The American People: Volume 1: Search for My Heart

by Larry Kramer

  He takes his hand out. It’s covered with something slippery. He undoes his fly and pulls out his own erect penis and slowly starts gliding his hand back and forth, back and forth, while his penis gets bigger and bigger, like some magic toy that does things like get bigger and bigger before your very eyes. He does it slowly, all the while mumbling, “Don’t want to do this too fast, want this to last and last.” His breathing comes heavier until he’s panting and the car is swerving from side to side, and then he lets out a scream of agonizing release just as a huge spurt of white shoots from his penis and sprays all over everything, the steering wheel, the dashboard, the clutch, him, even a little on me. He’s visibly shaking as he pulls the car over to the side and stops. I think he’s going to clean things up a bit, but instead he pinions my wrist to the seat and with the most sinister look, his eyes boring into me, he commands me, “If you tell your mother about this, I’ll tell her how you ransacked my suitcase and opened things that are none of your business and secretly read the dirty books in the bookstores and…”

  I start crying.

  “Shut up!”

  I shut up.

  That night, in the middle of the night, he comes into my bed. He’s naked. He feels cold and clammy. He tries to take me in his arms. He tries to kiss me. His breath smells awful. I push him away. He stuffs a pillow over my mouth and turns me over on my stomach. I feel his hard penis poking at my bottom. It finds what it’s looking for. I shriek but only the pillow hears me. He pumps me and pumps me. I feel his hard penis inside me. It hurts. I feel when he has his orgasm. I have one too. This time I don’t shake, I choke.

  “Shut up,” he hisses again.

  He goes back to his bed, my brother’s bed. My brothers’ bed.

  He leaves for another city the next day. He stays at hotels on his next trips to Washington. He never stays with us again. My tushy is sore for weeks. When I have a bowel movement I see blood. I want to tell someone, but I’m afraid. I’m even afraid to tell Claudia, though I’m sure she’d love to hear about it.

  * * *

  The first time I hear the words camp, preceded by concentration, which I thought meant thinking deeply, and gas followed by chamber, which isn’t a term I know at all, I’m in the really swell Chesterfield house on Verbena Street, N.W., to which I’ve been invited but probably not to observe what I’m looking at first thing in the tiny bathroom right by the front door, into which I’m practically hurled by Tibby Chesterfield, Rabbi Norman Chesterfield’s son, who’s the same age I am, thirteen or fourteen, and who stutters, and who’s showing me his exceptionally long penis, at which I look with wide-eyed amazement. I wonder why he’s showing it to me, why I can’t take my eyes off it, why mine’s not the same size, and any number of other things.

  “I don’t have to go to the bathroom,” I protest.

  “Well, I-I-I, ah do,” he says, locking the door. We’re in the same class at Washington Jewish but his thing looks ten times the size of mine. I think that he must be a freak.

  Tibby’s the joke in our class. First because he’s son to that phony father who talks with that phony hoity-toity accent that’s sort of British. Second because along with his terrible stutter he has a pretty bad twitch in his eyes, and also his lips, and every once in a while an arm springs up like a turkey’s wing. He’s a mess. In that cruel way kids have, Tibby’s laughed at behind his back, and because he never fights back or even objects, sometimes to his face. The only reason I’ve come here to his house is that I feel sorry for him.

  “You-you-you are the only-only person who d-d-doesn’t laugh at me-me-me-me. T-t-tell them abbbout th-th-th-this!”

  Tell them? I’m a bit further along from that little kid asking his mommy what a penis is. I certainly know what one is now. But tell them?

  “T-t-t-tell th-th-th-them th-th-th-this is nothing to-to-to laugh at.”

  Why is he showing me his penis the minute I enter his house? His mother called Rivka and said the Rabbi said I was very smart and would I consider having cookies and milk with their son. They wanted to send their driver to pick me up in Masturbov Gardens, but Rivka said, “Oh, no, we’ll drop him off,” and later I heard her say to Philip, when he asked her why she declined the offer of a ride, “I don’t want them to see how we live.”

