Not Me Read online

  “Enough with doing the books,” Tuli said.

  A week or so later, Heshel packed his few things in his small cotton duffel, and waited by the roadside for the lorry to take him away. Soon enough, he saw a small convoy approaching, casting up dust into the gray sky. The rain that had threatened so long was finally on its way. A new season was upon him in this strange land without seasons. He turned to look back at the kibbutz. He was surprised to see Moskovitz standing at the gate, the wind blowing her hair wildly, her skirt fluttering and flapping around the poles of her legs. But it was not Moskovitz, was it? Yael was her name now—Bat Tsedek—yes, she was a stranger to him! The wind raised her skirts and tore at her hair, but it didn’t fool him: she was too solid to let any force of nature carry her away. He found his hand rising, unwilled, in a gesture of farewell. Oh! he yearned to run to her, he did! He wished to throw down the duffel and take her in his arms and kiss her wildly on the mouth, as wildly as the wind that now pelted her lips with dust. But his feet, of course, did not move. All he was allowed was the small movement of his arm, good-bye. Just then the lorry pulled up and a soldier leaned out the window—Rosenheim? Heshel hoisted his duffel onto the truck bed, unshouldered his rifle and threw that in as well, and finally lifted himself over the gate and jumped in. He turned, leaned out, and waved at her again. At last she waved back. Even before he was settled in, the caravan turned around and took off down the road. Looking back toward the kibbutz, he saw that she was still standing there, braving the wind and the first few drops of rain that would soon, he knew, become a torrent. All too quickly she became small, just a dot on the landscape, until at last she dropped her hand and ran back into the compound and out of all sight. He took a deep breath and settled onto the wood plank that served as a bench in the back of the truck. He nodded to the men and said hello. Then he turned his head outward once again, and the last thing he saw before they closed the flap to keep out the rain was the smoke rising from the little Arab village where his little hope of escape had evaporated in a burst of gunfire, and where now the women were preparing dinners of lamb and vegetables for their frightened families.

  He spent three weeks in camp, and emerged an officer. The man called Heshel Rosenheim was once again a lieutenant. Only this time his dream would come true. He would be on the front line, defending the homeland.

  The thought made him laugh, especially when he took stock of himself in his new uniform. Gone were the elegant black tunic, the dazzling double S’s, the smart cap with its intimidating death’s-head insignia, the dashing epaulets, the elegant dagger. In their place worn-out khakis, open collars, a pair of baggy trousers, and a pair of short pants. As for boots, there were none, or none worth calling boots—just heavy brown shoes. He looked more like a factory worker than a soldier. But they did give him a little short-waisted jacket—the kind the American general Eisenhower wore—and he liked that. There was also a helmet that looked very much like what the British wore in World War I, and he had a suspicion that that’s exactly what it was.

  Frequently he thought of taking his own life. But why bother? The end would come soon enough. It was perhaps not a coincidence that this training camp was just north of Megiddo, on the site of the biblical Armageddon.

  And more and more he thought of Moskovitz.

  By now the land was turning green with new growth, but nobody noticed. In January, Kfar Szold, on the Syrian border, was attacked by the Arab Liberation Army. A huge explosion rocked Jerusalem, destroying the Jewish Palestinian Post building. In the Negev, several kibbutzim were cut off. In the Etzion Block, a pitched battle was already under way. Lieutenant Rosenheim was given his orders. His company was loaded into open trucks in spite of the rain, and they headed south.

  They were to bring desperately needed supplies to the remote outpost of Revivim, and then break off the main convoy and swing toward the coast to engage any hostile forces in defense of Jewish settlements. They were strictly forbidden to launch any offensive measures. And any reprisals or countermeasures were to be aimed solely at combatants. These orders, Lieutenant Rosenheim thought, were so naïve they must have been issued by children. He had been placed in command of a unit of ten soldiers, all new Palmachniks like himself. They sang songs and ate halvah as they rode along. He shook his head. He had seen such esprit de corps before. He sat there, trying to memorize their names, knowing that by the time he did, most of them would already be dead.

