by Joshua Cohen
High above the furthest doorway, in the back of the balcony at the back of the assemblage entire, a boy just of age and only recently fatherless raises his hand out of nowhere, then shouts. Ooo Ooo Ooo, call on me…over here—what question can he have; heaven forbid us assume. There’s a great rustling, a jocose jostle, as the kid’s accommodated, he’s handed toward the front, the crowding unclothed passing him to each other, up and over one another to the railing, his feet to dangle over the balcony’s filigreed edge. Perched there as if a musing God, a philosopher, or a miniature king just resting a little, still mulling, he scratches his head as if he’s only now lost the nerve; then, after a moment clears his throat and with his voice just breaking asks his question out into space—as if a tiny planet, to be accompanied by the murmur of moons.
The kid says, when do we eat?
Suddenly, amid hushes in shushes, pshts, fingers held to lips pursed in thirst—try to behave yourself, set an example, fix your hair, look your best—two goyim have entered the Hall, coming in up the stairs then through the crowd with their escort, guardparting with elbows, prodding with nightsticks, they’re proceeding down the aisle to the steps up to the dais on risers: one Doctor Abuya trying for dapper in a dark suit blue or black they can’t tell which, white shirt, slickly red silken tie, he’s pudgy, pasty, an excess of face beset by jowls, fatty as if of plastic gulleting between where the chins should be the chin, a wad of white hair messy atop the glaringly inclusive forehead, presently adorned with the unflatteringly rectilinear metallic glasses of a goy you can only trust never to trust, and so you know him—his eyes distorting his face with squint, like dimples made by fingers, knobbily kneaded into the face of unleavenable dough; the other goy, to be known to them as the Nachmachen, is taller and leaner though for now largely inscrutable in a tight robe that flows to the heels, hermetically dark and expensively hooded: half alterebbe, half secretsociety monk (a shadow purse of lips, a crescent bone of nose); everyone thinking in whispers, how important does he have to be to get away with a uniform like that. Doctor Abuya grips the podium, uncomfortable, stiff and shifty, his knuckles pale as if he’s at stool. And then silence—until he sighs, loosens, holds his pants in his hands, hoists the band up to his waist. From his hood, the Nachmachen forces a cough that’s a signal. A swath of slate descends. Chalk is brought, a clutch of bonewhite fingers borne to Doctor Abuya atop a pillow trimmed in plaited lace; the young Arab assistant retreats, scampers back into the wings. The Doctor feints to follow him off, his hands held behind the back, his stomach sagging him hunched, but he’s only pacing, around and around the surface, suspended. A blackboard hanging unsettled with the weather inside. The stripped boys and those older, beyond death, they sit, they stand, they throng, impatient but laudably so given the circumstances, who would believe; their eyes and heads follow his pacing; their ears swell, the hairs prickle; they pay attention through the nose—sniffling, an occasional sneeze. Only silence and the goy’s fatty footfalls, until—a screech…then, erasure by a coat edge, charily pinstriped wool stained with white. A small laugh bursts out from the assembled, in odd, nervous clumps, and the Nachmachen stomps a foot on the dais, carpeted in thick blue, which mutes his reprimand to a muffle. On the board slightly swaying, blackness is quickly being covered in markings, with numbers and letters in fingernail scratches like unhealing scars, desperate scrapes either for life, or against it—the Schedule…
0600 is Reveille, meaning wakeup, they’re advised, with a rousingly roostery trumpet, the metallic horn of a mechanical ram: the morning’s sounding of the Garden’s siren, which had been made to alert to air war, to send people a lifetime since dead, their entire families and livestock and what food and drink they could and candles by now a century past eaten and drunk and kindled extinguished down into the earth deep into their bunkers, to huddle amid the graves and the dust to wait out within them the damning fire and sky—it had been looted from a town in Europa, which has since been forgotten, in Polandland it was, a village whose name in any language has gone unremembered, untongued. It sounds loudly and long once again, though this here’s just a test to make them familiar: conditioning, call it, to put the fear of governance into them, to install the alarm in their souls. Then, static pours through the PA, whose speakers, they’ll find, are rigged up and wired throughout, perched like rusted nests on the signposts, boughdeep buried in the trees, suspended from every ceiling corner, screwed under grates, secreted down crawlspaces, inaccessible ducts, under each pillow, feedback, in our very own mouths…
Shalom, Garden! the Voice says, that of their new deity who’s to be referred to only as Das, good morning!
