They went to DiFalco's, a dark little place with tile floors and autographed pictures on the wall. It was certain without looking that one of the signed pictures would be Vic Damone, another would be Frank Sinatra, and that several of the records in the jukebox would be versions of "My Way." Nathan ordered himself a salad and Nusan ravioli in butter. Nusan seemed happy He liked the way they kept filling the bread basket. Each time, Nusan would take a roll and shove it in his jacket.
"So, I have good news for you."
When Nusan said this, it was never good news. "The Mets have lost two in a row," Nathan argued.
"Dave Johnson," said Nusan, referring to the Mets manager, "said the team has an affliction. An affliction."
"But they're still in first place."
"For now. Clark's not hitting. Strawberry's not hitting." Nusan pushed up his jacket sleeve, not to expose his tattooed number, not to cover up the little label that said "100% pure wool," but as his way of saying, "Now to business." He leaned forward so that he could be heard in a whisper. "There was never an SS Standartenfuhrer Bernhardt Moellen."
Nusan had surprised Nathan again. It actually was good news. "You are sure?"
"Absolutely." Then he smiled. When Nusan smiled ... "There was a Reinhardt Müller, as I told you."
Nusan clearly enjoyed the look of dismay on Nathan's face.
"But he was never a Standartenführer, either." He deliberately gave Nathan a moment of relief before adding, "He was only an Obersturm-führer, a lieutenant."
"In the SS?"
"Yes," said Nusan, feeding a breadstick into his mouth like a carrot into a juicer.
"Could be somebody different."
"Could be. Could be the camps were only a dream. I think that sometimes. I think that I am glad they tattooed me, because now I can look at my arm and say, 'Look at this number.' " He turned his arm over and looked at it. " 'Look at this. I wasn't dreaming. It really happened.' That's like the Germans. You know what I think? I think they did the tattoo so they could prove it. They want the documentary proof for everything. Germans understand that nothing exists without documentation. They preserve their facts even when they are things that anyone else would hide. I am one of their artifacts. But your pastry maker? He could just be an illusion. A mistake. Tell me, did he ever say anything about Argentina?"
"Argentina?"
"Yes. Reinhardt Müller was last seen in Argentina."
Was that why Moellen spoke that lilting Spanish? "No," said Nathan, "he has never said anything about Argentina. It's probably not him."
There was no more heat, no more temperature, that day. Nathan wandered the streets with Nusan lost in a world that ended before he was born. Yet it was a world he sometimes lived in. Nusan made him feel that they all wore blank spots on their arm where the tattoo was missing.
Why did the Nazis tattoo? Was it as proof, or was it just to mark them? Was it because they understood that tattoos were against Jewish law? Leviticus: "You shall not make gashes in your flesh or incise any marks on yourself." It was the same passage that forbade trimming sideburns. It also outlawed rings in your nipples. Tattoos were no more against the law than trimmed sideburns, than not wearing payess. There was a time when you could rebel by trimming your sideburns. Mordy thought not trimming his sideburns was rebellious. If he had lived back then, he would have shaved them off. Today, you had to wear tattoos and a ring in your nose or, better yet, three or half a dozen on your lip or one through the nipple just to do what you once could do by a little sideburn trim.
Nathan had found a forgotten law in Leviticus near the one about marking flesh: "Reprove your kinsman but incur no guilt because of him." Incur no guilt because of him. As though you could be commanded not to incur guilt. Even God cannot control guilt.
But as he wandered with Nusan and these thoughts, Nathan did find the time to buy a challah. He was even early enough to get one of the kosher ones. Tomorrow, he and Sonia would eat their traif. But it wouldn't be ribs. With Bob's Greasy Hands in prison, the neighborhood was getting a new French Asian fusion restaurant with—and this was the part that had everyone laughing—a "smoking room" upstairs. When the restaurant had first advertised the smoking room, some of the people in the neighborhood had thought it was a place for curing your own fish. But once they saw the restaurant, they knew they were wrong. A smoking room turned out to be a place for twenty-four-year-olds to smoke large, contraband Cuban cigars that had returned to fashion on the mistaken belief that they were less deadly than cigarettes.
