Ghita Schwarz

by Displaced Persons (v5)

  He went to the tailor’s, finally, on a Monday, when Sima had her day off and could stay home the whole day. The directions were complicated: bus, long blocks, short blocks, narrow alley. One had to climb a dank staircase, but once inside the shop, Berel thought the place was wider than the building itself. It wasn’t that it was so filled with clothing, although there were several racks on which hung rows of suits in wool and serge and even perhaps cotton. It was the mirrors on the opposite side of the door, mirrors folded in threes and reflecting off each other, that made the place seem large.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Hmm?” said Berel, startled. But the question was one he understood.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” Berel said. “I look for Pavel Mandl.” It came out quickly, easily, a sound he had used before in a context he no longer remembered. The little bit of paper on which Chaim had written the name lay folded in Berel’s pocket.

  “He stepped out.”

  “Excuse me?” said Berel.

  “He stepped out. He isn’t here.” The young man worked his brows together. He said, loudly, “Not here.”

  “Excuse me,” said Berel. “Excuse me,” he repeated, gaining time for the sentence he wanted to squeeze from his mouth. “Please, em, Yiddish?”

  “No,” shouted the young man. “Nein.”

  Berel’s chin began to itch. What was the English word for Polish? He had no idea. But that was stupid; if the man knew Polish, he would understand. “Popolsku?” Berel tried.

  “One minute,” yelled the young man. “Just a minute.” And disappeared into the back.

  Berel stood still at the counter. There was a small fan near the cash register and a large fan near one of the three-way mirrors. The streams of air hitting each other collided at the back of his head and cooled the sweat behind his ears.

  A smaller, older man came out. Good. The man put out a pale, wide hand. Pavel isn’t here, he said in Yiddish. I am his cousin Mayer.

  Berel shook his hand. Berel Makower. My son-in-law sent me here to look for a suit. Chaim Traum.

  Wonderful, said Mayer. Yes, Chaim. He’s a good customer.

  I am here from Israel. On a visit.

  Wonderful, repeated Mayer. Wonderful. So! He stood up a little straighter. We now do a little custom work, but of course this takes quite some time. What is your preference?

  Oh, said Berel. He managed a polite smile. I can look at what you have ready. I don’t know how long I will be here.

  Mayer led Berel to a rack of thin gabardines. These are right for any weather. Even the midsummer if you have air-conditioning. Thin, airy, but warm enough for winter. Really, the best material.

  He took out a measuring tape from his pocket, then circled Berel’s neck. Berel shook a little: it tickled.

  Stand still! Mayer muttered, sharply. He roped Berel’s waist, then bent to the floor, stretching the tape at the inside of Berel’s thigh and up the length of ankle to hip. Let’s go, he said. He had written nothing down, but at the rack he shuffled through the almost identical hues of dark colors and handed hanger after hanger to Berel, who waited by him.

  Between them they carried ten suits, navy and brown and beige and gray, into an area divided off from the center of the shop. Mayer kept talking as Berel pushed off his shoes and removed his trousers: the business that wasn’t so good in New York summer, the heat that wasn’t so bad, the Hungarians who had moved into his block in Midwood, the chance he had to move to his own little shop in a few months. Berel gave nods and smiles of encouragement, then put on the first suit: double-breasted, dark blue with thin, faint maroon stripes.

  Wonderful, said Mayer.

  In his socks Berel slipped over to one of the three-way mirrors. The cuffs of the pants turned over around his ankles; so as not to rip or stain, he lifted the cloth at the thighs as he walked, like a woman in long skirts.

  He paused before the center panel of the mirror. Under the wide set of buttons his chest and belly seemed enormous, and his neck emerged like a bent branch, small and fragile. He could see Mayer behind him in the reflection, but Berel turned around to look at the tailor directly. Do you have something simpler?

  Of course! Mayer riffled through the remaining nine suits hanging on the hook of the wall. He pulled out something in gray, dark and polished, like the tip of a pencil. It had a row of black buttons up the chest and one button at each wrist.

