“They’ve had enough notice,” Judit said.
“Well, they miss me,” said Leonora. “I had to practically threaten to quit to get today off.” In fact, just as Judit seemed to have more time in her hands, Leonora had less; the people in that neighborhood were completely out of control now, half of them demanding copies of their family immigration records to claim land or property in Poland, and the other half barricading themselves into housing blocks. She almost wished the nursing home would hurry up and close, but now she had to bear up under all the complaints and find a way to appease them. But there was no appeasing black-hats. That was old news. She said to Judit, “Isn’t that right? That there’s no way to appease them?”
“Sure,” said Judit. Well, they could protest now, but when the capital was moved to Berlin, see how far they’d get. Leonora asked Judit if that would stop their complaining, and again, Judit said, “Sure.”
“I hear they’re going to bring back the trams,” Leonora said as they boarded the bus that went along the Elbe. Leonora always felt nostalgic when she took that route because it was the same route as the first tram-line that was unveiled in ’49, the year that she and Rudi moved into their apartment. Of course, these trams would be brand-new, manufactured in Hamburg, but she hoped they’d still have those little bells, and the machines that made a satisfying crunch when you validated a ticket. Maybe they’d bring back the tourist train, too. She still remembered how the children competed to be engineers who wore those little visors, and held up the green or red signals to make the steam trains stop or go or change direction. They ought to run that train up the Elbe to the new National Park of Saxon and Jewish Heroism. Wouldn’t the tourists appreciate it? An old-fashioned, Judenstaat coal-powered steam train, run by children, to a beautiful park in Saxon Switzerland?
“You may be right,” Judit said. Leonora hadn’t even been aware she’d spoken out loud. But she asked Judit:
“Can’t you do something about it? In your position?”
Judit laughed, though not unkindly. “Mom, what exactly is my position? You know what I do? I sit behind a desk and watch things fly across it. Sometimes, I’m supposed to catch them with my pen and sign them.”
“You don’t read what you sign?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. I’ll be honest with you. There’s just too much to read. My eyes can’t take it.”
“You should wear glasses,” Leonora said helpfully. She didn’t want to sound judgmental, but it was always good policy to know what you were signing. That was the trouble with people these days, especially politicians who just forged ahead without a clear idea of what was around the corner. Well, they say the future is an undiscovered country, but as for her, she’d just as soon not go there without some certainty that it would be better than the past.
Last June, when they televised Leopold Stein’s funeral, the foreign dignitaries crowded into Parliament, representatives from Europe, America, Asia, Africa. That was something, seeing those Africans in their robes, so dignified. It made her think about how all the world knew who Stein was and what he represented. There was a leader—lived long enough to own up to his mistakes. Who’d do that now? Most politicians, they just hope their mistakes will become last week’s news.
Well anyway, Judit did look happy, and it wasn’t true about her eyes. She’d always had perfect vision, just like her father. She could see a thimble in a treetop. Then, following that train of thought, Leonora said, “It’s good to see you sewing again, sweetheart.”
“It passes the time,” said Judit. “And when you got me that fabric, what was I supposed to do with it? Hang it out the window?”
Leonora had thought hard before she’d given it to Judit, a soft cotton blend with little yellow ducks in a row. Was it too forward? Well, what could a mother do, under those circumstances? Maybe she should have waited until afterwards, when she would know that everything was fine, but frankly, it had meant something to her to buy it, especially when she found the old fabric store where she and Judit used to shop together, the one with the embroidered butterflies in the window. It wasn’t easy to spot, embedded between a video rental store and a fancy bakery, almost invisible if you didn’t look carefully. The lady recognized her and asked, “Where’s your daughter?” When Leonora chose the fabric, she said, “That’s very popular, especially if people aren’t sure.” She’d meant sure if it would be a boy or girl, of course. Then, she said, “Mazel tov,” and for at least a moment, Leonora had allowed herself the unambiguous naches that was the right of any woman with a grandchild on the way.
The bus was at the cemetery gate now. Leonora and her daughter disembarked. It was just as she’d remembered it, the ironwork over the entrance, the wide, swept sidewalk, and of course the old Saxon ladies selling clumps of violets. Judit bought three.
“That’s too many,” Leonora said. “Besides, they’re out of season. They won’t even have a scent.”
“Yes they do. Smell,” Judit said. She offered Leonora a bunch, and she waved them away.
“They’ll smell like somebody’s refrigerator.” She pushed ahead. “I hope I can find it. I always get so confused once I get here. Better you should have gotten a map than violets.”
“We have all day,” said Judit. She arranged the wet bunches of violets in the crook of her arm, and with her free hand, guided her mother towards the end of the cemetery where Rudolph Ginsberg was buried.
Of course, there were cemeteries in Dresden proper, the old Jewish cemetery in the Altstadt, and the new Jewish cemetery in the Neustadt, but they both were full long before Leonora and Rudolph even thought about purchasing a plot. This one had been established just after the war, so the lettering on some of the headstones was as likely to be in Yiddish as in German. There was even Cyrillic on a few of them; Red Army soldiers had sometimes been laid to rest here at the request of their families.
Looking at those Russian stones now, and at their condition, Leonora couldn’t help but say, “Will they dig them up now, do you think?”
Judit didn’t answer. She looked past her mother. “I see Daddy over there. Isn’t that him?”
“You’ve got a younger head than your mother. That’s him alright,” she said. They both headed cross-wise towards the little bush that the cemetery had replanted at her request, to the rust and white marker that read: “Rudolph Ginsberg, 1919–1970” and the six-pointed star marking him as a camp survivor. Some of the stones contained the numbers of tattoos, a fashion in the ’50s and ’60s. Lenora couldn’t help but say, “Judi, do you think they’ll still put stars on markers?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Judit asked, somewhat sharply.
“Should I have one on my marker?” Leonora asked. “Honestly, what do you think?”
“I think that’s up to you,” Judit said. She seemed to grow thoughtful, and she and Leonora took their time, in silence, digging through dead leaves for stones to place on Rudolph Ginsberg’s grave. After a while, Judit said, “Remember those drawers?”
“What drawers?” Leonora asked, blushing, but then she realized that she and her daughter were thinking about two different things.
“The ones at the Hygiene Museum,” Judit said. “They were full of objects children swallowed, rocks, thumbtacks, that sort of stuff. He always said that the children who swallowed them had died long ago, but all those rocks and things were still around.”
“That’s awful. It must have scared you to death,” Leonora said, but the memory warmed her. If he could be there now, standing with them and looking at his own grave, what would he say? One thing was certain; she would not be lonely. He would confuse her, would confound her, would say things no one in his right mind ought to say, but those very things would make each day a new one.