Boogaloo On 2nd Avenue (32 page)

"On Fourth Street?" Nathan got up, not waiting for his answer. "Jose."

"What?" groaned the
fardarter.

"That's his name, Jose Fishman."

But where was Arnie? What had happened to his body? Neighborhood people wanted to know, because a disturbing rumor was in circulation. Nathan first heard it from Panista. "The city has all these homeless bodies. They just treat them as trash. Put them on the barges."

"What barges?"

"The trash barges for Staten Island. Arnie and a lot of other guys from the neighborhood are now landfill in Staten Island."

"Think about it," Mordy said. "Names are never meaningless. They are signals. Clues. Remember Bob's Greasy Hand? Someone was greasing it. You know what they call the place where the trash barges go in Staten Island? Fresh Kills. Arnie is going to Fresh Kills."

Nathan decided he would go to Bellevue Hospital and find out. Not only would he go, but he would ignore the First Avenue bus and go out of his way to take the Lexington Avenue subway, which arrived with a normal supply of oxygen. At the hospital he was sent to several different offices.

"What happens to the body of a homeless person if there is no name or friends or relatives?"

"Have you lost a relative?" a thin black woman demanded to know from an office so air-conditioned that she was clutching a green wool sweater.

"No. I am trying to find out about a friend. A homeless friend."

"Why didn't you give him a home?"

"He had a home. That's not the point."

"Homeless people do not necessarily come here. It is a myth. They are taken to the nearest hospital."

"And then what happens?"

"They are sent to the city morgue."

"And then?"

"I really don't know. Cremated, I suppose."

"Even if they are Jewish?"

"I don't know. If they are unknown, how would we know their religion?"

On the way back to the neighborhood, Nathan felt nothing in particular when the train slowed down in the dark tunnel just before Fourteenth Street. Even after the train stopped, he felt nothing more than the slight twinge of memory that may flicker across a scar. And when the train started filling up with smoke, he was one of the few to remain calm. In fact, he found that he helped the others deal with their panic. "You have to breathe," he said. They did, though they then coughed from the smoke.

The train doors opened and transit police with large flashlights led them through the tunnel. "You're okay as long as you don't touch the third rail," said Nathan, recalling his childhood, to the woman walking with him as she buried her well-manicured nails into his arm. Tiny mice scurried out of their way as they walked toward the Union Square station.

There were mud holes, patches of water, that he could not detect until he stepped into them. He tried to walk in front of the woman who was clutching his arm, but it was difficult because she kept pulling him toward her. As a transit cop's flashlight shot a beam at their feet, Nathan could see that she was wearing open-toed, light summer shoes. They could hear but not see the scurrying of large, pink-toed black rats ahead of them. For a second he imagined that tough black rats might be waiting for him in the tunnel because they had heard of his record on killing mice. Was there rodent solidarity?

Everything cast huge shadows and looked larger in the beams of the flashlights. Nathan could clearly see one rat that was as big as his foot, a lumbering, black-furred animal with a bleeding sore on its back. Nathan stood ready to kick it away, but the rat knew to avoid him. As he trudged in the mushy, spongy, sometimes gravelly, and at other times slippery soil or muck that filled the floors of subway tunnels, the air seemed too hot and too still to breathe. The tunnel, dark and moist, looked as if it should have been cool. Nathan thought he had never been so hot in a dark, moist place. But he did not want to feel a sudden breeze, because the only thing that caused such breezes were oncoming trains. Well, they had radios. They had probably arranged for all oncoming trains to stop. Nathan felt in complete control of himself.

When they arrived at the Union Square station, he was not even sweating. The woman, still attached to his arm like a bat to a cave ceiling, was. She was younger than he had realized. Her black, wet hair clung to her shining forehead. The blurry smudges of makeup made her eyes look deep-set and wide, like those of a frightened nocturnal animal. Nathan, on the other hand, tall, dry, and calm, understood exactly how she felt. He sat her down on a bench and removed the talons from his arm. She was trying to express her gratitude in between epithets— "I cannot believe this shit. Can you believe this happened? Thank you so much. Fucking assholes. I'm suing. I couldn't have made it without you. Fucking sons of bitches."

