Among the Living

by Jonathan Rabb

  Thomas began sifting through the papers. Goldah sat.

  “Are you on staff, Mr. Goldah?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “ ‘Not yet,’ ” Thomas echoed. “That’s the attitude. So what am I going to be reading about?”

  “I think it might be better if you go in cold.”

  Thomas stopped and looked across the desk. For the first time he sized up Goldah. “You’re not giving me the hard sell. Which means you’ve done this before. Where?”

  Goldah’s instincts had been right: Thomas was an excellent newsman. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Can’t be that long.”

  “Maybe it just feels that way.”

  Thomas leaned back, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out his cigarettes. “It’s Europe, isn’t it? The accent. Before the war.” He took one then tossed the pack onto the desk.

  “Yes. Prague. The Herald Tribune.”

  Thomas’s eyes widened as he lit up. “The Herald Tribune. My, oh, my. Maybe I should be showing you some of my pieces?”

  “I’ve seen them. They’re good, clean.”

  “Well isn’t that swell — the Herald Tribune thinks my writing is clean.” Thomas exhaled a narrow stream of smoke. “So … you’re now here in charming old Savannah, writing for Art Weiss. What’s this really about?”

  Goldah knew a truth, such as it was, stood the best chance of getting by.

  “I’m seeing Weiss’s daughter,” he said. “He might not be as objective as he should.”

  Thomas laughed to himself. “Playing the noble card in the newspaper business. What exactly were they teaching you over in Prague? Hell, I’d ask for a daily column if I was dating the girl.”

  “I’ll see what I can do — about the column, not the girl.”

  Thomas kept his smile. “You look familiar to me, Mr. Goldah. Why is that?”

  Goldah recalled having seen Thomas at the store. He had come by some weeks back to speak with Calvin. Goldah had been with another customer and Calvin had told Thomas to leave. The entire episode had lasted all of two minutes.

  “There was an article in the paper a few months ago,” Goldah said. “It had my picture.”

  “No, I don’t read this paper.”

  “And which papers do you read?”

  Another quiet laugh. “You’re very good. Question, feint, question, parry. I take it back. They knew exactly what they were doing in Prague.” He tapped out his ash. “I read the papers I want to write for. Right now it’s the Atlanta Constitution. After that I suspect it’ll be the Times-Picayune, then the Chicago Trib, and, one day, when the fates smile brightest on me, the San Francisco Chronicle.”

  “Not the New York Times?”

  “I’m a sentimental fellow, Mr. Goldah. My one character flaw. Hometown boy. Hometown paper.”

  “And is Mr. Weiss aware of the larger plan?”

  “He’d be a fool not to be, wouldn’t he?”

  Goldah was liking Thomas more and more. “Good to have high ambition.”

  “Only thing to have.” Thomas went back to the piles, and Goldah said, “I work at Jesler Shoes. You might have come in. I’ve been there since I arrived in July. Perhaps that’s where you recognize me from?”

  Goldah knew Thomas was too good at his job not to piece things together soon enough. Goldah would have done the same. Throwing it out there now made it seem almost innocuous.

  Just in case Goldah added, “I lost most of my family in the war. The only ones left — the Jeslers — were here in Savannah.”

  Thomas did everything he could not to show a reaction. In fact, if Goldah hadn’t been looking for it, he might have missed the slight narrowing of the eyes.

  Thomas said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  Thomas was juggling all his newfound information when the telephone rang. “Maybe that was it,” he said, “the store. You’ll excuse me. I need to take this.”

  Goldah stood. “Of course. You haven’t read the piece yet. We can talk about it another time. Very nice meeting you.”

  Thomas picked up the phone, nodded, and raised a hand goodbye. “Bill Thomas here.”

  Goldah bobbed his head and headed for the door. He was pushing through when Thomas called after him: “Mr. Goldah — the call’s for you. It’s Mr. Weiss.”

  Goldah stood for a moment; Weiss hadn’t known he was coming down. Goldah stepped over and took the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  The words that followed were quick, unemotional: a simple relaying of information. For years to come, Goldah would recall them with a slight buzzing in his ears. Now, standing there, all he felt was his hand squeezing tightly onto the chair, and the sound of Thomas’s voice humming something about a glass of water.

  Goldah sat quietly on the settee. The last half hour sat with him — the cab ride, Jesler’s solemn handshake, the offer of a drink — all of it like shards of a reality he couldn’t quite place. He had refused the whiskey and now watched as Jesler finished his own. The Lubecks’ letter lay open at Goldah’s side.

  Goldah asked, “She’ll sleep through the night?”

  Jesler was lapping at the last few drops in his glass and set it on the table. “That’s what the doctor said. I don’t want to pry, Ike, but Miss Posner — this is why we were in Atlanta, isn’t it?”

  Goldah thought a moment, then nodded.

  “Does Mrs. De la Parra know?”

  Again Goldah waited. He shook his head.

  For some reason, Jesler turned and listened at the door. They both sat in silence until Jesler said, “I thought maybe I heard Pearl. She’s had a sedative as well but she’s been a little restless.” He leaned forward, his hands on his thighs. “Look, Ike, I called … I called because I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. That’s all. I didn’t mean to get involved with whatever you’re doing now.”

