Displaced Persons (11 page)

Ah, yes, said Kresser, his voice clear, unwavering. The King of the Jews.

If you like, responded Yidl. We are here to speak with you.

Kresser lifted his brows, looked from one to the other.

Who we have here, declared Yidl, who we have here is a witness.

They all looked at Pavel: Pavel knew he was to speak. But what could he say? The man’s dark skin seemed loose on his cheek, on his neck. Yet he could not be old. Perhaps five years older than Pavel. Kresser, he managed at last. Do you remember me?

Kresser looked at him in the face, then turned again to Yidl and shrugged.

No? cried Pavel. For how well Pavel remembered Kresser, the pound of his boot on his back, his head. But then he thought: What to me was a boot, to him was a shoe. Something to keep his foot warm. Pavel repeated, more quietly: No?

I did not say no, I did not say yes.

Yidl gave a look to Norbert and the two others. Let us leave Pan Mandl with the prisoner.

K
RESSER
, P
AVEL FINALLY SAID.
He had sat down again, with Kresser across. You may not remember us, but there are many who remember you. He spoke in Yiddish.

Me? said Kresser. Am I something to remember? His eyes were on his hands, wide hands. But he too spoke in Yiddish: the American soldier would not understand.

Yes, said Pavel. You are something to remember—you—He paused. To me, you—what you did—

Kresser waited.

The image in Pavel’s head, the tight feeling in his arm and back, the memory of a terrible smell—it was the smell that he still could not wipe out from his body—all rose up in him and crowded his mouth. Pavel swallowed and felt the sourness recede back into his belly.

At last Pavel continued: Very many. There are very many who remember you. Already I have met two men, three men, who are ready, more than ready, to testify.

I suppose I must be important, Kresser muttered. As important as the others, yes?

Yes, to us, yes, Pavel said, a sudden hope pushing at his voice.

So, said Kresser.

So! answered Pavel. Tell me.

Then Pavel paused. Tell what? he suddenly wondered. Kresser waited also, a thin smile on his lips.

Tell me, repeated Pavel. Are you not sorry? Are you not—Pavel searched for another word, but could not find one—are you not sorry?

What I am, said Kresser, is finished.

Pavel thought to himself: I do not bear false witness. But he said: Kresser, Kresser, think. Think. If you tell me, just a phrase, just a word of the remorse you feel, I will say something for you.

There is nothing anyone can do for me, said Kresser. I told you what I told you. I am finished.

Consider it, said Pavel. Consider what a trial will do to all of us. Not just to you. After all the pain you have caused, can you not find a way to stop the scandal now? How much easier if we avoided it. I would help you. Pavel paused, gave him a significant look. I would help you! Consider it.

Kresser looked at him, opened his mouth as if to laugh. But he did not laugh. Yes, he said. His voice was different: cheerful and inflected. Yes. I will consider it.

Kresser stood up. He was ending the visit. The muscles in Pavel’s neck tightened. There was something he should say, one more thing that could escape his lips, to convince Kresser, to make him understand, but the words would not come. At last Pavel stood up himself, and the American boy accompanied him out of the room, leaving Kresser alone.

H
E HAD DONE WHAT
he could, Pavel thought while waiting for Marek to answer the door. He had done what he could. But the worry inside him did not subside. Only three years ago he would have testified with enthusiasm and vigor in a public court against Kresser. Now everything was different. It was important for the record to be clear. It was important for those who were left not to be stained. But sometimes there was nothing one could do.

He should push it aside. Worry for yourself! Fela had said. But he had. Already this morning Yidl had mentioned a new list he was forwarding to the Joint for their assistance, and Pavel had understood
from the look Yidl had given him—a quick glance, but serious—that Pavel and Fela would be on it. So! Hinda would not be alone there with her husband and child. If this turned out. Yes, he had worried for himself, and his wife, and his child-to-be. It did not mean he would not try to contribute.

Marek opened the door. You are later than I thought.

I had something to take care of, said Pavel. Business with the committee.

Ah, said Marek. Pavel regretted even his small explanation. Marek had a habit of thinking everyone cheated him. No doubt he thought even Pavel made money on the side with Yidl and his friends.

