Comrade Grandmother and Other Stories

by Naomi Kritzer

  Radek, who appeared on Alena and Hanna’s doorstep at two in the morning on June 14th, was not a leader of the Resistance but a friend of Alena’s. Alena yanked him into the parlor without a word, closed the door, and took him to the back room.

  “You shouldn’t have taken me in,” he said. “I’m putting you both in danger.”

  “That’s for us to decide,” Alena said. “So hush. Are you hurt?”

  “No. I got warning five minutes before they arrived.” Radek looked like he’d left home in a hurry—unshaven, he wore his nightshirt tucked into trousers, with an overcoat thrown on over the top, despite the summer heat.

  Alena settled Radek in her bed, to get a few hours’ rest. At dawn, she would go out to get a razor and less conspicuous clothes for him—and, if she could, false papers. This is it, the golem thought. The man who would sell her the papers would be arrested later that day; when interrogated, he would implicate Alena. The mistake was hers, going to someone who knew her name and address, but so many members of the Resistance had already been arrested that she had nowhere else to go. Ironically, the golem realized, thanks to the false papers that Elsa would obtain, Radek would survive the war, although Alena would die, and Hanna with her.

  And the golem would be free.

  Alena was gone for several hours. Radek slept peacefully. Hanna cleaned, holding the broom in fists clenched so tight her knuckles were white. Alena returned without incident and with everything she’d gone for. She woke Radek, and he quickly dressed and shaved. Hanna went to let him out through the back stairs.

  “Margit,” Alena said, once Hanna was gone. “I’m sorry this took so long. I got you your papers.”

  The golem looked down at the documents. The photo was of Alena, but as Hanna had observed that first night, they were close enough to pass for each other. The name was not Margit, though.

  Alena shook her head. “If Margit hasn’t been fingered as a member of the Resistance yet, she will be.”

  The golem looked up. “So will Alena.”

  Alena shrugged. “My contingency plan is to cause them enough trouble when they come for me that they just shoot me down then and there, and spare myself torture.”

  “Why didn’t you get false papers for yourself?” the golem asked. “You could hide, too.”

  “Between what Radek gave me and what I had saved, I had money for two sets. One of those had to go to Radek. And I’m not leaving Hanna. I’d rather die with her than lose her.”

  When Alena spoke of Hanna, her face twisted oddly, almost as if she were in pain. The golem studied Alena’s eyes, wondering what that would be like, to feel that way for another.

  “You know how to stay out of trouble,” Alena said. “You’ll be able to use those papers well.”

  The golem tucked them into her purse. Hanna had errands for her—messages that needed to be delivered. The golem knew, however, that all of the recipients had already been arrested, or would by the time she made it across Prague—even if she could fly. If she did complete the errands, Hanna and Alena would both be dead by the time she returned. Just as she’d been waiting for.

  So she took the papers, and went to the Old Jewish Cemetery.

  Despite the crackdown, the cemetery was not empty. The Jews were gradually being banned from more and more of the parks and streets of Prague; the Old Jewish Cemetery was the closest thing to a recreation area that they still had. There were families picnicking there, among the twelve thousand tombstones stacked like books on an overcrowded shelf.

  The tomb that the golem was looking for was near the main entrance. Paired marble tablets linked by a roof marked the grave of Rabbi Löw. She sat down in the shade of the slabs, and lit a cigarette.

  “So I’m back,” she said softly.

  She heard a peal of laughter from one of the women picnicking in the cemetery.

  “This time, nobody is going to destroy me. There won’t be anyone to do it. I can live forever—I’ll just avoid anyone who could hurt me. I know everything I need to know to stay alive.”

  She thought of the expression Alena’s face as she spoke of Hanna. I’d rather die with her than lose her.

  “I’ve even got papers now,” she said. “Alena bought them for me, finally.” Instead of buying them for herself.

  “I have freedom.” She was even freer than Alena. Alena was trapped here, tied to Hanna. The golem was tied to nobody.

  Again, she saw the expression on Alena’s face, thinking of Hanna.

