When he reached the two-story wooden building where Mr. Schmidt lived, Ernest ducked his head under the low entryway and went to the old man’s cot. The room, filled with about fifty refugees, was cold and dim without a kerosene lamp, noisy with groans and murmurs. In the corner, behind a curtain, a woman was shrieking in labor, some voices asking her to push. Near the curtain, a boy in a tattered shirt recited in a halting voice some verses in Hebrew. Ernest had an impulse to pat the boy’s shoulder and tell him to save his energy.
“Mr. Schmidt, do you feel like eating some sweet potatoes today?” Ernest took a good look at the old man. He stank with vomit, and by the light through the doorway, his skin looked yellow like rinsed potatoes.
“Ernest? Oh, Ernest. It’s good to see you. I feel like crap.” His voice was a wisp.
“What happened to your face?” It had two deep cuts.
“I think a rat bit me. It got a bad deal biting my old bones.”
Ernest put his hand on the old man’s forehead. It was burning hot. “You need to go to the hospital.” He would need Goya’s permission. There was a hospital outside the area.
“Five went there yesterday and died there. Why bother? I’d rather stay here.”
Golda sobbed, leaning against him. Ernest placed his arm around her.
“Well now, at least you two are getting married. Isn’t that marvelous?” Mr. Schmidt said, coughing.
Ernest glanced at Golda and stood. “You’ll feel better, Mr. Schmidt. I’ll check on you again. I’ll take you to the hospital, if you change your mind. Let me know.” Then he took Golda’s hand and walked toward the door. “We need to take him to the General Hospital. I’ll go see Goya.”
She stopped him. “I want you to marry me, Ernest. I told him we’re getting married.”
Ernest sighed.
“I’m afraid of getting sick and dying, Ernest, and I don’t want to die a lonely woman. I want to be happy; I want to live some before I die.”
“You won’t die.”
She burst into tears. “Look around this place of filth. When was the last time you had a good meal with soy milk and bread? We have no food, no clean water, no privacy. Everyone is sick with typhoid or dysentery or scarlet fever. We’ve been here for months. When will this end?”
What could he do? Nothing.
“We’ve been through so much, Ernest. I’ve been by your side since you had the bakery. Don’t you . . . at least . . . enjoy my company?”
“I can’t support you.”
“No one is talking about getting rich.”
“But—” He couldn’t say it. At the doorway, some people gathered a pile of rice straws and dried branches to make a fire. A plume of smoke rose, like a slim figure wearing a fitted dress.
“When I escaped from Berlin, I thought life would be better here. But no, I became a baker to survive. Then I met you. I knew I would be happy again. This . . .” She gestured around, sniffing the putrid air filled with coughs and groans. “This is not the life I dreamed of.”
This was not the life he’d dreamed of either. But happiness? It didn’t exist. He gave Golda a pat on her shoulder and made his way out. A sharp cry pierced his ears. A new life had arrived; a wave of happy voices rose. People congratulated one another and clapped their hands, and the boy was reciting, “Love is stronger than death.”
Ernest’s eyes moistened. He had said that line a long time ago. What a surprise to hear this now, in a life of loss, sickness, and sorrows, in a time he doubted the existence of hope and laughter. But it was true—he would always love Leah, his parents, and Miriam, no matter where he was, for as long as he lived.
Golda reached him and threaded her arm through the crook of his, her lips purple in the cold, her eyes pleading. She was losing weight, her plumpness peeling off her like the taro skin. And was that a cough bursting from her throat? A rasp in her chest?
He took her hands—cold and bony—and rubbed them to give her warmth. He had been mired in the dark murk of life for so long, sick of this sickening world for so long. It was tiresome, hollowing, and yet if there was such a thing called love, if there was a way to give happiness, then let him be the one to light the wick of warmth.
He married Golda the next day. For the first time, he entered the shelter for the yeshiva students on Ward Road and listened to the seven blessings he had never heard before. He was calm, transfixed by an inner tree of peace, by the cloud of voices, by the runelike yellow flickers of candles. Because breaking a perfectly good bowl would be a waste, he was given a shard. He stamped on it and heard a chorus of “Mazel tov,” and the ceremony was over.