Authors: Belva Plain
Evergreen (19 page)
On Saturday mornings he hated to get up and go to the synagogue.
“Let him sleep,” Ma would urge. “He studied late last night. I saw the light under the door.”
“No,” Pa said. “There is a right way and a wrong way, Anna.”
“There won’t be time for his breakfast. Let him miss it this once, Joseph.”
“Then let him go without breakfast.”
Pa always talked like that. He was angry when people were late and wouldn’t wait more than ten minutes for anyone. He was angry when people broke rules. One of Ma’s friends was going to Reno for a divorce and they were talking about it at the dinner table. Pa said, “There’s no excuse for her, Anna. People know very well what’s right, so let them do it and that’s that.”
“You sound so hard, Joseph,” Ma. said. “Isn’t there any forgiveness in you?”
“There’s a right way and a wrong way, Anna,” Pa replied, just as he did on Saturday mornings: “Maury is to get up and go with us. No excuses.”
He always went; he knew he had to go and no doubt it would have been easier to get up on time and go without protest. But he never did. Somehow, the battle had to be gone through first. He didn’t know why it was like that between his father and himself.
And riding home now in the car, Maury thought: He runs everything and everybody. It seemed to him, in some vague way, that his father would loom over him for the rest of his life. Would there ever be a time when he would be able to say what he wanted to say to his father? And get his own way and be rid of this—this
battle
with someone who was always more powerful than he?
He was sullen the rest of the way home and up into his room. The last thing he heard before closing the door and sitting down to his work was his father’s voice, not angry, but very firm and positive: “And, Anna, I don’t want the lamb to be underdone the way it was last time. Tell Margaret.”
Just before dinner his father called him into his den. On the table before him lay a cardboard box filled with pictures, snapshots and photographs.
“Here, son, I want to show you this. I got these out to put them in order.”
Mounted on thick cardboard was an old, old photo of a girl, standing against a wall. Her skirt covered her shoes and her dress had big sleeves that went out from the shoulders like balloons. She had two thick long braids, and even in those queer clothes you could see she was very pretty. In the lower right-hand corner was some foreign name, the photographer’s name, and the word “Lublin.” That was a city in Poland, he knew that much.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“My mother,” Pa said. “Your grandmother, before she was married.”
Maury looked again. She had one hand on her hip in a pose almost impudent, and she was laughing; perhaps the photographer had just said something funny.
“I was always told she was a beautiful young woman,” his father said. “And you can see she was.”
That
—that they had seen today—
that
had been
this?
He had a flash of amazed vision, a frozen moment, in which for the first time he seemed to see everything there was to see and know everything there was to know. There was a phrase, a line from a poem or something read in English class, something about “long corridors of time.” And he thought: This is what happens.
Suddenly, without intending to, he bent over and kissed his father, something he had been embarrassed to do since he was a little boy.
The
Berengaria
sailed for Southampton at noon with pennants snapping and music spangling the river wind. Engines rumbled and shook; the ship backed out into the Hudson, turned and moved out past the Statue of Liberty and past the place where Castle Garden used to be, the place where Anna had touched land in America. She hadn’t been as excited then as she was now, and wasn’t that strange?
Below in the stateroom the empty champagne bottles from their bon voyage party had not yet been removed. The dressers were crowded with gifts: three pyramids of fruit, enough for ten people; boxes of chocolates and cookies; a pile of novels; flowers; a ribbon-tied package from Solly and Ruth.
Anna opened it and took out a leather-bound, gilt-edged diary. “My Trip to Europe” was embossed on the cover.
Joseph smiled. “Ruth knows you’re a scribbler, doesn’t she?”
“I shall write in it every day,” Anna said firmly. “I don’t want to forget a minute of this.”
June 4th
To go so far away, to the other side of the world! I still can’t believe this is happening.
All of a sudden one evening last March Joseph said,
“I want to do something grand for our anniversary this year. I want to go to Europe. We can afford it.”
