The Gown(48)

She shook his hand, thanked him several times for his kindness, and tucked her purchases into her bag. Feeling in need of refreshment, she followed her nose down the street to an Italian café. It was amazing how restorative a few gulps of coffee could be. Hot, bracingly black, and pleasingly bitter, it lifted her spirits far more effectively than the insipid cups of tea so beloved by her English friends.

She paid for the coffee and took out her fare for the Tube ride home, tucking the coins in her coat pocket so she wouldn’t have to dig for them later. As she did so, her fingers brushed against something. It was the business card, now rather battered, of the man she and Ann had met on their way home from the dance hall a few weeks before. Walter Kaczmarek.

Unbidden, a single thought dropped into her mind. She had liked him. Liked him despite not wishing to like him. There had been something compelling about the man, impossible to measure in words alone, and she realized, abruptly, that she badly wanted to see him again.

She took out her A to Z and searched for Fleet Street. It wasn’t far away at all—a half hour’s walk, if that. She stood at the counter of the café for a long while, her gaze flitting between Mr. Kaczmarek’s card and the place on the map, half-hidden by her forefinger, that marked the location of his office. And then, for the first time in living memory, Miriam threw caution to the wind.

Tucking the card back in her pocket, she walked down the street to a phone box by the corner. After inserting her pennies, she dialed the number and waited for someone to answer.

“Good morning, Picture Weekly,” a cheery voice said in her ear. And then, after a long pause, “Good morning? Hello?”

Of course. She had to press the button to deposit the coins and complete the connection. “Good morning. I would like to speak to Mr. Kacz—”

“To Kaz? Of course. May I furnish him with your name?”

“Yes, if you wish. It is Miriam Dassin.”

“Please hold the line.”

A few seconds, no more, and then the clatter of someone picking up a receiver. “Miss Dassin. What a pleasant surprise. May I hope you’ve decided to take me up on my offer of lunch?”

“Only if you are not occupied. I have been shopping nearby. At least I believe it is not far—the market of Spitalfields?”

“Then you’re quite close indeed. There are some decent pubs near the market, but the food isn’t what I’d call inspired. Do you like fish?”

“I do,” she said, and then, cautiously, “I assume you do not speak of fish and chips.”

“No, this place is several steps up from your typical chippie. Do you have a pencil to write down the address? Yes? It’s called Sweetings. Thirty-nine Queen Victoria Street. The easiest route is south along Bishopsgate, then, at the point where it branches into two, stay on the right. That’s Threadneedle Street. When you get to the intersection at Bank Street, continue straight ahead onto Queen Victoria Street. Sweetings will be on your left. What time suits you?”

“I have finished my errands. Any time is convenient.”

“And I’m just finishing my day here, so you’ve caught me at the perfect time. It should take you twenty minutes to walk there. Shall we say half an hour? Just to be on the safe side?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll wait outside. à tout à l’heure,” he finished, his accent surprisingly good.

She had walked along Bishopsgate on her way to the market, so it should be an easy matter to find it again by heading in a general southwest direction. She set off down the street, holding her bag close to her chest as she shouldered her way through the crowds. It seemed as if half of London had decided to do their weekly shopping at the market.

She turned onto a side street, walking south for a block before turning west, the sidewalks growing steadily emptier. Ahead, a group of people were emerging from a narrow lane, the men all dressed in dark suits. Some of the men wore hats. A few, she noticed, wore a kippa.

The sight almost stopped her in her tracks. Did they not realize it was dangerous to be seen so in public? But no. They were in England. And this was the East End. Thousands of Jews, she had heard, lived and worked here. Had been here for hundreds of years.

Her feet carried her across the street and down the lane. It was narrow, curving, bare of shop fronts. If not for the people emerging, she would have missed the place. There was little to signify the building’s purpose, and its brick fa?ade was the same as the rest of the buildings on the lane. Except for the small, unobtrusive noticeboard to the side of the entrance.

SANDYS ROW SYNAGOGUE, it read, and below it were some words in Hebrew, as well as the days and times of services.

She slowed her pace, hoping to catch a glimpse of the interior as she passed by, but she couldn’t make out anything beyond some steps and a shadowy corridor. She faltered, her limbs made clumsy by longing and regret.

How she yearned to hear, after so long, the beloved prayers and invocations. To repeat the words her grandfather had taken such pains to teach her. To belong, once again.

But she had nothing to cover her hair, and the services had finished, besides, and Mr. Kaczmarek was waiting for her, and she wasn’t sure that she could bear it. To hear and see and sing would be to remember. To let the wounds be opened once more, and the bitter pain of loss consume her.

Not today. Not yet.