Unspeakable Things (14 page)

H
erbert walked quickly through the early-morning streets of New York, the image of David’s dear strained face in front of him. The balm of a spring morning touched Herbert with a new sense of hope. “My son,” he whispered to himself, not knowing of which son he spoke. “My son!”

The air was heavy with a perfume of early blossoms, and the sharpness of the blue harsh light cutting into the ravines between buildings was weighted with a new freshness. Herbert strode quickly now, propelled by the spring wind toward the dank-breathed mouth of the New York Public Library. He hurried up the steps past the waiting stone lions he loved, and into the entry, where the day’s work—intrigue, the sorting of refugees, the passing of false papers, false money, false promises, and false news—awaited him.

The Tolstoi Quartet was already expecting Herbert. As he approached the staircase, the four men prostrated both themselves and their instruments, the noble violoncello bowing facedown on the marble floor along with the rest. Herbert felt annoyed, but he suppressed that feeling.

“Herr Hofrat, it is a great honor to see you again,” the first violinist spoke for the other men. “Please forgive us for disturbing you.” The four men, attired in their concert costumes—trousers, black tailcoats, and carefully shined shoes—lay in front of Herbert like spokes of a Celtic cross.

“Not at all,” said Herbert mildly.

“We thought…,” began the second violinist in a higher pitch, but then silenced himself.

“Please rise, gentlemen,” said Herbert, spreading his hands, palms down, fingers open, in a gesture of peace and blessing. The men seized his hands, and before they rose, they kissed his ring passionately.

“We thought perhaps,” said the violist, “you might have news.”

The cellist added gravely, “Yes, news!”

In their jar, far away across the city, the four little fingers drummed impatiently on the glass. “News,” cried the men, their hands twitching.

“Well,” said Herbert slowly, “perhaps I do.” The instruments began to wail and clamor from within their heavy cases. “Shh,” Herbert cautioned them, “this is a library.”

The men stroked their instruments as if to gentle them. “Be still, my children.” “Tell us!” went around among the men and their instruments. “Tell us.” The soft urgency of the syllables fell on the still air.

Herbert bent forward and cleared his throat. “Nothing definite, I am afraid,” he said in a low voice. “You know my son David has been working on this….”

The first violinist cut the air with a high imperative. “Yes?”

Herbert was reluctant to say too much. “He thinks we may be closer to the solution.” There was a crashing sound from the instrument cases, discordant, in unison. Herbert put his finger to his lips. The four men looked at each wildly. Silence? A half-note rest was possible. But silence? That would mean death.

“Please, my friends, say nothing about this,” Herbert cautioned. The pause shivered before his firm note.

“We understand,” the men said in fifths.

“We must wait.” Herbert turned brusquely on his heel and left the astonished Quartet, the men, their faces slack, holding their instruments. As Herbert mounted the huge stairway, his footsteps deliberate and his back turned against all further questions, the men prostrated themselves again on the floor under the great rotunda.

“Herr Hofrat,” they whispered. There was a faint cinnamon scent in the air. If they had looked up at that moment, they would have seen how the spring sunlight, poking its way into the great rotunda, gently caressed Herbert’s large ears and liver-spotted scalp, coaxing him into the great hall and reading room. But they did not look up until Herbert had mounted the staircase and disappeared. Now they scrambled to their feet again. Straightening the tails of his waistcoat, the first violinist announced to the others, “Remember, not a word now. It is time for a slight intermission.”

Herbert’s steps were hardly audible on the expanse of stone floor as he went toward his next meeting. A whisper spread through the library. “Herr Hofrat comes.” Quick fingers rustled the pages of dusty books, and in the periodical rooms men looked up from the outspread newspapers in foreign languages. Not wanting to appear too eager, the small old eyes seemed to skim the headlines again. Then nervous hands, trembling, smoothed closed the newspapers. Books were carefully shut, the precious page numbers marked. Humbly, Herbert entered the Rose Main Reading Room, sighing to himself as he saw the dim green line of lights and the thick walls that shut out all the joyous clamor of the city streets. He drew his overcoat more closely about his shoulders. As if counting the customers, he noted all the old people waiting to talk to him, the nervous, destitute petitioners.

