The Yellow Sailor
Page 14
“Nothing fatal.”
“Syphilis?”
Nicholas suppressed a smile.
“No,” Bernai said.
“Tell me.”
“It’s private.”
“All the more reason.”
Bernai’s voice trembled.
“Herr Prager,” he said, “there is a woman.”
Nicholas laughed.
“A woman?” Prager said.
Germans turned.
“A WOMAN!”
“People are watching us, Herr Prager,” Bernai said.
Prager laughed until he coughed. A waiter came with two whiskeys.
“So who is this beauty, Herr Bernai?”
“An Austrian.”
“She’s nice?”
“Very.”
“How did you meet her?”
“She’s my physician’s fiancée.”
“Si hat dich beschwichen,” Prager chuckled. “She bewitched you.”
“My mind is wounded.”
“Nu wirb umb daz Ewige leiden,” Prager said. “Now you will suffer eternity.”
Prager finished the whiskey.
“Or end up in a madhouse,” he said.
Nicholas waved flies away from Prager.
“Did you consider my letter?” Bernai said.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“No.”
“I would be most honored with an extension.”
“I need collateral. Poles nationalized your mines. You have nothing left.”
“Don’t crucify me,” Bernai said.
Prager leaned forward.
“Nu horet, ir maennelaer—” Prager said. “Now listen, homosexual—We never crucified anybody. Ever.”
“A manner of speech, Herr Prager.”
Prager stood.
“I’ll give you six months’ extension. Then the enforcers come. Because of the woman.”
Prager and Nicholas left.
“I still don’t like the way he looks at me,” Nicholas said.
Nicholas left Prager. He went to Goldene Kreuzl. Aryans treated him. They broke windows at the Avion cinema and at the Passage. They threw bricks against waltz-musicals.
Prager went to the Death House. He went to a friend’s bed with a note. Telephone when he begins to die. Prager leaned down.
“What is happening?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“Ist nicht Gott?” Prager said.
“No.”
Prager leaned down.
“What, then?”
“Nothing.”
Prager walked Uferstrasse at night. He climbed the ghetto wall. Czech streets were bright, rain-wet, spirals under neon. Café Edison was noisy. The Kasino was full of Germans. The Rokoko was filled with cinema people. Women dressed sportlich. The Conti overflowed. Artists met at Coffeehouse Tmovka. Café Metro students, sweaters full of holes, drank kaffeetscherl—dear little coffee—and at Theatre Rouge alienistes and Swedenborgians smoked French cigarettes.
“My Danish girl …”
Prager cried.
“You were so alive …”
Uralt phantoms threw Prager back into the ghetto.
It was Friday night. Prager went to synagogue.
Jews carried trays of apricots, lamb, raisins, and honey cakes. Russian Jews wore fur hats. Litvaks brought tasseled pillows. A guard stopped Prager.
“Who are you?”
“I am who I am,” Prager said.
“Are you a member?”
“Jud bleibt Jud,” Prager said. “A Jew is a Jew.”
“Tell our enemies.”
The kantor came out.
“What’s the noise?”
“Gebt mir hulde! Durch hailikait der siben gab sprecht ablas meiner sünde,” Prager said. “Give me help! By holiness absolve my sins.”
“What sins?”
“I loved a Gentile girl.”
“So?”
“I still do.”
“Dîn sünde sint dir nit vergaben,” the kantor said. “Your sins are not absolved.”
The rebbe came out. Prager fell on his knees.
“Save me!”
“From what?”
“Love.”
“Dasz guot habt ir beslazzen im wüste,” the rebbe said. “God has left you in a wasteland.”
“O, he has!”
“Come in, Jew.”
Prager went in. The Jewish Passion was painted on a wall: clouds of light, black rolling ocean. Hapsburg flags hung from a black iron chandelier. Steps went down by the altar. Jews cried from the depths.
There were rules on a brass plate.
