“He wants to build a nest,” he said to his mother.
Edie, sensing Schwartz’s unhappiness, spoke to him quietly.
“Maybe if you did some of the things my husband wants you, you would get along better with him.”
“Give me a for instance,” Schwartz said.
“Like take a bath, for instance.”
“I’m too old for baths,” said the bird. “My feathers fall out without baths.”
“He says you have a bad smell.”
“Everybody smells. Some people smell because of their thoughts or because who they are. My bad smell comes from the food I eat. What does his come from?”
“I better not ask him or it might make him mad,” said Edie.
In late November Schwartz froze on the balcony in the fog and cold, and especially on rainy days he woke with stiff joints and could barely move his wings. Already he felt twinges of rheumatism. He would have liked to spend more time in the warm house, particularly when Maurie was in school and Cohen at work. But though Edie was goodhearted and might have sneaked him in, in the morning, just to thaw out, he was afraid to ask her. In the meantime Cohen, who had been reading articles about the migration of birds, came out on the balcony one night after work when Edie was in the kitchen preparing pot roast, and peeking into the birdhouse, warned Schwartz to be on his way soon if he knew what was good for him. “Time to hit the flyways.”
“Mr. Cohen, why do you hate me so much?” asked the bird. “What did I do to you?”
“Because you’re an A-number-one trouble maker, that’s why. What’s more, whoever heard of a Jewbird? Now scat or it’s open war.”
But Schwartz stubbornly refused to depart so Cohen embarked on a campaign of harassing him, meanwhile hiding it from Edie and Maurie. Maurie hated violence and Cohen didn’t want to leave a bad impression. He thought maybe if he played dirty tricks on the bird he would fly off without being physically kicked out. The vacation was over, let him make his easy living off the fat of somebody else’s land. Cohen worried about the effect of the bird’s departure on Maurie’s schooling but decided to take the chance, first, because the boy now seemed to have the knack of studying —give the black bird-bastard credit—and second, because Schwartz was driving him bats by being there always, even in his dreams.
The frozen foods salesman began his campaign against the bird by mixing watery cat food with the herring slices in Schwartz’s dish. He also blew up and popped numerous paper bags outside the birdhouse as the bird slept, and when he had got Schwartz good and nervous, though not enough to leave, he brought a full-grown cat into the house, supposedly a gift for little Maurie, who had always wanted a pussy. The cat never stopped springing up at Schwartz whenever he saw him, one day managing to claw out several of his tailfeathers. And even at lesson time, when the cat was usually excluded from Maurie’s room, though somehow or other he quickly found his way in at the end of the lesson, Schwartz was desperately fearful of his life and flew from pinnacle to pinnacle—light fixture to clothes-tree to door-top—in order to elude the beast’s wet jaws.
Once when the bird complained to Edie how hazardous his existence was, she said, “Be patient, Mr. Schwartz. When the cat gets to know you better he won’t try to catch you any more.”
“When he stops trying we will both be in Paradise,” Schwartz answered. “Do me a favor and get rid of him. He makes my whole life worry. I’m losing feathers like a tree loses leaves.”
“I’m awfully sorry but Maurie likes the pussy and sleeps with it.”
What could Schwartz do? He worried but came to no decision, being afraid to leave. So he ate the herring garnished with cat food, tried hard not to hear the paper bags bursting like fire crackers outside the birdhouse at night, and lived terror-stricken closer to the ceiling than the floor, as the cat, his tail flicking, endlessly watched him.
