by Ilsa J. Bick
Dekker read my confusion. “Karl decided to paint the body hisself. What he wants you to do is some nice detail work, seeing as how you’re such a good artist and all.”
“Detail work? I don’t . . .”
Mr. Dekker broke in. “Airbrushing. Don’t tell me you never heard of it.” He picked up the steel spray gun and rattled off the various parts, a dizzying array of jargon: air caps, fluid nozzles, fluid adjusting knob. Then he said, “The thing about this is it’s gravity-fed; you put the paint in one of these cups that you’ve screwed on the side, and that means you can tilt the gun sideways and do detail work underneath if you need to. But once you get the hang of it, it’s pretty much point and shoot.” He showed me how to mount the fluid cup, adjust the volume of fluid being fed into the spray gun, and how to manage the airflow. He finished by saying, “You’re a smart boy, an artist, right? You’ll get the hang of it.”
I eyed the spray gun and paints dubiously. “What does he want me to paint?”
“Well, I don’t think he knows. Flames, maybe, they’re always nice.” He laughed and up close, his breath smelled of rot and cigarette smoke. “Of course, he don’t like it, you can always come back now, can’t you?”
So then he left me to it.
I stood there a couple of seconds, staring at the airbrush and paints. I thought that he might be right; I did have a knack, and I knew the theory of airbrush painting, and it couldn’t be that tough. But there was something, well, soul-less in a spray gun, like I was getting ready to do battle rather than create.
I cranked my head around to see if Mr. Dekker was watching. He wasn’t. This shed or lean-to or whatever was a good forty yards away from the main shop, and I guess Mr. Dekker figured I wasn’t going anywhere. Or maybe he wanted to save something for his kid to do—you know, beat the crap out of me or something.
My hand snaked around to my hip pocket, and I pulled out Mr. Witek’s canvas roll of brushes. Yeah, I’d brought them. Why? Heck if I know. But that morning, just as I left my room, I pulled open the drawer where I’d been storing them ever since the night that door reappeared on my wall, and I fished them out. I just had this feeling that I ought to bring them along. Now I knew why.
The pouch of old brushes felt natural and right in my hands, and a weird little charge shivered up my arms and brought out the hackles on my neck, like an electric current. Like I was making some kind of connection.
But what to paint? I didn’t know, and then I thought: Draw, just think of Dekker and then draw. . . . I picked out a size 2 flat, thinking that I would use that to sketch a quick outline in white, then maybe yellow for the undercoat to make the top coat of colors really pop—and red.... There should be a lot of red because red was the color of blood, and Dekker was all about blood and violence and the stuff of darkness and nightmares and ...
The air smells of hay and horses, and it’s dark outside and so cold the crickets don’t chirp anymore, and I wonder if they see the wolves in the darkness, because I do. They’ve not seen me because I’m in the loft—no one knows I’m here, not even Papa because no one knows all my hiding places—and I saw them come, their eyes glowing and engines grumbling. Down the hill, I can see the solitary yellow rectangle that is Mama and Papa’s room on the second story, and I wonder if Mama is there now, comforting Marta, waiting for Papa to return. I know she doesn’t realize that I’ve squirmed out my window and down the trellis and run as fast as I could to the barn before the others could arrive.
Now, peering through gaps in the boards, I can just make out Mr. Eisenmann and another man and Papa. Papa is shouting; he’s shaking his fist in Mr. Eisenmann’s face. The other man is talking to Papa, trying to calm him down. He catches at Papa’s arm: “Mordecai, stop, you don’t want to cross him; this can only end badly if you...”
Papa curses and the words sound ugly coming from his mouth. That’s how I know Papa is beyond caring. I can’t see his face well, only his body from the shoulders down because of the angle, but I know from his voice and the set of his feet and the way he bunches his fists. When the other man speaks, Papa shakes him off and then pushes him so he goes staggering back. I hear a cry and then a crash as the man smashes into the side of a stall. The horse inside snorts and whinnies in alarm; it gives the stall a stout BANG with its hooves. . . .
