by Steve Weiner
“Yes.”
She put a drop of red wine on her lips. She kissed his mouth.
“Ever taste anything like that?”
“Once.”
A drone rose.
“What’s that?”
“The synagogue.”
“You’re not religious?” Nicholas said.
“No.”
“But I am.”
He unbuttoned her blouse.
“I open the ark,” he said.
He kissed her breasts.
“I worship the twin tablets.”
He kissed her privately.
“I worship the Talmud …”
Field workers scythed under the moon.
… Holy … holy …
Nicholas came to. His money was gone. The haloed moon—depleted—passed behind the synagogue. Nicholas turned around, arms flying.
“Where am I?”
“Labyrint svta,” Routenberg said, brushing her hair. “In the labyrinth of the world.”
“You’re not Agatha!”
He ran down the stairs. Jews flew off the synagogue roof.
“Odzpívali mu,” a Jew said. “The end of him.”
“Budeme tajiti, jako by byl živy,” a Jew said. “We’ll be secret, as if he were still alive.”
Nicholas took the fast train to Beroun. Trees fell. Farms leaned. He put his suitcase on a rack. A passenger refused to put his own suitcase on the rack.
“Put your suitcase on the rack,” Nicholas said. “People will trip over it.”
“No.”
“You’re not being socially useful.”
“So what?”
“May I ask your nationality?”
“French.”
Nicholas turned to a man across the aisle.
“Don’t you think he’s outrageous?”
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
“I’m French, too.”
The train rocketed past barracks. Nicholas wandered the corridors. Timber-raft men smoked. Postal workers slept on mail sacks. Iron mesh sealed off soldiers. They stood holding straps, crammed, jostling, facing one way, knees into backs of knees.
“Long live the 28th Regiment!”
“Up with the Prague sanitary soldiers!”
The last car was a Krupp railroad gun.
The train stopped: Sedletz. Reservists with Austrian medals crowded a buffet.
“Agatha!”
Nicholas woke. A fat Slovenian woman slapped a soldier. Nicholas went back to sleep.
The train went through an apple orchard. Nicholas got off at Beroun. It was very late. A Czech soldier walked back and forth in a green rain. Nicholas went to his hotel. Drunk Croatians sang in the lobby.
“Is that a band playing?” Nicholas said. “At the gazebo? At this hour?”
He washed himself with Schicht soap, deer emblem, gift of Herr Zwiegler. He stepped into the corridor.
“Herr Zwiegler—”
“Yes?”
“I need a woman.”
“Direkt.”
Nicholas opened a bottle of wine.
“To sweeten a bitter pill.”
A Croatian prostitute knocked. She had black hair, curved nose. She took off her coat.
“Do you live in Beroun?” she said.
“For now.”
“I don’t know you.”
“No. You don’t.”
Nicholas spread butter on bread, cut the bread into quarters, put slices of cucumber on them and gave her some.
“What would you like?” he said. “American whiskey, slivovitz, German beer?”
“Slivovitz.”
“Here.”
“Shall I … on hands and knees? …” she said.
“Like an animal.”
Nicholas finished. He covered himself in a blanket. He sat on a radiator.
“Now you’re sad?” she said. “Mr. Melancholy? Like maybe you sit on thorns?”
“Go away.”
“Vcny pekelny vzeni,” she said. “Hell is the eternal prison.”
“Is it?”
“Do cecho to B du[img]i vstril,” she said. “In whatever God stuck a soul.”
She came out below.
“The road to heaven goes through hell, sir.”
Nicholas applied for work at the Pomelogical Institute. The gardeners turned him down. He applied to the Civil Swim School. There was no need for instructors. He sold military uniforms.
“For the modern sickness!”
Everybody was sick. Nobody bought. Nicholas sold Odol mouthwash.
“I use it myself!”
He sold classics.
“Goethe! Hildebrand!”
He went to Motol Hill. Below, spires of Prague rose. Coal smoke filtered around the Baumgarten. Woodrow Wilson train station gleamed. Nicholas stumbled down.
