The Sacrifice

by Adele Wiseman

  “You may laugh,” said Abraham, “but stranger things have happened.”

  “Do you want to hear?” Moses had appeared at the curtain, holding his violin.

  They listened while the child played, a serious frown on his face as he found the notes painstakingly. Isaac flexed his arms under the covers. It was this feeling of being out of control, of being at the mercy of every chemical shift in his body, that was so frightening. Rest rest rest, he told himself again. And beyond?

  Abraham looked from the child to Isaac and back again, his face glowing. He nodded his head vigorously when Moses had finished. “Now play the other little song that you played yesterday.” He relaxed in his chair and continued to nod his head as he listened, now and again peering attentively at the child’s fingers. A wonder instrument. How a person could draw such music out of such a small machine! He fancied that his own hands might have been suited to such a task had they not been roughened and hardened to the butcher’s trade. My father never meant for me to be a butcher, he reminded himself sadly. But his grandson would make music. His grandchildren would do all those things about which a man like himself could only dream. Isaac would see to that.

  When Moses had finished playing and they had praised him he went up to his father to say good night. Isaac turned over on his side to take the boy in his arms. He saw that the child’s eyes were fixed on the scar that remained on his temple, and was pleased at the wonder in his son’s eyes. He pulled him close and kissed his cheek. “Good night, my son,” he said softly, and again he felt himself flooded over with a poignant excitement, as though there were something permanent in this good night. “Come and say good-by to me before you go to school in the morning,” he whispered. The little boy nodded. Isaac felt suddenly greatly relieved, as though tomorrow had been insured in the child’s nod, in the feel of his soft young body.

  —

  On their way home from school the children often stopped to play in the pit where the synagogue had stood. Now the earth had cooled and dirt had sifted over and softened the bare emptiness with shoots of tough wild grass and yellow dandelion. Moses could sometimes stand there in the emptiness, though, and think hard enough to bring it back, the moment as it still existed in him, and feel the various emotions tingle through him and see with the back of his eyes everything that he remembered most about the dirty frame building, inside and out, burning and whole.

  On one such good day, as he paused with his books under his arm and an absent smile on his lips, Dmitri, in friendly mood, trailing his gang and miscellaneous dogs, came barking and shouting past.

  “Hey, Moishe, let’s go play in the pit!”

  Junie too: “Come on, Moses.”

  Gladly he threw his books on the grass. After a little while Tony suggested, “Let’s play bows and arrows!”

  The boys yelled assent.

  “Across the pit!” shouted Donald Gregory McNeill. He spread out his arms, arched his narrow chest, and, making the noise of a diving plane, ran headlong into the pit. Still yelling and slapping his buttocks enthusiastically, he clambered out again on the other side.

  “Sitting!” commanded Dmitri.

  “Sitting,” they assented.

  The boys unbuttoned their flies. Donald Gregory zipped his neatly but cautiously open. Dmitri, two buttons missing, gave a dexterous wriggle without using his hands. Blue-eyed Tony grinned at Junie, who stood watching around the curve of the pit, and pretended to take aim at her. Moses watched them without moving, happy, waiting for a sign.

  “I bet I can pee farther than any of you,” he said suddenly, boldly.

  “Oh yeah!” Dmitri sneered.

  “Yeah” – Moses, bold, confident of his sign. He undid his fly. “See” – proudly – “mine’s different.”

  The boys crowded round. Junie couldn’t see from where she stood. She came up closer. “Is it bigger?”

  “Nah.” Dmitri snorted contemptuously. “It hasn’t got a frill. Well, if you’re so sure, come and sit down already. Scram out of the way, you dame,” said Dmitri, arrogant with his sister.

  “Ya,” chimed in grinning Tony, “if you don’t want to get wet!”

  They sat down on the edge of the pit, their feet dangling under them, and adjusted themselves seriously in their places. Donald Gregory removed a sharp cinder from under his thigh. Fat Michael wriggled and rubbed his behind and thighs in the dust for a moment. The ground was warm.

