His father took a different approach, trying to calm Paul’s nerves by comparing his departure to one his grandfather, Itzik Haberman, had taken in 1905 from his town in White Russia after a pogrom left two uncles and a cousin dead. “What you’re doing, it’s nothing,” Paul’s father said. “You want to feel sorry for yourself, go to college in Bombay.”
Now, in the kitchen, Paul gestured for Kyle to have a seat beside him. Instead Kyle stood across the counter, still holding the juice carton. His boyishness had one advantage. Unlike Joy, and Paul, too, he’d never struggled with acne. His face was as free of blemishes as it was of stubble. The buzz cut made him look less military than pre-pubescent, the border of dark hair slicing a perfect curve across his forehead. Today’s Yankees shirt was at least two sizes too big, the shoulder seams falling halfway down his upper arm, the hem hanging to his thighs.
“Keeping up with your schoolwork?” Paul asked. “You know, just because you got into college doesn’t mean you’re finished here yet.” Kyle took another gulp of juice. “If there’s anything you want to talk about,” Paul went on. “Maybe something you don’t want to say to your mother—”
Kyle looked at him closely now, smirk blooming into full grin, and waited for him to go on. The words cost Paul significant effort, and at first he was proud of himself for making it. But sensing the mockery in Kyle’s gaze, he found himself growing bitter. His own father had never offered him anything so straightforward and comforting. He hadn’t even tried. “It’s not easy,” he went on, “getting ready to turn your whole life upside down, leave your home, your mom, your cat, and, and—”
Before he could name himself among those things the boy would miss when he left, Kyle laughed, loud. Then he tilted the juice carton all the way up, held it against his mouth for a good ten seconds, and tossed the empty carton into the sink. “This fucking place?” he said. “I been ready to blow out of here since I was fourteen.”
“That belongs in the garbage,” Paul said.
“Que sera la vie,” Kyle answered, and sauntered first to the living room, where he scratched Franklin’s rigid ear, and then to the stairs. Paul didn’t want to believe Kyle really cared so little about the life he’d abandon at the end of summer. But he also remembered his own first drive to Ithaca, his mother resting her head against the passenger window, his father white-knuckled on every curve. The farther they got from the city, the higher they rose into the misty hills above the Finger Lakes, the deeper Paul descended into a mysterious trance, the sound of the radio growing distant, the trees outside the borrowed car closing in, his outer layers going still, it seemed, so whatever new version of him would emerge could make its way to the surface. By the time they arrived he was so eager to get his trunk unpacked, he nearly forgot to hug his parents goodbye. More than a week passed before he thought to call home.
Now he wondered if, after dropping him off, they’d ever hear from Kyle again.
It was only a few days after this conversation, however, that Kyle came to him about the project—a sign that he was having doubts, feeling the tug of nostalgia. Paul wanted to take advantage of the moment; he signed on before Kyle described what sort of help he needed.
The assignment, the culminating project of American History—not the Advanced Placement version Joy had taken, or even an honors section—tasked Kyle with researching family background, conducting interviews and combing archives, which would serve as the basis for an essay defining his roots. The title was supposed to be something like, “How I Became an American.” The whole thing struck Paul as juvenile, appropriate for seventh grade, maybe. “Dad’s away all month, so I can’t write about the Demskys,” Kyle said. “And I’m tried of listening to Grandpa Maizel’s stories. So I guess I better do your family.”
This was the closest Kyle had ever come to acknowledging that they might indeed consider themselves related even though they didn’t share a genetic line. So Paul refrained from saying what he thought, which was that the idea didn’t seem quite consistent with the spirit of the assignment. How, after all, could Kyle claim Paul’s roots as his own? Instead he clapped his hands and took a seat on the couch, ready for an interrogation. But Kyle only looked at him, one eyebrow dipping. “It’s not due for a month,” he said, and then went out the back door. The Rabbit’s little engine revved and puttered down the street.
