by Bill Mesce
Mayer disappeared into the shop’s back room and came back with two small glasses filled with a purplish wine. He handed Harry a glass, bowed his head and mumbled a brief prayer in Hebrew, then they clinked glasses. Mayer drained his, but the Jewish wine was so sweet Harry could partake only in sips.
“I should get upstairs,” Harry said. “Get home…”
“You’re already home. You look like you should sit.” Before Harry could protest: “She’s not home. She’s working. All the women work now. She know you were coming?” Harry shook his head.
“Then she’s still working. You got time to sit.” Mayer dragged two creaking wooden chairs together, freshened their glasses of wine. “You’re not well?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair, scrutinizing Harry’s face.
Harry hung his cap over his knee and dabbed at the sweat along his forehead. “Just tired.”
“It’s a long way.”
“Very.”
“A long way there. A long way home.”
“Yes.”
“It’s good you make the round trip all in one piece.”
“It’s good.”
Philip Mayer’s eyes caught something in his study of Harry’s face. In a well-practiced maneuver, he kicked his chair back until it leaned against the counter, its front legs clear of the floor. “Leave it back there, heldish.”
“Leave what?”
“You know dybbuk.”
“What shelf do you keep that on?”
Philip Mayer chuckled. “It’s like a ghost, except Jews don’t have ghosts. We use the word sometimes to mean an evil spirit, a demon. But the word, what it really means, if you say it in English the way it is in Yiddish, it’s to hang on to; to hold on tight.”
“How do you get ‘ghost’ from ‘hold on tight?”
“It’s how we use the word. A dybbuk, that’s someone who dies, he feels you wronged him when he was alive, you made some sin against him, he comes back, he takes you, he possesses you. That’s how he gets his revenge.”
“You think I have a dybbuk?”
“I’m just saying you got those bags to carry upstairs. You don’t need to be carrying nothing you should leave across the ocean, heldish.”
“What’s ‘heldish?’”
Philip Mayer smiled and held his glass up in another salute. “Hero.”
“I’m no hero.”
“You came back, Harry. That’s hero enough.”
Harry grunted to his feet, walking the warped floorboards of the tiny shop. He smiled at the warm familiarity of the place.
“Hey, whatever happened to that little wisenheimer Irish kid you used to run with?” Philip Mayer asked him. “The family, they live over on Garside Street.”
“Joe Ryan.”
“Is he over there?”
“London.”
“Is that what this is? You worried about Ryan?”
“I’m not worried about him.” Harry took a sip of his wine. “So how do I get rid of this dybbuk?”
Philip Mayer smiled sympathetically and shrugged. “It’s your dybbuk. Only you know what you got to do to make things right. I don’t know your sin.” He shook his head. “I know you a long time, my friend. I can’t see no sin in you.”
“Mr. Mayer, everybody sins.”
*
They had a flat to the rear of the first floor. Harry stood a long time in front of the door. It had never occurred to him when he went into service that he should keep the key to his flat, but then he decided the door was probably open. Few in the neighborhood locked their doors.
He turned, passed through the creaking screen door at the end of the corridor that led out to the rear porch. Tenants came outside to sit in the cool of the evening, looking down at their children at play in the yard, a square of concrete hemmed on all sides by the walls of other tenements.
The porches were empty now, as was the yard. Harry sat in one of the chairs, used his bags as a hassock for his tired feet. Wash hung from lines strung from each porch to a pole across the way Somehow, a breeze had found its way inside the walled yard, tickling the laundry. He took a deep breath and drew in the must of the old, dark corridors of the tenement, the taste of simmering tomato sauce, and minced meat flavored with Italian herbs sizzling in olive oil. Through one open window he could hear the voices of two old women chattering back and forth in tumbling Italian, and from another across the yard a Victrola played Caruso.
This is home, he thought, and it is an absolutely lovely afternoon. He dozed off.
It seemed such a little noise to wake him, but he heard footsteps in the corridor and they stopped near his flat. He stood and moved quietly to where he could look through the screen door into the hall.
