A Hundred Suits from Russia
I must get away, he thought, just for an hour. I can’t do any work here. My mother and my grandfather are too much. There’s always some crisis. I can’t sit down at my typewriter. Yesterday, his grandfather had stood naked in the upstairs hall and defecated on the carpet. He had forgotten where the toilet was. Then he wiped himself with the curtain and wept, “Oy vey, vey, vey.”
His mother was hysterical. “Oh, Papa, Papa, what are you doing to me?”
“Where is the toilet?” screamed the old man.
“Papa, Papa,” cried his mother. “He’s crazy. He’s not my father. This isn’t my father,” and in the same breath, “My sister, the rotter, I should be as sick as she is. What have I got now?”
Her son had said, “We’ve got to put him away, Mother. A house is no place for him. He needs special attention.”
“Put him away? Put my father away? I should put my father away? A great man, I should put away?” She was indignant. “People came from miles to hear him speak. Papa, Papa, don’t step in it, oh, God, he’s stepping in it, he’s killing my house. Get the javel.”
The javel didn’t work. The house still smelt foul. But now, at least, the house was quiet. His mother and grandfather were sleeping. They had screamed at each other all night after the old man had accused his daughter of stealing all his suits. The young man crept out of his room and almost made the stairs, but his grandfather opened his door and gestured to him to come over.
“My dear son,” he began, as if he were addressing a congregation, “God knows you for a fine man and, also, we should be so happy, for a poet. You must help your old grandfather who is very old and very sick and who, by his nature, has never done evil to any man in the whole world.”
“Yes, Grampa, what do you want?” he asked tenderly.
“What I want?” puzzled the old man.
“You called me over. Do you want to tell me something?”
“Tell? What can an old man tell?”
“You were going,” the young man said, “to ask me for some kind of help.”
His mother opened the door of her room.
“What is he doing now?”
“My suits!” screamed the old man suddenly. “I came from Russia with a hundred suits. You are thieves and murderers!”
His mother’s voice was strained.
“Papa, go into your room. You must sleep.”
“Thieves and murderers,” he continued, “my own daughter and my poor dear grandson, thieves and murderers. Suits out of my cupboard, a hundred suits from Russia!”
The young man started to descend the stairs. His mother demanded: “Where are you going?”
“Out,” he cried, hating his house now and all the chaos in it. “I’m not going to stay here and listen to any more of this madness. I can’t do any work here. The only thing I hear is you two people screaming at each other. I don’t know which of you should be put away.”
“Out,” repeated his mother, nodding her head with mock understanding. “At a time like this, out. When he’s needed, out. Too sensitive for life so he’s not going to stay.”
Controlling himself, he said, “I can’t work here, do you understand? I can’t work here.”
“Work,” his mother mocked, “fine work. In his room all day, listening to records. A poet? A deserter.”
“Shut up,” he cried furiously. “Shut up.”
“‘Shut up,’” repeated his mother. “Do you hear that, Papa? ‘Shut up.’ That’s the way a son talks to his mother. A great man doesn’t talk like that to his mother. Like your aunt, go on, leave me to do everything.”
“For Christ’s sake,” he defended himself, “why are you making something out of this for. I want to go out for an hour. Is that so terrible?”
Then the old man, as if he were a participant in a friendly discussion, quietly inserted, “In the middle of the night they go to my closet. And now, I am left with nothing.” He walked a few steps down the hall toward the bathroom, his pajama bottoms falling around his knees. “A very bad position,” he muttered.
“Papa, Papa,” she cried. “For a daughter to see a father like this. I would rather kill myself. What are you doing?”
The old man was urinating. “Get away!” he screamed at his daughter.
“My carpet, my beautiful carpet! Stop it, Papa, stop it, please, stop it. Help me!” she called to her son.
“Get away!” commanded the old man. “Thieves and murderers. Who are you talking to? Do you think I’m Shmeryl Beryl from the street? I had pupils. A hundred boys.”
The young man guided his grandfather into the bathroom. He threw a towel on the pool on the carpet.
“Thank you, my dear grandson. A hundred boys like you I had.”
