Displaced Persons (27 page)

Pavel looked at him. Has Fela been talking to you?

Chaim blushed. No, no! Of course not. I just say—

She says the same thing. She wants me to watch.

Why do you think she says it?

Pavel stiffened. I think she spoke to you, Chaml.

Chaim turned around to face the back of the auditorium. What a mistake this had been, mixing into Pavel’s work. How had he let himself be talked into it? The auditorium doors were open, and he could see into the hallway. Sima and Fela were not coming.

So she spoke to me! So what?

She doesn’t trust my brother-in-law! She doesn’t trust my own sister!

It’s not a matter of trust, it’s just a natural—

I said I wanted nothing to do with it, that’s all. The truth is that this kind of negotiation is not my most—it is not where I—but then I decided I wanted to participate, but he already had set up the meetings, I don’t feel—if I interfere now, what will he think?

Perhaps he will think, Good! Pavel wants to be involved.

No, Chaim. Pavel sighed. Kuba will not think this. He will think I worry he will not do right by the business. He will think I try to control him. Perhaps he even will think I don’t trust him to—to do right by me!

Pavel’s jaw was jutting forward, his teeth clenched. Chaim put his hand on his shoulder. I’m sorry I mixed in.

My sister! Pavel breathed. My own sister!

But it’s your business too.

We have separate roles! How do you think I survived all these years with him? He does his part, I do mine. If I don’t trust him, almost my own blood, I cannot—I cannot trust anyone!

It’s not my affair, I just—

Chaim, they are coming. Look, they are coming! Not a word!

All right, Pavel.

Here. Take another mint. Then they won’t wonder why we don’t talk.

P
AVEL STOOD UP WHEN
Fela and Sima came to their row. He could not look at Fela. Instead he took Sima by the shoulders and gave her another kiss on the cheek. I’m so glad you are here! Your husband and I are catching up on old times.

Give me your coat check, Pavel. Let me hold it in my purse before you lose it.

Since when do I lose anything? He pushed his hand into his front jacket pocket. No, it was in the inside pocket, for safety. He stretched
his hand toward Fela, still without looking at her. If it makes you happy, here it is.

She had been very unhappy with him, this week and the last. But one had to be optimistic. One could not give in to one’s worst beliefs. To give in was to say that nothing meant anything, that one could throw away one’s own family as easily as one sent an old suit to charity, that a human was nothing more than an animal, alone.

A sister was the only thing that held him to the past. There were people who came out with no one, not a bone left to say Kaddish for the whole tribe, only these gatherings and memorials filled with strangers who prayed to sanctify the dead. Look at Chaim! Chaim had nothing, only a cousin in Israel, now mooning over her grandchildren. But Pavel was one of the lucky ones. He had his sister. He had Mayer, his cousin on his mother’s side. He had friends who were not his blood but were like blood, more than blood. He had, he had.

So why, why was everything so difficult with Kuba? They had different ideas, that was all. But now they had the same idea. Pavel felt an excitement over it, gladness that Kuba had finally stopped disagreeing, that Kuba and he saw the same way for the first time since they had moved their operations to the center of the garment district fifteen years ago, when the economy was terrible and rents were cheaper than cheap. Pavel had been right in his way, delaying until the time was right, and Kuba had been right in his way too, because the business had grown since the move to the center. And now Pavel felt the same sense of agreement. It was good to have a partner. Others were alone—Fishl, but he had done very well—and others had worked for bigger men their whole lives. Perla’s husband Tulek had never left the box factory he had first worked in when he came to America. But it was good to have a partner to share the burden with, even if relations were not always so smooth, even if there had been times they did not speak to each other for days at a time. To make a family business, to be solid into one’s retirement, that was something
that showed they had survived. Perhaps this young professor, who thought he knew the secrets of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, might not agree, but making a new business, a new life in a new language, this too was resistance.

Not that it was more important than other things. Having a grandchild, that was the great resistance. It would be nice, very nice, if Larry and Helen would understand that, too. Helen was almost thirty-five! Did she not know how old he was? What was the delay? And Larry, his wife a doctor too—she did not seem to have the time.