  Goldah was having trouble understanding: The words came at him the way they had all those years ago when he’d first tried his hand at English — foreign and unwieldy. He remembered sitting with his father, a book placed open on a table, a single lamp to focus the eyes. His father’s finger had moved so easily along the letters — “the cat is on the hat, the rat is with the cat, the rat sits on the hat” — or was it something else? Goldah thought he might be translating in his head but knew it was only memory.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “No, of course, it was smart to get in touch with Weiss.”

  Jesler tried to be consoling. “I told him there was no reason for you to come by tonight. I specifically told him that. I didn’t tell him … I didn’t mention the circumstances, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Just that the girl was here. You’re sure you don’t want to go up and see her? The doctor said she’ll sleep soundly. You could just go and take a look.”

  Why, Goldah wondered? Why take a look? He knew what he would find. He had spent so many years admiring her, challenged by her, but never thrilled, never that ache to touch her. Wasn’t he meant to panic out of need — for just a moment — each time before he saw her, as he did now with Eva? How had he convinced himself otherwise? Yes, Malke had been beautiful — they all told him how beautiful she was, how clever, how perfect, just for him. Even Malke told him over and over when he couldn’t see it for himself. And maybe he let himself believe that was love.

  Goldah said, “I think I’ll have that whiskey.”

  “What? Oh, fine — sure.” Jesler was quick to his feet.

  Goldah said, “He thought it might not be her, the man in Atlanta. Hilliard. He said she’d suffered from memory loss, derangement. The Lubecks seem to have the same concerns.”

  Jesler poured one out and handed it to Goldah. “She seemed pretty certain to me.”

  “You say she screamed she didn’t know me?”

  “I’m not sure her English is all that good.”

  “But she said she didn’t know me?”

  Jesler took a fresh glass and poured himself anoth
er. “I guess that’s what it sounded like. Anyway, Pearl’s offered to have her stay with us.”

  Goldah had the sudden and overwhelming image of Malke here — in this place, always — the little room with the grinding fan and the too-thick drapes, the heat and the exhaustion, and he pitied her as he had pitied himself but only for a moment. Unlike him, she had come with purpose, to regain something she believed she was owed, and he knew these people would give it to her. All they would ask was for her forgiveness. No, it’s unnecessary, she would say. There are no victims, only resolution and joy and gratitude for the dead come back to life.

  “That’s very decent of you,” Goldah said.

  “You know, Ike, you’ve made no commitments elsewhere. No one would fault you. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

  Goldah had yet to take a drink. Ancient conversations churned through his head, and he said vaguely, “I met Mr. Thomas tonight. Excellent newsman.”

  Jesler was bringing his glass to his lips. He stopped. “Did he say anything? Anything about me, the store?”

  It was everything Goldah could do to focus on what Jesler was saying. “Yes …? He said he’d been to the store. Why?”

  “Nothing,” Jesler said. “Never mind. Good, you met him. Good.”

  Goldah set his glass on the table and stood. “I should go. I’ll come back in the morning.”

  “How about I set up a cot in the study? That way you could be here when she gets up.”

  “I think I’ll walk.”

  “It’s still raining. I can give you a lift.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Goldah recalled his first moments with Jesler: The train station and the wariness at the chance of an embrace; even a handshake had seemed too much. Now they were connected by things no less uncertain, debilitating things that made them both incapable of anything more than silence. Each carried his own weight, each stood alone, and neither pretended he might know how to find comfort in the other.

  Goldah kept his hands in his pockets as he moved through the rain. The rest of him was soaked through, but the hands, miraculously, remained dry. It occurred to him that he had always given special care to his hands. Writing, his father said, required it. They had kept lotions and creams in the house for the winter, others for the summer. A cracked finger or a knuckle too dry and it was a day lost, even a week if the skin became too brittle. Of course Pasco had been right, too. Feet were life, shoes were life, but only in a place that took life to mean something other than what it was.

  Goldah walked and thought how right little Pasco had been. One could pretend — that was the lie — or forget, but even forgetting was no hope against the past. It always found its way in. And he thought of Malke — unknown and unknowing Malke. Shredded memory only made it worse.

  Goldah turned onto his street and saw Eva sitting on the stoop under his small awning. The building had been her choice, the rooms on the second floor pleasant and with a western view: less heat in the morning, she said, and a chance for a sunset in the late afternoon. She had found him a few things to furnish it with, simple but inviting. The dresser had been her husband’s as a boy. She had been keeping it in her attic — who knows why, she said — and asked if he felt strange about that. Strange? She had brought him to a quiet place where he could lock a door and know that no one else could come through it. All of it was strange, and that night he had told her he loved her.

  Her arms were now resting on her knees, her hands clenched beyond them and, for a moment, Goldah thought she might be in prayer. It was an absurd thought, just as ridiculous as his soaked-through appearance on this somber little street. When she looked up he was standing by her, the light from the lamp caught somewhere between them.

