The Dream

by Harry Bernstein

  I said nothing. She had opened the door wider and I went in. The house smelled of food cooking and it was messy. I only got a vague look at it as I followed her to one of the doors that shut off the various rooms she rented. She flung the door open and let me see the room. It was small and dark, with one window that faced a brick wall. I peered in first, then went in. There was a narrow bed, a dresser, a chair, and that was all. And he had lived here in this dark little hole for how many years? I did not know, but it had to be plenty, and in all that time, living virtually in a dark cell, he had never failed to send what must have been the bulk of the money he had made at begging to my grandmother, and after her death to his children, to my father also.

  What a strange man he was, I thought, and how little we really knew of him, of the depth of his generosity, the sense of responsibility to his family, the goodness that was in him. There were other things that we did not know about him. He had told me once, much to my surprise, that he read books, but I had forgotten about it until the landlady pointed out a number of books stacked in a corner for lack of shelves to put them on, apparently.

  ‘He read a lot of books in the night,’ she said. ‘I charge him extra for the electricity. He don’t care. He like books. You like books?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Then you take them. Or I throw them out. I got no use for books.’

  I went up to them to examine them, picking up one after the other, and growing more and more amazed as I saw the authors, Dostoevsky, Gorky, Tolstoy, Chekhov … all the great Russian masters, and there were several French: Zola, Flaubert; and English: Dickens, Thackeray. There had been rumours in the Chicago family of the wealth he must have, since he was able to give so much to my grandmother, and to them too, and to send us the tickets to come here. But the real wealth he had left behind was these books. I wanted them.

  ‘I’ll take them,’ I said to the landlady. ‘Do you have a bag or something I could carry them in?’

  She let me have some old brown paper bags and I stuffed the books into them and, after thanking her, left, hugging the bags to my sides, feeling as if I’d stumbled on buried treasure, but once on the subway beginning to think more soberly how I was going to explain all this to my mother, the old man’s death, the money, my father’s part in it, what we had been living on these past few years – this worse than anything else. I worried over the effect it would have on her, especially in her weakened condition.

  I didn’t have to tell her. It was told for me.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ONE SUNDAY MORNING, when Ruby and I were still eating our late breakfast and reading the New York Times at the same time, with sheets of the paper scattered on the table around us, there was a knock at the door. It was unusual for anyone to knock. There were bells downstairs. I called out, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s me,’ a voice answered. ‘Do you need any socks, ties, shirts?’

  ‘No,’ I yelled angrily. ‘I don’t need anything.’

  ‘I’ve got some very good bargains and I can let you have ’em cheap. I’ve got a real good buy on undershirts and shorts.’

  ‘Go away,’ I shouted. ‘I told you we don’t need anything.’

  And then I got up and rushed to the door, determined to put emphasis to my words with force if necessary. I yanked the door open and there stood Uncle Barney, the family comedian, the Dwarf, a big five-cent White Owl cigar stuck in his grinning mouth.

  ‘Uncle Barney!’ I shouted, and we embraced and laughed, and I led him inside and Ruby greeted him warmly. She had heard much about the family in Chicago from me and knew how I felt about Barney. She hastened to warm up the coffee and pour a cup for him.

  ‘What brings you to New York?’ I asked, once we were sipping our coffee.

  ‘I came to see my father’s grave,’ he said.

  ‘Then you know he died,’ I said. I had been wondering about that and why none of them had shown up for the funeral.

  ‘We only found out a week ago,’ Barney said and with a little twinkle in his eyes added, ‘It came over the grape juice vine. A drinking pal of your father’s told us. He was in Chicago on some drinking business, I suppose, and he met one of my brothers in a saloon. So then we all got together and decided one of us should come here at least to pay our respects to the grave, and I was elected. Don’t ask me why they picked me to go, but here I am. I came in by bus this morning and I decided to say hello first to my favourite nephew, and here I am.’

