They Didn’t Mention Papa
Copyright © 1969; 2014 by Peter Weiss
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Nathan opens the door to the phone booth. It is hard for him to believe that after three years of wishing and longing to be home, he has returned. He drops the army-issue duffel bag to the sidewalk and reaches into his pocket for a dime. Thoughts explode in his mind like the initial brightness of a flare, then burn slowly, becoming darker and more abstract until finally they are burned out.
The smells and sights of New York excite him in a way he has never known before. They were always there, all twenty six years, but he never realized them until now. He looks at the buildings, American buildings. How different they are from the German and Italian ones. Freedom, he thinks. Perhaps what I feel is freedom.
He lifts the receiver and deposits the dime. Even seven-digit numbers are American.
“Hello?” The word comes through the wire in a language not unfamiliar to Nathan, though it’s been a while since he’s heard or spoken Yiddish. He finds himself speaking in the same language.
“Mama, this is Nathan.” There is a pause. Mama struggles to keep the phlegm out of her throat, to be able to speak. She has expected, almost anticipated that he would return today, but still she cannot believe that her baby is home, talking to her on the phone.
“Nathan, is really you?”
“Yes, Mama. I’m home. I’ll get on a bus and be there in an hour. Tell someone to get Pearl.”
“All right, Nathan.”
He hears a click and then nothing. It’s almost as if he hadn’t spoken to her, as if there were no connection between what he said and what he thought. He remembers Pearl. How many nights he dreamt of her, how many times he called her name and imagined her slipping into bed next to him. There wasn’t even time for a honeymoon. They had one weekend and then he was shipped out.
He takes another dime from his pocket, deposits it, dials another seven-digit number.
“Fanny?” This time he speaks English.
“Hello?”
“Fanny, this is Nathan.” He hears her call out, “Pearl,” and tries to imagine Pearl as she is, coming to the phone.
“Hello?”
“Pearl? Your voice has changed.”
“Nathan, where are you? Oh God, I’ve missed you so. I love you, darling.”
“I’m at the Navy yard. I’ll be in Canarsie in about an hour. Mama is sending someone to get you.”
“Don’t hang up, Nathan, not yet. Please, talk to me. Are you all right?”
“I am now, sweetheart. I was sick for the first four days of the trip, but I’m okay now. Let me get on a bus. By the time I get home you’ll be there. Pack a suitcase. We’ll go away for a few days.”
“Nathan, I’m so happy.” Pearl drops the phone to the table, too excited to put it in its proper place. She runs to her mother and hugs her. “Mama, he’s home.” She dances to the closet and carelessly reaches inside, pulling out a suitcase, knocking other things out as well. “I’m going to meet him in Canarsie, and then we’re going away for a few days.”
Nathan trips over the duffel bag trying to get out of the phone booth. He picks it up and tosses it over his shoulder, already walking toward the bus stop. It was raining over the ocean last night. The water was choppy and he couldn’t even see the raindrops making ripples in it. Now dark clouds hide the sun. The sky is seasick, he thinks. Pretty soon it will vomit. He feels the urgent desire to see Mama and Papa. Why didn’t Papa answer the phone? Slow down, he tells himself. For Christ sake, slow down.
