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XIII. Underwaterworld
The children were diving for hoops. Slapping the water, struggling downward to the bottom of the pool, then splashing to the surface like puppies.
—I’m happy with my choices, she said. All in all.
—I’m happy we met, he said.
She waved to one of her sons, who had succeeded in getting a ring.
—No? he asked.
—Yes, she said.
—Outside of my wife I’ve never had an intimate female friend, he said.
She waved to her other son, who was poised on the edge of the pool, building up the nerve to leap.
—You’re a beautiful woman.
—Don’t, she said.
—I’m only observing.
She fell silent.
He told her not to worry. He was impotent.
This interested her.
He thought it might. Not entirely impotent, he added. Lately, he’d been having signs of life.
She changed the subject.
The book group had been reading Dante. She told him of a dream she had.
—We were pilloried outside the gates of Macy’s.
—The gates?
—The gates, the doors. Whatever. You on one side, me on the other.
—Which store?
It was an irrelevant question, but somehow he made it seem otherwise.
—The one in Stonestown.
—Busy day?
—Very. We were naked.
—How embarrassing.
—Yes. Exceedingly.
—What was our crime?
—Swimming.
—Swimming naked?
—No, just swimming.
—That’s it?
—Yes.
—Swimming’s no crime.
—It wasn’t the swimming, she said. It was the fun.
XIV. The Art of Compromise
Judith had been thinking. Maybe Lydell was right. Not that Ernest should be circumcised, but that he at least should be talked to. Presented with the options. Sounded out.
She spoke to him alone one day after school. He was in his room, playing with his pet. Or rather stroking her fur and comforting her. The tumor was now enormous. The days of the entity known as Snowflake, at least on Earth, were clearly numbered.
Ernest, unlike his brother Max, was not a verbal child. He came across as rather distant. But he never missed a word that was said. He absorbed and processed everything. His mind was as facile as anyone’s, and his inner world was deep.
He listened patiently to his mother, and when she finished, surprised her by saying he wanted to have the circumcision done. She asked him why.
—Because, he said.
She pressed him. —Because why?
He hesitated a moment. —Because I deserve it.
It was an ambiguous statement, and one that begged for an explanation. First, however, she reiterated that in her eyes, in everyone’s eyes, he was fine—he was perfect—just the way he was.
—I want to be like everybody else, he said.
—The world’s a big place. Everybody’s different.
—I don’t want to be.
Her heart went out to him.—I understand, she said.
He asked if it would hurt. She said it would. He said he didn’t want anyone to know.
— Not Max?
He didn’t mean Max.
—I’ll have to tell your father, she said.
—Let’s surprise him, said Ernest.
—I don’t think he’d like that.
—It’s my choice, isn’t that what you said?
—To a point, said his mother.
—It’s private, he said. Between you and me. Like between you and that man.
—What man?
Ernest averted his eyes. —You know.
XV. The Sweet Embraceable
You can put yourself in someone else’s shoes, you can even get inside their shirt and pants, but it doesn’t mean you know them. It’s guesswork who they are and what they’re thinking and feeling. Guesswork and maybe intuition. As an outsider, you do your level best, but you never really know.
It’s what they say and do, not think. If a guy says he’s faithful, despite the fact he’s getting hard-ons plotting how to get some chick in bed, he’s faithful. If a woman says she’s faithful, despite the fact she’s sitting squarely on the fence, she’s faithful.
If they don’t touch, they’re faithful. If they don’t think, they’re dead.
The two of them didn’t touch. I mentioned that already. Not at the pool or anywhere else. Not once.
Wait a minute. I forgot. They did touch. But only once.
It happened in a neighborhood cafe. They had a date, a nighttime assignation. The kids were tucked at home in bed.
The swimming lessons had been over for several weeks. They’d spoken once by phone but hadn’t seen each other. He was carrying a briefcase in one hand. With the other he touched her palm in greeting. Lightly, like a whisper, or a veil. Imperceptibly, she caught her breath. She let the contact linger.
He said, —I’ve been thinking of you.
She said, —Did you get my letter?
—No, he said.
They took a table in the corner, ordered coffee and dessert.
—I’ve started to paint again, she said.
—How wonderful, he replied.
—Watercolors. I used to paint with them a lot.
—What made you start again? he asked.
—You, she said.
His penis stirred.
—I’ve given myself two hours a week. Not much, but it’s a start.
—A start is all you need.
—I told you in the letter. I’m surprised you didn’t get it.
—You could have called, he said.
She had wanted to. But in the wanting knew she shouldn’t.
He said, —I’ve been painting, too. Drawing really. Cartoons. Of us.
Her heart sped up. She got a little nervous. “Us” had never been mentioned before. “Us” to her meant husband and wife.
—I’d like to see them.
He told her they were pornographic. He’d brought them with him.
—I think they’ll turn you on, he said.
She hesitated. —Well then, maybe not.
—They do me, he added.
He could have said “you,” not “they.” He had before, or almost.