  He was a jolly fellow, Barney, forever cracking jokes in between puffs on his White Owl cigar, and we spent a pleasant hour with him that morning over several cups of coffee before he had to leave to go up to the Bronx to see my father and mother. And if I had known what was to happen then I might have delayed him as long as possible, for there was more to his coming than to pay respects and to visit relatives.

  And there were other reasons rather than random choice why he had been picked to come. Of all the brothers, Barney was the least afraid of my father, and perhaps the only one among them who had been able to get along with him, so they had picked Barney to come out here to talk to him about the money they suspected my grandfather had left.

  I was not there when he arrived at the old frame house in the Bronx but Sidney, who was home, fortunately, at the time, gave me a good account of what happened. Both Sidney and my mother gave Barney a warm welcome, but they were afraid he had come at the wrong time to speak to my father. He was still asleep, and they explained that Saturday night was his big drinking night and he spent most of Sunday sleeping it off, and no one dared awaken him.

  That brief interlude of good behaviour, that strange period when he stayed home and helped my mother wash the dishes and sat outside with her on summer evenings, was long since over, and he had quickly reverted to his old English drinking habits.

  But Barney made light of this and, taking the cigar out of his mouth and holding it between two fingers, made a sweeping gesture. Everything was a joke to Barney and he saw nothing to be afraid of in awakening his brother. Sidney and my mother watched with considerable trepidation as Barney went to the bedroom door and flung it wide open, the cigar still held between two fingers, and shouted, ‘Yankel, the police are here. Don’t give your right name.’

  My father sprang up in bed in shock, half believing the warning was genuine, and then, seeing who it was at the door, he gave vent to an outburst of fury, cursing Barney and prepared to leap at his throat. But it did not last long, perhaps not surprisingly. Some canny thought may have penetrated his rage, some warning that this little dwarf of a brother was here to probe into what he did not want anyone to know, the secret he had been keeping to himself for several weeks.

  ‘What the bloody ’ell are you doing ’ere?’ he asked in a much calmer tone.

  Barney had continued to grin all through the initial outburst, completely unafraid, a contrast to Sidney and my mother, who had both shrunk back in fear.

  ‘I’m here to see you, Yankel,’ he said. ‘And our father’s grave.’

  ‘Your father’s grave? You couldn’t come sooner? Where were you for the funeral? You couldn’t come to see him buried?’

  ‘How did we know he’d died?’ Barney asked, clamping the cigar back into his mouth. ‘Why didn’t you let us know? You kept it such a secret. What was there to hide?’ His eyes twinkled a little as he spoke. Perhaps, though, there was something less amused in his tone. The twinkling eyes were fixed on my father, who had begun to bristle.

  ‘What secret?’ he said. ‘What the bloody ’ell are you talking about?’

  As Sidney explained to me, there wasn’t any argument then, and after my father had got dressed and they all sat down to the breakfast that my mother had made, though with the help of Sidney because she was in a very feeble state and could not stand on her feet too long. And when they sat down to eat they were still on good terms, and Barney was making jokes and keeping them all laughing, with even my father giving a twisted smile now and then a
nd perhaps relieved that Barney seemed to have dropped the subject of their father and was here perhaps purely for social reasons.

  But then it began, Barney puffing on the cigar and asking, ‘So tell me, Yankel, how did you find out that our father had died?’

  ‘How?’ My father bristled and crossed one leg over the other as he always did when something objectionable came up and he was preparing for an argument. ‘I learned. Somebody told me. What the ’ell difference does it make how I learned?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Barney agreed. ‘What difference does it make? But I was just wondering, who took care of things, the funeral, the arrangements, everything that had to be done? There’s more to be done for people when they die than when they’re alive.’

  ‘Who took care of it?’ He saw there was no way of avoiding the subject and went head on into it, belligerent. ‘Who the bloody ’ell do you think took care of things? Did you? Did any of those bastards in Chicago? Not one of you ever came to see him when he was alive, so why should you come when he’s dead? I used to go and see him every week.’

