The Red Thread

by Rebekah Pace

  Her breath came in sobs as we scrambled down out of the branches. I’m not sure what worried her more—the damage to the necklace or her fear of being punished. We combed the grass beneath the tree until she found it, and her lip trembled as she cradled the locket and broken chain in her hands.

  “I can fix it,” I said.

  She looked up at me with veneration in her teary eyes. “You can?”

  “Of course I can. Come on!” I led the way to my father’s workshop in the shed behind our house, and she hung anxiously over my shoulder as I turned on the lamp and laid out the chain. Though my father, who was always tinkering, had taught me how to use his tools, the chain was too fine for even the smallest needle-nosed pliers in the toolbox. Frustrated, I nudged her away, and my words came out gruffer than I’d intended. “Back up, you’re blocking the light.” When at last I shook my head in defeat, she reached for the chain, but I cupped my hand over it. “I’ll say it was my fault.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “It was an accident. They can’t punish me. I’m not their son. Besides, it can be repaired. I just don’t know how—yet.”

  She moved my fingers aside and picked up the chain. “It’s all right.”

  When we went inside, Mira’s mother stubbed out a cigarette and regarded her daughter’s tear-stained cheeks and the guilty looks on our faces. “What’s the matter?”

  Mira glanced at me before she answered. “It broke.” She opened her palm.

  “Careless girl!” When her mother slapped her, the necklace fell to the floor. Mira’s father hurried into the room and stepped between them, looking down at his sobbing daughter.

  “Here—what is the matter?”

  “She’s destroyed the gift you gave her. I told you it was too expensive for a child.”

  Mr. Schloss picked it up off the carpet. “It is nothing that cannot be fixed.” He led Mira into his study. I followed and watched as he dried her tears and brought out a scrap bag. He rummaged for a moment and pulled out a narrow length of red silk cord. He wet one end in his mouth and twisted it tightly until it fit through the locket’s bail and tied a knot at the ends. He hung it around her neck just as gently as he had when it was on its gold chain.

  “Just the thing! Here you go, Liebling. All is well. We will have a jeweler fix the chain later, when we have the money, yes?” He kissed her and wiped away her tears. “There are cookies in the kitchen for you and Peter. I brought some of the lemon springerle you like from Frau Bressler’s.”

  “Yes, Vati. Thank you.” She rubbed the silk cord between her fingers.

  The cookies were a welcome distraction and tasted delicious, but as we ate, we heard Mr. and Mrs. Schloss arguing.

  “It was vain and stupid of her to wear it for roughhousing.”

  “She’s a child. She will sometimes make mistakes, but she will learn.”

  Mrs. Schloss scoffed. “She shouldn’t be allowed to wear it whenever she chooses—one day she will lose it altogether. It should be hidden away, so it can be sold.”

  After that, I never saw Mira take it off—until the day she left it with me for safekeeping. I’d held onto it all these years, and now it was stowed away in a box in my Weequahic closet. I had hoped to give it back to her someday, but at this point, my somedays were numbered. Whoever cleaned out my stuff when I died would have no idea what that necklace meant to her—or to me.

  ***

  Not long after Mira and I planned our jaunt across Europe to Paris and Le Mans, I declared to my parents that I would marry her when we were grown up. I wanted to be with her all the time and make her smile, and in my childish way of thinking, this was enough of a reason to marry. I knew I could love her as tenderly as her father did, and I would grow up big and strong enough to protect her from her mother’s harsh and unpredictable discipline.

  It was traditional in Germany, especially in those days, for both the man and the woman to wear plain gold bands as engagement rings. I had seen a set in the window at the jeweler’s and planned someday to buy it. Then I would put the velvet box in the fairy post office in the apple tree and get down on one knee when she found it. I didn’t realize I’d never get the chance.

  ***

  Six million Jews died in the Holocaust—and three and a half million survived. Those survivors who were strong enough to face the horrors head-on wrote books, gave speeches, and said things like “Never again” and “We must not forget.” If the books and the speeches pushed their demons away and gave them enough space to breathe, then good for them.

  I couldn’t forget, either. But I wasn’t that strong. I considered myself lucky to have come through the war alive and coped the best I could. Now that I was in my nineties, I wondered what would happen when I died a lot more than I had when I was young. In the camps, death hovered at our elbows every minute of every day. If I’d let myself think about it then, I would’ve gone crazy.

  Some people claim love conquers all, but in my experience, love only leads to a broken heart. Fear is more powerful than love, because it steers people away from risk, and the person left standing in the end is not the one who loved the most, but the one who dodged the most risk. Benny once asked me whether fear kept me alive or kept me from living. I answered yes. And yes.

  3

  Most mornings when I woke up, I’d hear my neighbor’s footsteps on the stairs and his apartment door open and shut. His name was Vashon Harris. He worked nights and came home every morning at 7:30, like clockwork. I tried not to disturb him during the day, because good for him if he could sleep when some people had insomnia.

  Before Vashon, a guy named Napoleon Jones lived across the hall, and before that it was a lady named Shandra Washington. I remembered them all, back to Daniel and Flossie Zimmerman, who lived there when I moved in in 1955, even if I didn’t get to know them personally.

