In 1980, Raphael Nachman, a visiting lecturer in mathematics at the university in Cracow, declined the tour of Auschwitz, where his grandparents had died, and asked instead for a tour of the ghetto, where they had lived. The American consul, Dirk Sullivan, arranged for a guide to meet Nachman at his hotel, and hoped to have nothing more to do with him. He thought Nachman was a contrary type, too full of himself. As for Nachman, he thought Sullivan was officious.
At eight o’clock, the morning of his tour, Nachman left his room and passed through the small lobby on his way to the still smaller dining room for coffee. He noticed a girl standing alone beside the desk. Her posture and impassive expression suggested she was waiting for somebody, but she didn’t glance at Nachman as he approached, so he assumed the girl wasn’t his guide. He asked anyway, “Are you waiting for me, Miss? I’m Nachman.”
The girl looked as if he’d mildly disturbed her reverie, and said, “How do you do? I’m Marie Borokowski, your guide.”
She didn’t smile, but Nachman told himself Poles aren’t Americans. Why should she smile? She was here to do a job. She’d been sent by the university, at the request of the American Consul, to be his guide. Perhaps she’d have preferred to do something else that morning. So she didn’t smile but neither did she look unhappy.
They shook hands.
Nachman invited her to join him for coffee. She accepted and followed him into the dining room.
Nachman wasn’t inspired to make conversation at eight o’clock in the morning, but he felt obliged, though Marie looked content to sit and say nothing. After sipping his coffee he said, “I like Cracow. A beautiful city.”
“People compare it to Prague.”
“From what I’ve seen, there has been no destruction of monuments and buildings.”
“Russian troops arrived sooner than the Germans expected.”
Nachman expected her to tell him the story of Cracow’s salvation, but she stopped there. Again, he was disconcerted, but the girl was merely terse, not rude. Her soft voice gave Nachman an impression of reserve and politeness.
“How fortunate,” he said. “The city remained intact.”
“There was plunder. Paintings, sculptures…Is ‘plunder’ the word?”
“Indeed. Are you a student at the university, Marie?”
“Yes. I study mathematics.”
“Of course they sent me someone in my field. I should have thought so.”
“I attended your lectures.”
“You weren’t too bored?”
“Not at all.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“You talked about the history of problems, which is not ordinarily done. A student might think all problems were invented the day of the lecture. I wasn’t bored.”
“Your English is good. Do you also speak Russian?”
“I was obliged to study Russian in high school.”
“So you speak Russian?”
“I was unable to learn it.”
“English came more easily?”
“Yes.”
“What else were you obliged to study?”
“Marxism.”
“Did you learn it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not very intelligent.”
Nachman smiled. She’d said it so seriously.
“How old are you, Marie?”
“Nineteen.”
“Are you from Cracow?”
“No. A village in the country. The nearest city is Brest Litovsk.”
“I’ve heard of Brest Litovsk.”
“You would never have heard of my village.”
It was easier to study the girl if she talked and he listened, but Nachman asked questions mainly because he felt uneasy. It was a defensive approach. The American Consul had warned Nachman about Polish women and the secret police. It seemed unlikely that the secret police had employed this girl— less than half Nachman’s age, and with such a solemn peasant face— to compromise him and make him vulnerable to their purposes. Besides, she was a student of mathematics. Nachman could have asked her specific questions about mathematics, and, in less than a minute, he’d discover if she were lying, but it would be awkward and unpleasant if she were. She didn’t seem to be lying about her failure to learn Russian or Marxism.
So Nachman lit a cigarette and sipped his coffee. He didn’t test her knowledge of mathematics, and he decided not to ask about her failure to learn Russian and Marxism. He understood that Marie was telling him, indirectly, that she hated the Russians. She was neither a spy nor a village idiot.
The American Consul had unsettled Nachman during their interview. The memory lingered strongly.
Nachman had said, “My field is mathematics. Nothing I do is secret, except insofar as it’s unintelligible. I’m of no conceivable interest to the secret police. If they want to ask me questions, I’ll give them answers. I’d do the same with anyone.”
“You know many people, Professor Nachman. Isn’t that true?”
“They are all mathematicians. Our work means nothing to the majority of the human race. I invent problems. If I’m lucky, I solve them and publish the solutions before some other mathematician. My publications are available to anyone who has access to a library and understands numbers.”
“You’re modest, Professor Nachman. You were invited to Cracow because your work has important implications for computer science. But be that as it may, a casual remark about any person you know is recorded and filed. There are listening devices everywhere. Even in my car. I’m sure they are in your hotel room.”
“I don’t gossip, and there is no one in my hotel room but me. I don’t talk to myself.”
