Too Many Men (82 page)

Edek and Ruth were both weeping now. “But Mum loved you,” Ruth said.

“She did love me,” Edek said. “But it was never again in the same way.”

Edek stopped for a moment. “I did know, Ruthie,” he said, “that when I did sign the adoption papers, I did sign away part of the rest of all of my time on this earth. And I did know,” he said through his tears, “that for Mum it was the same.”

“You did nothing wrong, Dad,” Ruth said. “And neither did Mum.

Nothing wrong at all.”

“I did read many years later that there was an operation to fix up this thing in the heart,” Edek said. “In the newspapers they did call it a hole-in-the-heart operation. But I think this operation came too late for our baby.”

“Maybe he managed to grow up, and then have the operation,” Ruth said.

“I do not think so,” said Edek.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the baby?” Ruth said. “It would have been good for me to know.”

“If I could not speak even with your mum about the baby,” Edek said,

“it would have been too hard to speak with you. Some things are too much.”

“I understand,” Ruth said. “But so much of what happened in your life became part of my life. It was impossible to grow up unaffected. The things T O O M A N Y M E N

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that happened to you and to Mum became part of my life. Not the original experiences, but the effects of the experiences.”

“I understand, Ruthie,” Edek said.

“It’s easier for people to think that children born after the war were not affected,” Ruth said. “But they were. They had to be affected. Enormously affected. No matter how much everyone wanted to protect them from what happened, and to separate them from what happened, they couldn’t. It was impossible.”

“I can see this now,” said Edek.

“You said that what was buried had nothing to do with me,” Ruth said.

“You said that in Kraków.”

“This did happen years before you was born,” Edek said.

“But it does have something to do with me,” she said.

“It is just a picture,” Edek said. “A photograph.”

“It is still a brother,” she said. “My brother.” Saying those two words made her feel breathless. “My brother.” What extraordinary words. She started gasping for air.

“Are you okay, Ruthie?” Edek said.

“I’m okay,” she said. “It was just saying those words, ‘my brother,’ made me very tense. Made me unable to breathe.” She took a deep breath.

“This is not your brother,” Edek said. “This is a picture of your brother.

You have to column down, Ruthie. This is a picture of a person what is probably not alive.”

“I think he is,” Ruth said. As soon as she said the words, a sense of calm descended on her. Her heart stopped pounding. She felt curiously still.

Edek looked shocked.

“You do not know what you are saying, Ruthie,” he said. “You are too upset. You do need a rest.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe.”

She shouldn’t have said that, she thought. The words had flown out of her. Propelled by a strange force. A force that seemed separate from the rest of her. She had uttered the words without knowing where they had come from. Suddenly she thought about Gerhard Schmidt, Martina’s husband. Could it be possible that Gerhard was the baby Edek and Rooshka gave away? That was absurd, she thought. She was clutching at straws. She remembered Martina saying that Gerhard had written a play about Ger-

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L I L Y B R E T T

man parents who adopt a Jewish baby. Adoption was a common enough fantasy, Ruth thought. Many children had fantasies about being adopted.

And Gerhard was a writer. Writers wrote out their fantasies. She thought of Martina saying that Gerhard’s mother had cried at the play. Any mother would cry at that theme, Ruth thought. Gerhard couldn’t possibly be the baby. It was too far-fetched.

Gerhard tapped his foot, she thought. That was a ridiculous link, Ruth thought. Foot tapping couldn’t possibly be hereditary. “His parents treated him like glass,” Martina had said. That could be a clue. A clue to what? she thought. A clue to something that was not possible. In order to placate herself, she decided, she would call Martina Schmidt. With a start, she remembered she didn’t have Martina’s phone number or her address. She would ring the Lódz Film School, she thought. Surely the Lódz Film School would have a forwarding address.

“What date was the baby born?” Ruth said to Edek.

“He was born on the seventh day of September, 1946,” Edek said. Ruth added up the dates. They came to eight. Gerhard Schmidt was told by a numerologist that he was looking for a number eight, she remembered Martina Schmidt saying. But was Gerhard himself an eight? Why was she even thinking about this? Ruth thought. She didn’t believe in numerology.