  They didn’t get terribly far before trouble started. The forward truck hit a land mine, throwing the men into the air. It was just a flatbed truck commandeered from a kibbutz, but the army had hastily armored it with steel plates sandwiched together with wood and concrete. Amazingly no one was hurt. Then the Arabs attacked. They were mostly villagers and not well trained, but there were a lot of them, and they were fierce. The radio girl, Malka, was hit immediately and fell into the mud. Heshel pulled her under his truck and began firing back. The men tried to use the trucks as shields, but the firing was intense, and several more people were hit. In the meantime, the soldiers of the lead truck were busy changing the tires, for in spite of the explosion, the only serious damage were blowouts on the front end. Against all odds, the “sandwiches” worked. When they were done with the tires, the men waved madly up the line. The drivers jumped in, and the trucks took off as fast as they could, the Jews clinging to the rails and firing the whole time.

  They knew they could not make it to Revivim, so they turned back to Kibbutz Hatzerim. They camped there, awaiting news, or orders, whichever came first.

  It was news, and it was bad. Thirty-five men trying to reach the Etzion Block with supplies were massacred. Their bodies, cut up and mutilated, were delivered to Kfar Etzion by the British in two truckloads.

  The standing orders were changed. The Jewish forces would now go on the attack.

  Lying in his bedroll that evening, allowing the rain slapping on the tent roof to calm his nerves, Heshel Rosenheim conjured up the lovely Fradl Moskovitz—strolling with her under a warm, dry summer sky, their arms locked together, her head resting on his shoulder. He watched the scene unfold, and plotted to himself how he might, in real life, win her back. Why not? Why not? He worked out scenarios. He imagined outcomes.

  And then suddenly he realized that he was thinking in Hebrew. His inner voice was no longer speaking German.

  In Hebrew he thought, My God, what is happening to me?

  By morning the rain had stopped, and he went out to shave. In his mirror he noticed someone staring at him, a new recruit, one of those fellows trained by the Palmach in the D.P. camps and shipped here in secret, by night, through the English blockade. Heshel lowered his mirror.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Don’t I know you?” the other said in Yiddish. “Were we together somewhere? I’m Levin.”

  “I am Rosenheim,” he replied.

  “Rosenheim,” the man repeated, pondering. He had a thin, angry look. Heshel had seen it before. The haunted eyes. The nervous gestures. Soon to be replaced by the cool comfort of revenge. The kind that becomes a terrorist. “I knew a Rosenheim,” Levin continued, “but that one wasn’t you. You’re not a sabra, though. You’ve been in the camps, yes?”

  Rosenheim nodded.

  “Maybe in the camps, then?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “Were you in Auschwitz?”

  He had to say that he was. His sleeves were rolled up.

  “Which camp? Which block?”

  “Why ask me these things?” he said in Hebrew. “It’s the past. It’s over.”

  The man did not understand him. Instead he continued in Yiddish. “I was one of the lucky ones. Camp Three.”

  But Rosenheim said nothing.

  “Well,” continued the recruit, “I was in many camps. Perhaps our paths crossed. Who knows?” He smiled in a friendly way. “I’m sure I know you.” Then he walked off toward his platoon.

  The company camped at Hatzerim all that day, but Rosenheim di
dn’t see Levin again until they were at dinner, when he noticed him sitting with his crew at the far end of the dining hall. Levin looked up once and waved, but Rosenheim pretended he hadn’t noticed. That was unwise! he thought, so he looked up again, and waved back.

  But later that night he woke up from a dream: It was 9 November. All around him, flames. He was surrounded by dark figures. Above him floated the red banners, like sails carrying him to the Land of Perfect and Absolute Truth. Drifting down from the torch-lit sky, like angels, were a thousand black-sheathed knives. He heard a voice, far away, as if through a megaphone, but he could not make out what it was saying. It echoed off the corridors of men standing like pillars, holding up their salute to the Messiah of Pure Reason. The crowd screamed its obeisance. Then his own voice.

