Sabbath’s Theater

by Philip Roth

  Abridged Prayer Book for Jews in the Armed Forces of the United States. A brown palm-size book. In Hebrew and English. Between two middle pages, sepia snapshot of the family. We’re in the yard. His hand on my father’s shoulder. My father in his suit, vest, even a pocket hankie. What’s up? Rosh Hashanah? I’m dressed to kill in a “loafer” jacket and slacks. My mother in a coat and a hat. Morty in a sports jacket but no tie. Year he went in. Took it along with him. Look at what a good kid he is. Look at Dad—like Fish, a camera and he’s frozen stiff. My little mother under her veiled hat. Carried our picture in his prayer book for Jews in the armed forces of the United States. But he didn’t die because he was a Jew. Died because he was an American. They killed him because he was born in America.

  His toilet case. Brown leather engraved “MS” in gold. About six by seven by three. Two packets of capsules inside. Sustained-release capsules. Dexamyl. To relieve both anxiety and depression. Dexedrine 15 mg. and amobarbital 1½ gr. (Amobarbital? Morty’s or Mom’s? Did she use his case for her own stuff when she went nuts?) Half a tube of Mennen brushless shave. Little green and white cardboard pepper shaker of Mennen talcum for men. Shasta Beauty Shampoo, a gift from Procter & Gamble. Nail scissors. Tan comb. Mennen Hair Creme for Men. Still smells. Still creamy! One unlabeled bottle, contents dried up. Imitation enamel box, bar of Ivory soap inside, unopened. A black Majestic Dry Shaver in a small red box. With cord. Hairs in the head of it. The microscopic hairs of my brother’s beard. That is what they are.

  A black leather money belt, supple from being worn next to his skin.

  Black plastic tube containing: Bronze medal inscribed “Championship 1941 3rd Senior Discus.” Dog tag. “A” for blood type, “H” for Hebrew. Morton S Sabbath 12204591 T 42. Mother’s name beneath his. Yetta Sabbath 227 McCabe Ave Bradley Beach, NJ. A round yellow pin that says “Time for Saraka.” Two bullets. A red cross on a white button and the words “I Serve” at the top. Second lieutenant bars, two sets. Bronze wings.

  A red and gold tea chest the size of a small brick. Swee-Touch-Nee Tea. (From the house, wasn’t it, to put doodads in, wire, keys, nails, picture hangers? Morty take it with him or did she just put his things there when they came back?) Patches. The Air Apaches. The 498th Squadron. The 345 Bomb Group. I can still tell which is which. Ribbons. The wings from his cap.

  Clarinet. In five pieces. The mouthpiece.

  A diary. The Ideal Midget Diary Year 1939. Only two entries. For August 26: “Mickey’s birthday.” For December 14: “Shel and Bea got married.” Our cousin Bea. My tenth birthday.

  A GI sewing kit. Mildewed. Pins, needles, scissors, buttons. Some khaki-colored thread still left.

  Document. American eagle. E pluribus unum. In grateful memory of Second Lieutenant Morton S. Sabbath, who died in the service of his country in the southwest Pacific area December 15, 1944. He stands in the unbroken line of patriots who have dared to die that freedom might live, and grow, and increase its blessings. Freedom lives, and through it, he lives—in a way that humbles the undertakings of most men. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, President of the United States of America.

  Document. Purple Heart. The United States of America, to all who shall see these presents, Greetings: This is to certify that the President of the United States of America pursuant to authority vested in him by Congress has awarded the Purple Heart established by General George Washington at Newburgh, N.Y., August 7, 1782, to Second Lieutenant Morton Sabbath AS#o-827746, for military merit and for wounds received in action resulting in his death December 15,1944, given under my hand in the city of Washington the sixteenth day of June 1945, Secretary of War Henry Stimson.

  Certificates. Trees planted in Palestine. In Memory of Morton Sabbath, Planted by Jack and Berdie Hochberg. Planted by Sam and Yetta Sabbath. For the Reforestation of Eretz Yisrael. Planted by the Jewish National Fund for Palestine.

  Two small ceramic figures. A fish. The other an outhouse with a kid sitting on the seat and another kid waiting his turn around the corner. We were kids. We won it one night at the Pokerino on the boards. Our joke. The Crapper. Morty took it with him to the war. With the ceramic bluefish.

