The Empire of the Senses

by Alexis Landau

  The party had started an hour ago, and already the room was buzzing. A woman in a headscarf was talking to Vicki about the need for nurses. And elementary school teachers. Her hand skimmed Vicki’s bare shoulder. “Making the desert bloom is not just an agricultural endeavor.”

  “I see,” Vicki said, scanning the room for her father, wondering if he’d arrived yet. The woman’s black eyes, the way she held her gaze so intensely, made Vicki nervous.

  “But you see,” the woman resumed, undeterred, “the children are raised in communal children’s homes. Mothers work in Palestine!”

  Vicki nodded, noticing that Greta, her old school friend, was talking to Maya. It gave her a funny feeling to see them together, as if two disparate parts of her life had collided for a moment, before floating away again. She was surprised Greta even came; they hadn’t seen each other in months, and when they spoke for a few minutes, trading polite questions over the thumping jazz, Greta appeared ill at ease. She had overdressed for the party and tugged nervously at her gloves. Well, Vicki thought, watching the woman’s chapped lips form words and sentences about communal child care, Greta was in love with her brother, something she wouldn’t wish on any woman, seeing how he avoided her, stationed on the other side of the room in deep conversation with Wolf. Every so often Greta’s gaze floated over to the fireplace, where Wolf and Franz stood, using the mantel as a base, as if it was their own little fiefdom.

  “Scheduled breast feedings provide relief for active mothers,” the woman intoned. “For example, while you work in the olive groves, I breast-feed your child, and vice versa. They are all our children.”

  “Hmmm,” Vicki said, trying to catch Franz’s eye, hoping he’d come over to her, but he stared at the floor while Wolf whispered something into his ear.

  A little girl tugged on Vicki’s hem. She made a squawking sound and stared up at her mother with round anxious eyes.

  “Oh, Netta.” The woman hoisted the little girl up onto her hip. “What are you doing?”

  The girl scrutinized Vicki’s earrings, her little fists clutching her mother’s blouse.

  Vicki smiled. “Do you like them?”

  She buried her face into her mother’s shoulder while still peeking at Vicki, her eyes trained on the dangling lapis stones.

  The woman smiled apologetically. “All the new people here make her shy. She’s normally very independent.”

  Vicki excused herself and went outside to find Geza, who had disappeared from the party. She flattened her body, pushing through the crowd, but was stopped various times along the way by well-wishers, congratulating her on making aliyah, their drinks raised upward, as if the Holy Land hovered just above their heads.

  The night had cooled. She paused a moment on the landing, listening to that language her mother shunned and her father hid away, a language that carried an elusive taboo, a language she now used with ease, the syllables having grown familiar on her tongue, despite how Geza kept telling her Hebrew, not Yiddish, was their new language, and she must keep practicing. She saw Geza and her father sitting side by side on the top step, their backs hunched over in the same way, their kneecaps nearly touching. But then Geza said something that made her father’s back stiffen, and she called out, “Having secret conversations without me?”

  They turned around and produced the same jovial grin.

  She motioned to her father. “You’re here.”

  He stared at her, his face mournful and tired, and she felt a stab of guilt. He got up and announced, “Tonight is a celebration. Where’s the champagne?”

  The three of them walked arm in arm back into the hot living room. Out of the corner of her eye, Vicki saw Maya talking to the woman in the headscarf. The little girl wandered nearby, clutching a stranger’s leg that she mistook for her mother’s. Maya waved Vicki over, but Geza pulled her in close, and she turned away from Maya to kiss him, inhaling his scent. For a moment, the hum and flow of the party froze, and she felt as if it were just Geza and herself encased in a cocoon, and the rest—the music, the people, her friends—stood outside of it. Was this love, to feel so closely tied to one person that the world, with all the people in it, existed apart from the intimate knowledge that passed between them?

  She traced her finger along his lower lip, and he squeezed her shoulder, tilting his head toward the crowd. “I’m going to make sure no one’s glass is empty.”

  Their intertwined hands broke apart.

  Lev took Vicki’s arm. “Keep me company for a while—I don’t know anyone here,” he whispered.

