When We Danced on Water (7 page)

The next morning before dawn, Rosa was a wreck. She had gathered her hair too hastily into an untidy chignon, and now wisps slipped away and fell across her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face looked lined and tired as Teodor had rarely seen it. She busied herself with breakfast, and with sandwiches and fruit for the trip; she could barely stand to look at Teodor, for fear of bursting into tears. When it came time for them to leave she hugged Teodor hard, then pushed him away, speechless and sobbing, and he left the house with his father in silence.

But Teodor was fifteen years old and off on his first big adventure. He could not be morose for long, too excited about the journey and what lay ahead. He had only ever been to the Tatry Mountains and to the countryside, never as far north as the Baltic Sea, in fact had never crossed the border from Poland into another country, where people spoke a language he had never heard and could scarcely imagine. He tried puckering his mouth and creating the sounds of Danish, but had no idea where to begin.

They sat in the first-class section of the train, far from the Poles guzzling beer with their breakfasts. On the way out of town, on a bridge over the Vistula, Teodor caught a quick glimpse of the riverbank where his mother would take him to play, but he let it fall back with the rest of Warsaw. Soon they were roaring across flat, open fields of potatoes, wheat and mustard. They passed shimmering rivers and peasants on horseback. They skirted grazing cows and huge bales of hay and sagging castles, stopping in tiny towns with walls and ramparts from another age. Oskar told Teodor of a great kingdom that had once had its capital here, but Teodor's mind skittered with the scenery and soon Oskar fell silent.

From the moment they alighted from the train, Teodor felt he was in a new country, and in fact he was; despite its geographical location in the north of Poland, Danzig was a German city with German laws and customs. Teodor, however, knew nothing of the laws or customs, he knew only that the air was different here, saturated with sea smells: salt, fish, a soupy thickness that never descended on landlocked Warsaw. The roofs were different here, ornate and frivolous, and there were flowerpots in every window of every building. After a meal of fish and potatoes, they strolled the waterfront, pausing to admire the great stone gates of the city and an enormous medieval loading crane. Teodor persuaded his father to buy a necklace of Baltic amber for Rosa, and before retiring they enjoyed a hot chocolate topped with a cone of whipped cream in the lobby of their hotel. Neither father nor son slept well, whether from the strange sounds—ships' bells and sailors' yells—or fear of what lay ahead, or just sheer excitement.

They rose early, ate a small breakfast in the dining room, and packed in silence. Both felt keenly the absence of Rosa, who always maintained a happy chatter that was their comfort and pleasure. The day passed slowly. Finally, mid-afternoon, still well in advance of departure, Oskar hired a taxi to bring them to the port.

From far off they glimpsed the SS
Frederik VIII
, a vessel Teodor had imagined as a simple fishing boat with perhaps a few other passengers but which was in fact long and sleek and as tall as their apartment building in Warsaw. Who, he wondered now, were all these people traveling, like him, from Danzig to Copenhagen? He looked to his father's face to see if he, too, was in awe. “I've booked you a second-class room with a young man from Stettin. He's continuing on to America.”

“America?”

“Your ship sails from Copenhagen to America, Teodor. But don't worry, they'll make sure you get off in Denmark.” He laughed, watching Teodor's wide-eyed astonishment.

By the time they reached the great ship, loading was well under way and the scene was of controlled chaos. There were people and parcels scattered everywhere, boys selling newspapers and cigars, sailors carrying kit bags. Families seemed to be traveling with entire households, and several times in line to board arguments broke out between irate porters and departing passengers with regard to the sheer bulk of belongings set to enter the ship. Teodor and Oskar did not speak; they stood, nearly shoulder to shoulder, quiet and self-contained, each observing the scene and thinking private, very different thoughts.

Oskar fished an envelope from his breast pocket.

“There's money here for you, and your ticket and identification papers, as well as a letter from the Danish folks inviting you to the school there.” He brought a handkerchief from another pocket and daubed at the beads of sweat on his brow. Teodor wondered whether he, too, would lose his hair young, grow stout, and sweat when it was not hot. Adulthood did not seem all that wonderful.

