Dante's Equation Part 7

"Straight to the Hall of Names," he told himself, and pulled open the door.

It was a fine strategy, but not practical. In order to reach the Hall of Names, he had to pa.s.s all the way through the long expanse of the Historical Museum. Arrows directed him to choose one of five halls, and he took the first: Anti-Jewish Policy in Germany, figuring that the years leading up to the war had to be the least depressing. He could hear the different guides on each side of him fading in and out as he pa.s.sed the aisles. Large posterboards hung from the ceiling or were mounted on stands, photographs of the world of the Jews in Europe in the years leading up to 1939. This had been his parents' world. He felt that finger of fire poking up from his nether regions and tried to focus on the reason he was here: Kobinski.

With some relief, he reached the Hall of Names.

The Hall of Names was part library, part mausoleum, with thick dark woods and embedded lighting. He dodged into the stacks, more hopeful of actually finding something now that he had conquered his resistance and made it here.

It wasn't so simple. The bookcases contained binders-millions of them, all neat and similar. The binders contained "Pages of Testimony," brief biographies of those who had been in the Holocaust. The binders were organized alphabetically by the victims' names. As Aharon searched for Kobinski the sheer number of binders weighed heavier and heavier on his shoulders. He pa.s.sed entire rows of bookcases only to move up one letter in the alphabet.

"Kobinski," he muttered, "Yosef Kobinski," to hear himself talk.

He narrowed in on the relevant section and found the one he wanted. His fingers trembled as he touched the first page of Kobinski's entry. There was a photo. Without looking further, he took the binder across the room to a group of study tables and arranged himself, taking out a notepad and pencil.

He was disappointed with the first page-only what he already knew; name, profession, dates of birth and death, hometown. But it did include the name of Kobinski's parents and of his wife and son. There was a photograph, encased in plastic. The label said: "Yosef and Anna Kobinski and their son, Isaac, Lodz ghetto, early 1940."

In Jerusalem, a lot of judging was done based on a man or woman's dress. There was nothing but piety here-Anna in a long dress and soft hat, Yosef in a dark suit and hat, beard long. Isaac wore akippa . Anna's face was in the shade, but she looked too thin, not well. They were all younger than Aharon expected; the boy looked seven or eight. His eyes were dark and serious, as though the responsibility lay onhis shoulders. And Yosef-his face was pale and sensitive in the photograph, almost glowing. It was a real Torah scholar's face. He had a dreamy look, like he was "counting mansions in Heaven."

Aharon turned the page. There were appended pages here, old-fashioned paper hyperlinks. Kobinski was mentioned in a survivor testimony by Abram Solarz and in one by Haskiel Malloh. Also there was a reference to an article 378881 in the Collections department. The reference only said it was "a doc.u.ment."

Aharon wrote all this down in his little notepad. It seemed this trip would not be as in-and-out as he had hoped. He didn't go to look for these items right away but turned in the binder and found the entries for Anna and Isaac Kobinski. Anna died in the Lodz ghetto in 1941; Isaac, in Auschwitz in 1943.

Aharon worried his bottom lip, felt the rough edge of his beard there. Well, it had happened, hadn't it? Everyone knew it had. Millions had died, so why should he feel surprised about these three? What, other people hadn't suffered? His jaw tightened against the gaze of the boy's eyes. Aharon looked on his little map, businesslike, to see where he could find the survivors' testimonies.

The testimonies were in another building, naturally. He made his way over there and had to wait for a spot at a computer. After fifteen minutes, a middle-aged woman with a large purse left a station and he s.n.a.t.c.hed the seat. On the entry screen you could browse by year, subject, or location or enter a search word. He entered "Abram Solarz."

Solarz's testimony was twenty pages long. Aharon scanned it looking for Kobinski's name. Solarz had been in the Lodz ghetto, had managed to stay there until the entire thing was liquidated. He'd survived Auschwitz. But his mention of Kobinski came during his description of the day, in 1942, when there had been aSelektion for the remaining children.