  “All I need to do is walk away,” she said.

  She could do that, she knew. Even if she had been bound to her creator’s will, her creator would be dead within hours. She was free to choose any fate she desired. This time, finally, she would survive. Alone, but alive.

  I’d rather die with her than lose her.

  The golem realized suddenly that the cigarette had burned away in her hand, and she hadn’t even inhaled any of the smoke. Disgusted, she stubbed out the last of it on the ground. Then she stood; the sun was warm on her shoulders. “This is my choice,” she said to the Rabbi’s grave. “This is my decision.”

  The golem returned to the apartment at 3:10 p.m. “Alena!” she called. “Hanna. Gather your valuables. Leave everything else, or you’ll arouse suspicions. You need to go, now, or you’ll both be killed in just over an hour.”

  The women obeyed her without hesitation. They put on several layers of clothes, though it would be hot, and each filled a purse and a shopping bag with food and the valuables they had left. The golem followed them through the apartment, talking. “Go to Kutná Hora,” she said. It was one of the larger towns in Bohemia. She gave them an address for another apartment—“They have a vacancy right now; the landlord isn’t nosy, and he won’t care who lives in the apartment aside from Alena. Don’t waste time; in a week, he’ll rent the place to a Nazi sympathizer who will later betray his next-door neighbor for sheltering Jews. It’s much better that the landlord rent to you.”

  There was room in Hanna’s shopping bag for her Talmud—it was an antique, a family heirloom. She took it, although there were other things that would have been more practical. She left the books of golem lore.

  The golem stopped Alena at the door. “Give me your papers,” she said, and handed Alena the false papers that Alena had bought for her. “Now go.”

  As Alena and Hanna headed down the stairs to the street, the golem felt their fate vanish from her mind. She was certain that they would live or die together, whatever happened. In the meantime—the Germans would come to arrest Alena Nebeský, and they would find her. The golem picked up Hanna’s book of golem lore, lit the last of Shayna’s cigarettes, and sat down in the immaculate parlor to wait.

  HONEST MAN

  IN 2004, MY my grandmother celebrated her 80th birthday. As a birthday gift, I decided to write a story in which she was the heroine. Although the major events here are made up, real details of my grandmother’s life and personality are woven through. She enjoyed this story immensely.

  In 2006, she moved to an apartment in Minnesota, where she’s still living as of 2011. My daughters and I visit her every week. She’s frail, but loves reading with her great-granddaughters.

  ***

  Fiddle Game

  November 15th, 1943

  Washington, D.C.

  A COLD RAIN was falling when Iris came out of the Department of Justice building onto Constitution Avenue. Worse, she’d stayed late filing and had missed not only her usual bus but the next bus as well. There was a diner across the street from her bus stop: she could see an OPEN sign and the tempting glow of light. She started to count the money in her purse, but her hesitation was blown away by a gust of wind and a fresh sheet of rain. She dashed across the street and into the diner, coming in out of breath, lipstick smeared and hat askew, the bell over the door clanging as she wiped her feet on the mat and looked around for a place to sit.

  The diner smelled of fried eggs, clean floors, and slightly scorched coffee. It was nea
rly empty; a man in a suit sat up on a stool at the counter, a man in a long, well-worn raincoat sat in a booth near the door, looking out at the rain. Iris took a seat at the counter. “I’ll just have a cup of coffee, please,” she said to the waitress. I have perfectly good food at home, I can go home and make some supper for myself. But the rain was falling even harder, so she looked over the menu, sighed, and said, “Oh, just the grilled cheese and a cup of tomato soup, please.”

  The man in the suit caught her eye while she was waiting. “Nice weather, huh?” he said. “Do you work for Mr. Hoover?”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” she said. “Typing and filing.”

  “Good for you. I’m just passing through town, myself. I’m an art dealer, when we’re not at war.”

