Belva Plain - Evergreen.txt

by Evergreen

  247

  ting away, can work wonders. Sunshine heals, you know."

  "Sunshine heals alcoholism?" Maury asked gently.

  "Well, but the time away together in a beautiful place—it helps the spirit. Who knows?"

  "It's awfully good of you, Pa. I want you to know I appreciate it. I really appreciate it."

  "Then you'll go?"

  "I'll talk about it with Aggie."

  Anna thought of something. "When you speak to her about the drinking, what does she say?"

  "She doesn't admit it. But it's well known that people seldom do."

  The swinging door from the dining room whirled open. "You're talking about me?" Agatha cried. "Maury, you're talking to them about me?"

  "We were only—" he began.

  "Don't lie! I heard every word. You didn't know we had come home—" She beat .with her fists on his chest. "Apologize! Admit that you lied about me?"

  Maury caught her hands. "I'm sorry, perhaps I shouldn't have discussed this even with my parents. But I won't say it's not true, because both of us know that it is."

  "I don't understand—" Agatha turned to Joseph and Anna. "He's got this—this puritan obsession about having a drink! Just because he doesn't like it, he thinks that every time a person has one or two he's drunk. Or if I lie down for a few minutes it can't be because I'm tired. Oh, no! It must be because I've been drinking!"

  Joseph and Anna were silent. Such a child, Anna thought with pity and dislike, a child standing there in her jumper and blouse, with her tear-smudged, angry face. She wasn't even pretty; what had he seen in her? When I think of the girls he could have married, such beautiful girls! And then, pity again. The man-woman thing! How helpless we are, like netted birds, when we are caught by desire! I, surely I, know all about that—

  "We'll never get anywhere, Aggie, if we're not honest with each other," Maury said. "If you would only admit you have a problem, we could help you."

  "A problem? I? Or maybe I do have one and you're it!" "Why? Because I find where you hide the bottle behind the stove?"

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  "What's happening?" Iris interrupted. "I was on the phone when I heard such a racket! I had to hang up!"

  "Iris," Joseph said, "we're having a discussion here. Will you leave us for a few minutes?"

  "I want her to stay!" Agatha cried. "She's the only one here I can talk to. Did you know they're accusing me of being a drunkard? Tell them, Iris, have you ever seen me drunk? Tell them!"

  "Leave Iris out of this," Joseph said sternly. "Now listen, Agatha, listen calmly. I want you to come into my den and we'll sit down together and talk."

  "Why don't we have dinner first?" As though she were standing outside herself, Anna heard her own words, offering food again. So often it seemed to be the only thing she knew how to do. "I've a beautiful roast and it's all ready."

  "No," Agatha said. "I'm going home! I can't stay here, can't sit down at your table!"

  Iris blocked the front door. "Aggie, I don't know what started all this, but listen to me, stay a little. Anyway, it's pouring, you can't even see to drive the car, wait a little."

  But Agatha's coat was flung on, she was out of the door, and Maury was in the outer hall arguing at the elevator door, "I'm not going to let you drive. If you insist on leaving at least I'll do the driving."

  "If I want to drive that car I will," they heard her say, and then the elevator door opened, and closed, and they heard its smooth sigh as it descended to the street.

  Anna put the food on the table and the three of them sat hardly touching it, hardly speaking, except that once Anna said, "Never once, in all the years in this house—" but did not finish. Iris helped her clear the kitchen and Joseph sat in the living room with the evening paper, not reading it. The wind from the river rattled the windows. Down on the deserted street the rain blew whirlpools in the puddled light of the street lamp on the corner.

  Later, when after a long, long time they were able to speak or to recall the particular sound and feel and texture of that February night, they saw it as a play in two parts, a prelude and an ending, with no middle.

  It was almost half past eight when the doorbell rang. When she saw the two policemen in their wet, black rubber capes, Iris was sure she knew.

  "Mr. Friedman?" one said.

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  Joseph rose from his chair and came toward them, walking so slowly, Iris thought impatiently: Hurry up, do hurry up!

  "Come in," Joseph said.

  "There's been-I have to tell you," one began. He stopped. The other one, older, so he must have done this sort of thing before, took over. "There's been an accident," he said softly.

  "Yes?" Joseph waited. The question waited, repeating itself in the dull light of the foyer. "Yes?"

  "Your son. On the boulevard in Queens. Can we sit down somewhere?"

  Quarreling, Iris thought, fighting in the tight little car.

  The policeman had such an odd expression. He swallowed as if there were a knob in the back of his throat. "They were—a witness said—the car was speeding very fast. It passed them, too fast in the rain, and it missed a curve."

  "You're telling me that he's dead," Joseph said, making a statement or asking a question. And this, too, hung in the air repeating itself: that he's dead, he's dead.

  The policeman didn't answer right away. He took Joseph's arm and sat him like a doll in the stiff carved chair in the foyer.

  "They didn't feel anything," he said, very softly. "Neither one of them. It was over so quick."

  The younger man stood there, turning his wet cap between his hands. "No, no one felt anything," he said again, as if this confirmation, this assurance, were a gift and a mercy.

