Ghita Schwarz - Displaced Persons

Pavel’s face bore a look of pride, as if Chaim were his own, like an older brother after the father has died, his face worn and misshapen, the face of a man ten or fifteen years older, Berel’s age. A camp face. One could tell the difference even years later. Berel’s palms began to itch a little. No, he would not confess.

Yes, he is smart, Berel agreed. He tried to think back to the little house and the ceremony, Chaim guiding them to the center of the room, the sound of his own voice above the murmurings of the guests, Dvora weak and feverish but excited, his daughter clinging to his thighs, the bride straight-backed and quiet. But what became of your sister-she is in America?

She is here! And her husband-we are partners still! This-Pavel motioned to the ceiling, then to the back room-this, in a way, is from you.

Oh, no, Berel started. But the young man whom Berel had seen upon first walking in trotted over to the dressing area and shouted, “It’s ready-try on?” He pointed at the pants and at Berel’s legs.

Berel looked at the pants, worried again. Do you mind if I don’t? said Berel. I’m so hot. He laughed a little. I’m sure it fits.

Pavel said, Of course! Just come back if there’s a problem. Come back even if there is not a problem! Oh, what a day. What a day! He clasped Berel’s arm again, then took the pants and jacket from the American boy.

Berel followed Pavel to the cash register. He felt in his front pocket for his wallet and took it out. He had half the money he had brought to America with him and removed all of it, placing it flat on the glass counter.

What is this? said Pavel Mandl. No, that’s far too much. That’s really more than twice as much as it costs. That would pay for two suits, maybe three.

Two suits? said Berel. That’s not possible. Your cousin said-

Yes, yes, it’s a special, said Pavel. It’s a special. You see? Look, it’s a good quality, but we haven’t been selling too much lately, so that one’s a special. He smiled, then looked down at his receipt book.

Your cousin said-Berel repeated.

Ah, Mayer. Pavel leaned forward, spoke in a low voice. We brought him in when he lost his position-his experience really is as a cutter-sometimes with prices he makes mistakes.

Berel looked at the ears and the mouth of the tailor; Pavel was gnawing his lip, his face almost angry, trying not to laugh. Berel’s palm sweated on his wallet, and suddenly he heard the puffing noises of the street breezing in from the outside, as if a classroom door had opened to the school yard and the real mischief of the students had come to the hearing of the teacher. He had been taken. Behind his back his daughter and son-in-law had arranged to pay. He saw the face of Chaim, solemn, careful, bent to his shoes, insisting that Berel go to this Mandl. As if insisting were necessary. Berel could go nowhere without their instructions. He could just imagine the mouth of this Pavel, pursing up a bit, Chaim smiling, charming, making a joke of Berel’s pride that he not take from his daughter, Chaim not even remembering, not even blinking at the idea that another man would be mocking him, or worse, treating him as charity. Berel had been tricked like a boy. He had been tricked. And this Pavel, no doubt a father like himself, in on the joke, not knowing how Berel himself had cheated him all those years ago. Berel was trapped: had Chaim already paid? Or was the plan to have Chaim pay the balance after Berel left with his ridiculously cheap purchase, miraculously chosen over all the other expensive garments?

It’s too cheap, Berel finally said, looking at Pavel’s long hands, then at his face. And I don’t understand why.

Pavel stopped smiling. Look, he said. That’s the price. Really.

I don’t understand why it’s so cheap, Berel repeated.

You married my sister.

I was paid then.

I know, said Pavel. I know. But I think you should buy it. Just buy it. Believe me, you won’t be sorry. That’s how we do it here. I always give Chaim the best price.

Not so good a price.

Pavel continued. Think how happy it will make your daughter, to see you in something you like so much. Think.

Berel’s hands fell to his sides. He did not want to touch the dark gray cloth with his damp fingers. He wanted to go backward in time, to the moment he walked into the shop, to the bus ride downtown, no, before, to the first week he had arrived, when he sat feeding the baby on the entrance steps of the art museum and thought that his daughter worked in the most beautiful place in the world. He wanted to go backward, to the hour before he had decided that he wanted something this unnecessary, something too luxurious for his everyday life, something like a good gray suit.

He looked at Pavel: I don’t know.

Pavel said, I’ve known Chaim a long time. Do you know how I know him?

No, said Berel. I do not. And it does not matter. I cannot accept.

I know Chaim at random. An accident. He recognized Fela-my wife now-in a market in Poland-not recognized, just found her, he knew she was Jewish, incredible-I asked him once how he did it-he did not know-and he smuggled her across into Germany. All by himself. In a policeman’s uniform.

Chaim? said Berel and shrugged. It’s hard to believe.

Smart, even then. Already smart. You remember-he taught there, yes, of course he told me Sima had been in the school there-but I did not put it all together-

A lot of people are smart, said Berel. That does not mean I take money from them. But already his words came out more slowly; he was beginning to feel embarrassed by his reluctance. He had given something false to Pavel all those years ago, but he knew he would not confess. He had done something shameful, and this Mandl would never know.

To him, Pavel said, his voice deepening, to him I owe my wife. I owe my children. I would have nothing-nothing without him. He moved in with me; we sent him to school in the DP camp at Belsen. He would do anything for me, anything for Fela. Anything for his wife.

I am not his wife, Berel said. I cannot accept. Not from him, not even from you.

Pavel Mandl did not seem to hear him. When someone wants to do anything, it is all right to let him do something. It’s like a gift to the giver. Let him have it.

Berel said nothing. I cannot accept, he thought. I cannot accept. But no sound came from his mouth.

He’s a good boy, said Pavel. Now this suit. It needs a garment bag. You hang it inside like this.

IT WAS AFTER FIVE but still hot. The air here was thick; people on the street walked slowly, trying to dry their wet faces with their wet hands. No rain, but moisture everywhere. Berel stood directly behind the bright sign, waiting for the bus home, but after twenty minutes and two number fives so crowded he would not have been able even to grab a strap to stand straight, he decided to walk, following the path of the bus, garment bag slung over his arm. What was it, four kilometers, five? He could do it.

In general he did not like to take buses home. He rarely took them after work, preferring to walk through crowded Tel Aviv; only in the mornings, because he was not so good at being early, did he catch the route that passed three blocks from the apartment. One was almost always alone on a bus. Almost always. The night Chaim and Sima had boarded their flight to America, where Chaim would have more opportunity, real work for a young man, as he said, not to mention no army and no children in the army, Berel and Dvora had taken the bus home with Chaim’s cousin Rayzl from the airport. Rayzele had been weeping silently, staring out the window of the bus at the blue lights and buildings-in-progress by the highway. Dvora had sat next to her, with her hand covering the cousin’s. Berel had sat behind, fuming. Everyone’s sorrows were larger than his wife’s. The sight of other people’s tears stopped her own from flowing. He would cry later without shame, shaking in the kitchen chair before they went to bed. But she would have to wait until he slept; he’d know from her swollen cheeks and stiff eyelids in the morning, when he glimpsed her as she padded into the bathroom after having laid out his coffee and bread.