It was another week before he asked Paul any questions, and though during the intervening time Paul had been preparing to answer, going over his father’s stories in his mind, when the moment came he found he had less to say than he expected. The trouble was, he had only his father’s stories, and nothing else. And because his father, dead three years, had forced them on him when he wasn’t in the mood, he hadn’t listened very closely. He didn’t know the name of his grandfather’s town in White Russia, nor the first names of his grandfather’s parents or the uncles and cousin killed in the pogrom. He didn’t know the name of the ship his grandfather had boarded in Hamburg. His grandfather had died before Paul turned eleven, and until then it was understood that he would never speak a word about the place he’d left behind. What Paul could remember of him was mostly a hoarse voice and persistent cough, and the dreamy smile he wore while crunching hard candies between half-rotted teeth. He wished Kyle were interested in things he knew—about his five paternal uncles, for example, who’d given his father such a hard time about missing their Thursday bowling night for his honeymoon that he stayed at the alley on the night of Paul’s birth, which happened, he always claimed, at the exact moment he spared on a dime store split. Weren’t those the roots that mattered?
“That’s a good question,” he said whenever Kyle asked one he couldn’t answer. “We could see if my mother knows. Probably not a good idea, though. She hates being reminded of the past. Maybe Aunt Reggie.” Kyle scratched his notebook with a pencil, not looking disappointed so much as acquiescent, as if he’d expected little and gotten even less. “Let’s call Reggie now,” Paul said. “I’m sure she’d love to talk to you.” But of course no one picked up at Reggie’s number. She might have been traveling with one of her boyfriends. Or she might just as likely have been in the apartment, ignoring him. Since getting her first answering machine she never went near a ringing phone. “It’s important,” he said after listening to Reggie’s long recorded message. “Kyle needs your help.” If he was lucky, she’d call back within the month.
“I got to go to the library,” Kyle said, and off he and the Rabbit went.
Paul didn’t hear any more about the project for five days, during which time he forced himself to keep from asking about it. Kyle was back to his routine of disappearing after dinner and returning seconds before curfew, and Paul worried he’d given up on the project altogether. And now if he flunked his history class and didn’t graduate, Paul would be at least partly responsible. He wondered, briefly, whether there was a part of him that wanted it this way, to keep Kyle close while he could. But then, looking for a bedtime snack, he pulled out the block of cheddar with teeth marks in the corner. “The sooner he gets his own fridge the better,” he said to Cynthia.
When Kyle finally brought up the project again, he did so casually, halfway through dinner. “I found out what Haberman means,” he said through a mouthful of potatoes.
“Let me guess,” Cynthia said. “Man of iron. No, no. Little man, big heart.”
Paul wanted to tell her to be quiet so he could hear what the kid had to say. But Kyle was taking his time now, washing the potatoes down with a leisurely swig of water. “Well?” Paul asked, finally, when it seemed he wouldn’t go on.
“One who grows or sells oats.”
Cynthia laughed—mean-spiritedly, Paul thought. “That explains why you’re so handy in the yard.”
It had never occurred to Paul to wonder about the name, but now he wished it were more distinguished, something that suggested his family’s unique qualities, though what those were he couldn’t have said. He didn’t even like oatmeal.
&nb
sp; “So,” Kyle said. “Do you grow or sell?”
This time Cynthia snorted and looked away. Kyle smirked. What was funny about oats? “Who, me?” Paul asked.
“Your, you know…your people. Ancestors.”
“Good question,” Paul said. “I’ll have to look into it.”
Kyle pulled a Yankees cap over his buzz cut, spent a few minutes petting the cat, and drifted out. And for some reason Paul had the feeling that this was the night he’d miss his curfew. Only by a few minutes. Then, tomorrow, a few minutes more. By the end of the week he’d be home only in time to raid the fridge for breakfast.
After he’d cleared the dishes, Cynthia, eyes flashing mischief, kissed him on the neck and pulled him toward the stairs. “Come on, Farmer Haberman. Time to sow some oats.”
“Wasn’t Hamburg,” Kyle said two evenings later, without preamble, while cutting into a chicken breast. He pronounced the name like the sandwich, with the last syllable cut off. “Your grandfather. He left from Rotterdam, on a ship called The Patricia.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paul said, harshly, with a sting of anger he didn’t understand. Only afterward, catching a glance from Cynthia, did he check himself, force a smile, and add, “Where did you get that idea?”
