A Castle in Brooklyn(12)

He looked at his one daughter as she stood before him, wearing a red-and-white-checked gingham dress, her reddish-brown hair throwing off sparks of sunlight.

“You—ashamed? You have nothing to be ashamed for. Who said that to you?”

She came to him, placed her long white fingers on his shoulder.

“Oh, no, Papou. No one has said a thing to me. But it is only what I feel when I am speaking to people. My English, it is okay, I suppose, but sometimes the words are confusing. Sometimes I feel as if I am coming from a different planet when I speak, from Mars and not Poland. Only yesterday Mrs. Ekstein had to explain the word exchange to me, and when I meant to say mortgage, by mistake I said the t, which should be silent. I feel so stupid!”

“Don’t be such a silly girl! Money talks better than words,” Boris answered, turning back toward the window.

“I can’t help it, Papou. It is how I feel. Besides, would it not be better for the business if I could speak the right way, not look like such a greenhorn?” At the word and all its implications, he turned toward her quickly. A scowl that all too rapidly, she knew, could morph into anger, dominated his face. She pressed on.

“And so, I have a question to ask you. My friend Sophie, you’ve heard me speak of her? She has told me about a class she is taking where I can go to learn English. They have only just begun the sessions, and it would not be too late. It is at the high school on Thirty-Third, and since the classes are given at night, I will not be taking time from the business at all. Oh, Papou, it would make me feel so much better if I could, so happy!”

Boris gazed at her, taking in her young face, her hopeful eyes, still feeling the delicate touch of her hand on his shirt. The sun was full on her face now, lighting up her cheeks, which still carried the red glow she’d had even as a toddler. Her floral perfume enveloped him, lulling Boris again with its hypnotic fragrance. How could he deny her anything?



He was a soda bottler. An anonymous job, just another cog in the complex workings of the city. But somehow when he read his essay, speaking of his meager occupation, it was with the authority of a mayor, the confidence of a lion tamer. She had not meant to applaud when he finished, but the momentary silence that followed seemed somehow too sad, too empty. She simply had filled it and was surprised to hear that hers were the only hands clapping.

Esther was even more surprised when he approached her after class. At first, when she heard his voice so close to her ear, she thought the floor had somehow fallen away, but she soon heard her own words, apologetic, released from her throat. And then she told him the lie as easily as if she had lived it. As she spoke, his eyes, his dark olive eyes, even the sweet little dimple in the middle of his chin, never left her. When she finally entered the passenger side of the large Oldsmobile, its lights sparkling in the rain, she answered her father’s questions mechanically. But her mind, her heart, remained in Jacob’s gaze. And when she stared out the window at the streets of Manhattan as they drove past familiar storefronts, shut now, the stray cats rubbing their bodies against the concrete walls of alleys, the moon hidden beneath a violet sky, Esther could see only a shaft of light, and in it, the face of a boy and the promise of a thousand days.





FOUR



Zalman, 1953

Zalman’s hand shook as he tore open the telegram. Although he was the first to admit that he was still naive about this modern means of communication, he understood enough to know that telegrams meant bad news. The first thing that his eyes fixed upon was the name—Jacob—and his heart beat faster. He read the short document again just to make sure. Zalman wiped beads of sweat off his brow as relief washed over him.

Married! His good friend would be married in the fall to a girl he had met just five months earlier. And he wanted Zalman to stand beneath the chuppah with him as his best man. Well, of course! At the same time that a sense of elation lifted the young man’s spirits, he could not help but feel a gnawing apprehension, because there was something more to the letter. We will talk. Zalman knew the portent of these words. We will talk. The two had had plenty of conversations, first in person, then by letter. Innumerable discussions. The subject was always the same. Jacob wanted his friend to join him in New York. He was lonely for a landsman, one of his own. Jacob needed his advice, his encouragement, but most of all, his listening ear. Since their first meeting in the hayloft of dear Frau Blanc’s barn, he had learned little of Jacob’s former life, but Zalman realized that for Jacob, he had become a touchstone, a necessary connection to a past that would forever bind the two.

He left the telegram on the top of the small wooden dresser, resolving to handle the matter later. He stood by the window and stared out at the wide spaces buoyed by the tall blades of wheat-color grass, now fragile, as if their backs were on the verge of breaking. The sun, promising a bright winter day, remained high in the sky. Soon, he knew, shards of light would be flashing through the grayness, and the rooster, flapping its wings in readiness for the day, would begin its insistent call.

Zalman reached into his closet, retrieved his muddy rubber boots, and pulled them over his stockinged feet. He wiggled his toes wrapped in the heavy wool socks he had been given back in Europe, and relished the warmth, if only temporary, before he pushed his arms through the sleeves of his heavy coat, also made of sturdy wool, and ventured out into the frigid air. He buttoned carefully over the layers—thermal polo, blue plaid shirt—as he missed his old sweater knitted with tight loops, torn now, and braced himself for the smack of winter in early March. And even now, as he set out on a day when his mind would be occupied by milking, feeding the chicks, even now, he remembered. It was like a virus in his brain, some days lying dormant, others, flaring up, consuming him like a fire. And no matter how many times Zalman reminded himself that today his bones were warmed by a coat, his belly filled daily with thick oatmeal and hot coffee that embraced his insides like a lover, no matter how many times he repeated to himself how lucky he was to be here in Minnesota, alive, still Zalman could not forget. And the fear haunted his movements in the daylight hours, terrorizing him at night.