Jesler paused at the mention of the newspaper. “The sort of stuff you wrote in Prague?” He reached for the bread.
“I’m not sure,” said Goldah. “It’s all very tentative.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Get to meet some new folks. People who share your interests.”
Pearl said, “He said it was tentative, Abe. And speaking of the newspaper” — the moment had come, the heavens and the earth conceived — “what a coincidence, but you’ll never guess. They’re planning on doing an article on the store, Ike. Abe and you and the expansion. Isn’t that exciting?”
“The what?” Goldah said.
Pearl pressed on: “Now there’ll be no time for distractions for the two of you, will there? Maybe I’ll even come down and lend a hand. Get my picture in the paper. Isn’t that exciting?”
Goldah tried to gauge his own reaction by Jesler’s but it was impossible to discern a singular emotion in the man’s face. The best he could decipher was confusion and that seemed the wrong approach entirely.
“Congratulations,” he managed.
“To you, too, Ike. To you, too,” Pearl said. “You’re a part of this now. A big part. I know you’ve been finding your legs, but now there’s something bigger on the horizon. And we couldn’t be happier that you’re such an essential part of it, could we, Abe?”
Jesler continued to gaze blank-faced across at his wife. He then turned to Goldah. “So what kind of writing are you thinking about?”
“Abe,” Pearl said. “I just mentioned the big news. We can talk about that later.”
“What kind of writing?”
“Abe,” she said, like a slap on the wrist. “Some little thing Ike might be writing — he might not even have time for it now, will you, Ike?”
Jesler continued, “Is it something you might want to think about as a regular thing?”
“Abe Jesler! I’m talking to you!”
Jesler looked across at his wife. He said calmly, “We’re done talking about that, Pearl. I think you know that. And I’m very interested in what Ike might be finding for himself.”
“ ‘What Ike —’ ” The words caught on her tongue. Her disbelief quickly gave way to something darker. Goldah had never seen a smile with such tightness and immediacy, as if her every muscle from cheek to jowl had been pressed in starch. Sitting above it was something more familiar, rage, constrained in the narrow slits of her eyes and indiscriminate in its focus.
“I see,” she said with hollow pleasantness. “You’re interested in what he might be finding for himself. Tell me, Ike, are they wanting you to write about your experience in the camps? I’m sure Savannah readers would be most interested in that.”
“Watch yourself, Pearl,” Jesler said easily. “You don’t want to do this now.”
“Do what, Abe? Tell me, what is it that I’m doing? Or should I call Mrs. Eva De la Parra and ask her why her father is throwing a bone to Ike? How embarrassed that man must be, a little Czech Jew and his daughter, and here he is trying to wash it away. Would that be better, Abe? Would it?”
Goldah said, “Perhaps I should —”
“No, Ike,” said Pearl. “You and Abe obviously have a great deal to talk about that doesn’t concern me.”
Jesler said, “Pearl, you need to calm yourself down.”
“It must feel quite grand to have come into our home and feel so much more welcome elsewhere. It’s only a livelihood and an understanding that we wanted to give you. But I’m sure the chance to write again — that must fill all the holes that have been left. And so very fortunate to have it be the father of the girl you’ve taken up with.”
“I said careful, Pearl.”
“The girl and her little boy.” There was a meanness now in her voice. “What a wonderful little family they have there. Just perfect. She gets to have a little boy and Ike —” Pearl stopped herself. Tears now commingled with the rage. The whole face was shattering as she stood. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite for dessert. Mary Royal stopped by today. A Key lime. She said she’d heard you enjoy that, Ike. I’m sure you do. I’ll leave you to it.”
Her eyes moved haphazardly along the table — to Jesler, to Ike, to Jesler again — until, with a sudden purpose, she stepped around the table. It looked as if she might move past Goldah but, in an act of desperate compassion, she leaned over, placed her arms around his shoulders, and kissed him on the top of his head.
“You’re a good man, Ike Goldah. A good man. I need you to know that. That’s all. I just love you so much.” She straightened herself up and spoke through the tears. “I’m feeling a bit tired, Abe, so I’ll say my good nights. You boys enjoy your talk.”
She moved through to the hall. Goldah waited until he heard her on the steps before saying, “Do you need to go after her?”
Jesler listened, waiting for the sound of their bedroom door to close. His eyes were distant when he turned back to the table. “She’ll be all right.” He looked at Goldah. “She’s not far wrong on Weiss, though. He’s not doing this for you. You do know that, don’t you?”
“I do. Yes.”
“Rare that a man does something for someone else just to do it.”
Goldah knew Jesler was wrong; he just happened to be right this time out. Goldah said, “I’ve been thinking —”
Jesler stopped him with a long breath in and turned to Goldah. “You’ve been thinking about getting a place on your own. I know. I’m afraid I haven’t done you much help with that tonight.”
For the second time in the last few hours, Goldah tried not to show his surprise. “Yes.”
“It’s not as if I haven’t been encouraging it. I think that might be the right choice.”
“I’m sorry for this.”
“For what? For getting on with things? I wish I had some of that myself.”
