Liebermann looked at him. “Jews didn’t ‘let’ it happen,” he said. “Nazis made it happen. People who would even kill children to get what they wanted.”
Gorin’s reddened jaw clenched. “Get out of here,” he said. And wheeled and stalked away.
Liebermann watched him go, drew a breath, and turned to the stairs. He took hold of the banister and started caning himself slowly downward, a step at a time.
Through the cab window, coming into Kennedy Airport, he saw Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge. Where Frieda Maloney had given the babies to the U.S. and Canadian couples. He watched it swing past, its ten or twelve stories floodlighted in the dusk…
After he had checked in at Pan Am, he called Mr. Goldwasser at the lecture bureau.
“Hello! How are you? Where are you?”
“At Kennedy, going home. And not so bad. I only have to take it easy a few months. Did you get my note?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks again. Beautiful flowers. That was some publicity, yes? Front page of the Times; CBS, the whole network…”
“I hope you never get such publicity again.”
“Still, it was publicity. Listen, if I give you my solemn word of honor I wouldn’t cancel out, would you want to try booking me in the late spring, early fall? My voice will be back to normal; the doctor swears.”
“Well…”
“Come on; so many flowers, you’re interested.”
“All right, I’ll sound out a few groups.”
“Good. And listen, Mr. Goldwasser—”
“Will you call me Ben, for God’s sake! How many years has it been already?”
“Ben—not the temples and Hadassahs. The colleges and kids. High schools even.”
“They don’t pay bupkes.”
“Colleges, then. Y.M.C.A’s. Wherever they’re young.”
“I’ll try to lay out a balanced tour, all right?”
“All right. Fill the holes with high schools. Let me hear. Be well.”
He hung up and put his finger in the coin-return; picked up his briefcase and caned himself toward the boarding gate.
9
DARKNESS RINGED THE ROOM. A doorknob glinted, a mirror, tips of ski poles. Dark bed shape, dark chair shape. Metal rim of a cage; a treadmill inside it spinning, stopping, spinning. Rocket models. Wings of a small silver plane slowly turning.
At the room’s center, flat whiteness lay tabled under a low-bent lamp. A hand dipped a brush, thinned it, black-inked over penciled lines. Making a stadium: vast, transparent-domed, circular.
The boy worked carefully, bending his sharp nose close to the paper. He began putting in some people, rows of little head-curves focused on the platform in the middle. He dipped the brush, thinned it, backhanded his forelock aside, brushed in more heads, more people.
A piano played: a Strauss waltz.
The boy looked up and listened. Smiled.
He bent to the drawing and made more heads, humming along with the melody.
Great with Dad gone. Just he and Mom. No fighting, no door thrown open and “Put that away and do your homework or so help me God—”
Well, not great, he hadn’t meant great; just—easier, more comfortable. Even Grandma used to say Dad was a real dictator. Bossy, big-mouthed, prejudiced; always acting like the most important man in the world… So it was easier now. But that didn’t mean he’d hated him, had wanted him dead. He’d loved Dad a lot really. Hadn’t he cried at the funeral?
He got into the drawing, where everything was nicer. Gave himself to the platform, and the man standing on it. Small from so far away. Brush, brush, brush. Lift up his arms: brush, brush.
Who would he be, this man on the platform? Someone great, that’s for sure, with all these people coming to see him. Not just a singer or comedian; someone fantastic, a really good person that they loved and respected. They paid fortunes to get in, and if they couldn’t pay, he let them in free. Someone that nice…
He put a little television camera up at the top of the dome; aimed a few more spotlights at the man.
He thinned the brush to a real fine point and gave little dot-mouths to the nearer bigger people, so they were cheering, telling him—the man, that is—how good he was, how much they loved him.
He bent his sharp nose closer to the paper and gave dot-mouths to the smaller people. His forelock fell. He bit his lip, squinted his deep blue eyes. Dot, dot, dot. He could hear the people cheering, roaring; a beautiful growing love-thunder that built and built, and then pounded, pounded, pounded, pounded.
Sort of like in those old Hitler movies.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Acclaimed novelist and playwright Ira Levin (1929-2007) was a native New Yorker whose books include A Kiss Before Dying, Rosemary’s Baby, This Perfect Day, The Stepford Wives, The Boys from Brazil, Sliver, and Son of Rosemary. His plays include No Time for Sergeants, Critic’s Choice, and Deathtrap (the longest-running thriller in Broadway history). Levin also wrote the lyrics of the Streisand classic He Touched Me, and was the recipient of three Mystery Writers of America Edgar Allan Poe Awards. For more information, please visit www.iralevin.org.
By Ira Levin:
SON OF ROSEMARY
SLIVER
THE BOYS FROM BRAZIL
THE STEPFORD WIVES
THIS PERFECT DAY
ROSEMARY’S BABY
A KISS BEFORE DYING
CANTORIAL
BREAK A LEG
DEATHTRAP
VERONICA’S ROOM
DR. COOK’S GARDEN
DRAT! THE CAT! (Music by Milton Schafer)
GENERAL SEEGER
CRITIC’S CHOICE
INTERLOCK
NO TIME FOR SERGEANTS (From the novel by Mac Hyman)
Copyright
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1976, 2004 by Ira Levin
ISBN: 978-1-4532-1758-0
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This 2011 edition distributed by Open Road Integrated Media
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