The Empire of the Senses

by Alexis Landau

  Lev cleared his throat. “Geza, you must take into account how Vicki”—he paused, trying to deliver this next part as delicately as possible—“might not want to give up everything she is accustomed to.” He gestured around his richly decorated office. “Even if right now, in the throes of infatuation, it seems as if she might.”

  Geza paced the length of the room. Lev could tell Geza rejected what he’d just said by the way his face calcified into stony disappointment, thinking Lev knew nothing of real love. Well, that’s youth, Lev thought. Always forging ahead with strident opinions, never once wondering if they could be wrong. Oh no—it was always the older generation, the generation that had lived longer and amassed more experience that was wrong.

  Geza paused in front of Lev’s desk. From this angle, he appeared even taller than his two meters. “There’s something else.”

  Lev felt as if someone clenched his heart, draining all the blood from it.

  Geza handed him an envelope, yellow and worn. In faded pencil, written on top: Lev Perlmutter. “She wanted me to give you this.”

  Lev held the envelope with two hands, as if handling a delicate object. “Thank you,” he said, choking over his words.

  Geza nodded and started to leave the room.

  Lev sprung up from his chair. “Wait.”

  Geza stopped in front of the door.

  “Does she have a hard life?”

  Geza glanced around the study, at the leather-bound books lining the shelves, at the charcoal etchings encased in gilded frames, and the luxuriant Oriental rug beneath his feet. He swept his hand out before him. “It’s all relative, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Lev said softly, feeling the worn envelope in his hand, as if Leah were just there, beneath the thin paper.

  Realizing Geza was about to reenter the living room, reenter the world of Vicki and Josephine, the world he had sacrificed so much for, Lev said hoarsely, “Don’t tell Vicki.”

  Geza’s hand cupped the porcelain doorknob. “I won’t. I don’t like involving myself with other people’s affairs. But—”

  “There’s a stipulation,” Lev said. “There’s always one.”

  Geza gazed at him. “All we want is your blessing. That’s why I’m here today—what happened then is not my concern.”

  Lev sunk back into his desk chair. “All right, all right. You have my blessing. Mazel tov.” Then he slid the unopened letter beneath a paperweight, the one with the monarch butterfly frozen under the rounded glass, its emerald wings spread.

  35

  Mitzi sauntered into the living room. Josephine called to her, but she went straight to the door of the study, sniffing the dark oak. She sank down, her nose pressed under the door, and waited.

  Josephine sighed, pouring more tea into their cups. “They’ve been in there for ages.”

  Vicki nodded, staring into her tea.

  “Do you know where Franz is? He said he would be home by now.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Josephine shook her head. “So strange, how he disappears.”

  “He’s joined up with the brown shirts.”

  Josephine got up, carrying her tea over to the window. She gazed out at the skeletal trees, the barren branches shaking in the wind. “I don’t see why they have to keep them away from their families, up all hours of the night.”

  From behind the door, Lev raised his voice.

  Mitzi let out a low growl.

  “Oh, stop that,” Josephine said.

  Vicki joined her mother at the window. She set her teacup down on the windowsill. “They’re training for another war. That’s what Geza says.”

  “Another war,” Josephine echoed. Her eyes, usually blue and sharp, appeared opaque and misted over. “And Franz will fight.”

  Vicki impatiently paced the room, picking up an ashtray and setting it down, fiddling with the tassels hanging from the velvet drapes, twisting the candles deeper into the silver candlesticks. She flopped down on the velvet sofa, propping her feet up on the ottoman.

  Josephine remained by the window. “At least he’ll be a hero, fighting for Germany, as Grandfather did.”

  The thought of Franz fighting usually sent her mother into hysterics. If any harm comes to him, I’ll perish, she often said, her eyes welling up. But a calm air had settled over her. She stood frozen by the window.

  Vicki lit a cigarette, the ashtray cradled in her lap, anticipating that her mother would reprimand her for smoking. But Josephine didn’t notice. She only traced her finger along the frosted windowpane. “It’s already been predetermined anyway. We can’t change the future.”

  Vicki held the smoke down in her throat for a prolonged moment before speaking. “What are you going on about?”

  Josephine turned away from the window, the color high in her cheeks. “I know it must seem strange, but sometimes …”

  Mitzi let out a series of sharp piercing barks.

  Josephine winced, putting a hand to her head.

  “Mitzi, stop,” Vicki demanded.

  The dog settled down again, nose to rug.

  A few blackbirds squawked, settling on the branches of the linden tree.

  Josephine stared at the birds. “Most people think they’re bad omens, but actually, they’re not—they travel between our world and the next.”

  Boring her cigarette into the chrome ashtray, Vicki said, “I hate blackbirds. They scare me.”

  From the kitchen, they heard the beginnings of dinner: a pot clattering, Marthe instructing the new kitchen maid on how not to burn the roast, the chopping of onions as the blade hit the cutting board.

  Vicki looked at her mother. Something was different about her, as if the contours that normally outlined her face had smudged, turned blurry. “What did you mean before, about something seeming strange?”

