The Mathematician’s Shiva (25 page)

DAY 6

I
n a country as profoundly anti-intellectual as ours it is predictable that our leaders will do whatever they can in order not to appear smart in public. If they graduated summa cum laude from the finest university in the land, they will barely mention this achievement, give an “aw-shucks, I just drank a ton of beer and got lucky” response if asked about it, and even make a concerted effort to drop their ending g’s and add a few “ain’t”s into their speeches as an antidote to their erudition and education.

This effort to appear dumb—or to put a positive spin on it, to “be a man of the people”—takes a lot of work that in a better world would be unnecessary. You have to really want to be a politician to undertake it. Plus you have to eat funnel cakes and other greasy, awful types of state fair midway food and pretend you like them all. Essentially you have to show the world that you can effectively pretend to have bad eating habits and no brains. Clearly, I don’t have what it takes to be a politician, and neither do any of my relatives. Like my mother, none of us can play dumb, and we tend to find American food an abomination.

Obviously, I have a critical and cynical view of America’s vaunted political system. It is a view identical to that of everyone in my family, including my uncle. However, my uncle, more than anyone else in our family, needs politicians to like him and grant him favors. The liquor business is highly regulated, and its taxes buttress wobbly state budgets during times of economic difficulty. The relationship between government and the purveyors of alcohol nationwide is siblinglike, and it is especially so in my home state, which leads the nation in the number of bars per capita and, it goes almost without saying, drinks more alcohol per belly than any other state in the union.

When my uncle told me that the governor was going to visit our house during shiva I cast a gimlet eye. “Is he going to
daven
mincha-maariv
with us?”

“Who knows? The aide did ask if he should bring a
kipa
.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That we already have many in the house. But the governor is a bit of a germaphobe, so I’m going to guess he’ll bring his own.”

Which is what he did. He already had his
kipa
on as he left his Lincoln Town Car and walked to our house. I was in the living room looking outside, and watched in a state of semi-disbelief. Neighbors came out of their homes—like young fleas in dormancy sensing their first chance at warm blood—to shake the hand of our governor, who possessed not only a full head of silver hair and a wondrous set of gleaming teeth, but an uncanny warm glint in his eye that quite frankly I envied.

This was the last day the mathematicians would be in the house. They would scatter to the winds on the final day of shiva and give my family one day of true peace, an act of courtesy that was not undervalued. While the governor approached, they were oblivious, still working, albeit with palpably diminished hope, on solving the Navier-Stokes problem. I had banned any food in the living room after the crumb- and plate-filled first day of problem solving. But I wasn’t cruel. I let them continue to have their tea—which Yakov, being the most finicky of tea aficionados, let no one else steep—and standard gut-busting coffee. Cups had to be borrowed to keep the supply of caffeine steady, and the living room had the air and redolence of a Starbucks, a derelict one where no one bused their mugs and the sound system was on the fritz.

Hefty volumes, most of which had seen little use in the university library for decades, were on the coffee table and piled in corners of the living room. The mathematicians would pick up these volumes, seemingly at random, for information. At the end of the day the books would be carted back to the math department conference room for further evening work, when the real discussions would begin. Zhelezniak was the general leading this effort. He had systemically broken down the solution of this problem into a dozen subtasks, which eventually were going to be sewn together to make the quilt that would show the solution to the Navier-Stokes problem in all its glory. That was the plan, at any rate. If you would have asked any of the mathematicians whether they saw the governor of Wisconsin during their stay, I doubt that a single one would have said yes.

But my family saw him. We whisked the governor into the dining room. Security agents kept watch outside and tried their best to be discreet. These men couldn’t possibly be confused with LDS missionaries, or even intrepid Jehovah Witnesses. Our neighbors, ever helpful and kind, brought out coffee for the security force, which it graciously accepted while the governor and our family convened to plan the state memorial ceremony for my mother.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Governor Dombrowski began, and I could feel my antagonism recede. He meant it. I could insult him for his pedestrian intelligence and whacky ideas, but even I know that there is a bit more to life than intellect. This governor, no matter how much I might malign him in conversation and in this book, dear reader, was a real human being with real feelings.

