The Time of the Uprooted: A Novel

  After the meeting, Gamaliel went to him and introduced himself as a correspondent for a major European magazine.

  “You want to interview me?” the rabbi asked. “Of course, anytime, anyplace. Will you be bringing a photographer?”

  The interview took place the following day in the rabbi’s study. There were many books on the shelves, but also photos of the rabbi alongside celebrities in the arts and prominent Israelis. Actually, it was a monologue, not an interview. The rabbi clearly loved the sound of his own voice. But, Gamaliel asked himself, is that reason enough to help his adversary demolish his reputation, especially since the rabbi himself seems to be doing such a good job of it? A vague feeling of pity came over him, and he decided to reject the Detroit rabbi’s offer.

  Eve tossed her head back, and, laughing, she applauded him. “I’m richer than your rabbi. I’ll pay you back for what you lost by turning down his offer. But in return, you have to write a book that will be just for me.”

  In Eve, a sense of humor went hand in hand with a sensibility that mingled sadness with an urgent need for tenderness and calm. A book just for her? There was one: the Song of Songs.

  “Someday I’ll show you my manuscript,” Gamaliel told her. “The book will be my gift to you. You’ll read it, you’ll see. I hope you’ll like it. It’s a book that no one else could write or even imagine. A book whose words make you dream.”

  In his book Gamaliel recounted his father’s last words, his mother’s caresses, Ilonka’s great soul.

  He described the first woman who introduced him to love, the first time he saw the body of a woman ready for pleasure.

  He related the somber and terrible event that befell the “Blessed Madman,” precursor to the Messenger, Rebbe Zusya.

  He expressed what Gamaliel had heard around him: Under God’s creation, to paraphrase Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav, the greatest of the Hasidic storytellers, everything that exists in this world has a heart, and that heart has a heart that is the heart of the world. According to this Sage, sound becomes voice, voice becomes song, and song becomes story. If only we lend an ear, we will hear what is all around us. The leaves of the trees speak to the grass, the clouds signal one another, and the wind carries secrets from one land to the next. One must learn to listen; that is the key to mystery.

  And Gamaliel would discover that key, he promised Eve. He would find the voice and let it be heard.

  “Perhaps I’m that key of which you speak so eloquently,” said Eve.

  Yes, it was she.

  He would use that key to unlock the nocturnal gates to her body and his soul. And they would attain a happiness rooted in humanity that would flow on forever.

  GAMALIEL HAD A DREAM:

  I am running like a madman through a town I’ve never seen, where everyone enjoys peace. The children speak like wise elders, the women are radiant with beauty, and the merchants are overflowing with generosity as they hand out their precious goods. Everything is free. Where have I come to, and why? I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Someone must have brought me here. As punishment, or reward? I stop a bearded man and ask, “What am I doing here among you?” He shakes my hand warmly and starts laughing. “Oh, how funny you are!” He stops other passersby and says, pointing at me, “See how funny he is, this visitor. Isn’t he funny? Let’s all thank him for being so funny!” I go to a young man and ask, “What do you think about my being here among you?” The young man reaches in his pocket, pulls out a gold piece, and hands it to me. “This is a gift for you, stranger, because you are a gift to us. But be aware that you can’t use it—it’s worthless here.” A woman dressed with disarming simplicity signals that she wants to talk to me. She looks familiar. I know those eyelids, those lips, those gestures. But who is she? “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” she says invitingly. “Yes, for a long time I’ve been dreaming of being in your arms. And you?” “As for me,” I say in my dream, “it’s a long time since I stopped dreaming.” At that, she bursts out laughing and leans toward me to touch my lips. “Don’t say anything, just listen. My name is Eve. I am the first and—”

  Gamaliel started, then awoke, overwhelmed. Eve was sleeping restlessly, her sleep punctuated from time to time by a sigh of pain or perhaps fear; he had no way of knowing which. Should I wake her? he wondered. Better wait; maybe she’ll calm down. She murmured words he could not understand. Suddenly, she cried out, opened her eyes, looked around in the half-light. Their eyes met. She seemed surprised to find him by her side.

  “You were having a nightmare,” he told her.

  “That happens,” she said in a tired voice.

  “Would you like me to turn on the light?”

  “No, it’s better in the dark.”

  He told her his dream. She professed surprise. “A town where the people live in peace?”

