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.
He does not have to wait long for the bus to come, though to him it seems as if he’s waited a year. The bus driver changes his dollar bill and he puts the fare into the box.
“How long to Rockaway Parkway?”
“Just got in today, huh, soldier? You guys are all alike. You all ask the same questions. How long to Linden Boulevard or Rockaway Parkway? Can’t you go any faster? Why don’t they synchronize the lights so we don’t miss them all? It’s at least forty minutes, longer if it starts raining. Relax, you’re young, you’ve got your whole life to live.”
Forty minutes, Nathan thinks. He chooses a seat near the driver and looks out the window. Though mid afternoon, it is already as dark as most nights. Nathan sees his reflection in the window. He notices, now for the first time, that his hair has grayed and his face has wrinkled. A small pellet of water hits against the window. Another follows, then another. He cannot recognize the streets but sees them turn from dull, dark cement to slick, glistening pathways. It will be longer than forty minutes.
The slow pace of the bus has managed to calm him down, to make him realize the absurdity of racing ahead. They didn’t mention Papa in their letters. They just stopped talking about him. His stomach gets heavy, weighted with possibilities. He could have been sick, or had nothing to say that the others hadn’t said. He’s dead, I know he is. Why can’t I admit it? He used to tell so many stories, funny stories.
Papa called him to his lap two weeks before his Bar Mitzvah. “Come here,” Papa said in Yiddish, patting his knee. Nathan obediently climbed on it, his Haftarah in his hands. “Say,” Papa demanded. Papa’s back was straight, the tone of his voice rigid. He was a man.
Nathan started to sing. He had gotten no farther than three lines when Papa violently clapped his hands. “No,” Papa said. “Is not right. You say holiday Mafteh.” Papa knew the books, the Torah. He didn’t have to look at them. He knew them even better than the Rabbi. He stroked his long, black beard and smiled. “I teach you, you’ll say right.” Papa made him learn the right words to say. He gave the Rabbi hell too for teaching his son the wrong ones.
Papa can’t be dead, Nathan thinks. He was always strong. God wouldn’t have taken Papa. He can’t be dead.
“Rockaway Parkway, buddy. You want out?”
“Yes,” Nathan answers. “Thanks.”
He steps out into the chilly downpour. The cars, buses and trolleys all have their lights on. Several blocks in the distance, there is a house. Mama will be there. So will Pearl and all my brothers and sisters. Nathan is confused. They didn’t mention Papa in their letters. He can sense Papa’s death, yet he cannot think that Papa is dead.
He walks the short distance, the duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. He is surprised by how little things change. Klein’s tailor shop is still next door. The window sign is still there, the same letters chipped off as when he left. In three years things haven’t changed much.
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