Postscripts

by Claire Rayner

  ‘All this is surmise! Who can tell? But I suppose you could be right. I mean, that the man who runs this and the boy with the apples are the same person.’

  He sat and stared down at his hands. Abner watched him, almost feeling the struggle that was going on inside him.

  ‘I know who he is. The person who’s running this whole thing,’ Monty said at length. ‘I’ve always hated it, always felt sick about it, tried not to think about it, but sometimes you have to — ’

  ‘Then tell me,’ Abner said.

  ‘You’re asking too much! Jesus, but you don’t know what you’re asking of me! He can — he’s got so much bloody clout he could ruin me, you know that? He can ruin anyone as easy as he chops the top off a boiled egg at breakfast. The man’s got no concern, you know what I mean? He does what he wants, when he wants and he’s got no concern. Not an atom.’

  ‘Tell me who it is,’ Abner said again. ‘Take the chance. I’m not afraid to make sure the law is brought in. If he’s lying and cheating and forging he can be got by the police.’

  ‘Want to bet?’ Monty said with the ghost of a smile. ‘I’ll believe that when I see the sun rise in the west for a change. No one stops this one from doing what he wants. He’s too clever to get caught, whatever he does. He sold his own people and got away with it.’

  ‘Not entirely. Went to Auschwitz, didn’t he and — ’

  ‘And came out again,’ Monty said. ‘From all accounts the only boys who managed that did it by playing the whore for the guards there. What do you think of that, hmm? Boys of sixteen doing that for German guards. Jewish boys.’

  ‘People will do a lot to survive,’ Abner said after a moment. ‘They’d walk over dead bodies.’ And he saw Isaac Coenen in his mind’s eye as brightly as if he were standing there beside him. ‘Survival drives people along hard roads.’

  ‘That hard?’ said Monty. ‘That hard?’

  ‘I think so,’ Abner said. ‘The thing is, I don’t know what I’d do in his situation. What would you do?’

  ‘I sure as hell wouldn’t go on cheating and lying and stealing long after it was all over the way this one does,’ Monty flared at him. ‘I sure as hell wouldn’t use people the way this one uses ’em! He runs rings round everyone and doesn’t give a shit. As long as he’s got his stinkin’ paintings and his music and — ’

  Abner froze and stared at him, saying nothing and Monty caught his stare and laughed, his mouth twisting a little.

  ‘Don’t look like that. Who else could it be? I don’t know if he’s your apple boy, but I can tell you he’s the one who’s scooping up diamonds and anything else the dead left after the Holocaust. Mayer, of course. Isn’t it obvious?’

  Thirty-five

  ‘What the hell do I do, Miriam?’ Abner said again. And got to his feet and began to prowl the room once more, moving jerkily between the piles of books and the fireplace where the flames flickered comfortably, and the cat slept on Miriam’s lap as she sat on the hearth rug watching him.

  ‘What can I do? If I go and tell him I know he’ll laugh at me. Because what evidence do I have? Monty’s right. Unless we have real documentary proof that this man is using forged material to get his hands on dead men’s property, there isn’t anything I can do. And Isaac won’t help — you saw him. How can I expect him to help? He’s a wreck. He blames himself for all of it. There’s no way this side of the last trump he’ll stand up to questioning about the sort of treatment he had at Heller’s and Garten’s hands. And what about them? Would they tell the truth about what happened? Heller might break down under questioning — the man’s apparently a complete nerd — but the other one? I just don’t know. And even if I do go to the police and start a whole drama, there’s the matter of Postscripts — ’ And he turned a face towards her that was a mask of misery.

  She got to her feet in one swift movement, sending the cat hissing away in fury, and went over to him and took hold of him by his elbows.

  ‘Now just cool down, Abner. You’re tying yourself up in knots and that’ll get you nowhere. Come and sit down.’

