she said, “why are you so angry? I was only asking, not arguing.”
She looked at me so earnestly, her eyes puzzled, and I melted with love of her, and took hold of her and kissed her. In the kiss, our melancholy feeling returned, our loving seasoned with bitterness over the world I had seen that day. We sometimes said we had Weltschmerz, but it was more like a presentiment that everything would be vile in our time. On that day it was as though the crime had split open a small crack in the surface of the world, and we could see through into the evil that was yet to emerge.
From the other room, Ruth’s mother spoke. “Children, why don’t you dance? Put on the Victrola.” And after giving us time, an instant for Ruth to smooth her dress, perhaps, Mrs. Goldenberg snapped on the light behind us. “You know, Ruthie,” she said, “I’m thinking of bobbing my hair.”
EVEN THOUGH THERE were only the three of them at the table, Judd’s father, neatly carving the roast, gave the meal almost a formal air. This was the way of the Pater. In everything always so certain of how he measured things out. So he must have been in the early days, with Grandfather in the woolen business—measuring with his yardstick, the solemn, upright young Judah Steiner. And so with his honest yardstick he had measured the growth of the woolen house as it was drawn along with the growth of Chicago’s garment industry, and with his yardstick he had measured what family to marry into, and purchased woolen mills, and measured his real estate, and his honorable place in the world.
Yet tonight Judah Steiner was trying to speak in a lighter mood to his sons. There was Max’s engagement party; next week his fiancée would arrive from New York. Aunt Bertha must see to it, the house should be filled with flowers; it must no longer look so gloomy, so much like a bachelor’s den.
Max was sitting there quite proud of himself for the fine piece of merchandise that had been selected for him by brother Joseph in New York, a Mannheimer, no less.
Could it be, actually, that neither of them had heard of the sensational crime? That neither had seen the headlines? Judd considered bringing it up—the topic would be normal enough: the kid had been snatched from Twain, almost across the street. But now the old man was turning to him. Was Judd ready for his exam tomorrow? “A Harvard law entrance should be taken seriously, even by a genius.” He chuckled, wiping his mustache. Judd could watch every move in his mind, each word reached for as though it were something in a filing cabinet.
“Huh, he’ll probably spend the night chasing tramps with Artie,” Max remarked. “That’s how a genius prepares. Me, I had to bone.”
“Even a genius can trip up sometime; look at the tortoise and the hare,” said the Pater. “And how would a genius like to spend the summer preparing for Harvard instead of touring Europe?”
“Try and stop me. I’ve got the ticket!” Judd said, and all at once like a hand coming down on him was the thought that he really might be stopped in the two weeks before sailing. Should he try to get an earlier boat, leave immediately after tomorrow’s exam? Pass the test brilliantly so the old man would . . . He’d go up and glance at his notes. He had them typed up, a complete set, from the session a few weeks ago with Milt Lewis and the fellows. The old man would have his Harvard lawyer to brag about. Step right up folks and see the youngest, smartest LL.D. in the universe, Harvard cum laude—Judah Steiner, Jr., son of Judah Steiner, the merchant prince of Chicago! What if a cop stepped in right now to make the arrest? Are these your glasses? What if the old man were told his Junior had achieved the greatest crime in the world? Could he ever understand such a conception? Could he comprehend that there was as much greatness on one side as on the other? Indeed, more. For the crime had to be created against the grain, à rebours, and law was with the grain. Judd felt a shivery, perverse wish that the arrest would come, and come that very instant.
His father was passing the pickles, remarking that he had stopped at the delicatessen for them himself. The staff forgot such things since Mama Dear had passed away. “Now Italy—” the old man was saying. “It might be advisable to avoid Italy in these unsettled times.” Judd let him talk. The pickles were good. At least this taste they had in common.
“Oh, Italy isn’t so bad since that fellow Mussolini took charge,” his brother declared. “The country is under control.”
“You never can trust the Italians,” said his father. “The Italians are a violent and lawless people, with their Black Hand. Even here in Chicago, all the bootleggers are Italians. With their law amongst themselves, their killings, they give the city a bad reputation.”
“Sure, only the Jews are perfect,” Judd found himself snapping.
“At least we Jews are law-abiding, and engaged in respectable businesses and professions,” his father said.
“All the Italians gave us is Dante and Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo and Raphael,” said Judd, “Cellini and Aretino.”
“Maybe they were a fine people once, but today they are only gangsters.”
Max cut in. “I hear this Mussolini is a real leader, bringing back the glory that was Rome—a kind of superman.” Judd was startled by Max’s use of the word. But Max wore a smile, to show he was for once trying to use his kid brother’s intellectual language. “Judd, maybe you can get in to see Mussolini.”
“Why, yes, I can give you letters to some important people in the shipping line in Italy. We do business with them,” his father said, adding proudly, “You could speak Italian to them.”
In Judd’s mind, the word superman was echoing. The sullen, angry, god-furious figure of Artie, getting out of the car. Yes, Artie was the superior one! Yesterday he had proven it completely. Superior to all emotions. If Artie were through with him now, because of the glasses . . . If Artie turned to Willie . . . The fear came over Judd—Artie leaving him alone. Like last time, before New Year’s. The trouble hadn’t been his fault then either. Artie had been ready to blame him, and go off with Willie and some girls for New Year’s, the one night, the most important night. He would have. Only Judd’s letter had kept him. A letter saying everything, analyzing everything, explaining. Now, too, Judd would write a letter. In his mind, Judd began to form the words, showing clearly why the spectacles had to be counted as a shared mistake. Just as the entire experience was shared. For if Artie were really through with him, if Artie started chumming with Willie . . . Christ, he couldn’t! They were bound together now, like when kids take an oath in blood . . .
Instantly, the blood image welled up, the pulsing spurt, sickening. It was himself, a child. He’d be sick . . .
Just then the phone rang. Papa gave him a look and emitted a half growl, his usual objection to telephone interruptions during meals.
The maid came to say it was for Junior. Judd’s heart bounded. It was Artie, he was sure. He hurried out of the dining room.
When Artie got home from the frat, he noticed quite an assembly still in the dining room, and remembered that Mumsie had wanted to show him off to one of her chums visiting from the East. He walked in, just to have a look at the biddy.
“Arthur!” There was the usual loving reproach in his mother’s voice, but relief, too, that he had appeared at last. She was looking wan tonight, a bit overethereal in her greenish dress. The New York woman had bangs and horse-teeth; she was from far back, from that Catholic school of Mumsie’s. The brothers were present, too—James, and even Lewis, complete with his recent bride. Full show.
“Arthur, dear, I was beginning to get frightened,” his mother said after the introduction.
“Now
