The Collected Stories

by Leonard Michaels

  “I don’t gossip, and there is no one in my hotel room but me. I don’t talk to myself. In my sleep, maybe, but I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “I believe you, but if you were to say in conversation at a cocktail party, in all innocence, that So-and-so is a homosexual, or a heroin addict, or badly in debt, your comment would enter his file at the headquarters of the secret police. You might compare it to academic scholarship. With such innocent comments, gathered in different cities — not only in Poland — a detailed picture of So-and-so is eventually developed.”

  “For what purpose? It seems utterly mindless.”

  “Who knows what purpose will emerge on what occasion?”

  “I never heard of a homosexual mathematician. Could you name one?”

  “Yes, I could, and so could you, Professor Nachman, but my point is, we are not to name any. As for Polish women, they have destroyed American marriages more often than you might imagine.”

  “Are you married?”

  “My marriage is in no danger, but thanks for your concern, Professor Nachman. The allure of Polish women is considerable. They are the most gorgeous women you will ever meet. I’m sure you noticed Eva, the receptionist.”

  “Does she destroy marriages?”

  “With her, a man could fall in love in two minutes, perhaps sooner. It has been known to happen in Poland. Even a sophisticated executive of an international corporation, falling in love, soon forgets the distinction between matters of the heart and corporate information of a privileged and sensitive kind. Believe me when I say it has happened more than once. I will not name names, but I could tell you about one in particular. Every word he said was reported. The destruction of his marriage was incidental.”

  “I’m not married. I have no secrets. I don’t gossip. I didn’t come to Cracow for romantic adventures. It’s arguable that I’m a freak. You’re wasting your time, Mr. Sullivan, unless you want to make me frightened and self-conscious.”

  “My job is to welcome American visitors like you, Professor Nachman, and to mention these things. Bear in mind that your value to the secret police is known to them, not you. By the way, I have your ticket for the tour of Auschwitz. Compliments of the State Department.”

  Nachman said, “Thank you. I don’t want to tour Auschwitz. I would like to see the ghetto, particularly the synagogue.”

  Marie said they could walk after breakfast from the hotel to the ghetto. She added, as they left the hotel, “On the way, we can see an ancient church. Many visitors ask to go there.”

  Like the consul, she was telling him where to go, but she seemed less personal and intrusive. Nachman didn’t object.

  It was an extremely cold morning. Marie walked with a long stride, easily and steadily. Nachman supposed that she could walk like that for hours and remain indifferent to the cold. He found himself adjusting to her rhythm, though he was hunched up in his overcoat, chin buried in his scarf, his arm muscles tight against his ribs. He didn’t walk as smoothly as Marie. The pain of freezing air in his face was relentless. It got to his feet, too; made them blocklike.

  “Do you go to church regularly?” he asked.

  “I haven’t been inside a church since I was a child,” said Marie. “This one is famous, visited by many foreigners. I thought you might want to see it, but we can go directly to the ghetto. The church isn’t important.”

  “Do you want to see the church?”

  Marie became silent and for a moment seemed to wonder if she wanted to or not. Then she said, “Do you want to see the synagogue?”

  It wasn’t an answer. Maybe Marie felt she’d answered enough questions, or maybe he’d been mildly reproached. She seemed to resist conversation as if it were a distraction from the main thing. The girl had a strong character, but Nachman wondered if it was merely a kind of psychological narrowness or limited imagination. Look how she walks. No dreamer, this girl.

  “My grandparents lived in the ghetto,” said Nachman. “I don’t know where, of course, but I want to see the synagogue. My grandfather was known for his piety. It is possible that he worshipped in that synagogue. But I know almost nothing. My parents saw no reason to talk to me about their life in Poland.”

  The way they walked in the cold seemed to shape Nachman’s remarks, each phrase or sentence the length of a stride, more or less.

  “You know almost nothing about your grandparents?”

