The World in Pieces

by Bart Midwood

  The World in Pieces

  Bart Midwood

  New York

  To Laura

  and my compatriots across the sea who made

  good on the promise to the land

  CONTENTS

  Prolog

  Lo Yadua/Midwood Correspondence

  The Blima Tales, by L.H.

  Silly Girls

  The Floating Symposium

  The Baron’s Gift

  Lo Yadua/Midwood Correspondence

  Prelude to Rebellion, by L.H.

  Surah’s Diary

  Last Letter from Lo Yadua

  A New Correspondent

  The Manuscript of Dr. Ilana Abrams

  Cesare

  The Voyage and the Dream

  Tristan

  More about the Dream

  Orsino

  Birth of a Hero

  Frieda

  The Return of Anchel and Surah

  Politics is a Room

  The First Supper

  The Pleasure of the Gods

  Public Opinion

  The Danger of Coffee

  A Moment of Foreboding

  The Splendors of Capital

  Remembrance and Fancy

  The Confidence

  A Futile Intervention

  Riddles

  The Name of Action

  Maternal Pride

  Cabbages and Kings

  Hope and Violence

  Theater and Madness

  Pictures

  When the Tiger Springs, Time Leaps

  A Private Conversation

  The Nature of a Mirror

  Abandonment as Relief

  Interim

  Last Words

  How and Why Cesare Was Persuaded To Write

  What Cesare Said After He Wrote

  Kaddish

  Epilog

  Acknowledgments

  Prolog

  They were brother and sister with jet-black hair and big sultry eyes and skin like stone that had gone soft but not lost its shape. Their clothes were always dark even in summer and they always wore hats, and when they walked, they always walked arm in arm. Though they were in their late sixties, their black hair had only a few strands of gray.

  Every morning at 11:45 they used to stroll by the stone table in Prospect Park where I wrote and they got into the habit of exchanging a nod and a smile with me as they passed. This went on for about a month.

  Then one day in June they stopped and introduced themselves. Their names were Anchel and Surah. They said they couldn’t help but be curious about me and what I was writing.

  “An English translation of a German novel,” I told them.

  “Very interesting,” said Surah, and then she and Anchel exchanged a mysterious glance and in two minutes they were on their way.

  The next day they stopped again and I invited them to sit down. From then on they came and sat nearly every day and we’d talk for about half an hour. By 11:45 I’d have been working for more than three hours and was ready to quit anyway. Besides, they intrigued me and I liked them, so I always welcomed their company.

  In December they went off to Israel for a couple of weeks. They took my address and sent me a postcard but didn’t say much. Just hello from Haifa and they hoped I was well. When they got back, they still didn’t say much. They liked the oranges, they said, and the yogurt, and that was it. I figured they were up to something.

  We continued meeting in the park over the course of the next three years, until the fall of ‘81, when one day they just stopped coming. At first I supposed they must have gone off on another trip, maybe to Israel again, but then in the third week of their absence I got a letter from a local attorney informing me that they had both died, apparently within three days of each other, and that they had bequeathed me a box of papers which I could expect in the mail shortly.

  The box was an old cardboard one with a faded Delmonte label and arrived actually about five months later, enclosed in a new shipping carton. Taped to the top of the box was a letter from Surah.

  Brooklyn, New York

  January 3, 1982

  Dear Mr. Midwood,

  A few hours before he died, Anchel asked me to put together certain of our personal papers in a box and to tell our lawyer to send the box to you. Though it is only yesterday that my darling brother passed from this world, already this morning I put together the papers. This is because I am afraid that I will not go on much longer, as I have no will to live without him.

  Please do not think Anchel and I ask anything from you with these papers. All we hope is maybe the papers can be of use to you in your profession in case you run out of things to translate. Here you will find all kinds of writing, letters and stories and God knows what else, and in many languages, maybe eleven, because this is how many my mother could speak and write, eleven, and all these papers they were hers. Why she left them to Anchel and me, who read only English, I can’t tell you. Often I told her to give them to a museum, but this only made her laugh, as did many other things I told her that were good practical advice. Not that she was not practical in some things. In some things she was. But in others not. This is, in my opinion, because she had in her a very strong artistic streak. Well, you will see this in the papers. Many of her friends from Vienna were artists, and all her life she kept up a correspondence with them—painters, musicians, dancers, writers, even a circus acrobat. Some emigrated here to New York and used to visit our home regularly, so I had a good look at them, and this I can tell you: not one of them was a normal person, and many were very rude and loud and a few even were definitely criminals. Not that any of them ever would do harm to Mama or anyone in Mama’s family, but still I was always careful never to leave myself alone with any of them. Mama of course loved every single one of these people and so, naturally, my brother Anchel and I had to put up with them when they visited and even had to cater with coffee and tea and cake and Schnapps, sometimes even sandwiches.

