The Time of the Uprooted (21 page)

“Exactly, Bolek,” Gamaliel replied. “Isn’t that all the more reason for you to write something different, to tell another truth, that of the victims?”

“The truth of the victims went up in smoke with them,” said Bolek. “How about you? Where’s your testimony? You’re a survivor of the Holocaust, too, aren’t you? And on top of that, you’re a professional writer, aren’t you?”

Survivor! For a long time now, Gamaliel’s reaction to the word has been that it was cheapened, made a cliché, used in all kinds of situations. Everybody wanted to be one. No need to have undergone a selection at Birkenau or the tortures of Treblinka. It was sufficient to have lived, to have survived, in a Europe occupied or even threatened by Hitler’s Germany. How many times Gamaliel had heard some hapless speaker trying to win the audience’s sympathy by declaiming, “We are all survivors. . . . Of course, I was born in Manhattan, but I
could
have been born in Lodz or Kraków. . . .” Didn’t they realize that if everyone is a potential or virtual survivor, then no one is a true survivor? How to explain to them that, confronted with such deception, those who did indeed survive come to be ashamed of having really been there? How to tell them to let “remembrance” rest in peace, because the dead took its key with them when they disappeared in smoke?

“You have nothing to say?” Bolek asked.

“What can I tell you? It’s a sensitive subject. It takes a lot of thought.” If he hadn’t met Ilonka, would he have survived that most cruel of wars? Gamaliel preferred the word
orphan
to
survivor.

“May I quote you on that?” Bolek asked. “And what are you doing about what you call ‘the obligation of remembrance’?”

“I believe in it, but I don’t know how to go about it. I might know what to say, but not how. Sometimes it seems to me that when I use words, I get them all mixed up and they cancel one another out, instead of proceeding in a coherent order. Actually, one word is all I’d need. But it would have to be
true.
And I don’t know where to go find it!”

Gamaliel often wondered what means of speech would be decent, honorable, and effective enough for him to testify on behalf of his dead parents. A prayer, or a howl? Or perhaps silence?

Gamaliel walked his friend home in silence. Never had the streets, the buildings, the passersby seemed so hostile. He tried to picture himself in the Davarowsk ghetto, but he couldn’t manage it. There was a question still plaguing him. “Bolek, who executed young Horowitz? Was it you?”

“No, not I.”

“Then who?”

“A member of our group.”

“Did you choose him?”

“No, not I.”

“He volunteered?”

“No, I had us draw lots.”

“He didn’t object?”

“Romek, that was his name, Romek wasn’t glad, but he accepted it.” He paused a moment, then went on. “Strange, but he was surely the least suited for it of us all. He wasn’t a tough guy, the quickest with his fists; rather, he was an introvert, an intellectual. Romek was forever reading, studying. When we were in our shelter, worrying about a raid by the SS, or when he was waiting to go to his job as an accountant in a workshop, he would lose himself in one of the books he’d borrowed from the ghetto library. That fate should have chosen him, it was . . . well, it was unfair.” He stopped, smiled awkwardly. “It’s funny. . . . Afterward, he couldn’t stop rubbing his hands together. . . . Well, what can you expect? It was wartime.”

He made as if to open the door to his building, then halted. “I went with him,” he said in a low, inward voice.

“Time stood still.

“Young Horowitz, down in the cellar, stared at us with distrust and hate. ‘Well, this is great and glorious. Out there, the Germans are massacring Jews, and now you’re going to assassinate a Jew in here. Tell me, doesn’t that bother you?’

