32 – Brooklin, Maine
It was a toss-up who felt more uncomfortable sitting at a tablecloth-covered table in the dining room of the Brooklin Inn, Chaim Levi or Debra Reuben. For one thing, the table was not rocking from side to side, although for both of them, after so many weeks at sea, the sensation of movement persisted, even after five hours on dry land. Besides the immobility of the table, the whole concept of reading a wine list and having to choose between the New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and the California Riesling, all while they were increasingly conscious that they’d just successfully smuggled a nuclear bomb into the United States and had no idea what they were going to do with it, seemed utterly surreal.
Reuben released a sigh of relief when Abram and Sarah Goldberg-Goldhersh walked tentatively into the dining room, a sigh that was almost sexual in its positive happiness, surprising enough that people at neighboring tables instinctively turned their heads to see what caused the sunburned woman so much happiness.
Reuben leaped to her feet. Levi rose slowly, after hesitating about whether it was the proper thing for him to do. Any remnants of cockiness had evaporated when the two rowed the boat’s inflatable rubber dinghy to the dock at WoodenBoat Magazine’s waterfront headquarters and asked for permission to anchor their boat in the mooring area. Reuben quickly realized that while she was returning to the country in which she grew up, he was setting foot for the first time in an almost mythical place he’d heard about his entire life but previously experienced only in movies and on television. She felt suddenly protective of this man who’d carried her safely across the ocean, who was obviously trying so hard to cover up his fear.
Reuben took Levi’s hand as they walked the mile from the waterfront into the small village of Brooklin, where she called Sarah. The Brooklin Inn was not only the best restaurant serving dinner in town, it was the only one. They’d been sitting at a corner table for four persons for nearly an hour when they were joined by Sarah and Abram. They were afraid to order anything after it dawned on Levi that he had no U.S. currency and that Reuben most likely also had none. He’d asked her how they would pay.
“I still have this,” she’d said, taking her American Express card from her purse, which had been stuffed to the bottom of her duffle bag for the past eight weeks. “But I’d feel better if I don’t use it.”
“That would be a serious error in judgment,” Levi agreed quietly.
“And I do have a few of these,” she said as she held the purse open for Levi to peek into. The bottom of her bag was covered by what looked to him like foil-covered chocolate coins. He looked at Reuben inquiringly, eyebrows raised.
“Those aren’t shekels,” he said.
“Krugerrands,” she answered. “Gold coins. Part of the national treasure of Israel, I suppose. There was a box of them back at, at that place I left. I took a few just in case.”
“How many makes up a few,” Levi asked. “And what are they worth in real money, in dollars?”
“A few were as many as I could stuff into a bag. That’s why my duffel was so heavy. As to what they’re worth, to tell you the truth, I’ve got no idea. I expect Abram Goldhersh will be able to tell us what solid gold goes for now, being in the jewelry business and all. But I don’t think we’ll be able to pay for dinner with them, so we’d better not order anything until we know Sarah and Abram are actually coming. The last thing we need is to be arrested for not paying our restaurant tab on our first night in America.”
So Levi and Reuben sat at their table for nearly an hour, apologizing time after time to their waitress for not ordering anything, with the inn’s increasingly skeptical owner strolling by to chat with them every ten minutes or so. Fortunately, the Brooklin Inn was not especially hopping on a Tuesday night and there were several vacant tables.
Reuben could wait no longer. “I just absolutely have to have a drink,” she declared. Calling to the waitress, she ordered rum and coke, a double. Levi frowned as she downed the tall glass and ordered a second, smiling at him and saying that if they couldn’t pay for one drink they couldn’t pay for two, either. She barely slowed down when the second drink arrived.
Sarah and Abram Goldberg-Goldhersh finally walked into the dining room.
“Sarah. Abram. How wonderful to see you.” The sincerity in Reuben’s voice was real.
“Sorry,” Sarah said. “Turns out Brooklin was a bit farther away than I remembered. But, here we are, here we are.”
“Hello Debbie,” Abram said flatly. He never was a great fan of his wife’s former college friend, not when Reuben was a TV news reporter in New York and not even after she’d moved to Israel. In fact, once she surprisingly turned up as a member of a coalition Israeli government, a coalition not one-hundred percent supportive of the settlements in the West Bank, Abram was ashamed to even tell his friends in the movement that he knew a member of the cabinet.