“You’ve been —”
“I know. We’ve been kind. Terribly, terribly kind. It starts to sound a little empty after a time, don’t you think?” Jesler smoothed out the tablecloth in front of him and said, “So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll help you with Pearl and you help me with a little something down at the newspaper. You think we can work that out?”
At just after eleven p.m. Goldah lifted the latch on the Weisses’ side-yard gate — as he had been instructed — and pushed through. The whole thing seemed slightly foolish, juvenile even, but Eva had sounded so wonderfully mysterious on the phone, what choice did he have? Even so, he kept close to the fence and checked to see whether the bedroom lights were on upstairs. The house was dark, the crucial parties asleep, he imagined. He had never been to the Weiss home, so coming at it for the first time in this flanking maneuver seemed to him somehow more audacious.
He inched along the grass — unable to see more than a few feet in either direction — when his shoe hit cement. It was a puzzling sensation. He tried to find his bearings but the tree cover was too dense: not even a bit of moonlight to help him along. He took another step, and he heard Eva say, “Careful.”
Goldah strained to see her through the darkness but it was no good. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“I know.”
“So we just stand here?”
“I’m not standing.”
There were any number of things that passed through his mind — first and foremost the best route back to the gate — but Eva turned on a bright light, and the Weisses’ swimming pool suddenly appeared some twenty feet from him. She was sitting on a lounge chair in her swimsuit. She held up a pair of black trunks for him, and said, “You wanted American. It doesn’t get more American than this.”
Goldah’s instinct told him to look back at the house. He expected a light to turn on at any moment.
“They’re out at the cottage on Tybee,” Eva said. “With Julian. They give me a night to myself every so often.”
“And this is how you choose to spend it?”
“I do.”
“There’s a cottage?”
&n
bsp; “There is.”
“How very nice.”
“Yes. Are you going to come over and take the suit or are you expecting me to hand-deliver it?”
Goldah glanced around at the remaining chairs and small tables, one of which was sprouting an unopened umbrella. The pool itself was simple but elegant, blue and white tile, with an ever-widening set of steps leading down from the far corner. As with everything to do with the Weisses, Goldah had seen it all before in a magazine. Eva had placed two folded towels on the chair next to her. A bottle of wine and two glasses sat nearby, poolside.
He said, “As I won’t be putting the suit on, I don’t think it makes much of a difference.”
“Ooooh. How very bold of you. Skinny-dipping the first time you try out our pool.”
“Skinny what?”
“Dipping. Naked. No clothes. You shock me, Mr. Goldah. But how American. Look at how quickly you’re picking up on things.” She stood and Goldah found himself leaning back against the fence. She said, “You must really hate the water.”
Goldah wanted so much not to lose touch with her playfulness, but memories, he knew, were rarely that accommodating. It was all he could do to keep the more ruthless of them at bay. “Not at all.”
She moved toward him. “You can’t swim, can you? I saw it that first day when we went out to the beach.”
He said, “Not a lot of places to learn how to swim in Prague.”
“I don’t imagine that’s true. In fact I know it’s not true.”
“No … you’re quite right.”
“My God, are you going to come over or not?”
His attempt at charm was quickly becoming farce — and not the good kind — and Goldah forced his right foot forward, then his left. He hoped it looked like walking.
“You can change in the cabana. There’s a light inside.”
It was a small space, with varnished floors, a cushioned banquette, and a cabinet. There was a separate nook for a shower, along with a few hooks for towels, goggles, and robes. Goldah undressed. He turned on the shower, stepped in, and doused himself in cold water. He had gotten used to a shower every night. It was the one way he could find to rid his skin of the heat, if only for a few minutes. He toweled off and put on the suit. He couldn’t recall the last time he had left himself this exposed. Or maybe he could. Outside, she was sitting by the pool, her legs in the water up to her knees.
“We’ve had rain,” she said, “so the water’s not too warm. Your shower was probably more refreshing.”
“Bracing. Sadly it’s beginning to wear off.”
“Oh well. Then the pool’s your only hope.”
“My only hope?”
He had been waiting for her smile and now had it. She said, “My father tells me you’ve decided to write for him.”
“Did he? And that’s why we’re here tonight. A victory swim.”
“Oh, it’s not my victory. And wouldn’t that depend on how well you write?”
“He tells me I write very well. You should ask him.”
“I suppose I should. You know you look rather handsome in your suit.”
He had almost forgotten he was wearing it. “As do you.”
“Are you suggesting I try it on?”
This was an Eva he had yet to see, no less sure of herself but somehow more daring, though daring wasn’t the right word. Bold. No, that was wrong, too. Bewitching. My God, that was worse. Goldah thought he might be going a bit flush. “I meant in yours,” he said.
Her smile returned. “Why don’t you come over.”
His bare feet felt the cement more acutely than he expected, little ridges and fine grains scraping against his soles as he walked. He was nearly to her when she slid into the water. She waded out, her shoulders just above the surface. She stopped midpool and turned back to him.
“That’s a dirty trick,” he said.
