A Wonderful Time
Lavie Tidhar
In another time and place, Shomer stands with his back to the wall of the ghetto. He turns the precious postcard over and over in his hands. “Having a wonderful time,” it says, and nothing more—nor can it, for even the mere arrival of this missive from the outside is a miracle. It is signed Betsheba, and hidden in its bland exterior—a picture of the Niagara Falls, in distant America beyond the seas—is a world of meaning. For she has made it, Fanya’s sister, she has escaped the war in Europe and the murder of the Jews and she is in America, she is safe, she’s free. And Shomer marvels: how a small rectangle of paper can offer so much hope. He will take it home and show his wife, and they will celebrate. For himself he has no more concern: if only he could get out Fanya and the children… But the ghetto is encircled by the German soldiers, and more and more the trains come to the Umschlagplatz: they depart laden with Jews and they return empty. And more and more they come. And Shomer hides the postcard on his person, and he measures out his steps like a prisoner in the prison yard. For he does not yet know how much time they have left. Only his mind is free, and in his mind, as always, he constructs a story, a cheap and nasty tale of shund or pulp. For only in his fantasy can he escape this time and place. * * *
The postcard said, “Having a wonderful time.” I turned it over and over in my hands. It was addressed to me in a girlish hand. The address read, “Herr Wolf, Detektiv. Above the Jew baker shop, Berwick Street, London.”
It was dated 15 March, 1938. It was a month out of date.
“You don’t look much like a detective,” the policeman said. His partner sniggered. I could smell fresh bread from the bakery downstairs, and
Kaiserschmarrn mit apfelkompott, a Bavarian specialty—it is like a rich torn pancake served with applesauce. It made my stomach rumble. I have always loved sweet things.
I swept my hand across the bare office. “I have a desk and two chairs, one for visitors, a hat stand and a typewriter–” I said, then gave up. The typewriter was out of ink, anyway, and only my hat hung on the hat stand. It was a nice hat. A fedora. It was a little beat-up by life, just as I was. But it was still hanging.
. . .
