Among the Living (25 page)

“No, you’re quite right,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

If he had anticipated this first encounter as their chance to ease into a distant familiarity — an hour or so sitting in quiet conversation, perhaps a walk before both agreed they needed to rest — then Goldah had forgotten how Pearl oriented herself to the unknown. The afternoon progressed much like the opening ceremony: Half an hour in, Malke was presented to the Fleischmanns and the Kerns with all the requisite pomp and circumstance — words of appreciation for her hair and dress, small gifts to make her feel more welcome, and a single, too-eager comment on how handsome the young couple looked together. Whatever jocularity Pearl had been hoping for quickly ground down to an awkward pleasantness as Goldah was forced to play the role of translator so as to make sure everything Herb was saying hit its mark: “She understands what a hamburger is, doesn’t she? That’s the joke. A hamburger on a roll? No — never mind. If it’s not making sense, I just thought it was amusing. Does she like the pictures, music?”

Pearl’s choice for dinner was Chinese, the Canton, where they spent a great deal of time making sure something called an egg roll was prepared without shrimp. Mr. Wu, the owner, played a lively Chinese fiddle while Joe took the lead and
cracked one of the egg rolls open, moving his finger gingerly through its innards and pronouncing it “ninety-five percent kosher” before taking a healthy bite.
“Batel b’shishim,”
he said. It was the first untranslated phrase that Malke fully understood.

“They know the Hebrew,” she said quietly to Goldah, “but they use it so loosely — like a convenience. It all seems just for show.”

Joe asked what she had said and Goldah explained how she was finding everything so exotic and wonderful. Nothing like this in Prague, he said, and Joe told him how he had once tried his hand at a bamboo flute that Wu kept somewhere around the place but that the whole thing had ended in disaster. Joe laughed and finished off the last of the egg rolls while Goldah sipped cautiously at his own wonton soup.

The crowning event came with dancing at the Sapphire Room downtown, where an eight-piece orchestra led by a guitarist named Gordon Gould — Gould had recently played with Frankie Carle and Shep Fields, Herb explained, up in New York and Atlanta — swung and waltzed and two-stepped beneath a canopy of plaster palm fronds and dim light. Malke smiled and, through Goldah, said she was too tired to take to the floor but was so happy to be watching everyone else enjoying themselves. Goldah remained by her side.

“So this is how it will be from now on,” she said. “The war was nothing but this for them, night after night, and now they’ll be the ones to show the world what a Jew is. I wonder what Lotte and Franz would have said about that.”

Having died of malnutrition, thought Goldah, Lotte and Franz would have said they preferred this, but Malke was still so new to things: Why not let her keep the dead as her benchmark for a little while longer.

And yet he was already feeling his own strength slipping away. Time was moving him backward, his old self taking root. Alone he had been able to hear just the one voice: conversations with himself that sprang from memories constrained by a single string of details — out of sequence, out of time, like a dream; repeated, they had grown obscure and almost harmless. Now there was this second voice, and with it came the burden of shared memory — memory that could reshape and sharpen those details and make them unbearable again. Up against that, what hope did he have?

The music stopped. Goldah watched the Kerns and the Fleischmanns beginning to make their way back to the table.

Pearl was laughing as she sat, something she had overheard, and Jesler told her not to be so flippant even as Selma said she might as well get all her sinning in now before
yontif.
Pearl laughed again, her behavior no less manic as she took hold of Malke’s hand and squeezed it tightly in her own.

“You’re just the best thing ever,” Pearl said. “You’re hope, that’s what you are. Hope for everyone around this table and I don’t care if you can understand me or not, you just are. Look at her, Fannie. Look at her the way I see her.”

Fannie had been trying to keep the drinking to a minimum tonight, holding Pearl in check just in case she might forget herself given all the pressures of the last few days and weeks. Fannie said, “We all see her the same way, dear.”

“Not the way I do,” Pearl insisted. “She has a brightness in her, and the way she calms Ike, even with her face —”

“Yes,” said Fannie, “I see it. I see how lucky everyone is. Have some water, Pearl.”

“We should throw a party,” Pearl said, finding her own, stale brightness beneath the sheen of gin and Vol de Nuit.

“It’s getting late,” said Jesler.

But Joe was already ordering another round and it looked as if there was no chance of moving any of them from the table, all their idle phrases and reckless laughter springing this way and that; only Jesler showed an inclination to step things along.

He said to Goldah, “Champ Kaminsky called today. I forgot to tell you. The car came in. He’s going to give it to you for a dollar.”

Goldah said, “I’ve told him I couldn’t possibly accept that.”

“But you will. This time you will. You’ve got your own place. He said it’s come up from Florida. So you’ll thank him for it and take it. That’s Champ.” Jesler pulled his own keys from his pocket and placed them in front of Goldah. “You take mine tonight. Get Miss Posner home. Herb’ll give us a ride. I’ll come by your place tomorrow, pick it up.”

“You’re sure?”

“It’s been a long day. No doubt Miss Posner is feeling it.”

Goldah took the keys and explained to Malke that they were leaving. Whatever else Jesler might be going through, Goldah appreciated the concern he always showed. Malke muttered a quiet “Thank God” in Czech, while Goldah stood and helped her up.

“Oh, no,” Selma said with a child’s disappointment. “You’re not leaving, are you? Pearl, you can’t go yet. You just can’t.”

