Mother Night

27: Finders Keepers ...

My research assistants here, lively, keen young people, have provided me with a photostat of a story in the New York Times, telling of the death of Lazlo Szombathy, the man who killed himself with the rope intended for me.

So I didn't dream that, either.

Szombathy did the big trick the night after I was beaten up.

He had come to this country after being a Freedom Fighter against the Russians in Hungary, according to the Times. He was a fratricide, according to the Times, having shot his brother Miklos, Second Minister of Education in Hungary.

Before he gave himself the big sleep, Szombathy wrote a note and pinned it to his trouser leg. There was nothing in the note about his having killed his brother.

His complaint was that he had been a respected veterinarian in Hungary, but that he was not permitted to practice in America. He had bitter things to say about freedom in America. He thought it was illusory.

In a final fandango of paranoia and masochism, Szombathy closed his note with a hint that he knew how to cure cancer. American doctors laughed at him, he said, whenever he tried to tell them how.

So much for Szombathy.

As for the room where I awakened after my beating: it was the cellar that had been furnished for the Iron Guard of the White Sons of the American Constitution by the late August Krapptauer, the cellar of Dr. Lionel J. D. Jones, D.D.S., D.D. Somewhere upstairs a printing press was running, turning out copies of The White Christian Minuteman.

From some other chamber in the cellar, partly soundproofed, came the idiotically monotonous banging of target practice.

After my beating, I had been given first aid by young Dr. Abraham Epstein, the doctor in my building who had pronounced Krapptauer dead. From Epstein's apartment, Resi had called Dr. Jones for help and advice.

'Why Jones?' I said.

'He was the only person in this country I knew I could trust,' said Resi. 'He was the only person I knew for sure was on your side.'

'What is life without friends?' I said.

I have no recollection of it, but Resi tells me that I regained consciousness in Epstein's apartment. Jones picked Resi and me up in his limousine, took me to a hospital, where I was X-rayed. I had three broken ribs taped up. After that I was taken to Jones' cellar and bedded down.

'Why here?' I said.

'It's safe,' said ResL

'From what?' I said.

'The Jews,' she said.

The Black Fuehrer of Harlem, Jones' chauffeur, now came in with a tray of eggs, toast, and scalding coffee. He set it down on a table for me.

'Headache?' he asked me.

'Yes,' I said.

'Take a aspirin,' he said.

'Thank you for the advice,' I said.

'Most things in this world don't work — ' he said, 'but aspirin do.'

'The — the Republic of Israel really wants me — ' I said to Resi in groping disbelief, 'to — to try me for — for what the paper said?'

'Dr. Jones says the American Government won't let you go' said Resi, 'but that the Jews will send men to kidnap you, the way they did Adolf Eichmann.'

'Such a piffling prisoner — ' I murmured.

'Ain't like just having a Jew here and a Jew there after you,' said the Black Fuehrer.

'What?' I said.

'I mean,' he said, 'they got a country now. I mean, they got Jewish battleships, they got Jewish airplanes, they got Jewish tanks. They got Jewish everything out after you but a Jewish hydrogen bomb.'

'Who in God's name is doing that shooting?' I said. 'Can't he stop until my head feels a little better?'

'That's your friend,' said Resi.

'Dr. Jones?' I said.

'George Kraft,' she said.

'Kraft?' I said. 'What's he doing here?'

'He's coming with us,' said Resi.

'To where?' I said.

'It's all been decided,' said Resi. 'Everybody agrees, darling, the best thing is for us to get out of the country. Dr. Jones has made arrangements.'

'What sort of arrangements?' I said.

'He has a friend with an airplane. As soon as you're well enough, darling, we get on the plane, fly to some divine place where you aren't known, and well start life all over again.'