Among the Living

by Jonathan Rabb

  Having died of malnutrition, thought Goldah, Lotte and Franz would have said they preferred this, but Malke was still so new to things: Why not let her keep the dead as her benchmark for a little while longer.

  And yet he was already feeling his own strength slipping away. Time was moving him backward, his old self taking root. Alone he had been able to hear just the one voice: conversations with himself that sprang from memories constrained by a single string of details — out of sequence, out of time, like a dream; repeated, they had grown obscure and almost harmless. Now there was this second voice, and with it came the burden of shared memory — memory that could reshape and sharpen those details and make them unbearable again. Up against that, what hope did he have?

  The music stopped. Goldah watched the Kerns and the Fleischmanns beginning to make their way back to the table.

  Pearl was laughing as she sat, something she had overheard, and Jesler told her not to be so flippant even as Selma said she might as well get all her sinning in now before yontif. Pearl laughed again, her behavior no less manic as she took hold of Malke’s hand and squeezed it tightly in her own.

  “You’re just the best thing ever,” Pearl said. “You’re hope, that’s what you are. Hope for everyone around this table and I don’t care if you can understand me or not, you just are. Look at her, Fannie. Look at her the way I see her.”

  Fannie had been trying to keep the drinking to a minimum tonight, holding Pearl in check just in case she might forget herself given all the pressures of the last few days and weeks. Fannie said, “We all see her the same way, dear.”

  “Not the way I do,” Pearl insisted. “She has a brightness in her, and the way she calms Ike, even with her face —”

  “Yes,” said Fannie, “I see it. I see how lucky everyone is. Have some water, Pearl.”

  “We should throw a party,” Pearl said, finding her own, stale brightness beneath the sheen of gin and Vol de Nuit.

  “It’s getting late,” said Jesler.

  But Joe was already ordering another round and it looked as if there was no chance of moving any of them from the table, all their idle phrases and reckless laughter springing this way and that; only Jesler showed an inclination to step things along.

  He said to Goldah, “Champ Kaminsky called today. I forgot to tell you. The car came in. He’s going to give it to you for a dollar.”

  Goldah said, “I’ve told him I couldn’t possibly accept that.”

  “But you will. This time you will. You’ve got your own place. He said it’s come up from Florida. So you’ll thank him for it and take it. That’s Champ.” Jesler pulled his own keys from his pocket and placed them in front of Goldah. “You take mine tonight. Get Miss Posner home. Herb’ll give us a ride. I’ll come by your place tomorrow, pick it up.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s been a long day. No doubt Miss Posner is feeling it.”

  Goldah took the keys and explained to Malke that they were leaving. Whatever else Jesler might be going through, Goldah appreciated the concern he always showed. Malke muttered a quiet “Thank God” in Czech, while Goldah stood and helped her up.

  “Oh, no,” Selma said with a child’s disappointment. “You’re not leaving, are you? Pearl, you can’t go yet. You just can’t.”

  “We’re not,” said Jesler, standing with the other men. “The kids are taking my car.”

  “No, Abe,” Pearl said no less petulantly. “I like having them here. I do. We’ll take them in a little while. Drop Ike off. Don’t you want to stay, Malke dear? Don’t you want to … stehen eine …” The words trailed off as Goldah handed Malke her purse.

  “It’s late,” he said.

  Herb took the lead. “Well … this was fun tonight. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of you in the next few weeks. The holidays and such.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Goldah.

  Selma perked up. “Oh, so you’re coming to the AA? Wonderful. That’s so nice to hear. I thought you’d be at the temple with Mrs. De la Parra.” It was only on the last syllable that Selma realized where she had taken everyone. She quickly looked to Fannie for support but there was little chance of finding any of that.

  Goldah knew Malke hadn’t understood; still, silence has a way of drawing even the uninvited in.

  “What are they saying, Yitzi?”

  Pearl suddenly took her hand again. “You just forget that, Malke dear. That’s all done with. You’re here now and you have all the hope in the world.”