Political business, Pavel corrected.

Of course, Marek answered.

They climbed the two flights to Marek’s apartment. Now with Kuba gone, Marek lived with a new woman friend, but the home he had once shared with Kuba was unchanged. Empty. Pavel had met her only a few times; his business partnership with Marek was distant. Better that way. With Kuba, there had been a forced joviality, a wish to act like family. It had been awkward to disagree. But since Kuba and Hinda had left, Pavel and Marek had settled into a formality that was almost easier than what Pavel had with his brother-in-law. And besides, who was Kuba to complain now, with Pavel making enough even to send Kuba and Hinda a bit of money as they struggled in their new home? It felt good to have someone to take care of, now that Chaim had left too.

Pavel missed Chaim. He didn’t blame him, but he missed him. The young cousin Rayzl had gone to Palestine before the war there had really finished, and she wrote to Chaim every week, begging him to hurry. She sewed shoes on a kibbutz, she could find him a space on her collective, she spoke for the new refugees on the council, she learned Hebrew at night, she had met a lovely man on the evening patrols, yes, women did it too, they were as equals, almost—there was
no end to her pleading. And Pavel couldn’t blame her either. Business or no business, Pavel craved to be near his sister again, he craved to be near his blood, if she had gone to the Holy Land he might have followed her there too. Still Pavel had had a thought, an idea, that young Chaim could come with them to America, even if it were difficult, even if Pavel were difficult to live with, Fela told him so herself. But did not Chaim adore Fela? No, blood mattered, at least to the stingy immigration authorities, and with no one to sponsor him to America, Chaim could not wait anymore. And so: just as quickly as they had absorbed themselves into one life, they separated: a family after all, a family that wept to be rent.

And perhaps it had been hard for Chaim when Hinda appeared, for the more Pavel had worked hard to connect himself with Kuba, and to bring Hinda into their little house life, the more Chaim and Fela returned to the strange togetherness they had with each other, as if they were conversing in silence, as if they were pretending to be brother and sister again. Chaim had not liked Marek. He rubs at me, he had said.

It had made Pavel smile. This skinny man? He only senses how intelligent you are. For this reason he is not so friendly.

But Fela had believed Chaim. You think you know everything, Pavel, but really you are naive, an innocent.

I, an innocent? He had laughed out loud at the sentence. The man is a childhood friend of my brother-in-law. What is there not to trust?

But now again in Marek’s apartment Pavel thought, It will be good to return to my sister, even in a new place, even in America. Even if there is a new language to learn and use. It was significant, real blood.

Aloud to Marek he said, I have had word today. I have a feeling we will be going soon.

Marek glanced at him. You paid?

No! Not in money, legitimate. But—and I tell you this in confidence—

Of course—

I have something of value.

Stones, Marek said.

Pavel started. How could Marek know? Even Fela did not know, even Hinda—he might have mentioned to Hinda that he had valuables, but specifics, never—no one knew. Still he kept himself calm. Yes, Pavel said, I have stones. Who told you?

I heard you mention it once—you have forgotten, no matter.

I want to make a deal with them, and I want you to help me. Pavel opened his jacket, reached down into the inside pocket, and took the velvet pouch into his hand. For a brief moment he felt embarrassed, ashamed, almost idolatrous. But he shook away the thought. What had Fishl done with his share of the stones? He had taken advantage early. Now the opportunity was upon Pavel, and he would use it to arrive in the new country with resources, with a way to care for his wife and new child without depending on anyone. He shook the pouch over his spread palm and stretched his hand—glittering—out toward his partner.

Once, said Marek, you said coffee is better than diamonds.

It still is, said Pavel.

Maybe, said Marek, maybe not.

I do not need luxuries. I need to make a safe journey for my family. If I sell here, I can have a little more safety.

So?

So. So I ask you—I don’t want it around that I have this—I worry for interference from the authorities, so close now to the departure. You can take ten percent from me, but I need for you to make the transaction.

Marek was silent.

I entrust them to you. Even my wife doesn’t know I—

Of course! Marek burst in. Why should she know?