He couldn’t quite make her out through the metal scrim, but it was Cynthia, juggling her purse, a lunch pail, and a bag of groceries as she tried to fumble open the door. He watched her set the lunch pail and purse down, open the door, deposit the groceries inside, then return for her pail and purse. She pivoted at the sound of the creaking hinges of the screen door.
He had stood there all that time not knowing quite what to say, but then they were together, holding each other, both with tears in their eyes.
He found he didn’t have to say anything.
Chapter Three: The Pomegranate Seed
In the frigid Quonset serving as Officers Mess stood a wretched-looking Christmas tree. Dwarfish, gnarled and twisted from the salt gales, it was more scrub than proper tree. A motley collection of colored balls, foil ornaments, and scruffy garlands had been draped on its scoliotic branches. These formal Yule garnishings were supplemented with more ad hoc adornments: an ammunition belt, sloppily daubed with silver paint, draped round the tree garland-fashion; empty cartridge casings, threads run through the apertures where the primer cap had been removed, hung from branches. On the tree’s topmost place, normally reserved for a bright star or protective angel, someone had tacked a photograph of Winston Churchill, fingers of one hand raised in a V-for-Victory sign, ever-present cigar clasped in his other hand, bulldog jowls pulled back in a triumphant grin. Someone had pinned a set of pilot’s wings to the photograph, affixing them on the front of Winnie’s bowler. Disproportionately large against the image of the PM, the wings seemed of near-celestial span.
Harry stood before the tree, smiling in a small, respectful way.
Reluctantly, I left the circle of radiant warmth round the stove, limping across to the bar. I made a motion to Harry to see if he wanted his own drink freshened. He answered with a gesture indicating his stomach. I remembered that liquor and Harry’s insides had always made rather poor mates.
I signaled the bartending corporal. “And let’s have it hot this time, eh? That’s why they call them hot toddies.”
“I makes ’em ’ot, sar,” he said. “They just don’t stays ’ot.”
I got Harry a mug of tea and joined him by the tree. The wind outside gusted and rattled the corrugated skin of the Quonset. I handed him his tea.
Harry looked pensive. “I wasn’t home last Christmas. Looks like I’m going to miss this year, too.”
“Well, that’s war, isn’t it?”
A queer little smile touched his face, then he turned back to the tree. “That’s a real Christmas tree.”
“How do you mean, ‘real’?”
“This isn’t like somebody ran down to the guy on the corner and just bought one. Somebody went out there” — he tilted his head at the snow slashing by the window — “and cut one down. Just like in the old days.”
“And why does that make it more ‘real’ than the one you bought down the comer?”
Harry nodded at the tree. “These guys really meant it.”
*
He was no doubt reflecting on a Saturday morning two weeks earlier when he’d been the chap running down to “the guy on the comer.” In his small parlor, it was eight-year-old Jerry’s job to hold the upper part of the trunk steady while Daddy struggled beneath the prickling lower branches tr
ying to tighten the bolts that would steady the tree in its stand. Six-year-old Ricky was designated to traipse down to the tenement’s cellar and haul back box after box of stored Christmas decorations.
Ricky’s diligence faltered as soon as he returned to the flat. He upended a box of electric trains on the parlor rug. Not bothering with laying track, he grabbed the Lionel locomotive in his chubby fingers and shoved it across the rug, making engine and whistle noises until he crashed the engine into his brother’s ankle. At that point Jerry tried to land a flying kick on Ricky’s nose without losing hold of the tree.
“What’re you two doing!” Harry bellowed from under the tree.
“It’s Ricky! I’m gonna kill ’im!”
“It was an accident!” Ricky rebutted.
“I’m gonna give you an accident!” Jerry vowed.
“The two of you stop!” Harry declared.
“I didn’t do anything!” Jerry protested.
“I didn’t do anything!” Ricky protested.
“I said the two of you! Jerry, hold the tree! It’s falling on my head! Does that look straight now?”
“It’s crooked.”
“Well, that’s because the tree’s crooked. There’s nothing we can do about that.”
“Mom’s not gonna like it crooked,” Jerry said.
“It’s not crooked,” Harry said. “The trunk is just —”
There was a knock at the door. Ricky screamed, “I’ll get it!” and ran off into the kitchen.