  At the bottom, the American flag. How heavy a flag is! All folded up in the official way.

  He took the flag down with him onto the beach. There he unfurled it, a flag with forty-eight stars, wrapped himself in it, and, in the mist there, wept and wept. The fun I had just watching him and Bobby and Lenny, watching him with his friends, watching them just fool around, kid, laugh, tell jokes. That he included me in the address. That he always included me!

  Not until two hours later, when he returned from tramping the beach wrapped in that flag—up through the sand to the Shark River drawbridge and back, crying all the way, rapidly talking, then wildly mute, then chanting aloud words and sentences inexplicable even to himself—not until after two solid hours of this raving about Morty, about the brother, about the one loss he would never bull his way through, did he return to find in the car, on the floor beside the brake pedal, the packet of envelopes addressed in Morty’s easy-to-read hand. They had dropped out of the carton while he was unpacking it, but he’d been too emotional to pick them up, let alone to read them.

  And he’d come back because after two hours of staring into the sea and up at the sky and seeing nothing and everything and nothing, he’d thought that the frenzy was over and that he had regained possession of 1994. He figured the only thing that could ever swallow him up like that again would have to be the ocean. And all from only a single carton. Imagine, then, the history of the world. We are immoderate because grief is immoderate, all the hundreds and thousands of kinds of grief.

  The return address was Lieutenant Morton Sabbath’s APO number in San Francisco. Six cents via airmail. Postmarked November and December 1944. In a brittle rubber band that broke into bits the moment Sabbath slipped his finger beneath it, five letters from the Pacific.

  To get a letter from him was always powerful. Nothing mattered more. The insignia of the U.S. Army at the top of the page and Morty’s handwriting underneath, like a glimpse of Morty himself. Everybody read them ten times, twenty times, even after his mother had read them aloud at the dinner table. “There’s a letter from Morty!” To the neighbors. Over the phone. “A letter from Morty!” And these were the last five.

  Dec. 3,1944

  Dearest Mom, Dad & Mickey,

  Hello everyone, how is every little thing at home. Some mail came in today & I thought sure that I had some however I was wrong. I think someone screwed up somewhere and I think I will try to locate it. If I can I am going to fly to New Guinea and check up.

  I awoke at 9:20 this morning and shaved and then made some breakfast. It began raining again so I went down to my navigator tent and painted our Group insignia on my B.4 bag. It is an indian head and I am going to print the name Air Apaches. If you ever read about the Air Apaches you will know that it is our Group. I spent most of the afternoon painting and then we brewed up some tea and cookies for a “nosh.”

  Mom has anything ever been cut of my letters that I have been writing. I ate supper and then checked to see whether I was flying for tomorrow.

  We played cards tonight and listened to the radio. We got some jazz. Incidently we won the game.

  I got a bread from the mess hall and we have grape jelly so we made hot chocolate & ate bread & jelly this evening.

  Well folks I guess thats about all for now so I will sign off with all my love. Don’t work too hard & take good care of yourselves. Give everyone my love & Be Good.

  May God Bless & keep you well.

  Your loving son,

  Mort

  Dec. 7,1944

  Dearest Mom, Dad & Mickey,

  Hi folks well another day is almost over and I am operations officer tonight. We have been flying pretty often around here as you probably have been reading in the newspaper.

  There isn’t much new around here that I haven’t already told you. By the way if you read
about the “Air Apaches” thats our Group so you will know that it was us on the mission. The war began three years ago today.

  We put up our tent today and tomorrow I am going to try and put a wooden floor in. Wood is scarce around here but if you know where to go you can usually get some. We are fixing up a shower and a lot of odds and ends to make it homelike. The natives are eager to help us. They haven’t much clothes for the Japs took most of it so we give them a few articles of clothes & they will do almost anything for us.

  We have air raids quite often but they don’t amount to much.

  How are things going at home? The food here has gotten better & we had turkey for dinner & get plenty of vegetables.

  Well folks since there isn’t much more to write about so I will sign off for tonight. Take good care of yourselves & May God Bless you. I love you very much & think of home always.

  Heres a big hug a kiss folks.

  Good night.