“Ellis Island,” Kyle said. “At the library. They hooked me up with the number for the archives.”
“They must have made a mistake,” Paul said. “Dad—your Papi—he always said Hamburg. Sounds like homburg—you know, the hat—only with an a.”
“Rotterdam, Hamburg, what’s the difference?” Cynthia asked.
“There must be another Itzik Haberman,” Paul said.
Kyle chewed, swallowed, and began cutting a new bite before answering. Paul expected him to flaunt his usual smirk, the one that suggested everything and everyone was a joke to him, none of it worth his time. Go ahead, Paul thought, and I’ll wipe it off with the back of my hand. The thought surprised him less than the accompanying feeling, a pleasantly righteous fury. But Kyle showed him a straight face, composed if not earnest, and said, “Not one who got here in 1906.”
“Oh five,” Paul said.
“He might have left in oh five, but he landed on January 14, oh six.”
“Maybe,” Paul said.
“Place of origin, Slutsk,” Kyle said.
Once again Cynthia laughed a cruel laugh. “That explains Reggie.”
But this time Kyle didn’t join in. For a kid who’d spent more hours watching comedy acts on cable than doing homework the last four years, he was oddly serious now, grave even, giving Paul a hard stare, challenging him to argue. If he wasn’t trying to make fun of him, what was he doing? Was this some form of bonding after all? “With a k,” he said, and then repeated the name, enunciating the last letter. “Slutsk.” Why did Paul have such a hard time staring back? Instead he glanced at his severed chicken breast, a few stray strings of meat looped in the juice of his green beans. If he could have stopped Kyle from going on, he would have. But he had no idea how. “A town of twenty-thousand at the turn of the century. Thirty miles south of Minsk.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Major center of Jewish life at the time.”
“A great place, except for the pogroms.”
“There weren’t any pogroms in Slutsk. Not before World War Two,” Kyle said.
“Are you calling my grandfather a liar?” Paul asked, but now there was little force behind the words. Anger he could remember distantly at best. Had he really imagined smacking Kyle’s grinning face only moments ago?
Kyle shrugged. “There was one in Gomel. Another in Mogilev. But those were pretty far away.”
“And his uncles? His cousin?”
Another shrug. “No records on them.”
Paul had other questions, but he kept them to himself. Why else would his grandfather have left his family, gone off by himself across the ocean to a country where he didn’t know anyone and didn’t speak the language? Why in the world would you do that, unless you were afraid for your life?
Kyle went back to eating. Cynthia said, “That’s impressive research, kiddo. Good preparation for next year.”
“I want to see your sources,” Paul said.
“It’s a good thing he did leave,” Kyle said, after wiping his mouth with a napkin and shoving his plate away. “Would have been screwed otherwise.” Without another word, he pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m out,” he said, and headed for the door.
Paul had eaten less than half his dinner, but when he brought his fork to his mouth, the chicken smelled gamey—undercooked, maybe?—and he set it down. “Wait a minute,” he called. “Screwed how?”
Kyle stomped into his sneakers. “Slutsk Affair,” he said. The door shut behind him.
On the weekend he could have looked it up. He had books to drop off at the library, and before searching for new ones, he could have stopped at the card catalogue. And if he didn’t find what he needed at the township branch, he could have gone to the larger county one on Hanover Avenue and asked a librarian for help. But instead he did the crossword and watched golf on TV and took a walk with Cynthia, through their neighborhood and up to the new development under construction at the top of the ridge, where a few skeletal frames stood against yards of blasted granite and bare earth, new curbs white as bones, bulldozer and backhoe slumped like extinct creatures beside holes they’d dug to bury themselves.
