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I was doing perhaps the finest editoria work of my life - assisting Lukas
Yoder in fashioning hi best novel, The ~hunning - I was suffering
miserably wit Benno. Dispirited and no longer trying to convert his notes
many of them brilliant in the judgment of experts who sa them, into a
coherent narrative, he was not getting out o bed till one in the
afternoon, at which time he dran heavily, but not quite to the point of
drunkenness. in th late afternoons, having read the Times and done the
cross word, he listened to Brahms and Chopin, alternating thos
,masters with a set of records he especially liked, 'the best of Aida, Don
Carlos and Wagner's Ring, and as the familia arias soared through the
apartment, he sometimes felt a glow of euphoria that masked the dismay he
felt at being unable to convert into words the majestic ideas that filled
his brain. Once he cried: 'They had the same problem. To put into
musical notes the glorious sounds they heard in their heads. How did they
do it?' And then came the terrifying question: 'V~hy can't I do it?'
He was aware of the perilous condition he had fallen into because of his
dependence on me, and one morning, )vhile I was getting our breakfast, he
surprised me by confessing
as he shivered in his bathrobe: 'I had a horrible dream. Lost
my temper. Went wild. Shouted accusations. And threat- ened
you, even though I knew, as I was doing it, that I could not survive
without you. I know how important you are to me, darling, and I'll do
nothing to endanger that.' I was so deeply moved by these words, which
described our situation so accurately, that I lingered over breakfast,
chat- ting with him about our life together and assuring him that I
needed him just as much as he needed me. That morning I went to work
late, and when I returned in the evening and was preparing our supper, he
resumed the conversation in a voice that almost trembled: 'Shirley,
we've been on dangerous ground. And I swore an oath this afternoon. I
repeat it now: "I will never, on pain of death, do anything to endanger my
love for you. if I lose you, all that remains is nothingness ... the dark
night. . .' He took my hands and kissed them, and I was so elated
that he had foreseen the dangers that I actually sang as I cut string
beans for the cheese dish he was helping me make. Then I inadvertently
destroyed the mood by saying: 'I do believe Yoder has leaped over his last
hurdle. This time he's got a winner, I'm sure.' I heard Benno gasp.
Unable to stand the oppressive name that haunted our relationship, he
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screamed: 'Don't ever mention that goddamned Dutchman again,' and he
lunged at me, obviously intending to hit me in the face. When his
shaky fist came within inches of my cheekbone, I grabbed the long knife I
had been using and thrust it toward the middle of his throat. Had he
lunged one step closer, he would have impaled himself. We both realized
this, and stared at each other in terror. Each dropped the weapon -
Benno his fist, I my knife -and that night as shadows darkened in the
uniffurninated apartment we whispered haltingly to each other about our
lives and about the intense love we felt for each other. Toward midnight
he asked: 'Would you feel safer, darling, if we married?' Before I
172 could answer he explained: 'I can provide for you, becaus I
have more than enough investments. You wouldn't hav to work., 'I want
to,' I said without hesitating. 'I love seeing book come to life.'
'So do 1. But I can't seem to do anything about it.' 'I'll do the
creative work for both of us.' 'You don't insist on marriage?' 'At
age thirty-one, no. At age thirty-seven, when I migh fear it was all
slipping away, maybe. And at forty, when 1 has slipped away, Yes! Yes!' I
shouted these words ano kissed him vigorously. Then I said: 'But let's not
drown th, moment in sentimental tears. Benno, if you had struck m,
tonight I would have killed you. in my family, honor is all My father
would never have escaped from Nazi German,, had he lacked the courage to
sacrifice his life like that - , snapped my fingers - 'in defense of what
he perceived a, his basic human dignity.' When he made no reply I
said almost coldly: 'Get you. life in order. I love you and want to remain
with you.' The unprecedented harshness of my implied threat was i
measure of the fear and confusion I felt over the fact tha Benno had come
dose to striking me in the face with i clenched fist. This was so outside
my experience that I ha( no way of assessing its significance, but I
remembered hom Uncle Judah had once condemned husbands who beat theii
wives:.'No Jewish man ever strikes a woman. Unthinkable We hear of
Irishmen who do it now and then when drunk. Well, he was wro . ng. Benno
Rattner came within a hair o! slugging Shirley Marmelstein, and the latter
was terrified b) the thought. Why didn't I walk out that night,
especially since I wasn'i
married to him? I cannot explain, except that I loved hirn
and that when he smiled that smile at me I simply melted. And my threat
worked, for when he realized that I might 173
one day just leave, he no longer menaced me, but thi
restraint seemed merely to direct his aggressions into other channels.
Within a few days he was involved in another imbroglio and again it was he
who initiated it. Kinetic's young editor Jeppson, who felt so strongly
about Vietnam, had w itten a letter to The New York Times bewailing the
lack of att ntion and justice the veterans of that war were suffering,
and Benno found his statement so objectionable that he sent off a
blistering retort, charging Jeppson and most other veterans of Vietnam
with being crybabies and self-appointed critics of the military who were
perilously close to committing treason: Throughout history real
men have gone to war. Most of them probably wanted to remain home, but
they went. To defend the things they held worthy. They took their
lumps grinning. if they made it back they considered the war the greatest
adventure of their lives and knew they were the better for it. The way
the Vietnam veterans cry the blues makes me sick. And I'll bet the
rest of the nation reacts the same way. He signed the letter with his
full name, adding: A REAL VIETNAM VETERAN, and proud of it. When the
girls at the office showed me what he had done, I was outraged and could
hardly wait till I returned home to berate him: 'You thoughtless clod.
Jeppson offered to help you. Later he did help me when I was in a tight
spot. And you ridicule him. Benno, he's just as much of a man as you are,
and don't you forget it.' Doubling his fist, he sprang at me, but I
sidestepped and he banged into the wall. I said quietly: 'We agreed
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there'd be no more of that,' and he blandly excused himself: 'Forgive
me, I've been drinking.' 174 At his mention of this
unfortunate word, which symbo ized so much of his problem, a flush of [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]