He tugged on a Jew’s sleeve.
“What do you want?”
“Work,” Nicholas said.
“Who are you? The Reichrabbiner?” the Jew said. “Rabbi of the German Empire? What languages do you speak?”
“Kuchelböhmisch.”
“Child-Czech? What else?”
“A bit of Polish.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I’m starving!”
“Go away.”
“I’ll clean your latrines!”
“I praise God, who made me a Jew!”
Jews put him on a street corner selling magic.
“Abyssinian! Babylonian!”
THE BORDELLO OF FIRST LOVES
NICHOLAS STROLLED the Jewish market.
“Magic! Babylonian! Zoroastrian!”
He passed a bookstall. The Duties of the Heart by Bahya ibn Pakuda was for sale, and Hassidism in Grandeur and Decay and A Story of Sin.
“Magic! Babylonian! Zoroastrian!”
A pornographer came the other way.
“Wie der Penis der Teufels sei, und wie sein Samen!” he said. “How the devil’s penis is, and his semen!”
Stolen lamps from the Samples Fair Palace were sold. Rüthenians sold mezuzahs, incense bowls, candles, prayers for the dead. Czech soldiers bought girls’ diaries. Baby clothes were piled on sheets. Russian marionettes, Austrian tin cavalry riders were for sale, and Polish vodka with gold grains. A table was piled with bullets, artillery shells, Sten guns.
“High caliber!”
“Body-piercing!”
A Manichean punched a Back-to-the-Land Jew. Nicholas went to a horse compound. Dealers haggled.
“Dia,” a Jew said.
“Eh?” a Czech said.
“Duo.”
“Zwei?”
The Jew held up two fingers.
“Two!”
“Three!
“I won’t buy.”
The Jew walked away. The horse fell dead.
Lights came on. Nicholas went to a platform. There was a Judenspiel. The puppet Mr. Union beat a naked old woman. Susanna’s Brother stroked The Plump One. Little Hempelman kissed Klotsch’s toes. Graun, a Court Kapellmeister, intrigued with Jietheu, the Husar-General.
Jews applauded.
“Did you understand?”
Nicholas turned. A Jew with a white beard, rosy cheeks, smiled at him. The old Jew wore a black greatcoat with fur collar, linen ascot, and black Hamburg.
“No.”
“Where are you from?”
“Hamburg.”
“What are you doing here?” the Jew said.
“Not much.”
“Selling magic is for the birds.”
A soprano sang.
Your lips must become silent
about the water and the earth
about the air and the fire
Jews applauded.
“Did you understand that?” the Jew said.
“No.”
“It was mystical.”
A Yiddish comedian came on stage.
“Rebbe Pinchas shocked Jews by marrying a Gentile woman,” he said. “The people said, Rebbe Pin
chas, how could you, a learned man, do such a thing? Easy, the rebbe said. Jewish women complain too much. My bladder. My cramps. Who needs it? Excuse us, rebbe, the people said, but Gentile women, too, have ailments. True, Rebbe Pinchas said. But who cares?”
Jews laughed.
“I don’t get it,” Nicholas said.
“It’s Jewish humor.”
“Not very funny.”
“Wait.”
Boys came on stage wearing white gowns. They held paper roses on poles.
We bloom like a rose tree
Our fragrance like pilgrim incense
Before God we are angels, yes angels!
“It’s a mystery to you?” the Jew said.
“Yes.”
“To us, too.”
The Jew held out his hand.
“My name is Prager,” the Jew said. “Come.”
Prager took Nicholas to a Jewish brandy tavern. A boy waiter stood at the door.
“Schwul.”
The boy left. Jews came in after synagogue.
“What’s your name?”
“Nicholas Bremml.”
“Do you know who I am?” Prager said.
“No.”
“I’m a schwanke.”
“What’s that?”
“A master criminal. Boss of the Kocheme Gesellschaft, the Smart Society.”
