Goodbye Without Leaving (28 page)

My happiness, for the moment, was boundless. I thought of Mr. Jacobowitz—I pretended he was swimming next to me like a big, friendly seal. I savored the silver taste of lake water in my mouth and swam, arm over arm, to the destination before me.

62

Dr. Frechtvogel died in his sleep on the very morning that his cleaning lady came, which, as Gertje pointed out, was so considerate of him, rather than, for example, dying on the weekend when no one would have found him.

It turned out he had left detailed instructions for his funeral. It was to take place at a small Italian funeral parlor in the Village—his cleaning lady's husband's funeral had been held there, and Dr. Frechtvogel had found it congenial. He left his money to Gertje and his books to Bernard. To Buddy he left his gold watch. He had had few personal effects, but he had set something aside for Franklin.

“Geraldine,” Gertje said. “There are a few things I must talk with you about for the funeral. And here is something for Little Franklin that Ludwig wanted him to have.”

She put a heavy package in my hand, wrapped in batting.

“Now, before you open it,” she said. “I must tell you that Ludwig left a letter of instructions for his funeral. No preaching, no service. He wants me to speak, and Bernard, and a few old friends. He wants no music except you to sing.”

“Me to sing?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “He wants you to sing ‘The Tennessee Waltz.' Do you know this song?”

I nodded my head.

“Well, will you sing it? I will introduce you and say it was Ludwig's last wish, so you will not feel strange to sing a popular song at a funeral.”

There was no way out of this, I knew. “It's too corny,” I said.

“Well, Ludwig was an old cornball, I believe is the expression,” said Gertje.

“Why did he want this?” I said.

“Well, he loved you and you are a singer,” Gertje said. “He often said it was the only American song he knew.” She gave me a hard look. “I think this singing business is hard on you,” she said. “Here, open Little Franklin's package.”

Inside the batting was a silver elephant that had been Dr. Frechtvogel's as a child. I looked away, but Gertje put her arms around me.

“Come, come, Geraldine,” said Gertje. “He knew you loved him so.”

“I didn't get to know him long enough. I wanted to know him forever.”

“You do know him forever,” Gertje said. “He is in your memory. Come, call the florist. Ludwig would have hated flowers, but his ladies will expect them.”

The little funeral parlor was like a bower. Dr. Frechtvogel's ladies had sent flowers by the tubs. They came in bunches themselves, looking like flowers. Hannah Hausknecht wore a peacock blue linen suit and wiped her eyes with a big lace handkerchief. Mrs. Gusta Klein and Mrs. Eva Klein walked in together, and behind them came Mrs. Charlotte Klein, who had married the American captain who liberated her from Buchenwald. Dr. Frechtvogel had told me that she emerged from her barracks, half dead of typhus, a walking skeleton, and said to Captain Klein, “Thank you for rescuing us. We are not so glamorous as we once were.”

There was Mrs. Weinberg, who had watched all the windows of her father's department store smashed on Kristallnacht, and old Mrs. Yvanski, whose entire family had perished. The lady in purple turned out to be the waitress from the coffee shop where Dr. Frechtvogel had his morning oatmeal, and there were dozens more: people who had worked for the original Hansonia Society, old men who had come to Dr. Frechtvogel for legal advice.

Buddy, splendid in an English suit, expensive shoes and a silk scarf around his neck, performed the function of usher.

Once they were seated, everyone peered around. No one had ever been in a room like this before.

The walls were covered with silver paper flocked with fuzzy red fleurs-de-lis. In several large niches were statues of the Virgin Mary and the Infant of Prague. On either side of a small altar stood two urns containing sprays of electric roses: in the center of each rose was a tiny light bulb. In a corner candles flickered in red glasses. The room smelled of incense and candle wax.

Because I was to sing, I sat down in the front, but, turning just a little, I could see Leo with his mother and his aunt, who wore a picture hat.

When everyone was settled, Gertje stood up. She was wearing a black suit I had never seen before and carried a large, flower-printed handkerchief.