  “I have some old photos, so that’s something, but I know very little. My grandmother died young, I think. In the photos she seems much younger than my grandfather.”

  “They didn’t go to America with your parents?”

  “My parents never forgave themselves. I suppose they didn’t care to remember Poland and preferred that I never think about it. How much could they say that a child should hear?”

  “I see. As a result, your life has been spared bitter memories.”

  “As a result, not a day passes that I don’t think about it.”

  “You’re more than curious about your grandfather. You want very much to know.”

  Nachman said lightly, “It’s why I do mathematics.”

  The words surprised him. They sounded so simple and light, rather as though he merely meant what he said. He had intended to be ironic.

  Marie glanced at Nachman, as if she had a question in mind, but decided not to ask it. Nachman continued, “As for my grandfather, he was frequently mentioned, but always in a mythical way. I heard that he was consulted by Polish nobility for his business acumen — what business, I don’t know — and respected by the Jews for his piety and learning. What does piety mean? I’m sure many Jews observed the rituals, but only a few were respected for their piety. How is it recognized?”

  “He must have been an interesting person.”

  “He was also a musician, and he was good at numbers. I heard that he could speak well on ceremonial occasions. I was told he was witty. But all of this is mythology. When I asked what instrument he played, I was told, ‘Many instruments.’ When I asked what he did with numbers, I was told, ‘He did everything in his head and never used pencil or paper.’ I don’t know what he spoke about in public, or on what occasions. I was told that I look like him. I inherited his name, Raphael Nachman.”

  “The Germans didn’t destroy Cracow, only your family history. That’s why you came to Cracow.”

  “I was invited to lecture at the university. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. If I learn something here it will be entirely by chance. Everything I know, I have always learned by sitting in a room with a pencil and some paper. My grandfather could do everything in his head. I’m not as good as he was. Maybe the problems have become different, or more complex. I’ll tell you something strange. Ever since I arrived, I’ve had an uncanny sensation. It’s as if I’d been here before. When I walk around a corner I expect to know what I’ll see. I couldn’t tell you in advance, but when I see it — a small square with a church and a restaurant or a theater — I feel I’ve seen it before. Cracow is a small city, but even so, one could get lost. I’ve walked around several times without a map and I get lost, but not for long. I have no sense of direction, yet sooner or later I find my way back to the hotel. Even the pavement has a strange familiarity. It seems to recognize me. It pulls at my feet.”

  “You don’t need a guide.”

  “I certainly do. I don’t know where things are.”

  “We will go directly to the synagogue.”

  “No, no. Take me to the church first. I would like to see what is interesting to visitors. We’ll go first to the church, then to the ghetto and the synagogue.”

  Nachman was aware that he’d talked extravagantly, precisely what the American consul had warned him against. But Nachman wasn’t in love, and he was talking more to himself than to Marie.

  She seemed to listen to him with the most serious concentration, her expression so intense it was almost grim. She respected Nachman as a mathematician, no doubt. Perhaps she was now fascinated by his pe
rsonal revelations. Maybe she felt privileged to hear about him in a personal way, but her feelings were of no consequence to Nachman. Still, he wanted her to be less reserved, perhaps to suggest that she liked his company and wasn’t merely doing a job. She was a kid from the countryside, not a worldclass Polish beauty like Eva, the receptionist at the American Consulate. There was no danger that Nachman would fall in love in two minutes. He felt free to talk, despite the consul. After today, he’d never see the girl again. No, he wasn’t in love.

