Displaced Persons (18 page)

Pavel said, Of course! Just come back if there’s a problem. Come back even if there is not a problem! Oh, what a day. What a day! He clasped Berel’s arm again, then took the pants and jacket from the American boy.

Berel followed Pavel to the cash register. He felt in his front pocket for his wallet and took it out. He had half the money he had brought to America with him and removed all of it, placing it flat on the glass counter.

What is this? said Pavel Mandl. No, that’s far too much. That’s really more than twice as much as it costs. That would pay for two suits, maybe three.

Two suits? said Berel. That’s not possible. Your cousin said—

Yes, yes, it’s a special, said Pavel. It’s a special. You see? Look, it’s a good quality, but we haven’t been selling too much lately, so that one’s a special. He smiled, then looked down at his receipt book.

Your cousin said—Berel repeated.

Ah, Mayer. Pavel leaned forward, spoke in a low voice. We brought him in when he lost his position—his experience really is as a cutter—sometimes with prices he makes mistakes.

Berel looked at the ears and the mouth of the tailor; Pavel was gnawing his lip, his face almost angry, trying not to laugh. Berel’s palm sweated on his wallet, and suddenly he heard the puffing noises of the street breezing in from the outside, as if a classroom door had opened to the school yard and the real mischief of the students had come to the hearing of the teacher. He had been taken. Behind his back his daughter and son-in-law had arranged to pay. He saw the face of Chaim, solemn, careful, bent to his shoes, insisting that Berel go to this Mandl. As if insisting were necessary. Berel could go nowhere without their instructions. He could just imagine the mouth of this Pavel, pursing up a bit, Chaim smiling, charming, making a joke of Berel’s pride that he not take from his daughter, Chaim not even
remembering, not even blinking at the idea that another man would be mocking him, or worse, treating him as charity. Berel had been tricked like a boy. He had been tricked. And this Pavel, no doubt a father like himself, in on the joke, not knowing how Berel himself had cheated him all those years ago. Berel was trapped: had Chaim already paid? Or was the plan to have Chaim pay the balance after Berel left with his ridiculously cheap purchase, miraculously chosen over all the other expensive garments?

It’s too cheap, Berel finally said, looking at Pavel’s long hands, then at his face. And I don’t understand why.

Pavel stopped smiling. Look, he said. That’s the price. Really.

I don’t understand why it’s so cheap, Berel repeated.

You married my sister.

I was paid then.

I know, said Pavel. I know. But I think you should buy it. Just buy it. Believe me, you won’t be sorry. That’s how we do it here. I always give Chaim the best price.

Not so good a price.

Pavel continued. Think how happy it will make your daughter, to see you in something you like so much. Think.

Berel’s hands fell to his sides. He did not want to touch the dark gray cloth with his damp fingers. He wanted to go backward in time, to the moment he walked into the shop, to the bus ride downtown, no, before, to the first week he had arrived, when he sat feeding the baby on the entrance steps of the art museum and thought that his daughter worked in the most beautiful place in the world. He wanted to go backward, to the hour before he had decided that he wanted something this unnecessary, something too luxurious for his everyday life, something like a good gray suit.

He looked at Pavel: I don’t know.

Pavel said, I’ve known Chaim a long time. Do you know how I know him?

No, said Berel. I do not. And it does not matter. I cannot accept.

I know Chaim at random. An accident. He recognized Fela—my wife now—in a market in Poland—not recognized, just found her, he knew she was Jewish, incredible—I asked him once how he did it—he did not know—and he smuggled her across into Germany. All by himself. In a policeman’s uniform.

Chaim? said Berel and shrugged. It’s hard to believe.

Smart, even then. Already smart. You remember—he taught there, yes, of course he told me Sima had been in the school there—but I did not put it all together—

A lot of people are smart, said Berel. That does not mean I take money from them. But already his words came out more slowly; he was beginning to feel embarrassed by his reluctance. He had given something false to Pavel all those years ago, but he knew he would not confess. He had done something shameful, and this Mandl would never know.

