by Tova Reich
Krystyna was rambling on and on, over and over again, with the same obsessive refrain, like a broken record; by now he had tuned out almost completely, she was droning him to sleep, his eyelids were drooping, and it was only when a second voice, not Krystyna’s, jolted his flattening sleep line like an electric shock, only then did he snap his eyes open with animal alertness. “I’m looking for Barbara,” the voice was saying. “She’s not in her room. Do you know where she is?”
Krystyna, with the heedlessness of a creature not fully evolved to a higher stage of self-consciousness, must have at some point while he was dozing off unthinkingly made her way to open the door when she heard a knock. That was where she was now, standing with their once shared cover sheet spilling loosely over the front of her body, the entire undulating length of her rosy back turned to him for his viewing pleasure, while he lay on the bed utterly exposed from head to toe at the very moment when his eyes met Gloria’s.
From Krystyna’s room Gloria went on to keep her date as promised with Maurice in his suite—the Papal Suite, it had been christened. Whenever he was scheduled to go to Krakow he always made sure to have his secretary request it specifically. The brass plate on the door was such a conversation piece, such an icebreaker with visitors, and the paradox and irony of it—himself, an eighty-year-old-give-or-take Jewish survivor with corns and bunions, toiling for the Holocaust from his command post in, of all places, the Papal Suite—in addition to being gratifying, also made him appear laudably ecumenical for the same money. The money, it is true, was nothing to sneeze at, but the benefits you got from this budgetary allocation gave you one hundred percent bang for your buck, like flying first class. But now that he was chairman, because he was getting around on the government’s nickel, for which only economy class was authorized and legal, the only way he could wing it, so to speak, was, unfortunately, even in the face of Blanche’s superstitious terrors, to claim for himself a sickness that necessitated an in-flight upgrade, chronic aggravation or heartburn or slipped disc or hemorrhoids or whatever, for which, like a schoolboy, he was reduced to submitting to some bureaucrat the corroboration of a doctor’s note, which he had no trouble getting, thank God, from his dear friend and fellow partisan fighter, Dr. Adolf Schmaltz, the world-famous proctologist and private hospital chain magnate. Having a suite was, likewise, a big-deal red tape fuss and potential scandal brouhaha for such a high official of a major government institution like himself, but he insisted nevertheless that it was an absolutely justified expenditure to dip into the federal budget pool for this purpose, not for his own comfort or prestige, God forbid, but for the sake of the six million, because he was their ambassador, he needed to look good while representing them in hotels all over the world, entertaining big shots and so on and so forth, it would be unseemly to usher dignitaries into your basic hotel room in which right in front of their faces would be the bed in which they could imagine him emitting bodily fluids and noises that had no place in polite society, not to mention how it looked in front of potential big donors, especially lady donors like Gloria, whom he was now rousing himself from a snatched sleep on the antique silk sofa wet with his drool to let in.
A quick check of his watch told him that it was past two in the morning, but Gloria made no apologies or excuses. Even at this late hour, she was flawlessly coiffed and dressed like a country club matron at ease in her luxury, having obviously showered since dinner that evening, judging by the fresh luster of her hair, and changed into casual dark slacks and a white tailored shirt unbuttoned at the throat, that great betrayer of age, but in her case still under control, her only jewelry discreet but unquestionably costly pearl and diamond earrings nestled securely somewhere near one of her face-lift seams—as his Blanchie used to say, “We should all look so good at age seventy-plus like Gloria Bacon Lieb.” Having refused his offer of a drink, even a small ethnic toast of slivovitz or a shot of vodka in honor of their host country, the Republic of Polska, asserting, which was either a good or a bad sign, Maurice was not yet sure, that she liked to have a clear head when she talked money, she sat down on one of the gold-framed Louis number-something chairs and crossed her legs, her spike-heeled, toeless, and backless sandal dangling from her foot like an open mouth as Maurice placed a glass of mineral water on the ornate marble coffee table in front of her. This gave him an opening to call her attention to the centerpiece on that table, a silver fountain in the shape of the museum, on the roof of which was an object that resembled a human eyeball from which a constant stream of water, like tears, flowed, and at its base the words, “Lest We Forget,” inscribed in fancy gold script. “Beautiful—no?” Maurice said, displaying it with pride. “One hundred percent sterling, filled on the inside mit ashes from the dead. One of our premiums—yours for only five million dollars, heh heh.” Gloria examined it uncertainly, not touching, keeping her distance as from a contagious animal. “The dripping would drive me crazy,” she said finally. “I’d be running all day to the ladies’.”
