Judenstaat (32 page)

“What's the point?” Bondi said, still not looking at her. There was an edge to his voice. Then, “I ordered us dinner. They serve it here in the room.”

“It's a beautiful evening. Can't we take a walk?”

“You need to start eating regular meals,” Bondi said.

“You're at least five years younger than me, Joseph. Stop pretending to be my father. I don't like it.”

She did eat the food that was brought by that same young man in scrubs, her first full dinner in what felt like half a lifetime, salad and bread and chicken and green beans, apple strudel with vanilla ice cream, all rolled in on a table and served with a wine that made Judit just drunk enough to wish life were less complicated. Bondi thawed a little. She told him about Steinsaltz smashing that glass, and he said, “That sounds like him. The man's a brute.”

“Are you a brute?” Judit asked carefully.

“No, I'm not,” said Bondi.

“You are in bed,” Judit said. Then she wished she hadn't said it because it implied that other things would happen, and set up an expectation she suspected neither could fulfill.

That was the case. After the orderly removed the table, they shared that narrow bed, and what she'd said was half a wish and half a curse. How clear is the border between the world in bed and out of bed? What if that border opens unawares and everything her body tells her becomes just as true as what her spirit knows? She was afraid of Bondi now. No, even if she hadn't accurately named who this man was to her, she'd always been afraid. Since the death of Hans, bringing her whole self forward to cross the border of that fear was what love had become for her. That was life after death, what she could face, but there were some things she couldn't face and couldn't name or they would become true. Bondi and Judit both lay naked under the thin hospital blanket. His back gave off familiar acid heat, and Judit knew that if she reached out to him, he'd respond, and if he reached out to her, she'd respond, but neither moved.

*   *   *

At some point, Judit must have fallen asleep. When she woke up, it was well past daybreak. Bondi stood over her, already dressed.

“I've scheduled something for this morning.”

She blinked sleep out of her eyes. “Joseph, I think I should just go home.”

“I've scheduled something,” Bondi said again. “Since we're here.” His face looked strange, tight around the mouth and eyes. She felt groggy and irritable, and then she looked past him.

She was in a different room. That much was clear. And what she'd thought was sunlight was a long fluorescent lamp above her head. A black monitor hung on a gurney, and beyond that, a gray curtain separated Judit from the door. “Was there something in the food?” Judit asked, and then she couldn't speak at all, because the curtain parted.

The technician's neat gray hair was arranged in a perfect dome. Her uniform was covered by a gray tunic, and she looked at Judit without recognition. She said, “So it's a high-risk pregnancy? Sixteen weeks along?”

“That's what we need to find out,” Bondi said. “Whether we need to terminate.”

“Well, it's high time we took a look,” said the technician, and from a tube, she squeezed a length of gel on Judit's stomach, and reached for her device.

Judit found her voice. “I can't take a look, Joseph. Don't let her. You have the film already. What do you want from me?”

Bondi exchanged a glance with the technician, and by then, Judit knew she'd been strapped to the table. She craned her neck and closed her eyes but she could feel the dull pressure, and heard the static, and as the device moved off in its own direction, she pulled at the restraints and arched her back and cried with all her strength:

“I won't do anything to hurt her! I don't want to know!”

 

J
UDENSTAAT

 

THE
cemetery was on the outskirts of Dresden. Because both Leonora and Judit had planned the outing well in advance, they had coordinated schedules, allowing for a late-morning trip and lunch in a café across from the gate. Leonora had gotten the day off from work, and was pleased and surprised that Judit didn't need to be reminded.

But her daughter was far more thoughtful these days. She kept—what was the term?—banker's hours. The amazing thing was that in spite of her new prominent position as director of the National Museum, Judit seemed to have more time for little things. She'd help with grocery shopping. She'd watch television with her in the evenings. On Sundays, she'd even do laundry, though Leonora always had to make sure she separated the more delicate fabrics.