  Barney nodded. He was more serious now than he had been before. He smoked his cigar thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t know that. I’m glad to hear it. We were always worried about father being alone so much …’

  ‘You’re full of shit!’ It burst from my father in an explosion of anger. ‘You never gave a good goddam about him, any one of you …’

  ‘All right, all right …’ Barney refused to get upset by it. He was smiling again and waving the cigar about, and my mother was sighing with relief that he hadn’t taken offence. Barney went on pacifying my father further, saying, ‘I’ll admit that we all neglected him these past years, but so long as one of us did the right thing by him that helps make up for what we didn’t do. I’ll tell them when I get home. They’ll all feel better. But tell me, who paid for the funeral, the grave, everything?’

  ‘Who paid?’

  ‘Yes. There had to be expenses. Did he leave enough to take care of things? I should think he would. He always had money.’

  ‘You should know that,’ my father burst out. ‘You took plenty from him.’ He was beginning to boil up again. He knew now what Barney was getting at.

  Barney did not waste too much time. He ignored the last statement and said, ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t have a little bundle tucked away somewhere. I hope you looked around his room carefully after he passed away to make sure there were no bank books or money hidden away in the mattress.’ He said this jestingly, eyes twinkling, sucking on the cigar, as if he had not meant it seriously.

  But it did not deceive my father. He was at once belligerent, crossing his legs again, glaring across the table at Barney, and said, ‘Dwarf, little shrimp, what are you trying to say? I took the money? What about our mother? She must have had a bundle, and who could have taken that except you and those other bastards in Chicago? You think I didn’t know about it?’

  Barney shook his head emphatically. ‘No, Yankel, I swear there was nothing.’

  ‘You bloody rotten liar,’ my father said. ‘You took it and shared it among yourselves and left me out. Well, what if I did the same thing? You ever hear of tit for tat? Supposing I did the same thing? What right would you have to complain? You can go to hell, all of you.’

  He was practically admitting to it and taking a great deal of satisfaction in doing so, making it seem as if it had all been an act of justifiable revenge. But it was a clear enough admission and Sidney told how then there was a sudden cry of horror from my mother, and how this seemed to whip my father into even greater fury and, after giving a swift glance at her, he rose to his feet and seized Barney by the collar and lifted him up and threw him out of the house.

  Then he came back, hitching up his trousers and still in a rage, and turned it on my mother this time, saying, ‘What the bloody ’ell are you carrying on for? Is it so terrible that I took the money? Would it have been better to give it to those pigs in Chicago? Did they give me any of Mama’s money? I did what was right. And whether you like it or not, you’ve been living off it for the past years. Even before he died he gave me something every week.’

  ‘You weren’t working even then?’ my mother asked tremulously, her face in her hands.

  ‘What work? Who the bloody ’ell had work? Your money came from the streets. You might as well know it.’ The spittle flew out of his mouth as he spoke and his eyes glaring at her were bloodshot, and it was clear that there was guilt mixed in with his torrent of rage.

  My mother’s whole world must have collapsed then. She had never given up hope that she could repay my grandfather for the tickets he had sent us. She had talked to me often about it. But now she was learning that he was dead and she would never have that opportunity; not only that, but she had been living off his begging for these past two or three years, and that was a worse blow than anything else.

  She was in such a state, and so weakened by it all, that Sidney had to carry her to her bed. He had no difficulty doing that and had done it often before when she was not feeling well. He had grown into a big, husky fellow, taller even than I, and my mother must have weighed very little.

  That night, Madame Janeski summoned me to the telephone in her apartment. It was a service she gave her roomers. I rushed downstairs and picked up the phone.

  It was Sidney, his voice not steady. ‘Ma’s had a stroke,’ he said. ‘You’d better come.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  WE RUSHED, RUBY and I. I had tried to get Ruby to stay home, but she had refused. She was as concerned as I was about my mother and wanted to be there to give whatever help she could. So I gave in and let her come, and was only too glad to have her with me. I needed her.