But Nathan knew that she could breathe again now and the sweat was drying and she would be all right. He would never get a chance to explain what helping her had done for him. He felt like singing as he climbed the stairs out of the station, rubbing his arms where a small amount of blood had pooled in the woman's fingernail marks. He was in control—unshakably in control. He was indestructible. A wound had healed without leaving a weakened spot. Cristofina's pigeons were well worth the $1,000—worth the sacrifice.

I
T WAS THE SADDEST DAY
of the year, the ninth day of Av, Tisha-b'Av. This was the day of Jewish calamity, the day of the destruction of David's Temple in Jerusalem in 586 B.C. Rebuilt, it was again destroyed by the Romans on the same day in A.D. 70, never to be rebuilt until the Messiah comes. It is also considered the date of the expulsion of Jews from Spain and the date of the beginning of the Holocaust. It is a bad day for Jews.

Nathan had been up most of the night before. Sonia had complained of nausea, she vomited, she still felt nauseated. At almost three in the morning, with only a distant siren and a few muffled voices outside, Nathan, who had been trying to comfort her, was overcome with happiness. Sonia saw the silly Raggedy Ann smile on Nathan's face and realized what he was thinking. Of course! He was right, and to her surprise she also felt very happy, though still very nauseated. She reassured him that she wanted it. Her play was in production, and now she really did want the child, though she thought she had been careful and didn't know how it had happened.

"But you're happy, right?" asked Nathan with his arms around her.

"Yes," she moaned as happily as someone can sound when they feel like vomiting.

It was hard to feel optimistic in the scalding August heat of Tisha-b'Av. There were some who said the Messiah would come on a Tisha-b'Av and the temple would be rebuilt on that date. But it didn't seem that the Messiah was coming this year, and most people in the neighborhood were reading signs for more short-term developments. For example, Dukakis, still in the lead, was on the defensive and had to release medical records to quiet the rumor that he was mentally unstable. While not articulating any ideas for the presidency, Bush had managed to shave away his sizable deficits in the polls by politely pointing out the risks of having a short, dark person in the White House. Such a bushy-eyebrowed dark person would be soft on crime and friendly to "criminal elements" sometimes known as black people. Hot Mediterranean blood would account for mental instability. And he could not be trusted with defense, a suspicion bolstered by the fact that he tried to ride in a tank and looked too short. It would have been hard for people in the neighborhood to have believed that Americans were weighing such things seriously, if experience had not already often demonstrated that people out in America thought about completely different things than did people in the East Village.

But on this ninth day of Av in the year 5749, Nusan, the cautious pessimist, saw reasons for optimism. The Mets were out of their slump. Darryl Strawberry's two-run homer had beaten the Pirates 2—1. In fact, the Pirates had been so destroyed in their series with the Mets that they had now slipped to third place behind Montreal. The Mets were comfortably in first place, and even Nusan allowed himself to imagine the unimaginable, the Mets back in a World Series.

José Fishman, who of course didn't know it was Tisha-b'Av, was setting off as usual with his shopping cart in the first summer light of morning, while Nathan and Sonia were still in nauseous joyous embrace, to get cash from the bank machine to go down to Fulton Street, to fight with the few remaining customers, mostly Chinese, over the few remaining fish from the night's market. It seemed no one in the neighborhood, and especially the smarts, could resist sushi at bargain prices. There had been some complaints of tainted fish, and he thought some might even have been true. By the time he got the leftover, sweaty fish back to his shop, they were a withered and rank catch. But what did they want for these prices?

He was beginning to get the feeling that someone was following him. At first he thought it had begun when he got the cash. But to his relief, when he looked in a window reflection, he could see that it was only one of those fucking Dominicano drug dealers. A real stereotype, he wore no socks and looked like he was just off a farm. It irritated him that after all his years in the neighborhood, they were still coming up to him and saying, "Smoke?" as though he were some stupid white guy down in the neighborhood for a weekend thrill.
"¿Qué quieres,
man? Why you follow me, you fucking
plátano
eater? I'm smoking nothing.
Nada!"
He spat.

The words were so angry that the man, more than twice his size, put up his arms defensively, like a boxer cornered against the ropes. The large Dominican was confused by this unexpected aggression and might have run away except that Jose kept jabbing his shins with the shopping cart, which hurt and angered him. The Dominican released a primordial roar as he grabbed the cart and flung it into the street, which did not yet have traffic. Now he became afraid that he had caused too much attention and, beginning to panic, he grabbed Jose by the collar and pulled him toward him.

