‘I’ll go now.’ Abner was on his feet. ‘Is there anything you specially want? Or don’t want?’
‘Everything,’ he said, and his eyes glinted with happy greed. ‘Prawns, pork, the lot. Believe me, after those years, kashrus is the last thing I care about — what about you?’
‘My family never cared about eating kosher.’ He was embarrassed, suddenly. It should matter, he felt obscurely, it really should. But he couldn’t pretend. Not to this old man. It would be an obscene thing to do.
‘So, I’ll make the tea. Don’t be long.’ And he shuffled out to the hall, and opened the front door, almost pushing Abner out in his eagerness. ‘And don’t be mean! I got an appetite, you know?’
‘I know,’ Abner said and set off to walk briskly back the way he’d come. It wasn’t until he was sitting in the stuffy Chinese restaurant waiting for his order, amid the tinkling of the Chinese music and the rattle of the bead curtains over the door, that he saw how exquisitely funny it was; to be buying sweet and sour pork for a survivor of the Holocaust had to be the most black of jokes. And he began to laugh.
Eight
Cyril Etting, wrote Abner at the top of the sheet, and added the address and the phone number. And then stopped and stared helplessly out of the window of his room at the hotel.
He tried again. Perhaps if he concentrated on getting the bald facts down that would unlock it? The flood of words the old man had produced over the little foil containers full of greasy food, the information that had come out so casually from a mouth filled with barbecued spare ribs and piles of noodles, had been so horrific, had painted a picture so vivid, that Abner hadn’t listened so much as watched the images unroll in front of his eyes; and now he couldn’t find the words to précis it as he would have to to make any use of the material for the film. So he wrote: Age: seventy-one. Country of origin: Poland (Warsaw). Camp: Treblinka. Special factors: member of Warsaw Ghetto resistance committee for three months till rounded up in purge, following assassination of German sergeant. Occupation pre-war: medical student. Lost relations: five sisters, three brothers, parents, grandparents, two uncles, ?one aunt (no death record ever found).
Again he stopped. To try to get on to the page the sense of outrage that had filled him as he had listened to the old man talking so calmly of the misery and humiliation he had known was beyond him. It would have to continue to be simple facts. Were there any more he could dredge out of that long afternoon? He had sat and listened as the gravy from the chicken chow mein had congealed on his plate and tried to be as dispassionate a listener as the old man was a talker. He had somehow succeeded, but now he felt the exhaustion of the effort it had been. The only answer was to go on being dispassionate; and he bent his head and again started to write. And now it came more easily. Camp occupation: orderly in krankenhaus (hospital). Assisted at surgery (probably cause of survival; deft at the work, also to an extent befriended by senior surgeon).
What was it the old man had said then? Abner stared again out of the window at the darkness and heard the old voice thin in his ears.
‘Listen, do you think I didn’t know what was happening? Those operations he did — it’s better you don’t know. It was better I didn’t think about them. But at least they had an anaesthetic before it was done. They died comfortable, which was more than a lot of them did. The ones I had to work with, they had a decent anaesthetic and didn’t know what was happening. If there’d been any percentage for me in doing any different than what I did, I’d have done it. There wasn’t, so I didn’t. What would you have done?’
Oh, God, Abner thought. What would I have done? And having no answer bent to look at his page again.
Post war; displaced persons’ camp in occupied West Germany, then quota’d for UK emigration, 1948. Six months in resettlement hostel, Hackney, London. Two years in hospital in Epsom, Surrey UK with TB (tuberculosis). Married ward orderly from hospital 1951. Worked as hospital porteer Edgware, London, from 1952 until retired at age sixty-five, 1973. Wife died 1974. No children (probable reason, Etting’s sterility following radiation in camp experiments 1943). House bought with legacy from wife’s parents, 1959. Current source of income: old age pension plus social service welfare support (free meals delivered, home help). Present health: poor; considerable arthritis, mild diabetes and severe chest problems (emphysema).
