I saw the arrival of Rabbi Kobinski and his son, Isaac. I didn’t know who he was then, but he drew everybody’s attention. When they tried to take his things, he put up a fuss. He was protecting his books, of course, only a rabbi would be shot over books. And they would have shot him, but his son pleaded and he relented. “Okay, only let me keep my notebook,” he said to the guard. Bitte nur mein Notizheft, bitte nur mein Notizheft. The guard watched him take it from his bag, like he was going to let him keep it. But once he had it out, the guard snatched the notebook from his hand and flung it onto a fire they had burning in a barrel to keep the guards warm.
This was Wallick, the guard who did this. After that, these two had something else between them, you would not believe. Kobinski was yelling, “My manuscript! My manuscript!” in Polish, and his son was dragging him away. Only nine years old that boy, and always such a presence of mind.
I was not happy later, when I saw they were in my barrack. I thought Kobinski was trouble. Sometimes men come in and you can see right away they don’t get it. They are dreamers. Such men are dangerous. Men like that, they can get you to believe anything, risk stupid things for stupid reasons. Many people risked things for Kobinski. They thought he had magic, you know, because he was a kabbalist. And he had to keep writing, rewrite everything that had been in that notebook. So people risked their lives to get him paper, to do other crazy things for him.
Kobinski never did get it. No, I take that back. In the end he did, after his son was killed. But still he dreamed. I was out of the barrack by then. I had been moved across camp, but I heard about it. Kobinski talked many in his barrack into risking a crazy escape attempt. Of course, everyone died who went. You see what I mean? Such men were more dangerous, almost, than the guards.
There was a young man at the Collections desk—bookish-looking, with a beard and kippa, but he wore an earring. An earring! As if he couldn’t make up his mind, was he religious or not. What a nebbish. He glanced up, looking startled, as Aharon approached. He reached a steadying hand across the desk.
“Are you all right?”
Aharon did feel strange, but he brushed off the young man’s hand. “How could I be all right? Such an uplifting place you have here!” He waved his hand at the room. He needed to go lie down somewhere, but first he had to get out of this place. He wanted to get out so much, suddenly, that he could feel the sweat break out on his brow.
“It can be overwhelming. Is this your first time?” the nebbish-whose-name-tag-said-HERSHEL asked sympathetically.
Aharon had a tightening sensation in his chest. He pointed a finger. “The Torah says you mourn for a year and that’s it!”
Hershel shifted his eyes away, his sympathy fading. “Did you need something from Collections, sir?”
“Rabbi.”
“Do you need something, Rabbi?”
“Yes, I need. Thank you.” Aharon tried to be a little nicer. After all, not everything was Hershel’s fault, earring or no. Aharon wiped his brow, showed the number from Kobinski’s file.
Hershel went to retrieve the item. He returned with small stack of plastic sleeves. “Here it is. You can look at it over there. Please don’t take the documents out of the sleeves.” He pointed to yet another row of anonymous cubicles, their backs open to face the Collections counter.
Aharon grunted and went to sit down.
The pages were handwritten in Hebrew. There were six of them, and several were embellished with complex-looking mathematical notations in the margins. The pages were old, irregular, of different shapes and sizes and colors. With a chill, Aharon realized that these were some of the pages Haskiel Malloh had talked about; they’d been written in the camp.
Aharon went back to the nebbish at the counter. “Do I have to look at these here? Can’t I take them out, bring them back later?” He waved his hand at the cubicle. “How can anyone study in such a space?” Though it was not the cubicle but the entire weight of Yad Vashem that smothered him.
“You can’t take it out, but you can have it Xeroxed if you like. There’s a fee.”
Of course there was. “How much?”
As it turned out, the fee was manageable. Aharon paid it and had to wait another twenty minutes while Hershel took the sleeves away. The wait was less manageable. Finally Hershel returned with the pages in a neat little paper folder, but he did not hand them over. “You have to sign,” he said, bringing a logbook from under the counter.
Aharon felt as though he’d been wrapped in red tape and deep-fried. He took the pen Hershel offered. The logbook had a page with the historical artifact number and a brief description at the top. There were three names on the page with corresponding dates. One was a Rabbi Schwartz in New York; one was a woman, Loretta Wilson, in Los Angeles. The last of the three names was his wife’s.
The hand holding the pen went up to his lips to catch a gasp. He stared at the name, then the date. Last Thursday.
“This woman,” he said, pointing to the entry, “Handalman—were you here then?”
A spontaneous smile crossed the nebbish’s face. “Yes. Very pretty. She had a baby with her. Do you know her?”
Aharon sucked in his cheeks and signed his name quickly. He was walking away before the pen hit the counter.
Hannah was feeding the baby at the kitchen table when he arrived. It was only three in the afternoon and she was shocked to see him. “Aharon! Is everything all right? Are you ill?” She hurried to him, searching for signs of debilitating injury.
He pushed past her and threw the paper folder on the table with a dramatic gesture. She saw what it was immediately, that name on the front, Yad Vashem. She blanched but held her ground. “So? You went to Yad Vashem. Congratulations.”
“Hannah, did I not expressly forbid you to go?”
The baby started crying. Hannah picked her up, spoke calmly. “What are you talking? You never once forbade me to visit Yad Vashem. Only a crazy person would do such a thing.”
“I said you were not to meddle in my work!”
“I didn’t meddle. Now keep your voice down. Can’t you see you’re upsetting Layah?”
Aharon ground his teeth. That such a thing as a man’s anger, his dominion in the household, should be controlled by women and babies! But he couldn’t stand to hear Layah cry, either. He spoke quietly. “You went deliberately to Yad Vashem to look into Kobinski. That is my work, and I told you I did not want your help.”
Her dark eyes flashed angrily. “I went to Yad Vashem with Yehuda’s class, as a chaperone.”
Aharon’s eyes narrowed. He was stumped for a reply momentarily, a gap Hannah had no problem filling.
“So, I thought while I was there, waiting for the children to be done with their tour, I would look him up. What else did I have to do?”
“You don’t tell me? You don’t tell me you and my son are going to Yad Vashem? You don’t tell me after you went? You went last Thursday. When were you going to tell me, Hannah?”
He had gotten loud again. The baby, whose head had been bobbing tiredly at her mother’s chest, straightened up with a yowl. Hannah shot him a look and went to put Layah down. Aharon waited in the kitchen, strutting like an angry bird. He could hear the baby’s cries sputter out with weariness in the next room. Hannah returned to the kitchen, began wiping down the baby’s high chair.