Even when the factories closed at the height of the Depression, Michaelis managed to find employment. Samouli had married into a large New York family who supplied lace and fine textiles, fabrics and cotton, to the American aristocracy: Hollywood. Bergman and Sons supplied the cream chiffons that swathed Garbo in Camille; the sleek silk tunics that Valentino wore were made of fabrics smuggled into America by the senior Bergman himself. Samouli had organised work for Michaeli after-hours in the dank warehouse cellar underneath the Bergman store on Broadway. Samouli had also loaned him a sum of money to tide him through the harrowing weeks of unemployment, and to last through the fortnight’s trial period that old man Bergman had demanded. Ashamed but desperate, Michaelis had accepted the loan.
The one motion picture he had seen had frightened him and given him a headache, so Michaelis had little idea of the luminaries who wore the silks and cottons that he spent hours dyeing, cutting and sewing in the basement of the Bergmans’ shop. The stench of the dyes was so strong that he would sometimes faint and awaken in a panic, with threads of vomit stringing his lips, and stains spread across his work tunic. But Michaelis never complained. He was grateful that the Hebrews had given him work. The warehouse was busy day and night with desperate hungry women and men who also grew sick from their work. They were mostly Hebrews, from Russia and Germany, and other countries that Michaelis had never heard of. The women never spoke to him, refused to meet his eye. Out of respect to the older Bergman he made sure that he never spoke to any of the daughters who worked in the store upstairs. The wife he never saw. She lived high up on the other side of the city, far from the harassed bustle of the store; a million miles from the stench and heat of the basement. The sons he detested. They took every opportunity to make it known to Michaelis that his employment was a favour of which they did not approve. They ordered him around disdainfully, shouted at him that he was lazy and a fool, complained every time they had to pay him, but Michaelis accepted it all. Yes, sir, he would answer and they would take the opportunity to laugh at his accented English. He would bow his head and continue with his work.
All the time he kept himself separate from the Hebrews. He made certain to never touch their food, believing it contaminated with Christian blood. He feared the old bearded men: they indeed looked like devils. Even Samouli, or Sam as he now preferred to be called, he kept at a distance.
When work was again plentiful Michaelis returned to the ironworks and for close to a year he kept a small amount of his earnings under his mattress in order to repay his debt to the Hebrew.
When he had saved enough to return to Greece a rich man, he placed the money he owed to Samouli in a small envelope and he walked the long distance to the Hebrew’s house. Since his marriage Samouli had rarely spoken with him and Michaelis had never been invited to the house. He knew that the wife was a strict Hebrew and he understood that his being a Christian, and therefore a reminder of their damnation, made the Hebrews fear him.
Samouli’s house was small but it was built from new bricks and situated in a neighbourhood where the streets were wide and clean. Michaelis had knocked twice on the door and waited. The woman who answered wore a soft blue scarf around her hair. The locks that strayed from beneath the fabric were the colour of honey. Her eyes were round and bright, the light in them as fierce as the furnaces he had worked in New York and Pittsburgh. Michaelis blushed, bowed, and asked for Sam. At first the woman seemed to hesitate, as if she was going to slam the door in his face, but then she turned around and called out.
—Samuel! There’s someone here for you.
—Who is it?
Samouli came to the door dressed in a suit jacket and a crisp white shirt. Michaelis looked down at his own dusty shoes and frayed pants and could not stop himself from blushing.
—Got something for you, he barked, refusing to look at the woman. He handed over the envelope to Samouli and turned to leave. The Hebrew glanced at the contents.
—What is this?
—The money I owe you.
—You owe me no money, Mikey. Take this back.
Michaelis refused. The woman took the envelope from her husband’s hand and looked inside.
—Is this a debt?
—Yes.
Samouli shook his head.
—No, Rebecca. I find him job. That’s all, at your uncle’s shop.
The woman, still holding the envelope, smiled. She said something in the Hebrew tongue and Michaelis glanced at Samouli, who was shaking his head.
—He is not a Jew.
Her eyes searched the Greek man’s face.
—Would you like to come in?
Samouli nodded his head in agreement.
—I have much to do. My ship leaves for Greece next Saturday. Michaelis again made a move to walk away.
—Please, the woman said, please come in. We are fasting but I can prepare you a small supper if you like.
She named the fast: yam kippa? Michaelis knew that the American Hebrews said that the names of all their festivals were announced by God in the Bible but Michaelis had never believed this Hebrew lie. He could not read but he knew the thick strange words the woman had uttered could not possibly be inscribed within the Holy Book.
—No. Michaelis took Samouli’s hand and shook it vigorously. Thank you, friend, he said.
He bowed again, then turned and made his way back down the street. His mind was feverish. She was very lovely, still a girl really, her body slender but her breasts and face full. Rebecca, he whispered her name and felt lust surge through his body. Rebecca. She even had a Greek name. Reveka. He cursed Samouli’s luck. A pretty and wealthy wife, a soft, easy job in the store, an assured inheritance, a small but comfortable house in the world’s greatest city. He was not aware of the streets he was walking down, the neighbourhoods he passed. Even in the New York cold he began to perspire profusely and his clothes felt wet and heavy on his body. On reaching home he threw himself on the mattress and began to weep into his pillow. He was ashamed of his emotions, his rage and envy, but the howls would not stop and when Essaman arrived to share their bed, Michaelis was still sobbing.