“So my birthday was a day before the baby’s birthday, a decade later,”

she said.

“Yes,” said Edek. “Rooshka did not want to have you born on the same day. She did walk up and down the house all day. All day, she did say, ‘This baby will be born today.’ Finally, five minutes before twelve o’clock at night, you was born. Mum was so happy. She did think it would bring you bad luck to be born on the same day. I did say to her, ‘Rooshka, days and numbers do not bring bad luck.’ But she would not listen.”

“I’m tired, Dad,” Ruth said. “I’m going to go to my room for a while.”

“Me, too,” said Edek. “Maybe I will read a book.”

“Is
As Blood Goes By
good?” Ruth said.

“It was not bad,” Edek said. “I did finish it last night.”

“I can’t believe you’ve already finished it,” Ruth said.

“I got a new one,” Edek said. “It is my last one what I brought with me to Poland.”

“What is it called?” said Ruth.

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“The Cross-Eyed Stranger,”
Edek said.

“I hope it’s good,” Ruth said.

“It does look good, already,” Edek said. “It is lucky that we are going to New York, I can buy some more books.”

“You’ll be able to buy plenty more in New York,” Ruth said.

Ruth sat in her room. She felt worn out. She had to stop thinking about numbers and babies and heart operations. She thought about the fortune-teller at the circus. The one who had told her, when she was sixteen, that a man with a scar would play a large part in her life. She shook her head. She had to stop thinking like this. She didn’t believe in fortune-tellers. She didn’t believe in predictions of any sort. Anyway, if that fortune-teller was so good, Ruth thought, why had she had to sell soft drinks as well as predict the future?

The scar was large, the fortune-teller had said. A large scar that ran vertically from the top of the rib cage to the waist. Ruth was suddenly seized with a need to know what sort of scar a hole-in-the-heart operation would leave. She wanted to ring a doctor. She looked at her watch. It was already after office hours in New York.

Of course cardiac surgery would leave a chest scar. Any layperson could work that out. What did it prove? Nothing. It proved nothing. It suggested that there were many coincidences in life, Ruth thought. And this was something that she already knew. And even if some people had the ability to predict things, it still didn’t mean much. It didn’t mean that the baby had survived. It certainly didn’t mean that the baby was Martina’s husband.

It probably meant very little.

Ruth felt frightened. What did it all mean? she thought. Did it mean there was a destiny? A guiding force? There couldn’t be a guiding force. If there was a guiding force, all of the Jews who suffered and died wouldn’t have died and suffered like that. Did some people know what the future held? Did they know bits and pieces of the future? Was there a grand plan?

She didn’t think so.

She decided to write herself a list. Writing a list would help her to calm down. She would list the avenues that she could investigate when she was safely at home in New York. When she was back on familiar territory,

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L I L Y B R E T T

familiar terrain. Back in a place where not everything seemed tilted. She got out a pen and paper. She headed the list “Things to Investigate in New York.” Underneath the heading she wrote:

Doctors who worked with DPs in Feldafing.

Midwives who worked in the Feldafing area.

Adoption agencies in southern Germany.

Ring Lódz Film School.

Place ads in German papers.

The list made her feel much better. There was a knock on her door. She answered the door. It was Edek.

“I did just want to see if you was all right,” he said.

“Come in, Dad,” she said. “I’m okay. I actually feel better than I did before.”

“I do feel much better myself,” Edek said. “I am happy that I did come back to Lódz and get the photograph,” he said. “I am happy I did tell you the whole story.”

“I’m glad, too, Dad,” she said.

Edek looked around the room. “This room is as bad as mine room,” he said.

“It’s pretty awful, isn’t it?” Ruth said.

“It is a shocking room,” Edek said. Ruth pulled back the bedding on the bed.

“Look at this, Dad,” she said. “Three sheets to cover one double bed.”

Edek looked at the sheets.

“This is really something special. I never seen anything like this.”

