by Betsy Carter
She wasn’t the only one. Egon thought that pretending to be a doctor made him one. Because Meyer wrote a stupid column for a newspaper that nobody read, he called himself a journalist. The Schnabels were certain they would return to Germany any day, and the Cohens took for granted that they would be embraced by America as soon as they had their baby. Compared with their delusions, Liesl figured that treating inanimate objects like orphans who were grateful to be rescued was a minor personality quirk.
Her grief about her parents—that was more than a quirk. It etched her face and stole whatever it was that had made her a beauty. Attracting men had never been a problem for her, but these days she couldn’t remember the last time a man had flirted with her or caught her eye in the subway. Even when she’d had no money and couldn’t speak the language, her arrogant beauty had kept her aloft. She’d enjoyed slowing down in front of store windows and studying her reflection. In those moments, being Liesl Kessler had been enough to drive away the worries that pecked at her. But these days, she walked quickly past those windows, avoiding a glimpse of that woman with the downturned mouth and hooded eyes. She turned inward. At work, the girls would take their lunch outside if it was nice, or to the basement if it wasn’t. She never joined them, because she figured there was nothing to talk about except this crummy job, and that was hardly something to discuss.
Except for Carola, she had stopped seeing the Frankfurt group. She was still infuriated with Egon. After their last night together, she had stayed at his apartment. Even in the state she was in, she’d made the bed, tidied the kitchen, and bought groceries with the intention of cooking dinner for him. He never even phoned to see how she was. Only when it came to be early evening did she realize he would not be hurrying home. The pink toothbrush. She knew about Catrina. So what? Liesl never fought with other women over a man and wasn’t about to start now. Sex with Egon had happened on her terms, and he had more than willingly gone along with it. She wondered if he had told Meyer about their night together, or if Meyer had told Egon about their dismal encounter. Of course, Liesl had told Carola about both of them. Carola, in her sweet way, had tried not to act shocked. “You’ve always been an active girl,” she’d said. “You know that Egon is not someone to take seriously as a potential husband. He’s already thirty-nine and has never been married. He adored his mother and she adored him back. He’s always had plenty of girlfriends—why not, he’s a good-looking fellow—but he’ll never find anyone to replace his mother. And Meyer?” She shook her head. “Beneath that bluster he’s soft—a sentimental man. He’s one who could really get his feelings hurt.”
Carola and Max’s apartment was the only place Liesl felt at home. She and Carola could spend hours sitting on the lumpy couch and talking. Lately, Carola would bring the conversation around to Liesl’s past, as if force-feeding her ego would restore her to life. There was Liesl playing in a tennis tournament, winning a freestyle race, or picking strawberries with some handsome boy. In Carola’s telling, the boys were always handsome and hungering after Liesl. Liesl dissolved into these tableaus, retrieving the crisp pleats of her tennis dress, the power in her shoulders as she cut through the water, the smell of ripe strawberries. The boys. Their names were interchangeable. She remembered pink lips and pampered hands. So young and strong; none of them could have dreamed how their strength would be tested. Where were they now? Who among them was still alive?
One evening, while Carola was in the kitchen preparing dinner, Liesl stood in front of the china cabinet the Cohens had brought with them from Germany. The shelves were loaded with souvenirs that friends had brought them from their travels. The tiny silver spoon from Baden-Baden and the cowbell from Lucerne were probably cheap knickknacks, but in this magnificent mahogany cabinet with its curved glass and double doors, they took on the grandeur of museum treasures. Liesl never got tired of looking at them. For the first time, an object on the top shelf caught her eye: a porcelain man sitting cross-legged, no larger than an egg. The chubby figurine wore a black cap and what appeared to be a green cape slung over his shoulders. Simple dots and lines defined his features. He wasn’t smiling, exactly: There was a slight bend in his mouth that suggested a private joke. Mein Gott, he looked like Meyer. He looked so much like Meyer that it made Liesl laugh out loud.
