The Archivist (21 page)

What’s to do? said Len. We just have to wait and watch how things develop. See what move the Russians make.

I looked at the pictures. My nerves started jumping inside me, as if somebody had thrown a switch — it wasn’t painful, but everything felt overstimulated, uncontrolled.

Wait? I asked them. Are you serious?

They said nothing. Their gazes on me were wary, intense.

You’re doing it all over again, I said.

Doing what, Judy, said Len.

You’re pretending, I said. Ignoring the evidence. Making believe that no evil will ever come. But you know, don’t you? You know if you don’t act now, it’ll happen all over again.

Judy (Len breaking in, scared now), come on, this is a different situation. They’re not going after one group of people, they’re not singling out anyone in particular. It’s just lousy politics. The Russians want their piece of the pie.

I could no longer tell what my voice sounded like. It was barely mine, and it was very loud.

You fucking coward, I said. You liar. I know you! You see but you won’t see. You’ve never told me anything true. Nothing. Not one fucking true thing.

Carol put her hand on Len’s arm. Let’s go, she said.

Her voice was neutral, but I had never felt so provoked by her. In my head everything — all her evasions, her glosses, her refusals — suddenly massed together, a noisy chorus battering on the inside of my skull, making my ears ring.

I lunged at them both, pulling her hand off his arm, separating them as they deserved to be separated, forcing them apart as they deserved to be apart, alone, locked in their cells with their deceptions.

It was Powell who came up from behind me, gently pulled my wrists to the small of my back, snapped the metal rings on them, and spun me around gently to look full into my face.

Just so you don’t hurt nobody, he said, his eyes greeting mine.

September 22

The humidity still hasn’t broken. I spend most of each day outside, walking slowly or sitting or lying on the grass; and there are long merciful hours in which I don’t think of Matthias. But always at some point my lassitude is punctured by some image of him, and I think
how could this happen?

Matt brought me here. And I let him.

December 28

A long gap, and now the news.

Eichmann was condemned to death two weeks ago.

He’s appealing the verdict, said Len. Stupid bastard. It’s pointless — he’s a dead man.

Matt said nothing. He glanced at me, his eyes shadowed in reluctance.

So talk, I said to him. Tell me what you think. No — tell me first why Carol isn’t here.

Len jumped in nervously. We told you that already, he said. She’s got a bad stomach. Something she ate.

I doubt that, I said. Something’s eating
her
.

Well
we’re
here, he said. Long time no see, huh?

Yeah, I said. Since the Wall went up, right?

Yeah, he said.

Matt, I said (turning to him, his face in profile, his body angled away from mine). Tell me what you think.

Of the verdict, you mean, he said.

Yes.

There was a pause. Then he swung toward me, and it was like having a too-sharp light in my eyes; I had to stop myself from holding my hand in front of my face.

I think it’s good, he said.

A sudden elevation in the current. My fingertips prickling, sweat on my scalp.

I repeated the word as a question: Good?

Yes. Necessary.

Good and necessary are two different things, I said.

I know, he said. The Eichmann verdict is both.

The Miltown was hard at work now.

I would’ve thought, I said, that as a Christian you would oppose the death sentence. Or at least not call it good.

Matt was silent.

Len inhaled hard on his cigarette. His words emerged from his mouth as smoke.

Jesus, he said. What’re you talking about, Judy? Nobody opposes this sentence except maybe a few ex-Nazis.

And more than a few Christians. The death penalty is against their religion, remember, Lenny?

Matt remained silent.

Len dropped his cigarette to the floor, stepped on it, picked up the stub, and tossed it in my wastebasket.

Don’t insult Matt’s intelligence, he said. You know what he thinks about all this.

It’s not a question of intelligence. If it were, the war wouldn’t have happened.

We got what we wanted, said Len. A death verdict for Eichmann. And we’ll get the death too. The guy will hang for what he did.

He didn’t look at Matt or me as he spoke. Lost in a fantasy of retribution. But scared. Len knows the questions:
What if it’s not enough, the hanging? What if it means nothing?

