The Time of the Uprooted (9 page)

“He’s my nephew.”

“I didn’t know—”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know,” Ilonka replied harshly.

The blonde shrugged and walked off. Ilonka joined her on the stage, which all of a sudden was brightly lit.

“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests . . . ,” the blonde shouted in a voice that was surprisingly hoarse, powerful, almost deafening.

Nobody was paying attention to her.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began again, visibly annoyed. “If you please . . . Quiet down, please. . . . Pretend that your wives—your faithful and hopelessly boring wives— are with you. . . . Come on, let’s behave. . . . Especially since you’re going to have the good fortune and the honor of listening to a star who’s admired and loved—yes, loved by real men, not idiots like you. . . .”

There were catcalls in the audience. “She’s loved. Hear that, Istvàn? But how? In bed or standing up?” Unflinching, Ilonka launched into a sentimental song that was usually well received, but this time her voice was drowned out by the general hubbub. A voice yelled, “Take off your dress if you want us to listen to you.” Another shouted, “Give us a look at what we know you’ve got.” Ilonka played coy, but as she sang, she took off her red-and-green blouse. “More, more,” the audience shouted in unison, applauding and making obscene gestures. I mustn’t look, Péter reminded himself. She told me not to look. Did he understand that for the first time in his life he was observing a public humiliation? He closed his eyes, only to reopen them immediately. The racket had suddenly ceased. A group of armed Nyilas in uniform were standing at the cabaret’s entrance. Silence had fallen like a summons to reality. All eyes except Ilonka’s were on the newcomers. Ilonka, still holding her blouse, was gazing at the little boy sitting quietly at his table, a boy who didn’t know where to look or what to do with himself.

“Are there any
büdós Zsid
k,
any filthy Jews, here?” the leader of the Nyilas demanded.

No one spoke.

“I’ll say it once more: Are there any filthy Jews here? If there are, stand up.”

No one moved.

At last, a well-dressed man rose and walked over to the Nyilas leader: “Here’s my ID, and my Party card. I know everybody here, and I’ll vouch for each and every one of them.” The Nyilas chief, a fat, surly man with jet black hair and a Hitler mustache, glanced absently at the papers and put them in his pocket. With an impatient gesture, he told his men to follow him and then scatter among the tables, stopping here and there to question a customer, leaf through a wallet, or feel up one of the bar girls’ breasts. They were almost through when the leader spotted the boy sitting in his corner.

“You there, who are you?”

Péter panicked and forgot what he’d been taught.

“So maybe you’re deaf and dumb? Or you’re a Jew?”

“I’m a Caltho, a Calthoist,” the boy stammered.

The fat Nyilas burst out laughing.

“Me, too! I’m a Calthoist, too!”

Ilonka spoke from the stage: “He’s mine.”

An elderly Nyilas broke in: “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? This is no place for children.”

“I couldn’t leave him home alone.”

A bald-headed drunk seized the opening: “You live alone? Want me to come keep you company? We’ll have a good time, I guarantee you. The boy? I promise you he won’t bother us. We’ll send him next door to stay with the neighbors.”

Ilonka came down from the stage to stand behind Péter, her hands on his thin shoulders.

“If I came to see you, would you let me in?” the chief Nyilas asked with a sneer.

“Of course,” said Ilonka. “All you have to do is check with the boss. He’s the one who sets my working hours. And my price.”

The Nyilas chief sneered and bowed.

“
Kezét csókolom, kedves aszonoyom.
I kiss your hand, my dear lady.”

A moment later, the Nyilas were all gone. At a sign from the owner, the musicians launched into their repertoire of sad and boisterous tunes.

The exhausted Jewish boy went to sleep, his head resting between his arms on the table.

One day, thought Ilonka as she went back to the stage, one day I’ll sing for him, I’ll show him a good time, I’ll make him laugh, I’ll rid him of his fear, and show him the beauty of happiness. One day, I’ll tell him about my childhood. One day, I’ll make love to someone for love’s sake. One day, the sight of a man’s body won’t make me sick. On that day, I’ll look at myself without disgust, without remorse.

