Uriel Through Eleanor

Book summary

Uriel Katz, a hardened WWII veteran and skeptic, finds his quiet life upended when Eleanor, his sole applicant turned live-in typist, begins to weave herself into his memoirs. Their initially professional relationship grows complicated as Eleanor's mysterious past and motives emerge, revealing deep, historical ties that Uri cannot ignore. Brian Prousky's novel brilliantly explores the manipulation of narratives and the profound impact of uncovering truths long buried.

Excerpt from Uriel Through Eleanor

This is as much Eleanor’s story as it is mine. Which is what she wanted all along. Which is what she told me she wanted all along.

It’s not what I intended to write.

I did what I could to stop her. From insinuating herself into my narrative. From attributing words and thoughts to me that weren’t my words and thoughts. But, rather, were her invention.

Over time, I believe she expected me to lose my resolve. To become reconciled to her scheme.

I didn’t. It’s not in my nature.

Throughout my life, I’ve protected what needs protecting.

Usually I’m effective.

Usually.

Eleanor interrupted me. “If I’m guilty of anything, it’s of making your memoir better.”

“I never wanted better. I wanted accurate.”

“The important events are accurate.”

She had a point. Though it was beside the point I was making.

We were seated at the kitchen table. It’s where we always sat when I dictated to her. Since hiring her as my typist, she’d been living in my house. Our progress was slow. This morning, however, when I came downstairs and joined her at the table, her fingers were already rapidly at work on the keyboard.

“What are you typing?”

“The beginning.”

“The beginning of what?”

“What do you think? The memoir.”

“We finished that during your first week here.”

“I’m writing a new beginning.”

“You can’t be serious.”

She turned the computer toward me.

When I finished reading, I said, “Those aren’t my words. Those are your words.”

Since her arrival in my life, it was probably the hundredth time I’d told her that.

“While I was waiting for you, I reread the beginning and realized I needed to add more to it.”

“More? What does that mean?”

“Remember the conversations we had on the phone before we met? I put those at the beginning about a month ago.”

“How did you—”

“By memory.”

“Don’t you think my memoir should begin with one of my memories?”

“I wrote it from your perspective.”

“No, you wrote it from your perspective on my perspective.”

“It’s what any good editor would have done. And, believe me, no one needs a good editor more than you.”

“Except you’re not editing. You’re authoring.”

She ignored my comment.

“That stuff about your house wasn’t an appropriate beginning.”

“And this is?”

“The memoir should begin with us. ”

“You’re kidding?”

I knew she wasn’t.

“Reread what I wrote.”

“Once was upsetting enough.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“Those aren’t my words. I never said any of that.”

She was still typing.

“You should focus on the sentiment not the words.”

“What does that mean?”

“In this case, it means I took something you expressed in the past and made it sound more eloquent.”

“No, you did none of that. You put words in my mouth. Again.”

“I put better words in your mouth. Again.”

“I told you, I don’t want—”

“I know what you told me. How would you have expressed it?”

“What difference does it make? It’s not how the memoir’s going to begin.”

“Don’t be so stubborn.”

“I’m the stubborn one?”

“Humour me.”

“I have nothing more to say.”

“So, the memoir’s done?”

“No, I have nothing more to say about you hijacking it.”

“There, was that so hard?”

“Whatever you think you just did, you didn’t.”

“Another bad sentence. What a surprise.”

“Can you please erase—”

“You don’t erase words on a computer. You delete words.”

“Can you please delete the words you just wrote. And our telephone conversations.”

“Like I said, the memoir should begin with us.”

“Nothing about us belongs at the beginning.”

“All of it belongs, you foolish old man. It sets the stage for what’s to come.”

“The war is what’s to come. Any stage-setting should be about that.”

“Believe me, writing about us is about that.”

“You’ve been feeding me the same baloney for the last—”

“I’ve been feeding you the best food you’ve ever eaten. That’s what I’ve been feeding you.”

“Is it possible for us to have just one conversation at once?”

“Not to mention doing all your shopping and cleaning.”

“It’s not possible.”

“What’s not possible is that you haven’t realized by now that we’re a big part of your war story. You and me.”

“It’s been months and you’re still going on about this deep, mysterious connection we apparently have.”

“The war is our deep connection. And it’s only mysterious because you can’t see what’s right in front of your face.”

“I can’t see it because it’s not there.”

“You aren’t trying hard enough.”

“You aren’t explaining hard enough.”

“Such wittiness. Have I ever told you how much I enjoy that part of your personality?”

“Go ahead, insult me. It doesn’t change the fact that all you’ve ever done is hint at this deep connection we apparently have. Why haven’t you simply told me what it is?”

“I want you to figure it out yourself.”

“Well I haven’t. And I suspect it’s because there’s nothing to be figured out.”

“Everything’s waiting to be figured out.”

“Another example of breadcrumbs instead of bread.”

Rather than responding, her body sagged and she fell into a silence.

I waited a minute.

“Well?”

She sighed loudly, judgmentally, and rose from her chair and left the kitchen.

I waited another minute.

She returned holding a stack of paper. About forty pages, I guessed.

“What’s that?”

“I printed it off last night. It’s for the memoir. I’ve been writing it since I got here. It’s what I hoped you would have figured out by now.”

Instead of rejoining me at the table, she left the kitchen again and returned emptyhanded.

She sat back down and resumed typing.

“You want all those pages included in my memoir and you’re not going to let me read them?”

“Not yet.”

“Then when?”

“When you deserve to read them.”

