Olga turns around. The man has a bowler hat, a tubercular pallor coupled with sickly ruddy cheeks, a collar white enough to indicate respectability.
My name is Hermann Taube. Great delight to have met you, he says in Yiddish.
“What you want from me?” she asks, in English.
Let us converse, he continues in Yiddish. Let us go to a more affable place.
He offers her his arm, but she walks apart from him. Yet when he hops on a Halsted streetcar, she follows him; he pays her fare. As they are moving deeper into the streetcar, he turns and smiles at a detective who ran after them and managed to get on. Olga saw the detective at the police station; she recognizes his new, oversized cap pressing down the tips of his ears. He is conspicuous in his determination to stay close, awkwardly looking past the two of them. The crowd presses Taube’s body toward her, but he pushes back against it and makes a quick, barely visible, bow. She imagines his heels clacking.
A fox’s glass eyes are staring at them from the neck of a speckled matriarch, rings abundant on her white-gloved hands. How did this woman end up on a streetcar? She looks like a widow. Up in the back there is an argument going on, in Italian it seems, and in the front of the streetcar necks and heads turn toward the ruckus, all curiosity and disgust. It soothes Olga that her companion is not worried about the detective, but she says nothing, and so they ride in silence. It is probably a symptom of her mind decomposing that she feels a certain pleasure in not knowing where they are heading.
Taube helps her off the tram, she accepts his hand, but lets hers be limp and does not thank him. They walk briskly down a tree-lined street, past stately houses, past wrought-iron fences with spikes and curlicue patterns, the detective following them at a distance. When they enter through the back door of what appears to be a tavern, he stops outside. There are loafers smoking at the front door of the tavern, their collars upturned, caps pulled down to the eyebrows. The detective walks between them and orders a beer at the bar. Above a gigantic mirror, there is a glass-eyed boar head.
A stout, blue-eyed woman carrying a file pressed against her chest whispers something to Taube in German. The hallway reeks of beer-soaked sawdust and burnt sauerkraut. Olga follows Taube into a murky maze of offices, the woman right behind her. Through a door ajar she can see a staircase leading to the basement; there are sounds of heavy objects scraping against the floor, but Taube closes the door. She limps up a stairway in Taube’s redolent wake— he smells of wax and violets. The staircase is steep, her hip is hurting, so she stops every once in a while. If you find yourself asking: How did I get here? Isador once said, that probably means you are living a life worth living. Isador knows nothing about life.
Taube’s is a lawyer’s office. Thick leather-bound law books line the shelves; there is an inkwell and a feather pen on the clean desk. He offers her a seat, washes his hands in a basin, then slowly lands behind the desk—there is a copy of the Tribune on it, which he rotates and pushes toward her. His motions have well-planned devotion, as if he rehearsed it all and is now finally performing. She is still frightened by the torqued logic of the day, by the burden of the sleepless night pressing down on her spine. Lazarus’s death, Assistant Chief Schuettler, the lecherous politsey, the shitty Isador in her wardrobe—it all seems unreal in this orderly office: a single carnation in a suave vase on the cabinet, a framed diploma from a Viennese law school on the wall; a pipe on the file cabinet, lying sideways like a tired dog; a weak fly buzzing somewhere along the windowpane, looking for a way out. On the front page of the Tribune is a photo of Lazarus in profile, his eyes closed, a dark shadow over his eyes and in the hollow of his cheeks. THE ANARCHIST TYPE the heading says; numbers are strewn around his face. Below it, the numbers are explained:
1. low forehead;
2. large mouth;
3. receding chin;
4. prominent cheekbones;
5. large simian ears.
Olga wheezes in disbelief; as nimbly as a magician, Taube pulls a white handkerchief out of his inside breast pocket and offers it to her. She declines at first, but he silently insists and she takes it. He picks up the Tribune and flips through it as she wipes her nose.
