Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

“Here we are,” said Marie.

“This is a church?”

“This is the synagogue. We’ll go to the church later.”

Nachman shrugged. Marie was willful. She did what he wanted, though it wasn’t what he said he wanted.

An empty old building, heavy with abiding presence; certainly old, older than mere history. Old in the sense of having long been used. Even the large, flat, soot-blackened stones that formed a rough path to the door had presence as opposed to history. The stones seemed alive to Nachman, more alive than himself. He felt apprehensive, though not about anything he might see, only about what he would feel. The hollow interior, which reminded Nachman of the inside of a wooden ship, a caravel with a spacious hold, made an effect of stunning emptiness, as if recently and temporarily abandoned by the mass of passengers, who would soon return and fill the big, plain wooden space with the heat of their bodies and their chanting. The congregation was gone, annihilated at a date memorialized in books, but Nachman, overwhelmed by apprehensions and sorrow, felt he had only to wait and the books would prove wrong, the Jews would return and collect in this room, and he would find his grandfather among them and his grandfather would tell Nachman the names of all the people.

Nachman entered deeply into the space, and stood there with Marie beside him, neither of them speaking. Then they heard a noise, a cough or a sneeze, and turned toward the rear of the room. A man stood not far away, partly in the shadows, looking at them. He was less than average height and had a large head and broad shoulders. His neck was bound in a red silk scarf. It had once been an elegant scarf. The color still lived, but the silk was soiled by sweat and grease, and it was frayed. His gray wool coat seemed barely to contain his bulk, and his arms were too long for the sleeves. Presumably, the caretaker. He walked toward them, rude physical authority in his stride. Though he was far from young, there was vigor and strength in his torso and short bowed legs.

Marie spoke to him in Polish. He answered in a rough and aggressive voice from his chest, a voice so much unlike hers that he seemed to speak a different language. Then Marie said to Nachman, “He says there is no fee. It is all right for us to stay until he closes the building in the afternoon.”

Nachman said, “Ask him questions.”

“What questions?”

“Anything you like.”

Marie spoke to the man again, and a conversation ensued that was not the least intelligible to Nachman, but he listened to the words as if he could follow them, and he heard his name mentioned by Marie. After a few moments, Marie said, “He has been the caretaker of the synagogue for more years than he can remember, from before the war. He says he remembers your grandfather. You look like him.”

“You told him who I am?”

“I only mentioned the name Nachman. He said he remembered such a man, and you look like him.”

“Ask him more questions.”

“What more questions?”

“I don’t know. Please just ask.”

Marie spoke to the man again. He seemed to liven as he answered, as if this was an opportunity he longed for, his words like rocks tumbling from the crater of his chest. He made gestures with his thick hands to emphasize what he said. His face, which was a broad bone with small blue eyes and a wide mobile mouth, took on different expressions, each swiftly replacing the last. There was so much motion in his features that Nachman wasn’t sure what the man looked like, only that it was a big face with small animalish blue eyes and a thick nose with burst capillaries along its length. He was full of talk, full of memories. They seemed to lift from within and push behind his eyes, as if they intended to burst through and be seen.

Nachman waited and watched, his heart thudding palpably. He listened so hard that he became dizzy with anticipation, as if at any moment he would understand Polish and know what the man was saying. Nachman hesitated to make a sound. He didn’t dare ask Marie to tell him anything until the man said as much as he wanted. Marie finally turned to Nachman and said, “We should go now.”

“But what did he tell you?”

“He told me that your grandfather Nachman was gifted. People would cross the street to touch his coat and then run away. His gift was mysterious and frightening. People came to him for advice, often about money matters, but also about love affairs and sickness.”

“He had some kind of medical knowledge?”

“He knew herbs that could cure skin diseases. He helped Poles and Jews, but it was dangerous for him. He was afraid of his own powers, and would often suffer worse than the people who came to him with their problems and sickness. This fellow himself, the caretaker of the synagogue, says he once came to Nachman with a broken leg that wouldn’t heal. The pain was indescribable. He says Nachman went into a trance. He suffered as if his own leg were broken. In his trance, he made strange sounds, as if he were talking to somebody in an unknown language, but not with words, only cries and grunts and shrieks. Let’s go, Professor Nachman. We’ve heard enough.”

Nachman didn’t want to go.

“So what happened? Did his leg heal?”

“Yes.”

Nachman stared at the man, much taken by a sudden affection for him. He wanted to hear more, but Marie was insistent.

“We can come back, if you like. Let’s go now.”

“What else did he say?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“I must give the man something.”

Nachman pulled bills from his pants pocket.

“Is American money acceptable? I have fifty dollars.”

“Give him a dollar.”

“That’s not enough.”

“He’ll be happy with a dollar. Give it to him and let’s go.”

Nachman was trembling. Was this girl a guide, or some kind of Polish despot? He’d admired her strength of character, but at the moment it seemed more like obstinate and imperious willfulness. Nachman recalled the way she walked, her long, tireless stride. He thought suddenly it was consistent with her whole character, the stride of a warrior, a conqueror. It measured land. Wherever she strode she seized and possessed. Her voice was soft, but the softness enclosed a wire of steel. She was abrupt and terse. Her figure was lean as a fashion model’s, but not languid. It had moral stiffness, military tension, as if built to endure. She was willful; pigheaded; less sensitive than even the oxlike caretaker. Nachman had asked for a guide, not a descendant of Genghis Khan. The Mongols had overrun Poland. Of course she could do math. The Chinese were great mathematicians.

Nachman gave the man five dollars, and then shook his hand. The man grinned and nodded thanks. Then, to assert himself against Marie’s desire to leave, Nachman smiled at the man and embraced him.

Marie sighed. “He’s not a Jew, Professor Nachman.”

Nachman was startled by the remark.

Walking away from the synagogue, again with her rhythm, Nachman said, “I didn’t care if he was a Jew. I hadn’t thought he was a Jew or not a Jew. Why did you say that?”

“It seemed relevant. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“He was eager to talk about my grandfather. I learned something. I was grateful to him. If you don’t mind, please tell me everything he said.”

“He said your grandfather could play musical instruments, and he could sing Polish folk songs. He said a few other things.”

“What other things? Please try to remember.”

“He could juggle.”

“Juggle? My grandfather was a juggler?”

For the first time that morning Marie raised her voice. “He said your grandfather could bend nails with his teeth. He could fly.”

Understanding came to Nachman slowly, against strong resistance in his feelings.