The Prince of West End Avenue (5 page)

By 1947 German Kurt had been transformed into American Kenneth, a human dynamo. He knew what he wanted, and he expected immediate results. Impatient with the lackadaisical British officer in charge, who seemed unimpressed by the mound of documents thrust beneath his disapproving nose,

Kenneth banged on the desk, growled, and swore he would create an "international incident." The officer would be drummed out of his regiment, his medals stripped from him. "Oh, I say," said the officer, "steady on." Kenneth insisted upon phoning the American military attache at the consulate and telling him that he had better come over right away, as the British were trying to frustrate the clear intentions of the State Department. Another imperious phone call summoned the chief local representative of the International Red Cross. "Now we will see," said Kenneth. And see we did. Within two hours I was given a cursory medical examination, all the appropriate papers were signed and stamped, and we were on our way. "Lousy bums," muttered Kenneth. "Lousy, inefficient, arrogant bastards."

Ten days later we were in Cherbourg, and two days after that we were aboard the lie de France, en route to New York. In the meantime Kenneth had had me outfitted in the best that postwar Paris could provide, had personally directed the finer points of an elegant haircut at the Georges V, and had stuffed me with food of a delicacy I had forgotten existed. He seemed oblivious to the shock he had given me. Once more my world had turned upside down. I do not think I had spoken a dozen words to him; it seems to me that I giggled a lot, wept a lot, but was otherwise silent, "recalled to life" but not yet certain I was not dead.

In the taxi from the pier Kenneth's tic of 1934 returned. "Otto," he said with a sudden dry grin, "this is a joyous day, nothing must spoil it." He fell silent for a moment. "There," he said, as the taxi climbed to the West Side Highway, "that's the Hudson River again. Over there, New Jersey, as I told you. Higher up, the Palisades. Wonderful, yes?" Like a seeping mist, the misery in the taxi wiped out the sunshine. "Yes, we're all together again." He slapped me on the thigh. "All of us, at last. I

mean, that is, we, the three of us, we . . ." Again silence. The taxi took the Boat Basin exit. Kenneth grinned twice in rapid succession. "You must not be surprised by Lola. It's been a long time. Very hard for her. She was so full of hope, she couldn't believe . . . and then the, um, the events, yes, the events in Europe, so horrible, shattering, for her, for all of us. Still she hoped . . . and then the search, and then to find out. . . But thank God, you're here, and that's . . . that's. . . she was so ... it will be a wonderful moment for her." The taxi pulled up at an apartment building on Central Park West. "This is a joyous day."

We entered the apartment, Kenneth bounding through the door crying, "Lola, Lola, we're here! Otto's with me!" Silence, nothing but silence. The cork had not popped; his champagne was flat. The rooms were dim, the drawn Venetian blinds admitting only a few brilliant beads of sunlight. There was a faint aroma of mimosa in the air.

"She must be at the store, perhaps the beauty parlor. Remember, I sent cablegrams. We're expected. Wait, I'll open the windows."

The room was spacious, a recreation of their house in Nuremberg. I recognized the solid polished furniture, the books, the paintings, all disposed now as then.

"Sit down, Otto, sit down, be comfortable." The tic again. "What would you like, a beer? I'll get it for you, sit." And off he went, desperately striving to overcome his disappointment.

From what I took to be the kitchen there came a sudden, ghastly shriek, "No! no! no!" A loud clump, then again the silence.

What had he done to himself? I got up and ran after him.

There on the white linoleum floor was Kenneth, on his knees, crouched over, his arms protecting his head, shuddering.

From the exposed hot-water pipe that, just below the ceiling, ran the length of the kitchen, hung my sister, Lola, her dead eyes glaring. Her upper teeth must have shifted; she appeared to be chewing them. Almost she had not succeeded: her toes were within an inch of the linoleum. On her breast was neatly pinned a little note, a note that for pathetic modesty can scarcely be matched: "Otto, Kurt: a pity, Lola."

I lacked the strength to cut her down alone. First I had to unroll her sobbing husband. Between us we managed to lay her on the kitchen floor, but not before Kenneth, blindly stumbling, had banged her poor skull on the corner of the gas stove. What a howl he sent up then! "Sorry, so sorry, my darling! Forgive me, so sorry!" I did not have the heart to remind him that she was past pain. You must understand that he was unaccustomed to such horror.

