Son of a Smaller Hero

  Noah avoided Max and Melech as well as Panofsky. He wanted to have something to say when he saw them. Meanwhile he carried the letters, receipts, and photographs about with him like his sins. He often awakened in the middle of the night to reach out for Miriam. Instead there was his father’s body. Toes turned inward. He was too disturbed to get much out of drinking. But he drank with the other drivers. He drank until he realized that he was doing so only because it horrified his mother. Knowing that, he drank less.

  Noah wanted some knowledge of himself that was independent of others.

  He envied the Goldenbergs their convivial home and he wandered among them a masked, carnivorous man. He adored Sheila and hungered for her approval. He wanted his uncle to think that he had ambition and his aunt to think that he had good manners. He wanted Harvey to think that he was an upstanding, conservative man who was speeding towards Canadian mediocrity, towards an identity that would allow him to pass unrecognized, as fast as the best of them. If they would believe all that of him then perhaps he was not diseased and perhaps some of their happiness would rub off on him. So he agreed to everything. Next year, he agreed, he would go to McGill. Harry Goldenberg felt that the St. Lawrence Street Jews should be helped, like the underdeveloped countries. A faithful husband and considerate father, he appeared to be collecting points, as though he expected his documents to be questioned at the gates of heaven. His wife, Rachel, beyond being loyal and a good mother, seemed to be no more than a part of the house, not as pretty as the Wedgwood but more useful than the Bendix. Harvey took her to ballets. The two of them were extremely devoted. Harvey was tall and dark with black curly hair and a wide, intense mouth. He alone avoided Noah. He was well-read, but he did not like to be questioned about his reading. He even denied that he owned a volume of poetry. Noah went out on double dates with Sheila and Larry. And when it became necessary he got himself a “steady.” Marsha Feldman. Noah agreed with Mr. Feldman that communism was against all the laws of human nature and with Mrs. Feldman that men, after all, were men. He discussed premarital relations with Marsha. She felt that one shouldn’t give oneself prior to the ceremony unless there was going to be a ceremony, but Noah balked at the idea of an engagement.

  Oh, he was a miserable flop.

  Noah was so intent on conforming that he conformed too much, and was suspected as an eccentric, a non-believer, by all. He finally realized that the secret of their humanity was that each one had a tiny deviation all his and/or her own. None conformed completely. Marsha, the little bitch, had love being made to her by a McGill quarterback whilst she was trying to hook Noah. (That finally endeared her to him.) His Aunt Rachel obeyed in all things except that she secretly read the most blatantly pornographic literature, and Mrs. Feldman beat her French poodle with a whip. Terror lurked behind their happiness. In fact, they weren’t happy at all: they were composed. Truth was adroitly side-stepped, like a dog’s excrement on the footpath. Harvey was obviously a repressed homosexual. Everybody knew, nobody agreed to see. That lie was the strength that held the Goldenbergs together. Harvey was being helped, damned, to go through life without realizing his sexuality. That made Noah sad and inadvertently led to his estrangement with the Goldenbergs. He spoke to Harvey. He thought it important for Harvey to know that there were people who agreed to see completely, and could still love. He wanted him to know that his being a homosexual did not horrify Noah. But it did horrify Harvey. He denied everything. The family was scandalized.

  “Noah, boyele. Why don’t you go to Harry’s any more?”

  “That’s a long story.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Harvey’s not intelligent enough for you, anyway. But you shouldn’t drink, boyele. People are talking. I don’t want you to shame your father’s name. I …”

  “My father’s name! You despised him all your life, Maw.”

  “We had quarrels. We weren’t exactly right for each other but – Noah, I want you to make something of yourself: I – it’s time we discussed things. I didn’t say anything when you were with Mrs. Hall because I knew that eventually you would realize that you were a Jew and …”

  “Do you think that I left Miriam because she was a shiksa?”

  “I know you did.”

  Noah stared at her. He was frightened. Her eyes gave the impression of immense strength. He realized that she did miss her husband. That after twenty-four years of wrangling … I am not going to replace him for her. I won’t be another of her dead saints that she can take down off her shelves and dust like her bits of china.