“There's also a letter from me in there, just a few bits of things I was thinking. I did not quite know how to say them so I wrote them down for you. I hope my handwriting is legible.” He had begun to sniffle, and now applied the handkerchief to his nose. “Anyway, good luck my boy. We're expecting great things from you, but do not stay away from home too long. Remember your home is always here, in Poland.”

“Yes, Father, I'll remember,” Teodor said, shifting weight from foot to foot. Oskar hugged Teodor tightly, crying lightly now. Teodor longed to bolt for the gangplank but he held on to his father. He did not wish to see his face.

Oskar pushed him away. “Go on, get on the ship. And write us as soon as you get settled with the Sonnenfeld family. They sound like good people, I'm sure you will do fine with them.”

Teodor lifted his heavy suitcase and struggled with it up the gangplank. He found a spot and moved to the railing to wave good-bye to his father. At eight o'clock the ship sailed, and Teodor waved until he could no longer distinguish his father from the hotel behind him.

Benno, his cabin mate from Stettin, was a Communist. Teodor had only a vague idea what that meant, but did not wish to seem stupid in the eyes of this young man fully six years his senior. “I'm an artist,” he told Teodor, “and I'm going to America for freedom. It's the only place you can be a Communist and an artist and be free, and probably rich, at least after a few years. And anyway, it's no good being a Jew in Europe anymore, they don't let us breathe. In the USA I'll be able to breathe.”

He talked endlessly about himself and asked nothing about Teodor, even why he was sailing to Copenhagen and not, like him and most everyone else on this ship, to the New World. At dinner, however, they were seated with a wealthy Jewish couple from Stettin, in whose circles Benno clearly did not move, and so, outclassed, he grew silent. The couple's daughter looked to be about Teodor's age. He guessed, by her carefully braided and ribboned hair, her fussy clothing and her pout, that she was terribly spoiled.

“You'll see,” Mr. Steinberg was telling the table, “Herr Hitler will not stop with Germany, Germany is only his starting point for European conquest. He has grand plans.” He pointed his fork at Teodor. “And wherever Hitler goes he'll make trouble for Jews, you wait and see.” Mrs. Steinberg gently lowered her husband's outstretched arm and everyone continued eating.

“Why are you traveling alone, dear?” Mrs. Steinberg asked Teodor.

Teodor placed his fork on his plate and quickly swallowed the food in his mouth. “I'm going to study ballet in Copenhagen,” he told them simply.

Mr. Steinberg nearly exploded. “Ballet!” he shouted, drawing the attention of several tables nearby, and a stern reprimand from Mrs. Steinberg. “The world in an economic downturn, Hitler making trouble for everyone, especially Jews, and you are going to learn to turn pirouettes? And your parents are allowing this?”

Teodor had no idea how to defend himself. His love of ballet, his adoring mother and his talent had created just one path in life, one clearly marked path he had never had cause to question. But he did not need to provide Mr. Steinberg with an answer; his daughter was pleased to oblige. “Father, listen to you! If a person is not a doctor or a businessman you think he is loafing about wasting his time. What about art, and creativity? What about beauty?”

“Ach,
Liebchen
, that's for women. Men need to set the world on its course!”

“Or muck it up, more likely,” Mrs. Steinberg said with a smile at Teodor. He was grateful for the intervention, but perplexed nonetheless, and the meal passed uncomfortably for him. Later, in the cabin, as they lay in their bunks, he asked Benno for his opinion.

“The guy's an old fart, if you ask me, lots of wind.”

“But what he was saying, you know, about art. I've never really thought about it, I've always just danced …”

“Well,” Benno said slowly, “you must admit that dancing isn't like art, not really. You do it and it's gone, it's all over. When I paint something it's my statement, and it's there forever. Unless of course I destroy it. But no matter what you do, your dance is over the minute you've danced it.”