  Your loving son,

  Mort

  Dec. 9,1944

  Dearest Mom, Dad & Mickey,

  Hi folks I received your v-mail the other day dated the 17th of Nov. and it sure was grand hearing from you. Mom don’t use v-mail for it takes longer to get here then air-mail letters and you can write more in a letter. Your mail comes through now in a little over 14 days so things have straightened out. Let me know where Sid L. is as soon as you find out for if he comes over here I would like to look him up. As yet I haven’t received your packages but they should arrive soon.

  A few days ago I flew back to our old field to bring back a new plane. I have been here two days waiting and I again looked up Gene Hochberg and we had a good time seeing each other. I bought a new pair of GI shoes and mattress covers that I needed. I found my clothes here and picked up the laundry that I left when I went. Everything was intact and I bought more articles while here. I also purchased a case of grapefruit juice for they are good on a mission when you are thirsty. Last night I saw “When Irish Eyes are smiling” and it was very enjoyable. It rained last night and I was lazy and didn’t get up until 10:30 AM.

  I am glad to hear that everyone at home is feeling fine. I think I will see how Eugene is doing today. I gave him a wooden floor for his tent yesterday.

  Well folks thats about all the bull for now. Be good & May God Bless you. I think of you always.

  Your loving son,

  Mort

  Dec. 10,1944

  Dearest Mom, Dad, & Mickey,

  Hello folks well we are still waiting for a new airplane. Yesterday I went to see Gene but I didn’t stay long for I had to bring the jeep back to the squadron. I read Bob Hopes book “I never left home” and it was very good. It began to rain about then and kept up until chow time. I went to a friends tent and we played bridge for a few hours. Then we cooked up a little “nosh” of ham & eggs & onions & bread & hot chocolate.

  I went to sleep quite late and got up for breakfast at 7:10 AM. Most of the morning I spent cleaning my moccasins with oil and then my co-pilot and I took our pistols and practiced firing at bottles and cans. When I returned I took my gun apart and oiled it. I finished reading my book and then ate dinner. I practised my clarinet.

  In the evening I went to see one of our boys who is in the hospital and he should be getting out in a few days. Right now I am listening to the radio and writing to you.

  How are things going at home? I sent home about $222 about a month ago and you haven’t said anything about receiving the money-orders. If you received them let me know. And also if you are getting my bonds and $125 allotment every month.

  Well folks be good and take good care of yourselves. I miss you a lot & sure hope the war ends soon.

  Good night and May God Bless you.

  Your loving son,

  Mort

  Dec. 12, 1944

  Dearest Mom, Dad & Mickey,

  Well I finally returned today and I ferried a new ship here. I saw a good movie last night and when I returned to my tent we shot the bull for a few hours and hit the sack. I packed our ship in the morning and took off. We flew formation up and the new ships are a lot faster than the others.

  The food here is very good and we are still working on our tent. We should have a wooden floor in soon.

  We had fresh lamb for supper and good coffee. I picked up a lot of equipment for our tent while at our old field. Things are going quite well around here and I guess you read about the invasion up here. Naturally we participated in it.

  How are things going at home? I haven’t received mail for the last few days but there should be some tomorrow.

  I’m sure glad to hear that Mickey is doing so well with the discus and the shot. Just keep after him and make him practice and who knows he might be in the Olympics.

  Let me know whether you have received my money-order of $222 and war bond.

  I guess we will be going on leave in a few months.

  Well folks that’s about all for now. I will keep on writing as often as I can when I have something to write.

  Well Good night and May God Bless you. I think of you all often and hope to see you soon.

  Your loving son,

  Mort

  The Japs shot him down the next day. He would be seventy. We would be celebrating his birthday. Only for a while was all this his, a very little while.

  THE B-25D had a maximum speed at 15,000 feet of 4848 miles per hour. It had a range of 1,500 miles. Empty it weighed 20,300 pounds. Wingspan of those flat gull wings 67 feet 7 inches. Length 52 feet 11 inches. Height 15 feet 10 inches. Two .5-inch nose guns and twin .5-inch guns in both the dorsal and the retractable ventral turrets. The normal bomb load was 2,000 pounds. Maximum permissible overload 3,600 pounds.