  Nachman had never been in love for long, perhaps never at all, and he sometimes wondered how people knew they were in love. He’d had girlfriends, but the idea of any passionate derangement had never appealed to him. He played the violin and he solved problems in mathematics. His need for ecstasy was abundantly satisfied. Nachman wasn’t especially sensual. Two or three bites took care of hunger. The rest was nutrition. He considered himself a congenital conservative, which is not to say anything political. He was frugal by nature, and had no lust to consume the world, and he didn’t feel one was enlarged or made wise by experience. He’d been outside the United States only once before, to attend the funeral of an aunt in Toronto. This was his first trip to Europe. He walked to work and hardly ever went anywhere farther than a mile from his house in Santa Monica, though he visited his mother regularly in San Diego. Every morning in Cracow he made the bed in his hotel room and cleaned up after himself in the bathroom. The room looked as if Nachman weren’t guilty of existence.

  If you said he was dull, many would agree, especially his American colleagues at U.C.L.A. They were rarely excited by Nachman’s mind in action. While some mathematicians went flying toward proofs, Nachman demanded tedious repetition. He was slow in conversation with colleagues, which was unusual for a mathematician, but the published work of Slow and Repetitious Nachman was distinguished. Some colleagues suspected that he wasn’t slow, only perverse. Like a crab, Nachman seemed to go backward while others were flying toward solutions, yet he often arrived before them.

  “Here we are,” said Marie.

  “This is a church?”

  “This is the synagogue. We’ll go to the church later.”

  Nachman shrugged. Marie was willful. She did what he wanted, though it wasn’t what he said he wanted.

  An empty old building, heavy with abiding presence; certainly old, older than mere history. Old in the sense of having long been used. Even the large, flat, soot-blackened stones that formed a rough path to the door had presence as opposed to history. The stones seemed alive to Nachman, more alive than himself. He felt apprehensive, though not about anything he might see, only about what he would feel. The hollow interior, which reminded Nachman of the inside of a wooden ship, a caravel with a spacious hold, made an effect of stunning emptiness, as if recently and temporarily abandoned by the mass of passengers, who would soon return and fill the big, plain wooden space with the heat of their bodies and their chanting. The congregation was gone, annihilated at a date memorialized in books, but Nachman, overwhelmed by apprehensions and sorrow, felt he had only to wait and the books would prove wrong, the Jews would return and collect in this room, and he would find his grandfather among them and his grandfather would tell Nachman the names of all the people.

  Nachman entered deeply into the space, and stood there with Marie beside him, neither of them speaking. Then they heard a noise, a cough or a sneeze, and turned toward the rear of the room. A man stood not far away, partly in the shadows, looking at them. He was less than average height and had a large head and broad shoulders. His neck was bound in a red silk scarf. It had once been an elegant scarf. The color still lived, but the silk was soiled by sweat and grease, and it was frayed. His gray wool coat seemed barely to contain his bulk, and his arms were too long for the sleeves. Presumably, the caretaker. He walked toward them, rude physical authority in his stride. Though he was far from young, there was vigor and strength in his torso and short bowed legs.

  Marie spoke to him in Polish. He answered in a rough and aggressive voice from his chest, a voice so much unlike hers that he seemed to speak a different language. Then Marie said to Nachman, “He says there is no fee. It is all right for us to stay until he closes the building in the afternoon.”

  Nachman said, “Ask him questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “Anything you like.”

  Marie spoke to the man again, and a conversation ensued that was not the least intelligible to Nachman, but he listened to the words as if he could follow them, and he heard his name mentioned by Marie. After a few moments, Marie said, “He has been the caretaker of the synagogue for more years than he can remember, from before the war. He says he remembers your grandfather. You look like him.”

  “You told him who I am?”

  “I only mentioned the name Nachman. He said he remembered such a man, and you look like him.”

  “Ask him more questions.”

  “What more questions?”

  “I don’t know. Please just ask.”

  Marie spoke to the man again. He seemed to liven as he answered, as if this was an opportunity he longed for, his words like rocks tumbling from the crater of his chest. He made gestures with his thick hands to emphasize what he said. His face, which was a broad bone with small blue eyes and a wide mobile mouth, took on different expressions, each swiftly replacing the last. There was so much motion in his features that Nachman wasn’t sure what the man looked like, only that it was a big face with small animalish blue eyes and a thick nose with burst capillaries along its length. He was full of talk, full of memories. They seemed to lift from within and push behind his eyes, as if they intended to burst through and be seen.

