Portraits

by Cynthia Freeman

  Jacob lay unable to move. For a moment he wondered if he were dead. But if you’re dead, you don’t feel any pain. His lips were as swollen as his eyes. His ribs must have been broken, his chest felt as though it had caved in. The throbbing in his head was torture. He tried calling out, but his voice would not obey. Vaguely, he heard someone speaking. It was coming from very far away, from an echo chamber. Now it was coming closer.

  The voice was saying, “Can you manage to sip this?”

  He felt a glass tube being forced between his lips. He tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Then he felt a gentle hand on his wrist. It lingered on the pulse, then was gone.

  “Can you hear me?” the voice said, very close to his ear.

  Jacob tried to respond, nothing came out

  The voice repeated, “Can you hear me?”

  Jacob mumbled, but the voice didn’t seem to understand.

  The tube was being forced between his lips once again. “Sip slowly.”

  Painful as it was, this time the water traveled from the glass tube to his stomach. Weakly, he groped for the hand

  “Yes, what do you want to say?”

  “Where am I?” he whispered, forcing himself to be heard.

  “At Bellevue Hospital. You’ve been here for three days.”

  Three days! His mother must be frantic. Things were beginning to get clear. “How did I get here?” he asked haltingly.

  “By ambulance. Don’t talk, I’ll tell you all I know. You were unconscious when you arrived, badly beaten.” More like half dead, she wanted to say. It had been nip and tuck until the internal bleeding had been stopped. “My name is Miss Hanson. I’m one of the emergency nurses and I’ve been looking after you. Now you mustn’t be frightened. I know you can’t see, but that’s only because your eyes are so swollen. There was no real damage to your eyes. You have three broken ribs, which have been taped; that’s why your breathing is so painful. Now, you rest, and the doctor will be in to see you soon.”

  Jacob reached out to her.

  “Yes?” she asked, holding his hand.

  “I have to go home. Please…”

  “I don’t think that will be possible, not for at least a few days.”

  “I must go home. Please, my mother will be—”

  “I see. We didn’t know anything about you. There was no family reference in your belongings. The only thing we found was a gym membership card, with Jackie Sanders written on it.”

  “My name is Jacob Sandsonitsky.”

  “Does your mother have a phone?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then we’ll have one of the social workers notify her. Can you give me her address?”

  Painfully, he whispered it to her…

  Jacob was quite right; Esther had been frantic when he had not come home that first night after work. She waited through a sleepless night, and when the morning came she took the subway to the docks. She went immediately to the office and inquired about her son. They looked up his work record and found he had not signed in for work. That was all the information they had. She went out among the men, making inquiries, but no one seemed to know what had happened to Jacob.

  The only course left was to ask the police for their help. They took down all the information Esther could give them, but they were so perfunctory, so unsympathetic, that Esther left the station house in tears.

  Not knowing what else to do, she went to Gittel’s house. When she got there, Hershel was home. Helplessly, she asked him, “What shall we do?”

  “I don’t know where to start. He didn’t have any friends, no one,” Hershel said, scratching his head.

  “Oh God, I’m beside myself. Jacob would never do this, unless…” She bit her lip.

  “Listen. I’ll go down and use Mrs. Greenblatt’s phone.”

  “Who will you call?” Esther was almost afraid to ask, but not knowing was worse.

  “The hospitals.”

  Hospitals? My dear God, if I have sinned, don’t punish me like this, I beg you.

  When Hershel returned, Esther searched his face. She knew before he said a word.

  “I called Mount Sinai and Bellevue. They don’t have him.”

  Esther knew Jacob was dead. Getting up, she said, “Well, I’ll go home. Shlomo will wonder where I am.” …

  Esther closed the restaurant and sat in her room. She waited in torment. Jacob, Jacob, where are you?

  Shlomo did not go to school. Hard as he tried to reassure her that Jacob was all right, his words went unheard.

  At five o’clock that night, Esther opened the door to a stranger.