  It was winter and a bitterly cold day, and we huddled close together as we rushed to the subway station, hurrying down the steps and feeling relief as we came into the stale warmth, and able to catch a train almost immediately and sit close together in a near empty car. It was late, around ten o’clock. Ruby took my hand and pressed it in hers, knowing how I was feeling.

  Six months earlier I had done the same thing for her, given her the same comfort that she was now giving me. Her mother had died suddenly from a heart attack, and I had nursed Ruby through the days of depression that had followed and she had been grateful for it; and now she was doing it for me, and she held my hand tightly as the train rocked and roared its way up to the Bronx.

  I think I had been haunted by the fear of what was happening now all my life. It came on me mostly when I was a child, with a dread, sinking feeling, and sometimes at night when I would awaken screaming because I had dreamed that my mother had died. It would wake up the entire household and my mother would come rushing into the bedroom and hold me tightly until I had been assured that she was still alive and with me.

  Now I could feel that sinking sensation inside me. I tried to tell myself that I was older and should be able to bear up against such things, but it was there just the same, that familiar sensation of dread. Ruby and I fought the cold once more as we got off the train and walked quickly to the old frame house that would not be much warmer than the outside.

  Sidney met us at the door and his first words confirmed my fears: ‘Ma’s dying.’

  I didn’t want to believe it. I pushed past him and went straight to the bedroom, with Ruby close behind me. My mother looked as if she might be sleeping. She was lying on her back and a faint snoring came from her. But her eyes seemed open.

  I bent over her and whispered, ‘Ma, this is Harry.’

  She did not answer and Ruby’s hands gently pulled me up and away from her. ‘She can’t hear you,’ she whispered. ‘She’s in a coma.’

  I realised it then, but was too choked to say anything. Sidney had followed us into the room. He had been alone with this for several hours. My father was not home yet from his usual visit to the Romanian restaurant in downtown Manhattan. Sidney had been doing his homework in the kitchen when he heard choking sounds in
the bedroom. He ran there and Ma seemed to be trying to tell him something but couldn’t speak. Then she lost consciousness.

  Sidney managed to get a neighbour to stay with her while he ran for Dr Schwartz, who had been our doctor for years. His home and office were in an apartment house nearby. He came back with Sidney, carrying his little black bag, and it did not take long for him to examine my mother before telling Sidney that she had suffered a massive stroke. He did not advise sending her to the hospital. She could get better care here in the house and she could be made comfortable for the little time that was left. He did not hide anything. Ma was dying.

  Sidney called me, and he also called Joe and Saul, and sent a telegram to Rose in Chicago. It had been a trying time for him, alone with all this, and he was grateful for our coming. Ruby took charge at once. It was cold in the house, with little steam coming up in the radiators, and Ruby at once began to make coffee in the kitchen, while the two of us sat in the bedroom with my mother, not knowing what to do or say.

  After a while Ruby called us in for the coffee, and we were sitting there drinking it and glad of its warmth, when Joe and Saul arrived. Saul immediately went into the bedroom and began to say prayers for the dying, rocking to and fro and mumbling the Hebrew words. Joe presently joined in with him and it was in the midst of this that we heard the front door open. It was my father and I could tell instantly from the awkward footsteps that he was drunk. The prayers halted and we all looked at one another, the same bitter thought in our minds: now of all times for him to come home drunk. What to do with him? How to handle this?

  He made his way, staggering a little, to the bedroom door and stood looking at us. His face was a purplish colour, the way it always got when he had drunk a lot, and his eyes tried to focus on the things he was seeing: my mother lying there apparently asleep, the faint snoring sound coming from her, my two older brothers standing with prayer books in their hands – and after a brief moment Saul went back to his praying, so there was that too that his befuddled brain could not grasp.