The Family Moskat (72 page)

"What are you standing there staring at me for?" he shouted. "Don't you recognize me any more?"

"You look tired. Did you walk up?"

"The janitor wouldn't give me the key to the elevator." Asa Heshel paled. "Why?"

"An anti-Semitic dog!"

Abram took off his coat, his scarf, and his galoshes. Underneath he was wearing a black jacket and striped trousers. He wore an artist's flowing tie. His belly had grown enormous; his coat could not button over it. A silver watch chain dangled at his vest. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from the bald patch on his head and the stray locks of hair that grew around it, and from his red forehead, sighing as he did so. "Well, you see what's become of me," he said. "All I'm good for is to render into fat."

Hadassah came out of the child's room and flung herself into Abram's arms. She covered him with kisses. The three went into the living-room, where Abram threw himself down on a couch, the springs groaning and sagging under his weight. For a long -473-time he sat

there breathing deeply. Gradually he regained his composure.

"Well, what are you standing over me that way for? I'm not dead yet. Hadassah, guess what I brought for you. Here. Close your eyes and open your mouth."

Abram lifted his shaking hand to his inner breast pocket, rummaging around. He brought out a packet of protested notes, a foreign passport that had long ago expired, some lottery tickets, letters--a whole miscellany of papers. His pocket must have had a hole, for some of the contents had fallen into the lining.

Digging his hand deep down, he brought up a pair of sun glasses; he had lost them months before.

"I must be in my dotage already," he muttered.

Just then his fingers clutched what he was looking for. It was a folded clipping from a Yiddish newspaper. He shook it and two tickets fell out. He settled his eyeglasses on his nose and began to read aloud in a strong voice: "A Ball of all Ballsl A thousand attractions. A hundred prizes. Voting for a beauty queen and seven princesses. Jazz band. Buffet of the finest foods. Oriental dances.

Salon decorated by the greatest painters. Special revue by distinguished stars. Recitations of modern and classical poets. A Jewish magician, Mr. Trick of America, in a performance which has baffled the greatest scientists. A Jewish strong man, whose name must be kept secret for the present, rending chains and breaking iron, as well as female hearts. Each guest will automatically participate in a lottery and may win such gifts as a Channukah lamp, an alarm clock, a lorgnette, a Japanese fan, a
bonbonnière,
and the finest gift that any Jew might wish--a set of the works of Mendele Mocher Sforim, in a de luxe binding. And in case you're wondering what this event is, it is the masquerade ball of the Jewish press, to be held on the third night of Channukah, at the . . ."

Abram interrupted his reading, then began again, first blowing his nose. He thumped his fist on the table as he read, swallowing some of the words in his haste. The rest he declaimed in an exaggerated manner with all the vocal nuances of the Polish-Yiddish dialect. From time to time his voice broke into a loud asthmatic wheeze. At the end of the announcement was a list of the judges who were to choose the beauty queen. Among the painters, writers and actors whose names were printed in fat type was: "The well-known community figure and MÄjcenas of the arts, Abram Shapiro." Abram's face flushed to an apoplectic -474— red. "And you'll be the one to win," he boomed, "whether they like it or not."

"I really don't know what you mean, Uncle," Hadassah said.

"Don't be so naÄ"ve," Abram growled. "I've seen the other candidates. Apes, every last one of them."

Abram subsided into silence. Only the day before, he had promised Dr. Mintz that he'd watch his diet, stop smoking his heavy cigars, keep away from liquor, avoid getting excited over every trifle. Dr. Mintz had warned him that another attack might spell his finish. But what could he do about the ridiculous character he had? The smallest thing would set him off in wild excitement. Hadassah kept turning her gaze from Abram to Asa Heshel.

"Oh, Uncle," she said, "I can't think about balls now. My little Dacha's sick."

Abram's big black eyes immediately grew moist. "What is it?"

he asked.

"I don't know. It's something different every day. It's getting to be impossible."

Abram got up from the couch. "Crying already, eh? And I, idiot that I am, want to make her a beauty queen when she's nothing but a mournful Jewess. Well, children get sick. My Bella's house is a regular hospital. One of the brats gets out of the bed and the other gets into it. The place is a mess. The doctors take away every last penny. Well, after we've kicked the bucket they'll overturn the world. Tell me, Asa Heshel, how about you?

