And They Shall Survive Burnt Offerings
by Moshe Dann (June 2014)
One day a blond, blue-eyed woman from the Rescue Committee came looking for him. She was an American, but her family had come from Poland. She had heard about him from others and spent a long afternoon asking him questions about his family and where he had been. She did not ask him why he was alive. A few weeks later she arrived with a jeep and offered him a ride.
“Where are we going?” he asked, afraid that he had done something wrong and would be punished again.
“A new life,” she beamed with innocent confidence.
Max looked at her grimly, but said nothing. He did not believe her and wondered if she was playing a cruel joke on him. She seemed to understand his confusion.
At a moment’s warning he could quickly pack up a few essential things, put them into a small backpack and escape. When “they” came to get him he would be gone. He was ready for them, the Nazis, the schvartzes, the police.
“When they come for me,” he told Oscar, “they won’t find anyone.” He squinted and held a finger to his head.
“No Shabbos,” Max shook his head emphatically and continued to work, eyepiece to watch.
When the store was empty Max would test himself. He imagined howling mobs outside, shattering glass, screams of victims in the street. He would need to move quickly. Close the blinds. Lock the front door. Pull down the gate. Empty the drawers. Take only what was most valuable, a few tools, a knife, some clothes. Leave a light on so they would think he was still inside. Escape through the back door. It would take them a while to realize he wasn’t there. A few minutes would give him enough time to run. He looked through the iron bars on the window into tunneled shadows. No one would notice. No one would discover that he had escaped.
Down the street from his shop, Chinese workers from the restaurant were scrubbing large blackened pans. They dumped leftovers into garbage cans. He could grab a bag of food on the way, just in case. He would escape through narrow passageways. No one would find him.
The ferry docked, a bell clanged and everyone moved quickly toward the exit. He took his time. There was no hurry; he had no place to go. Leaves were turning colors, the sky an exceptional blue. He paid no attention as he wandered through the streets until he came to a park bordering a small wooded area. It was empty except for a few children playing on a rusty swing. In a corner at the edge of the grass a sign on a shed indicated, “Property of New York City.” He peered through thick layers of grime that covered the barred windows. Inside tools and small machines used to maintain the park were stacked in a corner. A simple padlock on the door could be broken easily; he could hide inside, at least for a while. He could bring food and water but how long would that last, he wondered. At night he could sneak out among the trees, careful not to leave tracks.
The woman on the bench pulled her shawl around her. Her expression did not change. Max looked around, relieved that no one else was there. He wondered what she was doing alone in the park, perhaps waiting for someone, but no one came. He stared at her, but she didn’t seem to notice him, even when he got up and moved closer. Gracefully, she reached for a long white stick beside her.
Max watched her walk towards the exit sign, pulling his coat around him as the wind picked up. Time to go, he warned himself and noticed that she was having difficulty getting around a large branch that had blown across the path. He hesitated to help, fearing that she might be able to identify him later, but then decided to act.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled and pulled the branch to one side.
“Oh, thanks,” she said and smiled.
“I’m going this way,” he said and took her arm.
“This isn’t the way,” she stopped and tapped her stick.
“Ah, you’re right,” he said as if everything could be excused by admitting mistakes and turned towards the exit. “Don’t litter,” read a large sign below the arched gateway with the name of the park. He thought of other signs, names of railroad stations and Camps. Other languages. A dog barked. He looked around.
“What a beautiful day,” she said casually.
“I can feel the sun.” She lifted her face and smiled.
“On my lunch break, sometimes. I work at the library. They have a section for Braille. And where are you from? she asked.
“Oh, ah, around, the neighborhood,” he muttered vaguely.
“I haven’t seen you before,” she said.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“Here, my dear friends,” he called to them, “you will be so lucky” and threw them small pieces of dried bread he’d saved in his pockets. At another time such scraps might have made a difference.
His apartment was cold. Hungry and exhausted, he opened the refrigerator and took out some bread and cheese, pickles and olives. He made space at his kitchen table cluttered with notices, bills and old newspapers.
Who cares, even if one survives for another day. He looked around. There’s nothing I need. I am a ransom for another life. Steam from radiators hissed softly around him as he ate. He took off his coat and heated the kettle on the stove.
