Life in a Box

by Einat Lifshitz Shem-Tov

  I was in the living room. Suddenly the door opened and George walked in. His huge frame filled the hallway. His hands were reaching toward me and I was shrinking down into the sofa, sinking low and praying for it to close up on me. I clearly remember trying to scream, but no sound came out of my mouth. As he came closer, it became clear that the body was George’s, but the head was Mickey’s. I screamed soundlessly, ‘Mickey, Mickey,’ but he continued coming toward me, his eyes boring into mine. He kept coming, and my body felt his presence with every fiber of my being. His breathing sounded like hammers pounding in my ears. I put my hands over my ears and closed my eyes.

  Suddenly, out of the blue, a hand grabbed me and forcibly pulled me out of there. I was dragged by the unseen hand, my body bouncing across the ground. It seemed to take a very long time to move away. The hand finally stopped, drew me close to the body attached to it, and hugged me to its chest. Arms surrounded me, crushing me painfully. I tried to get away from the hug, but the arms continued to press, suffocating me. I thrashed around, trying to break free, and the arms released me all at once. Before I ran away from them, I saw my father’s face smiling at me warmly.

  And then I woke up.

  Donna could tell that something had changed in me and tried to find out what it was, but I didn’t want to share it with anyone. I felt like I needed to go through this process alone. It was easier for me to talk with Rachel than with Donna or anybody else among my few acquaintances. My conversations with Rachel shook me up, but also enticed me to talk to her again.

  I met with Rachel a number of times. Each appointment began with me carrying a heavy load, and each one ended with me feeling lighter. It was difficult to bring these things up. Rachel didn’t take pity on me; she asked me hard questions that sometimes had no answer. She insisted on asking me how I felt, what I wanted to do, what I’d like to say to my mother or my father if they were still alive. Through Rachel, their images came to life, and I talked to them like I never did when they were alive.

  During one of the meetings, Rachel wanted me to describe my father’s physical appearance. I began, “Well, he was tall and broad. Actually, you know, he wasn’t that tall, he was average in height, maybe a bit taller than my mother. Not much taller, though. He wasn’t what you would call handsome; he was the kind of man you wouldn’t turn your head at if he passed you on the street. He had a narrow face with many furrows of age carved like trails on both his cheeks. When he smiled, and that was a rare occasion, you could see rows of yellow and neglected teeth. Besides that—” All of a sudden I stopped.

  “What happened?” asked Rachel.

  I felt the tears streaming down my face soundlessly. I didn’t know what was happening to me.

  “What happened, Eva? What’s going on in your head?”

  “I… I don’t know… It’s strange…”

  “What’s strange?”

  “It’s the first time I’ve ever described him like this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I always saw him as a big, strong man, with a handsome face, the kind that women turned their heads at. And now, I don’t understand what I’m saying. I’m describing the face of a completely different man. This isn’t my father. Rachel, who am I describing?”

  Rachel was silent a moment, and then she said, “Maybe it’s your father as you see him today?”

  I was in complete shock. How could it be that I always saw my father as a giant up until a few years ago, and suddenly he’s become a man like all other men? All of a sudden, he is ordinary… Maybe even small.

  “Eva, what’s going through your head?”

  “That I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

  “What’s happening to you?”

  “My father was like God to me, and suddenly he is a little man. Rachel… How can it be that I’m describing a completely different person from the one who was almost Superman in my eyes? How can that be?”

  Rachel didn’t answer; she waited for me to continue.

  “To me, he was unqualified justice, he was enormous. He decided my morals for me, he decided what was right or wrong for me, he was my role model, larger than everyone else…”

  “And now?”

  “Now he is a small man with radical opinions, without morals or sense of justice, violent and abusive…”

  “Abusive?”

  “He abused my mother…” I was crying and the tears streamed down my face like a raging river. “He abused me…” I said with a broken voice.

  Rachel gathered me into her arms and leaned my head against her chest. She stroked my hair and rocked me like a baby in her mother’s lap. A gigantic rupture came on the heels of understanding as the curtain was wrenched from my eyes. My blurred vision of the world—what I had believed was the real world—was blown to pieces, disappearing somewhere in the ocean of tears pouring down my face. It was like cleaning a glass window in order to see out. Things became clearer, and I saw them in a different light. A new light, more logical and understandable.

  ***

  It was one of the worst moments of my life. Maybe even worse than the moment I learned of my parents’ car accident.

  Two weeks following my appointment, Rachel called and asked me to come in again. “I’m a little busy,” I answered, trying to put her off. I didn’t have the energy to deal with the shattering of another myth. I needed time to recover from the last meeting.

  “It’s important,” she insisted. “This is different.”

  Two days later I walked into the familiar office. There was something comforting in the chaos of the room. One didn’t need to be careful. I could say anything, and the room would absorb my words—acceptance without limitations.

