The rabbi from the temple stepped out as well. “It seems as if we’ve both had the same idea this year.”
“Yes, it would seem so.”
“We’ll be done in a few minutes, if you care to wait.”
The prospect of standing in line behind the temple Jews sent a momentary buzz throughout the shul gathering.
“No need,” said the rabbi from the shul, matching the other’s pious if patronizing restraint. “As you’ve pointed out, there are plenty of places that will suffice.”
The temple rabbi held his ground in silence and Goldah heard himself say, “Aren’t the prayers the same for both? Couldn’t we just do them together, all the sins at once?”
Goldah was used to people staring at him, albeit not quite like this, but at that moment he didn’t care, not when he saw an instance of warmth cross Eva’s eyes.
“What a generous thought, Mr. Goldah,” said the rabbi from the shul, “but I’m sure our friends at the temple have already begun the ritual and we wouldn’t want to force them to begin it again.” He turned to his own flock. “A chance to walk in the sand like the children of Israel before us. What could be more appropriate this year than that?” He raised his hands and motioned for those at the back to lead them on.
Goldah watched as Eva turned to the water. If not for Malke he would have joined her and taken her hand. Then again, if not for Malke, he would have been with her already. Instead, he felt Malke’s hand on his arm — a need to explain what had just happened — before they followed the others back along the pier.
Down on the beach, everyone quickly took off their shoes: The men rolled up their pants and pulled off their socks, while the women did their best to slip out of their knee-high hose without too much complaining. There was a great deal of leaning and grasping and even some laughter before they all began to trudge their way out to a suitable spot not far from the pier. Keeping back of the waves, the men retrieved their kippahs and tallisim as the women brought out the pieces of bread they had been carrying in wax paper, sequestered until now in the deep recesses of their purses. Bread for sins, thought Goldah: Only the ducks and seagulls would be seeing the efficacy in that.
The rabbi led them through the prayers, stopping as everyone tried in vain to hurl his or her bread far enough out into the water so that the tide wouldn’t bring it back. A few of the younger men managed some excellent throws but most found themselves darting between the waves to retrieve the soggy pieces that lay lifeless on the sand.
“I know which sin that is, Herb Fleischmann,” someone yelled, “and I can promise you, you’re never going to get rid of it.”
“Maybe I don’t want to,” Herb yelled back, deftly avoiding one wave only to be caught by another.
“You better,” yelled Fannie. “Does anyone know if they can dry-clean a tallis?”
The whole thing was absurd — absurd and wonderful — and a far cry from the stupidity up on the pier. Even Goldah was feeling relieved. He had tossed his own bread far enough out to keep himself dry, which allowed him a moment to glance up at the temple crowd. They had finished and were milling about. He saw a few of the children racing in all directions, a necessary release after the quiet observance of yet one more Rosh Hashanah prayer: What sins had they committed, he wondered, to merit that? He tried to find Eva but she was keeping herself back.
“I want to throw a piece,” he heard Malke say. The giddiness in her voice caught him by surprise. “And if it doesn’t go far enough, Yitzi, I want you to go and get it and do it for me. Will you do that, Yitzi? Will you do that for me?”
He tried to sound encouraging. “Of course.”
“Pearl,” she shouted over. “May I have a piece? I want to throw it.”
Pearl was laughing at Jesler, who was darting tiptoe along the edge of the water, more carefree than Goldah had ever seen him. For a large man he was remarkably spry, although it was anyone’s guess when he might topple over.
Pearl shouted at him through her laughter, “Careful, Abe. Careful. You look a sight. Now watch Malke. She’s going to try one. You go get it if it doesn’t go in.”
“I’ll get it,” said Goldah, rolling his pants higher above his knees. “They’re my sins as well.”
Pearl’s face was pure joy as she handed Malke the bread. “A big throw, dear. Put everything behind it.”
