Bloodline (8 page)

Elizabeth watched the other girls as they danced, one by one, and they seemed to her like Markova, Maximova, Fonteyn. She was startled by a cold hand on her bare arm, and Mme. Netturova hissed, “On your toes, Elizabeth, you’re next.”

Elizabeth tried to say, “Yes, madame,” but her
throat was so dry that no words came out. The two pianists struck up the familiar theme of Elizabeth’s solo. She stood there, frozen, incapable of moving, and Mme Netturova was whispering, “Get out there!” and Elizabeth felt a shove against her back, and she was out on the stage, half naked, in front of a hundred hostile strangers. She did not dare look at her father. All she wanted was to get this ordeal over with as quickly as possible and flee. What she had to do was simple, a few pliés and jetés and leaps. She began to execute the steps, keeping time to the music, trying to think herself thin and tall and lithe. As she finished, there was a smattering of polite applause from the audience. Elizabeth looked down at the second row, and there was her father, smiling proudly and applauding—applauding
her
, and something inside Elizabeth snapped. The music had stopped. But Elizabeth kept on dancing, doing pliés and jetés and battements and turns, carried away, transported beyond herself. The confused musicians began to pick up her beat, first one pianist, then the other, trying to keep up with her. Backstage. Mme. Netturova was signaling to Elizabeth wildly, her face filled with fury. But Elizabeth was blissfully unaware of her, transported beyond herself. The only thing that mattered to her was that she was onstage, dancing for her father.

“I am sure you understand, Mr. Roffe, that this school simply cannot tolerate that type of behavior.” Mme. Netturova’s voice was trembling with anger. “Your daughter ignored everyone else and took over, as though—as though she were some kind of
star
.”

Elizabeth could feel her father turn to look at her, and she was afraid to meet his eyes. She knew that what she had done was unforgivable, but she had been unable to stop herself. For one moment on that stage she had tried to create something beautiful for her father, had tried to impress him, make him notice her, be proud of her. Love her.

Now she heard him say, “You’re absolutely right, Madame Netturova. I will see to it that Elizabeth is suitably punished.”

Mme. Netturova gave Elizabeth a look of triumph, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Roffe. I will leave it in your hands.”

Elizabeth and her father were standing outside the school. He had not said one word to her since leaving Mme. Netturova’s office. Elizabeth was trying to compose a speech of apology—but what could she say? How could she ever make her father understand why she had done what she had done? He was a stranger, and she was afraid of him. She had heard him vent his terrible anger on others for making mistakes, or for having disobeyed him. Now she stood there waiting for his wrath to fall upon her.

He turned to her and said, “Elizabeth, why don’t we drop in at Rumpelmayer’s and get a chocolate soda?”

And Elizabeth burst into tears.

She lay in her bed that night, wide awake, too stimulated to go to sleep. She kept re-playing the evening over and over in her mind. The excitement of it had been almost more than she could bear. Because this was no made-up daydream. It had happened, it was real. She could see herself and her father, seated at the table at Rumpelmayer’s, surrounded
by the large, colorful stuffed bears and elephants and lions and zebras. Elizabeth had ordered a banana split, which had turned out to be absolutely enormous, and her father had not criticized her. He was talking to her. Not how’s-school-coming-along-fine-thank-you-any-problems-no-Father-good. But really
talking.
He told her about his recent trip to Tokyo, and how his host had served chocolate-covered grasshoppers and ants as a special treat for him, and how he had had to eat them in order not to lose face.

When Elizabeth had scooped up the last drop of the ice cream, her father suddenly said, “What made you do it, Liz?”

She knew that everything was going to be spoiled now, that he was going to reprimand her, tell her how disappointed he was in her.

She said, “I wanted to be better than everyone else.” She could not bring herself to add,
For you.

He looked at her for what seemed a long time, and then he laughed. “You certainly surprised the hell out of everybody.” There was a note of pride in his voice.

Elizabeth felt the blood rushing to her cheeks, and she said, “You’re not angry with me?”