  “How do we live?” Philip asked.

  “We live in Masturbov Gardens and they live on Verbena Street.”

  “So what?”

  “They live in a famous house that’s all glass and was designed by that world-famous architect. Didn’t you read that article and see the pictures in the Monument? They’re rich. Mrs. Chesterfield is a wealthy heiress!”

  I wait for Philip to respond to this, but he doesn’t.

  And so I’m dropped off. A block away. I insist on that. I don’t want the Chesterfields to see our crummy Dodge that Philip finally broke down and bought. I’m in league with Mom on that one. I leave them at the corner and I find the number on the gate. You can’t see any house at all. You have to ring a bell and a servant comes and opens the gate and leads you down a long approach through lots of trees and plants and flowers. I see the glass house. It’s huge. Much bigger than any house I’ve ever been in. I ring the bell, and the next thing I’m in the tiny toilet by the front door.

  “D-d-d-do-do-do you th-think w-w-w-we c-c-c-could b-b-b-be friends?”

  Is it more painful for him to speak than to listen to his efforts? He spits a lot, and I’m now a little wet.

  “Yes, we can be friends. Pull up your pants and let’s go have cookies and milk like your mother said. If you want to show me something, show me your house. I’ve never been in such a large house before. Do you like living here?”

  “N-n-n-n-n-n-n-no!”

  “Too big?”

  “T-t-t-t-too lone-lone-lone-lonesome.”

  I nod. “You come home from school and there’s no one here?”

  He nods.

  “That happens where I live, too, but I don’t mind being alone. That way I don’t have to see them. They don’t love us, my brothers and me, so we don’t love them back.”

  Tibby’s eyes grow huge in disbelief. “Th-th-that’s the g-g-g-g-greatest thing I ever heard.”

  He takes me by the hand and leads me into the glass palace that’s the Chesterfield mansion. You can see photographs of it in those Great Homes of the Ages art books you find on sale tables in bookstores. It was designed by Franz Heimlich Gluck, who evidently changed the history of domestic architecture by figuring out how to make a living room with three glass walls float over a waterfall. The Gluck Cantilever. It’s very dramatic, standing in your rabbi’s house with an actual waterfall gushing inches underneath your toes, spurting straight out into the future before it crashes on the rocks at the bottom of the hill. Who knew rabbis lived like this? God is in these details. But then, I don’t have any more experience with rabbis’ houses than I’ve had with enormous penises on my peers. How do I manage to notice that I can’t see any stars of David or mezuzahs anywhere?

  I feel very small and I’m glad Tibby’s still holding my hand. The ceiling’s very far away. The whole outdoors, a beautiful park of trees with that waterfall gushing out from under the house, seems like it’s inside. It’s all one big room, and I’m way up on top of a mountain looking out and down. Be careful! You might fall! I automatically take a few steps back. Tibby catches me in his arms. He kisses me. He kisses me all over my face like he’s licking a lot of stamps on a lot of envelopes.

  We hear voices from another room behind us and Rabbi Chesterfield comes in. I’ve only seen him in his flowing robes in temple. He looks skinny in slacks and jacket. With him is Mrs. Rabbi Chesterfield, whom I recognize from the Monument spread. She looks like Maria Montez or Ava Gardner, one of those dark-haired, husky-voiced, sultry types, with long red nails and luscious red lips and very high heels and a slinky black dress even though it’s only afternoon. The main difference is that she has a big nose, so you know she’s Jewish.

  Beh
ind her is one of the fattest, shortest men I’ve ever seen. He looks smooth and polished and fine-tuned and shiny all over. His eyes gleam in concert with his shoes.

  “This is Mr. Yidstein,” Mrs. Rabbi says to me.

  I offer my hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Yidstein. I’m happy to meet you.”

  “It is pronounced Y’Idstein. There is a Y. There is an apostrophe. There is then a capital I small d-s-t-e-i-n. There is a pause after the Y. There is before the apostrophe a suck of air. I am descended from the kings of Israel. Goodbye to you, Rabbi Chesterfield, Mrs. Chesterfield. I am certain this is the beginning of some very rewarding work. I shall be in touch.”