  Vicki giggled. “But you’ve always been so good at mingling, Papa.”

  Lev shook his head. “No, that’s your mother.”

  Despite all the music and chatter, and the heat of other bodies jostling past them, she gave him a long look. His dark eyes were glassy, radiating a faint melancholic light. “Is there something—” She paused.

  Lev threw up his hands. “Whatever happened to that champagne I brought?”

  She started again. “Papa—is there something you’re keeping from me?”

  Someone turned up the music. A few couples started dancing the Charleston in the middle of the room, their feet pounding on the wooden floor.

  “Because we’ve always told each other everything,” she added, trying to suppress the sensation she might cry right there in the middle of the party, with everyone looking.

  He stroked her cheek. “You’ve always been so very astute.” Breaking into his sunniest smile, he added, raising his voice, “Go dance—don’t worry about your old papa. Everything’s as it should be.” He stepped back, taking a little bow.

  The music thumped through her, vibrating up her legs, into her chest. “But Papa,” she said, reaching for his arm. She wouldn’t give up this easily. Even if Geza evaded her, her father would not.

  Lev grinned again. “Where’s Geza? You two should be dancing!”

  Vicki glanced over her shoulder and saw Geza pouring beer into a long glass, making a show of it, while a man wearing a panama hat laughed. Then she saw Zev spin around, his face tight with anger. He punched Franz in the arm, but Franz kept moving toward Geza as if he had something urgent to say. Her father’s face clouded over, and for a moment their eyes met, and she felt her throat tighten and go dry. She tried to scream but she was breathless. Lev grabbed her arm and pulled her down to the floor before leaping up and hurling himself into Geza. A gunshot ricocheted through the room.

  46

  Monday, June 11, 1928

  Tonight, he would get the information from Geza about Leah’s whereabouts. Geza had promised him this much, and he knew that in the meantime, Geza had made inquiries, writing to Leah’s relatives in Riga and Mitau. But what if Geza hadn’t received any news yet? What if letters were lost in the mail? If Leah wasn’t in New York, Lev would abandon the lie he had already told Josephine about Rhodes Hart textiles and pretend the linen deal had fallen through. Or, if she was there, he must book his ticket, confirm first class, and prepare. Prepare to meet his son. Prepare to see Leah again and reopen the wound of having left her in the first place. But the uncertainty was driving him mad, as if he could only ever balance on one foot, and was eternally hopping from one to the other like a dancing monkey. During dinner last night, he tried to contain his anxiety, pouring himself a generous glass of red wine. He listened to Josephine go on about a certain kind of orchid. She wanted some for the rooms upstairs. He nodded in agreement. She added that Dr. Dührkoop kept the same orchids in his office and they were absolutely stunning as well as resilient. Then he made some quip about how everything Dührkoop had must be fabulous. Josephine scowled and left the table.

  Either way, he would find something out tonight. Walking in this unfamiliar part of town, he mused over his situation and smiled sardonically. How many men, he wondered, glancing down the street, carried the burden of an icy wife, a long-lost son, an old lover in a foreign land, children who were choosing to leave him behind, each in their own particularl
y painful way?

  He sighed, readjusting the bundle of lilies he carried, careful not to crush them. In his other hand, he held a bottle of champagne, relishing its coolness through the paper wrapping. Where was Zev Dubinsky’s apartment anyway? He hadn’t been around here in years, having become insulated by the streets connecting his house to his office and to the park. He frequented the same cafés and bars along Unter den Linden and on occasion made a foray into the city center when he was feeling restless. But Treptow: Red, working-class, the streets darker and dirtier than the verdant light-filled parks of Charlottenburg. It made him depressed. He trudged along, checking the street addresses. Judging from the sidewalk littered with pamphlets and a torn KPD banner, there must have been a recent rally. He stepped over the banner, strewn with leaves. Was he in the right place? He was about to ask the news vendor outside a tobacco shop when a young couple walked up to a building, smiling shyly at him before climbing the steps. She carried a bundle of tulips wrapped in newspaper and his hand floated over the small of her back. A woman opened the door and welcomed them in Hebrew. This must be the place, Lev thought, straining to see through the linen curtains into the front room where people milled about. He suddenly felt apprehensive and stood there watching the hostess, who smiled at him in a fitted lavender dress, a dress he faintly recalled Vicki wearing. She beckoned him inside, and with her shiny hair and dark lipstick, she looked too cosmopolitan for this group of earnest pioneers.