Teodor thought about this for a while, but when he was ready to answer, or perhaps ask another question that lay a bit further on in his line of reasoning, he realized that Benno was breathing the soft and steady breaths of sleep. Filled with energy and feeling quite disquieted, he stood up from his berth and let himself out of the cabin. There were few people milling about, and Teodor climbed two flights up and went out to the starboard deck, where a strong cool wind caught him and tossed him about, and from there he climbed another level higher, to a secluded observation deck at the rear of the boat, pointing back in the darkness at Poland. He tried to imagine his new life, but too many images flew about in his brain; too many languages and faces already, a huge, noisy confusion. He stood at the railing, gazing first down at the wake of the great ship, then up at the stars. Out here, things were simpler, and his mind let go of the images, and quieted. Here there were only wind and stars and water. And a barre, he suddenly realized: he was holding a cold, white, metallic barre, and so he slipped off his shoes and began to stretch and bend, to lift and pose. And, after a few minutes and a glance about to make sure he was alone, he let go of the barre and danced, really danced, the deck his stage and the wind his music and the stars his audience. He flew from corner to corner, in great leaps and turns, higher and longer than he had ever soared. He grew warmer, and it seemed to him the stars shone more brightly the longer he danced. He had broken a sweat by the time he stopped, but had no clue how long he had been dancing. After bowing a grand révérence, first to the wind and then to the stars, he slid down the stairs and returned to his cabin.

He sat up abruptly in the morning. Benno was still sleeping, but Teodor leapt from his berth; the ship was quiet, which meant they had docked for a short stop in Trelleborg, and Teodor wished to catch this first glimpse of a new country, a new land. Up on deck, however, what he could see of Sweden proved to be a disappointment. Ships and low houses under a thin sun. Nothing shimmered as he had hoped it would. He was idly watching two brawny Swedish dockworkers unload crates of potatoes when he remembered his father's letter, and walked quickly back to his cabin.

It consisted of one short page on lined paper, snippets of practical advice his father wished to impart to him. Teodor lit the lamp over his bed and, to Benno's snores, read: “Follow the customs of your hosts, even if they are strange or primitive in your opinion.” “Be flexible where you can, but do nothing contrary to the principles upon which you have been raised.” There was no listing of those principles, and Teodor wondered what they were. “Be polite with strangers but not overly friendly.” And in a smaller handwriting, at the bottom of the page: “Let no person touch you untowardly. Your body is your private kingdom and let no person violate that right.” In fact, “person” had replaced the word “man,” which had been heavily scribbled over but which was easily discernible by flipping over the page and glancing at the indentations of the pen. Benno stirred and muttered something. Teodor folded his father's letter neatly and tucked it inside the envelope.

Chapter 13

T
hey remain seated: she on a bench in a park in Old Jaffa, he in a chair in his basement studio on Ibn Gabirol Street in Tel Aviv. They talk to no one, only themselves.

Briefly, Vivi thinks of Pincho. He will not be worried about her absence, since he goes to his parents' home every other Sabbath, dons a skullcap, and becomes the Pinhas of his boyhood. He will stand praying in the synagogue between his bearded father and his younger brothers. He will bow his head as first his father, then his mother, recite blessings on him and his siblings before the Sabbath meal. He will sing songs with them at the table, only occasionally letting his thoughts wander to the simmering, shimmering, half-naked bodies pulsating on the dance floor at Indigo.

She thinks of Teo, too. He has probably collected his belongings, gone home to a hot and savory Sabbath meal. What would it be like, she wonders, to sit across the table from him during a languorous meal, good wine warming their veins? She shakes her head and turns back to her memories.

Briefly, Teo thinks of Nelly. She will be terrified that something has happened to him. The incessant ringing of the office phone is certainly Nelly dialing the only number she ever uses. The Sabbath candles in their heavy silver holders will be melting down, the soup cooling in its pot. He is her entire life. It has been more than twenty-five years since he was in Warsaw to receive a prize and found her there, orphaned and unmarried and destitute, living hand to mouth in the flat her family had occupied across the hall from his own. He brought her to Israel then so he could look after her—a debt of gratitude repaid—but instead she has spent a quarter century looking after him. She has made no friends and rarely leaves the apartment except to shop for food and other necessities. Although he has assured her that he will provide for her forever, long after he is gone, he understands she has no raison d'être beyond caring for him. And still, he cannot rise to answer the phone.

He thinks of Vivi, too. She is probably on her way to meet friends for an evening of dancing, drinking, talking. Briefly he envisions her meeting a man in a bar, the brisk walk back to her apartment. He shakes his head and turns back to his memories.