by Rich Horton
The boy does not know they are his father’s dead parents and dead sister, though you’d think he might. Their photo sits in a small pewter frame on his dad’s dresser. It is the same photo Ben carried in his pocket as he made good his escape, running the gauntlet, Old Country to New. It is Ben’s only photo of his mother, father, and sister, no bigger than a playing card, and Danny has paid it little attention in recent years. But his dad examines it every morning, holds the frame in hand for a moment or two, draws a deep breath, and returns it to its place. So many times Danny has seen him do this; he should have been more curious, known their faces by rote. Then too, perhaps the boy can be forgiven, for much has changed since the photo was taken. One thing for certain, just ask him, Danny can reel off their names, one-two-three. Sarah. Moshe. Leah. This much he remembers from his father’s stories. Sarah. Moshe. Leah. This much he knows.
Danny might as well be talking to the wall, the heed the trio pays him. Foreigners, he decides. Greenhorns. Look at their clothes, for God’s sake. Woolen coats to calves. Garbo berets for the women. A maroon and a brown. The wisp of a tassel. A grey George Arliss homburg for the man. Band at the brim. Crease at the crown. Like they just got off the boat. Like it’s not ten thousand degrees out there and climbing. Like what’s the matter with them, anyhow? The old man, especially . . .
Maybe he isn’t impressed. Maybe the diner isn’t fancy enough for him. It’s not much of an establishment, after all. Half a dozen tables. Ten stools at the counter. Ads for Luckies, Orange Crush, and Mounds plastered to the walls. Yet there is also something indefinable and special about this place. The air of bigger things to come. Ben has so many plans, so many dreams.
“The table right there, that one,” Danny points, speaking louder, suspecting it’s the only way he’ll make himself understood. Hardly locals, these three, though it wouldn’t take much for the women to pass. Rosy cheeks, clear eyes. Neither skinny nor zaftig. Happy just to be. Like they’ve arrived with revelations to share. But the old man, the grumpy old guy, he shouts refugee A bag of bones, he is. Hollow cheeks and shellfire stare. Skin as sallow as the oil in the deep fryer. Graveside grim from dusty Oxfords on up.
The old woman speaks first, raises a hand, hesitates. “Urk, oh,” she croaks, and the boy thinks she might be choking before he realizes she’s calling to his dad. “His name is Ben,” he corrects her, and deals the menus onto the nearest table, hoping they will finally get the hint. C’mon, already. I got studying to do. But the younger woman has ideas of her own.
She steps between the stools, positions herself at the counter, as near as she can get to where Ben labors without breaching the barrier. “Berko,” she says, her forearms flat upon the cool black Formica. “Berko, it’s me, Leah.” She reaches out for him, beseeching, palms turned and open. “Berko, please, it’s us.”
Danny cannot for the life of him make sense of this. The scene reminds him of a movie theater when the sprockets misfire and the film stutters askew, the sound slurring across the eardrums as the house judders to black. Ben loses the scraper and spray. Trembles. His knees at once bandy, bowed, and liquid. Shifts right to grab the butcher’s block. And hangs on by his fingertips as his feet misread the checkerboard of the floor and hand over hand he staggers about to face the young woman.
Disbelieving eyes.
Disconnected brain.
Danny fears his father is dying, does not know why he’s crying.
“How?” Ben asks. “How?” And he collapses into the waiting arms of the girl as the old woman scurries to join them. Hugging. Bawling. Weeping. Sobbing. The gamut of joy in Yiddish, Hebrew, Polish, English, gibberish. Eyes lifted to Heaven, gratitude upon quivering lips. Baruch HaShem. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Danny blubbers, too, though he doesn’t know why until his father ropes him into the impromptu hora.
Leah. My sister. Your aunt.
Sarah. My mother. Your bubbie.
And Moshe. My father. Your zayde.
The boy hugs his grandmother and aunt, and they hug him back, harder than he has ever been hugged before. He takes a step in his grandfather’s direction, spreads his arms in a ready embrace, and the old man looks the other way.