Maurice slid to the edge of the sofa, as close as possible to Gloria without actually climbing into her lap, and flashing the clear polish on his manicured fingernails with glints of pearl pink, he anxiously stroked the back of her barely mottled and for her age amazingly tight-skinned hand, as if to soften her recalcitrant mood, to coax her into compliance. “Gloria, darling,” he implored, spraying her with a great burst of saliva, “I want you should go on the wall. You belong on the wall.”
There was no need for him to interpret. She knew exactly what he meant. He meant what she had good-humoredly dubbed to her husband Leon, when they had discussed the matter in advance of this trip, the “gonifs’ wall,” the famous wall in the alcove off the museum’s Hall of Witness where visitors stood waiting for the elevators like steel freight cars to transport them to the virtual Holocaust; many of her best friends were showcased on that wall, Gloria was aware, the whole congregation of operators and machers who had donated a million dollars or more, every little boaster and finagler from Palm Springs to Palm Beach was killing each other to get on that wall—exploit the poor and the wretched, was Gloria’s kept-woman’s suppressed thought, make deals with dictators and tyrants, then cleanse and beautify yourself in the Holocaust, like a ritual bath for your guilt. “Leon is already on the wall,” she responded coldly, refraining nevertheless from wiping Maurice’s spit from her face due to her deeply instilled deference to male sensitivities. “Ah, but Gloria darling,” Maurice shot back, “that’s mit his first wife, mit Rose, may she rest in peace, a lovely lady, I think you knew her. But now, for another lousy million—and what’s a million bucks between old friends like us?—he can go on the wall for a record second time, this time mit you. You should work on him, Gloria darling. Soon there will be no more room, the original Founders’ Wall will be closed for business, we’ll have to put up a backup wall—but for Leon and you, darling, we can maybe still make an exception, we can maybe still squeeze you in.” Even if the wall is packed to the gills, Maurice was thinking, he could sell the same space twice—why not? like plots in a cemetery, just pile them on, do the dead know the difference?—on the model of the sainted filmmaker who sold the same original outtakes of his celebrated movie twice, at a cool quarter million a pop, once to the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., and once to the competition in the Holy Land—the son of a gun, such a wise guy, despite himself, Maurice shook his head in admiration.
“Okay, I’ll get back to you,” Gloria was saying, and, sliding both hands along her thighs to smooth her trousers, she rose to leave. With astonishing swiftness, Maurice got up too and swooped ahead of her to the door, throwing himself against it with the front of his body facing the room, blocking her way, splaying himself across that exit with his arms outstretched, looking as she approached as if he would surge to the heights of rapture at that moment if only someone would do him a favor and crucify him for the cause. “I’m not letting you out from here,” Maurice cried, breathing heavily, far more heavily, she recalled
bitterly, than his protégé Monty, the Holocaust Casanova, earlier this evening, in what now oddly felt to her like a related situation. “I’m not letting you out from here until you give to me two things, Gloria darling. Number one, a promise that you’ll get Leon to go on the wall again mit you for another million. And number two, five million dollars from Mel’s foundation—for a grand total of six million, a very very holy number.”
Gloria shook her head somberly. “Mel gave to Yad Vashem and to Wiesenthal. He didn’t approve of your museum. He thought it was a big mistake to put up a Jewish institution on the Mall in Washington, D.C., on federal land with federal funding. He was against involving the government with the Holocaust, mixing church with state. He said it was bad for the Jews—and more and more I think maybe he was right.”