“I believe you, but if you were to say in conversation at a cocktail party, in all innocence, that so-and-so is a homosexual, or a heroin addict, or badly in debt, your comment would enter his file at the headquarters of the secret police. With other such innocent comments, which are gathered in different cities— not only in Poland— a detailed picture of so-and-so is eventually developed.”
“For what purpose?”
“Who knows what purpose will emerge on what occasion?”
“I never heard of a homosexual mathematician. Could you name one?”
“Of course, but my point is we are not to name any. As for Polish women, they have destroyed American marriages— more often than you imagine.”
“Are you married?”
“My marriage is in no danger, but thanks for your concern, Professor Nachman. The allure of Polish women is considerable. They are the most gorgeous women you will ever meet. I’m sure you noticed Pamela, the receptionist.”
“Does she destroy marriages?”
“With her, a man could fall in love. It has been known to happen in Poland. Even a tough, cold, sophisticated, executive type falls in love, and forgets the distinction between matters of the heart and corporate information of the most privileged kind. Every word he says is reported. The fate of his marriage is incidental.”
“I’m not married. I have no secrets. I don’t gossip. I didn’t come to Cracow for romantic adventures. It’s arguable that I’m a freak. You’re wasting your time, Mr. Sullivan, unless you want to make me self-conscious.”
“My job is to welcome American visitors and mention these things. Bear in mind that your value to the secret police is known to them, not you. By the way, I have your ticket for the tour of Auschwitz. Compliments of the State Department.”
He held the ticket across his desk toward Nachman.
“Thank you. I don’t want to tour Auschwitz. I would like to see the ghetto, particularly the synagogue.”
Marie said they could walk, after breakfast, from the hotel to the ghetto. She added, as they left the hotel, “On the way, we can visit an ancient church.”
It was an extremely cold morning. Marie walked with a long stride, easily and steadily, as if she could walk for hours and hours, and was indifferent to the cold. Nachman found himself adjusting to her rhythm, though he was hunched up in his overcoat, and didn’t walk as smoothly as Marie.
“Do you go to church regularly?”
“I haven’t been inside a church since I was a child,” she said. “This one is famous, visited by many foreigners. I thought you might want to see it, but we can go directly to the ghetto. The church isn’t important.”
“Do you want to visit the church?”
Marie seemed to wonder if she wanted to or not. Then she said, “Do you want to visit the ghetto?”
It wasn’t an answer. Nachman supposed Marie felt she’d answered enough questions. He’d been reproached, but not undeservedly. The girl had a strong character.
“My grandparents lived there,” said Nachman. “I want to see the synagogue. My grandfather was known for his piety. I suppose he worshipped in that synagogue.”
The way they walked in the cold seemed to shape his remarks, each sentence the length of a stride, more or less.
“You suppose?”
“I know little about him. We never met.”
“He didn’t go to America with your parents.”
“My parents never forgave themselves. He died in Auschwitz. As a child, I was told almost nothing about family history. My parents didn’t care to remember Poland, and preferred that I didn’t think about it.”
“As a result your life has been spared bitter memories.”
“As a result, not a day passes that I don’t think about it.”
“You’re more than curious about your grandfather. You want very much to know.”
Nachman said lightly, “It is why I do mathematics.”
The words surprised him. They sounded as if he meant what he said.
Marie glanced at Nachman, but she didn’t ask the question she had in mind. Nachman didn’t give her the opportunity. He continued, “As for my grandfather, he was frequently mentioned, but always in a mythical way. I heard that he was consulted by Polish nobility for his business acumen— what business, I don’t know— and respected by the Jews for his piety and learning.”
“He must have been an interesting person.”
“He was also a musician, he was good at numbers, he could speak well in public. I was told he was witty. But all of this is mythology. When I asked what instrument he played, I was told, ‘Many instruments.’ When I asked what he did with numbers, I was told, ‘He did everything in his head and never used pencil or paper.’ I don’t know what he spoke about in public, or on what occasions. I was told that I look like him. I inherited his name, Raphael Nachman.”
“They didn’t destroy Cracow, only your family history. That’s why you came to Cracow.”
“Not really. I was invited to lecture at the university. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. What I want to know, I discover with a pencil and paper. My grandfather could do everything in his head. I’m not as good as he was. Maybe the problems have become more complex. I’ll tell you something strange. Ever since I arrived, I’ve had an uncanny sensation. It’s as if I’d been here before. When I walk around a corner I expect to know what I’ll see. I couldn’t tell you in advance, but when I see it— a small square with a church and a restaurant or a theater— I feel I’ve seen it before. It’s a small city, but one could get lost walking around. I’ve walked around several times, in different directions. I have no sense of direction, but find my way back to the hotel without trouble. I get lost in Los Angeles, where I was born, yet I am incapable of getting lost in Cracow. Even the pavement has a strange familiarity. It seems to recognize me. It pulls at my feet.”