One day, I’ll truly be alive, I’ll live from morning to night, I’ll smile when I feel like it, and I’ll give pleasure to a man I like. One day, I’ll wait for evening without an aching heart.

One day, one day.

But, Gamaliel muses, for Ilonka, the blessed saint Ilonka, the charitable, sensual singer who aroused the desire of her enemies and touched the heart of her little Jewish ward, that day never came.

GAMALIEL WALKS TO A SQUARE NEAR THE HOSPITAL and sits down on a bench. Three hours to wait until he can meet the old Hungarian patient. How to pass the time? He could drop in on Yasha, who lives not far away, in a small apartment in Brooklyn Heights. From the street, you can see his cat, Misha, always keeping watch from the windowsill. Yasha’s love for this animal is strangely touching. The cat responds to the slightest show of affection; Yasha pampers the cat, speaks to him, listens to him, treats him as a close friend. Should he telephone Yasha? Why not? From a nearby booth, he dials the number, which he knows by heart. Five rings, six: no answer. Yasha isn’t home. Too bad.

Gamaliel lets himself drift off into memory. He has the painful feeling that his childhood is fading away in the fog of those distant years in Czechoslovakia and even in Budapest. What can he do to save those years? He’s overcome with fatigue. Inexplicably, his brief visit to the hospital has left his mind exhausted. His head aches, his heart is racing, and his legs feel heavy. A moment of weakness? He’s sweating, though it’s still cool. The days are slow, lethargic, but the years are hurrying by. Soon they’ll go up in smoke. Yet they, too, weigh on him, and they keep getting heavier. No way to rid himself of them or to lessen the burden by sharing them with, let’s say, a loved one. Age can neither be divided nor multiplied. Time ceases when life ceases. So does everything. Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. There lies the true mystery: The most beautiful of dreams, the grandest of conquests, all end in the silent indifferent earth.

Sitting under the curving branches of a giant oak, Gamaliel absently watches passersby laughing and arguing, heedless of one another. A yearning clings to him: Even at his age, he misses his parents. The more he thinks about them, the greater the pain in his chest; he can hardly breathe. On the High Holy Days, he always attended synagogue to say Kaddish for them, and his eyes would fill with tears. One day, Rebbe Zusya made an observation he will never forget: “Most people don’t realize that the dead live among us. We only become aware of them on the eve of Yom Kippur, during the recitation of the Kol Nidre, but they are always among the living.” Is it true? Gamaliel wonders. If it is, then his parents can’t be far away. They’re dead, but what does that mean? That they are parted from him? Is that what death is, a parting? Will they meet again, on high? Sometimes he talks to them, but they don’t answer. Sometimes when he’s alone, he tells them about his days, his nights, his struggles, his failures. The worst of those failures was his family life. All lost and gone. His angry wife, Colette, their defiant two daughters. How can he redeem himself in the eyes of his dead parents?

For some time now, he’s been thinking about Death. Or rather, it’s as if Death were thinking about him. At first, Death was a stranger to him, then it became a neutral onlooker. Now they are well acquainted; it taunts him, casts spells, trying to gain control over him. For many years, he could shake off Death’s barbs, could make it back away: “Can’t you see I’m busy? Leave me alone. There are things I must do. . . .” But recently his defenses are down. Death is holding on; its shadow clings to him. Last week, or maybe it was yesterday, the Angel of Death—he whom the Talmud calls the Messenger to Men—had replied with a snicker, “You say ‘I’? Don’t you know that in the blink of an eye I can erase that word from your vocabulary forever?” Gamaliel suddenly remembers the old Sage he’d met in Brooklyn. He, too, had referred to the ban that forbids man to say the word
I.
He showed Gamaliel the passage in the Midrash where it is written that the Ten Commandments were pronounced by Moses rather than by God. God only spoke the first word:
Anokhi,
“I.” One evening, Rebbe Zusya looked deep into Gamaliel’s eyes and explained, “God alone may use that word; God alone understands its fearful power. That’s the sin of pride that comes from idolatry: man putting his own ‘I’ in the place of the Creator’s.” At the time, Gamaliel replied, smiling, “At least we stateless ones don’t run that risk. We’ve been robbed not only of our nationality but also of our identity.” The Sage shook his head, gently, sadly. “In a sense, but in one sense only, we are all men without a country.” “Even God?” “Yes, God, as well. Of course, God is everywhere, and it is only in the hearts of men that He sometimes feels Himself a stranger.” Night had fallen. The old Sage asked his visitor to step outside with him. There, under a starry sky, he confided his only regret: that he had lived his life so far away, not from the King of Kings, the Lord of Creation, but from His creatures, for it is through man, rather than through books, that one can draw near to God. Gamaliel asked, “Why are you telling me that? And why out here on the street?” Now it was Rebbe Zusya’s turn to smile as he said, “To teach you a truth that you will find to be very valuable: Regret also is part of man.” Gamaliel felt like saying that, in his case, regret dominated his whole being, but he decided to remain silent.