The china cabinet had four shelves and two big drawers on the bottom, making it nearly as tall as the ceiling. Often, Carola would take out this item or that and explain to Liesl where it had come from. The stories were her way of visiting her past, and Liesl would listen as if it were the first time she was hearing about the snow globe from Berlin or the teacup from Cologne. Not once had Carola ever mentioned the little man on the top shelf, and though Max prized the cabinet, he was indifferent to its contents. The two of them would have had to stand on tiptoes to even see the figurine, which they probably never did. He was abandoned, reasoned Liesl, who felt no qualms about wrapping the little man in a page from the newspaper lying on the coffee table and stuffing him into her purse. The potbellied man with his smirking face would preside over her orphans.
She sat on the couch waiting for Carola to finish with dinner. Absentmindedly she flipped through the pages of the newspaper. It was a little picture, but the tall elegant bearing of the man in it caught her eye: Egon! Catrina! He looked old, slightly stooped. She had dark circles under her eyes. Liesl felt immediately more cheerful.
The Saturday-afternoon kaffeeklatsche had changed since Liesl stopped coming and Catrina joined the group. Egon and Meyer came intermittently while Kaethe and Georg barely came at all and made it clear that they found Catrina an intrusion. The last time she had come, the conversation had turned to the subject of rent. Each had told how much they were paying. When it came to Georg, he had glanced at Catrina and said, “This we’ll discuss at another time.” Not only did the Schnabels consider Catrina a foreigner, but with the way she chewed with her mouth open and put her elbows on the table, they thought her manners not up to par, that she was of a lower class. Meyer reminded an infuriated Egon that in America, German Jewish immigrants were nearly at the bottom of the class heap. “The Schnabels enjoy having someone they can feel superior to. They haven’t felt able to turn their noses up at anyone since they came here. Now they can. Hooray for them.”
On the Sunday after the article appeared, Catrina and Egon were late to Nash’s. The Herald Tribune article plus Art’s sign had been in the shop window for two days. As they neared the table, they saw that most of the group was there. Max, of all people, raised his coffee cup. “Here he is now, our Good Samaritan.”
The others, except for the Schnabels, raised their cups as well: “Hear, hear.”
“Such a modest fellow,” said Meyer. “He blushes all the while he’s in the limelight.”
“Perhaps the limelight is not the best place for him to be,” said Georg. “Should we be calling attention to ourselves in this way, particularly when we are doing things for which we are not qualified?”
Catrina squeezed Egon’s knee under the table and looked at Meyer, who put down his cup and said to Georg, “Who’s qualified to do anything? Is Carola qualified to scrub floors? Am I qualified to write for a newspaper? Are you qualified to press trousers? No, but we do it anyway. That’s the wonderful thing about America.”
Carola tried to change the subject. “You look very handsome in that picture, though your posture could be better,” she said to Egon. “And Catrina, you photograph very well.”
“I thought I was frowning,” said Egon.
“My hair was a mess,” said Catrina.
“Ach, nonsense,” said Meyer. “Egon, you look like Clark Gable, and Catrina, such a dead ringer you are for Rita Hayworth. Even the dog, for heaven’s sakes, as handsome as Fala.” He kissed his fingers the way French people did in movies and said, “The crème de la crème.”
Kaethe shook her head. “At home, such a notice would never appear.” She turned to Egon. “You are a doctor, not a man who sells cheese. The way
they talked about you, it was very coarse.”
“It’s okay, Kaethe,” said Egon. “I appreciate your concern, but Catrina and I are not ashamed—”
Georg cut him off. “Excuse me, but I think this is a discussion we should save for another time.”
Egon put his arm around Catrina. “This is that time. I do not think there’s anything left to discuss.”
By now Egon had lived through three Thanksgivings. He was still trying to understand all the fuss over apple pie and pilgrim candles when along came another befuddling American holiday. “Someone decides that there is a day in February when I am supposed to give Catrina a present and a card with hearts on it? Does this make sense?” he asked Meyer on February 13.
“Not at all,” said Meyer, “but Americans use any excuse to eat, drink, and give presents. You’ve seen what happens at Thanksgiving and Christmas. On the Fourth of July they drink beer and eat a lot of meat because the country is free. And now this. Men give women candy or flowers and cards with hearts that say ‘Will you be my valentine?’ The women get their trophies, the men get laid, and everyone is happy.”