“And you’re going decide?”

“No, you are.”

“OK. I’ve decided to read them now.”

“You don’t deserve to read them now.”

“I thought the decision was mine?”

“It is. When you deserve to make it.”

***

Three months ago, I put an ad in the newspaper looking for a typist to assist me in writing my memoir. Eleanor called the first day the ad appeared.

“Is this Uriel Katz?”

“Who is this?” I asked back.

“Eleanor.”

“Eleanor who?”

“Bochner.”

“I don’t know an Eleanor Bochner. Are you calling from that Jewish Institute?”

“What makes you so sure I’m Jewish?”

“Your last name. It’s Polish, right?”

“You think all Poles are Jewish?”

“Now I know you’re Jewish.”

“How’s that?”

“Who else would talk to another Jew like that?”

“You’re quick to stereotype people.”

“It’s not a stereotype if I’m right.”

“No, it’s still a stereotype.”

“Can you put the other woman on the phone?”

“There is no other woman. Just me. And you still haven’t answered my first question. Is this Uriel Katz?”

“It’s Uri. Uri Katz. And I know there’s another woman.”

“The ad said Uriel.”

“Oh, that’s why you’re calling.”

“You sound disappointed. You’re not hiring a Jew?”

“I need someone who produces work, not shtick.”

She ignored my comment.

“Why did the ad say Uriel?”

“It’s my proper name. But no one calls me that.”

“Then why did you use it in the ad?”

“I don’t know. I guess I wanted to sound more professional.”

“Uriel doesn’t sound more professional than Uri. Both are just names. If you wanted the ad to sound more professional you should have used the word assistant instead of typist.”

“I don’t need an assistant. I need a typist.”

“What do you need a typist for?”

“I thought that was clear in the ad. I’m writing a memoir.”

“It was clear. But also out-of-date. You need a computer. You don’t need a typist.”

“I’m too slow.”

“Do you even own a computer?”

“I don’t. I own a typewriter.”

“It’s two-thousand and five. Who doesn’t own a computer?”

“The person you’re insulting.”

“If you hire me, you’ll have to buy a computer. I’m not going to type like a secretary from the stone ages.”

“It’s pre—”

“And a printer.”

“It’s premature—”

“And extra ink and paper.”

“It’s premature for you to be making demands, don’t you think?”

She ignored my question and said, “You sound like you’re in your eighties.”

“Eighty-one.”

“That’s about right.”

“It’s not about right, it’s exactly right.”

“What does the job pay?”

“That’s negotiable.”

“What are the hours?”

“That’s negotiable too.”

“Do you have a guest bedroom?”

“I have a room on the main floor with a cot in it. I promised it to my late friend, Danny. He never took me up on my offer.”

“Neither will I if you don’t have a real bed for me to sleep on.”

“What does it matter? I haven’t made you an offer.”

“What about a television set? Is there one in the room?”

“No, in the den.”

“How old is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does it have cable?”

“Who needs that many—”

“So, no. After you buy a new television set for the room, you’ll need to install cable.”

“Anything else? Do you want me knock down a couple walls? Renovate the whole house?”

“I’m sure it could use it.”

“And I’m sure you know nothing about my house.”

“I know you don’t have cable. That’s all I need to know—to know you’re overdue for a renovation.”

“It’s perfectly fine the way—”

“I knew it.”

“What you know is irrelevant.”

“What I know has more relevance than you can imagine.”

“For you, maybe.”

“For both of us.”

“There is no both of us.”

“Not yet. Because you haven’t made me an offer.”

“I just put the ad up.”

“Put the ad up. You know how old that makes you sound?”

“As old as I am. Which is fine with me.”

“But not fine for a memoir.”

“That’s quite a sales pitch.”

“You haven’t heard my sales pitch.”

“I can’t wait.”

“If you let me live with you, I’ll work for fifty dollars a day.”

“I’m planning on paying less than that to someone who doesn’t live with me.”

“No one else is going to call you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“People don’t use newspapers for job ads anymore. They use websites.”

“You called.”

“I need a place to live. People who rent out apartments still use newspapers.”

“I’m sure people looking for work—”

“How many days is the ad going to appear?”

“A week.”

“You must have paid a small fortune.”

“Two hundred dollars.”

She laughed and said, “You were robbed.”

I didn’t like her laugh. It was too sharp and its intent was to cut through me.

“I disagree. If I find a qualified typist, it’ll be worth it.”

“You should cancel the ad. I’m available to start tomorrow.”

“I can’t cancel it. I was told there were no refunds.”

“Just cancel the credit card payment.”

“I gave them a cheque.”

“You actually went to the place where the newspaper is published?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Everything. For starters, people don’t use cheques anymore.”

“I didn’t have enough cash on me.”

“People don’t use cash anymore either.”

“How am I supposed to pay an assistant if I don’t use cheques or cash?”

“I only work for cash.”

“I’m confused,”

“Old people usually are.”

***

I wasn’t keen on anyone living with me and didn’t offer her the job at the end of our first conversation.

She said, “You’ll be sorry.”

I disagreed. The ad was still brand new. “If you called, others will call,” I told her.

Six days later, though, no one had called.

On the seventh day, Eleanor called.

She said, “I told you so.”

I replied, “What makes you so sure I haven’t hired anyone?”

“I told you a week ago—your ad’s in the wrong place.”

I considered telling her that I’d received lots of calls and conducted lots of interviews and hired a woman who prefers a typewriter over a computer and is satisfied with earning thirty dollars a day and lives on her own.