Son of a Smaller Hero (29 page)

Noah slipped into the apartment quietly. He heard voices coming from Leah’s bedroom. He paused.

“After I’m an
M.P.,”
Max said, “I’m really going to do good. How could they not elect me? Me, I’m no coward. When I get to Ottawa the Jews will have a voice – a helper.…”

“You don’t know how much he could help you, Max. He could write your speeches. He – that boy is so bright. He could do anything as long as he puts his mind …”

“He’s Wolf’s son, and that’ll help. The electors won’t forget.”

Noah giggled softly. Standing in the darkness, he wiggled his ears and raised his eyebrows. Experimentally.

The congregation decided to build a combination synagogue, hall, school, and community centre on Maplewood Avenue. Most members of the congregation now owned their own duplexes in Outremont, so what was the good of the old dump on Park Avenue? Park Avenue was a ghetto! Ever since the war the
greeners
had been flocking in by the boatload. (Why in the hell couldn’t they go to Israel? God knows it’s costing us enough.) Max Adler, the president of the congregation, decided that they could use the basement of the old synagogue for their building campaign headquarters. So that afternoon, two days before Christmas, Max and the vice-president, Jack Goldfarb, went down into the basement with flashlights. “Christ,” Max said. “I almost forgot.”

In 1939 a representative of The Hebrew Book Centre had arrived from Tel Aviv and had made an eloquent speech about the pioneers in Palestine. He told the congregation that the Hebrew language had been rejuvenated by these men, and that it was the duty of Jews everywhere to read their works, for, at the same time, they would be acquiring culture and helping in the noblest cause. It got a shock when the books arrived
C.O.D
. five days later. “Deal with the Jews,” Max had said.

So the books were stored in the basement and quickly forgotten.

“What are we gonna do with the goddam books?” Goldfarb asked.

“I’ll take them off your hands,” Max said.

“Not so fast, Max. They belong to all of us.”

An executive meeting was called for noon the next day. Max explained that they had to get rid of the books because they needed the space. That was fine, but suddenly everybody wanted the books. Ross said that he could use the big ones in his country home. Lou Bazer wanted three feet of the smaller ones for the bookcase attachment to his bedroom set. Krashinsky wanted two dozen – any size as long as the binding was good – for his real-estate office. Max settled the argument. He grabbed two books, held them behind his back, and said: “Okay, Goldfarb. Which hand?”

The books were divided up in a little less than three hours.

Afterwards Moore drove Max back to the office. Noah was supposed to be waiting there, and Max was in high spirits. “Liss’n, Moore, why couldn’t you be a nigger? Or still better a Chink? Who in the hell ever heard of an Irish chauffeur?”

“You’re kidding, Max.”

Max rolled a cigar on his tongue, spit out the end, and then lit it. “What’s new with the
A.A.?
You get a good report card this month?” He leaned towards Moore. “Lemme smell your breath, you old bastard. I catch you drinking and I’ll break your …”

“I haven’t had a drop, Max.”

Max’s office was different from his father’s old office on St. Dominique Street. It was vast, and dominated by a long, semicircular oak desk. The panelled walls were sound-proof. A bar on rollers was disguised as a bookcase. Press a button, and the industrial mural on the wall behind the desk rolled up to reveal a screen. On the opposite wall a panel lifted and a projector rolled out. Max enjoyed showing prospective clients films of previous Ajax Trading jobs interspersed with short items like
Lesbians in Action
or
Honeymoon in Paris
. Press another button and a photograph of Melech Adler slid back to reveal a wall safe. Press still another button and a panel lifted revealing a small bedroom. Other photographs hanging on the walls included one of Max and the mayor.
Noah stared at the one that had a black frame.
IN EVERLASTING MEMORY
. A photograph of Wolf and a simple poem.

Max burst into the office and grinned broadly. He pulled out the bar and rolled back the “books.” “I should get Moore to do this. That’s what he’s paid for, eh? But me, why should I wave a carrot in front of a donkey’s nose?” He paused, allowing time for Noah’s laugh. “Did you meet Miss Holmes coming in?”

“No.”

“It takes that broad five hours to eat lunch. Bad digestion. Any way, she’ll be back before six. You’ll meet her.” Max served drinks, and then assumed a more serious expression. “Are you gonna work for me, Noah?”