  “You should have called a cab,” she said, as if they might be meeting for drinks or a quick bite before a movie.

  “You could have gone in. You have the key.”

  “It’s cooler out here.”

  He recalled countless conversations like this, though nothing like this at all. “You took Julian to your parents?”

  She nodded. Then, as effortlessly as before, “Is she someone you loved?”

  He reached his hand down. “Let’s go in.”

  “If you’re going to tell me things are going to get complicated, I think I can do that out here.”

  “Come inside. Please.”

  “A policeman asked if I needed help. I must have looked quite a sight.” She took his hand and stood.

  “You look fine.”

  Upstairs he changed while she put a kettle on for tea. He lay his suit on a chair and hoped the humidity might let it dry by next week. He stepped into the small sitting room where she was pouring out two cups.

  “You have nothing to eat,” she said. “I’ll make a few things and put them in the icebox. That way you’ll have them.”

  He sat with her at the little table by the window and placed a hand around his cup. “Your father called you?”

  “A young woman with a foreign name?” she said. “Of course. He said Mr. Jesler sounded quite insistent. Concerned. The next thing I knew I was sitting on your stoop. I wasn’t thinking you’d come by tonight but I just couldn’t get myself to leave. Isn’t that silly?”

  Goldah placed his open hand on the table. He expected her to place hers inside but she brought her cup to her lips with both her hands and took a sip. It was all slipping away, wasn’t it?

  “She was a woman from Prague,” he said. “I’d known her since I was a boy.”

  “Was? She’s just up the road, isn’t she?”

  “I thought she had died.”

  “In the camp?”

  Like a bright, white light the memory crept in and blinded him for a moment. “I thought she’d been — that she hadn’t survived. The first night. I thought they had taken her.”

  “You thought she was gone all this time?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Eva set her cup on the table. She sat calmly, staring at it, the intensity in her gaze an unsettling prelude to the sudden and aimless movement she made, standing and going to the kitchen doorway. He watched as she leaned her back against the jamb — the tears he had expected downstairs forming — and she shook her head as she brought her arms tight around her chest.

  “All this time,” she said. “She’s been waiting all this time and you’ll have no choice. You’ll tell yourself you have no choice.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes it is. And if you loved her —”

  “I never did.”

  Goldah heard the words. He had never said them before but here they were, presented to Eva like a sacrifice.

  She looked at him, not with relief but with a deep, deep pain. “Why tell me that?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Oh, because it’s true. You think the truth takes care of it. But here she is. She’s found you after everything else because she loves you — truly loves you — and you know it.”

  “You can’t possibly know what I know.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  He went to her. She made a weak effort to push him away but she let him take her in his arms all the same.

  “That doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “Of course it does. Don’t be a coward. Don’t hide behind that.”

  The word coward caught inside him, stark and unforgiving and all the sharper because he knew she had never intended it that way. He felt an unexpected strength in his hand and he slammed it against the wall even as he saw himself moving anywhere but near to her.

  “Don’t say that,” he said with unaccustomed bitterness. “Don’t say it. Do you have any idea — do you? My God. You think crawling back to all of that makes me brave? Love out of pity, love because fate said these are the only choices to be had?” The truth flooded in and doused whatever anger remained, leaving only a frail disbelief in its wake. “I’ll never leave there, will I? It’s the criminal set free but with the
mark on his forehead, his arm. And they all stare and know, and who cares if it’s remorse or shame or kindness — it’s still the prisoner they see. And if he says ‘No —’ ” His throat tightened. “ ‘I won’t go back, I won’t be there every morning, every night,’ then it’s ‘Shame on you for never having loved her.’ ” He felt his own tears. “There’s your redemption,” he said. “That’s what we’ll give you. Take it and be glad and be done with it.” He crouched down, his arms to his face, and he wept.

  Eva let him cry. She let the weight of everything pass, only now, knowing once they were apart it would all come rushing back and trample them both underneath.

  She was next to him and he brought his head up to rest it against the wall. He saw her stained cheeks and thought he might never leave this room again, if only that were possible. Words formed in his mind but he couldn’t find a way to say them.

  They had never spent the night together. He had never spent the night with anyone. But he knew to wait until the morning to tell her.

  10

  “AND SHE ASKS, ‘How you always make it taste so good, Ethel?’ ” Mary Royal spoke with an unencumbered glee. She sat by herself at Raymond’s kitchen table, while his mother, Lilian, at the sink, pressed fruit through a strainer into a jar. “You know how proud Miss Sophie is about her sisterhood dinners, and here’s Ethel in the dining room in front a all Miss Sophie’s Jewish folk being asked how come her food always taste so good, and Ethel says, ‘Why it’s the lard, Miss Sophie. It’s the lard.’ ”

  Lilian laughed quietly, almost reluctantly, as she shook down the jar. “ ‘The lard,’ ” she repeated. “Would’ve been better if that child had said, ‘It’s the Lord, Miss Sophie. Praise Jesus, it’s the Lord!’ You telling me Ethel’s been cooking in that house with lard all this time, even when she’s putting one set a forks in one drawer and one set a forks in the other, and she don’t understand the koshuh?”