Too Many Men (45 page)

“What have you got?” she said to the old man. The old man didn’t need Tadeusz to interpret. He had understood the gesture Ruth had made with her head. It was a defiant gesture. Ruth had been surprised at the defiance she had managed to muster.

The old man pulled a large brown paper bag out from under the table.

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Ruth looked into the bag. She couldn’t see what was inside. The bag stank of mothballs. The old man leaned down and with a flourish pulled an old overcoat out of the bag.

“Why should she want an old man’s overcoat?” Tadeusz said to the old man.

“We don’t need him,” the old man said, nodding in Tadeusz’s direction.

He held up the coat. Ruth could see that it was an expensive coat. It was dark gray. Probably made out of wool. The plush pale gray satin lining was still intact. And clean. All the seams were double-stitched. And the tailored shape of the collar and subtlety of the line of the body of the coat suggested it had been designed and made by a master tailor.

“Whose coat is it?” Ruth said.

“Your grandfather’s,” the old man said. Ruth thought she must have misheard.

“What did he say?” she said to Tadeusz.

“He said this coat belonged to your grandfather,” Tadeusz said.

“She understood what I said,” the old man said to Tadeusz.

“How do you know this was my grandfather’s coat?” Ruth said. “It could be anyone’s.”

“If it was anyone’s coat I would not be showing it to you,” the old man said. He put his hand into one of the pockets of the coat and pulled out the lining. The initials I. R. were embroidered in dark gray on the top of the lining of the pocket. Ruth looked at the initials and started to weep. Did this coat belong to Israel Rothwax, her father’s father, her grandfather?

How did this sickening old man know her grandfather’s initials?

“It could belong to anyone else with the same initials,” Ruth said. The old man laughed. He turned back the collar of the coat. At the back of the collar, embroidered again, in dark gray, was the name Rothwax. The embroidered letters looked almost human, almost alive, to Ruth. So much more than a series of stitches. She sank back down onto the chair and wept.

She wept like a child. She couldn’t stop weeping. Neither of the men in the room said a word. Ruth tried to stop crying. She wiped her face with her hands and blew her nose with her last Kleenex. But the tears kept coming and her nose kept running. She couldn’t breathe. Her nasal passages were completely blocked.

But she couldn’t stop crying. This man’s apartment was no place to shed

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L I L Y B R E T T

tears, Ruth thought. Or maybe it was exactly the right place. She had no more Kleenex. She sniffed. She had to stop crying. She had cried so much this morning, surely her tear ducts would be just about dried up. She dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. Her eyes were sore. The coat fabric had been waterproofed and wasn’t absorbent. She felt as though she was drowning in a sea of tears and mucus. She had to get out of there.

“How much for the coat?” she said.

“The coat comes with something else,” the old man said. He pulled a faded, yellowed envelope out of one of the pockets. Ruth stopped crying.

“What is that?” she said.

“Something you will be interested in,” the old man said.

He opened the envelope and removed four photographs. He spread the photographs on the table in front of Ruth. They were old sepia-toned photographs. Snapshots of a family. An older couple, on their own, were in the first photograph. They were possibly in their fifties or sixties, it was hard to tell. In other photographs, the older couple were with several younger adults, men and women in their twenties or thirties. Two small children were in the last photograph. Two girls.

“Who are they?” she said to the old man.

“I don’t know,” he said. “That is for you to find out.”

“You don’t know these people?” Tadeusz said to Ruth. “You could be paying for nothing.”

Ruth looked at the photographs. She didn’t know who any of the people were. The older couple looked stolid and solid. Both of them were dressed in black. The woman had her hair pulled back into a bun. She was a substantial-looking woman. Tall, with square shoulders and a big bust. A very big bust. Could this woman be Luba Rothwax? Ruth thought. Could this woman be related to her? Not if chest size was any indication. Her own breasts were relatively small. Well, maybe not small, she thought. But medium, at the most. The older couple looked grim, too. Dour. She didn’t think they were her relatives.

“These people don’t belong to me,” she said.

