Mr. Mani (31 page)

—I do believe that she was the youngest delegate at the congress.

—She charmed them into it. The minute we left Jelleny-Szad our Linka began to grow up so fast, quite from minute to minute, that no one was not swept off his feet by her. Mind you, Father, all along—inside that virginal shell of hers—in her childhood room with its pale blue curtains and its windows looking out on our gray fields—a woman, a real one, was secretly making herself. I could not get over it: no longer was I an elder brother with a little sister in tow, but a mournful and slightly balding gentleman doing his quiet best to keep up with a vivacious young lady. At first everyone mistook her for my wife—“
Madame,
” I was told, “is over there”—or, “But where is the charming Frau Shapiro? She promised us she would be here”—while I stood there stammering with a silly grin, “I'm afraid, gentlemen, that she's only my younger sister.” Ah, what a twinge of sweet sorrow!...

—No matter. I'm talking rubbish.

—Yes, I suppose I have said it again. But you are hanging on my every word while I am talking as though in a dream, Father—you musn't take me so literally—because the truth of the matter is that everything was upside down—here were you and Mama, sending your obstinate bachelor of a son off to a Jewish congress to find himself a wife—and what does he discover when he gets there but that he already has a wife, and a young and attractive one at that, whom he had better keep an eye on...

—You know as well as I do, my dearest Papa, that your passion for Zionism was not the real reason for sending me...

—Suppose we say the covert, the unspoken reason.

—Fine, call it the additional reason. We can compromise on that. You have your dander up, while I am simply trying to tell a story. Because there is a story here, Father—a little tale that I have brought you back from your Palestine—it is with me on this old sofa like a baby that will cry on and on until it is listened to ... Well, the day went by and it was time for the opening of the congress. The two of us were real delegates and had to behave like ones, although it was far from clear whose delegates we were, what district we represented, and where exactly that was. Were we the spokesmen of your fields and forests? Of your flour mills? Or perhaps of all the tracks and train stations we had seen? Because certainly, of the families in our village, neither the Mendels nor the Hefners nor the Urbachs had authorized us to act in their behalf ... Still, delegates we were: so it said and so we would be. It was a bright, a most intense evening, with the shining stars looking down on us from afar with a comforting glitter.

—The thought that there was something more eternal than our Jewish worries and Jewish commotions.

—Never mind. It does not matter. To get back to my story, there we were, striding along the streets of Basel with delegates who converged from all over the city—making for the Casino, where the congress was held—and indeed, we were gamblers of sorts, although most respectable ones. The bow ties and black tails blended quite nicely with the colorful outfits of the Swiss girls, the evening dresses, the bare arms of our Jewish delegatesses, the shopping baskets, the hansoms, the taverns—in a word, the local residents regarded us with such indifference—from such depths of normalcy—that it would hardly have made a difference had we been wearing Buddhist robes or Eskimo parkas. However you looked at it, we were Jews, here today and gone tomorrow ... while as for our Linka...

—Theaterstrasse ... so it was...

—Exactly as you described it a year ago ... and Linka...

—Most assuredly it was, Father, that tavern with the golden rooster ... exactly ... but listen ... our Linka...

—I was acutely aware of following in your footsteps all the time, Father ... and of feeling most sorry for you ... but our Linka, if I may be allowed to proceed

—Sorry that you could not be there yourself.

—Yes, the pastry shop with the whipped cream too...

—You gorged yourself there also? Ha ha, I like that...

—Of course ... the synagogue in the Eulerstrasse is still where you left it ... but our Linka...

—No, we had no time to visit it. If you will listen, you will hear everything. Because even there in the street our Linka stood out in festive splendor—she had about her a most portentous look that she had been practicing since Katowice and was clutching her delegate's scroll in one hand like the Magna Carta—and a most bare-armed hand it was too, extending from a black dress that she secretly had made for herself without my knowledge. I do not know if you were privy to it, Father—a most flimsy, foolish, reckless, scandalous bit of sleeveless décolleté! And those arms, mind you, were still a child's—still plump from a mother's milk with their childhood freckles—those most discreet freckles, Father—now flaunted for all to see...

