Tapestry

by Belva Plain

  Paul sought a chair. Since no one had taken his hat and coat, he laid them on another chair.

  “You’re looking well, Herr von Mädler,” he began.

  An overstatement, if ever there was one! The man had grown fatter, but also smaller. He was now completely bald; three gold teeth matched the gleam of the watch chain that scalloped across the potbelly.

  “Thank you, I keep well. And you—of course, you’re a young man yet.”

  Paul, smiling acknowledgment, was still searching for the right way to present his request.

  “And how do you find our new Germany?” came the question.

  Glaucous eyes, unblinking as those of a fish, met Paul’s. The two pairs of eyes held one another for only the space of several seconds, yet long enough to solve Paul’s problem. Frontal honesty was the way to take. Humble or subtle indirection—“By the way, mein Herr, I happen to know of, etc.”—that sort of thing would only amuse this man, who would delight in Paul’s discomfiture.

  And so he replied with a question. “How can you ask me, a Jew, a thing like that, Herr von Mädler? You must know I can only despise your new Germany.”

  If a mouth could twinkle, Paul thought, one could say that the other man’s fleshy wet lips twinkled.

  “In that case, what brings you here?”

  “Many things. For one, I have relatives to see.”

  “Ah! And one of them is in trouble with the authorities.”

  “No, no relative of mine. But there is someone, a young man, the son of a friend. I want to ask for your advice, your help.”

  “You know, when you telephoned, I thought at first you wanted to discuss my account with you. But on second thought, I knew it must be something like this.” Herr von Mädler lit a cigar. His fingers played over it, enjoying its texture. “I get too many of these requests,” he said.

  “That says something about what’s going on here, then.”

  “Yes, it says that we are at last cleaning house, scrubbing from cellar to attic, emptying the garbage.”

  Paul’s neck muscles were taut. His face burned and he wondered whether it was as red as it felt. But he kept his voice level and bold.

  “I’m an American. Your government is your business. You’ll live with it or you’ll die with it. I haven’t come to you to talk about your government. Will you allow me to talk about what I have come for? I’ll not be long.”

  “I’m a very busy man, Herr Werner. And as I told you, I’m tired of these requests. They’re all the same. Besides, I’m not a politician.”

  “One doesn’t have to be a politician to have influence. Politicians are the servants of the powerful and you’re a powerful man.”

  The German puffed the cigar, removed it and grimaced. “You flatter me.”

  “Not at all. I speak the practical truth. Will you hear my story or not?”

  “Yes, go ahead with it.”

  The tale was short enough, a matter of a dozen sentences. Von Mädler had closed his eyes and laid his head against the back of the chair. Needlepoint, Paul observed, even as he spoke; against a background of faded green, a pair of knights jostled on horseback over the side of the chair. The Lohengrin touch. Handiwork, perhaps, of the little red hen who had opened the front door.

  “The boy is harmless,” he concluded. “Foolish, perhaps, but harmless.” Adding for whatever good it might do, and just in case there might exist a remnant of human pity behind that grim, cunning forehead, “The only son of a widow, as I told you. Dr. Ilse Hirschfeld.”

  Von Mädler opened his eyes. “I venture to guess that the widow is charming, perhaps? A rather special, an extremely special, little friend of yours? Yes?”

  “Herr von Mädler, I hadn’t seen the woman in thirteen years until yesterday.”

  “So you’re taking this trouble only to help another Jew.”

  “To remedy a criminal wrong. There are thousands more in your country whom I would help if I could, and not all of them are Jews, either.”

  “But if I don’t look upon these cases as criminal wrongs, why should I help? Can you tell me that?”

  The man was beginning to enjoy himself. His interest and his perception of his own power had been aroused. Life and death lay in his hands, to be given or withheld at whim; the feeling was pleasurable to him.

  Paul sat up straighter. “I’ll tell you why. Simply because you owe me a favor. My father and I protected your investments in America during the last war and through the Depression. We served you well.”

