Tsipora had begun to worry. Where could this girl be? She told the story of their meeting not once but twice, how the girl had made a call from the public telephone of her music school, then met Tsipora for a coffee near Carnegie Hall. The girl had never been to Tsipora and Yidl’s home; she was in for a jolt. But a half hour passed, an hour, and more, and still she wasn’t here. Yidl opened a bottle of wine. They could start on that, just with the first blessings, he told his wife. Don’t worry, he had said. She’s fine. There’s an explanation. But he had looked concerned too. She lived in a dangerous neighborhood—perhaps—
It couldn’t be stopped. Tsipora had given in and started serving soup and fish. Perhaps with a little in their stomachs, the guests could wait on the main course; they’d do the Passover readings in between. Pavel clucked but kept silent. He liked things in their rightful order. And the fish was difficult, for all the guests, really, because to eat it in a home, one longed for one’s mother’s recipe. This was good, of course it was. But one liked what one had in one’s home, if one still could remember it.
It was maybe two hours from the arrival of the first guests that the room filled with a ringing. Tsipora had stood up and strolled to the little nook where the telephone stood. It was the orphan girl. Was she all right? Was she sick? Was she injured? What? From the dining table Fela had seen Tsipora’s wide face, plump even then, taking in the story over the telephone. Tsipora’s lips were set together, covering her teeth, and her eyes narrowed downward in concentration. After what must have been a pause in the confession on the other end, Tsipora heaved her shoulders in a shrug and sighed. Then she closed her eyes and opened them again.
Well, my dear, she said into the mouthpiece, switching from Polish to Yiddish, her voice in a lullaby. Did you enjoy yourself?
Tsipora returned to the head of the table, settled herself at her chair, and said to the audience, You will never believe it.
Yidl was shaking his head.
You’ll never believe it. She went to a film. This afternoon. The Life of Liszt. She cried, she said, it was so terribly sad. And when it was over, she stayed for the next showing. She couldn’t get up. And when the second one was over, she stayed for the third. She walked all the way home before she remembered us.
What did she say? asked an outraged guest. What did she say?
I told you already, Tsipora said calmly. She went to the movies. It was a very tragic film.
But I don’t understand! The guest couldn’t calm down; the memory of the hunger he had felt made him angry. What did she say?
She said, said Tsipora, that the movie was beautiful. And I think it must have been. Yidl, you know, perhaps we should see it. I told her she makes good recommendations.
Fela remembered this as a lovely gesture, the gesture of a woman elegant inside as well as out. Fela’s own daughter had once done something very embarrassing, years later, after Yidl had died and Tsipora had lost all the luxuries to his debts. They had been at the small apartment to which she had been forced to move. It was a Sunday visit, just Fela and Helen, and Helen had been touching everything there was to touch: ashtrays, doilies, embroidered pillows. These were things that were still valuable in their own way, although not, of course, to be compared with the crystals and textiles of the old apartment. It was all right to touch. Helen was careful, anyway. Fela’s son—she wouldn’t have let him near anything, even a book. But it was Helen who had gone toward the books. Fela and Tsipora had gone on talking, in Polish and Yiddish, back and forth without thinking, laughing a little. Fela had been totally absorbed, who knew in what. Important at the time. But Tsipora had seen, out of the corner of her eye, what Helen was doing at the bookshelves. She was touching a miniature set of Shakespeare’s plays, tiny, like for a doll, but readable still. Helen had dared, even, to remove one of them from its little white case to squint through the pages. During a pause in the women’s conversation, Tsipora had turned around and said to Helen, “Helinka, what are you reading?”
“Nothing,” Helen had said. She was at the beginning of high school, shy and explosive. She placed the little book back in the case.
“Nothing?” said Tsipora.
“We’re reading Romeo and Juliet for school.”
Fela had stood. It’s time to go, perhaps, Tsipora?