“Catrina won’t care about any of that,” said Egon.
“You are so wrong, my friend,” said Meyer.
“How do you know so much about this?”
“I’m a newspaperman. America is my beat. Have you forgotten that?”
Egon took no chances when he went to Catrina’s house for dinner on Friday night, which happened to be Valentine’s Day. He brought the biggest heart-shaped box of candy he could find. When he came into the living room, Rose stood up from the couch to greet him. Spying the box of candy in his hands, she smiled broadly, clearly thinking it was for her. Egon didn’t want to disappoint her so he made a grand gesture out of placing it in her arms and saying, “Will you be my Valentine?”
She took the box from him. “You are so kind to think of me.” She leaned in to kiss him and nearly lost her balance. He hadn’t seen her since she came out of the hospital. She was smaller now, her movements more tentative. Even walking across a room made her winded. He helped her back to the couch and could hear her labored breathing. The doctor had said it was her lungs. He’d told her to get plenty of rest and eat as much red meat as she could. Also, to drink red wine. It would give her strength, he said. So that night, they sat down for a roast beef dinner that bled into the boiled potatoes and string beans. Their moods loosened as they drank the red wine that Kiefer had brought. They talked about Rose’s health. “It’s nothing,” she said. “The doctors really don’t know what to say, but I’m pretty sure after all those years in that basement, I’ve got a bad case of pleurisy.”
“Ma doesn’t listen to what the doctors say,” said Catrina. “They want to remove the sick part of her lung, but she says no. What’s the point of going to a doctor if you ignore what he says?”
“Egon, would you let them cut open your body and take out a piece of your lung?” asked Rose, not waiting for an answer. “God put me on this earth with two lungs, and I’m leaving this earth with two lungs. That’s how it will be.”
“It is a difficult operation, but maybe it would help,” said Egon.
“Bah,” said Rose. “I’m fine the way I am. Now let’s open this box of candy.”
Egon apologized for not having visited in a while. “They keep me very busy at the store,” he explained.
Kiefer said he hadn’t meant to startle Egon when he showed up at Art’s to tell him about Rose. “Must be odd for you, that place,” he said. “Day and night from Germany, huh?”
Kiefer’s words, so abrupt and certain, unsettled Egon. He remembered how he had practically dismissed Kiefer that morning because Art was close by, and how Kiefer had walked out as if he’d understood. Catrina’s brother could take the measure of a man in an instant, and it pained Egon to think how Kiefer must have recognized him as a frightened man.
“Art runs a tight ship,” he said.
“Yup. I see that,” said Kiefer.
“Ma, you know the story I showed you about Egon in the Herald Tribune?” asked Catrina, eager to reroute the conversation. “Well, now the story and the picture are in the window of Art’s.”
“I don’t like that paper,” said Rose. “And it wasn’t a good picture of either of you.”
Kiefer scratched his bald spot and asked Egon, “The article in the window? You think that’s a good idea?”
“No, I do not want such attention, I would like them to take it out.”
Catrina laughed. “Oh, he’s being a fuddy-duddy.”
Kiefer nodded at Egon. “Stick to your guns, Buddy.”
Rose touched the crucifix around her neck. Egon shoved his hand in his pocket to make sure he’d brought his Tums.
There weren’t enough rolls of Tums or tablets of Alka-Seltzer to put out the fire in Egon’s stomach when he saw the headline in the Journal-American: VALENTINE’S DAY VANDALS: NO LOVE FOR WASHINGTON HEIGHTS SYNAGOGUE.
Someone had painted red hearts with the words Jews + Death on the walls of the Fort Washington Synagogue. They’d also ripped pages from the synagogue’s prayer books and flushed them down toilets. A member of the synagogue’s board found the toilets overflowing and waterlogged pages strewn across the floor. The desecration of the Ft. Washington Synagogue is the latest in an increasing number of attacks, anti-Semitic in nature, over the past few months, read the article. These things weren’t supposed to happen in America. Book burnings, Juden Doktor scrawled across the door. Waterlogged pages of prayer books. Red hearts with hateful words painted on a wall. What was the difference? The Fort Washington Synagogue was two blocks from Egon’s apartment.