He cleaned the carpet with javel and warm water. His mother leaned against a wall, weeping.
“He doesn’t even know to cover himself before people, my poor papa. It’s got so bad. What she did to me, my sister.”
Her son said, “You know what the doctor said: that we don’t have the facilities he needs, that it can only get worse. We have to see about placing him somewhere. It’s the only way.”
“I never knew it would get so bad,” she said. “Look at the carpet. Some job. Thank you.”
“The doctor said he thought he could get him into the Home,” he said.
“Of course, they want him,” she said. “A man like that. A Talmudist.”
Her son said with sudden fury: “What are you talking about? A Talmudist. Why don’t you face this? He’s crazy. Your father is crazy, mentally ill, senile dementia. It’s sad, but you’ve got to stop fooling yourself. A Talmudist. He doesn’t recognize us half the time.”
“She knew this, my sister,” she said bitterly, “she knew all this.”
“Will you forget your goddamn sister? This is your problem.”
“You think it’s easy,” she said pathetically. “To put your own father away.”
He took her hand. “It’s not easy. He’s sick, though. It will be better for him.”
“I’ll phone tomorrow,” she said, defeated.
“Today.”
He was sorry, but he had to be ruthless. If his mother were a different kind of person, perhaps she could spend the rest of her life watching and caring for the old man. But it was killing her. He had never seen her look so old.
“You’ve got to, Mother, you’re sick yourself.”
“What time is it?” asked the old man, wearing only his pajama top.
“Two o’clock, Grampa.”
He fingered his pajama top as though it were a vest.
“Where is it?” he asked slyly. “Where is my gold watch?”
“Today, Mother,” he said, “it’s got to be today.”
“Ha. Pretend you know nothing. Look at the angels.” Then he added fiercely: “With my suits.”
“Please, Papa,” she pleaded, “you had no suits and you have no gold watch.”
“Mother,” he said with anger, “Why are you trying to reason with him? He doesn’t understand anything you say.”
“Police!” shouted the old man. “Police!”
“Oh, Papa.” She rushed to him and embraced him. The old man stood surprised and silent. She wept into his scattered white hair. “Alright,” she said quietly. “I’ll phone today.”
“Now,” the young man demanded.
“Not now. When you’re out.”
He understood that. She needed the privacy.
“It’s best for everyone,” he said, descending the stairs.
He walked out on the street. The neighborhood was changing. Mostly Germans and Hungarians now. The Jews were moving West. Westward, where the young doctors and accountants bore their families. It was all a matter of money, he thought. With money, my mother could keep her father, with a big house and a trained attendant. And he felt guilty for his poems and his outrageous ambitions and the money he wasn’t bringing in. And now, they were eating into the small capital his father had left them. I’ll get a job, he promised. I’ll try again. An hour later, he returned to his house. His mother and his grandfather were sitting in the kitchen, drinking glasses of tea.
“Is it cold?” asked his mother.
“Getting. Did you call the Home?”
She started to answer, but the old man started to sing. He put down his tea and leaned back and hummed a beautiful tune without words and without personal misery, but filled with love, age, and innocence. It’s beautiful, the young man thought. It’s more beautiful than anything I’ll ever write. He sat down beside the old man and touched his glass of tea for the warmth. He wished that this moment, in the warm kitchen with his mother and his grandfather, and the melody and the tea, and the beautiful bond of blood, would never end. His mother began to speak very rapidly.
“Do you know what he said when you were gone? That he was going to be quiet so that you could write, that one day you would be a great writer, that all the world would know. He said that people would come from miles to hear you speak.”
He turned away from his mother. He knew now that his grandfather would never leave the house. The song continued, and he went over the words of his mother’s poor lie.
His mother said, “And he’s so happy here.”
The song ended abruptly. The old man hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest and looked suspiciously at his audience. He folded his arms and raised his chin, superior, the master of intrigue, the banker of an underground conspiracy. Then banging his fist on the table seven times, one for each syllable, he instructed them:
“ONE HUN-DRED SUITS FROM RUS-SIA!”