1. Mosaic law forbids drawing of blood.
2. Dietary law forbids drinking of blood.
3. Infanticide precludes eternal life.
4. Jews bleed normally.
5. Pope and Emperor condemn blood libel.
Prager sidled down a pew.
“May I sit?”
“Lama lo?” a Litvak said, in Hebrew. “Why not?”
Prager sat.
“Nu?”
“Nothing by me,” the Litvak said. “What’s by you?”
“It’s coming.”
“What is?”
“What will come,” Prager said, “should never come.”
The kantor sang.
Orgelum, orgelem
O, how everything is dark
Miasma is
Everything wasted and empty
Visible is nothing over the earth
Orgelum
So many Godless
Once so happy,
Sang prayers,
Do not believe in God,
A scandal and shame
Orgelum, orgelem
Sin-flood comes
God’s sign
Everything so hard
No saving anybody orgelum
Oh, how everything is dark
Blackness is
Waste and empty
All over the earth
The rebbe came to the pulpit.
“God moves in paradox,” he said.
Jews responded.
“Omayn.”
“You cannot be with God until you let go of first love.”
“Omayn.”
“But only God,” the rebbe said, “gives you power to let go.”
“Omayn.”
“It is a paradox.”
“Omayn.”
“It is the Law.”
“Omayn.”
“This is true and universal.”
“Omayn.”
“Love not the woman, but God within.”
“Omayn.”
“But if you dwell on her arms and eyes—”
“Omayn.”
“You will be cut off from God.”
“Omayn.”
“And where will you be without God?”
“Nowhere.”
“Where can you go without God?”
“Nowhere.”
“Who will you be without God?”
“Nobody.”
“There is no life without the Eternal Name, Blessed be He.”
“Der Name des Herrn sei gebenedeiet,” the congregation said. “The name of God be blessed.”
Jews filed out. The rebbe motioned to Prager.
“Not so fast.”
“Me?”
“Come.”
Prager followed the rebbe into the study. The rebbe boiled milk. It formed a skin. He sprinkled nutmeg.
“Drink Judenwasser,” he said.
Prager drank.
“It’s bitter,” Prager said.
“It is sweet.”
“It degrades.”
“It exalts.”
The rebbe put the ceremonial cup away.
“What happens if this doesn’t work?” Prager said.
“Hallucinations.”
The kantor escorted Prager to a green kiosk in the graveyard.
“Stay here thre
e days and nights,” the kantor said.
“Why?”
“Penance.”
The kantor left.
“Smrdí hbitovem,” the kantor said to himself. “This one stinks of the cemetery.”
Prager drummed his fingers.
“What a bore.”
Locomotive headlights swept the ghetto. Rain thudded. A jackdaw flew through smoke. Disciples of Baal Shem Tov crossed the road, knives in black belts.
A Yiddish comedian came by.
“A Jewish journalist goes to a Jewish restaurant in London,” he said. “Dessert, he wants cheese. Waiter tells him, no cheese. But that man over there is eating cheese, the journalist says. Waiter goes away, comes back. Sorry, he says, we’re out of cheese. Excuse me, the journalist says, but that same man is now being served cheese. Waiter goes away, comes back. You see, sir, he says, this is a Jewish restaurant. You had meat for supper. So you can’t have cheese for dessert. The journalist loses his temper. But that man being served cheese, had schnitzel. Ah, but you see, the waiter says, he’s not Jewish. I’m not Jewish! the journalist yells. Bring me cheese! Waiter goes. Chef comes to the table. Chef turns the journalist’s face side to side, studies him, shakes his head. NO CHEESE!”
“Ha!”
Jew Rosenschweig, a critic, came by in the rain. His ankles were tied behind his ears. Rosenschweig moved by hand-hops on the wet pavement.
“Shame, scandal,” he said. “Mistakes.”