“You’re coming in. No two ways about it.” She dove under, swam back to the side, and surfaced. She rested her arms on the ledge and let her legs float behind. “My father taught me to swim in this pool. He was a bit of taskmaster. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Part of his job description.” She saw his confusion. “It’s what he always says when he has to do terribly mean fatherly things. Part of his job.” She laughed quietly to herself. “He sent a boy home once, five minutes after he’d arrived to pick me up. I was upstairs and the boy was gone by the time I came down. Can you imagine? I was mortified the next day at school. Alan Rabin. My father said he was rude, a thick skull — that was the term my father always liked to use. Turns out Alan had had a little something to drink before coming by. I learned that later. ‘Not on my watch.’ Another of my father’s favorite phrases.” She laughed again and propelled herself back to the middle of the pool. “So no one taught you to swim?”
Goldah continued to stand. “Not in the job description.”
“You haven’t told me about your father.”
“I thought I was here to learn to swim?”
“Are you in the pool?”
Goldah weighed the alternatives. He sat and eased his feet into the water. “He was a writer.”
“A journalist?”
“No, a writer. An editor. Stories, essays, that sort of thing.”
“Isn’t a journalist a writer?”
This time Goldah laughed. At least these memories were more manageable. “I’m sure somewhere that’s true. No, not for us. He thought ideas deserved more than the facts behind them. That was one of his, if we’re trading favorites. Words have a deeper purpose. ‘Facts are the enemy of truth.’ Cervantes, but he made it his own.”
“It’s a lovely idea.”
“I’m sure it is, although not such a good idea if you’re living in Prague in 1938.”
She drew closer to him and again rested her arms on the ledge. Her face was no more than two or three inches from his knees. “But he must have loved the way you wrote.”
He leaned forward and placed his hands in the water. He brought them out and rubbed them on his cheeks. “He liked to find the things he had taught me in the pieces I wrote. Not so much the pieces themselves.” Goldah became quiet but then his eyes widened and he gave her his best smile. “He should have taught me how to swim instead.”
She mirrored the smile and took hold of his hands. She then stepped back. “I won’t let you go. Just hop down.”
“This is fine.”
“Hop down.”
He felt the weight of her pulling him in. He might have resisted but he knew there was nothing for it now. When he was standing next to her, she said, “Lie back. I’ll have you, I promise. Lie back and float.”
He felt his breath shorten. His heart began to race. He had yet to move.
“Please,” he heard her say.
“I know how to swim,” he said quietly. His throat was tightening. “I just don’t care to.”
“It’s only swimming.”
He had told himself he could find a way here, with her. He had put on the suit. He had waded out. But no. Even now, there was no way he could find the words.
“I know,” he said. “I know.” He took her hand. “Can we drink that nice bottle of wine?”
She waited. She knew he would tell her nothing. Instead, she let him lead her back to the side. He pulled himself out and, sitting, drew his legs out of the water as well. When she was next to him, he brought the glasses over and poured.
Eight days later, a young woman, fully believing herself to be Malke Posner, stepped down onto the Savannah platform from the Richmond train. She carried a single bag and had instructed the Lubecks — her distant cousins — to send on the rest of her belongings once she had settled herself in. The Lubecks, generous to a fault, had been hesitant to let her go but, as they had no legal recourse to keep her in Virginia — other than the laws of compassion and nature — they agreed, so long as Malke stayed in close contact during her travels. Even so, they remained concerned: A woman with so little English might get lost or worse. M
rs. Lubeck had even offered to make the trip with her, but Malke insisted that this was out of the question.
Malke had telephoned from Petersburg, Rocky Mount, Fayetteville, Dillon, Florence — she had missed her opportunity in Kingstree due to a somewhat stumbling conversation with a young woman from Yemassee — and then Charleston.
The woman from Yemassee, it turned out, was an Avon Lady, who showed Malke how she might best work with some of the more demanding areas of her lips and cheeks. It was all in the application and the shading, the young woman said. Malke had tried to follow as best she could and wondered if perhaps the mirror the young lady provided might not have been specially designed to help enhance these gentle deceptions, but the young lady insisted nonetheless.
Malke had purchased seven dollars worth of lip, cheek, and eye makeup, which she now carried in a small case in her purse.
When she arrived at the Jesler home in the taxicab she thought, This is what I have been hoping for all along. When Pearl answered the door and Malke recognized the deep sensitivity in the woman’s eyes, Malke felt that perhaps, at long last, her suffering had come to an end.
9
“POSNER?” Pearl said.
She stared at the strange, frail young woman, with her ungainly bag and eye shadow that was several shades too dark. Pearl was having trouble understanding the accent; it was so thick and halting. She took a moment to piece things together. “You’re looking for Mr. Goldah?”
“Yes,” said Malke. “Forgive my English. Do you speak perhaps Yiddish or German?”
Pearl felt her own apprehension more acutely and knew it would be best to manage all this inside. She led the girl through, expecting at least one kind word about the house, but Miss Posner walked in silence — with a slight limp, Pearl thought, though she tried not to take any unwarranted notice of it.
Among the Living Page 13