It was the 4thof September. Rumkowski gathered together everyone. He said, "I can't bear to tell you this, but they want us to give up all the children and the elderly."

At that time, we did not know that eventually everybody would be taken. We were only trying to hang on to the ghetto by digging in our fingernails as hard as we could. As bad as it was there, we knew it could be worse.

Rumkowski said, "I never imagined I would be forced to deliver this sacrifice to the altar with my own hands. In my old age I must stretch out my hands and beg: 'Brothers and sisters, hand them over to me! Fathers and mothers, give me your children!' "

Such a terrible speech. Such wailing! Some said, "Do not take an only child, only take children from families who have many." Others said, "We should defend to the death the children." But Rumkowski shouted over all of them. "They have demanded twenty thousand," he said, "all the children under age ten and all the elderly. And even that will only be thirteen thousand, and we must take the rest from the sickest and weakest who would not survive long anyway."

He said we had to cut off limbs to save the body. At that time, there were still one hundred thousand Jews in Lodz, so you can do for yourself the numbers.

After this speech, everyone was in a panic, running around, trying to hide . . .

Aharon skipped ahead, feeling sick to his stomach. He scanned down the text quickly. Where was Kobinski? Was he mentioned in here or not?

The deportation of the twenty thousand was to begin that Monday, but already Sat.u.r.day the Jewish officials-policemen, doctors, firemen-began to collect them. They went into every building, every room, and when they found the elderly or sick or children, they took them to hospitals to wait. You could not believe the cries, the screams, the pleading of the parents! People were out of their minds.

At last they came to our building. They had a list of names and addresses, but they searched everywhere because parents were moving around the children, trying to hide them. In our flat, there was only my wife and I, both young enough and healthy enough to be safe.

After they left, we heard a commotion in the hall. She insisted, my wife, so I cracked the door to look. Down the hall lived Rabbi Kobinski and his son, Isaac. This man, he worked all the time, you never saw him except maybe on Shabbes he would walk to shul with his son. His wife, Anna, had died some nine months past, sick from pneumonia and weak from no food. Now they were taking Isaac. Kobinski had him by the shoulders, saying to the Jewish doctor, "He's eleven, he's eleven, you can't take him." Because they were not supposed to take ten years and over of age.

It would be a miracle if the boy looked eight. Of course, the children were all small, with nothing to eat. But I knew that he was younger anyway. I could have said to the doctor, "Yes, he's eleven," even though he wasn't, but I said nothing.

The doctor looked at his form. "It says here he was born on such-and-such a date. We must take him."

Kobinski kept saying, "He's eleven." He told the boy to recite something in Hebrew and Isaac did. "You see, he's preparing for his bar mitzvah." But the doctor didn't care. Two policemen took hold of the boy and pulled him from Kobinski's hands.

Kobinski's face-such a look of resignation, so heavy! He said, "All right. In that case, I'll go with him." The doctor tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted he was sick-pneumonia, like his wife. He coughed into his hand.

They waited while he packed a bag and they all left the building together. I heard stories later- Kobinski was not the only parent to do this. Many gave themselves up to die with their children.

Aharon could not stop his imagination, could not help but think-what would he do if they came to his door and tried to take Yehuda? Any of his children? The baby? It made him feel terrible, so he pushed it from his mind. Thinking like that was no use to anyone, and certainly not to G.o.d. Look, if things happened then there was a good reason and that was that.

He returned to the main screen, entered the search wordsHaskiel Malloh .

Malloh had been in Auschwitz with Kobinski. Aharon had to scan several pages before finding a mention of him.

Whenever I could, I would line up against the fence to see a new transport arrive. Many of the men couldn't stand it-to see the selection-but I was searching for my daughter, Tanya. Several times I saw people that I knew, but never Tanya. I saw the rabbi's wife from my old hometown sent to the gas chambers. She was alone. I don't know what happened to her family. I saw once this beautiful blond Jewish girl, maybe nineteen. Mengele told her to strip right there. He could see that she was shy and this was only meant to torment her. She refused so they carried her away and put her in the ovens alive and screaming. I have never forgotten that girl.

