Fairytales (49 page)

A wave of guilt washed over him, as though he’d already called Jenny. How did Sylvia know that
anything
ailed him?

Taking him by the hand, Sylvia led him to the buffet table.

It was overwhelming: a whole salmon glazed with mayonnaise and truffles; pâté in an aspic glaze; caviar and cucumber aspic; lobster cooked in brandy with toasted almonds. And at the other end of the table stood a ham en croute and a chafing dish filled with beef bourgignon.

“Isn’t this the most sumptuous thing?” Sylvia said.

He looked at the enormous buffet. It was indeed incredible, but he seemed to have lost his appetite.

Sylvia handed him a plate and took one for herself. Tasting the lobster, she said, “This is simply marvelous.” He remained silent. She watched as he stared blankly at the food.

“Aren’t you going to eat, dear?”

She was suddenly afraid. Martin liked good food, and even though he was careful about his weight he never skipped a meal. Sensing her worry, Martin seemed to pull himself together. He ate a few bites and began moving through the crowd, saying hello to their friends. He even went over to Laura and Craig and smiled while Sylvia made plans for the Spring Ball.

It was after eleven when they finally got away and almost midnight before Martin turned off the bedroom light in their apartment. But even in the dark he could not escape his wife’s growing concern.

Sylvia knew Martin hated being fussed over, but he had been acting oddly ever since he came home from work. Suddenly her pulse raced. Martin had been to the doctor a few days ago for his annual checkup, and maybe … maybe … God, she wasn’t going to look for trouble. Yet three of their best friends had dropped dead from heart attacks in the last year or so.
That’s enough, Sylvia.
The only way she’d find out would be to ask. “Darling, are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, Martin …” She hesitated.

They lay silently for a few moments in their separate beds. Sylvia had never felt so lonely. Finally she said, “You were so dreadfully quiet tonight, Martin. Are you worried about something?”

Martin’s heart beat a little too rapidly. It was as though she were clairvoyant. He was worried, worried about hurting her.

“I wish you would talk to me, darling,” Sylvia persisted. “I have the strangest feeling that you are facing some crisis.”

“No, of course not,” he answered quickly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes … I’m sure.”

“Are you? Darling, if there is anything wrong, you know how much I care.”

“I know that, Sylvia,” he said contritely.

Again the thought struck her that Martin might be ill. She sighed and turned off the light. “Well, sleep tight, Martin. I love you.”

Staring up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head, he thought,
Goddamn it—is a trick of timing, an accident, going to destroy our peace?
“I love you too, Sylvia,” he said. And he did, but not quite in the way he would have wished.

S
LEEP WAS IMPOSSIBLE FOR
Martin that night; he could not stop thinking about Jenny. Their affair had been doomed from the very beginning. She was a devout Roman Catholic; he was a Jew, and right after World War II that was not an easy bridge to cross. He had not been able to renounce his faith, even for her, for the bonds of family were too strong within him. And Hitler had made Judaism far more than a religion. According to the Nazis no Jew could escape his or her history.

Martin’s great-grandfather had been among the multitude swept out of France in the early nineteenth century by a wave of anti-Semitism. Freed from the ghetto by Napoleon after the French Revolution, the Jews soon discovered that by the time of the Second Empire all they had won was a ghetto without walls; a Diaspora without dignity. They had hoped the Revolution had ensured their status as Frenchmen, but they were forbidden to own land, were barred from the universities, and were subjected to even more rigid regulations than before.

So the Jews of France joined that network of humanity pouring out of Russia, Poland, Germany, and Hungary. And among the human tide was Ephraim Rothenberger.

America was the hope, the dream, the salvation they thirsted for. America was a word called freedom. But the price Ephraim paid to achieve that goal was years of pain and untold loneliness. As the oldest he was the son chosen to leave, and at twenty he said goodbye to everyone and everything that he loved and joined the legions who were making their way to the Promised Land.

The story of Ephraim’s journey to America was never formally chronicled. Had he realized that his destiny would be to spawn a dynasty, he surely would have kept some form of journal. As it was, he tried to forget the terrible hardships and left much of the trip to his descendants’ imaginations. But not even the most gifted imagination could evoke its real horrors.

