Pavel, we can have the party today and the wedding tomorrow. Or someone else—we don’t need a rabbi—
Absolutely not! Who ever heard of the party first? Hinda is getting married today, and by this rabbi, if I have to kill him.
You will not kill anyone. Fela’s voice rolled flat, exhausted. Now is not for killing, Pavele. She pulled him down to the sofa, smoothing her dark blue skirt. Please, Pavel. Now is for thinking.
They sat in silence. Pavel was shaking. Fela’s hand was rubbing his arm while she whispered at him: Shh. Shh. Now is for thinking. So? Let us think.
SIMA THOUGHT HER MOUTH would make steam when she exhaled, but she was wrong. It was strange: in the hardest winter of her childhood, her breath had come out of her mouth like smoke from a chimney, white clouds that took more than a moment to vanish. But here, where everything was heat, the perspiration on her skin, the tears in her eyes, even her burning hair, her mouth could not make steam. She told her mother of her discovery—but her mother lay still, her face toward the corner of the sheet that separated them from the others, the coolest part of the oven. It had been three months in the barracks already, and in that time the health Sima’s mother had regained in the camp hospital had faded. She spent the painful August afternoons half-undressed, a wet cloth across her head and another on her neck. She was weak, her father said to Sima, very weak, and Sima was to be quiet around her, not to move so much, not to generate more heat in their small space.
Sima rinsed her mouth and swallowed from the container of potable water her father had brought for them at dawn. She stepped outside the sheet that sheltered their possessions and climbed down the barracks steps. She knew where to find her father. He had a card game that began in the late afternoons, when the men would emerge from the shade of their dwellings. Some of them had been in the refugee camp six months, nine months, a year, trapped behind the barbed wire that surrounded the low buildings.
It’s Berele’s daughter, someone said. Coming to help her father win.
I need the help, said Berel. Believe me.
Sima believed him. His worn blue shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, and his undershirt was yellow with dirt and sweat. But he concentrated on the damp cards in his hand. A red queen, a seven of spades. Sima was seven. She smiled.
Don’t give me away, said Berel. Under the metal table he crossed his feet: a good hand.
Our mother is resting, Sima said, to no one in particular. She is weak.
Sshh! Sima! said Berel.
Our mother, chuckled a man at the table. There it is, Berele. Still tied to your mammele. She loves you to play cards, mm?
A man does not let his wife stop his leisure, said Berel. He put down his hand: three queens, a row of spades, three kings. Aha! You see?
Sima watched him grinning, happy.
Now have your mother tell me our luck hasn’t changed, Berel chuckled. Hmm, Simale? If this doesn’t tell her, what does?
It’s the boy teacher, a man said. Sima turned around. Chaim walked with a quick thin step in spite of the heat, dressed in a slim blue suit. He looked different outside of the classroom, bigger and more sure. She backed into her father’s arms, flushed with sudden shyness. He came toward them.
Pan Makower, he said. I would like to ask you a favor.
BEREL HAD NOT FOUND another opportunity for office work, but now that he had an assignment in the camp kitchens, he could convince Dvora that he had the luxury to sing on the Sabbath. She did not give too great an argument. Perhaps she was relieved that he had accepted a bit of religion, this late in life. He sang at the large Sabbath services at the Roundhouse and once performed Yiddish folk tunes at the close of a short concert in the camp.
He came into his family space in the barracks to tell Dvora of Chaim’s offer. A Jewish wedding outside the camp confines. A man who wanted a traditional service, a cantor’s voice, of course Berel was not officially a cantor, but who worried about such things now? He would first discuss it with them at the Roundhouse, and of course all three of them would go. Unless Dvora felt too ill, and he would just take Sima—
Dvora interrupted, sitting up, her forehead damp. Who gets married? she asked. The man and woman who live there?
No, said Berel. I believe it is the man’s sister.
Ah, so this Mandl is already married to the woman.
Perhaps, nodded Berel. But he had asked Chaim the same question, and the boy had continued talking about the sister. Yes, I believe so.