  Ich schwoere Dir Adolf Hitler!…

  I swear to you, Adolf Hitler, Fuehrer and Chancellor of the German Reich, loyalty and bravery. I vow to you, and the superiors whom you will appoint, obedience unto death, so help me God….

  SS-Mann! he cried.

  He jumped up, awake—wondering—did I speak aloud? In which language was I dreaming?

  He looked to see that his tent-mate was still asleep. But he thought he heard someone walking just outside. He stuck his head out. There was a group of four or five gathered around a little fire, smoking cigarettes and talking. They did not seem to notice him at all. But he thought he made out the figure of the little man with the angry eyes.

  Alarmed, he slipped back into his tent.

  This time Moshe was awake.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Just needed to piss,” he said.

  Moshe turned over and pulled his blanket over his head.

  But it didn’t really matter if Moshe had heard him or not. Or if the little Auschwitz man was listening at the tent door. The dream was a message. Even if no one was after him, their God would trick him into giving himself away.

  By now it was three or four in the morning. I couldn’t sleep. I reached for the letter from the Holocaust people. I studied the letterhead and noted the phone number: Kaufman. Holocaust Archives. Never heard of them. And what’s a memorial book? And who asked him to send this material anyway? Again it had to be that secret person—the key, the witness, the one who could unlock the truth. If I wanted the truth.

  And that town, whatever it was—I’d never heard of it. Durnik. What kind of place is that?

  I thought maybe a drink would help me sleep. I opened my father’s liquor cabinet. No surprises there. It was empty, except for an ancient bottle of Dry Sack. It tasted like stewed prunes.

  But someone did know the truth. Someone was feeding this to me, like spooning poison in my coffee, little by little. Why? And why now? What possible good could it do, even if it were true? He was a dying man. How could justice come at this late hour?

  And what exactly did this “memorial” list mean? What did it prove? I knew what it proved. But couldn’t there have been hundreds or even thousands of Heshel Rosenheims in Europe before and during the war. How many of them perished? Most of them. But some may have survived. One may have survived.

  I had to call him, Kaufman. I took a bitter, dark swig of the sherry and dialed his number. I knew it was one in the morning there, I knew no one would answer, but I called anyway.

  A thickly accented and ancient voice had recorded an awkward message asking me to leave my name and phone number, which I did. Immediately I wished I hadn’t.

  I was feeling a little sick to my stomach by now. What I really wanted to do was call Ella. Not possible. So I looked at the letter again.

  Dear Mr. Rosenheim:

  I hope this letter finds you well. I have enclosed the following photocopied document at the request of your agents in this matter, which I hope you find in good order. I shall have it delivered by messenger to your father’s current place of residence, as instructed.

  I shall have it delivered to your father. My God, I cried aloud. Did I have a sibling somewhere I didn’t know about?

  Right then I decided I had to stop. I could read no more. I could delve no farther. Enough! Enough! Enough!

  CHAPTER 12

  Just as I thrust the letter from my hand, the phone rang. I looked at it with terror. Could Kaufman have been in?

  “Who is this?” I demanded.

  “I can’t sleep.” It was Josh.

  “Jesus, Josh, it’s three in the morning.”

  “I know,” he said sheepishly.

  I was getting sick as a dog. The sherry was churning my stomach like a washing machine.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him.

  “I can’t sleep,” he repeated.

  I sighed. “Why can’t you sleep?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Well, close your eyes and try.”

  “I did. It didn’t work.”

  “Are all the lights out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then turn one on,” I said.

  “I already did that.”

  “Well, then, I don’t know.”

  “Are you okay, Dad? You sound funny.”

