by Chaim Potok
I signed the Declaration of Trust. Moshe Diamond explained that I would have to file an account with the court, a formal document listing the appraised worth of each work in my uncle’s collection. The appraiser would have to be an individual widely recognized by the art world. It was likely that the Internal Revenue Service would request its advisory panel to turn in its own appraisal. In any event, I would receive further details concerning the appraisal document at a later date.
There were more papers to sign. Each was carefully read by Douglas Schaeffer’s lawyer before I put my name to it.
On the way out of the conference room, Moshe Diamond said to me, “Mr. Lev, may I speak with you a moment?”
He removed from the inside pocket of his jacket a sealed envelope and handed it to me. “Your uncle, may he rest in peace, specifically asked me to give you this in the event that you accepted the trusteeship over the collection.”
I put the envelope into a pocket.
On the busy street outside the building I thanked Douglas Schaeffer’s lawyer. How long would it take to appraise the worth of the collection? I asked him. “Weeks,” he said. “Maybe months. It depends on who does the appraising.” Yes, Douglas Schaeffer could act as the appraiser. No, the court did not have to approve my choice of appraiser. “Douglas will certainly help you with that, if you wish.”
“Thank you.”
“Is it a valuable collection? Douglas was a little vague as to what it contains.”
I told him what was in the collection.
He stood there in the middle of the crowded Manhattan street and listened, and his eyes widened.
“Your uncle was a Hasid?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“A strange sort of Hasid.”
“A complicated man, as I’m discovering.”
“How do your cousins feel about this?”
“Probably cheated and certainly very angry.”
“Well, if that’s the case, you might want seriously to consider moving the entire collection to a safe place as soon as possible. People who feel cheated and angry sometimes do things they later regret.”
“What’s involved in moving it?”
“I’ll look into it for you. Well, good luck, Mr. Lev. I hope this trustee matter doesn’t keep you away too much from your real work. I’m one of your admirers. I think your painting of the legless man in that township outside Cape Town is a masterpiece.”
“Thank you.”
“I read somewhere that you had trouble getting your drawings out of South Africa.”
“The customs people gave me a bad time.”
“Did they?”
“They said they were false and subversive works.”
“Like the French frontier police who thought that some of Picasso’s Cubist drawings were plans of the country’s defenses.”
“I never heard that.”
“Yes. When he worked with Diaghilev in Rome. Well, goodbye, Mr. Lev. Good luck with the collection. Call me anytime you feel I can be of help.”
He walked off into the crowd.
It was nearly one o’clock. I went into a crowded dairy restaurant and ordered fruit salad. I took the envelope from my pocket. It was a white business-size envelope; my name was on the front, handwritten in black ink. I opened it and removed a single sheet of cream-colored writing paper, at the top of which was embossed my uncle’s name in block letters, ISAAC LEV. The text of the letter was handwritten in Yiddish:
My Dear Asher,
If you are holding this letter in your hands, then two things have taken place. I have gone to the True World, and you have consented to accept the responsibility for the future of my art collection. The Master of the Universe, in His infinite wisdom, has called me to Him, and I accept His judgment with faith and humility. I have asked that you take responsibility for the care of my collection of art because I do not trust my children to do it. They are not bad children, but they have no understanding of the true value of such a collection. Whereas, my Asher, you will know what to do with it. You will know that such loveliness, though born of the soul and mind of the Gentile world, can be made to enhance the name and presence of the Master of the Universe. Ever since my visits to your apartment in Paris and your home in the south of France, where I saw on your walls your own art collection, I have lived with the hope that perhaps there are not two realms, the sacred world of God and the profane world of Gentile art, but that great art can also be for the sake of heaven. It is my wish, my nephew, that as you deal with these works of art you will always bear in mind the Master of the Universe. May these works also be transformed into “the work of My hands, to glorify Me.” My Asher, for all the years that I have been blessed with the ability to gaze joyously at the works of human hands, I thank you. I wish you the greatest of the creations of God, wisdom and a good heart, as you deal with the loveliest of the creations of man. I ask that you not show this letter to anyone, not even to your parents. It is a covenant between the two of us, a covenant for the sake of heaven. Your uncle, who loves you and has always admired and loved the work of your hands.
And he signed his name in Hebrew.
I reread the letter, folded it, unfolded it and read it again, put it back into the envelope, and put the envelope into the inside pocket of my jacket. On the subway ride back to Brooklyn I looked into the window opposite my seat and saw my uncle gazing back at me, happily smiling and smoking a cigar. “Art can also be for the sake of heaven,” he said inside the dark and dusty window. He waved the cigar at me and vanished.
I got out at the Kingston Avenue station and walked beneath trees suddenly rich with young leaves to my parents’ home.
The children were in their rooms. My father returned from the office and came into the kitchen, where I was sitting with Devorah and my mother. I told them about my conversation with Uncle Yitzchok’s lawyer. My parents did not seem surprised. Devorah stared at me in astonishment.
“What did you tell him?” my father asked.
“I accepted.”
