Not Me Page 7

  That’s when I got up and started wandering through the halls of the Lake Gardens nursing home. I could not have said exactly why I was doing what I was doing—indeed I had a strange sense of déjà vu, almost as if I were recalling a dream while I was still in the dream—but there was a sort of dark clarity running through me as I set about my task. I passed the nurse’s station, taking note of its layout and where each of the nurses sat, and where the monitors were, and who tended to stay put, and who felt compelled to respond to the constant call buttons. I smiled at them and they nodded back. Then I ambled on down the hall, past my father’s room which had its door shut anyway, and checked out some of the areas I had not seen before. It never occurred to me to really look at Lake Gardens before. There was a maintenance closet, a small employees’ lounge with a few humming vending machines and a coffee urn, an equipment room where they kept the portable EKG machines and other—rather run-down and outdated—electrical devices, and then there was the dispensary where they kept all the medications. I lurked about this room for a minute or two just to see how it worked. Soon a nurse came up, slipped her key in the door, and disappeared within. In a little while, carts filled with sleeping pills, heart remedies, blood thinners, and stool softeners were wheeled out and pushed down the corridor, stopping at each room with their little gifts of salvation in a paper cup.

  Beyond the dispensary was the end of the hall, a dark space leading to a stairwell no one ever seemed to use. I walked all the way down, turned around, and walked back. By that time, I could see that my father’s door was open, but I didn’t go in. I’d decided I’d had enough. I wanted home. It had gotten dark by now, and drenchingly humid. I stepped out into the parking lot and a herd of mosquitoes instantly materialized on my arms and neck, like pigs around a trough.

  This simple thing to have done was to slip out of the kibbutz and walk to Egypt, to Gaza. Once there, go to the first army post or police station, tell them…that’s where the plan fell apart. Tell them what? He had no papers other than his kibbutz papers and those forged for him by the Yishuv. They stated that he was born in Petach Tikva, which as far as he knew was somewhere in the north of Palestine. But even if he managed to find some British or German documents, his arm bore the tattoo of Auschwitz—which of course also made it impossible for him to have been from Petach Tikva. Sometimes he thought he might have been saved by his SS tattoo, but he didn’t have one. He’d been glad of that immediately after the war, but now it seemed a shame. His only hope was to find someone to vouch for him—some other German. And that did not seem likely.

  Then he thought about stowing away on a ship for South America, or even the United States, sliding down the anchor chain with the rats, and swimming to safety. But how would he live? He was not afraid of starving. But he was terrified of closed quarters, of being locked away in some container filled with oranges or dates, with no air, no light, no way out. And the possibility of getting caught. Of being jailed, and then hanged, or of summarily being tossed overboard. His mind raced with possibilities. He did not wish to be a coward, but he had to admit that he was one.

  One evening, Heshel walked alone among the orange trees along the eastern edge of the settlement. Beyond them, they had just begun the experiment of planting bananas, and there were sunflowers and cotton as well, but here in the orange groves there was a sense of quiet and security. The harvest was over, yet the rains had not yet come—it was that week or two in October when the air was as still as a sleeping child, sweet smelling and pure, and a kind of Sabbath settled into the groves, a time apart. Heshel Rosenheim was wearing the blue work shirt that they had given him, and the loose-fitting blue work pants as well—he did not favor shorts—but his sleeves were rolled up all the way to his biceps and his collar was flared open in the style they all affected. He reached up to gather a few leaves, and in the light of the moon he saw how muscular his arm had become, how thick and callused his fingers—for it must be said that even though he did the books, he still was required to plow the fields, to milk the cows, to scythe the alfalfa, to chop the vegetables when his turn came in the kitchen. And he did not mind, in fact. During harvest that first year, waking at four in the morning, making his way in the dark to the groves or the fields, following a few steps behind the others, climbing the ladders, filling his sack with ripe fruit, noticing out of the corner of his eye the sun beginning its journey into the Palestinian sky—the Yishuv, they called it—the settlement—he felt alive and unafraid. He did not believe anyone would harm him, as long as he stood with his head in the trees.

  But on this lovely, cloudless evening, the moon also illuminated the number carved into his arm. It seemed phosphorescent, like the glow of bacteria on an old piece of ham. He recalled the desperation of that hour, of crawling out of the mountain of corpses—they were not people to him then, or now—they simply were the stink of war, the fallen—more like piles of fish than anything else—and he remembered how he made his way in darkness to the SS command. It was not the darkness of tonight, but an utter darkness he recalled, a dream darkness, yet his eyes were like torches lighting his way. With such a singular state of mind, nothing could have stopped him. How had he become that machine of survival? He could not say, even now. Yet he recalled how, hiding under the desk, with no light but what the lamppost cast through the grimy windows, he stabbed himself over and over with the sharpened nib of steel—the very nib he had used to record the kilos of human hair to be made into pillows, the thousands of wedding bands to be melted into gold ingots—this he used to press the ink deep into his starved and strawlike flesh, tears running from his eyes, but feeling no pain. It was all there, written in his arm.

  He kneeled at the base of the tree, holding it up to his eyes.

