Not Me Page 6

  I looked around. It was a nice pool house. I felt good about it. Palm trees. Tropical flowers. The lovely sound of a lone Lincoln Town Car puckapucking down the soft, newly paved asphalt drive. I had a list now. I had a case. There was love in the world after all. Everything grew dim and pleasant as I drifted toward sleep.

  But I felt something in my hand and looked down. It was, of course, Journal #2, and I woke, just like that.

  I should have tossed that goddamned diary into the pool and flown back to San Francisco that very day. But I didn’t. It was Dad’s…whatever it was. And I couldn’t abandon him. I just couldn’t.

  They called him the “Yekkeh,” the German. By which, by the way, they meant a German Jew, and not a German at all. It was a term of affectionate opprobrium deriving from his anal retentiveness, as the Jewish Doktor Freud would have called it, his compulsion to put everything in order, his need for cleanliness, and his fear that the slightest disarray opened the door to the ravages of chaos. As far as Heshel was concerned, he found this nickname an amusing irony. As long as they thought of him as German, he could be German. It was as if he had drawn a disguise over himself by drawing himself as he really was. “Yekkeh.” The kibbutzniks seemed like children to him. Pets. He found that he somehow wished to protect them against themselves, as one protects sheep from wandering blindly into quicksand, or horses from running frantically into the burning barn.

  He would do what he could to help, and then he would leave forever.

  In the meantime, they liked to have movies on Saturday nights. Naor was only an hour from Tel Aviv, but to the kibbutzniks that seemed a million miles away, so once or twice a month they set up the projector in the Bet Am and watched old films and outdated newsreels. Heshel did not like the newsreels. They frequently focused on the Nuremberg Trials. He watched as Nazi after Nazi was condemned to die. Occasionally he even saw a familiar face sitting in the docks. He forced himself to sit there, and even cheer, but it terrified him. On this particular evening, the newsreel began by showing warehouses full of pocket watches, coats, suitcases, pens, handbags, and the inevitable shoes. It showed footage of happy Germans during the war, receiving relief packages of clothing and hats, of children clutching refurbished dolls and teddy bears, of a line of grateful old men being fitted for eyeglasses. Then it showed one of the American prosecutors waving a document in his hand and pointing an accusing finger at the prisoners in the dock. A moment later the film cut to a close-up of the document, laid out so it could be read, the letters, each as big as a man’s torso, filling the screen from top to bottom. The camera slowly panned down the page. It was in German, but of course Heshel could read it easily, and anyway, the narrator explained what it was.

  * * *

  REPORT BY SS-STURMBANNFÜHRER WIPPERN, CONCERNING VALUE OF MONEY, PRECIOUS METALS, OTHER VALUABLES, AND TEXTILES OF JEWS

  * * *

  17

  Gold Fountain Pens

  RM 1,900

  4

  Platinum Watches

  RM 1,200

  2,894

  Gold Gentlemen’s Pocket Watches

  RM 1,427,000

  7,313

  Ladies’ Gold Wristwatches

  RM 1,828,250

  6,245

  Gentlemen’s Wristwatches

  RM 62,450

  13,455

  Gentlemen’s Pocket Watches

  RM 269,100

  51,370

  Watches to Be Repaired

  RM 258,850

  22,324

  Spectacles

  RM 66,972

  11,675

  Gold Rings with Diamonds

  RM 11,675,000

  1,399

  Pairs Gold Earrings w/Brilliants

  RM 349,750

  7,000

  Fountain Pens

  RM 70,000

  1,000

  Automatic Pencils

  RM 3,000

  350

  Razors

  RM 875

  3,240

  Pocket Books

  RM 4,860

  1,500

  Scissors

  RM 750

  2,544

  Alarm Clocks to Be Repaired

  RM 7,662

  160

  Alarm Clocks, Working

  RM 960

  477

  Sunglasses

  RM 238

  41

  Silver Cigarette Cases

  RM 1,230

  230

  Thermometers

  RM 690

  462

  Boxcars of Rags

  RM 323,400

  253

  Boxcars of Feathers for Bedding

  RM 2,510,000

  317

  Boxcars of Clothes and Linens

  RM 10,461,000

  The total, the narrator concluded, after adding many other items plus cash and precious metals, came to one hundred million, forty-seven thousand, nine hundred eighty-three reichsmarks and ninety-one pfennig, and was signed by Wippern, SS-Sturmbannführer, and dated Lublin, 27 February 1943. The narrator went on to say that this itemization of goods came from a single concentration camp, and covered a period of only three months, and that by December of that year, another two thousand boxcars of loot was sent to SS warehouses from this single source, including 132,000 wristwatches, 39,000 pens, 28,000 scissors and 230,000 razor blades. Himmler himself ordered that 15,000 of the ladies’ wristwatches be given as Christmas presents to ethnic Germans who lived in occupied Soviet territory, whereas pure silk underwear was to be delivered directly to the Reich Ministry of Economics.

  There was complete silence in the hall, but Heshel Rosenheim grew faint. Moskovitz looked over and saw that he was swaying in his chair, gasping for breath.

