Harvest

by Belva Plain

  “Is there no end to the hatred? Will there ever be?” she asked. “Even that young man, your oh-so-nice young cousin, even he.”

  “Hatred? Do you think it was hatred on his part?”

  “It was ignorance and indifference to violence. It’s the same thing in the end.”

  “Yes,” Paul said. “Crazy, isn’t it,” he reflected, “that under all the rhetoric the world sees the whole tangled mess in this poor little country mainly as an oil problem. That’s the worry at the bottom of it all. Tim’s father made a fortune in oil. It was natural for him to take up the Arab cause. But Tim? Crazy again, the father and the son, the opposites, meeting for opposite reasons at the same point. Oh,” he cried aloud, “I am so sorry to be at odds with Tim! Heartsick, Ilse. I knew him before he was born, and I watched him grow. How can he have grown so cold? Cold and—and mean. His mother’s one of the last people in the world I’d want to hurt. Don’t ever mention this at all when we go home, will you?”

  “Of course not. But I doubt you’ll be seeing much of Tim. He’ll go back to his university, and you haven’t been seeing much of him recently anyway.”

  “I feel—all of a sudden I feel as if I’ve lost him,” Paul said. “The boy. The young man I knew.” A deep sadness flooded in his chest. And he added, after a pause, “I can’t wait to be home. After today and now after tonight, I’ve had enough.”

  He put his arms around Ilse, turning her away from the window.

  “Come. Let’s rest together. We need it.”

  “I don’t feel sleepy at all,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep a wink.”

  “Perhaps some more wine will help you. I’ll ring for some.”

  “No, no. I shan’t drug myself.”

  “All right. I’ll just hold you in my arms until you fall asleep. We’ll count sheep together.”

  She twisted out of his arms to face him. “You’re so good to me, Paul. Sometimes I wonder whether I tell you often enough how much I love you.”

  “You do. But I can always hear it once more.”

  She touched his cheeks, holding his face between light fingers. “I love you, Paul. I want you to remember that I said this tonight, no matter what happens.”

  “What’s going to happen? As long as we have each other—”

  “I don’t know. How does one ever know? But do you promise to remember?” Her brilliant eyes were glossed with tears.

  “I promise to remember,” he said gently. “Now come to bed.”

  In the morning Paul had a new thought. They would never be able to wipe yesterday’s horror away, but life had to go on, and a little pleasure would do no harm right now. So what about a few days in Spain, a stop on the way home? They’d stay at the Ritz in Madrid, and linger at the Prado across the street. They’d walk in Retiro Park, where nursemaids in dark blue capes wheel the babies, sit in the wintry sunlight and watch the strolling lovers, have tapas in the Plaza Mayor—

  On the pretext of a last-minute appointment with a man at the refugee housing office, he left the hotel to make arrangements for tickets to Spain and a room at the Ritz. After that, pleased with the thought of Ilse’s surprise when they should reach the airport the next day, he turned back toward the hotel.

  He walked slowly down King George Street, marveling again at the fine shops and restaurants and at the growth of this beleaguered city. As he passed a small jewelry store, his eye was attracted by a flash of silver bracelets and rings under the sign A. HEMMENDINGER AND BROTHERS. They had purchased almost nothing in their time here and really, he told himself, one ought to have some memento of the trip. This was Yemenite stuff, handwrought and attractive if one liked that sort of thing, which he didn’t. But he knew that Ilse did. He could see her wearing one of these broad, simple bracelets, even when in her white doctor’s coat. And he went into the shop.

  The proprietor, undoubtedly one of the Hemmendinger brothers, was an old man with a pince-nez on a cord, a pronounced European-accented English, and a courtly manner. He brought out a tray of bracelets, Paul selected one and was on his way out when his eye fell upon something else in a small display case and he stopped.

  On a heavy rope of woven gold, a collar that would fit snugly around the base of a woman’s neck, there was fastened a large pendant containing on its face a portrait in miniature of a beautiful young woman. It was painted on ivory and framed in a wide band of brilliant round diamonds. Paul’s eyes widened involuntarily.

