Florence. [rising] Oh my God. [She cracks her knuckles on her breasts.] Does Leon know?
Feuer. Who cares if he knows?
Florence. [angrily] Feuer, if you break up this engagement I will leave you. Cook your own vegetables.
[FEUER glares at her. ]
Florence. You ought to be ashamed to do this to her. What can she get from a poor writer without a steady job —even without a college education that you talk so much about—who writes all day without success.
Feuer. First you learn your art, then you have success. Someday he’ll be a first-class writer.
Florence. How do you know?
Feuer. He read me a story—it was brilliant.
Florence. One story don’t mean a thing.
Feuer. One is all I need.
Florence. [intensely] What can a starving writer give her? A decent home? Can he afford to have children? Will he consider her first when she needs him, or his egotism? I want her to have a future, not a cold water flat with a poor man.
Feuer. Maybe he won’t be rich but he’ll have a rich life. With him she could have a real excitement in her life—not a middle-class existence where the real pleasure is to go shopping for something you don’t need. Don’t underestimate Ben Glickman. I talked to him many times and I know his nature. This is a passionate man—how many are left in the world? He doesn’t tell me what he has suffered but I can see in his eyes. He knows what life means and he knows what’s real. He’ll be good for Adele. He will understand her and love her like she needs to be loved.
Florence. To me he looks sick, like a starved animal. And what are you talking about love when she doesn’t even know him? What kind of foolishness is this? It’s because you see yourself in him, that’s who you see. You see another egoist.
Feuer. Who can talk to you? You’re full of foolish anxieties you want to give me.
Florence. Who else can I give them to?
Feuer. This isn’t talk, it’s confusion.
Florence. You confuse her. Soon she won’t know what she’s doing. You confused me too.
Feuer. You confused yourself.
Florence. [angrily] Egoist! Egoist! You don’t deserve to have such a son-in-law.
Feuer. [sarcastic] Did I deserve to have such a wife?
Florence. [rising] Never, you never deserved me.
[She picks up her shoes, drops them into the living room closet, and steps into slippers. Returning to the kitchen she opens the refrigerator door, takes out a few things, and begins wordlessly to prepare supper. FEUER is thumbing through a magazine she had brought home. After a minute FLORENCE goes to the hall door and quietly shuts it.]
Feuer. [without turning his head] Don’t close the door, it’s too hot.
Florence. [quietly] I want to talk to you one minute—private.
Feuer. Talk. But keep the door open. I’m suffocating.
Florence. Please, Feuer, stop exaggerating. Stop performing. You won’t die. All I want to do is talk to you without the neighbors’ ears in our door.
Feuer. [shouting] Leave the door open I told you.
Florence. [opening it] You make me sick!
Feuer. [rising to the occasion] You made me sick!
Florence. [though not wanting to, losing her temper] Blame yourself. You were sick to begin with from the day I met you. You spoiled my life.
Feuer. You spoiled it yourself.
Florence. [vehemently] No, you spoiled it. You don’t know where to stop. Every time you stab yourself you stab me twice. I used to be a nice person but you spoiled my nature. You’re impossible to live with and impossible to talk to. You don’t even converse any more. When you open your mouth, right away you’re yelling—it’s always an argument.
Feuer. Who else is yelling if I may ask you?
Florence. You spoiled my character.
Feuer. I didn’t interfere with existing conditions.
Florence. [on the verge of tears] You did, you did!
Feuer. If you believe this, you’re lying to yourself.
Florence. You’re the one who lied. You lied about the
choristers you couldn’t stay away from them, even with a wife and child. I gave you my love but you couldn’t say no to the chorus girls. If one of them looked at you you turned into a rooster. You had no will.
Feuer. I have a magnificent will.
Florence. If her garter was loose you took off her stocking. If she took it off herself you helped her to take off the other.
Feuer. [bitterly] And which two-bit actors took off your stockings? And how many times in your married life?
Florence. You started the whole dirty business. You started it. I never wanted that kind of a life, it wasn’t my nature.
Feuer. It went on for years.