  I never slept more than five hours a night, ever, and I read in the newspaper that people need less sleep as they age. It’s the truth. Lately I was lucky to get two or three hours. Even if I didn’t need sleep, it was still hard for me to get out of bed in the morning.

  Vashon’s shower was running while I boiled water for my cup of Sanka and toasted a bagel on the hot plate. In the fridge, there was a bit of cream cheese left in the silver wrapper. Just enough for a schmear.

  On nice days like this one, I opened the windows to air out the place, and that let in the traffic noise from Lyons Avenue. Oy vey, that stuff people played on their car radios didn’t seem like music to me. Music should soothe the soul, and let me tell you, there was nothing soothing about that garbage.

  Sometimes a truck rumbled by and started my heart racing, and for a moment, before I got ahold of myself, I’d think the Gestapo was outside, coming to take me away. I always shut the window before I sat down to eat.

  Ever since I retired back in 2004, one day has seemed pretty much like the next. After breakfast, I usually read the funnies and did the crossword puzzle. Sometimes, to change my routine a little, I’d do a jigsaw puzzle from the dime store. I liked to tinker with electronics and mechanical things, and usually had a couple of projects spread out on the table near the window. It was enough. I was content until I had to deal with other people—like Mrs. Simmons, my landlady. One morning, she came up and pounded on the door while I was trying to solder a broken tooth on the cylinder of an antique music box. She didn’t wait for me to answer before she hollered through the door: “Mr. Ibbetz—the tenant in Four-A just moved out at the first of the month. I’ll leave the door open today.” She let me go through what people left behind before she had it carted off. As a matter of fact, I’d found the music box when a tenant in 1C moved out a few months ago.

  I set down the soldering iron and opened the door. “Thank you. I am having to finish this before tomorrow and will be by to look later.”

  Uninvited, she stepped into the room an
d looked at the projects on my worktable. “Why you like all this junk so much? Can’t watch nothing on that, can you? What is it, anyway?”

  “Is radio. With vacuum tubes.”

  “They look like light bulbs.”

  “Is like this.” I plugged in the set and fiddled with the tuner. The hum and the static nearly drowned out the local AM station signal that came through.

  She scoffed. “Why you bother with that when you got a perfectly good radio right over there?”

  “It reminds me.” Before she could ask more, I pointed to a 1930s cabinet radio I’d rescued from a trash pile. “This one is being short wave. On it I am listening to broadcasts from China and India. Is fascinating thing to hear someone so far away.”

  “You speak Chinese?”

  “Is no language Chinese. They are having many different languages for such a large country, right? But no, I am not speaking any of them.”

  She pointed at my telephone. “I know you like old stuff, but why you still using that relic? How you gonna reach it when you fall and can’t get up?”

  I studied the phone on the wall. “Is fine. It is not looking like a relic to me.” It looks new. It’s barely been used since I moved in here.”

  “You need to get a cell phone, or one of them life alert bracelets. Or both.”

  “What am I knowing about life alert bracelets or cell phones? This phone I got, I am knowing how to dial it. I am not needing a life alert bracelet.” I didn’t have a death wish. I was just being realistic. When I die, it’s not going to matter to anyone, so why try to stop it from happening?

  “You should quit wasting your time listening to languages you don’t understand. If you had Wi-Fi, you could get Netflix.”

  It was my turn to scoff. “Netflix, shmetflix. Thank you for telling me I may search for treasures in Four-A. I am coming by later today.” She left before I had to admit I had no idea what Netflix was. A few years ago, when the rabbit ears on my TV quit picking up the signal from the networks, the new super helped me rig up a digital antenna so I could watch The Price is Right. I liked the new fella they got as the host—the funny one.

  ***

  Most afternoons, I walked down Lyons Avenue to Benny’s bodega on the corner by the fire station. The kosher deli that used to be there had closed years ago, but Benny was good about stocking the foods I liked so I didn’t have to take the bus to go shopping somewhere else.

  The music box I was repairing was a wedding gift for Benny and his wife, Valeria. When I finished the last solder, I tested it to make sure all the notes played. Then I wiped the walnut cabinet with lemon oil and wrapped it in a clean cloth before putting it in my jacket pocket.

  When I first came to Weequahic in 1948, I thought it was an all right place, but I didn’t understand anything about New Jersey, or America. The only thing I knew was that I didn’t want to stay in Germany.

  Back then, you could buy anything you wanted in the shops on Bergen Street between Lyons and Custer—from fur coats to camping supplies to pianos. The good smells from the Bergen Bake Shop hung in the air a block away. Now, the bakery and the piano store were closed, and the furrier had moved out to the suburbs. The only people in this neighborhood who camped were the ones living on the streets. There were different names on the businesses that stuck around. Different faces everywhere, too. But I remembered exactly how everything used to be.

  The neighborhood was a lot rougher at this time than it was when I moved here, but sometimes, when the weather was nice, I’d sit for a while on a bench down at Saint Peters Park and watch a Peewee soccer game or a few innings of Little League. The view across the street from the park made me sad. Too many houses sat empty and surrounded by overgrown shrubs, with weathered plywood nailed over the windows and doors.

