those were exactly the sorts of gestures that had to be learned again. She brought sugar tongs this time, which he used expertly. He even helped himself to a piece of shortbread. Elizabeth settled down across from him.
His papers were processed quickly. He told the agent handling his case he wanted to go to Rome. Apparently it was easier to get American visas in Italy. The man raised a bored eyebrow and said, "Fine. You're a free man." That made him unexpectedly uncertain. Italy. It had seemed like such a good idea. He admired the few Italians he knew. It would be a good place to leave Europe behind. Now he wasn't so sure. Still, he found himself on a train to Rome, with women in headscarves and men as thin as nails. No familiar faces in Rome, but then again there wouldn't have been many in Lodz, either. Once he arrived in Italy, though, his confusion had continued.
He missed speaking Polish. He lived in an apartment with Jews from a handful of other shattered countries. Their common language was German but they would not use it. Instead, they spoke barbarous Italian. Some were trying to learn English. They lived for the occasional newspapers that made their way from Poland, Yugoslavia, Russia, even though the papers were packed with lies and had less news in forty pages than five minutes of the BBC. Maybe, too, he was hoping to see a name of a relative or friend, but in that case, if it showed up, it could only mean misfortune. However, it became something of a mission to find these newspapers. It gave you something to do when work dried up.
Their Sicilian neighbors complained about the smell of cabbage in the stairwell, but at least it covered the stink of rancid oil. He
Page 80
prowled around the Piazza Navona, as bony as the cats that tried to wrap their tails around his shins. He rolled cigarettes with other refugees in the shadow of the plaza's fountain and watched water stream over the long marble bodies. Everyone was hungry. Even cabbage became hard to find.
People kept leaving for America, bundling clothes and dictionaries into cracked leather bags. But he couldn't bring himself to go. He worked a little, here and there. He made some friends. There was the daughter of a grocer in the Trastevere who used to sell him potatoes. Once she'd saved him an orange.
One night in the Via del Corso, a fight broke out. A crowd of drunk Italians closed around him and a few friends as they left a caffè . A dancing, angry circle of boys who had had too much wine. He'd seen so much worse it was hard to even be that scared. He had started to recover a little strength. He could slip out under their arms any time. Then one of them said, "Dirty Jew, get out of Italy!" Sale ebreo! Over and over. And then he didn't remember much after that except the warm glass of the wine bottle he yanked from the hand of a man with dark curls. The boy whose neck he had slashed with the bottle he'd broken on the curb lay slouched against the grill of a bread truck. He remembered the smell of bad wine. He remembered the blue truck, the word "Pane" in white script, the painting of a long Italian loaf.
His friends ran with him. He bought fake papers. He became someone else. He moved to America as that someone else and eventually became a clerk in a New York bank. He paid back those friends who spent so much for the papers and the ticket. At least he sent money to them; whether they got it or not he had never known. Maybe his dollars gave some girl a new hat and gloves. Most of them were probably dead now. Some were perhaps in Israel. They were not even family.
He sat in the chair, coffee grown cold as before. Elizabeth looked at his old, square hands. It was hard to see them as hands that had
Page 81
slashed the neck of a boy. She could see them lifting the giltrimmed pages of ledgers and also, looking at the knuckles, wielding tools. She stood up. Her own hands were ticked with red and black marker, from papers and drafts of charts. "We should
His papers were processed quickly. He told the agent handling his case he wanted to go to Rome. Apparently it was easier to get American visas in Italy. The man raised a bored eyebrow and said, "Fine. You're a free man." That made him unexpectedly uncertain. Italy. It had seemed like such a good idea. He admired the few Italians he knew. It would be a good place to leave Europe behind. Now he wasn't so sure. Still, he found himself on a train to Rome, with women in headscarves and men as thin as nails. No familiar faces in Rome, but then again there wouldn't have been many in Lodz, either. Once he arrived in Italy, though, his confusion had continued.
He missed speaking Polish. He lived in an apartment with Jews from a handful of other shattered countries. Their common language was German but they would not use it. Instead, they spoke barbarous Italian. Some were trying to learn English. They lived for the occasional newspapers that made their way from Poland, Yugoslavia, Russia, even though the papers were packed with lies and had less news in forty pages than five minutes of the BBC. Maybe, too, he was hoping to see a name of a relative or friend, but in that case, if it showed up, it could only mean misfortune. However, it became something of a mission to find these newspapers. It gave you something to do when work dried up.
Their Sicilian neighbors complained about the smell of cabbage in the stairwell, but at least it covered the stink of rancid oil. He
Page 80
prowled around the Piazza Navona, as bony as the cats that tried to wrap their tails around his shins. He rolled cigarettes with other refugees in the shadow of the plaza's fountain and watched water stream over the long marble bodies. Everyone was hungry. Even cabbage became hard to find.
People kept leaving for America, bundling clothes and dictionaries into cracked leather bags. But he couldn't bring himself to go. He worked a little, here and there. He made some friends. There was the daughter of a grocer in the Trastevere who used to sell him potatoes. Once she'd saved him an orange.
One night in the Via del Corso, a fight broke out. A crowd of drunk Italians closed around him and a few friends as they left a caffè . A dancing, angry circle of boys who had had too much wine. He'd seen so much worse it was hard to even be that scared. He had started to recover a little strength. He could slip out under their arms any time. Then one of them said, "Dirty Jew, get out of Italy!" Sale ebreo! Over and over. And then he didn't remember much after that except the warm glass of the wine bottle he yanked from the hand of a man with dark curls. The boy whose neck he had slashed with the bottle he'd broken on the curb lay slouched against the grill of a bread truck. He remembered the smell of bad wine. He remembered the blue truck, the word "Pane" in white script, the painting of a long Italian loaf.
His friends ran with him. He bought fake papers. He became someone else. He moved to America as that someone else and eventually became a clerk in a New York bank. He paid back those friends who spent so much for the papers and the ticket. At least he sent money to them; whether they got it or not he had never known. Maybe his dollars gave some girl a new hat and gloves. Most of them were probably dead now. Some were perhaps in Israel. They were not even family.
He sat in the chair, coffee grown cold as before. Elizabeth looked at his old, square hands. It was hard to see them as hands that had
Page 81
slashed the neck of a boy. She could see them lifting the giltrimmed pages of ledgers and also, looking at the knuckles, wielding tools. She stood up. Her own hands were ticked with red and black marker, from papers and drafts of charts. "We should
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