Among the Living (5 page)

A few words of conversation rose up and Goldah followed them down the stairs. He smelled the cigarettes and the sour breath of whiskey in the air. A phonograph played something jaunty, and he heard the rough laughter of men who needed their laughter to be heard, the sound of women underneath.

He reached the last step and at once saw Pearl making her way toward him.

“At last!” she said maneuvering through and raising her hands. “Here he is everyone! Here he is.” She drew up next to him and placed her arm around his waist. “Everyone! Everyone! Arthur Goldberg, if I have to raise my voice one more decibel just because you can’t hush up … Thank you. Now.” She gathered herself. “Here he is. This is Abe’s cousin, Mr. Ike Goldah.
Our
Ike Goldah. He goes by Ike. That’s what he likes, and he’s had a very long day, but he’s been kind enough to let us fete him for the night — his first night with us here in Savannah — so we’ll have something to eat, you all will get a chance to make your introductions, and then you will have to go because I can’t imagine how tired the poor boy must be. Did you get all that Arthur Goldberg? Good.”

Goldah passed through the first brave nods and handshakes and realized that Pearl would be keeping her arm around his waist for the remainder of the evening. They were conjoined, hers to parade, his to be protected.

Jesler appeared with a glass — “Lemonade, Ike. Liquor won’t do you too well tonight, I don’t think” — and then he was gone.

Goldah drank and followed and listened. There was a pair of women, seemingly indistinguishable, who told him that he reminded them of their late husbands — much younger, of course — both in the clothing business,
still
in the clothing business, and they’d make sure he had some nice new sports jackets, suits, things like that. Another introduced her daughter on three separate occasions, the girl slim and sleeveless in white gloves, a teal blue variation on the greens and blacks that hugged or swayed just below the knees with shoes that seemed almost too painful to wear. “This is the King Cole Trio,” a woman with crimson lips told him. Nat King Cole, a Negro, and, yes, she preferred him, “better than Sinatra and Como, and there I’ve said it!” The lemonade became water then lemonade again, everyone else high on bourbon, rye, and gin, while Goldah, returning from the bathroom, settled into a conversation with a man named Champ who said Goldah needed a car — a man
had
to have a car — and Champ, generous to a fault, said he’d give him one, not a new one, of course, but something down on the lot because that’s just what we do in Savannah. And on his last go-round with the girl in teal, Goldah asked if she had a cigarette and discovered she was sixteen.

Through it all, Mary Royal moved in and out of the kitchen. She was joined by three other servers, two young women and a boy no more than thirteen. The boy looked surprisingly at
ease in his white waiter’s coat, and Goldah smelled a cigarette on him when he returned from the carport with another few bottles of something. A cigarette would have been nice, he thought.

“I’ve got them right here,” said the mother of the teal dress, searching her purse. “I know I do.”

“No, it’s fine,” said Goldah. “I don’t really want one.”

“Right in here, unless you don’t smoke Dunhills?”

“I’m all right. Thank you.”

Pearl said, “He said he’s all right, Ethel.”

“They say it’s a lady’s cigarette,” the woman went on, “but I don’t see what the difference is, except maybe the shape.”

“
Ethel
,” said Pearl, “this boy needs some more meatballs,” and without waiting for an answer, she started him toward the dining room and the hors d’oeuvres. Out of earshot she said, “I’m not sure I’d let my sixteen-year-old daughter dress quite so enchantingly as that.” Hands raised, smiles, “Yes, hi there, Jeannie … No he’s starving and we’ve got to get some food inside him … Yes, Champ was wonderful … Yes … We’ll bring him by this week,” and through the door.

An ancient man was moving off from the chopped liver while another stood in the corner examining a spice box he had taken from a glassed-in display case. Candlesticks, silver wine cups, menorahs. He was wearing a
kippah
and his back was to them.

