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PARTISAN REVIEW
withered yellow chrysanthemums lay on the stone tablets of other
graves, dropped stealthily, Fidelman imagined, on All Souls' Day–
a festival in another part of the cemetery-by renegade sons and
daughters unable to bear the sight of their dead bereft of flowen
while the crypts of the goyim were lit and in bloom. Many were
burial places, he read on the stained stones, of those who, for one
reason or another, had died in the late large war, including an empty
place, it said under a six-pointed star engraved upon a marble
slab
that lay on the ground, for "My beloved father/ Betrayed by
the
damned Fascists/ Murdered at Auschwitz by the barbarous
Na:.m/
o
Crime Orribile."
But no Susskind.
Three months had gone by since Fidelman's arrival in Rome.
Should he, he many times asked himself, leave the city and
this
foolish search? Why not off to Florence, and there, amid the
art
splendors of the world, be inspired to resume his work? But the
los
of his first chapter was like a spell cast over him. There were
tim~
he scorned it as a man-made thing, like all such, replaceable; other
times he feared it was not the chapter per se, but that
his
volatile
curiosity had become somehow entangled with Susskind's strange
per–
sonality- Had he repaid generosity by stealing a man's life work?
Was he so distorted? To satisfy himself, to know man, Fidelman had
to know, though at what a cost in precious time and effort. Some–
times he smiled wryly at all this; ridiculous, the chapter grieved
him
for itself only-the precious thing he had created then lost-espe–
cially when he got to thinking of the long diligent labor, how pain–
stakingly he had built each idea, how cleverly mastered problems
of
order, form, how impressive the finished product, Giotto reborn! It
broke the heart. What else, if after months he was here, still seeking?
And Fidelman was unchangingly convinced that Susskind had
taken it, or why would he still be hiding? He sighed much and
gained weight. Mulling over
his
frustrated career, on the backs of
envelopes containing unanswered letters from
his
sister Bessie he
aim–
lessly sketched little angels flying. Once, studying his minuscule draw–
ings, it occurred to him that he might someday return to painting,
but the thought was more painful than Fidelman could bear.
One bright morning in mid-December, after a good night's
sleep, his first in weeks, he vowed he would have another look at the
Navicella and then be off to Florence. Shortly before noon he
visited
