Pictures of Fidelman Read Free

also peddle,” he confessed, “but to peddle you need a license and that the Italians won’t give me. When they caught me peddling I was interned for six months in a work camp.”
    “Didn’t they attempt to deport you?”
    “They did but I sold my mother’s old wedding ring that I kept in my pocket so many years. The Italians are a humane people. They took the money and let me go but they told me not to peddle more.”
    “So what do you do now?”
    “I peddle. What should I do, beg?—I peddle. But last spring I got sick and gave my little money away to the doctors. I still have a bad cough.” He coughed fruitily. “Now I have no capital to buy stock with. Listen, professor, maybe we can go in partnership together? Lend me twenty thousand lire and I will buy ladies’ nylon stockings. After I sell them I will return you your money.”
    “I have no funds to invest, Susskind.”
    “You will get it back, with interest.”
    “I honestly am sorry for you,” Fidelman said, “but why don’t you at least do something practical? Why don’t you go to the Joint Distribution Committee, for instance, and ask them to assist you? That’s their business.”
    “I already told you why. They wish me to go back, I wish to stay here.”
    “I still think going back would be the best thing for you.”
    “No,” cried Susskind angrily.
    “If that’s your decision, freely made, then why pick on me? Am I responsible for you then, Susskind?”
    “Who else?” Susskind loudly replied.
    “Lower your voice, please, people are sleeping around here,” said Fidelman, beginning to perspire. “Why should I be?”
    “You know what responsibility means?”
    “I think so.”
    “Then you are responsible. Because you are a man. Because you are a Jew, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, goddamn it, but I’m not the only one in the whole wide world. Without prejudice, I refuse the obligation. I am a single individual and can’t take on everybody’s personal burden. I have the weight of my own to contend with.”
    He reached for his billfold and plucked out another dollar.
    “This makes five. It’s more than I can afford but
take it and after this please leave me alone. I have made my contribution.”
    Susskind stood there, oddly motionless, an impassioned statue, and for a moment Fidelman wondered if he would stay all night, but at last the refugee thrust forth a stiff arm, took the fifth dollar and departed.
    Early the next morning Fidelman moved out of the hotel into another, less convenient for him, but far away from Shimon Susskind and his endless demands.
    This was Tuesday. On Wednesday, after a busy morning in the library, Fidelman entered a nearby trattoria and ordered a plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce. He was reading his Messaggero, anticipating the coming of the food, for he was unusually hungry, when he sensed a presence at the table. He looked up, expecting the waiter, but beheld instead Susskind standing there, alas, unchanged.
    Is there no escape from him? thought Fidelman, severely vexed. Is this why I came to Rome?
    “Shalom, professor,” Susskind said, keeping his eyes off the table. “I was passing and saw you sitting here alone, so I came in to say shalom.”
    “Susskind,” Fidelman said in anger, “have you been following me again?”
    “How could I follow you?” asked the astonished Susskind. “Do I know where you live now?”
    Though Fidelman blushed a little, he told himself he owed nobody an explanation. So he had found out he had moved—good.

    “My feet are tired. Can I sit five minutes?”
    “Sit.”
    Susskind drew out a chair. The spaghetti arrived steaming hot. Fidelman sprinkled it with cheese and wound his fork into several tender strands. One of the strings of spaghetti seemed to stretch for miles, so he stopped at a certain point and swallowed the forkful. Having foolishly neglected to cut the long string he was left sucking it, seemingly endlessly. This embarrassed him.
    Susskind watched with