  Rabbi and Mrs. Rabbi accompany Mr. Y’Idstein as he waddles to the door. They are whispering and that’s when I hear “concentration camp” and then “gas chamber.” A maid hands him his coat and hat and opens the front door. He turns and bows before clicking his heels and leaving.

  I try to describe Mr. Y’Idstein to Lucas when I get home but he isn’t interested. He certainly isn’t interested in Rabbi Chesterfield. “A phony,” he calls him. Lucas wants me to come to his synagogue and “see what a real rabbi is like.” I don’t tell him about Tibby’s stutter or his exceptional penis.

  * * *

  You don’t just drop a penis like Tibby’s into the narrative and let it go. I can still see it. It’s not the size that makes it large; it’s the relationship it has with the rest of him. He’s short and thin. I notice that when I think about his penis my own penis feels warmer, as if it wants to meet a friend. I notice these feelings and I don’t know how to deal with them. They trouble me, vaguely, imprecisely. Images of Tibby’s genital area seem to stray in from the cold, from their rich glass house. Where I can’t live.

  So I have these thoughts and feelings and that’s all I can seem to say about them. I think that I should mention them. But to whom?

  It does not occur to me yet that I am acquiring a collection of penises in my life and will have to decide what to do about them.

  * * *

  “Dear Daniel, I am sorry if I scared you. I scare everybody. I scare myself. I showed it to you because I want you to tell all the kids in Sunday School that Tobias Chesterfield has something that is really important. I know they laugh at me. I can’t help it that I talk this way. I try not to. I have a teacher every day but he doesn’t help me. I like you. You don’t laugh at me. I think someday I could have talked to you okay. Please remember me.”

  * * *

  “Thank you, my dear boy, for coming. It is very kind and good of you to come. It has been a trying time for Marguerite, and for me, too, of course. A painful, trying time. I understand he wrote a note to you before he left us. There were many versions of the letter in his room. He tried many versions. My wife is in deep distress. She has had to enter a hospital for rest. I am left alone in this house. I have never minded being alone before, but then there was always someone who would eventually be coming home. Did my son show you around this vast palace of glass? No? Not entirely? Come, let me show you some of our treasures. Marguerite has an extraordinary eye. She can enter a country completely foreign to her and spot the treasures to be plucked and pluck them. By Jesus, she can. Here, let me open this door. It’s too heavy for you to push. Close your eyes and I’ll lead you into the room and you shall be totally amazed at what you’ll see. All right, now open your eyes! Isn’t it amazing? These are all ours; of course, only for safekeeping. Only until this war is over. Only until their rightful owners are able to return and reclaim them. It is perfectly dreadful what is going on in Europe. There is not much said about it out loud. People are actually disappearing. They are simply disappearing. One isn’t quite certain where. There are notions held by some that are quite sinister. Tell me, what exactly did my son mean by showing you ‘it’? Of course you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Ah, I can see that you don’t want to. This is a Rembrandt. Do you know what a Rembrandt is? There are thirty of his canvases here although most of them are quite small. And I would estimate by now, oh, seventy-five other paintings by … Well, it is not of interest to you. Children are not interested in art. Why should you be? Rembrandt was a very great painter and this larger one is one of his great masterpieces. It is properly called The Removal of the Intestines of the Wife of Ghent. It is not an attractive title, which is why it is known as The Burgher’s Wife. These gold candlesticks are from the synagogue in Belgium that is perhaps the oldest synagogue of medieval Europe. Forgive me if I can’t recall its name. Mr. Y’Idstein will refresh my memory. They are solid gold. Feel how heavy they are. It’s actually impossible to lift one of them comfortably. The synagogue seems to have suffered a mysterious conflagration but these were miraculously saved. The conflagration seems to have come out of nowhere. I hope this house isn’t set on fire. That is why I had it built of glass. Imagine, losing all these great works. Mr. Y’Idstein would be very upset. As of course would I. That is why we are trying to help. Mr. Y’Idstein and myself. ‘It’? It is such an imprecise word. Was he showing you something from our house? From his room? Could you give me a hint? I am sorry for these tears. They come upon me quite suddenly and without explanation. Oh, there is explanation enough. He wanted you to have something of his. Come, his room is off the lower salon. We can go down this way. He left it for you. Careful as I close this door. Ahh, I almost caught my finger. I often do that. Marguerite said she might not be coming back. No, it is the doctor who offered that as a possible outcome. Then I shall be here in this house alone. I am afraid I shall be afraid. God is here with me, of course. God is always with me. I could not live otherwise. I am not so certain that a rabbi is meant to live in other ways alone. We are commanded by God to share our knowledge with the world. We spend so many years acquring this knowledge. Where can I go? This is a very large establishment to just leave. Who would buy it? What would I do with all of our treasures? I must not say ‘our.’ That is incorrect. The ones I am holding here are for safekeeping. Are you certain you won’t tell me what he wanted to show you? Perhaps he did show you? What did he show you? We are missing several quite valuable pieces, all very small, all eminently capable of being held in a child’s hand. Yes, there are missing jewels already. Huge ones. Worth many millions, many millions. No doubt they will turn up. Here we are. His room. I leave the lights on all the time now. He said he was afraid of the dark and I didn’t believe him. You will forgive me if I just send you inside alone. There is a package for you on his desk. I took the liberty of having it wrapped. It is a photograph of him in a nice walnut frame. He signed it with his love. I believe you were the only friend he had. Had you known each other long? Don’t look up. The rope is still there. I can’t imagine why the police haven’t returned to collect it. They said they would.”