You don't seem to be bursting with happiness."

"It's a wonder I stay alive."

Abram shook his head dolefully. "What's the matter with you?

These things happen in the best of families."

"I'm sick of all this family stuff." He was sorry the moment he spoke.

Hadassah looked at him in astonishment. "It isn't my fault that the baby's sick."

"That's only one of the things that's wrong with us."

Hadassah's cheeks flushed. She made a convulsive movement of her throat, as though she was swallowing something. "Any time you want to go, you're free."

Abram looked at the two, puzzled, and tried to pass it off as a joke. "People in love always pick at each other."

"Oh, no, Uncle. It's no use. He's serious about it."

-475-Hadassah

began to make small futile movements at the table, picking up a glass, putting it down again, turning to the right and to the left, fidgeting with her hands. Abruptly she went out of the room.

Abram shrugged his shoulders. "What do you torture her for?"

he asked. "You love her, don't you? Ah, you young people--"

Asa Heshel went out too, leaving Abram alone. Abram picked up the newspaper clipping, which he had put on the table, and restored it to his pocket. He carefully placed a salt-shaker on the two tickets to prevent them from blowing away. He had recently seen much. He had witnessed hatred and bitterness everywhere.

He found it impossible now to stay at home. Since Hama had died, the flat had been unlivable. Even the mice had fled. His daughter Stepha had quarreled with her husband and was now on the brink of a divorce. Bella bore on her shoulders the whole burden of making a livelihood. Avigdor, the fool, had be-come a petty trader on the Ghzybov, earning barely enough to buy the water for the barley. And now it seemed that Hadassah, too, was part of an unhappy household. What did they want, these people?

Why were they all eager to tear one another to pieces?

Abram got up and went into the bedroom. Hadassah was not there. A dim lamp was burning, and the child lay sleeping in her crib. Abram looked at her for a long time. The long features were pale, with a porcelain-like pallor. The brown hair, the round brow, the too red lips, the closed eyes, the little white nose, all these reminded him of a doll. He remembered what Dr. Mintz had told him some time before, that the child might not live long.

Abram sat down on a chair and picked up one of the child's playthings. His thoughts reverted to the press ball. He needed a tuxedo, a new shirt, a pair of patent-leather shoes. He knew that Ida would not go to the ball unless she had a new dress. He had promised Bella a hundred zlotys. Where was he to get the money? The house in which he had inherited a half interest was in almost complete ruins. Any time in the next few days a municipal squad was to come to evict the tenants. A man would have to have the heart of a scoundrel to collect rent from such paupers.

No, it was not the same Warsaw. And he was not the same Abram.

But just the same a man went on living. And he'd have -476-to find,

somewhere or other, a couple of hundred zlotys. And he'd have to have the money at the latest by the coming week. If not, he was done for.

He put his hand to his beard and began plucking at the hairs. He knew that Hadassah still had a pearl necklace, left to her by her mother. He could pawn it for at least five hundred gulden and then pay three months' interest in advance. Before the pe-riod was up he would surely, somehow or other, be able to redeem it. After all, wasn't he at the very threshold of carrying off a real stroke of business? The important thing was to keep up appearances.

2

From Asa Heshel's house Abram went to see Ida, on Holy Cross Street. The times when Abram had traveled around the town in droshkies were past. He climbed into a streetcar. Ida's studio and her flat next door were on the fifth floor of the building. The elevator was not working, and Abram climbed up slowly, stopping every once in a while to rest and catch his breath. He smoked his cigar and cocked his ears. He knew everyone in the building, every child, every man, every
shikse
. On the first floor lived a government censor of Hebrew books. Abram would stop for a chat with him from time to time. On the second floor lived an aged Polish Countess, who went about on crutches with plush pads on the arm supports. Abram often greeted her or opened the door for her. The Countess's servant girl had once confided to Abram that she was pregnant. Abram had written a letter to a doctor he knew, and the girl had been able to get an abortion for thirty zlotys.

