returning. He knew he didn’t belong.
“Funny the stuff that sticks in your mind. I remember the kid.”
“The kid?”
“The little boy. You know, the one in the picture they’ve got there.”
“Oh, yes. That’s Michael Hirsczowicz. At fifteen months. In pleasanter times. Warsaw, August, 1939. Just before it all began.”
“You’ll laugh at this. Tony called
me
a Jew today.”
“That’s not very funny.”
“No, I suppose it’s not. Here, right?”
“Yes.”
They turned in a dark doorway and began to climb some dim stairs.
“You don’t think of the Jews having a government in exile,” Leets said.
“It’s not a government in exile. It’s a refugee agency.”
“Everybody knows it’s political.”
“It’s powerless. How can that be political? It’s to try and keep people alive. How can that be political? It’s funded by little old ladies in Philadelphia. How can that be political?”
The sign on the door said something in that squiggly funny writing and beneath it ZIONIST RELEIF AGENCY.
“Jesus, they can’t even spell.”
“It
is
pitiful, isn’t it,” Susan said bitterly.
She’d been coming for months now, three, four nights a week. First it was a joke: her father had instructed her in a letter not to forget who she was, what she came from, and though she blithely said she was an American, from Baltimore, she dropped in that first time only because she recognized Yiddish on the door. But gradually, it began to get under her skin.
“What the hell do you get out of it?” Leets had wondered.
“Nothing,” she said.
Still, she kept it up, until it became almost obsessive.
But it wasn’t as if she could do any good, any real good. That was the bitter joke beneath it all, though for Leets it wasn’t a joke anymore, merely a bitterness. They were so pathetic: from the old man Fischelson on down, the girls in the office, all hysterics, scared, most of them. They needed so much help and Susan did what she could, with paper work, and telephones, small things like dealing with the landlord, making sure the place stayed heated, proof-reading the news releases, even in their fractured, East Side Yiddish-English. She knew all along that nobody was listening.
“It’s Communist, isn’t it?” he said.
“It’s Jewish. Not quite the same thing. Anyway, the man whose money started it was a rich, conservative land- and factory-owning aristocrat. A banker. What could be further from communism?”
Still, Leets had his doubts. “I don’t know,” he said.
“It’s his kid. In the hall. Josef Hirsczowicz: he’s thefather. One of the richest men in Europe. That’s his child. Or was.”
“They’re dead?”
“They didn’t get out. That little boy, Jim. Think of that. The Germans killed him, because he’s Jewish.”
“They’re trying to kill a lot of little boys. They tried to kill
this
little boy. Religion has nothing—” but he stopped. He didn’t want to get back into it.
They reached the door at the end of the stairway.
“You’re wasting your time,” he cautioned.
“Of course I am,” she said. The Zionists hoped to communicate to the indifferent Western world what they maintained was happening in Occupied Europe. Susan had monstrous tales, of mass executions and death camps. Leets told her it was propaganda. She said she had proof. Pictures.
“Pictures don’t mean a thing,” he’d instructed her brutally weeks ago. “Pictures can be faked. You need a goddamned witness, someone who’s been there. That’s the only way you’ll get anybody to listen to your stuff. Listen, you’re going to get in trouble. You’re an officer in the United States Army. Now you’re hanging around with a group of—”
She’d put a finger to his lip, ending his sentence. But later she talked of it. Nobody would believe, she said. The Zionist leaders sat in the offices of great men in London, she explained with great bitterness, who’d listen earnestly, then shoo them out
“Funny the stuff that sticks in your mind. I remember the kid.”
“The kid?”
“The little boy. You know, the one in the picture they’ve got there.”
“Oh, yes. That’s Michael Hirsczowicz. At fifteen months. In pleasanter times. Warsaw, August, 1939. Just before it all began.”
“You’ll laugh at this. Tony called
me
a Jew today.”
“That’s not very funny.”
“No, I suppose it’s not. Here, right?”
“Yes.”
They turned in a dark doorway and began to climb some dim stairs.
“You don’t think of the Jews having a government in exile,” Leets said.
“It’s not a government in exile. It’s a refugee agency.”
“Everybody knows it’s political.”
“It’s powerless. How can that be political? It’s to try and keep people alive. How can that be political? It’s funded by little old ladies in Philadelphia. How can that be political?”
The sign on the door said something in that squiggly funny writing and beneath it ZIONIST RELEIF AGENCY.
“Jesus, they can’t even spell.”
“It
is
pitiful, isn’t it,” Susan said bitterly.
She’d been coming for months now, three, four nights a week. First it was a joke: her father had instructed her in a letter not to forget who she was, what she came from, and though she blithely said she was an American, from Baltimore, she dropped in that first time only because she recognized Yiddish on the door. But gradually, it began to get under her skin.
“What the hell do you get out of it?” Leets had wondered.
“Nothing,” she said.
Still, she kept it up, until it became almost obsessive.
But it wasn’t as if she could do any good, any real good. That was the bitter joke beneath it all, though for Leets it wasn’t a joke anymore, merely a bitterness. They were so pathetic: from the old man Fischelson on down, the girls in the office, all hysterics, scared, most of them. They needed so much help and Susan did what she could, with paper work, and telephones, small things like dealing with the landlord, making sure the place stayed heated, proof-reading the news releases, even in their fractured, East Side Yiddish-English. She knew all along that nobody was listening.
“It’s Communist, isn’t it?” he said.
“It’s Jewish. Not quite the same thing. Anyway, the man whose money started it was a rich, conservative land- and factory-owning aristocrat. A banker. What could be further from communism?”
Still, Leets had his doubts. “I don’t know,” he said.
“It’s his kid. In the hall. Josef Hirsczowicz: he’s thefather. One of the richest men in Europe. That’s his child. Or was.”
“They’re dead?”
“They didn’t get out. That little boy, Jim. Think of that. The Germans killed him, because he’s Jewish.”
“They’re trying to kill a lot of little boys. They tried to kill
this
little boy. Religion has nothing—” but he stopped. He didn’t want to get back into it.
They reached the door at the end of the stairway.
“You’re wasting your time,” he cautioned.
“Of course I am,” she said. The Zionists hoped to communicate to the indifferent Western world what they maintained was happening in Occupied Europe. Susan had monstrous tales, of mass executions and death camps. Leets told her it was propaganda. She said she had proof. Pictures.
“Pictures don’t mean a thing,” he’d instructed her brutally weeks ago. “Pictures can be faked. You need a goddamned witness, someone who’s been there. That’s the only way you’ll get anybody to listen to your stuff. Listen, you’re going to get in trouble. You’re an officer in the United States Army. Now you’re hanging around with a group of—”
She’d put a finger to his lip, ending his sentence. But later she talked of it. Nobody would believe, she said. The Zionist leaders sat in the offices of great men in London, she explained with great bitterness, who’d listen earnestly, then shoo them out
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