  “All right,” said Michael excitedly, leaning forward and straining his eyes intently toward a spot at a distance which indicated that he had no mean estimate of his abilities.

  Tony leaned casually with one hand on the ground. He glanced at Junie to see the effect of his pose.

  “Just a minute,” said Donald Gregory. “I can’t get started.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  A passer-by laughed out loud as the sun-streaked arrows streamed into the air.

  The warm sun leaned out of the sky and dazzled Junie’s eyes. She couldn’t see exactly whose went farthest. The boys were down in the pit, arguing about it.

  “I didn’t aim right,” said Donald Gregory.

  “I could hardly get anything out,” said Michael. “Sometimes I can pee farther than all of you.”

  “I didn’t even try,” said Tony, elaborately casual.

  Moses and Dmitri were still arguing, although the sun was already drying their evidence.

  “You know yourself that mine went farther,” said Moses indignantly, feeling, for the moment, no fear of the brawny Dmitri.

  “Whaddaya mean, ya liar!” Dmitri clambered out of the pit and noticed Junie, who was standing with her legs crossed. “Ha! Look at that dame! She can only pee downwards.”

  Mortified, Junie stared at her brother. Suddenly she turned and began to run out of the empty lot. When she had safely crossed the street she whirled and yelled with all her might, “Moses peed farther! Moses peed farther!” Then she ran.

  Pausing only to pick up his books, with Dmitri, the dogs, the gang in full gallop behind him, Moses ran too, but not really fearful – triumphant, knowing that this time they wouldn’t catch him; ran exultantly all the way home. Only then did he stop, remembering to turn the doorknob quietly and tiptoe softly into the house.

  —

  Abraham did not approach Polsky for a loan until he had examined the question from every angle and at last had to admit to himself that there was no other way. Still he put it off as long as he could. Finally he called Polsky into the tiny kitchen behind the butcher shop and explained to him the difficulties, feeling as he did so inexplicably ashamed, as though these money problems were somehow his own fault. Polsky had no money problems, except in the sense that he was occupied with the problem of making more and more money. But this was not a question of profits; it was a question of living itself in the present circumstances, with Isaac unable to work and all the bills that had accumulated in the past year.

  Polsky listened very reasonably with the slightly frozen frown on his jovial face that money matters always brought on. Distaste for having to reveal his difficulties, for having to ask for money, for finding himself in a situation in which he was helpless, made it very hard for Abraham to find the words with which to speak, so that it seemed to him that his voice had in it more servility than he meant. He finished up his explanation in almost angry tones.

  But Polsky was sympathetic. The old man was having a very bad run of luck. Here his son had done something that took a lot of guts. Polsky had not lived a very religious life, but still he had respect for certain things, and the Torah was the Torah after all. So what did the guy get for it? A big pain, Polsky could tell you where. He was beginning to wonder about the nature of this long-drawn-out illness of Isaac’s, and where it was likely to lead. But that was not something that could be mentioned to the old guy.

  So Polsky agreed to lend Abraham the money. Before closing time he would have it. Abraham was not to worry. Polsky knew he could trust him. H
adn’t their long association proved it? As he suggested, Abraham could pay it back gradually out of his wages. He would not be rushed.

  Abraham was greatly relieved. It was true, thank heaven, that all his life he had lived honorably, so that now no man need fear to trust him. The money would be paid back. Isaac and he would see to that. Still, the thought of having to borrow made him uncomfortable. Perhaps that was why, when Chaim burst, beaming, into the shop later on in the afternoon, he felt a brief, wild hope.

  “What do you think?” Chaim began, without pausing for the customary greeting. “I have been talking to my son Ralph about your Isaac. You know what a big doer Ralph has become in the community. And when I reminded him, he too thought that it is a shame that the community has not done anything to show its appreciation of what Isaac has done.” Chaim’s rosy smile as he paused for breath indicated that there was something delightful forthcoming. Abraham’s imagination raced ahead, inspired. “Do you know what he is going to do?” Chaim continued. “When they build the new Chaider for the children on the heights he is going to propose that Isaac be made a teacher. Ralph is going to be a big shot on the board of the school, and you know my son Ralph. Once he says a thing it is as good as done.” Chaim beamed on his friend.

