by Bernard Beck
By morning I had a plan. I would call Mr. Davis, the publisher. After all, my book was done, and it was pretty good. I would ask him if he had read the completed, final edit yet. I would ask him when he was planning on publishing it. I would ask him what I could do to help him promote the book, and I would ask him for an advance. I didn’t need my father’s money! I was an author and Mr. Davis would give me enough money to live on and maybe even a lot more.
At promptly nine-o’clock the next morning I called the publisher, Davis and Hart.
The switchboard operator, with an Irish accent, was cool and formal when I told her who I was. She asked me if Mr. Davis was expecting my call, and she refused to put me through directly to him. Instead, she connected me with his private secretary.
“Oh, you’re the young Jewish girl who is writing about her family’s roots in Europe,” the secretary, a Miss Winauker, said. “Mr. Davis is in a meeting now, but I’ll tell him you called. I’m sure he would like to speak with you. Where can he reach you? Are you in your home in Brooklyn?”
“No,” I said, a little disappointed,
“Well, what number can he reach you at?” she chirped.
I gave her the number, but I offered to call back later. “When is a good time that I can be sure of reaching Mr. Davis?” I asked.
“It’s hard to say, he attends so many meetings, but your best chance would be early in the morning, just before nine.”
I called the following morning promptly at ten minutes to nine, and I was put through immediately to Mr. Davis. He was very nice and courteous, and he suggested that we meet in his office. Then he transferred me back to his secretary to make an appointment.
An appointment! I had never been to his office, and now I wondered what to wear and how to present myself. Should I be artistic? Intellectual? Sophisticated? Naïve? I finally settled on a conservative business suit. I rehearsed the meeting in my mind for days. This was my big moment—author meets publisher.
Mr. Davis’s office was in the Flatiron building on Twenty-Third Street. At that time, the triangular Flatiron building was one of the most famous buildings in New York. It had been the tallest building in the world once, and it still had great prestige. The lobby was covered with mosaic tile and the elevators were golden. The operators wore dark green uniforms and white gloves. It was very elegant and very intimidating.
Davis and Hart occupied the whole top floor of the building, and I was nervous about where to go. But when I got off the elevator, the Irish receptionist was right there. I told her who I was, and she asked me to wait. After a few minutes, Mr. Davis’s secretary came out and ushered me into another waiting room. “Mr. Davis is just finishing a call, and he will be ready to see you in just a moment.”
There were magazines on the table and books lining all the walls. I had been wondering if I should sit there without moving, read a magazine, or get up to examine the books when Mr. Davis himself came out to greet me.
“Ruthie,” he said, extending his hand. “I have heard so much about you. I am so pleased to meet you.” Of course he didn’t remember, or he chose to forget, that he had come to my house in Brooklyn to meet my father.
I was too frightened to speak. Mr. Davis’s office was in the corner of the building facing up Fifth Avenue and Madison Square Park, right on the Ladies’ Mile. I had shopped there with my mother many times.
The office was just what I expected. Dark paneling, books everywhere, and an enormous desk in front of the window. Mr. Davis led me to a chair in front of his desk, and, rather than sit behind his desk, he sat in the chair next to mine and crossed his legs. We talked briefly about nothing. Small talk. My parents, the weather, politics. Then Mr. Davis asked me if I had seen Harry recently. I told him that I had not, and that we were no longer working together. Yes, Mr. Davis said, he was aware of that. Then he told me that Harry was no longer working for him. This surprised me, although I made an effort to hide it. Mr. Davis said that Harry had suddenly disappeared, and that no one had been able to reach him.
Eventually, the conversation got around to my book. Mr. Davis took a deep breath, rose from his chair, and walked over to the window.
“You know, Ruthie,” he said with his back to me, “times change. When you started this project, it seemed like there would be interest in the background of the Jews who had recently come into this country. But now that there are so many Jews in New York, and they are so visible, there is less interest. So my editors have decided to drop the project.
“Unfortunately, I have spent a great deal of the company’s money on this project, and I regret that there is nothing left of the assigned funds to disburse to you. But it is a good book, and I think that if you spoke to a publisher who specializes in Jewish books, you will be more successful. It is, as I said, a good book, and you should be proud of it.”
He returned to his desk, looked through his personal phone book, and jotted down a name on a piece of paper. “This is a friend of mine. If you like, I can send the manuscript over to him along with my recommendation.”
It would have to do. I really had no alternative, and I tried to hide my disappointment. “Thank you,” I murmured. “Do you really think he would be interested?”
“It’s right up his alley. And he’s a good friend so my recommendation holds some weight.”
And then, in the most elegant and gentlemanly way, Mr. Davis escorted me to the door. “Thank you for coming. My secretary will give you all the information. And please don’t hesitate to call me and let me know how things work out.”
__________
Three weeks later I received a call from an assistant editor at The Hebrew American Publishing Company.
“I asked you to come in because I was concerned about discussing this on the phone,” the assistant editor said as he led me into his office. “I’m not sure how much you know about the material you used in your book, and my boss wanted me to go over it with you.