“The anarchist vermin that infest Chicago and our nation are to be exterminated to the last vile individual,” Taube reads in his German-inflected English. “Every power at the command of local authorities will be invoked, every loyal citizen will be called upon, to achieve this job of housecleaning. The authors of seditious utterances will be prosecuted. Undesirable foreigners will be deported. Street gatherings of malcontents will be absolutely prohibited. Municipal authorities will deal summarily with unlawful disturbances. No pity will be shown.”
Olga does not understand everything Taube reads, but she can sense the agitation beyond his declaratory voice. He flips another page, searches up and down until he finds what he is looking for.
She caressed Lazarus’s chin, touched the bullet hole, black as a birthmark. His forehead tasted like some mortuary chemical.
“The methods of anarchists have changed materially in the last twenty years. In the days before the Haymarket riot the anarchists were preaching violence against a class as a whole. They went in for wholesale violence. Their leaders were English and German. But now the Italian and Russian Jewish elements have come to the fore. Their leaders are of a lower, degenerate, more despicable criminal type, but their methods are more dangerous. They preach the murder of the individual. They believe in nihilistic ideas of suicide and assassination.”
Why are you reading this to me, Herr Taube? What am I to understand? What do you want?
Taube now speaks in a Viennese German that contains no trace of Yiddish; he lowers his voice, raises his chin.
“I mourn the death of your brother with you, Fräulein Averbuch. I was brought up to believe that if we lose one Jew, we lose the world. And I suffer your loss not only as a Jew but also as one who believes in the rule of righteous law.”
Olga becomes aware of the smell her body exudes—she scrubbed herself time and again last night but still feels beshitten.
“There are men in this city, Fräulein Averbuch, all well-established members of society, who are duly apprehensive about the current atmosphere, as it could easily lead to uncontrollable violence. Such a development would endanger what they have been working for for a long time and would likely impede the further progress of their less-fortunate brethren. Being of Semitic origin, they are outsiders themselves in their circles, so they do not wish to emphasize their kinship connections with alleged anarchists. At the same time, they are not impervious to the travails of the poor and the innocent.”
Olga blows her nose mightily into his handkerchief to punish him for his opacity.
“Well do we all know things have been changing: what blood libel was in Russia, anarchism could become in America. Many of us who escaped pogroms and came here know that it starts with editorials and ends in massacres. We have friends who are happy to see a more realistic picture of Hebrew life, but there are also patriotic Americans who cannot tell the difference between a decent, loyal citizen and a vile anarchist. Your brother’s unfortunate fate might have confused many more good Americans. Alas, he is undeniably dead now, entirely unable to help us with the truth as we are left to deal with the consequences.
Who are you, Herr Taube?
His is a voice of practiced reasonability; he has conducted business negotiations before. He goes on in his lawyerly German.
“I am an attorney representing a group of interested citizens, Fräulein Averbuch. We have reasons to believe that the police are looking for one Isador Maron. His is a well-known name among the reds, a notorious adherent to the abject teachings of Emma Goldman. It seems clear that he is the main culprit, the one who exposed your brother to Goldman’s humbug, who mesmerized him with the black hand of anarchy. It would benefit everybody involved if he were forced to face the consequences of his words and deeds.
I don’t know how I
could help you with that, Olga says. She keeps speaking Yiddish, but Taube does not register her spite.
“The police are under the impression that you and Maron were more than just acquaintances. They need to talk to him. He might perhaps clarify that your brother’s death was but a matter of misunderstanding. Until then, your brother’s memory will continue to be besmirched.”
I do not know where Maron is. I do not know him that well.
Her fingers are entangled in the handkerchief, until she notices Taube glancing down at her hands; she lets go of it. Lying does not come easy to her, particularly since turning Isador in is not an unreasonable, untempting possibility. Everything, this, should stop.
She spreads the handkerchief in her lap, then carefully folds it and dabs her cheeks to suggest she is done crying.
