Son of a Smaller Hero

  Hoppie spoke in a whisper. “He’s hiding in the lane. I saw him. You …”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “Sh!” He pressed Noah’s arm warmly. “Get out of here quick. Here come the cops. Turn down the lane and you’ll find him.”

  “Miriam! Come on.” Noah turned back and smiled. “Thanks, Hoppie.”

  They got into the car and drove slowly down the lane. Noah saw him standing stiff in a doorway, trying to avoid the headlights. Then on a mad impulse he broke out of the doorway and raced down the lane. A rock bounced off the bonnet of the car. You damn fool, Noah thought. He stepped on the gas.

  When they caught up with him he was standing on a garbage pail, trying to get over the top of a fence.

  Shloime leaped into the back seat. “Noah. I didn’t do it. Honest.”

  They finally came out on St. Lawrence Boulevard and Noah turned towards the apartment.

  “He saw you, Shloime.”

  “I don’t care. You can all go to hell. I wasn’t in this alone. I can make trouble.” Shloime grinned. “Who’s the broad?”

  “Never mind that now. Who hit him?”

  “Hit him? I hit him? You crazy?”

  Miriam lit a cigarette and passed it to Noah. “He can stay at our place tonight. I’ll fix it with Theo.”

  Noah parked on Sherbrooke Street, his hands felt slimy on the wheel. He shivered. You’ve read books on sociology, he thought. “No,” he said. “I’ve got to do this myself. I don’t want Theo smirking. I …”

  “Theo doesn’t smirk.”

  “All right. But I’m driving you home and then we’ll go back to Dorchester Street. I’ll phone tomorrow morning. Oh, this is Shloime Adler. He’s my uncle. My father’s the oldest. He’s the youngest. Shloime, meet Miriam.”

  They parked in front of the apartment.

  “You keep the car,” she said. “I’ll phone in an hour, Noah. I’ll tell him I’m going out for a walk. I’ll phone from the corner.”

  Noah turned back towards Dorchester Street. He had paid Mrs. Mahoney two weeks’ rent in advance, so – technically – the room was still his.

  “Your car?”

  “No,” Noah said.

  “Your goods?”

  “Sort of. Like her?”

  “Liss’n. What should you expect – television?”

  Inside, Shloime wandered around the room clacking his tongue appreciatively. He and Noah had gone to Baron Byng High School together. There were two regular high schools in the ghetto, Baron Byng and Strathcona Academy. Strathcona was a fine-looking school in Outremont, but Baron Byng was on St. Urbain Street, a shapeless brown brick building surrounded by tenements. Baron Byng, however, had a long tradition behind it. A previous generation, that of Aaron Panofsky, had produced a number of brilliant scholars and had gone out on strike when the Protestant School Board had raised school fees. Students during the depression, that generation had not only rebelled against authority but had fought for what it had considered to be the political truth. Noah and Shloime had gone to school during the war, when their fathers first began to earn a decent living. They didn’t produce many scholars and never took any political or moral action. They resented authority, and reacted against it by aggressively doing everything forbidden. They smoked and gambled and drank. Aaron Panofsky’s Baron Byng apprenticeship had led to the loss of his legs; Shloime, a student of the same teachers, was a petty thief with still grander prospects before him. Noah was still doubtful of his directions.

  “It’s the berries,” Shloime said. “The car belongs to a pal. The broad is hitched. We’ve got a lot in common, you know. I don’t care what Paw says. We should talk.”

  “What do you mean, we’ve got a lot in common?”

  “We’re both lone operators, eh? We both like shiksas – dames – and we both don’t give a damn about eating kosher and …”

  “We’ve got nothing in common,” Noah said sharply.

  “At least I admit what I am,” Shloime continued. “At least I don’t pretend to be a Goy or …” Suddenly, Shloime began to tremble. He choked. Tears ran down his cheeks. “The cops are after me, Noah. I’m … What if Paw finds out? I … They send you to a kind of reform school. They … I’m telling you, I …” Shloime collapsed on the bed and sobbed wildly. Noah turned away from him. He felt that his concern, his willingness to help, had been an affectation. I’m not free yet, he thought. I had to help him, in spite of everything. No, I’m not free yet. He turned around, and Shloime faced him contritely. “She’d hide me,” he said. “She offered to. I heard. She’d do anything for you. She …”

  “I’m not going to help you. I don’t like you, and I don’t give a damn. I …”

  “You’re scared of me,” Shloime said. “Ashamed.”