“The underworld?”
Prager leaned closer.
“Raub, stelen, töten—ist mir gach leib,” he said. “Robbery, thievery, killing—it’s all the same to me.”
“Me, too.”
Prager put his arm around Nicholas.
“A beautiful young man, with your features, can earn a lot,” Prager said.
“Forget it.”
“No. Not that.”
“What, then?”
“Come.”
Prager took Nicholas to Goldene Kreuzl by Nekazanka Gasse. It was outside the ghetto. The doorman stopped them.
“Are you Serbian?” the doorman said.
“No.”
“Hungarian?”
“No.”
“Slovak?”
“No.”
“You don’t look pure. Who is the lovely boy?”
Prager tousled Nicholas’s hair.
“My son, Nicholas.”
The doorman bowed.
“Then, enter, gracious Aryan sirs.”
Prager made armaments deals with fascists. Prager and Nicholas left. Prager laughed.
“Aryans are stupid.”
“Are they?”
“No offense.”
They strolled Prague. Prager bought Bergen’s butter cream on Wassergasse, strudl at Štrba.
Prager took Nicholas to the Fress-Attraktion—automat—by Wenzelsplatz. For two crowns each they got rolls, meat salad, herring and cream from the North Sea.
“I’m seeing a client tomorrow,” Prager said. “Want to come?”
“Sure.”
“His name is Julius Bernai. He’s a homosexual.”
“I worked for him,” Nicholas said. “On Yellow Sailor in the merchant marine.”
“Do you want to meet him?”
“I don’t care.”
“Good.”
Prager picked his teeth with a gold toothpick.
“Do you know who I am, Nicholas?”
“A schwanke.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“King of the Jews.”
“Ha.”
“Ha.”
Prager ordered Nicholas to sell a stolen Skoda. Prager buttonholed a Zionist.
“Hey, Zionist. Buy our car.”
“How much?”
“You tell me.”
“How is this?”
“We lifted it, gave it wings. It took a walk with me. Come on. Make an offer.”
“Go away, in all the names of the devil.”
Nicholas slept on Prager’s floor in a room that looked over the ghetto wall to the Moldau. Prager stirred in his nightclothes.
“What are you doing in Prague?” Prager said.
“I don’t know.”
“Lonesome?”
“That’s life.”
“No woman?”
“No.”
Prager looked out the window.
“I’m an old man, Nicholas. Women plague me.”
“Me, too.”
Prager went to a bordel.
Czech police looked for Prager. He dressed as a poor Jew and pretended to work in a yarmulke shop. Nicholas kept the flat. Bent over Singer sewing machines, Jews stitched gabardine. Signs said 25% Sale.
Prager yawned.
“Tired?”
“Dead tired.”
“A friend of mine worked in the death house,” Izzy Bleier said. “there was a stiff with six bullets in it.”
“That’s the ghetto for you.”
Prager yawned again.
“Where were you last night?” Izzy Bleier said. “If I may ask, boss?”
“Ich komme aff ein ketzerei,” Prager said. “I’ve come from a debauch.”
He yawned.
“What you used to do all night,” he said, “now takes all night to do.”
“Shame.”
“With your new houseboy?” Natan Tarnov said.
“Not yet.”
“Again, shame.”
“Why?”
“At your age.”
Czech police went by. Prager ducked. Izzy bit off thread.
“You neglect God.”
“Big deal,” Prager said.
“A sin.”
“So?”
“You die.”
“You die anyway.”
Izzy tossed a yarmulke on a pile. It was lunch. Jews ate plum pudding. Prager read Židovske Zprávy: Murderers—Can They Be Saved? He turned the page: Dangers of Intercourse with the Other World.
“Was nobody special to you?” Izzy said. “If I may ask, boss.”
“Who?”
“A woman.”
“To me?”
“Am I talking to Mr. Singer? Excuse my effrontery.”
“Never.”
“A Christian?” Izzy said.
“Don’t remember.”
“We hear rumors.”