When Ephraim left Paris, it was with the clothes on his back and a sack containing a few utensils, bread, potatoes, some cheese, and a small salami. Once outside of Paris, he took to the country roads, heading southward to Marseilles. The distance seemed so great that he refused to even contemplate it. Instead, he accepted each day as it came, trying only to survive. He rested only when he was too exhausted to go on and slept for a few hours each night in a hayloft, a meadow, in a grove of trees, wherever he happened to be. He kept alive by stealing a few eggs, which he cracked and swallowed whole. At first he almost gagged, but he forced himself to hold them down until the rumbling of his empty stomach subsided. When he came to a stream, he would bend down, cup his hand in the cold water, and drink until his stomach had the illusion of being full. Once he was lucky enough to spear a trout with his knife, though he had to eat it raw.

His source of strength was his belief that God was watching over him, for the destiny of his family had been vouchsafed into his keeping. Each day when he put on his phylacteries and chanted the ancient prayers, his faith was renewed. When he had the good fortune to ride on the back of a farmer’s cart or get a lift downriver on a barge, he knew that it was because of God’s blessing.

Two months later, he arrived in Marseilles. The soles of his shoes had worn out long ago, and he had wrapped his bleeding feet with pieces of thin, dirty blanket which he had torn in strips. He had earned and saved a few francs from jobs he’d done for farmers along the way, and with that he bought a pair of secondhand shoes and paid for a night’s lodging. The luxury of sleeping on a straw mat, even in the company of ten others, was a joy he’d almost forgotten existed. That night he washed his clothes and laid them on the floor next to his mat to dry. Then he enjoyed his first bath in longer than he could remember.

When morning came, he went into the shipping office and waited his turn to be hired to work on one of the boats headed for the New World. His apprehensions grew when he saw the great number of men already in line. But Ephraim soon had more reason to believe he still enjoyed God’s blessing: he was the last to be hired that day, and the next ship would not sail for over three weeks.

After the shoes were bought and the lodgings paid for, he had no more money, but he had a place on the ship and the opportunity to work during the crossing.

The worst was behind him, and he could almost taste the word freedom. The word seemed to trip from his tongue like honey. That afternoon, the freighter
La Liberté
lifted anchor and sailed.

Deep in the bowels of the ship, Ephraim shoveled coal into the furnace, whose appetite seemed insatiable. As soon as the monster was fed, he slammed the heavy iron door shut, but barely had time to wipe the sweat and soot from his forehead with his blackened arm before the fire again demanded his attention. Trembling with fatigue and holding on to the rail with his raw, blistered hands, he ascended the catwalk. Then, unsteadily, he inched his way along the narrow corridor until he reached his quarters. Too exhausted to wash or eat, he collapsed in his hammock and fell into a deep sleep.

For several days Ephraim did not see daylight. After passing the Straits of Gibraltar, the ship was gripped by a terrible storm. Even when it lessened and Ephraim could go on deck and breathe the crisp salt air, he had little time or inclination to do so, for the old vessel still turned and twisted like a toy in the mighty Atlantic. To Ephraim, who had never been to sea, the ocean seemed angry and hostile even on fine days, when giant waves shot up like white fangs, then cascaded down in an icy torrent across the bow.

Belowdecks, hordes of immigrants were being tossed about in their cramped and fetid quarters. Some writhed in pain from hunger, holding their swollen bellies. Others, too weak even to cry out, lay oblivious to the misery around them. A few simply wished that death would overtake them, as was occasionally the case.

As happens with all things in life, there are beginnings and there are endings. Nearly six weeks after leaving Marseilles,
La Liberté
weighed anchor in New York harbor, where, as if to prolong the immigrants’ misery a torrential rain pounded against the portholes and the wind howled mournfully.

Weak and bedraggled women, men, and children, families who until now had been faceless, began to emerge from belowdecks. Many wept with relief at their first sight of the New York skyline. Some, bewildered by the mere fact that they had survived, seemed unaware of the downpour. Others, too ill or weak to stand alone, clung to one another for support.

