written in the early 1970's
Mr. Feldman awoke at six o'clock that cloudy June morning although his old alarm clock had not been wound since his retirement, more than six months past. For the first carefree days of his retirement the silent clock on his bedside table had been a symbol of his new freedom. Now he was torn from sleep by a far more sinister alarm; waiting with a sense of dread for the sound of the postman's footsteps on the front porch of the old, three-storey brick house. Once the home of a prosperous broker, the house had escaped the fate of most of its contemporaries by being converted into apartments during the depression years. Mr. Feldman had been the first occupant of Apartment 1B, first floor left, which was not quite so large as 1A, occupied by old Mrs. Grosz, the owner of the house.
In all that time, Mr. Feldman and his landlady had exchanged only a few sentences. Once, during the extra-cold winter three years before, he had ventured to complain that the heating was inadequate; she had replied with the suggestion he wear another sweater. Since then he had ceased to complain, although the house, like its owner, was showing increasing signs of old age and neglect.
Mrs. Grosz, a little old wrinkled prune of a woman, was shrewd enough to know that her quiet, long-term tenant would move from his familiar surroundings only as a last resort. She knew also that Mr. Feldman kept the bedroom-study of his late father, Rabbi Nathan Feldman, just as the old man had left it when he died, twelve years ago. Like most landladies, Mrs. Grosz had ways and means of discovery unsuspected by their tenants.
As he threw the bedclothes aside that morning, Mr. Feldman could not help smiling at the irony of his true state - hidden, so far, from everyone but himself. In the eyes of his cronies in the Barrington Chess Club, the East Side Bridge Club, and the fund-raisers of various charity organizations, he was a successful businessman, rather shy and reserved, but generous.
"After all," said Mrs. Bronstein, who had just collected a substantial check from him for the Jewish Orphan Relief Society, "Feldman can afford to be generous; he has no family, never goes on holiday, and has a good business." And only the night before at the Chess Club, his friend Meyer the jeweller had clapped him on the back and said "How I envy you, Feldman, able to retire at only fifty-eight! I wish I had your ability. When are you going on that world cruise you've been promising yourself all these years?" To this, Mr. Feldman could only smile modestly and mumur, "One of these days - just a few odds and ends of the business to tidy up, and then, off I go!"
The truth was, the fund he had set aside as provision for the trip was already melting like a snowball in July.
M. Feldman padded out to the kitchen to make his coffee; he didn't want to lay in bed and think how great a fool and failure he had been. His father, a gentle, white-bearded old scholar, had instilled in his son a belief in the essential honesty and good will of the human race. That love conquered all. The shock the old man received when the whole, horrible story of the Nazi extermination camps became known, doubtless hastened his death. His son was no scholar, and as a result of his upbringing entered the harsh world of commerce with a tendency to believe others were as honest as himself. Aside from this flaw, he seemed to be doing very well, until, in the fifty-eighth year of his life, an unpleasant discovery was made. His oldest and most trusted employee, Mrs. Lampman, with the connivance of Bernie Stone, a young man whom Mr. Feldman had treated almost as a son, had defrauded Feldman Imports Co. of at least one hundred thousand dollars, perhaps more. When two young men who had been teachers, pooled their resources and offered to buy the company, Mr. Feldman, whose heart was no longer in it, accepted their offer. They gave him half the purchase price in cash, the rest was to be paid, with interest, in monthly payments over seven years.
As he carefully measured the coffee - five level tablespoons to five cups of water - a glance out the window told him the gloomy prediction of the weather forecaster was right. It was to be another cool, cloudy day, threatening rain; no sort of weather for June.
It was just such a day, six months before, when in a little ceremony he had handed over the keys of the business to the new owners and bade farewell to his staff, many of whom had tears in their eyes. Missing from the melancholy group were Mrs. Lampman and Bernie Stone; they had disappeared after the auditors discovered the fraud. Their victim refused to prosecute, asking only that they stay out of his sight forever.
In a few moments the contented burbling of the percolator served as a reminder of his own happiness the first few days of his retirement. Then the bills cam; bills for supplies received and signed for by Mrs. Lampman, but not in inventory. At first he had protested there must be some mistake. But there was no mistake, and he was responsible for payment. To make maters worse, the new owners had made only one payment, claiming the recession and increased costs made it difficult for them. Now Mr. Feldmna began to experience a sense of panic; the everlasting bills; no money coming in; savings melting away. "Your life has been a failure," he said aloud, "you're a fool, playing at being an executive. Schmuck!" Rather than face his self-condemnation, or the dreary day ahead, he turned on the television, it was time for the Jimmy Burns Show.