  Rachel asked me to sit down next to her on the sofa. She took my hand in hers and began to speak. “Eva, I think I can help you gather information on your mother,” she said, to my complete surprise.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “There are Jewish organizations that deal with locating people. These organizations were founded to help locate people lost during World War II. These are people that spend a great deal of time and effort in this line of work.”

  “And what does that have to do with me?”

  “These good people are trained in exceptional search skills and have connections in places that you can’t imagine. They are familiar with libraries, museums, and archives, and they have access to information sources all over the world. Of course, most of their work is done in Europe, but not only there.”

  “OK, so…”

  “I think we can use their skills to find out details about your mother’s life.”

  “And why are you only telling me this now?” I asked bitterly.

  “Because you weren’t prepared before now.” I looked down, and she continued. “First of all, you need to want it, of course. I think that, up until now, you weren’t ready to deal with a reality different from the one you’re familiar with. You’ve grown very strong lately, and I think that even if you find out things that are not to your liking, you will be able to handle it.”

  “What do you think I’ll find out?”

  “I don’t know, but whatever it is, you’ll handle it with your eyes wide open.”

  I thought about her offer and finally said, “Thank you.”

  Rachel went over to the cabinet, took out a booklet, and gave it to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “This is a list of Jewish organizations in the United States. I want you to go over it at home and call those that you think might be able to help.”

  I took the booklet, feeling the weight of it in my hands. Back home, I set it down on the coffee table in the living room and promised myself to look through it at the weekend. But the weekend came, and more weekends after that. The booklet sat by itself on the table. Every once in a while, I’d give it a glance and decide that I would sit down and read it later, but something unexpected always came up to keep me busy and make me for
get about my decision.

  Another weekend arrived. I firmly decided that this time I would sit down and read through it. I made myself some hibiscus tea, put a number of cookies on a plate, and sat down on the couch. I sipped the tea and reached out to the table. The doorbell stopped me halfway there. I opened the door and was surprised to see Roy.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I replied. “Want something to drink?”

  “Yes, coffee. Thanks.”

  The ocean between us was still there. It felt like the soft sounds of the waves were hiding the storm carrying on beneath the surface.

  “I haven’t seen you for a while,” I said, breaking the silence.

  “Yes, I’ve been pretty busy.”

  “OK,” I said laconically. I wasn’t satisfied with the answer.

  Roy sipped his coffee and still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “What’s this?” he asked suddenly, pointing to the booklet on the table.

  “It’s nothing. Just something someone gave me.”

  Roy took the book in his hands and paged through it. “A list of Jewish organizations throughout the United States,” he muttered to himself. He looked at me inquisitively.

  “Never mind. It’s really nothing important—it’s been sitting here for a few weeks. I just decided to go through it now.”

  “If you’ve had it for several weeks, that means that whatever’s written in it is meaningful for you, or—” he drew out his words “—something that scares you.”

  I should have known I wouldn’t be able to fool him. He knew me too well. “It’s a booklet containing the names of Jewish organizations in the United States that deal in searching for people missing from World War II.”

  “I see. That’s what it says here.”

  “And that’s it,” I concluded.

  “Eva, talk!”

  Clearing my throat in hesitation, I said, “Well, somebody gave me this booklet so I could find an organization that would help me find out details about my mother.”

  “How?”

  “There are organizations whose goal is to locate people who were lost during the war and they have the skills and the know-how to locate people in general.”

  “I see, and you’re interested in this information?”

  He knows me so well, I thought to myself.

  “I think it’s time,” I answered. “I think I’m ready.”

  “OK, I’ll help you,” he said naturally.

  “Roy, please don’t be offended, but it’s something I want to do by myself. I need to do it alone.”

  He looked at me for a minute and then nodded. He understood.

  “How come you came over?” I asked. To avoid hurting his feelings, I added, “I’m glad you came. I just haven’t seen you for such a long time! So I was wondering if you came over for a specific reason.”

  “The reason I came isn’t important any more. I really hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “Yeah, me too. Although, you know, I’m afraid of what I might find out.”

  “I know.”

  For a minute, I thought maybe we had gotten back to the way we once were, but it was just for a moment. We both knew that at some point we would have to have a serious conversation about what had happened between us, but in the meantime, we chose to ignore the subject.

  Mickey called the following week. He sounded terrible over the phone and asked if he could come for a visit. Several hours later, I opened the door for him. For a minute, I wasn’t even sure it was him. Instead of the guy who took pride in his clothes, there stood before me a sloppy man. Up close I could see that his shirt was stained, and an unpleasant smell emanated from him.

  “Mickey?” I asked in alarm. “What happened?”

  Instead of answering, he passed by me, sat down on the sofa in the living room, and covered his face with his hands. I didn’t know what to do—whether to leave him alone and let him calm down or try to comfort him. Before I could decide how to act, his sobs filled up the room. I was really scared. I sat down next to him and tried to take his hand in mine, but he wouldn’t let me. I continued to sit, feeling completely helpless, waiting for his crying to subside. An eternity passed before he began to calm down, and then, without any introduction and without looking at me, he said, “My whole life has been based on a lie.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My father, who I admired and loved…” he murmured, then covered his face again with his hands and grew silent, withdrawing inside himself.

