The Glatstein Chronicles

by Jacob Glatstein

  Shortly thereafter, a man showed up at the door, blind in one eye and with a halting walk. He carried a small casket, tied with a strap. He moved sideways, as though stealing in. Mother gave a start. The man stood helplessly by, appealing—man to man, as it were—to my father, who, wailing, brought him into the house.

  I begged my companion’s pardon for having wandered off in a trance for so long. “My mother is very sick,” I told him, as the thought suddenly struck me: Who knows? She may no longer be alive. The fields rushing by looked parched from the burning sun. An old dog barked at the train. A small, sad-faced boy waved his hat. A thick patch of woods caught a glint of the sun, shattering the light into a thousand pieces and gilding the trees.

  My companion perked up when I told him that at some point I was planning to visit the Soviet Union. “The Soviet Union?” he exclaimed, giving me a dark look. He removed his glasses, wiped them with his handkerchief, and stared at me intently. “What regards,” I asked, “in the name of an intelligent, young Pole, shall I convey to the Soviet Union?”

  He continued wiping his glasses. He spoke in measured words, but with oratorical fervor: “In the name of a substantial part of the Polish youth, tell them that we follow all that is happening in the Soviet Union with great curiosity. More than that I cannot say. Just be sure to emphasize that we are exceedingly curious, so curious that they have a moral obligation not to disappoint us. They must take care not to commit errors that would harm us and derail our progress. As a state bordering theirs, we’ll feel the brunt of their mistakes more than the rest of the world, which is far away. We’re right next door, a hand’s breadth away.”

  Suddenly, he took out his pocket watch and his face brightened. “You have only a half hour left to go, exactly thirty-two minutes, even less,” he declared, becoming increasingly excited over my imminent arrival home. “After twenty years,” he said, holding out his watch, “it’s now exactly thirty-one minutes to the fateful moment.” He kept looking out the window with growing restlessness, all the while consulting his watch, counting off the minutes. As his excitement mounted, an image took shape in my mind, of the convict in that Chekhov tale, with the wild hair and full-grown beard. Or it may have come from some piece of Chekhov reportage, or even a legend told about Chekhov. It seemed as if we were reenacting the prisoner’s story—me with my flushed face pressed against the cold window and the young Pole staring at his watch.

  The convict had just been released after ten years in Siberia and was on his way home to his mother and father. The account of his long, arduous journey, buried deep in a newspaper, so captured Chekhov’s imagination that he couldn’t get it out of his head. He followed the convict’s entire progress from city to city, studying maps and railroad timetables, until he had pinpointed the exact minute when the convict would step off the train and fall on his parents’ necks. On the day that the convict was due to arrive, Chekhov was beside himself with impatient joy. He kept taking out his pocket watch … only four hours left … two hours … one hour … half an hour … minutes. In this way Chekhov lived through the entire drama of the convict’s passage to freedom.

  “Sir, you have only two or three minutes left, if that,” my timekeeper announced.

  The train’s whistle let out a few sonorous blasts. Coming into view were, first, factory chimneys, then some isolated cottages surrounded by foliage. It was almost evening and the trim, modest dwellings reflected a sun now spent of its heat. The young Pole stood next to me in the corridor and rested a hand on my shoulder, as if seeking to lighten the gravity of the moment. There were tears in his eyes. The train began to puff more slowly. In unison with the conductor, the young Pole joyously sang out: “Lu-u-blin!”

  BOOK TWO

  Homecoming at Twilight

  Chapter 1

  1

  “Even from the gutter will I sing praises to Thee, my Lord, even from the gutter.” Supper was nearly over. A number of guests had already left the dining room. Those who were lingering on at their tables picked their teeth and nursed their glasses of tea. At one of the tables every seat was still occupied. A man in a skullcap sat at the head of it. The seven or eight other men at that table were silently listening to him, occasionally dipping a spoon into their stewed fruit without looking at it, slowly sucking and rolling the prune pits on their tongues. It was not the food they enjoyed, but the presence of the man in the skullcap. Never for a moment did they take their eyes off him.

  “Come here. Give us your opinion.” The man who was speaking caught the arm of the proprietor, who was just going by. The latter was very thin and nervous, and seemed always to be sniffing at something with his long nose. He kept a sharp eye on the room, watching the faces of his guests for the least sign of displeasure. To follow him darting about the dining room was positively dizzying. To all he would repeat as though it were a proverb: “You pay the bill; my job is to satisfy you. That’s only fair.”

  “Come here, Mr. Buchlerner, and give us your opinion,” the man in the skullcap repeated. “You have an intelligent-sounding name. My friends here say I can’t have another drink. They maintain I’ll be drunk. Do you know what I say to that?”

  The proprietor stood politely by the table, turning his head—or rather his nose—to keep tabs on the other guests in case they might require attention. He did not like to be pinned down, but the man in the skullcap was a guest, and a prominent one at that.