  She took his hand to console him. She understood: it was too unbearable to contemplate the people beneath those numbers, the wrists without the wristwatches, the spectacles without the faces, the rings without the fingers. She stroked his hand and touched his cheek with an almost otherworldly delicacy. You are here now, she seemed to tell him, all that is over. Never again will we put ourselves into someone else’s hands. They may kill us, the Arabs, the British, right here where we stand, but not without a fight. We may die, but like men, and we will never again subject ourselves to the whims either of their goodwill or their hatred. No, she seemed to say, no one will ever again control our destiny. She was like a rock of gentleness. He saw all of this in her eyes as he pulled himself together and nodded to her that he was all right again.

  But you see, he recognized something in that document that she would never have guessed: his own handiwork. For he himself had written it at Majdanek. He himself had estimated the number of looted articles, assigned value to the various categories, managed the numerous calculations. In fact, he had regarded this very inventory as one of his greatest accomplishments at Majdanek. And then Major Wippern had stolen the credit for himself.

  Back in 1943, he was distraught, furious. But now, as the neatly typed words burned through the movie screen, and the voice of the announcer filled the theater with outrage, Heshel thought once again: How fortunate I have been! As if God himself had intervened on his behalf! Back in those days, he merely thought that he had been too afraid to complain. But maybe it had been God’s hand that turned him into a coward. In any case, he had revenged himself on Wippern by miscalculating the shipments and exaggerating the quality of goods, which then—with letters demanding a refund—were frequently sent back as unusable—mainly because of bloodstains, bullet holes, and the failure to remove the yellow Jewish star which officials of the Winter Relief Agency found “disturbing,” complaining that no one would want to wear them. On top of all this, Lieutenant Mueller had figured out how to steal just enough in the way of watches and stockings to keep himself in cognac and cigars and to finance the occasional lost weekend, but he abruptly ended this practice when a number of fellow officers over at Auschwitz were summarily hanged for pilfering and “sabotage.”


  And now, as he sat there in the kibbutz communal hall that served as theater, meeting room, dining room, and schoolroom, it all came back to him—the rows of tables piled high with eyeglasses, combs, and brassieres, the Kapos busily sorting and counting, the warehouses filled with leather, fur, goose feathers, the smell of human fat rising in dark, moist clouds above the gray encampment—and trying to shake the image from his brain, he looked over at Moskovitz. What he saw in her eyes was pity.

  He got up, even though the feature had not yet started, and rushed from the room.

  The sun had moved somewhat toward the west, and I could now hear voices. People were beginning to move back outside. Soon the card players and aquamaids would be poolside. I did not want to be around people. I gathered my stuff and shuffled along on my flip-flops in the direction of my father’s building. Near the entrance I ran into the ladies’ club.

  “It’s Golda’s boy,” one of them said.

  A pursed smile corroded my face. “I’m Lily’s,” I said.

  They looked confused. But of course. Lily had been dead eight years.

  “Heshel,” I said. “I’m Heshel’s boy.”

  Then they gathered round me happily and started asking me how was Hesheleh, how was my own family doing back in—where? San Francisco? Morris and I were in San Francisco! Fisherman’s Warf! Did you know you look like a movie star?—which one does he look like, Bessie?—and when do you think he’ll be coming home, your father?

  When I told them I thought he wasn’t, they all nodded knowingly, and one of them took my hand, and another said, “It’s good you’re here. You’re a good son. We all should have such a son,” and another offered, “You know, I’ve got a chicken in the oven.”

  But I thanked them and made my way to the elevator.

  “He’s a wonderful man, your father,” I heard one of them call after me.

  And then another one sighed, “Ach, it’s terrible to be so old!”

  And one said to another, “I think his name is David.”

  “No, no, no,” said a third, “Sophie’s is David. Heshel’s is Barry.”

  As the door closed, locking me into the stinking, moldy elevator, I gave up the idea of presenting Ella with my list.

  CHAPTER 7

  I needed a plan. I was not generally a person who made plans. Once upon a time I did, but that was long ago, and since none of them ever amounted to anything, I now distrusted all plans. But I had to find out who brought those journals. That was the key to the whole thing. That person, and that person alone, knew the truth.

  I decided to watch and wait.

  I drove over to the nursing home, pulled into a spot facing the building, and turned off the engine. You could do that in the early evening, when the temperature dropped into the eighties. I positioned myself so I could look directly into his room, which was on the first floor. It was only a two-story building anyway. If someone entered his room, I’d pounce. That was my strategy.

  At first, no one came. But then I saw a shadowy figure slip past the window. Tall, dark, somewhat elegant in gesture, he bent down over my father’s bed. I swung open the car door and sprinted across the lot, pushed my way through the main entrance, ran down the hall, and literally jumped into the room.

  A huge black man was lifting my father in his arms and helping him into the wheelchair. He looked up, startled; then smiled.

  “Oh look, Heshel! It’s your son come to help with dinner!”

  “Lamar,” I said.

  “See, Heshel!” he screamed good-naturedly in my father’s ear, the way orderlies who work with old people do, and pointed at me. It was dinnertime. I watched as Lamar tucked a small blanket around my father’s legs.