I saw the arrival of Rabbi Kobinski and his son, Isaac. I didn't know who he was then, but he drew everybody's attention. When they tried to take his things, he put up a fuss. He was protecting his books, of course, only a rabbi would be shot over books. And they would have shot him, but his son pleaded and he relented. "Okay, only let me keep my notebook," he said to the guard.Bitte nur mein Notizheft, bitte nur mein Notizheft.The guard watched him take it from his bag, like he was going to let him keep it. But once he had it out, the guard s.n.a.t.c.hed the notebook from his hand and flung it onto a fire they had burning in a barrel to keep the guards warm.

This was Wallick, the guard who did this. After that, these two had something else between them, you would not believe. Kobinski was yelling, "My ma.n.u.script! My ma.n.u.script!" in Polish, and his son was dragging him away. Only nine years old that boy, and always such a presence of mind.

I was not happy later, when I saw they were in my barrack. I thought Kobinski was trouble. Sometimes men come in and you can see right away they don't get it. They are dreamers. Such men are dangerous. Men like that, they can get you to believe anything, risk stupid things for stupid reasons. Many people risked things for Kobinski. They thought he had magic, you know, because he was a kabbalist. And he had to keep writing, rewrite everything that had been in that notebook. So people risked their lives to get him paper, to do other crazy things for him.

Kobinski never did get it. No, I take that back. In the end he did, after his son was killed. But still he dreamed. I was out of the barrack by then. I had been moved across camp, but I heard about it. Kobinski talked many in his barrack into risking a crazy escape attempt. Of course, everyone died who went. You see what I mean? Such men were more dangerous, almost, than the guards.

There was a young man at the Collections desk-bookish-looking, with a beard andkippa , but he wore an earring. An earring! As if he couldn't make up his mind, was he religious or not. What anebbish . He glanced up, looking startled, as Aharon approached. He reached a steadying hand across the desk.

"Are you all right?"

Aharon did feel strange, but he brushed off the young man's hand. "How could I be all right? Such an uplifting place you have here!" He waved his hand at the room. He needed to go lie down somewhere, but first he had to get out of this place. He wanted to get out so much, suddenly, that he could feel the sweat break out on his brow.

"It can be overwhelming. Is this your first time?" thenebbish -whose-name-tag-said-HERSHELasked sympathetically.

Aharon had a tightening sensation in his chest. He pointed a finger. "The Torah says you mourn for a year and that's it!"

Hershel shifted his eyes away, his sympathy fading. "Did you need something from Collections, sir?"

"Rabbi."

"Do you need something, Rabbi?"

"Yes, I need. Thank you." Aharon tried to be a little nicer. After all, not everything was Hershel's fault, earring or no. Aharon wiped his brow, showed the number from Kobinski's file.

Hershel went to retrieve the item. He returned with small stack of plastic sleeves. "Here it is. You can look at it over there. Please don't take the doc.u.ments out of the sleeves." He pointed to yet another row of anonymous cubicles, their backs open to face the Collections counter.

Aharon grunted and went to sit down.

The pages were handwritten in Hebrew. There were six of them, and several were embellished with complex-looking mathematical notations in the margins. The pages were old, irregular, of different shapes and sizes and colors. With a chill, Aharon realized that these were some of the pages Haskiel Malloh had talked about; they'd been written in the camp.

Aharon went back to thenebbish at the counter. "Do I have to look at these here? Can't I take them out, bring them back later?" He waved his hand at the cubicle. "How can anyone study in such a s.p.a.ce?" Though it was not the cubicle but the entire weight of Yad Vashem that smothered him.

"You can't take it out, but you can have it Xeroxed if you like. There's a fee."

Of course there was. "How much?"

As it turned out, the fee was manageable. Aharon paid it and had to wait another twenty minutes while Hershel took the sleeves away. The wait was less manageable. Finally Hershel returned with the pages in a neat little paper folder, but he did not hand them over. "You have to sign," he said, bringing a logbook from under the counter.