—What happened?
—Nothing.
The Armenian laughed.
—You Greeks, crazy.
His face still half-hidden in his pillow, Michaelis blurted out his sin.
—I am jealous of Sammy. He has big house, beautiful wife.
—The Devil protects the Jews. Here on earth, but only here on earth.
—Tell me, you Armenian bastard, you can read: is Reveka a Christian name?
—Yes. It is in the Holy Book. She is a saint.
—Not a Jew?
—No.
—Sammy’s wife is name Reveka.
—In America, Jews, Greeks, Anatolians, all of us lose our traditions. That’s why you Mikey, me Max and bloody Samouli is Sammy. Names no matter in America.
Michaelis dried his tears. The Armenian had thrown off his shoes and slipped into bed. He had been drinking and soon his loud snoring filled the room. Slowly Michaelis thrust his body into the mattress. Reveka, Reveka, he intoned silently. He spilt himself into his trousers and fell asleep.
His parents had arranged a feast for his return and all the village had turned out to welcome back Michaelis. He had been a child when he had left and he returned a tall and imposing adult. He had always been handsome but the long years at the furnaces had weathered his skin to make him appear older than he was, and he was balding. America had proved a lucrative place for him but he allowed his parents to exaggerate his wealth. He did not have a house in New York, he was not a partner in a cotton mill, he had not met the president. But Maritha Panagis had told all her neighbours that her son was indeed a rich and powerful man in America and Michaelis allowed her to boast. His father had not said much at all but his eyes shone with pride and gratitude and he would not leave his son’s side. Michaelis had brought his mother and sisters the finest cloth and prettily laced shawls and squares of fabrics
, stolen from the Bergmans over time, which he had kept faithfully stored for his return. He had a suit made especially for his father and he pledged money for the Church of the Holy Spirit. At the feast, for which a dozen goats were slaughtered and barrels of wine ordered from town, Michaelis sat his father and mother at the head of the table, next to the priest, and they wore the splendid clothes he had brought them. The village drank to their health, celebrated their son, wished them the continuation of their good fortune, and though Michaelis knew that they gagged on every word, he knew too that his wealth now meant that not one of the cowards sitting at the tables around his parents would dare to insult them to their faces again. Every door would be open to them, every feast and every religious ceremony would have old Panagis at its head.
He drank copiously that night, celebrating the wide wild sky above him, inhaling the cool pine breeze of the mountains, raising his hand to trace the luminous stars. The years of coal and fire and sweat and cramped rooms washed off him that night and every time he looked back to earth, at the crowd toasting his health, he thanked God for making his dreams possible.
—Why did you return?
His brother had walked with him to the edge of the village, where they sat on a rock and chewed tobacco, looking down at the lights of the village of Klimoni, and up towards the jagged peaks of Mount Ouranos.
—You should have stayed, there is only hunger here. And they say there will be war.
His older brother Stavros was shockingly thin, and his young face was bitter and dark. Michaelis knew that Stavros might never forgive him for returning from America, that he had hoped to one day join his brother in the New World. He tried to explain what it had cost him to live as an exile.
—This is my home. Michaelis stretched his arms out to the sky above, to the world below. This is where I belong. And if I die in war, at least I die here. And if I die hungry, at least I die here. Who would have buried me in America?
And who will bury you here? For close to two years he had thought that God was playing a cruel joke on him. He was childless. All the money he had made, all his boasting, had come to nothing now that he had married a beautiful but barren wife. He knew that this was what the village said of him and of Lucia, that she had been too proud of her beauty, he too proud of his wealth, and God had punished them. He had almost begun to believe it. His mother told him not to listen to their gossip and curses, that it was only envy that made their neighbours so spiteful and it would be they whom God would eventually punish. But as they grew more hungry under the Occupation, as Lucia’s womb remained empty, as the summer turned to winter and then to summer once more, Michaelis wondered if his brother had not been right. The Germans would never dare attack America itself, and by God, there was food in the New World. Maybe he should have stayed.
He should never have doubted God. Michaelis awoke one morning to find that Lucia was not by his side. He assumed that she had ventured down to the valley to see if anything could be scrounged from the earth, or that she had wandered over to her sister’s home, but on going to the outhouse he noticed her staff was still lying against the cottage wall. He poured water on his face and returned to the house to light the fire. She returned soon after, her face red and her eyes bright.
—Where have you been?
—To Old Woman Nassoula.
He sat beside her. The old woman was a midwife.
—And?
Lucia’s smile was frigid.
—I am with child.
He had meant to sing, to swoop his wife into his arms and to dance with her, to shout out across the valley, to every house. I am to be a father. But her cold smile stopped him. Lucia suddenly burst into tears.
—Don’t be foolish, woman, this is great news.
—We have no food, we have nothing. This is not a time to be with child.
