Suddenly I remembered Howard Guminiak. It had been a rope! There was a rope from the rafters. He had swung up to the loft! I remembered Sam Yudelson. I remembered Auschwitz.
Weiskopf, exhausted, was sobbing now. The rabbi eyed the dumpster as if it were a strange predator. “I don’t understand any of this. I was on my way to see the Dalai Lama.”
“A rock concert?” said Goldeh.
“Look! Police cars! What is this tumml, Goldeleh? The Dalai Lama is going to talk about suffering, and I’ll miss it.”
“He’s too late.” Goldeh sighed. She looked down at her coat, shook her head, and busied herself picking bits of trash off the fabric. “Now that everything was the way it was again, I’m going home. Al, you’ll walk me?”
“Sure, Goldeh.”
“I want to rest. I’m going to Chicago to testify day after tomorrow.”
“Was the way it was?” The rabbi was perplexed.
“And Al,” said Goldeh, “you’ll remember how to make chopped liver without me?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll remember.”
She was laughing. “Go! Go to your Dalai before the police come!”—little pushes to the rabbi’s sleeve. To me: “Actor! You’re maybe not so bad after all! You’ll make a living to remember what never was!”
“Yeah,” I said, “but only on stage. And what was, Goldeh, I won’t forget.”