“Bah.”
“Of Danish ancestry?”
“A country of bogs.”
“Is that why you don’t go to synagogue?” Izzy said. “She made you lose your faith?”
“No.”
“Why, then?”
“There is no God.”
Prager put on his greatcoat.
“Where are you going?” Izzy said.
“Out.”
“But they’re looking for you.”
“I won’t live long anyway.”
Prager went out.
“Ich bin ka Bettler,” he said. “I’m no beggar.”
It rained. He put up his collar.
“It always rains in the ghetto.”
* * *
Nicholas ran messages for Prager. Prager inspected his interests. He met a pimp with a bordel on Kleinseite who sprinkled paprika on his chicken.
“How’s business?”
“Fine, boss.”
“Good.”
“And the police?” Prager said.
“Taken care of, boss.”
“Good.”
Prager went to a basement door. He knocked.
“Entree.”
A baker stood at a copper mixing bowl. Rolling pins lay on a table by puncturing combs. Firewood was piled. Sugar, wicker baskets of eggs, oil, wine, spices stood on shelves. Two holes let in shafts of light from above.
“How is the matzo?” Prager said.
“Fine, boss.”
“Good.”
A butcher hauled a goat kid, legs skidding against the stone floor.
“How is the butchery?”
“Doing well, boss.”
The butcher slit the kid’s throat. He bled it into a bucket. Prager rapped on an iron doo
r.
“Entree.”
Prager went in.
Jews shaved gold coins. They brushed the gold dust into purses. Gold coins gave birth to smaller coins. A trödel—junk—wagon stopped at a window above. Jews climbed down with sacks. The wuchermeister—master usurer—brought Prager tea wursts by Maceška and kugelrunde from Tománky.
“Thank you, Dukatscheisser,” Prager said. “Ducat shitter. Call a meeting.”
Ledgers opened.
“Herman Goldfarb,” Prager said. “What’s his situation?”
“Extension of loan requested.”
“Why?”
“Low prices for radishes.”
“Extend it two months,” Prager said. “No more.”
“Yes, boss.”
“What about Felix Felsenstein?” Prager said.
“Default.”
“Why?”
“Warehouse fire in Amsterdam.”
Prager clipped his fingernails.
“Go see his relatives.”
“Yes, boss. What about Julius Bernai?”
“I’m seeing him today.”
Prager stood. A storm blew. Kronentaler, dukatlein, reichs-marks—all the currencies of Europe—swirled. Paper obligations took wing. Dukats, zlotys, roubles, guilder, Swiss francs tumbled over each other. Prager left. Selbstwehr—Self-Defense—the Zionist newspaper—twirled down the street. Prager met Nicholas.
They crossed the Charles Bridge. Nicholas held Prager’s briefcase. Fishermen angled at a weir. Mist rose below Hadrcany Castle. They came to Kleinseite. Soldiers flirted with laundrywomen.
They went into a hotel. Czechs carried huge luggage for Germans. An American made a scene.
“There he is,” Prager said.
Bernai sat in a red chair. He was pale and wore crème Mimi, Rose of Autumn, and Tokalon powder. He dressed as a German businessman.
Nicholas stared.
“He looks awful.”
Prager went to Bernai. Bernai stood.
“Ir sult nider sizzen,” Prager said. “You should sit.”
Bernai sat. Prager sat. Nicholas held Prager’s hat behind Prager’s chair.
“Who’s this?” Bernai said.
“My boy.”
“Nice.”
Bernai polished his spectacles.
“Very nice.”
Bernai wiped his neck with a handkerchief.
“Syn diz weter ist gar heiz,” Prager said. “The weather is awfully hot.”
“It’s midsummer.”
“Der klaáre sunne schîn,” Prager said. “The sun shines.”
“Everybody suffers.”
Prager ordered two whiskeys. A fan turned overhead.
“Nu?” Prager said.
“What?”
“It means, what’s happening? What’s going on? What’s the news? You look like a corpse.”