There was a look in his eyes that she had never seen before. “For wanting to be the best? That’s what the Roffes are all about.” And he reached over and squeezed her hand.

Elizabeth’s last thoughts as she drifted off to sleep were: My father likes me, he really likes me. From now on, we’ll be together all the time. He’ll take me on trips with him. We’ll talk about things and we’ll become good friends.

The following afternoon her father’s secretary informed her that arrangements had been made to send Elizabeth away to a boarding school in Switzerland.

Elizabeth was enrolled in the International Château Lemand, a girls’ school situated in the village of Sainte-Blaise, overlooking the Lake of Neuchâtel. The age of the girls ranged from fourteen to eighteen. It was one of the finest schools in the excellent Swiss educational system.

Elizabeth hated every minute of it.

She felt exiled. She had been sent away from home, and it was like some dire punishment for a crime she had not committed. On that one magic evening she had felt that she was on the verge of something wonderful, discovering her father, and her father discovering her, and their becoming friends. But now he was farther away than ever.

Elizabeth was able to keep track of her father in the newspapers and magazines. There were frequent stories and photographs of him meeting with a Prime Minister or a President, opening a new pharmaceutical plant in Bombay, mountain climbing, dining with the Shah of Iran. Elizabeth pasted all the stories in a scrapbook which she constantly pored over. She hid it next to the book of Samuel.

Elizabeth remained aloof from the other students. Some of the girls shared rooms with two or three
others, but Elizabeth had asked for a room by herself. She wrote long letters to her father, then tore up the ones that revealed her feelings. From time to time she received a note from him, and there were gaily wrapped packages from expensive stores on her birthday, sent by his secretary. Elizabeth missed her father terribly.

She was going to join him at the villa in Sardinia for Christmas, and as the time drew nearer, the waiting became almost unbearable. She was sick with excitement. She made a list of resolutions for herself and carefully wrote them down:

Do not be a pest.

Be interesting.

Do not complain about anything, especially school.

Do not let him know you are lonely.

Do not interrupt while he is speaking.

Be well groomed at all times, even at breakfast.

Laugh a lot so that he can see how happy you are.

The notes were a prayer, a litany, her offering to the gods. If she did all these things, maybe—maybe—Elizabeth’s resolutions merged into fantasies. She would make profound observations about the Third World and the nineteen developing nations, and her father would say, “I didn’t know you were so interesting” (rule number two). “You’re a very bright girl, Elizabeth.” Then he would turn to his secretary and say, “I don’t think Elizabeth needs to go back to school. Why don’t I keep her here with me?”

A prayer, a litany.

A company Learjet picked Elizabeth up at Zurich and flew her to the airport at Olbia, where she was met by a limousine. Elizabeth sat in the back of the car, silent, forcing her knees together to keep them from trembling. No matter what happens, she thought fiercely, I won’t let him see me cry. He mustn’t know how much I’ve missed him.

The car drove up the long, winding mountain highway that led to the Costa Smeralda, then off onto the small road that wound to the top. This road had always frightened Elizabeth. It was very narrow and steep, with the mountain on one side and a terrifying abyss on the other.

The car pulled up in front of the house, and Elizabeth stepped out and began walking toward the house and then running, her legs carrying her as fast as they could. The front door opened and Margherita, the Sardinian housekeeper, stood there smiling “Hello, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Where’s my father?” Elizabeth asked.

“He had to go to Australia on some emergency. But he left a lot of pretty presents for you. It’s going to be a lovely Christmas.”

Elizabeth had brought the Book with her. She stood in the hallway of the villa, studying the painting of Samuel Roffe, and next to him, Terenia, feeling their presence, as though they had come to life. After a long time Elizabeth turned and climbed up the ladder to the tower room, taking the Book. She spent hours every day in the tower room, reading and rereading, and each time she felt closer to Samuel and Terenia, the century that separated them disappearing…

Over the next few years, Elizabeth read, Samuel spent long hours in Dr. Wal’s laboratory, helping him mix ointments and medicines, learning how they worked. And always in the background was Terenia, haunting, beautiful. The very sight of her was enough to keep alive Samuel’s dream that one day she would belong to him. Samuel got along well with Dr. Wal, but Terenia’s mother was another story. She was a sharp-tongued virago, a snob, and she hated Samuel. He tried to keep out of her way.