“You don’t need a guide.”
“But I do. I don’t know where things are.”
“We will go directly to the synagogue.”
“No, no. Take me to the church first. The synagogue can’t tell me anything about my grandfather, at least not what I would care to know. We’ll go first to the church, then to the ghetto and the synagogue.”
Nachman was aware that he’d talked extravagantly, precisely what the American consul had warned him against, but Nachman wasn’t in love, and he was talking more to himself than to Marie.
She seemed to listen with the most serious concentration, her expression so intense it was almost grim. She respected Nachman as a mathematician, no doubt, and she was perhaps fascinated by his personal revelations. Maybe she felt privileged to hear such things, but her feelings were of no consequence to Nachman. Marie was a Polish kid from the countryside, not a world-class Polish beauty like the receptionist at the American Consulate. Nachman wasn’t in love, except with his own voice. After today, he’d never see the girl again. He felt free to talk.
The truth is that Nachman had never been in love. He’d had girlfriends, but the idea of love had never appealed to him. He played the violin and he solved problems in mathematics. His need for ecstasy was abundantly satisfied. He was a sensual man only in very limited ways. He didn’t, for example, enjoy eating. Two or three bites took care of hunger. The rest was nutrition. He also didn’t care about clothes, or cars, or entertainment, or social life, or other common pleasures. He didn’t care about money. As for sex, he could live without it, though he’d been born and raised in Los Angeles. He’d always had girlfriends, and they’d always been friends.
He described himself as a congenital conservative, one who feels no lust to consume the world, and isn’t enlarged by experiences. This was his first trip to Europe. He’d been outside the United States only once before, to attend the funeral of an aunt in Toronto. He didn’t yearn to travel. He didn’t even go to movies. Every morning he made the bed in his hotel room, and cleaned up after himself in the toilet, so the room looked as if he’d never been there. It was a touch compulsive, but that’s how Nachman wanted his room to look, as if he weren’t guilty of existence.
If you said he was dull, many others would agree, especially his American colleagues at UCLA. They were rarely excited by Nachman’s mind, even when discussing his specialty in mathematics. He demanded tedious repetition while others were flying toward solutions. Unusual for a mathematician, but Nachman was slow. His published work, however, was amazing, as much for his solutions as for the fact that Raphael Nachman, The Slow And Repetitious, had arrived at them. This annoyed his colleagues. They suspected that he was kidding, and not really slow. He was perverse, secretly laughing at everyone. Like a crab, he seemed to go backwards when others rushed forward, yet he arrived before them.
His Polish colleagues had looked forward to his visit. They expected thrills from the man in person. But Nachman provided no thrills. The brilliant Poles occasionally forgot the problem as they waited for the laborious Nachman to finish discussing its history, and then writing out the solution on the blackboard. Could they have done it themselves, quickly or slowly? Few mathematicians were as good as Nachman. Perhaps few were as desperate. Nachman had solved a thousand problems, and needed to solve more. Marie seemed to have appreciated his lectures, but what else could she say? Nachman didn’t believe her. He knew he was considered boring, if not infuriating.
“Here we are,” said Marie.
“This is a church?”
“This is the synagogue. We’ll go to the church later.”
Nachman shrugged. Marie was willful. She did what he wanted, though it wasn’t what he said he wanted.
The building looked old, very old, and yet not the same as what might be officially designated as ancient. It looked old in the sense of having long been used, and as if it were still being used, as opposed to being preserved in static and sterile temporality. An empty old building, heavy with abiding presence rather than history, and the presence was human rather than divine. Even the large flat soot-blackened stones that formed a rough path to the door had the quality of presence, not history. The hollow interior, which reminded Nachman of the inside of a wooden ship, a caravel with a spacious hold, and which made an effect of stunning emptiness, seemed to have been recently abandoned by the mass of passengers, who would soon return and fill the big, plain, wooden space with the heat of their bodies and their chanting. The congregation was certainly gone, annihilated at a specific date which is memorialized in books, but Nachman, overwhelmed by a nameless sensation, felt he had only to wait and the books would be proved irrelevant, the Jews would return and collect in this room, his grandfather among them.
