by David Unger
So he headed toward the pier. He passed a man loping his way toward the center of town with a light straw hat pulled down over his face, carrying a sack on one shoulder and singing as he went along. On Samuel’s right, he saw children playing with a litter of newly born kittens. A woman’s voice rang out from a nearby shack—was it the lady who had taunted him earlier over the dog? And then a mutt came out of a shack, scratched its behind, and walked into a different hut.
Life in a normal town.
As he stepped through the open gate on the pier, Samuel flushed with nervousness. His hours of waiting, his days of uncertainty, would soon be over. He pulled back the oak door of the telegraph office and shouted, “Joshua, I’m back!”
Joshua was typing at his table in the center of the room. “Good afternoon, Mr. Berkow. How did your morning end up? Did you have a chance to visit Livingston?”
Samuel shook his head. “The boat was very crowded and I couldn’t find a seat. And then it began to rain. I decided to go back to the hotel and wait. I got soaked as it was.” He pointed to his new clothes as if Joshua would even notice.
“You were wise. It was one of those storms that sneaks in over the bay and threatens to destroy all these old wooden buildings. But look at it now,” Joshua said, as he stretched his arms around himself, “not a trace of the storm. Not a one.”
Samuel peered out the telegraph office’s only window. A lone palm tree bristled in the wind. “Just lovely, just lovely.”
“Yes, it is.”
Samuel spun on his heels. “By the way, have I received a reply yet from my cousin in Guatemala City?”
“Why, yes,” Joshua answered, drawing a hand down over his nose. “I’ve just typed the envelope.”
Samuel took the envelope from the clerk, toyed with it for a second, first holding it toward the light and then shaking it as if it held jewelry inside. “You didn’t have to seal it,” he said.
“All the same,” the clerk bowed, “I have to do things the right way.”
Samuel stuck a finger under the glue leaf and slid it open. His whole body tingled as he seized the yellow paper and read his cousin’s words:
Welcome. This is a bad time. No openings now, repeat no openings in Guatemala City. Spoke to Leon Fishman. Can use you as a ticket taker at Palace Cinema in Escuintla. Best I can do. Don’t rush to get here. Enrique.
Samuel’s back stiffened. “Where’s Escuintla?”
Joshua pointed a finger in the air. “It’s on the other side of Guatemala City, toward the Pacific.”
“Is it a good town?”
“I wish I could find something nice to say about that place …”
“I see.” Samuel crushed the message and envelope in his hand.
“I’m sorry for the bad news, Mr. Berkow, if that’s what it is.”
“Bad news? I don’t know. It is news, but I am not so sure what it all means. I’ve never had a job as a ticket taker at a cinema before. My father used to say, ‘No news is good news.’” Samuel let the balled-up paper fall to the floor and buried his face in his hands.
The clerk touched his arm. “Can I do something for you?”
Samuel pulled back as if from a flame. “Don’t you touch me. Don’t anyone touch me!” He pointed to the door. “I would be grateful if you would open it for me, please.”
Joshua stroked his goatee, then held open the door and let Samuel stumble out.
“Mr. Berkow—”
“Please, Joshua. I want to be alone.”
The clerk sighed and went back into the telegraph office. Samuel looked askance at the sky where the sun blazed like an orange yolk. His head throbbed as if a gong had just struck it.
So this was it—turned away by his own flesh and blood, without even a cursory meeting. Heinrich was in no hurry to see him. Now or forever.
No longer Heinrich, but Enrique, if you please.
Samuel gazed blindly at the thick, carpeted mountains rising above Puerto Barrios’ two-story buildings. He suddenly conjured an image of his cousin sitting on a stool having his shoes shined in a parlor near his office in Guatemala City. He was impeccably dressed in cashmere and was reading a telegram that had just been brought to him by his secretary. Heinrich’s brow was knit tightly—he was deeply annoyed. Why was Samuel so persistent? Heinrich had already ignored several letters, trying to wash his hands of the past, but now this telegram was staring him in his face. He was not going to fall prey to calls of conscience! He quickly dictated a note to his secretary and commanded her to send it off at once.