“You accepted?” He looked startled. “What did you accept?”
“To become the trustee of the art collection.”
“Asher,” my mother said. Her face was pale.
I looked at them. “What’s wrong?”
“Was that wise?” my mother asked.
“I don’t understand. The lawyer said I had a choice.”
“You had a choice,” my father said. “But you did not choose wisely. There will be no end to the trouble this will cause.” He shook his head. “In certain matters my brother was not wise.”
“Can Asher change his mind?” my mother asked.
“Asher can change his mind anytime he wishes,” my father said.
“I don’t want to change my mind,” I said. “It’s a privilege to be able to oversee such a collection.”
My parents fell silent.
In the synagogue later that evening, Cousin Yonkel sat stiff with anger, his bony face pale. Cousin Nahum would not look at me. After the service Cousin Yonkel walked stiffly over to where I stood near my father. Cousin Nahum followed behind him.
“I need to talk with you,” Cousin Yonkel said.
“Do you want to talk here?”
“Here, there. What difference does it make? The whole world will know soon anyway. I hear you saw the lawyer today.”
“Your father’s lawyer?”
“No, the lawyer for your hero, Picasso, that shining example of human decency. Of course my father’s lawyer. What did you decide?”
“If you know I was there, you know what I decided.”
“Asher,” Cousin Nahum said. “Don’t be that way.”
“You had no right to make such a choice,” Cousin Yonkel said.
“Your father gave me the right.”
“It is our property. You are stealing from us.”
We were not far from the podium near the center of the synagogue. There were always people in that synagogue, between as well as during t
he times for services. Some now stood around, talking; others were at the long tables, studying. Our conversation was beginning to attract attention.
“Perhaps you should talk somewhere else,” my father said.
“You shouldn’t have accepted,” Cousin Yonkel said heatedly. “My father was wrong. What a man does in a weak moment, others should correct, not take advantage of.”
“The letter he wrote me is not the letter of a weak man.”
“What letter?”
“Never mind.”
“Show me the letter.”
“It’s a personal letter addressed to me.”
“You deluded him! You enticed him! You stole his thoughts! He was never the same person after he returned from his visits to you in France!”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Asher,” my father said. “Do not say another word.”
“What’s the matter with your brother?” I asked Cousin Nahum.
“I agree with Yonkel,” Cousin Nahum said in a low, trembling voice. “You should have turned it down.”
“You are stealing from our family!” Cousin Yonkel said shrilly. “Do you hear me?”
“Yonkel,” Cousin Nahum said. “This is really a family matter. It shouldn’t be discussed in front of all the people and the congregation.”
“All the people will soon know of it anyway. I’m taking this to court. Let a judge decide the matter. We will see who is right.”
“You see what you’ve done?” Cousin Nahum said to me.
“What I’ve done? It was your father’s wish!”
Cousin Yonkel pushed his gaunt frame up close to me. His eyes flared. “You are a troubler of Israel!” he shouted, using the Hebrew term hurled by King Ahab at Elijah. “Wherever you go, you make trouble. When you lived among us here, you made trouble. In France, you made trouble. You come back here, and again you make trouble. Why don’t you go away and leave us in peace? Who needs you here? Wherever you go, you cause heartache.”
“Yonkel, I ask you not to say anything you will later regret,” my father said sternly.
“With all respect, Uncle Aryeh,” Cousin Yonkel said. “How much can a person bear? Is there no end to this? We were a good family until my father, may he rest in peace, returned from his visits to your son. He deceived our father. He was like Satan in his ear.” He turned upon me. “You are from the sitra achra!” he screamed, suddenly no longer able to restrain himself. “You are an evil man! An abomination!” He looked wildly around. “Stand back from this Satan! Stand back!”
He pushed me roughly away from him. I felt the strong thrust of his arm against my chest but did not move. There was a stirring in the group around us, raised voices. I caught a glimpse of my father’s face; he looked aghast. Cousin Nahum moved toward his brother in an attempt to restrain him. Cousin Yonkel was suddenly pushing at me hard with both hands and pulling his arms away from people trying to hold him, and there was a roiling mass of faces and bodies, and I was shoved from behind. Arms flailed around my head, fingers grazed my cheek, and all the time I heard Cousin Yonkel screaming, “Destroyer of Israel! Stand back from him!” An elbow smashed into my nose and the knuckles of someone’s hand struck my right eye. There were shouts: “Stop it! This instant! Stop! Desecration of God’s name!” The crowd backed quickly away and dispersed. My cousins were gone. Both of my nostrils were bleeding. The warm blood trickled into my beard. Someone brought me a small packet of ice wrapped in plastic. I held a handkerchief to my face and sat in a chair awhile with the ice against my nose. Older students from the yeshiva kept coming in and out of the synagogue to stare at me. My father kept asking me if I was all right. After a while the bleeding stopped. My eye seemed unimpaired. I walked home with my father, breathing through my mouth and feeling the stiff, congealed blood in my nostrils. I kept hearing Cousin Yonkel shouting, “Stand back from him! Stand back!”
