“So when I begin to ship the merchandise … here to Atlanta or to Charleston or Miami, maybe even to Chicago —”
“I’m going to stop you there, Abe. Not to be rude of course. Only for clarification. You have to understand, this isn’t for Chicago.” Hirsch shook his head vigorously, his hands up for emphasis. “No Chicago … Chicago, Cleveland, anything north of Richmond. We have to understand this from the start. You draw your lines, you stick to them, and you put enough money in your pocket to make yourself more than happy. Now, if this was booze or textiles or fruit —”
“Fruit?”
“Sure. Fruit is big, very big, trust me. You don’t want to go near peaches, God forbid plums. Then every union boss up to Boston would be down here quicker than you’d care to know. But you’re smart, you picked something small, specialized, coming in from Europe — even better. It’s not worth it to them, as long as they don’t find out. This part of the world, it’s pishers, Abe … believe me … small potatoes. You’re a pisher, which is nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of money as long as you play it smart. My job — I help you play it smart. Then we all make a lot of money.”
Jesler was beginning to feel uneasy, but with a man like Hirsch in his back pocket — or he in Hirsch’s, he didn’t fully know — maybe the boys up the coast would see things differently, especially when it came to all those “extras.”
Hirsch said, “And you’re sure these Irish know how to handle the import people? Maybe I help them there a little, too. What do you think?”
Jesler said, “So how many other folks in Atlanta do what you do?”
Hirsch looked mildly disappointed. “Abe, you want I should get you a list of references? I’m the only game in town.”
“You misunderstand me, Meyer. I want to make sure that no one else down here feels deprived, someone who might be inclined to send information up north to those unions boys out of spite.”
Jesler saw a moment of caution in Hirsch’s eyes, then something he wasn’t expecting: respect. Hirsch said, “That’s smart. Very smart. And careful.” Hirsch nodded as if he’d just convinced himself of something. “Good. I’ll need six hundred up front to get things going.”
The sudden shift caught Jesler off guard. “Six hundred?” he repeated.
“What — we’re not wasting each other’s time, are we, Abe?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You sure?”
For the first time, Jesler felt the threat from across the desk. Where the hell was he going to get another six hundred dollars?
“Because I’d hate for you to see the whole thing go up in smoke. I’m the only game in town, Abe, and I happen to know everything about what you want to be doing. Believe me. You’ve worked it beautifully on your end. I’m very impressed. Putting merchandise like that on your shelves, distributing the rest throughout the region. Very nice. Clean. But keeping things quiet on something like that, especially when it’s coming in from the coast, that takes organization, planning. Someone goes talking … You see what I’m saying?”
Jesler wasn’t sure whether to appreciate or blanch at Hirsch’s directness.
“Six hundred,” said Jesler. “So when do you need it?”
Goldah followed a man named Hilliard into a narrow office on the third floor of the new post office building, the State Department’s home in Atlanta. Jesler had agreed to wait outside.
The place held no surprises, all of it stark and in keeping with Hilliard’s creased lines and gray suit. Hilliard asked if Goldah wanted water, Goldah declined, and Hilliard sat. He opened a drawer and removed a single file. He seemed to hesitate before looking across at Goldah.
“I’m afraid we’ve had no choice in this, Mr. Goldah, so I apologize if any of it becomes uncomfortable for you. As I said, we simply need your help, nothing more.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” Hilliard opened the file. “You’re here because of a Miss Malke Posner. Am I pronouncing the name correctly?”
Goldah was staring down at the file, the letters upside down. He had the sudden thought that he might never catch his breath again. But he did and looked across at Hilliard.
Hilliard said, “Why don’t I get you that water.”
Goldah drank deeply. Hilliard refilled the glass and Goldah drank again.
Hilliard said, “I’m guessing from your reaction I’m pronouncing it correctly.”
Goldah set the glass on the desk and found his voice. “Yes.”
“You were close to Miss Posner before the war?”
Goldah stared at Hilliard’s face and his neatly parted hair, the lines around the eyes and the small discoloration near the ear. Hilliard’s lips were thin and pale, and Goldah thought he smelled a woman’s soap beneath the tang of the cigarettes. But there was nothing feminine to Hilliard, nothing smooth to the face or narrow in the fingers. The knuckles were red and meaty, and the hands looked as if they had held things that men were meant to hold. For Goldah, though — in this place, now — he saw another face, one he had told himself, time and time again, he must learn to forget …
She is small, smaller than he, her skin fine, not like a doll’s but soft in a way that the other girls envy. They say she can pass for a non-Jew, her hair light, her nose close above the lips, and her eyes a light blue that makes them seem distant. She stares up at him as the train slows. He sees the cold on her skin and the redness in her cheeks. He has cried as well, and he stands with his brother who is staring out through a small crack in the wood. The train slows and his only hope is that it will find speed again, better that than the stopping. The light is now so white and so bare through the cracks, and she steps into him as the train lurches to a stop.
The swill of the shit pail splashes to the boards and there is a need to speak, to say farewell, to look at the others packed so tightly in and say what no one has said for all these days locked inside. Farewell. No fear, only farewell.