He wrote the last word carefully, copying it from the scrap of paper Cyril Etting had given him. He didn’t know what it was but he would find out. And he stopped writing and leaned back in his chair to read all that he had set down.
How would it fit into his film? Would any of it? The long empty quiet years afterwards when Etting had pushed wheelchairs and garbage cans around a battered British hospital? The childless marriage — to whom? ‘What was she like?’ Cyril had echoed his question. ‘Who can say? She was a wife. My wife. Who’s to know what that means except a husband? A good girl who knew nothing of Jews and misery. A good girl — ’
It won’t fit, any of it, Abner thought. I used the afternoon and none of it is any use. He tried to drum up some indignation at the waste of time, but he couldn’t. Of course, it hadn’t been wasted; even if he didn’t use Etting as a participant in the film when eventually he got the money to start work on it properly, he had painted in the emotion, the background of it all in a way that Abner needed. He had some of it already, of course. His own father.
He stood up then and began to pack away the file he had started. The notes on Mrs Fraister — those were a waste of time, but he wanted to record every conversation he had — he set carefully after Etting’s in the ring binder. Be orderly, alphabetical, keep it all correct and neat and then you won’t lose anything. But he knew he was hiding from the confusion in his mind with such foolish detail and was once again angry with himself.
He bathed, put on a clean shirt and then reached for the jeans and windcheater in which he felt most comfortable. He’d put on a suit that morning, feeling that he ought to look businesslike and sensible but now he needed to be comfortable so badly that he ached with it. He had to get his head clear of the shadows of the afternoon and didn’t know how to do it; as he turned away from the bedside table, strapping on the watch he’d left there while he bathed, he stopped and stared at the phone. After a long pause, Abner picked it up and dialled the number in Oxford. Why not? She had said to come back. So he would. But he would make an appointment.
She was cool on the phone, sounding as though she could barely remember who he was, and he said sharply, ‘You told me I should call, arrange to come back some time. Have you forgotten?’
‘Of course not. I told you, come when you like.’
‘I thought I should make an appointment. Not just walk in on you — ’
‘Why not? I’m always here — or if not, you can wait, I suppose. I’m never gone long.’
‘You must be out sometimes.’
‘I told you, never for very long. Half an hour or so. If that’s too long to wait, of course — ’
‘It seems unnecessary when I could make an arrangement,’ he said.
She sounded exasperated. ‘And that means I have to sit around and expect you, and you might not even bother to turn up. I don’t do that. It’s boring. Come when you like. I’m here or if I’m not I soon will be. Take your chance like everyone else — ’ And she hung up, leaving him holding the dead ear piece and feeling absurdly elated. She had been offhand to the point of being insulting and yet she hadn’t been unfriendly, he knew that; behind the edged exasperation of her tone there had been a liveliness that had not been there the first time he had spoken to her. He’d get through the appointments of the next couple of days because he’d made them, and he had to be businesslike, but then he’d go down to Oxford. And that thought made him feel positive again and he reached for the light to switch off before going in search of supper.
The phone trilled and he was startled; who had this number for him?
‘Mr Wiseman? Would I be speaking to Mr Abner W
iseman?’ The voice was low and agreeable, the accent very precise, and he thought — Conrad Veidt. Those velvety careful tones were pure Veidt. Any moment the door would open and Claude Rains would walk in to the strains of ‘As Time Goes By’, with Bogart lisping, ‘Of all the bars in the world…’ Fool, he thought and made himself concentrate.
‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Who wants him?’
‘Ah!’ It was a soft sound, almost a sigh. ‘I’m glad to have found you. My name is Garten, Eugene Garten. How do you do?’
‘Er — glad to meet you,’ Abner said rather absurdly as though the man was standing there, holding out a hand to be shaken.
‘I thought it might be useful to talk, Mr Wiseman,’ the velvet voice said.
‘Er — well, that’s very kind. But I — who are you? I don’t think I know you — ’
‘No, of course you don’t.’ The voice laughed in a friendly sort of way. ‘How could you? I understand you’re doing some research into survivors of the German labour camps?’