Young Abram Goldhersh’s favorite television show as a child growing up in Milwaukee was “Ponderosa,” a western about a father and three sons living on a cattle ranch. The middle son was the only character on any television show Abram could identify with. His name was Hoss. He weighed at least three hundred pounds.
Even as a twelve-year-old, Abram Goldhersh could have worn Hoss Cartwright’s trousers. As an adult, Goldhersh was not so much obese as simply large, large and strong. Heads turned when he entered a room, dragging his hundred-pound legs along the floor, exuding the strength, and menace, of a bear.
His full black beard and piercing blue eyes dissuaded people from letting him think they were staring at him. Those few brave souls who looked closely would notice that perched in the middle of the brambles of thick black curls that topped his watermelon-sized head was a small black yarmulke, held in place by a black bobby pin.
He made the three-hour drive only because his wife claimed she knew Debbie like a sister and she sensed that Debbie was in deep need of help and that she was being honest when she said she was involved in something important.
They sat and ordered dinner, a surprisingly good dinner for a country inn far from the main tourist roads. The Goldberg-Goldhershes waited throughout dinner for any explanation of why they were summonsed. In fact, besides introducing Levi as “my friend,” Reuben said almost nothing about the man she was obviously somehow closely involved with.
Abram puzzled over Levi’s accent. His English was excellent, almost good enough to pass as an American, but there were occasional hints that Goldhersh recognized as Israeli.
Sarah, who after two years sharing the same sorority room, truly did know Reuben well, could not figure out what the involvement was between Levi and Reuben. They touched, but seemingly by accident and only occasionally, but when they did they lingered, if only for the barest hesitation. Sarah guessed, accurately, that Debbie herself did not know where the relationship was or where she wanted it to go.
Mostly, they talked about what happened in Boston, about the ships, the refugees fleeing in the middle of the night and, then, about the arrests, thousands of refugees and hundreds of American Jews rounded up in the middle of the night and taken into custody.
Debra Reuben was incredulous.
“Wait a minute, just hold on. Haven’t we, I mean hasn’t the United States, sent, like relief ships and medical aid and troops and billions of dollars to Israel to help those poor people? I don’t understand. Are you trying to tell me America was going to send those ships full of people where, to Palestine, God I hate saying that name, with an Egyptian Navy ship? Honestly, Sarah, I just don’t believe it. There has to be more to it than that.” Reuben looked at her friend, waiting for an explanation.
Instead, Abram responded.
“You are demonstrating how naive you are, once again. You and that whole government of cowards you got dragged into as a little showpiece. Jews should know better than to count on anybody else to protect them when the tide turns against us,” Abram said, speaking softly, nearly in a whisper that did nothing to disguise his anger, not wanting people at the other tables to hear him.
He continued, “Sure, for a few years or even a few generations they let us blend in, they let us believe everything is different this time. But then something happens, or some crazy leader comes along, and it starts all over again.
“What do you think was more important to these Americans ...” he spoke as if he were not one of “these Americans” about whom he spoke. “What was more important when it came to choosing between sending doctors to treat dying Jews or getting cut off from half the world’s oil? Tough choice, right? Not for this country, it seemed.”
He looked Reuben straight in the eyes.
“How do you think German Jews felt in 1938 when all their neighbors, neighbors who they thought viewed them as good Germans first and as Jews second, stopped talking to them, and then started turning them in? And that was far from the first time. What about the Spanish Jews? The Inquisition ring any bells for you? Don’t you think Spanish Jews felt as comfortable, as much a part of their country, as American Jews feel now? Don’t you think some Spanish Jewish banker told his wife not to worry, nothing bad can happen to us here?”
Levi interrupted, speaking for the first time after he was introduced.
“What are you talking about in Spain? I was there just two months ago. Nothing happened in Spain with the Jews.”
Goldhersh looked at Levi with scorn.
“I’m talking history, Jewish history. Don’t they teach Jewish history in the public schools in Eretz any more?”
That was the first Goldhersh acknowledged being aware that Levi was an Israeli. Reuben had simply introduced him as “my friend” and Levi had not said more than a few sentences, uncertain about whether he could fake an American accent well enough to get by. Obviously, he thought, he needed some language lessons.
Goldhersh ignored Levi and turned back to Reuben.
“So what do you know about Spain around the time of Christopher Columbus? Nothing, well let me give you the instant history lesson.