To him, Pavel said, his voice deepening, to him I owe my wife. I owe my children. I would have nothing—nothing without him. He moved in with me; we sent him to school in the DP camp at Belsen. He would do anything for me, anything for Fela. Anything for his wife.

I am not his wife, Berel said. I cannot accept. Not from him, not even from you.

Pavel Mandl did not seem to hear him. When someone wants to do anything, it is all right to let him do something. It’s like a gift to the giver. Let him have it.

Berel said nothing. I cannot accept, he thought. I cannot accept. But no sound came from his mouth.

He’s a good boy, said Pavel. Now this suit. It needs a garment bag. You hang it inside like this.

I
T WAS AFTER FIVE
but still hot. The air here was thick; people on the street walked slowly, trying to dry their wet faces with their wet hands. No rain, but moisture everywhere. Berel stood directly behind the bright sign, waiting for the bus home, but after twenty minutes and two number fives so crowded he would not have been able even to grab a strap to stand straight, he decided to walk, following the path of the bus, garment bag slung over his arm. What was it, four kilometers, five? He could do it.

In general he did not like to take buses home. He rarely took them after work, preferring to walk through crowded Tel Aviv; only in the mornings, because he was not so good at being early, did he catch the route that passed three blocks from the apartment. One was almost always alone on a bus. Almost always. The night Chaim and Sima had boarded their flight to America, where Chaim would have more opportunity, real work for a young man, as he said, not to mention no army and no children in the army, Berel and Dvora had taken the bus home with Chaim’s cousin Rayzl from the airport. Rayzele had been weeping silently, staring out the window of the bus at the blue lights and buildings-in-progress by the highway. Dvora had sat next to her, with her hand covering the cousin’s. Berel had sat behind, fuming. Everyone’s sorrows were larger than his wife’s. The sight of other people’s tears stopped her own from flowing. He would cry later without shame, shaking in the kitchen chair before they went to bed. But she would have to wait until he slept; he’d know from her swollen cheeks and stiff eyelids in the morning, when he glimpsed her as she padded into the bathroom after having laid out his coffee and bread.

He would not have thought that his child would be able to leave the country that held her parents. Still, she had. Sima had to do what Sima had to do. She had a husband. Berel had pointed this out in arguments with Dvora. Had not one of Dvora’s young brothers left Poland some thirty years before, with a woman not yet his wife, to
settle in Palestine? The turmoil it had caused in the family! But looking back, with no one else but Dvora and another sister surviving, it seemed to have been very wise.

And now, even now, there was nothing in Israel, especially for the postwar immigrants from Europe, who stumbled over strings of Hebrew phrases as if they were reading from an ancient prayerbook. For the young it was even worse. At seventeen Sima had begged him, begged him, not to speak Yiddish to her when her friends visited to collect her for a night out or to loan her a bicycle for a day at the beach. It was the language of sheep led to slaughter. That was what people said. But Berel would mock her and ramble incessantly in Yiddish to her and her companions, throwing in a few Hebrew words so the friends could, with some struggle, understand. Let them struggle. He did not feel sorry. Now, in New York, Sima loved to speak it. Something had changed.

“T
ATTEH
,”
SAID
S
IMA
. I
have to confess something.

They were at the table, after dinner. The baby was asleep in Sima and Chaim’s bedroom. Chaim began to peel a green apple with a short knife. Berel had won the last game of rummy, a game played with the slippery, laminated green-and-black cards Sima had bought discount at the museum store and kept in a cushioned brown box, in a drawer next to the dish towels.

Berel looked at her through his glasses. Her bottom lip shook. Perhaps he would not need to say anything. She would say she was sorry, she would say she wanted to do good, and he would say, Don’t worry, my lamb, my heart, don’t worry. I just wish you had told me directly. He would not admit the shame of taking money from them, from Pavel; for what? He would just remind her, please, not to go behind his back. He wasn’t stupid. She knew that.

I have to confess something. Her eyes, like her mother’s, were clear and green.

What is it?

Chaim kept peeling.

I feel so terrible.

What can it be? Berel stared at his daughter, trying to seem naive, watching her hands pull at a strand of her dark blond hair. What can it be?