“There now, Witek, stop, you’re upsetting the horses.” It is Mr. Eisenmann, and his voice is abrupt, the way it is when he gives orders. “What’s done is done. Now, of course, we can talk about a monetary settlement....”
“Money?” The word explodes from Papa’s mouth. “Do you think money matters? I hold you responsible for this. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen and now this. . . .”
“It’s not as if she’s innocent.” Mr. Eisenmann’s tone is colder than ice. “She’s brought this on herself. I hate to be crude about it, but no one forced her to lift her skirts. That is the result of breeding and your responsibility, wouldn’t you agree?”
Papa says nothing for a time. Through the gap, I see his hands unfurl, and I think: No, Papa, no, don’t give up, don’t let him win.
When Papa speaks again, his voice is ragged. “How much money?”
“A yearly stipend to pay for her needs and the . . . well, a yearly stipend. That’s more than generous, considering that I’ve absolutely no legal obligation in this matter whatsoever.”
It is the wrong thing to say. “Yes, you would think of that. Wait until they take your lives from you, just . . . wait....” Papa’s voice breaks, and now I hear that he is weeping, and it is almost more than I can bear. “We pay and pay, the Jew always pays ....”
“Come now, Mordecai, you’re being overly dramatic. I gave you your life, your job, your position. Is it my fault that I was taken advantage of?” Yet Mr. Eisenmann sounds almost bored. “It’s not as if your family is the first to suffer from this kind of thing, and it won’t be the last. You’re just lucky that I have the means to help you.”
“Only because you don’t want the scandal.”
“And you do?”
Papa says nothing.
“I thought not. That’s wise. There is, after all, your boy to think of and your wife.”
Papa’s voice is tight as a string. “You don’t own me.”
“On the contrary, I own every inch of your flesh. You owe everything to me: your position, your job, your life. I gave you your chance; I discovered you in that cheap little flat in Milwaukee with the rats and the cockroaches. I got Anderson to rent that farmhouse to you dirt cheap so you could paint to your heart’s content. I scraped you off the street, and I can throw you back just as easily. So you do not tell me what to do. I tell you. Is that clear?”
A pause. Then Papa comes back: “Perfectly.”
“I am so glad. Now you will inform the union members of my final, nonnegotiable offer and count yourselves lucky I don’t call the National Guard and throw you all in jail. Don’t think I won’t. There is plenty more labor to be had, and all I have to do is say the word.”
“And you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re all alike, all you Germans,” Papa says, bitterly. “You’re all brothers under the skin.”
“And the Jews aren’t? Of course, we take care of our own. Don’t you lecture me about brotherhood and morals.”
“But the Jews aren’t murderers.”
“No, you’re just thieves,” says Mr. Eisenmann easily. “You think to cuckold men like me.”
“What ... what?”
“You heard me. You need a dictionary? You want me to draw you a pretty picture? Oh but of course, you do that so well, don’t you . . . when you’re not busy screwing what isn’t yours.”
No one says anything. My skin is icy with sweat. I didn’t tell, Papa, I didn’t.
Eisenmann barks a harsh laugh. “No wonder now where your daughter picked it up so well, eh? She must’ve learned from Daddy.”
“I . . .” Papa sounds strangled, like he’s choking on his own words. “I . . . I don’t kn
ow what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on. You think I’m a fool? You think I don’t know? I’m talking about you and Catherine. I’m talking about you, my employee, and my little wife-to-be.”
Oh, Papa. Oh, Papa. Below, there is silence. My heart thuds in my chest. Oh, Papa, leave now, leave these people, leave, just let the wolves go....
Then the other man says, “I don’t need to hear this.”
“No,” says Mr. Eisenmann. “Stay, Walter, I insist. I’ll need a witness in case Mr. Witek here decides that violence is the answer to his particular problems.”
Papa finally speaks: “Nothing happened.”
Mr. Eisenmann lets go of a nasty laugh. “No? That’s not what I heard.”
“You couldn’t have heard anything. Anything you’ve heard is a lie.”