“We’d like to honor her life. I never met her personally, but I’ve heard many stories about just what a remarkable person she was. She’s an example for all in this state. For young girls who want to be rocket scientists. For anyone who wants to pursue their dreams.”

“My sister never let anything stop her,” my uncle said.

“Exactly, Shlomo! That’s what we want to celebrate. An indefatigable spirit. A patriot. A God-fearing woman with can-do optimism. We need more of that in this world. We need more of that in this state. I would love to see Professor Karnokovitch remembered and revered.”

“We look forward to the memorial ceremony, governor. My son is very good at arranging such affairs,” my uncle said.

The governor looked at my cousin, examining him carefully, and made an instant appraisal of his fit and polish. “Were you born in Wisconsin, son?”

“Absolutely,” my cousin quickly replied. He was in salesman mode. “Born in St. Mary’s, just down the block. Madison West graduate.”

“You go to the University of Wisconsin, too?”

“No, Williams.”

“Out East, huh. Speak Polish by any chance?”

“
Oczywiscie
! Italian, too.”

The governor gave his election-winning, teeth-baring grin. “Now my campaign funds are going to be paying for this. My understanding is that you know quite a few top-notch performers.”

“That I do, dear governor.”

“Now Barbra Streisand, just between you and me, is a little too much of a lefty, even though I do love her voice.”

“She’s very popular, it’s true. Not really right for this affair, though, I agree. But what about Dolly Parton? Everybody loves her. Even my aunt loved her.”

“She did?” I asked. “My mother loved Dolly Parton?”

“She did, indeed. She came to visit me when I was putting together a show at the Hollywood Bowl for Ms. Parton. Your mother came along. She was enchanted.”

“It’s true,” Anna said. “I was there, too.”

“You think she could sing ‘God Bless America’ if we hired her?” the governor asked.

“Of course. She loves that song, governor. She’s actually a very accommodating and agreeable woman and would sing just about any song, as long as it was tasteful. I bet you she’d even sing ‘Stracic Kogos’ if you asked her personally.”

“I love that song. I heard it when I was visiting our sister voivodship in Poland. Very touching. I think of my own mother when I hear it. How did you know?”

“I do my research, governor.”

“Does she know Polish?” He seemed excited at the possibility that the country superstar was a closet Pole.

“No, but I’ll translate the words for her. I’m sure it’s the kind of song Dolly could relate to. Anyone can. But you’ll have to ask her personally, I think.”

“I’ll be glad to do that, son.”

“We are, of course, talking about a big budget project, governor. I’ll do this work gratis because my father has asked and I loved my aunt dearly. But still, this will not be a small production.”

“I understand. Dolly Parton doesn’t come cheap, I’m sure.”

“No, she doesn’t. But there is no one who can reach an audience quite like her.”

“I think it’s an excellent idea. Your father is lucky to have such a creative and dynamic son. Dennis will talk to you about the numbers later. I’m looking forward to the event.”

The governor left well before
mincha-maariv
, although I’m sure he would have been game enough to recite the necessary Hebrew words in transliteration. During his little stay, he wasn’t shy about mentioning that one of his grandmothers was Jewish, something I’m guessing he also noted on his occasional trips to synagogues. Being a governor requires a myriad of skills. While great hair and teeth are a good start to a political career, an ability to pretend at least half convincingly that you have an affinity to all key ethnic groups in your state is a definite plus.

“What is this all about, anyway?” I asked.

“It’s to honor your mother, what do you mean what’s it about?” my uncle said.

“Dolly Parton and my mother don’t have a lot in common, I’m sorry.”

“She did see her, Sasha,” Anna said. “I don’t lie. You know that. Not to you.”

“She saw the Moscow Circus, too, maybe five or six times when I was a kid. But we’re not having clowns and bicycle-riding bears at this ceremony.”

“Tell him, Shlomo. Tell me, too,” my father said. “Dolly Parton and my Rachela? You must be in trouble. Tell us what’s going on.”