—No, no, I don't mean the freckles themselves. They were simply a metaphor—something aggravating to think about during that grand walk to the Casino—which itself was but a brash overture to what followed—to that feminine promise she gave off wherever she went—you see, I am simply trying to help you to understand what happened later ... are you with me?

—Are you with me?

—Ate you listening to me? There was a great crowd by the entrance, and lots of applause and hurrahs, and even my Russians—I mean my revolutionary, conspiratorial observers—were wearing clean shirts and began to clap the minute they thought they made out Herzl's beard. And meanwhile, two other young men from the train who were lying in wait fell upon Linka and began pulling her toward them while I tried tugging her back the other way ... except that at that very moment what did I see but the shining bald pate of Professor Steiner, from the pathology department of the university...

—Yes, he was. And Migolinsky was there too, decked out in black tie and looking quite splendid and earnest—and here I had thought he had baptized himself long ago...

—There was a rumor to that effect, anyway.

—Perhaps he had himself unbaptized again, ha ha...

—Who could have sent him? He was a delegate representing himself, as was everyone. But if a billiard-ball head like him could turn up at a Jewish congress and hug me enthusiastically—why, then, I tell you, there is hope—hope that infected even me—because the fact of the matter is that I was gnawed by doubt whether we were truly ready for this adventure—whether it was not premature to expose ourselves thus to the world—not a mistake, that is, to display the full extent of our weakness—because, after all, we could have gone on nuzzling a while longer at the Christian teat before deciding in all seriousness to rally round a flag and an anthem of our own...

—I believe one was chosen.

—Yes ... I'm almost positive ... blue and white on a field of gold stars...

—No. It is pointless to ask, because I do not remember. So much has happened since then—and of an entirely different nature—and all I recall is the crowd surging toward the entrance and Linka in her ridiculous dress being swept away by an ardent band of “observers,” with me trailing after her behind my bald professor, who was ushered to a balcony overlooking the stage while I was seated beside him directly in back of a column.

—No. Please, Father, don't ask me now about the congress...

—An address? Of course ... isn't there always? It was actually more of a report...

—No, I don't remember.

—Yes. About his meeting with the German Kaiser in Palestine...

—As far as I could make out, nothing. It was all very vague. Rather evasive. Perhaps I did not really understand it...

—About the country itself he said hardly a word.

—Well, perhaps a word. Something or other about Jerusalem. Something poetic about the night there and the moonlight. Having been there myself, I can tell you how little he understood. He is living an idea, not a reality. He talks about the moon, not about the streets—about the ramparts, not about the houses—about the Germans and the Turks, not about the Jews—about the future, not about the present. He is in love with the recipe, Father, not with the ingredients...

—Just three nights in Jerusalem, two of which, it seems, were spent tossing and turning on a billiard table in an inn called the Hotel Kamenitz...

—Apparently there was no bed for him, and so they made one on top of a billiard table. Perfectly symbolic...

—Sad? I would not say so. Not even pessimistic. Rather delirious, however. I was able to observe him from up close, even though I was not concentrating on what he said, because I had trouble following his Viennese accent—and suddenly, dear Papa, I felt a great wave of pity for him. He has not long to live, Father...

—Consider it a medical intuition.

—It is only an intuition—but why scoff?

—The way he perspires—his pallor—the barely restrained tremor of his arms—the black bags under his sunken eyes ... If a patient came to me looking like that, I would be alarmed. I would send him at once for a blood examination, for a lung auscultation ... he won't last long—he is living on borrowed time—and who knows if the whole business will not simply go poof when he dies...

—Fine, call it a medical fantasy ... Scoff...

—It was purely my own private diagnosis. I stole a glance at Steiner, to see if he was of the same opinion, but he did not seem to be thinking along medical lines. He was following the speech—he was quite carried away by it—there was something almost violent about the way he applauded...

—Wait, Father.

—Wait...

—It was just a thought ... don't be angry ... perhaps I'm wrong...

—Then I am wrong.

—I most certainly hope that it is not a one-man movement.

—But wait...

—You? Hah!

—You will outlive us all, don't you worry...

