I followed Schmuel’s directions. I crossed the road. Went into the courtyard, turned right. And it was just as he said. A curving stone wall. Under it a house. Made of the same stone, so it seemed part of the wall. But with a door. And windows. A fairy-tale house.
The door was a hard, solid piece of wood. With an iron latch, an iron handle.
There was no choice now: Knock, knock, knock.
I don’t know how long I stood there until I heard steps, a voice, a young voice, with a thick accent saying something, maybe in German.
I said: Do you speak English? I’m here to see Michal Gershon.
The door opened a crack. A young woman looked at me. She had blond-gold hair, green eyes, white skin, cheeks like apples.
Schmuel sends his greetings, I said.
Ah, Schmuel, she said, laughing, opening the door and waving me in.
Schmuel: my magic word, my open-sesame.
Then I saw things in flashes. A dark room. Heavy wood furniture. Embroidered tablecloths. Doilies on chair arms. Bare walls. No pictures, not even family photos. I followed the young woman who’d let me in. A big strong girl. She called out in German to “Frau Gershon,” maybe saying someone is here, I don’t know, I’m guessing.
She led me around a corner, then into a small, dim room. The window shades were drawn, but there was a gap. A slice of light broke through it—brilliant, dusty, opaque—like a scrim. Behind it was a figure. All I could see was a shape, bent over, but otherwise only a shadow. For some seconds, nothing happened. The figure did not move.
Behind me, the girl sang out something in German.
Then suddenly a face burst through the light. Her mouth was frozen open. Her eyes were startled wide. They rolled back and forth over me.
Otherwise her face was still, a rictus. Then tiny muscle movements began rippling over her features—the muscles twitching but paralyzed, the way a dreaming dog trembles in its sleep—as if waves of emotions were running through her, but in fast-forward, so it was bizarre, almost comical.
What? I wanted to shout. What! What are you seeing! Because I knew whatever was going on was set off by the sight of me. I was a part of those racing expressions, a player, but with what role? The ripples of memory kept running across her face. Meanwhile, her body was fixed, hidden behind the beam of light, so that the whole drama was being played out with this head suspended in a cloud.
Gerda! she abruptly screamed, going on to yell curses in German at the girl who had led me in—even I understood they were curses.
Then she stepped forward through the light.
Now I could see her, head to toe, in the low, even shade of the room. She was sturdily built, broad-shouldered, of medium height. She had blond hair, high cheekbones, a broad, clear brow. She looked young except for her bent posture—I noticed now she held a cane. She would be beautiful, I thought, weirdly, if her face were not tied into a knot of rage. Suddenly a kind of fist grabbed my insides: disappointment. Dreadful disappointment. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I’d hoped to look like her.
All the while, she kept screaming in German, walking toward me, waving her cane, until I understood she was trying to force me out, the way you’d use a broom to shoo a dog. I was instantly angry, thinking, How dare you treat me like this!
But you know me! I screamed at her, walking toward her, putting up my arm to ward off the cane. I saw it on your face. You recognized me immediately. You know who I am!
No! No! she answered me. Go away! How did you get in here?
You know me! I kept shouting. You know me!
The girl Gerda came up beside me.
Please to leave, she said, taking my arm.
I jerked it away and said, No! You know who I am!
Michal raised her cane as if to wave me away again. And then, all at once, she deflated. That’s the only way I can describe it. A long breath came out of her; her head and shoulders shrank down; her back slumped. She said, “Ay! What is the use?” then stumbled toward an upholstered chair and sank into it, head down, eyes focused between her knees, her left arm hanging limp over the cane, like a rope.
Gerda, bring me something to drink, she said in a mixture of German