  “I’m not going to live so long,” Leah said. “You won’t have to take care of me for years the way I … Oh, never mind. Please get me my medicine. My head is spinning.…”

  “Yes, Maw.”

  Noah spent that night in various downtown bars. He passed the Halls’ apartment and stood outside in the snow again, as he had done under different conditions how many winters ago? Had she returned to him? He didn’t dare ring. The screen door, he remembered, had banged louder than her tears. “You’ll always get away.” Noah tried the Bar Vendôme, but she wasn’t there. Miriam. Oh, Miriam. He went to Gino’s. Gloomy faces floated through punctures in the yellow smoke. The jukebox wailed impersonally. At the far end of the room a young soldier kissed a girl passionately. Noah took out the packet of letters and stared at them. He didn’t have to look at the photographs again – he knew them. I mustn’t shame my father’s name, he thought. He remembered the evening of his quarrel with Miriam. His mother had said that just before Wolf had left for the office somebody had phoned. “The crazy fool,” Wolf had said, “so that’s what he meant.” Why have I never asked her about that, Noah thought. Moore works for Max now. Why? Does Moore know who started the fire? Lou talked about a tin of kerosene that first day. Why had there been no investigation? Noah remembered that last day in Panofsky’s. Fasting, Wolf had said, cleans out the system. “You should visit Zeyda. He’s got plenty of ashcay stored away. He keeps it in a box.” Noah ordered another drink. The wire tightened around his heart again, and a hard lump of something formed in his stomach. A fat man with small loose eyes sat down beside him. His hands made a wet smack as they flopped down on the bar and then curled up in selfish balls. Noah tittered. Poor hero, he thought. The jukebox blared louder. The fat man leaned towards the bartender. “Do you think that angels can really fly?” he asked. The bartender wiped a glass intently. “Do you think …” The fat man exploded with laughter. His pulpy hands opened and shut greedily. Noah stared. The jagged teeth of the shovel had glittered hungrily in the sun. “WOLF ADLER DIED FOR THE TORAH.” Melech had looked at him, his mouth open and his hand pressed to his throat suppressing a scream. That young soldier, floating darkly in the smoke, was watching him. Noah rubbed his hands together anxiously. Did Wolf ever discover what was in the box? Or did he die without knowing – before he could examine the contents? Noah leaned back and laughed. He slapped his lean hands on the bar, compared them with the fat man’s and laughed louder. He rubbed his wet eyes with the back of his wrists. The fat man poked him. “Do you think that angels can really fly?” Noah poked him back. His elbow sank deeply into that enormous mass of softly obscene flesh. The fat man, who seemed to be without bones, exploded with laughter again. A whore with hollow eyes turned to watch them. The fat man slapped Noah on the back, and Noah fell into another paroxysm of laughter. The whore giggled. The fat man’s cheeks quivered. “Son-of-a-bitch,” the bartender said. He burst out laughing. His face wrinkled, and the laughter flowed. That scrawny whore collapsed in Noah’s arms. Her laughter was like a shriek. A small, harried man with rimless glasses grabbed the fat man’s arm. “What happened?” he demanded urgently. The fat man swung his hands up above his shoulders and then, before he could speak, they dropped helplessly to his small knees. Smack. The harried man shook the other man’s arm hysterically. “Tell me,” he pleaded. “What’s the joke?” A gusher of laughter was his reply. He turned pink. The bartender pointed at him and began to howl again. He
doubled up and held his hands to his stomach as though he was in great pain. The fat man collapsed on the bar, wrapping his head in his arms. “Why are you laughing? Please.” The fat man erupted again. Noah giggled. The whore had pressed his hand against her breast. Her tongue licked at his ear. The young soldier approached them out of the haze and smacked Noah on the shoulder. “Join us?” he asked.

  Noah stiffened. The whore looked up. She clung to him possessively.

  “What are you doing in the army?” Noah asked.

  The fat man’s laughter chugged to a halt, ignited again briefly, and then conked out like a dying engine.

  “Got a new broad, eh?”