They killed Lazarus, she says. Whose fault can that be? His? Isador’s? Emma Goldman’s? They did not even have the decency to tell me how exactly it happened. What do you want from me?
“Olga—if I may—Olga, you surely want to lay your brother to rest according to our time-honored customs. I’ve read the autopsy report. He was riddled with bullets. I do not wish to upset you further, but he did not die a peaceful death. We have to do something or he will never have peace. Nor will we.”
Who are we?
“Olga, do try to understand. Right now, the police might be willing to believe that the crime against Chief Shippy and the laws of this country was committed by enraged degenerates. Freedom is a business much easier to run if the authorities have a useful enemy, and anarchists appear to be more than happy to be cast in that role. Should the authorities run out of patience, they may succeed in convincing themselves—and many others—that all Jews, regardless of their loyalty and patriotism, are the enemy. I do not need to tell you what that would mean. You lived through the Kishinev pogrom.”
I don’t know who you are, what your business is. I do not know who you are representing. I have no reason to trust you or believe you.
“I am representing certain honorable individuals who would like to help you, both out of a sense of racial responsibility and in their own individual interest. Permit me to assure you that this combination of motives vouchsafes their sincerity.”
All I want is to bury my brother respectfully.
“That is what everybody wants, without a doubt.”
“I do not think I can help you,” Olga says in German, in a low, fatigued voice.
“I understand that all this might be overwhelming for you. Perhaps you need time to come to terms with the situation. Do be aware, however, that we have no time. The rumor has it that the Goldman woman is coming to town, indubitably to cause trouble, and we need to address the problem before your poor brother has irreversibly metamorphosed into an anarchist martyr.”
He gives her his business card and, neatly tucked into the newspaper with Lazarus’s picture, a stack of crisp, new dollars. Taube is smart: Olga does not carry a purse. She lays the handkerchief on his desk, takes the money out of the folded paper, and throws it on the desk.
“Please know that at times like this any one of us might be called upon to do their part,” Taube continues. “And keep in mind we are at your service, Fräulein Averbuch. I hope to talk to you again very soon, but feel free to put in a phone call at any time, today or tonight. Naturally, we will accept the charges.”
She leaves, the newspaper in hand, without saying good-bye. As she walks out through the tavern and the front door, the young detective downs his beer in a hurry and leaps off his stool. She wobbles past the loafers, who watch her in silence. They say nothing, but when the young detective brushes past, one of them drops his cigar to the ground and crushes it, twisting his foot until only crumbles are left.
On the Halsted streetcar a man with thick glasses and curly hair tucked under a cap offers her a seat. Her sight is blurred, her glasses are grimy. She takes them off and cleans them with her dress hem. The young detective moves closer, stands right before her, so that his groin is facing her. He must have called the station to report on her whereabouts; if they had discovered Isador she would have already been arrested. She feels a hurtful urge to look at her brother’s face on the front page, but the photo is facedown in her lap. He was so beautiful, such a handsome young man. On the back page, she reads that the Chief of Police in Birmingham, Alabama, received through the mail a note reading: “Chief Bodeher, we give a you ona weeka to quita a joba. You finda out a knifa if you don’ta.” Several foreigners were arrested today. Chief Bodeher says he will take no chances.
The whole world has gone insane and I with it. Fatigue is pushing her down, she slouches into her pain, clutching the paper’s edge like a knife handle.
Dear Mother,
Lazarus’s funeral was beautiful. The rebbe spoke of his kindness, and there were hundreds of his friends, mountains of flowers.
The same woman with the fox-fur collar is sitting next to Olga, as though she were biding her widowhood on the streetcar. The fox’s eyes are staring at Olga again, the widow dozing off, her gloved fingers intertwined. For a moment Olga thinks that she dreamt Taube and his office. In Grand Rapids, Michigan, she reads, Judge Alfred Wolcott of the circuit bench died of apoplexy this afternoon, five minutes after he was stricken. His wife, a devout Christian Scientist, refuses to admit he is dead. Three different physicians have pronounced his life extinct, but Mrs. Wolcott maintains that they are in error.