Weeks went by. Then on the day after Cohen’s mother had died in her flat in the Bronx, when Maurie came home with a zero on an arithmetic test, Cohen, enraged, waited until Edie had taken the boy to his violin lesson, then openly attacked the bird. He chased him with a broom on the balcony and Schwartz frantically flew back and forth, finally escaping into his birdhouse. Cohen triumphantly reached in, and grabbing both skinny legs, dragged the bird out, cawing loudly, his wings wildly beating. He whirled the bird around and around his, head. But Schwartz, as he moved in circles, managed to swoop down and catch Cohen’s nose in his beak, and hung on for dear life. Cohen cried out in great pain, punched the bird with his fist, and tugging at its legs with all his might, pulled his nose free. Again he swung the yawking Schwartz around until the bird grew dizzy, then with a furious heave, flung him into the night. Schwartz sank like stone into the street. Cohen then tossed the birdhouse and feeder after him, listening at the ledge until they crashed on the sidewalk below. For a full hour, broom in hand, his heart palpitating and nose throbbing with pain, Cohen waited for Schwartz to return but the brokenhearted bird didn’t.
That’s the end of that dirty bastard, the salesman thought and went in. Edie and Maurie had come home.
“Look,” said Cohen, pointing to his bloody nose swollen three times its normal size, “what that sonofabitchy bird did. It’s a permanent scar.”
“Where is he now?” Edie asked, frightened.
“I threw him out and he flew away. Good riddance.”
Nobody said no, though Edie touched a handkerchief to her eyes and Maurie rapidly tried the nine-times table and found he knew approximately half.
In the spring when the winter’s snow had melted, the boy, moved by a memory, wandered in the neighborhood, looking for Schwartz. He found a dead black bird in a small lot near the river, his two wings broken, neck twisted, and both bird-eyes plucked clean.
“Who did it to you, Mr. Schwartz?” Maurie wept.
“Anti-Semeets,” Edie said later.
GEO. ALEC EFFINGER
Paradise Last
The nightmonsters of satire bathe happily in Jewish love. They’re the happy endings that laugh at themselves, the sour faces that turn into prunes, last decade’s reruns on the late-late show, dirty jokes that come true, traditional sadnesses, horrors muted with glibness, true love and happy days as witnessed by the Borscht Belt, Rube Goldberg, S. J. Perelman, and The Marx Brothers.
Herewith a science fiction story, a satire with self-consistent details and extrapolations—and, of course, loaded premises, purposely rooted in quicksand. A story of Jewless Jews, bright children, problematical machines with almost all the answers, subtle diasporas, planets with turquoise grass, and movie-media emotions.
J D.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This is an original story written expressly for this volume.
*
THERE WERE FIVE MEN who ran the world. They were called Representatives, though democratic elections had long ago been eliminated as “too inaccurate.” There was a Representative of North America, one of South America, one each from Europe, Asia, and Africa. They had all been in power for a long time, and they seemed to enjoy it. The citizens of their continental domains were glad of that. The last thing the overburdened people needed was a war.
Helping the Representatives in their duties was TECT. More comprehensive than just a calculating device, TECT was an immense machine buried far beneath the surface of the earth. It contained the sum total of everything mankind had yet learned about the universe; but, of course, so did several private and public computer installations throughout the world. TECT had special powers and abilities, though, which set it apart from other species of machine. It understood. Questions could be asked of it which were impossible to translate into basic computer binary input. TECT could interpret all human languages; if a built-in imprecision of common speech led to ambiguity, TECT would query the speaker. One might ask, “What is the difference between right and wrong?” and expect a quick reply. The machine’s answer would not be merely a philosophic abstract compiled from the vast recorded literature of the human race; th
at is what one would receive from the other, more accessible computers. No, from TECT there would be a slight pause, and then a closely reasoned, “personal” opinion made on the basis of TECT’s current measure of data. Such questions were rarely asked, of course; even from TECT, the answers were never conclusive, always impractical. And it was a very practical world.
What else was going on? Well, the population of the world was becoming joyfully homogeneous. Representatives had come and gone, but all their strategies were to one end; the idea was that the more people were alike, the better they’d all get along. And naturally the better everyone got along, the more power the Representatives would have. Of course, the great masses of people were aware that they were being exploited and manipulated. They understood it, at least on a subconscious level. But people do want to get along; it’s really so much pleasanter that way. And, too, the Representatives had so much power already, there wasn’t any other choice.