Harry tried shimmying the trunk about in the stand. “What about now?” he asked Jerry “Nope.”
“Well, that’s just the way the tree is.”
“It didn’t look crooked when we bought it,” Jerry pointed out.
“That guy must’ve been holding it wrong,” Harry said. “Hey, Dad!” Ricky screeched from the kitchen. “There’s some Army guy here for you!”
Jerry was off like a cannon shot for a sight of a man in uniform, leaving Harry struggling alone with the still unanchored tree.
“Are you here for my dad?” Harry heard an eager Jerry demand.
A slow, drawling voice in reply: “If your dad’s Major Harold Voss.”
“Hold on a second!” Harry called out from under the tree. “I’m right here. I just need to, uh —”
“Hate to intrude,” came the drawl, close by, “but you look like you could use a hand.”
Through the branches Harry glimpsed gleaming brown shoes and olive drab trouser legs, then felt the tree steady above him.
“Thanks,” Harry grunted as he tightened the tree stand screws. “Let me get these in a little more”
“Looks like it’s kinda slanted a bit —”
“It’s fine. There!”
As Harry crawled out from under the branches, the other man deferentially retreated back to the entry doorway, stooping to avoid the drying clothes Cynthia had left hanging from lines stretched across the kitchen. Harry followed, brushing pine needles from his shoulders.
“Captain Kneece.” The tall young man in the Army overcoat introduced himself, displaying his AGO identification card. “Criminal Investigation Corps.”
Harry studied the card, reading the name. “‘Derwood —’” Kneece winced. “Well, sir, if it’s gonna be something ’sides ‘Captain Kneece,’ I’d appreciate it if you’d make it ‘Woody.’” Twenty-four and lanky, Woody Kneece stooped his pomaded cap of rebellious wavy hair and kept his gangly arms close to him as if trying to physically intrude as little as possible. He spoke softly and shyly in that slow-dripping syrup Americans refer to as a “Southern drawl.” Combined with his simian features — small, dark eyes too close-set; pugged nose; upper teeth a bit too extrusive — it gave him a slow-witted air.
“Sorry to bust in on you in your home like this,” Kneece murmured, frowning at his own effrontery. He nervously fingered the folds of the garrison cap in his hands. “If it coulda waited, sir, I woulda.” Then a late thought occurred to him and he looked up, concerned over a possibility. “You are Major Voss, aren’t you, sir?”
Harry held up the captain’s identification to remind the younger officer to take it back. “I’m Major Voss.”
“I sure hate to make offense, sir, but you mind if I see some ID?”
Harry was wearing his usual Saturday morning garb: pajama bottoms, an undershirt, crushed slippers, and a faded, unknotted robe. For the first time it occurred to him he might not be at his presentable best. “Oh, sure, of course.” He retreated to the bedroom, hastily tying up his robe. “Hey!” Jerry demanded of the captain. “You been to Italy?”
“Nope,” Kneece answered.
“Where you been fightin’?”
“Well, factually, son —”
“Leave the captain alone, please,” Harry said as he returned to the kitchen and handed Kneece his own AGO card. “Why don’t you sit down, Captain? Take your coat off. Coffee? It’s already made. Still hot. You had breakfast yet?”
“Just coffee’ll be fine, sir, appreciate it.”
“Hey!” said Jerry. “If you didn’t fight in Italy, wheredja get the fruit salad?”
“The what?”
Jerry stabbed a finger at the single, short line of service ribbons on the breast of Kneece’s uniform jacket as the captain slid out of his coat. “That’s what they call it,” Jerry explained. “Fruit salad.”
“They do?”
“You’re supposed to know that! You’re a soldier!”
“Didn’t I just ask you to leave the captain alone?” Harry said, setting two cups of coffee down on the table. “He looks tired.”
“I wanted to know about the fruit salad!” Jerry declared.
“Yeah, the fruit salad!” Ricky chimed in.
“I thought you were playing with your trains,” Harry told Ricky. He smiled apologetically at Kneece, but the captain grabbed Jerry, sat him on his bony lap, and began pointing at his ribbons. “This one’s for the American Campaign —”
“What’s that?”