Overhead, generationold fluorescents go mercury mad gas discharge, flick flick flicker, remain fixed.
On the square just outside, a slip of water once used for docking and now, frozenover, an orchestra tunes, warming up for the Flag Raising, delayed.
As for the flag, for now it’s just a naked pole, as no one knows which stars to fly—the fifty spangles of fivepointed, or the single whose points number six, maybe both. We’ll keep you informed; it’s still being worked out in committee.
0630 is the time of Morning Prayer, which is known as Shacharit, don’t ask—with a projected thousand minyans open to any denomination; rabbis off to form groups, scrambling to put in the forms for tallis and Torah. A guide to available services is to be posted like teffilin between your eyes, upon your arms, then on the walls between the two Commissaries; check it, as there should be daily updates.
On the Sabbath, though, things are different, and on Fridays late, too, when the holy begins. Shabbos it’s called, mark it TBA—we’ll proceed; I’m sure you’re all very hungry…
And so you’ll be excited to know that everything’s kosher. Always, it’s glatt, rest assured: no outside food’s ever allowed. Mehadrin. The Shade Administration vouches; the President’s given the hechsher himself. Hope that answers your question. What else? We begin serving at 0700, and provide three meals per day. Our menu revolves each moon, regurgitates you might say. All meals are served in the Commissary, which you’ll find labeled on the maps provided as #7…and there’s a mass folding over, an accordion wheeze of outscrolled paper, a squeezeboxy tear. Might we share, mind if I save myself over your shoulder. Seven, sieben, sept, sette, siete, siedem, hét…interpreters secreted throughout the Hall call out numbers, the informative Babel. On offer are all your favorite popular cereals of sugared flakes, and healthy granola, too, müsli with seasonal fruits to top (allow us to take the opportunity to thank our wonderful sponsors, including ten or so companies allied with prominent senators and a conglomerate or two for which President Shade had once been on board), along with a full complement of milks, percentaged whole to skim and flavored almond, butter, chocolate, and soy, those for the lactose intolerant. Of course, we’re speaking of the Milk Commissary, it’s the dairy that’s talking; you’ll find the Meat nextdoor, labeled with the #8 and eight echoes throughout: acht, huit, otto, ocho, osiem, nyolc, BOCEM…of course, both are strictly supervised; we’ve got inspectors working around the clock, mash-giachs they’re called, stick around, you’ll get good with the slang. As most of the survivors, like most of the dead, are unobservant, Kashrut, which as it’s explained again and again and in the deepest of details is the keeping of the dietary laws as given down from a mountain made of earth and so, inedible, will take some getting used to: please, Rabbi Bunkmate—explain to me the lack of brunchmeats, the sausages forbidden, the absence of bacons neither lofat, nor excessively stippled…why O why is brunch always dairy?
Welcome to your tour of the Commissaries…these two long and low, screenseparated, twoentranced rooms, tiled and laid with tables separated by squat columns themselves tiled an institutional white. To the left, where you get your silverware and your fine china, a burning bush of metal. A sign’s lettered italicized, bold—Deposit Trays—And—Dishes Here. To the right, the foods, their lines forever long, lasting throughout the day beginning wit
h night then into the same meal next, all over again: lunkfast, linner, dunch, and on into brunch, how they’re still queued, thousands deep—everyone, to the omelet station! with its migrant who knows and who cares from where chefs flipping the contents of skillets over their hotplates, a freewheeling cheese selection apportioned on translucent plastic cuttingboards, grapestarred and nutted, crumbling gouda, gooey brie; alongside the vegetable offerings: pepperwell giving green, red, sweet, and spicy; imported onions to tear; mushrooms handpicked: a delightful array of mycological oddities imported from Wielkopolska, grown in premium mycelia of don’t want to think about it, its earth, nu, don’t think to ask. I should mention a bit about the eggs, though—they aren’t dairy, and yet neither are they meat. Fleischig’s the term for the flesh. Milchig just as it sounds, for the milk, what a lingo. Rather, eggs are exemplar of that third species they’ll know from now on as Pareve. It’s neutral; gustatorily speaking no mensch’s land. Meaning not this, neither that, here-there, yes-no…I know, it’s tricky. You’ll adjust—that’s a promise.
