Gables Court

by Alan S. Kessler

He snapped his head back.

  “Your parents…”

  “In their bedroom.”

  “What about Benjamin?” Samuel glanced at the stairs.

  “He’s definitely not interested in what we’re doing!” Rachel unbuttoned her blouse and waited. Samuel touched one of her small round breasts, then the other. She guided his hand down her jeans.

  He stood up.

  “What’s wrong?” Rachel asked. “Have I embarrassed you? I’m sorry, Samuel. I just thought…”

  “Rachel, you’re great. Everything here is. Your parents treat me like family. I really enjoyed talking to Benjamin, he’s so smart. We all ate together. Tonight was a lot of fun.”

  “You mean now it’s over.”

  “I have to be in the office early tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is when I am leaving. Will I see you again?”

  “Sure, we can get together the next time you are in Miami.”

  “Would you visit me in New York?”

  “I could. I’ll check my schedule.”

  Rachel buttoned her blouse.

  “It’s OK, you don’t have to pretend anymore. I have a lot of gay friends.”

  “That’s what you think? That I’m a homosexual?”

  “You’re not?”

  Samuel saw the vulnerability, the look in Rachel’s eyes of a woman who had exposed her heart. He knew what she felt.

  “Guess I didn’t hide it very well,” he said.

  Rachel hugged him, this time the embrace of a sister, arms only, her body not touching his. They shook hands at the door.

  On the drive home Samuel wondered why he didn’t love Rachel. She wanted to love him. They could have married, had children, lived a nice life together, her parents calling him son.

  Maybe I am gay.

  Or maybe Lovely cursed me, not the house.

  The next time he went to swim at his office building Fanny, and her gaggle of blue-haired grandmothers bobbing with her in the pool gave, him the evil eye. Unfamiliar with Jewish superstition, Samuel didn’t know that to protect himself against granny malevolence he had to spit on his fingers three times.

  He left and never swam there again.

  8

  Samuel drove past Leo Damour’s boarded up house and at the end of the street parked and gazed out at the starlit waters of the bay.

  You’d given me a key. When I went inside and saw you lying on the couch, your arm dangling toward the floor, I thought you had died.

  “Leo…” I bent over you.

  “Dead,” you whispered and opened your eyes.

  “I’m calling an ambulance.”

  You lifted your hand, lightly touched mine.

  “Don’t make me beat the shit out of you. This is my home. I’m staying right here. Did you bring matches? Don’t look surprised. I told you what I was going to do. OK, maybe it’s a bad idea. Might catch other houses on fire. Take this.” You handed me a small piece of paper. “I like to plan ahead. That’s the name of the funeral home. Everything’s arranged. Instead of torching this place, I’m making it simple. They only have to burn me. I’m looking forward to it. Wonder why?”

  “No more pain?”

  “No more ugliness! I’ll be part of a beautiful fire, then my ashes will rise purified into the sky!” Eyes shiny, you pushed yourself up, fell back onto your pillow.

  “Where’s your medicine?” I asked.

  “Took it and I have lots more. If you want to do something, bring me a pizza. The Hawaiian kind. I love pineapple.”

  “I’ll go—”

  “No, fuck it. It’s too late now. I’ve been thinking. A mother is important. I’ve decided mine did the best she could. I forgive her. Do you love yours?”

  “Yes…”

  You laughed softly.

  “Maybe in life we learn only one truth. I’ll tell you mine, Baas. Accept love when it’s given. Call the funeral home tomorrow. Now leave, and don’t come back.”

  I did what you asked, except for your last request. Two days later, I used the house key and again inside the gallery, cut Hector from his frame.

  At the funeral parlor, I wanted to lean close and say good-bye. Instead, when the mortician opened the casket and placed the rolled-up painting inside, I turned and walked away. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Not to see you?

  Back in your home, I sat on the couch, ate Hawaiian pizza and drank tea while listening for you.

  You told me. A mother is important. I tried for tenderness with Mrs. Pindergast and failed.

  You said I should accept love. I didn’t, and Rachel left.

  Are you out there, again beautiful and bright?

  Can you hear this, my prayer?

  If so, please forgive my loneliness.

  I hope Hector is with you and the picnic again set, this time under the stars.

  Part III

  Starry Night

  1

  “A policeman came to my door. He asked my name and gave me this.” Bald and broad shouldered, his black, woolen suit smelling of moth balls, the elderly man handed his papers across the desk.

  “He was probably from the Marshall’s office,” Samuel said after reading the caption. “This is a lawsuit brought by the government for denaturalization. That means—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Baas. I understand. They want to send me back to Russia.” Behind dark framed glasses, his blue eyes glinted. The anger quickly gone, Kyrlo Gleba’s face again became pleasantly bland.

  “Deportation would require another hearing. They first have to prove this case. It says here you omitted material information when you applied for immigration as a displaced person.

  “It says that. It’s not true.”

  “What did you do in World War II, Mr. Gleba?”

  “I am from the Ukraine. After the Germans invaded, the Soviets drafted me into the army. I was captured and sent to a POW camp. They didn’t feed the prisoners. Instead of starving, I volunteered to work. I drove a tractor and guarded potatoes. People were hungry. There was a lot of stealing.”