“A miracle a miracle a miracle a miracle . . . ” Ben says, a Gramophone on the fritz.
“Alive. Imagine, Danny. Alive. Imagine, Danny. After all this time. After all this time.”
“A miracle, Dad,” the boy says.
“Sit. Sit,” Ben directs, and strides with purpose to the entrance. He flips the OPEN sign to CLOSED, latches the screen, locks the door. No matter the heat. Who gives a damn about the heat now? “Come. Come join us, Papa,” he says, and the old man picks fluff from his hat.
Ben makes tea for his mother and father, despite the latter’s standoffishness. Four cubes of sugar buttress each cup. He pops a Coke for Leah and another for Danny.
They sit. They talk. They cry some more, and laugh some, too, while Moshe’s tea grows cold.
“I was so sure you were lost,” Ben says to his mother and sister. “When the Gestapo began their cleansing . . . ” He pauses to compose himself. “The two of you—you vanished.”
“To Grodno.” Leah’s voice drops a decibel. “The camp. Kolbasin. But then . . . ”
“A miracle.” Sarah grasps her son’s hand. “There was a door. An open door. An open gate.”
“And the forest, right there before us,” Leah adds.
Ben shakes his head, incredulous, grateful. “Like magic.”
“Magic,” Leah agrees, smiles at her brother, smiles at Danny, touches the boy’s cheek to confirm his existence. “You have your father’s eyes. He has your eyes, Berko.”
“Why do you keep calling him that?” Danny asks.
“It’s my name,” his father laughs. “Before. In the Old Country.”
“And now you’re Berko again,” the boy says.
“Yes. I guess. Yes, I am.”
“Such a sheyneh yingele,” Leah says of her newfound nephew. “Such a handsome boy.”
And Sarah wards off the Evil Eye with an urgent “Kenahora” and a lethal “puh, puh, puh.”
“Danny. My Danny?” Berko doesn’t hold back. “The best son a father could hope for.”
One table over, sitting now, Moshe frowns, primps the crown of his hat as he studies the linoleum. Stubborn old guy. Why’s he acting like this? Same as the old days, Berko thinks. Some things never change. But he’ll come around. He’s adjusting, that’s all. And once he hears about his grandson—Berko’s sheyneh yingele—there’ll be no resistance.
Berko checks off the marvels as if he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. How kind Danny is. How helpful. How smart. How he’ll be going to college in the fall. A full scholarship no less. The finest school in all of America. How he’s going to be a doctor or a lawyer or a businessman. “I’m telling you, the boy is a leader. You’ve got to see. And sports. You should see him run.”
Danny’s face is redder than red, his father’s praise so glowing he fails to recognize himself. “Please, Dad,” he says. “C’mon, Dad,” he says. “You’re embarrassing me, Dad,” he says. And just as Berko is about to override his son’s objections, there’s a rap at the door. A woman.
“My wife,” Ben laughs, and races to let her in. “Millie. My wife, Millie,” he announces, primed and proud to show her off.
Sarah looks her up and down. “A Jewish girl?”
“Malka,” Berko says. “From Opatow, Mama.”
“Malka from Opatow.” This is good news to Sarah. “Do you hear, Moshe? He married a girl from Opatow?” Moshe transfers his hat from his lap to the table, snorts at the Buick Roadmaster out front.
Leah is eager to win her sister-in-law’s favor. “Have you seen Der Träumende Mund? You’re the spitting image of Elisabeth Bergner. Dark eyes. Dark hair. The pretty bob.”
“She was always Berko’s favorite,” Sarah adds, with no little admiration.
“You’re his dream girl,�
� Leah fawns.
Millie is uneasy with the movie star talk. She loops an affectionate arm about her husband’s middle. “He missed you terribly. He never stopped talking about you. He was so certain he’d never see you . . . ”
“But then a miracle,” Sarah says. That word again. “Miracle.”