It struck me funny that when we are poor in Europe we think only about getting to America so we can get rich enough to go back to Europe.
“Not Paris,” Joseph said. “You didn’t come from Paris, you know.”
So I shall actually be seeing Paris, the Louvre, the Tuileries, the Cours La Reine where Marie Antoinette came riding in from Versailles! I think of the city as an enormous crystal chandelier, all fountains, lights and sparkle.
But mostly I shall be thankful to see my brothers in Vienna. I wonder whether we will even recognize each other?
A whole crowd came to see us off, friends and business people and of course the Malones. Malone and Mary are going to Ireland for about six weeks after we get home in September. They want to see where their ancestors came from. Joseph said he surely wasn’t going to go back to Russia to see where
his
came from!
Malone is so hearty, I think that would be the best description of him. He gives the impression of never being worried. I asked Mary whether that was true and she said she thought it was. It must be very easy and relaxed to live with a man like that. He brings humor into every situation. We were watching people arrive up the gangplank and Malone kept joking: “There’s Lord Throttlebottom!” (A long man like a string bean with mustaches that went out of style thirty years ago.) “And there’s Lady Luella Purse-mouth!” He’s not unkind, though, just funny.
After they called “All ashore that’s going ashore!” we went up on deck. Maury and Iris looked so small standing with Ruth and Solly far below. I would have taken the children to Europe with us, but Joseph wants a vacation without children. We’ve never had
one, not even one day! I can’t get over Joseph’s being willing to take a vacation at all, he who has worked six days a week and sometimes even seven for as long as I’ve known him. But I shall miss the children.
Ruth put her arm around Iris and I knew she was giving me a message not to worry. I do worry some: Iris is only ten, and so shy, so wan. My heart sinks, thinking of her, although I know Ruth will take care of her.
Dear Ruth! You were the first person to greet me when I came to America. I remember how you got up from the sewing machine in that dreadful little room. How far we have come since then, you and I and all of us!
Our stateroom is at the top of the ship, the Veranda Deck. I walked out just now; there is still daylight in the sky, although the ocean is black. There is no land in sight. We are really at sea. There’s nothing, nothing at all, but sky and sea.
June 5th
Joseph was really angry at me this morning. I’m not used to anger from him, except rarely and then over trivial things. We were reading on deck when suddenly he almost shouted at me: “Where’s your ring?” (meaning the diamond that he gave me last month for our anniversary). And when I told him it was downstairs in my drawer with my clothes he was furious. He says I am to wear that ring all the time, every minute. I said I didn’t think it was appropriate to wear such a large diamond with a sweater and skirt but he said he didn’t give a damn, that the ring was very valuable and I should understand that it had to be guarded at all times. He sent me downstairs to get it and on the way I was terrified that perhaps someone had stolen it. It must have cost a fortune! but, thank God, there it was, safe among my stockings.
The thing is, I never really wanted it. Things like that
truly don’t mean that much to me, although Joseph cannot understand that. He thinks all women are absolutely mad about diamonds. I suppose most of them are. I know all my friends were so impressed when they saw it. I do believe that is the real reason Joseph wants me to wear it all the time, why he wanted me to take it on this trip in the first place.
June 7th
At our table I learn that there is a world of ships, and that this voyage, which is such an adventure for us, is a way of living for others. These people all cross the Atlantic as casually as we take the Fifth Avenue bus. One couple from outside Philadelphia, people about our age, are traveling with three children and a nursemaid who take their meals in their suite. They come to Europe every year, renting a house in England, Switzerland or France. Joseph was surprised, he didn’t think they looked all that wealthy, but he doesn’t realize that their simplicity is very expensive. They don’t talk very much and when they do they have more to say to the old lady than to us. The old lady is the widow of a New York banker; she travels all over the world, it seems, with her daughter. The daughter is in her late twenties. She looks lonely and bored. I feel sorry for her.
