One cop pulled her off as she cursed his forefathers and their whores. The other grabbed her around the waist. They held her, wriggling and cursing, as the white lump disappeared and the sound of ignition guaranteed its inaccessibility.
One of the cops shouted to Harry:
“Hey kid! Come on. She’s your grandmother. Do something! We can’t stay here all day.”
Harry offered Bama his hands. She placed her cold palms in his. He led her to a couch. She would not release his hands. They sat like bashful lovers, frozen before petting.
The cops opened the entrance door.
“Sorry, Ma’am,” one said.
“Murderers,” Bama hissed.
Bama lifted Harry’s hands and kissed each finger.
“Heshele, the Zadeh loved you.”
“I know, Bama.”
“He was a man who thought big, important things.”
“Yes, Bama.”
She jumped up, ran to Zadeh’s desk and snatched his Bible, which was protected by a plastic red-and-white cover more fitting for a barber’s manual. She sat next to Harry and opened it to a page whose margins were completely covered by tiny, thin Hebrew calligraphy. Her tears smudged the blue ink. She lifted her head and hardened her jaw.
“What good is all your scribbling now? Hah! Tell me.” She let the desk know that the challenge was unanswerable.
“Heshele, such a man … such a man who wrote things about God, must clean toilets to bring us to America after.”
After designated all time following the news in Warsaw of the outbreak of the World War. In Bama’s world, life was divided between the after or before of that event.
In 1913, Zadeh had sailed to America alone to earn money quickly in the Golden Land to bring over Bama and their two daughters. His first job had been cleaning toilets on the Third Avenue Elevated Line.
When war broke out in 1914, he had not yet earned the fare. They could not communicate for five years. Esther, their younger daughter, died of influenza. Bama and Harry’s mother almost starved to death.
Bama waved a derisive arm at the desk.
“How can you blame him for not being there when we came to Ellis Island? A man with such big thoughts.”
In 1919, he had sent money. From Warsaw, Bama and his mother had traveled to the port of Antwerp, only to discover that they had insufficient funds to cover the passage. In Danzig, it was the same story. Finally in Le Havre, they had found passage on an ancient tanker. After five weeks on an open deck, tossed violently by the winter Atlantic, they had arrived at Ellis Island dehydrated and near delirium.
On that day, Zadeh stood on the dock in Houston, Texas, which, he had been informed—by whom he could not remember, but it was a reliable source—was their port of debarkation.
The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society had rescued Bama and his mother, housing them in a shelter. A week later Zadeh had returned, insisting then and always, that the ship had altered course.
“Heshele, precious one, let us play chess.”
Harry was surprised that Bama knew the game. During his matches with Zadeh, she had not even paused to watch while delivering milk, cookies and tea.
He placed the chessboard between them and set up the pieces. He put a black pawn in one fist and a white one in the other and held them out for her to choose. She looked at the fists and smiled. He set the pawns in place. He had given her the white pieces to play, but she did not begin the game. He turned the board around and made the first move.
She duplicated it. Five more moves were copied. He pushed a piece that blocked duplication. She followed suit anyway, placing two pawns on the same square.
“Bama, you can’t …”
“Have you won, Heshele?”
“No.”
He moved. She crowded another square.
“That’s it, Bama. I win.”
She spoke to the board:
“That’s all I ever wanted him to do! But no. Big man!”
She swept her arm through the pieces, scattering them to the floor. “We will play again, Heshele.”
“Yes, Bama.”
“But you won, Heshele. Why are you crying?”
“Yes, I know.”
He put his arms around her neck and hugged. He kissed the taut skin of her cheek, his lips slipping like worn suction cups on the wetness.
Harry’s mother rushed into the room. His father followed, shuffling, head down, a gray felt hat held forward to shield him from incalculable madness. Bama ran to her daughter, gripped her shoulders and shook her violently.
“The Papa has died! The Papa has died! What kind of God? What kind of God?”