That didn’t mean that there weren’t still pockets of diversity. In the many generations of Representative rule, the distinctions among the races had not been entirely obliterated. The genetic laws of nature insisted at rare intervals on producing individuals with identifiably Negroid or Oriental features. These people often took government-sponsored jobs as “slum-dwellers,” living as their ancestors had done before the era of the Representatives. Small ghettos were organized on a strictly voluntary basis, in order to preserve museum-like tableaux of moribund cultures.
Less popular with the state and their fellow citizens were those who clung to cultural differences, as opposed to mere mistakes of breeding. Such groups as intellectuals, artists, homosexuals, and Communists, all of which had enjoyed greater freedom of expression before the Representative regime, were openly attacked. Perhaps the most extensive cultural enclave, and one of the most abused, were the Jews. Their ancient heritage of loyalty to family and to doctrinal ideals had preserved them from total assimilation; the other citizens worried that this would upset the Representatives and cause violent social repercussions. The citizens made their anxiety and their displeasure evident; but, far from being angered by the Jews’ persistence, the Representatives frequently made statements honoring the minority’s courageous and heart-warming tenacity. Still, the other citizens were not mollified.
Into this world, then, a boy named Murray Rose was born to Jewish parents. They weren’t very Jewish; they didn’t observe the Sabbath in any particular way, they were frequently startled by the arrival of Holy Days, and they were openly amused by their conservative friends’ attention to kashrut, the traditional dietary laws. The Rose family maintained a tenuous link to their heritage, more out of sentiment than anything else. But they were careful not to be identified as one of the “troublesome” Jews.
When Murray was ten years old, his grandfather came to visit. Murray was excited; he had never met Grandpa Zalman, but he had often heard the old man’s name mentioned. Murray’s parents were more anxious than excited. When the old man arrived, the three adults stood facing each other uncomfortably, while Murray hid behind his father. Grandpa Zalman looked different than the boy had imagined; the old man’s great gray eyebrows and long beard gave him a fierce look that confused Murray. He had always been told that Grandpa Zalman was odd, but very gentle.
“Hello, Julie,” said the old man. He kissed his daughter and shook hands with his son-in-law.
“It’s nice to see you again,” said Murray’s father. There was a long, tense silence.
“This must be Murray,” said Grandpa Zalman. Murray’s father took the boy’s wrist and presented him to his grandfather. Murray said hello and shook hands. He was dismayed by how huge and rough Grandpa Zalman’s hands were.
In the next few days Murray spent a lot of time with his grandfather. Murray’s father was gone all day at work, and his mother was much too busy with housework to entertain her father. The old man and the boy took walks around the neighborhood together and talked. At first Murray was a little timid, but after a while he realized that Grandpa Zalman was different than his parents in a way that was both foreign and strangely pleasant.
It was chilly and overcast one afternoon when Murray and Grandpa Zalman were sitting on a bench in the park. Murray had grown fond of his grandfather. He knew from their actions that his parents did not like Grandpa Zalman as well. The longer he stayed, the less he talked. Now they sat under a heavy sky, and Grandpa Zalman said nothing at all.
“What’s in the bag, Grandpa?” asked Murray.
Grandpa Zalman stared at the brick path. The boy’s question startled him from his thoughts. He shook the brown paper sack; its contents rustled. “Crumbs,” he said. “I brought crumbs for the birds.”
“Will they let you feed the pigeons?”
Grandpa Zalman sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “They used to. I used to feed the birds every day. It made me feel better. We used to get along very well, the pigeons and I. I gave them food; they pretended that they liked me. They were truly grateful for the crumbs. That’s more than people will admit.”
“Can I feed them?” asked Murray.
“Let me do it first,” said Grandpa Zalman. “Then if the CAS police come running with their clubs, it’ll just be me, an old man, who gets beaten.”