I listen to the conversations of this traveling fraternity. They know the names of all the captains and pursers on the great ships. They talk about whom they met on this or that voyage and what cocktail parties they were invited to. One night all these people were asked to the captain’s table and Joseph and I had the table to ourselves. The hierarchy of the ship! I suppose we were put here because there were two seats left over; certainly we don’t belong here. Joseph is more quiet than ever and I know that he feels out of place. Naturally, I am just as out of place but it doesn’t brother me; I find it interesting. I watch the spectacle, the procession
descending the stairs to dinner: sagging women in brocade and diamonds, tired-looking men, honeymoon couples. Turning heads, energetic smiles, the chirp of greeting: “How
are
you? I haven’t
seen
you in ages!”
I watch the food, the great fish carved in ice, the vegetables like a Dutch still life, the spun-sugar baskets, the little iced cakes arranged like a bouquet. What labor and art to cook like that! I look at the nice, fresh faces of the boys who wait on us. They seem so cheerful and respectful as they pull your chair out: “Good evening, madame, have you had a nice afternoon?” I wonder what they really think about all of us.
After dinner last night we went up to dance, and I was saying all this to Joseph. He was a little annoyed. “Can’t you ever just enjoy yourself, without all these serious thoughts?” he asked. I told him I was enjoying myself and I couldn’t help my thoughts. “Don’t you want me to tell you anything anymore?” I answered. And then he said, “Oh, come on, you can tell me anything you want, you know you can.” So then he was very good-humored, and we danced until after midnight. The music was splendid and Joseph dances very well. Really we ought to do it more often! It clears the head. One feels so light and easy, not thinking about anything at all. He’s right, I
ponder
too much.
June 8th
It rained today and the wind bends you double as you round the corner of the deck. Everyone is inside. Joseph has found a couple of kindred souls and they are playing cards. Some have gone down to the movie. But I don’t want to miss a minute of the sea. I went up alone on deck and stood in the blowing spray. How fierce the North Atlantic is, even in the summer! One has a sense of danger, something elemental, although of course on this great modern liner I am only fooling myself about elemental dangers!
The day after tomorrow, when we wake up, they tell us we shall see Ireland. How will the Malones feel when they see it for the first time?
June 11
I think I must know all the streets in London. The first morning we went out for a walk. Our hotel is on Park Lane. We had planned to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and Joseph wanted to see Hyde Park Corner where the radicals come and rant. When I told him to turn left he looked at me in amazement and said: “Are you sure you haven’t been here before?” And I said that I had been, in dozens of books, Dickens and Thackeray and all the books on the list Miss Thorne once gave me. That was eighteen years ago and I only finished the list last year. Of course I did read things in between besides all my courses in art and music history.
I wonder about Miss Mary Thorne. I suppose she must be retired now, back in Boston probably, making tea in a little room with shelves and shelves of books. How could she or I have guessed the things that would happen all these years?
June 13th
Joseph has a business appointment with some British investors who are interested in New York real estate. I was sorry that business had to interfere with sightseeing, but he didn’t mind at all. I think he really welcomed the interference. So I took the boat ride to Kew Gardens by myself.
Have you been to Kew in lilac time?
I sat next to a very nice man on the boat, an American from New Hampshire. He teaches history at some famous school; I’ve forgotten the name. His wife died six months ago. He said they had been planning this trip abroad for quite a while and she had made him promise to go anyway after her death. She had said it
would be good for him, that he mustn’t sit at home and mourn. What a wonderful, unselfish, large-minded woman!
He asked me where I came from. He thought, because of my accent, I suppose, that I might be French and seemed surprised when I told him the truth.
We got talking about England. He’d been hiking in the Lake District, Wordsworth country, and I said I was sorry we wouldn’t be going there. I think I should love a vacation like that, walking through the villages, seeing how people really live, instead of just staying in large hotels where you only see other tourists. He agreed with me. We had a very nice conversation, and by the time we got to Kew, it was only natural to walk around together. It’s a marvelous place! What a pity Joseph missed it! Maybe he would have enjoyed it after all, in spite of his saying he wouldn’t.