The children were in their rooms. I lay down on my bed. My mother and Devorah came in from the kitchen.
“Your father just told us,” my mother said.
“My God, look at you!” Devorah said.
“Just like the good old days,” I said. “Back to my lovely childhood.”
“Asher,” my mother said.
“I’m very tired,” I said.
They went out of the room. I lay on the bed, breathing slowly through my mouth, feeling the air drying my palate and throat. I swallowed saliva and went on breathing through my mouth.
In the days that followed there were many phone calls. Some were from Moshe Diamond’s law firm and from Douglas Schaeffer’s lawyer. Twice Douglas called me and we talked at length. One call was from a lawyer I didn’t know, asking if I wanted him to represent me in a lawsuit against Mr. Jacob Lev for defamation of character—he had heard about the scuffle in the synagogue. I hung up on him.
I remember I did a lot of waiting and walking: waiting at home for the phone to bring me answers to certain questions; walking through the neighborhood and drawing people and objects seen and felt. I stayed away from my cousins. In the synagogue I kept myself far from them. But it made little difference: I could feel Cousin Yonkel’s hate even when my back was to him. Once I went over to my uncle’s house and asked Aunt Leah if I could see the art collection. She closed the door in my face.
The doctor who examined Rocheleh said that he thought she could probably attend overnight summer camp. She would have to restrict her physical activities, bring along her special pillow and her medication, and the camp authorities would have to be informed of her condition. He would let us know definitely when the lab results came back. Rocheleh said she did not want to be away from us for the entire summer—she was not always the adult she made herself out to be—and wanted to go home and be with Uncle Max. My parents listened, concealed their disappointment, and said nothing. Avrumel came home from school one day and informed us that he had been made captain of his class sports team for the Lag Bo’Omer games. No, he said, he did not want to stay in New York for the summer and go to the Ladover day camp; he wanted to go back home and be with Uncle Max and swim in Uncle Max’s pool. And Shimshon wanted that, too.
I took the subway into Manhattan one day and spent part of the morning signing papers in Moshe Diamond’s office and talking to him about my cousins. Yes, he said, they could cause all sorts of nuisance-type mischief: they could contest the will; they could charge me with unduly influencing their father against them; they could try to get the courts to enjoin my use of the collection. But none of it would amount to anything. The will could not be broken. Yes, he agreed with Douglas Schaeffer’s attorney: it was probably a good idea to move the collection to a safe storage area. One never knew what people might do in times of great anger and stress. Why tempt them? “‘One ought never place an obstacle in the path of a blind man,’ “he quoted.
Later, I walked over to Douglas Schaeffer’s gallery, and we spent a while talking about the collection. I was on my way out when he asked me what I was carrying. I said a drawing pad, and he asked if he could see it. I handed it to him. He sat at his desk, slowly turning the pages. He looked up at me.
“These are extraordinary,” he said.
I said nothing.
“How do you do this? You are seeing as if with three eyes.”
Still I said nothing.
“Do you have any more of these?”
I nodded.
“We’ll have that show in the fall,” he said. “If there are no paintings, it will be drawings.”
I told him I would think about it and took the elevator down to the street and walked around looking at galleries. In some I was quickly recognized, and when people started coming over for my autograph I excused myself and fled. I saw work by Jasper Johns that was splendid, and drawings by Larry Rivers, Robert Rauschenberg, and Jim Dine that were admirable. In a dairy restaurant I ordered fruit salad and sat there, eating and drawing. When the drawing began to attract attention, I closed the pad. I heard someone say, “I think that�
�s Asher Lev, that guy over there in the fisherman’s cap.” I paid the check and took the subway home.
Alone in my parents’ home later that afternoon, I noticed that the room Devorah and I lived in was becoming crowded with books. Many were new books bought from the neighborhood Hebrew bookstore on Kingston Avenue: children’s books and works on Hasidus; others were popular paperback novels; some were from the local public library. Devorah tended to fill empty spaces with books: end tables, the tops of dressers, the edges of desks, on occasion even a chair. She would arrange and rearrange the books with exacting care, lining up the spines so none jutted out: sentinel rows of books. It was her way of taking possession, of declaring that she planned to occupy a certain space for a length of time.
I asked her that night how she had managed to take books out of the public library. She was using my mother’s library card, she said. Perfectly legal, perfectly in order. She had been spending a great deal of time in recent days alone with my mother in the den or out on the terrace. What did she and my mother find to talk about so much? Our families, she said. “I’m discovering what an important lineage you have. You’ve never ever mentioned your genealogy to me. Your mother is telling me about her and your father’s families, and I’m telling your mother about my family. Only I can’t tell her a lot about mine. I barely remember anything about my parents. I don’t remember what they looked like or the sounds of their voices. There aren’t even any photographs of my parents. But you have a lovely family, Asher, an important family.”
“Did my mother mention any artists in my family?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“That’s because there aren’t any. I’m a freak.”
“Poor Asher.”