—Palestine did not affect my mind. Although if someone had told me that night at the congress that twelve days later I would be in Jerusalem, I would have thought him deranged...

—But wait ... don't be angry ... it was just a thought...

—You make it sound as if I have already killed him! On the contrary, Father, the session went on and on—there were more speeches, and greetings, and even a few challenges from the floor—and all this time I was wedged between my column and my professor—until finally, late at night, we dispersed and I rushed off to look for my Linka, whom I had lost sight of earlier in the evening, still with my pathologist at my side, now delivering an oration of his own that was replete with original if rather brutal ideas. And so slowly the crowd jostled us out to the street with its din of people and carriages that made me quite dizzy, since I was not accustomed to the proximity of so many Jews, let alone to wearing evening dress. I began to look for Linka and finally spied her in that mob scene surrounded by a swarm of Russians—of pogrom-and-Pobedonostsev survivors—with her ridiculous dress all wrinkled—the very clasps were falling off—and her feverish arms piled high with papers. And on her shoulder, Father, quite nonchalantly but firmly planted—I can still see it perfectly clearly—was a male hand ... Well, before I could come to our budding young leader's rescue, up popped an angry little old man in a top hat, straight out of the sidewalk, and shouted in Yiddish right under my nose: “Is there a doctor here? We need a doctor! Who here is a doctor?” I stepped up automatically, and he gripped my hand fiercely and led me back into the hall that had still pulsed madly with people and lights when I had left it a few moments before. It was already dim and deserted; only a few Swiss help were still there, sweeping up the waste paper with large brooms, snuffing out the last candles, and opening the windows to air out all those moldy speeches. The little old man flew between the chairs with great vigor, pulling me after him to the proscenium—where suddenly he stopped and asked quite forwardly: “Where are you from, young man?” Naturally, when I told him, he had no idea where it was, but when I added that it was near Cracow, his face lit up at once. “But what kind of a doctor are you?” he asked, still standing with me there on the stage. “What do you specialize in?” “Pediatrics,” I replied with a smile. You should have seen his crestfallen look! “Pediatrics?” He mulled it over for a while and then mumbled: “Well, never mind. Come with me.” “But what is the matter?” I asked. “Come quick, someone has fainted,” he said rather mysteriously. He commenced dragging me after him again, opened a door that led backstage into a large, dark billiard parlor, and started up an ornate staircase, pulling me down several long corridors into a room full of cigarette smoke, in which two men were standing by an easy chair. And who do you think, Father, was sitting in it? Herzl.

—Herzl in person, very pale and small—without his tie—without his frock coat—his white shirt open at the neck—but perfectly calm. He was holding a glass of water and speaking French with some friends, although the old man who brought me addressed him most familiarly in German. “I've found a young physician from Cracow,” he said. “For God's sake, Dr. Herzl, please allow him to examine you.” Herzl simply waved an impatient, a dismissive hand; but at once everyone joined the old man in cajoling him to agree, until at last he gave in and dropped his beard on his chest in a most touching gesture of acquiescence. The vigorous old man pushed me toward the easy chair—so hard, in fact, that I almost stumbled, for he appeared to be afraid that if I did not make haste Herzl would change his mind—at which point, Father, listen—listen to me!—I forgot all about my diagnosis. In fact, the same man who had struck me as being little more than a mummy on the stage now seemed terribly vital and real—even the bags under his eyes now looked like an inspired form of makeup. I had no idea what to examine him for. I assumed he had had an attack of vertigo—perhaps a slight syncope —the whites of his eyes were prominent and there was nystagmus. I looked to see if there were any signs of regurgitation—I am quite used to children vomiting in such cases—but there were none; nor was there any smell. I was at a loss. I had no idea what was expected of me. I leaned over until I was close to him, quite overwrought with anxiety—and as I did he looked up at me and threw me a rather merry glance. He spoke in German, and I in a Yiddish that I hoped would pass for German. In an unsteady voice, I asked him what was the matter. He laughed, made some jest to his friends about the doctor feeling faint himself, and held out his hand to me—whether to take my own or in an expression of surprise, I could not say—and so I seized it and quickly began to seek—what else could I do?—the pulse.