  Suddenly Noah realized that his arm was around the whore’s waist. Her fingers stroked his neck. They were cold. “Yes,” he said. “Her name’s …”

  “Margo.”

  “Margo, meet Shl …”

  “Jack,” Shloime hissed.

  “Jack,” Noah said lamely.

  “Join us, Jim?”

  Shloime’s table was in a dim corner. There were two green beer bottles. Gold liquid in tall glasses on a drab, brown table. Shloime’s girl was a plump, bleached blonde with big breasts. She was ripely drunk. Shloime sat down beside her and tightened his arm around her like a rope, his hand forming a neat knot on her breast. Her name was Mary. After the Virgin, Shloime said, winking. “You’re terrible,” Mary said. She wiggled. Margo wanted whisky. They ordered two glasses, and some more beer. Noah felt her hand drop to his knee like a dry biscuit.

  “When did you join the army?” Noah asked.

  “Last summer.” Shloime turned to Margo. “Do you think sex is a fad – like night baseball? Or is it here to stay?”

  “That’s Jack Benny’s joke,” Mary said.

  “What are you,” Shloime asked, “one of your mother’s?”

  The drinks arrived. Noah noticed that the small, harried man was still arguing with the fat man. Shloime kissed Mary roughly. Noah touched Margo’s knee reassuringly. He drank.

  “Why weren’t you at my father’s funeral?” Noah asked.

  “I’m sorry. Honest. But I couldn’t get leave. The sarge …”

  “You were in the army then?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “I thought you were in Toronto.”

  Shloime flushed. “Who’re you? J. Edgar Hoover? I was in the army. You can check, if you want.”

  Margo squeezed Noah’s arm. “Talk to me,” she said.

  “You could have got compassionate leave if you were in the army.”

  The jukebox band began a rumba.

  “Do you believe in mental telepathy?” Margo asked.

  “Why did you join the army?”

  Shloime put down his drink and assumed a stern expression. “Liss’n, wiseguy, these are dangerous times. I’m not saying that you or all the other ginks in here are chicken, but me, I love my country.” Noah hadn’t expected that. Shloime noticed that Margo was impressed. “I’m being sent to Germany in two weeks,” Shloime continued. “Did you know that? Liss’n, this town is stinkink wid commies. If there weren’t two ladies around I’d tell you in plain English what we guys are gonna do to dem. Somebody’s gotta protect Canada. I’m willing – if necessary – to lay down my life for freedom. I don’t want my kids brought up in a land run by Panofskys. I wish more people would realize how serious the commie menace is,” he said. “The other day a college professor in …”

  Noah’s attention faltered. Shloime’s speech was an incongruous mixture of newspaper editorials, army lectures, and ghetto fear. Obviously, Shloime had found his level. He was a fully adjusted member. Had Melech Adler abandoned love for the sake of righteousness and come to America to produce this dangerously small man? Was this boy the end-product of religious fanaticism? Noah drank. My father died for money, he thought. Position. But that was a real thing to believe in. “I’m a lady. If we lived in Outremont I could hold my head up.” Was she his murderer?

  “If I had six months to live I’d be too sad to enjoy myself,” Margo said. “Even if I had a million dollars.”

  Shloime ordered more beer. Mary poked Noah. “Stop being such a sad-sack,” she said. “Think of your girl.”

  “Did you hear about the moron who went to bed with a problem on his mind,” Shloime said, “and woke up with the answer in his hand?”

  Mary squirmed with delight. The joke seemed to assume physical proportions for her.

  “Keep it clean,” Margo said.

  Noah began to understand Shloime’s anxiety, the need for all those jokes, at last. Hadn’t he warned Wolf that he would get even? He had been the one who had phoned that night. Noah leaned towards him. “Moore saw you do it,” he said.

  Shloime turned pale.

  “Lay off him,” Mary said.

  “You look just like Paw looked the day he threw me out,” Shloime said.

  “Moore saw you.”

  “Moore saw him,” Mary said. “Now we know why butter costs eighty-seven cents a pound.”

  The jukebox wailed and wailed.