“It’s usually sit-down dinners for us,” Pearl said, as she took a plate for Goldah, “and just me and Mary Royal, but there were too many people who wanted to come. This is all very cha-cha-cha for us, to have it this way, but I think it sets the mood for you, coming from Europe and all.” There was now a nice mound of meatballs in sauce next to some crusted potatoes and a healthy pile of crudités. “I’m sure someone will say
it’s the
goyishe
way to entertain — and maybe it is — but there really wasn’t any other choice. We’ll have a dinner next week sometime when it’s just close friends. Hello there, Rabbi.”

The man with the spice box turned. He looked at them with a well-rehearsed gaze of piety.

“Good evening, Mrs. Jesler,” he said. “Always such a lovely home. And this must be Mr. Goldah.” Goldah expected an extended hand, but the rabbi simply nodded deeply. Unsure, Goldah did the same.

The rabbi held up the spice box. “It’s a beautiful piece. Have you seen it, Mr. Goldah? The craftsmanship is really quite remarkable.”

Pearl said, “As I said earlier, Rabbi, Mr. Goldah has only just arrived this afternoon, so he hasn’t had time for the full tour.”

“I’ve just come myself,” said the rabbi, “so I must have missed the introductions.”

“Yes, you must have.”

Again the rabbi held the box up to Goldah and pointed to the lettering. “Do you see the inscription, Mr. Goldah? You read Hebrew?”

“I do, yes.”

“Of course you do. Do you see the letter, gimmel, there?”

“Yes,” said Goldah. “It’s in the wrong place.”

“ ‘The wrong place.’ ” The rabbi seemed particularly pleased at this. “That’s right. Exactly right. The gimmel is in the wrong place. And do you know why the gimmel is in the wrong place?”

Pearl said, “I’m sure you’re going to tell us, Rabbi.”

“It’s in the wrong place — and you may know this already, Mr. Goldah — because Jews weren’t permitted to be goldsmiths or silversmiths. They weren’t permitted to be members of the guilds, and so it was the non-Jews who did the craftsmanship.
You see? The non-Jews got it wrong because they, unlike you and I, did not read Hebrew. Did you know that, Mr. Goldah?”

With no thought behind the words, Goldah answered, “No, I didn’t. Fascinating.”

“Your husband bought it for you in New York, Mrs. Jesler. On one of his trips?

“Yes, Rabbi,” said Pearl, “that’s right.”

“As I said, a wonderful piece.” The rabbi continued to stare at the silver. “You, of course, have firsthand experience of such injustice, Mr. Goldah. Far more terrible injustice, of course. I can’t imagine what it is to carry that with you. But if you should ever want to sit and to talk —”

“Thank you,” Goldah said with great restraint. “You’ll excuse me. I need” — there were so many things he needed at this moment — “I’d like to get some air.”

Goldah started to go and the rabbi held his arm.

“Know that you are among Jews again, Mr. Goldah. Jews who are alive and who are living.”

Goldah felt the weathered hand on his sleeve and with it the taste of his own quiet rage. What was it, Goldah wondered, that was so appealing in the living? What was it he was meant to reclaim? Rage and despair, indignation and longing? There had been none of these in the camps because there had been nowhere to hold them. Such things were kept safe only in the pockets of the living.

“Yes,” said Goldah. “Comforting to know.” He drew his arm away. “But I really do need some air. You’ll excuse me.”

He chose not to see Pearl’s reaction as he stepped alone into the hall. There was a narrow path to the front door and Goldah kept his eyes low as he sidestepped the swaying hands filled with glasses and cigarettes. At the screen door he heard
Jesler’s voice out on the porch. Goldah placed his hand on the door to step through but stopped when he heard Jesler speak.

“I mean it’s understandable,” Jesler said. “We’ve all seen the films. The camps. But then you take that and put it in your home, that’s just —”

“It’s queer,” another man’s voice said. “I agree with you. Absolutely queer. Fannie had to get up from the theater. Up in New York. We saw it in the newsreel and she just had to get up. I can’t say I wasn’t happy to go with her.”

“But he doesn’t look it, does he?” said Jesler. “I mean, you wouldn’t know it to look at him?”