“It was Ludwig's wish to have a memorial service in this place,” she began. “He had been to a funeral here and he liked it very much. Ludwig felt it was the ideal place for him. His mother was a Jew, and his father was a Catholic. All of us who knew Ludwig know how distrustful he was of religion of any kind, but he made an exception for this little funeral place. He said to me, ‘When I die, let them come to this place and sit together, and let whoever wants to speak, speak. Then feed them some cakes and tell them to go home.'”

The cakes, which I had helped carry down from the Vienna Café, were waiting in their pink and white boxes on a table in the small reception room.

That morning I had left my family setting, which was often as cozy as a little den with three bears in it, and had come out into a world of which my husband and child knew nothing. An integrated person might have invited Dr. Frechtvogel home for dinner, but I never had. I did not think Johnny would get him, or he would get Johnny. Besides, Dr. Frechtvogel did not like innovation. On Mondays he had dinner with Mrs. Gusta Klein, on Tuesdays with Mrs. Weinberg. On Wednesdays he ate dinner with Bernard and Gertje. Thursday was reserved for Mrs. Mueller, and Fridays he had dinner with his sister-in-law, who now sat in the front row wearing a black veil. On Saturdays he dined with Frau Dr. Zeller, the psychoanalyst, and on Sundays he refused to go anywhere.

Suddenly, with a great volley of coughs, Bernard stood up at the podium and began his speech. He explained that Ludwig had never worked for him. Ludwig had
visited
him. He had stopped by many, many years ago and had never left. And although what he mostly did was smoke and kibitz with his lady friends, he had been an invaluable adviser and friend.

Then Buddy stood up and said more or less the same thing. Buddy had recently closed his second business deal and was on his way to achieving his childhood dream of making a million dollars before he was twenty-one. It was said he was keeping company with a much older woman who ran a small real estate empire.

After Buddy, a parade of ladies stood to speak in German, French and English. Plain and fancy handkerchiefs were taken from handbags. The men blew their noses. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve.

Then Gertje stood up again.

“Those of us who loved Ludwig knew that he had no ear for music. He came to this country and said, ‘Everywhere you go they play the radio. They play music in their cars and in their coffee shops.' He said his ears were made of tin. The only song he knew was ‘The Tennessee Waltz.' He could actually hum it: I have heard him. He asked that this be sung at his funeral by Geraldine Miller, who works for us and who used to be a professional singer. As for Geraldine, he loved her very much. He did not allow new people into his life but he made an exception for her. Please, Geraldine, stand up.”

I stood. My knees were made of water. I had not told Johnny that I had been asked to sing. I just wanted to do it and get it over with. I took a deep breath and began.

The chapel was a perfect place to sing in. It made your voice carry—some rooms are like that. I had forgotten how wonderful it felt. When I finished, everyone was in tears. Gertje stood up and told them to come into the lobby for coffee. I wanted to slink out, but Leo caught me by the sleeve.

“Ludwig would have loved that,” he said. “Please have lunch with me.”

We stayed in the lobby to have coffee, and when people began to drift out in groups of three and four, Leo and I walked to a bar near Franklin's school and ordered sandwiches.

“You're going away, aren't you?” I said.

“My fellowship came through,” Leo said. “I'm going to Berlin for a year.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I mean, I'm glad.”

“I'm glad and sorry, too,” Leo said.

“Well, everyone I know is going away. My friend Mary Abbott, who lived near you, has gone into a monastery, and now Ludwig is going to heaven. And my little boy is turning four and growing up.”

Leo took off his glasses, held them to the light and squinted at them. Then he wiped them on a napkin and put them back on.

“I'll always remember the first time I saw you, dancing with Ludwig,” he said. “You can't imagine the delight it would have given him to have you sing at his funeral. I'm so sorry he missed it.”

“I didn't want to do it, you know,” I said.

“But you did it,” Leo said. “Geraldine”—he had never called me by my name before—“I want to say something … I'm not sure what. Being with you made me happy.”

“Really?” I said.

“Oh, yes,” Leo said. “Maybe we were a little bit in love with each other, and maybe we just needed to know each other.”

I drank my iced tea to keep my throat from closing.