  “Do you know what I say to that? I say that even if I did get drunk and fell in the gutter—a respectable man, with beard and skullcap—that even from the gutter I would sing praises unto Thee, my Lord, even from the gutter!”

  “That’s very well put, sir,” Buchlerner said, nodding approval. He had just ascertained that everything was all right in the dining room. His nose stopped turning, and he gave his attention to the table. “That’s very well put. A little drink can’t do any harm. My grandfather, may his soul rest in peace, took a drink before his meals, drank with his meals, and after his meals. But you mustn’t think he ever got drunk, God forbid. Not at all—just a bit—tipsy.”

  “That settles it. Let’s you and I have a drink!” The man at the head of the table filled a glass and handed it over to the proprietor. Then he filled another for himself, and was about to speak when he saw that the proprietor had already drained his glass.

  “Heaven bless you—you don’t drink like a Jew, you drink like your grandfather!”

  Buchlerner was embarrassed. He stood there with his empty glass and everyone at the table was laughing.

  “No, no—we mustn’t drink like that, without a toast. That’s Esau’s way,” the man in the skullcap said jovially. He took the proprietor’s glass, filled it to the brim, and handed it back to him. Buchlerner stood there helpless, since the slightest move would spill some of the drink. The man in the skullcap spoke: “The trouble with us Jews is that we do not love the Lord of the universe enough.” He raised his glass very high, as if toasting someone above them. “To be sure we fear Him, we tremble with awe on Yom Kippur. But why don’t we love Him every day of the year? We ought to long for Him with every fiber in our bodies, yes, love Him really, with all our hearts.” Now he sniffed at the glass as if it were a snuff box, and took a tiny sip. Buchlerner, too, had raised his glass, higher than if he had been saying the Havdalah, but he hesitated to down it.

  “All right, so I’m going to get drunk. But even from the gutter I will sing praises unto Thee, my Lord, even from the gutter.”

  He straightened his skullcap and began to hum quietly to himself. It was impossible at first to tell the tune, until all of a sudden it emerged, melting in its sweetness. It was a haunting melody, one to carry you away. The others at the table joined in one by one. Buchlerner’s timidity was overcome. He took a sip of his drink and joined in the singing.

  The song took hold of them one after the other, until it seemed to possess a momentum of its own. Only now, when they were entranced, heads aslant, eyes half-closed, did the man i
n the skullcap say, “To your health, my friends, to your health!” And he drained his glass.

  As the singing began to die down, and the singers came out of their trance, a young man of twenty-eight or twenty-nine got up from his seat at another table and started over to them, walking with stiff, military bearing. At the same moment, a tall, sturdily built man rose at a neighboring table. He watched the young man, waiting to see what he would do. After a few resolute steps, the young man suddenly stopped, turned around and went back to his table, but did not sit down.

  “Mr. Bronski!” the tall man called. But the other pretended not to hear.

  Bronski bowed solemnly, standing by the table where he had been sitting alone. Then he walked back to the table where the singing had just stopped and addressed one of the group in elegant Polish. “In ancient Egypt the mummies used to make a terrible racket,” he said. “The only way to calm them down was to show great kindness, unusual friendliness.”

  The man whom Bronski had addressed frowned, as though the words caused him intense pain. Bronski stood, waiting for a reply. His face was oddly flushed, as though with momentary embarrassment. But the flush did not go away. He had large blue eyes, but they were veiled like blue glass covered with a mist, like a sky overcast with clouds. He seemed to be looking straight at the man he had addressed, but actually his line of vision went slightly past him.

  The man at the table felt ill at ease. He squirmed in his chair. His companions seemed somewhat puzzled. The man in the skullcap picked at crumbs on the table, conveying them to his mouth.

  The tall man who had been watching Bronski now came up to the group. He took hold of Bronski’s arm. Very firmly he turned him around to lead him out of the dining room.

  “All right, I’m coming,” Bronski said. He meekly let himself be guided.

  “That’s a real tragedy, a tragic tragedy.” Buchlerner was the first to speak. He spoke at all only to relieve the embarrassment of his guests. Addressing the man to whom Bronski had spoken, and who was obviously uncomfortable, he added: “Such a pity. He is a wealthy man, but it would have been better for him if he had never been born.” He raised his voice so that everyone in the room could still hear him, but he was only reassuring new guests who had been subjected to a scene. “His sister is staying here, too, and that big man never leaves him for a minute, though he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Still, you can never be sure about a lunatic,” said the man to whom Bronski had spoken. He had recovered his composure now. “They can be gentle as a lamb one minute, and then take a bite out of you the next.”

  “Oh, he won’t do any biting, never fear. I wouldn’t let him stay here for a minute if he were dangerous.” The proprietor was very convincing: he was not going to lose a customer. “He has been here for six weeks, and, thank God, no one has been bitten yet.”

  But the other was not so easily appeased. “We were in higher regions, and then he has come barging in with his crazy talk about Egypt. Why did he have to pick on me? Lunatics shouldn’t be allowed in the community, any more than the dead. When the light of reason goes out, a man is dead.”