  “I don’t expect there’s much call for that, during wartime.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. You’d be surprised. But I wanted to contribute more directly to the war effort, so right now I buy and sell surplus—getting scrap from scrap drives delivered to places where it’s needed, that sort of thing. Art is just a sideline for now.” He glanced up to smile at the waitress as she refilled his coffee. “My name’s Leo.” He handed her a business card: it said Leonard Franklin. “Leo like the lion, Franklin like the first name of the President of the United States of America.”

  “My name is Iris. Iris Kirkwood.”

  “Iris! You’re serious? I have a sister named Iris, can you believe it?”

  The waitress arrived with Iris’s coffee, steaming hot. “I’ve always just been thankful my mother didn’t name me Petunia,” Iris said with a game smile.

  “I think it’s a beautiful name.” He gave her a smile warm enough that Iris started to wonder if she should mention her boyfriend serving in the Infantry, but he made no further overtures and she decided he was just being friendly. The waitress came out of the kitchen with Iris’s sandwich and soup, then continued to the table up front to give the man his check.

  Iris’s supper, at least, was really good. The bread was fresh, the cheese tart, the tomato soup creamy. Or maybe it was just the lingering chill and the rain outside that made everything taste so good. Iris glanced up at the art-dealer-turned-scrap-dealer, and since he was looking away from her, dunked a piece of her sandwich in the soup. She was never certain whether you were allowed to do that sort of thing in restaurants.

  “Excuse me...” The man from the front of the restaurant was talking to the waitress, his face obviously distressed. “I am so, so sorry, ma’am, but I just realized that I left my wallet back at my room. I’m going to have to go get it before I can pay, but I don’t want you to think I’m running out on my bill. I can leave my instrument here as security...” He had a violin case, Iris saw; he opened it up to show the waitress the violin inside. “This is a good violin. I paid fifty dollars for it, a few years back, but I think it’s worth more.”

  The waitress glanced at it and grunted. “It looks like it’s worth more than your meal, anyway. Go ahead and get your wallet.”

  “I’ll be right back,” he promised, and went back out into the rain.

  Iris was finishing her sandwich when she heard Leo say, “Can I take a look at that?”

  “What, the violin?” The waitress shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

  Leo opened the case and took out the instrument, turning it over in his hands and holding it up to the light. She heard him let out a long, appreciative breath, and looked up to see him swallow hard. For a moment, his eyes darted around the room, like a man with a poker hand that he knows will win the night. Then he looked back up at Iris, and at the waitress. “My God,” he said. “This is a Stradivarius.”

  “Strada-what?”

  “One of the rarest and most valuable violins ever constructed. Most are in the hands of collectors, museums... It’s worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Maybe more.” At the waitress’s skeptical look, he gave Iris another warm smile. “I was just telling Miss Kirkwood here that I was an art dealer, before the war; these days I mostly deal scrap, but I do make an exception when fate throws the truly exceptional piece my way. I would happily pay two hundred thousand dollars for this violin. Cash. I’m quite sure that when the war is over I’ll be able to resell this instrument for many times that.”

  “Oh, won’t that man be happy,” Iris said. “You could tell he didn’t have much money.”

  “Where did he say he was going?” Leo asked the waitress.

  “Back to his room. He didn’t say where it was, but it can’t be that far...”

  Minutes ticked past. Leo reverently set the violin back into its case, then checked his wristwatch. “Oh dear,” he said. “My train... well, another couple of minutes won’t hurt.”

  They waited. Iris finished her coffee; the waitress, watching the door, left her cup empty. Another sheet of rain came down outside. Iris looked at the clock on the wall; she had just missed the next bus, but this was exciting enough that she didn’t care.

  “I really can’t wait any longer,” Leo said, finally. He gave the waitress his business card. “When the man comes back, and surely he’s planning on coming back, give him my card and tell him to call me, collect, tomorrow morning at my office in New York City. I will be pleased to offer him two hundred thousand dollars for his violin, and in the meantime I do urge him to take very good care of it.” He put on his hat and raincoat. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Kirkwood,” he said, and went out in a jingle of bells and a blast of damp wind.

  “Well,” the waitress said in amazement, and looked down at the violin on the counter. Suddenly realizing that it might be vulnerable to a spill, she moved it over to an empty table and then refilled Iris’s coffee cup. “Dessert for you today, ma’am?”