In one corner, not even bothering to look as if he were reading, one shabby man awaited him. Manfred looked more like a garage mechanic, his alleged occupation in New York, than royalty, Herbert thought. The King of the Gypsies in exile slouched casually. As Herbert approached, Manfred straightened and faced Herbert. His black pupils were striated like those of a hawk, and his fierce gaze locked with Herbert’s. “My master,” hissed Manfred as his gaze demanded answer from Herbert’s mild, watery one. “Manfred has not been tamed,” thought Herbert.

In his gaze, Manfred held the entire Gypsy nation in flight. He himself had found his way from the lands of the Roma to New York, escaping prisons and nets and roadblocks to do so, hoping to get to Washington to plead the Gypsies’ cause. Herbert sighed. For the Roma were a fierce wild species. How many would survive their cruel captivity?

“Your Majesty,” Herbert replied. He bent low over the Gypsy’s brown calloused hand and pressed his lips to the Gypsy’s ring. “Noble master.”

“So the news is bad?” King Manfred queried anxiously. His fine, sensitive pupils quivered, but he fixed his hawk’s eyes upon Herbert’s face insistently. “Tell me.” Herbert would have liked to choose a tactful answer, something indirect and open, leading perhaps to hope at the end, as he so often answered the refugees who beseeched him. He could contain knowledge of hopelessness and suffering if he had to.

“Tell me the truth,” commanded Manfred. “It is no use hiding it. The truth. And then I will handle the rest.”

Herbert tried once again to avoid answering, but under the Gypsy’s penetrating gaze, prevarication was impossible. Seizing the Gypsy’s hand in both of his, he said, “I cannot conceal from you the fact that it is hopeless.”

The Gypsy’s gaze flickered, then resumed its fierce, commanding expression. “Are you sure?”

Herbert looked away sadly.

“As I thought,” the Gypsy said.

“You must tell your people to try to escape at all costs,” Herbert said. “There is no diplomatic help for the Romany people.”

Manfred nodded in understanding. “As I feared.”

“We are still trying,” Herbert said. “But so far we have not been successful.” He looked directly into the Gypsy’s face, something he would never have done under other circumstances. The Gypsy was a proud and secretive man, and to stare was to assault.

“Have we been refused everywhere?” asked Manfred, quickly assessing the worst of the situation.

“So far, the President of the United States has refused all our requests,” replied Herbert sadly.

“We cannot hope for much, then,” the Gypsy responded. “We have been betrayed.” Herbert was silent. He could feel the Gypsy thinking quickly, plotting escape of all sorts, his heart beating like a wild bird, caught. Manfred darted forward, and in one gesture, he cupped Herbert’s head between his hands. He drew his face near and, quickly, almost harshly, kissed the old man on the lips. It happened so suddenly, Herbert had no time to react. The Gypsy’s kiss was soft and tender, a quick extravagance of feeling upon Herbert’s mouth. A Judas kiss. “Say farewell to the Romany,” Manfred whispered desperately.

“Not yet, my friend.” Herbert raised a restraining hand.

Dropping to his knees, Manfred, doomed, kissed Herbert’s ring. “Your Majesty, Your Majesty,” Herbert tried to protest. He thought of the Gypsies behind bars, condemned to the concentration camps of Europe, traded and betrayed, their wild hawks’ natures languishing.

“Everything that we can do, we will,” Herbert promised Manfred. “False papers. Money. Everything we can do. You have my word.”

“Yes,” Manfred replied. He seemed not to be listening, his mind already looking for chinks of light elsewhere.

“We cannot do more. Warn your people. Tell them.”

Manfred, in a hawk’s trance, nodded. His face almost appeared to be asleep. But Herbert knew it was merely gathering its strength.

“Everything official has failed,” continued Herbert sadly. “But we will do everything we can in unofficial channels.”

Manfred, as if in a dream of understanding, registered this information, gripped Herbert’s hand once more, and was gone.

Herbert sat down heavily on a bench. His day was just beginning, and already he was exhausted. From the corner of his eye, he watched those in the reading room watch him, the petitioners straightening their shoulders in resolve, preparing to line up and speak with him. Herbert knew that every person in the reading room understood what had just transpired. The room slanted into sadness and despair, and a mourning rose up from within each heart.