Tsipora had hoisted herself up from her armchair and gone to the shelf, patted Helen on the head. Helen bent away from under her hand and went to the closet to get the coats. Tsipora fingered the gilt lettering on the little Shakespeare set herself, gently but unsentimentally. I don’t even know who gave these to me, she said, in Yiddish, to Fela.
No, Tsipora, Fela had answered. She was just playing.
But Helen was back already, and Tsipora had the white case in her palm. “Helen,” she said. “Why don’t you take them? I really don’t have room.”
“No, Helen,” said Fela, harshly. Helen had dropped her arms to her side and stood still, awaiting the decision.
But Tsipora was not used to being refused. People did what she said, here in America. That was what she was like! You complimented her on a brooch she was wearing, she moved to take it off her dress to give it to you! And to refuse was to imply her weakness; that could not be done, particularly in her widowhood. It made one afraid to speak, to say anything, for fear of provoking that tyrannical generosity. Still. A lady to the last. Tsipora had pushed the set into Helen’s coat pocket, and Helen had displayed it in front of her English paperback mysteries until she went to college. Now Fela had them herself.
TSIPORA’S LAST YEARS HAD been very difficult. The death of Yidl and the loss of position had meant an exiling from the main activities of her group, the gathering and the speaking. Slowly Gershom, others with money, rabbis and writers, had taken over her legacy. But now! Who had not remembered Tsipora in her impoverished years following Yidl’s death, now could not be quiet about her great exploits. Who had not defended her, even recently, in the dispute with Gershom—and it was certain that he would not appear, people were gossiping about it already—now called her a heroine, a word Fela personally hated. A heroine was not a person, but a character from stories. A heroine to do what? Help build a war memorial in Manhattan? That was a job for an architect and for construction workers, not for heroines. Not for heroes either, no matter what Gershom thought of himself. This was the big project that Yidl had not lived to see?
Times had changed quite a bit. No one had cared then, no one had cared even twenty years after, but now, all of a sudden, what had happened in Europe was very fashionable to talk about. There were movies, there were books. Everyone wanted to be associated with it. Even Tsipora’s children, weeping through their eulogies, could not stop talking about the history, the history. This rabbi, that rabbi, everyone built his own importance out of a pile of dead bodies. Who talked about Tsipora? Not a one. One of the younger rabbis, tanned and plump, spoke of reading stories in the Jewish weeklies of Tsipora’s husband, organizing the refugees into a government within the displaced persons camp. Yes, it had been a very big accomplishment. Yidl, for all his flaws—leaving his family in such terrible straits at his death!—knew how to draw people around him to believe.
But what was this rabbi saying, his voice rising in excitement, then falling on its own weight? He had been a little boy in that period. “But even as a child in Brooklyn, I was interested in such things.” Well, so what? He was a rabbi! They were supposed to be interested in such things! The rustle of Fela’s scarf made Pavel look at her. She had been shaking her head.
The rabbi who read newspapers as a boy was replaced by a little man who spoke like an American. But it seemed that he was born in Poland, so he said; he had come to the Bronx in the 1930s, with his parents, no less. Still, he pointed out, he had left his whole family, his cousins, his aunts, his uncles, his grandparents, his great-aunts, his great-uncles, not to mention neighbors and friends who probably were related to him too, from way back when people lost track, everyone, everyone, in Poland. Every
one dead; it had been a small town just across the German border, one of the ones, like Fela’s, where almost everyone had been killed. And, in absentia, this little man was saying, he was a victim too. Fela felt her scarf rustling again. So what, so what? They would have the opportunity to hear about all this at his own funeral. Why should they waste time over it at Tsipora’s?
It was making her hot, her anger. And because it was September, there was no air-conditioning in the chapel. It was practically a heat wave outside, and all these elderly people here. Vladka Budnik, perhaps eighty years old, how could she take it, if even Fela, some five years younger, was suffering? A fan, at least, the staff could have provided. No one thought about these things. And who was she to complain? But she needed a rest, a breath, a sip of water, something. Her hands began to shake. She stood.
“I!” cried the old man, the little rabbi, American but not American. “I am not a normal person!”
