by Kenneth M. Kapp
Avrum couldn’t remember his own name. In truth, he’d forced himself to forget his name a long time ago: months, years, centuries ago. He laughed once, recalling that one year in a dog’s life is like seven of ours. “Ha, then I’m living one dog’s life for my mother,” and he laughed again, “and another dog’s life for my father,” and then he became hysterical. “Ha, ha, ha, ha… for siblings, aunts, uncles”… until a bony hand grabbed his wrist and stuffed a rag in his mouth, whispering, “Shah; you’ll die soon enough.”
He didn’t laugh again and as for a name, when asked, he replied, “Isn’t my number good enough. There’s a name next to it somewhere in a German register. It’s not my job to remember. I just have to survive.” He bit his lip, thinking how surviving now was more of the dog x dog x dog’s life – he almost laughed.
Besides, Avrum had a friend. They were bunkmates. Yiannis told him stories of gods and heroes, of adventures most fantastic and of man battling with the gods themselves. Avrum whispered to his friend late at night, when they’d had too much to eat and couldn’t sleep because their bellies were bloated, “Why, Yiannis, if we could only fight with the gods like they did in the good old days – well, we’d be gone in a minute. Or a cloak of invisibility and we’d march out the gates. Give me Hephaestus’s hammer and I’d flatten them.” Then he said in a whisper for fear of being heard, “In a minute.” But fear made him burp and, feeling the accustomed emptiness in his stomach, he fell asleep.
Avrum dreamt of his friend Yiannis. Yiannis Tapokopolus was before and after his time. His hair was classically curly: dark clusters tightly rolled close to his scalp, glistening in the sun, appearing as if he were anointed by Athena. His skin beaded with drops of sweat, his body sinewy, veins pronounced as if he had just run from Marathon to share good news.
And Yiannis had a large nose, a very Roman nose, not unlike his own. No matter, in his dream he was the perfect gladiator. Ceasars and princeps lusted after him. But now he was a poor fisherman, not through any fault of his own – there were so few fish around his island where he swam with his net on his back. He and Avrum bonded over their hunger, joking, “Oh, you can have a bite of my arm.” And “Please, only after you gnaw on my calf.”
When he was liberated and sent to a DP camp, Avrum insisted, “Yiannis, you should come with me. It may take them some time to find my name but my number is still visible, and then I’ll remember the name of my father’s brother. He was trapped in England, always writing to us, how they say, ‘Top of the morning to you.’ I guess we got the bottoms. No matter. I may be his favorite nephew; he’ll surely want me to come stay with him for a while. You should come along. I’m sure he won’t mind; you don’t eat very much.”
In truth, Avrum was not sure he had an uncle in England. His uncle had family in Frankfurt and perhaps he wanted to be with them, had returned, and was trapped. But he was now certain that his number was a lucky number, his days were no longer dog years or dog months. But if he was alone, he felt they would always be dog weeks, dragging on and on. “Yiannis,” he said, “to be treated as if you are a mangy cur, you have to be Jewish. Then kick, kick, kick follows like night after day and day after night.”
Numbers had to be counted and records had to be searched. After all, anyone with a needle and ink can scratch a number in their forearm. Avrum understood, he wouldn’t cause any trouble. He had learned to wait in line. Besides, where was he running off to?
“Wer weiss, Yiannis – who knows? Look at the number on your arm. It’s the same as mine. Now everybody wants to be Jewish and, for all I know, I’m the only Jew left alive and they’re just getting a cage ready for me in the London Zoo, a whole building with imaginary shops and synagogues. They’ll play sad gypsy music on violins. People will pay Tuppence to see me get up from my chair and look out the window. There’ll be a large sign hanging just outside. ‘Jew looking to see if the Messiah is coming.’ I think they’re planning to throw me a fish every time I come to the window. But you be patient, Yiannis. We’ve come this far together and when they rescued us they gave me a piece of bread and promised me there would be another tomorrow.”
However, the days became weeks, the weeks stacked into months, and the months folded over into years. Avrum whispered to Yiannis, “There are no more Jews. And no one wants this one. What can I do now? Nu, I sit and go to the window. How many times a day can I do that?” Yiannis didn’t answer.
Finally, Avrum was called into the office. “There’s a man in England says he’s your uncle and wants you to come to him. He’s already sent new clothes for you. Well, not new; they were his son’s, your cousin. Probably kept them for years; they smell of camphor. They’re kind of small. But you didn’t have much to eat in the camps, miracle enough that some survived. Wrote his name is Sam Purls, said it was Schmuel Perlstein when he lived in Germany before the war. Jonathon was his brother, your father. That’s why it took so long to find someone in your family: different names. But he’s made arrangements and you’ll be more than welcome in his home. So now we have to get you ready to go. Next week, you’ll be in England. Aren’t you excited?”
