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Block 11

St. Martin's Press

"Wake up. Wake up, my darling."

The old man sleeping next to her opened his eyes with great effort.

"Mmm ... what is it, libling?"

"It's time to get up. Today is the day, have you forgotten? Come on, I'll get breakfast ready."

The woman thrust the sheets aside with a force that allowed her feet to slide down toward the floor. With her soles planted firmly on the ground, she steadied her body, her weight on her elbow, bracing herself for the next step.

She was old and tired, and the maneuvering required simply to stand up grew more exhausting with each passing day.

For a moment, she stayed very still, allowing both the dizziness to pass and her heart rate to steady again. Behind her, still motionless, lay her husband, his eyes wide open. He too waited, in hopes that he would be seized by enough energy to get out of bed.

She counted silently. "One ... two ... three." By the time she reached ten, she told herself, she would be on her feet. She found herself filled with an inexplicable sense of relief. For a moment she marveled at the unanticipated sensation. And then it suddenly made sense: there was hardly a need to rush; she could give herself all the time in the world she needed to get out of bed; it was assuredly a luxury that had not been afforded to her earlier in her life.

"Ten." With one deep breath she pulled herself up. She felt dizzy, but she would need only a few seconds before taking her first steps of the day. In just three or four small strides, she would reach the windowsill.

Just beyond those glass panes she'd find the streets of Brooklyn, saturated in the gray light of dawn. The view wasn't terribly magnificent — just little two-story houses, a corner tobacco shop, and a school in the distance. It seemed a world away from the Manhattan skyline, and yet she adored this little spot, where she knew no harm could come to her.

She turned toward the bed. Her husband was struggling to untangle himself from the sheets.

"Wait, let me help you."

She turned around and leaned toward him. She pulled off the sheets that had been wrapped around his feet. She lifted his frail ankles and helped him set his feet upon the floor. When he sat up, they found themselves face to face. They peered into each other's eyes, and for a split second, she spotted that cheeky look that had so enchanted her years ago.

The old man was finally seated on the bed, his back curved from the weight of time. His plaid nightshirt hung limply from his thin shoulders. Again she leaned toward him, holding him this time by his armpits. But as she attempted to pull him up, he quickly swatted her away.

"A brokh! First of all, I'm not that decrepit," he snapped. "And secondly, the day that I can't get my own self out of bed, I want you to call the police, tell them that I'm a criminal and that I was attacking you. Then, have them shoot me. And lastly, if you try to help me up again, you and I are both going to end up on the floor."

The woman smiled to herself.

He clung proudly to the headboard as he managed to set his own feet squarely on the floor.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he announced is if it were some sort of declaration of war. The woman made her way toward the kitchen, a tiny room that could hardly accommodate a single person at a time. She lit the stove under a pot, the contents of which had been prepared the night before. She opened one of the ancient white kitchen cupboards — they hadn't changed since the fifties — and pulled out the necessary accoutrements for a table setting. She set everything on a tray and brought it into the dining room, unquestionably the most beautiful room in the apartment, boasting wooden floors and ornate stucco molding. The walls gave way to three windows from which one could see the little neighborhood park. At the center of the room sat a long, narrow table, one which seemed fit more for a restaurant or a wedding banquet rather than a home. She quietly shuffled about the room in her green felt slippers, placing the tray that held the cutlery at the center of the table. She began to arrange the place settings. The bowls were all made of shoddy tin, resembling old mess-tins from the war. They were each misshapen leftover pieces; corroded in parts and dented in others. She placed them meticulously on the table, one after the other in a most precise manner. The first, the second, then the third ... When she had finished, there were ten place settings in all. She carefully studied the table so as to ensure that the symmetry of each setting was not compromised. She returned to the kitchen. She observed the pot on the lit stove in which a blackish concoction now boiled. The old woman tasted it with a spoon, and then turned off the flame.

She opened another cupboard, and from it she pulled out a large paper sack. She took out a loaf of rye bread, which she painstakingly sliced with a serrated knife. The bread was old, and had become hard and fairly unappetizing. She sliced the loaf into ten equal portions, pausing after each one to ensure that the size was indeed the same as all the others. She set the slices in a basket and returned to the dining room. She examined the table yet again, placing a slice next to each tin bowl. She then carried the pot, in which the coffee still boiled, into the dining room, all the while teetering from the weight of the load. With an old distorted, wooden ladle, she poured a large serving into each tin. When the preparations were complete, her husband emerged from the bathroom freshly shaven and dressed in a white robe.

