He left me one other thing. Nikki transmitted it to me one evening that weekend. She was at the little desk in her flat, going through bills and letters. I was reading over some notes I had made and she was bent over the pile of paper on her desk, tapping a pencil against her teeth. She was wearing a faded housedress and her hair tumbled loosely over one shoulder; I set my notes aside and watched her. The light from the desk lamp made highlights in her hair and she was lovely in that glow, like a Flemish portrait.
She plucked a slip of paper from the pile and turned her face toward me; she caught my stare and smiled immediately.
“You’re very beautiful.”
“No. That’s silly.”
“Je t’adore.”
She shook her head impatiently in that pert way of hers; she pushed her lower lip forward to blow hair off her forehead. I said very theatrically, “Ah, my beauty, let me be your batman, your orderly, your serf. Let me kiss the hem of your skirt and polish your shoes.”
It brought her laugh but her slim fingers were at war; in the end she picked up the slip of paper again and flapped it up and down at me. “He meant you to have this.”
“What is it?”
“Just a name.” She read it off: “Otto von Geyr.”
I crossed the room to take it from her; I brushed her neck with my lips and straightened to read the note. It was in his crabbed hand:
Otto von Geyr-SS Gruppenfuhrer, RSHA, General
— see Ukraine 1941-42, Crimea 1943-44-
Sebastopol. Lives in Bavaria, gov’t post of
some kind. Re Czarist treasury.
I said, “That’s kind of cryptic.”
“He didn’t mean it to be. He was having difficulty holding the pad. He only made enough of a note so that I would remember what it meant. This General von Geyr had something to do with the Nazi effort to find the White Russians’ gold during the Second World War.”
“And?”
“He thought you might want to find this man and talk to him.”
“What for?”
“To find out what happened to all that gold, of course.”
“He had an obsession with that, didn’t he?”
She began to say something, but curbed her tongue. “I suppose he always felt he had a vested interest in it.” It wasn’t what she had meant to say.
She tapped the note. “This general was also at Sebastopol during the German evacuation. You’d want to talk to him about that, wouldn’t you?”
“If I could find him. Bavaria’s pretty populous. I’m not a detective.”
“Of course you are. What else would you call what you do?”
I put the note in my pocket. “If I get to Germany I’ll try to look him up. Was that all there was to it?”
“The Germans found the gold, you know.”
“Yes, he told me about that.” I didn’t add that it was not the kind of thing you could put in print on the unsupported testimony of one old man who hadn’t even been there at the time.
“Aren’t you curious what happened to it after that?”
“I suppose I am. I’m not burning up with it. It’s only a sideshow at most. I mean, millions-”
“I know,” she said, amused. “Millions of people were dying. Just the same, they’re dead and there isn’t a thing you can do to bring them back to life. But the gold is still there, somewhere. You could do something about that.”
“Like what?”
“You could try to find it.”
I laughed at her and in lovemaking we both forgot about von Geyr and Sebastopol and the gold and everything else that was not of the flesh and of the moment.
We had come to our lusty passion fiercely and quickly and without reluctance; if there was a level beyond which we did not delve, I was not aware of it then. We played the games of children in love, sometimes courtly and sometimes bawdy. Nothing prudent or fearful about it: love turned the two of us into one, in the way that two sheets of glass lie one on the other-hard to distinguish where one ends and the other begins, and harder still to pull apart.
Yet a night or two later-it was the night after we packed up the books in Haim’s silent flat-we came home from dinner and she threw herself across the couch in an abandoned sprawl. “Do you think you could be an angel and get me some aspirin from the loo?”
She’d had a headache for hours; I’d seen the pain across her eyes. I brought the aspirin and a glass of water. “Ready to serve milady at all times.”
She sat up to swallow and when she lay down on her back with her breasts diminished she looked girlish. Her eyes were closed. “Harry you can’t stay in Israel forever.”
“My work’s finished here. I’m only waiting for you, you know that.”
She took a breath. “You’ll have to go without me.”
It was her job, she said; they weren’t going to let her go back to the States for a while-she had too much to do here and she wasn’t needed in Washington just now. She didn’t know how long it might be before she could come to America.
She sat up and talked rapidly at me: “It would be ridiculous your staying here much longer. Your work isn’t here.”
“I don’t want to leave without you, Nikki.”
“We’ve got to be sensible. You’d come apart if you stayed.”
I folded her hand between my palms and she drew the back of my hand against her side; I could feel the soft rhythm of her breathing. She didn’t open her eyes.
Finally she said, “I won’t give up my work, Harry. No more than you could.”
There was more talk; it kept going in circles and after a while we sat in conflicting silences until she said, “Oh, dear, now you’re really angry with me.” She was watching me and I saw the shadow across her eyes; it was not the headache. I remembered something Haim had said to me once-probably one of his old sayings: Take care not to make a woman weep, for God counts her tears.
I asked her how long she thought it might be; she said she had no idea. I said I could wait awhile until we found out; she said it might be months.
“Look. Suppose I go back and finish up in the archives. I could bring my notes back here to write the thing.”
“Could you really? Don’t you always need to go back to the archives to look up things you missed and double check other things?”
That was true; it was the way I always worked and I’d told her that. Now I felt she was using my own words against me. “You want me to go,” I accused her.
“No. My God, no.”
“Do you love me, Nikki?”
“With all my heart.” She turned her face against my chest; her words were muffled: “With all my heart, Harry.”
Finally I said, “I’ll have to think about it. There must be some way.”
But there wasn’t and she was right: after another week I was restless and growing irritable.
It was a Sunday morning in her flat. The hot sun through the venetian blinds laid horizontal bars of light across the bedclothes. I remember her face, childlike with the drowsy innocence of first awakening. I said something cranky, something about the sun waking us up-why couldn’t she put drapes across those windows? And she got up without a word and padded to the chest of drawers and pawed through her open handbag until she found an envelope.
It was an El Al folder with a ticket inside. The flight was scheduled to depart at two o’clock that day, that Sunday.
“I bought it early in the week. I knew you’d be ready by today.”
“You know me too well, Nikki.”
“I know it’s possible to manage to live without the people you can’t live without.” She pressed the ticket into my hand. “I know how it is, Harry. I understand.”
“Do you? Well, maybe you do-I guess I’m not the only idiotic fool you’ve ever met.”
“Oh Harry …” And I stopped her with a kiss and we made a frantic kind of love and sometime afterward she said, “You’ll miss your plane-you’d better hurry.”