Dvora blinked. He knew what the blink meant: some kind of scandal there. But she would measure in one hand a bit of scandal and in the other the opportunity to see a real home. Berel knew which hand would come out the winner.
I must change my shirt, said Berel. We will go now, I suppose. It’s a long way.
A long way? We will have someone drive us! Dvora looked offended. We won’t walk there, like peasants. If we are a cantor’s family, we are a cantor’s family.
I should go with the boy to the Roundhouse first. They brought the contract with them.
Can I come? Sima grasped at Berel’s sleeve. I want to go to the Roundhouse again.
Berel frowned. No, you stay here with your mother.
Bring her, said Dvora. It will make an impression. And I need time to get dressed.
Sima wiped her mother’s face with a towel.
Good girl, said Dvora. But don’t let your father leave without me.
A SAD ARMY THEY were, Pavel Mandl and the pink-faced man who wished to be his brother-in-law, his thin friend Marek, and Chaim, the boy teacher’s assistant from Sima’s class. Dressed neatly, hair slick, eyes haggard. Impressive, Berel thought, only in their desperation. In the enormous chairs of Yidl Sheinbaum’s office at the DP camp, their bodies appeared small, creased, and hidden.
Berel had been here before. Next to the offices Yidl and his new wife, Tsipora, had a grand apartment, filled with luxurious items captured from the local Germans. Berel had brought Dvora and Sima there the first time he was invited to sing at a wedding—so many of the refugees married under Yidl’s canopy, no rabbi present—he had been overwhelmed by his first visit, the grandness of the place when compared with the little area of the barracks he lived in, thinly separated by a sheet from the other tiny families. He had been overwhelmed but somewhat distanced too. Yidl did not seem to Berel to be of so high a background, and the elegant silvers and carpets, the large rooms, a separate spot for dining, aroused in him both envy and disdain. Dvora had disagreed. At least there are some Jews, she said, who live as well as the Germans who murdered us and still have comfort!
But today the fine offices did not seem so full as they had before. Yidl Sheinbaum had received Berel and Simale with formality and calm. In public he was emotional, forceful, but here in his own territory his triangular face took on the aspect of a quiet bird, a sharp face atop a short, stocky body.
You have been asked to perform a good deed, Sheinbaum said.
Berel felt his mouth stiffen, suppressing a laugh.
Just a little singing, he said.
Ah no, Reb Makower. Much more than a little singing. Perhaps our friend—Sheinbaum gestured at Chaim—did not explain fully. You are to perform what perhaps you have not performed since before the war, a wedding.
Since before the—
I know, Sheinbaum interrupted. How careful you have wanted to be about the ritual, Rebbe. I know! And such is the problem we face today. An American rabbi in the same position, yes, but without, shall we say, the authority you have to believe your fellow remnants.
I don’t think I can perf—
Listen, said Sheinbaum. I know it has been far too long since you recited the prayers. A prayer book we have for you. And, of course, we have a British captain on his way to sign the necessary paperwork, attesting to your status.
Chaim spoke. That way we think we can convince the American to sign at least as a witness. In part it will be an American wedding.
Berel looked at the men.
My sister, said Pa
vel Mandl, his voice rasping and quiet. My sister. It is all I want in the world, to have her married to a Jewish man in a Jewish ceremony, by a rabbi, with a contract. It is not war, when anyone can do a ceremony. I want a rabbi. To have her have a Jewish child, just like your little one, Rebbe.
Berel did not dare look at Sima. But he knew she would keep quiet. He could feel her standing still next to him, her head a hand’s breadth from his thigh.
I will do anything. I have stones, Pavel whispered. I will sell anything.
Berel saw the thin man, Marek, look quickly at Pavel, then turn away. But Sheinbaum interrupted again. Don’t be silly. You want your sister to have a Jewish wedding, she will have a Jewish wedding. And an American one too. Isn’t it so, Reb Makower?
Berel nodded.
Now, a little coffee? We will set out in a few moments.
Sheinbaum’s broad new wife, Tsipora, came in to serve them, and he retreated into the recesses of his apartment to speak on the telephone. After some time he returned with a man in a high-level British uniform.