Jimmy Burns was a hearty, broadchested type in tight-fitting jersey and pants, whose morning keep-fit program was obviously designed for a female audience, judging by his line of chatter. For a few minutes Feldman followed the exercises supposed to slim his waistline, until he saw his own reflection in the mirror. His short, tubby frame and balding head was in such sharp contrast to the television performer that he snapped off the set in disgust.
As he sipped his first cup of coffee he remembered with a start that Mrs. Bronstein was to call that morning. He must tidy up a bit before she came. Tidying the apartment and dressing would keep him from thinking on his troubles for the rest of the morning; he was almost grateful for the visit, though he knew she was probably only seeking another donation.
He was not quite ready when the doorbell startled him - Mrs. Bronstein was early. He had known her when she was Sarah Schwartz, the thin, gawky daughter of Sam Schwartz, the owner of Schwartz Scrap Iron and Metal Co. Now she was the plump, expensively-dressed wife of J.C.Bronstein, the President of Bronstein Developments and a millionaire.
As Mr. Feldman suspected, she was calling on him for another donation; he noticed her shrewd eyes darting about the room, taking in at a glance the over-stuffed furniture, all out of style; the Currier & Ives prints on the wall, the shelves of well-thumbed travel books, the lace curtains now turned brown from tobacco fumes. But she smiled at him, almost kindly, as he handed her his pledge for an amount he could not afford. Wagging a plump finger, flashing with jewelled rings, she chided, "Really, Feldman, you must get out of your rut. Do you want to be the richest man in the cemetery?" For an awful instant, he was tempted to tell her the truth, but then his pride took hold and he merely shrugged. "Well anyway," she added after a moment's silence, "promise you will come to my place tonight, we're showing a film on our work, very interesting. it shows many scenes from the bad times."
"Yes, yes, I'll be there," promised Mr. Feldman, wanting to get rid of her as soon as possible. She made him feel uneasy.
Mrs. Bronstein did not believe him. "Be sure and come, you are getting to be a regular hermit." Then she was gone, leaving a hint of her expensive perfume in the somewhat musty air of the room.
There was the sound of footsteps in the hall and then the voices of Dr. Ehrlichman and his daughter, speaking in German, which was also Mr. Feldman's half-forgotten mother tongue. Ehrlichman was a young, bearded professor from Germany who lived on the second floor with his blond wife and two children, a boy of seven and a girl five years old. He could hear Ehrlichman bid farewell to his daughter, and after the front door closed on the father, there was a timid knock on Mr. Feldman's door. It was little Anna calling for her chocolate. This was a morning ritual with them ever since Mr. Feldman had retired. Anna came in and chose a chocolate after great deliberation, chattering a mixture of German and English all the while. Waving farewell, she ran gaily up the carpeted stairs. Just as Mr. Feldman closed the door he heard a thump, and the frightened cries of the little one - she had fallen on the steps and rolled to the bottom. Rushing out, he picked up the child and started to carry her up the stairs. They were met by Mrs. Ehrlichman, in kimono and hair-curlers, who rushed down and snatched the little girl from his arms, casting for an instant an accusing glance. Then turning her back to him without saying a word, she disappeared with the sobbing child.
The little incident left him with a vague feeling of depression; somehow it had been hinted that it was his fault. As he returned to his apartment he noticed the mailman had come and gone. With a sense of relief Mr. Feldman saw there were no letters in his box, not even junk mail.
Although it was late June, a cold wind blew down the street, and a discouraged sun had disappeared behind a grey veil of cloud. At one end of the block a group of officeworkers waiting at the bus stop sprouted umbrellas like a clump of variegated mushrooms. Disappointed, Mr. Feldman returned to his suite. "There'll be no walk in the park today," he thought.
Avoiding a glance in the mirror, he shuffled into his bedroom; the weariness of the day had affected his spirits and he felt suddenly tired. Throwing a blanket over his head, he lay fully-clothed on his bedspread; the dark warmth comforted him, and he slept.