"You've already prepared everything," he mumbled, disappointed at not having helped her.

"Get changed and come in."

After a moment, the old man reappeared, dressed in a chestnut brown woolen suit. His pants, which were much too long, brushed the floor, and the cuffs of his oversized shirt peered out from beneath his jacket sleeves. At one time it had been quite an elegant suit, yet it now seemed somewhat ragged.

They each took their places: he seated himself at the head of the table, while she took the chair just to his left.

The old man tore a generous piece from his hardened slice of bread and dipped it in the ersatz coffee to soften the bite. His teeth were no longer what they used to be, yet he had no desire to succumb to the idea of dentures. In truth, he still felt very much like the same young man who had miraculously survived the depths of hell.

Cautiously, he bit into his stale morsel of bread, struggling to swallow. The old woman did the same.

The rest of the table was vacant. A faint line of steam rose from each of the other eight bowls before dissipating into the air, while the eight slices of bread remained, waiting patiently to be devoured. The old man ate another mouthful of bread and sipped a few spoonfuls of coffee. The smaller morsels seemed to please the old woman much more. They ate, consumed by a seemingly sacred silence, one that neither of them dared to break. Their eyes were lost in thought, filled by images both distant and terrible.

Ten minutes passed, and no one came to sit. The eight places remained empty. The steam no longer rose from the bowls: the black liquid had now turned cold. The old woman stared at their own empty tin bowls and the few crumbs that remained on the tablecloth.

"Are you done, hartsenyu?" she asked him. Her husband nodded his head, and then got up from the table.

"Are you going to get ready then?" the old man asked his wife.

She shook her head. "I'm feeling quite tired this morning. You go. Tell the rabbi that I wasn't feeling well." He lingered there for a moment, surprised by her sudden break in routine.

"Are you sure?"

"You go. I'll prepare everything here, and maybe even have a bath. You'll come home for lunch, won't you?"

He was not sure whether a question mark followed her last words; nonetheless, he nodded his head. He then put on his coat and his outdated, wide-brimmed hat, one which he had worn with pleasure for the last thirty years, and turned to go.

And there, at the door, just as they had done every day for the last fifty years, they kissed each other on the cheek. The old man left without another word.

* * *

From the window of the descending plane, the man in the blue suit could see every detail of Kennedy Airport just below him. The sky was perfectly clear, a rarity for New York City. The closer the plane's arrival came, the more he — a tall blond man with piercingly blue eyes, who, though in his sixties, still looked quite young even with a slight receding hairline — was overcome by apprehension. He had traveled more than five thousand miles and yet during those final minutes he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go back without ever touching the ground. That, however, was impossible. He knew he had to finish what he'd started more than a year ago.

He had to. Yes, it was a force greater than his own will. He had to. He had to go to New York and ring their doorbell. If he turned back now, he'd never again find the courage to try, and for that he'd never forgive himself. He needed closure on this part of his life, one that began more than fifty years ago. Otherwise he'd never find peace. One year had passed since life as he knew it had been completely transformed. All because of an arrival of a package from Germany. Never had he imagined that such a nondescript little package could have so drastically transfigured his life. A small parcel — no bigger than a shoe box — had managed to alter his entire existence.

There were many who said it was not he who bore the blame. He was innocent. And yet, just as a witness to a homicide might, he felt responsible for not having prevented it. He needed to be forgiven, and he hoped he had found the means to do so. No, it was not his fault, so many people had told him the very same thing, especially his wife. He didn't take part, he was innocent. But he certainly didn't feel that way. And just as his parents had taught him, for better or worse, he could not simply accept the gratifying moments in life and reject all the rest. Be it riches or debt, one either wholly accepts what they've inherited, or they accept nothing at all. He, however, had accepted what had been passed on to him, and for a year now that unbearable load had weighed heavy on his conscience. He had traveled all the way to New York in order to pay off a fifty-year-old debt. Whether or not he'd find a way remained unanswered, but he was certainly going to try.

The plane straightened out and headed in the direction of the tarmac. In a few moments, they would land in New York.

* * *

As the old man opened the synagogue's doors to leave, he was blinded momentarily by the bright sunlight. Squinting as he made his way, he took no notice of the blond gentleman on the other side of the street, who was dressed in a light blue suit with his jacket flapping in the wind. Next to him stood another man, an orthodox Jew, who was wearing both a kippah and a long peot. The two men spoke in hushed tones. Upon seeing the old man at the synagogue, the Jewish gentleman gestured in his direction. The blond man smiled and thanked him. The Jewish gentleman turned and continued on his way, yet the blond man did not; he lingered for a moment, his eyes fixed upon the old man on the other side of the street.