“Close the door,” my uncle said.

“Why? The mathematicians are too busy to hear anything,” I said.

“They have ears. You never know what those sons-of-bitches will listen to. Six days they’ve been here, drinking my liquor and eating all the food, trying to solve some stupid problem.”

“It’s not a stupid problem, Uncle. It’s probably the most important problem to be solved in mathematics in two hundred years.”

“Maybe three hundred. There’s not a more important problem in mathematical physics,” my father said.

“OK, it’s an important problem. I have problems to solve, too. Close the door. I’ll tell you.”

DAY 6

I
f you are going to attempt to communicate with the dead, I would think that the venue for this endeavor should be something quite grand in stature. There cannot possibly be an eventful meeting between someone in the netherworld and a few people seated around a Formica kitchen table. No, success requires a large room with a heavy wooden table and dim lighting produced by a chandelier or two. There must be at least a dozen people in attendance. The dead need to know that they are truly wanted, after all.

My uncle’s dining room fit the bill, especially the chandeliers, which came all the way from Venice. In the new life he and Cynthia had planned together there were going to be lavish affairs, mostly charity events, held at their new house. The parties, sad to say, had turned out to be few and far between. Now the dining room had a new, if temporary, purpose. It would be the setting for my uncle, Anna, the Ben-Zvis, Yakov Epshtein, the Karanskys, Ren Ito, Vladimir Zhelezniak, and me to try to bring the ether of my mother’s soul back for one last communication. The female mathematicians had declined to attend, as did Peter Orlansky. They were far more sensible than I was.

I was there strictly as an observer, I swear. It hadn’t been my original intention to attend. My uncle had come to my mother’s house that evening because, according to Shimon Ben-Zvi, five items that my mother held dear were needed for the ceremony. My uncle knew exactly what would be best, five of the Russian rubles from my mother’s ammo box. He was partly relieved that I hadn’t already put the coins in a safe-deposit box, and partly irritated. “Everyone knows that gold is here, Sasha,” he said. “You need to be more responsible with your mother’s hard-earned
raichkite
.”

It had been my intention to stay home with Bruce, but as the evening wore on, I became more and more curious. Plus, I was getting nervous about my uncle. This event was going to be a disaster, I knew, and my uncle’s response to being conned by Shimon Ben-Zvi could turn ugly. Someone needed to be there to pull him back, and I wasn’t sure that Anna could do it alone.

They were all seated around the dining room table when I arrived. Shimon was at the head, his wife, Jocelyn, on his right, his brother, Abraham, on his left. Abraham looked worried. He, too, knew that this escapade would not end well. I looked at his unsettled face and regretted not contacting him beforehand so the two of us and Anna could devise a strategy for the inevitable moment when the farce became obvious to all.

Some of the mathematicians, including Yakov, had notebooks and pencils in front of them. At face value it looked like they were prepared to be stenographers for my mother, recently departed but evidently still capable of presenting an important math seminar. Perhaps one or two possessed the delusion that she would teach them somehow. I’ll never know. More likely they were all like Yakov, ever ready to find inspiration and desperate enough to seek it out in even the most ridiculous of settings.

In a corner of the room stood three men with
tallitim
, ritual prayer shawls, over their heads, standing in their socks on the cherrywood floor. Rituals like this, I then understood, required a few sidekicks, in this case some old guys from our synagogue. They were undoubtedly Cohanim, members of the ancient Jewish tribe of priests.

I sat down at the far end of the table and looked directly at Shimon. I was angry but tried to appear calm. Before Shimon was a fat, well-worn Hebrew volume that looked to have been published sometime in the 1920s. Presumably this volume contained a recipe for communicating with the souls of the dead. Who did Shimon think he was going to fool? Many of us knew Jewish liturgy well, and the Karanskys had spent their formative years in Israel. Shimon was unaware that he was in way over his head, and unwilling to accept that preying upon a grieving man’s sentimental desire to hear his sister one last time was well beyond behavior acceptable to a decent human being. I wondered if he was mentally touched. Or maybe he believed he could do it.