  Obediently, he came with her, and this time she sat down beside him on the rumpled old sofa and sat there with one hand holding his upper arm, pressing it against his body so firmly he could feel the warmth of her hand through the sleeve of his jacket. He was very aware of it, aware too at some deeper level of how much pleasure it would have given him once, but now he was too preoccupied with the massive dilemma in which he found himself caught to give it the attention it deserved.

  ‘I shouldn’t care about it so much, but I can’t pretend I don’t. If I open up this stinking mess and show it to the world, one thing’s sure — the film never gets made. It was to be Mayer’s money that made it. He already owns a piece of it. How can I go ahead and make it under those circumstances? I’d be using money he stole from people who died in the camps. But how do I find the rest of the funding I need if I don’t use his? Can you see anyone else taking up his leavings? Take it from me, no one would. I’ve leaned that much about the way the business works in this town to know that. So if I do what I ought to do I ruin my chances of making my film and — ’

  ‘If you do what you ought to do you’ll make your film, no matter what,’ Miriam said and he stopped staring at the fire with miserable eyes and turned to look at her.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard me. Make your film. It’s the most important thing you could possibly do.’

  ‘The most important thing I have to do, surely, is make sure this man gets his — that he’s stopped doing what he’s been doing and gets punished for what he’s already done. All the years of betrayal and all that money, all those people he robbed.’

  ‘Dead people. Losing money can’t hurt them.’

  He shook his head at her, and almost pulled away in revulsion. ‘I can’t believe what you’re saying! They’re dead, so it’s OK for anyone to come along and help themselves to their property? What about people like David Lippner? As destroyed by the Germans as his mother was, living on charity in a Home — what about him and what he’s entitled to? Are you saying I should keep quiet about Mayer, and to hell with all the Davids he’s found to rob, just so that I can make my film? How do you suppose I could live with myself if I did that?’

  ‘You could live with yourself better if you stopped and thought a little more and emoted a little less,’ Miriam said acerbically. ‘Try hearing me out, will you?’

  He opened his mouth to argue and then, seeing her face, closed it again. She looked extraordinary, he suddenly realised, a totally different person from the pinched watchful creature who had opened the door of this house to him a few short weeks ago. Her eyes were wide and dark in the low light of the room, for there was only the firelight and it was very dark outside the uncurtained windows, her cap of tightly curled hair seemed edged with a halo from the flickering of the flames and the expression on her face was one of such intensity that he had to listen to her.

  ‘This film, it means a great deal more than money and diamonds. All you’ve been thinking about for ages now is money because you haven’t got it to make the film with. So maybe you’ve lost sight of what it is you’re actually trying to do. Which is to tell everybody about what happened to people like Libby and her David and your Cyril and — and Barbara and her father and me. And yourself. It musn’t all turn into dead history, the sort of stuff this house is filled with.’ And she waved a comprehensive arm and he could almost see the shadowy dusty rooms with their clutter of tea chests and piles of papers.

  ‘It’s dead, all this. Papers and documents and — nothing to make your skin crawl on the back of your neck, nothing to make your belly as tight and as hard as a — as a pregnancy, full of pity and understanding and sheer knowing. All that you can only do with real people telling how it was, real people showing everyone the marks on them. That’s what your film is for. Telling everyone the true story of what happened and how it happened and why it happened — if there i
s any “why”, which I’m not sure about, but you have to try. That’s more important than any sort of — oh, I don’t know — retribution for Mayer. What you have to do is use him to make the film, and then when you’ve done it, you do what you like about him. But use his money and make your film! Don’t be a bloody fool. You’ve no right to indulge yourself with childish views of what’s right and wrong about stealing. That doesn’t matter. Mayer only stole things — money, nothing important. He didn’t hurt people — at least, this time he didn’t. As for what he did all those years ago — put it in your film, you bloody fool! What better way do you have of getting back at him? Telling everyone!’

  He was staring at her, almost hypnotised by the glitter she seemed to throw off and now, as she stopped speaking, he tried to think; and the thoughts came out aloud.