Malke stepped forward and with a sudden earnestness sent the small piece of bread arcing high into the air. It took everyone by surprise — the force, the trajectory — and when it landed well beyond the break in the tide, she jumped in the air with absolute pleasure to the cheers of those around her.
It was then that Goldah caught sight of the small body leaving the pier, even before he heard the scream: the tumbling of a child’s arms and legs, flattening itself backward before it smacked effortlessly into the water and disappeared below.
The water burns even though Goldah sees the gauge beyond the tub hovering at just above six degrees Celsius. They have inserted a tube into his rectum and this, too, shows a temperature that is holding at just below thirty degrees. They are waiting for him to lose consciousness. The men who have called themselves doctors write on clipboards and, from time to time, prod his shoulders, which remain out of the water. If Goldah can strain his eyes downward, he can see his veins more acutely than he has ever seen them before. They look more green than blue, which he cannot understand, and he thinks this is when his eyes have begun to lose their accuracy.
Goldah knows he will die within the next twenty minutes. They have told him this. He watches the slow movement of the second hand on the clock above the table where, only minutes before, they had tied him down so as to insert the tube. They have told him that another twenty minutes is when his body temperature will dip below four degrees and his heart will cease to pump. They explain that the burning will become a warm sensation a few minutes before that. They would like for him to try and stay alive beyond the twenty minutes and, if he is able, they will begin the warming process. It is slow, and there is just as great a chance that he will die because of the shock to his system. They tell him all of this so that he might utter a word or two to let them know when he feels significant changes in either his limbs, his hearing, or his eyesight. They cannot assess these changes without indications from him.
They make it clear that these requests are perfectly reasonable because he will most likely die anyway and then they will need to find another test subject, no doubt one he knows, in order to gather the information they need. He alone will be responsible for the pain and the death of this other because he will have chosen to deny them a few simple responses.
He says, “Burning less.”
They look at the clock and the watches on their wrists. They write on their clipboards.
At eighteen minutes he hears a dull sound — like whale song, he thinks — although he has never heard it himself, a mewling that rises and dips, and fills his head like a muffled scream, though it is gentler than that. He sees the men, their movements jagged now, slow then fast, and Goldah struggles to say something.
“Knife” passes his lips. He has tried to say something else, death perhaps, but his mind cannot think that far back, and he sees the clock has stopped and he feels the warmth they have told him will come, their movements once again rushed then quiet. He waits for consciousness to slip away but instead feels himself retching and knows he is somehow alive.
“Thirty-one minutes,” he hears. “Remarkable.”
It is three hours later and he lies on the table. They have brought him back to life. And because of where he is and who he is he can think only to thank them.
He tries to tell this to Pasco the next day in the hospital but there is still a burning in his throat and his jaw feels weighted and uneven. He wonders if it will always be this way. He cannot find a way to speak.
“You were the last,” Pasco tells him in a low voice. “It’s what I’ve been hearing. They can show your results as proof that a man can
survive that kind of freezing. They’re very pleased with themselves. They say your organs are functioning the way they should, except maybe the kidneys, but how well were the kidneys working beforehand anyway? You’re the first Jew they’ve been happy to see live.”
Goldah has been allowed to stay in the hospital, not with those destined for selection but with those who can still work. He is one of the prized patients. He has no idea how he has gotten here.
“They might have killed you anyway,” says Pasco, “but it’s better for them if you’re still living. Lucky for you, lucky for me. I heard it all from Frister — the one who was the doctor in Lodz. He washes out the tub. He was here when they did all the tests the first time, more than two years ago. He said you didn’t lose your bowels, which is strange he said — even back then everyone lost his bowels — but not you, so maybe that’s why you made it through. Good, hot shit piping through your insides to keep you warm — no, I know you can’t answer. It’s all right.”
Pasco looks back to the door for just a moment, then leans over as he coughs and reaches into the heel of his shoe. He returns with a cube of sugar hidden in his hand — unheard of — and slips it quickly into Goldah’s mouth.
“Who knows if it does any good but better to taste that than something else if you don’t wake up. So make sure you wake up.”
