The World Between, page 9
49.
Tomasz-Henrik’s wife and daughter are in the sunroom. He cradles his wife’s face. Devorahleh, he whispers. Then he turns to his daughter and caresses her cheek. Saraleh, he croons.
My heart clamps shut.
His bag waits for him, like a bride, near the piano.
Play for us, Aba, his daughter says. She’s in her thirties. Her dark hair loose around her shoulders. It is her best feature. His wife, Devorah, wears a white suit.
Sister Francoise murmurs in my ear—she’s a judge in the district court.
Tomasz-Henrik sits at the piano, his back erect. He raises his trembling hands and begins the first notes of the nocturne. Something painful sweeps into the room. Devorah places her hands over his. His face collapses.
Not that one, my love, play something gay.
He takes a deep breath. His fingers pluck out a waltz and I am lost. His daughter puts her head on his shoulder, and his wife fixes the back of his collar. When he reaches the last note, Sara takes up his bag and Devorah follows. On his way out, Tomasz-Henrik stops before me. He kisses my forehead. Rivkaleh, he says, mayn ketzeleh.
50.
I call him Asher. A slip of the tongue. I call him Asher. A mistake, the way mothers mix up their children’s names. I call him Asher and tell myself there’s no harm in it. Only Leon knows and I know. It’s our secret and it’s such a relief to finally stop pretending this child is anyone else’s but mine. At night when he falls asleep beside me, I’m awash in fantasies of leaving the Street of Shoes with him, going to Jerusalem, north to Naharia, or south to Eilat, places where no one will know us. I imagine Katya relishing her freedom. She and Marek could go anywhere, do anything. How many times has she complained that Leon ties her down, tires her out?
He take all my energy, she says. Parasite, she calls him. Little monster, she calls him, and bites his cheek and makes him cry.
I begin to plan, slowly at first, innocuously slipping bits of mine and Leon’s clothing into a suitcase just to see how they’d look there, no more than an experiment. My plum skirt next to his khaki shirt with the orange tiger decal.
I call Rothman. How much can I get for the apartment? I say.
Thought you didn’t want to sell.
I’m thinking about it.
I imagine him joining us. Driving us up the coast to Naharia, or down through the Arava Desert to Eilat. We’d be a family the way we were always meant to be. Each night while Leon sleeps in my arms, my mind races with plans. Friday morning the suitcase is packed. I cash all of my traveler’s checks in the bank. I can barely eat or sit still. The week is done. All I have to do is wait for Katya to bring Asher to me on Sunday afternoon.
It rains all day. My body hurts with waiting and wanting. The ticking clock wears me down. I’ve arranged for a taxi to take us to Ashdod. From there we’ll continue on a bus to Eilat, where I have a reservation under an assumed name at one of the resort hotels on the Red Sea. We’ll take a glass-bottom boat. Schools of angelfish will swim in coral cities beneath our feet.
I’m stationed at the balcony window so I can see Katya coming down the street with Leon. At four fifteen I wait outside. By four forty-five, I’m wringing my hands, fighting off a sickening dread. At five, I can barely breathe and dash to Katya’s bungalow.
Mila, the young woman from Ukraine, answers the door.
Where’s Katya? I peer inside. The television is on too loud, and there are flickering shadows on the wall above the sofa.
They’re gone, she says.
What do you mean, gone? To work, the hotel?
They left yesterday night.
Left? Who?
Katya and Leon.
I don’t understand. I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling that I must hold myself together, that I am fractured down the middle. My lungs refuse to fill with air. The light is dim so I cannot see Mila’s expression.
Marek get job in Haifa docks.
A job?
And apartment. Katya very happy.
That’s not possible, I say. Leon is supposed to be with me. They have to be here.
I push past her into the apartment, calling for Leon, only I’m so distraught that I am howling Asher’s name. I open the closets in Katya’s room. They’re empty, not even a hanger left on the rod.
You go home now. Mila takes my hand to lead me out the door.
Leave me alone, I cry, and charge through the apartment, this time searching behind curtains, tearing open cabinets, crawling on my belly to peer under the beds.
I call police, Mila shouts.
I pay no attention to her. All I want is my baby, certain Katya is hiding Asher from me. Before long, strangers are looming over me, asking my name. My body shakes as if with cold. Mila has brought in her neighbors. Big men who try to be gentle and the African women who sell fruit on the street. They click their tongues, take hold of my arms, but I wrestle away from them. Head down, I push my way out into the night. The rain has stopped, leaving behind a dense fog, lifelike and monstrous. I have no recollection of how I get back to the apartment. Time is suspended. Like Asher, I float in the blue ether, trapped. The packed suitcase stands upright in the corner like a pillar of salt, a reminder of a land that’s lost to me.
Later, after the neighbor who lives in old Shalom’s apartment on the floor below, calls Rothman and tells him he smells smoke, tells him that I refuse to open the door to let him in, Rothman rushes over. He finds me in the living room, cradling Asher’s blue-and-green sweater, the suitcase thrown open, the contents in flames. I don’t notice that there are burns on my hands or that the divorce papers you served me with are ashes at my feet. Rothman throws a blanket on the fire. A cloud of black smoke billows into the room. The rug I bought for Leon is a circle of scorched earth.