“Look again,” the old man said. “Look at the children. Look at the older girl.”

Ruth looked at the photograph the old man was holding out. Something in Ruth’s body misfired. It felt like a malfunction in the wiring of her elecT O O M A N Y M E N

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trical circuits. There were flicks and twinges in her head. They felt like kinks and stitches. Nips and pinches. She went hot and cold all over. Parts of her face were burning and other parts of her were cold. Her hands and knees were shaking. The two small girls in the photograph looked about six and eight. They both had curly, dark hair, parted at the side. The curls on the right fell into ringlets and jutted out at exactly the same angle as her own hair.

Ruth looked at the photograph again. Both of these girls could have been Ruth. If someone had showed her a photograph of either of these girls, Ruth would have sworn that the girl in the photograph was her. That was exactly how she looked in all the photographs she had of herself at the same age. But the girls in the photograph were girls Ruth had never met.

Ruth realized the photographs had been taken outside this building. In front of 23 Kamedulska Street. Everybody in the photographs was well dressed. The girls had ribbons tied into large bows in their hair, and embroidered socks and shiny shoes.

Ruth looked closely at one of the younger women. She felt sick. The woman looked so like her. The same eyes. The same mouth. Who was she?

Was she the mother of the two girls?

“How much?” she said to the old man.

“How much will you pay me?” he said.

“I haven’t got much left,” she said.

“You can come back,” he said.

“Tell him he’s a bastard and I hope he burns in hell,” Ruth said. Tadeusz remained quiet. The old man laughed.

“I’ll settle for another thousand dollars,” he said. Ruth gasped. “It’s worth paying me,” he said. “You can’t put a value on these things.”

“Tell him it will have to be in zlotys,” Ruth said.

“Zlotys, dollars, francs, I’ll take anything,” the old man said. Ruth opened her bag. It was lucky she always carried plenty of zlotys with her.

She did a quick conversion in her head. She estimated it would be roughly three thousand zlotys. She counted out the zlotys. She gave them to the old man. He counted them again.

“I need to leave straight away,” Ruth said to Tadeusz. She put the envelope with the photographs in her bag. Her hands were still shaking.

Tadeusz folded the overcoat on top of one of the boxes of china.

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“You know anything about buried gold?” the old man said to Tadeusz.

Tadeusz didn’t answer. “We are sure they buried something,” the old man said.

Ruth wanted to punch him. She wanted to punch and punch until she had pummeled his smug expression into mush. Until she had broken every bone and every piece of cartilage in his face. She sneered at him. “I hope you burn in hell,” she said.

Before this trip, she had thought she didn’t believe in hell. “Burn in hell,” she said to the old man again. He smiled at her. She thought he must have misunderstood what she was saying. He looked at her and laughed. She knew by his laugh that he had understood the essence of what she had said. “I hope you rot in hell,” Ruth said. The old man looked at her and laughed again. This time he laughed even harder. It must have struck him as funny, Ruth thought. The whole morning was probably hilarious for him.

“Can you carry the box?” Tadeusz said.

“I can carry anything,” she said. She picked up the box, and walked out of the apartment. Tadeusz followed her.

“Come back if she tells you about any gold,” the old man shouted to Tadeusz. “I’ll split it with you.”

“Are you all right?” Tadeusz said to Ruth at the bottom of the stairs.

“I am all right,” she said. The brown dog was still at the front entrance.

He ran up to Ruth. “Shoo, shoo,” she said to the dog. The dog stayed by her side. “Get out of my way,” Ruth said to the dog. The dog stayed put.

Ruth lifted her foot and kicked the dog. She must have kicked hard because the dog started whimpering. “Sorry, dog,” she said.

The taxi was still there. Ruth was glad that she hadn’t paid the driver.

Tadeusz had made sure that the driver had waited for them. Tadeusz put the china in the trunk of the car. “Be very careful with it,” she said to Tadeusz. The dog sat on the footpath and looked at Ruth. He looked hurt.

“Sorry, dog,” she said, again.