  "They couldn't tell who was driving," the first one said. He turned to Iris. "Young lady, is there any whiskey in the house? And may we call someone? Someone in the family, or a doctor?"

  In the background near the door to the inner rooms, and yet sounding far away, came a stabbing scream. Again and again it ripped the air, over and over. It was Anna.

  "They were such a nice quiet couple," said Mr. Andreapoulis. He sat with Joseph and Anna in his little parlor. Through the open door to the kitchen they could see his wife rolling some dough on a table. "They never said anything, but we knew from the start there was something sad about them. No one ever came to see them. They used to go for long walks together. We felt sorry for them, my wife and I."

  Neither of them had ever mentioned their families, not until

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  after the little boy was born. Then one evening they had come downstairs looking very serious and said that they supposed now they ought to have a will, and would he draw it up for them? Not that they had anything much to leave, but there ought to be some plan for the care of the child in case something were to happen to them both. Mr. Andreapoulis had concurred in that. They had been uncertain and uneasy, but finally they had decided that, in the event of their deaths, the little boy should go to live with his mother's parents as guardians. He had asked them whether they had discussed this with her parents, and they said that they hadn't, but that it would be all right; her parents lived in the country and had plenty of room. Then they had begun to laugh, out of a kind of embarrassment which Andreapoulis had understood. A will is such a formal and pompous document for young people to be writing. People their age don't die and leave a baby behind. It was all academic and therefore foolish, in their thinking.

  So that was how it had come about. They had left the will with him and he supposed that, given their attitude, they had forgotten about it. As a matter of fact, he had forgotten about it himself until the night of the accident.

  "And so," Joseph said, "there's nothing that can be done to change it."

  "Well, as I've told you, anyone has a right to contest a will. But you certainly couldn't show undue influence in this case, could you? These people didn't even know about it." Mr. Andreapoulis' hooded eyes were mournful. "And they really want the child, y
ou see. Although any court would give you visitation rights, of course."

  "In their house?"

  "It would have to be, wouldn't it?"

  "Like visiting in a jail," Joseph muttered.

  "Well, do you want to fight it? I don't hold out much hope, but you never know."

  "Courts and lawyers. A dirty business. Excuse me, nothing personal, only—"

  "I know what you meant. It's all right."

  "A dirty business," Joseph said again. His eyes filled.

  The young man looked away. He waited.

  Joseph stood up. "We'll think it over," he said, "and let you know. Come, Anna."

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  On the wall behind the doctor's desk hung an arrangement of diplomas, forming an impressive frame for his head. The bookshelves on the side nearest Joseph and Anna were filled with texts, the doctor's own and many more. The Psychology of the Adolescent, Anna read, and The Psychology of the Pre-School Child.

  "Yes, I would say this baby has suffered trauma enough," the doctor said. "Of course I know what I've told you is not what you were hftping to hear."

  Anna wiped her eyes. "No, I believe it's right. I can see that it makes sense. Splitting the time would be no good for him even if the court were to allow it, which the lawyer says they very likely wouldn't, anyway."

  "That's mature thinking. Courageous, too, Mrs. Friedman."

  "And yet I don't know!" she cried out bitterly. "If the will had read the other way I wouldn't have treated those people the way they're treating us!"

  "But I would," Joseph said. "I would have done exactly what they're doing. And that's the truth."

  "Which proves," Dr. Briggs remarked, "why the child ought to be spared exposure to such hostility. He's had enough confusion and shock in his little life already. The kindest thing, if you really love him, and I see that you do, would be to bow out and leave him alone. Let these other grandparents rear him and give him stability. He's not a prize to be fought over."

  "Not even to visit," Anna said.

  "I wouldn't, if I were you, in these circumstances that you've described. How would he cope with so much hatred? And why should he be forced to take sides? When the boy is older he'll want to see you. Teen-agers are very concerned with identity. Then that will be another situation entirely."

  "Teen-agers!" Anna cried.

  "It's a long time to wait, I know," the doctor said.

  At home Anna mourned, "If we hadn't known him, it wouldn't hurt like this. He was starting to call my name, did you know that? He called me Nana the last time I saw him."

  I never knew I loved Maury so much when he was alive, Iris thought. But when I remember Eric, his little face, his little hands, I know how I loved my brother. And now that they have taken Eric away, it's like losing my brother twice over.

  24

  253

  After the first blinding pain of loss came long, desolate nights and days. Why? Why? And no answer. Nothing anymore. Never. It was too much effort to eat, too exhausting to dress or go down to the market, a burden to answer the telephone.

  Then one morning there came to Anna a stirring of desire to feel again. And she took out a sheaf of letters, tied together, that had arrived from Europe during the terrible time when Maury had been struck down. Voices called out of the dark: her brothers' (Eli and Dan, snub-nosed, freckled boys in their mother's kitchen and suddenly, in Vienna, as old as their father had been when he died); Liesel's (Eli's fair, silvery little girl); the unknown voice of Theo, the little girl's husband.

  1.

