Among the Living (13 page)

She is small, smaller than he, her skin fine, not like a doll’s but soft in a way that the other girls envy. They say she can pass for a non-Jew, her hair light, her nose close above the lips, and her eyes a light blue that makes them seem distant. She stares up at him as the train slows. He sees the cold on her skin and the redness in her cheeks. He has cried as well, and he stands with his brother who is staring out through a small crack in the wood. The train slows and his only hope is that it will find speed again, better that than the stopping. The light is now so
white and so bare through the cracks, and she steps into him as the train lurches to a stop.

The swill of the shit pail splashes to the boards and there is a need to speak, to say farewell, to look at the others packed so tightly in and say what no one has said for all these days locked inside. Farewell. No fear, only farewell.

The door opens with a crash and the light is somehow less bright. There is barked German in the ear, beyond it a vast platform with reflectors, and still she is with him. Luggage here, luggage afterward. They, the two, stand outside, everything now silent as men of the SS march about as if waiting for the next train, easy questions in barked German — How old? Healthy or ill? — and everyone is healthy but still there are two ways to go, and she is told to the left toward the sound of the water, pulled from him to go to the left, while he must stand in a line and look down. Together again afterward, they are told, together with the calm assurance of simple duty and everyday life. Afterward, they say. And he marches, she now behind him and gone, and he tells himself to feel more but he is already one of the lucky few who knows he does not.

“You were close?”

Hilliard repeated the question. He was a decent man, not a Jew, but he had learned to show the necessary sensitivity during the last few years.

“Yes,” Goldah said, “we were close.”

“So you recognize the name?”

“I do.”

“She was deported with you?”

“Yes.”

Hilliard marked something down. He now expected the usual line of questions: Had they found something of hers? Did she have relatives here? Had a family member survived?

“Is she alive?” said Goldah.

The question caught Hilliard by surprise. He hesitated. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because it’s the only question that matters.”

Hilliard had never heard things presented so plainly. He was accustomed to passing on information, to console or to advise cautious optimism. Yitzhak Goldah was asking for none of these. “I suppose that’s true,” Hilliard said. Goldah remained silent and Hilliard added, “It’s not exactly clear.”

“Not clear that she’s alive?”

“Not clear that the woman in question is Miss Posner.”

There was a moment before Goldah said, “I see. And why is that?”

“There’s been some memory loss, physical scarring. It’s not clear the woman is who she says she is.”

“Is this common?”

“It does happen from time to time.”

“Is she in the United States?”

“She’s in a sanatorium in Virginia. Miss Posner has relatives there.”

“The Lubecks,” said Goldah, surprising them both with the speed of his answer. “I met them. Once. They visited Prague before the war. Do they think this woman is Malke?”

“They saw her only the one time. They believe she is.”

“You mean they hope she is.”

Hilliard tried to read Goldah but there was nothing in the eyes. “I don’t mean to sound presumptuous, Mr. Goldah, but I was expecting something of a stronger reaction.”

Goldah continued to stare across at him. “I’ll take another glass of the water, if I may.”

Hilliard poured it out and watched as Goldah drank. “We have a photograph,” Hilliard said, “if you’d care to see it.”

Hilliard leafed through several pages before arriving at a large black-and-white photo. He slid it across the desk and let Goldah take it.

“He seemed like a good man.”

Jesler was the first to break the silence. They were in the elevator where an older black man stood at the lever and watched as the numbers on the brass plate lit their descent.

“If it’s something we need to talk about,” Jesler said, “you let me know.”

Goldah nodded. They reached the first floor and the man placed his large hand across the metalwork gate and pulled it open.

Goldah knew he would have to tell Jesler something: a name, someone from the camp, anything. It was so much easier to find a fiction than to think of that photograph, the paleness even in black and white, and the emptiness. Was it her? He had known her face so well, and now he couldn’t say. He truly couldn’t. The hair was so thin, the color gone, the nose not hers, and the dip along the cheeks … Why ask this of him? Wasn’t it enough to carry his own helplessness, to see it in his own eyes? Now to have hers. It was too much. Didn’t the future have to be more than a shared hollowness?

5

“
IT
’
S THESE
goddamned Micks at the docks.”

Jesler sat at his desk, tucked in behind the shelves and the shoes. He was on the phone when Goldah stepped through with a cup of coffee. It was Thursday and all hell had broken loose.

“No, I don’t want you to worry about that,” Jesler continued into the phone. Goldah hesitated and Jesler waved him over. “He’ll be there Monday with the small truck and I’ll let you have twenty-five … Yes, twenty-five boxes.” Goldah set the coffee on the desk and Jesler nodded his thanks. “It’s what came in, it’s what we’ve got … No, just ignore all that … No, I don’t know who would have been calling … Okay … Okay … Yes we’ll square all that … No, not to worry … Okay … And mine to Louise.”

