Ghita Schwarz - Displaced Persons

He would not have thought that his child would be able to leave the country that held her parents. Still, she had. Sima had to do what Sima had to do. She had a husband. Berel had pointed this out in arguments with Dvora. Had not one of Dvora’s young brothers left Poland some thirty years before, with a woman not yet his wife, to settle in Palestine? The turmoil it had caused in the family! But looking back, with no one else but Dvora and another sister surviving, it seemed to have been very wise.

And now, even now, there was nothing in Israel, especially for the postwar immigrants from Europe, who stumbled over strings of Hebrew phrases as if they were reading from an ancient prayerbook. For the young it was even worse. At seventeen Sima had begged him, begged him, not to speak Yiddish to her when her friends visited to collect her for a night out or to loan her a bicycle for a day at the beach. It was the language of sheep led to slaughter. That was what people said. But Berel would mock her and ramble incessantly in Yiddish to her and her companions, throwing in a few Hebrew words so the friends could, with some struggle, understand. Let them struggle. He did not feel sorry. Now, in New York, Sima loved to speak it. Something had changed.

“T ATTEH ,” SAID S IMA . Ihave to confess something.

They were at the table, after dinner. The baby was asleep in Sima and Chaim’s bedroom. Chaim began to peel a green apple with a short knife. Berel had won the last game of rummy, a game played with the slippery, laminated green-and-black cards Sima had bought discount at the museum store and kept in a cushioned brown box, in a drawer next to the dish towels.

Berel looked at her through his glasses. Her bottom lip shook. Perhaps he would not need to say anything. She would say she was sorry, she would say she wanted to do good, and he would say, Don’t worry, my lamb, my heart, don’t worry. I just wish you had told me directly. He would not admit the shame of taking money from them, from Pavel; for what? He would just remind her, please, not to go behind his back. He wasn’t stupid. She knew that.

I have to confess something. Her eyes, like her mother’s, were clear and green.

What is it?

Chaim kept peeling.

I feel so terrible.

What can it be? Berel stared at his daughter, trying to seem naive, watching her hands pull at a strand of her dark blond hair. What can it be?

It’s been bothering me since she died.

Oh, said Berel. And tilted his head to the side.

From years ago. From when we were in Russia. When you were taken away. She was going to the black market every day, for food for me. She was looking for milk; there was no milk.

I think I know this story, said Berel.

Chaim said: I haven’t heard it. He was smiling. He liked war stories, at least the pleasant ones, the ones without blood.

Sima said, I had the most brave mother in the world. The most brave.

Berel nodded.

Do you know how she got that milk? said Sima. I still don’t know.

Berel breathed out. Oh, she sold something she had stolen from her job. Something like that. The real adventure was getting it back to you, in an open clay cup she had, no lid, in the snow. And she had to hide it. You remember how she had that coat with the pockets sewn inside?

Yes, yes, I remember, said Sima. It was winter. She hid it in the coat pocket on the inside and walked with her hand behind the sleeve to hold it steady, like she had a broken arm. If she had been caught carrying milk! Because how could she get such a thing?

Berel leaned back in his chair. She was proud of the milk. She told me about it, I don’t know how many times, after I came back. I don’t know why she tried so hard-even as a baby, you didn’t love milk. But she didn’t think like that. Your mother, when she wanted something-

But Sima had tears in her eyes. She was so proud when she gave me the cup!

Chaim coughed softly on his apple.

It’s not funny! choked Sima. It’s terrible. Still, I couldn’t help it, to see that cup, with frozen pieces of curd floating on top, and the coating, broken, sticking to the sides-

Berel didn’t look at Chaim. He sat forward again, stared down at his winning game, the cards laid out in rows of three and four. What a little tragedy! His nose made a small noise.

You’re laughing too! Sima cried; tears were streaming down her cheeks. I took the cup to the back of the hut, where she couldn’t see, and I poured it out into the snow! All at once! Everything was white, so she couldn’t discover what I had done! I just poured it out!

Berel was laughing out loud now. Oh my god, my god, he snorted. Oh my god.

“Jesus Christ,” said Chaim, in an impressive American accent, and grinned. Sima smacked him on the hand, but lightly. She had begun to giggle herself.

Berel gasped. Inhaled, exhaled. He put his head on the table, his cheeks pressed to the open cards. What a little tragedy. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. He heard them quieting down.

Oh Sima, he breathed, mouth still at his elbow. I don’t know what to do.

She put her fingers on his wrist.

Chaim said: Didn’t you get the suit today? I thought you were going today.

Berel picked up his head and peered at Chaim. Chaim’s expression was plain, blank. He let nothing mix up the creamy calm of his face. So? It would drive Sima crazy soon enough.

Yes, Berel answered, I did. You did not tell me that the man-but yes, I got it.

Well, show it to us! Chaim strained his voice.

Not right now.

Please, said Sima. Her cheeks had swollen. Please. Just try it on. Or do they have to alter it?

They did it while I waited.

Please.

Berel got up, pushed his chair to the table. He went into his room, where his suit, still in its garment bag, lay on the bed. He sat on the bed, next to the suit, and looked at the room. A drawing of a boy at a fruit stand hung in a green frame above the yellow dresser. Otherwise the walls were bare, light brown. The room would soon be his granddaughter’s. She could play with her own toys and wear new clothes until she outgrew them. Sima had worked from age fourteen until she left, but his granddaughter would go to high school, even university. She could attend class every day and study in her own room every night with the door closed, if she wished. The water from the sink, the toilet paper, the pale cotton sheets one could buy for a reasonable fee, everything here was soft and good. It really was. Already he was used to it. But he didn’t think he would miss it.

He fingered the garment bag. So, let them see him in it. He took off his shirt and wiped under his arms with a towel from the dresser. Then put on a white shirt-a gift that hadn’t fit, Chaim had said when giving it to him in a pile of items-and the gray suit over it. The hem grazed his heels. He did not have appropriate shoes. He put on his slippers. They would still see how it fell on his body. Should he check in the mirror that leaned in the closet? No. He knew how it looked.

He returned to the table.

Chaim grinned.

“ Tatteh ,” said Sima. And then in Hebrew: How beautiful.

Yes, it is a beautiful suit, he answered in Yiddish. He stood himself straight, turned around once, like a model, and then stopped to look at her, stretching his eyes as open as possible, lips pressed against his gums in a grimace she knew, a grimace he used, not always successfully, to keep himself from crying.

It is beautiful, Simale. And you know what? Berel lifted his eyebrows high, almost, it felt, to his hairline. He imagined the skin on his forehead folding and pulling. His lips and his gums were dry. You know what? Simale, you wouldn’t believe it, this place your husband sent me, but this beautiful suit, it was so cheap! So cheap.