  Her heart pounded as the man asked, “Are you Jacob Sandsonitsky’s mother?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, Mrs. Sandsonitsky, your son is in Bellevue Hospital, recovering from an accident.”

  Esther could not answer.

  It was Shlomo who asked, “What kind of an accident?”

  “Well, son, he was beaten up pretty badly, but he’s much better now.”

  Before he could say another word, Esther ran to her room, put on her hat and coat and went immediately to the front of the store. Her son was alive, and that’s all she would concern herself with at the moment. “Where do I go to find out what room he’s in?”

  “He’s in a ward. Go to the admitting office and they’ll—”

  “Thank you, very much. Shlomo, go get ready.” …

  Esther and Shlomo walked down the long aisle between the iron beds until they came to Jacob’s. The only thing she recognized was his blond hair. She gasped and steadied herself, holding on to the iron footrail. His face was smashed in, his eyes so swollen she wondered if they could ever heal, and his hands were bandaged. But this was not the time for tears. Composing herself, she spoke in a soft but even voice. “Jacob?”

  “Mama…” He put out his hand to her, and she held it tightly.

  “Yes, Jacob.”

  “Shlomo, where’s Shlomo?”

  “Here, Jacob, on the left side.” Shlomo held Jacob’s groping hand.

  “I want to go home, mama.”

  “Yes. Yes, Jacob, I’ll take you home.”

  “They said I can’t go.”

  “They said, they said? Who are they? You’re my son, and what I can do for you they can’t. I’ll be right back. Shlomo, don’t talk too much to Jacob, let him rest.”

  Esther went down the hall hurriedly. She stopped at the nurses’ station. “I would like to get my son’s clothes. He’s going home.”

  “What is your son’s name?”

  “Jacob Sandsonitsky.”

  “I have no authority to dismiss him,” the nurse said after looking at Jacob’s chart.

  “You have no what?”

  “Authority. Only the doctor can let him go home. Do you understand?”

  “Sure, I understand, but I don’t need a doctor to tell me I can take my son home.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to…”

  “I’m afraid you don’t know Esther Sandsonitsky. Bring my son’s clothes. I’ll get him dressed.”

  “Now you listen to me,” the nurse answered, measuring out the words. “Your son has been seriously hurt. Not until the doctor says he can be—”

  Esther had had enough. “Now you listen to me, young lady, a greenhorn, I’m not. You go tell the doctor I am taking my son. But first, bring me his clothes.”

  The nurse turned and walked down the hall. When she returned it was with a young intern.

  “I’m Dr. Lee. I understand you want to take your son home?”

  “You understand right.”

  “I would be against that.”

  “Maybe you would, but I wouldn’t.”

  It was moments like this he wished he had gone into his father’s hardware business. Jewish mothers were damned formidable, obstinate. “If you take your son out of here, the hospital will not be responsible. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Of course I understand. What am I, a dummy? I’m an American,�
� she answered indignantly.

  “He requires care. I mean, he needs nursing care—”

  “So what he can get here he can get at home. Better. A mother is not a nurse and a nurse is not a mother?”

  “All right. Miss Williams, get a release form.” This one was hopeless; no use arguing. Turning back to Esther, he said, “You’ll have to pay for an ambulance. The hospital will not provide that.”

  “So who’s asking for charity?”

  Jacob was grateful to be home, where all the familiar sights and sounds had such meaning for him. The room he shared with Shlomo, his bed with the marvelously clean sheets, the sounds of pots being put on the stove and dishes taken out of a cupboard…But best of all was the feeling of love.