His mother’s fur hat fell between them. She bent at the knees to retrieve it. Bama grabbed for her shoulders, knocking her off balance. She fell backward onto the floor. His father’s terrified eyes peeked out from under the brim of his hat. His mother sat up and rubbed the back of her head.
“What happened, Mama,” she screamed, “what happened?”
“The Papa has died!”
She rushed at Harry’s father, who crooked his arm in front of his body.
“He was a big man. Is it not true, Catzker?”
“Yes, a big, a great man,” his father mumbled.
Bama collapsed onto the couch, as Harry leapt up to avoid her hurtling body. She buried her face in a pillow, moaning: “Oy, oy, oy.”
His mother was crying. Her left palm covered her mouth. She turned to her husband and spoke through her fingers:
“We must make arrangements.”
He nodded.
“Put the notice in the papers. He has a plot in the Workman Circle cemetery in New Jersey. I want him to lay in Gutterman’s on Second Avenue.”
“All right. I will call the Workman Circle.”
He went to the phone, began dialing, then stopped.
“But where is he?”
He looked toward the bedroom, eyes widening in panic.
“Coney Island Hospital,” Harry said.
“Where you were born, precious Heshele,” Bama screamed.
While his father spoke on the phone, his mother sat beside Bama, stroking her hair.
“Mama,” she asked, “how did it happen?”
Bama turned to face to her.
“Of course, you were not here.”
She pointed to the bedroom.
“He was standing in that doorway, scratching his back against the wood, like he did ten times a day. Then he said: ‘I have a terrific headache,’ and walked to the bed. Then he fell. Just fell down. Such a man, just fell down and said a terrible word. I wouldn’t repeat it. Why should he say such a word? A man like that. That is the word he leaves me with.”
Harry knew the word: it was fuck. Zadeh liked the sound of it. Sometimes he would sing a song softly to himself using only “fuck” to replace the entire lyric.
“He didn’t know what he was saying, Mama.”
“Oh, yes he did. He cursed. Such a man knows when he curses.”
The two, their faces no more than three inches apart, flared identical nostrils.
His mother said: “Hate, only hate you know.”
“What else is there for a daughter who runs away at sixteen?”
“To get married is not to run away.”
“Hah!”
“Velia,” his father shouted, “for God sake. Are you crazy?”
Moving to a chair, his mother sat straight-backed, gripping the armrests. She stared at nothing or at her mind’s projection. She reminded Harry of the Wax Museum model of Ruth Snyder strapped into the electric chair.
“Mama,” she said, “come home with us. You can’t be alone.”
“I will not be. I will stay with the Papa.”
“How will you get to Gutterman’s? It’s in New York.”
“You could sit with me.”
“No, Mama, I could not.”
“Run away again. Then Heshele will take me. My precious one will sit with me and the Papa.”
His mother nodded.
“Bama,” he said, “ I’ll go with you.”
“And you too,” his mother said to his father, cutting short his obvious relief.
He began to plead the imminent blowup of Europe that had to be reported.
“Just take them to Gutterman’s,” his mother snapped. “Then you can go play cards. I just want to be by myself.”
CHAPTER
12
HARRY, HIS FATHER AND BAMA EMERGED FROM THE SUBWAY AND WALKED toward the blue canopy of Gutterman Funeral Home.
“Mrs. Fishman,” his father said when they had reached the entrance, “I must go to the newspaper now. I will make sure the obituary notice says all the right things.”
“That he was a big man who thought big things,” she said.
“Of course.”
“You all think big thoughts, no? Big philosophers!”
She grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him. He turned to say good-bye to his father, who waved like a dockside friend wishing passengers bon voyage.
Death, wearing a black suit, black tie and black skullcap, greeted Harry and Bama in the vestibule. Hands linked behind his back, he bowed slightly from the waist, like a maître d’hôtel.
“Yes, may I help you.”
“Yakov Shimon Fishman,” Bama announced, leaving no doubt as to the importance of the name.
“Yes. The deceased is not yet ready.”