  Berel pulled the pants up, tightened the zipper. The lining of the pants felt cool against his legs. He removed the jacket from its hanger with care. The jacket created a tiny breeze as it lapped against his chest. Mayer leaned over and pulled the shoulders out from each end.

  Beautiful, said Mayer.

  Berel moved to the mirror. These pants weren’t so wide. And the jacket, it fit perfectly. He looked tall and elegant, his metal gray hair floating above the dark collar, his shoulders broad but not heavy, his legs—was it possible?—longer, steadier under the vents at each side of the jacket.

  “I’ll take it,” said Berel, in English: he had heard this in stores.

  Mayer laughed. We can alter it for you and have you pick it up, or you can wait and we’ll do it now.

  Now is good, said Berel. How much will it cost?

  Mayer told him.

  It was more than a month’s salary, but Berel kept his face blank. A good price.

  Well, it’s actually quite high for us, but the quality makes it worth it. You’ll have it for years. Mayer was bent again, pinning the ankles. Do you want cuffs at the ankles? Or just plain?

  Plain, said Berel.

  He went back to the stool where his own clothes lay folded and began to undress. Mayer took the pants from him and walked away. You take your time, he called to Berel. We’ll be at least twenty minutes.

  Berel sat on the stool in his trousers and shirt. He felt a bit cold. The buses and taxis outside honked like animals in a zoo. He could hear the people on the street chattering nonsensically, louder and louder. The door to the shop opened and closed, opened and closed. A bell rang out whenever someone stepped across the doormat. There was chattering inside too.

  Pan Berel. Berel looked up. A man who looked bitingly familiar. His head was narrow, his eyes large, his face thin, one cheekbone slightly flatter than the other.

  Pavel Mandl, said the man. A good friend of your son-in-law. He told me you were coming, but I did not know when.

  Berel lifted himself up and shook hands. Good day.

  I see you’ve picked out something exquisite. You have good taste!

  Berel swallowed, and smiled. You have very nice things. He stepped back for a moment. The man’s voice.

  I’m glad you decided to wait. So I could meet you—

  What is to meet? Berel thought.

  Mandl was going on and on, almost hoarse. Chaim—I love him like a brother!

  Then it came to Berel. I know! he blurted. We have met! In Belsen. And immediately a blush began to come over him. He tried to push up a tear to his eye, make it look like he was overcome with something other than a sudden shame.

  Pavel Mandl stood still. Ah! he cried, slapping a hand to his cheek. My God! You—of course—you—you performed the marriage ceremony for my sister! To Jakub! In our house—my God—

  Of course, of course. Outside the camp. You were one of the few who lived like a real—it was the first time my wife and I had been in a living room in—

  Berel Makower, your name! But Chaim did not tell me—he married so quickly in Israel—I never knew his father-in-law was a rabbi!

  Berel smiled, still nervous. He would not be found out, not now. What was it, Pan Mandl, twenty years ago?

  What a wonderful coincidence! What a joy!

  Berel was always a terrible liar. And if he remembered correctly, this Mandl had some scholarly background. What if he began to converse about some Talmudic problem Berel would not even begin to remember? What a crazy thing he had done, performing a false religious ceremony for a young cou
ple. For what, a bit of money and a visit to a house?

  Berel stood up straight, tried to affect a tone of sadness. Yes, well—what I work in now—and I went through a period of, well—I no longer am so—and I hadn’t quite finished all my—you know, so many of us lost faith, after—

  But Pavel did not hear what Berel tried to say. That Chaim!

  Yes, nodded Berel, his face cooling. He did not even warn me that we knew each other.

  Pavel bent toward Berel. I think sometimes he forgets his past. Not forgets, exactly—he was always very intelligent—it is just that his mind is somewhere else, he doesn’t like to go back—and we love your daughter, from the moment we met her, we said—Chaim was even smarter than we thought!

  Pavel’s face bore a look of pride, as if Chaim were his own, like an older brother after the father has died, his face worn and misshapen, the face of a man ten or fifteen years older, Berel’s age. A camp face. One could tell the difference even years later. Berel’s palms began to itch a little. No, he would not confess.