  Nachman waited and watched, his heart thudding palpably. He listened so hard that he became dizzy with anticipation, as if at any moment he would understand Polish and know what the man was saying. Nachman hesitated to make a sound. He didn’t dare ask Marie to tell him anything until the man said as much as he wanted. Marie finally turned to Nachman and said, “We should go now.”

  “But what did he tell you?”

  “He told me that your grandfather Nachman was gifted. People would cross the street to touch his coat and then run away. His gift was mysterious and frightening. People came to him for advice, often about money matters, but also about love affairs and sickness.”

  “He had some kind of medical knowledge?”

  “He knew herbs that could cure skin diseases. He helped Poles and Jews, but it was dangerous for him. He was afraid of his own powers, and would often suffer worse than the people who came to him with their problems and sickness. This fellow himself, the caretaker of the synagogue, says he once came to Nachman with a broken leg that wouldn’t heal. The pain was indescribable. He says Nachman went into a trance. He suffered as if his own leg were broken. In his trance, he made strange sounds, as if he were talking to somebody in an unknown language, but not with words, only cries and grunts and shrieks. Let’s go, Professor Nachman. We’ve heard enough.”

  Nachman didn’t want to go.

  “So what happened? Did his leg heal?”

  “Yes.”

  Nachman stared at the man, much taken by a sudden affection for him. He wanted to hear more, but Marie was insistent.

  “We can come back, if you like. Let’s go now.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “I must give the man something.”

  Nachman pulled bills from his pants pocket.

  “Is American money acceptable? I have fifty dollars.”

  “Give him a dollar.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “He’ll be happy with a dollar. Give it to him and let’s go.”

  Nachman was trembling. Was this girl a guide, or some kind of Polish despot? He’d admired her strength of character, but at the moment it seemed more like obstinate and imperious willfulness. Nachman recalled the way she walked, her long, tireless stride. H
e thought suddenly it was consistent with her whole character, the stride of a warrior, a conqueror. It measured land. Wherever she strode she seized and possessed. Her voice was soft, but the softness enclosed a wire of steel. She was abrupt and terse. Her figure was lean as a fashion model’s, but not languid. It had moral stiffness, military tension, as if built to endure. She was willful; pigheaded; less sensitive than even the oxlike caretaker. Nachman had asked for a guide, not a descendant of Genghis Khan. The Mongols had overrun Poland. Of course she could do math. The Chinese were great mathematicians.

  Nachman gave the man five dollars, and then shook his hand. The man grinned and nodded thanks. Then, to assert himself against Marie’s desire to leave, Nachman smiled at the man and embraced him.

  Marie sighed. “He’s not a Jew, Professor Nachman.”

  Nachman was startled by the remark.

  Walking away from the synagogue, again with her rhythm, Nachman said, “I didn’t care if he was a Jew. I hadn’t thought he was a Jew or not a Jew. Why did you say that?”

  “It seemed relevant. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

  “He was eager to talk about my grandfather. I learned something. I was grateful to him. If you don’t mind, please tell me everything he said.”

  “He said your grandfather could play musical instruments, and he could sing Polish folk songs. He said a few other things.”

  “What other things? Please try to remember.”

  “He could juggle.”

  “Juggle? My grandfather was a juggler?”

  For the first time that morning Marie raised her voice. “He said your grandfather could bend nails with his teeth. He could fly.”

  Understanding came to Nachman slowly, against strong resistance in his feelings.

  Nachman was silent for several blocks. He was upset and confused, and the morning felt colder, though the sun was brighter and sharp, making the streets dazzle and every shadow black. The long walk hadn’t warmed his body. When they came to the ancient church, he followed Marie inside, as if without personal will. It was less cold than the street, but far from warm.