Читать книгу The Memories We Keep - Walter Zacharius - Страница 10

One day in October Papa left for the council at nine in the morning and had not returned by three in the afternoon. Mama tortured herself with visions of him lying in a gutter, shot, or beaten. In her agony, she obsessed, too, about Jozef, certain that he had been conscripted into the German Army and was now in a field of battle, awaiting death. Her mood infected mine, and though she was hysterical and needed my comfort, I could not stay in the house or she would have driven me crazy.

“I’m going to get us coal and find us something for supper,” I announced, not sure she heard me.

When I returned, Papa still wasn’t home, and I watched with a combination of sympathy and irritation, my stomach a tin pit, as Mama cried and cried. Finally, there were footsteps, and she flew to the front door and pulled it open. Papa stood in front of her, shivering.

“I stood for two hours at the coal merchant’s, Pappie,” I said, coming up to him. “They didn’t have any fuel for us.”

“Krevlin Brothers?” He turned an anguished glance on me. “That’s impossible. We’ve done business with them since I was a boy. My grandfather used to walk to the synagogue with Rev Krevlin every Sabbath.”

“There’s a Volksdeutscher in charge now,” I told him. “Appointed by the Nazi High Command.”

He rubbed his neck wearily and let Mama lead him into the sitting room. “Ah. The war against the Jews.”

“I had to wait at the butcher, too. Then, though there were steaks and chops, all Mr. Goldberg would let me have was a chicken. I convinced him to sell us some potatoes, even though he swore the Germans had forbidden it. And we also have some cabbage and—”

“Where’s Stasik?” Papa interrupted. “I don’t see him. He should join us.”

My mother cleared her throat. “He heard about the new law preventing Jews from withdrawing more than two hundred zloty without written permission from the Kehillah—”

“So he went to his relatives in the Carpathians,” I finished. “He knew what the Kehillah would—”

“It’s the Judenrat now,” Papa snapped. “The Kehillah doesn’t exist any more. Only me and Applebaum and a few others remain. A third were slaughtered when the Aryans took over. Another third fled to Warsaw. Our New Masters have appointed Chaim Rumkowski Eldest of the Jews.”

“Rumkowski?” Mama’s face twisted in disgust. “But he’s a nebbish. Ignorant as dirt. Surely the professional class will refuse to—”

“If by ‘professional class’ you mean me,” Papa said, “then I’ll tell you we’ll refuse nothing. Chaim’s in charge of who gets to trade with the Germans and who gets sent to the labor camps. That’s all that gets decided now. Our agenda means nothing, it’s even dangerous to bring it up. Our neighborhood will be safe this week because we’ve paid dearly for peace. Tomorrow morning, Rumkowski will hand over a list of names for a labor crew. And, Nora, when he runs out of poor Jews and his personal enemies, the professional class comes next. Men and women both. You and me and Mia.”

“Stop it!” I screamed. “For God’s sake, no more.” His words were a virus and I was infected with fear. Yet what could we do? Run away? How far could we get, with Aryans prepared to turn us in as soon as they discovered us? And even if they didn’t, how could we move when it meant leaving Jozef behind? No, we were all trapped, not just me, and I felt a loathing for my Jewishness, for the Jews themselves, for my mother and father, more Jews, who should have converted when it was still possible. They had stolen my life just as Maria had stolen my piano, and with it my music. A blackness settled over me, stifling and impenetrable.

My father pulled me to him. “Come,” he said, “it’s time for our delicious-smelling supper. I have my beautiful wife and my exquisite daughter. Jozef is on his way home, he must be. Let’s thank God for what we have today and not worry about what we might not have tomorrow. It’s only a matter of time before England and France drive the Master Race back to Germany, and sooner than you know it, you’ll be in Paris again with your precious Jean-Phillipe.” His smile made my heart rise. “That’s a promise. I’m buying diamonds as a kind of insurance. They’ll pay for a trip to Paris. Pay for all of us.”