  Josephine smiled and straightened her skirt. “Silly. I already forgot.”

  Vicki gestured to the closed door. “It’s nearly dinnertime.”

  “Well, what did you expect?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s quite a lot to discuss when you bring someone home, like that.”

  “Such as?” Vicki demanded.

  Josephine settled into the couch, adjusting her long pleated skirt. “Oh, Vicki. Please.”

  “What?” she cried, already knowing what her mother meant.

  Her mother plucked a piece of lint from her skirt. “Don’t force me to say it.”

  “Oh, Vicki, please!” Vicki shouted in response, causing her mother to flinch.

  Vicki stood up, restraining herself from kicking over the crystal bowl filled with glass-spun candies. She used to think they were so pretty—the red, green, and purple candies. And she used to laugh when guests would plunge a hand into the bowl, tricked into thinking the candies were real. But now the idea of such glass candies as mere ornamentation mocked the very fact that women waited in line for bread only to be turned away, and police beat workers for striking when all they wanted were fair wages. And her mother sat before her, shrouded in the past, filled with predetermined ideas, as if all she had to do was watch the world go by through the window of her comfortable living room—well, it was sickening.

  Lev stepped out. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” Josephine said.

  Lev rubbed his eyes and made an effort to smile.

  Geza stood behind Lev and winked at Vicki. She mouthed, I love you.

  Once outside, she begged Geza to tell her what her father had said.

  Geza squeezed her hand. “He gives us his blessing.”

  She gazed into his dark eyes. “Really? He wasn’t upset? He looked so unsettled.”

  He grinned. “Of course he doesn’t want to lose his only daughter to a poor immigrant, but other than that, it went swimmingly.”

  “Geza, please don’t joke. Really, what did he say?”

  They didn’t notice Franz striding up the narrow pathway.

  “What’s happening
here?” Franz wore his high black boots and brown cap, his gray coat with brass buttons.

  Geza mocked a military salute.

  Franz pulled off his black leather gloves. “What are you selling?”

  Geza and Vicki looked at each other, holding back their laughter.

  “You’re not authorized to sell commercial goods on private property.”

  Geza grinned. “Excuse me, Herr Perlmutter, but I’m not selling anything. I’m visiting your sister.”

  Vicki coiled her arm through Geza’s. “It’s true. He just met Mutti and Papa. Don’t look so shocked.” Trying not to explode with laughter, she bit her lip.

  Franz clenched his jaw and shoved his gloves into his coat pocket. “Vicki, is it some sort of joke, pretending to know this Jewish peddler?”

  Geza suppressed a smile. “Excuse me, Herr Perlmutter, although I happen to be of the Jewish persuasion, I am not a peddler.”

  “Stop calling me Herr Perlmutter!”

  “That’s your name, is it not?”

  Franz shook his head in disgust and shoved past them, slamming the front door.

  Geza and Vicki burst out laughing, holding each other up by the elbows while nearly collapsing on the icy steps. Their eyes filled with tears, their voices were hoarse, and each time it seemed their hilarity had finally died down, Geza performed a military salute, clicking his heels together, and their laughter renewed with greater force.

  36

  On his way to Rabbi Landauer’s, the frigid January wind cut through Lev’s overcoat. The contents of Leah’s letter reverberated through him, blotting out all other concerns. He could not think or eat or sleep since he had read it two days ago. Even smoking provided little relief. He snapped at Josephine and stared absently at Vicki when she chattered on about the Zionists’ good work in Palestine, building a new Jewish nation. Even when Franz had stormed into his study, ranting about the impossibility of such an unholy union between Vicki and Geza—That Eastern European ingrate, he had shouted—Lev sighed and mumbled some halfhearted explanation, causing Franz to stare at him in disbelief. The letter, the letter, written in her hand, was all that mattered. He couldn’t wait for Franz to leave him in peace. Then he locked his office door, despite Josephine’s entreaties that he join them for dinner, despite the fact that he could hear Franz yelling at Vicki and Vicki mocking him, her taunting voice floating under the door: “But look at you, in your ridiculous boots and brown trousers!” Inside the smoke-filled chambers of his office, he spread the letter out before him, his hands shaking, his throat parched. He removed his reading glasses and put them on again. He straightened his tie. He rubbed his eyes, as if to confirm the veracity of the object before him—a letter from Leah, a letter he had been waiting to receive forever.

  June 9, 1925

  22 Aspazijas Boulevard, Riga 1050

  Soviet People’s Republic

  Dear Lev,

  I have wanted to write you for so long, but many things prevented me from doing so. Before I begin, I pray you keep in good health and that you are happy. I have been praying for you since the day you left, seven years ago. Seven years! Such a long time, and yet, it feels as if you were just by my side, dancing with me at Altke’s wedding and walking through the apple orchards. As you can see, I learned how to read and write. Geza taught me. He has grown into such a strong and willful man … hopefully this letter will reach you through his hands. I wonder what you think as you read this … I pray you are not angry with me for contacting you, for interfering in any way. I fear this, but I am writing to tell you what happened after you left.