  “I’m not scared of you,” Noah said quickly. “Now – if you don’t mind – you can clear out of here. You …”

  “You know what,” Shloime said, getting off the bed. “You remind me of Paw.”

  Noah stared at him, horrified.

  “You remind me of Paw,” Shloime said, smiling confidently. His fear seemed to have passed. His long hair was greased back to his head and his dim eyes were darkly ringed underneath.

  “You might have killed him, Shloime,” Noah said.

  “Hey, hey. Liss’n, ockshmay. Don’t give me the business.”

  “He saw you. So did the others. You’ll probably be arrested. I’m not worried about you. But it would be hard for Zeyda.”

  “Look what’s suddenly worried about my father. He threw you out of the house, didn’t he? Listen, big-boy. He’s more ashamed of you than he’ll ever be of me. Don’t give me no sermons, if you don’t mind. We’re not good enough for you. Your own mudder’s sick in bed you go to see her? A lot you give a damn.” Shloime grinned maliciously. He sensed, instinctively, that Noah had been defeated. He was not sure of how he had done it, though. “Besides, Max would never let me get pinched. He can’t afford it. Okay?”

  “What makes you think that?” Noah asked weakly.

  “Didn’t you know? Max is gonna run for alderman. That’s not all, either. He’ll go to Quebec yet. Member for Cartier. How would it look – I ask you – if his own brudder was pinched?”

  “Not too good.” Noah sat down on the bed. “How’s my father?”

  “Dumb as ever.”

  Noah stiffened. His father was the oldest, Shloime was the youngest. It suddenly occurred to him that Shloime was his father turned inside out. “I guess it’s safe for you to go now,” he said. “But I’m going to see Panofsky tomorrow. If anything happens to him I’ll …” Noah stopped. He felt stupid.

  “You’ll what?”

  “Nothing.” Noah wiped his brow absently. “What can I do to help you?”

  “I need money.”

  “Money?” Noah sensed a way out. We send flowers to the sick. Money. He had thirty-five dollars in the bank. He knew it was cowardly of him, but all the same, he said: “I can give you thirty dollars.”

  Shloime nodded, and Noah wrote out a cheque.

  “I’m going,” Shloime said, taking the cheque. “But first I’ll tell you something. I don’t care a shit in hell if the old man finds out. I hate him. So do you. We got a lot to talk together. Look, you come out with me one night. You bring your broad and tell her to bring a friend. You …”

  A voice came booming up the stairway. “Telephone for Mr. Adler.”

  “Coming,” Noah yelled. He turned to Shloime. Once more, he was tempted to offer him something more tangible than money. A hand. Friendship. But the desire to be rid of him proved stronger. “I’m sorry, Shloime,” he said.

  “Sorry?” Shloime paused at the door. “Hey, I wonder if it’ll be in the papers? Did you notice any photographers around? I mean – Christ … What time does the Herald come out? We call ourselves The Avengers.”

  Noah had been sharp with Miriam on the phone because he needed her and she had not been able to come to him. He felt disorga
nized. He remembered that when they had been boys, he and Shloime had used to sit down on the cold concrete steps outside the synagogue to take off their roller-skates before going in for evening prayer. Inside the tattering Jews had used to pray in a failing light. Once the two of them had forgotten to go to the evening services, Melech had found them, his son and his grandson, playing chequers in the basement. He had ripped the chequers board to pieces and smashed their roller-skates against the wall.

  Panofsky, his head bandaged, sat up in bed and sucked on his pipe. His grey, melancholy eyes were without their former unwavering quality. Aaron sat nearby in his wheelchair reading a book. He was a gaunt man with intense black eyes and an honest mouth. He had used to be quite lively.

  The room was papered yellow and three pictures hung on the walls. One of Marx; one of Lenin; and one of Mrs. Panofsky, who was also dead. The bureau was stained and scratched and several drawer knobs were missing. The room was warm. Warm, and worn out.

  The doorbell rang. Rang again.

  “It’s him,” Aaron said.

  Noah stood in the doorway smiling lamely.

  “How are you, Mr. Panofsky?”

