Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories

by Allen Hoffman

  The second night he stood the lonely vigil and the warnings were repeated. Hymie sat and watched his grandchild’s distended mouth and quivering chest struggle to get enough air. For a brief moment, thinking that he had seen something amiss, Hymie quickly leaned forward. Reassured, he sat back in his chair. It reappeared; Hymie purposefully looked away to dispel the pale image, but when he turned back, he still saw the faint flames burning above the child’s mouth like a refinery flame burning off the excess gases at the top of a high smokestack. Hymie imagined his grandchild consumed in the faint flickering. The disintegrating body of caked, black ash somersaulted slowly in the tent and was sucked through the tubes back into the hermetically sealed vacuum of the cylinders coating the metallic sides with a fine shadowy powder visible only through that powerful microscope known as the eye of God. The only thing remaining was the small pair of tennis shoes in the closet that the child had worn into the hospital. Crazed with fear, Hymie slipped his hand under the flap to grip the child’s leg so that he could not be sucked away. The child gasped when touched but Hymie did not draw back. He held him firmly.

  In the morning, the child breathed. His color slowly began to return. Hymie kissed him and cried. He went home, but he could not sleep that night. When he lay down and closed his eyes, he saw the hated flames. He opened his eyes and sat up. The light filtering into the bedroom drove him to distraction. He lay down but the flames, fueled by death, soared. Hymie wanted to reach into his head and tear the image from his mind. He leaped out of bed, showered, and read until morning. He didn’t feel the least bit tired. No one suspected that he hadn’t slept in two days. But he knew; Hymie the Torch knew.

  Sarah thought that he was overtired from his sleepless night in the hospital. She called the doctor; the physician prescribed sleeping pills. Even with the pills Hymie couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the fire rushing from the chimneys as the bodies were sucked in below. He took twice the prescribed dosage, and when that failed he tripled it. He slept. He finally slept. The flames disappeared. The next night he took the pills again.

  After a week, the flames returned. Not continuously, but randomly, often at unexpected moments. Hymie would suddenly realize that he was seeing them as he was looking at a stop light, glancing to find where the paperboy had thrown the paper, or signing his name to letters. At first this didn’t bother him very much. After his difficulties, it seemed reasonable that his problems shouldn’t disappear instantly. But after some time, he realized that the cremating flames flickered in his mind absolutely every day. From that moment, the horrible scene surfaced unfailingly every day with its barbaric and hideous brilliance. On the Sabbath it was even worse. Even when Hymie closed his eyes to pray, he saw them. He began to despise the Day of Rest.

  Hymie came to loath fire. He hated the sight of it. He despised even the idea of it. He couldn’t imagine kindling it — not even for havdalah. Not even the candle for the blessing, “Who creates the lights of fire,” much less the dancing flame. When the children came over, much to their surprise Hymie insisted that his son or son-in-law perform the ceremony. Hymie smelled the spices but he turned away from the candle. The grandchildren asked Hymie to create the dancing flame, but he had others do this, and before the flame began to glow, Hymie would leave the room. No more vanilla ice cream either. When Hymie and Sarah were alone, Hymie would not even intone havdalah. She didn’t ask — it wasn’t their way — and he didn’t tell her. How could he tell her that the thing he had loved, the thing that had thrilled his soul, was now hateful to him? More than hateful. An abomination. Fire had been so pure, so sweet, so true, and now it was ugly, shameful, and vulgar.

  Hymie was confused. He seemed to be the same person he had always been, and that mystified him. He had loved something and now he hated it. Could he have been Hymie the Torch? But above all, Hymie was depressed because he felt that he had been a fool. A God-awful fool. His love had betrayed him! What a fool! The image of his love’s betrayal flamed before him daily — the unfaithful, consuming flames seared his brain. Hymie the Torch? Hymie the Fool!

  People seemed more distant and more foreign. They had no idea that he was in pain, and he didn’t want them to know. They couldn’t help. What could they do? They would only know what a fool he was. All the while the flames never lacked fuel. In grotesque heaps the bodies continuously entered the ovens.