“G
uten Morgen.
Good morning, my darling. My dearest one. My adored Father!” Felix whispered, picking up the photograph of his Führer from its altar. “Good morning, my dearest sweetheart.” Felix brushed back the skirts of his silk dressing gown and fell to his knees, still holding the photograph. “Oh my darling, my beloved,” he whispered passionately. He pressed his lips against the glass over where the lips of Hitler might have been, concealed beneath a firm and manly mustache. “My beloved one,” whispered Felix, kissing Hitler’s photograph square on the mouth. The outline of Felix’s breath still misted the glass when he put the photograph back on its stand. He masturbated deliciously; he exhausted himself. Felix rose to his feet a little unsteadily and went into the kitchen, where Schatzie awaited her breakfast. “Sausages today, my little one,” Felix announced to the dog, who, sausagelike herself, wagged her body enthusiastically.

From within the refrigerator, the severed specimens in little jars thrummed, but neither Felix nor Schatzie paid attention. Only when the sounds of the fingers grew more insistent did Felix cry out, “Quiet!” and at his voice, the sounds immediately ceased. “Authority, authority!” Felix told Schatzie. “That’s what the world needs. A firm hand.” Schatzie wagged her tail in response. Felix rolled a few more greasy sausages into her dish and carefully wiped Schatzie’s jowls with a napkin. Felix checked his watch. It was almost seven o’clock in the morning, and that meant he had only one hour to prepare for his patients.

“Cleanliness,” Felix told Schatzie as he cleaned the kitchen. In his office, he quickly remade his bed, folding it back into a couch and firmly planting the large Chinese screen in front of it. “For the ladies,” he said. Schatzie whimpered but lay down beside rather than on the couch. Felix washed his hands and then washed them again. He put out his instruments. He was almost ready.

Felix surveyed the gleaming metal and rubber. He was the best children’s doctor in all of New York. “I am a genius, you see,” he told Schatzie. She seemed to agree. Felix looked at himself in the glass approvingly: the three-piece suit, the vest pocket, the monocle on its string, and the stethoscope in his upper pocket. He took a little brush and brushed his eyebrows. He clipped a mustache hair. Then he went once more into his laboratory and reviewed it with satisfaction.

On the homemade shelves, all was silent in the specimen jars. The refrigerator hummed, but no other noises uttered forth from it. The small snips of flesh in their brine lay subdued, at least for the moment.

“Yes,” murmured Felix to his open closet. “You shall have your breakfast now.” Carefully, he prepared the brew on the small hot plate: two parts oatmeal to three parts liverwurst. The mixture heated, and Felix hummed to himself. He affixed his monocle to his eye socket. Then, carefully with an eyedropper, Felix fed each of his jars. Some he did not dare open, but instead inserted the food through a small hole in the top. But others he opened quickly. The specimens twitched a bit as the nourishment entered their briny bath. But they posed no danger; nor did they try to escape.

Only the fingers of the Tolstoi Quartet remained intractable and scratched at the sides of their jars impatiently as Felix approached with his brew. “Good,” Felix said. “So you can still play, my pretty ones, hmm?” The fingers drummed madly in response.
“Gut.”
He passed quickly on to his own preserved scrap of scrotum. “Was it growing bigger?” he wondered. Felix fed it an extra drop of the mixture, even as he felt guilty for doing so. This was something he had never written to Helmut about.

“This is strange,” he told Schatzie as he carefully put the rest of his mixture away again. “I have not heard from Helmut for almost a month.” Schatzie looked sympathetic but offered no response. “Strange,” murmured Felix. He wondered how things were with his old friend. But Felix didn’t really worry. The experiments were still going on, he knew, and Helmut was no doubt too busy just at the moment. It had been nearly a month since Felix had received a new shipment of test tubes from the great drug companies of Germany. But such delays were common nowadays. “Here, Schatzie, come here,” said Felix, tightening his monocle. The dog approached, and Felix carefully caught a bit of the dog’s saliva onto a slide. He put the cover on it and inserted it under his microscope. “Would you like to see?” Felix picked up the squirming dog and held her near the microscope. Schatzie’s eyes looked wide and terrified, but she adored her master and would let him do almost anything with her. “This is what your spit looks like, Schatzie,” Felix told her, holding her toward the eyepiece of the microscope. Schatzie wiggled and finally Felix put her down. “Hmmm, interesting,” he said, taking a look himself.