"Fucking
Pandejo,"
José snapped and then seeing the gun at his chest, hissed his final curse,
"iHijueputa!"

The Dominican fired his handgun three times into José Fishman's chest, the barrel held so tightly into his body that the shots made little noise. Jose's body began heaving and pumping great quantities of blackish blood so that it spilled onto the other man's T-shirt and blue jeans. The killer reached into the muck that had been Jose and managed to find the folded wad of $20 bills. Then, tearing off his own dark stained T-shirt, he ran east toward the river.

Tisha-b'Av had begun reasonably well for Nusan. Chaim Litvak had returned from Israel the day before with the news that Yankel Fink's knishes sank. The kasha went down in forty seconds, the potato in fifty-two seconds, and since Nusan's bet of one minute was the closest, he won the pot of $110. Kirchbaum, who had reluctantly taken kasha in two minutes, grudgingly pointed out that he had wanted cheese in forty seconds but they had refused to take cheese, saying it would go bad while traveling. "Go bad," Kirchbaum had countered. "There's no cheese. It's all potato, just like the kasha. They're all potato." But no one was going to listen to a sixty-five-year-old, barely retirement age.

Nusan spent his winnings on running shoes at the new store behind Arnie's former sidewalk home. On Tisha-b'Av, as on all days of fast and mourning, Jews are not supposed to wear leather. This was particularly directed toward shoes, it is always said, because leather shoes offer great comfort. It could be argued that the young men on Eighth Street wearing leather pants in the height of August were not especially comfortable. And the assumption that leather made the most comfortable shoe predated the development of running shoes. Nevertheless, on Tisha-bAv, or Yom Kippur, or in mourning, comfortable and expensive nylon running shoes were becoming the shoes of penitence.

Nusan, who spent his money on nothing, was pleased to be extravagant in mourning, with his crumpled hat and unpressed wool suit soiled on the edges but with the small "100% pure wool" label miraculously remaining white, particularly noticeable as a reprise of the white shoes. The shoes had swirling chartreuse and orange stripes intersecting in unexpected ways above the soles with clear tubing and spiraled cushioning. Nusan's mourning shoes positively glowed in the August sunlight.

What a perfect day, Nusan thought, to give Nathan the news. Herr Moellen had at last been exposed. During the war, he had been Ober-sturmführer Reinhardt Müller, an SS lieutenant. In 1942, stationed in Naples, he had carried out the execution of an entire family, parents, one grandmother, and three children, for hiding partisans in their house.

"What was the name of the family?" asked a disheartened Nathan.

"Scappi. Why?"

Nathan didn't know why he had asked. Moellen had killed Italians, not Jews. Did the Italians know? The Sals never liked Moellen. Had they known who he was all along? In search of something to say, Nathan asserted cheerlessly, "At least he didn't kill Jews."

Nusan smiled his hard grin. "He was a lieutenant in the SS. I'm sure he had opportunities to make it up. We know that in 1944, he was working at a little concentration camp in Silesia called Gross-Rosen." He smiled gently. "Such a pretty name—Gross-Rosen. The Catholics got him out somehow. He disappeared, and a pastry maker named Bernhardt Moellen turned up in Argentina applying for a visa to the U.S."

Nathan was silent. Just a week before, Sarah had insisted on going to "the cookie man." Moellen had shown Sarah chocolate men that had melted in the window in spite of the air-conditioning. Some were standing a little sideways. One had completely lost its head. One had lost a shoulder and one side of a face. One had dropped to its knees. Sarah ate two and wanted a third. Moellen cautioned, "Now you are full of chocolate. You will be like them. When you go outside you will start melting."

"No, I won't."

"I think your head will go first, but as you can see, it is hard to predict. Different people melt in different ways."

So it was true, this gruesome talk that fascinated children was his life, his past, it was the real man, and Sarah was fascinated because, unlike her father, she understood that it was in some way all true.

Sarah did not melt in the heat as Moellen had predicted. But she insisted for days that she was melting. Nathan, remembering an anecdote about Beethoven cooling himself off, told her that they could do what "old Ludwig used to do." He filled a pot with cold water, and after fluffing his hair out in a vain attempt to resemble Beethoven, he poured half of the water on her head and, while she was still shrieking with pleasure, poured the other half on his head. It did cool them off, and Sarah thought this was great fun and for the rest of the summer regularly asked for a "lug wig" so that she wouldn't melt.