  Goldah’s only hope was that Jesler might know a way to distract Pearl from her own sodden enthusiasm, but even Jesler’s caring had its limits.

  “I’ll tell you at home,” Goldah said before they made their quick good nights.

  Ten minutes later he was pulling the car out when Malke rolled down her window and said, “It was a woman they were referring to, wasn’t it? The high drama at the table.”

  Goldah might have shown surprise, but why pretend when he felt none. He remembered how, if nothing else, Malke was never one to indulge in sentimentality. He nodded and told her everything she might need to know about Eva. He made no apologies.

  When he was done, she said, “It’s not like you.” There was no accusation in her voice.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “To say you know someone that well. Or think you do. It sounds … strange to me. That’s all.”

  “And that’s all you have to say?”

  “What else should I say?” She remained perfectly calm as she leaned her head closer to the window. “It’s going to make things difficult for you. I’m sorry for that. But it’s funny — and you’ll probably hate me for saying this — I find this heat absolutely wonderful. Everyone talks about it as if it’s some kind of burden but I don’t see it that way. Even the sweltering kind. I don’t know why I should have thought of it. Maybe it’s because I still dream of the cold. But this woman. She thinks she knows you?”

  There was so much to Malke he had forgotten — by choice or not — but never this. Never the pointed remarks peppered in and among the distractions. This woman.

  “Her name is Eva,” he said.

  “Yes, but I don’t want us to refer to her that way, Yitzi. I can’t fault you for having let it happen but that wouldn’t be fair to me. You see that, don’t you?”

  Did he? Such a cumbersome thing, fairness: the Pandora’s box of misery for the Jew. It seemed to him they were smarter than that. Events were inhuman, beyond reason — and they came in cycles with almost mocking regularity. Wasn’t it enough to live through the pain of the moment? But to ask, is this fair — why suffer the slap twice? It was like the man — the fool, Pasco said — who, once betrayed by a brother, rages when the brother can’t recognize his fault: “But it’s not fair that you don’t see how you wronged me …” Does the brother ever care? Never.

  “No,” Goldah said almost in spite of himself. “I’m afraid I don’t see that.” He continued to drive, unwilling now to turn his head and meet the unrelenting blue of her eyes, no doubt staring though him …

  They’re never warm, her eyes, though they seem to look at him with great affection — certainly affection. And he convinces himself it’s because of the strain inside Terezín, the need to put on a brave face, to “impress our friends of the Red Cross, otherwise …” Otherwise. How it tests the limits of even her resiliency inside these walls, although he might recall this absence of feeling even from the start. But who has the energy to think that far back now?

  He stares across at her, across the little table with its canvas umbrella and chipped top, and marvels at how well she keeps herself inside the camp. People are always remarking on her beauty. And why not? She says it will cause problems one day, but he refuses to let her talk that way.

  They can already feel the cold that will descend upon them within the next few weeks, short sleeves letting the sun play on goose-pimpled arms. Somewhere above them, guns are also trained on them. To make sure they si
t, to make sure they behave, to make sure they laugh. Yes, today they sit in the folding wooden chairs that teeter on the stone and dirt and have a glass of tea. It might be only for show, but why question that? The tea is hot, the roll is actually made of bread, and he finds himself laughing as Franz — their Franz, Franz Z., late of the National Theater in Prague — sits with them and offers up a hushed, perfectly rendered SS bureaucrat as tour guide of Terezín.