Jesler hung up and took a quick sip of the coffee. His shirt collar was open and damp through, the tie loose, and there was an empty glass on the ledge behind him that looked as if it had held whiskey. Jesler pulled a bottle from the bottom drawer and poured some into his coffee.

“You want a drink?” he said and took another sip.

“It’s a bit early.”

“You know I had four calls at home on Saturday.
Four.
They call on a Saturday because they know it’s going to put
me in a position, and they can say, ‘Well, you picked up the phone, it can’t be a problem if you’re doing business on a Saturday.’ And of course I’m doing business on a Saturday when they’re talking about some fella in Jacksonville and maybe moving the whole distribution down there.” He tipped another splash of the whiskey into his cup and put the bottle away. “Jesus.” He took another drink. “What am I supposed to do — not pick up? Let them tell me today, ‘Well, we didn’t hear from you so we didn’t think you were taking it that seriously,’ so of course I have to pick up. And then Pearl gives me that look.”

Jesler was still thinking things through when Goldah said, “I’m sorry.”

Jesler looked over and shook it off. “No, nothing to be sorry about. These things happen. Anyway — you doing okay? I hear you’re taking out a young lady.”

It took Goldah a moment to respond. He hadn’t seen or talked to Eva since Saturday. And there was still the matter of the chat with her mother.

“Am I?” he said.

“Be careful,” said Jesler. “Pearl overreacts but she’s not far wrong. It’s a different kind of thing.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” Jesler pushed himself up. “No one’s been by the store, have they? I mean asking questions, that sort of thing, when I haven’t been here?”

Goldah shook his head.

“Good.” Jesler tightened his tie and smoothed back his hair. “We’re getting some more inventory in today. Make sure Calvin tells Raymond he’ll need to be here by five thirty. You can cut out early. Get yourself a new tie for your young lady friend.” Jesler pulled the jacket from the back of his chair and
put it on. “All seriousness, Ike, be careful there. That isn’t going to work the way you think it is.”

Calvin was standing by the far doorway. It was clear he had been there for some time.

Jesler looked over. “What is it?”

“You got someone here, Mr. Jesler.”

“The sign says lunch, Calvin. Tell them we’ll be back in half an hour.”

“They got badges, Mr. Jesler. They ain’t here for no shoes.”

“What kind of badges?”

“Just badges.”

“Well are they police or government?” Jesler said sharply. “What kind?”

Calvin shrugged. “Maybe government, suh. They was real quick with them.”

Jesler stood staring across at nothing in particular. Finally he said, “You tell them I’ll be right out.” Jesler tried a careless smile for Goldah but there was too much care in it. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to see what they want. Why don’t you stay back here.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No need. You wait here.”

“How about I come with you?”

“There’s nothing to this, Ike. Trust me.”

“I’m not sure you believe that.”

“Whether I believe it or not, no point in having you talked to by some men with badges. I think you’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”

Goldah had thought this pride or fear, but all Jesler was trying to do was protect him.

Goldah said, “I think I’ll take my chances.”

Two men were waiting in the store, brown suits and shoes, hats in hand, and the same kind of cheap government tie
knotted too tightly at the neck. They were carbon copies of each other, tall and gaunt, except the one at the counter wore a pair of wire-rim glasses that pinched at his ears behind his thinning black hair. The other stood hovering over the men’s Italian shoes, his narrow nose dangerously close to the leather. Calvin was keeping an eye on him.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Jesler said. “This is my associate, Mr. Goldah.” Jesler moved to the counter. “You can head back and finish those boxes now, Calvin.”

“Yes, suh.”

All four watched as Calvin moved slowly through the curtain and into the back.

The man with the glasses was the first to speak. “Mr. Jesler?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Abraham Jesler?”

“Yes. Abraham Jesler. What is it I can do for you gentlemen?”

“We’re here —”

“I believe I heard there were badges,” Jesler said easily. “If I could?”

The men pulled them out. They were from the Ports Authority. Jesler glanced at them. “Excellent. Thank you. Now what is it I can help you with?”

The man with the glasses brought out a small pad. “Just a few routine questions,” he said. He scanned the pages as he began to leaf through. “You have occasion to use the Ocean Terminal on West River Street for the receipt of shipments, is that right?”

“I do.”

“And you also have a depository in one of the warehouses?”

“Yes, as does every other businessman in Savannah. What is this about?”

“And you’ve had occasion to use them” — the man stopped on a page and read — “since June of 1942?”

“That sounds about right.”

The man looked up from his pad. “Are you aware there was a recent theft of goods from a warehouse within the same block and sector as the one you’re currently using?”

“I wasn’t. No.”

“We just want to make sure there hasn’t been anything suspicious that you might have seen during one of your trips to the port. Anything that might have seemed out of place.”