Florence. You left me three times, once two whole years. Also many times you were on the road for months when I couldn’t go. I was human. I made mistakes.
Feuer. You could’ve thought of your child instead of sending her from one place to another, in the hands of strangers who made her sick.
Florence. Feuer, for God’s sake, I can’t stand any more. Why didn’t you take care of her? Because you weren’t there. Because you were busy in bed with somebody else.
Feuer. [blazing] You son of a bitch! [FLORENCE stares at him, then seems to crumple and slowly lowers herself into a chair. She puts her hands on the table, palms up, and lowering her head, sobs into them. She sobs with her whole body, a wailing weeping.]
[FEUER goes to the door and quietly shuts it. He attempts to approach her but can’t. He goes to the sink for another glass of water but pours it out without drinking, staring vaguely out the window. Wandering to the mirror, he stands there looking at himself, not enjoying what he sees. Gradually FLORENCE stops crying, raises her head and sits quietly at the table, one hand shading her eyes. After a while she blows her nose, and wipes her eyes with a handkerchief. FEUER, after glaring at his image, in weariness lies down on the day bed.]
Florence. [very quietly] What’s that smell?
Feuer. [wearily] Gas.
Florence. What kind of gas?
Feuer. Human gas. Whatever you smell you want immediate identification.
Florence. [after a while] Don’t you feel well?
Feuer. Perfect.
Florence. [still quietly] Did you take your pills today?
Feuer. I took. [He jumps up from the bed and speaks suddenly, vehemently.] Florence, I’m sorry. In my heart I love you. My tongue is filthy but not my heart.
Florence. [after a pause] How can you love a son of a bitch?
Feuer. Don’t poison me with my words. I have enough poison in me already. I say what I don’t mean.
Florence. What do you mean?
Feuer. I say that too.
Florence. [still half stunned] How can anyone love a son of a bitch?
Feuer. [savagely striking his chest] I am the son of a bitch.
Florence. [musing] It’s my fault. I shouldn’t fight with you. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe it’s change of life. What am I changing? Where is my life? It’s true, I neglected her, she’s the one who suffered. I still feel terrible about those days. But you left me. I had to work. I was out all day. At night I was afraid to be alone. I began to look for company. I was ashamed to let her see me so I sent her away. There was nobody to send her to so I sent her to strangers.
Feuer. [unable to restrain it] To friends of your lovers. To their relatives too.
Florence. Have mercy on me, Feuer. My lovers I buried long ago. They’re all dead. Don’t dig them out of their graves. For what I did to my child I still suffer. You don’t have to hurt me more. I know how to hurt myself. [She cries quietly.]
[The ACTOR approaches her chair and stands behind her.]
Feuer. I was a fool. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t understand my own nature. I talked big but accomplished nothing. Even as an actor I wasn’t one of the best. Thomashefsky, Jacob Adler, Schwartz—all were better than me. Their n
ames are famous. Two years off the stage and my name is dead. This is what I deserve—I don’t fool myself.
Florence. You were a good actor.
Feuer. I wasn’t a good actor and I am not a good man.
[She rises and they embrace.]
Florence. I forgave you but you don’t forgive me.
Feuer. I don’t forgive myself.
Florence. [again remembering] Three times you left me.
Feuer. I always came back.
Florence. It took so long. I hurt her so much. [She wipes her eyes with her fingers.]
Feuer. Enough now. It was my fault too. I hurt her and I hurt you. Why did I hurt you?—because you were there to hurt. You were the only one [he pauses—there was another but he doesn’t say so]—the only one who could stand me.
Florence. You try to be good.
Feuer. No.
Florence. Yes. [after a minute] Please do me a favor, Feuer, and I won’t ask for anything else—let Leon alone. Let Adele alone. Let them find their life together. It’s all I ask you. For her sake—or there will be terrible trouble.
[The door opens and ADELE enters, discovering them in each other’s arms.]
Adele. [sadly] Ah, you’ve been fighting again. [She shuts the door.]
[FLORENCE goes to the sink, washes her eyes with cold water and dries them with a kitchen towel. FEUER, after kissing ADELE, goes to the bathroom.]