The man’s name was Jeffers. They had no children, which is too bad, since now he has nothing left of his wife at all. I told him about my children when he inquired, mostly about Maury, how he planned to go to Yale and was interested in literature. He mentioned some professors there who are especially fine and famous. All in all, it was a very pleasant time and we found ourselves talking as though we had known each other a long while. I seldom, or perhaps never, meet men who like to talk to women. I was thinking how warm it was, how consoling, although that’s really not the right word; perhaps cheerful would be more accurate.
On the way back, when we were almost at the end of the trip, Mr. Jeffers said he’d had an unexpectedly wonderful afternoon.
“I shall be so sorry not to see you again,” he said. He looked straight at me when he said it, and I saw something very serious and regretful in his face. He was not being a “smart aleck”; goodness knows I’ve seen enough of that to recognize it. He really meant it, and
so I said, “I’m sorry too, and I hope you’ll be very happy again, someday.” And I really meant it. I think we had only begun to talk. There would have been so much more for us to say to each other if—a hundred ifs.
Joseph was waiting on the embankment. He first asked how I had enjoyed the trip and then he wanted to know who the man was.
“You seemed to be having quite a conversation,” he said. “I was watching you while the boat drew in.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “he’s an American, a schoolteacher. He gave me some very good advice about Maury.”
“You talked about Maury the whole time?”
“I didn’t spend the whole time talking to the man, Joseph!”
“Don’t you know that I’m jealous?” he said.
But he has no reason to be and never will. I am absolutely, I am completely, to be trusted. And I will stake my life on that.
June 26th
We are on the train, crossing the border into Austria. In a matter of hours I shall see Dan and Eli! Joseph is almost as excited as I am about it. He feels for me and for our long separation. “Families shouldn’t be torn apart like that,” he says, and he is right. But what can you do?
The scenery here reminds me of
The Student Prince
, which we saw a couple of years ago. First the fortress on the peak above Salzburg. Then an hour or more of lakes like big blue tears spilled on the earth. And a monastery, gloomy, powerful and secretive; “Melk,” it says in the guidebook. Now woods, the Wienerwald no doubt, the Vienna Woods. And in a few minutes more, the station where they will be waiting.
Joseph is watching me. “Don’t you ever get tired of scribbling?” he asks, and takes my hand and smiles.
He knows I am like jelly inside, and strokes it to calm me. I put this book away.
June 26th, later
My brother Eli is called Eduard now. We were met on the platform by him and Tessa. I confess I would not have known him! Nineteen years, after all! But his hair is still red. We cried, both of us, and Joseph was very moved seeing us, but I think Tessa was embarrassed in front of their chauffeur. However, she was very sweet, kissed me and welcomed us. She is not an especially pretty woman but thin and graceful. One wants to look at her, although Joseph doesn’t agree. I think he disliked her at once, which is unusual for Joseph, who rarely says much about people.
Eli-Eduard wanted us to stay at their house and was distressed when we told him we had a reservation at Sacher’s Hotel. But Joseph says no, we are staying two weeks and that is too long a time to stay in anyone’s house. We can see them every day, without getting in the way of their family. That too is like Joseph, very considerate. Or is it independent?
June 26th, later
We are back at the hotel to dress for dinner. Eduard will send the car for us. But first we went out to his house in the eighth district. It is rather far from the center of the city, almost a suburb, with large houses and grounds. They call them villas but, by American standards, I would call them miniature palaces! Eduard’s has gold plaster cherubs on the ceilings. I tried not to crane my head up all the time while Tessa was serving coffee and cake. We sat for a while in the garden, a lovely spot with high trees all around, making a private outdoor room, bright with mauve and scarlet flowers. I really ought to learn the names of flowers. I am completely ignorant of anything except a rose or a daisy! Oh, I forgot to say, all the rooms are heated in
winter by huge stoves that look like high boxes made of porcelain tiles, with beautiful designs on them. Joseph was amused. On the way back he said, “To think of heating with a stove in the twentieth century! How far behind us Europe is!”