Kathleen Spivack - Unspeakable Things

Herbert looked away. “Yes, it is often so.”

Anna touched his tattered coat sleeve. “My cousin, do you not know how we all love you? Do you think that we do not see what you do? Who you are?”

“Aah.” Herbert sighed, a groan from his oak depths.

The procession of those he had not been able to save marched across a background. Herbert thought of Manfred, the Romany king, and of his failure to help there as well. He saw the Romany, their sad, wild eyes, their quick, dark bodies caged by the closing doors of railroad cars. “I can do nothing,” he said. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I have tried.”

Manfred, hawklike, proud, and silent, did not answer. His imperious gaze held Herbert’s in its own, challenging.

“The President has refused,” said Herbert in self-justification. “What else can I do?”

“Yes,” answered Manfred’s gaze. “But it is my peoples who will be exterminated. You have not done enough, my friend.”

“Forgive me,” said Herbert, closing his eyes.

“Father, I forgive you,” whispered the wraith of Michael from the shadows. His cavernous eyes watched his father with dispassion. Michael at least was calm now. Or was he?

“Forgive me,” Herbert sighed to Anna, who stroked his hand.

“Shh, Little Father.”

The guards closed the doors of the railroad cars, beating back the prisoners who pressed their emaciated bodies against the aperture for a last desperate attempt at freedom. “Father, help me!” cried Michael. Where were they taking him?

“You, with all your connections. You could have done something!” Adeline’s silence reproached Herbert.

“I have tried everything.” But it was too late. Herbert was doomed to live forever now with these memories. Why had it not been he who had been chosen? The “Chosen People.” Yes, he had been chosen to live the hardest life of all: that of the survivor, the savior. Who could not save those whom he loved most.

“It was Michael whom I loved most,” Adeline cried silently to Herbert. “It was never you!”

For this, Herbert was condemned for the rest of his life. Condemned to hear the petitions of others, to ransom everything — his remaining family, his health, his life — to assist others in escaping their fates. Only in this way could Herbert expiate his own sense of helplessness. And he had connections — that, too. He had been accustomed to power: the manipulation of it. But even power had its limits. There were others more powerful. “Bless your people,” Herbert said to Manfred silently. “I pray for them.”

Manfred regarded his old friend with scorn. “You are worthless in this, Herr Hofrat. Worthless. I believed when I came to you.”

“What?” cried Herbert. “What did you believe?”

“In you, in your philosophy.”

“In my philosophy?”

“The Romany knows only his horses. But the Jew seeks to question further.”

“Better to stick with the horses.”

“Ah yes, there you are right.” And a glint of humor flashed in the king’s steely eyes. “But the Romany believes in more than just the horses. The Romany believes in freedom. Must have it. Will die without it.”

“Freedom. The right to sleep under the open sky.”

“You, with your ideals. Your Esperanto. What have you accomplished?” challenged Manfred.

Tired of being chided like a child, Herbert gathered himself together. “I have helped many. And there many more yet who will be helped.”

“But not my own,” replied Manfred sadly. “And not your own, either, old man.”

Herbert bowed his head under the burden.

“And I also,” said Manfred more softly. “I also am unable to save, even with all my connections. I am also now a useless old man, do you not see?”

Herbert saw the eyes of the Romany king regarding his steadily. Within the dark wild pupils he saw terror and sadness. “How can we live with this knowledge?” Herbert murmured sadly. The Gypsy was silent, contained in his own grief.

To Anna now, Herbert said softly, “How can we live with this knowledge?” She pressed her benefactor’s hand. “Tell me, my dearest Countess, how can we support such sadness?”

“I do not want to add to your burden of grief.”

Herbert raised Anna’s hand to his lips. “My dearest Countess, it was always you I loved,” he whispered to her. “Forgive me! It was always you. I should have married you; I always loved you.”

“Don’t say such things,” Anna soothed. From the darkly circled eyes, from their furrows, arose the slight faint odor of brimstone. The after-scent of ashes. “We have suffered enough.”

“Yes, it is true, it was always you whom I loved.” Herbert sighed. The two old friends regarded each other. Was this true? “You are the only one I could ever write to,” said Herbert. “The only one who was interested in Esperanto.”

“It is true,” whispered Anna, and she laughed.

Herbert, too, began to smile. “Is this not true?”

“Yes.” The Rat nodded.

“That cursed Esperanto,” said Herbert. “It never did a goddamn thing.” His smile broadened. “And worst of all, it never got me the girl.”

“Of course it got you the girl,” whispered the little Rat. “I am here now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but not for long.” Herbert sighed.

“But here I am just the same.”

“It is Felix who has the fingers,” Herbert burst out suddenly. Now, gathering himself together, he leaned forward across the table, grasping her two hands in his. “I know you have seen him. Has he told you anything?”

“Felix?” Anna asked, brought sharply out of her gentle, foggy, romantic moment.

“Yes, the Tolstoi Quartet. Their fingers. I am sure of it now,” Herbert said, his eyes focusing away from his own concerns to the job at hand.

“But…” Anna was confused. She would have much preferred to continue on, the two of them, in their nostalgic daze, the love not shared, the romance not expressed, and so forth.

“David told me. And I see now that he is right. Has to be right. There is only one person in New York. As far as we know…” Herbert paused, looking thoughtful.

“Felix?” repeated Anna stupidly.

“Yes. Now I see. We want you to help us.”

“You can ask anything of me. You saved my life. Ask anything, my cousin. It is yours. What is it you want me to do?” The queen, protecting the king.

The Rat hurried onto the street and darted into a taxi. Soon she stood once again outside Felix’s heavy oak door, her head bent, spine curved, as always. Her little heart was beating quickly.

It was early in the afternoon. Not the appointed day. But she knew it was his Wednesday afternoon off, that sacred afternoon Felix reserved for himself and for his research. An immediate resolution brought her here a few days after her talk with Herbert. She was ready: the Rat knew what she must do. She hoped Felix would be ready, too.

Back at the apartment, nothing had been prepared. She would have liked to have left a moment or two for the children, but that didn’t matter now. She would have liked to have spoken some final words to Ilse. Too late. She must seize the opportunity that had presented itself, and act quickly. What was most important: her words with Herbert. “I love you,” uttered in Esperanto. The most important words in any language. “Farewell. It has always been you I loved best.”

Crashing music thundered against the big door and penetrated, through its cracks, the entire building. The Rat pressed her hand on the bell and rang again, firmly.

But there was no answer. Within, the music swelled, like a river of hot lava, throbbing through her concave chest as well. It was Wednesday afternoon, a respite from the time when Felix saw his little patients. His time, his own private time to do as he wished. Felix did not emerge.