  “That can only happen in a dream,” he said. He recited lines by the Yiddish poet Papiernikov:

  “ ‘In dreams everything is better and more beautiful

  In dreams the sky is bluer than blue.’ ”

  “Yes,” she said. “In our dreams.”

  “And you were waiting for me since the beginning of time. I loved that ending.”

  She did not answer. Then she whispered, “In my dream I saw my husband and my daughter.”

  When dawn came, they had not yet fallen asleep.

  9

  EVE GOT ON WELL WITH GAMALIEL’S PALS. SHE took an immediate interest in their activities on behalf of refugees and offered to help, financially at first, then in other ways. She had many connections among lawyers and the press, and she knew whom to call on when it could be useful.

  She particularly liked Diego. The gutsy little Lithuanian-Jew-Spaniard entertained her with his bawdy stories and his memories of the Spanish Civil War, his days as an anarchist— then and in the French Foreign Legion. “Oh,” she would exclaim, “I’d have given a lot to see you there!” “In Spain,” Diego answered, “you’d have made war as a dancer for us or a spy against them. But that’s all. They didn’t take women.” “I’d have disguised myself as a man,” Eve shot back.

  Diego had a peculiar sense of humor. He avoided opening his mouth too wide in order not to show the damage done by Franco’s police, but he would laugh to the point of tears even when he was telling her how much he hated fascists and Stalinists. “Sometimes,” he would say, “I couldn’t tell which of them I most distrusted. The fascists killed their enemies out in the open, in street fights; the Stalinists executed their own allies in secret, in cellars, with a shot in the back of the head. Funny? You could die laughing.”

  One day, Diego told them this story. “I had a pal, Juan, an antifascist, like me, only a bigger model, a real giant. Actually, what we both were above all was anarchists. Power, any kind of power, that’s what we couldn’t stand; authority made us sick. We were ardent disciples of Nechayev and Bakunin; we wanted to live and die, make war and make love, all with joy. No long faces for us. That’s what the Stalinists couldn’t tolerate; they were incapable of humor. You had to see them: solemn all day long, stupidly, vulgarly serious. They were closemouthed and grim, as if they were disgusted with themselves, even when they were singing, even when they were dancing to celebrate the eternal glory of the great Soviet fatherland. You’d wonder how they made love. Juan and I were captured by Franco’s forces, but we managed to escape on the very first night. The guard heard us laughing, so he wanted to know what we were doing. We dropped our voices. He came closer to hear; then he started to laugh also. He laughed so much, he stopped paying attention. So we jumped him. We disarmed him and gagged him. We never stopped laughing, but he did.”

  Eve kissed him on the cheek. “Bravo, Diego! I wish more than ever that I’d been there.” Then, more seriously, she added, “I wonder what I would have done. I just don’t know.” Diego replied, “Sure you do: You’d have laughed with us.” Eve leaned toward him. “And Juan, what became of him?” Diego’s expression darkened. He said, tig
ht-lipped, in a husky voice, “I’d rather not talk about it.” Eve persisted. “Come on, Diego.” “Juan,” Diego said, and again: “Juan.” Then: “Juan is dead.” “How did he die?” “Not now, some other time.” Eve stared at him insistently. “Juan was tortured and killed.” Diego said it all in a rush. “Assassinated. Not by the fascists. He was executed by their enemies, those brutes who were our comrades-in-arms—the Communists. On orders from Moscow.” Eve took his hand and held it for a long moment. “I’m sad for you, Diego.” He shook himself and said, “I told you: It’s enough to make you die laughing.”

  Eve spent a lot of time with the little group of onetime refugees. She found them entertaining, and refreshing in their refusal to conform to the norms of society. Yasha, the shameless jokester, amused her with his funny stories about the Gulag, and Bolek, whom she had known for many years, had become her friend and confidant. With Yasha, she shared a love of cats. Yasha’s was named Misha, and he was so quick and intelligent that when he was playing, it seemed as if he had his master’s sense of humor. Yasha’s beaming face when Misha, purring, would lick his cheek was a sight to behold. “Yasha,” Eve said to him one day, half-joking, “women would all be yours if you loved them as much as you do that little cat.” “They already are mine,” Yasha said, “because of my cat.” He was convinced that Misha was the reincarnation of a medieval clown, a dwarf known as Srulik the Giant, whose mission it was to cheer up the sad at heart.