My man is in Hamburg. Not the buyer, but the intermediary. I have an appointment with Yidl Sheinbaum to discuss our papers. You do it, you meet this Hollander, then if you are still here when we go—

Ah, said Marek. Probably.

You have him as your connection. And that is that!

Marek paused. How will he know if they are real?

Pavel sighed. Marek. He already knows. That is why he wants to buy them. Call to him today, then we will travel tomorrow together to Hamburg. I’ll hold them until then.

They brought out their ledgers.

O
N
M
ONDAY
, P
AVEL AWOKE
to the sound of light rain. Soft wind hit the windows from the west, and Pavel pulled on his robe to look out. It was unusually dark, although the storm was not heavy. Yes, it would get worse.

He leaned at the windowpane, staring. Soon—but how long had he been standing there? ten minutes? an hour?—the sky began to brighten. Fela was not yet up. She slept longer now, deeper. She had not even moved when he got up from the bed; she remained on her side, spine curled away from him, body forming a semicircle, as if to protect the baby. This one had gone farther than all the ones before; the camp doctor assured them that this time, this time, things looked different. Fela even looked different, her amber hair lighter and thicker, her fine skin more easily flushed. She was past one of the danger points.

The first time she had lost a pregnancy, Chaim had discovered her, kneeling by her bed, dress dark with blood. Chaim had had the good sense to leave her there and bicycle for a military doctor; when
he returned he had vomited the whole night through, Pavel pacing, witnessing the two of them in their sickness. Blood scared him also, especially the blood of a woman. His own mother had died within a day of giving birth to his youngest brother, so long ago. But the sight of both Fela and Chaim, their insides spilling, made him contain himself. He could remain composed, the eldest keeping watch. Chaim had been a nightwatch himself in the forest, he had told them—but now look: just a child, made ill and frightened by a terrible sight.

She would be a mother, Fela. She had a mother’s instincts: leave this place. She had wanted to go to Palestine when Chaml had left—they had clung to each other when Chaim departed, and Pavel himself had wept. But Pavel had wanted to wait for the chance at America. And now he felt he had been right.

H
AVE YOU HEARD? SAID
Yidl. It was the next afternoon, and Yidl’s face was bright, excited but not upset.

No, said Pavel, cigarette loose in the corner of his mouth.

Kresser, said Yidl. He hanged himself.

Pavel looked at him. He felt his hand move toward his mouth, take out the cigarette, feel the heat come closer to the tips of his fingers.

He managed a word: No. But as Pavel said it he realized he had already known, known on his way out of the kitchen this morning, belly warmed with sweet coffee, knew on his way up the stairs, as he’d looked at the calm face of Yidl’s secretary, as he’d sat down in Yidl’s wooden chair. He had already known when he left the jail yesterday, when Kresser had smiled, so lightly, as Pavel turned on his way out the door. Still Pavel said, No. Impossible.

Yes, said Yidl. He did. In the end we were spared. Now there will be no trial after all.

The committee would arrange for the burial. Would Pavel come?
Of course, Pavel said, of course. But he wanted to go in his own car. He could not, he would not engage in the politics, the committee talk that would scatter in and out on the hour-long drive to Bremen.

I will join you, he said. But I first—I had an appointment, I did not expect—

Marek waited for him in the entryway of the Roundhouse office. He shrugged as Pavel changed the directions; they would go to Bremen, make their plans on the road there.

Pavel, you are upset, said Marek. Let me drive. You have the money?

Of course I have the money. Pavel frowned. Sewn inside. I’ll show you when we get there.

It was true, Pavel was too agitated to drive. He slipped into the passenger seat and gave Marek the key. The noise of the motor soothed him. Perhaps Marek would not expect Pavel to speak right away. He had surprised himself the day before with his ability to speak even a few words to Kresser. Speak, speak, Yidl had urged him as they had walked into the American jail. But Yidl was completely without inhibition about speaking. He could recite the most painful events, horrors about which no one wanted to hear, not the victorious armies, certainly not the vanquished. He could speak with great eloquence if not detail. Yidl would transform this terrible thing, this Kresser death, into a fable, a morality tale, or better, into a tiny, invisible item in the camp news, to be read only in Yiddish by refugees.