“And what do you think of our son?” Millie draws the boy to her other side. “What do you think of our Daniel? You realize he’s the same age now as Ben was then?”
Sarah bundles her grandson away from his mother, pinches his cheeks, showers him with kisses. “Kenahora. Kenahora.”
“Tell us the story,” Leah says to her brother. “How you got away.”
Berko asks his father to come sit with them. Moshe only shakes his head.
“Never mind him, sweetheart,” Sarah says. “Tell us. Tell us your miracle.”
Ben doesn’t speak of it often. He has had no reason to. But Berko, he has never spoken of it.
He begins on the day after Sarah and Leah were taken to Kolbasin, when the Nazis and their henchmen swooped in for the Juden who had slipped between the cracks.
Some they shot dead in the market square.
Some they beat to death in the streets.
Some they shot dead in the forest.
Some they drowned in the Olszanka.
Some they buried alive in the fields.
“And the rest of us—only men now—they herded us into the old wooden shul.”
Soldiers with guns were stationed on the perimeter, flunkeys with knives and clubs and hammers and pitchforks up front.
They barred the doors.
They boarded up the windows.
And to the cheers of men and women, boys and girls—people these remnants of the shtetl had known all their lives, people who had been their friends, their neighbors, their playmates—they set the building ablaze.
Panic. Terror. Resignation. Men wept, screamed, cursed God, praised God, and begged for their lives.
Then fury, defiance, and frenzy. A rallying cry. Give them reason to hate us. Whereupon the pews and the bimah became battering rams. And anything the looters had overlooked became weapons. A menorah. Torah pointers. A Kiddish cup. And with bullets flying and fire raging and bodies dropping, they broke down the door that had been barred and broke through the windows that had been boarded up. “And as the mob fell upon us, we fell upon them with hands and fists, with tooth and claw. And we beat them back as they cut us down. And some of us, a handful of us, we made it to the forest and we made it to the river. And oh how we ran. Ran without stopping. Ran till we had nothing left. Until the we was only me. And then I ran some more.”
“To Amerika,” Leah says.
“Yes. America.”
“A miracle,” Sarah whispers. Baruch HaShem.
“I’m sorry, Papa. You know I didn’t want to leave you behind. But the smoke, the confusion. I couldn’t see, couldn’t find you. You know I tried. You know this, right? Please tell me you know this.”
Moshe stands, meets Berko’s eyes for the first time since entering the café.
“But now, Papa. Look at us now. All of us. And you, Papa. How? How is it possible?”
“How?” the old man asks. His coat is gone, his homburg nowhere to be seen.
God, it’s hot, as hot as any day anyone can remember.
Berko blinks, can’t stop, his eyes stinging as he searches the diner. For the best son a father could hope to have. For the wife who is the spitting image of Elisabeth Bergner. For the mother and the sister who survived Kolbasin. And he looks to his father, uncomprehending, as if wandering a good dream erased by bad, praying for the reality of the former, yet knowing full well what praying gets you.
“But Papa . . . ” Berko Abrams says, and Moshe only shakes his head, pulls the boy as close to him as he can, as the gunshots and cheers fill their ears, as the smoke scorches their throats and lungs, as the floorboards heave, and the flaming walls and rafters of the old synagogue on Janower Street crash down upon them.
~Variation on a Theme by Ambrose Bierce
miscellaneous notes from the time an alien came to band camp disguised as my alto sax
by Tina Connolly
—First, they’re drawn to music. and I knew that? but it’s one thing to follow #alienmusicstories about it and another to be practicing the tricky sax solo for the rachmaninoff and see one slither through your open dorm window and re-form into elvis.