Their guide’s a guiltless intern in from Bumble, Iowa, here to gain experience in any field that’s not corn. He stops for a breath, savoring the waft of fresh bake…this is the Bread Section, a vast marbleized surface mensched by a skilled cutter of crusts resembling Dad, Aba, whatever you called him even if he was absent, at meetings away, always at work; and we can’t forget the bagels, now, can we? In daily from the yeastiest beaches of Brooklyn, trucked across the ice hot and fresh, crustysoft suns of hole, burnished rings of gold: waterboiled glutinous, everything to plain, toastable in individual toasting units located just across from the containers that safeguard the condiments, that keep and preserve; the oils, vinegars, sweet and salty dressings, and interjacent to extensively sneezeguarded, oftrefreshed troughs of spreads both flavored and plain, butters and buttery marge, jellies, jams, preserves with rind or peel and without: creamedcheeses, schmears plain and whipped, and all those brands that’ve been liberally flecked with tomatoes sundried then shredded, infused with salmon smoked, chopchived, too, mostly for the edification of the adults among them, or that of any kinder preternaturally sophisticated, with according discernment of palate. We aim to please; that’s what we’re here for, what we’re for here. To stuff a nameless napkin into the comments box, the charity of complaint. We Welcome Your Suggestions. We need less, want more. And out. And then further on down the line, the line’s line endless, a waiting wait—to push, to pushshoulder, shoulderelbow with knee and hand shove ahead their trays along runners: beggars can be choosers only here; among these loaves and hairnetted fishes, gravlaxed, herrings sweet and sour, in wine and briny cream. Selection varies. Appetites, too, then tastes. At the far end of the Milk against the screening wall on whose other side is a replica for the service of Meat, the saladbar, administered by women with a tendency to spit: they demand you eat your veggies. A clean plate policy’s in effect, don’t you know, enforced on pain of seconds served up with a side of guilt. These mothers cry, eat up! grow already, will you?
And if you’re thirsty, their guide announces, on this tour a mild mestizo Mexican named Fausto, he says, spiffed in yarmulke and tracksuit, and I know I am…laughs ensue, titters—we’re proud to offer only the best in juices, squeezed fresh on our premises from choicest Florida citrus (from concentrate); this served up to their parched from out of great gurgling rubbermade trashcans stirred with oars, then ladled out with plastic pitchers roped and knotted off to handles, each of them the trashes labeled large in yelloworange spraypaint with product, Pulp, A Little Pulp, and Very Very Little, none without. As for wine, it’s served only on Fridays, with Shabbos dinner, which you’ll be eating with your families assigned—red or white, good vintage. All name brands, overstock from California. And Palestein, also. If it’s ever water you want, feel free to find an icicle to suck.
0900 begins the Garden’s School Day, with mandatory enrollment for all no matter their age or education level: the kinder alongside professional professors, doctors, lawyers, and wholesale illiterates in any language known. There’s so much to get caught up on, so little time to care. At this hour, in the windowless rooms of the wings surrounding the Registry, and in a number of outlying units, too, in mismatchedly ramshackle sheds and annexed trailers, temporary structures rental or lastmoment erected slipshod and so soon to be razed to make way for shelters of a more permanent nature, which are expensive and so the financing begins…the latenight, underground audits of firstborn assets, the brunchside, bunkside pledge drives, multiplatform fundraising initiatives implemented for the sake of new beds, chairs, and desks—they’re studying, in rows yeshivish, of learners quick and slow, of Malamuds and Lerners at their markedup, knifed and gummed and grafittied tables creaking under their books omnilingual, books and languages both on permanent loan from recently domained area parochial schools, courtesy of unasked donation, benevolent largesse anonymous only in its receipt, the pitiless ledger lines, page after page flipped foreignly to distract them from, what…Doctor Abuya’s been assigned to the eldest class, invariably the least advanced, difficult to deal with though invaluable in influence; he stands in front of them parsing, glossing, wising up, a foreigner, a usurper, just a lesson ahead of his pupils, middleaged, geriatric and older even, ancient: to study—knowledge never ends, its endeavor never does, only the time in which we have to risk it, is it worth it; if knowledge promises wisdom promises happiness, maybe, and if not, then. To study the value of study. Here they work their mornings in ulpan, crashcoursing the mamalashon: the holy tongue shoved down the hole