  “And these are our Jews,” says Franz. “No, no — don’t touch! Hands in pockets. You see how plump they are, how happy to sit at a café and pass the time. That one there is a trombone, no, no, not a real trombone — oh, you men of the Red Cross are so comical, so insightful! — but a man who plays the trombone in a fine ensemble that the Jews themselves have put together with our aid and encouragement. We’re always encouraging our Jews to create a place where they can be happy. And, after all, isn’t that what we want for them? And this one here — this is a writer. Yes, we have writers. The Jews are always so smart — writers and artists — perhaps too smart. No, no, I’m joking with you. A Jew can never be too smart! Trust me. Otherwise how could we have them sitting here waiting for death … No, no, no, not for death. Of course not! Another joke. What a fiction. And from a writer. Tell us, writer — yes, you can speak — tell us how it is that you’ve found your greatest inspiration here in the wonderful gift that is Theresienstadt, how it is that only here you feel you’ve finally found a place where you can be appreciated? Tell us.”

  “You’re a shit, Franz.”

  “Ah, the pearls, the jewels that come from his tongue. Wasn’t I right to say he’s found his inspiration? And even better tomorrow when you’ll be gone, gentlemen, and he’ll have no smell of baking bread in his nostrils or the warmth of an extra blanket on his bed to distract him — then you’d see the true genius of this man.”

  “The genius of this man,” Lotte says, “is that he rarely speaks, which is more than I can say for you. You might learn to take a page from him.”

  “ ‘Take a page,’ ” says Franz. “From a writer. Wonderful. That’s why I love her because she’s so much cleverer than I am.”

  “It’s not so hard,” she says.

  Malke is staring beyond them to the entrance of the courtyard, where a few coats of plaster and paint have been slapped on to liven things up. The photographers have arrived with their escorts.

  “Order another plate of rolls and more tea,” she says. “They’ll have no choice but to bring them now.” She’s finding great restraint today, Goldah thinks, and focus. It’s something of a blessing.

  He calls the girl over; she, too, sees the photographers and heads off for the food.

  Across the courtyard the commandant strides in the uniform of a first lieutenant, with men dressed in suits who share looks of deep appreciation, nodding, nodding, as the commandant speaks, gesturing to the surrounding buildings, a quiet laugh — he’s laughing and the men in the suits nod again — while the photographers stare about, stopping every so often to snap a shot, one of them with a large moving camera that he carries across his shoulder as he looks for a spot to place his tripod so as to capture the café and the buildings and the Jews at their ease.

  The rolls and the tea arrive. Everyone has been told not to stare, not to look at the strange assortment of men approaching, but to chat — they’ve been told to chat about simple, everyday things: a child’s misbehavior, the pleasantness of the weather, their happiness to be among other Jews. Malke keeps her eyes on the table.

  No one is surprised when the men draw near to Malke’s table. A girl that pretty and with bright blue eyes, seated across from Franz’s long oval face and jowls and high forehead, still — inconceivably — with a bit of a double chin, the perfect picture of the raffinierte Jew.

  “Good afternoon,” the commandant says, dipping his head below the umbrella. He can’t quite bring himself to say “ladies, gentlemen,” but only Goldah recognizes the omission, as the commandant continues. “You’re having a pleasant time today?”

  “We are, Commandant,” says Lotte. Goldah knows her hand is pressed tightly onto Franz’s knee beneath the table.

  “These are a few of the gentlemen from the Red Cross, eager to see our city,” says the commandant. “I’ve been telling them we’re expecting some colder weather, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, Commandant, I think you’re right.”

  “And you’re the actor, aren’t you? I’ve seen you. Very funny.” He turns to the other men. “This is” — Franz no doubt feels Lotte’s grip tighten and he gives his name — “he’s been in a number of the productions we have here.”

  “Yes, Commandant,” says Franz. “You’re very kind to remember.”

  A man from the Red Cross says, “And are you preparing something new these days?”

  Franz is already embracing his character. “A show with the children. It’s quite something.”

  “A pleasant break from their schoolwork,” says the commandant. “We give them sport, swimming, theater. I believe we’re seeing their performance tonight.”

  School in the camp is forbidden. This week, in preparation for the visit, all the orphans have been sent east to make more room. As for swimming, the students from Roudnice, who built the commandant’s swimming pool, remember only the beatings and the two who drowned in the process.

  “Yes,” says Franz. “We keep them very busy.”