Adele. [putting her purse and a paper down on the table] What were you fighting about?
Florence. We weren’t fighting. It was a disagreement. Leon was here.
Adele. Leon? When?
Florence. He came to surprise you. He wants you to eat dinner with him. Please, darling, go. He’ll be right back in a few minutes.
Adele. Where is he now?
Florence. I don’t know. I wasn’t here. Papa told me. I think they were playing rummy and he said something to Leon.
Adele. Nasty?
Florence. Papa got sarcastic and Leon didn’t like it. But he said he would come back soon.
Adele. I wasn’t expecting him tonight.
Florence. It was a surprise.
Adele. I wish he had at least called me. I already promised Ben I would go for a walk with him tonight.
Florence. A walk is nothing.
Adele. I promised.
Florence. Adele, you’re an engaged girl. Leon came all the way from Newark to take you to dinner. You ought to go.
Adele. Being engaged doesn’t mean I’m not entitled to a free minute to myself.
Florence. Who said that? All I said was Leon was here. You can tell this boy upstairs you’ll see him some other time.
Adele. He called me up and I said yes.
Florence. It isn’t such a big promise.
Adele. I can’t understand why Leon didn’t call.
Florence. Call or not call, it’s not nice to say no when he’s already here. Adele, mamale, please see him tonight. I don’t want you to walk with that boy. It’s dangerous.
[She hadn’t meant to say quite that.]
Adele. A walk isn’t a wedding, Mama.
Florence. It could be worse than a wedding.
Adele. For God’s sake, what do you mean?
Florence. [Cracking her knuckles on her bosom] You can walk to your grave with a little walk.
[FEUER comes out of the bathroom, looks at himself earnestly in the mirror, mutters something derogatory, and enters the kitchen.]
Adele. Doesn’t anyone trust me?
Feuer. I trust you.
Florence. [to ADELE] Is this what you want all your life? [indicating the apartment.]
Adele. I don’t see the relationship.
Florence. [deeply troubled] For my sake don’t go out with this writer. Don’t make any more complications in your life. Life is complicated enough.
[There is a knock on the door.]
Florence. Come in.
[LEON enters, carrying a large bouquet of flowers.]
Florence. Leon!
Leon. Hello, everybody. [to ADELE] This is for you, honey.
Adele. Hello, darling.
[He hands her the flowers and they kiss.]
Leon. Hello, Mrs. Feuer. Good evening, Mr. Feuer.
[He bears no grudges.]
Feuer. Good evening.
[ADELE hands the bouquet to her mother, who hunts for something to put it into. While she is doing that, FEUER takes up his newspaper, excuses himself, and after drawing the curtain separating the rooms, sits on the day bed, reading. FLORENCE, disapproving the drawn curtain but glad to have FEUER out of the way, attends first to the flowers, then fixes her cold supper. LEON has seated himself at the table, and ADELE, after setting the vase of new flowers on the window sill, is sitting near him.]
Florence. Leon, would you like to eat with us? It’s not much—just a salad with smoked white fish. Also a few potato pancakes, though not for Feuer—he can’t eat them.
Leon. Thanks very much but I was thinking of asking Adele to go out and eat Chinese tonight.
[He looks at her.]
Adele. I’m sorry Leon, if I had known you were coming I would have said yes. That is if you had called before Ben asked me. He’s that friend of Papa’s who writes. You met him.
Leon. [disappointed] Couldn’t you break it with him, honey?
Adele. [hesitantly] I’d rather not.
Leon. What’s so special about this guy? I mean that you gave him the date? Is it because he’s a writer?
Adele. [defensively] You said I could go out once in a while if I felt like it.
Leon. I said it and I stick by it. All I want to know is why you’re going out with him?
Adele. I guess I have the feeling he’s gone through a lot.
Florence. Everybody goes through a lot—
Adele. I like him, he’s interesting. I like to talk to him.
Leon. I appreciate his problems but the fact of it is I’ve come all the way from Newark, New Jersey, to be with the girl I’m engaged to—
Florence. Mamale—
Adele. Please, Mama—
[FLORENCE removes her apron and retires behind the curtain. FEUER, who has been listening, raises his paper as she enters and pretends he’s reading. FLORENCE, not sure she has made the right move, lights a cigarette and sits in the armchair, flipping through the pages of a magazine.]
