The Man Who Knew Brecht

By John C. Boland

Publishers Weekly: "A mix of old-line Commies, red-diaper babies and more recent Russian emigres. . . . Engaging." Tamar Gillespie, a young artist married to a disabled policeman, cares nothing for the political passions that roiled her small Connecticut community fifty years ago. But when the community b

• Language: English
• Publisher: Perfect Crime Books
• Release date: Jul 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088057209

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Other Books by  John C. Boland

NOVELS

Hominid (2011)

Out of Her Depth (2009)

Last Island South (2009)

The Margin (1995)

Death in Jerusalem (1994)

The Seventh Bearer (1993)

Rich Man’s Blood (1993)

Brokered Death (1992)

Easy Money (1991)

SHORT STORIES

30 Years in the Pulps (2009)

NONFICTION

Wall Street’s Insiders (1985)

THE MAN WHO KNEW BRECHT. Copyright © 2012 by John C. Boland. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored by any means without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address [e-mail] Crime Books  is a registered Trademark. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, entities and institutions are products of the Author’s imagination and do not refer to actual persons, entities, or institutions.

_______________

for Mira, Rhoda, David and Amy,

who know the terrain

________________

"What vileness would you not commit . . . ?

Sink into the mud, embrace the butcher,

 but change the world. It needs it."

Bertolt Brecht

"When the accursed inner voice speaks to you,

hold your hands over your ears . . ."

Comrade Ivanov

________________

1

Harry Abramovitz was shaking a fist at her. He was a small man in tight-cinched trousers and a voluminous tan jacket, but he had large hands, laborer’s hands he liked to boast, and the fist at the end of the frail arm was a trembling brown knob. His face was red. His white beard stabbed the air.

What kind of Jew are you, he demanded, "to turn your back on your people?’’

Tamar Gillespie winced. Harry—

"What kind! You’ve got no compassion!’’

Feeling a tickle of guilt, Tamar glanced along the table. She should have known better than to join this board. They were the official governing body of the Lake Rehoboth Community, and they dealt with every headache from new water lines to the few parcels of community-owned real estate. From speed bumps to beach parties. From dead trees to septic systems. Nothing ever  got discussed calmly. How two hundred families could generate so much conflict was beyond her comprehension. This morning, only four members of the board had turned out for the monthly meeting. Three no-shows had sent unconvincing regrets. She could have played hooky herself, should  have done. She needed to be working. She had made her living as an artist for eleven years. For the last two of those years bills had rolled in faster than her brush moved. For at least the third time in her six months on the board, Tamar thought of resigning. Let Harry Abramovitz take over.

Ike Shapira, the board’s acting chair, wore a placating smile. "Harry, I don’t think it’s a question of compassion. . . .’’

Harry Abramovitz shook his head. "We own the little house. It’s empty. The Kargmans need a safe place to live. In Russia they were persecuted. In Brooklyn they’re persecuted. Have we forgotten persecution? Let’s take a vote. I’m getting hungry.’’

The other members of the board also were getting hungry, or needed a trip to the bathroom, or just wanted fresh air. It was ten forty-five by the hall’s clock. If the meeting broke up soon, Tamar thought, she could get in an hour’s work before having to fix lunch. Then two more hours at the easel after lunch. The day wouldn’t be a total write-off. If she could finish the commission she was working on, if the client paid on time, she could just about get through to November.

Mel Foxman, who sat next to Tamar, hadn’t said much. He was the lake’s only real estate agent, moderately overweight but neatly dressed in a gray business suit that suggested he had appointments later today. He was effortlessly charming when meeting prospective house buyers, subtle in the pressure he applied. He had poured on the sweetness for Tamar when she and Dan had moved to Connecticut.

What are we voting on?’’ Mel asked. That we just turn the property over to strangers as a gift?’’

Tamar cringed.

That’s right,’’ Harry said, a gift. A gift . He settled back, thin shoulders lost in the big jacket. He dug a pipe from an inside pocket, knocked it on the table. What’s the matter, Foxy? You’ll die from losing a commission on one little house?’’

Mel shook his head.

Maybe we should postpone a decision,’’ Ike Shapira said. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to the other board members."

Harry spoke sarcastically. "Let the Kargmans dodge a pogrom for another month.’’

A pogrom in Brooklyn? Mel said in mock astonishment. For that matter, Russia’s been pretty quiet.

Things are bad in Russia, Harry said.

But why this particular bunch of immigrants, Harry?

We do what we can.

Tamar didn’t want to side with Harry, but Mel’s casual dismissal of the old man’s concern made her uneasy. There hadn’t been attacks on Jews in Russia, but if life got bad enough, Jews would be handy scapegoats. Tamar hadn’t turned her back on anything, certainly not on the history of Europe. She felt her resistance melting. She didn’t want to be part of another generation that stood by, rationalizing, temporizing, evading, while distant cousins and never-heard-of aunts and uncles perished.

At that moment, there was a lull.

Tamar spoke quietly. "If you want to vote, Harry, I’ll support a one-year lease at a dollar. If the Kargman family fits in, we can revisit the question next year.’’

