The Covenant

by Ragen, Naomi

  The nurse spoke briefly to the guard placed outside Elise’s room, who was under strict orders to let no one but authorized hospital personnel pass. He smiled at Leah, opening the door. Elise lay back, her curly hair dripping out of the cloth headscarf that modestly hid it from male eyes. Her eyes were closed, and two dark red spots made her cheeks seem jolly. Or feverish, Leah worried. She stood there looking, holding her breath.

  My Elise. My religious granddaughter who went to the homeland, to live in a place where Jews didn’t have to be afraid . . .

  Elise opened her eyes, taking a moment to focus. “Bubbee?”

  “Darling.”

  “Oh, Bubbee!” She lifted herself up off the pillow, hugging the small, old woman who patted her back as she would a child’s, in long, gentle strokes.

  They clung to each other, rocking in a silent paroxysm of grief, love and understanding.

  “When did you . . .?” Elise asked.

  “What do you mean? As soon as I heard. You could keep me away?”

  “But your heart . . .”

  “It’s pumping. It pumps in Boro Park, it pumps in Jerusalem. My heart knows where it pumps? My neshama is here, so my heart better get used to it. Besides, Esther sent me a fancy doctor. He checked. He gave me more pills. He says I’m fine. But tell me, how are you?”

  Two big tears ran down Elise’s cheeks.

  Leah held her hands. “Don’t, maideleh. Don’t. I know what it is, believe me. I know. But you can’t give up hope. ‘Lommir nisht zorgen vos vet zein morgen, lommir besserfarrichten dem beint un dem nechten.’”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I forget you are a shiksa and don’t know Yiddish.” She smiled. “It means: ‘Don’t worry about tomorrow, better to fix today and yesterday’ You have no control over the universe, only over yourself, and you have to keep hoping and praying to God.”

  “I pray all the time. I’m just not sure anyone is listening . . .”

  “Shhh! Elise, ‘Ver es git leben, vet geben tzum leben.’ ‘He who gives life, nourishes life.’ He listens, this I can tell you. Whatever happens, He’s listening. He doesn’t always answer right away.” She hesitated. “He doesn’t always say yes. But He’s listening. This much I promise you.”

  Elise put her hands on her stomach, glancing at the monitor with its steady green graphs. “No one will tell me anything. The doctors are afraid to let the army talk to me. So I get a briefing once a day. It’s driving me crazy, not knowing.”

  Leah pulled over a chair and sat down. “What do you know?”

  Elise looked at her. “Only that Jon and liana are alive, and that the army is doing whatever it can to get them released. That’s what I know.”

  “So, you know what everybody knows. But now I’ll tell you something nobody knows. I’ve called up the Covenant.”

  “Your friends from Auschwitz? Oh, Bubbee, Bubbee.” She sighed, squeezing the old, beloved hand indulgently, shaking her head. “This is not your problem. There is nothing any of you can do.”

  “You don’t know, you don’t know. Four old ladies, you’re thinking . . . So, you’ll see. They know people . . . they have connections . . . Ariana has a nightclub in Paris. Every drek in Europe goes in there . . . and Esther has a granddaughter married to a Saudi Arabian . . . and Maria’s grandchild makes movies, he’s going to find out about the videotape with Jon and liana . . .”

  Elise blinked. “Videotape? With Jon and liana? What videotape?”

  Leah looked at her, stricken. It had been on all over the place. First on BCN, and then afterward, on every news program, again and again. How could it be she didn’t know? Leah rose slowly. “Oy, you know what, I’m falling off my feet, Elise. And they made me promise I’d only stay for a few minutes . . .”

  “Bubbee, what tape!?” She clutched at her grandmother’s skirt, bunching the material fiercely in her hands. “I have to see it!” She pulled herself up and started getting off the bed.

  “Elise, Elise,” Leah said frantically. Oy, gotteinu,gotteinu, what have I done? “Please, Elise, get back into bed . . . if anything happens to you and the baby because of what I’ve done, I’ll never forgive myself. Never.” She trembled.