Abram listened. His heart was bad, but his hearing was sharp. He could catch every sound. From the attic room came the sound of a piano. It was the hunchback, who always had a procession of girls coming to him. A man with asthma coughed, spat, and wheezed.

That was Pan Vladislav Halpern, the administrator. A phonograph blurted out a popular song.

Abram closed his eyes. He loved good music. Often he went to hear the Philharmonic concerts. But the simple songs that house-maids and courtyard singers sang went straight to his heart. How beautiful the world was! How lovely girls were!--And how cleverly the year was divided into its seasons--summer, autumn, -477-winter, spring!

How wonderful that there was day, and night, and men, and women, and birds and cattle! There was only one thing that wasn't worth a plague: death. Why should he, Abram, have angina pectoris? What would he be doing through the long winter nights over there in the Gensha cemetery? And even admitting that there was such a thing as paradise, what good would it be to him? He'd rather have the Warsaw streets than all the wisdom of a Jewish paradise.

He climbed the last flight of stairs and opened Ida's door with his key. Ida was apparently asleep. He turned on a light. The skylight was covered with snow. On the floor were scattered canvases, brushes, paper, paints. On the iron stove stood a pot of unpeeled potatoes. A pair of stockings was drying on the oven pipe. There was an old portrait of Abram on the wall, an Abram with a black beard and glistening eyes. In recent times Abram had had scant pleasure out of Ida. She was always ailing, always quarreling over the merest trifle. She had stopped sending pictures for exhibition to the Jewish art societies. She wasn't young any more. She was a woman along in the fifties, if not even older than that. Her daughter in Berlin was already a mother. But there was still fire in Ida. She still staged jealous scenes. She could never forget his betrayal of her with Ninotchka. Abram sat down on a chair, puffing at his cigar. He took out the string of pearls that he had got at Hadassah's. He looked carefully at each pearl. How old, he wondered, were they? Dacha had got them from her mother, and her mother had got them from her mother when she was married. Yes, people died, but things lived on. The least cobblestone in the street was millions of years old.

As he sat there blowing smoke rings, Ida came in from the bedroom. Over her nightgown she wore a wine-colored robe.

There were slippers on her feet. Her graying hair was bound in a scarf. Her face was smeared with cold cream.

Abram burst into loud laughter. "You're still crawling around."

Ida immediately flared up. "What do you want me to be, paralyzed?"

"Ida, darling, I've got money. You'll have a new dress for the ball."

"Where did you get the money from? I don't need a new dress."

-478-Abram

looked at her with a mixture of joy and astonishment. "What's the matter? Has the Messiah come?"

"Abram, I must have an operation."

Abram's expression changed. "What's happened?"

"I have a growth on the spleen. I didn't want to tell you. I had an X-ray examination. I have to go to the hospital next Monday."

"What's been going on? Why didn't you tell me before?

"What's the difference? There was a consultation today. For two hours."

Abram lowered his head. He had not expected this. He had noticed that Ida's face had become yellowish. He suspected gall bladder. It was never possible to get any information from her.

She had a habit of keeping secrets from him. But now the blow was on him. The cigar smoke against his palate lost its aroma. "I hope it isn't dangerous."

"What's the good of hopes? What I'm afraid of is that it's a cancer."

The cigar fell from Abram's lips. "Are you out of your mind, or what?"

"Don't shout. It isn't my fault."

"Not every tumor is a cancer."

"No." Ida smiled. In a moment her face seemed to become young and girlish, full of the charm that had kept him bound to her these twenty-five years. From behind the fine creases at their corners her eyes shone with a feminine joy in life, that Polish-Jewish look of hopefulness that no misfortune could ef-face. This was the Ida who had left a husband and child in Lodz, with servants and wealth, and had come here to him, Abram, a rake, and a married man into the bargain. It was the Ida who had year in and year out quarreled with him and made up with him, who had torn up her canvases in a rage every few months and then started painting again with renewed faith in the importance of art. Now she stood looking at him, half sadly and half scornfully. "Don't take it so to heart, Abram. I'm an old woman."

Abram blushed. "Not to me," he muttered. "Not to me."