Aharon felt as though he'd been wrapped in red tape and deep-fried. He took the pen Hershel offered. The logbook had a page with the historical artifact number and a brief description at the top. There were three names on the page with corresponding dates. One was a Rabbi Schwartz in New York; one was a woman, Loretta Wilson, in Los Angeles. The last of the three names was his wife's.

The hand holding the pen went up to his lips to catch a gasp. He stared at the name, then the date.

Last Thursday. "This woman," he said, pointing to the entry, "Handalman-were you here then?"A spontaneous smile crossed thenebbish 's face. "Yes. Very pretty. She had a baby with her. Do you know her?"

Aharon sucked in his cheeks and signed his name quickly. He was walking away before the pen hit the counter. *** Hannah was feeding the baby at the kitchen table when he arrived. It was only three in the afternoon and she was shocked to see him. "Aharon! Is everything all right? Are you ill?" She hurried to him,

searching for signs of debilitating injury. He pushed past her and threw the paper folder on the table with a dramatic gesture. She saw what it was immediately, that name on the front, Yad Vashem. She blanched but held her ground. "So? You went to Yad Vashem. Congratulations."

"Hannah, did I notexpressly forbid you to go?"

The baby started crying. Hannah picked her up, spoke calmly. "What are you talking? You never once forbade me to visit Yad Vashem. Only a crazy person would do such a thing." "I said you were not to meddle in my work!" "I didn't meddle. Now keep your voice down. Can't you see you're upsetting Layah?" Aharon ground his teeth. That such a thing as a man's anger, his dominion in the household, should be controlled by women and babies! But he couldn't stand to hear Layah cry, either. He spoke quietly. "You went deliberately to Yad Vashem to look into Kobinski. That ismy work, and I told you I did not want your help."

Her dark eyes flashed angrily. "I went to Yad Vashem with Yehuda's cla.s.s, as a chaperone."

Aharon's eyes narrowed. He was stumped for a reply momentarily, a gap Hannah had no problem filling."So,I thought while I was there, waiting for the children to be done with their tour, I would look him up. What else did I have to do?"

"You don't tell me? You don't tell me you and my son are going to Yad Vashem? You don't tell meafteryou went? You went last Thursday. When were you going to tell me, Hannah?" He had gotten loud again. The baby, whose head had been bobbing tiredly at her mother's chest, straightened up with a yowl. Hannah shot him a look and went to put Layah down. Aharon waited in the kitchen, strutting like an angry bird. He could hear the baby's cries sputter out with weariness in the next room. Hannah returned to the kitchen, began wiping down the baby's high chair.

"Hannah, I asked you a question."

"I didn't tell you because you don't care what the children and I do."

"That's not true!"

"It is. You couldn't care less that we went to Yad Vashem except for this Kobinski business. Whenever I try to tell you about something we did or something we're going to do, you barely listen."

"I do listen!"

"You think the children are my business. So? I don't waste your time with it. But don't complain if you don't know everything there is to know."

Aharon, a yeshiva boy, could easily deduce that this was not the original argument. "This is nonsense, and also besides the point. Even if what you say is true-and it isn't-you knew, didn't you, thatthis time I would want to know you were going to Yad Vashem!"

Hannah said nothing. She went to the double sink and rinsed out the sponge.

"So you go, you do work there that you know I didn't want you to do, then you come home and you don't even tell methen ? When were you planning to give me the notebook pages, Hannah?"

Hannah drew herself a gla.s.s of water. She motioned to him,Want some ? "Tea," he replied. She put the kettle on to boil. Then she sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, her face a misery.

"It's true. I didn't tell you I was going to Yad Vashem with Yehuda's cla.s.s because I normally don't bother you with such things, butalsobecause I knew you wouldn't like it. And when I was there, I did a little checking into Rabbi Kobinski. I was going to tell you what I found out." She stared down at her work-reddened hands. "But I chickened out. There was no way to show you what I found without having a scene. Like this one."