  “Ah, you admire that? It’s a treasure, my finest treasure. Here, I’ll show you. Pick it up. Go on.”

  The necklace lay heavily on Paul’s palm. It had the sensuous feel of silk or fine wood, and his eyes recognized the hand of a master, a Cellini or a Fabergé.

  “To judge by the style of décolletage, I would guess about 1870. Am I right?” he asked.

  “Maybe thirty or forty years later. They wore such ball gowns in certain circles in Vienna right up to the First World War. This is a court piece. Look at the box alone. Someone in Franz Joseph’s court had it made for his young wife or sweetheart. Who knows?”

  The gold grew warm in Paul’s hand. “Yes, it’s a work of art.”

  “I see in your eyes that you’re a lover of beautiful things. Am I not right?”

  “I do know a little about painting and antiques, but I’m an amateur,” Paul said.

  “Well, let me tell you about this piece. The diamonds are blue-white, the purest. And the rope—it takes one man one month to weave such a rope out of gold thread. And the miniature is the work of a first-rate portrait artist.” Herr Hemmendinger was almost in raptures.

  Paul laid the necklace back in the box. “A wonderful piece,” he murmured. “But my lady and I don’t go to balls.”

  “Ah, but this is basically gold, and can be worn with a quiet dress at dinner. You don’t need to wait for a ball. However, it’s up to you, of course. I never urge anyone. It has been here since I came from Vienna twenty-five years ago, so it can wait some more.”

  Paul felt his curiosity mounting. He felt drawn to the old man. “Why have you held it for twenty-five years?”

  “Let’s say I’m sentimental, and I wanted to hold it for the right person.”

  Paul was amused. “What on earth makes you think I’m the right person?”

  “How can I answer such a question? Don’t we all have impulses, impressions, that we can’t explain? Just because one can’t explain them doesn’t mean they aren’t true.”

  “I suppose you will want a good deal of money for it.”

  “I want what it’s worth, no more. There’s the price on the little ticket under the velvet flap.”

  Paul looked. “Expensive, Herr Hemmendinger.”

  “Yes, of course. There are several trustworthy appraisers here in the city. If you are interested, you may take it with you and verify its worth.”

  Paul was not yet ready to declare himself, and Herr Hemmendinger continued.

  “There’s a story behind almost all of these old pieces. Sit a minute while I tell you. I was a jeweler. I had one of the most beautiful shops, near the Ringstrasse. Third-generation jewelers, we were. That’s not uncommon, or wasn’t, in Europe. When things went bad—I suppose I needn’t describe how it happened. You know enough about it.”

  Paul nodded. “I do.”

  “Well, then, when things went bad and I knew I had to emigrate, I began to collect diamonds. I was lucky. I mean, I was lucky to have a way to get things out of the country. I had connections, it doesn’t matter how. So I went about among my old customers, buying things. Most of them wanted cash.”

  Paul knew about cash for bribes. If you happened to know the right money-hungry Nazi, it was sometimes possible to arrange things. But not often, God knew. Not often.

  “I had access to the best houses in Vienna. They were my customers and my father’s and my grandfather’s before me. That’s how I got this piece.” Herr Hemmendinger sighed. “It belonged to an aristocratic family. Jewish aristocrat
s. I don’t know how they got it, probably from some impoverished noble family that had gambled itself into beggary. Anyway, I remember going to that grand house. Frau Stern was a proud, elegant lady, and they had beautiful things, a marble staircase, silver, paintings, everything. They were in a big hurry to leave, especially to get the young people out, the grandchild and the young daughter-in-law. The son was already in France on his way to America, and she was to join him with their baby. I don’t think—well, I heard they didn’t make it. They were caught.”

  “Stern,” Paul said.

  “Yes. It’s a common name.”

  “In America too.”

  “But I remember them especially because of that grand house. The son had just finished medical school. Theodor. He was going to be a plastic surgeon. They were very proud of him.” The old man, reminiscing, rocked on the stool. “Yes, yes. I sold the young man the engagement and the wedding ring, I remember. Dr. Theodor Stern.”