Fela hesitated a moment before Pavel’s leg, which stuck out, twisted, from the aisle; she lifted one foot and then the other, slowly, over him, balancing herself on the pew in front of her. She was in the aisle; she thought she saw a sign for an exit.
“So imagine,” continued the speaker. “Imagine what Tsipora was, with a child, a child who was murdered!” The lament hit the inside of Fela’s head, bounced against an ear. She came toward the sign, walking down the side, careful not to look into the rows of people, then squinted: EMERGENCY EXIT. No, no, that was wrong. It would set off an alarm. There must be something else, the door, the regular door. And yes, there was a soft red light calling exit, exit against the climbing wail of the little rabbi. Fela managed to push herself outside the door of the chapel and began shuffling along the wall, her hand skimming the molding for support, until she reached the elevator and stumbled in. It closed in on her; she felt her face break out in a sweat, a drip, mixed with face powder, falling toward her brows. When the elevator opened again, on the ground floor, she moved three steps into the carpeted lobby, felt her feet pressing heavily, her fingers turning to ice, her stomach lurching with fear, then stopping, then moving again, side to side, side to side—
She was on her knees, her torso bent forward, contorted, her hips straining to keep herself upright; someone’s hand was behind her head.
“Ma’am,” said a voice, a man’s voice. “You’re sick.”
“No, no,” she lied. “It’s fine, it’s my ankle, just.” She moved her head away, turned, shaking, still on her knees, to look at him. A heavyset man, brown face, perhaps Puerto Rican, older, gray hair curling out of his ears. Uniform. A security guard.
“Do you have family here? Somebody I can get for you?”
“No, my husband, but no, he will be disturbed, and it’s nothing.” She felt the carpet burning through her panty hose; she had landed on the soft part of her leg, just below the joint. Lucky. There was pain, but the pain of a bruise; nothing was broken. And her heart was beating fast, but normally; that, at least, was something.
“You don’t look too good.” He had helped her up; she was grasping at his jacket sleeve for steadiness. Her feet were solid; she could feel the floor. But at her hips there was still the strain, the weight of the upper body resting on her thin bones. “I’ll just call up and ask them to bring him down.”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” said Fela, quickly, “but no. It’s my ankle, always it bothers me, and also, it was hot. Air, just, I needed.” The guard led her to a bench outside. “Look,” she continued, sitting down carefully, navy skirt smoothed under her. “See? It’s better.” Her heart was light, floating. She rested her back against the granite wall of the funeral home.
He peered at her a moment. “There’s water inside. Would you like some?”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” she said. “Yes, thank you, sir,” she repeated when he returned, blue plastic cup in his hand. “It’s much better now. Thank you.”
She sipped and stared at the exercise club across the street, young people in bright pants moving their thighs on stair machines, tread-mills, stationary bicycles. So busy, the club, in the middle of a work-day. Strange. All watching a show on the television that hung above them. Commercials, mostly, she would guess, though she couldn’t see at that distance. Well, something to entertain. Everyone needed it. She tried to concentrate on the colors in the window.
“Difficult service, was it?” murmured the guard.
“Oh?” said Fela. “Oh, yes. I mean, not so much. But maybe a little long.”
“I knew it would be long when I saw them starting so early,” said the guard. “Usually they give it another half hour, even an hour or so before starting. It can be difficult, especially when—was she a good friend of yours?”
“A good friend?” Fela was startled by the question, the word good. “Yes, well—” She paused, then whispered, “The best. The best.”
“Yes, that’s very tiring. A friend that passes away, especially at our age—it’s like family, better than that sometimes.”
He looked to be at least a decade younger than her, but the mistake flattered her. “Yes,” said Fela. “I have to agree.”
“And when a lot of different people speak about it, it can do more harm to the mourners than good, if you ask me. Sometimes you have your own memories of the person, ones you don’t want to have mixed up with those of the others.”
“You know,” said Fela. “I have to agree with this also.”