Reluctantly, Nathan pointed out to Nusan that it was almost time for services, but Nusan did not want to hurry It was clear to Nathan that he wanted to maintain his tradition of arriving at the last minute. There in fact was no last minute. Services did not start at sunset, they started when the tenth man got there. When they arrived they were still a little early, being numbers eight and nine. They lacked one man, even with the two tourists from the Upper West Side who seemed both excited and uncomfortable in the circumstances in which they had found themselves. They had probably planned a different kind of evening in the East Village.
"Nusan, you could get your brother, Harry," said Chaim Litvak. "Or your brother, Nathan."
"My granddaughter's shagetz is converting. He's almost there. We could use him," said Yonah Kirchbaum.
"Who is doing the conversion?" Chaim Litvak wanted to know.
"It's an Orthodox rabbi in So Ho."
"In SoHo?" Chaim Litvak said suspiciously.
Yankel Fink said, "It will be havdalah before you settle this one. I'm going to the corner and taking the first Jew that comes by." And he did, returning only five minutes later with another young man whose evening in the East Village was deferred an hour.
During most of the service, while Nathan was reflecting on how he had to break off his relationship with Karoline, the others were engaged in the subject of Chaim Litvak and Yankel Fink's imminent trip to Israel. The men would chant in Hebrew with gravelly, off-key voices, nodding their heads vigorously, and then from time to time someone would say, "I'll take three minutes."
It was a moment of reckoning in the neighborhood. After years of joking about the unusual weight and density of Yankel Fink's knishes, Chaim and Yankel had decided to take with them the two heaviest, the kasha and the potato, and set them afloat in the Dead Sea, a body of water where humans and reportedly horses and camels would float indefinitely. They were taking bets on how long it would take the knishes to sink. Yonah Kirchbaum said they would never sink. Nusan said they would be out of sight in one minute. The other bets were in between.
"The kasha or the potato?"
Kirchbaum insisted this was a mistake—that the fastest-sinking knish would be the cheese—but he was the kid of the group, and they were not interested in the opinions of people only in their sixties. Jack Bialy also too young to know, drew patterns with his finger in the flour on the toe of his shoe and whispered to Kirchbaum, "I've been in dough all my life and I am telling you, you're right. But I'm not going to argue."
While the bets were being placed, Nathan, wrapped in a prayer shawl but thinking about Karoline and her father, was overtaken by a feeling that if he did not leave the dark synagogue, he would suffocate and die. He tried to look casual as he sauntered toward the door. When he was almost there, his body throbbing, his shirt soaked through with sweat, his nostrils flared wide looking for air, his eyes met the stern glance of Rabbi Litvak, who was slowly shaking his head from left to right. Nathan could not leave. Without him, there was no minyan. He signaled to Litvak that he was going out for only a minute, but Litvak walked over and, with his arm around him, led Nathan back in. Dark blotches of sweat were appearing on the vanilla-colored cloth of his prayer shawl. Nathan marveled that no one could see what was happening to him.
By the time the service was over and the other men were wishing him a "good Shabbas," Nathan was back in control. The three outsiders escaped before the mofongo and herring, but Nathan could not because Nusa
n wanted to eat. Nathan made the argument he always made, that dinner was waiting for them, but Nusan pulled back his head to pour down a shot of vodka, then took a slow breath, ate another herring, and once again pointed out, "It is foolish to starve yourself because you might have food later."
Chaim Litvak also poured down a shot of vodka, shaking his head so vigorously that it gave his hat a jaunty tilt—almost like Charles Boyer as Pepe Le Moko, who could not escape. He handed a small plate with mofongo and herring to Nathan and confirmed that even Hillel agreed that "it is an insult to good fortune to walk away from food."
Nathan found it hard to believe that Hillel had really said that. The men ate more herring and, with breath like harp seals, pondered ancient teachings, the meaning of life, and the specific gravity of Yankel Fink's potato and kasha knishes.