Noah had last seen that expression, heard that tone of voice, when he had been a boy. That’s how they had used to swear each other into street gangs.

“That’s not why I came here,” Noah said.

“I’m sold on you, Noah. What’s wrong? Don’t you go for me?”

“Sure I do, Max, but …”

“I’ll pay you a hundred and fifty a week for the first six months. That’s when you’ll be learning to count your fingers after shaking hands with a customer. After six months, if you’ve still got fingers left, you become my personal secretary and I’ll up you to two hundred a … You don’t seem to be listening.”

“I’m listening.”

“Noah. I can’t trust anybody. You I could. You’re not jealous like the others.” Noah didn’t reply immediately, so Max continued. “I’m going to go far, Noah. This is just the beginning. I …”

“Max, you knew that my father didn’t rush into that fire after the scrolls. Nobody knew that the
Zeyda
was working on scrolls. You know damn well what my father thought was in that box.”

Max pulled out a fresh cigar and rolled it on his tongue and spit out the end. He sat down behind the desk. “Hell, Christ may have died thinking that Judas was going to split with him at the
eleventh hour and that they would make their getaway together. But the people …”

“So you’ve known all along.”

“I did it for Paw’s sake,” Max said.

“Let’s not start lying to each other at this point.”

“All right. So I didn’t do it for Paw’s sake.” Max flung his letter opener down on his desk. “How much do you want to
borrow?”

“Are you serious, Max? Do you think that I’ve come here for money?”

“Statistics prove that nine out of ten guys who step through that door come here for that very item.”

“Does my mother know about the scrolls?”

“Not unless you intend opening your big mouth.”

Max flipped open the intercommunication system on his desk and asked about Miss Holmes. But she hadn’t arrived yet. He turned to Noah. “That girl’d do anything for me,” he said. “She loves me. She – aw, what the hell!”

“What would you do if she were pregnant, Max?”

“Mail her a hat-pin. Hey, what do you think. We’ve got doctors in this town, eh?”

There had been no sign of recognition. He obviously didn’t know about Melech.

“I’d like to meet her,” Noah said.

“You will.”

“I don’t want any money, but Shloime might get ideas if you ever became an
M.P.”

“Shloime?”

“Look, Max, are we going to crap around or …”

“I’ll kill that old lush. I’ll break every bone in his …”

“Moore hasn’t said a word. He’s kept his bargain, I guess. I saw Shloime a few nights ago. But I had hoped that at least you didn’t know that Shloime was responsible for the fire. That – did you put him in the army?”

Max lifted his arms into the air and then allowed them to drop helplessly to his sides.

“You don’t want a scandal, eh, Max? You’re worried about the election?”

“Here.” Max tossed a pamphlet across the desk. It was for the Synagogue Building Campaign. There was that picture of Wolf and that poem. The school was to be called the Wolf Adler Memorial School. “I’ve been watching you for some time, Noah. Do you know what would happen if the so-called true story of Wolf’s death got out? The anti-Semites would have a ball. It would prove to them that the Jews only care for money. That they’ll even die for it.” Max stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “I think you’d like that because I think you’re the biggest goddam anti-Semite I’ve ever met.”

“My father didn’t die for money because he was a Jew.”

“You go talk to the
Goyim.”

“I’m not talking to the
Goyim
. Or the Jews. I’m talking to you.”

“Me. That’s right. And I’m telling you that if the so-called true …”

“Wolf Adler died because his father was a coward and allowed the
Goyim
to define him. For another, his wife was a bitch and his son a blindly selfish bastard. One brother a moron and the other a scoundrel. That other being you. All right. You’ve all got reasons. But somewhere this ugliness has got to stop.” Noah drank hastily. “Anti-Semitism is an obscene enough thing, Max, without it being used to rationalize your business perversions.”

“I’m listening. Go ahead.”

“If this nonsense about Wolf isn’t stopped – if this pamphlet isn’t withdrawn, and unless you swear not to use Wolf in your election campaign – I’ll let the true story out.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“All right. It’s blackmail.”

“Nobody’d believe you.”

“You can’t afford to take that chance.”

“I can’t, eh? And what about you? You’re such a weakling, Noah. You’re as bad as Panofsky. You’d never tell the true story because you know what it would do to your
Zeyda –
and your mother.…”

“I’m leaving my mother in a few days.”