The following Saturday morning, he left Catrina tending to the animals and walked to the synagogue. He noted that a police car was parked outside it. There were red smears on the walls where someone had tried to wash away the graffiti, but the words were still legible. Inside, the Sabbath service was going on as usual. Egon stood by the window and listened. The rabbi and congregation read responsively, and their voices were loud enough to convince him that the sanctuary was full. No one seemed to have been deterred by what had happened. He told himself that this was why he had come to America, that this vandalism was a rare incident, the work of teenagers. His head and heart agreed; his stomach did not. By the time he got back to the apartment, he lay down on his bed doubled over with pain. Catrina sat beside him and stroked his head. “You’re the sickest animal I’ve seen all day. Should we fix you up with some castor oil? A little sugar water maybe?”
Egon sighed. “I wish it was that easy.”
“I know. It’s ugly and awful. But this is a big city, and there are crazy people in big cities. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“You do not understand what it feels like to be me, to see what I have seen.”
“It’s true,” she said. “But I do know what it’s like to be me and to have seen the words ‘Irish need not apply.’ Please, let’s not have this misery contest now.”
They’d had this argument before, and it usually ended badly. This time, he didn’t feel up to fighting. “You are right, sometimes I allow my imagination to do the best with me.”
Catrina laughed and curled up next to him. “How about I do the best with you and we give your imagination a rest?”
When their fights didn’t end badly, they ended like this.
Egon’s real trouble began nearly two weeks after Art had put up the article and picture. Late one night, someone scribbled on the store window The Jew Man Works Here. But by the time the store opened the following morning, Art and Egon had already washed the words away. A little after three that afternoon, a boy of about fifteen wearing an oversize coat and a stocking cap walked up to the delicatessen counter. When Egon asked if he could help him, the boy stared at him. Egon later remembered the boy’s pale, narrow eyes and how they made fear, like a cold mist, rise inside him. The third time he asked the boy if he could help him, the boy said, “Yeah, you can help me. Get your
Jew blood the hell out of here.” He opened his coat, pulled out a milk bottle filled with red liquid, and threw the liquid into Egon’s face. It dripped from his hair. It stung his eyes. A metallic taste filled his mouth. It seeped through the apron to his shirt and trousers. Some spilled onto his socks and into his shoes. It smelled like iron and felt warm and sticky against his skin. The boy ran from the store before anyone could catch him.
Customers gathered. Egon used the unspattered part of his apron to dab his face as Art hurried over with a wet mop. “Don’t worry, folks, it’s one of those stupid neighborhood kids. We’ll get this tomato juice cleaned up in a jiffy. Please, tend to your business.”
Egon whispered to Art, “It is not tomato juice.”
Art whispered back, “I know.” He poured ammonia onto the floor, and as he began mopping, he said to Egon in a soft voice, “This isn’t working, you’re attracting the wrong kind of attention here.”
“Please, can we discuss this at another time? I must go home.” Egon’s voice was shivery.
Art looked at his watch. “Wash your face and put a coat over you. You can’t be in the street that way. Go home, take a hot shower, change your clothes, and be back here in an hour and a half. We’ll forget about this for now.”
Egon walked home slowly, careful not to attract attention. When he finally got into his apartment, Johnny was at the door, as if he’d been waiting there all day. Egon got down on his knees. “Look at me.” Johnny licked his face. Egon leaned his head against the dog’s muzzle. They stayed like that until Egon’s leg fell asleep. “I am a mess. I go clean myself now.”
He stood up, stripped off his clothes, and dumped them in the garbage. Johnny followed him into the bathroom. Egon stood under the shower. He made the water as hot as he could stand it and still could not get warm. He got out, wrapped himself in his bathrobe, and brushed his teeth. He gargled with salt water, then brushed again. The rusty taste lingered. He’d tasted his own blood plenty of times. This was different. Probably not human blood. Of course, the kid had killed an animal and poured its blood into the bottle. A cat? Oh God, a dog? What if he’d been covered in dog blood? He stroked Johnny’s head.