  “Welcome, welcome,” she said to him, taking his coat and his hat. “You must be Vicki’s father,” she added, flashing another smile.

  “Yes,” Lev said, wondering if he really looked so old. Or was it a certain paternalistic air he gave off, both anxious and judgmental, as he surveyed the room?

  “Who else would bring such a nice bottle of champagne, and these stunning lilies?”

  Lev smiled politely and the young woman, now cradling the flowers against her breast, introduced herself as Maya—Maya Dubinsky. The name echoed in Lev’s head—she was one of Vicki’s new friends, also immigrating to Palestine. On the same ship, he believed. She took his arm and offered him some kvass. Noticing his hesitation, she asked, “Or wine?” He nodded and she melted into the crowded living room, heading toward the kitchen. He admired Maya’s Levantine eyes, her long back, the way that dress clung to her body.

  Lev hovered on the threshold, wondering where Vicki was and wishing he had a drink to hold in his hand. The place, packed with young people, was decorated in the Bauhaus style, but on the cheap, so instead of appearing linear and Spartan it looked as if they could only afford one glass table, one iron lamp, one plush cube-shaped chair, and against the wall, one long metal bookcase crammed with used books. Jazz blasted from the radio balanced on top of the radiator. Hors d’oeuvres had been hastily assembled and put out on the coffee table without much thought to their presentation. A mixture of Yiddish, Hebrew, Russian, German, and Polish whizzed around the room. An aggressive-looking type hooked his arm around Maya’s waist and gave her a kiss. That must be her husband—Zvi, or Zev? He looked like a Polish Jew with that fiery mustache and stocky build. And he seemed quite proud of his prize: Maya’s French accent and slanted eyes, a sexy pioneer for sure. Lev grinned. But at least this Zev didn’t carry around the same look of blank fear the other young men here did—it was strange, such strong youthful men with prominent jaws and broad chests and muscled forearms, they wandered around the room in a trance, as if they didn’t know how they’d arrived at this point, about to cross the great ocean, the future a murky promise. Maybe the strong halutzim weren’t so strong, Lev thought. But the women were right at home. They chatted comfortably with one another, alight with laughter, their eyes flitting around the room. They refilled drinks and rearranged the platters of pickled vegetables. Without women, Lev mused, taking in the blank white walls and the oblong glass vases devoid of flowers, there would be nothing. Against the far back wall, he was surprised to see his mother chatting with the rabbi’s wife, who wore an expensive-looking hat, peacock feathers plastered to the side of it. His mother caught his eye and waved him over impatiently. She probably wanted him to talk with the rabbi’s wife, to fall in love with her, and leave Josephine. He overheard a young man discussing the kinds of trees that grew in the Holy Land. “Olive and fig and orange,” the man said. “Maybe lemon too.”

  “Citrus? I doubt that,” a woman rejoined. “But definitely almond trees, the ones with the white blossoms. So lovely.”

  “Lev!” Geza yelled, weaving through the crowd with two glasses of beer. He hugged him with one arm, and Lev felt relieved that at least Geza was not wearing peyes and a yarmulke, as some of the young men here did, but had cropped his hair short and was clean-shaven. His dark eyes sparkled when he gestured to Vicki, explaining how Maya had taken Vicki under her wing, helped her along in the process, which was important and would be even more so once they arrived there. Then, as an afterthought, he asked about Josephine, and Lev explained she was home in bed with a migraine. Really, though, he wasn’t sure where she was.

  Lev squinted through the crowd at Wolf, who leaned against the mantel, smoking. He was overdressed in a three-piece suit and shiny spats, and although he tried to appear casual, the way he smoked his cigarette and declined the offer of a drink all seemed oddly choreographed.