“He was waiting for me to answer, to speak to him, to his despicable conscience, to the man who was somewhere in him, but I had nothing to say: The time for words was over. I was thinking, He’ll take the sight of me with him into the hereafter. One part of me, forever tainted, will die with him. I was looking at him. The silence was growing heavier, and then it became unbearable. I had to break the silence with a word, but the right word was staying just beyond my reach, jeering at me. Suddenly, I saw everything with a strange clarity. I saw things and people in a new light, one that cast them in excruciating relief. I caught myself staring at Romek, and for a moment I thought I was losing my hold on reality. I recalled something my father had said: ‘The Angel of Death has a thousand eyes.’ So did Romek. I wondered if the condemned man saw what I was seeing. I looked at him more closely. Nothing escaped me. I noticed his right eyebrow: It was thicker than the other. There was a fever sore on his lips. His nails were dirty. That last detail bothered me: One shouldn’t die with dirty fingernails.

“ ‘How about it?’ the condemned man shouted angrily. ‘You’re not going to say anything? You’re going to kill me without a word?’

“I said nothing, and that was driving him out of his mind. Even though his hands were tied, he moved as if trying to throw himself on me. He was like a circus animal in its cage. In fact, he was right to be angry. He was about to die, and those who are to die have rights, including the right to hear a human voice, even if it’s only the voice of their judge or executioner. So should I speak to him? I wondered. But to say what? That he was a murderer? That in helping the Gestapo, in betraying us to the Germans, he had become one of them? That at this moment we represented opposite poles of humanity, the pole of Evil and the pole of those who refuse Evil? That at this stage of our lives, in this climate of absolutes reigning in that cellar, the universe, in losing one of its beings, would be losing its equilibrium? But wasn’t that true every time a German killed a Jew? All that was too complicated. Why not just tell him his fingernails were dirty and he had a fever sore on his lips. I left the cellar, leaving the two men alone. I stood with my back to the door, not daring to breathe. Then it happened. And I felt more alone than ever.”

Bolek shook his head as if he didn’t believe his own story. Or that it continued. Gamaliel did not ask him to go on. That evening they did not talk to one another.

But on his way home, Gamaliel couldn’t help thinking that young Horowitz—in fact, what was his first name? Bolek had never mentioned it—in a strange way, he had been lucky. He had lived with his father, they had prayed together, eaten together, laughed together. Unlike Gamaliel who had of his father nothing but a faded, blurred image: a life barely sketched. How many bad memories had they shared? How many words had they exchanged? For a time, Ilonka had taken the place of his mother. But who had taken his father’s place, even for a brief moment? Shalom? Too young. Rebbe Zusya? Too old. No, his father was as old as he, his son, is today. And what if I had followed him to prison, then to the camp? Gamaliel wondered. Surely I would not feel the void that, sometimes, pulls me into the blackest of nightmares.

8

TIRED AS HE IS, GAMALIEL CONTINUES TO WANDER the streets and green places of Brooklyn without purpose or destination. Passersby glance at him with curiosity, wondering, Who is this man who seems so preoccupied with his own cares that he talks to himself, oblivious to others on the street? Gamaliel reaches the hospital entrance, looks at his watch, and goes on walking. Suppose he were to go in to see the old woman without waiting for the doctor? She might begin to speak. Miracles can always happen; such cases are known to medicine. Patients awaken after sleeping for weeks or months. Some speak; others let their subconscious minds speak for them. The philosopher Henri Bergson, in a coma, gave a dazzling lesson before dying. Naturally, Gamaliel does not hope for as much from the wounded woman in the hospital. Should he go in anyway? The doctor promised to join him there. He finds her attractive. Her smile reminds him of Eve, and so does her voice. They might have married eventually had he been younger. But now it’s too late.

For that matter, hasn’t it always been too late in his life? Even with Colette?

IT HAD SEEMED SO PROMISING AT FIRST. COLETTE had the skills and the wherewithal to captivate those who attracted her. Every day, she would take presents to her new love: ties, shirts, belts, trousers, a sports jacket. He never wore them. “No offense, but please don’t spend so much money on me,” he told her. “If you’re not interested in material things,” she exclaimed, giving him a passionate kiss, “I’ll give you the best I have!” Giving free rein to her imagination, she transformed their nights into enchanting hours of constantly renewed pleasure.

