Tapestry

by Belva Plain

  Fifteen

  Early in the evening of November 10, Paul went to the library after dinner and turned on the radio to hear the news. What he heard, he could scarcely believe.

  Now at last, the beast of Germany, which had been threatening and snarling and rattling his cage, had broken free. With bared teeth and bloody claws he had raced through the towns and cities, all up and down the darkened streets, slashing and breaking and filling the night—the night of November 9, while here we were asleep in our beds, Paul thought, filling the night with terror and despair. Spontaneous demonstrations, the newsman said, “had broken out all over Germany.”

  “Spontaneous!” Paul cried. His cry was so loud that Marian came hurrying in.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Listen.”

  “It is reported that thousands of Jewish shops and homes have been destroyed. The fires of burning homes and synagogues lit the sky. All over the country, from the great cities to the small towns of Bavaria. Looters, with arms piled high, rampaged through the streets, which are still awash in broken glass. Thousands of Jews have been arrested. It is not yet known how many have been killed.”

  See them coming, wave after surging wave, as you saw them even before they were in power.

  “In Berlin alone, along the Kurfürstendamm—”

  Static faded and crackled; for static substitute the crash of broken windows; in place of this lamplit room high over the broad reach of Central Park, see the cobbled courtyard of Joachim’s house; boots are pounding up the stairs, fists are hammering on the door …

  “I wonder what can be happening to your cousins,” Marian remarked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll cable in the morning.”

  “But as you say, they’re prominent people. They must have influence.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s been doing business, you said, doing well. Surely he must know people who can protect him.”

  “Maybe.”

  “A man wouldn’t be so foolish as to stay if there was any real danger.”

  The radio rose above the crackle of static. “It is reported that some of the most prominent Jewish industrialists have been imprisoned. There are unconfirmed rumors of orders to seek and arrest all wealthy Jews.”

  Paul clapped his fist into his palm. “God almighty! I warned him. I begged him to get out.”

  He stood up. The curtains were pulled back; he could see the evening glitter of the city and the lights of cars moving downtown toward the restaurants and theaters. In Germany, too, there were restaurants and theaters, filled now, this very night no doubt, with people laughing and drinking, not caring about or even perhaps applauding the savagery on the streets outside.

  “I suppose you won’t sleep tonight,” said Marian.

  “I’m going to set my alarm for five and get downtown early to cable. It will be afternoon over there.”

  “It may not be as bad as it sounds, you know.”

  She meant to comfort, of course. He thought, No, it’s not as bad as it sounds, it’s worse. When the whole truth is known, and it may not be known for years, it will be much, much worse.

  There was no answer to either of his cables, one to the house and one to Joachim’s business address. On the second day, Paul cabled again, and still there was no answer. Then he called one of his senators in Washington to ask whether cables were getting through. Yes, certainly, transmission was normal. Then would the senator please call the embassy in Berlin and find out what he possibly could?

  Two more days passed. On the third afternoon, Paul learned that the embassy had received too many requests from frantic relatives to be able to fill them. German authorities were refusing to answer questions anyway.

  He set the telephone back into its cradle and sat for a while staring out at nothing. Suddenly, floating toward the ceiling, appeared the face of Ilse’s Mario, that damaged face out of a nightmare. Then, in the instant, the image dissolved into the face of Joachim’s girl, Gina. This face was strong and stubborn under its corona of curly hair; the eyes were filled with appeal. Seventeen now, he calculated.

  What would they not do, those savages, once they got their hands on her?

  After a while an idea came: He would telephone to Herr von Mädler. There might still be capital enough to draw on for another favor. When he had put through the transatlantic call, he sat quite still, waiting, until the telephone rang.

  “I have your call to Germany,” the operator said.

  Von Mädler had a voice like a bark. “Herr Werner! You’re in New York?”

  “Yes. I’ll get right to the point, since you’re a busy man, I know. I wonder whether I can ask you for a favor.”

  “You can ask, but I doubt I’ll be able to do it.”

  “You haven’t heard what it is, Herr von Mädler.”

  “What I meant is, if it’s what I think it is, then in that case, I won’t be able to do it.”

  Disappointment drained through Paul, like weariness after labor. “You were so helpful that other time,” he said cautiously.

  “That was a couple of years back. Things are very different now. Very different.”

  “You’re quite sure you couldn’t? This time it’s personal, someone quite close.”

  “I’m sorry, Herr Werner.”

  “You couldn’t even just inquire? I’m quite at sea. There’s been no reply to any communication.”

  “Then I should think the answer would be plain.”

  “But if you could just inquire—no more than that.”

  The bark softened. “Herr Werner, I can’t extend myself. Do you understand me?”

  That he, too, was afraid? Even he, the “von,” the man of influence? Or of erstwhile influence.

  “I’m sorry, Herr Werner.”

  “I’m sorry too. Then you have nothing to suggest? No one?”

  “Nothing and no one.”

  Joachim, the starched gentleman with the Iron Cross, beaten to his knees …

  “Keep well, Herr Werner. Auf wiedersehen.”

  Auf wiedersehen? Till we meet again? We are never going to meet again, Herr von Mädler.