Nachman entered deeply into the space, and stood there with Marie beside him, neither of them speaking. Then they heard a noise, a cough or a sneeze, and turned toward the rear of the room. A man stood not far away, partly in the shadows, looking at them. He was less than average height, and had a large head and broad shoulders. His neck was bound in a red silk scarf. It had once been an elegant scarf. The color still lived but the silk was soiled by sweat and grease, and it was frayed. His gray wool coat seemed barely to contain his bulk, and his arms were too long for the sleeves. Presumably, the caretaker. He walked toward them, authority in his stride. Though he was far from young, there was vigor and strength in his torso and short bowed legs.
Marie spoke to him in Polish. He answered in a rough and aggressive voice, so much unlike hers that he seemed to speak a different language. Then Marie said to Nachman, “He says there is no fee. It is all right for us to stay until he closes the building in the afternoon.”
Nachman said, “Ask him questions.”
“What questions?”
“Anything you like.”
Marie spoke to the man again, and a conversation ensued that was not the least intelligible to Nachman, but he listened to the words as if he could follow them, and he heard his name mentioned by Marie. After a few moments, Marie said, “He has been the caretaker of the synagogue for more years than he can remember, from before the war. He said he remembers your grandfather. You look like him.”
“You told him who I am?”
“I mentioned the name Nachman. He said he remembered such a man, and you look like him.”
“Ask him more questions.”
Marie spoke to the man again. He seemed increasingly to liven as he answered, and he made gestures with his thick hands to emphasize what he said. His face took on different expressions, each of them swiftly replacing the last. There was so much motion in his features that Nachman wasn’t sure what he looked like, only that it was a big dark face with bulging blue eyes, the nose of an alcoholic with burst capillaries along its length, and an exceptionally mobile mouth. He was full of talk, full of memories. They seemed to push at his eyes from behind, as if they intended to push straight through and be seen.
Nachman waited and watched. He listened hard. He was dizzy with anticipation, fearfully anxious to know what the man was saying. He hesitated to ask Marie anything until the man said as much as he wanted. Marie finally turned back to Nachman and said, “I think we should go.”
“But what did he tell you?”
“He told me that Nachman was gifted. People would cross the street to touch his coat. They came to him for advice, often about money matters, but also about love affairs and sickness.”
“He had some kind of medical knowledge?”
“He knew herbs that could cure skin diseases. He helped Poles and Jews, but it was dangerous for him. He was afraid of his powers. This fellow himself, the caretaker of the synagogue, says he once came to Nachman with a broken leg that wouldn’t heal. The pain was indescribable. He says Nachman went into a trance. Nachman suffered, as if his own leg were broken. In his trance, he made strange sounds, as if he were talking to somebody, but not with words. Let’s go, Professor Nachman. We’ve heard enough.”
Nachman didn’t want to go.
“What happened? Did his leg heal?”
“Yes.”
Nachman stared at the man, much taken by him. He wanted to hear more details of the event, but Marie was insistent.
“We can come back, if you like. Let’s go now.”
“What else did he say?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“I must give the man something.”
Nachman pulled bills from his pants pocket.
“Is American money acceptable? I have fifty dollars.”
“Give him a dollar.”
“That’s not enough.”
“He’ll be happy with a dollar. Give it to him and let’s go.”
Nachman was trembling. Was this girl a guide, or some kind of despot? He’d felt her strength of character, and he’d liked it, but at the moment it seemed more like obstinate determination. Nachman recalled the way she walked, with that long tireless stride. He thought suddenly it was consistent with her whole character. Her voice was soft, but she was abrupt and terse. Her figure was lean as a fashion model’s, but not languid. It had stiffness, military tension, as if built to endure. She was willful; pigheaded. He’d asked for a guide, not a leader.
Nachman gave the man five dollars, and then shook his hand. The man grinned and nodded thanks. Then, to assert himself against Marie’s desire to leave, Nachman suddenly smiled at the man and embraced him.
Marie sighed. “He’s not a Jew, Professor Nachman.”
Nachman was startled by the remark.
Walking away from the synagogue, again with her rhythm, Nachman said, “I didn’t care if he was a Jew. He was eager to talk about my grandfather. I learned something. I was grateful to him. What else did he say?”
“He said your grandfather could play musical instruments, and he could sing Polish folk songs. He said a few other things.”
“What other things?”
“He could juggle.”
“Juggle? My grandfather was a juggler?”
For the first time that morning Marie raised her voice. “He said your grandfather could bend nails with his teeth. He could fly.”
Nachman looked at her and understanding came to him slowly, against resistance in feeling.
Nachman was then silent for several blocks, upset and confused. The morning felt colder to Nachman, though the sun was bright. The long walk hadn’t warmed his body. When they came to the ancient church, he followed Marie inside, as if without personal will. It was less cold, but far from warm.