Yet Gamaliel would not give up the hotel room he shared with Bolek. Colette tried to persuade him. “Either you insist on wasting the little you earn, or else you’re not sure of me, of us, of our future together. Are you really so afraid that you’ll be out on the street tomorrow?” But Gamaliel held out. He clung to his lodgings, modest as they were, to his ways, to his freedom, to his connection to Bolek. “Besides,” he observed, “it’s thanks to Bolek that we met. We should at least be grateful to him.” Seeing that he was irritated, Colette was quick to calm him, to act as if she agreed. As a general rule, she would give in when he held out. But she didn’t accept his resistance with good grace. She would make him pay for it.

Bolek did not comment on his friend’s affair. When Gamaliel came back at dawn, or after a week’s absence, Bolek would greet him with a laugh. “You’re happy—it shows in your face—and that’s what counts.” He did permit himself to give Gamaliel a bit of advice one evening when they were chatting about this and that. “Don’t go too fast or too far. Keeping some distance is a good idea and can be useful. Also, you’re too young to marry. And perhaps Colette isn’t young enough.” He thought for a moment, then continued. “I hope I’m not hurting your feelings. But think about what I’m saying. It’s for your own good. It’s great to make love with your mistress, so long as she’s not your wife.” Gamaliel teased him: “But how about the French passport I’d get?” “You can get along fine without it,” Bolek replied, then added, “Besides, it’ll be easier once we get to America. You won’t have to sacrifice your future for a passport.” When Gamaliel remained silent, Bolek became concerned. “Are you angry with me?” he asked. “Forgive me if I said the wrong thing, but you’re my friend.” Gamaliel reassured him, thinking, Strange that he didn’t ask if I love Colette in spite of the difference in our ages.

Actually, Colette’s age wasn’t on his mind. What disturbed him was her willful, often authoritarian personality. She was a stranger to doubt. She was at home everywhere, always sure of herself. She never hesitated; she always knew just what to do, where to go, how to get there, and how long to stay. She seemed to enjoy keeping her lover under tight surveillance.

She introduced him to her parents and her two adolescent brothers, both lycée students. Her father was cordial. He was sixtyish, round-faced, and potbellied; he was constantly relighting his thick cigar. He owned a fancy leather business and would talk shop with Gamaliel. “Just in case,” he said one day with a laugh. “You and Colette . . . you should know your way around.” Gamaliel blushed and looked away. Colette’s mother, always decked out in jewels and pearls, as if for a charity ball, did not hide her lack of enthusiasm. “You speak our language well, young man. What nationality are you?” she asked. Gamaliel replied that he was stateless. “Stateless?” she burst out. “Just what does that mean? Is it a nation?” “Maman,” one of the boys said, embarrassed, “it’s someone who has no nationality.” “But then . . . ,” she began. Her husband tried to silence her, saying, “Then nothing. A stateless man can easily become French like you and me. All he has to do is marry a French woman.” The mother shook her head in disbelief. “It’s not right, not right at all, that’s what I think. It seems too easy, that’s it, just too easy.” “Easy?” the other son asked lightly. “What do you mean— easy to become a citizen or easy to marry?” Colette, trying to change the subject, said, “In any case, Gamaliel—sorry, Péter—hates things to be too easy.” Her mother would not let go. “But just now you called him by another name, a peculiar name. . . .” “I made a mistake, Maman. His name is Péter.” Her mother made a gesture of dismay. “How about your parents, young man? Where are they? What does your father do?” “Maman! That’s enough!” Colette said angrily. “Péter has no parents!”

