Among the Living (26 page)

“You’re a shit, Franz.”

“Ah, the pearls, the jewels that come from his tongue. Wasn’t I right to say he’s found his inspiration? And even better tomorrow when you’ll be gone, gentlemen, and he’ll have no smell of baking bread in his nostrils or the warmth of an extra blanket on his bed to distract him — then you’d see the true genius of this man.”

“The genius of this man,” Lotte says, “is that he rarely speaks, which is more than I can say for you. You might learn to take a page from him.”

“ ‘Take a page,’ ” says Franz. “From a writer. Wonderful. That’s why I love her because she’s so much cleverer than I am.”

“It’s not so hard,” she says.

Malke is staring beyond them to the entrance of the courtyard, where a few coats of plaster and paint have been slapped
on to liven things up. The photographers have arrived with their escorts.

“Order another plate of rolls and more tea,” she says. “They’ll have no choice but to bring them now.” She’s finding great restraint today, Goldah thinks, and focus. It’s something of a blessing.

He calls the girl over; she, too, sees the photographers and heads off for the food.

Across the courtyard the commandant strides in the uniform of a first lieutenant, with men dressed in suits who share looks of deep appreciation, nodding, nodding, as the commandant speaks, gesturing to the surrounding buildings, a quiet laugh — he’s laughing and the men in the suits nod again — while the photographers stare about, stopping every so often to snap a shot, one of them with a large moving camera that he carries across his shoulder as he looks for a spot to place his tripod so as to capture the café and the buildings and the Jews at their ease.

The rolls and the tea arrive. Everyone has been told not to stare, not to look at the strange assortment of men approaching, but to chat — they’ve been told to chat about simple, everyday things: a child’s misbehavior, the pleasantness of the weather, their happiness to be among other Jews. Malke keeps her eyes on the table.

No one is surprised when the men draw near to Malke’s table. A girl that pretty and with bright blue eyes, seated across from Franz’s long oval face and jowls and high forehead, still — inconceivably — with a bit of a double chin, the perfect picture of the
raffinierte
Jew.

“Good afternoon,” the commandant says, dipping his head below the umbrella. He can’t quite bring himself to say “ladies, gentlemen,” but only Goldah recognizes the omission,
as the commandant continues. “You’re having a pleasant time today?”

“We are, Commandant,” says Lotte. Goldah knows her hand is pressed tightly onto Franz’s knee beneath the table.

“These are a few of the gentlemen from the Red Cross, eager to see our city,” says the commandant. “I’ve been telling them we’re expecting some colder weather, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, Commandant, I think you’re right.”

“And you’re the actor, aren’t you? I’ve seen you. Very funny.” He turns to the other men. “This is” — Franz no doubt feels Lotte’s grip tighten and he gives his name — “he’s been in a number of the productions we have here.”

“Yes, Commandant,” says Franz. “You’re very kind to remember.”

A man from the Red Cross says, “And are you preparing something new these days?”

Franz is already embracing his character. “A show with the children. It’s quite something.”

“A pleasant break from their schoolwork,” says the commandant. “We give them sport, swimming, theater. I believe we’re seeing their performance tonight.”

School in the camp is forbidden. This week, in preparation for the visit, all the orphans have been sent east to make more room. As for swimming, the students from Roudnice, who built the commandant’s swimming pool, remember only the beatings and the two who drowned in the process.

“Yes,” says Franz. “We keep them very busy.”

“And you, charming lady,” the commandant says to Malke, his eyes wider, a momentary flush in his cheeks, “no doubt you must also be in the theater.”

Goldah sees the hesitation in her eyes, not from fear — never from fear — but he has no idea how she’ll respond, and he says, “She’s to be my wife.”

The commandant turns to him. He would have liked to have talked more with the lovely young woman but must now, out of a German decorum, speak with her man. “How lucky for you,” he says. “Another wedding in Theresienstadt.”

“Yes, Commandant,” says Goldah. “When the weather turns. When it’s warm again.”

“How pleasant. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

There’s nothing more for the commandant here. The group moves on and Franz waits to say, “ ‘When the weather turns.’ You’re an idiot. I thought you’re the one who doesn’t talk.”

“I was inspired by the place.”

Lotte ignores them both and says to Malke, “So is this really news? Are you engaged and didn’t tell us?”

Malke is staring across at Goldah. Her focus has returned. “I don’t know. Are we?”

Goldah takes a sip of his tea. It’s cold. This time they haven’t even bothered to see all the way through on the ruse. “Yes,” he says. “Why not?”

The thrum of the cicadas made the pauses between them seem less fractured as they stood on the Jeslers’ porch, a single bird somewhere above cawing in equally empty conversation. Goldah was still holding her purse. He thought she might ask to see him tomorrow but she said she was tired and, if he wanted more time, she would understand. She might have placed her hand on his arm or it might just have been the taking of the purse; neither of them read too much into it.

“Did you ever think we’d be standing in a place like this?” Malke said.

There were so many ways to answer that question but Goldah simply shook his head; she wasn’t expecting more: She had given up on his silences long ago. She let herself in and ten minutes later he was back at his rooms. He opened the door and stumbled over something at his feet before finding the light. Looking down, he saw the envelope with no address, not even a name. He always attributed something mysterious, even sinister to packages that arrived this way, but here the mystery quickly became a dull pain at his temples as he felt the small ring and two keys tucked inside the paper. He had given them to Eva less than a week ago. He opened the envelope, hoping to find a note, but the inside was no more forgiving than the flap.