“You'd think, all those beautiful things you have, you'd take better care of them,” she said, although most of that clothing gathered dust now. She also said, “I wish you'd cut your hair again. It looked so nice, that short style.”

“It didn't grow out well,” Judit said, and that was true. It sprang out in all directions, and the highlights looked cheap and ragged. She took to tying it back with a rubber band. When Leonora got the nerve to bring up the question of the man who'd been in her life, Judit had shrugged and said, “He didn't grow out well either.”

Leonora felt close enough to Judit to ask, “What does that mean?”

And she felt close enough to reply, “Mom, he was married.”

“Then good riddance to him,” Leonora said, feeling daring and proud, especially considering the little gift he'd left her daughter with, and when the October
yartzeit
approached, she said, “Are you sure you're up to making the trip?”

“I'm looking forward to it,” Judit said. She seemed to mean it. She even dressed up, for her mother's sake, in one of the skirts she had let out so it would fit under a loose T-shirt and nice blazer. “Will this do, Mom?” she asked.

“You look lovely, Judi,” Leonora said. “But are you sure they won't miss you at work?”

“They've had enough notice,” Judit said.

“Well, they miss me,” said Leonora. “I had to practically threaten to quit to get today off.” In fact, just as Judit seemed to have more time in her hands, Leonora had less; the people in that neighborhood were completely out of control now, half of them demanding copies of their family immigration records to claim land or property in Poland, and the other half barricading themselves into housing blocks. She almost wished the nursing home would hurry up and close, but now she had to bear up under all the complaints and find a way to appease them. But there was no appeasing black-hats. That was old news. She said to Judit, “Isn't that right? That there's no way to appease them?”

“Sure,” said Judit. Well, they could protest now, but when the capital was moved to Berlin, see how far they'd get. Leonora asked Judit if that would stop their complaining, and again, Judit said, “Sure.”

“I hear they're going to bring back the trams,” Leonora said as they boarded the bus that went along the Elbe. Leonora always felt nostalgic when she took that route because it was the same route as the first tram-line that was unveiled in '49, the year that she and Rudi moved into their apartment. Of course, these trams would be brand-new, manufactured in Hamburg, but she hoped they'd still have those little bells, and the machines that made a satisfying crunch when you validated a ticket. Maybe they'd bring back the tourist train, too. She still remembered how the children competed to be engineers who wore those little visors, and held up the green or red signals to make the steam trains stop or go or change direction. They ought to run that train up the Elbe to the new National Park of Saxon and Jewish Heroism. Wouldn't the tourists appreciate it? An old-fashioned, Judenstaat coal-powered steam train, run by children, to a beautiful park in Saxon Switzerland?

“You may be right,” Judit said. Leonora hadn't even been aware she'd spoken out loud. But she asked Judit:

“Can't you do something about it? In your position?”

Judit laughed, though not unkindly. “Mom, what exactly is my position? You know what I do? I sit behind a desk and watch things fly across it. Sometimes, I'm supposed to catch them with my pen and sign them.”

“You don't read what you sign?”

“Don't sound so shocked. I'll be honest with you. There's just too much to read. My eyes can't take it.”

“You should wear glasses,” Leonora said helpfully. She didn't want to sound judgmental, but it was always good policy to know what you were signing. That was the trouble with people these days, especially politicians who just forged ahead without a clear idea of what was around the corner. Well, they say the future is an undiscovered country, but as for her, she'd just as soon not go there without some certainty that it would be better than the past.

Last June, when they televised Leopold Stein's funeral, the foreign dignitaries crowded into Parliament, representatives from Europe, America, Asia, Africa. That was something, seeing those Africans in their robes, so dignified. It made her think about how all the world knew who Stein was and what he represented. There was a leader—lived long enough to own up to his mistakes. Who'd do that now? Most politicians, they just hope their mistakes will become last week's news.