Goldah wonders how it is that Pasco can be talking to him, how he has been allowed inside the hospital. He wonders if, in fact, Pasco is even here but he tastes the sweetness in his mouth nonetheless.
“If you make it out they’ll find something better for you. No question. Something easy, maybe up in the labs with me. What a treat for you. Fewer beatings. And they’ll give you extras to keep you alive because they need their proof.”
Goldah doesn’t see the burn marks and bandages across Pasco’s chest and arm. Pasco has saved a scientist in a chemical fire. He has been permitted a few days to regain his strength. Only later will Goldah understand their good fortune to have been in the hospital together.
“No washing for you,” Pasco says with a quiet laugh, “not for a while, not even with stolen water, am I right?”
Goldah knows Pasco wants to a see a smile; Pasco has been trying so hard. Goldah does what he can with his eyes.
“Sleep and dream of the desert,” says Pasco. “What else should a Jew dream of?”
Goldah felt the water closing in all around him, warm and dense; his arms strained against the current. He had tossed away his jacket and tie on the beach — Eva’s screams had shredded the sky above — but his pants were now weighted as he tried to push through. Diving deeper in he felt his ears compress, the water darken with weeds, as wild tendrils brushed against his arms like thick strands of hair. He grasped at them, frantic to feel skin and bone beneath, but the current was stripping them away even as he reached out. He was drifting — he knew it — lungs burning, desperation and hope draining from him with every stroke. He had never called out to God in the past, never once, not even at the edge of his own death — not to beg, not to thank — but now he thought: You must answer. Who are You if this is the moment You choose to remain silent?
Goldah swept his arm out, then again, and felt the cloth across his fingers like breath itself. He clenched at the shirt in his hand, the small body close in now, weightless, drawing it into him as he pushed them both to the surface, their heads breaking through as one. Goldah gasped for air and shouted “Here!” only to see the face of the boy bobbing at his side. From somewhere, other hands appeared, pulling them forward until Goldah felt the sand beneath him, the boy torn from his grip. Goldah’s own heaves now lay shrouded in shadow from those standing around him.
He heard a dull ringing in his ears as he sucked in for breath. He had no understanding of why the minutes passed as they did — for lack of air, for the shock, for the relief — but they came to him in a strange haze, heightened, as if he were watching himself live through them. It made his own movements jagged and disconnected, the sun too low in the sky to keep anything in focus.
He was standing somehow, pushing his way through the men who had gathered around him. He saw another man kneeling over the boy.
“Ike.”
Goldah felt a hand on his shoulder. He had heard his name. He turned to see Jesler holding him back.
“Ike.”
Goldah tried to speak but he couldn’t: Where was Pearl — where was Malke in all this?
“The doctor needs his room, son. There’s nothing else you can do. Nothing. Just stay back.”
Goldah was again staring at the boy, both of them unmoving, the small arms stretched out above the head, the face lifeless until, with a sudden jerk, the boy coughed and coughed again. A stream of water spilled from his mouth, and the doctor brought him up.
Goldah found himself wrapped in a bear hug with Jesler.
“Good God, Ike. You brought him back. You did. Baruch Hashem.”
There were other hands now on his back as Goldah released himself from Jesler’s embrace. He saw Eva stumble to the sand and pull her boy in. The doctor stood, shaking his head, and Goldah thought he heard, “Not even a scratch …”
Goldah watched as Eva cradled Julian’s body in her arms, pressing her head to his, weeping, and letting her dress become soaked through from the water. Goldah felt Jesler place something rough on his shoulders.
“Pull it around you, Ike,” he said. “You need to avoid a chill.”
Goldah let the jacket fall as he moved toward her. The Weisses were already at her side, a lifeguard with them. All three were kneeling down and doing what they could to try to dry the boy and Eva.