As for me, I was numb, dazed, perhaps not quite sane. What had just passed as external reality scarcely ruffled my consciousness. I responded to Lola's death as to one for which I had long since grieved, a painful memory, vivid still, without any longer the power to shock. Remember, I had not yet fully left Necropolis; I still dwelled in the City of the Dead. Having clawed my way out of Europe's bloody pit only to find my sister dead, I nevertheless made an irrational effort to go on breathing.

Besides, there were things to be done, authorities to be informed. As in a dream, I phoned the police, my first phone call in America, conscious only of the miracle of my voice talking calmly into the receiver. Then I joined Kenneth on the kitchen floor next to Lola's body.

Poor Kenneth! He blamed himself for Lola's death, misconstruing the truth. The truth was quite simple: in the end my own sister could not bear to look at me. I cannot say I blamed her.

It was then that I stuffed Lola's memory high on the closet shelf with the rest of my past and closed the door tightly. (In unguarded moments, the door opens a crack, and I hear again the pitiful voices. But quick as a wink, to preserve my sanity, I snap the door shut again.)

Ike's letters are not useful to our riddle; The key's the end (less wise), not in the middle. Whoever tries to mouth the culprit's name Must end in ordure to assign the blame.

Now, for all my linguistic ability, I admit I have never been very good at this sort of thing. It is not that I lack ingenuity, but rather that the specific ingenuity needed to solve a charade, it seems to me, is the peculiar property of the riddler himself. His verbal associations, /^mental synapses, so to speak, are unlikely to be another's. How to get into the mind of the riddler? Aye, there's the rub. Still, the first couplet is patent: it alludes to a thief and a theft, and it implies that the cause of justice is mine. So far, so good. The second couplet is more troublesome. Theseus in the labyrinth at least had help; how am I to find the minotaur? Well, I shan't bother to record the many false starts, the hours of perplexity, the culs-de-sac encountered along the way, but shall instead proceed immediately to the solution. Ike, of course, was the popular name of the late President Eisenhower, in my opinion a much underrated man, whose initials are D.D.E. But, says the couplet, these letters are "useless" to our RIDDLE. Very well, get rid of them! RIDDLE minus DDE equals RIL. The answer is already obvious. Put KEY'S at the "end" and wo&'RILKEY'S. But we are to use KEY'S "less" WISE—that is, minus WISE, or Y's. And there you have it: RILKE!

So that's how I know my letter from Rilke was stolen, not accidentally thrown out or mislaid.

The third couplet, of course, conceals the name of the thief. But with the sort of irony that typifies my life, it is in a code that I am unable to crack. As yet.

The Revolutionary Council, to which I earlier alluded, has begun its deliberations. I was sitting quietly in the library

reading in the Times its leisurely accounts of daily outrages when the Red Dwarf peered round the door, spotted me, and sidled in. He leaned over me and whispered in my ear, "Comrade, we've nothing to lose but our chains." Glancing furtively around the room, he placed a finger to his lips. "Ssh." We were alone in the library. "There's to be a meeting of the Central Committee at Goldstein's, comrade. Ten-thirty sharp. Be there." And then, perhaps because he saw the expression on my face, he pulled an imaginary forelock: "The favor of your honored presence, noble sir, would be gratefully appreciated."

As it happened, I had other plans for the morning— little tasks, accumulated odds and ends, shopping in the neighborhood, and so forth—and was about to tell him so when the door opened again and in came La Dawidowicz. She ignored us, of course. The Red Dwarf's finger flew once more to his lips. "Ssh." Then, in a loud voice, effecting casualness, he said, "I see by the papers, the obituaries, that fourteen corpses are to be given Christian burial." La Dawidowicz sniffed. The Red Dwarf chortled and bounded for the door. There he danced his little jig. "Mum's the word," he said, winking knowingly, and vanished. Where at his age does he find his energy?

Goldstein's Dairy Restaurant, located on Broadway, is only a short walk from the Emma Lazarus and hence very popular with many of our residents. Here one can drink coffee or tea, play dominoes, devour such forbidden dainties as blintzes or apple fritters with sour cream, and, most important, on occasion see faces other than those encountered daily in the residents' lounge. I have been going there for years, well before I entered the Emma Lazarus, before I met the Contessa even. Bruce Goldstein, the proprietor, is a florid, portly man now in his late fifties, young by my standards, and a bit of a dandy. He is the only man on the West Side, for instance,

whom I have ever seen wearing a mink overcoat, and his suits are always impeccably cut to his plump frame. Silk ties and pocket handkerchiefs are with him a matter of course. Because of his passion for the drama, the walls of the restaurant are decorated with old theater posters, and his various dishes bear the names of famous actors. Thus, for example, the Tony Curtis is a mound of chopped herring on a bed of red onion slices, topped with a tasteful arrangement of black olives; the Lee J. Cobb, a patriotic trio of blintzes, cherry, blueberry, and cheese, the whole sprinkled with powdered sugar. My own favorite is the Paul Newman: gefullte Fisch, breaded and deep fried, garnished with the house's special horseradish sauce (a secret recipe, well guarded).