Samuel was fascinated by the many drugs that could heal people. A papyrus had been found that listed 811 prescriptions used by the Egyptians in
1550
B.C.
Life expectancy at birth then was fifteen years and Samuel could understand why when he read some of the prescriptions: crocodile dung, lizard flesh, bat’s blood, camel’s spit, lion’s liver, toe of a frog, unicorn powder. The
Rx
sign on every prescription was the ancient prayer to Horae, the Egyptian god of healing. Even the word “chemistry” derived from the ancient name of Egypt, the land of Kahmi, or Chemi. The priest-physicians were called magi, Samuel learned.

The apothecary shops in the ghetto and in Krakow itself were primitive. Most of the bottles and jars were filled with untested and untried medicinal items, some useless, some harmful. Samuel became familiar with them all. There were castor oil, calomel, and rhubarb, iodine compounds and codeine and ipecac. You could purchase panaceas for whooping cough, colic and typhoid fever. Because no sanitary precautions were taken, it was common to find ointments and gargles filled with dead insects, roaches, rat droppings and bits of feathers and furs. The majority of patients who took the remedies died either of their diseases or from the remedies.

Several magazines were printed that were devoted to apothecary news, and Samuel read them all avidly. He discussed his theories with Dr. Wal.

“It stands to reason,” Samuel said, his voice ringing with conviction, “that there must be a cure for every disease. Health is natural, disease is unnatural.”

“Perhaps,” Dr. Wal said, “but most of my patients won’t even let me try the new medications on them.” He added dryly, “And I think they’re wise.”

Samuel devoured Dr. Wal’s sparse library on pharmacy. And when he had read and reread those
books, he felt frustrated by the unanswered questions that lay between the covers.

Samuel was fired by the revolution that was taking place. Some scientists believed that it was possible to counteract the cause of diseases by building up a resistance that would destroy the illness. Dr. Wal tried it once. He took the blood of a patient with diphtheria and injected it into a horse. When the horse died, Dr. Wal gave up his experiments. But young Samuel was sure that Dr. Wal had been on the right track.

“You can’t stop now,” Samuel said. “I know it will work.”

Dr. Wal shook his head. “That’s because you’re seventeen, Samuel. When you’re my age, you won’t be as sure of anything. Forget about it.”

But Samuel was not convinced. He wanted to continue his experiments, but for that Samuel needed animals, and there were few available except for the stray cats and rats that he was able to catch. No matter how minute the doses that Samuel gave them, they died. They’re too small, Samuel thought. I need a larger animal. A horse or a cow or a sheep. But where was he going to find one?

One late afternoon when Samuel arrived home, an ancient horse and cart stood in front of the house. On the side of the cart a crudely lettered sign read: “R
OFFE
& S
ON
.” Samuel stared at it unbelievingly, then raced into the house to find his father. “That—that horse out there,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

His father smiled at him proudly. “I made a deal. We can cover more territory with a horse. Maybe in four or five years we can buy another horse. Think of it. We’ll have
two
horses.”

That was the extent of his father’s ambition, owning two broken-down horses pulling carts through the dirty, crowded streets of the Krakow ghetto. It made Samuel want to weep.

That night when everyone was asleep, Samuel went out to the stable and examined the horse, which they had named Ferd. As horses went, this one was without question one of the lowest of the species. She was a very old horse, swaybacked and spavined. It was doubtful whether she could move much faster than Samuel’s father. But none of that mattered. What was important was that Samuel now had his laboratory animal. He could do his experiments without having to worry about catching rats and stray cats. Of course, he would have to be careful. His father must never find out what he was doing. Samuel stroked the horse’s head. “You’re going into the drug business,” he informed Ferd.

Samuel improvised his own laboratory, using a corner of the stable in which Ferd was kept.