  Lamar had a kindly face, but he was very strong, and my father was docile in his hands. He was efficient, gentle, and at the same time imposing and even intimidating. The tasks at the Lake Gardens were divided along rather rigid racial lines. The nurses by and large were white, but Christian. The orderlies were almost entirely black, like Lamar, except for Rodrigo, who was Puerto Rican. The cooks were invariably Filipino, and the cleanup staff was Mexican. The receptionist and the manager were Jewish, and the owners were a corporation in Texas. It was remarkable to me how well everyone got along, and how, sadly, things never change.

  I watched as Lamar wheeled my father out.

  “Lamar,” I said, “did you see a box of books in here?”

  “Books? No, I don’t think I did.”

  “It was a Cheez Whiz box,” I said.

  He looked at me somewhat sideways. “I don’t think I did,” he repeated. “Is something missing?”

  “No, Lamar. Nothing to worry about. Nothing is missing.”

  “I wasn’t worried none,” he said, and moved my father down the corridor toward the dining room.

  Eventually I followed them into the dining hall, which also served as the assembly room for bingo night, and the theater for movies, and the cabaret when the out-of-work comedians came to tummel. I often came at dinnertime. It was a strange but affecting bond between us. He liked when I helped him eat, and even though part of me found it gross, wiping half-chewed peas or dollops of custard from his chin, I felt happy to do it. Happy is perhaps not the right word. But it was all we had.

  My father had reached that stage of life when it was almost impossible for him to bring a fork into his mouth. Instead, he had to lean his whole body forward, meeting it somewhere just above the bowl of tapioca. He preferred that I feed him. And then there was always the possibility that I would bring him a pastrami sandwich from The Charm. He liked it with Russian dressing and coleslaw, like an East Coast Sloppy Joe. It occurred to me, as I watched him and Lamar disappear down the corridor, that maybe I should drive over to The Charm and get him a sandwich. But I was not in the mood to bring him a sandwich. I was in the mood to kick his teeth in. Only, of course, he didn’t have any teeth. That was the other thing about Alzheimer’s. They forget to put in their teeth.

  “You got me a sandwich?” he said.

  “I didn’t have time,” I said back.

  He looked a little annoyed, but he was gracious and attempted to butter his roll. I had found him at his usual table in the corner. He sat by himself. Like I tried to tell the nurse—he had no friends anymore.

  I watched him fumble with the roll. I didn’t move to help him.

  “Who’s Frau Hellman?” I said.

  His eyes suddenly grew frightened. “Who?” he said.

  “Frau Hellman. You mentioned her the other day.”

  He seemed to have already forgotten about the roll even though it was still in his hand, because he turned to me and said, “What did I do with my sandwich?”

  I could see I was going to get nothing out of him. Even so, I pressed on.

  “Was she, like, from the concentration camp?”

  He looked at me sharply. “The what?”

  “Here,” I said, “eat your fish.” I cut off a little piece of fish stick and offered it to him on the end of his fork.

  He took a bite and said, “You know we never, ever talk about that. Your mother wouldn’t like it.”

  “Why not?” I said as casually as I could.

  “I don’t want this fish,” he muttered.

  “Which concentration camp were you in?” I asked. I affected a nonchalant tone of voice.

  I was surprised when he said, “Many. First here, then there.”

  “Majdanek?”

  “A graveyard,” he said.

  “And you were there?”

  “Where?”

  “Majdanek.”

  He stared down at his plate. He seemed to turn into stone, except for the rapid blinking of his eyes, as if he were on the verge of falling asleep. His head fell onto his chest. Desperately, I decided on a frontal attack.

  “Your journals,” I began.

  “What?”

  “The journals you gave me.”

  “What journals?”

  “You gave me a
box of journals.”

  Suddenly he shook his head violently. His arms jumped from his sides like two groupers convulsing in a net.

  “Dad!” I grabbed him by the shoulders. “I need the truth.”

  He looked up at me, but his eyes were full of uncertainty. He searched my face for a clue, as if he were struggling to figure out exactly who I was.

  “Is ever’thing all right?” It was Lamar.

  “I think he’s having a fit,” I said.

  “Humm.” He nodded. “I be taking over then.” He wiped the spittle from my father’s chin, and spun his wheelchair away from the table so that he could not see me. “Do you want your dinner?” he asked him. “If you’re not good, then no dinner.” He said this so gently he could not have meant it.

  But after a few minutes it became obvious my father didn’t want his dinner after all, and Lamar took him back to his room, his body leaping around in the chair and his arms still flailing about like someone had plugged him into an electrical socket.

  I watched them go, sitting awhile in front of my father’s plate of fish sticks. It was terrible, seeing him that way, as if my questions had already put him in the electric chair. It was terrible, but I have to be honest. When Lamar wheeled him, kicking and gyrating, from the dining hall, I actually heard myself say, “Die, you son of a bitch, die!” I guess I didn’t say it aloud, because nobody turned to look at me. But I heard it, and I might have been as dead as the fish on that plate, for all the compassion I had in me in that moment.