Suddenly, Gamaliel is shivering. His thoughts have drifted away from the old Sage. He is alone again, but no, not quite. A woman is sitting on the bench. He recognizes the doctor, still in her white coat, whom he met at the hospital and who had walked away from him with hardly a word. He restrains a feeling of irritation: By what right is she interrupting his meditations? What is she looking for in his world? He steals a look at her, but all he can see is her profile. She’s let down her chestnut hair, so it falls to her shoulders. In days gone by, he would have dropped everything to stroke that hair, those shoulders. But now she just troubles him, especially since he’s beginning to feel vaguely attracted to her. She is much younger than he, about forty, maybe a bit older. At his age, he often thinks everyone is younger than he. He looks at her more closely. Now she turns her head slightly toward him, but still avoids his eyes. He’s sure those eyes are blue and that she is somehow beautiful, beautiful inside and out. An oval face, expressive features, delicate nose. When he looked at her that morning, he saw her as through a veil. Now he sees her up close. Why does she seem so worried? Her patient’s condition? How about asking her? There was a time when he would have struck up a harmless conversation, its outcome remaining to be seen; perhaps he would have courted her by speaking about his novel, in which the young Kabbalist has the power to enter into people’s minds. Or about the tzaddik in Brooklyn who knows how to cure unbearable distress. There was a time he would have, but not now. He’s in no mood to play games that are as old as the hills. A sudden thought makes him start: Suppose Ilonka herself sent the doctor to me? No, impossible. This doctor does not know, cannot know the world of connections between me and Ilonka. Should I ask her anyway, just to be sure?

But he has no time to ask, for it is the doctor who speaks first. Or rather, she begins to weep. She remains still except for the tears that run down her handsome features in a stream, a tiny stream down to the corners of her slightly parted lips. Gamaliel feels a sudden desire to get to his feet, as if to flee from some unknown peril. But he resists the urge, awaiting some sort of sign, a miracle—one of those miracles that does away with all barriers and frees the soul to speak. And the miracle does indeed happen. The doctor is still not looking at him, but it is she who breaks the silence. “I ask your forgiveness.”

Gamaliel is immediately taken with her shy, serious voice. She reminds him of his past, of desires now cooled.

“Don’t say anything,” she continues. “And above all, don’t say I’ve done nothing that calls for your forgiveness. I should never have let myself go like that, bursting into tears in front of a stranger, laying my problems on him, making him aware of my life, of its wreckage. It has nothing to do with you. . . . I should have given you more time this morning, or else not spoken to you at all. . . . And just now I could have sat on another bench, over there.”

She falls silent, and Gamaliel comforts her by quoting a thought of Paritus the One-Eyed, one that the old Sage of the Orient repeated sometimes at nightfall: “ ‘We do better not to believe in luck: Our Lord forbids it. I’m old enough to draw on my own experience: Everything happens in this world because of encounters. Meaning that since we are here, you and I, brought together by a force we do not understand, we must act as though everything happened in order to make our encounter take place.’ ”