Samuel’s stomach cramped and he curled up. He knew that neither words of solace nor childish optimism would ameliorate the pain. His Uncle Jacob had been totally devoted to him—it had been no small risk to pay off the Nazi officials in Hamburg to make sure his nephew had a legitimate visa for Guatemala.
There was no other explanation for Heinrich’s telegram—Samuel was explicitly being told not to come to Guatemala City expecting to be welcomed with open arms. Taking tickets in a movie house. Probably on weekdays. Burning up in Escuintla.
Samuel knew one thing—he would never, ever break his uncle’s heart by letting him know that his only son, his heir, was a selfish and heartless louse. What would be the point? His uncle would never outlast the Nazi regime. Let him think that in the end his son had acted honorably as he had been taught.
What had he expected? Hadn’t his friend Rolf Neumann written to him from Buenos Aires several years ago saying that immigrants—Jews, Germans, or Italians, it didn’t matter—were so competitive that they spread vicious lies about one another’s businesses to sabotage them? And it got worse. Threats, bombs, fires—even among brothers in competing firms—were common not only in big cities like Buenos Aires and Cordoba, but also in the provinces. Peddlers were ambushing peddlers.
Why would Heinrich—yes, yes, Enrique—be immune to such tactics and maneuvers? What a silly belief of blood being thicker than water.
Could fear of competition spark such cold, antiseptic words? Enrique must have ice water circulating in his veins! What interest did Samuel have in selling radios, batteries, and appliances to the middle class in Guatemala City?
No, this was payback time for something he had down to Heinrich thirty years earlier—it had to be that.
Samuel’s tongue felt dry against the roof of his mouth. Every joint and cell in his body thirsted for moisture. Sanity was seeping out of his body like an invisible gas from the tiniest of punctures. How could he plug the hole before he went insane? Send Enrique another telegram soaked in blood and tears? What about sending him a photograph of himself, taken now, so he could see what his cousin looked like when he was thrown a noose instead of a life preserver?
Would that get Heinrich’s stone heart to melt?
Joshua peeked out the door. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
Samuel smiled. “Water, did you say? The sea is full of water.”
“Mr. Berkow, you’re not making sense.”
“I have no sense at all. No dollars and no sense. Ha ha. I feel better already. Please have a seat,” Samuel motioned, tapping his crate.
Joshua took a bucket that had been catching water under the porch of his office, emptied it, turned it over, and sat down.
“I know I probably have no right to ask such a personal question.”
“What is it?”
Samuel looked at him. “Joshua, have you ever killed anyone?”
“Killed anyone? How do you mean?” the black man asked.
“Oh, I don’t mean in war. I’ve done that—at least I think I did it when we were fighting in Belgium. The snow was falling hard, the flakes were big and thick, almost the size of walnuts. We were told to keep shooting no matter what—I can tell you that the screaming of the bullets and howitzers was worse than that of the soldiers being hit … No, I want to know if you ever murdered a man. You have my word not to tell anyone.”
Joshua stared at Samuel with level eyes. “There have been several oc
casions when the desire clutched my heart, reached down to the tips of my fingers, but there it stopped and a deep feeling of shame came over me. I don’t think I could have lived with the guilt of killing someone even if I had gotten away with it. Or maybe I am too much of a coward. Too timid, I suppose.”
“Timid?” Samuel shrugged. “I don’t really think that matters. It isn’t really a question of character. Maybe your religion or the fear of punishment kept you from doing it.” He pointed to a guard standing in front of the guardhouse talking to two policemen.