  Abraham’s disappointment was only momentary, and he was a little ashamed of it. They certainly did not want charity, after all. Best that they should deal with their own financial problems. This was a very fine gesture on the part of Ralph. It would surely inspire Isaac to get well more quickly, and once he was better what need to worry? He was touched by Chaim’s enthusiasm. Here was a true friend.

  “Do you know,” said Chaim, “what has pleased me most in Ralph’s promise? It is that another wish of ours will be fulfilled. When Isaac comes to teach in the school he will bring your Moishele with him. And our Arnie will also come to the school. It will be just as we have always said.”

  Ever since the miracle of his grandson’s birth this had been a favorite topic with Chaim. Abraham had of late begun to doubt whether it could possibly come about, for no matter how obviously it was meant to be, half of a miracle is its acceptance by those for whom it is intended. And Abraham knew that the heights would not willingly come down to the flats, even for miracles. If at all, the friendship might come about later on, when the boys were grown and one man forced from the other instinctively the respect of manhood. But now it seemed that it all might come about even as they had planned once.

  “There’s only one thing,” Abraham reminded himself suddenly. “The doctor said that Isaac is to be kept in bed indefinitely. This might mean quite a while yet.”

  Chaim thought seriously for a moment. “But the plans for the school are indefinite, too,” he remembered. “Ralph said that it would take a while to get things going. They are not sure whether they should be affiliated with the Hebraists or the Yiddishists, or should remain neutral; whether they should be Zionists or not, and if they are Zionists what kind of Zionists they should be. You know these politics. It makes me feel as though I’m back at work again, the way they talk about right wing and left wing. It could even take them a year yet before they start building.”

  Just before closing time Polsky brought the money in to Abraham. He did not give him a check but counted the money, in cash bills of small denomination, into Abraham’s hand. A grave, almost ritualistic tone crept into Polsky’s voice as he counted off the five-dollar bills. The sight of the money moving from Polsky’s large hand to his own, the way Polsky wetted his thumb and felt every bill, made Abraham nervous. It was as though Polsky were trying to make sure that he, Abraham, felt the full weight of the debt. His hand began to tremble slightly. It will be paid back, he told himself. He needn’t worry.

  Glancing past Polsky’s shoulder, Abraham saw that Hymie was moving about in the delicatessen, apparently innocent of what was happening.

  “Well, ha ha.” Polsky’s short laugh broke the tension that the handing over of the money had created. “That’s that, eh? Be careful on your way home.”

  “Thank you,” said Abraham. “You don’t have to worry. You’ll be repaid.”

  “I know, I know.” Polsky’s hand descended on Abraham’s shoulder. “By this time we should know each other.”

  Hymie approached them. From the look on his face Abraham could tell that he knew. He folded the money quickly into his pocket and turned aside to fasten the pocket with a large safety pin. Polsky was talking loudly to his son, proving by his manner to his own satisfaction that he could part with such a sum of money without turning a hair. But then, it wasn’t even a gamble.

  Abraham was relieved that it was closing time and he did not have to stop for a long exchange of politenesses. When he was out in the fresh air, hurrying along the darkening streets homeward, he reminded himself that it was for Isaac, after all. There was nothing to be ashamed of. It was a temporary thing. It was funny that at a time like this they should find themselves apparently much worse off than before, what with Isaac and his illness and the problems with money. And people, too, were funny that way. Nowadays he was not stopped so often to be asked about Isaac or to discuss that unforgettable day. As often as not it was he who had to bring it up. The weeds of everyday life sprout up quickly around the rare flower and seem to choke it off and hide it away. But push aside the weeds and the flower is there. There are some things that remain because they remind people of what is greater than themselves. No wonder Polsky had loaned him the money. Even Polsky’s soul, overrun with weeds though it was, could cherish the flower.