“We will go to the room,” she said.
“Of course,” Death replied. “You know there is no need for you to spend the night. We have a very reliable shomer, who will sit with him. A most dedicated individual. A member of the Chevra Kadisha. A most pious Jew.”
“We will spend the night with my husband.”
“As you wish. Follow me.”
Death led them into a pea-green room upon which dusky light lay like thin smoke. Five wooden folding chairs labeled Gutterman were randomly scattered. On a tiny side table, three tall yellow brass holders sprouted milk-white votive candles.
Through another entrance a man supporting at least three hundred pounds on his five-foot frame wheeled in a closed pine-wood coffin. Behind him, like an afterthought, a tiny man hidden from neck to ankles by a gray overcoat, whose upturned collar brushed against the back brim of a black felt hat, moved cautiously, placing one foot delicately forward and shuffling the other parallel. His croaking voice singsonged prayers read from a book toward which he inclined his head, so that the tip of his triangular, wiry black beard seemed a reading pointer.
“Adam la hevel damah, yomeen katzail ohvayra.”
Bama pounced on the casket, propelling it into the stomach of the pusher, who jumped backward, knocking the book from the hands of the prayer sayer.
“Yakov Shimon! Yakov Shimon!” she screamed, kissing the wood.
The fat man took from his jacket pocket a three-by-five card, examined it and scratched his head.
“Madam,” he said, “in this casket is Phivele Wolf Litovsky. Is Yakov Shimon perhaps a personal name of endearment?”
“Fat one, are you crazy?”
The prayer sayer had picked up his book and was kissing it loudly.
“Oy,” he moaned, “such a desecration. That a holy book should fall to the floor.”
“What is that stuttering frog doing here?” she shouted at the fat man.
“He is the shomer, the watcher, who will sit the night with your beloved Phivele Wolf Litovsky.”
“Madman! You have Litovsky on the brain. My husband’s name is Yakov Shimon Fishman and I have no need of this cripple. Get rid of him.”
“One moment, madam.” He backed out of the room.
“You too, deformed one,” she directed, pointing at the prayer sayer, who was rocking back and forth over the casket, rasping in Hebrew. “You will not dribble your phlegm on my Yakov Shimon.”
“Woman,” he answered, “have you no respect for the dead? From what part of hell have you come here, anyway?”
She was lunging for his throat when the fat man reappeared and plunged between them, grabbing her wrists.
“Wait, wait, Mrs. Fishman. Please. Listen to me.”
He tapped the coffin with his fingertips.
“Here, indeed, lies Phivele Wolf Litovsky. Your Yakov Shimon Fishman is almost ready. He will be here in no more than ten minutes, probably less.”
“Houston,” Bama said
“What?”
“What, what? So wheel Litovsky out and take that hunchback with him.”
“Mrs. Fishman, I cannot do that. We have only one room available.”
“What! You mean I must spend my last night with Yakov Shimon in the company of an unclaimed corpse and that clubfoot?”
“Mrs. Fishman, Mr. Litovsky is not unclaimed. He has many grieving close ones. But they prefer the shomer to watch over him. They are not strong like you.”
“How many more orphans do you intend to wheel in here?”
“Please, Mrs. Fishman. There will be only the two. Calm yourself. It is not uncommon.”
Bama’s eyes narrowed. Her lips drew together tightly until they looked scourged. It was an expression of derisive understanding Harry often had seen. She poked a finger into the fat man’s chest, thrusting and retrieving to punctuate her words:
“You do a good business here, hah!”
The fat man led her to a chair. She bowed her head and sniffled.
“Good, Mrs. Fishman, you understand. And Mr. Pincus will say prayers for your husband too. He is a pious Jew and his prayers are heard.”
The fat man left the room. Pincus closed his book, placed a candle beside the end of the coffin and lit it. The flame spluttered like a Fourth of July sparkler and then straightened into a yellow and blue raindrop. Pincus spoke to Harry:
“The candle is at the head. The feet of the deceased must always face the door.”