The verdict is good, said Matt again. A balancing of the accounts.

Oh yes, I said. But after the fact. I mean, when the deed’s done, it’s easier to balance everything, isn’t it?

Easier, maybe, he said. But still good. Still necessary.

It’s not your loss, I said. So what can you possibly know?

Len handed me a cigarette. He lit first his, then mine.

Don’t split hairs, Judy, he said.

What are you saying, I asked.

Don’t make it worse than it’s already been, he said.

His voice incendiary, a lit match at the fuse of my rage. I threw the cigarette at him. He raised one hand to shield himself.

Fuck off, I said. You bastard traitor.

Matt stirred as if trying to wake up.

Let’s go, he said to Len.

I began shrieking at them. The words were mine, yet they broke like water on rocks, a spray of meaningless emotion. All the things I saw — Len’s stunned face, Matt’s vacant eyes, the blue bag full of newspapers — all the details keep breaking up now as they did then, refusing to hold shape, to stay real.

Powell was at my side, his muted alto in my ear.

Now you got trouble, he said.

It swung just right: the downbeat
now
, the quick bridge to
trouble
, each note true.

1962

January 5

Clay told me today, at the end of our session, that visits from family members are to be curtailed.

Curtailed? I said.

It’s in the interest of your health to minimize any interruptions of your treatment, he said. We have asked your husband and Mr. and Mrs. Rubin to visit you less frequently so that you can concentrate more fully on your experience here.

I laughed at him.

They hardly come anyway, I said. Matt comes maybe once a month. Len and Carol come a few times a year. What are you saying to me?

Now they’ll each come twice a year. Separately — your husband by himself, the Rubins by themselves. You may write to them, but they have been asked not to write back. Naturally I trust you’ll want to share with me the contents of any letters you write. We can learn from talking about them. But communicating with your family shouldn’t be a priority. We must focus on your experience here.

Panic rising like a fluid inside my chest, up toward my throat, to the dam of my mouth.

What experience, I said. I experience nothing here. Nothing happens to me here.

That is subjective, said Clay. You must work to restore meaning.

Wait, I tried to say, and the word itself was glue, a viscous lump I couldn’t spit out or swallow.

Wait.

Clay stared at me with his blank eyes.

Yes? he asked.

Whose idea was this?

It is not an idea, he said. It is part of your treatment.

Did they suggest it, did they agree to it, do they want it?

Tell me, you son of a bitch!

His voice: a pall settling over me, soft as smoke.

What your family wants isn’t our concern, he said. But yes, they agreed.

Powell stood in the doorway, waiting to escort me to my room.

Where is it, I said to Clay.

Where’s what, he asked.

He nodded at Powell, who wrapped his hands (tightly but gently, causing no pain) around my elbows and squeezed them slightly inward to let me know I couldn’t move.

My yellow star, I said.

Clay’s face: nothing.

Where is it? I asked him. I think you should paint it on my door. Or let me sew it on my coat. So we’ll all know who’s who, our roles will be clear —

— what roles, interrupted Clay.

I’m the Jew, I said. So that makes you the Nazi, doesn’t it?

And your husband? The Rubins?

Collaborators, I said. Informers.

Try not to play with such notions, he said. They lead nowhere.

Do you have any idea how much I loathe you? I asked him.

We’ll talk again tomorrow, he said.

I felt Powell’s grip tighten on my elbows as he headed me toward my cell. I let him impel me. Only in his hands am I safe. At the door he released me.

Take me home, I said, please take me back.

You’re there, he said. You’re there.

April 27

I’ve seen Matt once this year. One day last week he came. I can’t recall when, or what he said, or if I said anything. Maybe we said nothing.

Touch, did we touch?

The cold and solid object in my hands, one of your hands
.

June 1

It’s over, said Len, handing me today’s paper. Eichmann’s been executed.

His face was bright with pride, as if he’d done it himself.

The Israeli police dumped his ashes overboard last night, said Carol.