  “And what about charity? Is that dead, too?” Buchlerner retorted. “If a man loses his mind, should we shoot him down like a mad dog?”

  “Who said anything about shooting? I was just thinking aloud. What I mean is that it’s a terrible thing. A bright light has gone out of the world.”

  The man in the skullcap had tried several times to get up without being noticed, but he always sat down again, aware that he was not too steady on his feet. He kept humming a little tune, although by now half his companions had left the table.

  “How about it, Mr. Steinman?” said one of the group who realized that he needed help. “Shall we go now?”

  “Aren’t you being a bit impertinent? You’re hinting that I can’t walk under my own power. Well, I’ll show you.” He got up suddenly, stood still for a moment, and then walked to the door.

  “What a man! He is truly remarkable!” said the last guest at the table. “No, Mr. Buchlerner, you don’t often meet men like that. He isn’t one of your invalids.”

  The proprietor looked off into the distance, his nose distinctly in the air. After a few moments, when he felt he had made the right impression, he put as much distaste in his voice as he dared without actually offending a guest.

  “You’re very much mistaken, sir,” he said, “if you think this is a hotel for invalids only. I want you to know that this is a place for healthy people, for anyone looking for rest and relaxation.”

  The other was not to be challenged. “I have the impression that nearly all the guests in this resort are sick. I’d say nine out of ten are sick.”

  “That is a dreadful exaggeration. People who are a bit on edge, a bit tired, come here for a rest, and the fact is, the air here is really invigorating.” Buchlerner shot out his arm in the air, closed his hand as though catching a fly. A moment later, opening his fist, he extended a bony hand as though presenting some precious stone. “Can’t you feel the fresh air? I’m sure you do—after all, you’re from the city. What we have here is not just ordinary air, like anywhere else. Not on your life! You have to come here to breathe air like this. Just drink it in—it’s like champagne! It’s not just refreshing—it revives the dead.”

  The two girls clearing the table were the proprietor’s daughters. They moved as silently and efficiently as when they served dinner. Buchlerner occasionally said something to them, but they never as much as looked at him, and it was impossible to say whether they were following orders or ignoring him. They did not even speak to each other.

  A young Gentile girl came in to help them. She was tall and slender in her bare feet, and a smile flickered in her eyes. It was difficult to guess what the smile said. There was mockery in it, arrogance, and provocation, plus a good deal of peasant shrewdness. Her feet were dirty, and though she wore no shoes, when she moved the house shook. Glasses on the tables danced, but she moved around all the more vigorously, as though enjoying the stir she created.

  When I went out, I found that there was indeed a little breeze. While far from champagne, as Mr. Buchlerner had claimed, it was refreshing. Guests peacefully digesting their supper sat on a large porch that ran around the building. They had moved from the table to the porch, apparently too lazy even to walk down the few steps from the porch to the small strip of lawn. The narrow walk from the hotel to the street was lined with recently planted trees. Even that was occupied by rocking chairs—very much in action, as though agitated by the same breeze. Many of the men and women on the chairs were corpulent, and it was something of a surprise to see them rocking so delicately. A low trellised gate served as entrance to the three-story hotel from the street.

  Steinman, the man who had been at the head of the table, was pacing back and forth on the porch, followed by several women. He had taken off his skullcap. His thick gray hair was mussed, but as he walked, the breeze blew it back into place. He held his head proudly, setting off his well-groomed silvery beard. His coat was thrown over his shoulder like a cape, and he carried a stick. With the women following him, he looked like a sultan. When he spoke everyone in the hotel could hear him.

  “Father is letting himself go,” said a stout middle-aged woman with a sad face.

  The woman next to her rocked a little faster. “He is a handsome man,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to look at him.”

  “All in all he’s not too healthy. He has kidney trouble, and rheumatism, too,” Steinman’s daughter said.

  The other woman stopped rocking for a moment. “Is that so? You’re supposed to be able to tell from the way they look, but he looks perfectly fine.”

  “He’s a sick man. I have to look after him, and see that he gets his sleep. Let me tell you, I have my hands full at night, when my own back is aching too. He has to take his pills and he never wants to go to bed. If he had his own way, he’d be on his feet forty-eight hours a day.”

  “Oh my,
he is a handsome man,” the other went on. “Old people should always look like that,” she added wistfully.

  “Papa!” Steinman’s daughter called.

  “At me to go to bed already?”

  “Not yet, Papa, but soon.” Then, turning to her acquaintance: “He took one drink too many tonight, and he’ll pay for it, too. The trouble with him is that he gives everyone else sunshine, while I get the clouds and the rain.” She spoke as though to herself, with a note of reproach.

  Steinman stopped in front of his daughter and raised his stick as if to strike her. “I’ll use this on you, if you try to send me to bed with the chickens again. Tonight I mean to go to the park, listen to the music, and look at the pretty girls. Do you want me to spend my time with these old women?”