“Big philosopher,” Bama interrupted.
“Why do you insult me?” Pincus whined. “I am a member of the Chevra Kadisha. We make sure that the dead are treated with honor and dignity. It is one of the great mitzvahs of the Jewish faith. We wash the dead in the manner that is commanded by ancient laws. Our society even washes the head with the white of a raw egg mixed with vinegar. There are few Jews left who maintain such fidelity to our ancient tradition.”
Harry closed his eyes but could not erase the picture of Pincus cracking an egg on his grandfather’s white hair, the yolk gliding like a life raft through the twisted flesh. He sat down next to Bama, putting his head between his legs, as per the instructions of Mr. Brown, his gym teacher, to ward off vomiting or fainting. Bitter bile filled his mouth. He wished for Harry Carey’s spittoon. He swallowed the stench and vomited.
Bama’s hand smoothed his nape, while she screamed at Pincus:
“Good, holy one. See what you did. So, doer of mitzvahs, clean it up!”
Pincus ran from the room and returned with the fat man and a man in overalls who mopped the mess into a bucket. The fat man sprayed a pine-scented mist around the room by pumping a long plunger attached to a round metal container, lettered Flit Insect Killer.
“Are you all right now?” he said to Harry. “Mrs. Fishman, do you think the boy should be here?”
“Heshele, maybe you should go.”
Harry, his head weightless and tingling, saw in Bama’s eyes the panic of a freshly abandoned dog.
“It’s OK, Bama. I want to be with you.”
She kissed the top of his head.
The far door opened. Another pine box was placed side by side with Litovsky.
“Are you sure it is my husband?” She sneered at the fat man. “Look at your cards.”
“Yes, madam, I am certain.”
He left.
The thick pine odor had clogged the air. Pincus could hardly pray for coughing. Bama took a candle, lit it with Litovsky’s flame and placed it at the head of Zadeh’s coffin. Pincus’s face turned scarlet.
“Woman, do you think it is Chanukah? Those are s
acred flames. To disturb them is a sin beyond imagining.”
“So, imagine it,” she said, placing her palms gently on the coffin, like a doctor examining a child’s chest.
Pincus read from his book:
“Shimar tam v’ray yashor, key anchareet l’eesh shalom.”
“What are you spitting, holy one?”
“I am saying to the Lord: Look at the good man and see the upright. For there is immortality for the man of peace.”
“And God is listening?”
“It is my hope.”
“Hope away.”
“I pray for your husband also, may peace be with him.”
“He has no need of your croakings. He was a big man. He thought big thoughts.”
“That is not enough for the Lord.”
“So let the Lord sue him. Leave me in peace, deformed one.”
“Fortunately, the Lord understands that it is the grief of an onen that speaks blasphemy and not the true person. I will pray for him, despite you. And you should adhere to our tradition and ask forgiveness of the deceased for any harm or discomfort you may have caused him during his lifetime.”
“Azoy! Harm or discomfort. And when I am in the box, how will he ask my forgiveness?”
“It is for the living to ask and for God to hear.”
“Always such neat arrangements. Big men, thinking big thoughts. Nothing with nothing.”
“Woman, I will pray for your husband, may peace be with him. He is in need.”
“You will soon be sleeping like a child.”
“How dare you! You know as well as I that from the moment of death to the burial the deceased may not be left alone and must be watched. I must be awake at Mr. Litovsky’s side until there is someone else. If I fall asleep, may God take me.”
“But I am here.”
“Women can only be a shomer for another woman, not for a man.”
“So I have met with good luck! Without you who knows what plague would be sent for only a woman sitting with her husband.”
“The boy is with you. He is Bar Mitzvah.”
“As a matter of fact, he is not.”
Pincus yipped like a dog whose paw had been stepped on.
“Oy, the Holy One, blessed be his name, works miracles. He has placed me here to avoid a terrible sin. I am now a shomer for two.”
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