It’s been bothering me since she died.

Oh, said Berel. And tilted his head to the side.

From years ago. From when we were in Russia. When you were taken away. She was going to the black market every day, for food for me. She was looking for milk; there was no milk.

I think I know this story, said Berel.

Chaim said: I haven’t heard it. He was smiling. He liked war stories, at least the pleasant ones, the ones without blood.

Sima said, I had the most brave mother in the world. The most brave.

Berel nodded.

Do you know how she got that milk? said Sima. I still don’t know.

Berel breathed out. Oh, she sold something she had stolen from her job. Something like that. The real adventure was getting it back to you, in an open clay cup she had, no lid, in the snow. And she had to hide it. You remember how she had that coat with the pockets sewn inside?

Yes, yes, I remember, said Sima. It was winter. She hid it in the coat pocket on the inside and walked with her hand behind the sleeve to hold it steady, like she had a broken arm. If she had been caught carrying milk! Because how could she get such a thing?

Berel leaned back in his chair. She was proud of the milk. She told me about it, I don’t know how many times, after I came back.
I don’t know why she tried so hard—even as a baby, you didn’t love milk. But she didn’t think like that. Your mother, when she wanted something—

But Sima had tears in her eyes. She was so proud when she gave me the cup!

Chaim coughed softly on his apple.

It’s not funny! choked Sima. It’s terrible. Still, I couldn’t help it, to see that cup, with frozen pieces of curd floating on top, and the coating, broken, sticking to the sides—

Berel didn’t look at Chaim. He sat forward again, stared down at his winning game, the cards laid out in rows of three and four. What a little tragedy! His nose made a small noise.

You’re laughing too! Sima cried; tears were streaming down her cheeks. I took the cup to the back of the hut, where she couldn’t see, and I poured it out into the snow! All at once! Everything was white, so she couldn’t discover what I had done! I just poured it out!

Berel was laughing out loud now. Oh my god, my god, he snorted. Oh my god.

“Jesus Christ,” said Chaim, in an impressive American accent, and grinned. Sima smacked him on the hand, but lightly. She had begun to giggle herself.

Berel gasped. Inhaled, exhaled. He put his head on the table, his cheeks pressed to the open cards. What a little tragedy. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. He heard them quieting down.

Oh Sima, he breathed, mouth still at his elbow. I don’t know what to do.

She put her fingers on his wrist.

Chaim said: Didn’t you get the suit today? I thought you were going today.

Berel picked up his head and peered at Chaim. Chaim’s expression was plain, blank. He let nothing mix up the creamy calm of his face. So? It would drive Sima crazy soon enough.

Yes, Berel answered, I did. You did not tell me that the man—but yes, I got it.

Well, show it to us! Chaim strained his voice.

Not right now.

Please, said Sima. Her cheeks had swollen. Please. Just try it on. Or do they have to alter it?

They did it while I waited.

Please.

Berel got up, pushed his chair to the table. He went into his room, where his suit, still in its garment bag, lay on the bed. He sat on the bed, next to the suit, and looked at the room. A drawing of a boy at a fruit stand hung in a green frame above the yellow dresser. Otherwise the walls were bare, light brown. The room would soon be his granddaughter’s. She could play with her own toys and wear new clothes until she outgrew them. Sima had worked from age fourteen until she left, but his granddaughter would go to high school, even university. She could attend class every day and study in her own room every night with the door closed, if she wished. The water from the sink, the toilet paper, the pale cotton sheets one could buy for a reasonable fee, everything here was soft and good. It really was. Already he was used to it. But he didn’t think he would miss it.

He fingered the garment bag. So, let them see him in it. He took off his shirt and wiped under his arms with a towel from the dresser. Then put on a white shirt—a gift that hadn’t fit, Chaim had said when giving it to him in a pile of items—and the gray suit over it. The hem grazed his heels. He did not have appropriate shoes. He put on his slippers. They would still see how it fell on his body. Should he check in the mirror that leaned in the closet? No. He knew how it looked.

He returned to the table.

Chaim grinned.

“
Tatteh
,” said Sima. And then in Hebrew: How beautiful.