  Elise looked at her grandmother. She took a deep breath, then climbed slowly back into bed. “No. Don’t. It’s not your fault, Bubbee. I’m fine. I’m sorry. Just, please, tell me—what does it show? Are they alive, well?”

  “Alive and well, thank God!” The truth was, after a brief look at Jon and liana—which had made her sick—she hadn’t been able to watch.

  Elise slowly exhaled, trying to keep control. She would slam on desks, turn over tables, but she would see that tape. She’d deal with it as soon as her grandmother left. “I’m all right. I know I have to relax. I promised Jon. I want to put a healthy baby into his arms . . . when . . . when he comes home. But Bubbee, you should go now,” she said impatiently. “You must be falling off your feet. Go lie down.”

  “Yes, maideleh.” Leah hugged her. “I’ll go. And you remember your promise to Jon. I’m going now. Elise . . .” She wants to get rid of me. And all she’s going to think about from now on is that tape. And it’s all my fault.

  “Thank you for coming. Thank your friends for trying to help . . . but tell them not to worry. I’ll see you later.”

  Defeated, Leah turned to go.

  “Bubbee!”

  “What?” she turned around, concerned.

  Elise rested her head on her grandmother’s shoulder, feeling like a child. “I love you.” The old woman did what she had dreamed of doing high in the air, for thousands of miles: she put her arms around her granddaughter’s fragile young shoulders and rested there.

  Chapter Fpurteen

  Paris, France

  Wednesday, May 8, 2002

  12:00 P.M.

  MADAME ARIANA FEYDER sat enthroned in her red velvet swivel chair examining her accounts, looking like those photos of a vain and aged Helena Rubinstein. Like Rubinstein, who in her nineties had frightened a burglar in her bedroom so badly that he’d run for his life, she knew that she too made people sweat.

  She thought of the tourists marching up and down the Champs Elysees, already in high gear, eagerly searching for a place where later that evening they could become part of the Parisian night for the price of a cheap whiskey or an indifferent glass of wine. None of them would even notice the small cabaret tucked away on an obscure side street, a place never mentioned in mass-produced guidebooks. Indeed, except for a pair of striking, massive oak doors, Chez Ariana gave almost no indication at all of its existence.

  Those knowledgable enough to find their way to those doors would find themselves blocked from entering by burly, immense security guards unless they could produce both a membership card and a password. And even then, Madame Feyder had the discretion to decide whether or not to buzz them in. On occasion, they sometimes found their cards had been cancelled or the password changed. And those members who brought guests understood that they would all find themselves waiting out on the street while the guards urgently consulted with her in the back office. None of them could guess in advance what she would decide, her criteria being entirely personal and idiosyncratic.

  On the whole, she allowed in rich and famous people who were—or could be—useful to her. But she also let in struggling artists or musicians whose talent she respected; people she felt sorry for, like the balding tourists who had read about her club in People magazine; and young college students because she liked the color of their hair, or the way they said a certain word. The criteria for female guests was undeniably their beauty.

  Thus, on any given evening one could find starving writers and unemployed saxophone players, high-level cabinet ministers, an insurance salesman from Milwaukee, shadowy underworld kingpins, billionaire arms brokers and the dictators of small Third World countries all intermingling in strange harmony in the charming restaurant and dance hall. Famous actresses, exquisite runway models and up-and-coming young c
all girls crowded the small dance floor, an important part of the cabaret’s attraction.

  Ariana made it a point to make a nightly round of her customers, greeting each one personally, making them feel like guests in her home. As a result, over the years the direct, personal phone numbers of some of the most powerful and dangerous people in the world had poured into her Filofax. On occasion, she contacted them. Most were only too happy to hear from her and to be of help.

