At five o’clock, I went upstairs to my bedroom to get dressed. On my way back from the supermarket, I stopped at Laurie’s—a tiny but well-known clothes shop in town—and bought a dark green skirt and a white knitted blouse that had a small green bow sewn into its right side. Looking back at me from the mirror at the store was a different Eva. I had never worn a skirt so short. I felt naked, but Laurie—the boutique owner—insisted on my wearing it to show off my beautiful legs. I hoped I wouldn’t change my mind that evening and wear some of my old clothes.
Mickey arrived at six o’clock.
He looked good. He was wearing an elegant white shirt and gray trousers; his wavy hair rested on his shoulders and his white teeth were exposed when he smiled. He kissed me on each cheek, held out a box, and said, “My mother sent you this Rose Cake—that’s what she calls it. She said she’s sure you’ll like it. She sends you warm greetings and asked me to tell you that she’s waiting for you to come again.”
I smiled and thanked him.
“You look wonderful,” he said. I saw his eyes scan me up and down. I had put my hair back with two combs so that my face was completely uncovered. It was obvious he saw my flushed cheeks.
“Would you like something to drink?” I asked.
“What do you have?” he asked.
“White wine, dry red wine…and…”
“Red wine would be fine.”
I poured each of us a glass of wine and we sat down in the living room. After a few sips, I began to feel the tension slip away. I felt relaxed.
Mickey asked me about the days following my discovery that my mother was Jewish. After a moment’s pondering, I said, “At first it was very confusing. I didn’t know if I needed to change anything in my life. These were not simple days. But later on, I decided to continue with the life that was familiar to me. Religion is not significant to me. I am who I am regardless of my religion… So right now, nothing has changed and I’m continuing with my life more or less the way it was before.”
“You’re right,” he said after a brief silence. “You are who you are, regardless of the connection to your religion.” Then he added, a bit softer, “And I really like who you are.”
His words embarrassed me, so I immediately suggested we sit down at the table. The meat and quiche were already in the oven; the potatoes (a bit burnt) had come out of the oven earlier. I took the salads out of the refrigerator and placed them on the table. The meat and gravy looked appetizing. My heart was full of pride at seeing the festive table. The shades of the tablecloth and the dishes made it look meticulous but also soft and romantic. I invited Mickey to sit down, but he gestured for me to wait a moment and took a yarmulke out of his pocket. He placed it on his head, took the glass of wine, and said the familiar blessing from the family dinner at his home. When he finished, he signaled me to take a sip of wine and sat down.
The meal went by pleasantly. The conversation was smooth. He told me a bit about the company when it was still active. Every once in a while, he mentioned his grandmother and grandfather and also talked about his sisters. I could see a sparkle in his eyes when he spoke about them. He loved them very much, and even though he didn’t see them very often, they had a very close and warm relationship.
“But enough of me going on about my family,” he said. “Tell me more about yourself. How do you spend your days? Tell me about your job, your ambitions… I want to get to know you better.”
While he was speaking, I noticed he hadn’t tasted the meat. “Don’t you like the meat?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, I don’t eat pig meat,” he said awkwardly.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I was also embarrassed.
“There are a lot of Jews that do eat this kind of meat, but even though we’re not really religious, there are some mitzvahs that we keep. Don’t apologize. The meal was wonderful. I’m full.”
We got up from the table and cleared the dishes together. I washed and he dried. Every once in a while, his arm touched my hand. Sometimes I felt his eyes checking me out, but I wouldn’t dare look at him. When we finished, we went into the living room, and I placed a bowl of fruit on the table. I sat a small distance from him and turned my face to him.
“Would you like to continue your story about your father?” I asked.
“Yes, but not right now. I want to hear about you,” he said. His hand reached up to brush away an imaginary hair from my cheek. I could feel the heat spread throughout my body. The dim light, the quiet all around us, our being alone—all these created an atmosphere of tension. It seemed like Mickey felt much more comfortable than I did on my sofa, in my house. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t think of anything.
He moved closer to me and pulled my chin toward him until our eyes met. His face drew closer to mine and his lips rested on mine in a soft kiss that for a moment connected his stable world to my unsteady and confused one.
The doorbell cut through the special moment. It was after ten o’clock and completely dark outside. I stayed seated, unsure if I had heard anything. Mickey’s eyes asked a silent question and my raised eyebrows answered that I didn’t know. Panic took hold of me. George’s hand slithering on my legs suddenly appeared before me, and I was afraid that now he was waiting at my door. Mickey noticed the panic on my face.
“I’ll open it,” he said. He got up from the sofa.
I heard him open the door and then his voice, a bit high, exchanging words with someone. I got up from the sofa and went to the door. Roy’s eyes met mine. I felt the blood rushing through my veins. Roy looked at me and then looked inside the house. In the dim light of the porch I could see, like in a movie, the wheels turning in his mind. Creating a story. His eyes roamed from my face to Mickey’s.