The old man took no notice. Taking the road toward home, he thought about what the rabbi had said. The routine prayers at the synagogue had not brought him much comfort that day. He had uttered the words to each prayer yet his thoughts had followed a different course entirely. It was as if his mind were trying to flee, and yet some force kept hurling it irretrievably back; like a barking dog who has escaped his cage yet is still bound by his chain. The sky above was a clear blue, while icy gusts of wind swept the streets below. Still the same cold weather. It was April, and yet spring seemed terribly distant. He looked down, as if unsure of himself. He stopped walking. Continue home? He really had no desire to. Not because of his wife, his dear, sweet beloved libling, but because of the sudden irresistible urge he felt to run away from everything, above all from himself.

In the distance he could hear a ferry sounding, and suddenly he had an idea; he could take the Staten Island Ferry, the same one visitors take to tour the harbor. How long had it been since the last time? Perhaps he'd never even taken the ferry. Those first years in New York hadn't been easy, he'd had no time, and then after ... well, afterward there always seemed to be something else he'd had to do. A tour on the Staten Island Ferry, the perfect idea! Elated by the prospect, he raised his arm and flagged a passing taxi. A quarter of an hour later, he was at Whitehall Ferry Terminal.

He exited the car slowly and with difficulty, all the while thwarting the driver's attempts to help with an imperious swat of the hand. Once out of the cab, he looked ahead toward the pier. He was in luck: the boat was still docked and loading its last few passengers. The ferry would depart in only a few minutes time.

He passed through the terminal and made his way toward the ferry as quickly as he could.

He boarded the ferry. "We leave in ten minutes," the crewman informed him.

He made his way to the top deck, and found a seat out in the open air. He rubbed the sleeves of his thin jacket; it was going to be quite chilly, but he couldn't allow himself to miss such a glorious morning. The sunlight, the crisp air; these were exactly the things he needed to clear his mind of those dark thoughts. The plastic chairs which had been bolted to the floor were nearly empty. His sole company was a group of youngsters, presumably tourists, who were making quite a racket just a few feet away.

Moments later, just as had been announced, the ferry set sail. Their departure was accompanied by a throaty gurgle from the diesel motor as the boat accelerated. For a few seconds, a cloud of black, foul-smelling smoke from the boat's exhaust enveloped them before the wind carried away its last traces.

And just like that, he found himself in the middle of the harbor. The boat moved steadily away from the shore, bestowing to them a gradual but continuous change of scenery. Little by little, they traveled farther away, and the city gained scope bit by bit in varying detail, like an enormous puzzle that emerges fully as one piece at a time is added. The view lifted his spirits. And he did indeed, feel at peace.

The boat changed course, heading toward the Statue of Liberty. The wind blew at his back.

"... zen. ..."

Snippets of the conversation between the youngsters seated behind him were carried in by gusts of wind.

"... sch ... eutz. ..."

He tried his best not to pay attention, but the syllables carried away by the wind resonated deep within. He tried to resist, to expunge them from his thoughts, until ...

"Mützen ab!"

Moshe turned pale with shock. His heart came to a grinding halt like a rusted old piston.

"Mützen ab!"

A peal of laughter rang in his ears and collided against the distraught expression on the old man's face. Dazed, he turned around very slowly. The youngsters pushed and elbowed one another, all the while shouting and laughing. One boy, who was bigger than the rest, reached across the chairs, and with a quick swoop, snatched another boy's hat, lifting it in the direction of the Statue of Liberty.

"Mützen ab!" he shouted, and broke into a fit of laughter.

The old man sank further into his chair, clasping his hands over his ears to drown out the sounds. Mützen ab, Mützen ab, Mützen ab. He ground his teeth and shut his eyes, but the sounds would not let go of him. They held him in their clutches, and hurled him backward, ever further backward, into the deep abyss that was his past.

"Mützen ab!"

In anguish, the man looked at the petty officer, anxious to obey his orders, but unsure how to carry them out. The SS officer sensed his hesitation, and with the back of his hand, he sent the man's hat tumbling to the floor.

"Mützen ab!" he shouted again, inches from the man's face. Taking hold of the large baton he carried on his belt, the officer raised it above his head, ready to deal a fatal blow.

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Excerpted from Block 11 by Piero degli Antoni, Erin Waggener. Copyright © 2012 Piero degli Antoni. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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