A heavy sigh caught on a sob. Her face reddened. "Oh, Aharon! You can be so hard!"

Aharon's anger had turned into something heavy and sour. It weighed down his stomach, his soul. He was thinking that she always did have that rebellious streak. Her father had married her off when it first showed itself. Smart man.

He went to the table so that he was standing right in front of her. He placed his fingertips on the wood, looked down at her with a stony face.

"Am I hard? Because I ask for a little respect? Because I think a man is a man and a woman is a woman?"

"But . . . many feel that . . ."

"Who is your husband, Hannah? The 'many' or me? Am I the head of this household? Am I to be listened to in my own home?" His voice sounded terrible, even to himself, but he would not feel guilty. The sages say, "A firm hand in the beginning will save a horse in the end."

"All right, Aharon. I'm sorry."

He grunted his acknowledgment of her apology. The teakettle began to whistle. He motioned to it with his hand and sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. Her repentance gave him the first relief of the entire miserable day. His anger drained away into weariness. That horrible place, now this fight with his wife. Such a waste!

When she brought him the tea she was biting her lip. She gave him a pregnant look from under her lashes. Shewaspretty. And that was another reason that she shouldn't be traipsing all over town unescorted, so that young men like thatnebbish at the Collections desk could ogle over a respectablerebbetzin , a wife and mother. "What is it? What now?" he sighed, pulling the mug toward him. "Well . . . I found something else at Yad Vashem that day. If you won't be angry. I can just throw it away if you want." He stared at her, astonished. Now she was toying with him. And after he'd thought he'd succeeded in chastising her! But he had already spent his anger and, like a lover, could not dredge it up again so quickly. He settled for long-suffering, and rolled his eyes to Heaven. "Just say what you have to say." "I'll show you." She padded into the hallway and opened the folding closet door to get her purse.

She brought back a few sheets of paper, sat down across from him, her face proud. "I looked up Rabbi Kobinski's barrack. You see, they have a database with the names of all of the Holocaust victims and survivors, and many of them have barrack numbers and dates and-"

"The point, Hannah?"

"This is a list of the men who were in the same barrack as Rabbi Kobinski at the same time." She smoothed out her pages proudly. Aharon grunted, his eyes half-lidded in disinterest. "I cross-checked every name on the list with the lists of survivors, and I found three names." She revealed the second page. "These three men lived with Rabbi Kobinski in the barrack- andthey're still alive." Aharon got up, added some cold water from the tap to his tea, and sipped it at the sink. "Aharon,one lives in Tel Aviv. Maybe you could go see him. He might remember something about Rabbi Kobinski."

Aharon rubbed his brow where a headache was beginning to stab with tentative thrusts of the knife.

"I already wasted the whole day at Yad Vashem. I've heard all I want to hear about Auschwitz!" He dumped the tea into the sink. He felt so tired, completely drained. Perhaps he'd take a nap. "But he might know something important. How can you know unless you talk to him?" "Hannah,"he warned. He pointed toward the pages. "Now is this it?""Yes," Hannah said, frowning. "Are you sure? There's nothing else you did at Yad Vashem? Rearrange their filing system maybe?" "No." "Did you already call these three survivors? Get their life stories on tape?" Hannah made a face. "I didn't call them." "You're sure?" "Of course I'm sure!"

"So there'snothingelse?"

"That's everything, Aharon," Hannah's lips were heading into that pout of hers.

"Thank Heaven for small miracles. Now I think I'll lie down for a while."

"Are you feeling bad?"

He gave her a look that said,After all this, you can ask if I feel bad? Of course I feel bad! and headed down the hall.

In their bedroom he shut the door and kicked off his shoes. He would sleep, dreamlessly he hoped, just like his baby lying in the children's room next door. He was exhausted, and he was still worried about Hannah. What was he to do with her? Well, she would have to learn not to question his authority, and that was that. Then everything would be the way it should be.