  “The government claims you were a concentration guard at Treblinka.”

  “They believe a liar. His name is Viktor Yarema. He publishes a newspaper in Chicago called the Ukrainian Post. He’s a blackmailer and a spy. A year ago, he sent me a list of people he claims helped the SS. My name was on it. I called and told him he had made a mistake. He agreed to do more research but it would cost me $5,000. I said I couldn’t pay that and he hung up. Now I have this big problem, all because of him and the KGB.” Gleba slowly closed his large hand into a fist.

  “Soviet Security?”

  “They are the ones behind it. Yarema is their pigeon. Is that the right word?”

  “You mean stool pigeon?”

  “They pull the strings and he jumps, but not before trying to take my money! I escaped from the Germans and joined the ROA. In English, that’s the Russian Liberation Army. We wanted to fight Stalin. When the war ended those of us who could make it to the West, surrendered to the Americans. They turned us over to the Russians. I got away, worked in Germany for awhile, decided I should come to this great country. I met my wife, Olena, in a displaced persons camp. We immigrated to Chicago in 1948. I was a mechanic for thirty-two years, raised a family and never had any trouble until now. The government should go after the real criminals, not let the Russians drag me back.”

  “I’m not sure I understand all this,” Samuel said. “Why would the Soviet Union want you deported?”

 
“Membership in the ROA is a death sentence,” Gleba answered. “There’s a noose waiting for me in Moscow. Lies are a terrible thing, Mr. Baas. This one is very hurtful, to say about me, of all people, that I was a concentration camp guard! In the Ukrainian village where I lived I got along with the Jews. Many were my friends! Our land is black dirt. It can grow anything, yet during the Holodomor, the great famine, many starved. I was hungry, but I shared with my Jewish friends the little food I had. Only when the Germans came did all the Jews die. I was in the army, but I heard what happened. The SS didn’t do the killing. A lie did. The Germans said the Jews had been plotting with the Bolsheviks to rule the Ukraine. It saddens me to say it, but many in my village already believed this. They gathered the Jews together. That was the end.”

  Samuel had another headache. Over the last nine years he had learned immigration law, advocating for his clients within a known area of certitude: non-immigrants with wealthy sponsors received au pair, business, and exchange visitor vistas; family members of U.S. citizen became residents; all Cubans fleeing Castro were considered political refugees and granted asylum; all Haitians were sent back to Haiti, the courts finding they had left for economic reasons, not because of the murderous Tonton Macoute.

  Caseload and trips to the newly opened Krome Avenue Detention Center where he met with his Haitian clients kept him working late. At home in his small condo he drank and went to bed early. He had an orderly, structured life, even his headaches part of the routine. He got them when working on asylum requests for Haitians or, after the inevitable denial of the appeal, when he visited Krome to tell his client awaiting deportation good-bye.

  Mr. Gleba might also be deported but unlike the Haitians there was a chance his case could be won. This increased the pressure. Samuel squeezed his forehead.

  “Are you alright?” Gleba asked.

  “Thank you, I’m fine. The problem is I’ve never handled a petition for denaturalization. You’d be better off finding an attorney experienced in this area.”

  “Are there any? Lawyers for people the Russians and a liar call war criminals? I read about you in the newspaper, Mr. Baas. You fight for those black people.”

  “Haitians,” Samuel said. “There are other attorneys doing the same.”

  “But they wrote about you. And I can pay.” He placed a check on the desk.

  Samuel glanced at the amount.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gleba, I can’t accept this. Even if I decide to represent you, $5000 is much more than I would charge. I have no intention of taking your savings.”

  “Do I look like a poor man?” Gleba’s good-natured laugh made the flicker of coldness across his eyes almost unnoticeable.

  “No sir, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that you told me you couldn’t pay Mr. Yarema.”

  “Did I say that? It’s my English again! I meant wouldn’t. Why should I give my money to a thief? My honor is worth more to me than those few dollars.” He waved his hand dismissively at the check. “All a man has is his good name. Help me, Mr. Bass. It would be, as your people say, a mitzvah. Is that the right word?”

  “I’ve heard it before,” Samuel answered.

  “Maybe I am not so stupid with my language!” and Gleba grinned.

  Samuel put the check inside his desk drawer, winced as Gleba reached over and with a tight grip shook hands.

  “Thank you! God Bless! I know my Olena is now smiling down at us! We were married over thirty years. She came from strong peasant stock, like me!” He thumped his chest. “She cooked, cleaned, was a good woman. Never sick. Never needed a doctor until she did. Then it was too late. The cancer got her. She passed away two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Samuel said.

  “Did I mention her sharp tongue and temper? She once hit me on the head with a frying pan!”

  “Do you have any children?”

  “A daughter. Nadya.”

  “Does she live with you?”

  “She has her own life.”

  “Have you told her about this lawsuit?”

  “No.”

  “Where was she born?”

  “In Chicago. We went there from Germany.”

  “She’s a citizen by birth and not affected by what happens in your case. But the government might try and contact her. It would be better if I spoke to her first. What’s Nadya’s address?”

