Passover in New Orleans

Several months later, I found myself called into the tent of the major himself, on an evening when a rumour had spread that the brigadier-general was visiting our camp. I was certain that I was going to be told that I was to receive a promotion. And when I entered the tent on that cold spring evening and saw the major, the colonel and the brigadier-general himself seated at a table before me, each with a pipe in his mouth, I felt even more certain. I could hardly stifle a smile as I greeted them and waited for the major to address me, as the brigadier-general blew a ring of smoke in the air. But it was the brigadier-general who spoke.

'Sergeant Mendoza has reported to us that you have relations in New Orleans,' he said, resting his pipe in a wooden holder on the table between us. 'Specifically, a Mr and Mrs Henry Hyams. Is that correct, Rappaport?'

I paused to breathe, tasting the smoke of his pipe. 'Yes, sir. Mrs Hyams is my mother's first cousin, sir,' I replied, both disappointed and baffled. It seemed unlikely that an announcement of a promotion would commence with a review of my family tree. And then I tried to suppress a shudder. I was only seventeen years old and my immediate thought was that my mother had somehow written to her cousins to have me sent back home.

The major noticed my trembling and smiled. 'At ease,' he said, taking up his pipe again.

I put a foot to one side and folded my hands behind my back, but I felt even more uneasy than I had felt before. My stomach shivered as he continued.

'You are hardly the only Union soldier to have family relations south of the Mason-Dixon line, Rappaport,' the brigadier-general said, as if reciting from a book. 'We wondered what your opinion might be of this Henry Hyams.'

It occurred to me then that perhaps this was a promotion after all, simply preceded by a test that I needed to pass. The illogic of this idea—that a visiting officer would ask me these questions in order to promote me, or that such an examination would require a special visit to the officers' tent at such an odd time of day, or that these questions were in any way pertinent to my future in the company—did not occur to my supremely arrogant adolescent mind. I didn't even think of Henry; the man himself was irrelevant. Instead I grinned and smartly answered, 'Henry Hyams is a slave owner and a Rebel, sir, and therefore deserving of every disdain.'

The three officers smiled. At seventeen, I could not yet tell the difference on strangers' faces between admiration and condescension, and I did not yet know that I ought always to expect the latter. I suppressed a smile of my own, certain that I had triumphed.

Another puff of smoke. 'What does he do, this Hyams of yours?'

I winced at the 'of yours'. And then I felt a memory, the sort that one senses physically in the body instead of envisioning in the mind. At that moment my body was a small boy's, and strong hands were reaching down to lift me up. I felt the grip of those hands in my armpits right at that moment, and the breeze at the nape of my neck as those hands hoisted me high in the air. I pushed the memory aside. 'I haven't seen him in years, sir,' I answered, still hoping to pass the test. 'My father's shipping company worked with him on occasion. He was a cotton dealer out of New Orleans.'

The brigadier-general chewed on his pipe as the three of them eyed me from what now seemed like a judges' bench. When he spoke again, his voice was slow and deliberate, enunciating each word. 'It seems that his professional aspirations have changed since you and he were last in contact,' he said, with a slight smirk. I was disturbed to notice that the two other officers smirked along with him. I began to suspect that this wasn't about a promotion at all. With deliberate, slow movements, the brigadier-general placed the pipe back in the holder, letting the smoke weave itself into a smooth veil before my eyes. Then he looked back at me and said, 'Henry Hyams is a Confederate spy.'

He might as well have told me that Henry Hyams was the emperor of Japan. 'A spy, sir?' It couldn't possibly be true. Was this another test? But no, the test was about to come.

'A very highly placed one, in fact,' the brigadier-general said, and tapped a finger on the table. 'With ties to Judah Benjamin.'

'What—what ties, sir?' I asked, barely able to choke out the words. The name itself had nauseated me: Judah P. Benjamin, the first Jew to serve in the United States Senate, and now the first Jewish cabinet member in history—but one who had chosen to devote his talents to, of all countries on earth, the Confederacy, where he served passionately as the Secretary of State and was the closest confidant of Jefferson Davis himself. Every Hebrew in the Union blanched at his name. As for me, I nearly vomited.

'It seems that Benjamin is his first cousin. But not yours, apparently, your being related through the wife, of course. We're quite pleased about that.' He smiled again.

For the rest of my life, I will be ashamed to remember that I smiled back. I mark that smile, now, as the beginning of the end, my first relinquishment of my own will, the moment when I began to succumb.