“No, Mr. Berkow. I don’t believe it was fear—certainly not of the army or police, all of whom can be bought off. Living in Puerto Barrios has taught me you can’t have the luxury of being a private person getting along in your business. There’s always someone who wants to squabble with you—for money or love or something stupid like a funny look. For certain troublemakers, holding your tongue and walking away is worse than laughing in their faces. The Fruit Company made it that way for all the people here. And for us Caribs who are poor and black and only want to be left alone to eat and fish, it’s worse. We are at the bottom of a heap with no way to strike back, not even by choosing silence. Like I told you, fire comes looking for you in Puerto Barrios and though the Lord is watching, He doesn’t like to step in—”
“You’re lucky to be a religious man.”
“No, Mr. Berkow, I’m not religious. An English nun in Monkey River educated me, but Sister Roberta’s sermons never worked for me. With God, I only choose to be on His right side and not break His rules and commandments. I don’t think He kept me from killing a man. Something held me back when I was shoved around. And when I saw people I love being thrown to the ground, I closed my eyes. Maybe I just wasn’t that angry. Or crazy. Or perhaps I knew that fighting back led to nothing. Or maybe I wasn’t desperate enough.”
“You think it all comes down to a question of desperation?”
“Yes, I think so. If you have no other choice or don’t care what happens, whatever the circumstances—”
“The last straw.”
Joshua nodded. “The last straw.”
“There has to be a provocation—a reason to set it off?”
“Yes, I couldn’t kill on impulse.”
Samuel slapped his legs and stood up. “Neither could I.”
The sun shone harshly on his face, accenting his wrinkles. “Well, Joshua, I have some things to do before leaving here. I don’t think that I will be seeing you again. I want to thank you for coming back out to see me. You have illuminated the truth. You see, I was beginning to think I was going crazy. Now I know what I must do. I have to get to Guatemala City and begin on my own. And now I know there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to survive. It’s been a pleasure.”
“No, mine,” the clerk countered. He quickly added: “But why are you asking me these questions?”
“I’m just curious. You seem such a thoughtful man.”
“I hope you’re not considering doing something foolish, Mr. Berkow. That would be a mistake. Guatemala has its own rules—it doesn’t have a British court of law like in my home country …”
Samuel patted the clerk’s arm. “Don’t worry. I only wanted to know what you thought.”
“Take care of yourself. And remember what I told you.”
Samuel bowed his head. “About the fire? Yes, I will keep my eyes open—and a bucket of water by my side, just in case!” He waved goodbye to the telegraph clerk and headed down the steps.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Samuel walked a hundred yards down the road, crossed the railroad tracks, and followed a pink wooden wall for another fifty feet till he came to an opening leading to a field. As soon as he passed through the opening, a soccer ball rolled to his feet. He gave it a hard kick and the ball sailed into the arms of a boy playing soccer. On one side of the improvised field, four old men sat talking on a wooden bench. When Samuel walked by, one of them held a bottle to him and offered him a drink. Samuel shook his head and sat down by himself on a spit of grass and leaned his back against a leafless cypress tree.
He took even breaths as he watched the boys running up and down the field, screaming and shouting at each other. It was music to his ears; he closed his eyes. Samuel knew that for some people, killing was as natural as, say, sweeping crumbs off a table or emptying an ashtray. It was a casual, but necessary act. If Heinrich were to appear before him right now, he would happily break his neck.
Only once before had Samuel felt the impulse to kill outside of the battlefield. He had been sent to Amsterdam in 1934 by his father to negotiate a better price for the leather gloves he was importing wholesale and reselling to other German retailers. Spielberg, the glove manufacturer, was from Berlin originally, and their discussions on pricing were rife with questions and comparisons about how the Jews of Berlin, Frankfurt, and Hamburg were faring under Hitler’s chancellorship. They were far apart in price; after much dickering, no agreement had been reached. Spielberg invited Samuel to dinner and, hoping to cement the deal, Samuel accepted.
Spielberg lived alone with his cook and housekeeper in a comfortable four-room flat in a wealthy Amsterdam gracht. Over drinks, he expressed his belief that the current anti-Semitism was a passing cloud that would blow over. It was merely a political tactic by Hitler to gain support of the unemployed populace and force President Hindenburg—“the old man with hemorrhoids”—to finally retire. Once Hitler had consolidated his power, the baiting of Jews would stop—he would have a free hand to freeze worker salaries and lower business taxes, which would finally pull Germany out of its ten-year economic depression.