Then again, he could have brought a carriage drawn by horses. He could have brought a slipper.
She had to smile. How uninvited certain thoughts were. How willful.
—Do you do drawings of your wife? she asked.
The question gave him pause. —On occasion. Why do you ask?
—Cartoons? Pornographic ones?
The motive behind the question now seemed clear. He shrugged.
—I don’t want anyone getting hurt, she said.
—No one’s been hurt, he said. And then, —I don’t either.
She wanted to see the pictures. Itched to see them.
Equally, she was determined not to compromise her marriage. Not to act dishonorably. She wondered what behavior this allowed.
She felt torn.
He said, —I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you grief.
He said, —I didn’t mean to tempt you.
He was wearing silver that night. A silver chain around his neck. A silver earring. A silver bracelet, the same he’d worn the day that they first met.
He had washed his hair in chamomile shampoo. He had used a scented body soap.
He said, —I’m wrong. I have been tempting you.
She felt the truth in this. —Why?
—To see how far you’ll go. To test your limits.
—Why?
—Because I don’t trust mine.
—And mine you do? She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.—You’re daring me to be unfaithful? Is that it?
—No, he
said. I’m daring you not to be.
How puerile, she thought. How unappealing and crude.
He didn’t care for her. She saw this plainly now. Nor did she care for him.
It came as something of a revelation. As did what followed: they cared for each other equally.
How remarkable, she thought. How apposite.
—Show me the pictures, she said.
He took a folder from his briefcase and handed it to her. His penis, which had defervesced, showed signs of life.
She stuffed the folder in her purse. —I’ll look at them later.
—They’re yours, he said. Keep them. Look at them whenever.
It was the last they were to see of each other. Both knew it.
She wanted to give him something in return.
—A hug, he suggested.
She thought it over. Rising, she pulled on her coat.
—I’ll say no to that, she said.
He had risen also, expectantly. Now he felt cheated, and incomplete.
—Take it home, she said.
—Take what home?
—That impulse. That hug. Take it home and give it to your wife.
These were her parting words.
Upon thinking them over, he found, astonishingly, that they were exactly what he wanted to hear.
XVI. The Gift of the Magi
Solomon was wise, but he wasn’t all wise. Lydell was crazy, but his motives were pure.
He had the operation. He did it in secret. While he was healing, he dressed and undressed in private. To forestall questions and minimize discomfort, he slept with his back to his wife.
Judith assumed she was being punished for her philandering. Never mind that she had resisted, that she in the end had proved stalwart and faithful. Adultery was as much of the mind as of the body. Her husband might not know the details, but he had doubtlessly suffered. Had the roles been reversed, she would have suffered, too.
She swallowed her pride one night and asked his forgiveness.
—For what? he replied.
—For being so uninvolved, she said, thinking it best to break the truth to him slowly, by degrees. —So distant.
Lydell was nonplussed. —For that I should be asking yours.
She asked what he meant.
It was he who had been remote, he said, impossibly, insupportably so. Remote and self-absorbed. But all that was going to change.
—Are you going to touch me? she asked.
—There’s a reason I haven’t.
—I know, but are you?
—Yes, he said. Oh yes. Most definitely.
—Anytime soon?
He gave her a smile. —I have a surprise, he said, with a look that made her just the tiniest bit nervous.
They were in the bedroom. Ernest, who was still a little sore from his own procedure, was watching TV in the room next door. She’d been wondering how to break the news to her husband. Maybe now was the time.
—I have one, too.
—How perfect, he said.
That would not have been her word for it. Bracing herself, she told him about Ernest.
He was stunned. Thinking what the hell, she told him secret number two: she’d had Snowflake put to sleep.
Before, he would have gotten angry, possibly furious, but now he simply nodded. As if to say, of course, how fitting. As if he finally understood. Moments later, having recovered his voice, he told her—and showed her—what he himself had done.
—Love made me do it, he said, bemused, contrite. And then, —I’m a fool.
—No, you’re not, she said. No more than me.
They both were fools. And both, she felt, deserved a place of honor in their marriage.
She hugged him close. He hugged her back.
—It doesn’t hurt, he said.
She was glad of this.
—It feels nice, he said.
She felt the same.
XVII. The 17 Questions
How is a story told? With flesh and blood people, and a beginning, middle and end.
How is it held together? Imperfectly.
With what is it held? Epoxy and wire and glue, balls of string, strings of words, paste.
For whom is it told? The willing.
To what value? Submission.
At what price? An hour’s worth of television.
Is there a purpose? Yes.
What is the purpose? The purpose is hidden.
What are the prominent symbols? The foreskin stands for the natural world and the untrammeled innocence of man. The circumcised penis is lost innocence, civilization. The skullcap is the foreskin re-found.
Are there other metaphors? Yes. The pool is the Garden of Eden. The rat is Fate. The multiple short chapters represent our fragmented world. The varying voices are false prophets. The title, Fidelity, is the name of a bank.