He grew a culture of diphtheria germs in a dish of rich broth. When the broth turned cloudy, he removed some of it to another container and then weakened it, first by diluting the broth, then by heating it slightly. He filled a hypodermic needle with it and approached Ferd. “Remember what I told you?” Samuel whispered. “Well, this is your big day.”

Samuel plunged the contents of the hypodermic into the loose skin of the horse’s shoulder, as he had seen Dr. Wal do. Ferd turned to look at him reproachfully, and sprayed him with urine.

Samuel estimated that it would take about seventy-two hours for the culture to develop in Ferd. At
the end of that time Samuel would give her a larger dose. Then another. If the antibody theory was right, each dose would build up a stronger blood resistance to the disease. Samuel would have his vaccine. Later, he would have to find a human being to test it on, of course, but that should not be difficult. A victim of the dread disease should be only too happy to try something that might save his life.

For the next two days Samuel spent almost every waking moment with Ferd.

“I’ve never seen anyone love an animal so much,” his father said. “You can’t keep away from her, can you?”

Samuel mumbled an inaudible reply. He felt a sense of guilt about what he was doing, but he knew what would happen if he even mentioned it to his father. However, there was no need for his father to know. All Samuel had to do was extract enough blood from Ferd to make up a vial or two of serum, and no one would ever be the wiser.

On the morning of the third and crucial day, Samuel was awakened by the sound of his father’s voice from in front of the house. Samuel got out of bed, hurried to the window and looked out. His father was standing in the street with his cart, bellowing at the top of his lungs. There was no sign of Ferd. Samuel threw on some clothes and raced outside.

“Momser!”
his father was yelling. “Cheater! Liar! Thief!”

Samuel pushed past the crowd that was beginning to gather around his father.

“Where’s Ferd?” Samuel demanded.

“I’m glad you asked me,” his father moaned.
“She’s dead. She died in the streets like a dog.”

Samuel’s heart sank.

“We’re going along as nice as you please. I’m tending to business, not rushing her, you understand, not whipping her, or pushing her like some of the other peddlers I could name. And how does she show her appreciation? She drops dead. When I catch that
gonif
who sold her to me, I’ll kill him!”

Samuel turned away, sick at heart. More than Ferd had passed away. Samuel’s dreams had died. With Ferd went the escape from the ghetto, the freedom, the beautiful house for Terenia and their children.

But a greater disaster was to befall.

The day after Ferd died, Samuel learned that Dr. Wal and his wife had arranged for Terenia to marry a rabbi. Samuel could not believe it. Terenia belonged to
him!
Samuel raced over to the Wal house. He found Dr. and Mrs. Wal in the parlor. He walked up to them, took a deep breath and announced, “There’s been a mistake, Terenia’s mistake, Terenia’s going to marry
me.”

They stared at him in astonishment.

“I know I’m not good enough for her,” Samuel hurried on, “but she won’t be happy married to anyone but me. The rabbi’s too old for—”

“Nebbich!
Out! Out!” Terenia’s mother was apoplectic.

Sixty seconds later Samuel found himself standing out in the street, forbidden ever to enter the Wal house again.

In the middle of the night Samuel had a long talk with God.

“What do you want from me? If I can’t have
Terenia, why did you make me love her? Haven’t you any feelings?” He raised his voice in frustration and yelled, “Can you hear me?”

And the others in the crowded little house yelled back, “We can all hear you, Samuel. For God’s sake, shut up and let us get some sleep!”

The following afternoon Dr. Wal sent for Samuel. He was ushered into the parlor, where Dr. and Mrs. Wal and Terenia were gathered.

“It seems we have a problem,” Dr. Wal began. “Our daughter can be quite a stubborn young lady. For some reason she’s taken a fancy to you. I cannot call it love, Samuel, because I don’t believe that young girls know what love is. However, she has refused to marry Rabbi Rabinowitz. She thinks she wants to marry you.”

Samuel sneaked a glance at Terenia, and she smiled at him and he almost burst with joy. It was short-lived.

