“Sure,” David says, tuning right into his grandfather’s conspiracy to commit hypocrisy. In his short life, the only things he has ever expressed a desire to be when he grows up are things that are defined as testosterone-driven activities, things with fighting, fires, vehicles, guns. From today we can add stealing.
“Jurgen was the outside man. I was the inside man. He had a way with serving girls that you would not believe. They loved him. They had but to meet him and their eyes would get big and round like cows’ eyes and they would look up at him like this.” He rolls his head around with a motion quite definitely evokes mooing and cud chewing. “And they would tell him everything. What the family they worked for was buying as presents, when they were going visiting, when the houses would be empty. I was helping Jewish families sell their jewelry so I knew a lot of the jewelers. I would get information from them about people buying expensive jewelry. Also there were several that were not so honest who would buy the jewelry we stole from us.
“Finally there were a few who worked with us. When they sold expensive pieces, they would tell us. Then we would steal it and we would sell it back to them.”
“Cool,” David said.
“Isidore,” my wife said, very sternly. It is a tone of voice I have come to loathe.
“Sorry,” Grandpop said, sounding just like I do when I’m making a meaningless pro forma acknowledgement. My wife glared at me. Of course.
“Anyway, Christmas would come, and we would have our houses picked out. We would know what was inside, or enough to know it was worthwhile, taking the risk. And how to get in and when the house would be empty. The maid’s rooms in big houses were usually way up on top and sometimes a window would be left open for us.
“I was the cat,” he says, leaning forward, smiling and immensely pleased with himself. “I could climb, I could get my fingertips into the smallest crack, I could stand on the narrowest ledge. And I could jump from one hold to the next. To do this you have to be two things: fearless and skinny. I was both.
“Other times I would pick the lock...” he looks down at his cramped old hands and sighs for the dexterity that they once had and the youth that it represented and all that went with that youth. “Or cut the glass. There were many ways. None of which a well-brought-up young man like yourself should know,” he adds. No need to mention that he had been as well brought up as David. Better in fact. Isidore was the son of a doctor, grandson of a Rabbi. David was the son of a composer of advertising jingles, grandson of a thief.
“Anyway, we had costumes. Jurgen would dress as Father Christmas, Santa Claus. I would dress in very dark, dark green. Almost black so that I would be invisible in the dark, and smear dark green make-up on my face so even the white of my face would not catch the light, but, but, if a policeman were to stop us, I would say that I was one of the elves from the Black Forest, one of Father Christmas’s helpers. Most of the things we stole would still be wrapped, you see, so we would say we were going to a party and bringing the gifts.”
“Did that actually work?” I blurt out, incredulous.
“Only once was it put to the test,” he says.
“Why are you filling our son’s head with this, this, terrible nonsense?” my wife says.
“It’s the story of the rug,” he says. Innocently. “It’s a funny story.”
“Is this true?” she asks.
“As God is my witness,” my father says. And who knows what that means. To whatever degree he believes in God, he is very, very angry with Him. And finds His deeds unforgiveable. At least that’s what he’s told me.
“Can we at least not wallow in the details,” my wife says.
“Of course, Moira,” he says. “Not an unnecessary word. I will cut to the chase.”
“Thank you,” she says.
“So, on this particular Christmas, we are doing pretty well. We get into this big mansion that is close to the Englischer Gardens, which is a big park in Munich, like Central Park in New York or Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. What I’m there for is a diamond bracelet, I forget now the details of carats and number of diamonds, but this was worth, today, $50,000, $60,000. Lots of diamonds, lots of glitter, a real show piece. Also there was hidden away, a lessor piece, worth maybe fifteen, twenty thousand. One was for the wife, one was for the mistress. Plus there were many other things, the silver, small art pieces, whatever was small and valuable. Plus they had children. Close to the ages of my children then, who were, one was younger than you and one the girl, was exactly your age. Very pretty she was, and like you she had blond hair. So did I, when I was young and I had hair. Not these white wisps...”
The phone rang. I went to answer it. I knew the next bit. My father saw the rug there. He recognized it. It had belonged to a very rich Jewish banker in Munich, someone very well-known at the time, but whose name meant nothing to me and would mean nothing to David. My father recognized it because he had robbed the previous owner some years earlier. He had admired it then. It was, he said, the best Persian he had ever seen. Now he could not resist it.
The phone call was from one of our neighbors, a sweet young woman named Elaine. She’s a widow, but reasonably well off, very attractive, with dark eyes, black hair and a full figure. Our daughter is visiting her daughter and Elaine is calling to find out if I will be coming over to pick Susan up or if she should deliver her. I say I’ll come over, which I know is what she wants to hear. It’s easier for her and means that we might be able to spend a few adult minutes together. I tell her it will be an hour or so. Elaine says to come whenever I can, when I can will be all alright.
When I hang up the phone Moira is standing there. She has that I-have-things-to-say look in her eye. Actually, it is a look that is rarely absent, even when she is saying the things.
“What,” I ask her, pre-emptively, “did my father say to you? To blackmail you into letting him finish telling this tale of the Yiddisher-Deutcher Robin Hood?”
“He said that he had been to the doctor and that he doubted he would be here another year and that he wanted David to know his story, from his lips.”
“Can’t argue with that,” I say, somewhat surprised. He hasn’t said anything to me about exceptionally imminent death. He looks pretty damn good. For his age. And, of course, he is prone to dramatization and exaggeration. Especially when he wants to get his way.
“No,” she says.
“I have to confess,” my father says as we walk back into the room, “that although I had a very lovely wife, who was incidentally a perfect mother to my two children...”
“Is that my grandmother?” David asks.
“No. That was my first wife,” my father says. “The banker, who originally owned the rug, had a very beautiful daughter. Like a princess in a fairy tale. She had spurned me, and I thought it would impress her for me to have the rug.”
“Do we have to go into that?” my wife asks.
“It’s the story of the rug,” my father says as if the rug has its own life, its own fervent history, crying out to be told, a tale that it needs to pass on to posterity. “I’m just trying to be fully honest here.”
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t overdo it.”
“Okay,” he says. “I can see that it is time to make a long story short. I will not thrill you, little David, with how I slipped out the back door, crept through the bushes and trees on the ground, carrying not just my usual swag, but this huge rug on my back. And how Jurgen, my partner swore at me as a madman when I brought it to the car. How I was adamant that we take it. Why? I don’t know why. We all need a little mystery in what we do. Isn’t that correct?