What were you trying to do? he says, but he already knows the answer.
51.
Sister Francoise and I climb the stairs to the fourth floor, to the room of last resort. It’s a black box theater, a house for ghosts. I breathe in the greasepaint and chalk dust, the canvas and acrylic blues and reds. Dust motes tremble in the lone spotlight pooling on the stage.
Places. Sister Francoise claps her hands and then retreats into the wings.
I climb onto the bed perched center stage. Dr. S is beside me. His meerschaum pipe with the wolf carving is in the pocket of his sports jacket. He smells of smoked cherries.
How are you today, my dear? How’s our boy? he asks.
Sister Francoise emerges with Asher in her arms and places him in mine.
Look who’s here, I say to Asher, lifting him up so he can see the matron banging a drum and the camp children holding hands. They circle the bed. Behind them I see Mama in her winter fur, her hands buried in the fox fur muff. Papa is beside her, dressed in his army uniform, the sleeve stained with another man’s blood. There is Lenya looking regal in a black felt hat, and Tomasz carrying a fleet of boats made of bark and poplar leaves. I call out for Rothman, and in a moment, he’s beside me, dressed in his leather cap and wool pants, wearing the winter coat his sister bought before we left Krosniewice. They greet me and Asher with hugs and kisses. The children—Roza, Micha, Tzila, Wolfe, and Shmulik—clamber up onto the bed to coo at Asher, who rests his head on my breast. He gazes at them with his large almond eyes. All of us talking and laughing. Rothman takes out a flask of vodka.
May I? I turn to Dr. S. Just a bisel, a drop, I say.
It’s all right if you keep it a small one, he says. This is serious business. He points to a lit apparatus that resembles a large shortwave radio with gauges and wires.
Sister Francoise removes my shoes and socks.
Is that really necessary? I ask.
It’ll make things easier, she says, strapping my ankles into the restraints.
Dr. E steps out from behind the curtain, dressed in her white medical coat. She pulls on a pair of latex gloves and nods to Sister Francoise. Rothman tells a joke. The children roll on their backs with laughter. He hands out black market cigarettes.
Lenya removes a lighter from her bag and says, He’s certainly learned a thing or two about scrounging.
Rothman gives the signal, and the matron stops banging her drum. The circle parts and the children climb down off the bed and take their places. Mama and Papa smile encouragingly. I turn to the auditorium, and you are there, striding down the aisle.
Lieblings, you say, and wrap your arms around us. Asher smiles and gives you his open-mouthed kiss.
You’re here. I caress your cheek and kiss your eyes. I kiss them shut, Max.
Where else would I be? you say.
The houselights dim and the stage lights come up. Chopin’s nocturne fills the air. We are cast in shades of blue.
It’s time, Dr. E says.
Sister Francoise fills a hypodermic with a golden liquid.
You let go of my hand and cradle Asher in your arms. The circle widens and everyone applauds.
I float up past the battens to the ceiling, beyond the rafters and the rooftop, past the statue of Saint Joseph and the Collège des Frères, above the pines, and high above the sea. I climb to where the stars glow and the shattered souls gleam.
Acknowledgements
My deepest gratitude goes to my editor, Joseph Olshan, and publisher, Lori Milken for believing in this novel and shepherding it into the world with such grace. Thank you to Mina Manchester and the entire team at Delphinium Books for their support, and to Colin Dockrill, for his bold and beautiful artistry. Further thanks go to my agent, Murray Weiss.
My study of the theater and acting began decades ago at Tel-Aviv University and continued long after I returned to New York City. I had many wonderful teachers and what I learned in their studios found its way into the heart of this narrator and novel. My immense thanks go to all of them. My Israeli teachers: Nola Chilton, z”l, Rina Yerushalmi, Reuven Adiv, z”l, Benyamin Tzemach, z”l, the formidable dancer and teacher, Rina Shaham, z”l, and the talented and prolific director, Hanan Snir. My American teachers: Herbert Berghof, z”l, Marge Linney, Kay Carney, David Garfield, and the director, Bill Prosser. All of my teachers taught me to listen, to respond, to be authentic, and always search for the truth in my characters, in my life, and in my art. It is everything that I continue to strive for.
Thank you to dear friends Linda Guyette, Julia Hirsch, Rosanne Limoncello, and Louise Marburg for reading early drafts of this book with such care and thoughtfulness.
My heartfelt thanks go to my family: my daughters Shoshi and Becca, their partners, Mari Karppinen and Ian Grunert, and my granddaughters, Alma and Liia who truly light up our lives. To my sister, Esther,
About the Author
Zeeva Bukai is the author of a previous novel, The Anatomy of Exile. Her stories have appeared in Smashing the Tablets: A Radical Retellings of the Hebrew Bible, CARVE, Lilith, McSweeney’s, Quarterly Concern, Image Journal, December Magazine and elsewhere. Her honors include fellowships at the Center for Fiction, Hedgebrook, and Byrdcliffe AIR program. She is the Assistant Director of Academic Support at SUNY Empire State University and lives in Brooklyn with her family.
Zeeva Bukai, The World Between
