The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg (17 page)

Letter 47
October 15, 2004

Dear Paul McCartney,

I'm in Julia's apartment and she's playing your music.
Take a sad song and make it better
. I don't know how, Paul. I don't have words. My dad is dead. All these people die. John is dead and George is dead. Linda is dead.

I've read about you riding that school bus and seeing George for the first time, him dressed like a fifties rockabilly hipster. You didn't want to talk to him, because he was only fourteen and you were older, and you rode the bus to school for weeks, aware of him, thinking about him. But you wouldn't play the fool. Eventually he sat down next to you on the bus and he said,
I play guitar,
and you nodded. You knew already. Then you brought him to John and the miracle happened.

And then John got divorced, and Julian, his son, was alone, so you wrote him “Hey Jules” and then turned it into “Hey Jude” and said to him
don't carry the world upon your shoulders.
My dad left me. I left my son. I have wanted to be dead.

My dad, when he was George's age on that school bus, tried to carry the world on his shoulders. A couple of months after you were born, in 1942, my dad tried to fix it. But it was something that couldn't really be fixed.

My beautiful friend Julia is back in the apartment someplace listening to you sing on a CD, Paul. I have to tell my brother.

T. Rimberg

Letter 48
October 15, 2004

David,

I'm sorry I left my last letter when I did. I had to stop. We are the grandkids of a monster. There is something else, though.

The howling women at the rest home didn't all hate me because of Grandfather. Some loved me because of Dad.

Dad was living on a farm with Catholics. The farm was in Mechelen (yes, that Mechelen, the same). Remember, he was sent there in 1940 when he was eleven, so he'd be saved even though the rest of Antwerp wouldn't be. From the farm where he stayed and went to school, ate and slept, Dad and his Catholic brothers (a fourteen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old) who were actual brothers and the sons of the man who took Dad in, watched the construction of the “transit depot” the Nazis set up. It was near the farm. Once it was finished and put into use, they likely heard screams floating across the green fields. They maybe could hear the pounding of cattle car floorboards, the crying of mothers and babies.

Dad and his brothers watched, and I guess they couldn't bear it. They thought they could fix it. With another friend, another child, some day in late summer in 1942, the three Catholic boys and our dad, all children, got on farm horses and descended on a train filled with Jews. They were armed with old farm rifles. I imagine they'd watched Hollywood westerns. They attacked the trains with scarves covering their faces.

David, these four boys killed the train engineer and killed the three guards on board. Dad flung open train doors, blood flowing, fire rising in his face. He freed the Jews on board, who all disappeared into the countryside. Most survived the war, including an old lady I met in the home. The fires the boys set destroyed the train, which blocked the tracks for several days so no other trains could come. During this attack, all three of Dad's friends were killed. Only Dad, our almost fourteen-year-old dad, lived. I don't know if he returned to the farm—how could he, the two sons dead? I don't know if he hid or what happened to him after that. But he survived, and so did the Jews on the train, around a hundred and fifty people. Millions died in the camps, but not this trainload. And then he came to America, and he married our mom and drove around the Midwest with a suitcase full of diamonds listening to eight-track tapes, and we're his sons. Isn't it strange?

Word got back to Antwerp. People here know what he did. If he hadn't returned to Antwerp in the late seventies, if he hadn't behaved poorly (I remember he hit you), our dad would still be considered a hero. He is a hero.

Charlie, Kara, and Sylvie are likely waking up right now, back in Minneapolis. Maybe they're having breakfast right now, or maybe watching public television. They are the grandchildren of a child-hero, the great-grandchildren of a monster. They are also my children.

David. You're my brother. I'm writing to you. I must love you.

T.

Day Nine:
Transcript 10

History shapes people. I had no history.

I don't know. Knowing the history of my grandfather might have made me darker. So sure Dad hid it. Probably thought he was protecting us from it. So he hid everything and disappeared. But secrets just leave this empty space. Knowing Dad's history might have given me courage.

No. I wasn't protected.

I'm not protecting my family now. I'm a runaway, too.

Not knowing Dad's history is no excuse.

That's enough, Barry.

Journal Entry,
October 18, 2004

Why is it a big deal? Why do I care about this business?

But I want to know. I want to know what this business was, why it was a big deal to Dad, a big enough deal that he disappeared and never came back. Mendez says it incorporated in 1980, soon after Dad turned into a ghost.