  Esther fed him, bathed him, nourished him with her devotion. Shlomo hurried home each day to help, and at night he read beautiful Jewish poetry to Jacob, and books about the founding fathers, the building of America, the Civil War, the freeing of the slaves. What a country! Imagine, no more slaves. They were all free men, not like in Poland and Russia, where Jews lived beyond the pale or in ghettos. Except it was also a country where a Jew could be beaten up because he was a Jew…

  The days went by peacefully as Jacob’s health and strength were restored. His eyes were almost healed, and although his ribs were still painful, now he could get out of bed and walk around. Gittel came every day with the baby, who was now crawling and getting into everything. Little Avrum, Avrumchik. Oh, if papa, his namesake, had only lived to see. If only he’d lived…

  CHAPTER TEN

  NOW THAT JACOB’S HEALTH was returning so quickly, he began to think what he would do about a job. He was strong as a bull, but to go back to work on the docks was out of the question. That brave, he wasn’t. His mother had been right; goyim were bastards. He would never trust them as long as he lived. But he shoved the thought aside as he realized that Lotte’s letter would be arriving in the next few weeks. When he received it, he would have to look for a flat.

  So Jacob’s immediate concern was a job. There were few choices and fewer jobs. Reluctantly, he went to work in a sweatshop off Second Avenue. The conditions were foul, unfit for human beings to work in. He despised what was called the needle trade, but he learned to work away at the machines, making suits for other men to wear. Still, at least he was among his own people. In fact, he almost convinced himself it was the best thing that had happened to him. He was out of the freezing cold and he was earning six dollars a week. Later, when he and Lotte got settled, he would get into a small business, a fruit stand maybe…

  As the month dragged on, his anxiety grew to what bordered on obsession. He’d had no word from Lotte, he couldn’t think straight or do anything right. He began to wonder if she’d received the letter at all. The thought made his stomach do somersaults. In the morning he would set off for work exhausted from not having slept the night before. He cursed the mails. Well, there was only one thing to do—write another letter to Lotte. It wouldn’t speed up anything, but no matter how long it took, at least eventually he would know whether she had received the ticket.

  One night when he returned home, Shlomo was waiting and excitedly called out, “The letter from Lotte came today.”

  Thank God. Jacob hurried to his room, sat on the edge of the bed and tore open the envelope. His hands began to tremble as he sat staring at it. First he looked at the ticket, then at the unread letter. Taking a deep swallow he began to read.

  Dear Jacob,

  Please try to understand and forgive me for what I am going to say. I was in love with you, you must believe that, but it was the first love of two young people experiencing life for the first time. Unfortunately, time makes many changes. Perhaps if you had remained, I would never have thought of anyone else. I know you will be hurt about this. The truth is always painful, but I should have told you sooner. There is no way to say how sorry I am, but I have met a man who is a little older. He has a very good business and can take good care of me and also help my parents. By the time you get this, I will already be married. Truly, to think I would be the one to hurt you…

  Jacob could not finish it. He felt as racked with pain as when he had been beaten, but this time he had no physical adversary. He got up and smashed his fist against the wall, then he ran out into the cold night, blinded with tears. He slipped and fell on the icy sidewalk, got up and went on. He wanted to die, kill himself. What was there about him? How could Lotte have destroyed him so when she knew how much he loved her? He thought again of all he had done for Lotte, of all that he had suffered for her, and suddenly he prayed that she would be punished for what she’d done to him. And he swore to himself that no one would ever make him feel like this again, no one. He hoped she would never have a moment’s peace in her life.

  Jacob did not know what street he was on, nor what saloon he was in, it didn’t matter. He only knew hatred and anger and, worst of all, the frustration of not being able to strike back at Lotte any more than he could have struck back at O’Leary.

  All that was left was the world.

  The next morning he woke up in the somber gray dawn and let his gaze wander about the dirty room. The mattress springs stuck into his aching ribs. His head pounded. When he rallied himself out of his drunken stupor he realized a nude body lay close to him. Unsteadily he got out of bed, throwing back the covers. He looked at the girl. Her arms were black and blue. There was a gash on her lips and a large reddish area on her swollen cheek. Her eyes were frightened as they met his. Heavily, he sat down on the edge of the mattress. She flinched as Jacob moved his hand to cover her body with the sheet.

  “You’re afraid of me? Why?”

  Swallowing hard, she said, “Because of what you did to me last night.”

  Jacob narrowed his eyes. “What did I do?”