  I don’t mean to sound resentful of my mother, but I think now maybe I am. It is funny. All my life I have worshiped her and her memory like at an altar, but now, suddenly, now that Anchel is gone, suddenly I feel resentment. Why this should be so, and so suddenly, I can’t say. A whole lifetime of worship, and now resentment! What is this?

  Well, never mind. I hope these papers are not a burden to you. If they are, you can do with them whatever you like. By the time they get to you, I will no longer be in the world, so what will it matter to me?

  Anyway we have nobody else to give these papers, except maybe Lo Yadua, and he has no languages either, so for him they will be only a nuisance. We never spoke to you of Lo Yadua. He lives in Israel. I will put his address on another page in case you want to contact him. Never mind now who he is. If he wants to tell you, I leave it to him.

  Meanwhile I wish you good health and happiness and God bless you for your kindness to us,

  Surah Brody

  Lo Yadua-Midwood Correspondence

  Israel/New York

  June, 1982 to November, 1982

  Brooklyn, New York

  June 5, 1982

  Dear Lo Yadua,

  I am writing to you at the suggestion of Surah Brody. About six months after the sad occasion of her death last winter, I received by way of her attorney a bequest of family papers, most of which were originally the property of her mother, Blima Brody, née Klau. In a cover letter Surah indicated that both she and her brother Anchel believed that I could in some way make use of these papers in a literary work, and I am now considering the possibility of doing that. I don’t know the nature of your relationship to Surah and Anchel, but I assume that since Surah mentioned you in her cover letter to me, I should contact you and let you know of my pr
oject.

  Sincerely yours,

  B.A. Midwood

  Kibbutz Bet Lev

  June 23, 1982

  Dear B.A. Midwood,

  Thank you for writing to me and for telling me about the box of papers and your project. Years ago I heard something about these papers, that there were many letters and so on, and in many languages, and now I am curious about them. Perhaps you could make copies for me. Not of all, of course. I’m sure there must be many, and to copy all would be expensive. I would be willing to pay anyway fifty American dollars for the cost of the copying and the postage. I know this may be a nuisance for you, to spend time with copy-machines and mailing and so on, so I would be willing to pay for the time as well, another fifty dollars. I don’t know if that is enough. You will have to tell me.

  Lo Yadua

  Brooklyn, New York

  July 12, 1982

  Dear Lo Yadua,

  I am just beginning to work my way through the material, so I don’t yet have an idea of which papers might be interesting enough to copy. Also, if you can give me some idea of who you are and what is your relationship to Anchel and Surah, I’d have a better chance of making an appropriate selection for you.

  Sincerely yours,

  B.A. Midwood

  Kibbutz Bet Lev

  August 6, 1982

  Dear B.A. Midwood,

  Who I am, that will take a long letter. But what is my relationship to Anchel and Surah, that I can answer simply. I am their son.

  Lo Yadua

  Brooklyn, New York

  August 24, 1982

  Dear Lo Yadua,

  This information, that Anchel and Surah had a son, and that their son is you, comes as a complete surprise to me. Can you tell me more about yourself?

  B.A. Midwood

  Kibbutz Bet Lev

  September 10, 1982

  Dear B.A. Midwood,

  I am a farmer, also now and then a soldier. I have lived on this kibbutz for over fifty years, ever since I was almost five. I could tell you more about myself, but first you must tell me about this project of yours. What sort of project is it? I assume that you intend to make a book of some kind. If so, will it be maybe a family history, or a novel, or what?

  Lo Yadua

  Brooklyn, New York

  October 2, 1982

  Dear Lo Yadua,

  I can’t tell you just yet what this book will be, or even in fact if there will be a book. At present I’m simply going through the material, which isn’t easy, as I have come across eleven languages and am able to work in only four—English, French, German and Italian. Luckily the other seven appear only rarely, so in general I am getting along well enough.

  Last week I found and at once began to make a written English translation of three pieces in German, quite consciously literary and artistic, that narrate certain violent episodes in the life of your grandmother, Blima. I’d be happy to send you the translation when it’s done, unless you prefer the German original, which I could copy and send immediately. Are you interested?

  B.A. Midwood

  Kibbutz Bet Lev

  October 15, 1982

  Dear B.A. Midwood,

  My parents were born of the same mother. This means I have only one grandmother. So, naturally, I’m interested. Even if I had two grandmothers, like normal people have, I would be interested. But since I have only one, believe me, I’m twice as interested.

  Lo Yadua

  p.s. I have no German, so I’ll wait for the translation.

  Brooklyn, New York

  November 5, 1982

  Dear Lo Yadua,

  Enclosed is my translation of the three pieces in German I mentioned in my last letter.

  On the original manuscript the author is indicated only by the initials L.H. I have scanned all the German correspondence for some reference to this L.H. but found none, which is unfortunate on many counts, not the least of which is that unless something turns up, we are not going to be able to know with any certainty what relationship the author had to Blima, and then what Blima herself might have thought about these literary representations of her experience. Since she preserved them quite carefully in an elegant embossed envelope, however, and even made a point of mentioning them in a formal bequest without appending any corrective comment, I think we can reasonably assume that she thought well of them and that they were pretty close to the truth.