“Gloria darling, listen to me—for five million bucks, you know what I can give to you? I can give to you the cattle car! You can have the whole cattle car named for Mel and you. Think what an honor! You know, the aut’entic Polish railway car right in the middle from the third floor from the museum just like the one the killers used to ship the Jews to the camps in, it’s the biggest thing in our collection. Just picture it, Gloria darling”—and here Maurice risked removing one of his arms from the door to illustrate in the air what he envisioned in his mind’s eye—“beautiful, top-of-the-line signage with raised lettering that millions of visitors would read as they walk through it to know what it feels like for a minute to be the victim: ‘The Gloria and Melvin Bacon Cattle Car.’ I can just see it! What a privilege, what a memorial to Mel! Believe me, this is something special, this is something one-of-a-kind, this is not an offer I would make to just anybody.”
Maurice was panting so feverishly, he was straining so hard, that Gloria was afraid he would keel over with a heart attack right there in front of her on the precious Aubusson rug of the Papal Suite. For his part, Maurice was ready, though preferably it should not be a fatal one, he was having so much fun. But if she would just give in, it would be worth it, like those fishes he once saw on television that drop their seed and then drop dead. When you thought about it, it wasn’t such a bad way to go.
Gloria stood there in front of him, gazing down at her pedicure. “Why in the world would I ever want a cattle car named for Mel and me?” she said quietly.
“Tell me, tell me what you want, Gloria darling. Whatever you want I’ll give to you. Even if it’s half mine kingdom.” Maurice was almost weeping.
“Okay, Maurice. If you really mean it, since you ask, I’ll tell you what I want. Here’s the deal. For five million bucks from Mel’s foundation? For five million, I want you to bring my Barbara into the museum right away and make her director of education. Then, by the end of one year exactly, after she learns the ropes, I want her named director of the whole museum—the whole kit and caboodle. So that’s what I want. Aren’t you sorry now that you asked? That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”
Maurice’s arms dropped to his sides with a thump, his entire body wilting before her eyes. “I can’t do it,” he muttered, shaking his head, “I just can’t do it. Your Bunny is a very nice girl, don’t get me wrong, but what does she know from the Holocaust? A kindergarten teacher! I’m not saying this as a criticism from the way you brought her up, God forbid, but what does she even know from Yiddishkeit, from Jewishness? She’s all wrong for the job, that’s the bottom line. She’ll turn the place into a goyische human rights genocide universalist community center, I’m telling you. It would be a tragedy, a terrible betrayal from the six million and from all the survivors. I’m sorry, Gloria darling, it’s impossible, I can’t do it. Five million is very tempting, believe me, but I can’t do it even for five. Ten? Maybe. But definitely not five.”
Gloria paused to consider. “Ten?” she brought out at last. Then lowering her voice, as if for privacy, she went on, “For ten you’d have to throw in a little something extra—something for my Michael. His name on the wall, with an inscription of course.”
God help me, Maurice was thinking, I should have asked for fifteen. “Twenty, I meant,” he blurted out.
Gloria wagged a finger at him. “Now, Maurice Messer, don’t you be such a little piggie.” She cocked her head, set her hands on her hips, and glared at him as at a naughty boy. “Ten million dollars. That’s my final offer. Do we have a deal?”
Maurice regarded her in misery. “She’ll have to be investigated, you should know—like a colonoscopy,” he said, “to make sure she’s clean like a whistle. Are you ready to put her through that? By the FBI, by the CIA, and even more invasion from privacy than that, by mine own personal Roto-Rooter man, mine council lawyer, a very big shtickler for appearances from impropriety, more important than the impropriety itself, like he says, to protect our sacred institution, every piece of toilet paper he collects—to find out if she ever smoked LSD maybe, or maybe hired an illegal nanny from Guatemala.”