  “How did I know that the crazy fool would run into the …” Shloime’s eyes darted about furtively. “You. Yeah, you. What about you? You left. You didn’t care a damn what happened to the rest of us. That day you found me in de lane you couldn’t get rid of me quick enough. Big favour you done me, eh? You were ashamed of me in front of dat broad. You think I couldn’t tell? Me, I’m stupid. I got leprosy. Don’t you get your balls in an uproar. You didn’t care whether he lived or died. You – you and your commie friends. You and Panofsky. You …”

  Margo’s hollow eyes filled with terror. A scene, she thought. They’ll throw me out again. She gulped down her whisky. “I’m going to the little girl’s room,” she said.

  “… can’t prove nuttin’,” Shloime said.

  Noah gripped his hands together tight. The fury, the pain, raging inside him prevented him from speaking. First there were the poets, he thought. The poets, Jacob Goldenberg, had too much vanity. Then came the religious fanatics. Melech Adler is a coward and without truth. After that a branch split off. Communists. Then, a rivalry for leadership. Harry Goldenberg vs. Max Adler. My father, he remembered, defined me as a Nothing. “Does Max know?” he asked.

  “Nobody knows.”

  “Are you sure Max doesn’t know?”

  Mary wriggled upright, her hands on her hips. “We were gettin’ along just fine – perfect – until you came along. Look, mister, nobody’s …”

  “What are you gonna do?” Shloime asked.

  Noah got up. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Will you shake on that?” Shloime asked.

  “Your pal’s a crybaby,” Mary said, pointing at Noah. “Look at his eyes.”

  “No,” Noah said.

  “Will you gimme your word?” Shloime asked.

  Mary began to snivel, mimicking Noah.

  “I swear on a hundred Bibles that I never dreamed he would …”

  “I know, I know. But …”

  “If he doesn’t stop crying he’ll flood the bar,” Mary said. “Look at his eyes.”

  “Noah, lemme go with you. She’s probably got syph, anyway. I …”

  “You little twerp,” Mary said. “How dare you!”

  “He didn’t mean it.” Noah turned to Shloime. “It’s too late for that. But …” Noah grabbed Shloime desperately. “Get out of the army as soon as you can. Please, Shloime. What you’re …”

  “I’ve never been treated so good as I am in the army.”

  Noah pushed his chair back. He wiped his eyes hastily.

  “Will you promise?” Shloime asked.

  “It wasn’t all your fault. It …”

  “Will you promise not to say anything?”

  “I said I’d do nothing. Let’s leave it at that. I – do I really remind you of Zeyda?”

  “At times.”

  Outside, Noah was startled by the white glare of the snow. There seemed to be an accusing purity about it. The sw
ift night air greeted him like slaps on both cheeks. Snowflakes – Rabbi Milton “Pinky” Fishman’s food for thought – floated downwards heavily. At last Noah understood about the concentration camps. About the Goldenbergs and Harvey The Germans had told the truth when they said that they hadn’t known. They couldn’t cope with knowing. Neither could the Goldenbergs. Their crimes varied in dimension but not in quality. What was he to do? One man, his grandfather, had robbed Leah of innocence by asking for a light: another, his father, had returned her to paradise by dying ambiguously. Should he tell her? She’s dying, he thought. What if her attacks are a ruse? Or self induced? How do I know that she really has a heart condition? He hesitated, and then turned up the stairs to the Maroon Club. A girl got up before the band and sang a blues. She was tall with lots of lechery in her movements. Lyrics wiggled out of her mouth wetly. A rapt man at a ringside table seemed to aim his cigar at her. Loneliness translated into slogans is what she was paid for. Men watched. She warbled. Between her and them there was only a void. As long as neither of them crossed that void there was safety in their shared limbo. She had been hired, she could be dismissed. Singing, the girl withdrew her hips from so many imaginary thrusts. Noah felt that she had promised better than she paid. He left. Outside again, the night seemed less hostile. Here, there were honourable agreements too. The distance between you and the stars was fixed. The moon wasn’t figuring to collide with the earth. You could put your trust in the Montreal Transport Company to get you home, and lasting out a night earned you another day.