  I waited for Zalman to return, as we all did. Every day, after the war ended, we waited. The Red Army swept into Mitau and said we were liberated from the Germans. They said we were free citizens of the Soviet Republic and that the czar and all the old ways were dead. People danced in the streets but I felt only sorrow. Some of the men returned to Mitau, some of them didn’t. Zalman never came back. He died in the Carpathian Mountains, just as I thought. The pharmacist’s cousin was wrong. Every day I curse her for feeding such lies, but what is the good? You are gone and I am here.

  A year later, the Spanish plague visited our town. Many died, mostly young able-bodied men and women, mothers and fathers, not what you would expect. The old people and the children survived. Geza left at this time to escape the sickness spreading, and we went with him, to live with relatives in Riga where the infection levels were lower. If he had not convinced us to leave, I would probably be dead too.

  You have never left my thoughts, my heart, my blood; as I write this, there is someone who will always remind me of you, someone for whom I would sacrifice the whole world—he is the reason why I left Mitau; he is the reason why I stay alive, why I breathe in and out each day. Lev, he is our son, the fruit from that night at the end of September, the last time we joined our bodies together in the Sukkot hut under the stars, during the festivities of my sister’s wedding. His name is Aleksander, but we call him Sasha. Today is his birthday. He is six.

  I can’t tell him who his father is because any woman who had relations with a German soldier is a whore, a traitor to Russia, and any child from such a union a disgrace to the state, a reminder of German occupation. So I tell him his father died heroically in the war, a soldier who defected from the White Army. But other people—relatives, relations from Mitau—they know the truth, and soon it will become impossible to keep up this fantasy for Sasha.

  He is fragile—sensitive, with bad nightmares and fevers that seize him for twenty-four hours and then disappear. I worry about his future here—the revolution turns more fervent every day. Officials come to check papers, to check background, age, health, religion, financial status, parentage, and they ask neighbors about us and ask us about the neighbors. They write many notes in little notebooks and they never say anything. Just ask questions and more questions. Then they leave but always reappear after one month, like a clock, as the expression goes.

  So I have decided, after much contemplation, to leave Russia. We are going to America. We set sail for New York in three months. I already have our berths reserved. Zlotnik’s brother, Misha—remember Misha? He lives in New York and works as a cobbler. He has been there for two years, and now he has a wife and three children. We will stay with him for some time, until I can secure a job as a seamstress, or even as a domestic. I hear New York is a golden city with tall glass buildings and also a squalid place with rats and dirt and garbage and no space to breathe … I don’t know what we will find, but at least Sasha will be free.

  Please do not misunderstand me. I am not writing because we are in need of money. Sasha and I live comfortably, in a house with our relatives. There is always food, and we sleep in warm beds. Sasha studies hard at school. He wants to be an artist and he likes music. He draws many things—flowers, butterflies, squirrels, even portraits! You would feel proud if you saw his drawings. Some of them are quite good.

  My only thought is perhaps you could see us before we leave for America.

  Just once. To properly say good-bye.

  Love,

  Leah

  Lev paused on the U-Bahn platform, forgetting the route he usually took to the Scheunenviertel even though it was where he grew up, where his mother still lived, where he was going now. After reading her letter, he kept hearing Leah’s voice, a mixture of sadness and triumph, of love and resignation. And now? Where was she? Had she really gone to America? He couldn’t imagine Leah, in her scarf and heavy clothing, her provincial ways, taking a giant steamer to that city made of concrete and steel. But she had learned to read and write. She sounded older in the letter, more world-weary, more aware of the pitfalls such a letter could cause, which was why she had waited so long to send it. His hands trembled when he reached into his pocket for change, his head pounding with the thought that it was too late, too late to find her, and yet a sharp urgency tugged at him, because he still might have a chance, somehow, to find her.

  People rushed
down the steps to the underground, bumping his shoulder, stepping on the heel of his shoe. He didn’t even feel it. Normally, he would have acted offended, perhaps said something in passing, but why? Maybe that woman in the herringbone coat was rushing to see her lover and, forgetful of herself, brushed past him. Who was he to remind her of manners? Or the elderly man who had flicked his cigarette butt in Lev’s direction, what did he care if some ash sprinkled Lev’s trouser leg?

  Lev stumbled down the concrete steps, passed through the turnstile, absently bought a ticket, while the echoing noise of trains arriving and departing buffeted him from all sides, as if he floated in the midst of a wild sea. He waited on the platform, staring into the dark tunnel, bracing himself for the roar that never ceased to startle him upon the train’s arrival. A boy stood next to him, the tips of his shoes too close to the red line, until his father pulled him back. “I’ve seen fellows fall to their deaths on the tracks,” the father said, gripping the boy’s hand. Lev felt the urge to say, I have a son your age. Aleksander. His son, conceived the last time he made love to Leah in the apple orchard under the white branches, the moon glimmering through, the hurried apologies afterward as he explained to her that he was leaving, because the Russians were coming and the war was ending. And because Zalman was returning—a piece of hearsay, a miscalculation, which had led him back to this life, a life that now clung to him as heavily as a wet cloth through which he could barely breathe.