Samuel had countered by saying that he didn’t share this confidence in Hitler, and besides, the situation had gotten so out of hand that a retreat from anti-Semitism would not end it. Spielberg wagged his finger in Samuel’s face, saying that he had reliable information to the contrary.
Samuel raised his eyebrows and held his tongue, and it paid off. After dinner, over tea, the contract was settled at the price his father had originally proposed. He was overjoyed—even Uncle Jacob wouldn’t have done so well—and finally he was able to relax with his host. He found himself volunteering guarded tidbits: which Jews were leaving Hamburg; which were simply transferring the titles of their businesses to trusted gentile friends; and which were bribing officials so that the harassment would stop.
Spielberg brought out a pad and started taking notes. When Samuel questioned him about this, Spielberg said that he was one day going to write a book—“Of course changing names”—of how the Jews of Germany were able to survive the depression.
Samuel found this all a bit strange, but didn’t think more of it.
When he was about to leave, Spielberg’s housekeeper announced the arrival of one of his friends. Spielberg insisted that Samuel stay and join them for cognacs—the best Remy Martin! Samuel gave in and followed his host to the foyer where a tall, thin man was slipping out of his overcoat, shaking the wet snow off his hat.
Samuel’s throat tightened when he saw that the friend was dressed in full Nazi uniform, down to the boots. Watching Spielberg hug the man like a long-lost brother sickened him. When Spielberg cheerfully introduced him to the Nazi, Samuel didn’t know what to do. Maybe he should get a knife from the kitchen, but then again, he was in Holland, a foreign country. Instead, he impulsively thrust out his hand and slapped his host across the face, toppling him to the floor. He then yanked his coat from the closet and stormed out of the flat without saying another word.
Outside the snow was swirling, falling softly into the gray waters of the surrounding canal—Samuel felt proud of himself. If he’d had a gun, he would have killed both men right there. He didn’t care if the contract for the leather gloves went through. He knew his father would be proud of what he had done.
Samuel opened his eyes. The sun was setting quickly and the soccer boys were hurrying home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The door to Samuel’s hotel room wa
s ajar. No one was there, but he suspected that someone had gone through his valise because his robe was draped over his bed and there was a pile of white handkerchiefs on the bureau. The chambermaid had tidied up his bed, placed fresh towels on his chair, emptied his washbasin, and refilled the pitcher. She had even washed and ironed his mud-streaked clothes!
He sat on the edge of his bed and scratched his hands, which were all of a sudden itching. The fan sputtered stupidly overhead, wheezing as it turned. In a matter of hours, many things had changed. He couldn’t go back to Europe now. It was gone forever. There would be no chance to relive episodes of his life, imagine a different outcome.
Lena had called him a bore. Perhaps he was. He certainly didn’t want to spend every night of the week dining with illustrious people, drinking and partying too much, laughing at stupid vaudeville acts where men dressed up as women. But no matter what he thought or said, the truth was that he had loved Lena, and when she left him, she, of course, had broken his heart.
Samuel spread out the objects in his pocket on the bed—a handful of German coins, worth nothing in Guatemala, only souvenirs. Eighteen dollars in his wallet, which would cover his train ticket, a first night in a fleabag hotel—he could bear it—and a few cautious meals. Meals? He had survived for days on air, droplets of water. Maybe he could learn to survive without eating! And if he were about to starve, better to be in Guatemala City, so that the stench of his rotting body would reach his cousin Heinrich’s nose.
He had to get out of Puerto Barrios right away, where the heat and humidity seemed to unglue any heartfelt gesture. He needed a good dry climate and the capital was rumored to have it: no more dampness clinging like a leech to his lungs. What business did he have in the tropics where, according to Joshua, there were howling birds, poisonous frogs, flying snakes, giant lizards with spiked tails?