  ‘It’s what I want to do, more than anything. Just use his money, make my film, and tell everyone what he did and how he did it, and what a bastard he was. If he was a bastard, of course — that’s part of the hell of it. Whenever I think of him as a bad person, I just can’t see it. I keep seeing the man who talked to me about the Dufy painting and the music he played and — he isn’t a bad person, he can’t be. And yet he is, and it’s all so… How do I lie to him enough to get the money from him? Will Monty help there? He might. He’s as miserable in his own way about all this as I am, I think. I just don’t know. Oh, Miriam, what the hell am I to do? I’m in such a goddamn state I can’t even think. Oh, Miriam.’

  And he put his head down and let the feelings wash over him, a great tide of pain and memory and guilt and shame and loneliness; he didn’t care what happened or what he looked like. He wanted only to rid himself of a flood of sensation that was so very painful that he could have burst, and he sat there with his chin on his chest and waited; and it came like a storm of rain, tears that filled his eyes and his nose and made him choke; and he had to lift his head to breathe at all and felt his eyes tighten into hot slits and his nose run as the weeping increased and the misery ballooned inside him till his ears rang and he knew his head would burst soon, very, soon now.

  He didn’t know quite how it happened, but she was holding him and crooning into his ear, and rocking him like a baby, and he heard the words murmuring at the back of his mind — Momma? Frieda? But he knew it wasn’t, knew it never had been, that it was Miriam who was holding him and knew too that her dress was wet beneath his cheek, pressed as it was against her.

  For the first time, a wriggle of adult embarrassment lifted in him and he raised one hand to wipe away the wet from his face, to protect her from it, for he was ashamed to do such a thing to her, and his hand touched her body and through the wet fabric he felt her become taut and knew at once what had happened to both of them.

  His tears went on but they were different now, not so painful, more a release than an ugly bursting sort of pain, and he lifted his face and put his cheek against hers and held on tightly, and felt her skin move beneath his. Or was it? Was it his own body that was moving against hers? Of course it was; and though someone at the very back of his mind was shouting at him to wait, to treat her better than this, not to let it happen, he couldn’t stop himself. And he didn’t need to. Her hands were as eager as his as she pulled at his clothes, and her mouth as hot and hungry, and they clung to each other and rolled and turned on the creaking old sofa as the cat in the corner of the room watched them with angry eyes and the fire collapsed and died in the grate. But they noticed none of it.

  She stirred against him and then started to shiver, for the fire had gone out and the room was cold; he woke suddenly and felt her tremors against him, wrapped her warmly in his arms and put his face against hers. But still she shivered and after a moment he rolled her gently on to her back and then followed so that his own body covered hers, and after a while she stopped shivering and murmured in his ear, ‘You’re better than a blanket,’ and giggled softly so that her breath whispered across his cheek and made him in his turn shiver a little. But not with cold.

  Kissing was enough for a while but then he knew the hunger was rising again and very deliberately he stopped himself, and settled his head down in the space between her shoulder and chin and rested there and she took a deep slow breath and relaxed; and he knew he had been right. She needed time and peace before she could cope with such a flood of experience again and he thought then with sudden anxiety, Oh God, I so want her to be happy.

  And he lifted his head so that he could see her in the dimness and said urgently, ‘Are you happy? It’s important you’re happy,’ and she laughed again and said, ‘Oh, yes, I’m happy. I never thought I could be, ever, but I know now that I am, and — oh, Abner, it doesn’t matter what happens after this. I’m happy.’

  ‘That’s OK then,’ he said and tucked his chin down again, and lay there, half dozing and half listening to her even breathing as the thin light in the dark window lifted and flattened and brought a chill morning creeping into them.

  She had fallen asleep again and he moved very gingerly, not wanting to disturb her, but, of course, he did, and she whimpered a little in her sleep; he bent over and kissed her mouth again, and felt her lips curl into a smile beneath his and was content.