The phone rang. It’s probably Oscar. He didn’t answer and slumped into a large overstuffed chair that he’d found on the street. When the kettle whistled he pushed himself up and made a cup of tea, warming his hands. Simple pleasures, he thought, remembering when his hands had stuck to pieces of ice as he sucked them. Lines of broken, ragged men hoping for a bowl of soup, crumbs hidden in his pockets. The phone rang again. Reluctantly he picked it up.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice inquired. “Max Wershavfsky?” she said, mispronouncing his name. He wanted to correct her. Who cares about names? Family names without families.
“Ya,” he answered, wondering into what trouble he had fallen.
“No, no,” he rummaged excitedly for words. He wondered if this could be a trick. Perhaps someone discovered my plans. Had I been watched? The woman could be a spy. He was confused. Nonsense! No one cares. “Yes, I lost it,” he admitted.
“My wallet,” he said. “And my bag.”
“Oh yes,” she seemed doubtful. He recognized her voice. “Did you bring some ID?” she demanded.
“ID?” he pleaded, confused. “You have my papers,” he insisted.
“Here,” he said, pulling a crumpled receipt from his pocket with his name and address on it.
“It’s okay,” another woman’s voice suddenly wafted from behind a shelf of books. “You can give it to him. His name is Max. It’s his.”
“Thanks,” Max said quietly as she handed him his things. He looked at the two women, turned and walked towards the stairs, then stopped for a moment and turned back towards the desk.
“Can I help you?” the librarian looked strangely at him. “Are you okay?”
He saw her make her way towards the front doors and then followed her down the stairs and into the street. She seemed to know the route well for she hesitated only a few times, tapping her cane and then, sensing that he was near her, she turned her head slightly towards him. He caught up with her quickly.
“Hello,” he offered hesitantly. “Thanks for helping …” he said.
She looked startled, and smiled. “Oh, that’s okay. It is you, isn’t it?” she asked and laughed.
“Not at all,” she said. “It’s such a beautiful day. Are there many people in the park?”
“I often come here. I hear other people, but I don’t know if there are others around, perhaps like you, or me.” She laughed again gently, pulling him.
“No, not so many people.” He began to describe what he saw. “Someone is running around in… pajamas…” he began.
“Oh, yes, him…” she interrupted, “sometimes he passes close to me. What color is his track suit?”
“You’re a watchmaker.”
She put her hand on his arm. He felt her warmth and an intensity.
He didn’t answer as they started to walk. Where is she taking me?
“Whales?” he was startled. Why such a question?
Built of dark wood, the coffee shop reminded him of the cafes in his hometown. Through the window he could make out a few couples. As he opened the door the smell of fresh coffee and sweet rolls made him suddenly very hungry. He questioned whether he deserved such luxuries. She held his arm as they walked to a table and sat down, relieved that no one paid any attention to them. But it seemed strange to be there, with her, as if he was acting in a play and would soon be exposed.
He looked over the menu and then at her as she turned her head slightly towards a conversation nearby. She seemed so comfortable.
“Do I look all right?” she asked, touching the napkin in front of her. He stared into her vacant eyes.
“I don’t come here often,” she said. “Only on special occasions. This is a special occasion, isn’t it?” She smiled; Max wanted to agree, to feel that moment as if it had stopped. “You see,” she continued, “I have a sense about people. I can’t see them, but I can tell a lot about them from their voices. You have a very gentle voice, very quiet. And sad.”
Max watched her eyes, unable to decipher their hidden messages. He sipped his coffee, licking the creamy topping from his lips and unbuttoned his coat. It was, he felt, time to ask.
“You want something from me?” he asked directly. “You are curious?”
“I thought so,” she nodded. “You sound like a man with a beard. Is it long or short?”
He rubbed his beard. “Half half,” he said. “I’m trimming it.”
“May I feel it?” she asked.
“It’s okay; I understand,” she sensed his uneasiness. “Only if you feel comfortable. For me, it’s like seeing who you are.”
“It’s okay,” she laughed warmly and then checked her watch with her fingers. “But I have to go now. And I have one more request. Let’s meet again. How about next week?”