Early the next week, coming home late from work, Paul spotted the Rabbit leaving the driveway. He didn’t think at all before following, passing the house without touching the brake, as if he’d never intended to stop. It was dark enough that if Kyle glanced in his rearview mirror, he wouldn’t have been able to make out Paul’s car, only a pair of headlights half a block away. Kyle kept an easy pace, turning onto Lenape Road and then onto Skyline, heading around the side of the ridge in a direction Paul never drove. They passed the last of the new developments and then a muddy depression full of weeds that had once been a reservoir. And here the road changed names, from Skyline to Okenaki, fresh tar giving way to crumbling pavement. Ahead, dense woods, the last in the county, as far as Paul knew, crowded the south slope of Union Knoll. A spiny shadow rose over the tops of birch and oak, and it took him a moment to recognize it as an abandoned fire tower, left over from days when the entire ridge was a wilderness ready to ignite.
There were no streetlamps here, only the red of Kyle’s rear lights. And now if Kyle glanced behind he’d surely realize Paul was following. But Paul had the feeling that Kyle knew already, that he was leading rather than being tailed. On the right an old wooden sign came into view, letters etched into two silvered boards, only a few flakes of varnish remaining.
COMANCHE BOWMAN
ARCHERY RANGE AND CAMPGROUND
It was at least fifty years old, hanging from rusted hooks, and beside it a gap opened in the trees that must have once been a driveway. The place was a relic from the time of Paul’s childhood, though of course he’d never been anywhere near here then.
It was hard to believe the ridge had been occupied fifty years ago, the road so overgrown now it was nearly impassable. Who’d been here then? Fathers and sons shooting arrows? Teenagers wrestling each other out of clothes and steaming up canvas tents? Not far past the sign the pavement turned to gravel, and this, too, seemed decades old, so uneven Paul had to hold his mouth open to keep his teeth from clattering. And yet the Rabbit kept its steady pace, its taillights growing more distant as Paul slowed to maneuver around fallen branches and rocks the size of skulls.
Soon the road narrowed. Leaves and brush scraped against his passenger door, and huge tree roots rocked the car from side to side. The Rabbit disappeared around a curve. If there was a moon out, the canopy overhead blocked it. The only light came from the front of Paul’s car, reflecting here and there on the dusty surface of week-old puddles. If he kept going he might get stuck in a bog, or else get lost.
When another branch crossed
his path, he pulled to a stop. Whatever was ahead of Kyle, Paul wouldn’t see. It took him ten minutes, working the car back and forth across gravel and weeds, to turn around and make his way out.
He had no intention of bringing up the project again. As far as he was concerned, Kyle could keep his discoveries to himself. And for a week he did. But then one evening he lingered after dinner. He hovered in the kitchen with Franklin draped over his shoulder, waiting until Paul had finished loading the dishwasher before handing him a sheet of paper. “I know you think I’m an idiot,” he said, and Paul was so surprised that he didn’t answer right away, as he knew he was supposed to. The appropriate words came to mind quickly enough: Of course I don’t, or, Whatever gave you that impression? But he couldn’t manage to get them out. Instead he glanced at his cat, translucent eyelids and limp paws, and then at the paper, guessing it was an outline for the essay—a sketchy one at best—and before taking a close look, he reached for the pen in his shirt pocket, ready to make corrections.
But there were no Roman numerals, no titles or topics or subheadings. Nothing but a list, with three columns. Name, age, place. The first names varied, but all the last names were the same: Riva Haberman, 31, Slutsk; Aron Haberman, 42, Slutsk; Liza Haberman, 7, Slutsk; Sofia Haberman, 3, Slutsk.
He stood at the sink staring at the paper long enough for Cynthia to ask what was on it. But he didn’t answer. “Totally fucked up,” Kyle said. “One of the worst massacres of the war. Four thousand people in two days. Rounded them up and shot them in the street.”
The page was full. Maybe thirty, thirty-five Habermans in all. Fanya, 19, Sonechka, 4, Nekhama, 28, Yessel, 65. His grandfather had never mentioned the fate of the family who’d stayed put. Neither had Paul’s father, nor any of his uncles. They’d purposely cut all ties, leaving specific suffering to others. They’d contributed to funds for displaced persons, nodded with somber justice when Eichmann went to the gallows. They reserved tears for the day the Dodgers moved out of Brooklyn. And Paul had been perfectly happy to go on living without any thought of the past he’d had no part of. His roots were shallow, no more than a few inches into soil. No wonder the slightest tug made him tilt.
Between You and Me Page 11