The church was small and unusually dark, thought Nachman, despite the tall windows which glared with color. There was a great deal of elaborately wrought gold and brass. It seemed to writhe and it gave off a dull shine. The darkness wasn’t dispersed, but rather intensified by the dazzling flames of candles along the walls and in niches. A priest was conducting a service. Some elderly men and women were gathered in the pews before him, a few of them on their knees, others standing. Nachman wandered away from Marie, immersing himself in the general darkness, absorbing the sensation of deep shadows and scattered brilliance of flame and metal, all of it enclosed in heavy stone. He felt his isolation, his separateness within the church. He settled into the feeling as if into the obscurity of a great cloak. Long minutes passed before he remembered Marie and looked about for her. She was standing near the door, leaning against a pillar, looking at the priest, apparently absorbed by the ritual. Nachman approached her slowly and stopped a few feet away, waiting for her attention. She looked at him finally, and then moved toward him. As they walked together toward the door, she said, “Maybe I’ll return. I don’t know.” Nachman understood, from the weight of her voice, that she meant return to the religion of her childhood.
Outside, Nachman lit a cigarette, his second of the day. It freed him of his memories of the past hour. He said, “Would you like to eat? You must be hungry.”
“There are no luxurious restaurants.”
“Anyplace with heat will do. I’m cold.”
“It’s still early, but I know where we can have vodka. Eel, too, maybe. The owner is a distant relation. Would you like vodka? You can pay him in dollars.”
“In this cold, vodka would be excellent. I never felt so cold.”
The restaurant, a fair-sized, square room with pretty wallpaper, was warmer than the church. The two waiters wore dinner jackets and ties. But there were no customers aside from Nachman and Marie. He had the impression the waiters were sustaining a ritual for lack of knowing what else to do. The menu was printed on large sheets of good, thick paper, and it announced a considerable variety of dishes, but Marie told him not to bother ordering any of them. It would embarrass their waiter. The dishes didn’t exist. She would ask what they could order, and then repeated what she’d suggested earlier.
“Vodka and eel. All right?”
“All right.”
Nachman cared much less about the food than sitting inside a fairly warm room, at a table with a clean white table-cloth. A glass of vodka was set before him and Marie. Nachman picked up his glass and drank. The vodka went down in a delicious searing flow. He wanted another glass almost immediately. Two plates of eel, chopped into small sections, were then set before them. Nachman ate a section. It tasted good, but he ate mainly to justify drinking vodka.
Marie finished eating before he did. She sipped her vodka slowly. Nachman urged her to take what remained of his plate of eel. She accepted. With his third glass Nachman became high, and felt almost good. His vision seemed to improve, too. Marie’s plain face took on a glow and looked beautiful. What is plain, anyway? he asked himself. Her features were nicely proportioned. Nothing was ill-shaped. Others wouldn’t call her beautiful or pretty, but it was a real face. Beautiful enough for him. Where you expected a nose, she had a nose, and a mouth a mouth. All right, so she wasn’t beautiful. Her face looked good to him. It was a good face, normal and undeformed, however plain. He was sure he would remember it with affection. Her brown eyes were intelligent and kind. What more could a man want? But why was he thinking this way? In a city where his grandparents had been murdered, his family history annihilated. This was a problem, too, wasn’t it? But Nachman felt no obligation to solve it. For an instant Nachman wished only that he could love Marie, feel what a man is supposed to feel for a woman, but not for the sake of ecstasy. He would have liked something real, true, consistent with his nature, like the vodka, maybe. Pain, but a good pain. After today he’d never see Marie again. He already felt the poignancy of loss. She’d been a good guide. He wanted to kiss her.
“Would you like another vodka?”
“No thank you.” Her voice was soft and polite as usual. He remembered how she’d raised her voice to him in the street, walking away from the synagogue. She’d known what he was feeling in the synagogue, under the spell of the caretaker, and had wanted to protect Nachman. But from the way she looked at him now, he could tell that she had no idea what he was feeling. For her, ordinary life had resumed. She simply looked, as if even in her personal depths she was polite. She accepted what was there, didn’t wonder. It wasn’t in her to be intrusive, to wonder about his soul, and yet when it mattered she’d understood and been with him. Nachman knew that he was being sentimental, indulging a feeling. It was partly due to the vodka, but Nachman was awed by her, and it didn’t seem at all unrealistic or foolish or morally dubious, and he knew the feeling would outlast this moment.
Leonard Michaels is the author of Going Places, I Would Have Saved Them If I Could, Sylvia, Time Out of Mind, and other books. Formerly a professor of English at UC Berkeley, he lives in Italy and California.