“May I ask you where you got the story that is central to your novel?” he asked when we were seated.
“My grandfather told it to me,” I said defensively, sensing something threatening in the assistant editor’s tone. “And it’s not a story, it’s what happened to his sister in Lomza, in the Pale of Settlement.”
“I’m afraid that your grandfather may have misled you,” the assistant editor said. The problem is that the story that you have used is a traditional Hasidic Jewish folk story. It didn’t happen to his sister; it’s just a story that he must have heard growing up.”
I sat, shocked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” And with that, the assistant editor reached across his desk and handed me a children’s Yiddish-language story book that was open to the page where my story, or should I say my grandfather’s story, appeared. “Do you read Yiddish?” he asked.
I nodded, staring dumbly at the book. Of course I had never read it. I had gotten all my Yiddish education and exposure from my grandfather.
“I’m surprised you never read this,” the assistant editor said. “It’s a very popular children’s story.”
I sat there dumbfounded, unable to speak.
“I am sorry to have taken so much of your time,” I finally mumbled, as much to myself as to the assistant editor. “I had no idea.”
Chapter 22
The following morning, I went to the rehabilitation center to confront my grandfather. He had made a fool of me, and I was angry and intent upon some sort of retribution. But when I arrived, I was surprised to see my parents there.
My grandfather had taken a turn for the worse during the night and was now in a nearly comatose state. The resident doctor told them that the rehabilitation center did not have the proper facilities to care for him. He implied that my grandfather did not have long to live and that my parents should move him to a full-service hospital. My parents were waiting for our family doctor, who was
on his way.
I waited with them until the doctor and the ambulance arrived. Then, since there was nothing else that I could do, I returned to my apartment.
The Super was waiting for me in the hall. He told me that my parents had been trying to reach me and had called him in the hope that he knew where I was.
“Yes,” I said. “I just left them. My grandfather is dying.”
I thanked him and walked up a flight of steps, just to be away from him, and sat down on the top stair of the landing. It had been an adventure, this book writing, and now it was over. Curiously, my mind was blank—without emotion. I tried to force myself to think about the future, about alternatives, but nothing came to me. After a while, I stood and continued up to the apartment. I did not have a plan anymore. Somehow things had always worked out for me in the past, and, in spite of everything, I expected some sort of knight in shining armor to save me now. I had been a dreamer all my life. My earliest stories had been filled with women in distress who were facing all sorts of imminent dangers that were averted at the last moment by the arrival of a hero. Where is my hero now? I thought to myself. A line from Psalms that is often read at funerals popped into my head, “I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where will come my help? My help comes from God who made heaven and earth.”
I put some water on the stove to make tea and sat down at the tiny kitchen table. The apartment now seemed dark, dirty, dingy, and oppressive. How long I sat at that table, with my head in my hands waiting for I don’t know what, I didn’t know.
“Tomorrow,” I said aloud, struggling to stay focused. “Tomorrow I will go to see Harry.”
I had promised that no matter the circumstances, I would not make any effort to meet him until the six months of celibacy had passed, but now, things had changed, and I was certain that he would understand when I told him what had happened. I spent another sleepless night rehearsing what I would say and trying to anticipate his reaction.
In the morning, I decided to phone him first so that he would be prepared, but, surprisingly, his phone had been disconnected. I called the phone company and asked to speak to a supervisor, and they told me that the phone had been disconnected for non-payment. This in itself shocked me more than I expected. Harry had always been conscientious and punctual about his debts, and it wasn’t like him to not pay the phone company. I dialed Harry’s mother but hung up before she answered. What would I say? I thought.
On the way to Harry’s apartment, I once again rehearsed in my mind what I would say to him. I hoped he wouldn’t be angry. I didn’t think he would notice that I was pregnant, and I decided not to talk about it until we resumed our courtship. It was certain to be a hurdle, but, after all, it was his child, and we would be getting married and becoming parents at almost the same time. Right now, I just needed to see him and talk to him and tell him about Mr. Davis’s rejection and how the entire book was now unacceptable. I was hoping that he would have a solution—maybe some sort of rewrite, maybe presenting it in a different way. Harry was good at that, and I was sure that he would know what to do.
I also wanted to tell him about my grandfather. Harry had been friendly with him, and I knew that he would want to know that his condition had worsened.
But, most of all, I just wanted to see him—to be with him, even at a distance. I could no longer stand his absence. Life without Harry had become intolerable.
The brownstone in which Harry lived was similar to my own, but Harry’s apartment was on the street level, just a short flight up. I hesitated at the stairs. I knew the building, but I had never been in his apartment. A wave of panic overwhelmed me, and, rather than go up the stairs, I walked down to the corner and then back to the stoop. What if Harry gets angry and calls the whole thing off? I asked myself. He wouldn’t do that, I reasoned, he loves me too much. I wish I had been able to get him on the phone. Maybe if I just wait around outside the stoop he’ll come out, and I can say that I was just in the neighborhood.