My friends, Sheinbaum announced in Yiddish, his voice low and serious, this is Captain Davies. He is here to solve our problem.
Please, said the captain, in German. How can I help you?
The group looked at Yidl. But Yidl looked right back. He spoke to everyone, even the military attachés, even the diplomats from America, in Yiddish. And German! He made it a point not to speak German. Tsipora said something in a language Berel did not know. French? It was said she had studied medicine in Paris before the war. She leaned over to Pavel and patted him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, as if she had known him for years, a sister.
Pavel seemed to shrink under her touch. For a moment Berel wondered if he should say something, for suddenly he and his daughter were part of this group, this little gray mass that five minutes before had been strangers to him. But the captain broke the silence.
All this just to show one of you is a rabbi? Here, we’ll put your seal along with mine—these Americans, he shook his head at Yidl. All I need from you, Herr Sheinbaum, is a word. I have seen it for myself. What you tell me is true.
The men looked at the captain, silent.
“What this man says is true!” the captain suddenly cried in English. “True!” And he slapped Sheinbaum on the back.
So! said Sheinbaum, passing the letter to Pavel with a slim smile on his face. Let us travel. For, of course, now I am invited, yes?
LYING ABOUT SUCH A thing—but what was a sin now? It had no meaning to Berel anymore. With everyone hugging one another, a few people crying, he wandered back to Dvora, a little piece of cake in his hand. He held it out to her. She looked up at him from her chair and blinked. Immediately he felt his mouth tremble, but he did not want the others to see his face lose its seriousness and shock. He bent down to Dvora’s chair. Face muscles trapped, he felt his words come out half-strangled.
You always wanted a rabbi for a husband, hmm?
Dvora blinked again. Berel lost the battle: an unstoppable laugh began to move up his ribs. He coughed with his neck bent, hoping to make the noise sound like a sneeze.
Sima trotted over with a broad grin. What is funny? Her voice pierced through the angry mutterings of the adults.
Sh! warned Berel. He sucked in his cheeks, pursed his mouth as if to whistle. Nothing is funny. A very serious thing has happened.
But you are laughing!
Sh! He took her upper arm and pressed it, hard. Sima, you must behave.
The three of them huddled, Berel trembling with the last waves of his laughter, crumbs from the cake stuck to his palm, Dvora with her legs crossed, ladylike, calm.
This is what happens, Berel finally whispered. This is what happens when you try to do everything the rabbis say. They have no sense!
He is not like every rabbi, said Dvora. This one is an American, no?
Same books, said Berel. Same rigid ideas. Wanting a piece of paper that is burned into the sky long ago. He is a very pure man! No departures from the Talmud for this one! Young, why should he jeopardize his career with something like this?
So, said Dvora. You showed him better. Congratulations. But she was smiling. On their way to the car Sheinbaum had pulled him aside, demanded he be addressed as Yidl, and asked where in the camp he lived. Berel had told him. Terrible, Sheinbaum had answered. Just terrible. You should have talked to me before. It will be fixed.
Berel looked at his wife. Already, three months in the DP camp, things had changed between them. She had been the master of scheming and lying and stealing in the steppe, the ruler of the family, the protector. Now that they had what to eat and where to sleep, however uncomfortable, he saw frailties in her he had not seen before: how difficult it was for her to learn German, how slow she was to pick up the cloth-cutting skills in her training program, how short of breath she became after an hour of walking. He had felt himself growing taller and plumper even as she remained thin and pale. Now they had a crisis upon them, a small crisis, but a crisis, and he had risen to meet it. She was alive with pride at his trickery, a bit of heat surging into her cheeks.
It is lovely here, Berele.
Sima laughed out loud. I’m going to take more cake!
Take, take, said Berel. But he had stopped laughing. The humidity had broken a bit. Still he felt a sudden fatigue, a desire not to sleep but to lie down and cover his eyes. It was a lovely home, sunny and overflowing with people. But he did not know how Pavel and the others could bear it, the smallness and modesty, the normality of it, the living between two worlds in a house that had been built for families who stayed put.