“I’m interrupting you,” he said finally. Mickey didn’t say anything and turned to look at me. An unexplainable feeling of guilt and shame prevented me from speaking. Seconds passed and the silence became deafening. Mickey eventually asked Roy if he would like to come in.
“No, I’ll leave you two alone,” he said. It seemed like he spat the word “alone” like he couldn’t wait to get rid of it.
Mickey stayed overnight. We never spoke about it and he didn’t ask. We continued the evening and eventually made arrangements for sleep. My mood was ruined. The feelings of tension and expectation were replaced by the desire for the weekend to be over. Lying awake in my bed, I couldn’t fall asleep. I was angry at Roy for showing up at my door without warning, putting me in such an uncomfortable situation, and I was angry at Mickey for acting like the master of the house.
Mickey left the next day, after we had breakfast together. He noticed the change in my mood and avoided asking me questions. He only said, “I can tell you’d rather be alone, so I’ll go.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be.”
“I’ll call you,” I said before the door closed after him.
“I’ll be waiting,” I heard him say.
I spent the next few hours doing nothing. The morning light turned into the yellow of afternoon and then the gray of evening. A blanket of shadows played on the living room walls, interspersed with streaks of sunlight that occasionally made their way through the branches of the tree swaying in the garden. I was sitting in the living room, my body on the sofa and my legs on the coffee table; the television was on, but there were no programs interesting enough to watch, so the sound was muted. The intermittent sunspots disappeared and the walls of the living room grew dark. I went into the kitchen, opened and closed the cupboards, and washed the sole glass sitting in the sink. I opened the fridge, looking for something tasty to eat, but just closed the door. Instead, I grabbed my car keys and the blue sweater hanging next to the front door and went out.
The road to Roy’s house passed through one of the richest neighborhoods in town. As I was driving, I pictured Roy refusing to open the door, or opening the door but refusing to speak to me, or simply telling me that it was over and
that he didn’t want anything to do with me ever again. I didn’t notice that I had left the main road and entered a side street by accident.
Lights were twinkling in the windows of most of the houses. It was prime time for television viewing—after dinner, just before the end of the day. Somebody had stopped his car by the sidewalk and was walking inside a house. A sloppily dressed woman with a handkerchief on her head was throwing a bag of garbage into the garbage can. A cat crossed the street with hesitant steps, shooting petrified looks to each side.
I slowed the car down as it approached the end of the street, where I stopped at the stop sign and looked both ways to make sure no cars were coming. That’s when I saw him. George’s heavy, thick body was slightly bent over trying to open his car door. The streetlight above him left no doubt in my mind. His sharp and confident movements when he rested his heavy body behind the steering wheel caused me to tremble. My hands broke out in a sweat and my breath caught. He couldn’t see me, but I saw him clearly. He started the car and made a U-turn, his tires burning the asphalt as he passed by me quickly and turned left without stopping at the stop sign.
I turned the car around—my hands and feet moving automatically—and followed the black car. There were no thoughts or decisions in my head. I was on autopilot. My foot pressed gently on the gas pedal and kept a steady distance from the car ahead of me. Traffic was light. A car passed me every so often. A motorcycle rumbled behind me and then passed on the left. My gaze was forward and my eyes concentrated on the car ahead. Suddenly he turned right, and at the last minute I turned as well. The streets became darker and the cars almost nonexistent.
The car ahead slowed down and turned into an alley in a completely unfamiliar part of town. I had no idea where I was. Slowing down and stopping my car at the entrance to the alley, I heard a door slam shut and then silence. Waiting in the car, I slowly realized what I had done and was overcome by weakness, my body paralyzed. The desire to run away from this place and curiosity fought each other inside me. A car passed by me slowly and its driver turned his head toward me. I didn’t know if he saw me or not. He continued on and turned into the same place the car before him turned.
I scooched down in the seat. Every once in a while, a car would pass me, turn right like the one before it, and a few seconds later a door would slam, then it would once again get quiet. I sat in my car for almost twenty minutes. During the last five minutes, no other cars passed by. I waited another few minutes and then got out of my car, walking with small and noiseless steps to the end of the alley. A cat was howling in the distance and a garbage lid crashed down. To the right, where the cars were turning, there was a line of neatly parked cars next to the wall of a building. There was no one outside.
I moved along the wall, looking back every now and then. The street was quiet and deserted. Where had all the car owners disappeared to? I reached the end of the row, where the first car was parked; slightly ahead of it there was a metal door with an open lock hanging on it. Suddenly I heard a deafening noise, but I saw nothing unusual. The street was still dark and silent. It was the pounding of my heart, trying its hardest to make itself heard! My body was divided into two parts. My head and upper body moved forward, but the lower half of my body stayed where it was. My body was fighting against itself. Curiosity fought against caution, the memory of his hand on my thigh fighting with a different memory, hazy, almost nonexistent. Then the autopilot conquered all the rest. My hand reached out and pushed the door open a little bit.