  His silence continued. “Mickey, what about your father? Did something happen?”

  He began, “A few days ago, I was at a business meeting in the city. Every once in a while, I go to these meetings. Not always, but I have a lot of free time now. During the meeting, we were asked to introduce ourselves. I talked about our family business and a little bit about my father. During one of the breaks, an older man came up to me and introduced himself as Yechiel. We talked a bit about business and suddenly he asked my father’s name. He then asked if my father was a Holocaust survivor—what camp he was in and when. And I answered. It felt good talking with someone about that period, someone who understood. After he’d heard everything my father had told me, he gave me a strange look and said, ‘Your father, damn him, was a murderer.’ And then—” His voice broke and turned into a sob. “—and then he spit on me and walked away.”

  “What?” I was stunned. Mickey continued to cry next to me, his entire body shaking.

  I got up from the couch and poured myself a glass of water. It was obvious that there was more to this story. Mickey knew something terrible about his father—that was obvious. But what could it be?

  He started talking again through the kitchen door. “When I got home that evening, I told him what had happened. He went up to his room and locked the door. But all my life he’d been covering up some secret—it was time for him to talk. I knocked on the door. He yelled, ‘Go away.’ But I was going to break down the door if he didn’t open it. My mother arrived and tried to calm me down, but I sent her downstairs.

  “I pushed open the door and went inside. He was sitting on the bed in silence. I told him, ‘Tell me once and for all what happened over there,’ but he remained silent, the way he usually does. Finally, I grabbed him, stood him on his feet, and began to shake him. He was like a rag doll in my hands. I yelled at him, ‘Now, tell me now!’”

  Mickey shouted out loud when he told that part of the story, and I’m sure the neighbors heard him. He wasn’t really in my house—at that moment, he was in his father’s bedroom, reliving the experience of several days ago.

  “Mickey, calm down,” I begged him. I gently touched his shoulder. He raised his eyes to me. They were expressionless, and to me he looked like a drowning man the second after all the air has left his lungs.

  “Mickey,” I tried again. Then I heard what had been kept secret all those years.

  “He turned in dozens of Jews at the camp in order to stay alive.”

  “I don’t understand,” I whispered.

  “A group of Jews at the Treblinka camp, where he was—they were planning to break into the camp’s armory and steal what was there in order to take revenge on the Germans and try to escape. My father turned the members of the group into the camp authorities and almost all of them were killed… And I always thought he was a hero…”

  “Mickey, I’m sorry,” I said. But I had to ask the question. “Why did he do it?”

  “Why?” he repeated after me. “Because they promised him that if he gave them up, they wouldn’t hurt him. And besides, I’m sure they improved his living conditions.”

  “How old was he then?”

  “Almost eighteen,” he answered.

  The room fell silent. Mickey didn’t speak but was still very upset. He got up from the couch and began to walk around the room. I felt like there was still something he wasn’t telling me.

  Suddenly I knew. The knowledge hi
t me like a fist.

  “He knew some of the people that were killed?” I asked.

  “Yes,” whispered Mickey. “His own father.”

  ***

  A short time afterward, I sat alone in the kitchen trying to comprehend what Mickey had told me. Mickey was asleep in my bed, dirty and smelly. Apparently, after the whole story came out, he left the house and wandered around the streets for three whole days. He slept outside on a bench in one of the parks; then he went back to his car and came to me. I called his mother and reassured her that he was with me. There was a terrible chill in my bones. Even wrapping myself in a sweater didn’t get rid of it, so I got up and made myself a hot drink, walking restlessly around the kitchen, feeling an inexplicable anger take hold of me. I couldn’t stand to be in Mickey’s presence and had to get away from him—to wander around the neighborhood and try to find an explanation for my feelings.

  The similarities between us grew sharper. I saw him as a reflection of myself, and the image was unbearable. My blind admiration toward my father, my stupidity, my attitude toward my mother, the biggest mistake of my life—all were playing out before me in the form of Mickey’s broken figure.

  I returned home and woke him up. I had to shake him to get him to wake; he was in a deep fitful sleep, and when he opened his eyes, he didn’t understand for a moment where he was.

  “Mickey, I want you to leave,” I whispered. “I want you to go,” I repeated, louder.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, tears starting.

  “It’s hard for me having you here. It hurts too much.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Your story is too similar to mine, and it’s difficult for me right now. I’m also going through a process of being disillusioned, and it hurts. I can’t take your pain as well… I need time for my own.” I continued to stand over him without moving.

  He got up, looked at me for a minute with red eyes, and left the house, leaving the door wide open. I closed it after him and went back to the empty room. I sat down on my bed and cried.