“Jews in Spain in the 1400s were as much a part of Spanish society as American Jews were part of American society right up to today,” he said. “So we have Jews in the President’s cabinet, Jews owning corporations, Jewish judges on the Supreme Court here. Well, it was like that in Spain. The King’s top advisors included Jews. The biggest banks were owned by Jews. Jews led the army that drove out the Moors. Jews owned ships. Jews were artists, scientists. There were Jewish schools, universities. Synagogues were large, fancy as cathedrals, well attended.
“Sound familiar, Debbie? Sound any different from these United States we live in? How secure do you suppose those Spanish Jews felt? Do you think it was even conceivable to them that in a few years they would be expelled from the country in which they were born, and that if they tried to remain they would be rounded up, arrested, jailed, killed, or worse?
“They had no idea that was their future. Even worse, like all of us, it never crossed their minds that anything like that could possibly happen to them.”
“But it did happen?” Reuben asked quietly. “I sort of know about that, but I can’t say I ever thought about it.”
“Oh they tried to use their influence. The King’s own personal secretary was a Jew. The Henry Kissinger, the Madeleine Albright of his day. He got nowhere. Spanish Jews offered to pay the king a fortune if they could remain. It almost worked but the Queen turned against them. Same Queen you read about in your history books, Queen Isabella, remember her, she’s supposed to have sold her jewels to finance Christopher Columbus? Well, she was one world-class anti-Semite and she made sure her husband, King Ferdinand, tossed out every last Jew, but only after making sure they left their gold and silver behind.
“It happened there. Think it couldn’t happen here? It did once already, you know. Don't you even know your American history? During the Civil War there was only one thing both sides agreed on. They hated Jews. General Grant, remember him? He was a good guy, right? Wrong. Grant was such an anti-Semite that as his army marched south he issued an order expelling every Jew from Kentucky, Tennessee and Mississippi, with just twenty-four hours to get out.
"And you think things like that don't happen in America. It has, and it will again."
“Abram, hush, you’re getting worked up again,” Sarah patted her husband softly on the left hand. She turned to Reuben. “He hasn’t been the same since what happened in Eretz. Lord knows, neither have I. The world turned upside down that day. Everything changed. We seem to be living in some period out of history, rather than in the present in which we were born.
“Israel has been in existence every moment of our lives. Not having Israel across the ocean is like not having the moon in the sky. It is impossible that it is gone, that there is no more Jewish nation. And the people there, our friends there. It’s a nightmare we expect to wake up from but it goes on and on.”
Debra Reuben spoke softly to Goldhersh.
“Abram, Spain, Germany, they were abominations, horrible, but certainly they were exceptions. Jews have been accepted in plenty of other countries. England, Holland. France. OK, I know Russia was bad, Poland, too. But please Abram, it isn’t all that bad,” she said.
Goldhersh started to stand up, throwing his hands over his head, then looked around the restaurant and restrained himself. He sat back down.
“Why don’t people study history, how can Jews forget their own history,” he said, speaking to himself in little more than a whisper. He turned again to Reuben.
“Where do you think the Spaniards learned about expelling Jews, Debbie? I assume you are not acquainted with the Jewish Expulsion from England in 1290? I see from that blank look on your face that this is the first you’ve heard of that lovely event. Well, good King Edward ordered all the sheriffs of England to serve writs on every Jew in the country, and there were plenty of Jews in Jolly Olde England then, Jews were craftsmen, teachers, rabbis, active in government, politics. The writs ordered them to pack up and leave. The country. Are we sounding familiar here, Debbie?
“But it was just temporary, like for four-hundred years before Jews were allowed back into England. Four-hundred years, Debbie. Has the United States of America even been around that long? That’s how much the English loved their Jews.
“Want to hear a few more dates, Debbie? Here’s an oldie but goodie: 1182. Ring any bells? No? That was the Expulsion from France. By that time almost half the property in downtown Paris was owned by Jews. Think they felt secure? Sure they did, about as secure as a Jewish doctor living in Brookline, Massachusetts does right now.
“Shall we continue our stroll down memory lane, Debbie? How about the biggie, how about Germany. Have you heard about the Holocaust, Debbie, that little thing that happened in our modern, civilized age? Let’s chat about what happened to the oh-so-assimilated Jews of Germany.”