  And then there was Ralph’s promise. And Ralph scarcely knew them personally. That was something to tell Isaac about. Things might look difficult now, but just look where they were tending. On the strength of it Abraham stopped at the grocery and bought a cake, not with the money that was pinned up in his right-hand pants pocket, but from the change purse in his left one. The other money must be dropped into Ruth’s hand intact.

  Ruth met him at the door. With a swift gesture to her lips she indicated that all was not well. The curtain to Isaac’s room was drawn closed. They tiptoed past into the kitchen.

  “What has happened?”

  “He’s all right now,” said Ruth.

  “So?”

  “He had an attack,” she said. “I got frightened and called the doctor. The doctor said he’ll be all right now. I just didn’t want you to disturb him.” She sat down. The child was already seated quietly, listening.

  “Oh.” Abraham seated himself a little unsteadily. “How did it happen? You didn’t let him run around out of bed?”

  “What kind of a question? Of course not,” said Ruth sharply. Then, more gently: “But can I stop him from worrying? You know him. He has to think, think. At night he dreams. The doctor says it is not just movement that can disturb him. He mustn’t worry.”

  Abraham nodded his head. “He’s always been that way. How can we change the nature of a man? Confine an active man to bed, and he’ll still be active. Inside, what drives him will still drive him.”

  “But where will it drive –” Ruth caught herself. What was the use? She leaned forward, covering her face with her hands. Almost immediately, remembering that the child was watching, she straightened again.

  “But I have news,” said Abraham. “When he wakes up I’ll tell him something that will make him concentrate on getting well. And I have a surprise for you too.” Abraham unpinned his pants pocket and pulled out the roll of money. He explained to them about the money and about how in the outside world they counted for something yet. Looking at Ruth, he was startled at how she had aged in the past year, how her pretty face, plumper now, had rearranged itself around the lines in her forehead and beside her mouth. And it was harder to make her laugh now. Even with the money in her hand and the good news about Isaac’s future job, her face had that new uncertain look. It bothered Abraham, that look. It made him anxious to go and see for himself. He got up from his chair and moved quietly toward the bedroom.

>   “Don’t wake him!” Ruth’s voice was edgy, worried.

  Abraham pushed aside the curtain. Isaac lay quietly, his eyes closed, his face so pale that the red fire scar stood out sharply on his temple. Abraham stood there until he was sure that the bedcovers moved up and down to Isaac’s breathing. Then he let the curtain drop again and with a sigh turned back into the kitchen.

  Isaac’s eyes opened slowly as he heard his father’s steps receding. He wanted to call out, to bring his father back, but allowed the moment to pass while he tried to summon up the energy to do so. Some perversity had prompted him to feign sleep, to take a certain hide-and-seek pleasure in the feel of his father’s eyes fluttering softly over his face. He had intended to open his eyes suddenly, surprising his father as children do, but somehow had allowed the moment to pass, almost afraid to move. Now he was sorry. He wanted to talk to Abraham, to feel his living presence. He wanted to release all his uncertainties and watch them disappear in the vast area of his father’s confidence. Somewhere, there, was safety.

  He was tired in every part of him of the fingering of motives, of staining them with the sweat of afterthought. What was it all about?

  At least let me understand. Was it worth it? Was it after all so important? Anyone else in that position, at that moment, would probably have done the same thing. An impulse – an accident. Did I even realize the danger of the moment? I don’t know. And suddenly I’m a hero, I have committed an act of faith. They crowd around me, flattering, confusing. I let myself believe, well, maybe it was as they say. I demur, I shrug my shoulders, I am indifferent, I deny, change the subject, act as a hero should act. And I begin to feel like an actor who has lost all sense of reality and continues to act on both sides of the curtain. Somewhere in the wings a part of him is trying to recover, to evaluate. What is it that I really did? And what has been done to me? If it is as they say, should I not be a different man from the one I was before? I am not a better man, not with this vanity throbbing inside of me and this humility parading outside.