This ghost Dad was in Antwerp when I was here in 1990. We were likely close, blocks apart. We might have been in the same building.

I want to see this business.

Day Nine:
Transcript 11

It's a funny name. The business is still called Green Bay– Palanpur Blue. Dad, I know, named it after here—named it after Green Bay, Wisconsin.

I don't know. Crazy. Where does love come from? My father, war refugee, boy hero, Jewish diamond trader—he lived and died for the Green Bay Packers.

They were terrible when I was a kid. Do you remember the Packers in the seventies? A team God left behind, which I'm sure appealed to Dad. Even if God had forsaken the team, Wisconsin fans never stopped cheering. Dad loved Green Bay, never missed a game on TV. We watched together every week. He rarely said a word otherwise, but on game days he'd shout and jump off the couch: “You can score every time on these schlumps, Dickey!” Lynn Dickey was the quarterback then.

Dad was a cheesehead.

Here I am in Green Bay. No coincidence. Go Packers.

I didn't go to the firm alone. Julia was with me.

They were very nice. Warm. You know Indian warmth?

Yes, Indians from India. That's the second time you've asked. Do you think there are a bunch of Native Americans in the international diamond business?

Fair enough. I've heard the Oneida casino here is pretty rich.

I met the president. The firm is headed up by Bharat Jhavari, who is about my age. He's the son of Mr. Jhavari, who started the business with Dad in 1980. Bharat took us into the boardroom. He asked me to sit down, asked if I wanted something to drink. He wouldn't even look at Julia—she thought because she's a woman. I thought it might have something to do with her husband suing the firm. He was nice. He said they were so sorry about Dad. It was so sudden. Dad was family to them. How it must have been a shock to me, too. “You have no idea,” I said.

Bharat wanted to make sure the lawyers had taken care of me, gotten me the money. Of course, I got the money, but not from lawyers, it didn't seem. He said he'd bought Dad out last spring. It was a terrible shock . . . Bharat shook his head. And then I got really upset about Dad, again. Dad was family to these Indians, the Jhavaris, you know? But to me . . . ? And I—I had the story of his train attack . . . And I had pictures from Antwerp. Dad in front of the train station. Dad, a young kid, at the zoo looking straight in the camera, level stare, sad. Scrawled notes to me apologizing for his absence in my life . . . notes on scraps of paper that came in the package. My stomach clenched up and I said . . . “Yes. Yes. It's been a terrible shock.”

We didn't stay for long. Talked a little about the history . . . how Dad met Bharat's dad in Chicago in the late seventies. How they got the idea to export the diamond cutting to India to lower costs instead of using the Jewish cutters. That's apparently what upset the community so much—although that's not exactly giving Jews over to the Nazis, is it? It was a really good partnership. And when Dad died in June, Bharat's father came back from India and spread the remains on a field outside of Mechelen.

No. Jews don't normally get cremated.

Bharat said he wished we could have met under better circumstances, and he seemed sincere. Of course he was withholding something. Not everything. Just that one thing, Poland . . . which I guess is big.

I wouldn't have found out, Barry, except for the Jhavari bride. She worked there, and she was Bharat's wife. Julia and I were already at the elevator, on our way out, when she tapped me on the shoulder. A very young woman. She had a framed picture in her hand. “This is from last year,” she said. “Your father dancing with me at my wedding. Please have it.” She handed it to me, and there was Dad, elderly but healthy looking, energetic looking, tuxedoed, dancing with a beautiful Indian girl. There was Dad laughing. “Please,” the Jhavari bride said. “I very much liked your father.”

Yes, this Jhavari bride, maybe twelve hours later, gave me the information. She caught me just in time. I was about to leave.

I hadn't had a single dream since entering the nursing home, not until that night.

Letter 49
Note: Copy of letter left at Hotel
Cammerpoorte front desk. N.K. verified.
October 21, 2004

Dear Cranberry,

It's just after midnight and I'm moving.

I used to think of you as my Sancho Panza. You've got your own story now. My story is done. I've found what I came for and it's time to retire.

You'll find ten thousand euros enclosed. Don't spend it all on expensive dinners.

You're an inspiration. You've grown up in two months.

Take care of yourself (and treat Kaatje like a queen—I know, you do that naturally).

I think of you as my son, Nick Kelly.

T.