There was a thin scraping sound, and in one step, I pushed myself through the door, finding myself in a dark corridor with only one light faintly lighting a staircase. My heart practically jumped out of my skin. I tried to control my breathing but couldn’t. I was someone else. Eva wasn’t here at all. Eva was now in a house with four familiar walls. Somebody like her was standing at the bottom of a staircase taking a step onto the first stair. And then another.
Faint voices could be heard. I reached the top of the stairs. There were locked doors on either side. Only one door was slightly open with a bright light beaming into the darkness where I stood. Suddenly, without warning, the door opened wide. The suddenness of the light and the surprise hit me. I heard “Sieg Heil.” Strong, rough hands pushed me from behind into the room. Dozens of eyes stared at me. The hands behind my back continued to push me until they stopped. In front of me was a stage with a man standing on it. His hair was black as coal and he was wearing a brown army uniform. Behind him hung a giant flag with a large swastika in the middle.
I heard him say, “My dear friends, I’d like to introduce you to Hans’ daughter.”
I couldn’t understand what the voice was saying.
“Come closer, child. It is our honor to have you here as our guest.”
I felt like I had landed on another planet. Behind me was a group of three men; in front of me stood a man in an army uniform, and all of them were claiming that I was the daughter of Hans. Speak, I told myself. Speak. I tried to talk, but no sound came out of my mouth. My throat was hoarse. My heart slowed down a bit but still interfered with my thoughts.
“I’m not Hans’ daughter,” I was finally able to say.
“Excuse me, child, what did you say?” asked the voices.
“You are wrong. I’m not who you think I am.” My voice began to be heard.
“Speak louder, child, so we can all hear,” the voices said.
This time my voice was loud with anger. “I said that I’m not Hans’ daughter. My father’s name was not Hans.”
Before I even finished the sentence, thunderous laughter broke out among those present. I lost my nerve. I wanted to run away from there. The atmosphere was intimidating. The laughter was hiding something. I felt like I was in danger and turned my body around toward the door. The hands that pushed me earlier came back to turn me back around toward the stage.
The man said, in a voice that was unnecessarily high, “My dear child, do you know where you are?” Without waiting for an answer, he roared, “You are at a meeting of the Brothers of our Holy Church. Up until his death, Hans was the head of the church in this county. He was a very important man who furthered our cause in the area and brought great honor to us.”
“But my father’s name wasn’t Hans,” I screamed.
“Dear child, each of us has two names. One is the name given to us by our parents and the other is one we choose for ourselves. Your father chose this name for himself.”
“I don’t understand,” I mumbled.
The man on the stage smiled an all-knowing fatherly smile.
“You are welcome to join us whenever you wish. George can bring you with him.”
Turning my head around, my gaze caught George’s smiling face. I wanted to scream and tell them that they were making a huge mistake, that my father had no connection whatsoever to them, that I never wanted to see George ever again, but my mouth stayed shut. I turned back to the man on the stage. His face was serious now, lacking any hint of kindness. The room was silent and all eyes were on him. He began to speak, but it was as though my ears were stopped—I could only see his mouth moving and twisting. Every once in a while, he paused, his silence giving more weight to his words, and then continued, his cheeks moving up and down. Here and there I heard a few words: “Our eternal leader… Clean up the world…”
The crowd forgot about me; their eyes were focused on the speaker, and his words seemed to magnetize them. Not a sound could be heard in the room. The hands left me alone, and I walked slowly backward to the door and out until I was swallowed by the darkness in the corridor. I ran down the stairs. My feet took me outside of the building to my car. I started the car and drove out of the alley. After a few wrong turns, the area became familiar, and from there I knew the way.
It was after eleven o’clock at night. The house was dark and the shutters were closed. Only the lights in the garden shone on the manicured plants that decorated the front. I didn’t think twice—I rang the doorbell. Afte
r I knocked on the door as well, it opened, and Roy’s head peeked out of the narrow opening. When he saw me, the look of surprise on his face changed to worry. “What happened?” he asked and opened the door wide. His mother appeared behind him. When she saw it was me, she said with indifference tinged with restrained anger, “Oh, Eva, it’s you.”
“It’s OK, Mother, go back to sleep,” Roy reassured her and led me into his room, closing the door behind him. His bed was still warm and messy. I needed his warmth. My body was frozen, and not from the cold. I was shaking all over, and Roy wrapped me in his arms. His gesture released the lid on my tears, and they flowed in streams down my face and onto my clothes.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. Roy didn’t respond and continued to hold me. When he saw my sobbing begin to subside, he asked, “What happened?”
“What day is today?” I asked.
“Saturday,” he answered.
“Yes… This is the day he used to go out,” I said out loud.
“I don’t understand,” said Roy.
“He used to go out every Saturday to meet with friends—that’s what he used to say.”
“Eva?”
“My father, he would be with the ‘brothers’ every Saturday.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“About my father.”
“Yes, but what about him?”
“He was a Nazi. Did you know?” I threw at him.
Life in a Box Page 13