“We’re not,” said Jesler, standing with the other men. “The kids are taking my car.”

“No, Abe,” Pearl said no less petulantly. “I like having them here. I do. We’ll take them in a little while. Drop Ike off. Don’t you want to stay, Malke dear? Don’t you want to … 
stehen eine
 …” The words trailed off as Goldah handed Malke her purse.

“It’s late,” he said.

Herb took the lead. “Well … this was fun tonight. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of you in the next few weeks. The holidays and such.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Goldah.

Selma perked up. “Oh, so you’re coming to the AA? Wonderful. That’s so nice to hear. I thought you’d be at the temple with Mrs. De la Parra.” It was only on the last syllable that Selma realized where she had taken everyone. She quickly looked to Fannie for support but there was little chance of finding any of that.

Goldah knew Malke hadn’t understood; still, silence has a way of drawing even the uninvited in.

“What are they saying, Yitzi?”

Pearl suddenly took her hand again. “You just forget that, Malke dear. That’s all done with. You’re here now and you have all the hope in the world.”

Goldah’s only hope was that Jesler might know a way to distract Pearl from her own sodden enthusiasm, but even Jesler’s caring had its limits.

“I’ll tell you at home,” Goldah said before they made their quick good nights.

Ten minutes later he was pulling the car out when Malke rolled down her window and said, “It was a woman they were referring to, wasn’t it? The high drama at the table.”

Goldah might have shown surprise, but why pretend when he felt none. He remembered how, if nothing else, Malke was never one to indulge in sentimentality. He nodded and told her everything she might need to know about Eva. He made no apologies.

When he was done, she said, “It’s not like you.” There was no accusation in her voice.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“To say you know someone that well. Or think you do. It sounds … strange to me. That’s all.”

“And that’s all you have to say?”

“What else should I say?” She remained perfectly calm as she leaned her head closer to the window. “It’s going to make things difficult for you. I’m sorry for that. But it’s funny — and you’ll probably hate me for saying this — I find this heat absolutely wonderful. Everyone talks about it as if it’s some kind of burden but I don’t see it that way. Even the sweltering kind. I don’t know why I should have thought of it. Maybe it’s because I still dream of the cold. But this woman. She thinks she knows you?”

There was so much to Malke he had forgotten — by choice or not — but never this. Never the pointed remarks peppered in and among the distractions.
This woman.

“Her name is Eva,” he said.

“Yes, but I don’t want us to refer to her that way, Yitzi. I can’t fault you for having let it happen but that wouldn’t be fair to me. You see that, don’t you?”

Did he? Such a cumbersome thing, fairness: the Pandora’s box of misery for the Jew. It seemed to him they were smarter than that. Events were inhuman, beyond reason — and they came in cycles with almost mocking regularity. Wasn’t it enough to live through the pain of the moment? But to ask, is this fair — why suffer the slap twice? It was like the man — the fool, Pasco said — who, once betrayed by a brother, rages when the brother can’t recognize his fault: “But it’s not fair that you don’t see how you wronged me …” Does the brother ever care? Never.

“No,” Goldah said almost in spite of himself. “I’m afraid I don’t see that.” He continued to drive, unwilling now to turn
his head and meet the unrelenting blue of her eyes, no doubt staring though him …

They’re never warm, her eyes, though they seem to look at him with great affection — certainly affection. And he convinces himself it’s because of the strain inside Terezín, the need to put on a brave face, to “impress our friends of the Red Cross, otherwise …” Otherwise. How it tests the limits of even her resiliency inside these walls, although he might recall this absence of feeling even from the start. But who has the energy to think that far back now?

He stares across at her, across the little table with its canvas umbrella and chipped top, and marvels at how well she keeps herself inside the camp. People are always remarking on her beauty. And why not? She says it will cause problems one day, but he refuses to let her talk that way.

They can already feel the cold that will descend upon them within the next few weeks, short sleeves letting the sun play on goose-pimpled arms. Somewhere above them, guns are also trained on them. To make sure they sit, to make sure they behave, to make sure they laugh. Yes, today they sit in the folding wooden chairs that teeter on the stone and dirt and have a glass of tea. It might be only for show, but why question that? The tea is hot, the roll is actually made of bread, and he finds himself laughing as Franz — their Franz, Franz Z., late of the National Theater in Prague — sits with them and offers up a hushed, perfectly rendered SS bureaucrat as tour guide of Terezín.

“And these are our Jews,” says Franz. “No, no — don’t touch! Hands in pockets. You see how plump they are, how happy to sit at a café and pass the time. That one there is a
trombone, no, no, not a real trombone — oh, you men of the Red Cross are so comical, so insightful! — but a man who
plays
the trombone in a fine ensemble that the Jews themselves have put together with our aid and encouragement. We’re always encouraging our Jews to create a place where they can be happy. And, after all, isn’t that what we want for them? And this one here — this is a writer. Yes, we have writers. The Jews are always so smart — writers and artists — perhaps too smart. No, no, I’m joking with you. A Jew can never be too smart! Trust me. Otherwise how could we have them sitting here waiting for death … No, no, no, not for death. Of course not! Another joke. What a fiction. And from a writer. Tell us, writer — yes, you can speak — tell us how it is that you’ve found your greatest inspiration here in the wonderful gift that is Theresienstadt, how it is that only here you feel you’ve finally found a place where you can be appreciated? Tell us.”