Herbert walked quickly through the early-morning streets of New York, the image of David’s dear strained face in front of him. The balm of a spring morning touched Herbert with a new sense of hope. “My son,” he whispered to himself, not knowing of which son he spoke. “My son!”
The air was heavy with a perfume of early blossoms, and the sharpness of the blue harsh light cutting into the ravines between buildings was weighted with a new freshness. Herbert strode quickly now, propelled by the spring wind toward the dank-breathed mouth of the New York Public Library. He hurried up the steps past the waiting stone lions he loved, and into the entry, where the day’s work—intrigue, the sorting of refugees, the passing of false papers, false money, false promises, and false news—awaited him.
The Tolstoi Quartet was already expecting Herbert. As he approached the staircase, the four men prostrated both themselves and their instruments, the noble violoncello bowing facedown on the marble floor along with the rest. Herbert felt annoyed, but he suppressed that feeling.
“Herr Hofrat, it is a great honor to see you again,” the first violinist spoke for the other men. “Please forgive us for disturbing you.” The four men, attired in their concert costumes—trousers, black tailcoats, and carefully shined shoes—lay in front of Herbert like spokes of a Celtic cross.
“Not at all,” said Herbert mildly.
“We thought…,” began the second violinist in a higher pitch, but then silenced himself.
“Please rise, gentlemen,” said Herbert, spreading his hands, palms down, fingers open, in a gesture of peace and blessing. The men seized his hands, and before they rose, they kissed his ring passionately.
“We thought perhaps,” said the violist, “you might have news.”
The cellist added gravely, “Yes, news!”
In their jar, far away across the city, the four little fingers drummed impatiently on the glass. “News,” cried the men, their hands twitching.
“Well,” said Herbert slowly, “perhaps I do.” The instruments began to wail and clamor from within their heavy cases. “Shh,” Herbert cautioned them, “this is a library.”
The men stroked their instruments as if to gentle them. “Be still, my children.” “Tell us!” went around among the men and their instruments. “Tell us.” The soft urgency of the syllables fell on the still air.
Herbert bent forward and cleared his throat. “Nothing definite, I am afraid,” he said in a low voice. “You know my son David has been working on this….”
The first violinist cut the air with a high imperative. “Yes?”
Herbert was reluctant to say too much. “He thinks we may be closer to the solution.” There was a crashing sound from the instrument cases, discordant, in unison. Herbert put his finger to his lips. The four men looked at each wildly. Silence? A half-note rest was possible. But silence? That would mean death.
“Please, my friends, say nothing about this,” Herbert cautioned. The pause shivered before his firm note.
“We understand,” the men said in fifths.
“We must wait.” Herbert turned brusquely on his heel and left the astonished Quartet, the men, their faces slack, holding their instruments. As Herbert mounted the huge stairway, his footsteps deliberate and his back turned against all further questions, the men prostrated themselves again on the floor under the great rotunda.
“Herr Hofrat,” they whispered. There was a faint cinnamon scent in the air. If they had looked up at that moment, they would have seen how the spring sunlight, poking its way into the great rotunda, gently caressed Herbert’s large ears and liver-spotted scalp, coaxing him into the great hall and reading room. But they did not look up until Herbert had mounted the staircase and disappeared. Now they scrambled to their feet again. Straightening the tails of his waistcoat, the first violinist announced to the others, “Remember, not a word now. It is time for a slight intermission.”
Herbert’s steps were hardly audible on the expanse of stone floor as he went toward his next meeting. A whisper spread through the library. “Herr Hofrat comes.” Quick fingers rustled the pages of dusty books, and in the periodical rooms men looked up from the outspread newspapers in foreign languages. Not wanting to appear too eager, the small old eyes seemed to skim the headlines again. Then nervous hands, trembling, smoothed closed the newspapers. Books were carefully shut, the precious page numbers marked. Humbly, Herbert entered the Rose Main Reading Room, sighing to himself as he saw the dim green line of lights and the thick walls that shut out all the joyous clamor of the city streets. He drew his overcoat more closely about his shoulders. As if counting the customers, he noted all the old people waiting to talk to him, the nervous, destitute petitioners.