  For some time, Eve had been paying particular attention to Bolek. She guessed that he had a secret, which piqued her curiosity. “He’s a purist at heart, and so he’s in distress,” she explained to Gamaliel. “He’s in search of himself,” Gamaliel replied, “but in other people.” His friends were always impressed with how unruffled Bolek was in his calm state, and how disconsolate he could be when he was depressed. Sometimes he would be full of energy and enthusiasm. Gamaliel pointed out how happy he was with Noémie, and his joyous pride when he talked about their daughter, Leah. “True,” Eve acknowledged, “but even so . . . might he have a mistress?” Gamaliel laughed. “No, not Bolek. He’s easily infatuated, but it never goes any further.” “Problems with his health?” “No, at least I don’t think so.” “Money problems?” “No, not that, either.” Eve persisted. “Nonetheless, my instinct is seldom wrong. I know how to decipher the look on a person’s face. I can sense it when someone is going around with a secret.”

  Bolek told Eve about the tragedy in his life one day when she invited him to lunch. Gamaliel was away. Bolek came to her apartment, where every piece of furniture testified to wealth and a restrained, unerring taste. She poured him a drink. They sat chatting of this and that in the living room, sitting in front of a chessboard, on which the pieces were arrayed in an unfinished game. Abruptly, Eve leaned forward and looked him in the eyes. “We have half an hour before we should leave for the restaurant. Do you want to talk now, or after?”

  “Why not now?” Bolek said, unsuspecting.

  “Fine.” Eve took a deep breath, as if to gather her strength. “Now listen to me, Bolek, and don’t interrupt,” she said in a voice that she knew how to make persuasive. “Let me say some things that you may find annoying. Your friends love you and are loyal to you. As for me, I have never felt so close to you. You know that you mean a lot to me. The fact that I’m talking to you like this proves it.” Eve paused a moment. “You can put on an act with others, but not with me.”

  “Why do you say—”

  “I asked you to hear me out. Then it’ll be your turn to talk. I sense something, but I don’t know what it is. Like everyone, you wear a mask, and I want to tear yours off. Are you suffering? I believe you are. Why do you hide your pain from those around you? Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I know about suffering. And the need to hide it, I know about that, too.”

  Bolek stiffened. He gazed at her without trying to avoid her eyes. Then all at once, he gave in. “Eve . . . you’re incredible,” he said in a low voice, suddenly stammering, he who always expressed himself so clearly. “Really and truly . . . insightful . . . perfect vision . . . How do you . . . You’re the only one in the world . . . the only one to sense it . . . to guess. Even my closest friends, even Gamaliel, they don’t know about it. . . . Noémie, she doesn’t know, either. I mean, she doesn’t know everything. It’s better that way. . . . I’ve been like this . . . since the war. . . . Why depress her? Besides, there’s nothing she could do. I know, I’m keeping her in the dark. . . . It’s unfair. . . . Actually, I’m denying her the right to participate, to take . . . I can’t help it. I love her too much. I fear for her. I pretend all’s well. I keep my worries to myself. . . . You all have your own troubles; why should I add mine? But you . . .” And now Bolek told Eve what was haunting him: Leah, his child, his treasure, his joy, his life—well, she was in great difficulty, and that was making him, her father, unhappy, too.

  With Bolek’s permission, Eve told Gamaliel his story. Later on, he would say to Gamaliel that if he was able to tell Eve this most intimate and painful of secrets, it was because of the conversation they had had about Bolek’s experience in the ghetto. Also, there was his liking for Eve. Besides, Eve knew how to listen, and a woman understands some things better than a man.

  Leah, Leah’s story, Leah’s suffering and her misfortune, how could her father keep it to himself without breaking his own heart?

  Leah had had a car accident, then spent several weeks in a hospital, where they gave her painkillers. Soon she needed the pills to sleep, to eat, to read, to watch television, to talk to her parents, to her friends. Morphine became her daily bread. By the time she left the hospital, she was addicted. Then there was cocaine, heroin, failed detox programs. This university teacher, who had been headed for a brilliant career, had to resign her position: Her prolonged absences had become unacceptable. Journals returned her manuscripts. She was no longer invited to international conferences. Her career shattered, she abandoned herself to the abyss, encouraged by her partner, whom Bolek could no longer abide. He was convinced that Samaël’s one objective was to gain control of the family’s wealth.