Abner said guardedly, ‘Who told you this? Are you a friend of Cyril Etting?’
‘Who?’ The voice sounded genuinely puzzled.
Abner sharpened. ‘Obviously not. Who then?’
‘Victor Heller,’ the voice said. ‘He said you were doing research for the purpose of a film, and that I should get in touch with you since I could be of some use, having been myself involved in those dreadful times.’
‘Well, that’s very helpful of you — who did you say?’
‘An old friend of mine. It really doesn’t matter.’
Abner had managed to tuck the phone between his ear and his shoulder so that his hands were free to scrabble in his document case for the list of contacts Frieda had sent him. Maybe the name Garten had said was on that? It certainly wasn’t on the list of his own contacts; he’d have been sure to remember if it were.
‘But it would help to know,’ he said, a little abstractedly now, because he was looking down Frieda’s list. There was no Heller there. And he lifted his eyes from the paper and squinted at the wall, concentrating on the caller. ‘Just for my records.’ And he knew that sounded fatuous and didn’t care.
‘Heller.’ Garten seemed reluctant to say it now, but he repeated it all the same. ‘Victor Heller. But it doesn’t matter. The film world, you know what it’s like, is a very small one. Everyone knows everyone else, and I dare say the word’s gone round and people are talking. I’m in the business myself in a small way, you understand. I deal mostly with distributors. As a publicist.’
Now Abner understood. The hangers-on, the people who bustled about self importantly long after the real work was over, when the packages had been tied up and the film had been shot and edited and post production was almost complete so that they were about to hit the distributors. The people who then scuttled around talking and boasting and carrying on as if the film was their very own. Abner had hated the publicist on his first film who had oversold it so hard that he had made it seem tawdry in Abner’s own eyes. In the event the flurry of newspaper and TV excitement had done no harm; the film had found its own recognition and acceptance and hadn’t needed the hyperbole of the publicist, who thereafter regarded the film as a failure because it hadn’t been a blockbuster — Oh yes, Abner thought, publicists I understand about.
‘I shan’t need a publicist, Mr Garten,’ he said frostily. ‘Not for a long time, if at all. I’m still very much at the research stage.’
‘I realise that,’ Garten said easily. ‘I’m not touting for work, Mr Wiseman, rest assured. I’m simply offering my services as an object of research. I was in Birkenau, you understand. Not as long as some, thank God. A mere six months. I was fortunate. But I understand how it was for so many people and would be glad to offer any help I can in your interesting project.’
‘How do you know it’s interesting?’ Abner was as alert as he had ever been. This bastard was a rip-off operator. That was the real threat — not unwanted publicity, but robbery. The film was a good idea and some bastard was trying to poach on his ground. ‘What the hell do you know about it?’
‘Oh, please, Mr Wiseman!’ The voice was as soft as cream. ‘There’s no need to worry! I’m not trying to steal any of your ideas! It’s simply as I said. I was told that you’re interested in talking to people who have suffered in the camps, and as one who feels strongly that there should be no forgetting, that it is not possible to speak too often of the horrors of those days and those people, I wished to be of assistance. However, I quite understand your anxiety and if you prefer not to speak to me…’
He stopped invitingly and Abner stood there trying to think clearly. It was bad enough that the man had seen through so swiftly to his fears; was he now going to compound the problem by sending him off in a temper when he actually had something to offer? To hang up on him would be very satisfying, but if his suspicions were right and someone was trying to put a spoiler on his plans then it would be much more sensible to hold on to this guy, find out more about him and who set him on. And anyway, never forget that he could be useful.
‘Well, OK,’ he said now, carefully acting the part of an aggrieved man who was being won round. ‘If I have your assurance there’s nothing at all — you know how it is in this business. So many sharks around, you get yourself eaten before you put your feet in the water, unless you take great care.’
‘I’m no shark, Mr Wiseman. Just an old man with a story to tell. May I suggest you join me at my club for a drink?’