Shimon inhaled deeply before opening his book. I finally noticed the five gold coins, my gold coins, in the center of the table, thought about the possibility of never seeing them again, and decided that that was the least of my worries. Shimon solemnly began to recite in Hebrew a history, an event from who knows what century, when wayward rabbis of old managed to do successfully what we were attempting. I had a suspicion that he wasn’t reading from a text at all, but was simply making up stuff as he was going along. As a stand-in for those rabbis of old, he summoned forth the Cohanim,
the old men from the synagogue standing in their socks. Who had managed to convince them to come for this travesty? I didn’t know. They turned their backs to us. I knew what was going to come next. Shimon was borrowing from the
Birkat Cohanim
, the priestly blessing delivered on the Jewish New Year. The old men no doubt had their fingers closed against their palms waiting for when they would be called to face us. Then they turned upon hearing the summons from Shimon, spreading out their fingers, lifting up their hands to the height of their shoulders, and reciting the Hebrew words first spoken by Shimon:

[We humbly stand before you, beseeching to hear from you, and to hear your wisdom]

Back and forth they went in the dimly lit room. Shimon and the old men were engaged in a call and response. After a few turns they had established a well-defined cadence, and I started to gain a sense that even if what I was witnessing was 100 percent hokum, there was something inherently otherworldly, magical, and beautiful about it. My uncle’s eyes were closed. He was taking it all in aurally. Shimon’s high-pitched voice sang a well-known Hassidic melody. The old men followed with their droning. My uncle was perhaps fifteen feet away from me as I watched him, first reciting the words he was hearing, and then mumbling something altogether different. Perhaps other people were doing much the same as my uncle, but I wasn’t watching them.

My uncle was feeling something deep inside him, I knew. I’ve never felt what believers hold inside their hearts, and I certainly have never felt what I witnessed happening to my uncle in that room. I heard his voice grow louder and louder, mixing with the words of Shimon and the old Cohanim. My uncle wasn’t speaking in Hebrew like them, but in Polish. His eyes seemed almost forced shut by then, and he was using not his modern Polish, but the formal Polish of my mother.

In the middle of the rising din of Shimon and the Cohanim, my uncle shot up from his chair, his hands resting on the table, his eyes still closed, with tears beginning to run down from the crevices of his crow’s-feet. “
Skoncz z tym szalenstwem
[Stop this nonsense]!” he shouted, his booming voice taking over the room. “Stop this right now!” he then shouted out in English. The room went silent in an instant.

“Are you all right, Shlomo?” Anna asked.

“I’m more than all right.” He paused to wipe the tears from his face. “Turn on the lights, Anna. All the way, please.” The new brightness of the room caused me and probably everyone else to squint. “I had a memory from long ago. From Vladimir-Volynski. I’d rather have not remembered it, to tell you the truth. That place was a living hell. And not just for Jews. For Poles, too.”

“What did you remember?” Anna asked.

“I don’t want to say. It must have happened when I was three or so. I can’t believe I can remember it now.” My uncle’s face was white.

“Three years old. That wasn’t a good time,” Zhelezniak said. “Not for my family in Russia. We’re the same age, you and I. We starved, both of us. My father died that year in the army. I only know what he looks like from pictures.”

“Lots of people died. Whole families. Back then I was living with my aunt, and we were on a farm. It was dangerous, I was told. A Polish farmer was taking care of us. He was a kind man. I liked him. We were in his barn, living there, I think. I knew all this before.” My uncle paused to strengthen himself so that he could continue. The color in his face came back little by little. He was no longer lost in a nightmare. Instead he was a
shtarker
, a formidable man, again.

“But today, just now, I know why we left his farm. The Ukrainians. They must have come. They wanted him out, just like they wanted all Poles out of Wołyn. Maybe he resisted. Who knows? But one day we walked to his house from the barn. He was there outside. On the door.” My uncle paused and looked into the hallway to his own front door.

“Nailed to the door, his arms stretched wide like he was Jesus Christ. I’d never seen a dead person before. I’d never seen blood come out of a man’s mouth like that. The place was quiet. We walked inside his house. They were all dead. His whole family had been murdered.”