  Vienna, March 7, 1938 Dearest Uncle Joseph and Aunt Anna,

  Now that I am actually sitting down to write you a letter I feel ashamed and must begin by apologizing for not having written before, except for the note in which I thanked you for the beautiful wedding gift that you sent to Theo and me. I suppose my only excuse for not having written in all these years, and not a very good one, is that Papa writes to you, and it seemed that he was really writing for all of us. Any-

  way, here I am, your lazy niece Liesel, sitting in the library, looking out at the melting snow and the little garden room where we had afternoon coffee when you were here. Was it really nine years ago? I was such a baby then, staring at the relatives from America! And here I am, married; our boy Friedrich, Fritzl, we call him, is thirteen months old, just starting to take a few steps, and now we are going to America! I can't believe it.

  For that is what I want to write to you about. Theo left for Paris by train this very morning. He will take a ship from Le Havre, arriving in New York on the nineteenth. He has your telephone number, so don't be surprised when you get a call! He spent three years at Cambridge and speaks English beautifully, not like me. (That's why I'm writing this in German; because I remember that you were able to understand it very well.) I know you will like each other so much.

  The reason Theo is making the trip is to make plans for our immigration. As you know, he is a doctor, and has almost finished his work at the clinic here, studying plastic surgery. I saw the work he did on a child with a burned arm; he is so talented and loves his work! He needs to find out how you go about getting a license to practice in the U.S. and perhaps he might find a doctor who needs a young assistant. ... It is all quite unsettled, as you can imagine. So I thought that maybe among your many friends you might know a doctor who could advise him. Also, we shall be needing an apartment. Theo wants to sign for one and have everything ready; then he will come back and get Fritzl and me, and arrange to have all our furniture shipped. Perhaps you could tell him where to look for an apartment.

  I have such very mixed feelings about all this, I must admit. Theo is absolutely certain that the Nazis are going to occupy Austria within the next year or so. He has been saying it since before we were married, even when we first met. He is very interested in politics and sounds too convincing; he is determined to save us by emigrating. My parents and all Mama's relatives and Theo's own parents, too, think his ideas are pure nonsense. They refuse to leave and they are heartbroken that we are going. For a while Papa was really angry at Theo because he is taking the first grandchild and their

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  daughter away, but now that the actual time is drawing near, he is too crushed to be angry.

  As for me, I shall miss my parents, my young brother and sister, most terribly. And Vienna. Theo's father and Papa had arranged to buy a lovely small villa for us near Grinzing. Up to now we have been living in a very nice apartment only a short walk from the Ringstrasse. I shall miss it all so much. . . . And I forgot to mention I was invited to start next season playing with a small orchestra here. At last I felt I was really getting somewhere with the piano. It will be hard to start all over in New York.

  But I realize, if it should turn out that Theo is right about the Nazis, our lives here would be in danger because of being Jewish. It's strange, because I have never felt Jewish. I have always felt Austrian—Viennese, to be exact. Forgive me if I offend you, since I remember Papa said you are still quite religious. But then, I am sure you will understand; to be religious or not is entirely personal, is it not? And one does whatever makes one happy.

  Speaking of religious people, you may not know that Uncle Dan has already left. He and his whole family went last month to Mexico. He tried to go to the United States but it was impossible because of having been born in Poland; the quota is filled for years ahead. Of course Papa thinks Uncle Dan is quite stupid—they never seemed to get along very well, did they? Anyway, I hope they will succeed there, better than they did here.

  This has turned out to be a very long letter, longer than I intended. Now I hear Fritzl up from his nap. We all thought he was going to have red hair like Papa and you, Aunt Anna, but his hair has turned quite blond, almost white.

  I hope you are all very well, and I thank you so much for whatever help you can give to Theo. He doesn't need any money, only advice.

  With hearty greetings, your loving niece, Liesel Stern

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/>   2.

  Vienna, March 9, 1938

  Dear Sister and Brother-in-law,

  Your letter came here this morning, and I am sick with sorrow. To lose your son, your dear son! Destroyed in a pointless accident! Not even in a war, fighting for his country! That would be painful enough, but at least there is some reason in it, and hence some consolation. But this! I am sick for you, heartsick, and so is Tessa, so are we all. (I understand that Liesel wrote to you only a day or two ago, not knowing.) If only I could do something for you, dear Anna, dear Joseph.

  It seems that all of a sudden the world has gone mad with sorrow. Not that I compare my burden with yours, of course not, but we here are bent down with the grief of parting. ... As you have learned by now, my son-in-law, a fine young man of excellent family, has got a wild idea into his head about going to America. Please do not think I am prejudiced against America. When you went, Anna, from where we lived, it was understandable. But to leave Austria, because some fanatic across the border makes threats—it's absurd. Even if the Germans were to take Austria, and believe me, it would not be so easy, even then it would not mean the end of the world! Possibly some of the extremists here would deprive some Jews of their jobs; there's nothing new about that. We've always had that sort of thing in Europe, sometimes a little more, then again, a little less. It's nothing that one can't live through. And anyway, I tried to tell Theo, his own parents tried to tell him, with our family connections we are the last people to be bothered.