  Let me know what you think.

  B.A. Midwood

  The Blima Tales

  by L.H.

  translated from the German by B.A. Midwood

  Silly Girls

  Vienna, 1906

  “If my father wants to treat me like a criminal, let him!” said Blima.

  “But he’s a violent man, Blima,” said Katya. “You don’t know what he could do.”

  “That’s true. But I know what I could do, you see?”

  “Oh, Blima, please. You must be careful.”

  “And what does that mean to you to be careful, you silly girl? You want Yusef and me to go skulking around like criminals because we love each other?”

  “No. Only to be a little discreet. You don’t have to go parading yourself in public, right here on the lake, where all the world can see you—do you?”

  “And why not?”

  “Because it’s dangerous for you both!” said Katya in a burst of anger and then, biting her lip, she skated away toward the other side of the lake.

  A few minutes later, though, she returned, racing clumsily across the ice—in very bad form, in fact—and interrupted Blima in the middle of a figure-eight and said in Russian something about a wonderful Italian boy: “Wonderful, wonderful! A Triestine, with blue eyes and blond hair and very expensive skates!”

  “So what do you want of me?” said Blima and then she laughed and she took Katya by the hand and the two of them went off to the far side of the lake. And there they found Katya’s wonderful Italian. They skated around him, round and round, in little circles, laughing, teasing him.

  “What are you doing, you silly girls!” he said in Italian.

  “He called us ‘silly girls’!” said Blima in Russian.

  “Well, he has a lot of nerve!” said Katya in Russian.

  “What does she say?” said the Italian.

  “She says you have a lot of nerve!” said Blima in Italian.

  And so began the dialogue between Katya and the Italian with Blima as the interpreter. In short order a liaison was arranged. Katya and the Italian would meet tomorrow night at the opera house and have coffee and attend a performance of Cosi Fan Tutte.

  Blima left them and began to skate back across the lake, her eyes darting this way and that, scanning the crowd, until she saw a figure in the distance—a solitary man with a red scarf, a pair of skates slung over one shoulder, emerging from the forest on the north bank. This was her friend, Yusef Hartman. She skated toward him and waved her arms. When he waved back, she paused in the middle of the lake, then watched as he sat on a stone. Quickly he put on his skates and skated over to her.

  They embraced and together they skated here and there quite slowly, arm in arm. They did not speak for a while. When they did at last speak, they spoke mainly in Yiddish and sometimes they fell into the soft melodious German of the Viennese cultured classes.

  She told him about Katya and the Italian.

  Yusef smiled. “I hope no one else will ask you to interpret this morning,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I want you to myself.”

  “Perhaps we should have met in another place.”

  “Where?”

  When he said this word “where,” Blima’s eyes filled with tears and she tightened her grip on his arm.

  Genevieve approached them.

  “Blima,” she said in French, “you must come with me—only for two little minutes. I have met a Rumanian, a giant, with the prettiest smile.”

  “She cannot go,” said Yusef in French.

  “You are such
a brute.”

  “Yes. I am a brute.”

  “Please. Only two minutes.”

  “No.”

  “But what shall I do then? I cannot understand a word this Rumanian says. I think he wants to arrange a meeting with me.”

  “Talk to him with your hands and those pretty eyes of yours. He’ll understand you well enough, you silly girl, believe me!”

  After Genevieve had gone off, Yusef said, “I have it in mind to write a poem for you about this place: Sunday On The Lake.”

  “And what will this poem say?” said Blima.

  “I don’t know what it will say. The words don’t matter so much. It is the picture that interests me. If I could paint, I would paint you a picture instead.”

  “So what is this picture?”

  “It is the frozen lake. Crowded with skaters. With their colorful scarves and so on. Just like today. Only not so bright, but gray, somber. And one thing is missing: You. You are not there. And all the lovers are skating by one another silently. Mournfully. They want to speak to one another, but they cannot, because each speaks a different language. If only Blima were here, they think, then we might speak with one another.”

  “And do they all think this thought at the same time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Such an idea cannot be conveyed in a painting.”

  “Of course it can.”

  “No. It cannot. Be grateful you are a poet. A poem is the proper way to express such a thing.”

  “You are very argumentative today.”

  By way of a reply she turned into him and lifted her face, kissing him on the mouth. She was skating backwards and he forwards. She had her eyes shut. When she opened them, she held on to him for a few moments, looking over his shoulder, and suddenly she saw coming toward her two dishwashers and a waiter from her father’s coffee house. These three were burly rough men who had worked for her father for as long as she could remember, ever since she was a little girl. They wore dark heavy coats and woolen caps and no skates, just scruffy boots, and walked across the ice as if it were no more to them than a slippery pavement. The waiter had a cigar stub in his teeth and what looked like a piece of plumbing pipe in one hand.