  “Good-bye,” Paul said.

  His heart was still drumming when he hung up. Joachim, you fool, you didn’t see the truth when it was staring you in the face! Joachim, if you’re dead, if they’ve killed you and poor Elisabeth and your children, I hope it was quick. I hope you didn’t suffer too long.

  His desk was piled with papers. He read a few pages of a letter setting forth the stipulation for a bond issue and understood none of it, although he himself had dictated it. Finally he thrust the whole pile of papers back into their baskets and called Miss Briggs.

  “I think I’ll call it quits for the day. It’s almost time anyway.”

  At home, Marian’s Thursday bridge game had just ended. Lamps were lit against the iron-gray autumn afternoon, making the room shine faintly pink. The air smelled of flowers, chocolates, and perfumed furs as the ladies put on their coats.

  Paul’s appearance off schedule alarmed Marian.

  “So early? Don’t you feel well?”

  “Just didn’t feel like working.”

  Apparently Marian felt compelled to explain such an aberration. Men worked. “Paul hasn’t been himself since the dreadful news came from Germany. You do take everything so hard, Paul.”

  “Not everything,” he said, controlling his irritation over the banality.

  One of the women spoke up. “Of course, it’s awful for any government to allow such things and hoodlums to run amok like that.”

  “The German government didn’t allow them to, it ordered them to,” Paul answered.

  “But are we really sure of that?” The second woman, some third or fourth cousin of Marian’s, had an authoritative manner. “George says we must weigh these reports very carefully. Newspapers exaggerate. After all, they want to sell papers.”

  Paul said only, “Photographs don’t exaggerate. The rabbis
who report to us here don’t exaggerate!”

  “But”—doubtfully— “even so, George says that we, as Jews in this country, should be careful not to make too much noise about it. If it’s true, we can’t stop it, and we’ll only draw attention to ourselves and arouse the American public against us. That’s what George says, and I agree.”

  Paul turned his back. He hung up his coat in the empty closet and walked off down the hall. He wasn’t going to wear himself out in futile arguments with asses.

  “Asses!” he repeated as Marian came into the library.

  “You weren’t very polite, walking off like that,” she said.

  “I know I wasn’t.”

  “It wasn’t like you, Paul.”

  “I don’t feel like myself.”

  “You care so much about Joachim?” she asked, rather gently.

  “Not just Joachim.” Not just Ilse, either, he thought.

  How to explain? A huge globe stood between the two windows. Europe was green, a soft, misted green. Europe, that lovely little spur on the Asian continent, was sinking. Like a ship, like the Titanic, it was going down. Paul’s hand spun the globe. His parents had had friends who died on the Titanic, like the Strauses whose story had become a legend: I lived all my life with my husband and now I will die with him. Or something like that. His parents had also known a survivor. He could remember listening in horror to her description of the lifeboat, of watching the great ship go down with its lights still blazing and the far sound of music carried across the black water. She had told the story well and he had been awestruck. Now the black water was rising again … the little villages, the geraniums in the windowboxes, the Opera in Paris, the hillside vineyards, the stone lace cathedrals and the precious ancient synagogues, the children playing in the flowery parks, all, all would sink.…

  Sixteen

  The party was a wonderful idea and Dan was touched by the attention. It had been wise of Leah, Paul reflected soberly, not to have postponed it, for Dan, in spite of his cheerful animation, was decidedly blue about the mouth. He had the complexion of heart disease. Everyone saw it and all were glad to be here tonight, all with the possible exception of Donal Powers, who was no doubt bored by this outpouring of affection for a man in whom he had no interest.

  Leah had outdone herself. The dining room walls had been repapered in a Chinese pattern of silver and peach; trailing blossoms on fine stems reached to the ceiling. Coral-colored roses in small silver bowls marched in a file down the middle of the table. At the center, in a large épergne, the same roses were interspersed with pale brown baby orchids.

  Old houses like this one were made for grand occasions. They were also made for large old-fashioned families, with room for widowed grandmothers or even an unmarried cousin who was there ostensibly to help oversee the household, but was actually there because she had no other place to go. Such responsibilities were once taken for granted and were now done for, done for by the Great War, like so much else. A dinner like this, in a setting like this, was a holdover, a reminder of what had once been. And in a curious way it pleased Paul that Leah, who had no personal tradition of this kind, should be the one to continue it with so much charm. It warmed his heart now to see her presiding here, supported by the very evident affection and pride of her husband.

  There had been so many ritual dinners like this in Paul’s own life! So many pivotal events had occurred in his parents’ overstuffed Victorian dining room! And he thought again—would he ever live down the memory?—of the night when his father had announced the engagement, while Anna served at the table. He could still see the platter trembling under her hand, still smell the stifling flowers, still see the quiet, modest pride of Marian. She had worn summer blue and pearl earrings. It was all as clear as yesterday.…

  A dinner table was a perfect vantage point for observation. For a period of time no one moved from his place, so people were forced to look at one another. And he looked now toward his wife, whom Leah, tactfully, had seated in a place of honor at Dan’s end, as far as possible from herself. There Marian sat, all unsuspecting, talking now to Alfie and Emily. He could barely hear them. Alfie was talking about diets; he was always dieting to lose weight, but one never saw any results. Marian was always on a health diet of some sort, cracked wheat or cranberry juice or something, either to cure this or to prevent that. But she looked well; she had kept her figure, and tonight it was accentuated by the simple Grecian cut of autumn-red silk.