I am running out of life, Olga thinks. What am I going to do? What is there without life?
Lazarus used to work in the corner by the window, next to Greg Heller, packing eggs without a word all day. He worked so hard Heller often had to tell him to slow down. Only at the end of the shift would he sometimes jabber in as much English as he knew, mixed with strange foreign words. He never mentioned anarchism, Heller said, except once: Emma Goldman, the anarchist queen, was coming to Chicago to speak, and Lazarus tried to talk Heller into going with him to hear her—which Heller rejected in disgust. “The rich have all the money. I have none. You have none,” Lazarus said, waving his arms, his eyes shining. Heller told him to keep busy and he would earn some. Mr. Eichgreen confirmed that Lazarus was a good worker; he never talked anarchism to him. If he had come to work on Monday, Mr. Eichgreen would have sent Lazarus to Iowa to learn the egg-packing business from the bottom. Young Averbuch, Mr. Eichgreen said, he seemed fond of America.
SOMEONE ONCE ASKED ME how I saw America. I wake up in the morning, I said, and I look to my left. And on my left I would see Mary, her face serene and often frowning. Sometimes I’d watch her sleep, licking her lips or gibbering in the middle of a dream. I seldom dared kiss her, because she was a light sleeper and likely to be tired after a shift of brain-chopping. When I did plant a touch-kiss on her cheek, carefully and slowly, she would break through her slumber and look at me flabbergasted and frightened—she could not recognize me. And when she was in surgery and there was no body on her half of the bed, just the wrinkled indentation and her scent and an occasional long black hair on the pillow, I would rise, fainthearted, for somehow her absence opened up the possibility that my life and all of its traces had vanished, that Mary had left me, took it all with her, and we would never read our book on our chest again. In the kitchen, I would find a bowl with a very small spoon in it, crumbs of organic cereal dissolving in the pool of milk at the bottom. The coffee machine would still be sputtering; the Chicago Tribune folded on the table, except for the Metro section—she liked to read obituaries on her way to the hospital. There was often a note for me, signed with a flourishy M. Sometimes it said Love, M.
Rora and I had breakfast at the hotel restaurant—boiled eggs, butter, pieces of dry rye bread. A businessman in a leather jacket sucking a toothpick wobbled in, his gait suggesting a sore groin. The television set was on, showing Fashion TV. A couple of prostitutes, their night shift finished, drank coffee and smoked, savoring the sunny, pimpless morning. They were crumpled and tired, indifferent to anything or
anybody outside their own esoteric intimacy. The carmine lipstick; the garish makeup on their pale, creased faces; the formerly puffed-up bangs now sagged—it was as though they had finally forsaken straining themselves to be attractive. They spoke to each other with surprising vigor, something was at stake. I wondered what it was, and I realized that I would never find out.
After he spoke with Karadžić and faxed the interview to New York, Rora said, Miller wanted to celebrate his exclusive and relax a little, for the whole thing had been rather stressful. So Rora took him to Duran’s brothel, mainly serving the foreigners—peacekeepers, diplomats, and journalists, who affectionately called the venue Duran Duran—although during a truce you could find people from both sides of the war there. Rambo himself, of course, was a frequent, unpaying guest and brought along many friends. He liked to treat the foreigners he was in business with: there were distinguished diplomats whose happy political lives would be jeopardized if it ever came out what kind of games they played with those girls. Duran’s brothel was a place insulated from the war: soft music, fresh flowers, no siege stench, the girls clean and neat, some of them even pretty. They were mainly from Ukraine and Moldova, although there were a couple of Hungarian firebrands for the special clientele, like the president’s son—also Rambo’s good friend.
The Lazarus Project Page 13