After three nights Prager left the kiosk. He drank in taverns: Painted Hands, ad Ethiopen, Anna and 3 Pheasants, Golden Barrel, Green Ox. Also: Sun of Solomon, Twin Red Apple, Cedars of Lebanon, Boaz Wines Company. Prager wandered into U Smrti—Death. The Smiling Boys Orchestra played. A Jew slumped at the bar.
“G-G-Gott helfen, ich bin emanschipirt,” he said. “G-G-God help me, I’m—hic—emancipated.”
A Klezmer band replaced The Smiling Boys Orchestra. The Universal Pimp sat down by Prager. He gave Prager his card. Dir schaut der Tod in die Augen. Death looks you in the eyes. Prager put it in his pocket.
“I saw you at synagogue,” the Pimp said.
“Mumbo-jumbo.”
“It didn’t work?”
“No.”
“Sometimes it takes a few days.”
“Bah.”
“You still dream about your sweet Danish?” the Universal Pimp said.
“Shut up.”
“O wê! Wie ist dîn vröude nû verloren,” the Universal Pimp laughed. “O pain! Your woman is lost!”
“Shut up.”
“You die hard, Prager.”
“I was fifteen, for Christ’s sake, you should pardon the expression.”
The Universal Pimp laughed.
“Cheer up. Listen,” he said. “The people saw a drunk Jew on Atonement Day. They woke him up. He was so drunk he couldn’t tell night from day. The people beat him up and dragged him to the rebbe. Where were you last night? Rebbe says. I was with a Gentile woman. You wretch! Rebbe says. The Rebbe beat him up. What were you doing with a Gentile woman? I was in no condition to see a Jewish woman, was I?”
“Ha.”
“That’s better,” the Universal Pimp said.
The Pimp edged closer.
“Do you need a woman?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Not in the mood.”
“Ein verweg breckin?” he said. “A saucy bitch?”
“No.”
“What if she was your first love?”
The Pimp smiled.
“How?” Prager said.
“Never mind.”
Prager took the address.
“What the hell?”
He left U Smrti. Twelve Hasids went by in lockstep. Sparks lit lamps. A phantom—Schem—billowed over chimneys. A man leaned against a streetlight.
“Spucken und Speien,” he said. “Spit and vomit. I vomit but nothing comes!”
A Czech military truck turned a corner. Nicholas leaned out. He cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Schwanke!”
Prager turned.
“I enlisted!”
“Fool!”
“You Jews!” Nicholas shouted. “Complain! Complain! Complain!”
Prager came to the red-light district. Women plucked the warp and woof of looms in a window and made music like harps. One turned to him.
“Handwork …”
Roofs split open. Banknotes and silver foil fluttered into rooms. Tongues waggled from the banknotes.
I respect Jews …
Lips—labials—moved in stone walls.
Feed me …
Love me …
Move me …
Prager came to the Bordello of First Loves. He touched a mezuzah. He kissed the fingers. He went up three rotted stairs. A physician sat at a desk with a black leather bag.
“Where is love?” Prager asked.
“Upstairs. On the left.”
Prager went up stairs. Behemoth and Bestie dragged men by the heels. Unfläterein—filthy beast—walked up a parallel stairwell.
“It’s dark,” Prager said.
“No light.”
“There is no light.”
“It’s like dark,” Unfläterein said. “Not like light at all.”
Prager went down a corridor. Skeletons came to roost, gold molars clicking, red eyes. They wore wigs and lipstick.
No hurry at all …
I’ve never done this before …
Do what you want …
Moonlight came through barred skylights. Rebbes with cone hats swept the floor. They chanted.
Hebron, leher, la la la
Paternoster Pirentbitz
Kickrim and Schlachisschloss
Schlachisschloss and Schweinfleisch
Übermuts—demon—stood dangling a gold necklace.
“For your Danish sweetheart?”
Prager kept going.
“What a fool,” Übermuts said.
Prager knocked on a door with a Danish flag.
“Entree.”
He went in. It was a red scarred chamber. A Jewish cadaver stood in an armoire. His chest was open and his heart beat slowly.