That was something Hinda and Kuba had already, with Michael and Joel already fathers. And if Pavel criticized Hinda for not joining a little more in the community, he could also privately sympathize. It had not been the same since—well, really, since Yidl had gone. Tsipora still came, even now she was so sick, but the younger ones who had taken over for Yidl did not give the ceremonies the same feeling of importance.

Pavel went, he listened, he gave. But these acts did not give him the same comfort. Yidl made it all seem like a way of saving the world again, even for all his faults, not just the gambling, not just the speculation that had allowed Yidl to live as he did. He had died without warning. And suddenly everything had become coarse, the way friends had dropped Tsipora completely, dropped her except to come by the apartment and pick up a painting in return for money Yidl owed.

Pavel had become very close with Tsipora, speaking with her twice a week, coming by her home almost as often, bringing her flowers, a luxury she used to take for granted. Now she put the tulips in the refrigerator for the night to make them live longer. She had nothing. Not even life insurance from Yidl. She moved to a small apartment where her lawyer son paid her rent. Pavel himself put her on the payroll of the business so she could have health insurance.

Incredible, that it should come to this, these people who had cared
for everyone suddenly dependent. If something like this happened to him—but it couldn’t. He had a business that made things, and unlike Yidl he had been cautious when he came to the United States, he had shed the habit of risk that had allowed him to survive and, after the war, almost thrive. Now his goals were more modest. All he wanted was a good price for the business and the ability to work for the new company a few more years. If Fela thought he acted stupidly in giving his trust to Kuba, to his sister, even—his sister, his last connection to his parents—well, then—Fela was wrong.

S
IMA HELD A COPY
of the professor’s book. Already they were selling it out front. Fela had bought one too. She passed it to Chaim. An orange cover, the faint outline in black of a bonfire.

“It looks very interesting, no?” Fela said. “I’m sure Lola will be interested too.”

“Perhaps.”

“Pavel, did I ever tell you?” Sima smiled broadly. “You won’t believe it. I was telling Fela in the ladies’ room. She once took a class on the history of genocide! Can you imagine?”

Pavel looked at her. What? At Yale?

At Yale!

I imagine they explain, Pavel said.

Explain! said Fela. What is to explain? I always hope, whenever I go somewhere, that they will explain. But every time—

So why did you want to come to this? Chaim saw Pavel glare at her, jaw stiff. It was your idea.

Pavel, I thought it would be interesting. For Chaim and Sima. They like it when it’s professors. Chaim did not see even a blink of nervousness on her face. She was used to keeping calm with Pavel. Perhaps she lied often.

Sima continued speaking, Lola’s past studies, Lola’s old successes. Now that Lola was out of school, still casting about, working with homeless people, singing in a band, refusing to go to graduate school, Sima found a little less to brag about and a little more to criticize, Lola’s activities, her long-haired boyfriend—not Jewish, Chaim too had felt the panic, had forced himself not to say anything—but still, Sima could weave around the problems and present to Pavel and Fela a fact that would make them happy. Lola had studied genocide at Yale University, years ago. What Chaim would not discuss at home, she discussed in class, read in books, wrote in papers. Sometimes, when she was home for vacation, he would steal a look at them.

Sima was more open. She liked that Lola looked for a theory, that Lola investigated on her own. We should be happy she is interested! We should be happy some
goyische
boyfriend is interested! My father always said—

The truth was, he was not sure he wanted his daughter to have a theory. There was no theory to cover everything, to explain. Fela was right. Nothing could be explained, and trying to explain caused even more pain. He had a daughter who graduated from the Ivy League, Pavel had a son who was a doctor, but others had children who had terrible drug addictions, friends who betrayed and stole, who threw money away for fancy commemorations and extravagant dinners only to make themselves feel big. Some people made good, some people did not. Some people came out so close they were almost one body, some people came out with a passion to push themselves forward, never mind the suffering it caused to someone else. Look at Pavel, his body broken by another survivor, sitting in the aisle seat next to Fela. Once Sima had stood on a chair in the kitchen to put away a dish, and had fallen and broken her shinbone. She had been in a cast and on crutches almost eight weeks. How long, she had asked Pavel, how long does it take for the pain to go away, completely? And Pavel had looked at her, genuinely surprised, and said, But it doesn’t. You just get used to it.