  Whose number is this?

  Who died so he might live? Another Avigdor? A Mira? A Sophie? A Yitzhak?

  What brought him to this place? Who did this to him?

  He took out his pocketknife and began to jab at his arm, scraping at the tattoo like one would a piece of toast, to get off the burnt. Clean it up! Make it right again! Like a madman he drew the knife over his skin, chopping and scraping, peeling his flesh into a bloody pulp.

  “Stop!”

  He felt a hand grasp his wrist.

  “No, no,” he tried to say.

  But Moskovitz held him firmly, wrestled the knife from his fingers, and threw it to the ground. Then she put her arms around him, swaying, squeezing him so tightly he could barely breathe, as if she could suffocate the demon within him.

  “None of that matters anymore!” she cried to him, her lips moving upon the nape of his neck. “It’s all in the past.”

  She held his face between her two thick hands.

  “This is what matters,” she said, and she kissed him upon his mouth, opening her own with hunger and praise. He was overwhelmed by this kiss, by the softness of her lips and the yearning of her tongue, and he fell back against the tree trunk and fainted.

  Moskovitz had a first name. It was Fradl. When he spoke this name in the silence of the orange grove it melted upon his tongue. Fradl.

  He had wanted her to reek, to stink of foreignness. He had wanted the touch of her flesh to burn him, to make his own skin crawl with revulsion. He had wanted her mouth to repulse him with the taste of vomit. He had wanted to have to run into the darkness, overcome with nausea, doubled over, puking at the very thought of her naked thighs.

  But none of this had happened.

  Instead, when he opened his eyes and saw her face glowing above him like a bright moon, he uttered her name. And when she kissed him again, she did not taste of offal or garlic or rot, or any of that—but of flowers and fruit, of wine in fact, seductive and slightly sweet, like the first bite of dark chocolate, at once familiar and exotic—and impossible to not want more. When she touched him, first on the face, and then sliding her heavy fingers beneath his shirt, it was with such delicacy and yearning it made him tremble. For the slightest instant, he recalled the
touch of his mother—yet it was not a mother’s touch, not at all. And before he knew it, he was touching her in the same way, only harder, and more hungrily.

  Comforted, aroused, terrified, he made love to her beneath the orange trees, and heard himself say her name over and over, and over again.

  “Fradl,” he said again.

  Their legs were entwined, and her head rested cozily upon his shoulder. He stroked her hair and watched the stars move lazily across the heavens. Her hand still caressed his chest beneath his opened shirt. She laughed and said she would have to sew the buttons back on. She remarked that she had never heard him say her name before.

  “I’m glad you finally called me that,” she laughed, “because I’m changing it to Yael.”

  “Really?” he said.

  “Sure. And my family name, too. I’m going to be Yael Bat Tsedek.”

  They all changed their European names to some made-up Hebrew concoction. But suddenly he didn’t want her to. She was part of that time, not this. This was the link between them, even though she could not possibly know of what that link truly consisted.

  “You should get circumcised,” she said.

  He had learned enough Hebrew to understand that Bat Tsedek meant “daughter of the righteous,” but he did not know about Yael.

  “She’s in the Bible,” she told him, “a warrior. She murdered the enemy of Israel as he slept. He came to her for protection, but she killed him anyway. So be careful.” She found this highly amusing. Her laughter was quiet though, as if she did not wish to injure the serenity of the trees.

  “Shall I call you Yael, then?” he asked.

  “No. You must always call me Fradl,” she replied softly. “In that way some piece of my past will always give me joy.”

  She reached for his arm. It was still bloody and raw where he had tried to obliterate the tattoo. She kissed his wound, and then closed her eyes.

  “You should get rid of the ghetto name as well,” she said sleepily.

  “They used to call me Heinrich.”

  “You mean in school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Won’t do,” she said, and before he could reply, she fell asleep.

  He lay there trying to make out the constellations he had learned as a boy. They looked a little different in this part of the world, but he was good at it, and he discerned Pegasus and then Aquarius and Pisces, and then got caught up in the Milky Way, and in the odd idea that he was looking at his own universe as it rotated around him, while he could do nothing but sit still and watch.

  Why had he done this thing? Was the hollowness within him so vast he could stuff his belly with anything at all, like a beggar rooting through mountains of garbage for a morsel to eat, or the Jews of Bergen-Belsen, so parched with thirst, they greedily drank water polluted with human waste? Is that why he took this woman?

  He must be very careful, he thought as he lay there, not to fall in love. Not even to like her very much.

  Still, when he felt her breast rise up against him as she inched even closer in the sweet embrace of sleep, he allowed himself to breathe in the scent of her hair, and place a kiss upon her tender Jewish nose.

  When the phone rang that night, I let it ring. I knew it was Josh. I wanted to talk to him more than anything, to allow his sweet, green voice to heal me, just the sound of it—but how could I speak to him? What could I say? I felt like my entire life was pasted over with lies, and I could not lie to him, not anymore. I could not ask him about his homework. I could not joke with him about Frau Hellman. The little willpower I had left was just enough to protect him from me, even though I knew it must have hurt him.