Letter 50
October 21, 2004

Dear Julia,

I have this dream that I've told no one about. It's a recurring dream, but it sort of evolves. I believe you might be in it, except you're a tiny girl. In it, you and I are linked together so closely that we can never be separated. Sometimes you seem angry with me, and other times you protect me. I've just woken up from it now, and it's the middle of the night.

I'm leaving. I have what I need and can't stay here. I will not destabilize you.

Thank you so much, Julia. You are perfect. When I saw you in Dublin all those years ago, I knew you were amazing, someone so important to me. Who knew we'd see each other again? I'm so sorry my leaving then gave you such heartache. Who knew you'd give me this gift? You've given me my family history. Thank you. And I have no way of repaying you, except by leaving and letting you live a beautiful life.

You're pregnant. I dreamt that, too. My dreams all come true, though not all of them should. This one should. I'm so pleased, Julia.

You are lovely and bathe in light wherever you walk.

Please give hugs to Cranberry and Kaatje and your good husband, Mendez.

T.

Section III

Poland

Day Ten:
Transcript 1

Good morning.

I'm thirty-six. It's my thirty-sixth birthday.

Oh, drop it. I don't give a shit about birthdays.

Sorry, Barry. I'm joking. Happy Birthday to me.

I slept pretty well.

Poland? Are we there already?

No. I didn't just go on a whim.

Two days earlier, I'd moved over to the hotel from Julia's, because I didn't want to outstay my welcome. I was in the same hotel as Cranberry and Kaatje. Remember, it was pretty close to the train station. It was probably one a.m., and I decided to leave. Not to Poland. I thought I'd hop the first train in any direction and disappear. That's all . . . get out of Julia's hair, go do something with this new hold on my life. Then a knock on the door.

Letter 51
October 23, 2004

Dear Dad who is dead,

Are you dead? Are you?

I've crossed into Poland. I'm coming. You probably aren't surprised.

I just fell asleep on the train. Here is my dream.

A sunset light in a room . . . living room or parlor. I am in a rocking chair in a little house with my family. I know there are flowers in flower boxes in front of my windows, a pretty tree in back. And there is perfect quiet, except for the sound of my children putting together a puzzle on the floor, on the rug. A little laughing from them. And my wife is wiping the table. I am reading a book in the rocking chair above where the children play. There is so much quiet. But then comes far-off thunder. It grows. Then deeper thunder, still far away, but powerful enough to shake floorboards, to vibrate cups in the cupboard. My children look up at me. I shrug. It gets closer, closer, and I know it can't be thunder. These are explosions, punctuated explosions, with a continuous noise rolling underneath. What is that noise? I recognize the noise. It is the rumbling of tank tracks on pavement. Heavy machinery. Troops marching. The sound of those horrible engines. My children leap up to me, terrified. Nestle into me. “What's that noise?” Put their hands over their ears, little bodies shaking. They cry for protection. I don't know what to do. I am just a person and just as easily obliterated as they are. I am useless. I am desperate. My wife is Mary and the children are my children but younger than they are now and we're frozen together. It's coming and there's nothing we can do.

But then a little girl who is not my child, but is for some reason in the room with us, motions for us to follow her, takes us to a cellar in back. I recognize her. She opens the door and we climb in, but she doesn't come with us. She shuts the door above us and we are together in the dark cellar.

Above us, we hear soldiers, boot stomps, crushing the material of our house, firing guns into walls—exploding plaster, the boards shaking—pushing bayonets into feather beds—sssslip—hoping to see blood, we know, they want to see our blood from the mattresses. And the children whimper, swallow sobs, and Mary can't breathe and I'm trying to keep them quiet. Please, quiet. But my children cry for protection. All that saves us is the noise of the soldiers' brutality. They destroy everything above us and I can only assume they get the little girl, too, destroy her, too. Firing, explosions, crushing glass and wood. It goes on and on until my children, exhausted by their fear, are asleep in my arms. Hours pass and there is quiet above, too.

I slowly reach up, push open the cellar door, terrified the soldiers are silent and waiting in the house. But there is no one. No house. Nothing. Glowing embers and black night sky with dim stars. There is nothing left and no sign of the little girl, but my family is alive at night in the Polish countryside.

This is how I sleep: for ten minutes, which feels like hours, waking up exhausted like I've lived a whole other, horrible life.

How are you, Dad?

I'm on my way.

T.