  Only one thing — well, two: it was true that Hymie no longer said havdalah — changed in Hymie’s routine. Although he regularly attended synagogue, Hymie began attending a different one, a new one. Among the refugees who had arrived in town was a Rabbi Mendel Myers. Once an outstanding student of the Great Warsaw Yeshivah, the refugee had been invited to the city to teach in the local seminary. On his own he opened a small synagogue in the basement of an apartment building. A few tables, several benches, a velvet ark covering that in spite of its recent dedication was already faded. A small subdued group. Refugees, old men who never felt comfortable in English, a few who had real or imagined ties with the Great Warsaw Yeshivah — and Hymie. No other “real” American would come near the place. No one disputed Rabbi Mendel’s scholarship. It was vast and precise. No, it wasn’t that. It was — well, he was a refugee. Not that the community hadn’t welcomed those people and not that they hadn’t understood that such people would need time to adjust. Still, when a policeman approached, the rabbi fled across the street. In America! And the old briefcase he dragged around? One or two books were in it, but it was mostly filled with hunks of stale, crumbling bread that he would take out to gnaw upon at the most inopportune times! Not just on the streetcar. He did it once on the dais of an interfaith discussion in the presence of an Episcopal bishop and a Catholic monsignor! And his eyes. It wasn’t a look that inspired confidence, but it was a look of someone who had been through Auschwitz and had seen the flames, so Hymie attended the dilapidated little synagogue.

  As much as Hymie hated the flames, he still wanted to know the details. How? Why? Hymie sat on the bench, watched and listened. It was not very comfortable. He watched a lot of stale, crumbling bread consumed in long, ruminating, salivating chews and he listened to some very brilliant lectures, but what he learned about the flames he learned from Rabbi Mendel’s eyes. And the flames were as horrible as Hymie had imagined.

  After the war, marginal companies that had thrived on the war-fattened boom faltered. Some adjusted to the harsher economic climate; others contacted Hymie, Hymie the Torch. To their amazement, the Torch, who had neither been arrested nor had payment denied on any of his fires, refused. How could Hymie the Torch refuse? Would-be conspirators met Hymie in the dark outside his office. They stopped him on his way to the synagogue. They begged — “Hymie, our lives!” They implored — “Hymie, our kids!” Hymie just shook his head. “Why, Hymie? Why?” But Hymie just shook his head. He was out; that’s it. Sorry.

  Hymie’s family heard reports of his refusals and were pleased. Everyone in the family felt a little more secure. Everyone but Hymie. The spurned offers only fueled the terror that blazed endlessly in front of him — one, two, three, four, five, six million.

  His would-be customers found other torches. Some failed to collect; the mismanaged fires were obviously fraudulent. Some went to jail; their burners were careless and indiscreet. And worst of all, some killed. Hymie felt accusing stares. Not that anyone actually blamed him, but Cohen was broke, Shakowitz was under indictment, and firemen’s funerals were held with frightening regularity. Of course, no one thought that Hymie should have announced his retirement in the newspapers; still, as the saying goes, you don’t close the synagogue on the eve of the Sabbath.

  No one said anything to Hymie’s face. Well, almost no one. One day he received a call in his office.

  “I want to talk to you. It’s very important,” a voice insisted.

  “Who’s speaking?” Hymie asked.

  “Hymie, please drive through the park today. I’ll be standing by Custer’s monument at noon.”


  “Yes, but how will I know you?”

  “Don’t worry, Hymie. Just be there. You’ll recognize me all right.”

  Hymie was intrigued. He had a memory for voices and he suspected that he had heard this one before, but he just couldn’t place it. The flames vanished as the mysterious caller’s identity occupied him all morning. Nor did they bother him as he drove through the park, but when he arrived at the monument and saw who was standing there in a uniform with a double row of bright brass buttons, he remembered the voice and again saw the infernal flames.

  “Good, you came,” said Bannion nervously as he got into Hymie’s car.

  Hymie drove through the park.

  “Do you remember me?” the passenger asked.

  Remember him? Ever since his unannounced visit to Hymie’s office, Hymie had been following his career. Bannion had risen all the way to the top. He ran the show now. Chief of the entire department.