  There was nothing Sabbath hadn’t known about the North American Mitchell B-25 medium bomber and little that he couldn’t remember, and remember precisely, while driving north in the dark with Morty’s things beside him on the passenger seat. He remained wrapped in the American flag. Never take it off—why should he? On his head, the red, white, and blue V for Victory, God Bless America yarmulke. Dressing like this made not a scrap of difference to anything, transformed nothing, abated nothing, neither merged him with what was gone nor separated him from what was here, and yet he was determined never again to dress otherwise. A man of mirth must always dress in the priestly garb of his sect. Clothes are a masquerade anyway. When you go outside and see everyone in clothes, then you know for sure that nobody has a clue as to why he was born and that, aware of it or not, people are perpetually performing in a dream. It’s putting corpses into clothes that really betrays what great thinkers we are. I liked that Linc was wearing a tie. And a Paul Stuart suit. And a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. Now you can take him anywhere.

  Jimmy Doolittle’s raid. Sixteen B-25s, land-based planes, taking off from a carrier to drop their bombs 670 miles away. From the USS Hornet, April 18, 1942, fifty-two years ago next week. Six minutes over Tokyo, followed by hours of pandemonium in our house, two glasses of schnapps for Sam, the annual intake in a single night. Flew right over the palace of the God Emperor (who could have stopped his nutty admirals before it even began if God had given God Emperor just an ordinary commoner’s pair of balls). Only four months after Pearl Harbor, first raid on Japan of the war—ten, eleven tons of a medium-range bomber lifting off the deck sixteen times. Then in February and March ’45, the B-29s, the Superfortresses, out of the Marianas, burning them to a crisp at night: Tokyo, Nagoya, Osaka, Kobe—but the biggest and best of the B-29s, which did in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, were eight months too late for us. The date to end the fucking thing was Thanksgiving 1944—that would have been something to be thankful for. We played cards tonight and listened to the radio. We got some jazz. Incidentally we won the game.

  The Jap bomber was the Mitsubishi G4M1. Their fighter was the Mitsubishi Zero-Sen. Sabbath worried every night in bed about the Zero. A math teacher at school who’d flown in World War I said the Zero was “formidable.” In the
movies they called it “deadly,” and when he lay alone in the dark beside Morty’s empty bed, he couldn’t do anything to get “deadly” out of his head. The word made him want to scream. The Jap carrier plane at Pearl Harbor had been the Nakajima B5N1. Their high-altitude fighter was the Kawasaki Hien, the “Tony” that gave the B-29s a hard time until LeMay moved from Europe to XXI Bomber Command and switched from day to nighttime fire raids. Our carrier planes: Grumman F6F, Vought 54U, Curtiss P-40E, Grumman TBF-1— the Hellcat, the Corsair, the Warhawk, the Avenger. The Hellcat, at 2,000 horsepower, twice as powerful as the Zero. Sabbath and Ron could identify from cutout models the silhouettes of every plane the Japs put up against Morty and his crew. The P-40 Warhawk, Ron’s favorite American fighter, had a shark’s mouth painted under its nose when they used them as Flying Tigers in Burma and China. Sabbath’s favorite was Colonel Doolittle’s plane and Lieutenant Sabbath’s, the B-25: two 1,700-horsepower Wright R-2600-9 fourteen-cylinder radial engines, each driving a Hamilton-Standard propeller.

  How could he kill himself now that he had Morty’s things? Something always came along to make you keep living, god-damnit! He was driving north because he didn’t know what else to do but take the carton home, put it in his studio, and lock it up there for safekeeping. Because of Morty’s things he was headed back to a wife who had nothing but admiration for a woman in Virginia who had cut off her husband’s dick in his sleep. But was the alternative to return the carton to Fish and then go back down to the beach and charge out into the rising tide? The blade head of the electric shaver contained particles of Morty’s beard. In the case with the clarinet pieces was the reed. The reed from Morty’s lips. Only inches from Sabbath, in the toilet case stamped “MS,” was the comb with which Morty had combed his hair and the scissors with which Morty had clipped his nails. And there were recordings, two of them. On each, Morty’s voice. And in his Ideal Midget Diary Year 1939, under August 26, “Mickey’s birthday” written in Morty’s hand. I cannot walk into the waves and leave this stuff behind.