Outside territorial waters, of course, Len added. They didn’t want any chunks of him floating around.

Jesus, Lenny, said Carol. I mean, is that kind of detail necessary?

Nope, he said. I just like thinking of the guy in little pieces. You glad, kiddo?

He turned, making himself look at me.

Glad? I repeated.

Look what we got here, said Len. Actual justice, the real thing. Eye for an eye.

Hardball, said Carol. It’s a new game now. There’ll be more trials. The Israelis will find more of these scum. These guys can’t hide forever.

She sat on my bed, reached for my pillow, and lay down, sighing with relief.

Jesus, I’m tired, she said. We stayed out too late last night.

Len laughed. Tee many martoonis, he said.

Most of the Nazis aren’t hiding, I said. They’re being concealed.

Len and Carol were silent for a moment. Carol looked at Len:
you answer her
.

These people are clever, said Len. They go off to some rancho in Latin America and hide out. You can’t expect to turn them up right away. Takes time.

Carol was nodding at him. Oh, they’ll be found, she said. Goddamn right, Len said.

He pulled out his matches and lit up. I could feel him waiting for me: to approve of his jubilation, to condone his false courage. To say
Oh yes, I see how resolute you are
. And
Yes, of course, you’ve always been that way
.

Len fears me because I know what Carol doesn’t: in his deepest heart, Lenny isn’t laughing, he isn’t drinking gin and having a wonderful time. He’s completely disconsolate. After Lottie and Sam were killed, he took me in; but he could never love me. I was his loss, not compensation for it but proof. And when all the other losses started mounting up, he couldn’t take any more.

Len stubbed out his cigarette. Carol sat up, as if on cue, and pushed at her messy hair.

What do you think, she said to Len.

It’s getting late.

Long drive back home.

We should go.

See you soon. Sooner or later. Later. Or maybe not again, ever. Because you never know, do you?

September 13

Clay is trying to make me talk about why I hate him.

We need to get at what I represent to you, he said today.

You represent nothing, I said.

That’s not possible, he said.

Oh, but it is. You represent nothing to me.

You must talk about this, he said.

Why talk about what’s meaningless?

This has to do with other people, Clay said. You know that. You must confront me in order to confront the others.

I’m not interested. Really. Whenever I sit in this chair, I become profoundly, overwhelmingly bored.

Eliot, the end of “Burnt Norton”:

Ridiculous the waste sad time

Stretching before and after

Why do you consent to these sessions?

I’m in prison, and I’m cooperating with my jailors. It’s the only sane thing to do under the circumstances, isn’t it?

Have you considered rebellion?

Powell stood suddenly framed in the doorway, his stocky silhouette beckoning. My timely savior.

Clay was waiting for my answer.

No, I said (standing, sidling into Powell’s orbit, awaiting his grip. My heart like Eliot’s
, beating obedient to controlling hands
).

Why not, Clay asked.

Rebellion would be pointless. I can’t move, can’t act. You’re holding me prisoner here.

Judith, he said, we’re not. You’re here because you can’t conduct your life elsewhere.

LeRoi Jones:

I am inside someone

who hates me

December 11

Len and Carol brought me a couple of new albums. Coltrane, plus something Carol said she likes — bossa nova, with someone named Stan Getz on sax and several Brazilians accompanying him on drums and guitar.

Now
this
album swings, she said, and they’re all such good players. It’ll really cheer you up.

Did you bring the newspapers, I asked Len.

He handed me the stack, which I slid beneath the bed.

The Israelis are keeping up the good work, he said. Since Eichmann they’ve learned how to do things right. They know you can’t mess around with the Germans.

He pointed under the bed. His hands looked bigger and older than I remembered them.

There’s a story in one of those papers about some Egyptian-Swiss guy named Kamal, he said. The Israeli secret service blew up his plane a few months ago, but Kamal escaped. Apparently he’s been helping German factories build planes and rockets for the Egyptian army. I guess he thought he’d make himself some nice pocket change behind the scenes.