  “And you, charming lady,” the commandant says to Malke, his eyes wider, a momentary flush in his cheeks, “no doubt you must also be in the theater.”

  Goldah sees the hesitation in her eyes, not from fear — never from fear — but he has no idea how she’ll respond, and he says, “She’s to be my wife.”

  The commandant turns to him. He would have liked to have talked more with the lovely young woman but must now, out of a German decorum, speak with her man. “How lucky for you,” he says. “Another wedding in Theresienstadt.”

  “Yes, Commandant,” says Goldah. “When the weather turns. When it’s warm again.”

  “How pleasant. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  There’s nothing more for the commandant here. The group moves on and Franz waits to say, “ ‘When the weather turns.’ You’re an idiot. I thought you’re the one who doesn’t talk.”

  “I was inspired by the place.”

  Lotte ignores them both and says to Malke, “So is this really news? Are you engaged and didn’t tell us?”

  Malke is staring across at Goldah. Her focus has returned. “I don’t know. Are we?”

  Goldah takes a sip of his tea. It’s cold. This time they haven’t even bothered to see all the way through on the ruse. “Yes,” he says. “Why not?”

  The thrum of the cicadas made the pauses between them seem less fractured as they stood on the Jeslers’ porch, a single bird somewhere above cawing in equally empty conversation. Goldah was still holding her purse. He thought she might ask to see him tomorrow but she said she was tired and, if he wanted more time, she would understand. She might have placed her hand on his arm or it might just have been the taking of the purse; neither of them read too much into it.

  “Did you ever think we’d be standing in a place like this?” Malke said.

  There were so many ways to answer that question but Goldah simply shook his head; she wasn’t expecting more: She had given up on his silences long ago. She let herself in and ten minutes later he was back at his rooms. He opened the door and stumbled over something at his feet before finding the light. Looking down, he saw the envelope with no address, not even a name. He always attributed something mysterious, even sinister to packages that arrived this way, but here the mystery quickly became a dull pain at his temples as he felt the small ring and two keys tucked inside the paper. He had given them to Eva less than a week ago. He opened the envelope, hoping to find a note, but the inside was no more forgiving than the flap.

  He stood there imagining her just the other side of the
door: the moment she had pushed the envelope under; the next when she had felt the ache to retrieve it. Had he let self-pity guide him he would have tossed the keys onto the table with a false finality. But he didn’t.

  At four o’clock the next afternoon Bill Thomas sat on a stool at the far end of the bar at the Crystal. He’d called to say he’d read through Goldah’s second piece and was jealous, desperately jealous, and insisted he buy him a drink. Goldah imagined there was no reason to question the motive — of course there was a reason — but he needed something to distract himself. After all, hadn’t promises been made?

  “It’s damned unfair,” said Thomas, nursing a bourbon; Goldah was fine with seltzer. “Not that it’s Nabokov — I’m not going to embarrass either of us by saying that — but you have to admit it’s a little criminal to be this good in a second language. Please tell me it’s only two.”

  “If that makes things easier,” said Goldah.

  “Christ. How many?”

  “Comfortably … five.”

  “Five? Well isn’t that just wonderful. So what is it: German, English —”

  “Czech, French, and Slovak. But this is journalism. It’s different. It’s never more than a thousand words at a time. What can go so terribly wrong?”

  Thomas finished his drink and motioned for another. “Plenty. Trust me. Weiss must be pinching himself for luck every morning.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Thomas nodded knowingly. “You dumped the girl, did you? Don’t worry. He won’t care. She can get over it, but this … this sells papers. This gets noticed.”

  The bartender uncorked the bottle and poured another for Thomas.

  “And one for this gentleman here,” Thomas said. “At least keep it in front of you. Seltzer makes me nervous.”

  The barman waited. Goldah nodded, then drank. He had gotten used to the sweetness.

  “A newsman who knows his Nabokov,” Goldah said. “I think I’m impressed.”