“Oh, I assure you: Catherine may be many things, but she doesn’t lie to me. In fact, she told me about your boy spying on the two of you. In truth, I think she found it rather exciting. I know she couldn’t get enough of me after she related her little tale of voyeuristic abandon. Tell me, is your boy all right? Not traumatized seeing Daddy in a rather compromising position?”
Papa says nothing. My face burns.
“Cat got your tongue? Oh stop pouting, Mordecai. Do you think it escaped my notice that she wanted you up at the house? Do you think anything escapes me? I gave you to her; I’m paying for the damn portrait after all. She’s like a cat in heat that way. She fancied herself an artist, and I gave her one. Only a word of warning, Mordecai: She is rich and capricious and easily tires of a new toy, and that’s exactly what you are. You’re a novelty, and she will throw you away the moment you prove inconvenient. I’m doing you a vast favor, warning you about this.
“And tell the truth, you’ve been lusting after her since that sunset painting, haven’t you? Oh yes, you’re such a good married man, a man with principles . . . no wonder you jumped at the offer of a job in Winter. Take you far away from Milwaukee, yes? What must have gone through your mind when she arrived here and you found out that we were engaged? If anyone is the injured party, it is I.”
At last, Papa has found his voice: “My family suffers in ways that yours will never. We are poor compared to you; we are Jews; and now my daughter . . .”
“And now your daughter has proven that even a Jewess makes some very bad choices. Given her . . . difficulties, I’m being generous, and you know it. Be thankful you still have a job.” Mr. Eisenmann’s voice turns brisk. “Now, are we done here? Brotz, if you’ll bring around the car . . .”
“Wait.” Papa’s voice is urgent. “You can’t mean that this is the end of it. You can’t let them get off! They’re Nazis, for God’s sake! They’ve killed my people, my parents . . . !”
“I will do what I want when I want, and whom I choose to hold responsible is my choice, not yours and . . . Take your hands off . . . Mordecai! I’m warn . . .”
A shout and dull sounds, thuds, then scuffling below, and the snort of horses, the BANG-BANG-STAMP of their hooves, and then the other man—Walter—is shouting: “Stop, stop it, Mordecai, no, stop, you’ll kill him ... !”
Oh, Papa, no! I can’t see what’s happening; they’ve moved out of my line of sight, and so I creep to the stairs leading to the main floor of the barn, and I peer through the square. I see Papa and there’s blood on his shirt and face and hands; only it’s Mr. Eisenmann’s blood that’s spurting in great gouts from his nose. His face is coated with it; his chin is oily; the air stinks of rust. He’s on his back, his arms crossed over his face for protection, and Papa is astride, pounding his fists into Mr. Eisenmann wherever he can land them. Then Walter is there, dragging back on Papa and screaming: “Help, help! We need help in here!”
Now there’s the sound of running feet and a shout, and now there are two others. . . . They are men, but their faces are changing, and their eyes are yellow, and one darts to the right, out of sight and then . . . Papa, Papa, the pitchfork, the pitchfork ...no, no
the air’s screaming,
what the fuck
“What the fuck are you doing, what the fuck you put on my bike?”
I whirled around, paintbrush still in hand. High above, crows wheeled and cried, but that was not what froze my blood.
Karl Dekker loomed, squinting through curls of cigarette smoke. He was even grimier than before, and broad streaks of soot painted his neck and face and inked the hollows of his eyes. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he might be a coal miner. He still wore his work coveralls, and a lunch pail dangled loosely from one filthy hand. He reeked of scorched metal. Tweezing the cigarette from his lips, he jabbed it at the bike. “I said, what the fuck you done to my bike? I sure as hell didn’t ask for that shit.”
“I . . .” I had no idea how long I’d been elsewhere—watching the past through David’s eyes—and my first horrified thought was that I’d pulled a Jackson Pollock on Dekker’s bike.
Then I got a good look at what I had done. At what I’d drawn.
I had painted over the fairing, and what I had painted there were the unmistakable features of a wolf’s head: from its yellow eyes to a narrow streamlined muzzle. Fangs, long as scythes, glistened above and below the headlights and, as an added touch—and again, completely without my conscious mind getting into the act at all—I had painted a swastika dead center on the front fender.