  “So now you want repayment.”

  “Not repayment. We’ve had our commissions, we’ve been paid. This is a favor. There’s a difference.”

  Von Mädler waved the cigar, dropping ashes on his belly. “Twaddle! Hairsplitting! Repayment is what it is. Jews always demand a price.”

  “And you don’t, Herr von Mädler?”

  There was a pause. Then: “As a matter of fact, I shall demand a price. What you ask, you will have to pay for. My contacts will want their share.”

  Paul’s heart beat faster. “I’m ready and willing.”

  “It won’t be cheap. I promise you. But then you won’t care, you’re a rich man.”

  “I’m not a poor one.”

  “You will pay in dollars. The Fatherland needs foreign exchange.”

  Paul’s muscles relaxed. “That can easily be arranged.”

  “It will be somewhere—this is only an estimate—between ten and fifteen thousand dollars. And you will hear from me with instructions at your hotel tomorrow. Or the day after, but no later.”

  “I shall be waiting, Herr von Mädler.”

  On the second morning, a car came to the hotel. The driver was a neutral type, somewhere between the laboring and the lower middle classes, dressed not in chauffeur’s garb but in a cheap suit and cap.

  Paul inquired where they were going.

  “Out of the city” was the reply.

  “Where, out of the city?”

  “It’s a three-hour drive.”

  The man’s face was reflected in the rearview mirror. It was a closed, tight face, forbidding questions, and Paul asked no more. He had a few seconds of panic: was it possible that he was being mysteriously spirited away to be beaten up, as punishment for his remarks to von Mädler? He recalled having said that he detested the new Germany. But no, this was a simple business transaction. A product was being delivered and paid for, that was all; the fifteen thousand dollars now in Paul’s pocket were to be handed to someone who would, at the proper time, identify himself as “Dietrich O.”

  At any rate, Mario must be alive. They wouldn’t ask payment for a corpse, would they? Would they?

  The countryside, picturesque even in the dun colors of winter, unrolled itself. Ponds, cottages, grazing sheep, and village streets all passed. Late in the morning, when the car stopped in front of a restaurant, the driver offered to go in and get lunch for Paul.

  “I’m not hungry,” Paul said, “but you go in if you want, I’ll take a walk and stretch my legs.”

  He set out down the chief street. It was a pretty town with windowboxes, now filled with greens, that would in summer be filled with geraniums. On a side street there was an inn, one of those old inviting places that call to mind an open fire, hot soup, and a featherbed in a low-ceilinged room under the eaves. He stopped to look at it.

  Beside the door, beneath the swinging wrought-iron letters of the inn sign, a hand-lettered placard had been put up: JEWS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN ON THESE PREMISES. He read it again. He understood then the driver’s offer to bring his lunch, and hastened back to the car.

  People walked by on their various errands. A painter carried his pail and brushes. Housewives carried their market baskets. They all looked like normal people.… he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep when the driver returned; he felt the car move and kept his eyes closed until, perhaps an hour later, he felt it slow up.

  They were passing through gates in a high stone wall topped with barbed wire.
Identification, permission, and salutes were exchanged. Paul had a quick impression of ghastly cold, of barracks, bare concrete and vacant spaces stretching into an unknown distance. The car halted before a little building guarded by soldiers who came to attention.

  The driver said only, “They are expecting you inside.”

  In a large room, divided at one end into cubicles, typewriters clacked, telephones rang, and papers were piled on desks. It could have been the office of a busy insurance agency. A slim, youthful man, wearing a black uniform, passed Paul on to another slim, youthful man in black uniform. This one was sitting behind a desk. There was no expression on his face, and this absence of any identifiable attitude brought fear, catching in Paul’s throat; open hostility, even, would have been more human.

  “Dietrich O.,” the man said.

  “Paul Werner.”

  “Have you brought what is required?”