Goldah found himself standing over them; he was still hearing the ringing in his ears. Mrs. Weiss was the first to look up, her eyes red and her hair windswept. She was trying to say something but all she could do was nod and cry. Goldah tried to speak as well but Weiss was somehow standing with him, fighting back his own tears as he put a hand out to Goldah.
“Thank you, Mr. Goldah. Thank you.” Goldah felt the grip in his hand; he felt it tighten. “I’m not sure I know who you are but I do know how lucky we are to have you here.”
The hand released and Eva was looking up at him, her gaze filled with a deep joy — a deeper sadness behind it — and all he wanted was to reach for her, but Jesler was once again at his side, wishing them all well and moving Goldah off, back toward the women.
“We had a little light-headedness,” said Jesler. “Maybe more than that … Pearl did. And Miss Posner — she needed her medication … There was some shouting. Nothing too much … It was best to move her off. She’s all right now … Herb’s keeping her in check. Just over here.”
Goldah saw them, sitting on the sand like driftwood, all at odd angles and leaning into each other: Pearl was smoking silently with Fannie and Selma; Malke stared absently out at the water; Herb and Joe stood just behind.
When Goldah drew up, Malke barely turned her head.
“I’d never seen a beach like this until today.” She spoke in a distant voice; he wondered if she knew she was speaking Czech. “And now I’ve seen it. I suppose I’ll always remember today for that, won’t I?”
Pearl finished her cigarette; she kept her eyes on it as she crushed the stub deep into the sand. “He’s all right then, the boy?” Her words carried no weight. “And Mrs. De la Parra, the Weisses?”
“The boy’s fine,” said Jesler. “They’re all fine.”
“How relieved they must be.” Only then did Pearl look up; her eyes were no clearer than Goldah’s own. “And you, Ike — so very brave. Our brave, brave Ike.”
Goldah felt his knees buckle; Jesler was there to keep him upright. Malke shouted out to no one, and Jesler said, “We need to get them home. Anything else can wait.”
13
THE GIRLS STAYED in bed during services the next morning. The doctor had stopped by last night and again today: A shock like that could be dangerous for Miss Posner, he said. Not that he wanted to be making a habit
of it but, just in case, he gave Pearl a sedative as well. As for the ringing in Goldah’s ears, if it had stopped … well, no reason he couldn’t join Jesler at shul. Goldah’s motives for staying away from the house were not quite so spiritual.
Thankfully, and to everyone’s great relief, lunch passed without fanfare: The girls continued to sleep. Mary Royal had come in earlier than usual so as to keep an eye on things, and Jesler asked if maybe Raymond could come along, too. Just in case.
Jesler now sat at the dining-room table, sliding the last of his apple pie onto his fork and using his thumb as a guide. He had been trying to keep things light. “I wouldn’t pay too much attention to any of it, Ike. It was maybe half a minute before she calmed herself down. People are just concerned, that’s all. They want to make sure she’s okay.”
Several in the congregation had suggested that the sight of a lifeless boy must have triggered something in poor Miss Posner. They could only imagine. But how heroic Mr. Goldah had been.
“Took some of the spotlight off you,” Jesler said. “I know how you appreciate that.”
“Yes …”
“Well … I’m guessing you’ll want to go over and see the boy, Mrs. De la Parra.” Jesler wasn’t expecting an answer; still, a nod would have been nice. “You saved him, Ike. You saved Weiss’s grandson. They’ll want to thank you for that.” Nodding for them both and standing, he said, “Anyway, I’m going to go up and check on the girls. I’m sure they’ll sleep. You come back when you want.”
Jesler moved out into the hall and listened until he heard Goldah’s chair slide back. Jesler then headed toward the kitchen and waited for the sound of the front door latching behind him before he pushed through.
Inside he found Raymond and Mary Royal sitting at the small table with two pieces of half-eaten pie in front of them.
“No, no — it’s okay,” he said, “don’t get up. The girls are asleep. But I’ll be needing —” He stopped himself. “I was wondering if I could see you in my study, Raymond?”
Among the Living Page 20
