hall? Or will Leo Meisel take you begging at a church?
You stayed in churches in your time, ventured Fela, with a smile, nervous. Come, Pavel, have your coffee.
And for what reason did you keep this from us until now?
I did not keep anything. What did I keep? Chaim swallowed, the coffee burning his mouth. No, he would not become angry. The more furious Pavel grew, the more Chaim wanted to be solid, calm, in control.
You knew, you had these plans! The man did not simply obtain tickets the way he picks up women!
Pavel, Pavel. Fela was humming his name, half afraid, half amused. What? Don’t you have things you do not reveal? Don’t you have things you keep quiet?
Not like this!
Yes like this! Of course like this. Fela touched Pavel’s shoulder.
But Pavel seemed not to notice. Chaim, he said. It is impossible. I need you here.
For one night, Pavel, you do not.
And how do we know this fine scholar will bring you back, all in one piece? Hamburg! There, no soldiers will protect you if something goes wrong.
Pavel, interjected Fela. Let the boy enjoy himself.
You! cried Pavel, turning to her, looking straight at her eyes, his jaw jutting forward, his teeth clenched. And how do you have the authority?
But the teacher, Pavel, it is he who wants to give—
Leo Meisel! Leo Meisel does not run this household!
But already Pavel’s voice was distant as Chaim fled the kitchen, grabbed his jacket, pushed himself out the door and onto Fela’s bicycle, pedaling furiously, sweating, toward the camp, toward school, letting the cool air cleanse his eyes from his vision of Pavel shouting. Why shouldn’t Chaim see a world? See and hear what he never had had in his life thus far, march forward? Did he have to go through life as Pavel did, looking back?
T HEY BOTH RETURNED TO the house late in the evening and did not speak to each other before retiring. But at dawn, the door to his room opened, awaking Chaim with a start. He sat up straight, his feet touching the wood floor, then saw Pavel and stopped. Slowly Chaim lay back down in his bed.
Pavel sat on the bed, his face sagged with fatigue. Chaml, he said.
The diminutive, the sound of which Chaim had not heard sincechildhood, another lifetime, awakened in him the need to sob, to scream. He stopped himself.
I will go, Chaim answered, and turned his face to the wall.
T HE OPENING PIECE—MUSIC without voices, Smetana, all bright violins—ended. Chaim had held his breath through the last portion, then let it out slowly. He had not breathed steadily since their first moments in the concert hall, the usher’s downturned mouth as they walked in, the downcast eyes of the concertgoers in the seats around them. He could feel the audience around him recognizing them, if not by Tina’s crippled hand and Basia’s Gypsy-dark hair, if not by Leo’s pointed, studious face, then by Chaim’s nerves and discomfort. They could smell it on him. But how had he survived those periods of disguise as an itinerant farmhand in the Polish countryside, or those nights in the forest, pretending to be Catholic among the partisans? How had he survived all those months of the war, if this fear could so torture him now, in peace?
Night birds moaning. The orchestra had begun their second piece, and two men and two women had turned toward the conductor, their lips half-parted, ready to twist out the Latin words Chaim had so carefully memorized. Behind them, a dozen men and women—too few, Leo whispered to him as they pushed out their first notes—
Chaim could make out only snatches, syllables of the words he had seen on the page, as the roaring chorus grew more fierce, blocking him—then a pause and a man’s voice, the soloist, and then the higher one, the woman’s deep blood voice, and then the sound of the lightest bird, and the four of them together, with only a few of the strings behind them, so quiet, then again the calling— abrahae, abrahae, kam olim abrahae promisisti , the words
You stayed in churches in your time, ventured Fela, with a smile, nervous. Come, Pavel, have your coffee.
And for what reason did you keep this from us until now?
I did not keep anything. What did I keep? Chaim swallowed, the coffee burning his mouth. No, he would not become angry. The more furious Pavel grew, the more Chaim wanted to be solid, calm, in control.
You knew, you had these plans! The man did not simply obtain tickets the way he picks up women!
Pavel, Pavel. Fela was humming his name, half afraid, half amused. What? Don’t you have things you do not reveal? Don’t you have things you keep quiet?
Not like this!
Yes like this! Of course like this. Fela touched Pavel’s shoulder.
But Pavel seemed not to notice. Chaim, he said. It is impossible. I need you here.
For one night, Pavel, you do not.
And how do we know this fine scholar will bring you back, all in one piece? Hamburg! There, no soldiers will protect you if something goes wrong.
Pavel, interjected Fela. Let the boy enjoy himself.
You! cried Pavel, turning to her, looking straight at her eyes, his jaw jutting forward, his teeth clenched. And how do you have the authority?
But the teacher, Pavel, it is he who wants to give—
Leo Meisel! Leo Meisel does not run this household!
But already Pavel’s voice was distant as Chaim fled the kitchen, grabbed his jacket, pushed himself out the door and onto Fela’s bicycle, pedaling furiously, sweating, toward the camp, toward school, letting the cool air cleanse his eyes from his vision of Pavel shouting. Why shouldn’t Chaim see a world? See and hear what he never had had in his life thus far, march forward? Did he have to go through life as Pavel did, looking back?
T HEY BOTH RETURNED TO the house late in the evening and did not speak to each other before retiring. But at dawn, the door to his room opened, awaking Chaim with a start. He sat up straight, his feet touching the wood floor, then saw Pavel and stopped. Slowly Chaim lay back down in his bed.
Pavel sat on the bed, his face sagged with fatigue. Chaml, he said.
The diminutive, the sound of which Chaim had not heard sincechildhood, another lifetime, awakened in him the need to sob, to scream. He stopped himself.
I will go, Chaim answered, and turned his face to the wall.
T HE OPENING PIECE—MUSIC without voices, Smetana, all bright violins—ended. Chaim had held his breath through the last portion, then let it out slowly. He had not breathed steadily since their first moments in the concert hall, the usher’s downturned mouth as they walked in, the downcast eyes of the concertgoers in the seats around them. He could feel the audience around him recognizing them, if not by Tina’s crippled hand and Basia’s Gypsy-dark hair, if not by Leo’s pointed, studious face, then by Chaim’s nerves and discomfort. They could smell it on him. But how had he survived those periods of disguise as an itinerant farmhand in the Polish countryside, or those nights in the forest, pretending to be Catholic among the partisans? How had he survived all those months of the war, if this fear could so torture him now, in peace?
Night birds moaning. The orchestra had begun their second piece, and two men and two women had turned toward the conductor, their lips half-parted, ready to twist out the Latin words Chaim had so carefully memorized. Behind them, a dozen men and women—too few, Leo whispered to him as they pushed out their first notes—
Chaim could make out only snatches, syllables of the words he had seen on the page, as the roaring chorus grew more fierce, blocking him—then a pause and a man’s voice, the soloist, and then the higher one, the woman’s deep blood voice, and then the sound of the lightest bird, and the four of them together, with only a few of the strings behind them, so quiet, then again the calling— abrahae, abrahae, kam olim abrahae promisisti , the words
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