Mr.Feldman awoke with a start - throwing his blanket aside he looked at the clock - he had slept for hours! The dream, almost a nightmare, really, had awakened him. He had been a child again, wandering alone in a vast, empty corridor, so long that he could not see the end of it. On the walls so far as he could see were closed doors, thousands of them; the rooms of the dead, he knew. And he was dead, too, a helpless child. In his loneliness and fear he found himself crying out "Mama, Mama," a cry echoing and re-echoing in that endless hall of the dead. At first there was no answer, then slowly, a door began to open, and the child who was Mr. Feldman ran toward it. His mother was in there, he knew; in a moment she would appear and take him in her arms as she had done, so long ago.
Shaking off the effects of the dream, as a dog shakes himself after a swim in the lake, he arose and looked out the window. The rain had stopped; droplets of water still clung to the worm-scarred leaves of the scrawny lilac bush struggling for survival alongside the house. Most of the people in the street had folded their umbrellas, except for two old ladies who were taking no chances, lest the rain re-commence at any moment.
Hastily Mr. Feldman dressed himself in his most prosperous-looking suit, for today he must go to his bank and withdraw enough cash to keep him for another week. His refrigerator was almost empty.
Dressed in his best suit, carrying his furled umbrella like a walking stick, he felt much better. Walking briskly, he smiled at the people he met on the street. Some smiled at him in return, some quickly averted their gaze as if he threatened them in some way, most walked by unseeing, their eyes a blank. One grizzled panhandler dressed in a dirty shirt and beer-stained pants several sizes too large was so surprised to see a prosperous-looking businessman greet him with a smile, that he forgot to whine "any spare change, mister?" By the time he realized his mistake, Mr. Feldman had walked past.
Mr.Feldman withdrew forty dollars in fives from his dwindling account. Somehow the little roll of bills gave him comfort. It should, if he was careful, last him a week. He might see a movie, if one could be found that did not concern itself with violence or disaster.
The clouds began to spit droplets of rain aain. He dodged into a library, where he joined a group of seedy, ill-dressed old men, smelling vaguely of damp cloth and cheap laundry sopap. They looked as if they had been there ever since the library was built in 1890, thumbing through the newspapers or nodding over soiled magazines. "Spare me from such a fate," he muttered as he passed swiftly through that section. In a few minutes Mr. Feldman was crossing the Kalahari Desert with Van Der Post, all fears forgotten as he travelled the magic carpet of imagination. A description of a meal in the desert reminded him that he had not eaten that day. Mindful of the limited ration of money in his pocket, he entered a self-service cafeteria and bought himself two slices of bread and a bowl of bean soup from a bored and untidy woman who presided over the steam tables. Carrying his tray, he searched for a table already occupied by someone with whom he could strike up a coversation. Most were occupied by old men like those in the library, a few by couples, and in one corner a young man sat alone at a large table, spooning pork and beans into his mouth, washing them down with periodic sips from a large bottle of a sickly-green-tinted soft drink.
"Miserable day for this time of year," observed Mr. Feldman by way of opening a conversation. Pehaps he could learn something about the thoughts of the younger generation from this youth who wore a sweatshirt printed with the name of a University unknown to Feldman. But the student made no indication that he had heard, so Feldman asked "Are you from out of town?" No answer. The young man gave all his attention to sopping up the juice from his plate with a piece of bread.
Mr. Feldman, having been rejected, sadly finished his soup and hurried outside into the friendlier street without so much as another glance at the young man.
"So that is what is in store for you, Feldman," he muttered aloud, "all alone after fifty years among all these thousands of people." Noticing a policeman staring at him, he hurried on in embarassment. The sight of a uniform always made him slightly uneasy, for no reason all.
Consulting his watch, he saw he had time to walk to Mrs. Bronstein's meeting. They wouldn't suspect he came that distance on foot, and he could leave in a cab. And the exercise would be good for him.
Ordinarily, he would have avoided Sarah Bronstein's film like the plague, but tonight anything seemed better than spending an evening alone. He remembered it was after seeing such a film that his father had become so lost and depressed, as if the whole scaffold of his life had been knocked from under him.