In one corner, not even bothering to look as if he were reading, one shabby man awaited him. Manfred looked more like a garage mechanic, his alleged occupation in New York, than royalty, Herbert thought. The King of the Gypsies in exile slouched casually. As Herbert approached, Manfred straightened and faced Herbert. His black pupils were striated like those of a hawk, and his fierce gaze locked with Herbert’s. “My master,” hissed Manfred as his gaze demanded answer from Herbert’s mild, watery one. “Manfred has not been tamed,” thought Herbert.
In his gaze, Manfred held the entire Gypsy nation in flight. He himself had found his way from the lands of the Roma to New York, escaping prisons and nets and roadblocks to do so, hoping to get to Washington to plead the Gypsies’ cause. Herbert sighed. For the Roma were a fierce wild species. How many would survive their cruel captivity?
“Your Majesty,” Herbert replied. He bent low over the Gypsy’s brown calloused hand and pressed his lips to the Gypsy’s ring. “Noble master.”
“So the news is bad?” King Manfred queried anxiously. His fine, sensitive pupils quivered, but he fixed his hawk’s eyes upon Herbert’s face insistently. “Tell me.” Herbert would have liked to choose a tactful answer, something indirect and open, leading perhaps to hope at the end, as he so often answered the refugees who beseeched him. He could contain knowledge of hopelessness and suffering if he had to.
“Tell me the truth,” commanded Manfred. “It is no use hiding it. The truth. And then I will handle the rest.”
Herbert tried once again to avoid answering, but under the Gypsy’s penetrating gaze, prevarication was impossible. Seizing the Gypsy’s hand in both of his, he said, “I cannot conceal from you the fact that it is hopeless.”
The Gypsy’s gaze flickered, then resumed its fierce, commanding expression. “Are you sure?”
Herbert looked away sadly.
“As I thought,” the Gypsy said.
“You must tell your people to try to escape at all costs,” Herbert said. “There is no diplomatic help for the Romany people.”
Manfred nodded in understanding. “As I feared.”
“We are still trying,” Herbert said. “But so far we have not been successful.” He looked directly into the Gypsy’s face, something he would never have done under other circumstances. The Gypsy was a proud and secretive man, and to stare was to assault.
“Have we been refused everywhere?” asked Manfred, quickly assessing the worst of the situation.
“So far, the President of the United States has refused all our requests,” replied Herbert sadly.
“We cannot hope for much, then,” the Gypsy responded. “We have been betrayed.” Herbert was silent. He could feel the Gypsy thinking quickly, plotting escape of all sorts, his heart beating like a wild bird, caught. Manfred darted forward, and in one gesture, he cupped Herbert’s head between his hands. He drew his face near and, quickly, almost harshly, kissed the old man on the lips. It happened so suddenly, Herbert had no time to react. The Gypsy’s kiss was soft and tender, a quick extravagance of feeling upon Herbert’s mouth. A Judas kiss. “Say farewell to the Romany,” Manfred whispered desperately.
“Not yet, my friend.” Herbert raised a restraining hand.
Dropping to his knees, Manfred, doomed, kissed Herbert’s ring. “Your Majesty, Your Majesty,” Herbert tried to protest. He thought of the Gypsies behind bars, condemned to the concentration camps of Europe, traded and betrayed, their wild hawks’ natures languishing.
“Everything that we can do, we will,” Herbert promised Manfred. “False papers. Money. Everything we can do. You have my word.”
“Yes,” Manfred replied. He seemed not to be listening, his mind already looking for chinks of light elsewhere.
“We cannot do more. Warn your people. Tell them.”
Manfred, in a hawk’s trance, nodded. His face almost appeared to be asleep. But Herbert knew it was merely gathering its strength.
“Everything official has failed,” continued Herbert sadly. “But we will do everything we can in unofficial channels.”
Manfred, as if in a dream of understanding, registered this information, gripped Herbert’s hand once more, and was gone.
Herbert sat down heavily on a bench. His day was just beginning, and already he was exhausted. From the corner of his eye, he watched those in the reading room watch him, the petitioners straightening their shoulders in resolve, preparing to line up and speak with him. Herbert knew that every person in the reading room understood what had just transpired. The room slanted into sadness and despair, and a mourning rose up from within each heart.