  Yes, he is smart, Berel agreed. He tried to think back to the little house and the ceremony, Chaim guiding them to the center of the room, the sound of his own voice above the murmurings of the guests, Dvora weak and feverish but excited, his daughter clinging to his thighs, the bride straight-backed and quiet. But what became of your sister—she is in America?

  She is here! And her husband—we are partners still! This—Pavel motioned to the ceiling, then to the back room—this, in a way, is from you.

  Oh, no, Berel started. But the young man whom Berel had seen upon first walking in trotted over to the dressing area and shouted, “It’s ready—try on?” He pointed at the pants and at Berel’s legs.

  Berel looked at the pants, worried again. Do you mind if I don’t? said Berel. I’m so hot. He laughed a little. I’m sure it fits.

  Pavel said, Of course! Just come back if there’s a problem. Come back even if there is not a problem! Oh, what a day. What a day! He clasped Berel’s arm again, then took the pants and jacket from the American boy.

  Berel followed Pavel to the cash register. He felt in his front pocket for his wallet and took it out. He had half the money he had brought to America with him and removed all of it, placing it flat on the glass counter.

  What is this? said Pavel Mandl. No, that’s far too much. That’s really more than twice as much as it costs. That would pay for two suits, maybe three.

  Two suits? said Berel. That’s not possible. Your cousin said—

  Yes, yes, it’s a special, said Pavel. It’s a special. You see? Look, it’s a good quality, but we haven’t been selling too much lately, so that one’s a special. He smiled, then looked down at his receipt book.

  Your cousin said—Berel repeated.

  Ah, Mayer. Pavel leaned forward, spoke in a low voice. We brought him in when he lost his position—his experience really is as a cutter—sometimes with prices he makes mistakes.

  Berel looked at the ears and the mouth of the tailor; Pavel was gnawing his lip, his face almost angry, trying not to laugh. Berel’s palm sweated on his wallet, and suddenly he heard the puffing noises of the street breezing in from the outside, as if a classroom door had opened to the school yard and the real mischief of the students had come to the hearing of the teacher. He had been taken. Behind his back his daughter and son-in-law had arranged to pay. He saw the face of Chaim, solemn, careful, bent to his shoes, insisting that Berel go to this Mandl. As if insisting were necessary. Berel could go nowhere without their instructions. He could just imagine the mouth of this Pavel, pursing up a bit, Chaim smiling, charming, making a joke of Berel’s pride that he not take from his daughter, Chaim not even remembering, not even blinking at the idea that another man would be mocking him, or worse, treating him as charity. Berel had been tricked like a boy. He had been tricked. And this Pavel, no doubt a father like himself, in on the joke, not knowing how Berel himself had cheated him all those years ago. Berel was trapped: had Chaim already paid? Or was the plan to have Chaim pay the balance after Berel left with his ridiculously cheap purchase, miraculously chosen over all the other expensive garments?

  It’s too cheap, Berel finally said, looking at Pavel’s long hands, then at his face. And I don’t understand why.

  Pavel stopped smiling. Look, he said. That’s the price. Really.

  I don’t understand why it’s so cheap, Berel repeated.

  You married my sister.

  I was paid then.

  I know, said Pavel. I know. But I think you should buy it. Just buy it. Believe me, you won’t be sorry. That’s how we do it here. I always give Chaim the best price.

  Not so good a price.

  Pavel continued. Think how happy it will make your daughter, to see you in something you like so much. Think.

  Berel’s hands fell to his sides. He did not want to touch the dark gray cloth with his damp fingers. He wanted to go backward in time, to the moment he walked into the shop, to the bus ride downtown, no, before, to the first week he had arrived, when he sat feeding the baby on the entrance steps of the art museum and thought that his daughter worked in the most beautiful place in the world. He wanted to go backward, to the hour before he had decided that he wanted something this unnecessary, something too luxurious for his everyday life, something like a good gray suit.

  He looked at Pavel: I don’t know.