Goldah brought his hand down and continued to listen.

“Of course not. The man looks fine, Abe. It’ll just take some getting used to, that’s all.”

“That’s right. Getting used to. It’ll be fine,” said Jesler.

“He’s a grown man. He’ll want his own place sooner than later. Make his own way.”

“Exactly. That’s exactly right. It’s what I’ve been thinking all along. But you know Pearl. She might not want to hear it. A man like that, and her … well, you know. But he’s a grown man, after all.”

“He is. No question.”

“Show him the ropes. Let him see what fits.”

“Absolutely, Abe. No question. And he’s a good-looking fella, too. A bachelor. Think of the time he’ll have. Can’t say I don’t envy him.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Fannie that.”

“You
do
tell her that. You go right ahead. Let her know I might get myself footloose and fancy-free.”

They laughed and Goldah was suddenly thirsty.

“There you are!” said the mother of the teal dress. Goldah turned. She was holding a plate of food and a tall glass, with
her daughter in tow. “I saw you run off before getting your plate, so here I am. And a glass of bourbon.”

Goldah found himself unable to move. He let her hand him the plate and the glass, and he drank.

At just after midnight, Jesler left the house in stocking feet. He felt the damp in his heels as he slid into the car, fumbled with his shoes, and kept the lights off until he had taken the first turn. This time of night, the heat carried the smell of wildflowers and exhaust, which was strange as there didn’t seem to be a single other car on the road.

Up on West Broad, he glanced at the few lights that dotted the floors above the darkened shops. He remembered how Ed Cranman had just bought a building a few months back and was now burning the midnight oil to get the place in shape. Sporting goods, that was the dream. But Ed was smart. He was starting with a pawnshop. Put some money aside. That’s the way to do it, Jesler thought.

He avoided the train station and took the car west into Hudson Hill. The paved road gave way to dirt and rubble, the smell of sewage and drying mud heavy among the line of row houses. On occasion a streetlamp brought a few of the tumbledown shacks into view, but most of the time the roads stayed dark.

Several turns in, Jesler pulled over and a figure emerged from behind a telephone pole. The passenger door opened and the soft-capped older black man from this afternoon ducked in. Neither said a word as Jesler took the car out. Twenty minutes on he cut the beams; he had driven them well beyond the last of the houses. In the distance a series of tall lights began to appear, over a hundred feet high, which
served as a beacon to guide them through the pitch-black of the untamed fields. It was track road, with sudden dips and jolts, but Jesler felt comfortable enough easing the car along: not exactly the place to find a small wooden booth with a single bulb inside, but there it was, standing in front of a wire fence that stretched into the darkness.

Jesler brought the car to a stop and reached across to the glove compartment as a man stepped out from the booth. The man held a flashlight and raised it at the car.

Jesler said, “How’s it going tonight?” He took out an envelope before straightening himself up.

The man let the beam drop and leaned into the window. He was broad in his uniform, a wide face the color of hay, with a gun holstered at his belt, and a Georgia Ports Authority badge affixed to the center of his hat.

“You got a call tonight?” the man asked.

Jesler handed him the envelope. “That’s for you and Dickie up the other side.”

The man stuffed the envelope into his jacket pocket and peered deeper into the car. “Riding up front tonight, are you, Calvin?” The man did his best with a loose smile.

“Raymond’ll be coming up,” said Jesler. “You let him through.”

The smile dropped and the man pulled himself back. “All right then.”

Beyond the padlocked gate, the track road continued like a strip of taut yarn along the side of a long, narrow building. Jesler drove slowly. Somewhere ahead the sound of diesel and steam engines began to roar.

He took the turn at the end of the track, and the windshield was suddenly filled with a bright white light. Beyond it, an expanse of paved ground led across to the docks where eighty-foot cranes stood at intervals, some idle, others carrying
roped bundles from the two large merchant ships that had been tied off. Warehouses and workshops lined the edges, all quiet save for this particular stretch, where fifteen men maneuvered push wagons and open-back trucks in and among the growing pyramid of crates.