  “I don’t know,” Gleba answered. “We never got along. She thought I didn’t treat her mother right. How can a child understand what is between a husband and wife?”

  “I need to talk to her,” Samuel said. “It’s important.”

  “You are the lawyer. I will do what you say.” Gleba folded his arms.

  “When did you move to Florida?”

  “Last year. I had to get away. Too many memories.”

  “Your address is Miami Beach.”

  “Yes, a hotel on South Beach. The hallways are so dark and narrow, I’m always afraid of tripping over someone’s walker or cane! I feel sorry for the old people in the building. They live on social security. No one visits. I try and help them as much I can.”

  “Why do you stay there?” Samuel asked.

  “With Jews?” Gleba immediately sat straighter. “No, you didn’t mean that. How stupid of me! The foolish talk of an old man who remembers too much! There are voices from the past. I don’t want to hear them, yet they whisper. ‘The Jews hate us.’ ‘The Jews want to be our king.’ King? The fat baker Podolia who, when I was a child, gave me a piece of warm bread every morning? The shoemaker who fixed the hole in my boot? The lie was inside us. The Germans stirred it up. Crazy talk can become part of your brain. I hope you forgive me.”

  “You survived the war and built a new life,” Samuel said. “That is what I know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Baas! You understand! This is a special country, a melting kettle. In the Ukraine if someone new comes to a village the first question we ask is about his people. Who are yours? You are Jewish, but where were you born?”

  “Massachusetts.”

  “Wonderful! Another reason why you should be my lawyer! I know my United States history. In Massachusetts they fought the British for freedom. Fighting for others is in your blood! It is always the blood. Who we are. What we do. I am very happy with you. We are both Americans!”

  Samuel blinked, the light hurting his eyes. “Is there anyone who can verify your story?”

  “You mean say I am a good man? Just ask my neighbors in Chicago! Or those I worked for! They will tell you.”

  “What I need are witnesses who know what you did after being captured by the Germans.”

  “There are many,” Gleba said. “Those in the ROA.”

  “That’s going to help.” Samuel took out his legal pad. “May I have their names?”

  “What use are dead men, Mr. Baas?”

  Samuel put his pen down.

  “I’ll call this Mr. O’Malley, the U.S. attorney representing the government, and see if he’ll meet with me. Maybe something can be worked out.”

  “Is that possible? I pray it will happen! Do I have to be there?”

  “No, it’s best if I keep the meeting informal, just a discussion between lawyers.”

  “Very smart! I don’t want to go near that building. There is a Ukrainian proverb: in a mousetrap only the cheese is free. Do you enjoy sweets?”

  “Yes…”

  “What kind?”

  “I haven’t had them in awhile…chocolate chip cookies …”

  “You are an American!” Gleba laughed and took a candy from his jacket pocket. “I want you to tr
y this.” With thick fingers, he carefully untwisted the cellophane and protecting the desk, placed the piece in the center of its wrapper. Using a penny knife, he neatly sliced the chocolate covered prune in two.

  “Thank you,” Samuel said, and ate his half. “Very good.”

  Eyes half-closed, Gleba let the chocolate dissolve in his mouth. He slowly chewed the fruit.

  “Ukrainian, Mr. Baas!” he said when finished. “A sweet way to end our important talk!” Gleba stood, Samuel quickly followed. They again shook hands, the old man’s grip still enveloping, but softer.

  After Gleba left, Samuel took a few aspirins and head down wished he could block out the sunlight through his window. Over the years he had learned how to speak to clients and represent them professionally but he knew this was playacting in a world too serious for someone who once saw colors and still read action comics where good defeated evil and in the romance ones, people fell in love.

  I have to work. Daniel’s at Krome. Now there’s Mr. Gleba…

  He opened a law book and slumped in his chair, began rereading the section on deportation.

  “Are you OK, son?” the large man asked, coming into the room. Red-haired, ruddy-faced, his nose slightly off center, James Sullivan put his hand on Samuel’s shoulder.

  “I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

  “You’re working too hard! That’s the problem!” Sullivan went to the window. “Look out there! The weather’s perfect. The beach is full of so many beautiful women even I have a chance!” He turned toward Samuel. “You’re young. We’ve got this great office on Miami Beach. I don’t swim, you know that, but I like getting a drink at the pool’s bar. I heard the old women up there trying to fix you up.”

  “Not anymore,” Samuel said.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t have gone for it either. God knows what those granddaughters look like! But you can’t be a monk.”

  “I’ve dated. Nothing came of it.”

  “That’s because you haven’t met the right girl. Are you looking? No. You’re thinking about the Haitians. You can’t live your life for them. It used to be different. You know that. They could settle here, form a community. Now if they’re lucky enough to escape Haiti and not drown, the government ships them back. You try to help them. I respect that. Hell, that’s why I asked you to share office space with me. I thought you deserved to practice law in a better place than that dump you rented. Had to twist your arm, convince you your old clients would drive across the causeway. It’s worked out. You still have them and your asylum petitions but can make money with the immigration cases I refer you. Those people pay.”