Avrum hesitated until Yiannis whispered, “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you. I have the Cap of Invisibility on loan from Perseus. No one will know I’m your traveling companion. We’ll snuggle closely like on the bunks in the barracks. It will be like old times.”
Avrum finally nodded. “Yes, that will be nice. I’m Avrum Perstein then?”
“No, Perlstein. But when you get to England, if you want you can change your name to Purls like your uncle. And maybe an English first name to match. Paul Purls has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
Avrum turned and walked slowly back to his room. He purposely did not look out the window. In any case, he thought it was already night.
A dog’s week later they told him to pack. He’ll be part of a group going to Hamburg. “From there, some of you will be going to England, some to the United States and a few to Israel. Good luck to you all in your new lives.”
Avrum muttered to Yiannis on the way to the assembly point, “My old life was bad enough, why would I want another one.” He didn’t need reminding that this was exactly how his family had left their apartment in Frankfurt – “Assemble at the station with one piece of luggage.”
He was sick on the boat over, complaining to Yiannis that it wasn’t fair. “You’re a fisherman, been on boats all your life, never seasick.” Avrum felt miserable. “This is how they want to kill the last Jew alive.” He looked around. Yiannis had scuttled off, not taking kindly to his complaints.
His confusion was compounded on the dock. All refugees had been given a necklace with their name printed in large letters. On the back there was limited information: who had promised to wait for them after they passed through customs. Avrum stood in one spot fifteen minutes and then began turning around slowly, counting time. He’d count to 60 and then turn five degrees. An official, in uniform finally noticed and grabbed his arms.
“OK. I think you better come with me.” He pointed to a door. “It’s this way. You needn’t be afraid.”
But there were other doors. They all looked alike. Avrum wouldn’t move and finally had to be pulled. He whimpered, “Yiannis, Yiannis, you promised to be here and help.”
On the other side of the door other refugees were standing in a slowly moving line. Two in front of him were a Russian, an old man, and even though it was warm he was wearing a fur hat with earmuffs bouncing from side to side every time he moved. The old man gestured to the woman beside him that they should switch places.
He put his hands on Avrum’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Here – gut. Nein…” and then he made as if he were firing a machine gun. And tried again. “Nyet mort.” Then he smiled and pantomimed putting two fingers between his lips and pulling them up to make a smile. He nodded again, “Da, da – gut, gut,” then turned around, picked up his trunk and quickly moved ahead to close the gap in the line.
Avrum duck-walked behind him. My aunt had a duck in their yard. Nice duckie. He couldn’t remember the sounds the duck made and became sad.
The line moved forward like a dream, sometimes slow, other times fast.
Avrum tried to smile. He looked around, still no Yiannis. He was worried. Maybe Yiannis was thrown overboard or wasn’t allowed on the boat. Or maybe he jumped when the boat docked, figuring it was best to escape that way. That would be smart. Then there wouldn’t be your name in a register where they can compile a list for a roundup.
Finally it was his turn. He gave the man at the table his necklace. He opened it and flipped it over, then motioned to someone at the back of the hall to bring another book. His finger went up and down several pages until he muttered, “Eureka, I found it. OK, Ave, here are your papers. Take your luggage through that door. On the other side is Merry Old England. God save the King! You’re to wait under the sign for the London Rescue Committee.” Seeing Avrum’s confusion he took out a piece of paper and printed “London Rescue Committee” in big letters. Seeing that he was still confused, he waved for a guard and explained the situation. Smiling, he acted out following the guard, looking for the sign, and then waiting underneath the sign for his uncle.
Avrum was worried. He swallowed. Yiannis, Yiannis, Yiannis. He looked at the sheet of paper and then the sign, recalling how he was told in the DP camp that with an uncle in England there was a good chance he would be relocated there. And then someone had traced the letters L R C in the dirt, telling him, “You see these, you’ll be OK.”
He looked around, hugging his documents to his chest. There were paper scraps and trash blowing everywhere. His stomach rumbled. All that paper, we didn’t have paper in the camps. I should pick them up for later. The last Jew should be clean. He forgot about his uncle. No more Jews. Their final solution. Just me. No Yiannis. Where’s Yiannis?
There was so much noise Avrum began to panic. I don’t want to die alone. No Yiannis. And then a crinkled piece of paper blew against his leg. He bent over and retrieved it, recognizing that it had the same crinkles as the toilet paper wrappers in Germany before the war. He struggled with the large English letters, trying to identify the manufacturer. He moved his lips, sounding them out one at a time: A S H E R Y A R T Z A R. Then closer together: Asher Yartzar. And again and again, remembering the morning blessing he had chanted in the Jewish school before the war. It was the one you said after going to the bathroom, thanking God for creating man with holes to take in and eliminate food. Slowly he realized that this had to be a Jewish company, maybe even his uncle’s. He shoved his trunk against the wall, waved his toilet-paper flag high above his head, and danced, singing triumphantly:
“Ikh bin nisht aleyn, Ikh bin nisht aleyn – I am not alone, I am not alone.”