Among the Living (28 page)

Jesler was trying to step around a thick patch of mud. His shoes had caught. “I guess that might be true, too.”

They drove for another twenty minutes before they found parking was almost impossible out by the pier. Jesler was puzzled and thought maybe there was a party or something, but he spotted a space all the same and they started out for the
pavilion. The air was cooler above the beach and Goldah felt as if someone had shaken the place awake and mislaid his memory of it like a dream. He looked out and longed for the haze and the heat and the afternoon he had spent with Eva.

The group was almost to the end of the pier when Jesler said, “Well I’ll be damned.” The mystery of the cars had been solved: a gathering of forty or so people stood by the far rail, all gazing out at the water. “That’s Blumstein,” Jesler said, “and those are the Lippmans.”

Goldah recognized the shock of Weiss’s white hair and, at his side, a little boy who must have been Julian. Several in the gathering began to look back at the approaching horde, talking among themselves as they did. Soon everyone was facing one another and close enough to speak. Only then did Goldah see Eva standing next to her mother. He thought she might catch his eye but no, she was looking at Malke: There seemed to be something so final in that. Even so — and maybe in spite of himself — Goldah couldn’t help but find something comical in the standoff: Two groups of Jews staring each other down over the chance to throw their sins into the ocean. He wondered what this might be looking like to a passerby but, of course, no one would have been foolish enough to give it a second glance: a murder of crows, a pride of lions, and here at last, a collision of Jews. He might have laughed if not for …

“We’ve come to do
tashlich
,” said the rabbi from the shul.

“So have we,” a sharp voice rose from the temple crowd, though not quite courageous enough to step out and be seen. “Plenty of water down on the beach.”

The rabbi from the temple stepped out as well. “It seems as if we’ve both had the same idea this year.”

“Yes, it would seem so.”

“We’ll be done in a few minutes, if you care to wait.”

The prospect of standing in line behind the temple Jews sent a momentary buzz throughout the shul gathering.

“No need,” said the rabbi from the shul, matching the other’s pious if patronizing restraint. “As you’ve pointed out, there are plenty of places that will suffice.”

The temple rabbi held his ground in silence and Goldah heard himself say, “Aren’t the prayers the same for both? Couldn’t we just do them together, all the sins at once?”

Goldah was used to people staring at him, albeit not quite like this, but at that moment he didn’t care, not when he saw an instance of warmth cross Eva’s eyes.

“What a generous thought, Mr. Goldah,” said the rabbi from the shul, “but I’m sure our friends at the temple have already begun the ritual and we wouldn’t want to force them to begin it again.” He turned to his own flock. “A chance to walk in the sand like the children of Israel before us. What could be more appropriate this year than that?” He raised his hands and motioned for those at the back to lead them on.

Goldah watched as Eva turned to the water. If not for Malke he would have joined her and taken her hand. Then again, if not for Malke, he would have been with her already. Instead, he felt Malke’s hand on his arm — a need to explain what had just happened — before they followed the others back along the pier.

Down on the beach, everyone quickly took off their shoes: The men rolled up their pants and pulled off their socks, while the women did their best to slip out of their knee-high hose without too much complaining. There was a great deal of leaning and grasping and even some laughter before they all began to trudge their way out to a suitable spot not far from the pier. Keeping back of the waves, the men retrieved their
kippahs
and tallisim as the women brought out the pieces
of bread they had been carrying in wax paper, sequestered until now in the deep recesses of their purses. Bread for sins, thought Goldah: Only the ducks and seagulls would be seeing the efficacy in that.

The rabbi led them through the prayers, stopping as everyone tried in vain to hurl his or her bread far enough out into the water so that the tide wouldn’t bring it back. A few of the younger men managed some excellent throws but most found themselves darting between the waves to retrieve the soggy pieces that lay lifeless on the sand.

“I know which sin that is, Herb Fleischmann,” someone yelled, “and I can promise you, you’re never going to get rid of it.”

“Maybe I don’t want to,” Herb yelled back, deftly avoiding one wave only to be caught by another.

“You better,” yelled Fannie. “Does anyone know if they can dry-clean a tallis?”

The whole thing was absurd — absurd and wonderful — and a far cry from the stupidity up on the pier. Even Goldah was feeling relieved. He had tossed his own bread far enough out to keep himself dry, which allowed him a moment to glance up at the temple crowd. They had finished and were milling about. He saw a few of the children racing in all directions, a necessary release after the quiet observance of yet one more Rosh Hashanah prayer: What sins had they committed, he wondered, to merit that? He tried to find Eva but she was keeping herself back.

“I want to throw a piece,” he heard Malke say. The giddiness in her voice caught him by surprise. “And if it doesn’t go far enough, Yitzi, I want you to go and get it and do it for me. Will you do that, Yitzi? Will you do that for me?”

He tried to sound encouraging. “Of course.”

“Pearl,” she shouted over. “May I have a piece? I want to throw it.”

Pearl was laughing at Jesler, who was darting tiptoe along the edge of the water, more carefree than Goldah had ever seen him. For a large man he was remarkably spry, although it was anyone’s guess when he might topple over.

Pearl shouted at him through her laughter, “Careful, Abe. Careful. You look a sight. Now watch Malke. She’s going to try one. You go get it if it doesn’t go in.”