How he regretted not having taken more of Marthe with him to this new world. She had been a beauty. But stupid, he reminded himself. What other part would he have taken if he had thought of it in time? Not her nose, that definitely Jewish nose. Maybe a piece of her ear? Her hair? Her breast? Felix felt a bit revolted.

He picked up a scrap of paper with Herbert’s writing on it and let it drift down into a waiting formaldehyde-filled jar. But the writing did not grow bigger or more clarified to his gaze. The ink ran; the letters were more inscrutable than ever. “Aaach!” he said in disgust.

It was eight o’clock in the morning. The doorbell rang. The first patient of the morning waited upon Felix’s ministrations. Doctor and dachshund moved toward the entryway, past the photographs of beautiful children in white pants and dresses, with dark beseeching eyes. The doorbell rang a second time.

Felix opened the door. There Maria stood, heart heavy, holding the hand of the Rat. “The child’s mother could not come,” said Anna meekly. “So, my old friend, here I am.”

Felix’s heart stopped. He made no move.

“My friend,” said Anna sadly, “do you not recognize me?” She stood in front of him, her eyes downcast, her spine bowed into a complete question mark.

Anna entered humbly, and Maria, shrinking, followed. This was not her idea, this visit. Her mother had gratefully allotted to the Rat all the tasks she really had no time for. One of these was the visits to her children’s doctor so early on Saturday morning. Ilse was already out at the grocery store, doing the shopping, the haggling for the family for the week. It was her only day to try to catch up with their lives. She had had no time to think during the week, not of the children, nor of her husband. She and David were working in parallel, working so the family could survive. Ilse pushed all further thoughts of him from her mind.

“I won’t go!” Maria had protested.

But her mother, impatient—what is wrong with this child?—pushed her toward the door. So oversensitive. So selfish. “Nonsense. Auntie will go with you. Mummy is too busy.” Maria tried to resist. “Come,” said Ilse, trying not to let her impatience show. “After all, you are a big girl now; Mummy cannot always go with you everywhere.”

“Come, my darling,” said the Rat, grasping Maria’s hand in her own firm small one. “It is early, and your mother must do the shopping. Afterward, we will come back and I will teach you a card game. A special card game,” she promised. “It was taught to me by the Tsar’s valet himself.” Maria could not resist the efficiency of the two women.

Now Doktor Felix did not even notice the presence of the little girl. Which annoyed Maria further. She removed herself from the scene, wafted up near the ceiling, where, along with the hypocritical photographs of angelic children, she could survey with superiority the adult scene below.

“Can it be?” asked Felix in a hushed voice. Schatzie padded in from the examining room and stood silently behind her master. Felix’s voice rose. “After all these years?”

“Yes.” The Rat nodded.

Felix seized her little hands. “My dearest Countess,” he murmured, pressing her hands to his lips. Felix loved nobility. Imagine, the Countess in his own New York office. “Come in,” he said, gesturing. “You see, I am quite installed in the New World.” Felix was beside himself. “May I offer you a cup of tea? I was just finishing breakfast myself.”

“We just had breakfast, but thank you,” replied the Rat, hastily surveying, from her bent position, the parquet floors and worn carpet of Felix’s rooms. “Ah, Schatzie!” she cried with delight. Upon hearing her name, the dog wagged all parts of her body and shuffled forward, licking Anna’s right foot. “Can it be the same Schatzie that I knew? Is she still with you?”

“The same!” replied Felix proudly. “She was permitted to escape with me. Special permission,” he whispered in a conspiratorial way. “Special permission, hmm?” He crooned to the dog, grasping the rolls of flesh about her neck. Schatzie appeared ecstatic and drooled happily. “But she’s old now,” he told Anna.

“Who is not?” the Rat said, sighing in response. She looked at Felix sharply. “And Marthe?”

Felix shook his head.

“My dear, forgive me,” said Anna, taking his hand in hers. “I am so sorry.”

Maria tugged impatiently on Anna’s hand, but neither of the adults noticed her.

Felix shook his head again. “And the Count?” he responded in a low, hoarse voice.

Now it was Anna’s turn to shake her head. “Gone,” she said. “And the boys also.”

“Both boys?” echoed Felix in a low, horrified voice. The Rat looked away. She squeezed Maria’s hand more tightly.