Can we read this story in parts, at separate sittings? It is inadvisable. Like foreplay, there is a cumulative effect.
Why all the sexual references? This is biblical.
What happens to Judith and Lydell? Both are strengthened by their trials and tribulations. Judith lands a lucrative business contract. She and her book group tackle The Prologemena to a Future Metaphysics by Immanuel Kant. Lydell visits Israel. In a bizarre case of mistaken identity, he is abducted by a group of Palestinian freedom fighters, then later released.
And the boys? Max becomes a lawyer. Ernest, a veterinarian.
What about Wade? Wade is currently back on drugs and doing quite well.
And the rat? She lives in Heaven.
And the moral? Life and death are ruled by Nature,
Foolishness and faith, by man.
Between the God of Moses and Temptation,
You do the best you can.
Niels Bohr and the Sleeping Dane
Jonathon Sullivan
The Gestapo had imposed curfews and roadblocks for the first time since the occupation of Denmark. They stopped our train at Helgoland, where the tidy streets of Copenhagen blend into the sparse woods and open gray sky of coastal Zealand. An SS captain and two men with short rifles clambered into our car. They demanded papers from every passenger, and I knew that by nightfall my father and I would be on another train, bound for darkness.
The man who sat across from us was also a Jew, but he would not go to the camps with us. Niels Henrik David Bohr would remain in Denmark, or perhaps he would be sent to Berlin. But he would be no less a prisoner.
The black uniforms and burnished weapons cut into the reality of the railcar like nightmares. You could hear the shared thought of everyone aboard: Not here. Not in Copenhagen. There’s some mistake.
The Danes had lived with a monster in their house for two years, and they had learned to ignore it. The monster looked like them. It seemed to be housebroken. It kept out of sight, hiding under the bed while Denmark slept. But finally, inevitably, the monster had emerged, and it was ravenous.
Looking for us.
The SS captain was a handsome young man, square-jawed and blue-eyed, Hitler’s Aryan ideal in the flesh. But his pale complexion reminded me of a wax doll. His ink-black uniform, with its red armband and skull insignia—the regalia of death—enhanced his pallor. In his eyes I saw the deep hunger that drives a man to devour his fellows. He evaluated the passengers, his head cranking from side to side with each click of his black leather boots, as if clockwork connected his legs to his neck.
He stopped a few rows away from us, to examine a young couple. Speaking in curt, inflected Danish, he demanded their papers. The man, a swarthy fellow with curly black hair, rummaged nervously in a satchel.
The captain put up his hand. “That’s all right,” he said. “It won’t be necessary.”
The man nodded with relief.
“You are Juden, yes?” The captain smiled.
One of the most vivid memories of my life is how the air on the bus changed at that moment, suddenly cloying and and thick. A smell of quiet panic, like sweat and rotten
meat.
The young man blanched. “I am a Danish citizen,” he said, voice quavering.
The officer’s expression was not so much a smile as a gash cut into his face. “You are a subject of the German Reich,” he said. He made a command with his fingers: on your feet. The young man stood, and he and his wife were led off the bus. The woman carried an infant bundled in blue wool.
I have often wondered what became of that family. Did they die at Theresienstadt? Dachau? Auschwitz? I still have nightmares about the look in that young woman’s eyes.
The captain approached us. His gaze settled on me for a moment, then passed to my father.
The Danish resistance had told us we must pass for everyday people. Papa had retorted that we were people, every day, but he hadn’t really argued. He had shaved that majestic, iron-gray beard, trading his broad-brimmed black hat and dark coat for the dress of a goy.
Papa had strange gifts. But I could not imagine he would deceive the pale Hauptsturmführer. My father’s essence would shine through the rumpled khaki trousers and thick sweater of green wool, and any fool would see him as a rabbi of the Hassidim.
Who could look at my father and fail to see what he was? Until the day I die, his will be the human face of Yahweh: fierce but serene, severe but kind, deeply etched with sadness and humor, encompassing the mystery of opposites that are one. Brilliant, forceful Chockhmahand dark, gentle Binah united in Tiferet, the living heart of Israel that is the center of the universe. No man who met my father, Jew or Gentile, failed to be awed by him. Least of all me.
When he saw Papa, the Hauptsturmführer frowned.
Papa said, “Good morning.”
The captain nodded, his frown slowly unwinding. “Good morning. Heil Hitler.”
He quickly looked away from Papa’s eyes, and next gave a cursory glance to the brother and sister seated next to us. With their light brown hair and sullen expressions, the two teenagers could not possibly have looked more generically and ethnically Danish. They were, in fact, armed members of the threadbare Danish resistance. They didn’t get a second look.
The captain turned to scrutinize the three people in the seat facing ours. A frumpy man with unruly red hair pretended to look out the window. Hans Nielsen was the father of the two young partisans. Next to him sat an elegant woman in her mid-fifties, with a slender neck and fine Nordic features.
Beside her, directly across from me, sat the father of the modern atom.
People of the Book: A Decade of Jewish Science Fiction & Fantasy Page 13