“How about tomorrow?” he responded impulsively, unable to resist his sudden impatience. “But what about your work?”
“I’m closing early. I’m making sandwiches. You like chopped liver, corned beef, brisket? My neighbor, he’s owning a deli.”
“I’ll have them all,” she laughed and got up. “Now, I need to finish up a few things at work,” she said “so let’s walk back to the library.” When they arrived she turned toward him. “Thanks, Max,” she said. “I had a lovely time.”
“Oh, yes. Nora. Is that enough?” and smiled.
Max nodded as she climbed the stairs and entered the building. He walked more slowly towards the Ferry, wondering where this would lead.
The trip back seemed shorter than before, his mind filled with questions and anticipation, his pockets empty. That night he hardly slept. The next morning he bought the makings for lunch and rushed to the library. She was waiting for him on the steps when he walked up to her and called her name.
“Ah, there you are,” she said, smiling and slipped her arm around his.
“I brought sandwiches,” he said enthusiastically as they walked towards the park.
“Well, monsieur, what do you suggest?”
“I’ll taste them all,” she said. “Yes, a bit of whatever you have.”
He placed a napkin on her lap and watched as she touched each portion with the tips of her fingers and then put one carefully into her mouth. “Wonderful,” she exclaimed. “A real picnic.”
Max stared her fingers measuring borders and spaces, careless strands of hair that fell over her face, her eyes that seemed far away, watching him without attention.
“What is it like to be blind?” he asked cautiously.
Family, he thought. “No family,” he said quietly. “No one.”
Her vacant eyes reminded him of those he saw in the Camps, but the memory was offset by her smile, her silk scarf draped around her neck, the delicate smell of perfume. He stared at her, trying to make sense of images superimposed upon each other as she ran her fingers over the wrapping paper.
“Why are you silent?” she asked quietly. “Are you sad?”
“Max, I don’t know what your world is like. I can’t live there any more than you can live in mine. But maybe we can find a place for each other. Some things have no explanations. They just are and you live with them.” She folded the paper over what was left of their sandwiches, sounds brittle in the silence. “Save them,” she said, “for another time.”
“You don’t understand. I have seen life too much, more than nightmares.”
Max leaned towards her and then drew back.
“Sandwiches. Save them …” he put the neatly wrapped leftovers in a bag. “I don’t understand. I don’t know…”
Trees swayed violently above them, dark fingers pointing into the sky. Heavy footsteps pounded around him, lines of men, their rhythm broken by an occasional groan, a sudden fall, a shout for help, the sound of gunshots, bodies left along the road.
“What did you say?” she pulled his arm and leaned against him. He couldn’t answer. Sounds shook inside, withered hands clung to him; he could not protect them, or himself. He felt her fingers on his arm and breathed the heavy dust that began to cover them, blackened faces, hollow eyes pleading for food, for forgiveness, light tangled in darkness.
They were about to cross the street when Max saw a huge truck swerve around the corner roaring towards them. Terrified, he pulled Nora back sharply. She lost her balance and fell, pulling him down as well. She hit her head on a stone and screamed his name; he reached out. People ran towards them. Dazed, Max got to his knees and looked around.
Someone tried to help him stand. He stared at them, unable to understand their words, their strange faces, their arms without numbers. He held his hands out in front of him. What have you done?
A siren wailed as an ambulance arrived. Sirens warned of an escape.
“Ya,” he said, tasting blood. “I’m hearing them too.” His body trembled. He noticed that her watch was smashed and, slipping it off, held it tightly in his hand.
“I’m fixing it,” he said, her eyes enclosing him. “Ich ken es ferrichten,” he pleaded. “Ich ken,” as they lifted her into the ambulance. He tried to hold on to one of the doors. “Ich ken es ferrichten!” he shouted as they pushed him away leaving him alone, the touch of her fingers on his face like wind spray from the sea.
(Originally published in the Ontario Review. Reproduced by permission.)
______________________
Moshe Dann is a writer and journalist living in Jerusalem. His next book, As Far As The Eye Can See, will be published by New English Review Press this fall.
To comment on this story, please click here.
To help New English Review continue to publish original and interesting stories such as this one, please click here.
If you enjoyed this story and want to read more by Moshe Dann, please click here.