  As for those who were not, they soon found that they had made a very serious mistake. To make an enemy of Madame Feyder was no small thing. To be banished and permanently exiled from Chez Ariana was extremely inconvenient at best, and at worst, absolutely crippling to certain types of business activities. Her reputation for discretion, the guarded privacy of Chez Ariana, the cachet of membership—along with the unbelievable roster of members and their acquaintances—had made the club a unique and indispensable watering hole in the jungle for a wide variety of clandestine dealings. Ariana did not like the word “commission.” She did not see herself engaged in anything as crass as commerce when she introduced people in her club to one another. She was a hostess, and these were her friends. If she helped one friend by introducing him to another who shared his business interests over a pleasant glass of the best pastis, well, that was her pleasure. And if she knew how to contact a certain modeling agency to arrange a discreet rendezvous between a smitten and most generous billionaire and a young Victoria’s Secret catalogue model, she did them both a favor. If they then expressed their appreciation with a token of their esteem . . . well, that was a different story.

  The jewelry, the apartment on the He St. Louis, the lovely chateau in St. Jean Cap Ferrat, the silver Jaguar, the jaunts on private jets to private Caribbean resorts, were all part of the tribute that regularly flowed in her direction, the way far-off colonies had once sent tribute to their emperor in Rome.

  It was a system Thierry had worked out when he’d helped her open the club, and for many years, it had worked perfectly. But given present circumstances, these days she really preferred cash over lavish jewels to adorn her wrinkled flesh and tropical vacations in far-off places. These days she hardly went anywhere. Recently, she’d even set up a bed in her office and had a private bathroom installed.

  She didn’t like being in her apartment by herself. Without Thierry beside her in the huge canopied bed, its vastness and luxury had taken on a Louvre-like coldness, every nook and cranny shadowed by imminent dangers. She’d lie awake, chills crawling up her spine, reacting to every creak of the furniture or settling of the walls like the intrusion of a dangerous stranger. Not that sleeping anywhere else was that much easier.

  She was haunted by memories, wracked by regret. She regretted never getting married. Four years ago, when Thierry’s wife had finally passed away, he’d asked her. But after thirty-four years as his mistress and his love, she’d thought: Do I really need a piece of paper? Will it stop him from dying and leaving me? But now that it was too late, she wondered if it hadn’t been a mistake. As his widow, people would have respected and understood the great hole in her heart.

  She regretted too never adopting a child. She had wanted so much to be a mother, to lavish kindness and generosity and protection on some small, helpless creature. She wasn’t the type that could get a dog and treat it like a baby. She was also haunted by the idea that no one would say prayers or light candles for her when she died, except for her Covenant friends. They were the only family she had. Perhaps, aside from Thierry, the only ones she’d ever had.

  She took out a cigarette and lit up, then took a sip of her vodka and orange juice, both habits that a succession of young, dedicated doctors had assured would kill her. She liked young doctors. She enjoyed watching their hair turn gray, their flat stomachs inflate, their chins sag. At that point, she always replaced them. It would soon be time for a new one, she thought, draining the glass. It gave her immediate heartburn. Everything gave her heartburn.

  She hated being old. Her legendary beauty was all but gone now. To compensate, she’d taken to dressing with theatrical overstatement. Today she wore a turban and a caftan of flowing green silk that matched her still exquisite eyes. Her long, slim fingers sparkled with rings, drawing attention from the faded blue numbers and the numerous needle marks that climbed up her arms. From her ears hung two chandeliers (the best description she had ever heard, and one she loved), handmade by her private jeweler on the Ponte Vecchio: a cascade of yellow and brown diamonds that dangled down to her shoulders, a gift for playing matchmaker between a Russian exporter of enriched uranium and an oil-rich dictatorship.

  But what she hated most of all was butting up against her dreams, feeling how empty and flat they were. It was like opening a beautifully wrapped present and finding it was a sweater in the wrong color that made you look fat. Surrounded by all those riches Thierry’s tutelage had brought her, she wondered often now if it hadn’t been his dreams she’d been living out, her own having gotten lost somehow along the way. It was ironic, even tragic. All through the camps, she’d struggled against the downward pull of death and misery, allowing her dreams to float above her like a warming sun, something to look up to, bask in, follow. But as soon as the war was over, their light had turned to cheap glitter, almost tawdry. What did fame matter? Hitler had been famous. Millions had adored him. As for riches . . . she’d learned there was only so much you could buy. Only so much . . . The best part of being rich was being free. But what good was that freedom if you were free and childless? Free and unmarried? Free and wretched?