I got slowly to my feet, my eyes bugging out of my head. I was still clutching Mordecai Witek’s brush in one hand. “I . . .” I swallowed. “I . . .”
Dekker grabbed my neck and thrust his face toward mine. “Listen to me, you fucking asshole. I want some goddamned Nazi shit on my bike, I’ll ask for it. You think I need this? What you trying to do, hunh? You trying to say something?”
His breath stank of cigarettes and sour beer. I said, “I’m sorry... I ... I wasn’t thinking....”
“Fucking got that right.” He gave me another shake then thrust me to one side so hard I backpedaled, feet tangling. My hip butted one of the sawhorses, and the makeshift contraption toppled, slopping an open container of red paint onto the cold earth. “I want a fucking freak show on my bike, I’ll ask for it. How’m I gonna ride that, hunh?” He aimed a kick at my midsection, but I rolled, got to my hands and knees, and scuttled back against the rough wood of the lean-to.
“Hey!” It was Dekker’s father, trotting over from the chop shop. “Hey, Karl, back off, back off.... ” I watched as Dekker’s father collared his son and dragged him off. Dekker was arguing, his hands waving, until his father finally gave his son a shove in the direction of the shop. At the corner, Dekker screamed something else before disappearing, nothing good I was sure.
“I’d stay outta his way for a while, if I was you.” Dekker’s father planted his fists akimbo. “Not that this isn’t a fine paint job. Ask me, it’s pretty nice, good detail on that wolf and all— except that Nazi shit. What were you thinking, Cage? You are so thoroughly fucked, you know that? Now we got to paint that over and start again....” Mr. Dekker shook his head, sucked on his teeth. “You sure do manage to land yourself in a world of hurt, don’t you?”
Well, that was an understatement.
At least, I got out of there in one piece. Dekker’s dad lectured me some more as I cleaned my brushes off as fast as I could. Yammered at my back all the way to the truck and then I hightailed it out of there, knowing that wasn’t the last time I’d see that chop shop—or Karl Dekker.
Once the shop was out of sight, however, my mind returned to that time trip—if that’s what it was. The experience had been vastly different from my dreams, of course, and the other time in the hayloft because, this time, I’d been awake and the transition was seamless. One minute here and the next there. This time, everything had been very clear. The narrative made sense. Sort of. I mean, it made sense to David, or David’s mind was able to follow a story line of sorts.
Until it came to the end. When the wolves showed up. When everything had fallen apart.
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I knew, instinctively, that the brushes had been the trigger this time. Before, I’d worked in my sleep, when my dreaming mind took over. But there was some special connection when I handled Mordecai Witek’s brushes. Everything became clearer.
Or maybe this was how painters worked, the same way as writers put down words to construct sentences to make paragraphs to create a story. Only a painter builds a story stroke by stroke, color by color.
So clear. So close. I didn’t know why Mr. Witek’s brain had chosen that particular moment to establish a connection or why the images, even experienced through a young boy’s mind, felt as if they’d been etched in acid. Yet the answer to what had happened, the trauma David had been unable to face all this time, wasn’t on the tip of my tongue so much as begging for release from the tip of a brush....
That’s when I hit on an idea: if I could work in David’s presence, that might be the final tumbler of a lock that needed to click into place. Hadn’t he responded while I was there? His eyes opened; he saw me; his voice screamed in my head because he recognized we’d made a connection. All I had to do was get close. Surrounded by his father’s work, I could draw on all that and really draw what had happened; I would see it in my head, and it would come out my fingers. Hadn’t I been drawing the wolves? Wasn’t I some sort of conduit for David’s thoughts? So, yeah, twenty minutes, thirty, that’s what it would take. I’d have to figure out a way to slip into Mr. Witek’s room when they let me back to work in the home. If I could get Dr. Rainier to help.
I was maybe a mile out from the house, passing a field of pumpkins, when I noticed something really weird.
Along the road, on every fence post, was a crow.
There had to be, what, fifty? Sixty? At least. Not a single bird lifted off. They made no sound. But they were watching me, like soldiers at their posts. It was like I was some kind of general and they were troops for my review.