  * * *

  I’ve read lots of books about the mood of hope and optimism said to pervade our city on the eve of war, and during it, and after it. That’s not the way I remember it. While I don’t think any of us kids actually look up at the sky at the sound of planes, fearing that an enemy is about to drop a load of death, it’s hard not to be aware of the mounting talk that peppers dinnertime conversation and the evening news about various foreign “fronts.” Philip seems particularly concerned about how much money, which our country doesn’t have, a war’s going to cost us. And how we won’t be able to travel freely from our country anymore, a peculiar notion for him to dwell on. Parents working in the District come home each night looking increasingly nervous and bearing terrible reports from their agencies about what is sure to happen. Their days have been filled with “preparedness” courses. Nobody knows what to do. “We had an important strategic planning meeting today,” fathers tell their families at dinner. Strategic is a newly popular word. They have these meetings but they can’t tell you what they’re about or what they decide. “What are you going to do, dear?” every mother is asking. Heads shake in bewilderment. Shoulders shrug. “Actually, we’ve been told not to talk about it.”

&
nbsp; This atmosphere becomes a part of our lives very quickly. Rumor and fact merge. If there’s little that’s trustworthy, there are plenty of Rivkas around, naïve and accepting, never-endingly hopeful, bleating that “it” will all work out just fine. In no time at all no one remembers what it was like before. How can you remember yesterday when so much is happening today that no one understands? Life, for the Jerusalems and others, was precarious enough before. The future is too foreboding. That’s the word. Pasts became past very quickly because they really weren’t that great, so there’s no comfort remembering what used to be. Now everyone’s the same age and in the same place, for probably the first time in our history. We’re all going to become a little frightened all at once. “Try not to think about it, dear” is heard in every home and from every parent.

  The movies identify our rumors and focus our fears. The movies at the Masturbov are now about foreign spies living right here in our town, men and women who speak funny English and are blond and belong to a “master race” engaged in a massive effort to take us over. Peter Ruester is a young actor we watch being trained in the army for “fighting the unknown enemy.” He poses without his shirt on in photographs with his producer, Oliver Wendell Binkington Krank. Mr. Krank, though quite young himself, is said to be the friend of “powerful men in industry” and indeed of the president himself. Great things are predicted for both the producer and his new young star.