  Iris had already mentally counted out the money for dinner against the money she had left before next payday. “No, thank you,” she said. “But thank you for the coffee. I’ll have to admit I don’t think anything could get me out of this restaurant before that man comes back for his violin. Think of the look on his face!”

  Not five minutes passed before the man was back. He had a ragged wallet in his pocket now, and carefully counted out the money for his meal. “So, about that violin,” the waitress said, and glanced nervously at Iris. “You know, my nephew is thinking of taking up violin and my sister could really use an instrument. Would you be willing to sell it?”

  “But—” Iris whispered. The waitress pulled down a piece of the peach pie, Iris’s favorite, and set it down in front of Iris like a promise.

  “Oh, I couldn’t sell it,” the man said. “It’s my livelihood. I play on street corners... even in wartime, or maybe especially in wartime, people like to hear music. It lifts their spirits. I’d be happy to play for you, to thank you for your understanding about the wallet...”

  The waitress shook her head impatiently. “Surely you’d be willing, for the right price. You said you paid fifty? I’ll give you a hundred.”

  The man shook his head. “I paid fifty, but it’s a better violin than that. I couldn’t let it go for less than five hundred.”

  “Two hundred,” the waitress said.

  “Wait,” Iris said, with a glare at the waitress. She elbowed the pie aside. “Don’t listen to her. There was a man here a few minutes ago who said your violin was really valuable. He said he’d pay two hundred thousand dollars for it, and you should call his office tomorrow, collect. He lives in New York City...” She dug in her own coat pocket and triumphantly produced Leo’s business card. “Leo Franklin. Leo like the lion, Franklin like the President.”

  The waitress’s glare could have soured whiskey; Iris averted her eyes, feeling a little guilty, but really, how unfair and wrong, not to tell a man what his property was worth if you knew. “I think you should wait and sell the violin tomorrow.”

  The man turned towards Iris, cocked his head to one side, and looked her up and down. It was a strange look—not the look of a poor man who’d just learned that his property was worth thousands
of dollars. More the look of a fox that had approached the henhouse, and found it locked. But then he gave her a wistful smile and said, “I thank you, ma’am.” His lips twitched as he turned to the waitress. “As kind as your offer was, I think I shall have to refuse it.” He glanced down at the pie. “Since it seems I am about to come into some money, ma’am, let me thank you by paying for your meal.” He counted out the money for sandwich, soup, coffee, and pie, and even included a generous tip. “Good night to both of you.”

  Iris ate her pie quickly; the waitress’s stony glare made her nervous. She braced herself for the wind and rain and stepped out.

  To her relief, the rain had stopped while she was eating, replaced with a thick fog. She crossed the street to wait for her bus, thinking over the evening, and stepped forward when she saw headlights coming towards her in the fog. But instead of a bus, a black Lincoln town car pulled up. The window rolled down, and Leo looked out at her from the passenger-side window. “Can I offer you a ride, ma’am?”

  “Oh!” She stepped backwards, startled to see him. He said he was catching a train—why is he in a car? “I gave the man your card... The waitress wasn’t going to tell him, can you believe it? She was going to buy it for a hundred dollars and sell it to you herself!”

  “Let me show you something,” Leo said, and climbed out of the car. He opened the trunk and Iris looked in to see a dozen identical violin cases. “We paid $25 each for them. The man you saw inside is an associate of mine—he’s driving the car, in fact. We, ahem, test the honesty of waitresses, bartenders and restaurant owners all over this great country of ours.” He closed the trunk.

  Iris stared at him, speechless.

  “They say you can’t cheat an honest man. That’s not true. It’s easy to cheat an honest man, if he assumes that others are as honest as he is. But as a matter of principle, I won’t cheat an honest man.” He doffed his hat, held it to his chest, and bowed to Iris. “Would you like a souvenir, ma’am? A violin, perhaps? I hear there’s a man in New York City who’ll pay two hundred thousand dollars for violins.”