Shadows of Berlin полностью

A tarnished tin mezuzah is tacked onto the doorframe. And thou shalt write them upon the doorposts of thy house, and upon thy gates. So says the Mishneh Torah. The mezuzah had been left behind by the previous tenant who died of pneumonia in a hospital bed, may his name be a blessing, whatever it was. How many times had she touched it and brought the touch to her lips? Shema Yisrael. The Lord is our God, the Lord is one. She had been teetering then on the cusp of changing from Rokhl to Rachel. She takes a half step forward as if to touch the mezuzah now, as if she is stepping into the fringe of a dream, but a sharp crack of the floorboard under her feet wakes her up. Reminds her she is not here for memories; she is here for her answers. How could Feter have possibly raised the money? He begs her one day for charity, then the next yanks such cash from his pockets that he drops fifty dollars on the pawnshop counter in a blink? How? What pile of straw had he spun into gold?

Rachel presses the buzzer. “Feter?” she calls urgently. “Feter Fritz? Will you open the door?” she asks him in Yiddish.

Nothing, until a voice that isn’t her uncle’s surprises her. She turns, gripping her shoulder bag as if she might need to repel an attacker. A squat old lady is slowly descending from the upper floors. “You’ll have no luck finding that one at home,” she tells Rachel. “I know, I’ve been knocking all morning.” The lady’s hair has gone gray like steel wool fashioned into a bun. Her high cheekbones are swollen now and her eyes pouched darkly. Yes, the lady has aged since Rachel saw her on the day she moved out to marry Aaron. As she descends the steps, Rachel notes that the woman’s hobble appears to have worsened. The lady stops, gripping the stair rail, huffing lightly over the exertion of living life. “Up and down these steps, it’s torture, you know, for an old widow.”

“Mrs. Appelbaum,” Rachel says.

“That’s me,” the lady answers, peering more closely through the thick lenses of her eyeglasses. “But who are you, little treasure?”

“I’m Rachel Perlman, Mrs. Appelbaum. Though when you knew me, my name was Morgenstern. I used to live here.”

The lady frowns, but maybe she can recall. “Ohh.” She nods, peering. “I might remember a certain girl. A skinny little thing with big calf eyes. Was that you?”

“That was me. But I’m married now. My husband and I live in Chelsea,” she says as if it is an accomplishment. “On West Twenty-­Second Street.”

“Ah, well. Mazel tov,” the lady wishes her.

“Thank you. B’karov etzlech.”

“It’s a wonderful thing to be happily married.”

“Yes,” Rachel says and nods.

“For forty-­six years, I was happily married to Mr. Appelbaum, may his name be a blessing.”

“That’s a long time.”

A shrug. “Time passes. But I’ll tell you what my problem is now, child. Your poppa, is he?” she asks, pointing at the door.

“Meyn feter,” Rachel corrects.

“Ah. Your uncle then,” the lady confirms. “He’s got a bad memory. He forgets to pay for his rent.”

Rachel feels a sting of embarrassment. “How much does he owe?”

“Two months. Two months and not a penny offered. I’ve told him: ‘Mr. Landau,’ I said, ‘I’m only the concierge, but I have a legal responsibility to the landlord.’ I told him if I don’t see some rent soon, I’ll have to call for the authorities.”

Appearing behind Mrs. Appelbaum, Rachel’s eema has commentary to offer. Ah, Fritzl, she laments. He could always make his money. That he had the gift for. But to keep it?

Rachel is already digging into her purse. “How much?”

“How much?” says Mrs. Appelbaum. She frowns in her accounting, eyebrows raised as she observes Rachel’s billfold. “For two months? Twenty-­four dollars,” the lady answers. “Twenty-­four dollars and forty cents.”

Cracking open her billfold, Rachel produces the five and the rainy-­day twenty, handing it over. “Now he’s paid up.”

Mrs. Appelbaum looks surprised and frowns but not unhappily. “Well,” she says. “Who could say no? A sheynem dank,” she thanks Rachel formally, folding the money into the pocket of her house dress.

“Ni’t do kein farvos,” Rachel answers her tightly. Her eema has disappeared from the steps.

“I’ll write out the receipt and slip it under his door,” Mrs. Appelbaum assures her. “Rent paid in full with sixty cents in credit.” She is smiling now like a contented bubbe. “Such a thoughtful person you’ve grown into, mammele,” the lady observes, calling her “little mother.” An endearment reserved for obedient, well-­behaved daughters. “And so pretty too. Your uncle? He should know how lucky he is to have such a devoted niece,” she says and then looks up at the creak of footsteps on the stairs. “And here we are,” she announces with the brightness of a hostess greeting her guest. “Speak of its wings and the angel appears.”