  She hesitated, pulling the sheet up under her chin without answering.

  “Nothing will happen to you, tell me.”

  “Well,” she started slowly, “I met you coming out of the saloon and asked if you’d like to come home with me.” She hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  Taking a deep breath, she said, “You were pretty drunk. Then, when we got here, you asked if I had some whiskey. You won’t get upset?”

  He shook his head. “Just tell me what happened.”

  “You drank the whole bottle and then…you went kind of crazy.”

  “Crazy?”

  “Yeah. I mean for no reason, you began to beat me up. I never had a guy do that—a lot of other things but never that. I thought you were going to kill me. You kept hollerin’ out ‘Lotte.’ I really think you thought I was this Lotte.”

  Jacob was stunned. He couldn’t remember any of it. He shut his eyes and held his head with his hands. My God, he could have killed this girl. Of course, he wanted to punish Lotte. Yes, it was Lotte he had been beating.

  The long silence was so great the girl was beginning to wonder what he was planning. Running her tongue around her dry lips, she asked quietly, afraid to antagonize him, “Are you all right?”

  Jacob was brought up sharply. “Yes, I’m all right.” Looking at the girl he asked, “Why didn’t you try to get away?”

  “Listen, you’re very strong. Besides, you locked the door and threw the key away.”

  Jacob sighed and rubbed his throbbing forehead. “What else did I do?”

  “Well, you knocked me down on the bed. I got to be honest, I never had a guy do it so hard. I thought my insides was going to bust.”

  He couldn’t listen to any more. Quickly, he got up and started to dress. Still frightened, she asked, “How you gonna get out, mister?”

  Jacob took the jacknife out of his back pocket and stuck it into the lock. One turn and the door opened. He reached inside his coat pocket, took out whatever money he had and, without counting it, put it on the dresser. He looked at the girl once more, shook his head. “I’m sorry. I really mean that.” And as he turned and hurried from the room he was even sorrier
that it had not been Lotte…

  He didn’t go to work that day. What difference did it make? What difference did anything make?

  After wandering aimlessly for hours, he went home. He passed Esther in the kitchen without a word. She followed him into his room and watched as he took off his shoes and lay down. Putting his hands behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling. What he saw were the bruises he had inflicted on the young prostitute’s body. The first woman he’d ever taken, a whore, and he couldn’t even remember what it felt like. And it was his beloved Lotte who had driven him to such ugly violence.

  This time, Esther did not question why he had not come home. Quietly she said, “Jacob, I know how sad you are. And why.”

  He wanted to put his hands over his ears and shut out her voice. He couldn’t stand the sound of it; it was false. All the anger and suspicions of her came back…she’d only taken him in because of her own guilt…

  Esther tried to comfort him. “You’ve been hurt terribly, Jacob, but believe me…”

  He refused to listen to her, refused to believe her. Where was she when he was a little boy, on his own, by himself? It was damned easy for her now to be the good kind mother, now that he was a grown man. Well, no matter how hard he’d tried, the hurts and memories wouldn’t die. And why should they…?

  He got off the bed, went to the kitchen cupboard, took out the brandy and started to drink.

  Esther stood watching. “Jacob, this is not the answer.” Gently, she tried to take the bottle from him.

  Breathing heavily, he looked at her.

  “Please Jacob, let me try to help you.”

  “You helped me enough. Do me a favor, leave me alone.” He returned to his room and lay down, turning his face to the wall.

  For the next few days Jacob neither ate nor left his bed. Whenever Esther tried to bring him food, he ignored her. Not even Shlomo could divert him. He would speak to no one.

  Esther never left the restaurant. In fact, she scarcely slept at night, lying half awake and listening in fear of what Jacob might do. Her worst, most secret fear was that he might do away with himself…She had said nothing to Gittel, knowing it would only add to her problems. Hershel had lost his job and they were barely surviving. But now the burden of silence was becoming too great; she simply had to share it Leaving Shlomo with Jacob, she went to her daughter’s flat and implored her to come talk to Jacob.