“And now we will vanish like dust,” I said.

“Oh, no!” Leo said. “It's not like that at all. It is my job to go off to Berlin, and it's your job to bring up your child. We aren't meant to be together, but we're important to each other. Unless I've got this all wrong.”

“You've got it all right,” I said.

“But it's our job to know each other,” Leo said. “Why can't we do that? I need to know you. You're a four-square, right-on American.”

“Yes, and you're the Man from Western Civ,” I said.

“Well, you're the Girl from Rock and Roll. I think your going on tour was a wonderful thing to do. I really admire you for it.”

“Wonderful!” I said. “You speak three languages and you know European history, and you think it was wonderful that I was a rock and roll singer?”

Leo reached over and patted my hand. “Dumb girl,” he said. “Think of the Regensteins. They were European history and they spent half their lives with a bunch of old bluesmen.”

I looked at Leo. I liked to think about him newly arrived from China wearing Eton shorts and high gray socks. Of his mother taking him to the Kleine Café for tea, when Leo would much rather have been playing baseball with his pals. I thought of him trying to become an American boy.

“In college we used to listen to Ruby singing ‘Boy Oh Bad,'” Leo said.

“That was before my time,” I said. “But she liked to keep all her big hits in her repertoire, so I sang it once.”

“You know,” Leo said, “I would like to think we will probably always know each other.”

“Why will we?” I pleaded.

“Well, we both loved Ludwig,” Leo said. “And besides. You're my American. I'm your European.”

63

On a cloudy spring morning I sat with my husband and son, watching my boy eat Cheerios one by one. It was my morning to observe Little Franklin's class. I would sit on a tiny blue chair hoping that my child would not pay too much attention to me.

Although I longed for this opportunity, I dreaded the idea of showing up at school. Paulette Goldberg, the former Pixie Lehar, was lying in wait for me. The school fair was drawing ever closer and I knew I had to tell her one way or the other what I intended to do.

As my husband ate his way through a stack of toast, he hectored me.

“Come on. It'll be good for you,” he said.

“What will be good for Mommy?” said Little Franklin.

“Pankie,” said Johnny. “Remember when Mommy swam across the lake? You didn't know she was a great swimmer. Well, she's a great dancer and a great singer. Before you were born, she used to sing on stage.”

“Where was I?” said Franklin.

“You weren't born,” said Johnny.

“But where
was
I?”

“You were in my tummy,” I said.

“Even before you knew Daddy?”

“You were always in my tummy,” I said. This was a conversation we had had thousands of times.

“Did you have a big tummy when you sang?”

“You were just an idea in my tummy,” I said. “Very, very tiny.”

This satisfied him, and he went back to his cereal.

“Would you like to watch your mama dance and sing?” Johnny said.

“Why, you little shitheel,” I whispered. “Don't you dare!”

“What kind of dance?” said Franklin.

“Your mommy wore a beautiful green dress,” said Johnny. I stared at him in disbelief. He had gotten a faraway look in his eyes, and his voice sounded misty, as if he were about to spout forth one of the
Just So Stories
. “Your mama wore a beautiful green dress and green shoes. She wore her hair fixed up on top of her head, with curls down the sides. Up on stage she looked like a tropical bird. When she sang, it was the most wonderful sound in the world.”

“Shut up,” I said. Franklin looked raptly at his daddy.

“She still has that beautiful green dress in her closet,” Johnny said.

“You manipulative little pismire,” I said.

“If you asked her, I'll bet she would go and get it,” said Johnny.

“Let's see, Mommy,” said Franklin. “I want to see now, Mommy, okay?”

I had never felt hatred for my husband until that moment. My child ran off like a shot to my closet, where he began pawing through my clothes.

“Get out of there, Franklin,” I said.

“Is this it? Mommy, is this your bird dress?”

Since I was still in my nightgown, it was easy enough to slip on my chartreuse dress with the fringe. It actually fit. My child looked at me in perfect wonder.

“Hey, Mommy. Look at all those
strings
,” he said.

“Come on, baby, let the good times roll,” said Johnny. “It still looks boss.”