'Hyams has been in and out of the border states in the past few months,' the brigadier-general continued. 'As you know, he used to do frequent business in the North, before the war, and has many contacts there.' He paused, looked at me. Was it a reference to my parents? I couldn't help but look down, dodging his eye. 'He's also slipped over the border itself many times, and now we have managed to intercept his communications with Richmond. There is a dire plot afoot.' He paused, waiting for me, which I resented.

'What sort of plot, sir?' I asked, though I did not want to know.

'An assassination plot. Against President Lincoln.'

Lincoln?

'That's—that's not possible, sir,' I stammered.

'Why?' the major asked.

I saw that he and the others were genuinely interested, certain, it seemed, that I had something to say to them that they didn't already know. I wished I did. 'Mr Henry Hyams is—he's not that sort of man, sir,' I said. But even as I said the words, I knew they were irrelevant. It was impossible, I knew, but not because Henry wouldn't do it. It was impossible because no one would do it.

'We could show you rather convincing evidence to the contrary,' the major said. 'I hope that will not be necessary.'

'But—but it's impossible,' I insisted. I began babbling about the strength of the Union, the chivalry of the Confederate forces, the respect for the rule of law even in the South. It was impossible, I concluded, because he was Lincoln, because this was America, North or South, because no one had ever assassinated a president, because no one would ever dare.

'That is precisely what we propose that you ensure,' said the brigadier-general, still smiling, 'by assassinating Henry Hyams before the plot can progress.'

Surely this was some sort of mistake. The three men watched me, grinning. The blood in my body began draining into my shoes.

'Are—are you suggesting that I kill my cousin, sir,' I said slowly. It wasn't a question, of course. The three of them continued grinning at me. Perhaps it was still a test, I then thought. Perhaps I was being tested by God.

'Your actions would do honour to your race,' the major said.

I stared at him. My race?

'Do—do you mean my country, sir,' I stammered, this time trying to make it sound like a question, but without succeeding. I had not yet recovered from his proposition. I will be a murderer, I thought to myself, I will be my own cousin's murderer. I was theoretically aware, of course, that simply enlisting in the army had automatically enrolled me as a potential murderer—a role which the insufferable seventeen-year-old boy I was had been thrilled to embrace. But this was different. I wasn't merely cannon fodder; I was a bullet. And they were planning to fire me at will. At Henry Hyams. In my memory those hands held me under the armpits again, but now my body would not move.

'Both your country and your race, of course,' the brigadier-general said brightly, warming to his theme. 'Judah Benjamin and his kin have done your race a great disservice. Every Hebrew in the Union will reward you if you undo what he has done.'

The three officers looked me in the eye and, under their gaze, I realized what they saw. While I looked in the mirror and saw Jacob Rappaport, a tall, blond, seventeen-year-old American boy, the three men at this table looked at me and saw Judah Benjamin. And I suddenly knew that I would do anything not to be him.

The three of them continued speaking, their words buzzing through my brain in a blur. As I listened, numbed, to the cadences of their voices, it was like that evening years later, when I stood on stage before the hypnotist and played the violin. I smiled again. And then I felt, like the tug of sleep, the ebbing of my own will.

'It is dearly hoped that this is not a death mission for you.'

'Though if it should prove to be so, we are confident that you would not refuse the call of duty.'

'It is essential that it appear accidental.'

'Shooting is no good.'

'No one should discover that it was you.'

'You shall be pleased to know that a plan has been devised.'

'A dose of poison would be placed in his drink.'

'Subtlety is essential.'

'We would provide the lye.'

'If you were to be captured, you might consider using the lye yourself.'

'You would never consider disgracing yourself by returning without success.'

'If you succeed, the entire Union will immortalize you.'

'Lincoln himself shall thank you, on behalf of your entire race.'

'We know you are no Judas Benjamin.'

'Imagine yourself written up in the history books.'

'You would be another Hebrew spy, like in Scripture.'

'Cunning.'

'Inscrutable.'

'But don't bring us grapes. We prefer corpses.'

'It is essential that it appear accidental.'

'Shooting is no good.'

'Judas Benjamin has done your race a great disservice.'

'It can all be corrected with a little lye.'

'We would provide the lye.'

I don't recall saying yes. But it didn't matter. Their words enveloped me, became me. And then I disappeared.