For a brief moment Ephraim looked at the crowd and was filled with compassion. Then he picked up his bag, swung it over his shoulder, and walked down the gangplank.

He went to the shipping office and waited in line for his pay, then watched grimly as a bursar counted out a dollar for each day they had been at sea. As he moved out of the line, he smiled sardonically; forty dollars for the agony he’d suffered. But then he thought to himself:
It took Moses forty years to get to the Promised Land, and I came in just forty days. Not that I’m comparing myself with Moses, God forbid.
With that happy reflection, he stuffed the money into his pocket and walked out of the shipping office.

He was in New York. Even under the heavy clouds the city seemed to shimmer with promise. Ignoring the rain, he began to walk, trying to follow the directions one of the crew members had given him to the Lower East Side. An hour later he found a flophouse on the Bowery for twenty-five cents a night. Shedding his wet clothes, he collapsed onto an iron cot.

In the morning, when he opened his eyes to the bleak winter day, he felt exhausted. But at least his bed wasn’t being tossed up and down by the storm. Maybe he should just rest … Then he looked around at the other men who filled the shabby, stifling room. For many, he suspected, that was how they spent their days. That depressing thought suddenly gave him the strength to get on with his new life. He rose, a little shakily, swung his bag over his shoulder, and looked around the dormitory. Although he had little in the way of worldly goods, Ephraim was a man who understood his own dignity—and he had not come this far to fail. Quickly he turned and ran down the steep flight of stairs to the street.

Shivering with cold, he stood huddled in the doorway, trying to get his bearings. Then, still uncertain of what direction he should take, he began to walk.

How far he had gone, he wasn’t quite sure. He stopped to rest, watching his breath steam against the cold, sharp air. Until now he had been oblivious to his surroundings, but suddenly he saw the sign:
COHEN’S KOSHER RESTAURANT.

A bell rang as he opened the door and rang again as he closed it. He stood alone among the vacant tables and chairs. There were no other customers.

Soon, a woman emerged from the back. Wiping her hands on her white apron, she told him to take any table. When their eyes met, he felt a lump in his throat; she looked like his mother.

“Nu. So what can I get you?” she asked in Yiddish.

Ephraim smiled back. “A cup of coffee and a roll, please,” he said, a little embarrassed by his accent.

“That’s all you want?” she asked, looking at the handsome young stranger. A thousand young boys like this she had befriended throughout the years. It wasn’t necessary to know from where they had come or how long they were staying. They were friendless and bewildered and Leah Cohen’s heart went out to them. After all, she and Yankel knew what it was to be greenhorns.

She sighed as she went to get the order. Along with the coffee and roll, she brought him a piece of herring. “I won’t charge you,” she said quickly, forestalling his protest. “Not this time. Eat and enjoy.”

Ephraim felt the tears sting his eyes. She did look like his mother. “Thank you—you’re very kind. But please, I want to pay.”

“Next time,” she answered as she sat down across from him at the table with a glass of tea. She placed a cube of sugar between her teeth in the Russian style and took a sip of the strong brew.

She watched him curiously. He had something that set him apart from the other immigrants she’d befriended over the years, a sense of purpose, destiny.

“Where did you come from?” she asked.

“From France. Paris.”

She shook her head in awe. Paris: the name had a magical ring here in the squalor of the Lower East Side. This young boychik was different. She and Yankel had fled the shtetl near Riga. She sighed, remembering how they had been spat upon, beaten, their synagogues and cemeteries desecrated. Even after all these years she could still hear the shouts of the drunken Cossacks. She was only thirteen when her family was annihilated. But Yankel had saved her. At sixteen he had become her protector, had rescued her from the ravaged shtetl, had buoyed her spirits through the long journey to the New World. How well she knew what his boy must be feeling; felt. “So you’re from Paris. And what is your name?”

“Ephraim Rothenberger.”

Rothenberger?” she asked quizzically. “You were born in France?”

“Yes—all of us. My mother and father, too.”

“But how is it you have a German name?”