  Paul felt the blood tingling up his neck. “Whatever became of him? Do you know?”

  “I seem to recall that somebody said he had gone to New York. Why, do you know him?”

  “It’s strange, but I think perhaps I might.”

  “It would be odd if you knew him. Sometimes the world turns out to be small, doesn’t it?”

  Paul’s flush was spreading, burning his neck. “Yes, very small.”

  “If you want to think about the necklace, please do. And if you don’t want it, I’ll put it back. No harm done.”

  “Don’t put it back. I’m going to take it,” Paul said.

  He hurried back to the hotel with two wrapped boxes.

  Ilse was reading the Jerusalem Post in their room when he gave her the silver bracelet. But the real treasure was burning a hole in his pocket. He was like a child with a new toy who has to show it off to his friends. Why wait until dinner? And he gave her the second box.

  “Oh, Paul, two presents? This bracelet’s enough, it’s lovely.”

  “Oh, that! That’s a little nothing I knew you’d like well enough even to buy for yourself. But this is for me, something I want you to have. Open it.”

  It was entirely natural that she should be startled by the lovely piece that shone on the velvet bed. But he, who was watching her face so eagerly for the delight he expected to see there, was himself startled. Could it be pain that, for the fraction of a moment, drew her brows together and quivered over her mouth?

  “How beautiful!” she cried. “Oh, you shouldn’t—”

  “—have done it,” he finished, laughing. And, with this repetition of her usual objection, was reassured. “Here, let me fasten it. First take off your sweater.”

  In her slip, bare shouldered and bare necked, she stood facing the mirror. The gold rope made a perfect circle around her throat, and from the center point at the hollow the pendant shimmered.

  “It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, Paul. You shouldn’t have done it,” she repeated.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t buy what I want for my wife. My almost and forever wife.”

  “I don’t know.… I mean, it must have been so expensive.”

  “That’s stupid, Ilse. You know I don’t like to hear it.”

  She looked contrite. “Okay, I’m sorry. It’s just a habit of mine to say it, I guess.”

  Yet he was vaguely disturbed. He was sure that there was something different about her. She was subdued. That was the word: subdued. But it was probably that she had not yet recovered from yesterday. One didn’t get over such things so quickly; perhaps one never really did, and would be haunted from time to time all one’s life by the sight of the crippled bus with its spinning upturned wheels and the sound of screams.

  But the day passed pleasantly enough. As if by tacit agreement neither spoke of yesterday. They went to dinner. A woman at a nearby table flicked a glance across the new necklace, and that pleased Paul. They talked of inconsequential things, a popular new artist, a Yemenite restaurant, the weather. But Ilse was still quiet and ate little. He tried to lift her out of her mood by telling about Herr Hemmendinger, making an amusing little pastiche of his pince-nez and his antique manners, only omitting the part about Dr. Theodor Stern. There must be some subtle reason why he omitted it, he said to himself, although he didn’t really know why.

  “We should go to bed early,” he proposed. “We have to be at the airport at the crack of dawn.”

  A little smile, which he suppressed, touched his lips, for he had held on to the secret about Spain all day and was not about to spoil the surprise now.

  Upstairs in their room, after they had repacked quickly, Paul read the newspaper and Ilse sat down to do her nails. The room was still except for the rattle of the paper. When he finished reading, he looked at her and was suddenly moved to go to her. When he bent to kiss the nape of her neck, on which the gold chain still gleamed, she neither moved nor looked up, just switched the buffer to the other hand, working it across her nails.

  Then he unclasped the necklace, saying lightly, “This will be your opera jewel. I shall get seats in the parterre for next season. We’ll dress and be gala.”

  At that, casting the buffer aside, she turned to him with a little moan. “Oh, Paul, oh, my dearest, I can’t! I can’t!”

  “Can’t what?”

  She began to weep and, laying her wet cheek against his, repeated, “I can’t, I can’t.”

  “What is it, Ilse? For God’s sake, what is it?” he cried.

  “I’m not going back to America with you.”

  He was aghast. “You’re what?”