This man who was part of the sweet and comic life of his little daughter, was he a mass murderer?

"And what about Viktor Stein? Did you run across someone named Viktor Stein?"

"Of Viktor Stein I know nothing."

"It's just a name. The name of somebody he knew—Viktor Stein."

"A Jew?"

"Maybe. I might look like him."

"Viktor ... Viktor .. . Stein. I will look into this. But"—he held up his hand in a gesture like a traffic patrolman—"one more point," he said, studying a dog-eared piece of lined paper with a handwritten list. "Reinhardt Müller was from a small town north of Berlin. His family ran the local
Konditerei"

"Kondtierei,"
Nathan repeated, as though pretending he had never heard the word.

"They were pastry makers."

It was certain that Nusan would be relentless. With tremendous publicity, Moellen would be exposed, prosecuted, perhaps deported. Nathan had to warn them. He had to warn Karoline. She had never been in the SS or killed anyone.

"Hey, Nathan," said Harry. He seemed very happy. "Let's get some
cuchifrito.
We'll go get Chow Mein to come with us."

"I have to do a little work."

"Working on Tisha-b'Av?" Harry said with mock incrimination.

"Isn't this a fast day? And what did you want to eat?" Nathan was immediately sorry he had said this. He could see from his father's change in posture that he had taken it as an actual reprimand. "I was joking. I have something I have to do. I'll meet you at the casita in fifteen ... twenty... in a half hour."

"Okay." Harry smiled, happy again.

Nathan watched Harry walking up Avenue A with that purposeful Jewish four-beat, singing:

If that's your idea of a wonderful time take me home
Take me home
I want you to know that I'm choking
From that five-cent cigar that you're smoking.
You came out with a one-dollar bill,
You've got eighty cents of it still...

Up Avenue A went Harry Seltzer.

And with an even more purposeful step, his son Nathan made his way west two blocks to the Edelweiss Pastry Shop. Bad idea, he realized, and tried three pay phones before going to his copy shop to use the phone.

"I have to talk to you."

"It's over."

"Yes, it is, but I still have to talk to you."

"I'm getting married."

Indifference was not going to be easy "Congratulations."

"No. I am getting married today"

"Oh. Really? That's so fast!"

"We have been dating for seven years."

"Listen, I just need a few minutes."

"Then we are going on a honeymoon. Won't be back for weeks. Bermuda."

"Bermuda?"

"Dickie picked it. Who cares. Leave me alone."

"It's about your father."

Through the phone he could hear her breathing. "Okay come over."

When he arrived at her apartment, he sat down in the chair by the small table and told her. She described Nusan's information as "nonsense."

"I don't know."

"I know!"

"I hope you are right, but you should warn him." Nathan was wondering if Nusan could be wrong. There was the similarity in names, the fact that he was a pastry maker, that he spoke Spanish, perhaps Argentine Spanish. These could all be coincidences.

"You believe it, don't you?"

"I don't know. Was his father a pastry maker?"

"Of course. So was my father. Does a pastry-making father make you a Nazi?"

"No," Nathan said apologetically. "From a town near Berlin?"

"From Berlin, Mitte, right in the center. Allied bombing leveled the shop."

"Am I supposed to feel bad about that?"

"Who are you to judge?"

"I don't know. I am just warning you. Who was Viktor Stein?"

In a whisper Karoline repeated, "Viktor Stein. How do you know about him?"

"I heard your father mention his name. Who is he?"

Karoline shook her head, looked confused, sat in a chair by the table. "I don't know He is somebody I used to hear my parents fighting about when I was a child. I don't know."

"Is he some kind of key to this?"

"I don't know. I only know that my father is a kind and loving man who adores children and always tries to be a good, responsible citizen. You have known him all your life."

Nathan was becoming uncomfortable. He wanted to leave. He noted with pleasure that he didn't
have
to leave the apartment. Without panic, without anxiety, he just preferred to. But he did not know the exit line. "Have a nice wedding"? Or "Have a nice life"? Or "Best to your father the
Obersturmführer"?