“You’re what? She’s sick. Why that would be enough to kill her.”

“I don’t think so. She … she might live another ten or twenty years. I’d have to leave her sometime. I …”

“I’m beginning to think you’re a bigger bastard than I am.”

“Will you withdraw the pamphlet?”

“No. But I’ll up my offer to two-fifty a week and let the customers count
their
fingers.”

Noah got up. “My mother’s illness is convenient. Whenever I want to do something that she doesn’t like she has an attack. That could go on for … You don’t understand.”

“You walk out and she dies. I’m willing to put money on that.”

“You’re willing to put money on anything.”

Max walked around the desk and confronted Noah. “I can see it all now, you know. You walk out, you kill her. Bango! You’re into the bottle like a pig into its own shit.” Max poked him with his cigar. “You drink a bit already, don’t you? But you think you can stop if you want. Yeah, sure. They all think that.” He shoved the cigar back into his mouth. “You’ll come crawling back, Noah. You’ll be willing to take fifty bucks a week, but by that time you won’t even be worth ten. But stinker that you think I am I’ve got a big heart and I’ll take you in. I’m corrupt, eh? Who keeps the whole family in cars, you or me? Sure, I’ll take you in out of the rain. Maybe I’ll even be able to swing it so that you and Moore are in the same
A.A
. group.”

There was a soft rapping at the door.

“All right,” Max said. “Let’s stop quarrelling. It’s Miss Holmes. She …” Max gave Noah a hard, penetrating look. “She’s somebody – the only person – that I can still trust.”

Noah watched. Miss Holmes handed Max a batch of letters to be signed and Max accepted them tenderly. Noah was introduced. She didn’t recognize him. But Noah’s mind returned swiftly to that night in the Café Minuit. He eats out of my hand, she had told Harry, as long as I keep sugar in it.

As soon as Miss Holmes left Noah grasped Max’s arm. “Max, listen, there’s something you ought to know. I …”

Max misunderstood. He grinned with delight and grabbed Noah’s hand. “You’ve changed your mind. You’re gonna stay. Is that it?”

Noah inched back from him. “No, I … Max …”

“You sick? Sit down.”

Noah broke away from him. “I’m sorry, Max.”

“Sorry?”

“Sorry for you. Sorry for me, too, I guess. I – I wonder if I’m as weak as you say?”

He slipped out.

Miss Holmes waved to him as he passed her desk, but Noah didn’t notice.

“Happy New Year,” Collin yelled.

Marg Kennedy leaped on to the table and pulled a whirl of crepe paper around her. “The Hydrogen Bomb Age is now one year old.” She giggled. “Stop looking up my skirts, Howard.”

“The H-Bomb Age may be one year old,” Howard said, “but I reached puberty long ago.”

Marg tumbled off the table and into his arms.

“Happy New Year,” Collin yelled again.

The telephone rang. Bill Goodman swept it up to his mouth as though he meant to devour it. “Communist Party headquarters,” he said.

Jane MacEvoy shrieked. “Do you want the
RCMP
over?” she asked.

“Comrades, and members of the
FBI,”
Collin said.

“It’s Harold,” Bill said, holding the phone in his hand. “He says that when this ship runs dry we can come aboard his raft.”

“There’s still a lot more to drink,” Theo called out glumly, keeping his eye on Miriam and Neil.

“Tell him we’ll come alongside in a few hours, Bill,” Marg yelled.

“Hang a blonde out of the window,” Bill said into the mouthpiece, “and keep same well lit. Otherwise, we might miss your barge in the fog.” Bill hung up.

Neil McLeod pursued Miriam into the bedroom.

Theo watched. So did Marg.

Theo’s mother smiled. She noticed that Neil had shut the bedroom door after him. “I enjoyed your last book of poetry so much, Howard,” she said. “Do you count Auden as one of your influences?”

“I count Canadian Club as my only influence,” Howard said.

“And he’s usually under it,” Daphne said.

Mrs. Hall watched the shut bedroom door. She’s only been back with him three months, she thought. And that makes the fourth man. She looked at her watch. “What did you say, Howard?”

“I said that Canada hasn’t any writers, Mrs. Hall. We’ll have to get an identity first. Meanwhile, we’re British without the tradition and American without the …”

“I don’t think you’re right, Howard. I …”

A glass crashed in the kitchen.