He stormed out of the cottage and made his way behind the small field of nettles to the shed where they had tended the goats. The animals were gone now, killed to feed the enemy, but the shed still smelt powerfully of them. He fell to his knees, prised a rock out of the ground and removed a handful of notes from the hole it had been covering.
He returned to the house and threw them at his wife.
—Dollars, he yelled. I will pay what it costs to feed my wife and my child. You will not go hungry.
Lucia fell on the money.
—And what about the Hebrew?
Michaelis was silent.
—We have a child now, Michaeli, we are risking him as well as ourselves.
—The Germans are losing.
—They have not lost yet.
—We gave our word.
—To a damn Hebrew! Devil take them all!
She banged her fist on the table, lashed her feet out at the empty air. Her fury was monstrous. As if possessed by Satan himself, her mouth and eyes narrowed till they were lost in a hideous mask of pale skin that stretched across her face.
Michaelis shrank back from her and closed his eyes. There was silence and then only the heavy breathing of his wife.
—And what life is there left for the little bastard? She had gone quiet, her eyes now sad and sombre, her voice pleading. His parents will be dead. Have we heard from them? Nothing. She rose, and by the kitchen hearth, she knelt and lifted the dagger. She offered it to her husband, her other hand cradling her belly. We have our own son to protect now.
Michaelis trembled, not at her words, but at the delight and hope in her demon eyes.
—I will not do it. I will not murder the boy. How can I do such a thing? I would condemn my soul.
Lucia’s eyes were ablaze with fire.
—It is by protecting that bastard Hebrew that you are condemning your soul. Why do you think I have been barren for so long?
Sitting beside him, she lowered her voice and put her lips close to his ears. He felt the jolt of lust convulse his body.
—Our child is a child of God. The Hebrew belongs to the Devil. Don’t you see, Husband? God has given us an opportunity to redeem ourselves for our sin. You must murder that fiend we have been protecting. Her hand had crept to his groin. It is God’s will.
He shoved her hand aside, rose, his back turned to her. He was praying.
—Michaelis? Her voice was still a whisper.
His hands trembled but inside he felt calm and peace. Yes, God was a mystery and God was absurd. Was it a crime to protect the Christ Killer? Was it a crime to murder him? Only God himself knows the answer, he said to himself, and if the priests are telling the truth you will know it as well on the Day of Judgment. You made your promise to Jacova here on earth. Here on earth you will not be dishonoured. He turned and looked down at his wife. Her body was upright, she was smiling.
—I have promised to protect the boy. I will not dishonour myself.
—Then I will inform on you. Her frigid smile was steel on her lips. I will go to the Germans, Husband, and I will prostrate myself on the ground before them and confess. I will tell them how you forced me to feed and protect the Hebrew. I will tell them that you beat me if I protested. Her eyes were daring his. How many nights, how many months, how long have I lived in fear because of this crime you have committed? Do you think I will allow one of those harpies or drunkards from the village to stumble across the Hebrew bastard and run to the Germans to betray us? They’re all jealous of me, every single one of them. I will have this child. On my own if I have to.
Michaelis clenched his fist. Whore, you will do as I say. I am your husband.
Lucia’s laugh rang through the cottage. Do you think you are a man? You are not a man. You are a fool. You know what the village says of you, what my brothers say of you? That fool, Michaelis Panagis, he didn’t have enough sense to stay in America. The fool comes back to famine and war. That faggot, Panagis, we give him the most beautiful woman in Greece and he does not know what to do with her. She spat at his feet. And now you think you can order me to place the life of my unborn child at risk? Who do you think you are? Yo
u are not a man. I will be glad to see you hang.
—I am a man. You are the Devil. His clenched fist struck Lucia with such force that she flew from the bed and crumpled on the dirt floor. But she did not cry. As she got to her knees, she was still smiling, a trickle of blood from her bottom lip running down her chin. She licked at it and struggled to her feet.
—You kill me or you kill the Hebrew. What choice will you make, Michaeli?
She offered the dagger to him again. This time he took it and raised it to her throat. She did not shudder; she did not blink. Slowly he lowered the blade. Lucia’s smile was warm.
—The crime will be on you. He felt as though he were looking down on his wife, their cottage; it was as if his soul had left his body and it was flying up high into his beloved mountain sky. His hand was still clutching the dagger and he felt its weight; it was ice in his grip, but he was far away from the man who held it. And when the man spoke, he could hear every word clearly, but the words too were coming from somewhere far away from him.
—The crime will be on you, he repeated, still above her; he was speaking to eternity. God will judge you, not I. She was stroking his cheek, kissing his brow.
—Yes, let his blood be on me. But you will do it?
Michaelis slowly nodded.
—You are a man, Michaeli, you are a man. She was clutching his hands now. Don’t you feel relief, Husband, don’t you feel happiness?
His soul had descended back to earth. He pushed Lucia away in disgust. But the bitch was right; she knew his mind. He did feel relief. Soon fear would be banished, soon the Hebrew would no longer be his concern. And it was not his fault. It would not be his crime.
Dead Europe Page 11