The door opens with a crash and the light is somehow less bright. There is barked German in the ear, beyond it a vast platform with reflectors, and still she is with him. Luggage here, luggage afterward. They, the two, stand outside, everything now silent as men of the SS march about as if waiting for the next train, easy questions in barked German — How old? Healthy or ill? — and everyone is healthy but still there are two ways to go, and she is told to the left toward the sound of the water, pulled from him to go to the left, while he must stand in a line and look down. Together again afterward, they are told, together with the calm assurance of simple duty and everyday life. Afterward, they say. And he marches, she now behind him and gone, and he tells himself to feel more but he is already one of the lucky few who knows he does not.
“You were close?”
Hilliard repeated the question. He was a decent man, not a Jew, but he had learned to show the necessary sensitivity during the last few years.
“Yes,” Goldah said, “we were close.”
“So you recognize the name?”
“I do.”
“She was deported with you?”
“Yes.”
Hilliard marked something down. He now expected the usual line of questions: Had they found something of hers? Did she have relatives here? Had a family member survived?
“Is she alive?” said Goldah.
The question caught Hilliard by surprise. He hesitated. “Why do you ask that?”
“Because it’s the only question that matters.”
Hilliard had never heard things presented so plainly. He was accustomed to passing on information, to console or to advise cautious optimism. Yitzhak Goldah was asking for none of these. “I suppose that’s true,” Hilliard said. Goldah remained silent and Hilliard added, “It’s not exactly clear.”
“Not clear that she’s alive?”
“Not clear that the woman in question is Miss Posner.”
There was a moment before Goldah said, “I see. And why is that?”
“There’s been some memory
loss, physical scarring. It’s not clear the woman is who she says she is.”
“Is this common?”
“It does happen from time to time.”
“Is she in the United States?”
“She’s in a sanatorium in Virginia. Miss Posner has relatives there.”
“The Lubecks,” said Goldah, surprising them both with the speed of his answer. “I met them. Once. They visited Prague before the war. Do they think this woman is Malke?”
“They saw her only the one time. They believe she is.”
“You mean they hope she is.”
Hilliard tried to read Goldah but there was nothing in the eyes. “I don’t mean to sound presumptuous, Mr. Goldah, but I was expecting something of a stronger reaction.”
Goldah continued to stare across at him. “I’ll take another glass of the water, if I may.”
Hilliard poured it out and watched as Goldah drank. “We have a photograph,” Hilliard said, “if you’d care to see it.”
Hilliard leafed through several pages before arriving at a large black-and-white photo. He slid it across the desk and let Goldah take it.
“He seemed like a good man.”
Jesler was the first to break the silence. They were in the elevator where an older black man stood at the lever and watched as the numbers on the brass plate lit their descent.
“If it’s something we need to talk about,” Jesler said, “you let me know.”
Goldah nodded. They reached the first floor and the man placed his large hand across the metalwork gate and pulled it open.
Goldah knew he would have to tell Jesler something: a name, someone from the camp, anything. It was so much easier to find a fiction than to think of that photograph, the paleness even in black and white, and the emptiness. Was it her? He had known her face so well, and now he couldn’t say. He truly couldn’t. The hair was so thin, the color gone, the nose not hers, and the dip along the cheeks … Why ask this of him? Wasn’t it enough to carry his own helplessness, to see it in his own eyes? Now to have hers. It was too much. Didn’t the future have to be more than a shared hollowness?
5
“IT’S THESE goddamned Micks at the docks.”
Jesler sat at his desk, tucked in behind the shelves and the shoes. He was on the phone when Goldah stepped through with a cup of coffee. It was Thursday and all hell had broken loose.
“No, I don’t want you to worry about that,” Jesler continued into the phone. Goldah hesitated and Jesler waved him over. “He’ll be there Monday with the small truck and I’ll let you have twenty-five … Yes, twenty-five boxes.” Goldah set the coffee on the desk and Jesler nodded his thanks. “It’s what came in, it’s what we’ve got … No, just ignore all that … No, I don’t know who would have been calling … Okay … Okay … Yes we’ll square all that … No, not to worry … Okay … And mine to Louise.”
Jesler hung up and took a quick sip of the coffee. His shirt collar was open and damp through, the tie loose, and there was an empty glass on the ledge behind him that looked as if it had held whiskey. Jesler pulled a bottle from the bottom drawer and poured some into his coffee.
“You want a drink?” he said and took another sip.
“It’s a bit early.”
“You know I had four calls at home on Saturday. Four. They call on a Saturday because they know it’s going to put me in a position, and they can say, ‘Well, you picked up the phone, it can’t be a problem if you’re doing business on a Saturday.’ And of course I’m doing business on a Saturday when they’re talking about some fella in Jacksonville and maybe moving the whole distribution down there.” He tipped another splash of the whiskey into his cup and put the bottle away. “Jesus.” He took another drink. “What am I supposed to do — not pick up? Let them tell me today, ‘Well, we didn’t hear from you so we didn’t think you were taking it that seriously,’ so of course I have to pick up. And then Pearl gives me that look.”