“It was a horrible time for everyone,” Anna said.

My uncle looked directly at Shimon. “I suppose I can thank you for this memory. Tonight, when I saw the faces of those children in that house, it was like I was there again. And I knew. The dead don’t come back. Not to this world. This world is too cruel for anyone to want to come back. Even to speak to the ones they love. There must be a better world to go to. There must be.” My uncle paused again. I could feel the anger rise in him. “What were you thinking, Shimon?”

A look of panic crossed Shimon’s face. “I was trying to help you. You wanted to hear your sister. I was just trying to assist.”

“No. That’s not true. You were trying to make a little money. You didn’t care who you hurt along the way.”

“Easy, Uncle,” I said. “He’s not the worth the trouble.”

“No, he isn’t,” Anna said. She put her hand on his shoulder, rubbing it slowly.

My uncle looked at me and then at Anna. “You’re both right about that.” He then turned to Shimon. “I want you out of here. Right now. Immediately. You, your pole dancer of a wife, and your fat, disgusting brother. Your family has caused us nothing but trouble always. Out! Right! Now!” When a Czerneski flies into a rage, a sane person understands immediately that it is time to disappear. Whatever doubts I had about Shimon’s sanity left when I saw him pack up his belongings in a rush.

“I’m sorry you all had to witness me being so foolish,” my uncle said to the crowd in the room as the Ben-Zvis headed for the door. “I’m not usually this way. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“You’re still grieving, Shlomo,” Yakov said. “It’s hard, I know. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“We didn’t come to hear Rachela,” one of the Karanskys said. “We came because you asked us. We came for you. We’re glad we did.”

“OK, you think I can erase this embarrassment. I wish I could. Trying to hear the dead. I should know better,” my uncle said.

“It wasn’t a total waste,” Yakov said. “Not for me, Shlomo.”

“What do you mean, Yakov? Don’t joke with me now. I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m not joking. There was something about tonight. All the chanting back and forth. Like I was a child in Minsk again in our rabbi’s house on Simchas Torah. It was a special day. People would sing melodies, like what I heard tonight, from the old times. The men would all be drunk. I hadn’t thought about those days in a long time.”

“And so, you had a good memory. I’m happy to hear someone got something good from this craziness,” my uncle said.

“More than a good memory. I got an idea. A very important idea.”

“What idea? My sister’s problem? You understand how to solve it now?”

“No, not that one. The Navier-Stokes problem is beyond me, and beyond all of us, really. But for a long time I’ve been working on another problem in mathematical physics. Twelve years, actually. I had my doubts I would ever solve it. I thought I might be too old, a has-been. But here in this room, all the chanting, you saying god knows what in Polish, it came to me. An idea. A real idea. A breakthrough, really. I think I can solve this damn problem. Twelve years of nothing, and now this.”

“You’re not lying to me to make me feel good, right, Yakov? I don’t have patience for liars anymore today.”

“No, I’m not lying, Shlomo. It’s true. In my head it’s all there because of this crazy night.”

“You think you can solve the Boussinesq equation problem?” Zhelezniak asked. “Isn’t that what you’ve been working on all these years?”

“Correct.”

“No one has been able to solve that problem in seventy years.”

“I know,” Yakov said. He was grinning.

“Are you sure?” Zhelezniak asked.

“The more I think about it, the more I’m sure,” Yakov said.

“Well, something good came out of this, I guess,” my uncle said. “Now all you mathematicians need to get the hell out of here. I need to apologize to the poor men I brought from the synagogue to help with this travesty.” My uncle looked at the three Cohanim standing at the head of the table, three men who undoubtedly were staying up well past their normal bedtimes. “You can put your shoes on now. We’ll have a few drinks. Then I’ll be happy to drive you home.”

“I’ll drive them, Shlomo,” Anna said. The old men seemed buoyed by the idea of a graceful woman being their chauffeur. “But first things first. I need to know where you keep the alcohol in this monstrosity of a house.”