Harry opened his mouth. His face was red from shouting at her and Mel, and the tendons stood out in his neck. The white beard trembled while he gathered his breath. She knew what he was going to say. He was going to accuse her of half measures. Of being gutless. Of selling out somebody, somewhere, for something. Harry’s eyes darted to the other members. Then he settled back in his chair.

"A lease couldn’t hurt,’’ Harry Abramovitz said.

Ike Shapira smiled at her. Mel Foxman looked at the ceiling.

It’s not what we should do, in my opinion,’’ Harry went on, almost humble, but it isn’t too bad. The Kargmans won’t be murdered this winter. They will be thankful.’’

"So we’ll vote on it,’’ Ike suggested.

"Sure. Let’s get Lake Rehoboth’s generosity on the record.’’ Harry stood up, walked around the room. He made a show of being dissatisfied, turning his back on the table, staring reflectively at the wall of photographs from the community’s early days. He was only pretending, Tamar knew. He had gotten what he wanted. All right, she thought, we’re doing our bit. Otherwise the house would sit vacant all winter. Bad news for the squirrels who might inhabit the attic was good news for the family Kargman, whoever they were.

Outside the community hall, Harry put himself between Tamar and the path. "You did the right thing,’’ he said warmly.

"Do you really think so?’’

"Why wouldn’t I?’’

I’ve agreed to bring in a family that intends to be freeloaders, Tamar said.

Harry’s face darkened. "They’re not freeloaders! Leo Kargman comes well spoken for. The Refugee Council checked him out. He worked hard in Russia. He’ll work hard here.’’

He just won’t support himself.’’ Before he could respond, Tamar raised a conciliatory hand. You’ve got the house. Don’t bother trying to recruit me.’’

As she stepped past him, Harry erupted. "If your grandfather were alive, he would be ashamed of you. Gus had a generous heart.’’

Walking home she thought about possible responses to that. Her mother’s father, Gus Lerner, had indeed been generous. Tamar had loved the old man dearly. She had cried her heart out when she was fourteen and his death brought her first brutal encounter with life’s impermanence. But the sepia image in her memory of her loving zaydeh  had lost some of its sweetness. Grandpa Lerner hadn’t been at all generous toward people he saw as political enemies. From his boyhood, what he called progressive politics had filled his life. How generous could a man have been who saw people in the shape of causes?

She was cold. The last week of September, summer gone, the low Connecticut hills were hiding from the sun. But she loved it here in the autumn, and loved it more as winter closed in and the summer people retreated to their apartments in New York and Florida. Then the shouting died. The four hills and the lake belonged to her and the handful of other year-round residents. Then she thought she had found the serenity she wanted, or at least as much of it as she was going to have.

As the ground rose, she could see past the roofs of waterfront homes, through screens of hemlock and birch, through patches of mountain laurel, to the horseshoe-shaped lake. No motorboats were permitted and mercifully no jet skis, so the lake was usually calm. Sand beaches had been constructed at two spots along the shore. The west beach had a pavilion for bridge players in warm weather  and two permanently stationed port-a-pots. The east beach, which drew more of the Orthodox families, had a roped off wading area for toddlers.

As Tamar climbed, she walked carefully. Two days of rain had knocked leaves onto the road. When she was eleven years old, bicycling down Alan Road, she had skidded on wet leaves. Waking up a day later in a hospital, she’d had a severe concussion and a shattered arm. It was one of those comic interventions by fate, which she both despised and wondered at. The therapy for the broken arm had included exercises in drawing. She turned out to be very good at representing in pencil anything she saw. Later she found she had similar skill with a brush, plus a sense of drama that brought her images alive. She had literally fallen into her life’s work.

Which she had precious little time to pursue this morning.

A car horn sounded, and she stepped automatically into the weeds on the shoulder. The car’s engine slowed, and a bright red fender crept into view alongside her. Bobby Silver, the director of the Lake Rehoboth Theater, peered from under the fabric roof.

"Hey, Tam. Got time to help me this weekend?’’

She welcomed a friendly face, even one attached to someone who wanted something. His demands were uncomplicated: swing that brush, hammer that nail. All in the worthy cause of elevating the cultural pulse of the community and any surrounding towns, if anybody in them cared about Jewish theater. There were photos in the community hall of an early production featuring the great Luther Adler himself. She had almost said Luther who? when Bobby pointed to the photographs.

She leaned toward the car so she could see him better. His face was narrow and dark, the cheeks pitted, the chin rather small, but it was a likeable face. He gave more of his time than he could afford to the lake’s community life, without seeming to expect comparable return for his efforts.

"You like cheap labor,’’ she said.

"I love  cheap labor. I exploit it shamelessly. Are you available Sunday?’’

For a couple of hours.’’ She folded her arms, and immediately wondered why she had done so. She didn’t need to protect herself against Bobby. Afternoon’s better.’’

"Good. Two p.m. Dress dirty, kid.’’ He drove off, and she picked up the pace, even though the climb was steep, and was breathing heavily when she reached her house.