As is my custom when I have a rendezvous or appointment, I arrived ten minutes early. Goldstein, dressed in a neat, dark-blue pin-stripe suit, pearl-gray waistcoat, and maroon polka-dot tie, was leaning against a central pillar, on which he was scratching his back. He greeted me warmly: "Korner."

"Goldstein." I sat at my usual table.

Goldstein made rapid finger signals to Joe, the oldest of his four elderly waiters, which, translated, told him to bring over with all possible speed a cup of coffee, black. I have yet to hear Goldstein actually address his waiters vocally. He has an elaborate system of signals rather like those of a bookie or tout at an English racecourse. Goldstein sauntered over. "So?" he said.

"The Red Dwarf is joining me, and possibly some others."

Joe put down a cup of coffee before me. Goldstein made some signals. Joe picked up the cup and wiped the saucer with a cloth he carried over his shoulder for such purposes.

Goldstein went back to the pillar to scratch his back. At precisely ten-thirty Hamburger came in. Of course, I did not yet know whether Hamburger was a party to the Red Dwarf's

shenanigans, but he put me immediately at ease. "The Red Dwarf not here yet?"

From his pillar Goldstein signaled to Joe, who brought Hamburger a cup of coffee upon which floated a dollop of whipped cream.

"How are the bunions, Joe?" Hamburger evinced real interest.

"Don't ask." Joe shuffled off.

"What's this Central Committee nonsense?"

"Not such nonsense," said Hamburger darkly. "Wait till the Red Dwarf gets here."

At the window, peering through cupped hands into the restaurant, was the Red Dwarf himself. Seeing us, he gave a clenched-fist salute and hurried in. He was wearing a cracked leather cap and a denim windbreaker. Goldstein made some signals, and by the time the Red Dwarf was seated, Joe was shambling over with a glass of steaming tea, a slice of lemon, and three lumps of sugar. The Red Dwarf took the tea from Joe's trembling hand and waved him off impatiently.

"Well, what has he told you?" he asked me.

"Nothing," said Hamburger. "I was waiting for you."

"All right, fine," said the Red Dwarf. "Let's get straight to the point. Some of us here"—he indicated Hamburger and himself—"some of us are losing our patience. The imperialists are stomping on our backs. We intend to topple the fascist hyenas from their thrones, in particular that people's traitor Lipschitz, the Zionist expansionist, and his lick-spittle running-dog Dawidowicz, and transform the Emma Lazarus Old Vic into an organization run on sound democratic socialist principles and answerable to the people."

"To begin with, you mix your metaphors," I said.

The Red Dwarf bared his teeth; a gold one glinted dully.

"Don't be superficial, Korner," said Hamburger. "We are

dealing with serious matters here. No one denied Sinsheimer his authority, never mind he alternated between diarrhea and constipation. After all, he knew something about Shakespeare, about acting, about directing. But what does Lipschitz know? He knows that Dawidowicz doesn't want to give any satisfaction to her daughter-in-law, he knows that the orthodox might be offended by certain lines in the play, he knows that he wants to get under Dawidowicz's skirts. That's what he knows. He knows crap."

I could scarcely argue with him.

"What can we do? The company goes along with him."

"I'll tell you what we can do," said the Red Dwarf. "We can secure the costumes, the makeup, the paints, the scenery. Then we can march onto the stage and announce the revolution of the proletariat. The people will flock to us. We will strike off their chains."

"Not so fast, Poliakov," said Hamburger. "You think Lipschitz and Dawidowicz will take this lying down? They will go to the Kommandant. No, better we go to the Kom-mandant first, the three of us. Scheisskopf, after all, is the ultimate authority. We put before him our grievances, the high-handed manner in which the production was taken over, the arbitrary reassignment of roles, the alterations in the text, and so forth. Our plea is a simple one: Justice. Korner here should be our director, that's obvious, and according to tradition already established, the director also plays the principal role, in this case Hamlet. What Scheisskopf wants is peace and quiet, cooperation and harmony. How can he refuse us? With Scheisskopf on our side, the assumption of power is automatic."