  “I have it here.” Paul touched his breast pocket.

  The man extended his hand. Paul hesitated. “Mario Hirschfeld?”

  “Quite well. He will be released when you hand that over.”

  “Then I’m to take him back with me?”

  “Not at all. There are formalities. He will be sent home tomorrow.”

  Paul wet dry lips. It could be a trick, total deception. He had no way of knowing.

  “May I ask how he will get there?”

  “You needn’t concern yourself with his transportation.”

  The hand was still held out. Reluctantly, Paul drew the packet of bank notes from his pocket, watched them slip into a pocket of the uniform, and understood that he was being dismissed.

  He made one more try. “I should like to see Mario.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “I don’t mean a long conversation. Only for a minute, to let him know—”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? I said impossible.”

  Dietrich O. picked up the telephone, leaving Paul in limbo. There was nothing to do but turn around and go back to the car.

  On the way to the main gate, the car was halted to let a file of prisoners cross the road. Paul looked, looked away and then back again as they shuffled past. They wore striped suits of thin cotton cloth, while Paul could feel the arctic cold even through his heavy coat. Their heads were shaved, so that at quick glance, they might all have been one age, an old age, with their cadaverous, ugly naked skulls. Silent and bowed, they moved between captors in the vanguard and at the rear, as in some ancient, monumental frieze of beaten men. Horror seized Paul. He, the free man in the warm coat, shrank down in the car.

  As if he had been drugged, he slept all the way back to the hotel. From there, he telephoned to Ilse, being careful, for fear that something might yet go wrong, not to sound too positive. Then, remembering that he had not eaten since breakfast, he ordered a supper of toast and eggs and fell again into the heavy sleep of escape, the mercy that sometimes is given when reality becomes unbearable.

  When on the following day the call came from Ilse, he rushed to the apartment. She opened the door and threw her arms around him. She had been crying.

  “Happy tears, I hope?”

  “Yes. But what they did to him … do you want to see him? He won’t wake up for hours. I wanted to give him some forgetfulness.”

  On tiptoe, they entered a bedroom, a young man’s room with photographs, many books, tennis racquets, and a record player. Dull light from the window fell over the bed where Mario lay. And Paul, looking down, had to stifle a cry.

  The dark head, which he recalled from the photograph, had been shaved. A long cut, lined with dried blood, curved over the naked skull. The lips were puffed; one swollen cheek was turning livid blue, purple, and green. The hand that lay beside the cheek was bandaged from palm to fingertips; the fingers had been crushed.

  The two of them stood without speaking. When finally they looked at each other, it was through mutual tears.

  “His teeth, too,” whispered Ilse. “All his front teeth are gone. Shall I ever restore him?”

  Paul put his arms around her. And so they stood, she with her head on his shoulder.

  At last she drew away, and Paul found a few words.

  “Tomorrow you’ll be safe in Italy. Get him to the right doctor and dentist. Rest in the sun, in the quiet, peacefully—” They were the expected words, strung together to encourage and soothe; he only half believed them.

  “We should have gone to Palestine. He’d been wanting to go since he was a child. Do you remember, I told you then?”

  “You did what you thought was best. Don’t blame yourself. Besides, the British have made Palestine illegal and dangerous. You have no idea what we’re up against, trying to negotiate in London. They signed the Balfour Declaration in 1917, but now, if they could, they’d withdraw the promise of a Jewish homeland. That would really look too bad though, so instead they just sink the old tubs that carry refugees and intern them in Cyprus.”

  Ilse sighed. “I know. Don’t stir up the Arabs; we need oil. Are you a Zionist?” she asked.

  “Do you mean, do I want to live in a Jewish state? No, I’m an American. I belong in America. But as to whether there ought to be someplace where Jews can save themselves from what’s happening here, yes, with all my heart I hope for a Jewish state.” Then he saw that she was very weary. “I’m staying too long. You need some sleep.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep. I wish you would stay. Can you, Paul?”