2

The cottage was a good place for an artist. She had clear northern light in her studio and fireplaces in two rooms. Everything she could want. Everything Dan had wanted. He was sitting in the dimness of the screened porch. She raised an arm and waved, but the figure on the porch didn’t respond. Her heart sank. When he was angry, he often didn’t respond for hours.

She called out a prolonged "Hi-i,’’ but there was no answer. She climbed to the porch.

"Dan?’’

He turned his head slowly, the square face soft above the heavy plaid jacket, and she saw deep in his eyes the struggle as her husband tried to climb out of the black empty place where he spent much of his time. Gradually his eyes focused on her. Watching him come back into the human shell was like watching a balloon being filled, with less pressure each time.

"Did you have breakfast?’’

He looked puzzled. He couldn’t remember. He tried to pretend, nodding vigorously. "I’m not hungry.’’

"Good.’’ She could see into the kitchen now. The bowl of dry cereal remained on the table, where she had left it, beside a peeled orange on a paper towel.

"Was it a good meeting?’’ he asked.

She looked around in surprise. "Yes. Well, lively.’’

"Meet any good-looking guys?’’

So that was why he had remembered where she had gone. He was capable of fear. She answered casually. "None to compare. Unless you count Mel Foxman.’’

"Who’s Mel Foxman?’’

"He sold us the house, remember? Fat? Greasy?’’ Hands that managed twice to brush her bottom.

"Well, if you like the type,’’ Dan said, wearing a shy smile, and for the first time in weeks Tamar loved him as she had the evening she had first seen that smile. The love was guiltless and intense for all of a second, then the familiar sense of despair poured back into her. There was no turning back. He held the smile, but he had forgotten what amused him. She kissed his cheek, thinking, That’s real good, Dan, a chuckle every few weeks. She couldn’t help it, she told herself. It was so much easier to resent him than to grieve for him.

I’m starved, she said. "How about an early lunch?’’

"I could if you force me,’’ he said.

He turned the chair so he could watch her work in the kitchen. She wondered if he was dimly aware, as she poured cereal back into its box, that he had forgotten to eat breakfast. He was too much aware, some of the time, of what was happening to him. The awareness made them both wretched.

The phone rang at eleven-thirty. Her mother was going into town, and she could stop by if Tamar needed help. It was no trouble at all. Except that her mother was sixty-eight, not one to trust doctors, and believed that what Dan needed was fervent cajoling.

No need,’’ Tamar said. We’re fine. Dan told a joke.’’

"A joke! I knew he was getting better. That’s just wonderful, dear. Do you mind if I tell Uncle Bernie?’’

Shout it from the rooftops, Tamar thought. "No, I don’t mind,’’ she said.

She made lunch, tuna salad and iced tea, and felt a nervous flicker of gratitude that her husband didn’t need help feeding himself. After lunch, she pushed his chair to a midpoint where he could see both the TV and her large studio easel, and prayed that she would have her two hours. Her project was a beautiful Pomeranian, owned by the woman who had starred in that spring’s biggest-grossing disaster movie. Pinned to a board to the left of her easel were two large photographs of a haughtily posed Lord Pommy, and referring to them she had already completed a detailed grisaille underpainting of the animal. If she slipped drier into the glazes, she could have the job finished in a week.

She became absorbed in the work. Everything vanished from her awareness but the problems at hand, how much blue to use to dull the shadows, how far to bring up the light areas, and whether it was all holding together or somewhere along the way she had lost the life in the subject. She was cleaning a brush at two-thirty, more or less satisfied with her progress, when the braying of the television caused her to look around.

Dan was tilted left in the chair, arms drooping past the wheels. Tamar walked into the living room and folded his hands onto his lap. He snored lightly. She wondered what dreams followed him down into his darkness. She hoped they were happy, forgetful ones.

She gave herself another hour with the Pomeranian. Four more jobs were lined up, all for friends of the same Broadway doyenne, all promising large checks for work that demanded a quarter of her skill. So the bank account was being rebuilt. The insurance premiums were paid. Through no effort on her part, Dan’s pension and benefits were secure. The bridge was raised, the moat filled. All was well.

At six-thirty, she helped Dan into the Land Rover and drove a half circle of the lake. Near the dam she pulled off the road. Pointing across the water, she explained aloud how the not-quite dusky light defined the land, how the backlit hemlocks weren’t quite in silhouette, you would want some Prussian blue in their boughs, and did he see how the limbs’ shapes were repeated in the water? You would paint suggestively, avoiding prettiness and sentiment. It would be a rather dark painting.

But honest, she said.

Dan stared at the lake, saying nothing, and after a while she slipped the vehicle into gear and drove back to the house.

3

Bobby Silver was drenched in sweat, exhausted but happy. The theater, which he had hammered and coaxed back to life, would draw people from as far away as Manhattan this year. The Adler Series had gotten decent critical attention last season. Fyvush Finkel had appeared in a new comedy. It wasn’t old Yiddish theater, Bobby liked to tell himself, but modern Jewish theater that remembered its heritage. Raising money, he promised reluctant patrons he wouldn’t be mounting Yiddle Mitten Fiddle  but planned to tap the rich pool of young Jewish performers and writers in the New York area. So he had come away with a thousand dollars here, five hundred there, and even a