“Süzze künige …” Prager said. “Sweet queen …”
Sklavenskelett—chained skeleton—stood on a pedestal. Her wings were crumpled. Her eyes opened. They were hazel.
Much did the Lord give.
Much more did he take away.
“Lad mig vaere i fred,” Sklavenskelett said, in Danish. “Leave me alone.”
Prager put a fringed towel on his shoulders. He tied his wallet to his forehead.
“Auf welche Weise der Teufel dir die Jungfräulichkeit geraubt habe?” Prager said. “In what manner did the devil steal your virginity?”
“Of my own free will.”
“Ob sie von anderen Männern auf naturliche Weise geschwängert worden sei,” he said. “If you were made pregnant by other men, in the natural manner?”
“I was.”
Sklavenskelett’s eyes glowed red. The room began to char.
“I was not fond of you, Jew.”
“No.”
“You were ugly.”
She showed metal teeth. Sklavenskelett glided.
“You repulsed me.”
“What did I fail at, Sklavenskelett?”
“At elske,” she said. “To love.”
The Bordello of First Loves collapsed.
Prager escaped through sewers. He came up in Vinorhady at a Jewish graveyard. He went in. King Death sat on bulging gunny sacks. He picked his gold teeth.
“What do you want?”
“A whitewashed grave,” Prager said.
“That’s what’s left of your first love?”
“Yes.”
“You die a poor man, Jew.”
King Death hauled a granite slab from a dusty pile. He picked up a chisel.
“Name?”
“Nezmany.”
King Death chiseled: ein unbekannter. Un
known.
“Actually,” he said, “at the end everybody has the same name.”
King Death farted. He handed the tombstone to Prager.
“Thirty-Eight-F.”
Prager carried his tombstone to Thirty-eight-F.
“Here it is.”
The devil went by, holding a man’s scrotum inside out, like a little purse. A hairy masturbator ran out of ivy. Prager leaned over the grave. He shot himself.
“—o—Sklavenskelett—”
There was a blinding light.
“Why did it end up as pornography?”
LOVE WAS A SECRET OF TWO
NICHOLAS STEPPED off a train at Olomouc barracks in Northern Moravia.
A Krupp railroad gun turned. Butchers came off, too, carrying knives, cleavers, and beef sides. Soldiers unloaded canvas, boots, bullet crates, horse bridles. Jews drove beer and water wagons. Nicholas crossed the rails. He threw his suitcase onto a heap of rubbish.
“I don’t need that anymore.”
A German-friendly man leaned out of a kiosk.
“Sausages! Breads! Pornography!”
Nicholas joined recruits on the training ground. It was a German-speaking regiment. He was sworn in.
“Are you worthy?”
“Jo!”
“Is the gun your own?”
“Jo!”
“Don’t destroy it!”
“Nee!”
Nicholas swore the flag oath.
“I will follow orders! I would shoot mother and father! Brother and sister!”
Recruits threw their caps into the air and stabbed them as they fell. Sergeant Spahn made Nicholas stand on tiptoes, knees bent. Nicholas kept the position until his legs cramped. Sergeant Spahn snapped his fingers.
“Hair to be cut!”
Nicholas marched to a chair in the sun. A barber cut Nicholas’s hair. The barber held out a hand.
“Tip!”
Nicholas paid. A priest rang a bell.
“Mass!”
The recruits went to a linen-covered table. The priest raised a chalice.
“Who is your helper?” he said.
“Mary!”
“How did you get here?”
“Mary!”
“How will you get out?”
“Mary!”
The priest mixed blood in a glass of water. The blood separated.
“Go in peace.”
Nicholas picked up a folded uniform. He climbed stairs of a barracks. On the landing was a death list: Buk, Cerny, Simek, Skoumal, Krejci, Pribl, Bohus. He went in. Sun streamed on beds, bowls, pitchers, soap and towels.