“Well, factually, it pretty much just means I was in the Army. This is for good conduct —”
“No battle ribbons?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Kid’s got a thing for blood like Bela Lugosi.”
“No battle ribbons,” Kneece said to Jerry with a sorry shake of his head.
“Howdja get to be a captain with no battle ribbons?”
“It’s a mystery to me, too, little fella.”
“But —”
“OK, OK,” Harry cut in. “You’ve bothered this poor guy enough. Off, Jerry! Have you been down for the coal this morning? Before you think about telling me otherwise, that bucket looks awfully low, and if Mommy comes home and finds that stove cold —”
“What about him?” Jerry nodded at Ricky, who had returned to his trains.
“Him is supposed to be getting the decorations out of the cellar before him gets his fanny fanned!”
At that, “him” dropped his trains and scooted out the door, his older brother trudging along behind dragging a coal scuttle.
After the door closed behind the boys, Harry raised his cup in salute. “You deserve a battle ribbon just for surviving those two!”
“Aw, they’re not so much,” Kneece said. “I was a whole lot more of a handful when I was their age. That’s what I get for bothering y’all at home, I guess. Wasn’t sure I’d catch you. Figured maybe y’all’d be out Christmas shopping or something.”
“Well, Saturdays, if I’m on leave, I’m on baby-sitting detail. My wife works on Saturdays.”
“At one of these dee-fense plants?”
“She works in an office not far from here. They make artificial limbs. Business has been booming since the Sicily landings.”
“I guess that would be the case,” Kneece said. Self-consciously, he tried to stifle a yawn. “Sorry, sir. Put in a lotta miles this morning. Had to get up before dawn to catch the early train up from D.C., stepped off at Dix to check in with the JAG office there, then there was the train to
the station downtown, then a cab here. Yessir, I am a mite beat.”
“You said you’ve already been to Dix?”
“Yessir.”
“I know most of the staff is on weekend leave, but wasn’t Captain Megown on duty? He should’ve been able to help you. Unless you’re here about something specific to one of my cases.”
“The captain was a big help. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’ta known where to track you down. But this isn’t really any kinda JAG business. At least nothing’s got to do with your office at Dix.”
Harry’s curiosity was suspended by a knock at the door. It was too soon to be the boys, and it would never occur to them to knock. He answered the door and there stood a splinter of a woman, middle-aged, no higher than Harry’s chest (and Harry himself was of the short and squat variety). Her plain, handmade frock billowed round her skeletal frame, and her dark hair, heavily streaked with gray, was disciplined back in a severe bun.
“‘Scusa, Harry.” Her dark button eyes looked past Harry and saw Kneece. She smiled a shy hello. “‘Scusa, signor.” To Harry: “You know Carmella, she has the front apartment upstair’?” To Kneece: “‘At’s Miz Rugolo, we live da same floor.” To Harry: “She say she see da man from da Army —” To Kneece: “She see you come in da taxi. She tell me she see you.” To Harry: “She come tell me da man from da Army, he come, she afraid maybe —”
Harry patted her gently on the arm. “It’s OK, Regina. Captain Kneece is here for me. It’s business from the fort. Didn’t I promise you that as soon as I got word about Dominick I’d tell you?”
Her narrow little face grew concerned. “Good or bad, you tell me, remember?”
“I remember.” Harry gave her a friendly hug. “Now stop worrying and go back upstairs. Scat.”
She pinched his cheek, apologized again to them both, then departed.
“Must be hard living in a place like this,” Kneece commented, “with everybody in everybody else’s business.”
“That’s Mrs. Sisto,” Harry said, taking his chair again. “Her youngest just finished up basic training for the Navy and is on his way to join up with his ship in Norfolk: antisubmarine patrol. Her middle boy’s a B-24 gunner in India. Her oldest — Dominick — he went in with the infantry at Salerno back in September. So she’s a little nervous. And the rest of us are a little nervous for her. She hasn’t heard from Dominick in weeks. I told her I’d try to find out if he’s OK.” Kneece nodded.