  “You came to my office once,” Hymie said.

  “Yeah,” Bannon said with embarrassment, “that was a while ago. Times have changed.”

  Hymie nodded. How times have changed, he thought.

  “Look,” Bannion said with his old aggressiveness, “I’m not one to beat about the bush. I want to talk to you.”

  “I don’t know anything about them,” Hymie said. “I’m out.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s the point. I want you to go back in.”

  The last was said quickly, as if the chief had to say it, but didn’t want to have to hear himself saying it.

  Hymie looked at Bannion. The car swerved.

  “Maybe you’d better park while we discuss this,” Bannion suggested.

  Hymie parked.

  “Hymie, the guys who are doing the jobs today are no damned good.” The chief’s voice was rising. “Every jackass who can light a match thinks he’s a torch. We picked up a Dago last night. It was his first blaze; he tells us he’s sorry. We buried three good firefighters because of him and he tells us he’s sorry!” The chief was practically shouting.

  “Sorry, I guess I got pretty loud, but Hymie, my men are frying. Those guys aren’t running into burning buildings; they’re running into death traps. You know how many firemen died in those fires?”

  Hymie nodded. He had followed it all in the papers.

  “Twelve, Hymie. Twelve in two months!” The chief’s voice cracked as if he were on the verge of tears. He paused to regain his composure. “I got to protect my men; I’m the chief. That’s my job. Hymie, I can’t do it just by catching those amateurs. They crop up like weeds. We got the Dago last night. The week before we got the Polack who was worse than the Dago. The Polack set the cold-storage fire that spread to the bakery where six of my men went through the floor. And now that we got the Dago, some other half-ass fool will think he can make an easy buck and print a card that says ‘torch.’ Maybe it’ll be a dumb Mick like me or a fast Sheeny like you or a crazy Nigger. The Lord knows! But some bastard will kill my men for sure.”

  Bannion paused.

  “Can’t you get back in?”

  Hymie sadly shook his head.

  “Hymie, I’m begging you with Jesus as my witness. My men are dying. You can save them.”

  “Sorry,” said Hymie, his voice cracking.

  Bannion heard Hymie’s anguish.

  “Look, I know it’s not any easy thing I’m asking. If you promised the wife or somebody, I’m willing to talk to them.”

  “It’s not that,” said Hymie.

  “You’re not so young. You let me know in advance and I’ll see to it that the coast is clear.”

  Hymie shook his head.

  “Almost thirty kids,” the chief said in a hollow voice. “Orphans.”

  “I can’t. I can’t,” cried Hymie.

  Hymie looked Bannion in the eye.

  “I wish I could, Chief. I wish more than you can imagine.” A puzzled Bannion looked at Hymie.

  “Why not, Hymie?”

  “God,” said Hymie.

  “Religion, huh?” asked Bannion.

  Hymie nodded.

  “That bad?” commiserated the chief.

  Hymie nodded again.

  “Well, we’ll see,” Bannion said sympathetically, but Hymie just shook his head.

  STUDYING the Talmud, Rabbi Mendel sat next to the tattered ark. Hymie entered and sat down across from him. The rabbi finished a sentence and closed his thick volume. He continued rocking and squinted into the air as if he were trying to focus on some elusive thought. Then with embarrassment, he lowered his gaze and looked at Hymie. They exchanged greetings. They had always gotten along well. Hymie appreciated the rabbi and the rabbi appreciated Hymie. As the only “American,” Hymie suggested to the rabbi that he might not be quite as warped and scarred as he thought he was. Hymie was, after all, a successful American-born millionaire businessman who wasn’t very learned. He smiled at Hymie.

  “Hymie, I have asked you to come in because I promised I would. I had a visitor who spoke to me about you. I would not have told him that I would, except that I didn’t want him to go away angry. He is an important man who could hurt our people. Fire Commissioner Bannion.”

  Hymie was dumbfounded, but he managed to utter, “Chief, not commissioner. Chief.”

  “Yes,” said the rabbi, uncomfortable at not understanding the difference.

