remained unchanged, no movement in the chair.
“My mother was Rivka. Your father’s sister. Your father was my Uncle Yitzhak.”
Then he remembered what the woman had said in the elevator about the Yiddish. Something had happened to Chana since he’d last spoken to her, some years before. She seemed to have retreated into herself with nothing left but the language of her youth. He hadn’t spoken Yiddish in thirty years, not since cousin Sol died. Nesha started to sweat. To him Yiddish was a distant dam holding back the flood of his memories. Once he touched it, cupped his tongue around its intimate cadences, the dam would be breached and the ordinary days of his youth would flood in and drown him with his mother’s silky face, his brothers playing in the square, the neighbours chatting along the muddy street. All of it waiting for him to open his mouth in the Mameloshen, the mother tongue. Okay, what do I have to lose, he thought. I have nothing left.
He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. “Meema Chana,” he whispered. Then he tried it out loud. “Meema Chana. Du mir gedainkst?” His Yiddish probably wasn’t perfect after all these years, but she didn’t seem to notice. She didn’t notice anything. “Rivka iz gevein mein mameh. Farsteyst?” Nothing.
She remained immobile staring out the window, while his heart flinched within him at the familiarity of the words, children’s words stored up and waiting. He had come this far. “Meema Chana, du bist mein eyntsik familye. Du bist mein meema.” It felt strange addressing an old woman he hadn’t seen in forty years with the familiar Du. Yet not so strange. Her small eyes, the shape of her cheekbones reminded him of his uncle, even his mother, if he looked hard enough. What wonder, his mother in Chana’s face.
He laid the bunch of daffodils in the old lady’s lap. In her hand, he saw a small rag doll, roughly made. Now she was the child and he the adult. Despair rolled over him in a wave; the dam had broken when he wasn’t watching. He crossed his arms over his stomach and leaned over in the chair, his head close to his knees, rocking, rocking.
“Kind” she said softly.
He looked up, astonished. She watched him with eyes like his mother’s. Her brown-spotted hand floated in the air near his head. “Kind ... bist...” she murmured.
Tears filled his eyes; he was overwhelmed with loss. He took her feather-light magical hand and brought it to his lips, his head echoing with his mother’s soft words of petting and comfort. The air diffused into another time, grew bittersweet with memory and longing as he knew it would.
“Di denkst azoi?” he said, looking once more into his mother’s eyes.
“Kind” she breathed, the pressure of her bony hand like a bird’s.
He drove back downtown in a haze, drained, at the same time enervated by his connection with Chana. Why couldn’t he have come before? Why couldn’t he see Goldie once before she died? They were all that was left of his past. All except the murderer. The invisible man. The needle in a haystack. How did one go about finding a needle in a haystack, he thought, stepping into the elevator in the hotel. Look under N for needle? For Nazi?
He bought a can of Coke from the machine on his floor. The caffeine and sugar jolt kept him going when his energy level dropped in the late afternoon. He sat down with the Toronto Yellow Pages and flipped through. What was he looking for? He came to Restaurants. One of the pages listed them under ethnicity. There were three restaurants under the German heading. Not much of a presence in the city.
He picked up the White Pages and looked under German. German Bakery, German Consulate, German News, German Translators. He dialed the number of the German consulate.
“Deutsches General Konsulat.”
“Guten tag. I’m new in Toronto and was wondering if there is a community centre or club where I could meet other German immigrants?” People told him he had a wisp of an accent; now he introduced gutturals into his r’s and pronounced w like v.
“Well, we don’t usually recommend such places over the phone.” The man clipped his words in a hurry, all business; maybe a line of people were waiting in front of his desk. “But there is an Austrian club that is quite popular. The Edelweiss on Beverley Street. Below College.”
Nesha examined his Toronto map book and found Beverley Street. Just a few blocks from the market. Easy enough. He searched for himself in the mirror. His grooming would have to go a step further. Taking his scissors he began to clip at his hair until all the straggly ends lay on the floor. He ran wet fingers through what was left, folding it behind his ears. A little more fashionable. Now he looked artistic, rather than vagrant.
It was still too early to go to a club. The Coke hadn’t touched the profound fatigue he felt settling in his bones. The emotional charge of Chana’s presence had depleted all his energy. He lay down on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.
The lake was dark outside his window when he woke up. He couldn’t quite remember where he was, until he saw the four Yahrzeit candles in their little glasses waiting on the round table near the window. He lit the wicks and, for a few minutes before he left, watched the tiny flames transfigure the walls with flickering memory.
He drove up Spadina because it was familiar, then turned right on Dundas till he reached Beverley. A few blocks north, the Edelweiss Club hovered on the east side of the street. The building had seen better days, a narrow structure squeezed in between a small office building on one side and a semi-detached house on the other. Edelweiss was printed in an arc of large Gothic letters above the door.
He didn’t know what he was expecting, but the inside of the club wasn’t it. No one greeted him at the entrance. There was a strong smell of onions and meat as he climbed the few steps into what looked like a ballroom. A wrought iron railing fenced in a round carpeted area set with square tables and white tablecloths. The centre was left uncarpeted, the wood floor scuffed but waxed. Only one table was occupied; two men talking quietly. Nesha stood awkwardly for a moment, glancing at the two in the hope they would greet him. Then a man in a white shirt and tie appeared quite suddenly before him.
With a courtly bending of the head he asked, “Do you come for dinner?”
Nesha looked around at the nearly empty room. “It’s very quiet here.”
The man’s nearly bald head shone beneath the 1950s chandeliers. “Oh, you want company. Come back tomorrow night. Saturday and Sunday, too. The place will be full with people. We’ll have music and singing. Accordion music. Very nice.”
Nesha looked at his watch. It was nearly eight and his stomach was growling. “You serve dinner here?”
“Yes, sure,” the man said, pretending offence. “Tonight we have roast beef and potatoes. Very nice. It comes with apple strudel for dessert.”
Nesha sat down at a table and waited. When the man came back with the obligatory beer, Nesha said casually, “I must ask you. I’m new in town and I’m looking for someone. A friend of my father’s. His name is Johann Steiner. Maybe he’s been here?”
The man examined Nesha, at the same time appearing to think. “The name is not familiar, but I don’t know everyone who comes here. Why don’t you look in the phone book?”
“I tried that. You have no idea how many J. Steiner’s there are.”
Nesha was only half way through