  “It is rather nice, isn’t it,” she had admitted when he had complimented her. “I couldn’t very well go to Leah’s party without wearing one of her dresses, but really she is too frightfully expensive. I never feel I can afford her prices.”

  Not afford her prices! He had to smile at that; Marian’s frugal streak amused him. And yet, in a way, he had to commend it, for her donations were correspondingly lavish.

  Meg, too, was beautifully dressed by Leah, but her splendid adornments were Donal’s, and they were not frugal. A chain of cabachon emeralds, set in diamond loops, hung to the V of her neckline; she wore a pair of matching bracelets. It was a regal display, and she wore the glitter very well, yet to Paul there was something puzzling, something incongruous, about what he was seeing and what he was remembering of the earnest girl in sweater and skirt.

  Her children were lined up in a row, with their father at the other end, which put him far down the table, away from Paul. With obvious pride, Donal was showing off his boys. Vigorous and handsome blonds that they were, sturdy all-American types, they deserved to be shown off. The subject was football, and Hank had joined in. Paul, who had played tackle in his time and still followed the games, would have liked to join too, but Hank had avoided him all evening and so he turned back toward Meg, who was conversing with the host about their daughters.

  “They do get more discipline at a good private school,” Bill Sherman was saying.

  Meg spoke. “Lucy and Loretta are in separate classes. The modern thinking is to keep twins apart.”

  The twins, dark, handsome girls, giggled. They resembled their father. Curious that girls of just eleven could already have a sardonic expression, yet unmistakably they did. Meg would have a time managing those two when they were a few years older.

  Five children. Automatically, Paul counted. He had almost overlooked the fifth, who had been sitting directly across from him all the time. Agnes, that was her name. She was the youngest, the quiet one, different from the others, it was said.

  He addressed her now. “Hello, Agnes.”

  She raised polite eyes and turned away. Plainly she did not want to talk. Then he became aware that, like him, she was listening. While the others were busy listening to themselves, she was taking them all in. Some might think because she was so quiet that she was merely listless; but her moving eyes and the small smile that twisted now and then about her mouth revealed that she was not. She looked poetic, Paul thought, searching for a word and coming up with nothing better. She touched him. There was something lonesome about her, an air of being outside, looking in, that brought Iris to mind, and it appealed to the part of himself that also wanted to be outside looking in.

  He was still absorbed in these reflections when he heard Leah’s voice cut through the general murmur.

  “I grew up hearing the story so often I almost felt I had lived it, although I was born in New York. After the pogrom, when my grandfather was shot, my parents came here. It cost thirty-five dollars to make the crossing, which was almost all they had in the world.”

  Now what on earth had started that conversation?

  “Of course, they were beastly sick all the way over. Oh, well, it’s the usual steerage story. You’ve all heard it.”

  “I really haven’t,” said Emily, “unless you mind talking about it.”

  “You wouldn’t want to hear the rest.”

  “Oh, but the rest must be much happier! After they landed in America, I mean.”

  Dear, cheerful Emily, Paul thought. She
has really forgotten about the tenements and tuberculosis and Leah’s parents, or she wouldn’t have said that.

  Leah gave a small shrug, ignoring the remark. “Well, there’s no more to be said, is there? Except that it seems we’re about to see the same sort of thing all over again on a hundred times larger scale.”

  Germany again. That must have been what started the topic. But it was inevitable these days, a topic that wouldn’t go away. Paul wished they would let it lie just for tonight.

  “Oh, dear,” exclaimed Emily, “you don’t suppose, I mean, they can’t just murder a whole population after all, can they?”

  Bill Sherman answered, “My rabbi thinks they can.”

  And your rabbi happens to be right, Paul said to himself.

  “Oh, but,” Emily went on, “you remember—you’re too young, of course—all the propaganda we heard during the war about the atrocities the German soldiers were supposed to have committed in Belgium and it turned out to be all lies. All lies.”

  And where have I heard that before? Paul thought.

  Emily persisted. “Isn’t that so, Alfie? And Dan, I remember when you said the same thing about the Hearst papers during the Spanish-American War.”

  To his credit, Alfie murmured, “This is different.”

  “Not really.” Donal’s firm tone caught everyone’s attention. “The papers are full of distortions. Left-wing writers, Communists, most of them. Look at France! They put Blum in office and almost wrecked the country.”

  “What?” Dan cried. “Communists? Blum? Because he gave them the forty-hour week and two weeks vacation with pay? And made schooling compulsory up to the age of fourteen? You call that communism?”

  “You can’t deny that the labor movement in France is loaded with Communists,” Donal said.

  Against his will, Paul had to speak up. “There wouldn’t have been so many embittered workers if they’d had some social security and if the rich had been willing to pay some taxes.”

  Donal looked over at Paul. “I suppose you like to pay taxes, do you?” His eyes were cold.