  “Bannion was here?” asked Hymie.

  “Yes, last week. No uniform. Rabbi Drillstein asked him to. It was very nice of Rabbi Drillstein. You do know that I’m afraid of uniforms, don’t you?”

  Hymie nodded.

  “Rabbi Drillstein didn’t have any choice either. A high church official asked him to set up a meeting for the — chief — with your rabbi.”

  Rabbi Mendel looked to see if he had gotten the fireman’s title correct this time, but Hymie just stared in amazement.

  “Forgive me, Hymie, for having listened to the ‘evil tongue’ about you. I do not enjoy gossip, but he was a high officer and an official of the church sent him, so I didn’t want to offend.”

  “It’s all right, rabbi. It’s all true,” Hymie said.

  “Still, it remains ‘evil tongue’ even if it’s true. Forgive me,” the rabbi said.

  “I forgive you, Rabbi.”

  “Thank you. You already know what he told me, but I would like to tell you what I told him. I said that he could not be sure that your fires would not kill anyone. No matter how good you are, it is impossible to know. I told him that if you were to go to jail, neither he nor I could replace you in your home. Oh, yes, and I told him that I would talk to you.”

  “What do you think, Rabbi?” Hymie asked softly.

  “I sympathize with that man. He cares about the people he commands. And he is confused, for life and law seem to be in opposition. But you are not responsible for their deaths. It is tragic and he cannot accept that. His complaint is not against you.”

  “Rabbi,” Hymie said slowly, “do you see the flames?”

  “The flames?” he asked, uncertain what Hymie was talking about.

  “Yes,” repeated Hymie, “the flames.”

  “Well,” the rabbi said, “I don’t know very much about burning buildings.”

  “No,” said Hymie, “not those flames. The flames of Auschwitz. The crematoria.”

  Rabbi Mendel Myers stopped rocking. He sat up straight, with a stunned, hurt expression, and stared at Hymie.

  “Yes,” said the rabbi with resignation. “I see the flames. I smell the ashes as the flames propel the souls to heaven. Yes, I see them, but why do you ask?”

  “I see them too,” said Hymie with the same weary resignation, and Hymie began to rock.

  The rabbi heard Hymie’s anguished weary horror, and he knew that Hymie, indeed, did see the flames.

  When the rabbi spoke again, it was directed as much toward himself as to Hymie.

  “It is taught that all of Israel is one body. When I suffered, I found solace in the knowledge that other Jews were liv
ing peaceful lives while we were being degraded and destroyed. I thought that although the one hand was being burned, the other hand felt no pain. I had no idea what is meant by one body. It means a living body. In one body, if one hand is being burned, the entire body tightens and tries to tear itself away from the fire. The mouth opens, the throat screams, the eyes widen, the legs kick, and the other hand flails the air in pain.”

  The rabbi looked up with the awareness that his suffering had caused others pain. He turned to Hymie and said with concern, even embarrassment at not having known, “How, Hymie? How?”

  After his long, lonely torture, Hymie poured forth his story — from the first havdalah with dancing flame and vanilla ice cream to the night at the movies and all that had followed. Rabbi Mendel Myers listened with the sorrow that Hymie was one of them. Sorrow that the flames consumed so far from their source. Sorrow that there was no real American in his congregation. Above all, the sorrow that there might not be any real Americans, after all, anywhere.

  Hymie cried for the first time since he was by the child’s hospital bed. He leaned his head onto the table and he wept.

  Hymie remained there until he felt the rabbi tapping his arm. He pushed himself off the table and sat up. The rabbi handed him a piece of stale bread. Hymie accepted it and began to gnaw the hard, cellular surface. The dry flakes gathered on his tongue, gently coated his mouth, softly cushioned the choking void of his throat. With relief his teeth ground against the rough, dessicated bread. Without acknowledging one another, they sat, slowly grinding their meal in the empty house of prayer. Then, without interrupting his monotonous gnawing, the rabbi spoke.

  “Hymie the Torch, you know a great deal about fire,” the rabbi said, “but you must learn more.”

  Hymie, not comprehending what the rabbi meant, stared at him in confusion.