  “Of course, if you want me.”

  Apologizing, as if for weakness, Ilse said, “I’ve never really minded being alone before.”

  “Tonight is rather different, I should say.”

  They sat down in the little parlor on opposite sides of the room. He remembered the spot in front of the bookcase where their dance had turned into an embrace, and wondered how often, during the intervening years, she might have remembered it too. It had meant even more to her, by her own admission, than it had to him.

  “Do you feel like talking, Ilse, or not?”

  “I really want to talk, but my mind’s in such a muddle that I can’t think of a way to begin.”

  “All right, tell me what’s been happening to you all these years. You’re not married.…”

  She smiled slightly. “That’s the first thing a man would ask a woman, isn’t it? Not whether I’ve taken my degree in endocrinology.”

  “Well, have you?”

  “Yes. And I also have had two chances to be married. I lived with a very fine man for a while, to make sure of us, and was very happy until he emigrated to Australia.”

  “Why didn’t you go too?”

  “Money. You have to have enough or they won’t admit you. And he didn’t have enough for the three of us. So that was that.” She threw out her hands. “And you? You’re still married?”

  “Yes. I’ve no reason not to be.” Paul stared down at his nails.

  “And the other? The one you told me about?”

  “The same.”

  “You never see her?”

  “No. I promised. Her husband is good to her.…”

  An expression of great kindness passed across Ilse’s face. Paul looked back at her in wonder: At the nadir of her own sorrow, she could yet give thought to his.

  “I’ve thought of you very, very often, Paul.”

  To respond in kind would insult her integrity as well as his own, because it would be untrue. He had thought of her only on fleeting occasions, recalling a beautiful and valuable experience; in the same way, he would remember the week at sea with Leah and the days yet to be spent in Paris, as a passing happiness; neither woman had yet touched that deepest place where Anna remained and lived.

  “I hoped you would find someone to take her place,” Ilse said.

  Abruptly, he was overwhelmed with a sensation of nakedness. The experience of these last few days had stripped away the soft, concealing layers of convention; what did one’s privacy or personal dignity matter in the face of raw br
utality and anguish? Feeling overflowed.

  “You see, there is a child,” he said. “I didn’t tell you before.”

  “Ah.”

  “A daughter, almost grown. Sixteen.” He paused to estimate. “Yes, sixteen last December.”

  “You don’t see her, either?”

  “No. Only once, a long time ago.”

  Ilse frowned and shook her head. “That must be a terrible pain for you.”

  “Yes.” An unknown individual was alive in New York this very instant because of him. She walked and read a book and laughed—he hoped she laughed—because of him. And he couldn’t make himself known, couldn’t give her things, things of which he possessed such an abundance. But more importantly, he couldn’t give her his thoughts, her inheritance of ideas and—and all that was his.

  “I’ve never told anyone about her until just now,” he said. “You’re the only person who knows.”

  “There is nothing to be done?”

  “Nothing.”

  Now too much feeling had overflowed. The little room was heavy with it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Your burden is already too much to carry. I had no right to add mine, which is so small.”

  “Not small. Just different.” And again she gave him that look of extraordinary kindness. The look touched him, and caused him shame over his lapse toward pity for himself. He got up and touched her shoulder.

  “Now I really want you to rest. I’m going back to the hotel. You can reach me there if, God forbid, and I don’t expect it, anything should go wrong.”

  She caught his wrist. “Can you sleep here instead? Can you?”

  Surely on such a night she couldn’t be thinking of—

  She read his mind. “Nothing, nothing like that, Paul. Only comfort.” And she smiled.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course.”

  So he lay down beside her. For a long time she held his hand. In the ominous dark of the last night before final escape, they listened for sounds from the room where the victim slept his drugged sleep, and counted the hours lurching past on the alarm clock. Late into the night, close to morning, her hand fell away from Paul’s, and they, too, slept.