Their civil marriage was performed two months later, after the High Holy Days, by a polite but indifferent deputy mayor. A young Sephardic rabbi presided at the religious ceremony, which was followed by an ostentatious reception, complete with band, in Colette’s parents’ luxurious apartment. Fine leather work all over. A few poor refugees leapt at the invitation to a sumptuous repast. Over in a corner, Yasha was singing melancholy Russian songs; Diego was drinking and cursing fascist Communists and Communist fascists. Flowers and presents and wines and sweets in profusion. An amused Bolek was studying a poorly lit masterpiece. Colette was beaming. Gamaliel was saying to himself, It’s only natural for all these people to be here, but where is Esther? And what am I doing here? He seemed to be participating in an occasion that had nothing to do with him. In his mind’s eye he was again a child with his parents, then with Ilonka.

That same evening, he formally took up residence in Colette’s apartment, but he still kept his hotel room, where he left a few books and some clean shirts in Bolek’s custody.

His naturalization was expedited, thanks to her father’s connections. He was happy when he went to police headquarters to obtain his precious
carte d’identité.
“At last I’m a citizen of someplace!” he exclaimed. Colette had urged him to register himself as Péter. Certainly not Gamaliel. “Do you want people to laugh at me?” she asked. But this time, her husband did not give in. Still, Colette never called him Gamaliel.

A week’s honeymoon in Nice. They went by car; Colette drove. The couple spent a day in Italy. At the border, Colette handed over two passports: her own and her husband’s. Again, Gamaliel thought, I’m no longer a man without a country. I’m no longer regarded as suspect; policemen and customs officials are courteous. Yet I haven’t changed; I’m still the same person. When Colette asked if he was happy, he said yes. She would ask him often, sometimes all day long. Sometimes she even awakened him in the middle of the night to ask, “Are you happy?” He would answer that he was, but then he couldn’t go back to sleep.

Colette was possessive, insatiable; she was always caught up in passing fads, whims, phobias. She was prone to fits of anger or resentment. In the morning, he was forbidden to speak to her until she had put on her makeup and done her hair. In the evening, he was forbidden to exclude her from his thoughts. The sight of a bald man upset her. “The day you go bald,” she told her husband, “I’ll kick you out.” She said the same about an unkempt beard or a bad haircut, or children who cried too loud.

Gamaliel still had not adapted to his new life after a year of marriage, with its ups and downs. He was more at home with his refugee friends. Diego would tease him, saying, “Do you still have time for us?” Yasha would say, “Forget it, Diego. We and Gamaliel will never be divorced.”

Just when did Gamaliel notice the change in Colette’s behavior? She was quicker to lose her temper, shouting obscenities, smashing dishes over a word, a moment’s grumpiness. When Gamaliel would ask her why, she would reply, “Because you don’t love me anymore.” “Why do you say that?” “Because it’s true.” “How do you know it’s true?” “Because you’re not happy.” He would try to calm her, to mollify her by one means or another. But with time, he came to realize his efforts were in vain.

“Listen to me, Péter my boy,” she said one day. “I want to talk to you. I’ll thank you not to interrupt. What I have to say to you is important. I loved you; I married you for just one reason: to give you the happiness that life has denied you. Apparently, I’ve failed. The only time you’re happy is with your stateless pals. You have more in common with them than you do with me. Well, go back to them. Leave this house. Let’s separate, the sooner the better for all concerned.” Gamaliel stared at her in bewilderment. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “Did I do or say something to displease you?” She shook her head. “No, you didn’t do or say anything. That’s just it—you’re always there, doing nothing, saying nothing, unless I push you to it. Now I’m fed up with living like this, as strangers. Go away!” He turned toward the door. She detained him. “Just one thing more. Be aware that I know myself well. I know what’s going to happen with me— hate is going to take the place of love. That’s why it’s better that we part ways.” She’s crazy, Gamaliel thought, and he told her so. She didn’t contradict him. “You say I’m crazy? It may well be. Crazy with love yesterday, today crazy with hate.” She burst into hysterical laughter. “Want to hear something funny? I went to the doctor yesterday. Would you like to know what he said? He told me . . . that I’m . . . he told me I’m pregnant.” She kept on laughing for what seemed a very long time. Gamaliel, standing at the door, didn’t know whether he should return to her, console her, congratulate her, love her as he had before, better than before. He started back, but she stopped him, yelling, “No! Whatever you do, don’t come near me! Get out of my sight and out of my life! I never want to lay eyes on you again!” Her face was distorted with contempt.

