There's Something I Want You to Do

Going through the cloud cover, the plane bounced and rattled. A few passengers laughed nervously. One overhead compartment popped open. A little girl screamed. The captain announced that there would be no beverage service, for now: too much turbulence.

“Bumpy flight,” Harry Albert said.

“Unhrh,” 32-A replied.

Well, he wouldn’t bother to introduce himself to a man whose only conversational gambit consisted of nonverbal animal-like rumbling. Trying to doze, Harry heard 32-A making more peculiar sounds, like a dog having a nightmare. It would be impossible to doze off with this guy growling next to him. Feeling despondent, Harry reached for his paperback copy of Schindler’s List, which someone had recommended.

32-A glanced over and grunted again. Finally he spoke up. “I was one of those.” He had traces of a middle European accent, nearly gone, mostly dead but still living, a ghoul-accent.

“One of what?” Harry asked.

“I was a Schindler Jew,” 32-A said.

Harry Albert felt a slight electrical shock. “I’m honored to meet you, sir,” he said. He held out his hand and introduced himself to the man, who replied with his own name, “David Lowie.” Or at least it sounded like Lowie. Harry didn’t think it would be polite to ask 32-A (or, no: a person shouldn’t think of a Holocaust survivor as 32-A) to repeat his name, so he refrained. Nor could he address his seatmate as David, presuming on an intimacy that did not exist. Mr. Lowie? Well, for the duration of an airplane flight, who needs names? Anonymity was the rule.

Apparently his seatmate didn’t think so. “Harry Albert?” the man asked. “What’s your last name?”

“It’s Albert.”

“Rrrgggr,” the man replied dismissively. “That’s an English name. But it sounds like a first name. Ha ha ha rrrgh.” He coughed into a stickily soiled handkerchief, crusted with dried extrusions.

“Yes,” Harry said, as the plane bounced around. A woman one row in front of him, on the other side of the aisle, was anxiously reading while holding her husband’s hand. Okay: it was a turbulent flight but not life-threatening. “Could I ask you,” Harry said, turning to his seatmate, “what Schindler was like? Did you ever talk to him?”

“Talk

to him? What a question. No! Never. Don’t be nuts. You didn’t even look at him.”

“You didn’t look at him?”

“Of course not. I kept my head down. I could hardly tell you what he looked like. You didn’t look at any of the Germans. If you were smart.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? I see you don’t— Well, because. It’s, um. Because obviously. Because you didn’t look at them, Schindler included. Not any of them. You know, I was going to be in that movie. Spielberg, that fellow, not a tall man, flew me to the grave site. In Jerusalem! With the camera set up, shooting, take one take two, I put a stone on the grave, me. Filmed. Lights, camera, action.”

“Were you—?”

“I got a good dry-cleaning business in Milwaukee,” the man said. “Several stores. Successful! A new one out in Brookfield, maybe one in Waukesha. We’re looking into it. My life doesn’t depend on being in a Hollywood film. I got left on the floor.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I got left on the floor. What’s the matter? This phrase, you never heard it? When they cut you out?”

“Oh,” Harry said, “the cutting-room floor. You got left on the cutting-room floor.”

“This is what I said.”

“No, you said you got left on the floor. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what floor you were talking about.”

“What’d you think I was talking about? The second floor, lingerie, where you buy ladies’ undergarments? This is— Well, you’re a kid, no wonder you don’t know anything. So. I went over there, a nice hotel, free food, the Holy Land, Jerusalem, he shoots me, I am directed, but where am I in the film? Nowhere. Not that I mind.”

“I’m sorry. You should have been in it.”

“You’re telling me. They flew me to Jerusalem. Coddled, there and back. A seat in first class both ways. So tell me. They don’t want me in their film. What’s wrong with me? My appearance? Anything? No. I don’t think so.”

Harry looked more carefully at his seatmate’s face, which was of a formidable ugliness. Of course, ugliness was no one’s fault despite what Oscar Wilde had said about the matter. Lowie’s elderly expression was one of sour, downturned-mouth disgust mixed with a very precise rudeness. However, he was a survivor, so hats off.

“You see anything wrong with my face?” The man was persistent.

“Not a thing,” Harry Albert said. “Clearly they made a mistake, leaving me on the floor. I mean you. Not me. You. Slip of the tongue.”