Dr. Wal was going on. “You said that you love my daughter.”

“Y—y—yes, sir,” Samuel stammered. He tried it again, his voice stronger. “Yes, sir.”

“Then let me ask you something, Samuel Would you like Terenia to spend the rest of her life married to a peddler?”

Samuel instantly saw the trap, but there was no way out of it. He looked at Terenia again and said slowly, “No, sir.”

“Ah. Then you see the problem. None of us wants Terenia to marry a peddler. And you’re a peddler, Samuel.”

“I won’t always be, Dr. Wal.” Samuel’s voice was strong and sure.

“And what
will
you be?” Mrs. Wal snapped. “You come from a family of peddlers, you’ll remain a family of peddlers. I will not allow my daughter to marry one.”

Samuel looked at the three of them, his mind filled with confusion. He had come here with trepidation and despair, had been lifted to the heights of joy, and now he had been plunged into a black abyss again. What did they want from him?

“We’ve agreed on a compromise,” Dr. Wal said. “We’re going to give you six months to prove that you’re more than just a peddler. If, by the end of that time, you cannot offer Terenia the kind of life she is accustomed to, then she is going to marry Rabbi Rabinowitz.”

Samuel stared at him, aghast. “Six months!”

No one could become a success in six months! No one, certainly, who lived in the ghetto of Krakow.

“Do you understand?” Dr. Wal asked.

“Yes, sir.” Samuel understood only too well. He felt as if his stomach were filled with lead. He did not need a solution, he needed a miracle. The Wals would only be content with a son-in-law who was a doctor or a rabbi, or who was wealthy. Samuel quickly examined each possibility.

The law forbade him to become a doctor.

A rabbi? One had to start studying for the rabbinate by thirteen, and Samuel was almost eighteen now.

Wealthy? That was out of the question. If he worked twenty-four hours a day peddling his wares in the streets of the ghetto until he was ninety, he would still be a poor man. The Wals had set an impossible task for him. They had seemingly given
in to Terenia by allowing her to postpone her marriage to the rabbi, while at the same time setting conditions that they knew would be impossible for Samuel to meet. Terenia was the only one who believed in him. She had confidence that he could find some kind of fame or fortune in six months. She’s crazier than I am, Samuel thought in despair.

The six months began, and time flew. Samuel’s days were spent as a peddler, helping his father. But the moment the shadows of the setting sun began to fall on the walls of the ghetto, Samuel would hurry home, gulp down a bite to eat, and then go to work in his laboratory. He made hundreds of batches of serums, and injected rabbits and cats and dogs and birds, and all the animals died. They’re too small, Samuel thought desperately. I need a larger animal.

But he had none, and time was racing by.

Twice a week Samuel would go into Krakow to replenish the merchandise that he and his father sold from the cart. He would stand inside the locked gates at dawn, surrounded by the other peddlers, but he neither saw nor heard them. His mind was in another world.

As Samuel stood there one morning, daydreaming, a voice yelled, “You! Jew! Move on!”

Samuel looked up. The gates had been opened and his cart was blocking the way. One of the guards was angrily motioning for Samuel to move. There were always two guards on duty in front of the gate. They wore green uniforms and special insignia and were armed with pistols and heavy clubs. On a chain around his waist one of the guards carried a large key that opened and locked the gates. Alongside
the ghetto ran a small river spanned by an old wooden bridge. Across the bridge was the police garrison where the ghetto guards were stationed. More than once, Samuel had witnessed a hapless Jew being dragged across the bridge. It was always a one-way trip. Jews were required to be back inside the ghetto by sundown, and any Jew caught outside the gates after dark was arrested and deported to a labor camp. It was the nightmare of every Jew that he might be caught outside the ghetto after sunset.

Both guards were supposed to remain on duty, patrolling in front of the gates, all night; but it was common knowledge inside the ghetto that after the Jews were locked in, one of the guards would slip away for a night of pleasure in the city. Just before dawn he would return to help his partner open the gates for the new day.