Gloria stood there before him in silence. No, Maurice thought, no nanny for Bunny, no skeletons in the closet, because there was no life—no husband, no child, no grandchild for her mother, as for the more blessed members of society such as himself.
“All right already,” Maurice gave in grudgingly. “What can I do? It’s out from mine hands. Okay, so we have a deal. But on one condition—you pay it out in one lump sum, not schlepped out over twenty years like slow torture, kvetching and squeezing like constipation.”
“The first five million the day she’s made head of education,” Gloria said firmly. “The last five on the day she’s sworn in as director. At that time, I’ll also give you the inscription for Michael. And don’t worry, Mr. Chairman,” Gloria added, leaning forward to kiss him lightly on his cushiony nose, “it will be our little secret.”
“That’s all what I get after we were just so lovey-dovey? A kiss on the nose? Mit me you’re so platonic? You think mine sex drive is a raisin? What—you have something against older men? I still have mine original prostate, you should know—in working order, for your information.”
She smiled coquettishly and delivered another kiss, this one launched from a distance off the pads of two slim fingers as she made her way out the door. “And an extra million from Leon,” Maurice grumbled as her perfume wafted by, “don’t forget. To go on the wall. For a grand total from eleven million—also a holy number.”
3
VERY EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, the limousine pulled up in front of the imposing red brick administration building of the Auschwitz I death camp. Painstakingly reminding the driver for perhaps the fifth time to inform the others that he would meet up with them when they arrived at the Auschwitz II–Birkenau killing center following their exclusive lunch with a top-ranking Polish diplomat at Cyrano de Bergerac, winner of the Zlota Kawka prize for best restaurant in all of Galicia, which unfortunately he would have to miss, Norman stepped out, dispatching the car back to Krakow.
It was a beautiful day at Auschwitz, a mild spring breeze carrying the hopeful smell of abundant young grass, a few innocent clouds in an otherwise heartless blue sky. His old man would never contemplate bringing fat cats to this place in winter, Norman reflected condescendingly, their soft, spoiled fingers would have gotten too frozen stiff to write the check; springtime in Auschwitz was just about the limit of spoon-fed, feel-good horror they could handle. Obviously no one, not even a janitor peasant, was around yet this morning, but Norman nevertheless marched straight up to the door of this former brothel for camp guards, this erstwhile processing and delousing center for Jews who had been temporarily reprieved from gassing in order to be worked to death, and pounded insistently with both fists. He didn’t even really know what he would have asked had some administrator actually opened the door; most likely he would have just accommodatingly made a fool of himself by falling inside flat on his face, as in some predictable old farce, utterly stunned to be getting some attention. It was simply a procrastinating maneuver, he was fully aware, this busy work of going first through administration, followin
g the official route—to bolster himself with the feeling that he was doing something, anything at all, toward the ultimate goal of penetrating that convent. Meanwhile, though, he still had no idea whatsoever how he was going to go about it, his brain was still swarming with fantasies of feats of personal daring and rescue and public outcry too absurd, too childish, to merit repeating, but he had no realistic strategy at all, no plan of action. He had come to the administration building first partly because he didn’t know where else to go; he could not very well have had the limo deposit him right in front of the convent, with the nuns sitting with binoculars spying through the windows, waiting in ambush day and night. And what could the administrators have done for him in any case, even if they had been around? The Carmelites weren’t even in that old Zyklon B storehouse inside the camp anymore. They had packed up on the orders of the pope and moved a couple of hundred meters away to the new convent outside the camp’s jurisdiction, leaving behind, so that no one should ever forget their existence, that mess of a cross for others to wipe up. Even so, Norman’s wrath mushroomed by the minute as he stood there, neglected and ignored, banging on that door. This place belonged to him; he had earned it with family blood and suffering. They had always been around when it was an urgent matter of tattooing and shaving and humiliating and robbing and torturing. So where were they now when he really needed them? He demanded—he deserved—service.