  Samaël. Malevolent, shady, unsettling, a man without a soul. But when he met him, Gamaliel had no idea that Samaël was going to pillage his life.

  Eve introduced them. She had met Samaël as a favor to Bolek, who was trying to detach him from his daughter. “Have lunch with him when he comes to New York,” Bolek asked her. “Then tell me what you think of him.” Out of kindness, Eve agreed. Gamaliel would never find out what happened at that first meeting. No doubt it was not unpleasant, since the two began meeting more and more often. Gamaliel did not worry about it, asking her only what was so special about this person whom she spent so much time with. “Tell you what,” she said. “Join us next time.”

  At their first meeting, in a restaurant, Samaël did not arouse Gamaliel’s suspicion. Indeed, he found him interestingly provocative. He was elegant, well-spoken, courteous, and very virile; Gamaliel thought he must be successful with women. In his dark gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie, he looked like a Wall Street banker. Self-confident but not condescending, he commanded respect with his fluent speech and his almost encyclopedic knowledge. Whatever the topic—history, literature, or music—Samaël had something to say about it. He enjoyed pleasing people and winning them over.

  At the time, Gamaliel didn’t know what Samaël did for a living, only that business brought him frequently to New York. Eve saw him more and more often, and Gamaliel did not object: They respected each other’s freedom. Besides, the purpose was to help Bolek by helping his daughter. Eve did not as yet know what form that aid might take, but after each lunch with Samaël, she reported in detail to the anxious father. The topic at these lunches was always Leah: the state of her health, the possibility she could recover. “I’m her best chance,” Samaël would say. “She loves me and I love her.” When she told Bolek this, he commented, “He’s her bad luck. He’s her curse.” He was convinced Samaël was destroying
his daughter by keeping her addicted to drugs and trading on her heightened emotional susceptibility. Bolek said he would be eternally grateful to Eve if she succeeded in separating the two, for then anything would be possible. Leah’s rescue could come only through Eve.

  ”Bolek may well be right,” Gamaliel said to Eve. “Your role in this tragic business strikes me as useful—indeed, fundamental. But in that case, isn’t Leah the one you should be seeing? She’s the one who’s sick, who needs help.” Eve agreed but said she had to start somewhere. Later on, she would go to Chicago; she would speak with Leah. She considered herself on a sacred mission, and indeed she was gone more and more frequently, visiting both Samaël and Leah. Where was Gamaliel in all this? He missed her. He loved her, whatever she believed. Eve was his last love. She brought him what Esther had denied him: sensual satisfaction, joy and pleasure to the point of exhaustion. With Esther, it had been the joining of two souls in love with chastity. With Eve, it was the satisfaction of two beings’ appetites, two who could not imagine leaving each other. That, too, is love, Gamaliel thought. A different kind of love, yes. But after all, each kind of love is as unique as each kind of suffering. To compare is to make them commonplace.

  Still, he was not so blind he did not realize that, despite the evidence of love she gave him at night, Eve was beginning to drift away from him. When she would remain silent, it was not because she was reflecting, but because her thoughts had turned to Samaël, and when she looked at Gamaliel, it seemed to him she was just verifying that he was still there. Could he, should he, have said something to warn her, to point out the risk she was running? That she was going to have to choose between two men—the one who was making their friend’s daughter miserable, and the other, who gave the most beautiful of offerings, self-denial and fidelity in love? But she could not love as much as she was loved. Was she afraid of love because she had been widowed? Gamaliel had no idea. Would Eve prefer to call it an affair or a friendship? She refused to use any of those words. “Words limit our existence by claiming to define it,” she would say. “Let’s leave them where they are, in the dictionary.” Gamaliel had his own views on that—he knew the subject all too well. But, to lighten the mood, he reminded her that Diogenes also distrusted words. He criticized Plato’s dialogues as too long, and Plato himself detested books because one couldn’t ask them questions. They were both wrong, in Gamaliel’s opinion. And what did Eve think about that? She made a gesture, indicating that this was not a time for Gamaliel to be showing off his erudition, not a time to be discussing dead philosophers, but Leah, who was alive, and Bolek, who was alive. So Eve went on seeing Samaël. Out of pride or resignation, Gamaliel decided to stay out of the way. He kept telling himself, naïvely, that things would work out eventually, that he must be patient, wait for a miracle. So, mistakenly, he waited, and he paid dearly for his mistake.