“Special to Lódz,” Ruth said.

“Very special to Lódz,” he said. Edek started to laugh. “This is a very funny way to make a bed,” he said. He clutched his stomach, and laughed harder. “I did never see a bed what was made like this,” he said.

Ruth started laughing. “You have to laugh,” she said.

The phone in the room rang. “Who could that be?” Ruth said.

“I think it could be for me,” Edek said. He ran toward the phone. He picked it up. “It is for me,” he said to Ruth. He turned away from her.

“Hello, hello,” he said into the phone. Ruth wondered who it could be.

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Maybe it was Edek’s lawyer. The lawyer from Melbourne. Edek had lowered his voice. She heard him say he was in his daughter’s room. Ruth stared at him. “I do not have time to call you back,” Edek said in Polish, into the phone.

Ruth was bewildered. Who was her father talking to? She looked at Edek. “Yes, yes, yes,” he was saying. “Yes, of course. My daughter did take it fine,” he said. She tapped Edek on the shoulder.

“Who is it?” she whispered.

“My daughter does send you her warmest regards,” Edek said.

“Who is it?” Ruth said.

“Yes,” Edek said. “She does send you her most warm regards.”

“Who is it?” Ruth said, again.

“Yes, yes,” Edek said into the phone. He laughed. “I do not have time to talk now, my sweetheart,” Edek said. My sweetheart, Ruth thought. Is that what he said? My sweetheart. “My sweetheart, we are leaving very soon for New York,” Edek said, into the phone.
Moje ukochanie.
My sweetheart. My love. Was that what Edek had said? The words spun around Ruth’s head. My sweetheart. That was definitely what Edek had said.

Ruth shook her head. She sat down on the bed. “I will call you as soon as I get to New York,” Edek said into the phone. Ruth was still shaking her head. “Bye bye, my sweetheart,” Edek said. “I will call you the second I do get to New York.” He hung up the phone. “That was Zofia,” Edek said.

A b o u t t h e A u t h o r

L I LY B R E T T , one of Australia’s most beloved novelists and poets, is the critically acclaimed author of three previous novels, two collections of essays, and six collections of poetry. Brett is married to the Australian painter David Rankin. They have three children and live in New York City.

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PRAISE
FOR

Too Many Men

“At once haunting, riotously funny, and deeply touching. . . . Brett has succeeded triumphantly in the most delightful surprise of the year.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred and boxed review)

“Irresistible.”

—
People

“Funny. . . . Powerful. . . . Chilling.”

—
O
magazine

“Sophisticated and tender, comic and serious.”

—
New York Daily News

“Heartfelt.”

—
Time Out
(New York)

“A marvelous read.”

—
The Forward

“Haunting. . . . Heartbreaking. . . .
Too Many Men
manages both humor and searing sadness, sometimes in the same moment.”

—
BookPage

“One of a rare breed . . . a polished stylist with brains, wit, and a message.”

—
Sun Herald
(Australia)

“As Brett’s readers we get soundscapes, mindscapes, and feelingscapes.

. . .We are drawn closer to what Brett chooses to give us, as people who cluster nearer to the storyteller’s candle when all else is dark.”

—
Australian Review

“Perhaps you can have too many men (I wouldn’t know) but I do know you can’t have enough of Lily Brett. Her book is an extraordinary achievement: a feat of wit, passion, and intellect which manages somehow both to be in the tradition of the eighteenth-century philosophical novel and yet be a gripping page-turner. It’s serious without ever being solemn; a comedy of manners and a tragic history; a journey through memory; an odyssey of a father and daughter towards a place and time both of them would rather not go but are, in the end, taken anyway. It also features the most improbable, disembodied fellow traveler in modern fiction, who sticks around in the memory, like all Brett’s creations, long after the last page is turned.”

—Simon Schama

A L S O B Y L I LY B R E T T

F I C T I O N

Things Could Be Worse

What God Wants

Just Like That

E S S A Y S

In Full View

P O E T R Y

The Auschwitz Poems

Poland and Other Poems

After the War

Unintended Consequences