Around the table
a glass table
glass the length of the whole room
in black chairs
it seems like Monday luncheon
even if it’s night,
indeed
soon
it will be dawn.
In the room, silence reigns.
A group of old men
are waiting for news.
Henry Lehman, at the head of the table.
It has always been his place.
Mayer Bulbe
sits beside him.
Emanuel is an arm
he wants to act:
on days like this
there’s no question of sitting about.
His son, Philip,
has a diary
in front of him;
pen in hand
writes phrases in block capitals.
The last of these
a moment ago says:
“I HAD NOT PREDICTED IT.”
Bobbie Lehman
is sitting beside his father:
his hand is trembling once more,
he bites his lip.
On the lapel of his white jacket
is a pin the shape of a horse.
Herbert the senator
adjusts the time on the wall clock,
though
time here
is a strange concept.
He still hasn’t understood it.
His son, Peter, in military uniform,
looks at him sadly and shakes his head.
On a sofa, under the window,
Sigmund sits in lightweight suit.
Round spectacles, dark lenses:
there was much sun on the decks of the boats.
His brother Arthur taps his fingers on the table:
“Will they have worked out
that a way out can always be found?
The situation is not desperate
according to my formulas.”
“The verdict has already been given” Irving replies,
readjusting the knot of his tie.
In the room, silence reigns.
A group of old men
are waiting for news.
Dreidel lights a cigar:
it’s the fifth,
for no one has had a wink of sleep since yesterday.
Harold stares at his brother:
“Don’t they say that every death is a birth?”
But Allan shakes his head:
“Ha! Babies bring a smile, but not death.”
David blows his nose violently,
almost blasting it off his face:
he has never learned to control his energy.
Then he folds the cotton handkerchief back in his pocket
takes a deep breath
looks at his father, Henry:
“And what’s his name?
I can never remember it.”
No one answers.
“I said: who in the end
was the last one, the last president?”
Philip leafs through his diary:
“Dick Fuld.”
Mayer Bulbe pulls a face
shrugs his shoulders:
he’s a boiled potato.
Emanuel
who was and still is an arm
kicks a chair
sending it into the middle.
Bobbie sighs.
Herbert Lehman
scratches his head:
“Maybe there’s still hope.”
“The verdict has already been given” Irving replies.
“Maybe another bank will help us out.”
Sigmund smiles, for he has completely forgotten
all of his 120 mitzvot.
Bobbie sighs:
“In 1929 we didn’t save any bank.
Out of choice.”
And silence reigns, once again, in the room.
A group of old men
waits for news.
The telephone rings.
All fourteen look at each other.
Henry moves.
Lifts the receiver.
Answers: “Hello.”
Then listens.
Looks at the others.
Hangs up.
“It died a minute ago.”
They stand up.
Around the table.
All of them.
They will grow their beards
in the coming days
as the ritual requires.
Shiva and sheloshim.
They will respect the Law
as it is prescribed
in every duty.
And morning and evening
they will recite the Qaddish.
As it used to be done over there in Germany
in Rimpar, Bavaria.