  “Fine, fine. Come, Noah. Sit down here by me.”

  Noah sat down on the foot of the bed.

  “How long do you have to stay in bed? What do the doctors say?”

  Aaron wheeled over closer to the bed. “The doctors say that had he been hit just a bit harder he’d be dead. You tell him that.”

  “Who? Who should he tell? I told you to stay quiet.” Panofsky turned to Noah. “I’m in the pink. Only one trouble I got. I can’t remember who hit me or what happened. The doctors say this is often the case when an old man is hit hard on the head. Enough. You tell us about you. How does it go?”

  “Fine. Fine, Mr. Panofsky.”

  “You studying?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “He’s nervous,” Aaron said. “I wonder why he’s nervous?”

  “You stay quiet, I said.”

  Aaron wheeled himself furiously out of the room. His face was taut.

  “Aaron – you know – he’s not so well. You mustn’t pay attention.”

  The evening Aaron had left, Noah remembered, there had been a big party at Panofsky’s. Many songs had been sung. Several of the girls had wept, for Aaron had been the tallest in the ghetto and he had known many of them well. The people of City Hall Street had clubbed together and had bought him a typewriter. Salud, Panofsky had said. Don’t forget you should send us news. Salud!

  “So, say a few words.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Noah said.

  Panofsky leaned over and banged his pipe on the side of the bed. He pointed at the tin of tobacco on the bureau and Noah got up and fetched it for him. Panofsky began to fill his pipe slowly. He would have liked to have been able to explain to Noah, and to explain to Aaron as well, that in Russia the Cossacks had come time and again to ask questions and to take boys away: he would have liked to explain how he had felt when he had been confronted by the policeman. “Noah. Your grandfather, your Zeyda, is old. He hasn’t got many years left. He …”

  “That’s not true either, Mr. Panofsky. There’s no great love between you and my grandfather. You …”

  “He didn’t say it was Shloime because Shloime is a Jew.”

  Aaron’s wheelchair blocked the doorway again.

  “All right. All right. Now let me sleep already. I’m tired.”

  “You’re not only tired, Paw. You’re old. I gave up my legs and you couldn’t even hand in that little thug. You should have told the old bigot when he came. Probably, though, he knows, anyway.”

  Aaron looked hard at him and then backed out of the door.

  “If he had hit me a bit harder I would have been dead. But I would have died somebody useful. A man who had spent his life for an idea. So look at me now. He’s right. I’m old. A storekeeper with a crippled boy and a pusher boy. What’ll be, Noah? I can’t die like this, my life for nothing. I should have turned him in no matter what.”

  “There is not one boy in the neighbourhood who doesn’t remember you, Mr. Panofsky. Whenever we were in trouble we came to you.”

  “Do you think I should have told the police? Or your grandfather?”

  “No,” Noah lied. “I think you did right.”

  “If I could only have his legs back for him. He’s a good boy. From the best. He …”

  “He’ll be all right. He’s got the legs he gave up.”

  “Are you a communist, Noah?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “This is no answer.”

  “Nothing is absolute any longer, Mr. Panofsky. There is a choice of beliefs and a choice of truths to go with them. If you choose not to choose then there is no truth at all. There are only points of view.…”

  “Still, that is no answer.”

  “What if there are no answers? Or if the answers offered are not suitable – what then? Perhaps there are only more questions.”

  VIII

  Going over the breakfront with a dust rag Leah remembered her father’s last illness like a tale that had been told to her by a stranger.

  “Leah – Leah, did you … If – if there is a light …”

  Oh yes. Years, years, years. An unending road of years, each one harder than the last. I had hopes for Wolf at first. Yes, hopes. But do you think that man would even take me to a concert? Or a speaker? Vos fur a Gan Eden! The endless noises of the street, the children shouting at their games, came up to her vaguely, heard but unabsorbed. Leah lay down on the bed. Presently, Noah approached her dimly out of the dark, dark fog into which she wandered, a fog swirling beneath many, heavy seas; and approaching, stroked her not-yet-grey hair and said: There will be a light. A magnificent light. Everything will be all right.