Ruth was relieved to be back in the taxi. The taxi, as dilapidated and foul-smelling as it was, felt like a haven to Ruth, a sanctuary. “Back to the hotel, please,” Tadeusz said to the driver. They drove off. Ruth looked back T O O M A N Y M E N

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at 23 Kamedulska Street. The brown dog was still sitting on the footpath.

His head was turned toward the taxi. Ruth wondered if the dog could still see them.

The taxi turned the corner and the dog and the building were gone.

Ruth felt almost numb. How had the old couple got hold of the china and the coat and the photographs? What else had there been? Had there been other items of clothing they had taken? Other photographs? Other pieces of furniture or tableware? Had they taken them out of the apartment after Edek and his family and the other families had left, or had it been an inter-mediary, another Pole, who had gotten to the goods first, and sold them to the new occupants of the building? Had the old couple saved these pieces?

What else had they had? Had they sold other items in the meantime? Fifty-nine years was a long time to wait for a sale.

Did someone divide out what was in all the apartments in Kamedulska Street? Or did the Poles grab whatever they could get? And why keep a coat? For identification? The name “Rothwax” embroidered on the inside was certainly identifying. Or was it? Could the Poles have embroidered it on themselves after the war?

Edek would know the authenticity of the coat, she thought. It did look authentic to Ruth. Far too expensive for these Poles to have been the pur-chasers. They may still have embroidered the name onto the coat. But how would they know whose name to embroider? Was the name Rothwax on the apartment? Was the name Rothwax on hundreds of other items they found? Ruth thought that she would never know the answer to these questions. These questions would just join a long list of other unanswerable questions about that time. That demented, fragmented, mad time.

“I need to get this china shipped to America,” Ruth said to Tadeusz.

“To New York. Do you know a shipping company?” Tadeusz thought for a minute. “Yes,” he said. “There is a company that ships around the world not far from the hotel.”

“Is it a reliable company?” Ruth said.

“It is American,” Tadeusz said.

“An American company?” Ruth said. “That’s perfect.”

“There is also a Polish company,” Tadeusz said. He hesitated. “You would prefer the American?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Wouldn’t you?”

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“Perhaps,” he said.

Ruth looked at her watch. “Could we go straight there?” she said to Tadeusz.

“Of course,” he said.

Tadeusz carried the two boxes of china into the offices of the International Shipping Company on Piotrkowska Street. Ruth waited in the taxi until he had carried both boxes in. She felt a sense of happiness seeing the boxes being delivered to the shippers. She paid the taxi driver. She was grateful to him for not contributing any detours or diversions. She gave him the equivalent of one hundred American dollars. He beamed.

“Can I have these packed and shipped?” Ruth said to the clerk at the shipping company.

“No problem,” he said. He was American. Ruth wanted to hug him.

“It’s china, and the pieces are fragile,” she said.

“We ship a lot of glass product,” he said. “It will be wrapped and packaged very securely.”

“Good,” she said.

“How soon do you want it?” he said.

“As soon as possible,” Ruth said.

“Air Express?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. She didn’t care how much it cost. She paid for the shipping with her American Express card. She felt elated.

She put the receipt, and the tracking number, carefully in her wallet.

There was plenty of room. Her wallet was almost empty. There was a Kantor next door to the shipping company. She changed some money and paid Tadeusz. “You were very good,” she said.

“Thank you. You look much better,” he said.

“I feel better,” she said. They shook hands. “I’m going to walk back to the hotel,” she said. She walked along Piotrkowska Street holding the paper bag with her grandfather’s overcoat. She hugged the bag to herself.

She didn’t mind the smell of the mothballs.

“I don’t need the boxes after all,” she said to the doorman when she got back to the hotel.

“It was a pleasure to get them for you,” he said and moved his face T O O M A N Y M E N

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closer to Ruth’s. She tried not to back away too obviously. “I managed to get very strong boxes,” he said.

“Thank you very much,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”

“Fifty dollars,” he said.

Ruth had had enough negotiations for one morning. “I’ll change a traveler’s check at the desk and give the money to you,” she said to the doorman.