“Abram, enough, stop it, right now,” Sarah barked.
Goldhersh rested his head in his hands. He might have been weeping, softly, but neither Reuben nor Levi could tell for sure.
“How many Jews were turned to dust in Tel Aviv,” he whispered. “Dust. Dust, like in a crematorium. Tell me Debbie, tell me, Chaim Levi, do you suppose the Jews of Spain, the Jews of England, the Jews of Germany, those of them that survived, vowed that it would never happen again? How could they not have done so? That is what frightens me more than anything else, that the first words on my lips when I wake, the first words when I go to sleep, are never, never, never again, not here, not now. What frightens me is that no matter what I do, it is going to happen again, like it has always happened before.
“Why does God do this to his Chosen People? Why?”
Sarah turned to Reuben.
“Debbie, I apologize for Abram. It has been difficult. He’s so tired. We’re all tired. But Debbie, you still haven’t said a word about why we had to get together. It’s your turn. Tell us what is going on with you,” she gestured toward Levi, “with both of you.”
“Not just yet,” Levi interjected. “We have to be careful. We’ll go for a walk after dinner. Then we’ll talk. Now, let’s eat.”
“And drink,” Debra said, finishing her rum and coke and picking up the wine list. “We need two bottles, don’t we?” she asked.
The rest of the dinner was spent reminiscing about Sarah and Debra’s college days and about how much their lives had changed since they were sorority sisters. Levi listened patiently. Goldhersh sat silently, simmering. His history lesson had exhausted him, drained him of energy enough to do anything but sit and glare, glare at the Americans around him who in his mind took on the role of all the ancient enemies of the Jewish people.
When the table was cleared and the waiter asked about desert or coffee, Abram ran out of patience.
“No, nothing more, we’re done. Finished. Bring the check,” he barked. “We’re going to go outside for a walk and a talk. Now. Right now.”
The waiter carefully placed the bill, inside a leather folder, in the geographic center of the table. Abram waited to see if anybody else would move first. He cleared his throat and sat motionless. Reuben spoke.
“Abram, we have a little problem about money,” she said.
“Ah hah,” Goldhersh muttered, pretending it was to himself alone. “Now we get to the truth.” He smiled at Reuben. “Tell me about your money problem and how much you want from me, Debbie.”
“Well, Abram. For reasons that you will soon appreciate, I don’t want to use this.” She showed him her American Express card from her wallet. “And I have a whole bunch of these, but I don’t know what they’re worth and I don’t think they’ll take them here.”
She slid open the top of her purse and tilted it toward Goldhersh. His eyes widened. He reached his hand inside and removed one shiny coin, cupping it in his hand so only he could see it. He returned it quickly to the purse, where it made a dull thunk when it slid into other coins.
He spoke quietly to Reuben.
“A Krugerrand. You don’t see them much anymore. They went out of style when Nelson Mandela was released from prison,” he said. “What an odd currency to travel with, Debbie. I assume there is a story that goes with that coin, and it sounds as if that coin may have some company.”
“Oh, there is certainly a story,” Reuben responded. “But for now, tell me, Abram. Is that worth anything? Is there some way to turn it into real money?
“It certainly is worth something, Debbie,” Goldhersh said. “I’d have to check where gold is floating today, but I’d say that coin is worth about $750. And it is gold, solid gold, South African gold. Gold can always be turned into money. That is what gold is all about. I can do that for you easily enough.
“Tell me Debbie, how many other little coins like that do you have?”
She hesitated, not sure how much information she should disclose to this man who she never especially liked and who shared the same feeling about her. She decided she was in no position to be cautious, not having any alternative to trusting the Goldberg-Goldhersh’s.
“Well, there was a box of them, a pretty big box. I couldn’t carry them all, but I took some in a bag. I haven’t counted them but its awfully heavy, sort of like a big bag of dog food, maybe twenty or thirty pounds I’d guess,” she said.
“In that case,” Abram said, smiling. “I’ll spot you for dinner, and I can be generous with the tip.”
He paid the bill, in cash, Levi noticed, with three hundred-dollar bills, even though he had a wallet full of credit cards. A cautious man, Levi thought, who does not want to leave a trail. I like that.
All four pushed their chairs back and stood up.
“Lets take a stroll down by the water,” Levi said, all of a sudden appearing to take command of the conversation. “We have a story to tell you two.”