  ‘I’ll find you a blanket,’ he said and pulled himself to his feet and stood there, awkwardly trying to untangle his clothes from around his feet. They had hurled themselves into their explosion with such vigour that neither of them had thought of clothes and now one leg of his pants was tangled round the other and his socks were twisted on his feet, and he knew he looked a complete idiot and was rewarded with yet another giggle from the sofa.

  ‘I used to think about sex sometimes, and it was always so polite and tidy — not a bit like this.’ And she pulled at her own clothes, getting out of them, and a bra came snaking out from beneath her and landed at his feet and they both laughed.

  She rolled off the sofa and stood there in the half light, pimpled with the cold but clearly unashamed of nakedness, and that pleased him almost more than her passionate responses had a few hours ago; that she, who had been so remote and so difficult to know, could be so comfortable with him now filled him with a confidence that startled him and he stood and looked at her, knowing he had a silly grin on his face and not caring at all.

  ‘Breakfast,’ she said. ‘Hot breakfasty things. You had nothing to eat last night and neither did I, and I actually have food here. Go and wash and shave — the things are still there from the last time — and I’ll do the same upstairs and then there’ll be breakfast.’ And she went across the room, and it was light enough now to see that her back was deeply dimpled just above the cleft of her buttocks and her hips were every bit as sensual to look at as they had been to touch and be embraced by. Abner felt need lift in him again and wanted to laugh at his own importunity; he followed her out of the door and turned away to the kitchen for the cold wash he so definitely needed.

  The breakfast things were very breakfasty; coffee and orange juice, oatmeal — she laughed when he refused to call it porridge — and quantites of hot French toast, a delicacy she hadn’t tried till he showed her how to make it. Together they beat eggs and dipped bread into it and fried it in spitting butter, laughing a good deal like children playing at house; and ate it covered in gritty sugar in a somewhat shamefaced way, because, as Miriam said, ‘Eating sugar is the greatest modern sin there is.’

  The kitchen wrapped them about in warmth from the fire and the red shaded lamp and the smell of the food, and he never wanted to leave it; but eventually he had to move and stood up to collect dishes to carry them to the sink.

  ‘You’re house-trained,’ she said lightly and got up to help him. He wondered if he should tell her of the girls there had been before her, the liberated tough American girls who wouldn’t be caught dead picking up a dirty dish for a man. It had been they who had trained him and who, it could perhaps be said, had trained him to be a lover, too. But he bit all that back; there would be time, plenty of it, to share w
ith her these other aspects of his past life. They had talked of the painful childhood years, and soon he would have to talk of the better college years, the working years, and bring her up to date on them. Because he knew, even if she didn’t yet, that the rest of the years that he had to live belonged to her, whether she wanted them or not.

  They washed up in silence as though both were grieving a little at the parting that had to come and then she said suddenly, as she spread the damp tea towel on the fireguard to dry, ‘Well? Have you decided?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ve decided.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I — must I say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll do it your way,’ he said at last. ‘I shan’t find it easy, God knows. I’m a bad liar, always have been. When it matters. But I’ll lie and tell him that the boy with the apples is Monty.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at him, her hands, which had been rubbing her freshly washed hair up into an aureole, quite still at each side of her face. ‘You’ll tell him what?’

  ‘I thought about it, while I was shaving. And it just came to me. Monty will let me. He’ll be glad to, I think, in a way it will help his guilt. I’ll give Mayer a script that ends with Monty as the unmasked boy with the apples. But the film I’ll make once I get going — that’ll be the real truth.’

  ‘Can you get away with that?’

  ‘I’m damned well going to try. I’ll do more digging round. I’ll get Brazel on the mat, somehow. I’ll twist him into a fall and a submission — you watch. He’ll tell me the truth eventually. And I’ll put it into the film I’ll make with Mayer’s money and to hell with the consequences. Just you bloody well watch me.’ And he brought out the British adjective with great pride and a laugh, and she laughed back and stood there, rubbing her hair again in the warm lamp light and wrapping him in her happiness.