Nathan realized that he had to do something. His condition was getting worse. He now felt that at any moment, anywhere, without warning, he could have an attack. One day he would die from it. And he had to stay away from Karoline and her SS father. Why was that so hard to do? The SS daughter. The ultimate traif. Better than Saturday night ribs.
During the part of the Seltzers' Friday night known as "waiting for Nusan," Nathan slipped down to his own apartment and called Dr. Kucher to tell her it was getting worse and something had to be done quickly. She might still be in her office.
"Hello, is Dr. Kucher there?"
"I'm sorry, she is gone for the day."
"This is Nathan Seltzer. I am a patient and I am having an emergency. Couldn't you find her for one minute?"
"As a matter of fact, she is walking out now. Let me see if I can grab her. Oh, Dr. Kucher! Dr. Kucher?"
"Njaw, njaw, njaw, njaw, njaw..." she shouted with her hands over her ears.
When Nathan returned upstairs, Nusan had arrived. Nathan noted with pleasure that they had made a minyan without him. Mordy was there with a woman named Priscilla, who was the oldest woman Nathan had ever seen his brother with. She seemed to be in her late thirties, a lean, athletically built woman. Everything about her seemed utilitarian. Her straight blond hair was cut short so that it wouldn't be in the way, but not so short as to be self-consciously fashionable. She wore khaki pants and a cotton-knit, pale blue blouse—all drip-dry, perma-everything. A duck in flight on her shirt was the closest thing to ornament she had. Her brown shoes had leather ties and rubber soles. She looked as though she were dressed for sailing.
Ruth had already said the blessing and lit the candles, Harry did the wine, passing the goblet around the room in order of age, and Nathan did the bread, cutting two extra pieces for Nusan to slip in his pocket when no one was looking.
"I think that's the most beautiful grace I have ever heard," Priscilla said with great sincerity.
Oboy Ruth thought. She is really trying to be nice. I should try to be nice back. Later, I am going to kill Mordy
"So," Ruth began, serving the herring. "How did you two meet?"
"He was protesting for squatters' rights," said Priscilla. "And I noticed that his shoes were untied. So I told him, and do you know what he said?"
They all nodded their heads and droned, "Yes...."
"Unbelievable," said Harry. "I have a son who meets girls by walking around with his shoes untied."
"You should rethink your whole footwear," said Mordy.
"Are you from the neighborhood?" asked Sonia, who knew that she was not.
"Now I am!" she said with too much enthusiasm.
"Priscilla bought my apartment," Mordy explained.
"That bastard Dubinsky has already sold them!" said Harry.
"Yes," said Priscilla. "He is completely redoing the building and breaking through walls. We are going to have a three-bedroom apartment. It won't be ready until the fall. But my family has a place on Cape Cod where we can stay until it's ready" She smiled pleasantly about all this good news, and Mordy attempted unsuccessfully to wear a matching smile. The rest of the room was silent.
Mordy has found a way to keep squatting, Nathan thought, smiling to himself.
"It's a shanda," said Harry. The Yiddish word for disgrace, in Harry's mouth, was always a prelude, and everyone turned, dreading what they thought he was about to say. "Jewish people are selling out these properties and having them rebuilt by anti-Semites so that Jews can't move back in."
"Really," Priscilla said with great concern. "I didn't know anything ..."
Nathan patted her hand to tell her it was all right and then turned to his father for more of this story. "How do you know they are anti-Semites, Dad?"
"The doorways. They keep putting in steel door frames. So you can't nail up a mezuzah."
The room fell silent again, except for the soft muttering of Nusan, "Tokhes oyfn tish." Nathan strained to understand what he was saying about the table, and then Priscilla ventured cheerfully:
"Why not put magnets on them? You know, like refrigerator magnets. In fact, that would be a great product. Refrigerator mezoozoos. Something Mordy might want to undertake."
They all turned to Mordy, unaware that he was looking for something to undertake.
"Well," began Mordy, "that's a market without much elasticity... to say the least. I actually have other plans."
"Really?" purred Priscilla.
"I have decided to get my MBA—master's in business administration."
The entire family unconsciously let slip a collective sigh. Mordy was not changing.
