budgets, struggled against the stagnation and dereliction that had been visited upon our country, carefully locking their doors against the serial killer who was still at large.
At that moment, I thought of the patient and my dear student, and I ached with envy. They belonged to the wild world of San Francisco: to their very own Weimar of danger and carousing men and marvelous strange girls. Whereas I did not belong in the Castro, nor was I welcome at A Little More; and neither was I respectable, proper, productive. I have no family, I thought, no firm connections. I am dross, a castoff. Only the crows know what I am.
78.
Two days slouched along at a dilatory pace. My mood was not improved by the fine fall weather that descended upon San Francisco, the very air betraying me with its fresh feel of a new semester. I could not help but remember my feelings at that time of year, the hopefulness of beginnings, the happy sight of students holding books they had not yet read but soon would. And I felt how far away I was, banished, haunted by the eyes of the boy in the bar, the round childish eyes in the strobe of blue light.
Then my loneliness grew teeth. My only defenses were thoughts of the patient. I told and retold myself Michal Gershon’s portrayal of her early life in Berlin, like a bedtime story one reads to a frightened child, a story that must be repeated exactly with each retelling. In this way, I suppressed my suspicions about Michal’s version of events—closed my gimlet eye upon them, as it were. Otherwise, if I persisted in my skepticism, I would find no comfort in the tale.
At last came Wednesday. Finally the session began. And a great tranquillity settled over me, for the story resumed: The patient was back in Tel Aviv. There she was to see her mother again, the mother I had helped her find. The scene was Michal’s little house, the patient told us, a room we had not previously visited: a small dining area that adjoined the kitchen.
79.
The table was too big for the space, said the patient to Dr. Schussler. It was a big, heavy mahogany table with ornate legs. It had to be shoved into a corner to fit into the room, and the chairs on two sides were pinned between the table and the wall. Michal sat at the foot, where she could look out the window, and I sat catty-corner to her again, my chair nearly under an arch that separated the dining room from a small kitchen.
It was an odd arrangement because Gerda, that young girl, was sitting in the kitchen—right next to me but not “in” the room, if you know what I mean. She sat on a high step-stool with her hands on her knees, just sitting, staring forward. That loud clock I’d been hearing hung above her head. I was uncomfortable because I still didn’t know what the relationship was between Michal and Gerda, who seemed to be a sort of servant or maid.
(Ah! I thought, one of those German youths doing penance in Israel.)
Michal began by saying: I suppose we now must leave the “before time.”
She looked at me steadily, so unblinkingly that I could barely meet her eyes. There was something accusatory in that gaze, an accusation that I was the one making her leave the “before time.” I was the reason she had to remember all this. It was all my fault. And it was clear why she never wanted me to find her. She wanted to leave behind everything that happened to her, and I was part of that “after” life. And again I went through my whole inner drama: wanting to protect her from bad memories, hating myself for wanting to protect her, and so on. But before I could get to the anger—the rage, it was almost there, that impatience that explodes into fury—you know what I mean, Dr. Schussler?
I do, said the therapist.
Before it came flying out, Michal suddenly softened. She gave me the sweetest smile. That loving look came onto her face. So, my little American, she said. Do you know any history? Do you know when Hitler came to power? When the Nürnberg Laws were passed?
I was confused by this sudden shift in feelings. Again. Just like the day before: hate, then love, any moment hate could come back. I mumbled something like, Early thirties.