He stood there imagining her just the other side of the door: the moment she had pushed the envelope under; the next when she had felt the ache to retrieve it. Had he let self-pity guide him he would have tossed the keys onto the table with a false finality. But he didn’t.

At four o’clock the next afternoon Bill Thomas sat on a stool at the far end of the bar at the Crystal. He’d called to say he’d read through Goldah’s second piece and was jealous, desperately jealous, and insisted he buy him a drink. Goldah imagined there was no reason to question the motive — of course there was a reason — but he needed something to distract himself. After all, hadn’t promises been made?

“It’s damned unfair,” said Thomas, nursing a bourbon; Goldah was fine with seltzer. “Not that it’s Nabokov — I’m not going to embarrass either of us by saying that — but you have
to admit it’s a little criminal to be this good in a second language. Please tell me it’s only two.”

“If that makes things easier,” said Goldah.

“Christ. How many?”

“Comfortably … five.”

“
Five?
Well isn’t that just wonderful. So what is it: German, English —”

“Czech, French, and Slovak. But this is journalism. It’s different. It’s never more than a thousand words at a time. What can go so terribly wrong?”

Thomas finished his drink and motioned for another. “Plenty. Trust me. Weiss must be pinching himself for luck every morning.”

“I doubt that.”

Thomas nodded knowingly. “You dumped the girl, did you? Don’t worry. He won’t care. She can get over it, but this … this sells papers. This gets noticed.”

The bartender uncorked the bottle and poured another for Thomas.

“And one for this gentleman here,” Thomas said. “At least keep it in front of you. Seltzer makes me nervous.”

The barman waited. Goldah nodded, then drank. He had gotten used to the sweetness.

“A newsman who knows his Nabokov,” Goldah said. “I think I’m impressed.”

“That’s the dream, isn’t it?”

“What — to write a novel? I thought it was the
San Francisco Chronicle
?”

“I said the dream. The
Chronicle
’s the reality. It may be a little while on that but —”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic.”

“I’m not. And it’s not because I have something to say. That’s a fool’s errand. I just like the idea of eight months without having to talk to a soul and getting paid for it.”

It seemed to Goldah that this had all the trappings of a burgeoning friendship, especially when pitted against everything else. Friendship, he recalled, allowed for a greater degree of honesty. More than love or duty ever could, if only Malke could understand that. The truth, it seemed, was a small price to pay in order to foster the friendship.

“You’ve been looking into my cousin,” Goldah said. Thomas was too good at what he did to show a reaction. Goldah continued, “I’ve known it for quite some time. Something about the docks. That’s the reason I had Weiss send my piece down to your office in the first place.”

Thomas took another sip. He spun his glass for a moment. “I guess I should offer to buy you a drink more often, shouldn’t I?” He waited and said, “I knew why you’d come down. I’d read the piece before you came. You may write exquisitely in thirty-seven languages but deceit in spoken English has a rhythm all its own. Pretty hard to master. But I give you full marks for trying.”

Thomas’s brand of intuition was rare, his ease with it rarer still. Goldah decided not to be surprised. “It was that obvious?”

“I’ve been at this a while.”

“So was I.” Goldah heard his own
was
with more clarity than he cared to admit and realized how far he’d pushed that past away: A few paragraphs printed in a newspaper hardly made it real again. He said, “I don’t know anything about what Abe is up to. And even if I did —”

“Even if you did you wouldn’t tell me and I wouldn’t ask and we’d be better off. I know. The nice thing is you
don’t
know anything, and your cousin Jesler isn’t what I’m after, not really. That’s not to say he isn’t doing something a little rough around the edges. Money under the table isn’t kosher even if it’s a Jew who’s passing it along. But that’s not what interests me. Corruption at a port, that’s not news. It’s the people he’s trying to avoid up north, the union boys. And the man who keeps them in the dark.
That’s
who I’m interested in. But I can’t promise I can keep Jesler out of it. I thought you’d want to know.”

“All because I write so well.”

Thomas finished his drink. “We both know how rare it is to find someone down here who” — he chose his words carefully — “appreciates the world beyond this place. I’d rather not lose that for now.”

For now, thought Goldah.

“Oh, and you’re wrong, by the way,” said Thomas. “It’s not the flow of guns into Palestine that’ll be the problem for your friends. It’s Abdullah in Transjordan. He’ll try to play both sides. Just a thought.”

Thomas was full of surprises. He drummed his hands on the bar and stood. “Tell Jesler to keep Hirsch at a distance.”

Thomas left a few coins for the drinks and headed for the door. Goldah tossed back the rest of his own and caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar. He noticed how his face had changed in the last few months, fuller and with a darker complexion. It seemed to him as if he was looking at a film he had once seen, though now faded and obscured. He wondered for a moment: Have I really become so easy to read? Maybe that was what had made Eva possible.

PART THREE

12

GOLDAH WAITED
in the Jeslers’ parlor with Abe. Abe had found his own grandfather’s tallis and bag, which now lay perched on Goldah’s lap, a few of the fringes peeking out from the crushed-velvet flap. Goldah sat, unaware that he was twisting the little strings around his finger.