—after I freaked out I asked if he could shapeshift into, like, anyone and of course I pulled up an insta of greg the cute alto sax player I’ve been crushing on every summer for forever and boom he was greg and that was, not kidding, one of the hottest things ever, almost as hot as when greg said he was gonna take me down for first sax and I said bring it and oh yeah he brought it but also I crushed him
—greg is still cute in second chair, just saying
—but <
> (that’s the alien’s name, the << >> are because it’s not aspirated it’s like the sound when you part your lips), well, <
> says he’s like an ambassador? and he wants to know everything about this planet? and honestly, it is FAR from the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard because that was definitely william-one-of-the-many-percussionists asking if I would like to play his organ, which NOPE.
—greg actually asked me sunday if he could show me some “alternate fingerings” but that was before I crushed him. so then things got a little weird I guess? because monday he was talking to becky who is last chair flute and last chair flute I don’t even.
—I maaaaybe said BOOYAH when I crushed him
—danced around him in circles
—shouted WHO’S YOUR DADDY NOW
—and I gotta admit it’s nice having <
> here, who I haven’t messed up with yet.
—so I closed my eyes and parted my lips and thought maybe I could do a good deed and help <
> learn about the planet while also discovering exactly what it was like to kiss greg, so I’d be prepared if he ever got tired of Last Chair Becky and asked me about fingerings again.
—and then <
> got all flustered and said what he really meant was could I sneak him into band practice disguised as my saxophone so he could FEEL the music? because it’s basically his alien dream okay whatevs but also I’m feeling pretty shot down here, I’m just gonna say it, first by real greg and then by alien greg.
—but <
> looked really hopeful. like maybe it had taken courage to say this to an actual human. and I get that, because there are things I want to say to greg and they also involve feeling the music, where music is 100% a euphemism
—and I said BUT MY SOLO and <
> said he’d been practicing to kenny g, so I said lol okay and then (still as greg) his voice got squeaky excited and he bounced on my bed. which, still cute, honestly.
—so <
> folded into the shape of my beloved selmer paris mark vi and I tucked him into my case and we headed to the music building. he was really heavy but hey the things you suffer for being a good earth citizen amirite
—we started in with the rachmaninoff and after we had to go back a million times for the stupid clarinets we got to my solo. and I was worried what <
> would sound like (not to mention that it is super weird to put your lips all over some alien although I guess I wasn’t so concerned when he looked like greg) but the director nodded at me and I took a deep breath and in we went.
—I nailed it.
—<
> loved it, I could tell.
—about ten bars later we stopped again because of the stupid clarinets, and greg leaned over and whispered, that was awesome. you DESERVE first chair.
—(YOU DESERVE FIRST CHAIR. HE SAID THAT.)
—soooo I may be a little competitive I admitted and he grinned in that greg way and said I like competitive and my heart leapt the way it does at the beginning of appalachian overture when the horns come in. maybe I shouldn’t have shouted BOOYAH, I offered, and greg kinda coughed and said, as long as I get to say it next summer when I kick your ass. DEAL, I said, and in a movie we would ki
ss so of course I stuck out my hand to shake. I am so smooth.
—greg looked startled, but then he shook my hand. my sax chose that moment to form a mouth on the side of my mouthpiece (freaky much) and whisper: *now go for it NOW*
—so greg, I said . . . now that I’m first chair and all. can I interest you in a late-night practice session where we work on alternate fingerings?
—greg grinned. HELL YES, he said.
Anosognosia
by John Crowley
CLOV: Do you believe in the life to come?
HAMM: Mine was always that.
—Samuel Beckett, Endgame
In the last week of May in 1959, a high-school student, John C., made a misstep at the top of the stairs of the family house on Ponader Drive in South Bend, Indiana. Perhaps it was a yellow Ticonderoga pencil that caused it, lying crosswise on the floor at the top of the steps, and perhaps he stepped on it in such a way that it rolled under his foot and threw his leg out over the first step or over the first and the second steps, whereupon he fell turning head over heels, or more exactly heels over head, to the bottom. He must have struck his head very hard at some place on the way down—on a step, on a banister, on the floor at the bottom of the stairs—for he lay there inert, his legs twisted on the lowest stairs, shoulders and head on the floor.