"First," Priscilla explained, "we are going to the Cape."
Sarah's eyes widened. "On vacation. Are you going on vacation?"
Mordy thought it over and looked at Priscilla. "Yes, I think I am."
"Will you take swimming lessons?"
"No, but I think I will float." Everyone laughed at Mordy floating, but Sarah didn't want to be laughed at.
"Do you know how to swim, Uncle Mordy?"
He didn't answer.
Priscilla looked at him. "You don't know how to swim? That's so sweet! I'll teach you how to swim."
"Everybody at the table who knows how to swim, raise your hand," Sarah commanded.
Priscilla, Sonia, Ruth, and Sarah raised their hands. Sarah looked triumphant. "Girls win!"
"She's started swimming lessons this summer," Nathan said.
"Uncle Mordy, if you are going on vacation, you should take swimming lessons," Sarah insisted in a reprimanding voice. "And you should also buy stuff. We are going to start buying stuff."
At this moment, just as Ruth reentered carrying the unloved brisket on the large platter on which the brisket was always carried, the doorbell rang—a loud, intrusive, drilling noise.
The second Nathan heard the bell, he knew who it was. He had seen the anger in Karoline's eyes when she found him talking to her father. He remembered her threat to one day come here. Now, at last, the disaster with which he had been toying was at the door. He was ten feet from the door and his life would unravel if he did not get there first.
He leapt to his feet so quickly that he knocked his chair over backward. Unfortunately, Harry had also gotten up and, because of the chair, had a head start to the door.
Sonia was laughing at the two of them fleeing the brisket.
When Nathan got to the door, Harry was already there with his hand on the knob. Father and son looked at each other with oddly matching glares of desperation.
The harsh, intruding buzzer sounded again.
"Why doesn't someone open it?" said Ruth.
"Sit down, I'll get it," said Harry, resurrecting the old-time voice of parental authority. Nathan sadly returned to his chair to await his destruction.
But Harry, to Nathan's amazement and admiration, stepped discreetly into the hallway and closed the door behind him.
"Hello, Harry Seltzer," said Florence.
Harry looked at her as though he were considering pretending he did not know her.
"It's me," said Florence. And she pointed to the spot on the side of her head and grimaced in pain to
remind him of their one tryst. Then she burst into laughter.
"Shhh!"
"It was funny"
"What are you doing here? I thought prostitutes didn't do this. I thought you could keep secrets."
"I don't want to tell any secrets, Harry Seltzer. I just need some help. I'm in trouble. I need some money."
Harry looked at her. She was in trouble. The reds and purples of her heavy outer layer of makeup were gone, and Harry could now see that she was much older than he had thought, not much younger than him. And she was losing her plumpness, acquiring a drawn look. She was not well. Sweat was beading on her forehead. Harry reached into his wallet and took out the $15 that he had. The two bills quickly vanished into her shiny blue dress that was not as tight on her as it was meant to be.
"I need more than that. I need at least forty I'll do what you want." She seemed to start to drop to her knees and, panic-stricken, Harry grabbed her to stop her—grabbed her a little too hard, and suddenly they were in an embrace. Florence started to laugh. Harry stepped away. "Never mind. I'll get you forty," he whispered, having already forgotten about the fifteen. "Just wait for me out on the street."
Matching his hoarse whisper, she said, "You will come down, won't you?" and then added in a full voice, "You won't leave me there?"
"I promise! Just go downstairs." He waited for her to disappear behind the elevator door, which closed slowly, seeming to erase her. Then he went back in the apartment and said, "I have a building problem. I'll be right back." No one seemed particularly curious. Nathan, his face flushed and his soul suddenly joyous, started talking with great enthusiasm about Sonia's play. Deliberately affecting a casual saunter, Harry made his way out the door, closed it slowly, smacked the mezuzah almost as a rebuke, and ran down the stairs.
But by the third floor he had to stop. He was out of breath and his chest hurt. While standing in the hallway gathering his strength, Birdie Nagel suddenly pounced.
"I can't help you with the birds right now, Mrs. Nagel."
Boogaloo On 2nd Avenue Page 26