  “All evening during that dreadful dinner with your cousin, and then afterward, I didn’t sleep all night. I got up and sat at the window here for hours and thought and tried to think, first one way and then the other, and I was tortured. Because I don’t want to leave here. And because I love you. Oh, Paul, you know I do! God, you know I do!” And putting her hands over her face, Ilse wept.

  He loosened her hands and stared at her anguished face. For a moment he was unable to speak.

  Then, wonderingly, he asked, “I think I heard you correctly but I’m not sure—did you really say you’re not going back home with me? Did you really?”

  She looked away and spoke very low. “It isn’t home.”

  He had been pierced with a knife someplace between throat and heart.

  “America isn’t—hasn’t been home for you?”

  “America is wonderful, but it isn’t mine. Out there”—and she gestured toward the window—“out there is where I knew I always wanted to be. That can’t be a surprise to you, can it? And now that I have seen it, please will you try to understand?” she implored.

  There was a hot, cruel pulse in the knife wound. He could only manage to say rather stiffly, fighting the pain, “I thought—I should think home was wherever the man you loved might be.”

  “That’s true, and that’s what’s torturing me and always will, unless,” she said, trying to firm her voice, “unless you can make your home wherever the woman you love may be.”

  He stared at the tears that were pouring down her face, and could not answer.

  “At dawn I was watching the sun come up. I watched you sleeping … and I thought, This is a little bit like dying. To part from you! Unless—unless you will stay here with me.”

  “I don’t believe this,” he said, while the pain mounted in his chest.

  “Would it be so hard for you to stay here too? Oh, my darling, will you?”

  He was aware of strange feelings, a confusion of shock and grief, of pity and even of a thin strain of resentment toward fate, or whatever you wanted to call it, for twisting everything up this way.

  He found speech. “You forget that I was born in the United States and fought for it in two wars.” The words rang in his ears, giving rise to a soft, queer nostalgia; he saw a sudden picture of a graveyard in New Orleans where lay the bones of ancestors who had lived there before there even was a United Stat
es. He shook his head and, almost in a whisper, said, “I can’t leave it, Ilse. No, it’s impossible.”

  She threw up her hands. “I suppose I had a hope.… But I should know better. We have our separate histories.” She could not finish.

  Her sobs tore his heart. A few hours ago he had bought the necklace, bought tickets for Spain. How was this possible?

  “Home. You don’t know,” she wept. “I’ve never had one except here in this place, in my soul. First we fled Russia and Communism, then we fled from Hitler and he followed to Italy. I went to America only because the British wouldn’t let me go here, where my heart is.”

  There was a long, long silence in the room. In the corridor outside it there sounded a bustle of tourists, coming and going, calling instructions to each other about luggage and flight time. And in Paul’s pocket his own air tickets lay like stones.

  But it was his way, his characteristic reaction, which he recognized in himself, always to stifle weakness wherever he could, to pierce with caution through confusion and let reason prevail. So, pulling himself together, he made an appeal.

  “Listen, Ilse, I think I understand what’s happened. Yesterday’s horror has just gotten to you, that’s what it is. You feel you can’t simply run away from this little country that’s so beleaguered. You feel it would be abandonment. Am I right?”

  When she nodded, he went on, “And you think that because of your history and especially because of your profession, there’s room for you here, and need for you here, and that it’s your duty to stay and help.”

  She interrupted now. “Not duty. It’s wanting to. It’s love.”

  “Good! Good! That’s marvelous. I, too, want to help. I have helped, and I always will. But you don’t have to live here to help them. You, Ilse Hirschfeld, can’t change things that much just by being here.”

  Ilse’s gaze went to the window, below which Jerusalem lay sleeping. “America is your country, I know. But this has been mine, since Mario was only ten years old and we talked about coming here. I’ve told you that. And if things had been different, we would have been here together.” She turned to Paul. “Oh, I am drawn here, Paul! I have no other words to tell you, except that now that I am here, I am incapable, yes, incapable, of getting on a plane and flying away. You have to believe me.” And seizing his hand, “Don’t you think … can’t you possibly live here too?” she pleaded again.