FELA WAS FEELING SOMEWHAT better by the time the congregants filed outside. Still, she was glad for the extra moments to sit, waiting, the burn in her knees subsiding, while they all said their good-byes before stepping into the limousines for the cemetery. Pavel found her first.
What happened? he said. A reproach: she had left him.
Nothing, nothing, I just couldn’t stand it, she said, under her breath. He looked at her, suddenly suspicious, worried. All right now to be concerned! He would be in a bad situation if she died first, wouldn’t he? But she pushed a weak smile: It’s all right, Pavel, I’m fine.
Some of her friends stopped by to talk to her. What was she doing here? Was she all right? Of course she was, of course she was. Just a little hot inside, that was all. She leaned her neck upward to kiss Tsipora’s tearful grandchildren while her husband talked to the men. No less than six rabbis had spoken. Six. And what did they say, after all? She was surprised Pavel had sat through the whole thing, barely fidgeting. For rabbis he sat still, no matter how stupid.
She saw Fishl pausing at the limousines. Should he take his Oldsmobile out of the garage and follow the coffin to New Jersey, or jump into the limousines with one or another important personage? He was shifting from one foot to the other, deciding.
Pavel was more sure. He wanted to drive with Fishl, in the front. Fela watched her husband debating with his friend. She didn’t care, though she thought she would prefer the limousine. From the bench she watched the Budniks step into one.
Fela! called Vladka Budnik, her peach-colored hair stiff as a balloon. Fela! Take Pavel and come with us! It’s more comfortable, it’s more cool!
Pavel wants to go with Fishl! answered Fela.
Let him! grumbled Vladka’s husband.
Yes, let him, concurred Vladka. Just come with us yourself!
Fela shook her head. What if he doesn’t feel good?
But Pavel looked good, arguing vigorously, coughing once or twice. Vladka shut the limousine door. Pavel looked over at Fela, motioning with his chin. He thought she could read his mind, that’s what. Well, she could. But for once, she did not have to let him know. Let him ask her what she wanted to do. Let him acknowledge what was what. She had fainted, almost! A wife should be respected too.
Not that she had so much trouble from him. She was lucky, she really was. Vladka for years had complained about her husband, how stingy he was with her, how he expressed rage over the grocery bills and counted out change for her clothing. Once Vladka had even asked Pavel for money! Pavel was a generous man, thank God. No arguments
on that front. Never. By now, after the disaster with the business and after his heart attack, it was Fela running the finances, as he could no longer concentrate at all, and his impatience got the better of him when he tried to decipher a bill. Fela knew how to do with the bills, and if Pavel felt put out, pushed aside, he did not complain too much, because, after all, what if she stopped?
A tall girl, long hair, came over to her bench. Tsipora’s oldest granddaughter, her eyes small from crying.
“Oh, Fela,” she said. “You’re not coming to the cemetery?”
“Of course I am, sweetheart, neshumele, of course I am!” Fela was surprised. “I was just sitting, waiting, you know, for Pavel to arrange our ride.”
“Why don’t you come with us? We have room for the two of you. It’s just my mother and sister.”
Fela looked over at Pavel, pacing with Fishl. Why couldn’t she go alone? He could drive as he wanted, and she could go in comfort. Why not?
“Sweetheart, have you checked with your mother? Maybe she doesn’t want someone outside the family.”
“She sent me over. You’re not outside.”
“Well,” said Fela, neck straightening. “Well, maybe I will.” She pushed herself up with her hand on the wall of the building, leaned on the granddaughter’s arm. “Pavel!” she called. “Pavel! I go with Stacy! Okay?”
“What?” Pavel turned too quickly, wobbling on his good leg. He began calling something in Yiddish. But Fela wouldn’t hear it.
“I see you there!” She moved her legs toward the limousine that held the family, then twisted her neck around, seeing Pavel unmoving, stunned. In a moment he would start to fume. Fela would pay later, with his silences and stomping. But at this moment he looked lonely, standing with no one while Fishl shuffled across the street to the garage and the cars began their journey across the river to New Jersey.
Displaced Persons Page 30