“Alas, dear lady,” said Felix, “we must speak no more of such sad things.” He could not stop looking at Anna’s curved spine. It entered his mind like a huge force field and drew all his attention toward it. He tried to pull his mind from its magnetic field, but his mind instantly slid toward it again, attaching with an almost audible click.

Felix bent down, putting his face close to Maria’s. “And what of this bad girl, hmm? How has my bad girl been?” Maria shrank from Felix’s bushy face. “Have you been eating your porridge for Uncle Felix, hmm?” Maria did not answer. She pressed her body more closely into itself. “Has she been eating her oatmeal like a good girl?” Maria was tongue-tied, as usual, before the two adults.

“Look at this, my girl,” Felix growled, pulling his eyebrow up and down with the string. The bushy eyebrow wiggled like a centipede on his face. “Look at this!” Maria did not dare raise her eyes. “This is a bad girl,” Felix told Anna. “Have you been doing everything Uncle Felix told you to do? Everything?” he demanded angrily.

“Don’t be afraid,” whispered the Rat hastily. “He is making a little joke, that is all.” The two adults laughed in a condescending manner.

Maria felt furious, abashed, and betrayed. Could not her beloved Anna see how terrifying Uncle Felix was?

“Come now!” cried Felix jovially. “Let us see exactly what this bad girl has been doing.”

Maria cast a last look for help to the impassive photographs above her. But, unlike Ilse, the Rat did not sit down in the hallway outside, under the angelic photographs of grateful little children. She followed Felix, who had now taken Maria’s hand in his grasp, into the examining room. The table gleamed as always with a fresh white sheet on it, the instruments lay ranged in the sink, and Maria felt the familiar sense of shame in the deepest center of her body. Felix’s room was, as always, immaculate, the screen ranged artfully in front of the velvet couch.

Schatzie followed the three of them into the room. “My dear Countess,” said Felix, “there is no need for you to accompany us. Perhaps you would prefer to wait outside.”

Anna made a small protesting movement with her head. Felix’s bowed chest swelled with something like pride. “Well, then, that is fine.” He gestured toward the room, which lay pristine in its expanse before the arrival of the days’ patients. “And afterward, if we have time, perhaps I shall show you my experiments, my notes.” He turned to the Rat proudly. “Since we saw each other, my dear Countess, I have been engaged in much important work. New breakthroughs in science,” he continued. “The face of mankind is going to change, must change. There are advances possible now that you and I have never even dreamed of.” Anna looked interested.

Today, Felix did not spend much time with Maria. He was excited at having the chance to share his work with the Countess, known even during his youth for her intelligence and interest in new ideas. She turned her beautiful deep eyes toward him. He could hardly keep his attention on what he was doing. Perfunctorily, he lifted the child onto the examining table. He unbuttoned her dress and laid his hairy ear on her narrow chest. He breathed heavily for a moment or two, then took out his stethoscope. “Have you been eating?” he asked fiercely. “You see,” he said to Anna, who stood waiting, her spine bent and eyes downcast beside the examining table, “I am quite busy here in New York. There are so many children who have need of me.”

This time, he did not fully undress Maria. This time, he did not place her hand on his “broken leg.” This time, “Hänschen klein” lay quietly, obediently in his little house. He did not stare at her fixedly. As Anna watched Felix sympathetically, Maria squeezed her legs together very tightly under her candy-striped little dress and let herself float toward the ceiling. She tried very hard to be dead.

But no one was noticing this. Maria was somewhat piqued to see that Felix’s attention was not at all on her. His eyes were fixed on Anna. The Rat was watching him with a rapt, admiring expression. Her eyes held an odd sheen. And Uncle Felix, he was staring at Anna’s face, and at her deformed spine as, absently, he palpated the spine of the child. Maria squirmed away from his hands. But he didn’t notice. He appeared hypnotized by the White Russian Countess.

Maria twitched angrily under his hands. “Good girl,” he said, rearranging her dress. Quickly, he palpated her stomach. Maria let herself float up to the ceiling of the room, near the large light, big as the eye of God. Then Felix was done, his hands tucked again into themselves, and Maria was restored to herself as well. He smoothed her dress and lifted her down. “Fine; getting better,” he muttered. To Anna, he said, “You must bring her back, of course. She needs treatment once a week. So many problems. Her mother…”