Well anyway, Judit did look happy, and it wasn't true about her eyes. She'd always had perfect vision, just like her father. She could see a thimble in a treetop. Then, following that train of thought, Leonora said, “It's good to see you sewing again, sweetheart.”

“It passes the time,” said Judit. “And when you got me that fabric, what was I supposed to do with it? Hang it out the window?”

Leonora had thought hard before she'd given it to Judit, a soft cotton blend with little yellow ducks in a row. Was it too forward? Well, what could a mother do, under those circumstances? Maybe she should have waited until afterwards, when she would know that everything was fine, but frankly, it had meant something to her to buy it, especially when she found the old fabric store where she and Judit used to shop together, the one with the embroidered butterflies in the window. It wasn't easy to spot, embedded between a video rental store and a fancy bakery, almost invisible if you didn't look carefully. The lady recognized her and asked, “Where's your daughter?” When Leonora chose the fabric, she said, “That's very popular, especially if people aren't sure.” She'd meant sure if it would be a boy or girl, of course. Then, she said, “
Mazel tov,
” and for at least a moment, Leonora had allowed herself the unambiguous
naches
that was the right of any woman with a grandchild on the way.

The bus was at the cemetery gate now. Leonora and her daughter disembarked. It was just as she'd remembered it, the ironwork over the entrance, the wide, swept sidewalk, and of course the old Saxon ladies selling clumps of violets. Judit bought three.

“That's too many,” Leonora said. “Besides, they're out of season. They won't even have a scent.”

“Yes they do. Smell,” Judit said. She offered Leonora a bunch, and she waved them away.

“They'll smell like somebody's refrigerator.” She pushed ahead. “I hope I can find it. I always get so confused once I get here. Better you should have gotten a map than violets.”

“We have all day,” said Judit. She arranged the wet bunches of violets in the crook of her arm, and with her free hand, guided her mother towards the end of the cemetery where Rudolph Ginsberg was buried.

Of course, there were cemeteries in Dresden proper, the old Jewish cemetery in the Altstadt, and the new Jewish cemetery in the Neustadt, but they both were full long before Leonora and Rudolph even thought about purchasing a plot. This one had been established just after the war, so the lettering on some of the headstones was as likely to be in Yiddish as in German. There was even Cyrillic on a few of them; Red Army soldiers had sometimes been laid to rest here at the request of their families.

Looking at those Russian stones now, and at their condition, Leonora couldn't help but say, “Will they dig them up now, do you think?”

Judit didn't answer. She looked past her mother. “I see Daddy over there. Isn't that him?”

“You've got a younger head than your mother. That's him alright,” she said. They both headed cross-wise towards the little bush that the cemetery had replanted at her request, to the rust and white marker that read: “Rudolph Ginsberg, 1919–1970” and the six-pointed star marking him as a camp survivor. Some of the stones contained the numbers of tattoos, a fashion in the '50s and '60s. Lenora couldn't help but say, “Judi, do you think they'll still put stars on markers?”

“Why wouldn't they?” Judit asked, somewhat sharply.

“Should I have one on my marker?” Leonora asked. “Honestly, what do you think?”

“I think that's up to you,” Judit said. She seemed to grow thoughtful, and she and Leonora took their time, in silence, digging through dead leaves for stones to place on Rudolph Ginsberg's grave. After a while, Judit said, “Remember those drawers?”

“What drawers?” Leonora asked, blushing, but then she realized that she and her daughter were thinking about two different things.

“The ones at the Hygiene Museum,” Judit said. “They were full of objects children swallowed, rocks, thumbtacks, that sort of stuff. He always said that the children who swallowed them had died long ago, but all those rocks and things were still around.”

“That's awful. It must have scared you to death,” Leonora said, but the memory warmed her. If he could be there now, standing with them and looking at his own grave, what would he say? One thing was certain; she would not be lonely. He would confuse her, would confound her, would say things no one in his right mind ought to say, but those very things would make each day a new one.

Judit began to walk away, and Leonora called, “You're not going to leave the violets?”