I rubbed my eyes. Now where on earth had I dug that up? Was it Buxtehude perhaps? (The way my grandfather pronounced the word I always took it for a place, not a man.)
Don't let him read too much, it's bad for his eyes.
Seated at the edge of his work bench, where he sat with legs doubled up, making coats for Isaac Walker's menagerie of fine gentlemen, I read aloud to him from Hans Christian Andersen.
Put the book away now, he says gently. Go out and play.
I go down to the backyard and, having nothing more interesting to do, I peek between the slats of the wooden fence which separated our property from the smoke house. Rows and rows of stiff, blackened fish greet my eyes. The pungent, acrid odor is almost overpowering. They're hanging by the gills, these rigid, frightened fish; their popping eyes gleam in the dark like wet jewels.
Returning to my grandfather's bench, I ask him why dead things are always so stiff. And he answers: Because there's no joy in them any more.
Why did you leave Germany? I ask.
Because I didn't want to be a soldier.
I would like to be a soldier, I said.
Wait, he said, wait till the bullets fly.
He hums a little tune while he sews. Shoo fly, don't bother me!
What are you going to be when you grow up? A tailor, like your father?
I want to be a sailor, I reply promptly. I want to see the world.
Then don't read so much. You'll need good eyes if you're going to be a sailor.
Yes, Grosspapa. (That's how we called him.) Goodbye, Grosspapa.
I remember the way he eyed me as I walked to the door. A quizzical look, it was. What was he thinking? That I'd never make a sailor man?
Further retrospection was broken by the approach of a most seedy looking bum with hand outstretched. Could I spare a dime, he wanted to know.
Sure, I said. I can spare a lot more, if you need it.
He took a seat beside me. He was shaking as if he had the palsy. I offered him a cigarette and lit it for him.
Wouldn't a dollar be better than a dime? I said.
He gave me a weird look, like a horse about to shy. What it is? he said. What's the deal?
I lit myself a cigarette, stretched my legs full length, and slowly, as if deciphering a bill of lading, I replied: When a man is about to make a journey to foreign lands, there to eat and drink his fill, to wander as he pleases and to wonder, what's a dollar more or less? Another shot of rye is what you want, I take it. As for me, what I would like is to be able to speak French, Italian, Spanish, Russian, possibly a little Arabic too. If I had my choice, I'd sail this minute. But that's not for you to worry about. Look, I can offer you a dollar, two dollars, five dollars. Five's the maximum—unless the banshees are after you. What say? You don't have to sing any hymns either...
He acted jumpy like. Edged away from me instinctively, as if I were bad medicine.
Mister, he said, all I need is a quarter ... two bits. That'll do. And I'll thank you kindly.
Half rising to his feet, he held out his palm.
Don't be in a hurry, I begged. A quarter, you say. What good is a quarter? What can you buy for that? Why do things half-way? It's not American. Why not get yourself a flask of rot gut? And a shave and hair-cut too? Anything but a Rolls Royce. I told you, five's the maximum. Just say the word.
Honest, mister, I don't need that much.
You do too. How can you talk that way? You need lots and lots of things—food, sleep, soap and water, more booze...
Two bits, that's all I want, mister.
I fished out a quarter and placed it in his palm. Okay, I said, if that's the way you want it.
He was trembling so that the coin slipped out of his hand and rolled into the gutter. As he bent over to pick it up I pulled him back.
Let it stay there, I said. Some one may come along and find it. Good luck, you know. Here, here's another. Hold on to it now!
He got up, his eye riveted to the coin in the gutter.
Can't I have that one too, mister?
Of course you can. But then, what about the other fellow?
What other fellow?
Any old fellow. What's the difference?
I held him by the sleeve. Hold on a minute, I've got a better idea. Leave that quarter where it is and I'll give you a bill instead. You don't mind taking a dollar, do you? I pulled a roll out of my trousers pocket and extracted a dollar bill. Before you convert this into more poison, I said, closing his fist over it, listen to this, it's a real good thought. Imagine, if you can, that it's tomorrow and that you're passing this same spot, wondering who'll give you a dime. I won't be here, you see. I'll be on the Ile de France. Now then, your throat's parched and all that, and