voweled into their faces, wondrously agape if breathing in snores; the afternoon, though, educates the hours of laziest attention, those of wandering gossip, grabs and gropes, the torpor of distracted flirtation, is given over to the secular, to practical business and communication skills, with pertinent mathematics. If Adam has one apple, and Eve has two, it’s a better investment to buy the tree. Chop it way the hell down. Build a goddamned shopping mart. And plant trees of plastic thereupon. Very good, Avram. Very good. All these lifesized, fully competent and heavily insured adults stuffed behind desks, with their bellies overflowing the swollen wood, squeezed into chairs tight about the thighs. Menschs all, displaced paters familias reduced to immaturity, reverted against their will, ulcerated, idle—insomniac professionals just going out of their futzing minds, if we’re being frank: middle of a perfectly good workday afternoon and you find yourself pacing the hallways, as forlorn as a hospital’s, as spare as a court’s, annex to annex with a class schedule burning in the hands, plodding through every rationale, justification, drivethru philosophy, the selfhelp exhortative; finding safety, solace in the bathrooms, smoking quick cigarettes out windows and cursing teachers, perched on porcelain while they’re expected in class to recite, to approach the intimidating presence of blackboard—how did we get here, what am I going to do. Plot a lawsuit. Hatch an escape. Hang yourself from the fixture in the stall. Above the watery laughter of the tank. Suicide. Many do. The Nachmachen’s is an easier task, and holier: stalking the younger ranks, the choice kindergarten classes, he slaps their faces, tugs hair, makes sure their yarmulkes, which are mandated, stay always on and fastened—prodding, demanding, insistent, imparting to them their own tradition, their only inheritance, despite their resistance to its assumption, despite their unwillingness to take responsibility for its meaning, its future; though tuition’s already been deducted from their accounts, which have been frozen by Garden, Inc. offIsland, in escrow, presently administered by the government and invested in this, its venture, reinvested in life, which is theirs, which is them. No appeal.
And then, after class, its brute bell ringing out to air their excited shrieks, enter the age of extracurriculars: our ocean lately iced, they quickly change to dip themselves in the heated pools, Olympically domed in glass to Island–West; Free Swim’s M–Th, 3–8, and Sun 10–5, though the times just like everything else are subject to change or plague…what a life, what encourageme
nt, support—to become involved, included, to be welcomed warmly into every club ever founded under heaven: chess instruction’s offered and so soon teams are formed, and tournaments are organized, lessons in piano and violin are made available to those demonstrative of talent—apply in person at the Prodigy Office, POD 33–6…community service is an option, an opportunity it’s called, also that of interdenominational outreach: hobbying at a home for the aged; litter pickup along local highways; mornings publicly speaking for broadcast at Midtown mosques and churches, detailing recent experiences, the script of how thankful we are; then, evenings privately reading poetry to other orphans and the ill throughout the greater metro area: instructing the world, in its popular mass or only one at a quiet time, in the very culture in which they, too, are being instructed, despite the fact it’s dead.
Attention, the Library is Open.
And here they gather, standing amid haphazard stacks unbound, confiscated from the collections of the lifeless, Fifth Avenue’s umbilically far and stillborn twin.
A miracle, in that they’re women—though they’re employees, the only women here. And don’t even think—there’re strict policies against that, and they’re enforced, too, any infraction punished with affection withheld. Of those paid to attend to the survivors, these are the most beautiful, conventionally speaking; they’ve been hired for that, then gathered up into the folds of this room that’s most recently become the Library with the dedication of appropriate plaque, which is bronze, a ceremony accomplished in silence, without circumstance, without attendees: a multipurpose, utilitarian hall, with a gymnasia’s appointments, heated by the humidity of shvitz once spent upon its burnished burls of flooring, laminate, polished to a greasy slick, walled in by plaster festooned with insignia and jerseys, the retired shrouds of police and fire heroes; streamers faint in light fluttery from raftered sag, amid the stick of banners, bunting, spattered with squalid insects; two hoops, one on each side, lacking nets—between them, an empty scoreboard’s hung over a stage; the books are stacked in alphabetical piles atop the inbuilt bleachers opposite, stadiumed precariously as if to cheer in their silence the topple of the ceiling.