Mama went to the kitchen and brought out the chicken, potatoes, and cabbage. Papa briefly disappeared, and when he came back he was bearing a dusty green bottle, which he displayed with a flourish. “A toast,” he cried, staring at the label. “To our brother Monsieur Rothschild in honor of the Levys past, the Levys present, and the Levys to come!”

“Go, Mia,” Mama said, her voice high with excitement. “Get the crystal goblets.”

I found them, and when I returned the room was steeped in candlelight. I could see Mama’s hand moving hesitantly over my father’s as though she were reading Braille.

Papa poured and held his glass above a glowing taper. “L’chaim,” he said, and we echoed “L’chaim.” (Was I imagining it, or had my mother and father smiled at each other as they raised their glasses?)

I started to giggle, but the nervous tremor was cut short by the dry white Bordeaux rolling gently over my tongue. I took another, longer sip, savoring the taste and its effect. Then I dove hungrily into our modest feast, pausing frequently to sip the wine and look over the rim of my glass. On the other side of the table, my parents seemed to be trading special understandings in silence. The moment thrilled me and yet infused me with a curious jealousy. I longed for Jean-Phillipe, closing my eyes at the thought of him.

Life, I thought. And it seemed to me so infinitely precious that tears came to my eyes. My body, my brain, my soul—all were alive, I embodied life, I was life itself. If Jean-Phillipe were here now, I would give myself to him fully, fuse his spirit with mine, and together we would know pleasure beyond happiness.

There was a pounding on the door; a loud voice called, “Dr. Levy! Open the door!”

My father pushed Mama back to the kitchen and motioned for me to follow her. We watched him march to the door, pull it open. “What in hell’s the meaning of this?” he said sternly. “Why are you disturbing innocent citizens at this time of…”

The words died in his mouth. I caught a glimpse of a man who stepped aside, and then a tall silhouette with blond hair stumbled through the doorway and crumpled into my father’s arms.

“Jozef!” my mother screamed, rushing forward.

“Quiet,” the man said, taking my brother from my father’s grip and carrying him into the sitting room where he laid him gently on the floor.

My mother bent over him, wailing. “Nora, no,” Papa whispered, clamping a hand over her mouth.

“Do you want the cats to find out where we’ve taken their mouse?” the man asked. “I risked my neck getting him out of that alley. Such a fine, beautiful young man. And so Aryan-looking. If only they hadn’t asked for his ID card. But don’t worry. He’ll be okay. They beat him pretty badly, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”

My father, kneeling, ran his fingers gently over Jozef’s battered face, then carefully along his arms and legs. “Yes, nothing broken. He’ll be all right.” He turned to the man. “Now, my friend, to whom do I owe—”

“I’d rather not give my name,” the man said. “It might not be good for you if they came looking for me here and you knew it. And you owe me nothing. I just thank God that I recognized your boy and knew where to take him. I sat beside him once while you were addressing the Kehillah.”

Papa grasped the man’s hand. “All the same, we must give you something. I and my family are very grateful. Please. A glass of wine. There’s no chicken left, but I’m sure Mrs. Levy could…”

Jozef’s savior waved his hand. “I must be getting home. My wife will be crazy with worry. But if you have a little bread, I’d be most grateful. Forgive this begging, but we haven’t had much to eat.”

“Begging? When you saved my only son? Mia, wrap up a loaf, please, and if there’s cheese, that too. And a bottle of schnapps. Toast to your good health tonight, my friend.”

I raced to the kitchen and did as instructed. Returning, I handed him the package, which he carefully hid under his heavy wool coat. “God bless you,” he said, “and grant your boy a quick healing.”

He gravely shook Papa’s hand, and reached for mine. But I threw myself against him, kissing his face, and hugged him with all my force. He pried me loose and with a bow retreated to the door.

Only my mother, kneeling beside Jozef while she stroked his hair, did not say good-bye.