“I’ll get it,” said Goldah, rolling his pants higher above his knees. “They’re my sins as well.”

Pearl’s face was pure joy as she handed Malke the bread. “A big throw, dear. Put everything behind it.”

Malke stepped forward and with a sudden earnestness sent the small piece of bread arcing high into the air. It took everyone by surprise — the force, the trajectory — and when it landed well beyond the break in the tide, she jumped in the air with absolute pleasure to the cheers of those around her.

It was then that Goldah caught sight of the small body leaving the pier, even before he heard the scream: the tumbling of a child’s arms and legs, flattening itself backward before it smacked effortlessly into the water and disappeared below.

The water burns even though Goldah sees the gauge beyond the tub hovering at just above six degrees Celsius. They have inserted a tube into his rectum and this, too, shows a temperature that is holding at just below thirty degrees. They are waiting for him to lose consciousness. The men who have called themselves doctors write on clipboards and, from time to time, prod his shoulders, which remain out
of the water. If Goldah can strain his eyes downward, he can see his veins more acutely than he has ever seen them before. They look more green than blue, which he cannot understand, and he thinks this is when his eyes have begun to lose their accuracy.

Goldah knows he will die within the next twenty minutes. They have told him this. He watches the slow movement of the second hand on the clock above the table where, only minutes before, they had tied him down so as to insert the tube. They have told him that another twenty minutes is when his body temperature will dip below four degrees and his heart will cease to pump. They explain that the burning will become a warm sensation a few minutes before that. They would like for him to try and stay alive beyond the twenty minutes and, if he is able, they will begin the warming process. It is slow, and there is just as great a chance that he will die because of the shock to his system. They tell him all of this so that he might utter a word or two to let them know when he feels significant changes in either his limbs, his hearing, or his eyesight. They cannot assess these changes without indications from him.

They make it clear that these requests are perfectly reasonable because he will most likely die anyway and then they will need to find another test subject, no doubt one he knows, in order to gather the information they need. He alone will be responsible for the pain and the death of this other because he will have chosen to deny them a few simple responses.

He says, “Burning less.”

They look at the clock and the watches on their wrists. They write on their clipboards.

At eighteen minutes he hears a dull sound — like whale song, he thinks — although he has never heard it himself, a
mewling that rises and dips, and fills his head like a muffled scream, though it is gentler than that. He sees the men, their movements jagged now, slow then fast, and Goldah struggles to say something.

“Knife” passes his lips. He has tried to say something else,
death
perhaps, but his mind cannot think that far back, and he sees the clock has stopped and he feels the warmth they have told him will come, their movements once again rushed then quiet. He waits for consciousness to slip away but instead feels himself retching and knows he is somehow alive.

“Thirty-one minutes,” he hears. “Remarkable.”

It is three hours later and he lies on the table. They have brought him back to life. And because of where he is and who he is he can think only to thank them.

He tries to tell this to Pasco the next day in the hospital but there is still a burning in his throat and his jaw feels weighted and uneven. He wonders if it will always be this way. He cannot find a way to speak.

“You were the last,” Pasco tells him in a low voice. “It’s what I’ve been hearing. They can show your results as proof that a man can survive that kind of freezing. They’re very pleased with themselves. They say your organs are functioning the way they should, except maybe the kidneys, but how well were the kidneys working beforehand anyway? You’re the first Jew they’ve been happy to see live.”

Goldah has been allowed to stay in the hospital, not with those destined for selection but with those who can still work. He is one of the prized patients. He has no idea how he has gotten here.

“They might have killed you anyway,” says Pasco, “but it’s better for them if you’re still living. Lucky for you, lucky for me. I heard it all from Frister — the one who was the doctor in Lodz.
He washes out the tub. He was here when they did all the tests the first time, more than two years ago. He said you didn’t lose your bowels, which is strange he said — even back then everyone lost his bowels — but not you, so maybe that’s why you made it through. Good, hot shit piping through your insides to keep you warm — no, I know you can’t answer. It’s all right.”

Pasco looks back to the door for just a moment, then leans over as he coughs and reaches into the heel of his shoe. He returns with a cube of sugar hidden in his hand — unheard of — and slips it quickly into Goldah’s mouth.

“Who knows if it does any good but better to taste that than something else if you don’t wake up. So make sure you wake up.”

Goldah wonders how it is that Pasco can be talking to him, how he has been allowed inside the hospital. He wonders if, in fact, Pasco is even here but he tastes the sweetness in his mouth nonetheless.

“If you make it out they’ll find something better for you. No question. Something easy, maybe up in the labs with me. What a treat for you. Fewer beatings. And they’ll give you extras to keep you alive because they need their proof.”

Goldah doesn’t see the burn marks and bandages across Pasco’s chest and arm. Pasco has saved a scientist in a chemical fire. He has been permitted a few days to regain his strength. Only later will Goldah understand their good fortune to have been in the hospital together.

“No washing for you,” Pasco says with a quiet laugh, “not for a while, not even with stolen water, am I right?”

Goldah knows Pasco wants to a see a smile; Pasco has been trying so hard. Goldah does what he can with his eyes.

“Sleep and dream of the desert,” says Pasco. “What else should a Jew dream of?”