‘Club?’ Abner lifted his chin in hope. Was there another Shoah Club here in London? ‘What sort of club?’
‘Ah, I’m afraid not one of your first-water types. Not Whites or Boodles! But decent enough for all that. We call ourselves the Philanderers, though most of us are much too old to do more than just reminisce over the days when we had the energy to do so. It’s in Soho, you know. It will amuse you, I’m sure. In Romilly Street, on the corner of Vinegar Yard. Any cab driver will know it. In half an hour perhaps?’
Abner hung up the phone and stood staring at it sightlessly. This was all so silly and cloak and dagger; to get calls from total strangers and to accept invitations to drink in cheap clubs in Soho; first visit to London though this was for him, he knew about the area, that it was a dubious neighbourhood.
And then, suddenly, he knew what to do and seized his key and went down the stairs two at a time to talk to the man in the bar; a thin and pallid creature of indeterminate age who clearly knew all there was to know about life in London. Abner had sat over a late night drink the evening before listening to him talk to the other people there, and knew him to be useful. He’d tell him what he needed to know.
‘The Philanderers?’ the man said. ‘Can’t say I ever ’eard of it. Where is it, did you say? Romilly Street? — Oh, I know. It’s ’armless, mate. Just another drinkin’ joint. Not even any girls there. No one’ll rip you off there. It’s the strip joints you got to watch out for, Mr Wiseman. They’ll take your wallet, your credit cards and sell your balls for soup before they let go of you, so watch it. If you want a girl I can do you better than any of those scrubbers.’
Abner declined the offer gracefully and swallowed the drink he’d ordered, out of good manners, as fast as he could. If he was going to meet Garten he might as well be on time.
He was comforted when the cab driver simply grunted and showed no special reaction when he gave him his instructions, and settled back into the leathery seat to think his way to Soho. Already his research seemed to be paying off; if outsiders were trying to horn in on it there had to be something there worth horning in on. So he’d got that side of it right, for a start. What about the money side? Nagel hadn’t been all that forthcoming for all his largesse with names and phone numbers, and Abner thought again of the computer screen and its close packed lines of information and frowned in the dimness. All right, Nagel had given him four possible sources of financial help, and he’d thought that good, but what of all the other names he’d had listed there?
Four seemed meagre compared with that; and he tried to recall some of the other names he had read. In his boyhood he’d had one of those memories for which other people at school paid him handsomely in hamburgers and bubble gum; he could stare at a sheet of writing for half a minute and then close his eyes and read it off as though it were still in front of him. He tried it now, shutting his eyes against the passing neon lights of Oxford Street along which the cab was now pushing itself and tried to read Nagel’s computer screen again.
Matthew Mayer. He opened his eyes and stared at the passing scenery. That was the only name he could remember, and it wasn’t strange that he did, after all. It had been repeated often enough and he had actually commented on that fact to Nagel. That was why he now remembered it, he told himself a little mournfully. I didn’t read it off in the way I used to. I’ve lost that photographic memory of the old days, dammit.
Matthew Mayer, he thought again. Partner to so many different people, second in command to so many different companies. Odd, that. And then as the cab at last wheeled and began to thread through the side streets of Soho he nodded at himself in some satisfaction. He’d try that one on the man Garten. If he was really in the business as he said he was, wouldn’t he know the sort of people who might have money to spare for a useful film like Postscripts? Wouldn’t he know who Mayer was, and whether it mightn’t be worth talking to him? After all, he might be only second name in any particular company, but he was up there. Couldn’t he have some muscle? And mightn’t he respond to an approach with appreciation? Second stringers, he told himself, often get left out. He might find it flattering to be asked. I’ll have to find out more about him.
The cab stopped beside a narrow door with a row of battered brass plates outside it and he got out and paid, looking over his shoulder a little uncertainly. But there it was, ‘The Philanderers’, and he said to the cabby as he dug for change, ‘Do you know this club?’
Postscripts Page 9