DELAYED BY HALF A day, the ceremony had been beautiful after all, from Berel Makower’s trembling melodies to the crushed goblet. But Pavel’s rage had worn him out. Kuba had remained poised, even cheerful, smiling and nodding the whole day. Kuba wasn’t too bright, thought Pavel. But what did that matter? Perhaps he was better off, nodding like a beast.
And watching his sister under the chuppah, her face solid and still in front of the man Yidl promised was a rabbi, had made Pavel cry. After all they had gone through, was this what a real life was, still so much struggle and pain?
Fela found him after, silently resting in a soft armchair. She kissed him, then stood again.
Ours will be less complicated, she said, looking at the room filled with guests. We will have it inside Belsen to avoid the paperwork. The British chaplain, or another rabbi, whoever you want. No little orchestra. Just a man’s voice.
He looked at her. So she had given up. He was surprised, but only faintly. He waited for the air to spill out of him, the breeze of his relief cooling his skin, but nothing moved inside him.
She stepped behind his chair. Pavel felt her presence and smell around him as he continued to sit. He watched the soldiers and Rayzele dancing with fever and urgency, and he watched the musicians, legs no longer swollen with recovering hunger, clinking the love songs that once had seemed cheerful. Marek’s lady friend drank and sang with some of the men. The American rabbi was roaming the table for rye bread and cheese, crumbs on his unshadowed chin.
So, muttered Pavel. So, let him eat.
The flutist, hair in her face, was tweetering out a little French ballad.
Pavel’s tongue tasted bitter in his mouth. He rubbed at his wrist. Yes, he thought. Yes, let him eat.
Prisoner
September 1949–February 1950
SOMEONE CALLED OUT FROM a barracks, a woman’s voice, louder and louder. Miloch! Miloch!
Pavel didn’t turn. A woman finding a relative or friend. He was walking quickly to the Joint office, where his and Fela’s visa applications lay in a pile of hundreds. This was the bad luck of the British zone: the refugees in the American zone had been processed much more quickly, helped by the Jewish soldiers. He needed a connection. Simply participating in the council meetings—that was not enough. He needed something more.
Miloch! The woman was upon him, and Pavel saw her fa
ce, paler, older, but hers.
Perla, he said. Perla.
There were tears in her eyes, and her cheeks were pink from running after him.
My name is Pavel, said Pavel, trying to order his thoughts, to explain. The name I was born with—I didn’t hear—so long since anyone has called me—I didn’t know anyone from that time, that time when I was—was still—
But he was overcome. Perla’s face, round and dignified, two tears running evenly down her cheeks and neck, her thin, flowered dress—she was an old woman inside a young mother’s body. There was a number on her wrist—so! Surely her baby son had not survived. And her father, an elderly man when Pavel knew him, elderly but wealthy, influential, who had saved Pavel’s life with a bribe, merely because he had known Pavel’s grandfather—
Your father, said Pavel.
No, said Perla. He did not survive. Myself and my sister, only us—and—I am married again.
They arranged to meet as two couples, for a coffee in the main street of the camp. Perla’s new husband was from their province. It happened that Pavel had shared a barracks with him in one of the work camps. Tulek.
They sat outside, in a café modeled on the style they had in Berlin, where the Polish Jews could feel more of the West, sophisticated. Perla had once come from a very high family. In the fall breeze, Fela hugging a dark sweater around her slim shoulders, they found an empty round table. Pavel watched Tulek take in Fela’s figure as she sat down, smoothing her skirt under her thighs. Yes, thought Pavel, I have a beautiful wife.
Miloch, said Perla. The girls who knew him in my town all thought of him as—
No more Miloch! interrupted Fela, only half-joking. Who is Miloch? My husband is Pavel.
Miloch, said Pavel, smiling. The name of a hanged man. I was afraid to use my own name at that time. I was on a list—
Pavel, please, said Fela. Let us not—
Perla reached across the table, patted Fela’s hand. Pavel, of course Pavel. I must accustom myself. But sometimes you have a picture burned in your brain.
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