  Back in the old days, there were lots of Jewish families in Weequahic, and I didn’t feel like I was taking my life in my hands every time I left my apartment. But there was still trouble. Once I had a run-in that frightened me so badly, I never forgot it.

  ***

  It was 1950. I hadn’t been in America that long, and I probably still looked and acted like a greenhorn. A group of young guys that hung around on the street corner made fun of me and would sometimes laugh as I passed. I didn’t speak much English, but I understood enough to realize they were talking about me. I ignored them—until the day one of them called me a faggot.

  I forgot I was headed out to a job. I turned and ran home and vomited in the alley before I staggered upstairs to my room in the Gittelmans’ apartment. Shaking, I lay on my bed and clutched my stomach. Mrs. Gittelman, who was surprised to see me come home in the middle of the day, fussed over me at first. She brought me chicken soup and tea and demanded that I tell her what was wrong, but how could I? I was too embarrassed to repeat what they’d said. Finally, she shrugged and let me be.

  I wasn’t a homosexual—but I never went out with a girl after I came to America, either. I wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Gittelman assumed that about me, too.

  When the Nazis were in power, simply being called queer was enough to get you arrested—and I’d seen firsthand what happened to men in the camps who had to wear the pink triangle on their uniforms. In my mind, I had no defense. I was so afraid I didn’t leave the apartment for days.

  ***

  I went out to the bodega that afternoon, eager to give the music box to Benny. On the way, I passed a couple of punks leaning up against the metal grate that covered a vacant building’s window. They gave me the once-over as I approached, and I could feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I couldn’t cross the street without looking like I was avoiding them, so I turned my eyes away as I shuffled past, clutching the music box inside my pocket and hoping they would assume I had nothing worth stealing.

  The bell on the bodega’s door jingled as I stepped inside. Benny was in his usual spot behind the counter.

  “Hey, Pete!”

  “Hiya, Benny.”

  “How’s the weather out there?”

  “Good.” I placed the wrapped music box on the counter. “Gift for you and Valeria. For your wedding.”

  He unfolded the cloth. “That’s real nice of you, Pete, but you didn’t have to get us anything. You do know we’ve been married for almost a year.”

  “Yes, I am knowing. I am waiting until I find just the right thing. And then I fix.”

  He opened the lid. “Wow. How old is this?”

  “My mother is having one like it when I am a boy, so is old, right?” I took it from him and wound the key on the bottom. “You play this for Valeria. Is romantic song, from my country, about a soldier who must leave the girl he loves but promises to be true to her until he is return.” I set the box on the counter with the lid open, and as the song began to play, we watched the tips on the comb pluck the notes from the teeth on the rotating cylinder.

  Benny nodded as he listened. “She’ll like this. Thanks for thinking of us, Pete.”

  “Valeria, she is smart and pretty girl, and your little boy is gift from God, right?”

  “Yeah.” He ducked his head a little, smiling.

  “When you love someone, you are doing everything to stand by them and love them. This is life. You are being lucky to have beautiful family.”

  Benny and I didn’t usually talk about personal things. To cover my embarrassment, I picked up one of the wire shopping baskets and headed down the first aisle for a loaf of rye bread and the crackers I like. I always went up and down the aisles in the bodega in the same order, so I wouldn’t forget anything. Next aisle, I added a jar of pickles, a couple of cans of soup, and a jar of Sanka to the basket. In the refrigerator case, some cream cheese, a half dozen eggs, and some turkey and pastrami. Swiss cheese, too. My favorite sandwich is turkey and swiss on rye.

  He’d had a fresh delivery of bagels from the kosher bakery, so I got the tongs and put t
hree in a plastic bag. Then I realized I needed milk, and as I turned back to the dairy section, the bell on the door jingled. I glanced over my shoulder in time to see those two punks come in. Why didn’t I remember to warn Benny? As they stopped at the counter, I backed out of sight.

  They all started shouting, and there was a big crash, like they’d knocked over one of the display racks.

  I heard one of them yell, “Open the register! Gimme the money. All of it!”

  Benny hollered back, “Get the hell out of here and run home to your mama before I—”

  “We ain’t playin’!” The other punk cut him off. “Do it!”

  Another crash shook the floor, and I shrank against the wall, clutching my basket. There was nothing I could do to help my friend. Then a shot rang out, so loud that everything around me should have exploded. I cowered in the corner, squeezing my eyes shut, but that didn’t erase the images etched on my brain—German SS pointing pistols at men and women poised on the edge of a pit. One by one, their knees buckled, and they crumpled and fell, their bodies piling on top of other bodies.

  ***

  When a hand touched my shoulder, I jumped. Hot wetness flowed down my leg, soaking through the front of my pants. It took a second before I remembered where I was.

  I’d never seen Benny look so worried. “Pete? Pete—you okay, man?”

  My voice shook. “Are you killing them?”

  “Nah. Just scared ‘em off. The cops are here now. Everything’s under control.”

  Ashamed of having soiled myself, I tried to pull the front of my jacket down over the wet spot.

  “Don’t worry about it. I about pissed myself, too. You ready to come out front now?”