I looked at Julie’s precocious breasts, her full lips, her long black hair (pulled back that day), her intelligent eyes, and felt I loved her, that I wanted to marry her. What she said that afternoon about Uncle Bernie’s bragging made me love her more.
“I mean it’s unfair of Uncle Bernie to tell everyone what Rafael’s IQ is.” She pronounced it RAY-FEEL, but my love for her continued to grow unchecked. “And I think it’s disgusting to make him prove he’s smart by beating another boy at chess.”
“Julie,” Uncle Harry said in the same critical tone he had used earlier, only it was more serious this time. This time he turned away from his brother and faced her, to emphasize his disapproval. “That’s a very rude thing to say to your uncle. I want you to apologize.”
Julie blushed. “I won’t apologize,” she said and clenched her fists, more to steel herself than to threaten. “He should apologize to Rafael.”
“Julie!” Uncle Harry shifted forward to the edge of his seat — he was on one of the couches opposite Bernie’s position in a wing chair — and wagged a finger at her. He was threatening.
“Take it easy, Harry,” his sister Sadie said in a mild, humorous tone. “She’s a woman now so you won’t have any of your sisters on your side.”
This comment broke the tension, causing general hilarity among the adults and teenage cousins. I didn’t laugh, but I understood at least part of Sadie’s remark. The other prepubescent children grinned reflexively at the grown-up amusement; they were puzzled, however, and searched their parents’ faces for more information.
Julie’s blush, needless to say, deepened. Her fists opened, however, and she didn’t drop her eyes. “I think I’m right,” she said with an effort, yet still loudly and clearly enough to be heard through the laughter.
Harry had his way out. It did involve humiliating his daughter, however. “Well, if she’s got The Curse I can forget about an apology.” This provoked bigger laughs from the adult males. There were looks of embarrassment on most of the aunts, including Julie’s mother. Bernie’s wife, Aunt Charlotte, appeared disgusted and Aunt Sadie frowned. The teenagers were deeply embarrassed. The kids were baffled. (I knew that meant Julie was menstruating. My mother made a sarcastic remark about The Curse as an introduction to her scientific explanation of the soggy red mass I found unflushed one morning. So I was right to love Julie: she was a little woman to my little man.)
Julie sagged. This time, she certainly looked as if she might cry.
“I don’t think I understand, dear,” Uncle Bernie’s cello cut off all the uncivilized ruckus. He was given immediate silence to play solo. And I understood why he had such command. It wasn’t merely his power and wealth. He made music while the rest of us made noise. I believed he represented what was wrong with the world but I was enthralled by the graceful sound of his evil. His tone to Julie was gentle; in charge, yet unhurried and tender. “What’s wrong with my enjoying that Rafe won?”
“That’s not what I said!” Julie was exasperated, embarrassed, and defeated. She looked at me for the first time. “I’m sorry …” she stammered to me. “I’m glad you’re so smart and you won.” She looked back at Uncle. I wanted to fling myself at her feet and promise to die for her. “I just meant you shouldn’t talk about him to all of us like that — even if it is all good things. It’s like he’s your pet. And you shouldn’t make him perform for your friends. He shouldn’t have to win some dumb chess game to prove he’s smart.”
“Of course Rafe’s not a pet.” Uncle nodded slowly in my direction with regal grace and smiled broadly. “I’m proud of him. He’s my nephew and when my relations do something I’m proud of, I want to tell the world.” It may have been projection, but I swore I saw Aaron and Helen stiffen. Bernie had said nothing about his children throughout the afternoon games and birthday dinner. In fact, I don’t think he addressed a single comment to them. He uttered a perfunctory thank-you on opening their store-bought gifts whereas he made a fuss about the poem I wrote to him, a quite dishonest — I thought at the time — verse of gratitude for his rescue of me. “You miss the point about the chess game,” my uncle continued his exquisite melody. “Rafe did win. He didn’t have to. But he did. He’s not just smart, he’s got the will to use his brains.”
I felt the heat of their feelings and was warmed. Their love, their envy, their admiration, their pity — especially Julie’s — was palpable, a nourishment.
[Let me be clear: I played my role enthusiastically. I was nine and ought not to be blamed, but I’m sure there are those who will blame me anyway, although they might express their disapproval politely. Not having sympathy for me. Amazement at my behavior. Not understanding how anyone could live that way. Sympathy, empathy, an understanding heart — they are talents, or at least faculties, that have to be developed, and regrettably their training is in short supply. I was not my real self to my mother’s family: I lied implicitly and explicitly to them, although they meant me no real harm. Indeed, by their lights, they offered only kindness and acceptance. If you cannot see this situation as tragic, and instead must find someone to blame, you have several candidates and certainly I should be considered the prime one. But I must risk your intolerance by not understanding the thoroughness of my acceptance of Uncle Bernie’s favoritism or the pleasure I took in triumphing over my cousins. Indeed, I was proud of the cleverness of the false self I created and the lies I told. To conceal this aspect would — as is so often the case in autobiography — sentimentalize my state of mind and eliminate the ambivalence and complexity which makes the human character worth studying in the first place. I needed Uncle’s praise. His admiration was not as satisfying as living with my parents and possessing their love, but it was the best substitute available. I must accept blame for that fault, if you wish to label it as a flaw. I must accept ownership of a need to be the special heir of a powerful male. It is natural and it is also me.]
I lived in terror of losing my new crown as Prince Rafael. I told few outright lies and I told fewer truths. No feeling was revealed or given a voice without first undergoing a meticulous examination by the Stalinist censor and Jewish coach in residence in my head. I was undercover. I still had no Walther PPK, yet I was a master spy stalked by jeopardy. I was a Martian in residence on Earth, wearing a superbly crafted false skin of obedience and innocence to cover the otherworldly horror and beauty of my real self. I had my father’s letter (I changed its hiding place often to avoid discovery) to read in the locked bathroom, or when I was supposed to be sleeping. After finishing a re-reading, I often held my little penis and manfully tried to stroke it to summon a passion as yet unborn. In the morning I had no reluctance donning my disguise. Would these people have loved and admired the real Rafe? No. I was not wrong about this assumption: if discovered, that child would have been cured or destroyed. He had to be kept hidden in his cramped cellar, quaking at the sounds of the policeman’s tread.