  Pavel said, I’ve known Chaim a long time. Do you know how I know him?

  No, said Berel. I do not. And it does not matter. I cannot accept.

  I know Chaim at random. An accident. He recognized Fela—my wife now—in a market in Poland—not recognized, just found her, he knew she was Jewish, incredible—I asked him once how he did it—he did not know—and he smuggled her across into Germany. All by himself. In a policeman’s uniform.

  Chaim? said Berel and shrugged. It’s hard to believe.

  Smart, even then. Already smart. You remember—he taught there, yes, of course he told me Sima had been in the school there—but I did not put it all together—

  A lot of people are smart, said Berel. That does not mean I take money from them. But already his words came out more slowly; he was beginning to feel embarrassed by his reluctance. He had given something false to Pavel all those years ago, but he knew he would not confess. He had done something shameful, and this Mandl would never know.

  To him, Pavel said, his voice deepening, to him I owe my wife. I owe my children. I would have nothing—nothing without him. He moved in with me; we sent him to school in the DP camp at Belsen. He would do anything for me, anything for Fela. Anything for his wife.

  I am not his wife, Berel said. I cannot accept. Not from him, not even from you.

  Pavel Mandl did not seem to hear him. When someone wants to do anything, it is all right to let him do something. It’s like a gift to the giver. Let him have it.

  Berel said nothing. I cannot accept, he thought. I cannot accept. But no sound came from his mouth.

  He’s a good boy, said Pavel. Now this suit. It needs a garment bag. You hang it inside like this.

  IT WAS AFTER FIVE but still hot. The air here was thick; people on the street walked slowly, trying to dry their wet faces with their wet hands. No rain, but moisture everywhere. Berel stood directly behind the bright sign, waiting for the bus home, but after twenty minutes and two number fives so crowded he would not have been able even to grab a strap to stand straight, he decided to walk, following the path of the bus, garment bag slung over his arm. What was it, four kilometers, five? He could do it.

  In general he did not like to take buses home. He rarely took them after work, preferring to walk through crowded Tel Aviv; only in the mornings, because he was not so good at being early, did he catch the route that passed three blocks from the apartment. One was almost always alone on a bus. Almost always. The night Chaim and Sima had boarded their flight to America, where Chaim would have more opportunity, real work for a young man, as he said, not to mention no army and no
children in the army, Berel and Dvora had taken the bus home with Chaim’s cousin Rayzl from the airport. Rayzele had been weeping silently, staring out the window of the bus at the blue lights and buildings-in-progress by the highway. Dvora had sat next to her, with her hand covering the cousin’s. Berel had sat behind, fuming. Everyone’s sorrows were larger than his wife’s. The sight of other people’s tears stopped her own from flowing. He would cry later without shame, shaking in the kitchen chair before they went to bed. But she would have to wait until he slept; he’d know from her swollen cheeks and stiff eyelids in the morning, when he glimpsed her as she padded into the bathroom after having laid out his coffee and bread.

  He would not have thought that his child would be able to leave the country that held her parents. Still, she had. Sima had to do what Sima had to do. She had a husband. Berel had pointed this out in arguments with Dvora. Had not one of Dvora’s young brothers left Poland some thirty years before, with a woman not yet his wife, to settle in Palestine? The turmoil it had caused in the family! But looking back, with no one else but Dvora and another sister surviving, it seemed to have been very wise.

  And now, even now, there was nothing in Israel, especially for the postwar immigrants from Europe, who stumbled over strings of Hebrew phrases as if they were reading from an ancient prayerbook. For the young it was even worse. At seventeen Sima had begged him, begged him, not to speak Yiddish to her when her friends visited to collect her for a night out or to loan her a bicycle for a day at the beach. It was the language of sheep led to slaughter. That was what people said. But Berel would mock her and ramble incessantly in Yiddish to her and her companions, throwing in a few Hebrew words so the friends could, with some struggle, understand. Let them struggle. He did not feel sorry. Now, in New York, Sima loved to speak it. Something had changed.