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My father-in-law, Erwin, has a distinctive story telling style which I like to call “incomplete.”  His life as a Jewish child during WWII Europe is fascinating when you piece it together, but trying to do so often feels like sitting at the table with only nine tenths of the puzzle pieces.  It is still unclear whether he does this to lead me by the nose to ask the right question, or if he just assumes that I already knew some vital element of the story.

Here’s an example:  We were having dinner at my in-laws’ one evening, and for desert we were enjoying chocolate pudding.  Segueing from nothing at all, Erwin puts his spoon down, and turns to me.

“You know, as a boy, I remember going with my father to the store.  We would go in, and he would buy an alarm clock.  We would leave the store, and go to another store where he would buy another alarm clock.  Store after store, we would go in and buy an alarm clock.  He would never buy more than one at each store.”  Erwin is smiling as he recounts this memory.  He shakes his head briefly before picking up his spoon and going back to his pudding, completely satisfied; like I should get what that was all about.

I begin to suspect that this is really the whole story.  He’d once told me how his father had returned to Vienna after the war.  I’d asked why he’d returned after all that had happened in the war.  He’d smiled and said, “I don’t know.  I guess…” he began chuckling.  “…he wasn’t very bright.”  And then he’d laughed.  I think maybe this is another story along these lines.

Finally, I ask, “Why didn’t he just buy all the alarm clocks at one store?  Were supplies too low because of the war?”

Erwin stops with his spoon in the air, and turns to me.  He looks at me, a bit stunned by the question.  “No.  He didn’t want anyone getting suspicious.  The alarm clocks were for time bombs.  He was in the resistance.  What would the people in the store think if he’d bought six or twelve alarm clocks at once?”

Of course.  Silly me.