He opened his program, looked at the description of Sima’s book.
Resistance in Everyday Acts: Cultural Life in the Warsaw Ghetto
. The author must be Israeli, he thought, where one had to resist to be worthy of survival, or pity, or memory. In the back of the book the professor looked solemnly out at him, his black hair wavy and dashing. The same photograph—no doubt ten years old, if not more—graced the program.

Oh, God. He snorted.

Sima turned from Fela. You don’t have to pay attention, she said softly. I’ll pay attention. If there’s something worth hearing I’ll wake you up.

He lifted up the program and pointed to the song. This idiot was going to make them sing as a group. I told you! He wanted to say.

She answered in English, as if he had said the words aloud. “Not everything has to be a philosophical dilemma, Chaim. Just sing it, that’s all.” He looked at her to see if she was angry. But she was smiling.

T
HE VICE PRESIDENT OF
the memorial committee come toward the front, passing by their little row. Pavel nodded as he passed, but the man did not stop. Not even a hello. What suddenly made him so important? He shook his head at Fela, forgetting for a moment his fury at her.

Yidl remembered everyone, he said.

Even if Yidl did not remember, said Fela, he pretended.

The auditorium grew more full. It was not a large crowd, but certainly a respectable showing, and there would be opportunity to talk of the lecture at the next card game.

Pavel stood up for a moment to stretch his leg. A man brushed against him. Pavel turned to see who it was, and the olive-skinned face,
the sunken eyes, gave Pavel a chill of familiarity. The man returned Pavel’s glance but without recognition. Pavel pressed his glasses farther up his nose and squinted to look at the name tag.

Then he stood up, his heart thick in his chest. It could not be.

Rembishevski, he said.

The man looked startled, almost afraid. Yes! Do I know you? He had asked in Yiddish.

Pavel breathed out. Pavel, he said. Pavel Mandl.

But the man did not blink. Saul Rembishevski, he said.

Pavel’s hands, so warm a moment before, had cooled. He had waited for this—he had waited for the sight of a Rembishevski. In 1980 Pavel had gone to the world gathering of survivors, the first one in Israel, with Fela. She had not seen her sister in ten years, he had not seen his mother’s cousin in more than that. It had been a beautiful trip. They had toured the sights, and they had filled their days wandering from seminar to speech to meal, Fela on her sister’s arm and Pavel walking beside them. Pavel had had hope—hope of something, some kind of miracle, a miracle he did not even dare name to himself—but in the end all he found were acquaintances he had lost touch with since the war, and one neighbor from childhood whom he had not immediately recognized. He had found nothing. But he had sat and talked and prayed with his friends, who had come to Jerusalem all together, who played cards together in the evening when there were no events, who stayed late into the night at the memorial ceremonies. And behind Pavel’s hope had been his dark wishes to see him, Marek Rembishevski, to show that he, Pavel Mandl, was alive and in possession of a beautiful family, or perhaps only to look the thief in the eye and say nothing. Pavel had even looked him up in the registry when he had a moment away from Fela. But Rembishevski had not shown his face.

Now, looking at the man in the lecture hall, Pavel said, his voice very quiet, I knew a Rembishevski, just after the war.

Oh, tell me—I had only one brother who I knew came out from the war, only one from all my—just Marek, and now that he has gone—

Gone?

Terrible! A cancer of the throat, how he suffered. To tell you, but I don’t need to tell you—Pavel recognized the man’s patterns of speech—I don’t need to tell you, but to die as he did, alone, with no wife even, no sons to say Kaddish—he lived in Los Angeles—but you—you say you knew a Rembishevski—perhaps another—do you? There were tears in the man’s eyes. I hope always to find someone who knew something about my family, I hope to find.

Pavel was silent, and he felt the silence all around him, the other three a small circle of quiet amid the noise of the auditorium. It was so quiet he thought he could hear his own blood moving through his veins. But he was not hot, he was not trembling. He was steady. There were no words in his head. He bent forward and pretended to squint again at the man’s name tag.