  Geza waved to some men, both rugged and of towering height. They ate herring smeared on black bread and waved back, their mouths full and chewing. They have no manners, Lev thought, trying not to linger on the idea that in Palestine, Vicki would be surrounded by these types, that she might come to think, within a few years, that it was acceptable to eat while standing, to greet a guest while munching on a hunk of bread, and forgo the use of a napkin because it was a bourgeois pleasantry. Barbarians!

  Geza took Lev’s arm. “Can we speak?”

  They sat outside on the steps. Geza began in Yiddish, “First, I want to thank you. For helping us with the passage fare.”

  Lev answered in German, “This way, at least, you won’t have to travel between decks in steerage. It will be more comfortable.”

  “Yes, more comfortable.” Geza paused. “I have the information you asked for.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper.

  Lev took it. The paper, the words, burned through his palm: 11 Rivington Street, Apartment 3B, New York, New York. He stared at the address. “Well,” his voice softened, “she’s in New York,” he added in Yiddish.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Lev folded his hand over the paper. “I’m going to New York.”

  Geza sighed. “I understand, but …”

  Lev took his arm. “What is it? Is there something else you’re not telling me?”

  “No, no. Nothing else. Her cousin in Riga sent this address after I requested it.”

  “Yes, but what if she’s met someone? What if her circumstances have changed?”

  Geza smoked with a stoic expression on his face. Lev felt a flash of irritation—how easily Geza sat here, witnessing the uneasy mixture of excitement, panic, and fear flooding through him.

  Lev stubbed out his cigarette on the step and took a deep breath. “Thank you. For the address.” He patted Geza’s knee, giving his next words added weight. “And thank you for keeping this between us.”

  Geza jutted his chin forward. “We give and we take.”

  “There you are!” Vicki called from the open doorway. “Having secret conversations without me.”

  They both twisted around, jarred by her voice.

  She stepped away from the bright warm room and walked out onto the landing, hands on her hips. Her eyes, luminous in the lamplight, chastised them. She wore the earrings Lev had given her last year, the lapis lazuli ones from Wertheim’s. He wondered if she would wear them in Palestine, or if such items would be deemed culturally unnecessary, distracting baubles.

  Lev stood up, touched her face.

  “You came,” she whispered, looking as if she m
ight cry.

  “Of course!” Lev said, slipping the piece of paper into his trouser pocket. “Now where’s that excellent bottle of champagne I brought? Or have the barbarians already devoured that as well?”

  They went back inside, Geza’s arm linked around Vicki’s waist, and Lev’s arm draped over Vicki’s shoulders. Glancing over at her smiling face, the way she kissed Geza on the cheek and he pulled her close, Lev knew, as much as he resisted it, this was whom she had chosen. And this choice would dictate the way she was going to live, raise her children. All this future reverberated between them as they walked hand in hand back into the party.

  The number of people in the room had multiplied. Maya wanted to introduce Vicki to a woman in a headscarf, who held a small child to her chest. Geza said he wanted to make sure no one’s glass stood empty.

  Before she could disappear into the crowded room, Lev took Vicki’s arm. Her skin still felt as warm and milky as it did when she used to throw her small arms around his neck, begging to be carried.

  “Keep me company for a while—I don’t know anyone here,” Lev whispered.

  Vicki giggled. “But you’ve always been so good at mingling, Papa.”

  Lev shook his head. “No, that’s your mother.”

  Vicki gave him a long look, her large eyes watering. “Is there something—” She paused.

  Lev motioned to the makeshift bar in the corner. “Let’s have some champagne!”

  She started again. “Papa—is there something you’re keeping from me?”

  He smiled immediately, trying to mask the panic spreading through him. Did Geza say something to her? Make some sort of allusion? He could tell Vicki didn’t know everything, but she knew something.

  Someone turned up the music. A few couples started dancing the Charleston in the middle of the room, their feet pounding on the wooden floor.

  “Because we’ve always told each other everything,” she added, glancing down. Her face turned blotchy and flushed, the way she looked when she cried.