Jesler was still thinking things through when Goldah said, “I’m sorry.”
Jesler looked over and shook it off. “No, nothing to be sorry about. These things happen. Anyway — you doing okay? I hear you’re taking out a young lady.”
It took Goldah a moment to respond. He hadn’t seen or talked to Eva since Saturday. And there was still the matter of the chat with her mother.
“Am I?” he said.
“Be careful,” said Jesler. “Pearl overreacts but she’s not far wrong. It’s a different kind of thing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good.” Jesler pushed himself up. “No one’s been by the store, have they? I mean asking questions, that sort of thing, when I haven’t been here?”
Goldah shook his head.
“Good.” Jesler tightened his tie and smoothed back his hair. “We’re getting some more inventory in today. Make sure Calvin tells Raymond he’ll need to be here by five thirty. You can cut out early. Get yourself a new tie for your young lady friend.” Jesler pulled the jacket from the back of his chair and put it on. “All seriousness, Ike, be careful there. That isn’t going to work the way you think it is.”
Calvin was standing by the far doorway. It was clear he had been there for some time.
Jesler looked over. “What is it?”
“You got someone here, Mr. Jesler.”
“The sign says lunch, Calvin. Tell them we’ll be back in half an hour.”
“They got badges, Mr. Jesler. They ain’t here for no shoes.”
“What kind of badges?”
“Just badges.”
“Well are they police or government?” Jesler said sharply. “What kind?”
Calvin shrugged. “Maybe government, suh. They was real quick with them.”
Jesler stood staring across at nothing in particular. Finally he said, “You tell them I’ll be right out.” Jesler tried a careless smile for Goldah but there was too much care in it. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to see what they want. Why don’t you stay back here.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No need. You wait here.”
“How about I come with you?”
“There’s nothing to this, Ike. Trust me.”
“I’m not sure you believe that.”
“Whether I believe it or not, no point in having you talked to by some men with badges. I think you’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”
Goldah had thought this pride or fear, but all Jesler was trying to do was protect him.
Goldah said, “I think I’ll take my chances.”
Two men were waiting in the store, brown suits and shoes, hats in hand, and the same kind of cheap government tie knotted too tightly at the neck. They were carbon copies of each other, tall and gaunt, except the one at the counter wore a pair of wire-rim glasses that pinched at his ears behind his thinning black hair. The other stood hovering over the men’s Italian shoes, his narrow nose dangerously close to the leather. Calvin was keeping an eye on him.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Jesler said. “This is my associate, Mr. Goldah.” Jesler moved to the counter. “You can head back and finish those boxes now, Calvin.”
“Yes, suh.”
All four watched as Calvin moved slowly through the curtain and into the back.
The man with the glasses was the first to speak. “Mr. Jesler?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Abraham Jesler?”
“Yes. Abraham Jesler. What is it I can do for you gentlemen?”
“We’re here —”
“I believe I heard there were badges,” Jesler said easily. “If I could?”
The men pulled them out. They were from the Ports Authority. Jesler glanced at them. “Excellent. Thank you. Now what is it I can help you with?”
The man with the glasses brought out a small pad. “Just a few routine questions,” he said. He scanned the pages as he began to leaf through. “You have occasion to use the Ocean Terminal on West River Street for the receipt of shipments, is t
hat right?”
“I do.”
“And you also have a depository in one of the warehouses?”
“Yes, as does every other businessman in Savannah. What is this about?”
“And you’ve had occasion to use them” — the man stopped on a page and read — “since June of 1942?”
“That sounds about right.”
The man looked up from his pad. “Are you aware there was a recent theft of goods from a warehouse within the same block and sector as the one you’re currently using?”
“I wasn’t. No.”
“We just want to make sure there hasn’t been anything suspicious that you might have seen during one of your trips to the port. Anything that might have seemed out of place.”
Jesler studied the man’s face for a moment. “And what kind of goods were taken?”
“I’m afraid that’s not information we can provide at this time.”
Jesler continued to hold the man’s gaze. “I don’t recall anything out of place. It’s just me and two of my employees who go out with a truck during the day.”
“The boy we just saw — he’s one of those employees?”
Both knew it was an unnecessary question. “He is. Yes.”
“I’ll need his full name and address.”
“And why would you need that?”
“Is that a problem?”
Jesler waited a moment too long before giving him Calvin’s information.
“And the other?”
He gave him Raymond’s as well.
The man flipped his pad shut and put it back in his pocket. “Well, you’ve been very helpful, Mr. Jesler. And I hope we didn’t alarm you in any way. As I said, just routine. Of course, if you do hear of anything, don’t hesitate to get in touch.” The man pulled a card from his jacket pocket. “That’s my office.”
Jesler took it.
When the two reached the door, Jesler said, “If you see Harry Cohan down at the port office, you give him my best. He’s an old friend.”
The man with the glasses waited, then said, “I’m afraid I don’t know Mr. Cohan personally, but I certainly will if I see him.”
Among the Living Page 9