Six weeks before giving birth, Colette told him again how she hated him, how he disgusted her. She was consumed with a desire for vengeance. “Go away, quick, vanish. I can’t stand you. You horrify me. . . .” But immediately she changed her mind. “No, stay here. You won’t suffer so much if you’re away from me. I want to see you suffer.”

She gave birth to twin girls.

At the hospital, Gamaliel was dismissed by his mother-in-law, who was enraged to the point of violence. “We never want to see you again, Mr. Stateless. I always knew you were no good. My daughter gave you everything, and in return you made her miserable. Get out!” “But the babies . . . I’m their father,” Gamaliel protested. “So much the worse for you and for them. They’ll have a new father soon enough, I promise you that. Now clear out, or I’ll call for help. Then they’ll sweep you out the door.” She’s crazy, Gamaliel thought, crazy like her daughter.

Colette fell ill. Hate was eating at her like a disease. She lived only to give expression to her aversion to her husband. Contrary to her parents, she did not want a divorce. “I’m determined to keep him right here, so I can witness his torment.” Eventually, she infected Katya and Sophie. Yet at first, they loved their father as he loved them, which only fed Colette’s anger. He took them to Parc Monceau; he told them stories about happy kings and unhappy princes. He explained to them how clouds have a world of their own, and trees have their own sovereign. He lived only for them. He would accept whatever Colette said or did; a glance from Katya, a blink of the eye from Sophie helped him through the grief that day by day became heavier and more suffocating. Then everything fell apart. The twins had just celebrated their twelfth birthday. That night, Colette, disheveled, her face contorted, began hitting her husband in a fit of rage. “You’re happy with the twins, and that I will not tolerate! When you’re with them, you’re comfortable in your skin, while with me you’re a monster of selfishness and hypocrisy. You make me sick! Stop . . . or I’ll call the police. . . . I’ll tell them you beat me, that you want to kill me, that you’ve got the idea in your head that the girls aren’t yours and you’re planning to do away with them. . . . The police will take over. . . . You’ll lose your citizenship. . . .” Was she capable of stooping so low? In any event, Gamaliel refused to be separated from the twins. The hellish scenes became ever more frequent, and they were more and more savage. Still worse, the twins could no longer bear it, and, being too young to hold their mother responsible for her own unhappiness, they came to blame it on their father. After months of one crisis after another, he had to accept the only way out: separation. Gamaliel offered to take the blame for a divorce, in order to avoid any possible scandal; Colette, stubborn to the end, refused. So ended a dismal period in his life.

In time, Katya and Sophie came to hate him. All they knew about their father, gone to the United States to join Bolek, was that he deserved to be banished because he had made their mother unhappy. They were fifteen when Colette committed suicide by swallowing an overdose of barbiturates. They, along with their grandparents, held Gamaliel responsible for her unhappiness and her death. Often he tried to get in touch with them, always in vain. His letters were returned unopened. Now he, too, felt the pain of depression, of doubt and remorse. In what way was I at fault? he would wonder in his sleepless nights. What did I do to cause so much misfortune? Was Colette right to resent my being immune to happiness, or even love? I would like someone to explain it to me.

Colette had taken her explanations with her to her prison in the sky. Gamaliel made a short trip to Paris to meditate at her grave. He spoke softly to her. He asked her forgiveness. He told her, “Maybe I didn’t love you enough, passionately enough. I no longer know. Yes, I feel guilty, but I don’t know why. I feel so guilty I can no longer love.” He picked up a stone and placed it on her grave. On leaving, he felt that he was parting from his own self.