As I entered the public hallway at the top of the stairs, I could feel the tension building inside me. A shudder of fear went through me. Somehow, I thought to myself, this is not going to work out well.
But I was there at his house, and I had made a commitment. Timidly, I knocked on the door. There was no answer, and my hopes rose instantly that maybe he was out. I rapped again, this time louder, more confidently. Still no answer. And then, his next door neighbor came out.
“I’m looking for Harry Berger,” I said. “Do you know if he’s home?”
“Yeah, he’s home,” the man said with a hint of bitterness. “He never goes out. You really gotta bang ‘cause he doesn’t hear too well.” And with that, he went over to the door and banged on it with an open hand. “Harry!” he shouted. “You’ve got a visitor.”
Eventually, after a long wait, I heard rustling behind the door. Harry opened the peephole and then he opened the door. He didn’t react to me as I had expected. In fact, he didn’t seem to recognize me at all.
“I’m sorry,” he said formally. “I was studying, and I didn’t hear the door.”
He looked so thin, and dirty, like he hadn’t shaved or bathed in a long time. There was so much that I wanted to say to him, all the words that I had rehearsed on the way over, but now it all seemed wrong. I stood there for a long while looking at him, not sure what to do.
“Harry,” I said tenuously, “I had to talk to you. I know we promised, but I had to talk to you. Many things have happened. I hope it’s OK.” I was short of breath, and my heart was pounding as if I had been running.
He stood in the entrance, his eyes glassed over, and for a moment I was tempted to tell him who I was. Then he smiled—a crooked, halfway smile.
“Ruthie,” he said, with the tone coming from his chest. “Ruthie.”
We stood like that, he on the inside, I on the outside, without speaking. Harry seemed confused, disoriented.
“Ruthie,” he repeated. “I should ask you in. Yes, please come in.” And he stepped aside so that I could enter the room. I wanted to rush to him, to hug him, to press my face against his chest, to feel his arms around me. I had expected that. All that we had been to each other all those months flamed up inside me. But the man I was seeing now was not my Harry. Not the Harry I remembered.
We stood uncomfortably, somewhat apart. I didn’t know what to say. Harry said nothing.
“I went to see Mr. Davis,” I said breathlessly, in a rush, “and he told me that he’s not going to publish my book because it’s too Jewish, and he sent me to another publisher who publishes Jewish books, and he told me that the story that my grandfather had told me was an old folk tale, and that I would have to completely rewrite my book if I wanted them to publish it, and I don’t know what to do, and my grandfather’s gotten worse, and I really needed to talk to you.”
I was out of breath, but Harry just looked at me.
“Fiction is the work of the devil,” he said finally. “I don’t know how I ever let myself get tempted into doing that. Here,” he said, picking up a book from a chair, “look at this. Here is all the book anyone ever needs.”
He handed it to me—a massive, well-worn, and falling-apart edition of the Zohar, the central book of Kabbalah. “This is all the reading I need. All of the meaning in the entire world is here, in the relationship between the unchanging eternal, the mysterious Ein Sof, and the mortal and finite universe. And the more I study, the closer I come to peeling the kliphos and discovering God. Like Rabbi Akiva said, ‘The words fly off the page and soar to the heavens.’ I’m learning to fly to heaven with the words.”
We were still standing just inside the door. I looked around desperately. Harry was so thin, so tired looking, so dirty. There were dishes in the sink, food on the counter, books and papers and uneaten food everywhere. And the stench!
We stood as if frozen in time; Harry holding the book of the Zohar, the guide book
to Kabbalah, I standing with my coat still on. I asked him if he was OK, and he said that he was never better—that his eyes were finally opened. He said that he thanked God every day for sending me and my father and my grandfather to him, for showing him the way to truth. He said that the synagogues just didn’t understand. That prayer was just phony poetry. That the only way to God was through meditation, and that he had already advanced past the peshat, the remez, and the derash, and now he was embarking upon the study of the sod, the core: the inner, esoteric, and metaphysical nature and purpose of existence.
He said that he was getting closer to finding God, and that soon he would be able to talk directly to God—that he just needed a little more time and the right circumstance.
He was becoming more and more agitated as he spoke, his words running into each other. He was drooling, and he kept wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he spoke.
Desperately, bravely, I went to him and took both of his hands in mine. “Harry,” I nearly screamed. “I’m pregnant. Harry! I’m pregnant with our baby.”
His body relaxed. I could feel it in his hands. “Pregnant? We are going to have a child?”
“Yes, we are going to have a child.”
Slowly, I could see the old Harry, the Harry I loved, emerging. He held me tight by the shoulders, concentrating on my face.
“We are going to have a baby,” he repeated.
“Yes, Harry, a baby,” I said softly.
He took a deep breath, and then the old Harry began to take over. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“No, not yet,” I said, with a twinge of guilt.
Harry looked around the apartment as if seeing it for the first time. He brushed some books aside on the couch. “Here, sit down, you and the baby must rest.”
“Only if you will sit here, next to me,” I said, patting the couch.
So we sat, there on the couch, in the middle of the chaos of the room, quiet at last.