  (Jacob Goldenberg came from Karlin. In those days, and earlier, cities derived their reputation among the Jews, not for their size or industry or politicians, but for the rabbis who presided over them. Karlin, a small community just outside Pinsk, was celebrated for Rabbi Aaron, and later for Rabbi Yitzhok. Jacob Goldenberg was born a poet and, having lived too long in another country, died a character. He immigrated to Montreal in 1902 with his wife, Esther, and settled down in a cold-water flat on St. Urbain Street. There, two children were born to them. Leah and Harry. Jacob taught the children of the other immigrants Talmud, and, on Friday evenings, the other chassidim gathered in his parlour where they studied and sang and sipped lemon tea.)

  Remember that time, remember, when Noah had pneumonia? And how, I ask, did my Noah catch pneumonia? Fighting a whole class of boys yet. Why? Because they were throwing snowballs at Felder the rag pedlar.…

  (Man is the crown of creation. And when the Messiah comes all souls will flow together and return to be united with the Universal Soul, which is God. For the Evil One will be conquered and a New World will be established. Israel Baal Shem Tob, who was the founder of the Chassidic movement, taught that it is man’s highest idea to become the clear manifestation of God on earth. So he created the ideal of the Zaddik, of which he was the first. The Zaddik, or Chassidic saint, fuses his soul with the Oversoul. He contains the largest number of sparks of divinity, and God, who is forever with him, illuminates not only his spiritual life but even his most trivial conversation.)

  Was there a Jew in Montreal who didn’t know – who didn’t have a good word for – Jacob Goldenberg the Zaddik? I can still see him plain as a picture. That nice beard and such deep brown eyes as you never saw and a sort of missingness about his mouth. Oh, father. All right, he gave away most of the small sums he earned. Harry, had he not won a scholarship, would have been unable to go to McGill. But didn’t I adore him? Didn’t I take charge of the household when Maw died in 1918? Who used to save stale bread for him so that on winter mornings he could spread crumbs in the snow for visiting sparrows? Noah, listen, on our long walks through the ghetto people always pointed us out on the streets, and Paw often stoppe
d to give advice or a blessing.

  “Leah – Leah … if you see – if there is a light.”

  Coming home bloody, my boyele, shivering, soaked to the skin. “It’s in His hands,” Dr. Holtzman said. A fine man, Holtzman. Paw taught him the Aleph Beth. So what happened when I had him up one evening with his awful yentah of a wife so that we could talk about old times? Wolf sat in the corner – bored! I remember Lou Holtzman, Wolf said. I remember him when he was a pisher with a running nose delivering milk for his father on St. Dominic Street. So … So he’s the doctor. I should put up a show for him? I am what I am. No shows. Left with a grey oxygen tent, and, inside, a grey-faced boy. Coughing, rasping. Lord, Lord, take me instead. He is only a boy.…

  My father, may he rest in peace, saw beauty in every man.

  “Garbor works on the sabbath,” Herscovitch told him.

  “Poor Garbor. He is so good to his children. So in order to earn a living he must work on the sabbath.”

  “Rosenberg is an atheist,” Felder said.

  “Rosenberg? He who gives so much to the poor? Imagine how much he must suffer being without God.…”

  Remember, Noah? Remember the stories he used to tell: “One Yom Kippur eve when the pious Jews of Berditchev assembled in the synagogue for Kol Nidre, Rabbi Levi Yitzhok did not appear. It was late. The sun had almost set. Can you imagine the state of the congregation? The fear, the anxiety. It grew darker, the time for Kol Nidre had passed, and still no rabbi! Messengers sent off to his home reported back that Rabbi Levi Yitzhok had long since left for the synagogue. Had the soldiers fallen upon him? The Jews scattered through the streets of Berditchev frantically searching for their beloved rabbi. The worst was feared. But, finally, suddenly, he was discovered in a poor man’s hovel bending over the cradle of a howling infant. The infant had been left alone in the house when the parents had gone off to the synagogue.”

  All right, what happened, happened. Around 1925 Paw’s leadership, his popularity, began to slip. But who was the first to notice that there were fewer pupils and a dwindling of disciples in the parlour on Friday evenings? Who? The men – some friends! (I should have a nickel – a penny – for each one of them that he helped.) Fancier rabbis they got themselves. Politer ones. Noah beckoned wildly from within the fog. “A light, Maw. A magnificent light. I see it.” Sure, sure, sure. You think I don’t know he isn’t there – that I’m dreaming?