The clouds had finally lifted and daylight saving time gave Mr. Feldman a chance to enjoy his walk. The little parks sounded with the shouts of children released from the imprisonment of school; stout men in pants and undershirts sat drinking beer on their front steps, old men and women congregated in little groups wherever there was a bench; a young girl in a long, shapeless dress tried to press a religious tract on him; even the automobile drivers, encased in their ton of steel, wore a more relaxed look. All this would vanish with the coming of darkness, he knew, but the relaxed mood of the city and the fresher air lifted his spirits once more. Only the ever-increasing soreness of his feet reminded him that man had not yet evolved a foot capable of dealing with concrete.
The Bronsteins had a large penthouse suite in one of their own apartment buildings. Because he was shy of meeting crowds of strangers, Mr. Feldman was relieved to find the room already in semi-darkness. Taking advantage of this, he slipped into the very back row where he could take his shoes off without anyone noticing. Then the last drape was pulled, the dim light switched off, and the film began.
Suddenly, in the comfortable room, and before that comfortable audience, the faces appeared. Faces old and young; of beautiful children; of bearded grandfathers and kerchiefed grandmothers; of labourers and professional men; scientists and musicians; the anxious faces of mothers, clasping their babies in their arms. Pitiful faces expressing hope, not fear. They seemed to say, "This, our degradation, must pass. They can't do any worse to us, better times will come." Then little boys were shown, being made to disgorge from hiding places in their clothing the vegetables they had been trying to smuggle in to their starving families. Their little faces showed no fear, although they must have known the penalty for their "crime" was a firing squad within minutes of capture.
Mr. Feldman felt a tightening in his chest, as if the ice cold claw of some monstrous bird clutched him there. Tears came to his eyes; tears of pity and anger; then tears of shame - shame for all mankind; of himself - how small his troubles were in comparison to the horror of Warsaw!
Now appeared the smug faces of German guards, as they slammed and locked the doors of the cattle cars with their sardine-packed loads of humanity on their last journey to Treblinka and the ovens. THEY knew, those guards. They knew what was in store for those poor, hopeful people. Feldman realized this, and a wave of nausea crept up from his belly. God! Don't let me faint and make an exhibition of myself, he pleaded silently.
Just in time, his attention was once more drawn to the glistening screen. They were fighting back, those few who were left in the Ghetto! A brave handful of desperate men and women challenging the great siege guns and rumbling, death-spitting tanks of the German army with swarms of helmeted infantry, Hitler's agents of death and destruction to a thousand cities of Europe. Their faces had lost all traces of smugness, for thousands were to die before they crushed the pitiful, ill-armed and starving heroes of the Ghetto.
By this time the tension in the room had reached a climax, many were sobbing in the darkness. Now the scene changed abruptly to quite different faces; the proud and handsome faces of Israeli youth, learning new skills, training for defence, enjoying a carefree holdiay; a well-nourished, confident race, ready to overcome all obstacles. At last the film was over.
Blinking in the blazing light, Feldman rose, nodded to Bronstein, and rushed out of the room. "Mr. Feldman!" someone called afterhim, but he did not answer. The security guard at the door hailed a taxi for him. Slumped silently in the rear seat, Mr. Felman was soon being rushed through the now-darkenedstreets. the tough old driver seemed to sense his passenger's mood, and offered no conversation as the lights of the city flashed by. "Stop!" cried Mr. Feldman, when they were within a few blocks of his hom. "I'll walk the rest of the way." The driver sighed, but braked to a halt nevertheless. These old guys, he thought, trying to save a few nickels. "Better watch it, Mac, the streets are not too safe around here."
For an instant, Feldman hesitated, the note of concern in the driver's voice touched him. "No thanks, I'll be alright."
There were few people on the streets. Young couples, holding hands, late shoppers carrying loaves of bread or cartons of milk, a police cruiser Mr. Feldman strode heedlessly by them all. Finally he turned into his own block, which was empty except for a young man swaggering towards him. For the first time since leaving Bronsteins he paid attention to another person.
Even as a youth, Mr. Feldman had been short and plump, with thin hair. Not that he was a heavy eater, far from it. But try as he might by dieting and exercises, he was never able to attain the slimness he desired. Pretty girls don't want men like me - they go for fellows like this one, he thought. And for an instant he felt a wave of self-pity. The young man was close, now; tall, with thick, long dark hair; wearing tight-fitting clothes that accentuated his slim hips and broad shoulders, he walked with a sort of male truculence. Stupid young stud, Feldman thought, and then smiled to himself....... sour grapes!
