In his gaze, Manfred held the entire Gypsy nation in flight. He himself had found his way from the lands of the Roma to New York, escaping prisons and nets and roadblocks to do so, hoping to get to Washington to plead the Gypsies’ cause. Herbert sighed. For the Roma were a fierce wild species. How many would survive their cruel captivity?
“Your Majesty,” Herbert replied. He bent low over the Gypsy’s brown calloused hand and pressed his lips to the Gypsy’s ring. “Noble master.”
“So the news is bad?” King Manfred queried anxiously. His fine, sensitive pupils quivered, but he fixed his hawk’s eyes upon Herbert’s face insistently. “Tell me.” Herbert would have liked to choose a tactful answer, something indirect and open, leading perhaps to hope at the end, as he so often answered the refugees who beseeched him. He could contain knowledge of hopelessness and suffering if he had to.
“Tell me the truth,” commanded Manfred. “It is no use hiding it. The truth. And then I will handle the rest.”
Herbert tried once again to avoid answering, but under the Gypsy’s penetrating gaze, prevarication was impossible. Seizing the Gypsy’s hand in both of his, he said, “I cannot conceal from you the fact that it is hopeless.”
The Gypsy’s gaze flickered, then resumed its fierce, commanding expression. “Are you sure?”
Herbert looked away sadly.
“As I thought,” the Gypsy said.
“You must tell your people to try to escape at all costs,” Herbert said. “There is no diplomatic help for the Romany people.”
Manfred nodded in understanding. “As I feared.”
“We are still trying,” Herbert said. “But so far we have not been successful.” He looked directly into the Gypsy’s face, something he would never have done under other circumstances. The Gypsy was a proud and secretive man, and to stare was to assault.
“Have we been refused everywhere?” asked Manfred, quickly assessing the worst of the situation.
“So far, the President of the United States has refused all our requests,” replied Herbert sadly.
“We cannot hope for much, then,” the Gypsy responded. “We have been betrayed.” Herbert was silent. He could feel the Gypsy thinking quickly, plotting escape of all sorts, his heart beating like a wild bird, caught. Manfred darted forward, and in one gesture, he cupped Herbert’s head between his hands. He drew his face near and, quickly, almost harshly, kissed the old man on the lips. It happened so suddenly, Herbert had no time to react. The Gypsy’s kiss was soft and tender, a quick extravagance of feeling upon Herbert’s mouth. A Judas kiss. “Say farewell to the Romany,” Manfred whispered desperately.
“Not yet, my friend.” Herbert raised a restraining hand.
Dropping to his knees, Manfred, doomed, kissed Herbert’s ring. “Your Majesty, Your Majesty,” Herbert tried to protest. He thought of the Gypsies behind bars, condemned to the concentration camps of Europe, traded and betrayed, their wild hawks’ natures languishing.
“Everything that we can do, we will,” Herbert promised Manfred. “False papers. Money. Everything we can do. You have my word.”
“Yes,” Manfred replied. He seemed not to be listening, his mind already looking for chinks of light elsewhere.
“We cannot do more. Warn your people. Tell them.”
Manfred, in a hawk’s trance, nodded. His face almost appeared to be asleep. But Herbert knew it was merely gathering its strength.
“Everything official has failed,” continued Herbert sadly. “But we will do everything we can in unofficial channels.”
Manfred, as if in a dream of understanding, registered this information, gripped Herbert’s hand once more, and was gone.
Herbert sat down heavily on a bench. His day was just beginning, and already he was exhausted. From the corner of his eye, he watched those in the reading room watch him, the petitioners straightening their shoulders in resolve, preparing to line up and speak with him. Herbert knew that every person in the reading room understood what had just transpired. The room slanted into sadness and despair, and a mourning rose up from within each heart.
Chapter 17 FUROR/FÜHRER
“Guten Morgen. Good morning, my darling. My dearest one. My adored Father!” Felix whispered, picking up the photograph of his Führer from its altar. “Good morning, my dearest sweetheart.” Felix brushed back the skirts of his silk dressing gown and fell to his knees, still holding the photograph. “Oh my darling, my beloved,” he whispered passionately. He pressed his lips against the glass over where the lips of Hitler might have been, concealed beneath a firm and manly mustache. “My beloved one,” whispered Felix, kissing Hitler’s photograph square on the mouth. The outline of Felix’s breath still misted the glass when he put the photograph back on its stand. He masturbated deliciously; he exhausted himself. Felix rose to his feet a little unsteadily and went into the kitchen, where Schatzie awaited her breakfast. “Sausages today, my little one,” Felix announced to the dog, who, sausagelike herself, wagged her body enthusiastically.
From within the refrigerator, the severed specimens in little jars thrummed, but neither Felix nor Schatzie paid attention. Only when the sounds of the fingers grew more insistent did Felix cry out, “Quiet!” and at his voice, the sounds immediately ceased. “Authority, authority!” Felix told Schatzie. “That’s what the world needs. A firm hand.” Schatzie wagged her tail in response. Felix rolled a few more greasy sausages into her dish and carefully wiped Schatzie’s jowls with a napkin. Felix checked his watch. It was almost seven o’clock in the morning, and that meant he had only one hour to prepare for his patients.
“Cleanliness,” Felix told Schatzie as he cleaned the kitchen. In his office, he quickly remade his bed, folding it back into a couch and firmly planting the large Chinese screen in front of it. “For the ladies,” he said. Schatzie whimpered but lay down beside rather than on the couch. Felix washed his hands and then washed them again. He put out his instruments. He was almost ready.
Felix surveyed the gleaming metal and rubber. He was the best children’s doctor in all of New York. “I am a genius, you see,” he told Schatzie. She seemed to agree. Felix looked at himself in the glass approvingly: the three-piece suit, the vest pocket, the monocle on its string, and the stethoscope in his upper pocket. He took a little brush and brushed his eyebrows. He clipped a mustache hair. Then he went once more into his laboratory and reviewed it with satisfaction.
On the homemade shelves, all was silent in the specimen jars. The refrigerator hummed, but no other noises uttered forth from it. The small snips of flesh in their brine lay subdued, at least for the moment.
“Yes,” murmured Felix to his open closet. “You shall have your breakfast now.” Carefully, he prepared the brew on the small hot plate: two parts oatmeal to three parts liverwurst. The mixture heated, and Felix hummed to himself. He affixed his monocle to his eye socket. Then, carefully with an eyedropper, Felix fed each of his jars. Some he did not dare open, but instead inserted the food through a small hole in the top. But others he opened quickly. The specimens twitched a bit as the nourishment entered their briny bath. But they posed no danger; nor did they try to escape.
Only the fingers of the Tolstoi Quartet remained intractable and scratched at the sides of their jars impatiently as Felix approached with his brew. “Good,” Felix said. “So you can still play, my pretty ones, hmm?” The fingers drummed madly in response. “Gut.” He passed quickly on to his own preserved scrap of scrotum. “Was it growing bigger?” he wondered. Felix fed it an extra drop of the mixture, even as he felt guilty for doing so. This was something he had never written to Helmut about.