Leon. [lowering his voice] Honey, I don’t dig it. I thought you’d surely be happy to have this kind of a surprise from me.
Adele. [gently] I am. It’s a nice surprise. But all I’m saying is I feel committed tonight. [aware of his concern] Don’t worry, it’s not serious. Don’t make anything serious out of it. It’s just that he’s a lonely person, I guess. You feel that when you’re with him.
Leon. I’m lonely too. Couldn’t you postpone it till tomorrow night?
Adele. He’s off tonight. Tomorrow he works.
Leon. Then till the next time he’s off? I’ll exchange him tonight for then. [again lowering his voice] You haven’t forgotten our plan to spend a week in the country together in September?
Adele. [a little cold] I don’t see what the relationship of this is with that.
Leon. Well, maybe there isn’t but why don’t you think it over? I mean about tonight.
Adele. I feel I ought to keep my word with him.
Leon. [edgy] What’s the matter, Adele—you don’t seem cordial at all. What is it, the atmosphere here?
Adele. If you don’t like the atmosphere, why do you come here?
Leon. I don’t want to fight with you.
Adele. I don’t want to fight with you.
Leon. [after a minute] Maybe you’re right. Give me a kiss and I’ll call it quits.
Adele. I’ll kiss you because I like you.
[They kiss.]
Adele. [gently] I’ll postpone it with him if you really want me to.
Feuer. [from behind the curtain] Do what you want.
Florence. [hushed whisper] Please, for God’s sake, Feuer.
<
br /> Leon. [as though he had heard nothing] Let’s make a compromise. What time is he showing up here?
Adele. I don’t know, around eight, I suppose. He didn’t say exactly.
Leon. All right, whatever time. [He looks at his wrist watch.] It’s ten to six. We can still go out, have our Chinese meal and I’ll have you back in the car at fifteen after eight. Then you can go for a short walk and when you come back I’ll be waiting and we can drive down to Coney Island.
Adele. For the first suggestion, okay. I’ll go to the Chinese restaurant with you. But I don’t want to rush him, while we’re walking, to get back for the drive. It’s not that kind of date.
Leon. [annoyed] What kind of date is it?
Adele. A very innocent one.
[There’s a knock on the door. ADELE gets up and opens it. Both FLORENCE and FEUER are attentive. BEN enters with a small bouquet of daffodils.]
Ben. Am I too early?
[No one answers as the curtain goes down.]
THE GERMAN REFUGEE
Oskar Gassner sits in his cotton-mesh undershirt and summer bathrobe at the window of his stuffy, hot, dark hotel room on West Tenth Street while I cautiously knock. Outside, across the sky, a late-June green twilight fades in darkness. The refugee fumbles for the light and stares at me, hiding despair but not pain.
I was in those days a poor student and would brashly attempt to teach anybody anything for a buck an hour, although I have since learned better. Mostly I gave English lessons to recently-arrived refugees. The college sent me, I had acquired a little experience. Already a few of my students were trying their broken English, theirs and mine, in the American market place. I was then just twenty, on my way into my senior year in college, a skinny, life hungry kid, eating himself waiting for the next world war to start. It was a goddamn cheat. Here I was palpitating to get going, and across the ocean Adolph Hitler, in black boots and a square mustache, was tearing up and spitting out all the flowers. Will I ever forget what went on with Danzig that summer?
Times were still hard from the Depression but anyway I made a little living from the poor refugees. They were all over uptown Broadway in 1939. 1 had four I tutored—Karl Otto Alp, the former film star; Wolfgang Novak, once a brilliant economist; Friedrich Wilhelm Wolff, who had taught medieval history at Heidelberg; and after the night I met him in his disordered cheap hotel room, Oskar Gassner, the Berlin critic and journalist, at one time on the Acht Uhr Abenblatt. They were accomplished men. I had my nerve associating with them, but that’s what a world crisis does for people, they get educated.
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