The next instant he felt a strong grip on his left arm, a rough hand seized his throat, and a voice hissed in his ear "Give me your wallet, old man."
Mr. Feldman reached obediently for his pocket, he remembered the admonitions of the police - Don't Resist! And then the scenes of the Warsaw Ghetto flashed through his mind. The cry, "Don't Resist, Don't Resist! had echoed and re-echoed down through the centuries, while his ancestors were being robbed and humiliated, just as he was now. Instantly he was filled with an enormous rage and strength, and with a powerful twist he threw the young man to the pavement. As in a dream in slow motion, Feldman saw the youth reach for a knife; he knew in a flash that he was in terrible danger. Without thinking, he saw himself kicking the handsome face in the teeth, followed by another in the groin. The youth curled up on himself in agony, a front tooth glittered beside the now-abandoned knife. One more kick to the ribs, and Mr. Feldman saw that his antagonist was now helpless. As quickly as it had come, his new-found strength drained away, heart pounding, knees shaking violently, uncontrollably. He leaned against a fence, and his breath came in great sobs.
As if by magic, a crowd had gathered; a woman's voice said "I seen the whole thing, I called the police already." His friend Meyer rushed up and embraced him. "You alright, Feldman? Come with me, I'll get you a glass of brandy."
Feldman didn't answer at first. Slowly, he bent down and picked up his umbrella. As he reached for his hat which lay crushed and dirty beside the moaning youth, a pretty girl seized it, brushed it back into shape, and handed it to him.
"No, thank you all the same, Meyer, I want to go home now, it's been a long day." And as he slowly walked away from the little crowd he heard the pretty girl say, with admiration in her voice, "What a man he is!" "Yeah," the woman answered, "I'll bet this young punk here thought he'd tangled with a tiger."
A police siren wailed in the distance, coming closer, as Mr. Feldman unlocked his door. The day had not turned out too badly, he thought. For the present he would relax in his easy chair, until the trembling in his knees would stop.
No sooner was he seated when there was a sharp rap on his door. Probably the police, he thought. "Come in, it's not locked." But it was not the police. Instead, framed in the doorway was the tall, bearded figure of Dr. Ehrlichman. He wasted no time on formalities. "Mr. Feldman?" "Yes, what can I do for you?" "I understand you've been giving candy to my children?" Mr. Feldman nodded.
"I must ask you to stop this practise at once," Ehrlichman added coldly. Mr. Feldman leapt out of his chair as if it had suddenly become red hot. With a voice of surprising venom he cried, "Get out of here, you --- murderer!"
Ehrlichman stepped back in surprise and fear, for the little man was trembling with rage, fists clenched, ready to spring like a panther. Without a word the professor turned and fled up the stairs.
"Murderers, the whole lot of you, keep your faces out of my sight!" Feldman shouted after him.
His anger now drained, Mr. Feldman shut the door with a sigh of satisfaction, and entered his father's study. What a day this has been, he thought, and without warning he burst into tears. "Come now, Feldman," he said aloud. "Get hold of yourself. What would that pretty girl think of me, if she could see me crying like this."
He wiped his eyes. A siren wailed in the distance; somewhere nearby a garbage truck clattered as it swallowed a container of cans and bottles. For the first time that day he could hear the ticking of his old-fashioned pocket watch. On their shelves his father's books shouldered one another in close-packed regiments. And, on the bottom shelf the gold embossing glittered on the great, leather-bound twenty-two volumes of the Talmud. Those books must be worth a lot of money, he thought. Tomorrow he would make arrangements to sell the whole lot. He would be able to afford his trip, after all.
As Mr. Feldman rose painfully from his chair, he knew at last the reason for his tears. He spoke aloud, as if the Rabbi could still hear him. "Forgive me, Father, for selling your books. But you were wrong, and you led me astray. They don't respect your love and kindness, only force do they understand. Your stupid son has finally learned his lesson."
Instead of folding his clothes neatly as he had always done, Mr. Feldman dumped them on the floor. As sleep came to him, he knew a chapter of his life was over. Tomorrow a new life would begin for Irving Nathan Feldman. It was not too late to begin again.
* * *