  “You just woke me up out of a deep sleep, Josh.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you go have some cereal? That always works for me.”

  “I had a bowl of Cheerios. It didn’t work.”

  “Well, no wonder! You have to use Trix!”

  Hah! I thought. It wasn’t my best, but at least I could still get a laugh. And this despite the fact it was four in the morning on the day I discovered Josh’s grandfather was a Nazi war criminal.

  And indeed, I could hear him trying to laugh. Though it may have sounded more like choked-off tears.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I’m not mad.”

  “I just couldn’t sleep,” he said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  I could hear him thinking.

  “School?” I asked hopefully.

  “You keep on asking about school, Dad,” he said. “It’s summer, remember?”

  “Right, right,” I said. “Friends?”

  “No. They’re fine.”

  “Did you have a fight with Mom?”

  “No, Dad. Why does it have to be something? I just can’t sleep.”

  By which, of course, he meant he just wanted to talk to me because I hadn’t been calling, and because when I did call I barely spoke, and because I wasn’t home, and because I wouldn’t let him come and live with me, and because I was a half-wit father who let them both leave. I guess he meant, instead of throwing that TV set at us, why didn’t you follow us and make us come home? Why didn’t you compromise and get a better house for Mom and why didn’t you get a job that let you stay in San Francisco and make a decent living and have real furniture? But how was I supposed to answer these accusations? Could a father tell a son that he just didn’t know how to do any better?

  “Sleep is way overrated,” I said. “Really. I get my best laughs at four in the morning. By watching reruns of I Love Lucy.”

  “Dad…”

  “No, really.”

  He made a funny little sound, the kind of squeak boys make when their voices are changing, and when they can’t quite get the words out. “Can I come out and help you?” he said.

  “Help me?” I replied. “What makes you think I need help?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Just.”

  “I’m fine,” I told him. “You have to stay there and take care of Mom.”

  “She doesn’t need me to take care of her.”

  “And I do?”

  He fell silent then. I could hear my own breathing. It was raspy, overburdened. And my heart, it seemed to be flipping strangely in my chest, tingling in a weird way. It scared me a little, actually. And I was feeling more and more nauseous from the sherry.

  “I just want to see you,” he blurted.

  “Me too, me too.” When I touched my hand to my chest to stop the fibrillation, I felt something cruddy
and dry on my shirt. I tried to scrape it off, whatever it was. Then I remembered I’d thrown up earlier. “I was thinking,” I said, “when I get home we’ll go to a ball game or something. What do you say?”

  “Which one?” he said.

  “Which one what?”

  “Which game?”

  “I don’t know which game, Josh. Just a game, for chrissakes.”

  “I just wondered which game.” He sounded beaten down again.

  I started thinking about how something as ephemeral as a tone of voice, as nonlethal as a thing could ever be, had such destructive force—but only, of course, on the ones who loved you. Why would God make us this way, I wanted to know. When he was creating his world full of Nazis and Stalins and Genghis Khans—couldn’t he have just left the tone of voice you use on your kid out of it? And I thought of my own father and the unconscious put-downs and snide remarks, the wry humor that deflected my advances, the furious anger that erupted without warning, the strong, fragrant hugs for no reason at all—and I felt myself retreat further and further from Josh. Of course my father had his excuse, didn’t he? My father had his terrible secret to hide. To let me in might have exposed me to that frightful darkness, that twisted jungle of ugliness and crime. And so I held the phone receiver to my ear, and instead of Josh, I heard my father’s voice, and I shuddered—and I wondered—what secret was I hiding from Josh? What secret chained the door between me and this sweet, blond-headed boy with the curly hair and the slight, lilting gait that sometimes made him seem, to me at least, as if he were skating on air across the playground, where others tumbled and fell?

  “Dad? Are you still there?”

  “Huh?”

  “Dad—you’re so quiet.”

  “Whatever game I can get tickets for,” I said. “That’s the game we’ll go to.”