  An hour later, when he called again, I let it ring some more.

  I showed up at Lake Gardens at eight the next morning. Somehow it was already sweltering. The sky was thick with dull gray clouds, but I knew it wouldn’t rain. The water would just hang in the air like shreds of hair, gluing itself to my skin and making me itch without any hope of scratching. Down on the lawn, a few women were pushing their husbands in wheelchairs along the asphalt path. They moved so slowly they seemed to be standing still. As I walked toward the entrance, a coconut fell onto the grass with a great and terrifying thud. Had I been a few steps to the right, it would have killed me.

  I hated Florida.

  I found Dad in a mostly comatose state, rocking his torso back and forth, and occasionally mumbling something I couldn’t make out.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said. “It’s me.”

  “Israel?” he said.

  “No, Dad, me.”

  Me. That was a word that was beginning to have no meaning either. Is it a name? Or a declaration of some sort? A complaint?

  I sat down beside him. I waited a few minutes to see if he would come out of it, but he just slipped farther and farther into negative space. I took the moment to look at his chart. He was on Exelon—a cognitive drug—twice a day. There were a few other things I’d never heard of. I wrote them down on the little pad I used to sketch out my comedy routines. I fiddled with the Levolors—open, close, open, close—and absently drew the curtain round his bed. With the blinds closed as well, I got the strange, not unpleasant feeling I was deep under the sea, in a diving bell, for it was so quiet and cut off from the life around us. Then I pushed open the curtain and the bustle of the nursing home came pouring in, full of the usual misery and defeat.

  He hadn’t noticed any of it.

  After a while, I turned on the television, and, right on cue, Dad opened his eyes, and we both watched Good Morning America.

  CHAPTER 8

  I had been up reading all the night before, so it’s not surprising I fell asleep sometime during Regis and Kelly, and when I opened my eyes the noon news was on. I wasn’t quite sure where I was. I never followed the news anymore, so I had a hard time understanding what they were talking about. I guess it happened after Ella moved out with Josh. As I sat there looking blankly at the TV screen, I remembered why.

  Ella was running around packing things. Stuffing Josh’s toys into boxes. Putting school books into paper bags. I told her she could have the house, that I would go. But she didn’t want it. I thought it was because of all the memories, a house filled with sadness, that sort of thing.

  “How could you ever think I would want to keep Josh in a dump like this?” she said.

  But she said all kinds of crazy, unhinged things then. She was upset. I tried to make it easier for her. I told her, “Okay, okay, then take whatever you want. Anything. I don’t care.” But she didn’t want anything. Not even the kitchen stuff.

  “It’s all crap,” she said.

  I remember trying so hard not to take it personally. “But I thought you liked it here.”

  “Michael, I did it for you,” she said, shaking her head. “Oh, what’s the use?”

  “Well take the television at least,” I begged her.

  “I don’t want your fucking television,” she said.

  “But it’s a Sony!” I cried.

  When they drove away in the Honda, I was standing in the doorway holding the TV in my arms. Suddenly I threw it as hard as I could, right at them, but it only landed a few feet away on the lawn. It didn’t even break. It just sort of bounced on the AstroTurf.

  I watched them disappear over the crest of the hill. Our block had become so ugly. There were no trees and hardly any grass. Some people had asphalt painted green. Others had gravel or a combination of mulch and redwood chips. And I was the one with the AstroTurf. It used to make me laugh. But now I felt sick. I closed the door and went inside.

  When I came out the next morning, the television was gone. There was a dent in the AstroTurf where it had landed. The dent never went away. It was still there when I left the house, and I included it in my note to the landlord, about the wear and tear I didn’t feel responsible to pay for. Slight disfigurement in AstroTurf is how I put it.

  The days and weeks after they left were pretty horrendous. One day I noticed that the Chronic
le was piling up on the front steps. There were maybe five, six weeks of newspapers. I called and canceled my subscription, and then I loaded all the newspapers in paper bags and put them out for recycling. It was the first time I ever recycled. I always celebrated that event as “recycling day.” The day I started my life over as something else. If anyone could call what I did for the next three years living.

  Anyway, that was it with the news. So when I awoke in my father’s room in the nursing home and heard them talking about taxes and politics and drilling for oil, it was like Greek to me—no, not Greek, because I knew Greek—like Armenian. Something like that. No, it was even worse than that. It was listening to words you were supposed to understand, but couldn’t. Like in a dream. And then I realized it was exactly what my father must be feeling—surrounded by meaninglessness in this all-too-familiar world. What could he make of it? I was suddenly overcome with this feeling—of empathy—what else could it have been? And so I turned to my father to take his hand.

  But when I looked over, I saw that he was gone.

  I ran out of the room and right into Nurse Clara. I bounced off her large bosom, like she was a trampoline. It felt good, I had to confess, and I felt a little aroused. But she looked at me with scorn.

  “Where’s my father?” I said.

  “Calm down,” she said. “He’s in the rec room.”

  I was confused. Rec room? My father? Playing pinochle? Foosball? I didn’t even know there was a rec room.

  Nurse Clara fingered her big black cross and smiled. “Follow me,” she said.