  Thierry had never really understood that. Or her. And perhaps she’d never really understood him. Few did. In his obituary, they’d called him “a key figure in politics and industry whose image had been tarnished by persistent rumors of connections to underworld figures, bribes and payoffs.”

  He’d been a man the most ruthless criminals had feared. Yet for her, he’d always been the most indulgent father, the most protective big brother, and the tenderest of lovers. She’d met him in some ugly Left Bank cabaret where they were letting her sell cigarettes and sing through the smoke and noise. He’d nursed a few drinks, watching her as she sang, applauding, making the others shut up. And afterward, he’d bought some cigarettes. That was how he’d seen the blue numbers on her arm.

  His mother had also been a Jew, he’d told her. She had died before the war, of TB. She too had sung in a nightclub. He never spoke of the people who’d raised him, except to say that he’d made them pay for everything they’d ever done to him. She’d never wanted details.

  He’d hated so many things, her Thierry, and loved so few. And she was one of them. He’d come along at a point in her life when she’d never been more vulnerable. After the brutal rape, the botched abortion, he’d taken her under his wing, taught her how to protect herself by making others need and fear her.

  She looked down at her rings. He’d taught her so well how to get everything that money could buy. Yet the ability to turn wealth into happiness had been something that eluded them both.

  I have missed out on all the important things in life, she sometimes thought. Baby carriages pushed in the park, a man’s shirt on the ironing board, his coffee mug steaming next to mine on a cold, weekday morning . . . A life of ordinary joys.

  She stared at herself in the little mirror she carried in her purse, reading the story of her life in the wrinkles that crossed her face like hieroglyphics only she could interpret. The one near her temple, for example, was from the time she’d stood on the platform with Maria, Esther and Leah waiting for that train to the front. The one in the corner of her right eye was from lying in the snow unable to move, waiting for the bullet to her head. The ones on either side of her mouth were from hearing the doctors say that the brutal, backstreet abortion had cost her her womb.

  She sighed, writing out her monthly checks to the myriad orphanages, women’s shelters and child-care organizations she supported in France and in Israel. She placed them into th
e white envelopes and licked the stamps. I should have adopted a child, when it was still possible. But I never thought it was fair, with things being as they were . . . Thierry, the nightclub, all those gangsters and low-lifes . . . I should have done more good in the world . . .

  But it was too late, too late. All too late . . . she thought, taking out her mother-of-pearl box. All she wanted out of life now was some peace. A life of massages and spas and witty companionship. Some release from the horror of memories and regret, the horror of constant pain, of Thierry’s loss, of phantorn children that haunted her in the darkness, her unborn babies that cried like kittens mewing in a box, shut out of her life by force. Release . . . She opened the box, sniffing the white powder and rubbing it along her teeth.

  She heard a knock on her door. “Madame.”

  “What is it?” she growled. “Didn’t I tell you never to bother me when my door is locked?!”

  “You have a phone call, Madame. It came through to the front bar.”

  “Can’t you deal with it!?”

  “She says she’s your friend. Esther from California. She says it’s urgent. A life or death matter . . .” The bartender improvised, prudently rephrasing “Tell Madame Feyder if she doesn’t get on the phone, I’m taking the next plane to Paris and will pull her out by her trademark earrings.”

  She stared at the desk, fingering the little box. “Alors. Put her through immediately, Maurice.”

  “Of course, Madame.”

  “Esther? Is this about the tape again? The tape, the tape. And Mr. Spielberg. I will do the tape! I don’t want to, but Mon Dieu! you will never leave me alone, so I do it. Will you call me now every day?”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Esther? Don’t be angry. I’m just tired. I don’t sleep . . .”

  “Didn’t you see the tape that BCN aired?”