you doing? My name is Charles Lowe, why are

you doing this. Who are you?”

“Come now Mr. Loewenstein, please cooperate with us,

we just want to ask you a few questions.”

The female Nazi reaches into Lowe’s pocket retrieving his

keys and opens his door, pushing him into the hallway.

“Drop your trousers!” barks the male Nazi.

“What?” Lowe replies incredulously.

“Drop your pants!”

Lowe spits at the Nazi, who yanks him in a full nelson from

behind as the female pulls down his pants.

“Circumsized.” Says the female.

“Aha, just as we thought Mr. LOW-EN-STEIN.” The male

sarcastically replies.

Lowe is released and attempts to pull up his pants.

The male Nazi pulls out a cloth badge and pushes it in

front of Lowe’s face.

“You will wear this yellow star on all your clothing.

This will identify you as a Jew wherever you go.

Failure to wear the yellow star will result in severe

sanctions. Now, where are the Vermeers?”

Lowe cannot believe what he is hearing.

“What are you talking about? What Vermeers?”

“We know your family had Vermeers and possibly a

Picasso. Where are they? They must be secured for

Der Furher’s collection.”

“Nazi Bastards!” Lowe blurts out.

He erupts in a fit of fury, flailing at the two Nazis.

The stormtroopers push him away and Lowe falls back

striking his head on the countertop edge. His world

implodes in a sea of darkness. He is unconscious.

***

Lowe is underwater, struggling to reach the surface.

As he breaks through into the sunlight, Lowe’s eyes open

and he realizes he is on the floor of his apartment, a

throbbing pain in the back of his head. Sticky blood

coats the hardwood as he drags himself to the hallway

side-table where the telephone sits. He pulls the phone

off the table and weakly punches 911. He wonders

why his pants are down around his ankles, and drifts off

into the warm sea again.

***

The ambulance rushes Lowe to the hospital. Paramedics work

to get the oxygen mask on him and check his pulse. Lowe is

laid out on the stretcher and slowly awakes. He looks up

to see two uniformed SS guards, one of whom is trying to

suffocate him, the other tying his hands.

“Whoa there partner, take it easy, you’ve had a fall

and a nasty gash on your head. We’re on the way to St.

Paul’s Hospital to get you checked out.”

Lowe squirms as his brain tries to separate reality from

the hell he has lived through the last couple of days.

He is rushed directly through Emergency and lies in a

private cubicle. The ER doctor enters.

“Mr. Lowe do you have any family or friends we can

contact to advise them of your situation?”

“No, I have no family here, no children” Lowe replies.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I can’t remember anything but a face, a man’s face

I’ve seen before.”

The doc stitches up Lowe’s laceration and determines

there is no need for a hospital stay. He bandages Lowe’s

head and calls the nurse for a wheelchair.

Lowe sits at the Emergency entrance waiting for a cab to

take him home.

“Good luck Mr. Lowe, you take care of yourself and

watch out for those slippery floors.” says the Nurse.

She gets him into the taxi and gives the driver his home

address.

Lowe stares out the window as the driver speeds away.

Lowe’s mind is far away when he notices the cabbie is not

driving him home but heading downtown.

“This isn’t the way to my apartment. Where are you

going?” Lowe asks.

The cabbie is wearing a baseball cap and takes it off

to reveal a bald pate. He’s the skinhead who yelled “Jude”

at Lowe yesterday. Lowe cringes as the shaved one turns his

gargoyle face around and exhales a stinking breath through

yellowed teeth and blackened tongue, the stench of evil.

Lowe tries to get out of the cab but the doors are locked.

The cab pulls up in front of Lowe’s Antiques. The cabbie

races out and pulls Lowe from the back seat, dragging him

into his shop.

Lowe has no strength to fight the skinhead as he is dragged

further into the store, away from the display windows.

The store has transformed somehow, not the aristocratic

antique shop but rather a bare, ominous interrogation room.

The Nazi twins are there and all the Gestapo skinheads too.

They surround a wooden chair beneath a single stark

overhead bulb. Lowe is thrown onto the cold wood.

He is bewildered, lost, having descended into a personal

limbo from which there is no escape.
From the darkness a figure emerges. The black suit

man stands before Lowe. His civilian suit has been

replaced by a Nazi death’s head military uniform.

“Hello Charles, may I call you by your first name?

I am Lt. Col. Adolph Eichmann, Director of Section B4,

Jewish Emigration Dept. Do you know why we have brought

you here?”

Lowe is dumbstruck. It all comes together as he realizes

who the black suit man really was. His confounded mind

fights to survive.

“This is not happening!” Lowe blurts.