“Okay,” said Murray.
Grandpa Zalman opened the bag and tossed a handful of crumbs on the bricks. Several pigeons landed immediately and began pecking frantically at the offering. The old man gave the bag to Murray, who sprinkled more crumbs around his feet. “Are they bread crumbs?” he asked.
“No,” said Grandpa Zalman, “they’re matzo.”
“What’s that?”
The grandfather watched Murray sadly. “Matzo. Don’t you know what next week is? Passover?”
Murray looked up at Grandpa Zalman. “Passover?” he said.
“A Holy Day. A celebration.”
“Like Skirt Day?” asked Murray, puzzled.
“Come on, Murray,” said Grandpa Zalman. “I feel like walking.” Murray spilled the rest of the matzo crumbs in a heap for the pigeons and ran after the old man. They left the park and walked homeward. After a while the grandfather stopped to examine the display in the window of a small fichestore. He had said nothing to the boy since leaving the park; now he silently held the door open, and Murray preceded him into the dark shop.
“Can I help you?” asked the proprietor, looking skeptically at Grandpa Zalman’s beard and strange clothes.
“I want the afternoon tectape,” said the old man. “And I wonder if you have any fiches, maybe, on the history of the Jews. Their customs.”
The proprietor frowned. “We got a small section for religion,” he said. “The Representative’s office isn’t crazy about selling that kind of stuff. They’re cracking down now, you know. I don’t know what they’re worried about. It doesn’t move very good, anyway. If we got any Jewish stuff, it’ll be in there, but I think it’s mostly Moslem and Christian myths. A couple of artfiches.”
“Thank you,” said Grandpa Zalman. He went to the small bin that the store’s owner had indicated. There were a couple of dozen plastic microfiches, each one a microminiature book, designed to be read with the aid of a fichereader or projector. None interested the old man. He glanced at Murray, who had never been in a fichestore; the boy was wandering from bin to bin, picking up random fiches and holding them to the light, vainly trying to read them unenlarged. “Would you like one?” asked Grandpa Zalman.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Murray. “We don’t have a reader at home, anyway. Dad says we’ll buy one when I get to high school.” Grandpa Zalman shrugged and paid for the newstape, printed out by the store’s small tect console. As they left the store a CAS officer brushed by the old man. The. policeman scowled and shoved Grandpa Zalman out of the way.
“You guys ought to be more careful,” said the CAS man. “You ain’t got much time left, the way it is.”
Grandpa Zalman said nothing. He took Murray’s hand
and walked off in the other direction. “The world is filling up with hoodlums,” he said at last.
“They don’t like you, do they, Grandpa Zalman?”
“No, they don’t like me. And they don’t like you, either. They don’t like anybody.”
“Is it because we’re Jewish?” asked Murray.
“No,” said Grandpa Zalman slowly. “No, I don’t think that has anything to do with it. Maybe a little.” Then they went home. Grandpa Zalman read his tectape, and Murray went out to play knockerball with his friends. Two days later the boy’s father took Grandpa Zalman to the public teletrans tect. Murray never saw his grandfather again.
But the old man had had his effect on the boy. In the guest room Murray found three fiches, which Grandpa Zalman had forgotten or left intentionally. Murray took them to school, where he browsed through them on one of the library’s fichereaders. They were the first fiches that he had ever had all to his own; they weren’t textfiches, but they weren’t picturefiches, either. One was a long collection of Jewish lore that Murray found fascinating. He wondered what had happened to all the curious laws and customs. He asked his mother, and she said, “They’re still around. Not here, but around. There’s still plenty of people like your grandfather. But they’re learning, slow but sure. The Representatives are doing their best for us, and it’s people like Grandpa Zalman who make it harder. They’re learning, though.” Murray was doubtful. It seemed to him a sad thing that all the old Jewish ways were being neglected.
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