“Your parents Charles, Herschel and Rose, they are

gold merchants are they not?”

“My parents are dead, murdered long ago by you Nazi

butchers!”

Eichmann laughs.

“No, No Charles. Your parents were sent on the train

to Palestine for resettlement, to help other Jews, to teach

them.”

Lowe interrupts.

“You bastards! My parents were gassed at Auschwitz!”

“Come, come now Charles, what are you saying? Jews

are not being gassed, they are working. We are helping to

create a new Jewish homeland for you and millions of other

Jews. ARBEIT IST DER WEG.”

Lowe and Eichmann lock eyes in a silent eternal stare.

“But now I need your help. I need to know where your

parents kept their business records, their materials, their

supplies, the gold and silver bullion, the diamonds and

rare gemstones, and the paintings.”

Lowe tries to rise off the chair but is restrained by the

Gestapo thugs.

“Eichmann, you are dead you Nazi dog! Mossad tracked

you down and you swung by your neck!”

Eichmann ignores Lowe’s outburst.

“Charles, you must help me here. I personally knew

your parents. They were goldsmiths to the most important

and successful Jews in your community. As part of their

relocation they agreed to donate to Der Furher all their

assets. But we have been advised that they held back, hid

the majority of their wealth. Only you can know where the

safekeeping is.”

Lowe seethes. “You murdering pig, I know nothing and even

if I did I would swallow my tongue before telling you!”

Eichmann backhands Lowe across the face.

“Your attitude is regrettable Charles. We will have

to persuade you to tell us what we need to know.

Lowe is slumped on the chair, reeling from the blow.

“Charles, Dr. Josef Mengele is here. Dr. Mengele is a

brilliant medical man whose experiments are advancing Der

Fuhrer’s wonderful objectives.”

“Go to hell Eichmann!” Lowe spits.

“Where are the goods, Charles?”

“Has your wife slept with Hitler yet, or are you

sleeping with him?”

“Restrain him.” orders Eichmann.

A skinhead Gestapo moves towards Lowe pushing a tray with

a menacing array of medical tools, scalpels, probes, clamps

and a couple of huge syringes. Dr. Mengele follows behind.

“We have done this experiment with children Charles,

changing their brown eyes to blue. But I would like to see

if it will work on adults. Do you wish to tell Herr

Eichmann what he needs to know?”

Lowe screams and fights but is helpless against the

muscular skinheads.

“Very well, Charles.”

Mengele takes a syringe and slowly plunges it directly into

Lowe’s right eyeball. As the needle empties its contents

Lowe’s eyeball turns purple and expands until it ruptures.

Lowe screams again, his face a bloody pulpy mess.

“Just what I suspected. The adult eye requires a more

concentrated solution. Hand me the smaller syringe.”

Mengele plunges the second needle into Lowe’s left eye

which expands slightly and turns a deep blue, and then

bursts like a ripe tomato.

“What a pity” quips Mengele.

Lowe’s head flops forward as he slips into unconsciousness.

***

“Mr. Lowe are you there? Are you OK?”

A group of people stand at the front of Lowe’s Antiques,

trying to get the door open. Two JAVA HUT baristas, Rob

and Melanie, with a couple of young guys with close shaven

heads from ATHLETES ATTIC. They pry the door open and

rush in to find Lowe on the floor at the back of the store.

As they rush up, they suddenly stop and retreat.

“Oh my God!” Melanie exclaims. “Look at him!”

Lowe is on his back, feet crossed at the ankles. His right

hand grasps a large pair of bloodied scissors. His head is

covered in blood, and both eyes have been mutilated, poked

out. A large book, “Holocaust” lies on the floor beside

him, and a shredded newspaper lies under his left arm.

***

The Police, Coroner and witnesses are gathered in front of

Lowe’s Antiques. A detective interrogates the kids who

found him.

“Did you know the victim?”

“Yeah, Mr. Lowe, this is his shop. He’s been here a

long time. Usually he’s real friendly, but lately he’s

been acting kind of strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he just wasn’t himself. Something must have

been bothering him. It was as if somebody or something was

out to get him. Like he was paranoid” says Melanie.

“Yeah, I saw him talking to himself on the street the

other day. He was saying something about it happening all

over again. He kept repeating it over and over. I don’t

know what he meant by it” says one of the ATHLETES ATTIC

clerks.

Footsteps are heard as a smallish thin pale fellow in a

dark suit and horn rimmed glasses and briefcase arrives on

the scene.

“I’m looking for Charles Lowe. My name is Frank Smith

from the Progressive Bank. I’ve been trying to reach Mr.

Lowe about his bank loan. I’ve got some good news for

him.” THE END